Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8697013.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, John_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Angst, Drama, Season/Series_01
  Collections:
      Sinful_Desire
  Stats:
      Published: 2006-06-15 Words: 9391
****** Wednesday's Child ******
by Hellskitten [archived by sinfuldesire_archivist]
Summary
     Second in the Things My Brother Taught Me series. Warnings: Wincest,
     underage sex, various kinks, strong language, moderately defused wit,
     really mean fathers, overprotective big brothers, hot boys with
     stupid haircuts and lots of greasy diner food. Yikes.
Notes
     Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally
     archived at Sinful-Desire.org. To preserve the archive, we began
     importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in
     November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted
     announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or
     know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on
     Sinful_Desire_collection_profile.
Wednesday's Child
Title: Wednesday’s Child
Author: Hellskitten
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: S/D
Rating: NC-17 (this is not your kindergarten teacher’s slash)
Warnings: Wincest, underage sex, various kinks, strong language, moderately
defused wit, really mean fathers, overprotective big brothers, hot boys with
stupid haircuts and lots of greasy diner food. Yikes.
Spoilers: None that I can think of, this story is mostly AU. This is a sequel
to the story “Things My Brother Taught Me”.
Disclaimer: The boys belong to the WB. If they were mine, they’d be on cable so
they could kill hell beasties naked.
Soundtrack: “Bones” by Little Big Town.

***
Outside a diner on the western edge of Illinois, Dean stopped at a flower
stand. The old woman minding the stand gazed at him sweetly, most likely
unaware of the admiration she was showing. Dean bid her good morning then he
tweezed one pink stargazer lily out of a plastic pot of water and brought it to
his nose. Sam stood with the diner’s door handle in his hand and blinked at his
brother impatiently.

“What, you’re a botanist now?”

Dean gave the flower another spiteful sniff. “These smell really good.” He held
the flower under Sam’s nose.

Taking a quick whiff of the bright bloom, Sam shook his head. “Smells like
funerals. Come on.” He pulled open the door and went inside.

Dean replaced the flower in its pot and followed his brother into the brightly
lit diner. “You’re getting damned dark in your old age, Sammy,” he muttered.
“Can’t imagine why.”

Behind the counter stood a waitress who resembled a cartoon depiction of a
diner waitress. Her uniform was a pale pink dress that buttoned down the front
with a matching belt and two little pockets on the chest. She even wore a cute
little matching pink hat in her beehive hair ‘do. Dean couldn’t tell from where
they were standing, but he was willing to bet she was wearing white stockings
and white orthopedic shoes.

“Sit anywhere you want, boys,” she said and then she actually popped her
chewing gum.

“Did we just walk into the Twilight Zone?” Dean whispered as they found
themselves a booth by the window.

“Did we ever fucking LEAVE the Twilight Zone?” Sam snapped, grabbing a plastic
covered menu out of a rack behind the salt and pepper shakers. He opened it and
huffed a weary sigh. “I don’t know why I even look at these things anymore. I
have the American diner menu memorized.”

“We could do sushi if you want,” Dean said, opening his own menu. He sat for a
minute waiting for Sam to snark back, but his brother said nothing. Sam just
sat there scowling at his menu.

“You’re in a mood.”

“So?”

“Just sayin’.”

The cartoon waitress came to their table and whipped out a pad of paper and a
pencil. Dean couldn’t help it. He had to look. Lo and behold, white stockings
and white orthopedic shoes.

“Can I get you boys somethin’ to drink?” she said in a non-specific Southern
drawl that probably came with the uniform. Standard issue.

“Ice tea, please,” Dean said.

“Just water,” Sam said, but he didn’t look up. It was uncharacteristic of him
to be rude to a waitress—even one who looked like she was auditioning for a
revival of “American Graffiti”.

The waitress went away and Dean scanned the sandwiches on offer. Deciding on a
BLT, he shoved his menu back behind the condiments and then settled into his
seat. He stared at Sam who appeared to be reading the menu word for word. His
smooth brow was knit in concentration and his soft pink lips were slightly
pursed. Dean knew his brother hadn’t showered that day because he’d wanted to
sleep a little longer. His hair was a mess as a result, tangled and bent and a
little oily. Dean was dying to get his fingers in it.

“What’s with the grump?” he asked, nudging Sam’s leg under the table with his
foot.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Looked like you were sleepin’.”

Sam slapped the menu closed then put it back behind the others. “Well, I
wasn’t.”

The waitress brought their drinks and tossed two paper wrapped straws in the
center of the table. They both reached for one at the same time and their
fingers stroked each other. Sam looked up and Dean winked at him.

“What’ll it be?” the cartoon waitress said, brandishing her pad and pencil
again.

“BLT with extra mayo and avocado,” Dean said. “Oh, and a side of Ranch for the
fries. Thanks.”

“Watchin’ your weight, eh?” she teased and then she poked Dean’s shoulder
convivially with her pencil. “No matter, you’re young. What’ll you have,
darlin’.”

“Are you still serving breakfast?” Sam asked.

“All day.”

“Great. I’ll have two eggs over easy and a short stack of pancakes.”

She wrote down his order with a smirk on her overly made-up face. “Eat like
this while you can, boys. Pretty soon, it’ll all catch up to ya.” She walked
away with a parting wink.

Dean snorted. “Somehow I doubt we’ll meet our demise from high cholesterol.”

“Right?” Sam peeled his straw and stuck it in his ice water, then he took two
deep sips.

“Pancakes, huh?” Dean leaned forward and folded his fingers on the beige
formica table. “Feeling nostalgic?”

Sam held his brother’s gaze for a long time before he replied. Sitting so close
to each other, Dean could smell Sam’s skin. The fact that he was unwashed and
sleepy made Dean’s mouth water and made him wish they were still back in that
motel room so he could put Sam in the shower himself. Or pet him and make him
come until he fell asleep. Either way. That is, IF Sam would let him. He’d been
prickly as a wet cat ever since they got in the car that morning.

“I can’t stop thinking about Dad,” Sam finally said.

Dean nodded. “Well, that makes sense. We’re looking for him.”

