Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3274679.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Sam_is_13, i_don't_know_why, It_just_happened, First_Kiss, Oral_Sex,
      Sibling_Incest, Alcohol_as_a_Coping_Mechanism, Confusion, Feelings, Dean
      is_gonna_give_himself_a_tumor_if_he_keeps_repressing_like_this
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-02-09 Words: 7482
****** Way Down Inside ******
by karmascars
Summary
     Something's wrong with Dean. Sam can't figure it out – until he does.
Notes
     This is not any of the things I'm supposed to write. BUT I FINISHED
     IT.
     Title from Whole Lotta Love, Led Zeppelin.
See the end of the work for more notes
Something's wrong with Dean.
Sam can tell. It's not like he knows what it is, or anything – Dean talks all
the time but doesn't talk, you know? There's no clear definition. Sam just
knows there's a new shadow in Dean's expression, a shuttering behind his eyes
that wasn't there before. He's stumbling over words that don't mean much by
themselves, turning them into something much bigger and somehow still unsaid.
There's nothing Sam can do about it. By the time he's thirteen, he knows
there's no way to make Dean talk about anything that Dean doesn't want to talk
about. Forcing the issue just makes him clam up, like those awful three days in
Montauk when Dean was right there but a million miles away, all because Sam
insisted they talk about whatever this elephant was taking up all the space in
the room.
It makes Sam feel kind of crazy.
He can't avoid Dean, because Dean is always there. It's pretty much impossible
to miss the way Dean's behavior has changed, and all the myriad ways it affects
Dean's interactions with him. How Dean's started telling him that he's too old
for stuff, like turning the hose on each other while they're washing the car,
making faces with spots of pancake batter on his nose and chin, even sharing a
bed – even if it's the only bed. Two weeks ago, Dean slept on a tile floor with
his duffel for a pillow rather than share a bed with Sam.
All Sam can think is that there's something wrong with him now, something
that's disgusting his brother so much that Dean is noticeably pulling away. Sam
pokes at himself in the mirror, spending longer in the bathroom (and that's one
of those times Dean will talk to him, or at him, yelling through the door that
he's “been in there for years”) trying to discern just what it is about his
gangly, growing teenage body or his sharp-featured face that is so off-putting,
Dean can barely look at him anymore.
He's inspecting one of his darker moles with a frown when Dean pounds on the
door.
“Stop primping, Samantha, prom isn't til April.”
Sam whirls and yanks open the door so hard it slams against the counter, angry
at himself for a reason he can't yet qualify and so, angry at Dean. It's all
Dean's fault, anyway. Dean's fault because it's Sam's fault.
“How do you even know when prom is, ar-tard?”
Dean flashes him a shark's grin. “Girls get so desperate in April, Sammy. You
should see 'em. They'll do anything to have the best-looking date at the
dance.”
“And that's you, is it,” Sam deadpans. He's still standing right in the middle
of the bathroom, ignoring Dean's shifting from foot to foot. He's stubborn in
little ways, a quieter rebellion.
“You know it,” Dean returns breezily. Then his hand shoots out, wraps around
Sam's wrist faster than blinking, and tugs him out into the hall. He spins them
with the momentum and far too quickly to follow, Sam is pulled up against his
brother and shoved out into the hall. The door shuts in his startled face.
“What the fuck?” he screeches, too shocked to censor the swear.
“Language, Sammy!” Dean barks.
“Ugh,” Sam scoffs, whirling on his heel. His chest tingles a little and he's
warm all over, almost too warm to wear clothes. That doesn't make much sense to
him, since it's working on fifty degrees outside and he's only wearing a t-
shirt and boxer shorts.
 
                                       *
                                        
Dinner that night is hotdogs and cheap potato chips, the kind that fracture in
the bag and stick their greasy fragments all over Sam's face as he eats.
They're sitting in front of the TV, not really watching some ancient action
movie, and Dean keeps glancing over with a look that Sam can't interpret
through the flashes of light and color. After a good half hour of this, Sam
deliberately meets Dean's glance, arching an eyebrow. He's not sure, but when
he can actually see him, Dean looks poleaxed. Sam waits.
“Wipe your face, you're a mess,” is all Dean says.
Later, after Sam brushes his teeth, he walks into the bedroom they're sharing –
with two beds in it, shouldn't be an issue – and finds it dark, both beds
untouched. Frowning, he walks back out and finds Dean in the living room,
smoothing out a sleeping bag on the couch. The lights are off in here too,
orange and white light from outside trickling in around curtains, sliding in
and out as headlights pass. It makes Dean a silhouette, makes this whole thing
so surreal. Like Sam is walking through a dream instead of their crappy rental
house. He stands there and watches Dean repeat his movements three or four
times, like Dean doesn't want to lie down and sleep there. Sam wonders why he's
out here at all, and with a sinking in his chest, he thinks he knows.
“Is there something wrong with me?” he blurts, and that's not what he meant to
say at all.
