Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4226559.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester/Original_Male_Character
      (s), Jessica_Moore/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, John_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Codependency, Unrequited_Love, Extremely_Dubious_Consent, Child_Abuse,
      Sexual_Abuse, Self-Hatred, Rape_Aftermath, Age_Swap
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-06-28 Words: 12142
****** When you still smelled like Us ******
by hellhoundsprey
Summary
     Maybe he attracts evil things. Maybe he is the one turning them into
     monsters. Maybe he deserves this.
     It's not Sam's fault. His brother doesn't know any better than to
     give him everything.
     (Ageswap!au, i.e. Sam is born in '79 and Dean in '83.)
Notes
     WARNING: Check the tags. They are no joke.
There aren't many memories from his childhood, even less of the ones he likes
to remember. But there's this one and it's like a permanent imagery inside of
Dean's head, except that it's not only an image but also smell and sensation
and emotion.
In his big brother's lap, there's never ever something bad. Nothing can get him
here. When he cries, or wet the bed again and then cries, or when Dad pulls him
out of kindergarten (again) or when he realizes they left behind his favorite
toy (again) - in those times, he can come here and is never judged or expelled.
No matter how tired Sam is, no matter how many new bruises show or hide (but
Dean can sense them anyway) or how hot or cold it is outside (sometimes
inside), Dean will be welcomed. Loved, even.
Yes. He is being loved.
It sounds strange in his head, would taste funny on his tongue if he ever said
it out loud. Never says it. Sometimes, Sam tells him, chirps "I love you" and
gives him a wet kiss on his cheek, but to Dean, it's just- It doesn't feel
right. Sam seems to understand, doesn't mock him for it, just keeps on smiling.
The older they get, the less often Sam says it, anyway. There's too many
secrets about growing up, Dean guesses.
In Sam's lap, it's warm and safe and cozy. Dad would have forgotten to take
Dean's blankie to this new place, naturally; so instead he would suckle on
Sam's t-shirt while there would be a fat, weird smelling book in front of them.
Sam would tell him stories that would go along with the colorful drawings just
fine and Dean would ask for the same ones over and over again until his eyes
would become heavy up to the point where he would stop feeling anything at all.
He'd wake up in Sam's arms in his crib and later their bed - because Sam
learned quickly that any other option would end in Dean throwing a tantrum -
and close his eyes once more, surrounded by warm limbs and funny, sour breath
in his hair.
There's less and less of this with every additional candle on his birthday
cakes (wherever the hell Sam gets those from every time) as well. And this, he
misses.
===============================================================================
Coach has two children himself, so why does he have to touch Dean so often,
then? Maybe it's something only dads understand. (A faint voice in the back of
his head tells him that he cannot ask Dad about it, though.)
"I don't wanna play baseball anymore, Sammy," he whispers over his cereals.
"What? Why?"
The mean, hissing voice wonders if it's okay to talk about it with Sammy. "It
sucks," Dean pouts as big as he can manage without making it look like a joke.
His stomach might be cramping without him noticing.
"Oh come on, you wanted to go so badly!" Sam looks defeated, tired, as always.
He was out with Dad so late yesterday even though he has a history test coming
up today. Now, he doesn't have time to eat his cereals because his nose is
buried deep in two textbooks at once. His brother is amazing, a genius, of
course; but Dean knows that even geniuses need to eat. "You can't do this to
me! It was so hard to talk Dad into letting you go." Dean knows Sam would have
loved joining the football team, still does. Knows that Dad's "no" from two
years ago still holds him back from asking again. There's a tragic smile in
between his brother's dimples and Dean decides it's not fair that at age eight
he knows what "tragic" sounds like, looks like, tastes like. "Just see how it
goes. I'm sure you'll like it. Do it for me, okay?"
"Okay," his bowl full of milk and sticky, mushy somethings hears.
 
Two weeks later, he breaks some kid's face with his bat. The kid's screaming
real bad and Dean would be shocked and sorry if it really would have been an
accident like he tells Coach and the paramedics and the mom in the pretty,
flowery dress. When she arrives, Dean already is expelled from the team and was
promised two weeks of detention and God knows what else consequences he'll
never have to face - Dad will take them away soon enough. Not soon enough to
get away from Coach, though. It had been time. Now, Dean can breathe again,
floats, almost cries at how good it feels.
When he thinks back to this day, he will remember it as pink and blue daisies
on soft frills and splatters of blood. It will taste like victory and Sam's
disgust and anger about what he did, sound like Dad's scolds and the angry
rumble in both their chests.
It's the first time he keeps a secret; and, oh, it's the dirtiest thing he
carries in there for a long time.
===============================================================================
"There are bad guys, you know."
Sam's eyes feel strange on him, let goose bumps run down Dean's back. He has
the sudden urge to pull on another jacket. "Yeah, like, the guys Dad hunts,
right? Monsters."
"Yeah, yeah." There's too much tension in his brother, too much secret to
accept this approval. Sam leans in close to him now, looks like they're being
chased. That's stupid though, they're just sitting in the library, waiting for
Dad to finish up whatever he's looking for. It's safe here, isn't it? But Sam's
lips are tight. "Monsters. But the ones I mean… they're human."
Dean frowns. "Dad says monsters aren't human."
"Not all," Sam whispers, "but some. There, uhm, there- You know we're not
allowed to follow strangers, right? Don't follow, don't accept gifts, even if
they say Dad's hurt. That kind of. These monsters. Bad men."
Dean opens his mouth, the big word with the big "C" in front of it heavy on his
tongue. It slithers back down his throat before he can spit it out though.
Instead, he nods.
There's a drop of Sam's face, very subtle but Dean can see it anyway, of
course. Almost makes him wonder if the word maybe did get out and hit Sam in
his face with all its ugliness, almost. "They're not allowed to- to hurt you.
You hear me? Whatever they say, whatever their excuses are. They're not.
Allowed. It's bad. Nobody is allowed to touch you if you don't want them to,
you understand?"
"Am I allowed to make them stop?"
The question's out too soon to filter it, rethink it. Search it for hints.
Dammit.
Sam's stare is long and full of not-too-invisible question marks. His mouth
hangs open the slightest bit quite a time before it makes a sound again. It
makes Dean swallow without a reason. "Yeah," he breathes.
It feels good to hear it, even if everything went a bit numb around that hidden
area in those past two years. Kind of an absolution, a pat on the back and a
kiss to his forehead Dean might have longed for if he was that kind of kid.
Which he isn't.
Only babies get pampered. Dean is no baby.
===============================================================================
Two months have never been this long and when Dean is told that it were only
two, he doesn't believe it. Cannot believe. How has this eternity only been two
months?
Sam looks bigger, fuller. When he holds Dean in his arms, all shouts and sobs
get absorbed easily in this wide chest. Two months of believing your brother is
dead and your dad being more silent than a grave do things to you. Dean hopes
that for him it will be done and gone with this initial outbreak.
Everything is better with Sam around. Eating, sleeping, taking baths, laughing,
reading, complaining, doing nothing. Dean gets to know his brother all anew,
follows him everywhere now that he has him back. Dean still can't believe that
Sam returned and the horror of losing him again has him practically glued to
his big brother. And Sam doesn't complain, not once - but also doesn't answer
where he has been. Dean is instructed to ask Dad, who of course won't tell him
either.
The first few weeks, Dean insists on sleeping in one bed again. Sam mocks that
aren't you too old for this? and Dean will stick out his tongue just to prove
how much of a kid he is, so fuck you, thanks. Sam feels right where he is, here
under Dean's tiny palms with the beat in his chest as a bliss that keeps Dean
alive along with his brother.
