Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8710216.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, John_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Angst, Drama, Romance, First_Time, Pre-Canon
  Collections:
      Sinful_Desire
  Stats:
      Published: 2009-03-22 Completed: 2009-08-29 Chapters: 4/4 Words: 8226
****** Suddenly Last Summer ******
by jdax [archived by sinfuldesire_archivist]
Summary
     For a moment, the timbre of Sam’s voice put Dean right back in that
     kitchen, clenching his fists against the need to touch his brother
     again, biting back words he would have given anything not to mean.
Notes
     Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally
     archived at Sinful-Desire.org. To preserve the archive, we began
     importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in
     November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted
     announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or
     know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on
     Sinful_Desire_collection_profile.
     Author's notes: Title taken from a play by Tennessee Williams. Also,
     Sam is seventeen in this story, hence the 'underage' warning.
***** Chapter 1 *****
***
 
John hadn’t said much yet, just spent the last day lumbering around the remote
old rental house they’d holed up in all summer, fixing ancient leaks and
rattles that hadn’t really garnered anyone’s attention before Sam slid the
acceptance letter across the table at breakfast; after, Dean watched his father
scrutinize every household appliance with nearly pathological precision. The
Impala and the pick-up weren’t immune, either. Long after Sam had given up
talking and reluctantly shuffled off to bed, Dean lay awake knowing his father
was out there in the garage, hunched over the engine of the ’67 – a fine piece
of craftsmanship John had restored with a measure of devotion Dean had grown
strangely jealous of - pulling it apart piece by piece, examining it, blaming
himself, wondering what went wrong.
 
Not that it was hard to tell; with enough time and
pressure, anything can break.
 
Dean knew a thing or two about that.
 
The Winchester brothers had spent the last half of May cooped up in the Impala
together, sharing motel rooms with their father and, sometimes, a bed with each
other. Dean attributed his darkening mood to close quarters, to the rising heat
and to Sam’s penchant for being, well, Sam, never guessing how much a part of
the problem his brother actually was until they came here to this two bedroom,
one bath, broken down rental property that seemed, at first, like paradise
compared to four wheels and the road.
 
No one had slept and after a rushed, awkward meal of cold eggs and yesterday’s
coffee, John had driven into town on some mumbled explanation about supplies.
Dean checked his frustration and annoyance, saying only, “Yes, sir” for the
millionth time when John uttered that tired old order about taking care of Sam.
Under other circumstances, Dean might have waited until mid day to break into
his Dad’s six-pack, but the gravel had barely settled on the driveway before he
cracked open a bottle of Beck’s and shouldered his way out the front door,
taking some satisfaction when the screen slammed hard behind him, reverberating
on its hinges. Immediately, his face flushed; he wiped the sweat away with the
back of his hand, pressed the chilled bottle to his cheek for a blessed moment
of relief. The ancient porch railing protested, squeaking as he leaned against
it, sipping his beer, surveying the yard - a shimmering sepia desert whose
cloying heat, whose smell, whose very taste he couldn’t escape. If he’d felt
any sort of inclination to move then, he could have taken the two broken steps,
ambled a dozen feet to the Impala, and backed out down the gravel drive as John
had done, disappearing into a cloud of red dust. Licking his lips, Dean took
another drink, shaking off the notion as he suddenly realized his father
wouldn’t be gone as long as the crumpled wad of bills on the kitchen table and
the bag of salt by the door might imply; John was pissed, sure, was probably
mulling things over with a whiskey and maybe even a woman, but he’d be back to
deal with this soon enough; Winchesters just can’t resist a fight.
 
They’d each handle Sam in their own way, just as they’d always done. Thing was,
with that August deadline looming, Dean knew there wasn’t a whole lot of time
left to…to…
 
To what? Frowning, he squinted in the direction of the Impala, tamping down
hard on the nauseating answer that once again insinuated itself between Dean
and his denial. He let loose a brief bark of nervous laughter as he cursed
himself for being, at best, weak.
 
At worst? Dean shifted uncomfortably as the impulses that haunted him most
nights now shamed him into over-compensating for the unimaginable, reinforcing
his gut instinct to keep Sam at a distance, to keep pushing him away.
 
Dean sighed. The problem with that strategy was fairly obvious: Winchesters
always push back.
 
*
 
Dean had settled into a nice comfortable buzz against the wood shed, finished
the last of his beer, was thinking about going back for seconds when Sam
appeared around the corner.
 
“Hey.”
 
“Hey.”
 
In the silence that followed, Dean had time to catalog a dozen things that were
less uncomfortable than waiting for Sam to make a point. He wished they’d just
get to the argument he knew was coming. When Sam eyed the bottle in his
brother’s hand, Dean decided to help things along.
 
“Got somethin’ to say, little brother?”
 
“Kinda early, isn’t it?”
 
Dean shrugged. “I don’t have anywhere to be.”
 
“Dean,” Sam shifted, clearing his throat nervously as he leveled a stern look
at his brother, “we need to talk.”
 
“That so?” Dean squinted up at the younger man. “Seems you didn’t leave much to
discuss.”
 
Sam stepped forward, advancing slowly until he was standing a few feet away.
Now, in the unforgiving light of a midsummer morning, Dean could see the
circles under his eyes, the way his mouth was drawn down into a frown that
would actually be kind of comical if the older man didn’t know he’d had some
part in putting that look on his brother’s face. It was clear Sam hadn’t slept,
had probably been agonizing over this moment for weeks. He shifted, obviously
uncomfortable. “Dad, I can deal with,” he began. “I’m used to his disapproval,
his disappointment, but you…” Sam glanced down at the ground, scuffed his shoe
in the dirt like he was hoping Dean would finish his thought for him, like he
didn’t want to hear himself say whatever was coming next.
 