“What?” Dean's head jerks up, startled, his eyes wide. “No! Don't be
ridiculous. I just --”
“Like the couch better than an actual bed? Come on, Dean,” Sam says, and he
hates the way his voice wavers. “You just don't want to be anywhere near me
anymore. You're always ducking off and giving me bogus answers to things I ask,
and I get it, okay? I do, you're,” and he's getting all worked up, voice
cracking, eyes stinging, “there's nothing worse than hanging with your kid
brother.” Sam's nodding like it'll lend him strength. “It's okay,” he says, and
it comes out in a whisper.
He's on fire, he's so embarrassed. He's just going to back out of the room and
flee, maybe cry these tears into his pillow where they won't matter at all, and
get some sleep. He's just tired, that's it. He's –
He's being stopped by hands on his shoulders, a sigh, and a rough yank into a
hug.
“Hey,” Dean says softly. “There's nothing wrong with you.”
Sam sniffs, the sound muffled by Dean's chest. Dean smells the way he always
does, and he's so warm, and Sam may hum a little as he allows himself to enjoy
this. It's been forever since he got a hug from Dean.
He feels Dean tense all over when he does, though, and that kind of ruins it.
“Then what is it?” Sam says, but it comes out in a hoarse whisper, like he's
already cried really hard. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?” Dean's voice is weird. Sam can't figure out how, just weird.
Strangled, maybe, a little? Strained? And then Dean is pulling him back,
putting space between them, and Sam wasn't done with that hug just yet. It
pisses him off.
“That!” he cries, flinging himself back so he can gesture wildly. “It's like
you can't stand to be near me now! What did I do? I just --” He swallows. “We
used to play together all the time, like cowboys and Indians, and building
forts, and you were teaching me about the car and then I dunno, it's like you
looked at me one day and realized you didn't want to do that stuff anymore. I
miss it.” He hates the way it comes out plaintive and thin. He sounds like a
selfish child. He doesn't even care about some of that stuff anymore – tells
himself he doesn't, that he's growing up and he doesn't need it – but they used
to do it together. Sam didn't even realize how long it's been until just then,
when he said it. It awakens a new ache inside him.
Dean isn't looking at him anymore, and that makes it worse. Doesn't say
anything, just bites his lip until it's white, digging his fingers into his
thigh like he can't even tell it's happening. He looks angry, kind of like he
does when there's a piece to a job that he's missing and Dad is counting on him
to figure it out. Sam wonders if this is what he gets for trying to be like
Dean, following his big brother around and trying to be just a fraction as
cool.
His throat constricts and his chest feels tight, and it's all he can do to
breathe as he whirls on his heel and stalks back to the bedroom. He throws
himself on his bed, makes a ton of noise doing it and knows that Dean can hear.
He lies on his back, staring up at a ceiling intermittently painted with strips
of moving light, people in cars going other places. People going to meet other
people. People they love.
He wonders if he's lost Dean's love, if that's all just part of growing up. He
can't shake the feeling that it was something he did, or even just who he is.
He wouldn't put it past Dean to not talk about this the way he doesn't talk
about anything else.
 
                                       *
                                        
It's some time early in the morning, when even the clocks are asleep. Sam
blinks crusty eyes and tries to focus on the darker black over there by the
door, where he knows sure as the sun and moon that Dean is standing, looking
over at the bed. He's not sure what woke him, until Dean's breath hitches and
Sam realizes that the darker black is swaying.
He bets the whiskey bottle that he saw Dad hide, that he saw Dean find, is
empty now.
“Dean,” he tries to say, but it catches in his throat and comes out a croak.
Dean starts, swaying violently and swearing under his breath. “G'sleep, Sammy,”
he slurs.
Something sinks in Sam's gut. “What're you doing?”
“Nothin',” Dean replies promptly, almost indignantly. “Lookin'. M allowed
t'look.”
“Sure you are,” Sam says, confused. “Look at what?”
Dean mumbles something, and turns, clothes catching, jacket clacking against
the door frame. A soft muffled thud when his shoulder catches it. He shambles
out, and the space he occupied feels wrong when Sam's eyes dart over it.
There's a long moment of silence, and even as good as his ears are, Sam can't
even tell if Dean is still in the house.
“Dean!” he calls, and is rewarded with a thump and another curse, louder this
time.
Then: “Whaa?” Dean sounds disoriented. “Sammy?”
Sam is up and out of the bed, feet slapping against the faux wood flooring,
down the hall toward the living room. He's hurrying, not sure why, and he's not
paying attention to where he's putting his feet. They catch on something soft
and warm, Dean grunts in pain, and Sam goes down on top of him.
They're both on the floor, Sam catching his breath, smelling the fumes wafting
up from Dean's.
“Dude,” he says, too loud in the sudden stillness. “Did you drink an entire
distillery?”