Before he falls asleep, Sam pets Dean's head, cheeks, arms, rubs the shoulders
and holds him against his chest. He hums into Dean's hair and presses kisses
between little fairytales and stories, secrets and whatever he can think of
that could help Dean slipping into dreamland.
As long as it's Sam's voice, it doesn't matter what it says, because all Dean
hears is the low hum right underneath his ear that promises safety and brother
and home.
===============================================================================
Summers are both the best and worst months of the year. Plus: no school. Minus:
without the daily schedule of school, it's easy to realize just how little
routine there is in their lives. Oh, and also, Sam is going crazy without his
books. Dean is taken along on trips to (super boring, ugh) libraries every few
days because Sam needs literature like others need air. But Dean gets ice cream
on the way back, so he only complains about it under his breath. For Dean, ice
cream becomes less interesting with age. For Sam, books become even more
essential.
Sam is seventeen and this will be his last summer in high school.
Two semesters left to go and then - bam. Nothing. Hunting. Family business.
Envy is something nasty, so Dean doesn't mention to his brother how happy he
should be, because who would want to stay in school or work his ass off in
college?
Problem is: Sam would. Sam is that kind of person. Sam would give everything
for being able to do that.
Frozen cherry flavored sugar water on his tongue (less interesting, yeah, but
not not interesting at all), Dean leisurely watches his brother indulge in the
first book of his newest batch. He looks happy, Dean thinks, and there are
those dimples the librarian got all flustered over. And still... there is
something else. Dean hasn't got the vocabulary for something like "melancholy"
and instead goes with "happy-sad".
Sad.
He chews on the tip of his popsicle and lets the rumbling of the public bus
cradle him into sleepiness.
===============================================================================
Christmas 1997 makes thirteen years of caroling-free Christmases in Dean's
lifetime. When they were smaller, the babysitters sometimes would take them to
church. Dean remembers staring at the singing and humming crowds, the "amens"
and the folded hands, remembers Sam equally confused right next to him. It was
strangely fascinating, this world they never fit in (like school, but more
elegant, grown-up). Dad doesn't tell them there is no God as much as he tells
them that there is one - but when Dean thinks about the possibility of it, it
sounds alien to him.
There are no more babysitters nowadays. They're obviously old enough - Dean
salted and burned his first remains two months ago. It's Christmas Eve and
somewhere people are singing in churches about the Holy Spirit and Jesus Christ
while Dad pulled the three of them into a bar along the highway.
The air is full of smoke and pine scent (a genuine wrath in a bar, seriously?)
but it's warmer than in the car so Dean is not too picky. Sam looks like
someone spat in his drink which is not too unrealistic. For a family holiday,
the only people coming to a bar like this are society's rejects. Single people
without friends and families, sad and lonely and looking for a booze and
conversation out of their miseries. Dean never learned to feel guilty about
being among them.
To escape the image of his father hooking up with a trucker lady (YUCK) and the
general pissiness of his big brother, Dean squeezes through the crowds. He
needs air, a different setting, anything. A tiny buffet does the trick. One
root beer in his hand, the other is free to grab at candies and nuts.
Crowds make you anonymous. People around and in front of and next to Dean shove
and squeeze to fill their plates with roast or fruit cake. He's just another
hungry mouth. Dean chews while wondering about their chances of checking into a
motel soon (with a real bed that has a mattress and remotely clean sheets).
Something (someone?) brushes his lower back. He doesn't think of it as
something strange at first, but then it happens again, and again, and then his
ass is pinched and he jumps from the pain of it.
Dean tries to spin around, to get his fist into that asshole's face, but it's
too stuffed and he's too small among the adults. Arms sneak around him and he
panics. Eggnog reaches his nose before that mouth connects with his neck.
He slams his skull backwards as hard as he can and barely hears the guy's
shriek over the characteristic crack of nasal bone.
Suddenly, the crowd does part, and suddenly the entire bar seems to stare at
him, them; the elderly trucker kind of guy scrambling away with a hand on his
fountain-like nose, Dean with his eyes pulled wide and salty peanuts still
tight in his fist.
"What the fuck?!" he hears.
There is an answer, yeah, there is, it is right inside of him, but he can't get
the words out. He's eight years old again and the pretty mom has blood on her
dress and stares at Dean as if he was a monster.
He gapes. There is no sound, no air.
Sam yells his name, is by his side suddenly. There's terror in his face and he
is talking to Dean, but Dean cannot understand a single word. He is shaken,
blinks. Everything feels like wrapped in cotton.
Blood, blood, blood.
Dad steps into their circle.
Everything goes black.
When he will wake up, he will be wrapped in both Dad's and Sam's jackets and
the Impala will hum beneath him. The skin on Sam's knuckles will be split open
to the bone. The blood on his shirt won't be his own. From the speakers, Jagger
will groan about going home.
===============================================================================
Her name is Madison. She smells like cherry blossoms and vanilla and tastes
like girl and love and insanity.
Dean stumbles back into their rental way after midnight. Dad is on a job but
Dean is not sure if the idea of being scolded would have stopped him. The
lights are out so he tries to be quiet with entering. Sam is a bitch about his
sleep even though he is not the one of them who will have to get up early
tomorrow to go to school (hasn't been since almost two years now).
Dean pulls the door back into its lock with an almost inaudible sound and
starts slipping out of his boots.
"Salt line."
He almost falls over from the startle, hisses a tiny shit.
Sam chuckles from the kitchen table. "C'mon, or do you wanna invite the boogey
man in?"
He raises his eyebrow at that and knows that even in this pitch black darkness,
his brother will see it. But he is in no mood to fight or be a bitchy little
brat of a brother, so he sets the salt back in place and shrugs off his jacket.
"Where've you been?"
Dean clicks his tongue and huffs an easy laugh.
His brother makes an approving sound. "You're terrible."
"Not everyone's a saint like you." Dean struts across the room. Next to Sam
rests a half-empty bottle of whiskey, in his hand a glass. "Wow. Scratch that,"
he laughs, snatches the glass from Sam's fingers and smells it, scrounges his
nose, "Drunk virgin."
"Hey!" The glass is gone again with a laugh. Dean loves how Sam doesn't even
try to defend himself.
"You should find a girl to share this here with instead o' chuckin' it all down
by your sorry self," he scolds, "Dad's not here anyway. I can stay out if you
need the room. Just tell me."
It's hard to tell with this little light but Dean feels Sam's eyes wash over
him, take him all in and read every last bit of information. That's how they
are - practically bare to each other all the time, and now that Dean starts to
get it on with girls it's a bit... embarrassing (to say the least). Sam always
knows when Dean got some, maybe can smell it on him, that freak. There's this
warm, soft gaze on him all the time telling him it's okay, I'm proud of you,
but it feels strange sometimes. Right now, for example.
"'S alright," Sam sighs, his dimples deep enough to hide a few grains of rice
in them (Dean tried that once and it's no fucking joke), "S'mbody's gotta watch
out for your Casanova ass to come home eventually."
Dean buzzes under the mixing scents; sex and whiskey and girl and Sam and
laundry detergent and mold. The heat of Sam's eyes make him nervous where he is
so relaxed and satisfied in his post-orgasmic high. He tosses his head in an
attempt to make it go away. "You're done here," Dean decides and places the
bottle on the kitchen counter under a scowl from Sam, "Bed time, big boy. Come
on."
His brother is a happy drunk, Dean knows that much. He giggles when Dean helps
him up from the chair and down into his bed. Sam pats the empty space next to
him, dimples still prominent on his face.
