Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/552880.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Weecest, Sibling_Incest, Underage_Sex, Wincest_-_Freeform, Teenagers,
      First_Time, Consensual_Underage_Sex, Teen_Dean_Winchester, Teen_Sam
      Winchester, Pre-Series, Happy_Ending
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-11-02 Words: 11614
****** Summer Blackout ******
by Nutkin
Summary
     When Dean is seventeen, they spend five months being normal.
Notes
     Much thanks to Valiant for the beta and endless encouragement!
See the end of the work for more notes
Sometimes Dean feels like a superhero. That's how he explains it to Sammy, when
he's sitting in sullen twelve-year-old angst, picking at the end of his
shoelace. Everyone who fights evil has to have a different identity. No one
gets to know about the cool stuff you do, except you. It keeps you safe, and it
keeps everyone else safe, because they get to pretend life is really as normal
and boring as they think it is. Superheroes are always lonely. It's not easy.
But they're lucky, because they have each other. And Dad. Most superheroes
don't get that. Sam shoots him a look that plainly says this metaphor skews a
little too young for him, but whatever.
Dean's got four years and thirty pounds on Sam, and it's still what he tells
himself when he's walking home from the late shift at 7-Eleven. Gotta keep up
appearances.
 
*
 
Dean's seventeen, and they're living in a little town in Arkansas.
Normally they only set up shop towards the beginning of a school year. They'll
linger somewhere long enough for Dean to remember why he hates school, for Sam
to think everything will be better and different, and then they're back on the
road.
This time is different; there was an accident on the last hunt. Nothing too
major - no one got hurt, anyway, but it was a close call. A gun didn't go off
when it should have. Sam, who shouldn't have been there anyway, didn't quite
duck fast enough, and if Dad didn't still have those military reflexes, the
Winchester family would probably be short one person. Those near-misses are
just part of the hunting life, part of doing what they do, but it shook them
all up. They were rolling into Buckner the next morning.
It's pretty much a one-horse town. There are two churches, both of them white
clapboard; there's a privately-owned grocery store and a few beauty salons; an
"old-fashioned" candy store where you can pay $5 for a caramel apple; a
smattering of restaurants on the main drag, and basically nothing else.
Most importantly, there's nothing creepy about the place. Everything seems a
bit trapped in time, but there's no evil here. No foreboding buildings, no
local lore of any kind. The most notable story in town is that the Church of
the Good Shepherd was once part of the congregation of the Church of Nazareth,
but it broke off in 1974. People are still scandalized.
 
*
 
Dad's drunk most of this year. Dean assumes Sam doesn't really get that,
because to Dean's thinking, Sam's got the observational skills of a six-year-
old. He deals with it the only way he knows how, which is to pretend it's not a
big deal. Even if he thought to talk it over with Sam, he'd just shrug it off.
Whatever. So Dad likes his beer. A lot of dads are like that.
It kind of terrifies him, though. Sometimes. Like when Dad heads out at six and
claims he's going to be back in an hour, and doesn't stumble in until two. Dean
always waits for him, laying awake in bed until he hears the thud and click of
the door that tells him he and Sam are safe, Dad is safe, and everything is
okay. And then there are times when Dad comes in too plastered to make it past
the front door - things sound a little different then (slower movements, the
door banging open and staying that way, as the wind whips in), and Dean will
jump out of bed, feet slapping on the cold wooden floor, and deal with it.
Those nights, he can tell by the smell that it's not just beer anymore.
Tequila, maybe. Vodka, probably. Dad's too drunk to move properly, and Dean has
to hoist him up, take the brunt of his father's slouching weight, and stumble
him over to the couch.
It's not Dad's fault that his life sucks so bad. Dean knows the only reason
they're shipwrecked in Bumfuck is because Dad wants them to have a little bit
of normalcy. He wouldn't be drinking like this if he were out there hunting
more, doing what he needs to do. More than anything, it's really Dean's fault;
if he tried a little harder to be responsible, if he worked more at proving
himself, Dad wouldn't have decided to settle down and do the domestic thing for
awhile. Guilt gnaws at him on these nights, so Dean doesn't mind the drinking,
or the fear, or the task of tugging his dad's boots off. He leaves a pan next
to the couch for the inevitable pre-dawn puking, and heads back to bed.
 
*
 
If Dean were going to start feeling weird about shit in his life, his crush on
Sam wouldn't really be the starting point. There are swamp monsters and
vengeful ghosts vying for that distinction, so it seems easier to not care.
He's not stupid about it, doesn't go around acting strange - it's just a thing.
People jerk off to weird shit. He keeps the used-shirt-sniffing to a bare
minimum and dispenses crappy girl advice. Wakes up early some days, because Sam
likes to beat off in the morning. Breath hitching and voice cracking around
little moans while Dean stares at the painted wall inches from his face.
Sam's pretty fucking unfathomable, when Dean gets right down to it. And maybe
that's where the attraction lies. He knows Sam likes it in Buckner, and not
just because their school system decided he was too smart for the seventh
grade. He's just like that; he goes for everything that small towns consist of.
Sam likes watching sitcom families who interact like robots; Sam likes watching
episodes of The Dick Van Dyke Show and pretending he knows what moms are like;
Sam likes riding his bike over to his friends's houses on weekends and
listening to crappy music. Sometimes, when Dean can't sleep, he tries to
imagine what Sam must dream about. Trips to Disneyland? Baking apple pies? It's
all inconceivable to Dean, who learned to roll with the punches a long time
ago. He can't remember what it was like to feel innocent about the world, to
assume that there was something better waiting on down the line.
He really does love Sam, even though he tries to not think about that very
much. Ever since he was mid-jerk in a faggy-but-it's-okay-because-everyone-
thinks-like-that-sometimes fantasy and he landed on the idea of going down on
Sam, it's been kind of weird to think of things in those big brotherly terms.
Still. He wants to protect Sam, give him some kind of wisdom gathered from his
own crappy experiences. The only kind of protection he knows of, though, is the
kind where you know how to fuck shit up worse than it can fuck you up, so he
offers Sam the same guidance he always got from Dad: buck up, man.
Sam's gotta grow out of it sooner or later. So will he.
 