But suddenly Dean needed to hear it. “Spit it out, Sammy.”
 
Sam’s features softened in a way that was so particular to his delivery of bad
news. It was at once endearing, comforting and heart-breaking. “I can’t leave
knowing you’re mad at me.”
 
But you will leave. Dean sighed. He couldn’t help how John had reacted, but
Dean had it in him to do Sam the small favor of lying on his own behalf.
 
“Don’t sweat it,” he said, standing up. Absently, he brushed dirt off the seat
of his pants, hoping his brother would be gone when he looked up. He wasn’t.
 
“You’re angry.”
 
“I said it was okay, Sam. You’re goin’ to college. Good for you. I’m happy for
ya, man.”
 
Sam peered at him for a long moment, chewing on his bottom lip, considering.
“You don’t mean it.”
 
“Sure I do. Fact, I’m gettin’ another beer to celebrate,” Dean announced,
pushing past him.
 
Sam snorted. “What is it with you and Dad? If you’re pissed, I wish you’d just
say so.”
 
“I’m not pissed,” Dean said, turning to face him again. “I’m thirsty.”
 
“Don’t give me that crap. The only difference between you and Dad is you might
actually be honest about how much you hate this.”
 
“You have a pretty damn high opinion of yourself,” the older man laughed.
 
“I know you.”
 
Not as well as you think.
 
“It bugs you, admit it.”
 
“It was a surprise, yeah,” Dean granted. “So?”
 
Stepping closer, Sam said, “I’m not just talking about Stanford.”
 
Dean blinked rapidly, trying to clear the fog from his head. He didn’t know
whether to blame the heat or the alcohol, but his involvement in this
conversation was quickly outstripping his interest in it.
 
“Make a point, will ya?”
 
A strange look passed over Sam’s face, then: “I’m talking about Dad. Whether
you wanna admit it or not, part of what’s eating at you is that I did something
you’ve never been able to do; I stood up to him.”
 
Dean pictured his father, alone, hunched over a bottle of something cheap and
domestic, struggling mightily with his love for a son who suddenly seemed like
a stranger. Sam’s leaving was an odd, indefinable loss, had stirred up feelings
of betrayal for two men whose knee-jerk reaction had always been to protect
their youngest at all costs. And, yes, there had been costs. That Sam seemed to
be ignoring that, leaving now of his own volition, walking away from a life
John and Dean had done their best to salvage from the ruins of their own
aspirations, made Dean wonder if he’d ever really known his brother at all.
Maybe Sam couldn’t tell, was probably too busy planning his next salvo, but at
that moment, Dean was the perfect model of all his years of training, employing
with rigid discipline many of his finely-honed skills, chief among them
patience and repression. There were a lot of things he wanted to say - some
selfish, some true -but in the end he turned on his heal, leaving Sam with,
“Yeah, you’re a real man.”
 
*
 
Lunch was a more or less perfect replica of the silent, awkward meal breakfast
had been. Well, silent save for the AM talk radio - the only station they could
almost get out here. Some local preacher was droning on, cutting in and out
behind the static with the standard hellfire and damnation speech. As Dean
picked through the frozen food, he caught snippets of the man’s dire warnings;
the young hunter could only hazard a guess about the hereafter, but had to
admit the man was right on the money about the immediate threat. When organs
started playing in the background and a pre-recorded voiceover invited him to
make the small sacrifice of a donation in exchange for the salvation of his
soul, Dean snorted, snapping the radio off.
 
He’d found a pizza in the back of the freezer, debated the month-old expiration
date, and, though he was reluctant to turn the oven on, adding to the already
scorching heat, he tore the plastic open, reasoning that Sam was less likely to
bitch about this than the dusty old cans of chicken noodle soup that served as
their other choice. Later, as Dean watched his brother push his food around on
his own plate, the older man decided he’d make a run into town for something a
little more exciting.
 
Maybe he’d see his Dad, get him to come back and settle this stupid Stanford
thing once and for all.
 
Toward the end of the meal, Dean made his way over to the refrigerator, peered
inside to discover he was already halfway though his Dad’s six-pack. Beck’s
went on the list as Dean popped open his fourth beer and closed the door.
 
“Hey, you want that?” Sam was nodding toward the last piece of pizza sitting in
the middle of the kitchen table. Dean glanced at it, noticing quite by accident
that the crisply-folded Stanford letter was now absent.
 
“Nah.”
 
“You sure?”
 
“Eat it or pitch it, I don’t care.”
 
Dean leaned against the counter, sipping his beer, enjoying the quiet. He was
thinking he might pick up a fan while he was out, was imagining how good that
would feel against his heated skin, had almost convinced himself it might be
worth foregoing the beer, when he heard Sam’s chair squeak against the warped
wood floor. Sam stood, gaining his full six feet. At seventeen, he still had
some growing to do, and Dean often wondered how much longer his little brother
would be looking up at him.
 
Up to him.
 
Or maybe he’d lost his right to expect that, considering.
 
“Dean.”
 
Oh, man. Here we go again. Shaking his head, Dean said, “It’s cool,” waving off
what he feared would be another confrontation. He knew they still had stuff to
talk about, but he had to pace himself; there wasn’t enough beer left in the
house for him to get all the way into this and back out again. For that matter,
there might not be enough beer, period.
 
“Look, I just wanna say I’m sorry, you know, about what I said before.”
 
“Forget it.”
 
“You mad at me?”
 
“No.”
 