"Nah," Dean moans, scratches the back of his neck. Sam gently tugs at his wrist
and somehow the will to shake if off is not too strong. "Too old for that."
More quiet, shy.
"I'm lonely."
"You need a girl."
"You wanna see me cry?"
"Oh fuck you." The sheets are cool but Sam is burning up with tiredness and
alcohol. They're out of practice since a couple of years but Dean's temple
finds its spot on Sam's shoulder anyway. "Better, princess?"
"Yeah," Sam sighs, "Was that so hard now?"
His first instinct is to shake his head and laugh it off, because it's nothing,
it really isn't. It wins over before he can put a finger on the twisting
sensation in his stomach.
 
When Dean wakes up, he's still in his clothes from last night, Madison's scent
still all over him. It's too warm and when he tries to stir, a heavy weight
keeps him from moving.
Dean groans into Sam's chest. In this position, the amulet is digging into his
cheek. There's drool on his forehead and in his hair and arms wrapped around
him and a hard-on pressed into his belly.
Oh. God. "Dude!" Suddenly, Dean is very awake and very powerfully shoves his
brother off of himself. The jerk simply flops over on his belly, keeps on
snoring and leaves Dean alone in his disgust.
===============================================================================
When Tom hands him another drink, Dean doesn't give it a single thought.
Actually, it's a nice thing to do since Dean is really into this conversation
with Olivia here, sophomore in biology. Getting up to grab something on his own
is kinda out of the question.
College parties are awesome. Getting invited to college parties even though
you're neither in college nor at everyone else's age is even more awesome. The
idea of hooking up with a girl who's older than him makes Dean's mouth water in
anticipation.
She's adorable and her shirt is cut way too low (never too low for Dean's
taste). Her friends call her "Liv" and pinch her butt and it makes her squeal
giggles that could be ringing church bells in Dean's ears.
She tells Dean she likes his eyes, his mouth. His freckles are so cute, his
smile is to die for. He rewards her words with exactly that and knows, yeah, he
knows he's handsome and cute and pretty and whatever other words people come up
with. He wants to say "only for you, baby girl" but that would be too cheesy.
Maybe later.
When she wants to know what Dean is studying, the lie has troubles dancing from
his tongue. Not because lying is hard or because he has doubts about lying to
her in particular - but because his tongue is simply numb. Dean can barely lift
it.
His fingers won't flex as fast and hard as he wants and Dean starts flailing in
his attitude. It doesn't make any sense that he is losing feeling in his limbs,
that his head is getting too heavy to hold up; this is only his third or fourth
drink and it's only one fourth rum on three fourths coke (he knows the taste by
heart).
It makes no sense, no sense at all. His mouth won't listen to him anymore and
gives up speaking. His eyelids droop.
Someone scoops him up and it's almost making him hurl, no sense of gravity and
balance and it's almost like he's flying. Muffled sounds reach a place in
between Dean's ears that he cannot get into.
 
The Earth stutters a few times before it shifts. Again, he tries to say
something but he's too drained to make up his mind about finding actual words.
Warmth brushes over him, too warm, too close. His hand won't raise to swat it
away. Something is wet (and it's everywhere) and suddenly there is pain,
somehow in his belly (and somehow not), lower, deeper; ripping him apart and
building uncomfortable pressure. He wants to scream, to cry, because this is
scary, scarier than any hunt he's been on yet, and he has no idea where he is
and what is going on and he can't even see.
Dean wants to scream for help, for Sam, anyone, Sam. He wants to be eight years
old again and grip that baseball bat and smack it around, wants to kick and
punch and squirm - but he is ice cold water in a curb.
His perception of time eventually fades into nothing.
 
Dew beads on Dean's lashes when he blinks them open.
Grass. This is grass. Why is there grass?
A turn of his head is rewarded with nausea and agony. Cold sweat shoots out of
his pores and vomit up his throat without a chance to hold it down. Since he
cannot get up (but why, why?) he has to lie in it face-down at first, retches
some more thanks to the stink of it; coke and rum and maybe he has to find a
new favorite drink now.
First birds chirp their morning greetings. It's maybe four or five o'clock.
Dean has never felt this lost.
After half an hour, he finally manages to sit up. He shivers in the cool spring
morning, wet with dew and sweat, head pounding as if a sledgehammer was at it.
Priorities have to be set because every ounce of activity bears far too much
from him.
First: locate your surroundings, son. Where is he? He had been at a party,
hadn't he? Where is the house? The neighborhood didn't look like this, that's
for sure. This here is... a park of some sort. Bushes? He's lying in the
bushes. Of a park. Alone.
How did he get here?
Did he come here by himself? Why would he go here? Was he drunk? He wouldn't
get this drunk. ... Did someone bring him here?
Why would someone bring him here? He would have told them to leave him alone.
He would have made it home, definitely.
Why can't he remember what happened?
Something is wrong. Something is very very wrong.
Everything hurts and throbs and is cold and stings, inside out; oh, his head,
for fuck's sake.
Get up. Go home. Safety. Bed. Sam.
He pulls himself up all while sacrificing a bush's health for it (sorry, pal).
Finally on his legs, they barely want to support him.
Pain darkens, intensifies.
Suddenly, Dean knows what has happened.
Back on his knees, he alternates between coughing and vomiting once more,
eventually falls flat on his face, rolls into untouched grass and desperately
tries to gulp for air in between silent wails.
How could he let this happen? How could he have been so dumb? Why him? Why?
He can't go home like this. He can't let Dad and Sam see him like this, covered
in puke and some nameless horror. If Dean owns anything, it's his dignity (last
shreds of it but still enough to keep him going). He can't give it away.
It takes a while to calm down but he can think clearer then. What he needs is a
reasonable explanation for his paleness, his limping, his absence. (... Why
hasn't Sam come for him?) There's a faint idea, so Dean wipes tears and spit
and vomit from his face and starts walking.
 
The church's door handle is heavy in his hand (perfect). It's Sunday alright,
but too early for mass. In a test, he swings it back and forth. Satisfying
result. It will do.
A deep breath, shaky, almost a sigh. Dean frowns and looks down at his
trembling hand (arm).
When he has placed his leg against the doorframe, he closes his eyes.
After this, everything will get better, he reminds himself - and takes a swing.
 
If there ever was any to begin with, all color drains from Sam's face when
their eyes meet. As fucked up as he is, it only makes Dean grin. Sam's at his
side in a heartbeat and the poor woman supporting him can finally let go. In
Sam's arms, Sam's scent, Dean imagines all pain fading away.
"I've got you," he hears, "Don't worry, I've got you." It's only for him, a
whisper, a promise, full of sadness and relief and Dean has troubles keeping
the tears at bay.
The helper is thanked and waved off, yeah, Sam will take him to a hospital,
everything is alright, don't worry. (Good thing she saw Dean crawling along
main street. Would've taken another hour like that.) She drives off and Sam
heaves Dean into the house.
"What happened?"
"Partied too hard," Dean groans, white teeth flashing in the grey-blue of
morning hours.
"This is not funny."
It is, kinda. It kinda is. Sam is so warm, holds him so secure. One traitorous
tear drops from Dean's lashes. "Not even a little?"
"What happened?" Sam repeats it as if Dean has a better answer now.
"Goddamn stairs happened, that's what happened."
"Are you shitting me?"
"Parties and stairs, Sammy. Parties and stairs." He winces as he is dropped on
the bed.
In front of him, Sam immediately falls to his knees and inspects the damage. He
shakes his head. "You're unbelievable."
"Huh. That's what she said."