Sam sipped his water again then lowered his voice to a near whisper. “I’m not
thinking about that—I’m thinking about that conversation he had with us . . .
back when he first caught us together. Kept going through my head all night.”

Dean glanced around the diner at their nearest neighbors. It was just passed
11:00 so the breakfast rush was over and the lunch rush hadn’t yet started.
Other than two men sitting on opposite ends of the counter, they were the only
customers on that side of the room. Still, he lowered his voice to match Sam’s
whisper.

“That was a rare moment for Dad,” he said. “One of the few times he wasn’t
yelling and screaming to try to make us tougher.”

Sam’s long fingers were busy flattening out his straw wrapper. He focused on
this task as though it were incredibly important, squinting at the white strip
of paper as he smoothed it over and over. It was an example of the compulsive
tendency Dean had seen his brother struggle with ever since he was a kid. Sam
always had to be doing something with hands—especially when he was
overanalyzing something, like he was now.

“What did he say to you when I was in the bathroom?” Sam asked. He began
folding the flattened wrapper into small half-inch sections.

Dean frowned. “Nothing. Not that I remember, anyway.” He looked down, averting
his eyes just in case Sam looked up right in that moment. Sam could always tell
when he was lying.

“Dean, I watched you guys from the bathroom door. You were talking for like ten
minutes. The look on his face . . .” Sam sighed. “He said something that upset
you and you do SO remember it. Tell me.”

The waitress appeared suddenly carrying a small tray. She bent at her knees and
unloaded a jar of French’s, a jar of Grey Poupon and a decanter of maple syrup
onto the edge of their table. “Ketchup’s back there,” she said, nodding to the
rack that held the menus. “You boys think you’ll need anything else?”

“Just the food,” Dean said and he grinned playfully.

She chuckled and winked at him again. “Look at you, sweet thing. So pretty I
wanna slap your momma.” And then she walked away again.

Dean felt his cheeks burn with a sudden blush and he shook his head, both from
frustration and embarrassment. This made Sam laugh, which was a relief. It was
the first time he’d smiled all day.

“I’d think you’d be used to all that attention by now,” Sam said, a little
bitterly. “You being ‘the handsome one’ and all.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well you see how often it gets me laid.”

“Got you laid last night.” Sam let that statement sit for a minute, returning
his intent gaze to his brother’s eyes. There was a hint of anger in Sam’s tone
that Dean didn’t know how to interpret.

“You mad at me?”

“No more than usual,” Sam returned. He continued folding the straw wrapper
until he’d turned it into a little accordion.

Dean sighed, leaning further forward so he could whisper. He darted his eyes at
the other patrons nearby, then said, “I DID ask you, Sam. I asked if you were
ready. If you weren’t, you should have said so. Being a prick about it after
the fact is just fuckin’ stupid.” He flopped back against his seat, glowering.
“AND childish.”

Sam dropped his paper accordion onto the table then flicked it with his
fingernail. It flew right into Dean’s lap. Under the table, Dean knocked his
foot against Sam’s knee.

“What the fuck is wrong, you big baby?”

Sam shook his head and slumped down in his seat, his long legs sliding all the
way across to Dean’s under the table. Their left knees touched and neither of
them moved away. Dark green eyes met and held on, both brothers sporting a
challenging glare.

“Just tell me what Dad said to you, Dean. Quit lying that you don’t remember.
That’s shit. Whatever it was, I can handle it.”

“Why do you need to know so bad?”

“Because,” Sam insisted. “He practically made you cry.”

“YOU should know—Dad’s good at that. He made us cry lots o’ times.”

Sam shook his head defiantly. “No. He finished that conversation with both of
us sitting there, acting like everything was both hunky and dory. He
practically gave us his blessing, for fuck’s sake. Then I went to the bathroom
and he said something that was clearly VERY different to you.” His eyes
narrowed. “What was it, Dean? And why were you the only one that heard it?”

“Ah,” Dean said, lifting his eyebrows. “That’s what this is? You’re pissed cuz
Dad told me something he didn’t tell you? Here’s a news flash, brother—he told
me TONS of shit he never told you! What, you think we haven’t said a word to
each other in the whole two years you’ve been gone?!”

“I’m not talking about now, Dean,” Sam leaned forward and hissed the words out.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about now. I’m talking about THEN. That day was . . .
serious. Dad’s mind changed about me that day. He treated me differently from
that moment on—until I left.”

They stared at each other for another long, tense moment. Then, Sam asked once
again.

“Tell me what he said.”

Dean’s sigh was both angry and sad and he looked away, staring out the diner’s
window. “You don’t want to know this, Sam. You’ve got enough shit to deal with
right now.”

“If you don’t tell me,” his younger brother said in a slow, measured tone. “I’m
gonna beat your pretty face in with that ketchup bottle.”

Dean glared at him, both uneasily and unhappily. “When the fuck did you get
like this? What happened to that sweet kid you used to be?”

“That kid got eaten by the closet monster when he was six—don’t you remember?
You’re the one that shot it! Now TELL me.” He sat back again, crossing his arms
tightly over his chest.

The waitress appeared again, that time with their food. The boys sat silently
as she served them, staring at each other like gunfighters in the town square
at high noon. She looked from one to the other of them, but she didn’t say
anything. After she’d put all their plates down, she slipped their check under
the salt shaker and left them alone.

Both boys looked at Sam’s plate, two pairs of green eyes focusing on that
fluffy, hot stack of pancakes. The little pat of butter on top of the stack
began to melt and slide sideways toward the over-easy eggs.

Dean grabbed a french fry and stuck it into the little dish of Ranch dressing
tucked between the halves of his neatly cut sandwich. “It’s just gonna piss you
off,” he said softly, protectively.

“Won’t that be a switch.” Sam picked up his fork, stabbing one of the eggs on
his plate.

Finally, reluctantly, Dean started talking.

***

Dean hadn’t eaten much at breakfast. His stomach had been in knots since they
left the motel for the diner. Sam, however, had the appetite of a horse,
consuming not just his pancakes, but half of Dean’s, as well. With the plates
cleared and their father’s coffee cup freshly filled, the three of them sat in
a frozen box of silence. Finally, John cleared his throat and began that
unforgettable conversation.