Sam nodded. Dean noted the tension in Sam’s face as his brother glanced down at
the floor, the slight tremor in his fingers as he absently picked loose paint
chips off the silverware drawer. That should have been the end of it, they
should have been able to part company until the next argument, but Dean found
he couldn’t go yet. God knew he wanted to, was ready to slip into the Impala
and be away, but Sam, with his trembling hands and doleful eyes, looked for all
the world like he was on the verge of something only Dean could save him from.
 
After a moment, Dean reached out, briefly tousling his kid brother’s hair.
“Bitch.”
 
Sam glanced up, a slow smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Dean smiled
back, allowed his gaze to rest a moment on his brother’s face, his eyes, his
lips. The older man coughed then, looked away, nodded tightly, jamming his
hands back in his pockets on the pretense of searching for keys. Dean wasn’t
sure exactly what he’d said after that, barely remembered walking out to the
car, just realized it was time to go.
 
*
 
Dean was strolling along the sidewalk of a town he was starting to think had
been the inspiration for The Andy Griffith Show, reveling a bit in the dirty
looks he got from passers-by as he hoisted a twelve pack of Corona into the
Impala; he could guess what the locals thought of a stranger in ripped jeans
and a black wife-beater, hauling an ample supply of alcohol into a trunk big
enough to hold a couple of bodies. He smirked.
 
A young woman on the sidewalk must have mistakenly thought he was grinning at
her; the elderly woman with her must have been laboring under the same
misconception, for she dragged the girl away, admonishing Dean sharply over her
shoulder. “Stay away, boy. We don’t want no trouble, ya hear?”
 
A light breeze picked up, sending a paper cup skittering across the street. A
toddler gave chase as a teenage boy called after him, rolling his eyes, cursing
under his breath, but never letting the little one get more than an arm’s
length away.
 
Just as Dean slammed the trunk closed – louder than necessary, he knew – his
phone rang.
 
“Yeah?”
 
“Hey, ya on your way?” For a moment, the timbre of Sam’s voice put Dean was
right back in that kitchen, clenching his fists against the need to touch his
brother again, biting back words he would have given anything not to mean. He
swallowed hard.
 
“Problem, Sammy? You break a nail or somethin’?”
 
The expected complaint about the use of Sam’s hated nickname was replaced by a
silence, then: “I heard on the radio that a storm’s rollin’ in. Thought you
better head back, seein’ as it’s kind of a long drive.”
 
Dean frowned. “You been listenin’ to that bible thumper? You know that storm’s
got nothin’ to do with the weather, right? It’s like an analogy, or whatever.”
 
There was another silence. “Sam?”
 
“Wow.”
 
“What?”
 
“You used the word analogy. In a sentence.”
 
“I got a couple more words for you, smartass.”
 
“That’s more of a metaphor.”
 
“Bite me.” Dean shook his head, smiling, as his brother laughed on the other
end of the line. God, he’d missed that.
 
“Anyway,” Sam continued, “I got that from a local news bulletin that actually
interrupted the dial-a-prayer hour.”
 
Dean squinted up at the sky; not a cloud in sight and still hot as hell. “I
think the local weatherman’s smokin’ somethin’.”
 
“Storms around here come in fast. Sky’s gettin’ kinda dark over here, too.
Maybe you should get off the road, you know, just in case.”
 
Dean still wasn’t convinced, but thought he’d seen a motel a couple of miles
back. “Alright, maybe I’ll crash here for the night, come home in the morning.”
 
There was another silence, then: “Uh, okay.”
 
Dean smirked. “Are you afraid of the storm?”
 
“No!”
 
“You totally are!”
 
“Shut up! Anyway, you better get back before Dad does, or he’ll kick your ass
for leaving me here alone.”
 
Dad. Damn. Closing his eyes, Dean pinched the bridge of his nose; suddenly, his
head hurt.
 
“Okay, Samantha, keep your panties on, will ya?” Dean sighed. “Look, just in
case the forecast isn’t total bullshit, get bottled water, a flashli-”
 
“I know. Dean, seriously, ju-”
 
Sam’s words were lost, swept up into the sudden, deafening wail of a tornado
siren on the other end of the line. Dean winced, yanking the phone away from
his ear.
 
“Sam?”
 
“Sam?”
 
“Sam!”
 
*
***** Chapter 2 *****

Author's notes: This chapter contains a bit of dubious consent. As always, I
own nothing here. Sorry for the slow update. Thanks for being patient.
===============================================================================
*
 
It worried Dean how quickly the sky had darkened; where once the horizon was a
pallid, forgettable hue easily overlooked by virtue of the more immediate and
oppressive heat, the world was suddenly drowning in a color only the truly
stoic could understand.
 
He concentrated on the road, clenching his hands hard against the steering
wheel, ignoring as best he could the driving wind that rocked the car; the
deep, rumbling roll of thunder; the shrill, ubiquitous cry of the siren; and
the burn of bile at the back of his throat. Sam would be okay. Had to be. He’d
been trained well and anyway, odds were that Dad had heard the news, would be
there to take charge. John would know what to do if things were as bad as Dean
was beginning to fear they might be.
 
He leaned on the accelerator.
 
Twenty miles back, he’d still been clinging to the hope that this was a drill
or a mistake, but once Dean crossed the county line - where his only points of
reference from then on were tattered scarecrows lashed and helplessly battered
by the elements in a seemingly infinite amber sea – the wind picked up,
buffeting the driver’s side so hard Dean barely felt the car making any forward
progress at all. Come on, damn it! Gripping the steering wheel harder, he
overcompensated, skidded, ended up in the wrong lane.
 
