Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2606456.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, John_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Underage_Drinking, Underage_Sex, Angst, Nipple_Play, Dean_is_Eighteen
      Years_Old, Sam_is_Fourteen_Years_Old, Pre-Series, Weecest, Wincest_-
      Freeform, Masturbation, Intercrural_Sex, Alcohol_Abuse/Alcoholism,
      Underage_Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Emotional_Hurt/Comfort
  Series:
      Part 3 of Undone
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-11-12 Words: 3963
****** Undone: Summer Break ******
by fivebluesocks
Summary
     It's just like the summer vacation they'd never gotten, until John
     comes home.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Dean doesn't know why it hadn't occurred to him sooner, but when he got the
idea, he felt like a genius.
Box fans.
Two of them. One for Sammy, one for him.
He gets home late on Tuesday, and when he pulls up in the battered old truck
John had borrowed for him, Sam's waiting on the porch in his swim trunks, his
threadbare towel slung over his shoulder. He jumps up when Dean opens the door
of the truck with a loud squeak.
"What took you so long?" he asks.
"Had to stop at the store. You're gonna love me, Sammy."
He pulls out an armful of Walmart bags from the cabin of the truck and thrusts
them at Sam. "Take those in," he says.
When Sam's back is turned, Dean reaches into the truck bed and lifts out the
two fans. Before entering the house, he slides them onto the porch, out of
sight of the door.
Sam's in the kitchen, digging through the plastic bags. "This is great!" he
says, looking up at Dean with his eyes bright and excited. He pulls out
popsicles, waterguns, ice cream (mint chocolate chip this time,) sodas,
cookies, a flat sheet with a bright orange clearance sticker on it, and a few
frozen pizzas.
With the pizzas in his hand, he looks doubtfully at Dean. Dean knows; they'd
tried making pizzas once, and it had warmed up the house so badly they'd had to
eat outside.
"It'll be fine, Sammy. Watch," Dean says, and he turns to the door, then sweeps
the fans in with a flourish. "Ta-da!"
"Dean, you're awesome," Sam says, and he gives his big brother a quick hug
before snagging one of the fans and ripping the cardboard box open. He's got it
plugged in and jammed into the window above the sink before Dean even gets his
open. Once he turns the knob to high, he stands in front of it, arms spread
wide, his hair blowing back out of his face.
"Ahhh," Sam says, turning to let it blow on his back. The look on his face
makes Dean feel awesome.
"You're gonna let the popsicles melt, Sammy," Dean chides, though he doesn't
really mean it. He starts shoving their frozen stuff in the freezer, asks, "Do
you want one?"
With his eyes closed, arms wide open, hair blowing into his face, Sam says,
"Yellow."
"Got orange, red, and purple," Dean says, tearing open the box and fishing out
a red one for himself.
"Orange then," Sam says, opening his eyes and making a grabby hand. Dean laughs
and hands him over an orange, and Sam peels the wrapper down and begins
slurping on it messily.
Something else, think about something else, right now.
Dean busies himself with setting up the other box fan in the front room window,
popsicle in his mouth dripping onto the floor. Now the fans are facing each
other nearly straight-on, and it creates a refreshing double-blast of air.
It's still too hot, though.
"Let's go swimming, Sammy," Dean says, and he goes to change into his trunks.
 