*
 
Dean starts playing sports that year. He's always been good at that kind of
stuff. Yeah, so Dad was never the sort of person to play ball with in the park
on a sunny day, but Dean can catch a loaded semi-automatic in the rain at night
with one hand, so the Buckner Bruins are more than happy to use him. Dean likes
the rules, the simple equation of it all. He likes knowing what he's supposed
to be doing and how to do it, and he's inevitably the first person on the field
for after-school practice and the last one to leave.
For the first month or so they're in town, Dad won't let Sam walk home by
himself after classes. Too dangerous, he says, even though the most dangerous
thing in town is them, followed distantly by, say, cougars or bobcats or
something. No amount of indignant huffing spares Sam from sitting in the
bleachers from three til five, doing algebra homework and reading whatever
Great American Novel he's picked up in the library. He's awkward and unsure of
himself in that setting, where the athletic and the popular congregate, his
hair hanging limply in his eyes as he hunches over in the stands.
Dean claps guys on the back and smiles at the girls who sit in the other
bleachers (the cool bleachers, because these distinctions can be made), but he
lives for the act of being up at bat. Holding the wood in his hands. A look at
the pitcher, a look at the ground. One up at the tip. It's like any other hunt,
really - any other mission. Just gotta know your weapon, gotta know your enemy
and how to take it down. The sharp crack of the bat against the ball isn't
quite as satisfying as bullets embedding in a reanimated body, or the hiss of
flames on a salted corpse, but it's something. Squeaky clean isn't him - never
could be - but going through the motions is worth it for that release.
Sometimes, when Dean senses that it's going to be a bad night for Dad, he'll
walk Sammy over to the park after practice. Two blocks from school, in the
opposite direction of their little house - it's a relatively big park, because
the one thing Buckner doesn't lack is empty spaces. The vegetation in Arkansas
is different than what Dean is used to; they spend a lot of time in the dry
southwest, where everything is sparse and red. Arkansas is lush. Green. Lots of
tall grass and scrubby bushes that cling to the ground. There's a baseball
diamond at the park, though, and a fence to catch stray balls, so he'll throw
his bag of gear to the side and drag Sam to the center of it.
"C'mon, Sammy!" he yells when Sam woefully asks to be left alone with his book.
"Y'don't want me to think you're a girl, do ya?"
The funny thing is, Sam's not half bad. He's unpolished and very awkward, but
he's got the same reflexes and instincts that make Dean a good player. He's
coltish, riding out another growth spurt, and even Dean can tell he's going to
be one tall motherfucker when he's older. He has a nasty habit of banging into
doorways and dropping things now, but he can still catch a curve ball, which is
pretty cool. He even gets into it sometimes, with a sort of quiet determination
- like if he's going to be forced to do a stupid task, he's going to do it
really well. If he actually connects the bat and ball, Dean makes him run
around the bases, inevitably dropping his mitt and chasing after him because,
"Dude, that's so not fast enough!"
They stay in the park until dusk sets in and it's too dark to see the stitches
on the ball. Their skin looks purpley-grey, Dean's white uniform (tight in the
leg, looser up top, with a little blue belt and number 8 stitched on the front)
lit up eerily. Dean shares his Gatorade with Sam those days, and they kick
rocks on their way home, passing each other bottles of neon pink or green and
laughing over whatever screw-up Sam made.
 
*
 
Dean's first real, honest-to-goodness girlfriend is a cheerleader. Of course.
Dean doesn't really have much reason or opportunity to talk to girls in school.
He flirts a bit, yeah, and done some hooking up at parties, but class projects
are always done with other guys. His friends are all guys, and really,
socializing with girls isn't something he's used to, having been home-schooled
in the back of Dad's car for years. The cheerleaders pile into the bus for
away-games, though, just like they're on the team. They flop into the bench
seats, turn around and perch on their knees, laughing and talking and swinging
their feet in those little white tennis shoes. They're kind of inescapable, and
they're the first girls Dean gets around to chatting with normally.
Jamie Naker has brown hair and big blue eyes. More of those perfect, just-a-
little-more-than-a-handful tits. Amazing legs, toned from being on the track
team since the sixth grade, and this way of talking that makes everything sound
reverentially important. She seems excited about whatever the subject is ("I
love my shampoo!" "I can't wait for college!"), and she's really, really
pretty.
Dean spends the whole ride to the game in Lowerdale seated next to her,
oblivious to the loud conversations and thrown items around them. He's only got
ears for her enthusiastic retelling of her mom's wedding last month, for her
laughing stories about the places in her house her cat gets stuck, for her
warm, sweet flirting. Her skirt - blue and white - hits just a little bit above
her kneecap, and he stares for fifteen of the forty minutes at that expanse of
thigh. A little golden from sun, downy in a subtle sort of way, because girls
like Jamie Naker in Buckner, Arkansas don't shave their legs at sixteen. Dean's
never really had an appreciation for something as arbitrary as legs before, but
there's something really sexy about this girl's, something that makes the back
of his neck prickle in an agreeable way.
Jamie carries the conversation for the whole ride, tilting her head this way
and that, leaning close enough that Dean can feel her shoulder rub against his
bicep when she shrugs. They bond over a mutual dislike of school musicals
("Like we need to see another production of Fiddler on the Roof! Can't they
find something interesting? I've been reading this one for English class - "
"Yeah, totally."), and she doesn't seem to notice his staring, because she
agrees (laughing breathlessly, smiling blinding Crest white) to ditch the team
and the other cheerleaders and go out with him after the game.
"After I win the game," is what Dean actually says, raising one eyebrow a
little more than the other and smiling at her so widely dimples form in his
cheeks. She rolls her eyes and laughs, but the Bruins do win, and Jamie spends
the evening sitting with him in a booth at Mario's Pizzeria, giggling over his
stories about the other high schools he's attended.
"God, Dean!" she says, picking pepperoni off the slice in front of her and
licking the orange grease off her thumb. "You're so funny! Nothing like that
ever happens here. I wish I got to travel as much as you!"
They date for weeks - about a month and a half, actually. It's weird, once the
shine wears off. The very act of being in a relationship with someone comes
haltingly to Dean. He doesn't like feeling like he has a counterpart,
especially since they barely know each other. Jamie's in love, she tells him,
but he can't stand her friends and that weird feeling in his stomach when she
kisses him in public.
The only time he's really enjoying it is when they're parked in the back seat
of the Impala, and he's sucking on her tongue. She lets him get his hand up
under her sweater, but pins her knees together sweetly when he tries to get
between them. Really, he's not sure he minds - in the cramped back seat, with
the taste of someone else's spit on his mouth, the only thing he can think
about is Sam. He hates her for not making that change.
They break up in May, when everyone else is excited about prom.
 
*
 
Dean's daily chore schedule is more like that of a housewife than a teenage
boy. He washes the dishes, he vacuums, he takes out the garbage, he does
laundry. He swings by Select Mart a couple of times a week, because no matter
how many frozen dinners and boxes of Kraft Mac 'n Cheese he buys, they manage
to burn through them. Sam's going this popsicle phase, too - the Dole kind that
are mostly juice, and aren't that sweet. Dean's teeth don't like the cold, and
he can't ever finish them before they start to melt - but he's more than
willing to encourage Sam's desire to suck on stuff, and buys them two boxes at
a time. The pastel-stained sticks wind up all over the house, a veritable
forest wasted on shitty jokes. (When is it time to go to the dentist? Why do
cows wear bells?)
Maybe if he had bigger balls, he'd call Dad on how fucking unfair it is to
leave him being Mr. Mom. He'd go all Hulk - throw around his relatively new
muscle and make a thing out of it. Play the guilt card (he keeps it up his
sleeve like an ace, knowing he'll never actually cheat), bitch about missing
his childhood. There are thoughts Dean doesn't let himself think, most of the
time. Opinions he doesn't let himself have, about Dad and their lives. Maybe he
could make himself go there, dump all that stuff out on the table. He might get
something out of it - more alone time, less chores. But it would also mean more
of Dad around, shitfaced and frustrating. And he's been doing this responsible
thing for so long that it just comes naturally - something in his brain is
right there to tell him that throwing bitchfits isn't responsible. Anyway,
better to save that argument for when Sammy'll need it.
Dad hides bottles around the house, and Dean wonders if he learned that trick
from some Lifetime movie marathon or something. It's not exactly subtle, the
bottle of hooch stuck between the couch cushions, waiting to bruise someone's
ass. In time the others surface - some travel-sized ones behind the bookcase.
Whiskey behind the lifetime supply of ramen in the top cupboard. It's
depressing because Dean doesn't want to think about his father being someone
with crutches in his life. Someone who has dependencies, who can't suck it up
and cope with things. If Dad can't take his own, "Buck up, man," advice, where
does that leave any of them?
Dean swipes one of the miniature bottles of vodka and downs it while trying to
watch scrambled porn on channel 87.
 