“Shaddup,” Dean says, blowing a raspberry of whiskey smell at Sam. “Get off
me.”
“No,” Sam says, suddenly deciding to be obstinate. He wriggles, shifting his
hips, until his legs are splayed on either side of Dean's waist, his butt
nestled on Dean's pelvis. “Got you now.”
“Sam,” Dean says, and again his tone of voice doesn't make sense. It sounds
like he's begging Sam to get off of him, when before Dean would have grabbed at
him and wrestled him to the ground. Turned it into sparring practice, or a
tickle fight (that Sam would usually lose). This newest difference only serves
to fuel Sam's stubbornness.
“No,” Sam repeats. “You want me off, you get me off.”
Dean whimpers. There's no other word to describe the sound that escapes him.
Sam can see a little better now that his eyes are adjusting, and he meets the
dark pools of Dean's. Another piece slots into a puzzle Sam didn't know he'd
been putting together.
“Get me off,” he whispers, just to watch as Dean's eyelids flutter, his entire
body tensing beneath Sam's.
“Don't,” he says, wetting dry lips with a flash of tongue, and Sam tilts his
head to the side.
“Why?”
He thinks he might know the answer, but now it's like all he's ever wanted is
to hear Dean say it. Dean has been closed off and short with him for long
enough, Sam feels like he deserves a straight answer for once.
And Dean doesn't disappoint. Sam reads volumes in the way he shakes his head,
hard, turning off to the side and breathing through his nose so hard and fast
his nostrils flare. “Don't,” he says again, a little higher pitched, hands
finding their way to Sam's hips and digging in, like he's going to throw Sam
off.
Sam responds by clenching his thighs, hugging in tighter around Dean, leaning
in lower with one hand braced on the floor beside Dean's head and the other
grabbing a fistful of Dean's shirt. “No,” he says again. “Not until you tell
me.”
“Sam --” Dean sounds desperate. Sam's not giving in.
“Tell me!”
“NO!” Dean roars, bucking and twisting, throwing Sam off and sideways like in
all their practice sessions only this time, Dean is fighting for real. Sam is
across the room and smacking into the overstuffed armchair they both hate
before he knows what's happening, and he can't hold back his yelp of surprise.
Dean has rolled on to his side, curled in on himself, breathing hard. With
another bitten-off noise, Sam hauls himself up and starts to crawl over, to see
if Dean's okay.
“Stay away from me,” comes harshly from the shadowed place where Dean's face
should be.
Sam stops, stricken with confusion so intense it hurts worse than the place
where his back hit the chair. Dean has never said anything like that to him
before. Dean has never shoved him away like that before. It's always been them
against the world, never against each other.
“Dean?” is all he can ask.
“Go to bed, Sam,” Dean says, and he sounds both older and more sober than he
has all evening.
Sam stares at his huddled form for a long few minutes, but when Dean doesn't
move or say anything else, he picks himself up and goes back to bed.
Sleep doesn't come.
 
                                       *
                                        
The next morning, Dean is nowhere to be found. A note scrawled in his
handwriting reads, Back for dinner, but as Sam reads it over and over and his
heart sinks, he realizes he doesn't expect Dean to come back at all.
Dean does come back, but it's long after any respectable dinner time, and he's
carrying two bottles. Sam doesn't ask where he got them. Dean is the most
resourceful seventeen-year-old that Sam thinks he'll ever meet.
One of the bottles is halfway empty before Dean even looks at him.
Sam's been waiting.
“I was thinking,” he says, eying the bottle instead of Dean. He wants Dean to
feel relatively safe, enough so that he won't bolt when he hears what Sam has
to say. “What if we play a game?”
He can feel Dean's frown as his brother looks at him hard. “What kind of game?”
Dean's voice is heavily laden with suspicion, but he took the bait. Sam does a
little inward victory dance, even though he hasn't won yet.
“I heard about it at school, 's called Never Have I Ever?”
He doesn't expect Dean's laugh, a short sharp bark that continues in chuckles,
hollowed out by the bottle when Dean takes a drink. Sam allows himself to smile
slightly as Dean wipes his mouth with the back of a hand.
“Oh, Sammy,” his brother says, “you haven't got a chance.”
“Hey, I have so!” Sam retorts, jutting out his chin, well aware of how young he
must look and sound. “I've done... stuff,” he finishes lamely. He hasn't.
“No, you haven't,” Dean says, amused and matter-of-fact, like he knows that all
Sam's done is kissed a few girls (Lauren, Susie, and Beth) and gotten one
girl's hand on his dick (Susie, and she let him feel her breast up under her
shirt, all soft and warm).
“How will you know, if we don't play?” Sam challenges. He goes to the cupboard
and retrieves the other bottle.
Dean's eyes flash. “You're too young for that,” he says, but the words lose
some of their vehemence when he slurs on the last two.
“Mm hmm, yeah.” Sam rolls his eyes. “Are we doing shots, or what?”