Not that it mattered. No one was coming.
 
Only a moron would be out driving in this, anyway.
 
As if to confirm Dean’s insight, it started to rain, a heavy, steady downpour
that sheered across the windshield, at times completely obstructing his view of
the road.
 
Perfect. His plan to speed all the way back to the house, to Sam, was shot.
 
As the minutes ticked by, as the wind rattled the windows and the sky finally
relinquished the very last of its light, the Impala crawled forward, slowly
closing the gap between the two brothers. Sighing heavily, Dean punched play on
the tape deck; Ted Nugent warbled to life.
 
Stranglehold.
 
No shit.
 
*
 
The approach to the house was completely impassable -- at least by car-- by the
time Dean skidded to a halt on the shoulder of the road. The rain had stopped
but wind still howled, angry and unabated, daring him to get out, to fight his
way through the debris field of fallen tree limbs and torn sheet metal tumbling
through the yard.
 
Dares piss Dean off, especially when his brother is the bait.
 
Grabbing his jacket off the back seat, he shoved the first-aid kit and a
flashlight from the glove compartment into his pocket, then abandoned the
Impala.
 
*
 
When yanking on the front door didn’t work, Dean resorted to kicking it down,
figuring he already had so much to answer for that this particular infraction
wouldn’t matter much.
 
Damage, after all, is relative.
 
“Sam!”
 
He knew his brother probably wouldn’t hear him over the din of those damn
sirens, over the wind howling through the house, but he called for him anyway.
Dean felt glass crunch underfoot as he swept the flashlight’s beam across the
wet floor, revealing that most if not all of the windows had shattered, along,
it seemed, with just about every other breakable object in the living room.
 
He shone the light down the dark hallway.
 
“Sam!”
 
Dean judged he was about halfway down the hall when a sudden, particularly hard
gust of wind rose up, knocking him off balance, first slamming his shoulder
into the wall, then driving him forward onto his hands and knees.
 
The flashlight rolled, hit the baseboard, blinked, then went out.
 
Shit.
 
Dean scrabbled in the glass, cutting his right hand as he pulled himself up,
feeling his way along slowly in the yawning darkness. In reality, he knew only
a matter of feet lay between him and the nearest door, but as he hunched his
shoulders against the roaring wind and peered into the black, the hallway
seemed an endless abyss. He slipped, caught himself, slipped again. Pressing
close to the wall, he paused a moment.
 
Suddenly, something sharp flew past his face, grazing his cheek. A second
later, a larger object followed - maybe the remains of a vase, or, more likely,
an empty liquor bottle – narrowly missing his head, shattering against the
bathroom door.
 
Resting his cheek against the wall, Dean closed his eyes, sucked in a painful,
shuttering breath, and whispered the closest thing to a prayer he’d ever
uttered. Blinking back hot, angry tears, he called out for his brother again, a
deep, enduring, unanswered cry that felt as though it was being ripped from
him.
 
“Sam!”
 
And then, two strong arms wrapped around him. Training and adrenaline kicked in
as Dean instinctively fought the hold, but then stilled at the startling touch
of Sam’s mouth against his ear. “Christ,” Dean groaned, partly out of relief,
partly out of irritation, and partly out of some third thing he was so damn
tired of trying to understand.
 
*
 
The darkness was close, like a second skin, as they slammed the bathroom door,
locking it.
 
You okay?” Sam asked, once again clutching Dean in a fierce hug.
 
Sidestepping any number of smartass answers, he simply nodded against Sam’s
cheek, lulled now by the strong, steady rhythm of his brother’s heartbeat, by
the suddenly overwhelming warmth and weight of him. Swallowing hard, Dean drew
back. “You?”
 
Just as the younger man started to speak, the floor abruptly shifted, shaking
violently, sending them crashing into the wall; before the back of Dean’s head
could connect with the faded yellow tile, though, Sam’s hand was there, taking
the blow.
 
“Dean!”
 
The older man slowly slid to the floor, resting his back against the wall. Sam
followed, never breaking contact.
 
“Son of a-” Dean frowned, made no comment about the fact that Sam’s hand was
still splayed behind his head. “Feels like the whole fuckin’ world’s falling
apart.” Secretly, he was beginning to wonder if this wasn’t the end game their
father had been training them for all their lives.
Sam gripped him harder, groaning, as another vibration ran through the floor.
Then, the room was almost quiet, save the door rattling on its hinges and the
thunderous sound of blood pounding in Dean’s ears as Sam pressed closer in the
darkness.
 
Too close.
 
“Aw, man, are you alright?”
 
“Yeah. Hey, how’s the hand?” Dean inquired, grateful for the small distraction
from Sam’s rich, warm, earthy scent, a little alarmed that he was noticing such
things.
 
“S’okay.”
 
“Let me see.”
 
“Dean-”
 
“Let me see,” he said, suddenly reminded of his own hand. He winced. “You get a
flashlight like I told you to?” As Dean dug for the first-aid kit in his
pocket, Sam slowly moved away in the darkness, then was back, shining a light
between them.
 
“Damn,” Dean muttered. “Must’ve dropped the kit out in the hall.”
 
“Don’t even think about it,” Sam warned as his brother glanced toward the door.
Any argument Dean might have been about to make was silenced as Sam’s fingers
gently brushed the tender flesh near the cut on his cheek, an injury he’d all
but forgotten about.
 
“That’s gonna need stitches,” the young hunter whispered, tilting his brother’s
chin higher, skimming his thumb gently along the older man’s jaw. Dean tensed
at the touch, turned away.
 