“I want to tell you both again that no one’s in trouble here. Okay?” He’d said
that last word so they would both look at him, show him their eyes and show him
they understood. Both boys had nodded. John went on, his tone even and
gentle—so very unlike him. “Can you tell me when this started?”

Dean had been perfectly willing to answer—even opened his mouth to do so—but
Sammy had spoken first.

“Right before the Sadie Hawkins dance,” he’d said bravely. “I asked Dean to—“
Dean had nudged his brother’s ribs and shook his head.

“What?” Sam had been irritated by the interruption. “I’m gonna tell him.”

Sighing, Dean looked out the window, wishing that brown vinyl booth would
swallow them both whole before Sam got out another word.

Sam had turned back to their father and forged on with his answer. “I asked
Dean to teach me how to french.”

John lifted his eyebrows and a surprised little smile tugged his lips.
“Really?”

“Yep.”

“And what brought that on?”

“This girl,” Dean interjected, feeling the need to mention that a female had
been the impetus for all of this from the beginning. He didn’t know why he
needed to clarify that, but he did. “In his class. Sam thought she was gonna
ask him to the Sadie Hawkins dance. He wanted to make sure he knew how to
kiss—just in case she wanted to, or something.”

John nodded, seeming to completely accept this explanation. “I see. And did she
ask you?”

Sam’s head bobbed up and down enthusiastically.

John’s brow furrowed and he looked down at his coffee cup. “I . . . don’t
remember you going to that dance, Sammy. You told me about it, but . . . did
you go?”

Sam shook his head.

“Why not? Didn’t you like this girl?”

“Yeah,” he said in a small voice. “She’s fine. I just . . . didn’t wanna go.”

Taking a deep breath, John cracked his knuckles and took a sip of his coffee.
“Sammy, let me ask you something,” he said evenly. “I want you to tell me the
truth, all right? I’ll know if you don’t.”

Sam had looked at their father with his green eyes as wide as cake plates.
“’Kay.”

“Was this girl real?”

The youngest Winchester had wrinkled his little boy brow but he didn’t reply
just yet.

“Or,” John continued. “Did you make up that story about the girl and the dance
just so you could get Dean to teach you to kiss?”

Dean had turned to his brother in a flash of anger. He nudged Sam’s thin arm
and his younger brother looked at him, his head lowered, eyes sheepish.

“You lied?” he said.

Sam made no reply at all and that was answer enough.

“Why?” Dean had barked, growing angrier by the second.

“Cuz,” Sam said, all his attention focused on Dean as though their father
wasn’t even sitting there. “I didn’t think you would . . . unless . . . you
thought there was a girl who wanted to kiss me. I thought . . . you would want
to help me be . . . good at it.”

“So you lied to me?” Indignant and seeking support, Dean had looked to their
father then. John sat watching them, glancing back and forth between his sons’
faces, but he’d offered no assistance. His stoic expression conveyed that this
particular matter was between Dean and Sam and they needed to hash it out on
their own.

Dean had slouched in his seat and wrapped his arms protectively around himself.
If he’d has his way, he would have smacked the pancakes out of Sammy right then
and there, but he knew his dad wouldn’t let him do that. Having no other way of
processing his anger, he went with some hardcore pouting and cold shoulder
giving.

Sam had leaned toward him and Dean had drawn spitefully away, but Sam stood his
ground.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” his little brother had said in a wobbling voice. “I didn’t
mean to hurt your feelings.”

Dean had been unable to meet Sam’s gaze, even though he could feel it burning
into the side of his face. He was, however, able to reply.

“You’re my brother, Sammy. Brothers don’t lie to each other. Especially not
us!”

Sam had slumped in the seat beside him, staring miserably at his hands folded
in his lap. “I’m sorry,” he’d said again but it had been almost inaudible. In
the next moment, tears started tracking down his face and he made no effort to
wipe them away. Clearly he hadn’t cared if his big brother and dad saw him
crying. Perhaps he felt it was expected of him.

Dean had struggled with the sight of those tears—struggled so much he almost
cried, himself. He was angry and hurt and wished he could communicate all of
that, but he just couldn’t. He didn’t know how. At least not at that time. His
communication skills improved greatly in the coming years.

Finally, John had intervened.

“Dean, your brother is trying to apologize to you. Will you accept?”

Sam had sniffled then and that tiny, tragic sound almost split Dean in half. He
let out a huge, dramatic sigh and turned to his brother with exaggerated
impatience. “Okay, Sammy! Quit crying. Just forget it.”

At that point, John had reached across the table with his handkerchief and
wiped his youngest son’s teary cheeks. He’d taken the boy’s chin in his hand
and tilted it up until Sam was looking at him.

“Buck up, now, young man. We’re not done talking.”

Sam had nodded dutifully and straightened a bit in his seat.

John refolded his handkerchief and tucked it back into his shirt pocket. Once
again, he sipped his coffee then stared into the cup thoughtfully before
speaking.

“Okay,” he began. “Can you tell me why you wanted to kiss Dean?” He held Sam in
his gaze like a bug under a microscope and Dean felt his stomach flip over
again.

Sam had shrugged. “I just wanted to.”

“And . . . have you wanted to kiss any other boys?”

Sam’s eyes had gone huge again and his sweet little pink mouth gaped in
surprise. “No!” he’d said, clearly unhinged by the mere suggestion.

John nodded, holding up his hand. “All right, all right. I’m not trying to
insult you, son. I just want to understand what’s going on here. And I think
I’m beginning to.” He’d glanced over at their waitress and motioned for her to
bring a refill on his coffee. While she did this, the three of them sat
quietly. Sam had taken those moments to fully compose himself after his
emotional over boil. When they were alone again, John leaned forward and spoke
in a hushed voice.

“This is probably my fault,” he’d said. “I keep moving you boys around, never
giving you time to make friends. Just because of the nature of the way we’re
living . . . I’m disrupting both your lives. Your childhoods.” He’d rubbed his
eyes with his fingers as though he were getting a headache. Wouldn’t have been
a surprise if he was. “I guess I kept thinking that . . . this wouldn’t happen.
That . . . we’d have made more progress by now. That we could have stopped by
now.”