Sam's especially languid at the lake that evening, drifting aimlessly, sunning
himself on the rock like some brown lizard. When they get home that night, he
looks drowsy and happy, and it makes Dean smile.
Dean opens the package of the sheet and shakes it out.
"What's that for?" Sam asks sleepily from the couch, where the fan from the
front window is cooling him.
Instead of answering, Dean pulls down the fan in the kitchen, and he fishes
some old clothespins out of a drawer. He pins one end of the sheet to the fan
he's placed in the front room floor, and pins the other end to the cushions of
the couch near Sam's feet. He turns off the lights.
He wonders if Sam remembers this. Sam had been three the last time they'd made
an air tent, and Dean remembers them napping under the billowing sheet for
hours, waking up for food and then crawling back under.
"Come on," Dean says, climbing under the air-puffed sheet. He lies on his back
on the old rug, watching the sheet billow in the dark room, ghostly. Sam crawls
in beside him and lies down too, and "Whoa," he says. The fan buffets them with
noise and air, and it's the coolest Dean's been in the house since they started
staying there.
They end up not making the pizza. After a few minutes Sam's snoring softly, his
hands resting on his belly. Dean looks at him and smiles, remembering little
Sammy in his tiny Spider-Man t-shirt, remembering the sweet baby powder smell
of him.
He wakes up some hours later with Sam spooned up against him, his hand light on
the arm that Dean has loosely wrapped around him, his head on Dean's other arm.
Dean breathes in, and it's sunscreen and sea water and sun now, and that's just
as sweet.
This doesn't feel so bad. This feels really good, actually, that he can still
be close to Sam in a brotherly way, even if maybe their mormal version of
brotherly is a bit closer than most. He tucks Sam's head up under his chin and
hugs him, and he drifts off to sleep, the constant whoosh of the box fan
drowning everything else out.
 
The next few weeks are nearly perfect.
Dean's gotten used to working in the sun, and his muscles have developed to
accommodate the labor. During the week, they go swimming, eat popsicles and ice
cream, then go to sleep with the loud double blast of fans in their bedroom. On
weekends they drive to the theater and sit in the blessedly cool auditorium and
watch whatever movie Sam picks.
On a sweep through the thrift store, Dean finds an old-school Nintendo with a
few games, and they play at night, sitting cross-legged in front of the tv.
Dean doesn't drink the entire time. He's stopped asking George to pick him up
beer on the way home. After Sam's sunburn, and what had come after, Dean
insists on sunscreen, but he'll only get Sam's back. He opts out of skinny-
dipping again, even though the hurt that passes over Sam's face almost makes
him reconsider.
Sam doesn't try anything. More importantly, Dean doesn't try anything.
It's easy, it's fun, when Dean can ignore the shape of Sam's body beside him,
when he can ignore the lingering looks Sam gives him. Other than that, it feels
like they're on a real goddamn summer vacation.
 
Sam makes friends with a neighbor's cat, a little orange tabby, and now
sometimes when Dean gets home he finds it on the weathered porch with Sam,
playing with some bit of string Sam's dangling, or lying in his lap, content
and purring. Sam never jumps up then, instead petting the little guy and
waiting for it to get up when it's ready.
It's not a dog, like he's always wanted, but it's so good to see Sam with a
little pet. It kind of breaks Dean's heart.
 
"Why in the hell is it so hot in here?" John asks when he gets home, a Monday
some five weeks since he'd dropped them off here.
So much for Good to see you, boys, I missed you, Dean thinks. At least he
hasn't come home with a broken arm or a bullet wound for Dean to fix up, this
time.
"We don't have an air conditioner," Sam says impudently, like it's the most
obvious thing in the world. John narrows his eyes at him - friction already,
great way to start the week - then unshoulders his bag.
But it is the most obvious thing in the world. John had known about the lack of
that particular amenity when he'd rented the place out.
"This is intolerable," John says about five minutes later, after he's unpacked
what few things he gets out, in the bedroom Dean and Sam have left unoccupied
for him.
Dean doesn't disagree.
"Come on, Deano, we're going to the store," John says in his husky midwestern
drawl.
They pick up two (two!) small window unit air conditioners, and when they check
out, Dean wonders who's the lucky guy who's paying for these things.
Sam is exceedingly pleased when they get home, Dean and John hefting the heavy
units into the house and installing one in each bedroom.
They finally sleep cool enough to need blankets.
Dean still thinks the air tent was better.
 