“Later. Give me some light down here, will ya?” The beam had barely fallen on
Dean’s hand, when, without ceremony, he yanked the bloody shard of glass out of
his own palm. It hurt, but he figured that, for a lot of reasons, he probably
had that coming.
 
“Jesus, you’re bleeding,” Sam said, reaching for him again.
 
Dean shrugged, absently wiping his hand on the front of his shirt. “Now you.”
 
“Dean, you’re-”
 
“Come on!” he snapped, regretting it instantly. Anger was truly the last thing
he felt for his brother, but Dean was too confused, too exhausted, to make many
distinctions just now.
 
Sam yanked his t-shirt over his head, tore it in half. “You always have to make
things so damn hard. You can’t just…just…”
 
“What?”
 
“Nothing.”
 
Dean frowned. Ordinarily, this might have been an opportunity for him to make a
joke that somehow called Sam’s manhood into question, but the hard look on his
brother’s face – one Dean’d been seeing too much of lately – gave him pause. It
was a measure of his concern that, despite his many reservations and the knot
in his belly, Dean laid a tentative hand on the other’s bare shoulder.
 
“Hey,” he began, uncertain of his intention beyond ridding Sam of that haunted
look. Dean knew he wasn’t good at this kind of thing; he often lumbered through
the finer points of relationships, destroying them in the process. His
connection to John survived, he guessed, exactly because they were the same in
this, understood it about themselves and each other, didn’t want or need much
more out of life than food, occasional shelter, and revenge.
 
Until now.
 
“Look,” he began clumsily, “I just wanna…you know…” Dean absently rubbed the
back of his head, glanced at the floor. “Thanks.”
 
Sam shrugged.
 
“You did good,” Dean insisted. “Nice reflexes, too, by the way. Probably kept
me from crackin’ my head open.” He’d already determined that Sam had probably
been telling the truth about his own hand; Dean had seen no bruising and the
younger man had been using it without complaint when he began tearing the t-
shirt into makeshift bandages. He wondered at that briefly, guessed maybe he’d
underestimated Sam. They took the strips up then and silently began dressing
Dean’s wound.
 
“Nice job,” Dean observed when it was done. Blood was already soaking through
the thin cotton, but the wrap was well executed, nonetheless.
 
Sam smiled a little at the unsolicited praise.
 
There was a moment of awkward silence when Dean realized his hand was still
resting in Sam’s. As Dean withdrew it, his fingers briefly grazed his brother’s
thigh.
 
He wasn’t sure what he was getting ready to do then; maybe apologize, maybe
laugh it off with a crass joke at his own expense. He was midway between the
two options when, suddenly and completely unexpectedly, he felt Sam’s lips
brush his own, the touch so light, Dean wondered if he’d imagined it.
 
“Sam-”
 
The young hunter leaned down, cupping Dean’s head with strong, sure hands;
there was a dark look in his eyes that Dean wasn’t sure he recognized or liked.
He did, however, recognize the intent.
 
“Sam, no -” Dean suddenly felt dirty with guilt and arousal. After all, wasn’t
this situation one of the first he’d dared to fantasize about, to jack off to,
even when his brother was lying in bed right next to him?
 
“Shhh… it’s okay.” The kiss came again, this time bold and graceless, as if Sam
had been holding it back all his life. Dean reached for him, had every
intention of shoving him away, of saving at least one of them, when his wrists
were caught up in a surprisingly firm grip. The older man moaned some sort of
protest against Sam’s tongue, but the young hunter opened his mouth wider,
swallowed it down, deepening the kiss.
 
Then, Dean found his hands on Sam’s bare shoulders, felt Sam’s fingers trailing
down his neck, his chest, skimming under the hem of his shirt. Sam was well on
his way to re-enacting Dean’s second fantasy as he pressed the palm of his hand
to the bulge in his brother’s jeans. A tremor of excitement and fear raced up
the older man’s spine.
 
This can’t be happening…
 
But it was, and Dean was letting it. Part of him still wanted to stop, was
screaming for it, knew it was wrong, but he just couldn’t. Breaking the kiss,
he pressed his open mouth hungrily to Sam’s neck, biting and sucking the taut,
tanned flesh his brother so freely exposed.
 
All those months of careful concealment undone in a matter of moments…
 
Dean was licking a hot circle around Sam’s left nipple when he felt a hand on
the back of his head. “Come here,” Sam whispered breathlessly, helping Dean to
his feet; the older man soon found his back to the wall and his brother’s hand
on his zipper.
 
“Don’t…please…we have to stop…” Dean shook his head as his seventeen-year-old
brother’s fingers softly brushed the tip of his cock. Kissing Sam was one
thing, maybe even something Dean could eventually forgive himself for, but
this…
 
“Shhh…”
 
“We can’t…”
 
“Relax…”
 
“You don’t…Oh, God…” Dean thrust involuntarily into Sam’s grip as the younger
man slowly started pumping him with long, firm, skilled strokes.
 
“Christ, you feel good…so hard…” Sam whispered against his ear. Dean closed his
eyes, groaning.
 
Jesus.
 
Sam stroked faster. “Yeah… come on.”
 
All pretense had long since been abandoned. Dean was seconds away from doing
exactly what Sam was urging; from doing irreparable damage to their
relationship; from breaking a promise and becoming a man who couldn’t live with
himself. He’d come here to save his brother, but instead he’d damned them both.
 
At that moment, he couldn’t imagine anything worse.
 
Then, there came a sharp rap at the door; John’s voice called from the other
side.
 
“Dean! Sam!”
 