“Listen to you! Mister Spring Break,” Dean mocks him. “You take a swig out of
that and tell me how it feels.”
Time to nut up, or shut up. Sam takes a deep breath, and raises the bottle to
his lips.
The swig he takes is small, but burns all the way in and all the way down. He
knows if he breathes he'll start coughing, and he's afraid to breathe.
“Exhale first,” Dean says gently as spots start to dance before Sam's eyes. He
does, then sucks in an experimental breath, and almost loses everything inside
of him as he coughs, and coughs, surprised tears forming in the corners of his
eyes at just how rough his throat feels.
When he's got his breath back, blinking hard so his eyes stop watering, Dean is
regarding him with a look on his face that Sam can't translate. Something
amused and sad, and determined all at once.
“See? Leave this shit to the pros,” he says, breaking the spell.
“I can do it,” Sam says, obstinate. “Not my fault you've had more practice.”
“You don't need more practice,” Dean insists. “You're thirteen, for gods'
sakes. Whaddaya need to drink for?”
“What do you?” Sam shoots back, too frustrated to think of a better comeback.
“Get to be my age and you'll find out,” Dean says, taking another sip like he's
pressing his thumb down into a bruise on Sam's skin.
“You're seventeen, Dean. Not, thirty-five or something.”
“Ooh, yeah, that's ancient,” Dean says. Sip. “Dunno if I want to live to be
gray.” He swirls the bottle, watching the liquid inside slop and catch the
light. “Probably won't,” he says quietly. He's not looking up, like he can feel
Sam staring at him, like Sam always feels Dean's eyes on himself.
“What is going on with you?” Sam asks, because now he has to.
Dean shakes his head. “Nope.”
“What --”
“You wanna play Never Have I Ever?” Dean says shortly, cutting him off. “Fine.
But you're doing pony shots. I don't wanna hear you beg me to kill you because
you're so hungover.” His voice is mocking, but he's giving in, so Sam lets it
go.
He gets two regular drinking glasses, and sets them on the table in front of
Dean. When he takes his seat, he meets Dean's eyes, and for some reason the
moment feels unnaturally charged.
Dean's voice breaks it. “Never Have I Ever,” he announces, and pauses like he's
thinking before he grins. “There's not a lot I haven't done. How 'bout you go
first?”
Sam purses his lips with a little sneer. “Fine. Never Have I Ever, uh, gone d-
down on a girl.” He stumbles over the term, hates that he does, but it's worth
it when Dean tosses back a double. For some reason, the way his throat works is
fascinating.
The glass slams down on the table. “Two because that's my specialty, Sammy,”
answers the question Sam hasn't asked. “Your turn. Never Have I Ever gotten
over-the-shirt boob.”
“You so have!” Sam protests. “And I've gotten under the shirt boob, so doesn't
that negate it or something?”
“Damn,” Dean says, pride in his eyes. “My little Sammy is a man.” He lets his
voice go high and wipes away an imaginary tear.
“Shut up,” Sam grumbles, looking away at the floor.
“Aw, embarrassed?” Dean mocks. “May I remind you, this was your brilliant
idea.”
“Shut up!” Sam says, glaring at him. “Never Have I Ever kissed two girls at
once.”
“At once? That sounds complicated. You mean, two girls in the same room, or two
mouths on mine?”
Sam's eyes go wide at the images. “Uh,” he stammers.
Dean takes a shot. “Done 'em both, anyway,” he says lightly. “Never Have I Ever
kissed anyone in a library.”
“But --”
“On the front steps doesn't count, Sammy. Drink up!”
The game wears on in this fashion until Sam can't even taste the booze anymore,
his tongue thick in his mouth, hand trembling more as he lifts each shot.
They're both slurring badly, laughing at everything, and Sam is so lost in
having fun with his big brother that he doesn't even think, just grins and
says, “Never Have I Ever fucked a guy.”
Dean goes still.
“Language, Sammy,” he says, but he sounds hoarse, and he's picking up the
bottle. Sam watches his throat work on a long, long swig.
He sets it back down and looks at it, still clasped in his hand, like he wants
to drink it all right then instead.
“Does that mean, like,” Sam stumbles over his thoughts. “A lot?”
When Dean doesn't speak, or look up, or even appear to breathe, Sam leans
forward over the table. “s my turn,” he prompts.
Abruptly, Dean stands, and leaves the dining room. He takes the bottle with
him.
“Hey!” Sam yelps, indignant, trying to get his sodden limbs to propel him up
and out of his chair. “Dean!”
A door slams in the distance; their bedroom door. The bedroom Dean hasn't slept
in all week.
“Hey,” Sam says again, more to himself. He braces his palms on the table and
hoists himself up, muttering, “Whoa,” when his balance turns out to be shot. He
thinks, this must be what it feels like on a boat, focusing hard in the middle
distance until his legs feel like they’ll hold him. He sets off down the
hallway, wobbling dangerously but somehow staying upright. The hall feels miles
long. Sam is panting by the time he gets to their door.