*
 
Sam's birthday is observed perfunctorily - a cake from the supermarket.
Balloons Dean picks up on the same trip for the cake, because blowing them up
in rapid succession until they're totally lightheaded is something of a
tradition. It's also something of a tradition that the person one year closer
to death gets to pick what's for dinner. This usually means making the choice
between Cracker Barrel or Applebee's, but since they're actually in a house
this year, Sam smirks and says he wants hamburgers.
"Hamburgers," Dean repeats, leaning back in his chair until it's balancing on
one leg. "You want fast food?"
The look on Sam's face just intensifies - one corner of his mouth tugged up
tightly as he rolls his eyes. "No, stupid. I want you to cook hamburgers."
Dean thunks his chair back down on all its legs.
In the end, they make them together. Dean complains a lot, and Sam more or less
runs the show - apparently his friend's mom makes them a lot, which is the
origin of this brilliant idea. They make a royal mess - not aided by the brief,
ill-conceived raw beef fight - and burn the first batch. Cooking comes about as
naturally to Dean as quantum physics, but Sam's good at everything, so they
kind of cancel each other out.
"Feel any older?" Dean asks, scrubbing the blackened remains of their failed
attempt out of the iron skillet. He's wearing the stupid apron he always wears
when doing dishes, and Sam's sitting on the counter, trying to eat a burnt
chunk.
"Oh, loads," he says, bits of charcoal flecking his teeth. "My back's killing
me, and golf suddenly sounds like fun."
"Smartass." Dean flicks both hands at him, sending trails of warm dishwater
across Sam's t-shirt. Sam gives him a look of astonishment, and chucks the
unhamburger at Dean's head.
When John comes in, Dean's still wearing his apron. They're both nearly soaked
through, and Dean's got Sam flung over one shoulder, howling with laughter.
He's shaking him upside down, and the contents of Sam's pockets have already
fallen to the floor - quarters rolling off under the refrigerator and crumpled
pieces of paper under Dean's feet.
"And what in the hell is going on here?" he asks, folding his arms and taking
in the soapy, damp mess.
"Cooking," Sam says thickly, from somewhere around Dean's knees.
 
*
 
They wind up, eventually, with something pretty palatable. Dean finishes
scrubbing out the skillet while Sam's changing out of his wet shirt, and they
monitor the second batch with scientific intensity. They turn out a little pink
in the center, but Sam - newly thirteen and unable to quit grinning -
defensively says he likes them that way. And that's that.
 
*
 
Dean can feel himself start to slip when the school year ends.
Summer hits with a strange, dry heat - the kind that makes your skin prickle
with sweat before you even make it from the door to the car. The kind where the
sidewalk melts the bottoms of your shoes. Wads of sticky, oozy chewing gum
litter the streets where kids seem to have spit them without even caring -
probably too sugar-parched to bear the sweet tang any longer. Dean gets that.
The school year winds down with a lot of assemblies to honor kids who didn't
spend the year sitting in the back of the room, staring off into space. He
wasn't there when photographs were taken for the yearbook - it's surprising his
name makes it in there at all. He feels weird, scribbling his signature into
the copies people put in front of him. Smiles in a sheepish way when he
explains that he doesn't have one, so no, they can't sign his. He makes it home
on the last day of school with a handful of loose-leaf papers on which people
have written down phone numbers and addresses, promises to keep in touch. Jamie
waves at him from across the already-dead front lawn outside the main building.
He doesn't really see anyone after that. Most of them supernova to points
beyond for real summer vacations, and the rest are busy doing whatever they do.
He's invited to a couple of parties in early June, but then the phone goes out
- Dad forgot to pay the bill, and it takes two weeks before it's working again.
When it's back up, people have stopped trying to stay in touch.
Sam starts living in the movie theater downtown. It only plays one movie per
week, three showings a day, and by Friday he can quote whatever craptastic film
it is, line for line. Independence Day. Twister. Space Jam. Phenomenon, which
they snicker at. Dean doesn't usually go, because it's easier to use the two
hours for some private jerk-off time. But that's okay, because Sam actually has
friends.
 
*
 
The job thing happens out of boredom, mostly, but it's also because they're
pretty strapped for cash. Dad's winning combination of scamming, betting and
turning the occasional wrench has kept them afloat, but it doesn't cover the
miscellany of two teenage boys. Sam needs new sneakers, a wheel for his bike, a
Green Day CD. Dean's requirements are a bit more basic - a couple of Hustlers
and some Mountain Dew - but clerking at 7-Eleven keeps him square for that as
well.
He gets the night shift. Works with a guy named Bill, who tunes the boombox to
country stations and is usually stoned. He talks about hunting and his
girlfriend, and he's exactly the kind of person Dean doesn't want to encounter
in a dark forest during open season. Mostly, Dean just ignores the list of
chores the manager leaves for the graveyard employees, and tries to entertain
himself by reading magazines plucked from the rack.
 
*
 
The whole reason Dean tried out for baseball was because Dad told him to. Dad,
as it happened, had been a bit of a sports hero when he was in school.
"You could use a hobby," he'd said. Raised a hand, then, at the inevitable
retort. "One that doesn't involve cleanin' guns."
It had worked as a diversion, at least for a little while, but now Dean's
itching for a fight. That's the only thing he really, honestly misses about the
days on the road - the promise of combat. Something to get his heart rate up,
make him feel alive. His days are spent sleeping, now, and eating Cheetoes
while he watches Cheers re-runs. His nights are spent restocking the candy
aisle in a florescent glow. His biggest accomplishment is the high score on the
Space Invaders game over by the alcohol case.
Yeah, he's spoiling for a fight. Sometimes, after his shift, he'll go walking
around town with this on his mind. Looking for someone's ass to kick. He
doesn't know who, really - maybe he'll see someone purse-snatching or
something. Maybe someone will look at his boots and black t-shirt and think
he's some kind of punk. He walks the four blocks that make up the rough part of
town with dedication, meeting the gaze of everyone who passes by. Nothing ever
happens.
He thinks a lot about technique, since he doesn't get any practice. Dreams up
scenarios he might encounter - if there were two of 'em, if there were three.
For a couple of weeks, he spends his work shift sitting behind the counter with
one of those yellow office pads, drawing out diagrams in ballpoint pen. He's
pretty sure he's figured out the best way to take on a group, although it's
pretty gory. It would have to be one hell of a purse-snatching.
Sam finds the pad later, when he's cleaning his half of the room. "You should
try reading Sun Tzu," he says. "If you're into tactical combat now."
"Shut up," Dean says.
 