*
***** Chapter 3 *****

Author's notes: Once again, I'm sorry for the slow update. Originally, this
section was going to be part of a longer chapter, but I've decided it should
stand on its own. More is on the way.
===============================================================================
***
 
To Dean, his father’s voice seemed to come from a great distance; though he was
just on the other side of the door, for all Dean was able to respond, he may as
well have been on the other side of the world.
 
“You boys in there?” John called.
 
For a moment, all movement stopped, save the remnants of Dean’s desire as his
cock throbbed in his brother’s hand. Time itself seemed frozen in sympathy with
the Winchesters as their eyes met, wide with confusion and fear. They were
caught. There was no chance for them and no choice but to let go. Dean
understood that, was already marshalling the will to do it, but was surprised
to find it harder in ways and for reasons he didn’t yet understand. He was
wondering at that distantly when the knock at the door came again, louder and
more insistent, if that were possible, jarring him out of his thoughts.
 
“Just a sec, Dad,” he called over his shoulder. Sam shook his head
disbelievingly as the older man grabbed his wrist, pushing it away. “Please,
just let me-” Sam whispered as he reached for him again, twisting his trembling
fingers in the damp fabric of Dean’s t-shirt.
 
“Son of a bitch,” Dean groaned, reaching between them, fumbling with his
zipper.
 
“Dean-”
 
“So help me, if you don’t let go-”
 
“I want it, okay? I want you,” he whispered fiercely, like that suddenly gave
them time and permission. It was a significant if startling confession that
didn’t quite sink in, distracted as Dean was by what lay in wait for them on
the other side of the door. Of course he wants it, Dean reasoned. Sam was a
horny teenager whose main sexual outlet thus far had consisted of covertly
jacking off in crappy motel rooms to scrambled porn. Dean could sympathize.
 
To a point.
 
“Stop it.”
 
“You want it, too, don’t you?”
 
“Sam-”
 
“Don’t you?”
 
Dean caught him by the shoulders then, shoving him away with more force than he
meant to. Sam stumbled back. “No,” he lied. “Okay? Just…no.” Dean felt like an
asshole, knew his brother was hurting and fought the urge to take it all back,
but figured maybe contempt wouldn’t be the worst possible thing to come out of
this; maybe it was the price they had to pay for doing this to each other, to
keep from ever doing it again.
 
It’s better this way, Dean told himself.
 
“What’s the holdup?” John called out. “You boys okay?”
 
Dean couldn’t help a bitter, derisive bark of laughter. No, they weren’t okay,
and as Sam schooled his features to an impassive gaze that somehow seemed to
dare Dean to answer, part of him doubted they would be. A long silence
unraveled between them, then Dean said, “I hurt my hand. Sam’s helping me wrap
it. It’s alright, though.” It was lame, but it would buy them some time.
 
“Here,” Dean whispered, shrugging out of his denim jacket. “Put this on.” Sam
stared at him like he was going to refuse out of spite. Dean sighed. “Think
whatever you want about me, but do it later.”
 
Sam chewed his lip, regarded the jacket doubtfully. “Won’t my wearing that just
look like we’re trying to hide something?”
 
“We are trying to hide something.”
 
“I don’t think it’s gonna help anything.”
 
“Just put it on.”
 
“Dean-”
 
“You’ve got three hickeys on your chest,” Dean observed pointedly, swallowing
hard at the memory of putting them there. “Wear the damn jacket.” He pulled his
own shirt out to hang loose over his fly, hoping to hide his painful erection.
Smoothing his hair back, he rested his hand on the doorknob, waiting. He knew
Sam was right, that the jacket wouldn’t hide anything from John, not for long.
He’d figure it out, was probably already suspicious, would know for sure as
soon as he saw them, smelled them, but there was nothing they could do about
that now.
 
“Hey,” Dean said, pointing at Sam’s cheek. “You’ve got…” he reached out, quite
by instinct, and wiped the blood from his brother’s face, figuring it had
smeared off of his own when they were kissing. Kissing. Right. Call it what it
is, he thought miserably. You were making out with him. Jesus. Sam briefly
turned into the touch, pressing his cheek against the older man’s fingers. His
eyes slipped closed and Dean was tempted to think he’d been wrong, that having
this with Sam was worth risking everything, including the one thing he’d always
thought he couldn’t live without: John’s trust. He pulled away then, turned
back toward the door like the coward he felt like so he wouldn’t have to see
again the look of bitter betrayal on his brother’s face.
 
“You ready?” Dean finally asked. He took Sam’s silence as the closest thing to
an answer he was going to get.
 
Dean’s fingers tightened around the doorknob again. “Let me do the talking.”
 
“Whatever.”
 
“We’ll get through this,” Dean whispered, almost to himself. It was an all-
encompassing promise he didn’t really believe, but as usual, he was willing to
say, to do, just about anything to make it true.
 
“Let’s just get it over with,” Sam said, shoving past him.
 
*
 
The hallway was still dark - too dark, apparently, for John to yet notice
anything unusual about his sons. The boys followed him out into the living
room, the sound of broken glass crunching underfoot. Dean stalled, walked
slowly as he tried to work out something to say, some plausible excuse when,
not if, John asked what they’d been doing. As they reached the end of the
corridor, he decided he might, for once, try the truth.
 
*
 
Dusk had fallen upon the room, bathing the wreckage of their home in deep
amethyst shadows. As night closed in around them, the Winchester men stood
there, silently surveying the damage.
 
The only piece of furniture still standing was the couch, though it seemed the
wind had blown it several feet closer to the kitchen; the few tables lay up-
ended, the wooden chairs were now a pile of debris in the far corner. The front
door hung haphazardly off its hinges where Dean had kicked it in and every
window in the room had shattered, covering the floor in tiny shards of glass
that glinted in the failing light like a cosmos of fallen stars.
 