"Very funny." Sam doesn't look like it's very funny to him. His bangs cover the
concentration-induced frown on his forehead. "Lemme have a closer look. Jeans
off, come on. Does it feel broken to you?"
(I feel broken to me, actually.) There's no hesitation allowed in this, only a
little unwilling moan in the back of Dean's throat before he thumbs open the
buttons, lets Sam pull down the jeans. "'M cold," he complains in advance.
Maybe he can explain the shaking with him being on the edge of fucking
freezing.
"I know," Sam hushes, voice softer and less angry now, eyes worried and fixed
on purpleblackcrimson on Dean's shin, "We'll get you out of that stuff in a
second, alright? I'll grab the first aid kit real quick."
Dean is floating through it all, pain taking over again now that he is relaxed
and safe (finally, finally), but it's alright because Sam is here and pampers
him and doesn't even mention with one hint of a word how reckless Dean is, how
stupid and immature. Both know that Dean doesn't need to be reminded of all
this. It's so utterly Sam though, because Dean would use any opportunity to
mock his big brother. He has never been this grateful for Sam's selflessness.
Tucked in tight, he feels five years old again, a bad cough in his throat and
tomato rice soup in his belly. Then and now, Sam looms over him, scanning him
with concern.
"Sorry for the fucked up morning," Dean croaks.
"It's alright. At least you're here."
"Yeah." Yeah, he is here. Finally. Dean hesitates, swallows, blinks. "Weren't
you worried? When I didn't come home last night?" Why? Why? Where were you? Why
weren't you there? How could this happen?
Sam's lips curl, which is strange since his eyes are too wet and too far away
for a smile. A little shake of his head and Dean watches, bathes in the warmth
of Sam's palm on his head more than anything else. "You told me to pull my head
outta your ass," he states, eyes sad, so sad, "so I did."
Dean blinks once, twice, slow. Of course.
"Bad timing?" Sam wants to know.
Dean shakes his head as he coughs a brittle laugh.
===============================================================================
Daisy eventually happens, Brittany, Kylie, Helen. It's easier than he thought
it would be. They don't make him shake and don't send his head spinning when
they touch him. He gets it up for every single one of them, several times in a
row sometimes. Almost like nothing's happened. Change comes in the way how
wherever Dean goes now, all he drinks is beer, straight from the bottle and
uncapped by his own hands. No more chances. No more private parties. No more
male friends.
It's been there before that night and he knew it all too well - the stares, the
comments, the body language. Now, it blazes like the Playboy mansion's guest
room under a black light; neon signs that make Dean's heart race, his patience
drop.
No more chances, Dean thinks and punches more faces than John can oversee.
He is told to get it together, to be disciplined. Just let them talk. Yeah.
Just let them stare, cop a feel, right? It's nothing to Dad, a joke, a hassle.
Dean doesn't blame Dad, moreover is glad about his attitude. Dad doesn't know.
Doesn't know what happened, doesn't know what this is about, doesn't know how
Dean wishes there at least wasa facefor him project on the ones he crashes his
knuckles into. (Some days he thinks it must have been Tom, but how certain is
that? Could have been anyone. Several guys, even. Dean still hasn't figured out
how many hours he lost - will never find out.) Dad doesn't know Dean is scared
out of his mind and bites everything he can sink his teeth into, like an animal
caught in a bear trap. It's better like this. It is.
Sam's eyes don't leave him anymore. Dean wants to kick himself in the balls for
that conversation back when they were kids, about monsters he was allowed to
take care of; the picture of Sam's too-clever eyes going wide and realizing.
Sometimes, he gets an approving nod, a pat on the back for what he does. Sam
understands, but doesn't know. Not about that night. That's how it should stay.
Will stay.
===============================================================================
At Bobby's, time runs slower than anywhere else, almost stops. Things have been
in the same places for years (maybe covered with more dust now); smells are the
same, sounds. Being here is like taking a breather. Sam drowns himself in
mountains of books and Dean watches him do so. Over in the kitchen, Dad and
Bobby discuss something and could as well be on another planet.
In between dust and Sam and coffee mugs and sofa cushions, it's easy to drift
into a nap-like status. Nightmares haven't stopped coming (now more than ever)
but in this house, Dean is freed of them.
Warm waves gently roll over his skin, through his hair, over the thin layer of
t-shirt and sweatpants. There's soft pressure to it, like a palm, fingers. But
it feels nice, like a good friend, like a lullaby. It has Dean liquefy
underneath them. For the first time in a long time, he feels good inside of his
body.
The too-loud closing of a door wakes him. Sunlight bathes him in squares of
light. A hand rests in the nape of his neck. When Dean looks up, it's Sam who
is connected to that hand.
For a while, neither of them says anything. Dean blinks against the dusty
flakes in the living room air, the bright light, the wet eyes of his brother.
Sam's face is soft, almost melting off. Somehow, it hurts to see it like this.
"Sleepyhead," Sam mouths in between tender dimples.
Dean closes his eyes and tries to fall back asleep.
===============================================================================
"What do you do with 'em?"
Fourth of July, year two-thousand, has them lying on their backs on the warm
earth of "Shithole we're passing through, Whatever". The joint passes back and
forth. It's a bit dangerous since Dean has never done this before, doesn't know
if it will get him too emotional - but who is he to miss this opportunity?
Some months have passed but it's still not safe. He wonders if it'll ever be.
Dean takes a hit and stares up into the sky. Different than booze, yeah. Feels
good, actually. "Girls?"
"Girls." Sam accepts their shared treat. The caps of his fingers are sandpaper
against Dean's.
He feels like giggling, so he goes with it. Nobody around for miles, not even
Dad (of course not). Dean wonders where his brother got the weed from or,
better yet, what brought him into the mood to get it. And now the sex talk,
really? Maybe Sam's finally sick and tired of his ever-white vest. "Seriously?"
"Seriously."
"You're a parrot."
"You're a parrot!" His brother's voice is thick with smoke and it fits there.
Dean wonders if this is Sam's first time smoking like this. "Seriously though.
What's in it for you?"
Dean frowns. "You mean like... in her pus-"
"As in what you like about hooking up this often." Sam laughs, bumps their
shoulders together. "Hope you're playin' safe, Dean-o. Don't think we can sew
that thing back on once it's fallen off."
"This thing drops and I'll drop with it." His mouth feels a little numb and the
connection to that is not too pleasant - but Sam is here, right next to him,
Dean can feel him; it's gonna be alright. He's safe. "Hm. I dunno." His smile
fades off into the void of his memories, little sniplets of bedrooms that
weren't his, strips of lace or skin or the flick of long hair or ponytails into
his face. "I just like it, I guess."
"Like what?"
Dean fidgets a bit, hopes he doesn't get hard right now (because how awkward
would that be?). They talk about everything all the time, but usually Sam is
not a fan of his little brother's sexcapades. Sometimes, Dean has the
impression things like that bore Sam, unnerve him. It's strange, this sudden
interest. Not that he's complaining. It's just... new. Yeah, that's it. "Like
bein' with 'em. Feelin' 'em. They make me feel good." Yeah, that's a good
answer. He peeks over their shoulders, has to stare a little cross-eyed to see
his brother's face remotely sharp. "Relatin'?"
"Yeah," Sam breathes, almost whispers.
Oh. What? "Did you...?" Wow. This is news. Like, biblical. Dean's eyes widen.
"When?"
"A while ago." He looks a bit ashamed, his stupid big brother; always puppy
eyes, always a little awkward. You couldn't tell he was a hero most of the
time, but Dean knows he is. And apparently, he has been busy. And decided not
to tell Dean. RUDE.