The boys had glanced at each other uneasily because they’d never heard their
father talk like this. He’d never been this vulnerable with them before.

“You’re both growing up,” he continued. “Dean, you’re almost sixteen. You’ll be
helping me drive soon. I should have given more thought to all of this. To
preparing you two for the basic inevitability of becoming men. Your bodies are
changing . . . and you have all these questions about what’s going on.” He
shook his head wearily. “I’ve left you with no one to turn to for answers but
each other.”

Dean remembered swallowing so hard that his throat clicked. His heart had been
pounding and he’d been praying that this conversation would find an end very,
very soon. His father’s raw emotions were making him feel sick to his stomach.
He just didn’t know how to respond.

“So, it’s me who should be apologizing,” John said. “I’m sorry I put you two in
this position.”

Sam had sat forward again and all his bravery had returned. “It’s not your
fault, Dad. It was me. I started it.”

John’s brow knit and he turned to Sam with a curious frown. “That’s another
thing. Sammy, where did this idea of yours come from in the first place? Why
did you want to kiss Dean?”

“Because,” Sam had said, still brave and in full voice. “He’s beautiful, Dad.
Lots of people want to kiss him. People look at him all the time and you just
can tell . . . they’re thinking about kissing him. And stuff.”

Dean had been sure his heart was going to stop. He couldn’t look at either of
them or think of anything at all to say. His hands came up to his face and
covered it and once again, he prayed the booth would eat him alive. He peeked
at his father through his fingers and was amazed to see the man smiling. But
there was something wrong about it. Very wrong. That smile reminded him of
clown make-up.

“I have to agree,” John said. “Your big brother takes entirely after your
beautiful mother. Spitting image of her, in fact.”

Dean sighed and let his hands drop. Obviously, there was no end to this
torture.

“But, Sammy . . . you need to understand that . . . it isn’t right for you and
Dean to be doing these things. Kissing, touching each other . . . down there.
It’s not right for brothers to do that.”

Sam had looked right at his father with his lovely young face full of frank
inquisitiveness. “Why not?” he’d said. “It feels right.”

John had been palpably stunned by that. He sat back for a moment, sipped his
coffee, and then he’d stared out the window seeming to be lost in thought.

While their father was looking away, the boys looked at each other. Sam had
ventured a tiny, hopeful smile that almost made Dean return it, but he’d been
too mortified at the time. After what seemed like an hour, John finally turned
back to them. His manner had softened even further.

“Right, here’s the thing. I know I can’t stop you boys from doing this—anymore
than I could stop a rainstorm or an earthquake. It’s that kind of force of
nature. I just want you to be careful with each other, okay? Please always
remember that you’re brothers, you’re family . . . and you’re Winchesters.
We’re a special breed. You boys need to respect yourselves and each other. Do
you understand what I mean?”

For the duration of that last speech, he’d been staring only at Dean. Again,
Dean swallowed and his throat was so dry it clicked.

“Yes, Dad,” he’d said, even though that wasn’t quite the truth. John’s words
had been too ominous and vague to have any real meaning at the time. But Dean
would understand them later.

John turned to his youngest. “Do you understand me, Sammy?”

The littlest of the Winchester men had nodded once.

“Okay, then.” John reached across the table and took both their hands in his,
giving them a good squeeze. It was one of the only times in their lives that he
showed them such gentle affection—and for Dean, it had been a lie. “We’re done
with this, then.”

“Can I go to the bathroom?” Sam had asked.

“Sure, of course.” John had smiled at him when he walked away, heading for the
restrooms at the back of the diner.

Once his youngest was out of earshot, John’s expression changed considerably.
He’d lunged forward and pulled Dean toward him with the hand he’d been holding
so affectionately. “Tell me how the hell this happened. I’m not buying for one
goddamned second that this was Sam’s idea. He’s twelve, Dean! He doesn’t even
know what his dick is for yet!”

Although his heart had been trying to leap out of his mouth, Dean had held his
father’s blistering gaze. “Yes he does, Dad. And it was his idea. It’s just
like he said.”

John’s grip had tightened on his eldest’s wrist. “You really want me to believe
that my twelve-year-old seduced my sixteen-year-old? Do you think I’m an
idiot?!”

“I’m fifteen.”

That’s when the slap had come. Shocking and crisp as ice water on the side of
his face. Still, Dean hadn’t recoiled.

“Why didn’t you tell him no?” John demanded. “You knew it was wrong.”

For a moment, Dean hadn’t been sure of what he’d say. He thought about the
question, weighed his possible responses carefully, then he took a shaky breath
and said, “I guess I don’t agree with that.”

John’s brow raised threateningly. “You want another smack?”

“Do what you gotta do.”

In a flash, John grabbed Dean’s chin and squeezed it roughly. He pinched his
son’s lips with his fingers until the water ran from Dean’s eyes. “You think I
don’t know what you get up to? You and this pretty mouth. I see you with those
girls you run off with. I know what you do. And I know you’re no goddamned
virgin. Don’t try to tell me for one second that you didn’t know this was
wrong. You are supposed to protect him, Dean! He’s your brother!” He shoved
Dean back into the cushion and fell back in his own seat. “How am I supposed to
trust you now? I can’t leave you alone with him.”

Dean had wiped his face with his t-shirt but he’d said nothing. Inside, he was
boiling with hormones and rage and all he could think of was reaching across
the table and strangling that misinformed asshole who sired him until his eyes
popped out. But in a few moments, that wave of teenage emotion passed, leaving
in its wake a vast, empty grief.

John was staring at him. “If I ask you to stop doing this with him, will you?”
Without looking up, Dean simply said, “no.” He expected to be hit again, but
wasn’t. Instead, John just looked at him. Their father had tears welling in his
eyes.

“Dean, did you hear him? The way he was talking about you? He’s in love with
you!”

“It’s not like that.”

“Like HELL!” John said, slamming the table with his hands. “Do you know the
word ‘incest’?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Do you know what it means?!”

“I just told you I did.”

“Please tell me . . .” John scraped his fingers through his hair. “That it
hasn’t gone that far. Please tell me you’re not sodomizing my twelve-year-old
son.”