The oldest Winchester glanced between his two sons. Dean studied his father as
much as he dared to look at him, had seen the moment when John’s expression
changed, however subtly, from concern to relief to suspicion. He was putting it
together: the delay, Dean’s jacket, Sam’s evasive glances. Taken alone, none of
it was really enough to convict them of what they’d done, but Dean knew it
raised a doubt in John’s mind that was just as damaging as a full confession.
Dean stared down at his shoes. He realized he was making things worse for
himself by not meeting his father’s gaze, but the weight of the older man’s
stare was suddenly unbearable. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sam pull
his jacket closer around himself, like that concealed anything. He sighed. The
kid was right; it had been a dumb idea.
 
Finally, after what seemed like an interminable wait, John slipped a hand into
each of his own jacket pockets, coming up with a flashlight in one and the
first-aid kit in the other.
 
“I’m gonna go check the breaker box,” he said.
 
Dean slowly looked up. “What?”
 
“I’m gonna go check the breaker box.” Handing the first-aid kit to his oldest,
he added, “Wait for me in the kitchen.” Dean held the small white box,
frowning, as Sam stood by, saying nothing. John turned to go to the garage,
stopping only long enough to look at the damaged front door. Dean watched his
father run his hand over the splinted wood; suddenly, he felt profoundly
ashamed.
 
“Dad,” he called softly. John stood there, staring at the door for a long time,
seemingly lost in thought. Dean heard the hitch in his voice when his father
finally said, “I’m not sure how to fix this.”
 
Before Dean could answer, he was gone.
 
*
***** Chapter 4 *****

Author's notes: I took a few liberties with product descriptions in this
chapter, but for the most part, the info here is accurate per my light
research. From what I can tell, Rexall chain drug stores are no longer open, at
least not in North America, but I ignored that here in favor of adding a sense
of nostalgia to the setting in this chapter.
===============================================================================
Title: Suddenly Last Summer – Chapter 4
Author: jdax
 
***
 
Dean was standing in aisle four of Loyd’s Bait It or Build It, a hardware and
tackle supply store that reeked of fish, turpentine, and, judging from the mop
leaning against the door of the single toilet in the back, probably a few
things the fish and turpentine were mercifully filtering out. As he yanked the
collar of his t-shirt up to wipe sweat from his face, Dean wondered if it had
occurred to the owners to turn on the small, blue, plastic fan they were
hawking next to the checkout counter. A hand-written sign informed him that it
was an “8 inch Aloha Flurry – whimsically designed, fabulously portable,
wonderfully playful.” Yeah, exactly what I look for in a hunk of plastic
designed to blow air. Further down, in small print: “Ultra-safe construction
protects hands and fingers.” Flexing his bandaged knuckles, Dean snorted.
 
Scanning the room, he saw his father, just down the aisle, haggling with a
young salesman over the price of replacement windows. The kid had stepped back
a few paces, kept nervously pushing his glasses up on his nose and nodding
vigorously as John went over the long list of supplies he’d pulled from his
pocket. The young man looked kind of dazed and it was then Dean knew he was
silently calculating his commission.
 
Turning slowly, Dean slipped a small, brown box off the shelf in front of him,
pretended to study it as he dared a glance at his brother, who was leaning
casually against the check-out counter, nodding politely at a plump, ruddy-
faced, middle-aged woman in a plain brown dress – about the same shade as the
parcel Dean was holding, actually - whose hands flapped excitedly when Sam
offered a deep, hearty laugh at something she’d said.
 
Dean gripped the box harder, had every intention of going back to gathering up
nails or bolts or whatever the fuck John had told him to do, but his brother
shifted then; Sam’s t-shirt rode up a little in back, revealing the fine curve
of his ass.
 
Heat rose to Dean’s face again. He looked away. He knew Sam was only doing what
John had told him to do – secure a discount – but damn he’d gotten good at the
brand of persuasion Dean thought he’d claimed as his own. Watching Sam now, it
seemed as though his little brother was well on his way to perfecting it.
 
Currently, Benny and the Jets was taking a beating at the hands of the newly
installed Muzak system; Dean had noticed a couple of reps milling impatiently
around the Coke machine by the door, obviously trying to catch the woman’s
attention.
 
Good luck, he thought, stealing another glance at his brother. Sam had broken
into a huge grin - one Dean had come to think only he could solicit – and the
woman leaned forward, wide-eyed, mesmerized. As Dean absently fingered the
small parcel in his hands, his heart raced, just as it had this morning when
Sam’s thigh, warm and firm, pressed against his own - intentionally or
unintentionally, he didn't know - during the long, silent drive into town in
the cab of John's pick-up truck; just as it had last night when Sam had lead
him into the bathroom, to what he thought would be safety for both of them;
just as it had every moment for months now. Dean knew there had been a time
before he felt like this, before the mere thought of his brother was so
overwhelming it nearly drove him to his knees, but he couldn’t remember.
 
Couldn’t think.
 
Couldn’t…
 
“Help you?”
 
Dean looked up.
 
“Good choice, young man. A little unorthodox for everyday use, but that’s just
because people aren’t used to the idea yet. With any luck, they will be.” The
person speaking – a thin, older man with white hair in twill slacks and a
cardigan reminiscent of Fred Rogers – nodded toward the box of screws in the
younger man’s hand, smiling proudly.
 
The man was still talking and Dean didn’t really give a damn and Sam’s laugh
rang out again, warm and genuine.
 