"And I only get to hear that NOW?"
Sam shrugs. "You never asked."
"Dude! We talk about that all the time!"
"Actually, you're making fun of me all the time. Not really the same."
Dean's mind is fuzzy around the edges and Sam's words feel strange in his ears.
It takes a while to digest them, really listen for once. His brother is right.
He only ever assumed. But how could he have known Sam wouldn't mention a thing
like this? "Name?" he eventually asks.
"Jessica," Sam hums.
The joint travels back. Dean tastes Sam's spit on it. "How's she like?"
"The best."
"As in...?"
"As in 'the best'." Absolute - Sam is like that sometimes. Most times, this
side appears when he is very very angry. Or very very heroic. Or, as it seems,
very very in love.
It moves something inside Dean, that idea that there has been someone who
touched Sam's heart like that without him noticing any of it. Something his
brother kept hidden from him, all to himself. (Are there more things like that?
What else doesn't he tell Dean?)
"Palo Alto." Smoke blows into the air next to Dean's head. He tries to make
sense out of its swirls. "Two years ago. We stayed there for like... a week? A
week, I think."
"Yeah."
"There," he is told, "and then."
Ninety-eight feels like (is) a lifetime ago. What was Sam like back then? What
was Dean like? Had Sam been different? Could Dean have noticed it if he just
had looked hard enough? "Miss 'er?"
"Sometimes." They lie together close enough to have their shoulders touch,
temples too. Night slowly wraps them up in slightly cooler air but the ground
will take another few hours to drop in temperatures. "Told her I was a Stanford
freshman," Sam laughs, takes a hit, coughs it out, "What was I thinking? She
prolly woulda liked me even without the lie, now that I think about it."
In secret, Dean calls it the "College Wars", starring John and Sam Winchester.
Now that the stress of it is long gone and almost forgotten (at least for him),
it almost feels funny, that constant drag and pull, Sam's tantrums and the
banging doors and the red faces. Dean remembers flyers hidden at the bottom of
Sam's duffle bag. Dad had been furious when he found out about Sam using
Bobby's address for scholarship programs to send him information and forms.
"You really wanted to go there, huh."
Sam doesn't respond but keeps the joint for a while.
Dean listens to thirsty drags and blinks into the blue veil of falling night.
Eventually, he gets the shrunk little fella back to nurse on. Sam's hair is
silky where he nuzzles his cheek at it.
"Never could've left you in this mess," Dean hears.
Fireworks sizzle up above them somewhere in the distance.
===============================================================================
The rain hasn't died down in hours. They might drown in this shitty excuse of a
shed. And here Dean was being happy with a room of his own for once. It has
been sticky even without Sam crawling in next to him, a little soaked and
murmuring something about shitty roof and tomorrow, sorry. He groans his
whatever and lets the drums of rain drag him back and away.
His sleep has been fitful for a few days in a row now. The weather doesn't
exactly help. Dean wakes up to the distant feeling of skin on skin.
He lies still, keeps his breath shallow. The rain is still pouring down, Sam is
still behind him (he can smell him).
Fingers dance over Dean's naked back. From one shoulder to the other, over the
neck and back down his spine, gently bumping every vertebra on their way. They
used to do this a lot when they were kids; Sam playing "connect the dots" with
Dean's freckles. In the summer they pop out like weeds and keep him from really
developing a tan and Dean hates them for it. But girls like them. Sam likes
them.
Lips on his neck send Dean's world over the edge of gravity.
It's just the hint of a kiss, really, nothing more, and Dean maybe mistakes it
with something else, maybe he dreams right now; yeah, must be.
Another, firmer.
Dean squeezes his eyes shut.
Sam sighs and wraps his giant-like hand around Dean's waist. It slides to the
front, over a belly that hardens to stone underneath those sweat-slick layers
of skin. When Dean fakes a soft rolling movement that could pass as something
happening while being asleep, Sam simply follows and presses their bodies
together even tighter.
Dean feels it against his ass then. Hot and hard and horrible and just
undeniably there.
Kisses fall on his body like raindrops on the roof, the ground, every bare
surface.
Dean forces sleep into his body to the taste of one fourth rum, three fourths
coke.
===============================================================================
He hasn't done anything wrong. He is pretty damn sure about that. Except that
he isn't; not most of the time, actually. Actually, he has no idea. Of
anything. At all.
Maybe it's what he does to people. All those men, the girls, women, no matter
the age - hey, young man, how're you doin', huh?- there must be something about
Dean, something triggering them. He tried several things, like when he thought
it was all about his smile so he didn't pull the corners of his mouth upwards
for an entire week. The result was a ridiculous number of efforts telling him
to look less depressed, oh, are you sad, baby? Want me to kiss it better, baby?
I could make you smile, I'm sure.
But Sam? Really?
When did this happen? When the fuck did that happen?
Dean tries to wrap his mind around it every free second of the day, and damn,
he has lots of those - but none brings an answer. Could be because every single
time, halfway through, he panics, recoils. It must have been a
misunderstanding, it must have, yeah, no, Sam would never, has never looked at
him, never touched him like this. It was never like this between them.
Except that Dean suddenly cannot see anything but those things - Sam's eyes
always on him, hands on Dean fucking twenty-four-seven somehow. Has it always
been like this?
He sits through it because if he withdrew, it'd make Sam suspicious. There
would be questions and Dean is in no way ready to neither listen nor answer to
those. Sam wrapping him into a hug, Sam rubbing his shoulder, Sam tugging at
his hair, Sam suggesting sparring sessions, Sam squeezing into the bathroom for
a quick whizz while Dean is taking a shower.
And Dean lets him, because this is how it's always been, how they've been with
each other. Bare, no boundaries. On the road and without anyone else to depend
on, that's how you survive; no other option available, sorry.
August twenty-five, all which was on his mind was the toothbrush in his hand,
the mint on his tongue.
Not Sam's mouth. Never Sam's mouth.
Still, it happens.
It's like a little outer body experience - Sam shoving into his space all
naturally, Dean expecting nothing until the closeness is irritating enough to
make him look up. Sam's eyes, heavy and dark and his mouth wide, jaw loose and
his fingers curling around Dean's shoulder. The movement is slow - he could
pull away. But maybe this is just a dream, it still could be that rainy night;
he can still wake up, right?
The kiss is soft at first but makes Dean's scalp tingle, sends his hearing to
shit. He's paralyzed, all feeling pooling in his shoulder, where Sam touches
him, and his mouth, where Sam touches him. There, it's ice cold and on fire and
two thousand volts and everything and nothing.
Sam pulls back and Dean thinks he can breathe again, but the mouth comes right
back for more, finds lips slack in shock and mistakes it for something else.
Maybe the inability to move is read as the lack of the desire to move, too.
When Sam lets him be after what feels like minutes (hours), he is smiled at,
wet eyes dancing over Dean's face, counting every freckle, maybe kissing each
and every single one.
Their foreheads meet and Dean makes a sound at the back of his throat,
something broken, something that shouldn't be here.
It makes Sam laugh somehow, and somehow, that pulls Dean along.
===============================================================================
Right beforehand, Dean always knows it will happen; no idea why, but he does.
It's a remarkable change in the air, somehow, like adding a ton of weight and
slipping the ground from under his feet. Shallow tries to hide, to avoid the
inevitable (Sam, Sam) turn out useless. Curled up on the couch, spread out on a
rooftop, loitering around town, in coffee shops - it doesn't matter. Sam always
gets to him eventually.
The touches are soft, almost timid. Even girls grabbed him harder. But this is
Sam, isn't it? Stupid, puppy-minded, big brother Sam, six feet four of fatless
tissue and shaggy hair, each palm wide enough to entirely cover one side of
Dean's face.