Clumsily, he tries the knob. It's locked.
“Hey,” he calls. “Dean, hey. What're – whatcha doin'? Dean, we weren't
finished.”
Silence. Not even the creak of bed springs. Sam knows he wouldn't be able to
hear Dean breathing through the door, but he imagines he could and since he
can't, he starts to get worried.
“Dean? Hey, come on,” he says, trying to focus on slurring less. His forehead
rests against the door. “Whass wrong?” He knows he sounds completely wasted,
but all he cares about right now is the way this stupid plan of his has
affected Dean. All he wanted to do was find out what was bothering his brother,
not bother him even more. He's never wanted to anger Dean, or make him
uncomfortable. He just doesn't get why Dean's been avoiding him this whole
time. It doesn't make sense, he thinks. Dean hasn't changed, so it's got to be
something Sam's doing wrong, but he can't figure out –
He figures out that the low buzz in his ears is him mumbling his thoughts aloud
just as the door slams open. Dean is there, incensed and swaying, his eyes so
dilated that they shine black.
“You really gotta stop that,” he says, voice rough and low with drink.
“Huh?” Sam says dumbly.
“Gettin' down on yourself. It's not you,” Dean slurs. “Was never nothin' wrong
with you. 's all wrong with me. All of it. You don't – don't wanna hear you say
that shit about yourself, a'right?”
“Nn—but, Dean, no, wait--!” Before Sam can even think of an answer, much less
voice one, Dean is swinging the door shut in his face. Sam bodily blocks it,
props himself heavily up against the door frame when it becomes clear that too
much sudden movement will probably fell him like a gangly tree. “Stop that and
tell me what the fuck is wrong!”
He's regretting adding the swear when Dean's eyes glitter, Dean looks pissed –-
“I'll tell you what the fuck is wrong,” Dean says, his voice all disjointed,
broken and strained. He reaches out abortively, fingers twitching, then his
face contorts. “No, no,” he mutters, turning away, elbowing the door so it
slams forward and bounces off of Sam. “No, can't – god, fuck, can't --”
“What?” Sam insists, following him into the room. It's very dark, and even
though he can't see Dean's face, but he can read the tense line of his
shoulders. Whatever it is, it's tearing Dean apart. Sam reaches out an unsteady
hand to clasp on his brother's shoulder.
Dean whirls, grabs the hand, yanks Sam to him and presses their lips together.
Heat, sudden and shocking, lances through Sam's body from his lips to the pit
of him, pooling and sparking there, inciting a reaction. He whimpers, hips
jerking forward into Dean's of their own volition, and when he meets his
brother's warmth he realizes what this feeling is. He presses back into Dean,
into the kiss, parting his lips and mouthing at Dean's because he has no idea
what to do, but it all feels great.
Then he's ripped away, Dean tearing their mouths apart with a torn cry. “No,”
he breathes, and he sounds absolutely stricken.
He's gone and Sam is still standing there, blinking and swaying in the middle
of their dark room, fingers pressed to his lips.
 
                                       *
                                        
Dad calls the next day. Sam only knows this because Dean bangs on the door at
ass in the morning, hollering for Sam to “get your shit together, we're leaving
as soon as he's back”.
Lying on his back, tracing the same stupid crack in the ceiling as he has for
the past nine days, Sam sighs. He rolls his lips in, tasting them, like there's
still a hint of Dean's lips there.
He didn't sleep at all again last night. He thinks he might be starting to
hallucinate.
Lots of things still don't make sense, but at least one glaring issue has been
resolved: Dean has been avoiding Sam because, for some reason, Dean wants to
kiss Sam. There's nothing that disgusts Sam about that. Far from it. In fact,
Sam can look back at the past year or so and see little bits of himself,
reactions he didn't understand, that make sense if he looks at them from this
point of view. From the point of view of someone who's been kissed by his
brother.
He wants it to happen again. He's wanted it this whole time. He just didn't
know what he wanted until he had it, and lost it.
The whole day, overnight, and into the next afternoon he's quiet, going where
Dad and Dean tell him to go and hauling what needs to be hauled. He sits and
watches the Andy Griffeth show on the whining motel TV while Dad and Dean speak
in low voices, like he doesn't know what they're talking about. He's not
supposed to know, but he does. Things that go bump in the night, real monsters,
and his family hunts them – but he's not supposed to know, so he pretends he
doesn't worry when Dad leaves again, and takes Dean with him.
“This'll only take a few hours,” one of them says. Sam is focusing so hard on
not knowing things (like what Dean's lips felt like against his) that he
doesn't notice which one, or even that they've left.
Dean has always been the staple of Sam's life. If he wants to wax poetic, like
those trashy novels he totally never reads, Dean is his North Star. His guide
through life. He's never wanted to be like Dad – he wants to be like Dean, even
though Dean has long been their father in miniature.