The man paused, cleared his throat; obviously, he knew he didn’t have Dean’s
attention. The younger man dragged his attention back to the task at hand. He
glanced down at the box once again. “The SPAX, huh?”
 
The older man smiled, readying himself to launch into his sale’s pitch again.
“Yes, sir,” he began. “May I?” he said, opening the box and carefully plucking
one of the screws from it. “See?” he insisted, triumphantly holding up what
Dean had to admit was an impressive-looking piece of hardware – a screw with a
fully-threaded shank and a serration pattern he’d never seen before. “They call
it ‘the fastener from the future,’”
 
Dean nodded from time to time as the man went on about the German influence on
the design and all that implied about precision engineering and quality. He was
just getting to the patented 4CUT point when Dean began to wonder how this man
ended up working here. Frankly, Dean had expected to get this speech from
someone who looked more like Bobby Singer or hell, even John, but this guy’s
pitch, though well-executed, was obviously rehearsed; Dean could tell they were
both bored with it.
 
Pulling a crisply-folded handkerchief from his back pocket, the older man wiped
sweat from his brow. “Ah, damn. Excuse me,” he said, dropping the screw back
into the box and walking away. A moment later, Dean heard the bells ring
brightly over the front door, then the sound of the old man coughing, hard.
 
Through the glass doors, Dean watched the man cross the street to the Rexall,
stopping every few feet as his body was wracked with another round of coughs.
 
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Can I help you, hon?” The ruddy-faced woman was bustling
down the aisle toward Dean at a pace that, given her girth, he never would have
guessed she was capable of.
 
“Just looking, thanks,” he said, waving her off. “Hey,” he added, frowning,
“That guy I was just talking to, is he okay?”
 
“Uncle Frank? Well, he has these…these spells, but he’s alright.” The smile she
responded with was just as rehearsed as the sales pitch he’d just endured.
“Now, can I do something for you, dear?”
 
Dean glanced over at Sam, who was now casually flipping through a copy of
Horticulture. The Muzak reps were gone. Her attention, for the moment, was
focused squarely on Dean.
 
“Well, I guess-”
 
Just then, the bell sounded again. They both glanced at the door. Dean thought
he’d see the old man, returning with a plain brown paper bag with a pharmacy
receipt stapled to it. The two men who actually walked in were not at all what
he was expecting.
 
The first was a tall, blond man, graying a little at the temples, wearing a
blue polo shirt, jeans, and well-worn boots. A kid about Sam’s age came in
right behind him. The boy, tall and lean, also like Sam, had on jeans,
sneakers, and a red t-shirt with Remy Zero printed across the front in faded
letters.
 
Later, when Dean teased him about supporting what he considered to be an emo
band, the kid would explain how they’d played at his school a couple of years
ago. He’d laughed. “At least these guys had a hit this decade,” the boy
quipped, nodding toward the Impala and the makeshift shrine to classic rock
that lay inside.
 
“Oh, oh, oh…,” the woman said excitedly, her eyes suddenly glazing over as she
smoothed out her dress. “Does my hair look alright?” she asked, not really
waiting for an answer.
 
From what he could see, Dean had to admit the newcomers were better looking
than most locals he came across in towns this size, but that was about all he
had to go on to explain the woman’s unbridled enthusiasm at their arrival. Even
Sam, with his tall, dark and charming routine, hadn’t garnered such a response.
Dean shrugged. “What’s the big deal?”
 
For the first time since the two men had arrived, she actually looked at Dean.
“What’s the big deal?” She frowned; the tension suddenly melted from her face,
though, replaced once again by the vacuous expression from before. “For
Heaven’s sake,” she said sweetly, gathering up the hem of her skirt and walking
away. “The Kents are here.”
 
*
 
She said their name like it should explain everything; maybe to someone who
lived around here, it would.
Before Dean could make any sort of reply, she was hurrying toward the two men.
“It’s so nice to see you both!” she gushed.
 
Dean was watching the newcomers with interest when the young salesman John had
been talking to for the last half-hour came up behind him. “Pathetic, isn’t
it?” he said.
 
“Hmm.”
 
The way she, she…” he snorted. “If I were them, I’d make the longer drive into
the city just to avoid this spectacle.”
 
“Why don’t they?”
 
“Probably can’t afford it. They’re in here practically every week ‘cause that
Clark kid’s always breaking something or other out at the farm. Never seen a
kid so accident prone.” The young man lowered his voice conspiratorially. “She
gives Mr. Kent a discount,” he whispered, “but rumor is Ms. Talbot’d like to
give him a lot more than that.”
 
That much was obvious. Taking Mr. Kent by the elbow, she led him up one aisle
and down the other, pointing different items out along the way.
 
The clerk rolled his eyes. “She gives him the tour every week, like he hasn’t
already been here a million times. She fawns over him. I mean, Mr. Kent’s a
nice guy, but that doesn’t mean he’s interested, you know? He’s too polite to
say anything about it.” The kid sighed. “I wish she’d just get it through her
head that the two of them are never gonna happen.”
 
Dean nodded, pretended not to notice as Sam looked up every now and then from
his magazine to cast appraising glances at Clark, who was currently fishing
change out of his pockets by the Coke machine. John, who had emerged from the
back of the store with a bundle of bungee cord, warily watched all three of
them.
 
The young clerk saw the eldest Winchester, pulled John’s hand-written list from
his pocket, carefully smoothed it out. Dean could see where the kid had
penciled in prices next to the big-ticket items; he’d drawn dollar signs next
to the most expensive things. “Like I said, it’s pathetic.”
 
Dean chewed on his lip, nodded slowly. “Hmm.”
 
*
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