He holds him like this when he kisses him, most of the time; fingers spread
wide into Dean's hair, balls of hands cradling his jaw, nose bumping into
Dean's. He tries to hold his breath through all of it but never succeeds,
because damn, Sam seems to be starving for Dean's mouth. Exhaling reminds him
of the hollowness he keeps. Inhales drive every single thorn, every pain and
cramp and misery back into his flesh. There is nowhere to go. The moments in
which he realizes exactly that are the worst because more often than not Dean
cannot hold back that mildest noise of protest, a faint whimper, and it makes
Sam shudder so violently that Dean can feel it wherever his brother is pressed
up against him (everywhere).
September is still warm. Friday night and Dean nurses on a beer over some
newspaper article Dad didn't need for his current research. Sam must feel that
he plans to go out, Dean figures, because his hands feel heavier than usually
when they fall around his shoulders, slip down over his chest; almost innocent
if they didn't slip under his shirt on the next way down.
"Not here," Dean mutters into the neck of his bottle, thinks of Dad driving
around town, looking for witnesses to interview, no idea what his sons are
doing (what if he ever found out oh God please no not this please), maybe
returning any minute now.
"Upstairs," Sam suggests.
Dean goes first.
The door clicks shut, almost gently, which is cruel. He's made it to the middle
of the room but has no idea from here on, stands still, empty hands blood-less
and stiff next to his hips.
Hands find him and he closes his eyes. Around his waist, the hem of his shirt.
It's carefully pulled over his head. Glancing at the puddle of it on the floor
makes him nervous. This is new. Sam finds his neck, kisses jaw, temple, cheek,
mouth. His hands wander up Dean's bare skin, the faint bumps of building
muscle, sunlight-deprived milky skin. Their hips meet and Sam keeps them there.
Dean wants to jolt and run.
Silent movements manipulate Dean into relieving Sam from his shirt. He feels
hard under his fingers where Sam puts them, right over his chest where Dean
usually feels soft breasts, where there usually isn't the amulet, their amulet,
Sam's, Sam. It's staring at Dean as in a silent accusation - you're letting
this happen. You want this, don't you? No, he thinks, but finds no power to
pull or to shove away, to scream or even speak.
Sam pecks at his lips, pulls them between his teeth; puppy play. Dean hums
little surprised sounds at every assault, feels Sam's breath coming quicker and
shorter, the heat between his legs exploding further. The hands get rougher and
he tries to think of Melanie who was just so eager but Sam grunts and the
fantasy is gone, his brother back in his face, his mouth, everywhere.
The wall against his back takes him by surprise. When did they move? Sam
sandwiches him there, between drywall and brother, skin and rotten wallpaper,
and kisses and sucks until Dean's mouth feels full of blood, lips pulsing with
it.
Sam grinds his dick into his crotch and Dean's stomach drops at the realization
that he is hard himself.
It's okay, that's good, one part of him says, because yeah, Sam won't be
suspicious, won't think Dean is broken if he can get it up, will he? Another
part thrashes, kicks his kidneys, makes him jolt.
You disgusting. Piece. Of. Trash. Feel this, yeah? Feel this? This pain, the
churn of your insides? This is what youdeserve.
Dean's knees start to shake when Sam's hand forces itself into the waistband of
his jeans, shorts. He has to hold on to Sam's shoulders or he will fall and he
feels terrible for it, to put so much pressure into touching his brother. But
Sam seems to love it.
Eyes tightly shut, mouth full of spit and mouth and tongue that isn't his own,
and all he tries is to somehow get through this handjob without dying. Sam's
eyes are on his face, he just knows, could throw up from the vibration of his
own choked off sounds between their mouths.
His jeans is pried open in favor of more room for Sam's paws. The sound of a
second zipper sends ice cold shivers down Dean's back.
Gripped by the wrist, his hand is placed somewhere else.
He shakes with the effort of swallowing down that sob.
===============================================================================
Sam doesn't tell him that he's pretty. It's not like he has to. His eyes say it
all the time.
Under the spotlights of them, Dean feels constantly naked. When Dad is around,
he trembles under the threat of him noticing it, a too long stare, anything
(maybe he can smell it, see it, taste it in the air; please God, no).
Now, he won't get it up for girls. He tries, two, three, four times, ending up
in pathetic tears in unknown beds, slightly annoyed but worried hands and
mouths and suggestions on his back like strokes of feathers that don't quite
reach him... not really.
With Sam, it works. With, for Sam - and that's the tragedy. Treason.
When he comes back after midnight, smelling like beer and perfume, Sam is
always awake, always there to replace the scents of strangers with theirs (not
his, really, because maybe they never differed that much from each other).
Kisses and touches, warmth and pressure, smallest sounds and whispers, hey,
Dee, hey, come on, me too, just a little longer, alright?
"I love you," Dean hears.
What is he supposed to answer?
When Sam sucks the head of his dick into his mouth, all sense dissolves into
nothing.
===============================================================================
"You're so pretty like that."
There it is. Took him some months and, apparently, Dean's lips wrapped around
his cock in some filthy bathroom they will leave behind tomorrow.
It doesn't feel like he's doing it right but Sam still shivers under him, the
skin over his hipbones pulling taut under hesitant pressure of Dean's
fingertips. It tastes strange, terrible, horrible; feels just the same. This
shouldn't be in his mouth, ever. He is this close to pull back and just run for
it, no matter where, no matter how fast he will be found and brought back here;
just as long as this here ends right now, it will be good enough.
It barely fits into his mouth. Dean had seen it a couple of times now but it's
different so close to his face. Another proof of Sam's hunger, another proof of
how rotten Dean can make his brother become - undeniable and violent and scary.
People would make fun of his lips since forever - girl's lips, cock sucking
lips, oh baby, that mouth of yours - but they were wrong, they were all wrong,
because his lips were not made for this; Dean knows, just knows. He misses
clits, tender little things that are perfect matches for his mouth, and soft
warm folds of flesh and skin to kiss and suckle on, hot little holes and
patches of hair to indulge in. This here is nothing like it. This here is a
crime, should be. Hard and veiny and he hates it with all he's worth, hates the
structure and weight of it on his tongue; somehow velvety but that's only a
thin layer of skin over bulging flesh that makes his jaw hurt from how hard he
has to force it open.
And still, when Sam asks if he is okay, he will try to nod, to make a willing
sound. Everything else would be ridiculous, impossible. Dean's jeans are tented
hard and proud.
He still hasn't figured out how to stop torturing himself with all those whys.
===============================================================================
Girls touched him there sometimes. The especially kinky ones. (Which says a
lot, because not one girl Dean has had was exactly of modest nature.) Which
makes Sam a kinky girl. He wonders if he should tell him that.
Dad is in the bed right next to them and Dean stares holes into his softly
expandingdeflating back. Under the covers, Sam explores him like he's a rare
treasure, a delicate fossil and Sam's fingers are those ridiculous little
brushes archeologists use to free it from dust. Brush, brush, not more than a
tickle; down his treasure trail, the underside of his cock, over his thighs,
hip bone, lower back, tailbone, lower. His leg jerks backwards involuntarily
but Sam gently nudges it back and higher up.
Dean tries to find an alternative universe in the depths of his mind where this
here is a little less of a nightmare. One maybe where he never met Tom, never
took that drink, never made it into the baseball team. Maybe that would be
enough. Maybe then, even if they still were brothers there, it would be
different. Better, even. Close to okay.