*
 
Dad leaves for a hunt in early July. Dean finally musters the energy to beg
shotgun, but no. Two weeks, Dad says, keys in hand. And I'll be calling. What
he really means is, As long as it fucking takes, and don't think this is an
opportunity for you to get away with stupid shit, because you never know when
I'll be back. It's all in the tone.
Consequently, Dad's not around when the sky fucking falls and Sam's little
girlfriend dumps him.
He slumps into the house that night around eight, and Dean's all ready to bitch
him into next week for not calling and letting him know he'd be out past dark -
and then Dean sees his face. Notices that he's slouching himself into a kind of
parenthesis, which he hasn't done much of since the last growth spurt. It
doesn't take much wheedling to get the story out, such that it is: she wants to
"hang out" with other people. It's pretty harsh.
Dean's hated the idea of this girl ever since Sam came home with barely-
suppressed glee and told him about her in late-night whispers. She's nothing
like Jamie, from what he can tell - just another plain, smart girl who was in
Sam's advanced science class. They did homework together when school was in,
and then - now - biked to the library together. Went and saw crappy movies
together. Did the boring, normal things that Sam seemed to like so much. Hell,
they probably shared milkshakes at the soda shop.
When Sam comes home with the weight of the world on his shoulders, staring down
the rest of his life without this girl, Dean hates himself. He doesn't feel
sympathy; he feels relief. He's been waiting for this ever since Sam confessed
it all to him, so it's hard to be the brother he's supposed to be, all woeful
shakes of the head and pats on the back.
"You need booze," is what he finally says, as Sam purses his lips and stares at
his ratty sneakers.
"Huh?" Sam looks up through his mess of bangs, eyebrows pushed together. He
seems very thirteen in that moment, unsure of himself and sad, and that should
be all Dean needs to back off. Drop it, change the subject. But he's not good
at that sort of thing. Backing down gracefully isn't his strong suit, so he
wordlessly goes to the bookcase and pulls a bottle of Jack Daniels out from
behind the well-worn copy of Early Egyptian Talismen.
Sam isn't a total lightweight, and Dean's pretty impressed by that. He's
knocked back a few mouthfuls before he even starts to go pink-cheeked. Dean can
taste his mouth on the bottle, maybe. He thinks he can, anyway, and that's
enough to make his prick half-hard in his jeans.
"So how far'd you get with her?" he asks, stretched out on the floor. He's
horny in that way where everything seems pleasurable. A slow burn that makes
him want to rub his bare arms against the carpet. He's drunk enough to follow
the impulse, enjoying the rough, worn fibers on his skin.
"Dean!" Sam looks embarrassed, or irritated or something.
"She dumped you, man," Dean says flatly, enjoying the knife-twist of that
bluntness that shows in Sam's face. "You get to talk about how slutty she is.
It's the rules."
Sam blushes, taking another swig of whiskey. It shakes in the bottle noisily,
and Dean images Sam's backwashing into it like a third grader. It makes him
want more. "She - she let me touch her," he says, a pathetic combination of
brave and morose. "Just - god, just her boob!" he adds, at the look on Dean's
face. "And just for, like, a minute."
"Pretty slutty for junior high," says Dean, and Sam doesn't look cheered by
this. "I didn't get boob 'til I was a freshman."
Sam's expression is kind of priceless. "Really?"
Dean nods in a loose sort of way. "Valerie Walker." He gestures in front of his
chest, hands cupped, and closes his eyes reverentially. Sam laughs and takes
another gulp of the whiskey, sloshing it down his chin and then wiping it off
hastily.
"You're so gross," he says, laying out on the floor near Dean. He stretches his
legs out the other way, so they make an angle, his head somewhere near Dean's
hip. His grip is wobbly when he hands the bottle back, over his shoulder.
"Claire's not slutty. She's... she's nice."
"Uh-huh." Dean's in a real following-your-impulses mood, and notices a few
seconds later that his hand is in Sam's hair, smoothing it off of his forehead.
Tweaking the ends. "She sounds like a real winner."
"She is," Sam says fervently. He reaches up absently to touch Dean's hand, his
thumb and middle finger forming a loose ring around his wrist. "She's smart.
And she reads all these books. Poetry and stuff."
Dean digs his fingertips in towards Sam's scalp, kind of amazed at how much
hair he's got. It's all soft and shiny, too. Sam's fingers rub against the
inside of his wrist when he moves his hand, and that's nice. "So do you."
"Not the same," Sam sighs, and then he starts laughing. "Your hands are cold."
"Maybe your head is just too warm." Dean ruffles his hair up, and it stays that
way, the natural whorls made far worse.
"Maybe." Sam turns to look at him, then, taking the bottle back. "What if she
was the girl, man? What if she was the girl I was supposed to be with, and I
did something wrong?"
Dean doesn't move his hand, so he winds up touching Sam's temple when he says,
"You really think that? Miss Blue Ribbon at the Junior High Science Fair is
your freakin' soulmate?"
"No," says Sam, after a minute.
Later, Dean won't be able to remember the details of this - it'll all be made
indistinct by the glow of alcohol. He'll remember the brightness of the
overhead light on Sam's face, and the pleasant numb feeling in his limbs, but
that'll fade right into Sam's mouth, wet and vague. The shape of his bony
fingers on Dean's skin will bleed right into him on his back, looking up at
Dean plaintively.
Right now, though, it all seems crystal clear. Sam turns his face against
Dean's stomach and looks at him thoughtfully. Dean's t-shirt rode up a bit when
he flopped down on the carpet, so Sam's cheek is pressed against his skin, and
he feels awash in warmth and want. His visions's a little blurry when he shifts
- sits up and kind of makes a grab for the bottle of Jack, but Sam's not as
sluggish with the liquor as he is, and moves a bit faster, hoisting himself up
to a sitting position and holding it at arm's length the other way. His teeth
glint in a stupid, drunken grin, and Dean reaches around him, this way and
that, for it.
The one thing Dean will be able to really remember is that it's all just an
excuse for him to get his hands on Sam.
They fall back onto the floor again with a thud, which is the bottle landing on
its side. It glug-glugs its contents out all over the floor, but the carpet is
the same root-beer brown as any other cheap place built in the mid-70s, so Dean
doesn't reach for it. Just leans down and kisses Sam on the mouth, lips dry and
tongue wet. And, against all odds, Sam just kisses him back, stifling a choking
laugh against Dean's lower lip.
Mapping Sam out is a lengthy process, because there's so damn much of him. Dean
takes his time; there's no need to rush. No one to tell him to hurry up. The
whiskey's made time slow and thick, and in that instant, it doesn't feel like
there's anyone else in the world. Sam arches under him, shivering and ticklish
at every flutter of fingertips. Mouth falling open when Dean finds a good spot.
He licks his way up Sam's legs - dusty with dirt from the yard, from biking
everywhere. Slides his teeth against his knee, leaves red marks on his thigh.
It's all nonsensical, touch and go. Dean doesn't know what he's doing, just
that Sam's spread out in front of him, and that's a good thing. This is Sam, he
thinks, mouth going sloppy against his hipbone, and it seems impossible.
Dean's hand is huge on Sam's prick, fingers tight around the shaft. He only
considers it for a second; pausing to watch as Sam pants, flushed and wet-
lipped, and then he's swallowing down the tip. The details of this kind of
thing have always eluded him in fantasy form, but he sucks the sticky head into
the hollow of his lips, and his mouth is so bitter from the booze that he can't
even really be weirded out by the taste, the smell.
"Oh-- Dean!" Sam half-shouts. Dean knows, weirdly, that Sam's actually saying
his name in surprise - the way you'd yell it at someone wandering into rush-
hour traffic. Not because it was what he was supposed to say. Not because he
was trying to start some kind of porno dialogue. Dean likes that distinction.
Enough to bob down further, letting the hot skin of Sam's cock drag along his
tongue. He thinks about those weird little tremors of lust he's been getting
for months now, and the noises Sam makes when he's jerking off at dawn. He
doesn't get around to anything else, though, because Sam's pushing himself up
into Dean's mouth and blowing his wad. No warnings, no hair-pulling - just all
of the sudden, Dean's spluttering around gobs of jizz, and Sam's sighing like
everything in life just worked out.
 