Dean’s jaw locked fiercely and he glared at his father. “You mean . . . are you
asking me if I’m . . .”

“Yes!!” John hissed, leaning forward again.

Dean’s chest felt too tight to breathe. He started shaking and sweat ran down
the middle of his back. He was so shocked, so deeply offended that he didn’t
even know what to do.

“Tell me, goddammit!” John commanded through clenched teeth.

All Dean could do was shake his head in disbelief. John let out a sigh of
relief that seemed to come all the way up from his toes. He covered his face
for a moment, steadying his breathing, then he looked at his oldest again.

“Do you think it’s going to go there?”

Again, Dean shook his head, completely unable to comprehend what his father
could be thinking. Was he insane?

“Then promise me,” John said, seeming to be calming down. “You won’t let it go
there. If you two start doing THAT . . . then . . . it’s a real problem. I
can’t do anything about all this touchy-feely exploration, that’s just . . .
something I have to accept. It’s natural. But you gotta promise me that you’ll
stop it before it EVER goes that far.” He held Dean’s gaze like a vice grip.
“Do you promise?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Say you promise. Say that exact word because it MEANS something.”

Dean swallowed again. “I promise.”

John nodded several times and rubbed his eyes with his hands. “Good. Fine. Then
we won’t need to talk about this again, will we?”

Dean hadn’t time to answer because Sam returned from the bathroom then. He slid
into the booth next to his brother, none the wiser about their deeply altered
family dynamic.

Or so Dean thought.

***

“Wow,” Sam said satirically, staring at his half eaten pancakes. “That
certainly explains a lot.”

Dean’s eyebrows twitched in agreement. Yes, it most certainly did, didn’t it.

“I told you it would just piss you off.”

Sam shook his head slowly, his handsome face pale and wan. He pushed his plate
away and their waitress came to take it. She smiled at him, but said nothing.
She’d been giving them a wide berth for the last half hour or so.

“You just let him blame you all these years?”

“He wasn’t gonna believe you, anyway,” Dean said. “In his mind, you were just
too damned young to even conceive of such a thing.” He glanced out the window
again but he didn’t see what was out there. Instead, he saw that first night
playing out like an old home movie on a blank white wall.

***

Dean had been lying in bed reading a muscle car magazine when Sammy came to his
door. His brother was in his pajamas and Dean could smell the soap he’d used to
wash up before bed.

“What’s up, kiddo?” he’d asked because he could tell Sammy had something on his
mind.

“I need your help with a problem.” Sam had sort of straddled the door, holding
onto the doorknob on both sides.

“Sure,” Dean said, setting the magazine aside. He’d patted the mattress beside
him and Sam had almost bounded into the room to sit down. But he managed to
close the door on his way.

“Where’s Dad?” Dean asked as his brother got comfortable on his bed.

“He’s asleep on the couch.”

“Good.” He’d been pleased to hear that particular daily obstacle had already
been surmounted. Usually by bedtime, their father had become a very mean drunk.
“So, what do you need?”

Sam had folded his legs Indian-style and taken a deep breath before spilling
out the first few words of his story. Dean could tell his brother had been
rehearsing this conversation, but at the time, he couldn’t imagine why.

“They’re having a Sadie Hawkins dance at my school,” he’d begun. “And there’s
this girl in my class . . . Lisa Matthews . . . that I think is gonna ask me to
go with her.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Whoa, look out! Sammy’s got a fan club. What makes
you think she’s gonna ask you?”

Sam had shrugged. “I dunno. She just kinda looks at me funny . . . ya know,
like she likes me. You know the way girls do that. They look at YOU like that
all the time.”

Dean wrinkled his nose. “How do you know? We don’t even go to the same school.”

“Cuz,” Sam had said and his smooth cheeks colored slightly. “I see them looking
at you at the grocery store and stuff. Girls who don’t even know you. They
stare at you cuz you look like Brad Pitt.”

“I do NOT look like Brad Pitt.”

“Well, whatever . . . SOMEBODY they think is hot. Anyway,” Sammy had brushed
his long bangs out of his eyes with his fingers and Dean had noticed for the
first time just how long those fingers were. His brother had been growing like
crazy the last few months and he was almost as tall as Dean. Any minute now,
he’d be taller. Along with all that height came an emerging confidence that
made him seem older than he was. “I just think she might ask me.”

“Okay,” Dean had said. “Do you like her?”

“Yeah, she’s totally pretty. And she’s cool.”

“So . . . if she asked you, you would say yes, right?”

“Right.”

Nodding, Dean had smirked playfully. “I’m not seeing the problem here, Sammy.”
His brother had blushed, smiled then lowered his chin in what would become a
signature expression of his. That was the beginning of the allegedly awkward
Sam Winchester’s unexpected expertise at seduction. “That part’s not the
problem,” he’d said and then his thick fawn colored lashes had fluttered over
his green eyes. “It’s . . . just that, I don’t know how . . .”

Dean had lifted his eyebrows in anticipation, but inside he’d felt a twinge of
apprehension at what his brother might say. There was something unfamiliar
about Sammy that night. Something that had Dean’s spider sense twitching.

Sam had taken a deep breath and then just come right out with it. “I don’t know
how to french kiss and I was wondering . . . if you could show me.”

For a split second, they had just looked at each other and then Dean blinked.

“Uh . . . SHOW you or TELL you?”

Sam had licked his lips very quickly and most likely unconsciously. Most
likely.

“I want to make sure I’m doing it right,” he’d said very softly.

Dean had sighed and leaned forward on the bed. He picked at the covers
nervously while he tried to think of something to say. Sammy had shifted
slightly on the bed, not moving closer, but turning more toward his brother.
They were only a few inches apart and Dean remembered being aware of Sam’s
scent for the first time. His brother smelled a little like fresh baked
biscuits.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” Sam had said in a scratchy, under-the-radar
voice.

When Dean looked up at him then he’d been surprised by the expression he found
on Sam’s face. His little brother was flirting with him—full out and unabashed.
And Dean’s body was responding like it did to the slightest stimulation lately.
It seemed the older he got, the hornier he got and any possibility of
pleasurable physical contact had become addictive. Here was his little brother,
sweet, trusting Sammy, with his smooth skin, his hero worship and his warm
biscuit smell . . . just begging for the chance to touch. And to be touched.