Sam's breath condensates in the back of his neck, sweat gluing their shirts
together chest-to-back. Soft drags of fingertips make Dean aware of how
wrinkled his skin is there, a little hairy, dry. Sam rubs it warm, up and down,
always up and down, down his taint sometimes, into the underside of his balls,
but always back there, as if it was a magic place with its own gravity and
Sam's fingers are planets and Dean's asshole is the sun. If he had any sanity
left inside of him, Dean wouldn't want to laugh about this comparison.
 
On his back, it's strangely unbearable. Maybe because his body remembers
something he doesn't, Dean fears, maybe because this happened between Olivia
and wet blades of grass.
Sam loves him, gives him everything and more. Dean knows that, cherishes that,
is grateful. It's the least he can do, to let Sam give and give and give,
right? Who is he to deprive his brother from this? And still, when Sam spreads
his legs and licks and licks and licks until there is that
hotwrongdirtydisgusting sensation buzzing through Dean like an electrocuting
shock, all he wants to do is bring an end to this, to just kick his leg into
that horrible face and get his gun and make Sam swear to never touch him again.
But he doesn't. He never does.
"Hm," he chokes.
"Feels good?"
He can't wait too long and presses a "yeah" between the webbings of his fingers
spreading over his face. Holding himself like this is strangely comforting,
like a kid covering his ears and shaking his head. Dean is this close to
screaming LALALALAAA just to overpower the wet little sounds, Sam's happy
eating noises.
"Knew it'd be like this." The words feel hoticeaching against his taint. "Knew
you'd be like this for me. So good, Dean. Fuck. Perfect for me."
His muscles betray, open up, invite Sam in further than anything Dean could
have feared, and this is only his stupid little tongue, and it turns Dean
fucking inside out somehow with disgust and panic and pleasure and he hates
himself for it, hateshateshates his body and the easiness it takes to
manipulate him with it.
He's only ever been with girls but he isn't dumb. He knows where this
eventually leads to. And he can't pull that off. He just can't. Everything
else, but not this. "I- I could suck you off," Dean offers, halfway lost to
desperate panic.
"Relax," is the response. A slow, long drag of tongue against his insides. Sam
is a dog after all, isn't he? "I'm fine just doin' this," Sam informs him,
grins and kisses where Dean is wet and open (like a girl), "Just you. Like
seeing you blush all over. 'S adorable. You know that?"
"Figured," Dean chokes. He bites the inside of his cheek.
Sam huffs his chuckle against his ass and picks up where he left off.
===============================================================================
There will be a bruise. Sam looks like a kicked dog (is one). "We'll take it
slow," he promises.
Dean stares at one of the rather less impressive stains along the window frame.
After a while, Sam shifts nervously in his pillow. "Are you mad at me?" Just a
little boy, scared to have made a mistake, to have ruined everything. Sam never
was good with self-esteem (even less so than Dean, and that says a damn lot).
On his tongue, there dances the yes, yes, you fucking asshole, yes, I told you
NO, I said NO for the first goddamn time and you just smiled at me like it was
ajoke, like I said somethingfunnyto you, like it doesn't meananything (like
every little excuse there is to make this here happen has a reason). Over it
all, the "no" rolls like a tank, flattening the spikes and claws and fangs. He
could never hurt his brother with words like this. It's not his fault. (Isn't
it?) "Just. Let's just-"
"Slow," Sam repeats, "We'll go slow." After a while, Sam adds: "It's funny,
somehow."
Fury's flames boils Dean's stomach acids. In the darkness of the moonless
night, he pulls his knees closer to his chest. "What?" he croaks, "What's
funny?"
"That you're... like that. Shy." A light laugh, like butterflies and cyanide.
Soft fingers find his shoulder, stroke it. "You fooled around so much...
Figured maybe you'd have tried everything there is."
"... You thought I'd fucked guys?"
"Sure, why not. Look at you."
Whenever he can, Dean avoids mirrors. The person staring back at him makes him
want to smash them - and Dad hates losing the deposits for the rooms.
He knows what he looks like. He does.
Big eyes, bigger mouth. He's filling out slowly but surely, but the curve of
his cheekbones and the edges of his jaw only make it worse, somehow. There's an
arch to his back, a round curve underneath that he keeps hidden from the world
in too-baggy jeans; a bow to his legs like an invitation, maybe. If a girl had
legs like that, Dean'd make a joke on how it was a perfect space for himself in
between them.
He knows what he looks like. He does.
So when he whispers his "I didn't, though", it's more an apology than it is a
defense.
Sam kisses his shoulders, some of the freckles, imprints his smile there. "Your
first." He leaves out the "I'm" because it isn't needed in between them.
They're one, not separate, never separate (maybe never were).
Flashes of sounds and sensations run through Dean's mind; the smell of a
cologne, the stretch of his muscles and skin and soul under an unknown entity.
"Hm," he sighs.
Sam can't see the room spinning like it does for Dean and wraps him into a hug.
===============================================================================
Two fingers are not "slow". What definition of the word "slow" does this guy
have? He never would have gotten into college like that, Dean decides, his
cheek pressed into a scratchy pillow, leaking cock caught between belly and
even scratchier covers. Sam found his prostate a few days ago and won't stop
harassing it.
Dean can come from this. Sam barely does anything else to him since he figured
that out. Doesn't change jack about the fact that it still feels like Dean has
to take a shit through all of it, that it leaves him sore and gaping and
uncomfortable. The lube is sticky and Sam's finger bones are criminally long.
It stings and it stinks.
And Sam loves it. He really loves every way and corner and cave of Dean. Dean
should be happy about this, shouldn't he? That someone loves his ass so much
that they can't let it out of sight or grasp for as long as a few hours a day.
That's a thing. Isn't it?
"Think you're ready?" Sam sounds strangled, in pain, somehow. Dean knows he
jerks himself off to that, to the sight of Dean's ass clinging to his fingers,
shiny-wet and pink like his mouth is when it's wrapped around his cock.
But it's too much. Everything, everything but that. "No," Dean grits.
Everything but that.
"Another?"
He groans, but nods. Actually, no, he's full, thank you, fuckin' bursting, and
Sam should be able to tell by the pressure he needs to use to shove his ring
finger next to the other two. But as long it's fingers, yeah, alright, he'll
take Sam's entire fucking fist if that spares him from a ride on what throbs
like a threat in between his brother's legs.
Sam twists and churns like Dean's ass is made of butter. Which it clearly
isn't. Dean winces. The pressure is blinding. A harsher rhythm develops until
Dean can feel Sam's knuckles smack against his ass with every thrust in. Some
hit home and punch all air out of him, resulting in savage noises Dean never
wanted to know he could produce in his throat.
"So fucking hot, Dee."
Praise makes him arch his back deeper and he doesn't know why. All he knows is
that this here makes Sam happy, keeps him happier than he has been in ages -
that Dean has the power to give him that. Something tells him that if he
rejected Sam now, his brother couldn't take it. He couldn't. Sam isn't strong
like that, has never been.
To hold them (Sam) together, he has to give this. A slice of the wreck he keeps
inside of his heart. Another crumble of dignity.
Sam's fingers force everything out of his body; yelps, tears, come. They won't
stop before Dean's back is sprayed with milky white.
===============================================================================
He's drunk. Of course he is drunk. Bobby's late birthday present came in the
form of a decent brand of whiskey along with a wink and a "don't tell your dad;
only a little something amongst sinners, son"; and poor old Bobby has no idea
how ridiculously right he really is.