There's no one like Dean in the whole world (not that Sam has known, or even
spoken to that many people). Dean is strong, and brave, and cool. He knows all
the words to so many songs, he can make an edible dinner out of anything, and
he's not afraid to fight what lurks in the dark. Sam gets this feeling in his
chest when he thinks of Dean, something that wells up so powerfully that he
chokes on it. The more he thinks of the things he likes about Dean, the
stronger the feeling gets, until Sam is having trouble breathing and when he
shifts, he feels his cock swell even harder against his leg.
The last puzzle piece clicks in, and Sam is looking at the big picture.
Huh. It's not earth-shattering, or anything. Just like the last little fiddly
bit of a gun that's being cleaned, that turns a pile of nonsense parts into a
deadly mechanism. It slots into place, and everything makes sense.
Sam thinks – he doesn't really know, but based on what he does know, he guesses
– that he's kind of in love with Dean.
He replays the kiss again, couched in this new and oddly reassuring
realization. He's thought about it almost constantly since it happened, but
now, it sets of a chain reaction that zings through his body and lights him up.
He gasps, one of his hands moving over the bulge in his jeans and pressing
down, and he gasps again. It feels good. God, who knew? Sam presses again,
slides his hand a little, and lets out a surprised moan. What is – is this what
Dean does when he disappears into their room, and comes out half an hour later
with a fresh sheen of sweat on his face? If it feels this good all the time,
Sam definitely doesn't blame him.
He gets rid of the jeans, kicks them off. He doesn't let go of himself. His
hand is moving faster, hips jerking up to meet the pressure, trying to chase
the way it feels. Every individual touch is new and sets him on fire. He dips
his fingers in to his boxers and clutches at himself, and he can feel each
searing fingertip like a point of electricity, all of them pulsing in time with
his rabbitting heartbeat.
Each time he brushes up over the head of his cock, clutching down the shaft,
pleasure mounts to a level he didn't yet know was possible. Sam arches into the
bed with a groan. Again, and again, he's reaffirmed in just how good his body
can feel.
There's something up ahead, with this. Something huge. He can feel it building
all the way down in his feet, his toes curling.
A car door slams, then another, and the sound is unmistakable. Sam panics and
grabs the comforter, pulling it over his lap as a key scrapes into the lock of
the door.
Dean stumbles in, pale and clutching at his arm, and Dad tosses in a duffel
behind him. “Get some rest,” he calls. “We're moving out at seven.”
“Yes sir,” Dean answers, his voice steady, but when he sits on the bed he just
sort of drops. Sam is cataloging everything that's different, an injured arm
and a few minor scrapes and the way Dean's jeans are mangled and dark, sticking
to one calf.
The door closes and Sam is up like a shot, into the bathroom to grab a
washcloth and wet it. He scurries over to Dean and peels his fingers back from
his arm, dabbing at the wound before Dean can speak or move away. His erection
has completely disappeared in the face of his brother, injured. He feels a
little guilty for feeling relieved.
“What was it?” he asks softly, working the blood soaked fabric loose from the
cut. It doesn't look too serious, but it will need a few stitches. Dean hisses
slightly every time a few more threads pull away. Finally, it's loose, and Sam
helps Dean work the shirt over his head.
“We never did find out what it was,” Dean says, head turned toward the TV. Sam
gets the first aid kit out of the duffel that Dad brought, listening. “It
jumped us when we were casing the last victim's cabin. Dad got off a shot and
it took off, but it was headed for me first and grabbed me good.” He gestures
to the arm. Sam slaps a pint of Everclear into his palm.
Their eyes meet and a thunderclap strikes through him, but Dean is just
questioning the booze.
“Drink a bit, this'll hurt,” Sam says, trying for unobtrusive and just ending
up sounding subdued. Maybe scared. Nothing like what he wants to sound like,
and he wants to take it back as he sees Dean react.
“It's all right, Sammy,” Dean says, and takes a perfunctory swig. He grimaces
and sticks out his tongue. “God, it's like drinking kerosene.”
Could I light you up?Sam thinks, but doesn't say it. It doesn't make a lot of
sense, except the tone of it, and that tone does not belong in triage.
“Did you get it?” he asks instead.
“Yep.” Dean is smugly satisfied. He takes another drink of the liquor and
groans in disgust. “Got it down and burned to a crisp in the next ten minutes.
All this,” he indicates his scratches, “is brambles, you should have seen this
place. Dude's house was, like, made out of those thorny bushes – you know, with
the purple flowers?”
“Bougainvillea,” Sam says absently. He's trying to thread a needle.
“Yeah, that. So these boogin-brambles, they start coming alive, right? Grabbing
at us. Dad starts hacking at 'em, all I've got's a gun so I'm shooting 'em, and
one of the branches gets itself wrapped around my leg. Won't let go.”
Dean takes another drink, pauses, and eyes Sam's hand with the needle in it.