“I’ll teach you,” Dean said, his hormones overriding any remaining scrap of
logic. “If you want.” He’d glanced at his closed bedroom door quickly. “Just
don’t tell Dad, all right? He’ll snap my neck like a twig.”

“I won’t tell him if you won’t,” Sammy had whispered. “I’M the one asking.”

“But I’m older,” Dean said. “It would be my fault no matter what.”

“Then don’t do it,” Sammy said, but while he was speaking he was inching closer
to Dean on the bed. “You can just tell me if you want. I guess I’ll figure it
out.”

The closer his brother got, the more Dean’s blood rushed and his mouth flooded
with saliva. He looked at Sammy’s lean chest under his thin pajama top and
noticed the first sign of musculature there—just above the nipples. He could
see those through the soft pale blue fabric, as well. Swallowing, he stretched
his legs out to give Sammy room to move closer.

“Come here,” Dean said, holding out his hands for Sammy’s waist. His brother
scooted forward until his hip touched Dean’s thigh and then Dean’s hands were
on him. Sammy’s skin was hot even through his flannel pajamas. He could feel
his brother’s hip bones, as well, and something about that seemed terribly . .
. private. Intimate. Dean’s anxious teenage cock had twitched under the
blankets as it began filling with pulsing young blood.

Sammy’s arms had come up a bit awkwardly and draped over Dean’s shoulders. He
seemed small suddenly, so very young—but then Dean had looked in his brother’s
eyes and seen that expression again. Sammy wasn’t just flirting anymore, he’d
moved into all out seduction mode. Vaguely Dean wondered where he’d learned to
make that face—to show that intention. The thought disturbed him deeply so he
pushed it away, turning his attention back to the tense and intriguing
situation at hand.

“Is this right?” Sammy whispered referring to the position of his arms.

Dean swallowed, licked his lips, nodded. “Yeah . . . you wanna hold her like
this, around the waist—but not below. Not at first. And don’t try to feel her
boobs, either. You have to just wait until she tells you it’s okay.” His eyes
had fluttered self-consciously. “Otherwise she’ll slap your face or knee you in
the nuts. Trust me.”

Sammy giggled softly. “Gotcha.”

Dean cleared his throat and his heart started to pound like a freight train. He
looked at his brother who was then only about an inch away from him and he wet
his lips. “Make sure you lick your lips first,” he’d whispered. Sammy followed
the instruction. “But make sure you don’t have too much spit in your mouth. You
don’t wanna slobber all over her.”

“How do I do that?”

“Just swallow after you lick your lips.”

Sammy had nodded and Dean went on.

“Then you just wanna . . . kiss her a few times . . . just little kisses.” He
leaned forward and thought of another detail. “Turn your head so you don’t bump
into her nose.”

“Okay,” Sammy said and he’d turned his head just a little to the left. His lips
were puckered tightly as though he were about to kiss a puppy on the nose.

Dean had licked his own lips again and then tilted his head to the right and
brought his lips to his brother’s. The first kiss was decidedly chaste, more
like the quick pecks you’d expect from an adult relative.

“Hang on,” Dean had said. “Make your lips . . . kinda softer. Like this.” He’d
relaxed his lips and let them part slightly and Sammy had focused on his mouth
with almost frightening intensity. Then the younger brother had moved his right
hand from Dean’s shoulder and pressed his fingers into Dean’s bottom lip very
gently. Dean shivered all over.

“What?”

“I love your lips,” Sammy whispered, still staring at them. He’d licked his own
thin pink ones, then moved in to kiss his brother’s mouth.

That second kiss had felt like suddenly stepping out into the midsummer sun.
Dean’s body went hot from his hair to his toenails and his overeager cock
infused with blood. There was no tongue involved yet but he could already tell
his little brother was a natural at this kissing thing. When Sammy moved back,
they looked at each other and the younger Winchester offered a nervous smile.

“Is that better?”

Dean could only nod. His body was vibrating and tingling and he desperately
wanted to jerk off, but knew he couldn’t. This was a kissing lesson, not an X-
rated movie. He’d just have to wait for that delicious release. Meanwhile,
Sammy was gazing at him with unfettered adoration.

“When do you do the tongue thing?” he’d asked.

Dean tried to clear his head to answer but it took him a minute. “You just kiss
like that a few times and then you kind of . . . really softly, though . . .
you just slip your tongue into her mouth. She’ll know what you’re doing—she’ll
kinda open her mouth for you.”

“Then what?”

“Then you sorta lick her tongue. You kinda pet it with yours. It feels really
good—you’ll like it. Just make sure you don’t do it too hard. Girls don’t like
that. Just be gentle. Think about licking really cold ice cream.”

Sam had nodded, his handsome boyish face bright with the desire to please. And
then he’d leaned in again. When their lips touched, Dean’s eyes reflexively
closed and he took in a deep breath. Yep. Fresh baked biscuits. Maybe with a
little honey on them. Damn, that kid smelled good.

Sam wiggled closer, pressing his hip harder into Dean’s thigh as he gave his
brother one soft, tentative little kiss after another. He stopped to re-wet his
lips and they looked at each other for a second, and then Sammy closed his eyes
and slipped his tongue into Dean’s mouth.

Dean let him lead at first, waiting to see if his little brother’s instincts
were as good for this as for the more tame kissing. Sam seemed to be following
the instructions he’d been given very closely, sliding his tongue gently around
Dean’s, tickling it, stroking it and very obviously tasting it. Dean felt his
brother take in a breath and then Sammy’s tongue slipped out to Dean’s bottom
lip. At first, he thought the kid had lost his way, but then he felt soft wet
pressure on his full pouting lip. Sammy was sucking on it as though he could
feed from it. The sensation was blindingly erotic.

Trembling, Dean felt his cock kick under the blankets, squirting about a
tablespoon of pre-come into the fabric of his shorts. He was suddenly quite
sure he was going to blow a load without ever touching himself. That had
happened once before when he was making out with some girl from the swim team.
She’d been an amazing kisser, too, and she’d driven a fourteen-year-old Dean
Winchester to his first embarrassing moment with the opposite sex.