*
 
They don't talk about it in the morning. Dean doesn't, anyway, and Sam seems to
take that as a cue.
He's already at the kitchen table when Dean wakes up. No lights on, no noises
being made, just sitting there slumped over some book. The room is full of
watery-grey light, which isn't really enough to read by. If Dean wanted to
sound like a grandma, he'd bitch at Sam for ruining his eyes. Instead, he
rifles through the cupboards and unearths an old bag of marshmallows, half-
empty and held shut with a clothespin. Sam looks blue and pale in that
lighting. And young. And pretty. Dean doesn't want to see that.
They don't say anything at first. The only sound comes from the hum of the
refrigerator's motor clicking on, the clattering of the clock in the living
room edging closer to nine, and the guttural roar of the coffee maker.
Dean starts talking randomly, pointlessly, just to fill up the silence and let
Sam know he's not pissed. He talks about Bill. Talks about this woman who comes
into work every night with one of those mechanical voice-box things, buying
cigarettes, and the way she always hits on him. Sam looks at him dubiously, so
Dean pushes his thumb against his throat and does an impression, which finally
makes Sam bust out laughing. Dean joins in.
"You and Josh doin' something today?" he asks, sitting down at the table and
gulping down coffee. Sam reaches over, pries the mug from his hands and sips at
what's left. It's the only clean cup in the kitchen. "That stuff'll stunt your
growth, you know."
Sam grins at him and lifts an awkward shoulder. "We might. Homeward Bound II is
at the uniplex."
Dean makes a face. "They sequeled that?"
"Yeah, I know. We could make fun of it?"
"And I could clean the toilet bowl with my tooth brush. No thanks. You crazy
kids have fun."
Sam's silent, clutching the mug between his huge hands. "I could stay home."
Dean can still taste the grit of dirty, tanned skin, like it's embedded under
his tongue. Like it's a flavor and not just an idea. "Nah," he says easily.
Gets up to claim his toast from the jaws of the toaster. "Don't need you
underfoot while I'm tryin' to vacuum."
 
*
 
Things are weird for a few days. Dean feels pulled a little too tight, like
he's waiting for the cops to show up and drag him off, or something. He's
waiting for the other shoe to drop, and is shocked when it doesn't. Sam's a
little more clumsy than usual, his teeth seeming to always be on edge, but he's
not mad. In fact - Dean finally figures it out - he's regarding Dean the same
way Dean's regarding him. Waiting.
Once he gets that, Dean makes a point of punching Sam on the arm. Stealing his
cans of soda. Calling him a retard. Doing the same stuff as always, with a
brand new kind of gusto. Like always, Sam follows his lead, and then things
kind of seem okay.
 
*
 
Dad's still gone when the first really miserable heatwave hits. There's no air
conditioning in their house, of course, so the whole place seems to stagnate.
The air's thick like pancake batter, and they spend about five minutes in the
bedroom before declaring it unfit for human exposure.
Compared to that, the living room seems refreshing. More windows to throw open,
and if they're lucky they can get a cross-breeze. It's better than the one
square window in their bedroom, and even though Dean refuses to let Sam leave
the door open, it's a couple of degrees cooler than the rest of the place.
There's no pull-out bed in the couch - those fuckers are too heavy, too
impractical - so they just pile blankets and pillows on the floor. Sam sprawls
out with a pile of cheap comic books and glasses of ice water. Dean watches
Nick-at-Nite with the volume turned off, trying to figure out episode plots
without sound.
It's two in the morning when it happens again.
 
*
 
Sam and Dean are both stripped down to boxers, laying hap-hazardly in the
tangle of sheets. They passed out some time earlier, the lulling heat pulling
them in relatively early - but there's no way to really get comfortable, so the
sleep is touch and go. The only thing coming through the windows seems to be
more hot air, and Dean can hear cicadas somewhere outside, and the irregular
buzzing of a mosquito or something on the other side of the screens.
Too hot to sleep. Too hot to breathe. Dean wipes his face; clear pools of sweat
have formed along the bridge of his nose. The TV's still on, casting purple-
blue shadows across his chest. Must be Bewitched, or something else black and
white. That strange, low thrum from the screen seeps into the other noises he
can hear, and then Sam's breathing does, too. Stifled and rough, kind of like
sad little sighs. It's the same way Dean's breathing.
"You awake?" he finally asks.
Sam turns over slowly, like it's an effort. Rolls with the momentum until he's
practically doing a face-plant into the pillow, one dark eye peering at Dean.
"No."
"Liar."
Sam's hair is a mussed halo of cowlicks and curls, sweaty and plastered in a
million directions. "W'dya want?" he manages, scrubbing a hand across his face.
Dean likes him like this - he's not on edge at all, not tense. It's like things
are actually normal again. Like it used to be, except now he doesn't have to
imagine what Sam's cock tastes like. It's some kind of cosmic second chance, or
something.
It's dark, but that funny glow from the screen makes it easy for Dean to see
when he gets to his knees and climbs on top of Sam, all wet, panting heat. Sam
gasps a little in surprise. Goes all still under Dean's hands, and then
suddenly, decisively arches upwards.
Dean palms Sam's cock through his damp boxers. Drags his mouth down his
collarbone, and he can taste sweat. It's different than before, because Sam's
hot all over, sticky from baking under the sheets. There's no alcoholic tinge
to it, either, and his motions seem more deliberate. He's got the mental
capacity to appreciate just how smooth Sam's skin is under his hand, just how
responsive his body is to being touched.
Sam goes hard for him in an instant, reacting abruptly to Dean's teeth and
fingers even though he's still blinking hazy sleep from his eyes. Dean yanks
Sam's cock out, tugging on it with the same quick motions he did last time.
"Dean," he groans, losing half the word in a huff of breath. "Are you - gonna -
?"
But then Dean does, and Sam seems to collapse. Legs spreading wide and hips
moving as Dean's lips pop over the drippy, leaking head. Dean can hear a
distant car go past outside as he works his tongue against the underside.
Slides down tentatively, lips stretching around the salty, flushed length. He's
still got the basic idea, even without booze helping him along. He feels dirty
on a primal sort of level, but giddy, too. Ridiculously hard and egged on by
the raspy noises Sam's making. If he looks up, he can see the curve of Sam's
neck. He's twisted so fitfully that the top of his head is basically flush
against the floor, and the eerie light of the television catches on the angles
of his body. A jut of collarbone, the dip of ribs, his pointy jaw sent in sharp
relief.
Dean's mouth is all suction and spit, and he digs his fingers into the sheets
on either side of Sam's hips when he tastes precome. His lips are slippery
enough that when Sam starts to thrust up at him, he can just pull back a little
and let him, let Sam fuck his mouth in shallow little jerks.
He lets himself moan around Sam's prick, because it's the middle of the night
and there's no one to hear, and in the space of a heartbeat, Sam's coming.
Thick and hot, and Dean does his best to swallow, this time, but he mostly
winds up sputtering it down his chin.
Sam's eyes are wide when Dean straightens up, like he can't really believe that
just happened again. His gaze drags down to the bulge of Dean's shorts with
unabashed interest, even as Dean wipes the sticky mess of come and spit off of
his lips and shoves that hand down into his boxers to wrap around his aching
cock. His hands hurt from fisting them in the sheets so hard, but he's too
horny to wait, or to fuck around using the other one. He just looks over at Sam
and beats off in quick, short movements, bound in the cotton of his shorts. Sam
doesn't make any secret of the fact he's watching - rolls on his side, even,
and just looks as he pants himself back to a normal heart rate.
Dean blows his load like that - fingers sore, eyes open, staring at Sam's
flushed, curious face.
"Go to sleep," he says afterwards, wiping his hand on the sheet between them.
 