Dean tenses up every time John opens his mouth to speak, knowing any minute it
could be, "Pack your bags, boys, we're leaving."
He's not ready yet. He's made a few work buddies, learned a little Spanish, and
he likes doing honest work for pay. More importantly, this place feels more
like home than anywhere they've been in years. They've got their little
routines, they've got Sam's cat, they've got the lake; for once, they've
managed to accumulate the detritus of teenage boys's lives: comic books, water
guns, car magazines, the used Nintendo. They've got their box fans, and Dean
doesn't want to sleep without it now that he's used to the white noise and
constant breeze of it lifting his hair, and how would they be able to fit any
of that stuff in the car?
They wouldn't. It would go to the thrift store if Dean had his way. It would go
in the trash if John was in a hurry.
But he almost wants to go. Wants to leave this place behind, wonders if the
miles they'd put behind them would erase the ghost of Sam's skin under his
hands.
He still feels it. Sometimes when Sam comes out of the water, sleek and wet,
Dean feels Sammy's smooth, hard abs under his fingers. When he looks at Sam
sleeping on the other side of their bedroom, he can smell aloe, taste it, along
with the taste of beer and Sam's skin. When he goes to the bathroom, he
remembers the streaks of cum in the sink and the ravaged look on his own face.
It would be nice - worlds more than nice - to leave this place and its
reminders of how weak he really is.
 
John gets a call once he's been back a few days. From the kitchen window, Dean
and Sam watch him in the back yard, watch him pace and mutter into the phone.
"Do you think we're leaving?" Sam asks. He's in his trunks, ready for the lake,
and his face is pinched up.
"I don't know," Dean says, unsure of what his voice sounds like. He gives
Sammy's shoulder a squeeze. "We'll find out."
When John comes back inside, all he says is, "Alan's dead." He grabs his keys
and slams out the front door. The Impala roars to life, and they listen to it
drive away.
Dean feels like he's been gut-punched. He liked Alan. He'd been honest and open
and easy-going, for a hunter, and he'd been nice to Sam and Dean (but
especially Sam) every time they'd stayed over - for a day or a week, or once
for half a month - at his place.
He looks at his little brother. Sam's biting the inside of his lip, his eyes
wet.
"Hey, it's okay," Dean says. He pulls Sammy into a hug, lets him hide his face
against Dean's shirt. "It's okay," he says again.
They stand there for several long minutes, letting distant grief work its way
through them. Sam's still shaking when Dean says, "Wanna make an air tent?"
"Okay," Sam says, stepping back and wiping his face.
They set it up on the living room floor again, and once they're under, Dean
doesn't stop Sam from snuggling up next to him, his face pressed into Dean's
shirt again. Sammy's trembling, shedding the tears that Dean's holding back,
and Dean rubs his back until he stills. They're in their own little cocoon,
sheltered against the world by a thin sheet; it's just the two of them, the way
it has been for almost the whole summer, and Dean wouldn't have it any other
way.
Sam dozes off. When Dean hears the distinctive growl of the Impala drawing
closer, he carefully rolls away from a blurry-eyed Sam, tears down the air-tent
and stows the sheet and fan in their bedroom. John would not approve of them
doing something so obviously childish. Dean doesn't know what he'd say, but
Dean has no doubt he'd feel ashamed for a week afterwards.
John walks to the kitchen carrying bourbon, beer, and beefaroni.
"Sorry about the way I left, boys," he says, his eyes red-rimmed. "Alan was...
a great hunter."
"It's okay, Dad," Sam says, and Dean watches with startled pleasure as Sam and
Dad share a hug. It's a shame that it takes a tragedy like this to bring such
disparate personalities together, to get them to be nicer to each other. He
can't but hope that they'll exist in harmony for a while; they're all too
brittle to have Sam and John's uncomfortable half-truces to drag them down
further.
John heats a few cans of beefaroni in a big pot, then pours them all heaping
bowls of the stuff. Dean’s always found it kind of funny that Chef Boyardee is
John's comfort food. It's good though, and it's easy to get, much easier than
the rice and tomato soup that Dean clings to, that has to be put together from
a couple of different cans.
After dinner, John pulls out the bourbon and two glasses.
"Get yourself a beer, Sam," he says, and Sam obeys, a little bemused. John
pours a few fingers of liquor in the two glasses and passes one to Dean. He
motions for Sam to crack open his beer, then raises his glass. Sam and Dean
follow suit.
"To Alan," he says. "He was one of the best men I've ever known."
"To Alan," says Dean, and half a second later Sam repeats it.
They all take a drink, and Dean’s already learned to love the burning sensation
as it slides down his throat, even though it makes his eyes water. He blinks it
away, and sees Sam grimacing. It almost makes him laugh, and John actually
does.
"Your first beer, Sammy?" John asks.
Sam nods, trying to get his face under control.
"It's okay," John says. "You should have seen Dean take his first drink. Looked
like he was sucking on a lemon. You don't have to drink any more."
But Sam does drink more, and John and Dean do, too, while John tells them
stories about Alan, about the good things he did for people, about hunts they'd
been on together and tight spots they'd been in.
Dean joins in, telling the story about Alan taking them out to practice
shooting at some tin cans, praising them for their good eyes, and then
proceeding to show them up by rapid firing at another set of cans, knocking
every single one down.
They all laugh at that, though it's not really funny. Dean's drunker than he
has been in a long time, his eyes sliding closed and his tongue thick and
stupid. John's eyes are red as he tells them a few more stories, and Dean can't
remember how many beers Sam's had.
But all in all, it's a good night, a good send-off to Alan, who they'd all
liked and respected.
Someone else may have given Alan his hunter's burial, but the three of them had
given him his hunter's funeral.
 