Suddenly, Sammy let go and sat back, his arms sliding off Dean’s shoulders. He
looked down sheepishly and his cheeks were flushed crimson. He drew his knees
up to his chest and wrapped his arms tightly around them.

“What?” Dean said, concerned that he’d scared his brother somehow. “You were
doing great. That felt really good.”

Sam buried his face in his knees and let out a small, unhappy groan.

“What the heck’s wrong?” Dean leaned forward, wincing a little from his
uncomfortably strained erection. He bunched the blankets up over his lap so
Sammy wouldn’t see and then he put a reassuring hand on his brother’s lowered
head. “Look at me—what’s goin’ on?”

Speaking into his bent knees, Sammy had said, “I don’t want you to see.”

“See what?” Dean asked, but then all at once he knew. He breathed a laugh and
ruffled his brother’s velvety chestnut hair. He whispered in Sam’s ear. “Did
you get a stiffy?”

Sam groaned louder, that time miserably.

Dean laughed, relieved to learn they were in the same boat. He flopped back
against the pillows and tugged playfully at the leg of Sammy’s pajama pants.
“Relax, little bro. I got one, too. I told you kissing like felt really good.
I’m guessing that’s why everybody does it.”

Sam peeked up over his knees and his face was beet red. “It won’t go away.”

Dean gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s totally no big deal. Come here, lay
down for a while.” He patted the bed beside him and Sammy plunged forward,
burying his face in the pillows. He groaned again and kicked his feet on the
mattress. Dean swatted his brother’s butt affectionately. “Get over it, dude.”

Out of frustration and embarrassment, Sammy had started to laugh. He giggled
into the pillows for about five minutes and then he finally peered out, turning
his blushing face toward his brother. “That better not happen with Lisa,” he’d
said and they’d both laughed.

“It might, so you’d better be prepared,” Dean had warned.

“How?”

“You have to . . . you know, take care of business before you go out with her.”
Dean had felt his own cheeks getting hot then.

“What, you mean like . . .”

Lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, Dean said, “jerk off a couple
times before you leave the house.”

Sammy’s face had erupted in a fresh blush but he’d held his brother’s gaze. “Do
YOU . . . do that? Before a date?”

“Always,” he’d confessed. “I mean, I’d probably be doing it anyway, but it does
help a lot if you’re gonna be kissing a girl. Sproutin’ wood on the first kiss
is SO not cool.”

Sam’s expression had gone oddly intense. He stared at Dean with his dark green
eyes twinkling in thought. After a moment, he leaned up on his elbows and took
a deep breath. “When did you start doing . . . that?”

“Jerking off?” Dean whispered and then he shrugged. “I don’t know, I guess I
was about ten. When did you start?”

Sammy bit his bottom lip. “Nine.”

The boys had smiled at each other secretively and then Dean scooted down under
the blankets so they were both lying down. He could smell Sam again and he
licked his lips, wishing they could go back to the kissing part. He could still
feel the tingle of Sammy’s hot little mouth sucking on his bottom lip.

“Where do you like doing it?” he’d whispered, moving closer on the bed. Sammy
was on top of the blankets and he beneath, but he could still feel the intense
heat radiating from his little brother’s body.

“In bed, I guess,” Sam had said. “And in the bath tub.”

Dean nodded. “I love doing it in water—bath or shower. That’s my favorite. But
I’ll pretty much do it anywhere.” He’d snickered and Sammy laughed, too. Then
his eyes twinkled again.

“Would you . . . do it here? Right now?”

Dean stared at him and his heart started pounding. “What, like, in front of
you?”

Sammy had only nodded.

Letting out a deep breath, Dean shook his head. “Samuel Winchester, when did
you become this much of a perv?”

“Fine, then, don’t,” Sammy had said and he’d wiggled off the edge of the bed.
He headed for the door and that was when Dean stopped him by grabbing the back
of his blue flannel night shirt.

“Where you goin’, little man? I’m just messin’ with you. Don’t take it so
hard.”

Sammy had looked over his shoulder, his adorable face set in a very
disapproving glower. “Don’t tease me, Dean. I hate that.”

“Okay.” Dean held up his hands in a pose of surrender. “Settle down. Jeeze.
Come on back here.” That time, he lifted the blankets and held them open for
his brother to crawl under.

Of course, Sammy did. In fact, he’d boldly snuggled right up close, pressing
his legs against Dean’s in that dark warmth beneath the covers. The boys had
grinned at each other, both feeling the hot pressure of the other’s erection.
For a long time, they just laid there, watching the other’s face—waiting for
the next move to be made.

“Is yours really that big?” Sam had asked and then he’d lifted the blankets so
he could peek under them.

“I’m older than you,” Dean said. “Yours ain’t doin’ too bad, kiddo.” He winked
and Sammy blushed.

“It grew a lot this year,” he confided.

“That’ll happen.” Dean remembered how Sammy’s scent had changed, deepened since
they’d started talking about such secret things. Instead of just biscuits and
honey, his brother also smelled like fresh butter. Dean took a deep breath and
Sammy looked at him.

“You smell good,” the younger brother said.

“I was just gonna say that to you.”

“I think it’s you. I don’t smell like anything.”

Dean had chuckled at the innocence of that remark and then Sammy was nuzzling
his neck, just below the ear—in a very UNinnocent way.

“It’s definitely you,” he whispered and his breath was hot and tingly on Dean’s
skin. “You smell like pancakes.” And then Sam had kissed Dean’s neck very
softly, with his hot little mouth wide open.

It wasn’t a kiss so much as a small feast. He’d licked Dean’s neck up and down
very slowly and then Dean heard him swallow what was in his mouth. His aching
cock throbbed against his little brother’s warm tummy and he reached for it,
finally unable to wait any longer for relief.

“You wanna watch me come?” he whispered, turning into Sammy’s face until their
lips met again. That naughty little mouth that knew so much more than it should
closed on his own again, wet tongue sliding between swollen lips and searching
for something sensitive to lick, to tease.