*
 
Dad comes home with a busted shoulder that Dean stitches up in the bathroom.
Some kind of malicious spirit. Dad fucked it up a lot worse, but not before it
dug claws in deep. Dean's pretty good with a needle, though, and it'll heal
cleanly. They're saved a hospital visit, and when Dean knots the final loop of
the stitches, the thinks that Sam's going to be good at this part of things,
some day.
Things click over somewhat normally. Dean never said anything about it, but
Sam's smart enough to get that they aren't supposed to talk about it, or even
think about it, when Dad's around. There's a time and a place, and Sam seems to
understand that implicitly. Things are even more normal than they were after
the first time - the three of them eat breakfast together and bicker about
stupid things. Just like a normal family.
 
*
 
Dean's working his usual shift about a week later when someone comes in. It's
about midnight, but he hasn't had a customer in an hour and a half. He doesn't
look up from his doodlings. "Hey," he says. The person wanders around for a few
minutes, and then comes up to the register. "That gonna do it for you?" He adds
some shading to the stick figure he's drawn.
"This is a hold up," says Sam, dryly. He's holding his finger and thumb out,
cocked like a gun, peering amusedly at Dean from under his bangs. A bag of
Twizzlers is on the counter.
"Dude, what are you doing here?"
"Bored," Sam says succinctly, leaning on the glass part of the counter, elbows
on the ratty sign warning about underage alcohol sales. Dean watches him pick
up one of the jewel-colored Bics. He turns it over in his hand, gaze trained on
the liquid inside.
"Dad know you're here?"
Sam rolls his eyes up to Dean, with so much teenage languor that Dean kind of
wants to punch him. It was a stupid question, though. "What do you think?"
"Yeah, well." Dean scratches his hand through his hair. "You better get your
ass back there, in case he comes home."
"Yeah." Sam flicks the lighter open absently. "So where's the infamous Bill?"
"Give me that. You're gonna start a freakin' fire." Dean snatches the lighter
out of his hand and drops it in the tray. "He called in baked. Apparently it's
possible to get so fucked up you can't sit behind a counter."
Sam picks the lighter back up and glances at Dean. "So it's just you?" And me
hangs in the air, implied.
"Yeah. And the surveillance cameras make three."
Sam rolls his eyes. "So you're not gonna sell me beer? Bummer."
"Y'know, I have the right to refuse service to anyone," says Dean, taking the
lighter back. "Don't go pissin' me off."
Sam smiles in a way that makes his dimples show up. "Can I get a Slurpee?"
Dean makes a big show of digging in his back pocket for his wallet. Waves a
crumpled dollar bill at Sam, and then opens up the till and sticks it in - and
another for the candy. "The blue kind's busted. And don't try the yellow, it's
fucking disgusting."
"How disgusting?"
"Chocolate-banana disgusting."
"Huh."
Dean's not really surprised when he turns around and Sam's turning the handle
on the yellow vat. "You are such a little punk."
Sam smirks and tears the end of the paper cover off his straw. Takes aim and
blows it off, so it shoots over the rack of jerky and lands in front of Dean.
"I gotta learn these things for myself, man. How will I ever grow as a person
if I don't?"
"Whatever. Enjoy."
The face Sam pulls when he takes a sip really improves Dean's mood. He dawdles
his way back to the counter, and leans against it. The Slurpee cup's already
got condensation on the outside of it, and it puddles wetly against the glass.
"You waitin' for me to bag you up?" he asks. Sam scowls and plucks at the edge
of the candy wrapper, like he's hesitating.
"I found something," he finally says, reaching into his pocket. "I didn't -
well - " he shoves a wad of newsprint across the counter.
It's obits. Three of them, and a news clipping to boot, detailing three
inexplicable water-related deaths. All children, and that's what the article is
about - redoubling efforts to educate on water safety. Dean skims them and
glances up at Sam.
"Found 'em... what, in Dad's pocket?"
"At the library, Dean." Sam rolls his eyes, and he pretty much misses the
impressed look that Dean can feel fleeting across his own face.
"Well, well, well. Sammy's first blood trail." He lifts up one of the
obituaries and glances at another, and then grins easily. "Guess you're
officially a woman now."
"I hate you," Sam says, stuffing the clippings back in his pocket.
"You gonna tell Dad?"
"Dad already knows I hate you, Dean."
"But he doesn't know some monster is snackin' on kids in the next state."
Sam purses his lips and looks down, suddenly awkward. "I don't wanna make a
thing out of it." He looks sad in the unforgiving white light. Face shadowy and
tilted down towards the lottery ticket display, shoulders hunched up
defensively. And Dean gets it, because Dean always gets it.
The first time he spotted a pattern like this, Dad took him out on the hunt.
Just the two of them. He didn't get the killing blow or anything, but it was
markedly different from the times before, when he and Sam were clearly tagging
along. It was the real deal - Dean holding a shotgun in his hands and taking
aim at the thing; Dean running so fast and so hard he thought his heart would
explode right out of his chest; Dean lighting the match and saying, "Bye,
fuckface," before torching the bones. It was stepping up. Afterwards, back at
Pastor Jim's, Dad kept smacking him on the back and grinning - even plunked a
beer down in front of him, which tasted disgusting and made him feel grown up.
There's no two ways about how Dad's going to take this find of Sam's, and you
don't need a four-point GPA to get that Sam doesn't want to go hunting. Sam's
happy. He's happy living like this, losing himself in the crappy movies and
sugar-free popsicles. Deluding himself into thinking he's normal.
"Well, I'm sorry, Sam, but you don't really got a choice here." Dean can hear
his voice get a little rough, and it's weird, because the words coming out are
pure Dad. "You're not gonna let a bunch of kids die because you don't want to
admit you're a weirdo who notices fucked up patterns."
Sam stares him down for a few seconds, and then looks away, over at the cheap
candy rack. "I know. I just - I don't want Dad to make a big deal out of it.
I'm not an idiot, Dean. I know we're not gonna be here forever. But I don't
want to go sooner than we have to, just 'cause Dad's - Dad's all excited over
something stupid."
Dean doesn't say anything, and for a minute or two they just stay like that. He
can smell the bleach he mopped the floor with earlier, can hear Linda Ronstadt
pouring out the speakers of the boombox, and then - "Give 'em to me." He sticks
his hand out across the counter. Jerks his fingers beckoningly. Impatiently.
Sam seems to move automatically, pressing them to Dean's palm. "What - ?"
It's buying him a little longer to be the baby, and it's not fair, really, to
any of them. Sam's old enough to be hunting now, and he'd be an asset to the
team - to the family - whenever they go back to their normal lives. It feels
wrong to lie to Dad, but then, it seems worse to say no to Sam. Dean shoves the
crumpled papers into the pocket of his black uniform pants. "You didn't find
it. I did."
Sam watches him carefully, but his eyes light up in that way that makes Dean's
chest ache. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Now take your vomit slushie and get the hell out of here."
 