Sam raises his eyebrows.
Shrugging, Dean holds out his arm and continues. “So Dad is yelling for me to
slice at it with my knife, since I forgot I even had one on me --” Sam knows
this isn't true, but he lets Dean tell it the way he wants to. “I'm digging
around for it and another one of the branches is tryin' for my throat, and then
there's this yell and a thump and I'm free. So I'm scrambling, right, I get up
and see Dad grappling with this dude who had to've been high out of his mind.
He's like, seventy years old, going head to head with Dad and yelling the
craziest shit the whole time. Stuff like – ah, Sam, watch it!”
“There's a needle in your arm, it's gonna sting,” Sam chides.
“Yeah, but you gotta go – gently!” Dean squeaks the last word, quoting the
Princess Bride.
Sam chuckles, shaking his head. “So the dude?” He's focusing on stitching, but
Dean relaxes when he talks.
“Yeah, so this dude,” Dean picks back up, taking a quick drink of Everclear.
Sam can tell it's getting to him, what with blood loss and adrenaline, because
Dean's loosening up, gesticulating more freely like he's not feeling much pain.
Sam forces himself not to rush the stitches. Dean can take it, especially now.
“This dude is obviously some kind of sorcerer. The thing we killed, he summoned
it, and right in the middle of screaming at Dad, he starts chanting and
summoning another one. I'm there by this point and I start trying to get at
him, you know, but he's some kind of crazy strong and agile, because neither of
us can get in a clean hit.”
“Dad lost his gun?” Sam doesn't mean it as a slight against their father –
well, maybe he does a little – but Dean takes it that way, jaw tightening up.
“Out of bullets,” he says shortly.
“So...?” Sam prompts, tying off the thread. He sits back. “You're good.” He's
looking along Dean's collarbone, the lace of freckles sprayed across his bare
shoulders.
Dean coughs, and takes another drink, grimacing more at how little is left than
the taste at this point. “So Dad just feints him and punches him in the fucking
throat, shuts him up. He staggers, gets close to me, and I knife him straight
up under his arm. Went down like a fucking sack.” He looks over at Sam's
stitches, flexing. “Good deal, Sammy!”
Sam smiles, putting away the supplies. When he turns back, Dean is still
looking at him, happy and grateful and on his way to black out drunk. A wash of
courage hits Sam when he realizes that Dean is so open right now, so relaxed
despite his pain, that he might not care what Sam says or does.
So, Sam swipes the pint. “Never Have I Ever had this stuff,” he announces, a
little giddy with his daring, and raises it to his lips.
It tastes like drinking paint thinner, or ammonia. Sam gags, the liquor backs
up, and it gets in his nose as he sputters and coughs, doubled over trying to
breathe without smelling or tasting the nastiness.
He looks up through watery eyes, expecting Dean to be doubled over laughing,
but Dean is looking at him like Sam is just a little bit scary.
Sam blinks, thrown, feeling alcohol blush through his system. “What?”
“Don't do that,” Dean says. Sam can't read his tone.
“Do – but, Dean, I --”
“Don't,” Dean say again, more forcefully, cutting him off and glaring at him
until Sam deflates, swallowing nothing. Dean stands, only wobbling a little
bit, and he's still glaring so Sam wouldn't have been able to move to help him
even if he'd fallen over. Not with Dean looking at him like Sam is the monster
tonight. Sam doesn't know what to do with that look. It's slicing right through
him.
Dean draws in a sharp breath to say something, catches it and swallows. Shakes
his head. Then he's turning to the bathroom, and shutting himself in. Sam hears
the shower kick on. He should go in there, make sure Dean doesn't pop his
stitches. He should press, and make Dean talk. Make him say the things he's
almost said before.
But he doesn't, and he won't, not yet. Maybe not ever.
The shower runs for a long time, until Sam is almost certain there's no hot
water left in the entire state. Still, he can hear movement in the spray, so
Dean is still in there. There are times when the spray just pounds down
uninterrupted, and Sam knows when he hears that Dean is sitting on the toilet
lid, just breathing in steam.
Now, though, he's taking the World's Longest Shower, and Sam wants to talk to
him. Sam doesn't know what he's going to say, exactly, but he does know that he
can't take the coward's route and wait for answers to come to him. Working
against Dean in that regard, he'd been waiting for the rest of his life.
He hops up, regrets it when the head rush hits, and he doubles over propped
against the bed until it passes. The little bit of liquor that made it down his
throat affected him, and now it's obvious, his vision blurred and his steps
unsteady. He hopes his voice will sound something like normal when he finally
speaks again.
When he gets to the door he has to stop again, catch his breath, clear his
throat. His mouth tastes foul, but he supposes that doesn't matter. He draws in
the breath to say Dean's name, but then he hears Dean say his. At least, he
thinks that's what he hears.
He opens the door as silently as he's able.