Dean doesn't remember getting into bed. Doesn't remember saying goodnight,
doesn't remember stripping down to his boxers and climbing in.
He startles half-awake when Sam slips under the covers with him, whispering,
"I'm cold." Dean curls his arm around Sam reflexively and holds him, arm
wrapped around Sam's narrow chest.
 
He's out again, and has no idea of the time when Sam grabs hold of his wrist,
only that it's still dark. He feels a shiver run through Sam where their warm
skin is pressed together.
"Sammy," he slurs, "I'ss okay. Gonna be okay," he says automatically.
"Okay," Sam whispers, and he links their fingers together and presses his back
and butt against Dean's front.
And Dean's out again.
Next thing he knows, Sam's moving Dean's hand, dragging his fingertips over
Sam's chest, and making breathy little noises when they skim Sam's nipples.
"Sammy," Dean warns in a whisper.
"Please," Sam whispers back, and Dean doesn't know a good answer to that. This
time it's all Sam who's starting it, and this time, Dean has so little
resistance in his blind drunkenness, and this time he's still reeling a little
from the news of Alan's death, and he knows Sam is too.
Dean doesn't say anything, just lets Sam rub Dean's fingers over his chest,
down to his belly, back to his chest. It's actually soothing, and Dean feels
his eyelids droop closed again.
They pop open when he feels something wet on his fingers. It's Sammy's tongue,
soft wet velvet dragging over his fingertips, and it goes straight to Dean's
cock. He bites his lip to keep from groaning when Sam sucks three fingers into
his mouth, and he gives no resistance when Sam pushes his hand back down to his
chest.
"Please," Sammy whispers again.
Dean closes his eyes and breathes out hard, and he can't say no. Doesn't want
to say no, if he’s honest with himself, and right now he is. So he begins
petting Sam's chest, rubbing his wet fingertips over Sam's pointed nipples, and
his nearly-hard cock brushes up against Sam's ass every time Sam arches against
him.
He's a hard, warm little body, and it's like Dean's lost all control of his own
body when he thrusts up against him.
"Dean," Sam moans softly, pressing his bottom against Dean's crotch, and Dean's
hand has gone still on him. He feels the flex and stretch of muscle under Sam's
skin, and it turns him on, makes him dig his dick into the softness of Sam's
little ass.
Then Sam's got his hand again, nudging it downwards, slipping Dean's fingers
under the edge of his underwear. He doesn't say please this time, but Dean can
feel it when Sam gently strokes the back of Dean's wrist.
Taking a long, deep breath of Sammy's hair, Dean slips his fingers in deeper,
feeling the gentle scratch of Sam's sparse pubes, then the base of Sam's hard
dick. It's so warm, and when Dean makes a loose fist around it, he can feel how
wet it is at the tip, and he groans softly against the back of Sam's neck.
"Oh," Sam sighs when Dean thumbs around the tip, spreading his precum and
teasing his little slit. Sam's dick feels like steel in Dean's hand, so very
hard, and hot like fire.
"Want me to make you come, Sammy?" he asks, his words tumbling out slurry and
rough.
Sam replies by moaning and thrusting into Dean's hand, and Dean whispers,
"Shhhh," before stroking Sam's cock some more.
Sam's writhing against him, trying to move his hips in time with Dean's hand,
trying to rub against Dean, but he's just everywhere. His hand is on Dean's
forearm, feeling the muscles move, and then it's on the hem of his underwear,
pushing them down with little jerks until Dean's hand on his dick is in the
open air, and the underwear are twisted around just above his knees. It isn't
until they're out of the way that Dean realizes his own cock has slipped free
of the open fly of his boxers, and is rubbing against Sam's bare ass.
"Jesus, Sammy," Dean murmurs, rubbing his cock against Sam's baby-soft skin.
With a whimper, Sam grinds back against him, his perfect cock jerking in Dean's
hand. And suddenly Dean wants to do so many things to him, things that he knows
he would recoil from, terrified, if he thought about them in the light of day.
Wants to suck him off, wants to spread Sam out and kiss him and rub their
bodies together, wants to lick his little asshole until Sam is crying with it,
wants to fuck his little brother.
When he thinks of fucking Sam - images of Sam's legs around his hips, Sam
moaning against the side of his neck, Dean's dick buried deep in Sam's tight
ass - he's expecting it to repel him, to make him disengage from what he's
doing.
It doesn't. It only makes him hotter, makes him rut against Sam. Makes him pull
his hand away to push it in front of Sam's mouth so that Sam will lick his palm
until it's wet.
Sam whines when he goes back to jerking him off, humping against him, Sam's
lower back getting sticky-wet with Dean's slick.
"Dean, oh god," Sam whispers, reaching back to put his hand on Dean's hip, to
feel it flex as Dean pushes against him. Sam spreads his legs a few inches, and
Dean groans when he feels the tip of his cock press against the back of Sam's
balls. He lets go of Sam's dick and steadies himself to thrust his cock between
Sam's legs, to feel the fine, soft skin of Sam's inner thighs around him.
"Close your legs," he says, and Sam's legs are shaking when they clamp around
Dean's dick.
"Jesus," Dean groans, thrusting, holding Sam's bony hip, thrusting, feeling the
stirrings of orgasm tighten his lower belly and fan heat through him.
He's barely aware of when Sam takes himself into his own hand, but soon he can
feel it as Sam beats off so hard the mattress shakes. There's not much of that
before Sam comes with a moan muffled in the pillow. Dean doesn't even think
before he swipes a dribble off the tip of Sam's dick and brings it to his lips.
Sam shudders against him and grinds back, flexing his thighs, and Dean grips
him again and fucks between his thighs and comes, out of his mind with arousal,
with the taste of Sam's jizz in his mouth.
He's almost asleep again when he hears Sam ask, "Will you kiss me, Dean?" but
he's too out of it, drunk and exhausted, to even move his lips to answer.
 