*
 
Three days later. Sam's still got those damn Twizzlers, which have more or less
dethroned popsicles as the reigning snack of choice. He keeps dangling one from
the corner of his mouth as he plays Nintendo, so there's a smudge of red stain
on that side now. It drives Dean crazy, because it looks like the kind of mark
you get from kissing, and every time he sees Sam's lips he gets this weird
little stomach-lurch of fear. Shortly followed by arousal.
"What're you watching?" Sam asks that night, collapsing next to him on the
floor. They're leaning back against the couch, the video game controllers in a
hap-hazard tangle in front of them. He'd wandered off to take a shower earlier,
so his face and his chest have that scrubbed, pink look.
"Fuck all." Dean shifts to give Sam some room. He feels salty when he moves,
like he's been sweating too much for too long; Sam's still damp when he reaches
over and pulls the remote from Dean's fingers. He slouches kind of lazily
against Dean's shoulder, his mop of wet hair a counterpoint to the burn of skin
on skin.
Dean knows Sam can't stand showers that aren't warm, which sort of defeats the
purpose of cooling off under the water - but the tips of his hair somehow catch
the coolness of the night air, and Dean shifts his head so he can brush his
face against them. It's soft. Warmer towards his scalp, which is where Dean's
nose brushes, but he can smell Head & Shoulders, Dial soap, and Sam, and it's
so squeaky-clean that he can't quite pull back.
The channels flicker past on the screen. Sitcom, sitcom, Carmen Sandiego, the
news. Sam absently turns his head so that fussy hair of his is pressing against
Dean's neck, and strangely, suddenly, that's all the undoing Dean needs. It's
not that surprising; he seems to constantly be half-hard these days, nettled to
full-fledged horniness by the slightest provocation. And - yeah, it's around
six, and the sun's not even totally down. Dad's in the next room, puttering
around and making noise. Dean's eyes are fixed firmly on the TV screen - Sam
has paused on the news - and his hand slides down to the front of Sam's shorts.
They've done it twice now, and Sam doesn't even seem surprised. He doesn't
turn, or make any noise - just shifts a little, rubbing his shoulder against
Dean's chest. He's stiff in almost an instant; Dean can feel the heavy curve of
his cock just under the fabric, tight and hard. Sam lets out a little sigh and
pushes his hips up, his hand coming to rest between Dean's thighs.
The numbers for the current Dow Jones stuff flash by on the screen, and Dean
gets his hand in there, under the band of his shorts - it's a tight fit, but
his fingers are around Sam quickly, abruptly. Squeezing, since there's not a
lot of room, and he drags his thumb back and forth across the slit.
The only sign that Sam's even aware of this, at first, is the way his muscles
tense up. He goes rigid against Dean's chest, and then his breathing tapers off
into shallow, sweet gasps. Dean can't really see his face - just the general
outline of it in the dying light, but he can tell that Sam's jaw is set pretty
tightly. He leans in a little, breathing out warmly, and Sam shivers. It's just
another second before he's leaning his head back, hooking over the curve of
Dean's shoulder. Face turned in against Dean's throat a little bit. The drop of
water are hot against Dean's skin, now, just another facet of the stifling heat
- but Sam's moving his own hand back to cup Dean's prick through his jeans, and
that suddenly seems okay.
Dean watches the green squares on the bottom of the screen go solid as Sam
clenches down on the remote, jacking the volume of Peter Jennings' voice up so
high it covers his sudden groan. Sam's hand is clumsy - deft with the fly, but
halting and unsure when it fists around Dean's prick. Like he's not sure how to
do it when it's someone else's. He touches inquisitively, thumb tracing the
veins, brushing near the wet head. Fingertips pushing in, testing the texture,
before he finally starts to pull.
"S'good," Dean manages, muttering in a tight, choked voice. Dad's one
cardboard-thin wall away, and Sam's long, spindly fingers are gripping him,
easy as you please. He feels like he's unspooling, going nuts, because it seems
so casual, so simple. Sam turns towards him, and Dean can smell that strawberry
licorice, even though he can't see his lips move.
"Faster," Sam whispers. "Do it faster."
A frisson of pleasure drips down his neck and his hand speeds up - short, quick
movements, fingertips skimming and palm hot and hard. Sweat and precome make
his grip glide, nice and easy. This is the hottest thing he's ever done. Hotter
than the blowjobs, hotter than every feel he's copped off a girl. He's
throbbing in Sam's hand, and he feels like he's burning up slowly, spreading
from that point where their bare forearms overlap.
Hazily, distantly, the thought creeps in that this steady-handed tugging must
be how Sam jerks himself off on those early mornings - and somehow the
abruptness of that well-worn fantasy crashing into reality makes him jerk
upwards sharply, biting down on Sam's damp shoulder and shooting his load right
into Sam's hand. Right into his jeans.
 
*
 
This shit can't last. He knows that. Knew it ever since he looked over at Sam
and felt that ache in his chest, raw and unsure. It's like the first time he
found Dad slumped at the table, too drunk to make it to bed on his own. These
are things that just change, forever. These are the things that make you hate
people. Hate yourself. Maybe not at first, but eventually.
He doesn't spend a lot of time thinking about it, but it crosses his mind.
Enough that when Dad's going to take off to look into that water thing ("Good
work, kiddo," he'd said, hand coming down on his shoulder), Dean's wary.
Feeling a little too nervous, even though he's the one calling the shots. He
wants to tell Sam that they can just walk away from it, they can just pretend
it never happened. Sometimes it feels like this stupid town exists in some
alternate reality, and maybe - maybe they can just agree on that. Call a do-
over.
"Claire came into the store last night," he says at lunch. They're all there, a
kind of final meal before Dad leaves, and Sam's head snaps up from his tuna
sandwich so fast he should get whiplash.
"Huh?"
"Yeah." She'd been a thin little thing, with big eyes and short hair. Are you
Sam's brother? she'd said, unrolling the bills for milk. He said you worked
here. "Said to tell you hi. An' that you should call her."
Sam snorts indelicately, and Dad looks back and forth between the two of them.
"Who's Claire?"
"My friend," Sam says.
"His hot friend," Dean corrects, flicking an errant potato chip towards Sam's
plate. Sam stares at him.
"I see." Dad sounds amused. "So Sammy likes a girl?"
"Nah, she just likes him."
Sam flushes. "No one likes anyone! God, Dean, shut up."
Dad's clearly enjoying this. "We need to have the talk, Sam? 'Cause I can put
off my trip a little. Probably still got that safe sex book of Dean's around
here somewhere."
"Please. He read that thing cover to cover when he was ten."
Sam mashes his face against his palm. "Why couldn't I have been adopted?"
Dean balances his chair back on two legs and smirks into his sandwich. "'Cause
then you wouldn't have us."
 