The bathroom is suffused with steam, wet and white and cloyingly warm. Sam
feels it against his skin, feels his shirt begin to stick to his back. Every
breath is thick, but it's nice. He feels safe.
“Sam...”
It's barely audible, but it's there. “Dean?”
A gasp. It punches a right through him.
“Sam, go to bed.” Dean's voice is gruff.
Oh, that is it. “No, I won't!” Sam shouts. It's eerily sharp in the steam.
“This has gone on long enough.” He steps forward, and yanks the curtain back.
“We really need to --”
Time stops.
“-- talk,” he says, or tries, but there's no air to make the sound. Sam drinks
in the sight of Dean, naked and soaking wet, staring right back. His cock is
heavy and red in his hand, balls drawn up tight, legs trembling. He's close to
coming, and he's so beautiful Sam is frozen with fear.
“Dean,” he squeaks.
Dean hauls in a shuddering breath. “Sammy,” he says, the sound of his voice
crawling all over Sam, “go to bed.”
“No,” Sam breathes, and he steps forward again, up into the shower, into the
beating water with Dean. “No, I won't.”
He sinks to his knees. It's an instinct he didn't know he had, and he stares at
Dean's dripping cock because he has no idea how to give a blow job. He's never
really watched the porn he's walked in on Dean watching. He's certainly never
received one. All he knows is that he wants that in his mouth, now.
“Sammy --”
Sam's lips part. He drops his jaw, and plunges forward.
“Ah!” Dean's hips buck, a strangled groan leaving him when Sam feels him tense
and try not to fuck the mouth that's swallowing him whole. “Sammy, you – ah,
don't – teeth,” he says sharply, and Sam opens his mouth wider against a flood
of shame. Dean, though, he's moaning on every breath, and doesn't seem to hate
what's happening. He says Sam's name again, helplessly, hands finding Sam's
soaked hair and tugging.
Sam splays out his knees, tilting his hips, feeling slutty and open. His dick
is throbbing. He wants to get a hand on himself, but he can't stop touching
Dean, his brother's balls and thighs and the backs of his knees, one finger up
to the dark place behind that has Dean squirming, his cries mostly curses
muffled by one of his arms.
Pulling back, sliding in, taking Dean deeper than he thought he could, Sam is
concentrating so hard on not gagging around his mouthful that he falls into a
kind of trance. The pounding water falling on and all around him, feeling so
full and so needy, Dean's hands on him. Dean's noises, rising above the sound
of the water, breaking in on Sam –
He's begging.
“Please, Sam, pull off, I don't want you to have to swallow this, Sammy,
please, I don't want to come in your mouth --”
Sam pulls off, but it's to irritatedly ask him, “Why on earth not?”
“Sammy,” Dean moans. “Don't ask me to do that to you. Not to you. This is so
wrong --”
“Dean,” Sam starts, but water is falling in his eyes. He'll deal with the
repercussions later but for now, he says, “Don't argue with me, jerk,” and
swallows him down again.
The noise Dean makes is hopelessly arousing, and Sam plunges his hand into his
boxers, knocking away the sopping fabric and grabbing at himself. Dean must see
him, because Sam hears him say, “Oh, fuck, Sam --” and then Dean is convulsing,
curling over him and coming, pulse after pulse filling his mouth.
Sam tries to swallow it all, but a lot of it escapes out the corners of his
mouth. It's bitter, and slimy, but it's Dean's so he swallows what he can. He
looks up at Dean from there on his knees, looks at Dean staring down at him
like he's some kind of god, sees him dazed and sated. Water runs in frenetic
rivulets down Dean's skin, and Sam rises up to lick a swath up Dean's thigh,
over his hip and up to his stomach, collecting water. He's jacking himself to
the tempo of Dean's overstimulated, “Ah, ah, ah, Sam –!”
“Yeah,” Sam whines, bucks into his hand, and sees stars.
When he recovers, he's kneeling in the drip-drying shower with his head bowed,
and Dean is wrapping a towel around him even though he's still in his wet
clothes. Sam turns and looks up at him, and then stands up in a hurry. Dean
looks spooked. He's shaking, and blinking way too quickly.
“Hey,” Sam says quietly.
Dean meets his eyes, then looks away.
“Hey,” Sam says, a little louder.
Dean meets his eyes again, defiantly. “Yeah, what?” he challenges.
“Are we okay?” Sam feels small, and breakable, but he holds his ground until
Dean's eyes are the ones to flicker away.
“Yeah,” his brother says, and moves to leave, but Sam's arm snaps out and he
snags Dean's hand.
Their eyes meet again, and this time there's almost an audible crack.
“I don't believe you,” Sam says. He's starting to shiver.
Dean's face performs some acrobatics that Sam can't follow, a flurry of
emotions that make his eyes ache. Then, Dean swallows, and nods. Tersely, once.
His fingers entwine with Sam's.
“Let's get you out of those wet clothes.”
 
End Notes
     Thanks for reading!
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