The obvious solution is to pretend it never happened. To pretend it was a
drunken dream, or perhaps a nightmare. To his relief, Sam seems to be doing the
same, treating Dean with the same little-brotherness that he's been acting for
weeks. That makes it much easier when John tells Dean to call his work and tell
them he won't be coming in any more.
"Pack your bags, boys. We're going to Bobby's," he says.
Perhaps it's in allowance of their dismay over Alan's death, but John doesn't
rush them out the door immediately. He gives Dean time to drive a load down to
the thrift store he'd frequented so often, and Dean says goodbye to the
proprietress as he unloads the air conditioners. Before he left, Dean had
hidden the sheet and the water guns in his bag. Sam had had a flat look of
disappointment when they couldn't find a way to smuggle the Nintendo.
Sam wants to say goodbye to the little cat before they go, and he's in the yard
for five or ten minutes calling, "Here kitty kitty, here kitty," before John
calls him back, telling him it's time to leave. Dean can't stand to look at the
misery on Sam's face.
John actually lets them keep one fan, and it rides in the backseat next to Sam
for the whole 1200 miles to Bobby's house.
Their vacation is over. Of course it couldn't last forever.
End Notes
     One reader was dismayed when they thought this was the end, but it's
     not! I have at least two more parts planned, maybe up to five or six
     more. I won't be going at such a rapid pace now that the new-story
     feel has worn off, but i will try to post regularly. Feedback is
     extremely appreciated, kudos or comments, logged in or anonymous, and
     it makes writing this much more fun :) Thanks for reading!
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