*
When Sam pummels into their room, Dad's been gone two hours. This is the time
limit they always use for Stuff Dad Can't Know About - watching the forbidden
high-end channels at motels; blowing most of the food money on a new video
game; having Jamie over, when that was an issue. It's quick enough to maximize
their time without him around, but long enough that he's not going to just show
up, having realized at the interstate turn-off that he forgot a book or
something.
Dean's sprawled on his back on the bed, thumbing through a copy of Auto Trader,
and then suddenly Sam's there, leaning back on the shut door with color high in
his cheeks. Dean can't even sit up, because Sam's across the room and on top of
him that fast. The bed gives an almighty creak, and Sam's hands are on his
shoulders, Sam's mouth - Jesus - on his throat.
"Dude - " Dean goes for Sam's wrists, trying to push him off, trying to think,
but Sam's insistent and heavy on top of him.
"Don't - just - stop it," Sam mutters, right against the juncture of Dean's
neck, and Dean's too breathless, too dizzy from the pressure of Sam's thigh
suddenly against his cock, from the smell of him, to say anything back. Sam's
hands press down his arms, palms flat and hot. "It's okay," Sam says, pulling
back to look down at him. Face serious, eyes sharp. "It's gonna be okay, Dean.
I promise."
Dean stares up at him. Sunlight from the lone window catches on his hair, on
the bits of dust floating in the air between them. His eyes look green in this
light, like Dean's, his mouth pale pink and narrow. There was alcohol, there
was sleepy heat, there was the thrill of risk, but this is just Sam in Dean's
bed, terribly earnest.
"Aw, Sam," he says, because there doesn't seem to be anything else to say. Sam
shakes his head a little, his bangs curling across his forehead limply.
"You weren't exactly subtle earlier, man. But I've wanted to do this - well,
not this, because I didn't know you wanted this, but I used to... think about
you. In your baseball uniform. You looked so hot." And then his hands are
sliding into Dean's pants, and Dean's harder than he ever dreamed he could be,
aching and wet, dripping in Sam's grip.
"Can't - drink Gatorade now," he breathes, his hand twisting around Dean's
prick. All wrist. "It just gives me wood."
Sam pushes his mouth against Dean's then, and it - it's bizarre and strange and
sexy and their teeth clink together like glass, jarring all the way through his
jaw. But Sam's tongue finds his instantly, and it's nothing like the flutter
and probe of Jamie, or any other girls Dean's kissed along the way; it's
demanding and desperate and firm, the roughness of his taste buds up against
the slick underside of Dean's tongue. Sam's bangs tickle his forehead, and Dean
feels so good. His palms are still pressed down against the mattress, but he's
arching into Sam's hand, breaths coming fast and shallow.
"Is this - " Sam licks his lips, voice wavery, "how you like it?"
"Jesus Christ." Dean lolls his head back and stares blindly at the generic
babe-and-a-car poster over his bed, trying to articulate that Sam could do
anything and it would be just right. "Yeah."
Sam's expression teeters between a grin and that same look of focus, the look
he gets when he's studying for something. Figuring something out. It's so Sam,
so little-brother-Sam that Dean wants to tell him about the alternate reality
thing, make him stop - but then Sam's sliding down and looking up at him with
those large, dark eyes, tugging his cock from his boxers and still fisting it.
For whatever reason, he can't quite believe that Sam's going to do it, but then
his tongue is against the head of Dean's prick, and he has never felt anything,
anything that good. His lips drag along the tip, so Dean can feel the velveteen
smoothness of the skin just inside them, and then he's opening wider and just
sliding him in.
Sam's mouth is sloppy and hot, and his hand is steady, as if to make up for it.
He's eager and messy, and it's obvious in the way he splutters around it that
he's got no idea what goes into this, what it was going to be like. But god -
Sam's mouth. Sam's lips, Sam's tongue. Sam's teeth, even, awkwardly close to
touching. The light's still glinting off of his hair, and it looks reddish like
this - pretty and warm. Even in the worst of those crushing fantasies, of the
early-morning wood that wouldn't quit, he never let himself think about this.
Never let himself imagine Sammy giving a hummer like he's - Christ. Into it,
into it the way that Dean is desperately, grossly into it.
Dean holds his breath and tries not to think. He's pretty good at that,
especially when the only other option is thinking about Sam. Maybe that's why
he pulled straight Ds this year. He tries to push his mind into white noise, to
not hear the little wet noises or feel the little huffs of breath.
"OhfuckSam," he exhales, ragged and slurred. The head of his cock is pressing
out through Sam's cheek, and he can see it and feel it and it's so much better
than anything he's imagined. The fantasies of blowing Sam right here, right in
this room, fade into sheer nothingness. His chest is tight with how much he
fucking loves Sam, with how brave Sam is, with the knowledge that Sam wants
this too, and then Sam's putting a little suction into it and Dean's completely
lost.
 
*
 
They leave Buckner when the air gets thick and scratchy with autumn. Dad finds
a new case out west, and just like that, everything's going into boxes for
Goodwill. Dean's an old pro at this part of the game, shoving posters, books,
most of his clothes, into boxes that once held shipments of fruit. The only
thing that gives him pause is the Nintendo, which they have a grave minute of
silence for.
It's a given that they're going to be on the road for months, now. Dean knows
and Sam knows it, too, but he still gets kind of pensive around the mouth when
his school supply list for the next year shows up in the mail. Dean's, What,
you got a stalker or something? dies in his mouth when he looks over Sam's
shoulder and sees it. Sam's not going to start high school with other kids.
He's not going to have Mrs. Kellogg for home room, or take electives with
pretty, heart-breaking Claire.
Dean remembers from every other fall that Sam's got this stupid thing for
school supplies, though, and even though it's pointless, he drags Sam out to
the car and drives them to Wal-Mart. Lets him loose on the aisles of Pee-Chee
folders, spiral notebooks and college ruled paper. The way Sam's face lights up
at white-out pens is worth it. He even lays down real money from his last
paycheck, and Sam grins at him in the check-out line. Sticks one of his dry-
erase pens between his teeth and waggles his eyebrows, and then nonchalantly
sneaks a package of licorice onto the conveyer belt.
Out in the sticky heat of the car, he drops the plastic bag on the seat between
them and looks out the window, like he's trying to imbed the memory of this
anonymous parking lot into his head.
"Did I fuck you up?" Dean asks abruptly.
"What? No!"
"With this sex stuff," he adds unnecessarily. Sam pinkens immediately.
"I'm not a kid, Dean," he says, looking about ten years old.
"Yeah, you're a real worldly eighth grader."
Sam mashes his lips together in irritation. "Ninth. I'm a ninth grader now. I'm
going to be in high school."
"You'll always be a shrimpy punk to me," Dean says. Sam slugs him then, and
Dean throws a bag of pencil-top erasers at his head. There's a scuffle - Dean
manages to toss the pointy objects from the shopping bag into the back seat,
and Sam beats his awkwardly large fists against the firm expanse of Dean's
abdomen - and then there's the metallic clang of shopping carts somewhere
nearby, and they collapse back into their proper seats.
It's silent for a few moments, easy and warm in the front seat, and then Sam
leans over and kisses him.
 
-fin.
End Notes
     This is sort of a companion piece (but not a prequel or sequel) to
     another fic of mine, For_My_Next_Trick. Both explore Sam and Dean at
     age seventeen, and both are set during a time the Winchesters stopped
     moving long enough for them to enroll in school and glimpse normalcy.
     For My Next Trick has an established relationship from the start (Sam
     is 17, Dean is 21), but essentially they're two sides of the same
     coin.
  Works inspired by this one
      [podfic]_Summer_Blackout_|_written_by_nutkin by lavishsqualor
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