Dean lost himself in that kiss—lost himself completely. He’d sighed and
shivered, moaning softly as Sammy sucked on his lips, sucked on his tongue,
those long, burning fingers stroking Dean’s neck and shoulders, gently
scratching his hair like he was petting a cat. Every little touch resonated
through him like an out of control wildfire. The orgasm started almost
immediately but it seemed to go on forever. He whimpered into Sammy’s mouth,
his body writhing with the unbridled urgency of teenage male lust. The
sensation was so acute that each detail was burned into his memory for life.

As the delicious spasms began to wane, Sammy broke their kiss and looked down
between their bodies. He’d watched with rapt attention as Dean rubbed two more
creamy bursts of semen out of his shuddering, engorged cock. When he looked
down himself, Dean saw that he’d practically drenched his brother’s night shirt
and the sheet beneath them. He gasped for breath and lowered his head onto the
pillows, his body still humming from the most intense orgasm of his young life.


And then Sammy reached for Dean’s semen-slippery hand under the blankets.
Without a word, they looked at each other and Sam guided Dean’s hand down into
his pajama bottoms. The kissing started again and Dean’s fingers circled his
brother’s twitching, burning erection with such sure-footed grace that he might
have been handling his own.

Sam wiggled so much that his pajama bottoms slid half way down his thighs. His
narrow hips bucked into Dean’s stroking hand and he sucked at his brother’s
mouth like he would die if he let go. He whined and panted and Dean worried
they would wake their dad, but some part of him just didn’t care. Something had
crossed over in him and he knew it. Dean FELT different. He felt like he’d
suddenly been awakened from a thousand year sleep.

When Sam finally settled down, he was glistening with sweat. He laid on his
back in Dean’s bed, staring into his brother’s eyes with an expression of
complete and utter trust. Dean kissed him again, very softly, savoring the
silky texture of those knowing young lips.

“You’re a deadly kisser, Sammy,” he whispered. “I feel sorry for that poor
girl. She won’t know what hit her.”

Sam had smiled, his eyelids heavy from pleasure exhaustion. He pet Dean’s hair
and stroked his face and neck lovingly, sighing like he was floating in a
dream. Both of them kept taking deep breaths, greedily drawing in the new scent
of their combined fluids.

“That felt so good, Dean,” Sammy purred. “That was better than anything . . .
ever.” And then his eyes slid closed and he fell asleep right there in his
brother’s arms.

***

Sam sat by himself while Dean went to the counter and paid their check. He
stared out the window but didn’t see anything outside, either. All he could see
was Dean’s face the way he’d looked that first time. Sam had never seen
anything more beautiful or felt so completely safe. Even all those years later,
he still felt that way sometimes—but he hadn’t told Dean that since he was a
child.

Standing beside the table, Dean patted his pockets making sure he had his keys.
“Do you wanna get something to go? You didn’t eat very much.”

Sam shook his head and slid out of the booth. “Nah. Let’s hit the road.”

Once they were back in the car, Dean put on an old Whitesnake album and started
singing along with David Coverdale. His brother was so NOT a singer that Sam
had to laugh. But he kept it to himself.

The landscape went by outside the car and the afternoon drew on toward night.
Sam didn’t have much to say for most of the day because he was thinking,
processing, digesting the new information Dean had given him. It really did
clear up a lot of the confusion he’d felt throughout his agonizing, strange
childhood. And it also explained an awful lot about Dean.

Turning to his brother in the driver’s seat, Sam just looked at him for awhile.
Same face as that boy in the bed with the muscle car mag, same long lashes and
perfect mouth, same nearly girlish good looks. Same dusting of blond hairs on
his neck and arms. But Sam saw something else now—something new. He saw a very
young man in an impossible circumstance who was only doing the best he could to
save what remained of his family.

“Well?” Dean said when he felt Sam looking. “What’s the verdict, Wapner? You’ve
been deliberating all day.”

“You’re a lot like him.”

“Who, Dad?” Dean snorted. “Well, so are you.”

Sam shook his head, looking out at the setting sun. “No . . . I’m the
antithesis of Dad.”

“That’s not what I see.”

“He had to have figured it out at some point. That it WAS me. That we’d been
telling the truth the whole time.”

Dean pursed his lips, shook his head once. “Nope. It was always me responsible
for ruining you.”

“Ah,” Sam said. “Is THAT what you did? Ruined me?”

“Well, look at you,” Dean nudged his brother’s arm. “You’re a fuckin’ wreck.
Healthy, strong, smart, scholarship-havin’ college boy. It’s embarrassing.”

Sam chuckled. “Yeah, sorry ‘bout all that.”

They sat quietly for a while, both of them listening to the murmur of the
highway under the Chevy’s big tires.

“Dad was right,” Sam said softly but he didn’t look at his brother.

“About?”

“Me being in love with you. Then. I totally was.”

Dean shook his head dismissively. “You just admired me cuz I was your big
brother.”

“No,” he said. “It was love. Hardcore, crazy, teenage heart throbbin’ love. To
me, you hung the moon, man.”

Dean’s turn to laugh. “Whatever. At least you got over that.”

“Absolutely,” Sam concurred. “Totally hate your guts now.”

“Good. Back at ya.” Smirking, Dean ejected the Whitesnake tape and reached for
the glove box handle. The door dropped down and thumped Sam’s knee.

“Watch it, asshole,” the younger Winchester complained, flicking Dean’s ear
with his finger.

Dean squeezed his brother’s knee affectionately, then reached into the box of
tapes to search for his next selection.

“Can we listen to something that was recorded AFTER 1989?”

“What did I tell you about shotgun, Sam? Cake hole remains closed.”

Sam sighed, letting his knee fall against Dean’s under the glove box door.
“Just don’t sing, all right?”

With a sidelong glance, Dean chose a tape and slammed the glove box closed. He
shoved the tape into the player then cranked the volume up. In a moment, the
Impala’s interior rang with the shrill vocals of Ronnie James Dio singing “Man
on a Silver Mountain.” Dean sang with him, off key and at the top of his lungs.


“Freak.” Sam shook his head and chuckled, staring back out the window at that
never ending road.

The end (for now).
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