It was his idea. His one alone. Half a bottle inside his stomach and as little
as a fifth in Sam's, he's warm and floating and soft under those eyes, those
fingers, that mouth. If Sam is too busy getting Dean out of his clothes and
bent over the coffee table to notice how much Dean really chugs down or if he
simply doesn't care - these things don't really matter as long as they work
out. Dean is smart like that. Maybe he should be the one leaving for college.
Huh.
Dad left earlier today, won't be back for a few days and Dean is pretty sure
that will actually be the case, so he allows himself to fall, to really fall -
deep and deeper and there still is no ground in sight for him to shatter on.
His spit bubbles where he groans meaningless things into it, one hand curling
around nothing next to his head, feet still in his sneakers and he lost hope
for Sam to strip him completely bare some time ago. Dean doesn't mind. Nothing
matters, really. Fighting the inevitable is exhausting. He won't be able to
keep that up forever. Just get it over with, he thinks. Once broken in, maybe
he will get used to it like he got used to shooting guns and morning runs and
fingers up his ass and sleepless nights and near-death experiences and the
thought of monsters underneath his bed.
Sam mutters something, asks. Dean just grunts, too wasted to do anything else,
really, but there's also no words he would have liked to use instead.
He feels his brother line himself up, hotsilkyslipperybare crown of dick
kissing the tiny, sensitive thing Sam has been carving out for months now; now
finally gaping all open and ready and inviting and Dean can't even feel his
legs anymore with how drunk he is.
Dean misses the first hint of a push but gasps at the first inch; wider at the
second.
"Shhh, relax, I've got you." It's a weak, weakweakweak consolation; how could
Dean relax any more than this? Any more and he's just a corpse, a piece of
flesh. Is that what he has to become to satisfy Sam's needs?
Push and push and push and it just won't stop. It's too much. Dean is sure he's
tearing apart inside, huffs consonant-heavy curses under the constant shhhs
from his brother. The first curls of pubes reach him and he howls a moan.
Sam drapes himself over his back, drives his dick just a little deeper until
they're hips-to-ass and Dean can barely breathe like this, crushed in so many
more ways than he thought it was possible. "Feels so good," he hears somewhere
next to his head, feels lips brushing the shell of his ear, lick at the sweat
on his temple, "Love how you feel. Knew it'd be perfect. Takin' me so good. My
perfect baby boy. Dee. Dean."
Sam pulls him inside out, ass first. That's how it feels and there is no other,
prettier description for it. It's basically really like someone pulling a
giant, burning plug from his ass - and then plunging it back in. Dean wants to
be strong, to get through this, he really really is, he has come this far, but
bile starts pushing up his gullet, bile and whiskey and terrible words.
Soft dragging motions turn into slick fucking more sooner than later. Too fast,
too quick. Dean is still holding on too tight, is thrown around too heavily. He
dug the fingers of his right hand into Sam's hip some time ago (when? fuck does
he know) and can't suppress quietest, most strangled chants of "no".
(Nonononono, slower, pleasesammypleaseslowdown,
nonononoithurtspleaseIcan'tdon'tmakemedothisplease - only in his head.) The
rhythm falters at that, changes. Short stabs, quick, soft at first but dense
again in no time. Sam's dick might poke at his tonsils, sure is deep enough for
that.
There's something familiar about this pain, a certain richness. Ridges and
impossible edges of Sam's cock scratch along everything, even that sensitive
gland - especially that sensitive gland. Dean fears and knows that he can come
from this, just like he can come from everything Sam puts his body through.
Maybe he came too, that night. Maybe that's what started all this, broke Dean,
turned his body into the monster it is now, the thing that accepts his brother
inside of it, lets him soil his perfect heroic clever wonderful big brother
with the filth that Dean is.
It starts with a quiver in his belly. It always does. Was the same with
fingers, with tongue. When it's his ass that makes him come, it's an entirely
different thing altogether. Is it better? Is it more intense? Dean has no idea.
He prefers not to think about it.
Sam knows him by heart by now, knows he's about to lose it. Dean can feel the
reaction to that now, feels Sam's dick grow impossibly larger inside of him,
hammering into the tenderness of his insides, and maybe it's good that he
prolonged this by another few weeks because maybe when you're not "sweet"
sixteen anymore you're tougher somehow, closer to being an adult, able to take
more. Every day was worth it, he decides.
Hollowed out and impossible full, his body catches fire from the inside out. It
spreads through every cell, nerve, muscle, pore, hair. Dean can taste it on his
tongue somehow, on the sharp edges of his teeth, feels the vibration in how his
nails dig into wood and skin and breakbreakbreak everything in their wake.
Lost and empty, ghosts of grass blades cut into his cheeks.
===============================================================================
The pieces of paper in front of him don't make a lot of sense but his teacher
expects him to stare at it and tell him what he thinks about it.
"I know you haven't been with us for too long," she says, "but I can honestly
tell that this would do you good. It's a chance, Dean."
He shrugs his shoulders. Since he lost some weight, his shirts shift over his
skin a bit more freely. "We don't exactly have money for this kind of stuff."
Or time. Or sanity.
"There's scholarships. Here. See?" Red nail polish points to a certain clump of
letters (maybe words). "If you put a little effort in your grades, you would be
qualified."
Dean doubts that. He also doubts that the teacher has any idea of how useless
this conversation is. Dean would never leave his family behind. Not ever.
She tries a soft smile. "I saw you listed 'cars' under your interests."
He grunts. Yeah. One and only word he put in there that's maybe halfway true.
The finger points somewhere else. "They offer courses in motoring technology,
too. How to put together an engine, to change a battery."
Dean mirrors her smile, just as fake as hers feels to him. "Oh, that's just
cute, sweetheart."
"... You're being picked up by that 'black beauty' every day, aren't you?"
He blinks.
"A Chevrolet... what do they call it? I forget, sorry."
"Impala," Dean completes, "Sixty-seven model year." V-eight three-hundred-
twenty-seven four Barrel. Three-spd auto transmission.
"Yeah," she laughs, "That one."
He stares at her and feels stripped. Nasty move.
"You seem passionate about it."
"Maybe."
"Then, maybe, wouldn't you like to work with cars one day?"
Hesitation - just to think of a lie. (Honestly.) "Family business is calling,"
he announces.
"Oh, really? What kind of business?"
"None of yours."
===============================================================================
What Dean probably hates most about it is the aftermath. Sam is hotter than an
exhaust pipe but expects to find it comfortable for Dean to fucking cuddle with
him. There were times and places he used to like it, honestly like it, enjoy
it, even. But that was months ago with Sam. Seems ages ago with other people.
Staring at the ceiling, he can't wait for Sam to fall asleep and run for the
shower. The sensation of come oozing from his ass is the most humiliating thing
he has ever experienced.
He wonders how the faceless guy had done it back then. Had he used a condom or
wiped Dean clean afterwards? All Dean remembers is sweat and raw, pulsing
tissue under his fingers, no lube, no blood, no nothing. Like a phantom fuck.
As if it could have only been an imagination, a trick of his mind. False alarm.
Now that would have been something, wouldn't it.
Sam repeats his confession more often now and it gets harder for Dean to
replace his answer with something else to pull Sam's attention to. He wonders
if he is good enough at lying to pull that one off. He doubts it. He seriously,
honestly doubts that.
A cliff is visible. Distant, but it is. And there is no way around it, no way
to avoid it.
Dean's sigh is dry, tired.
Fall asleep, fall asleep, fall asleep.
Secrets run in the family. Dad probably has them; Sam had them.
From five towns ago, a crumpled piece of paper travels with Dean at the bottom
of his duffle bag. The times he spreads it out on his knees, flattens the
wrinkles of it until he can read the familiar paragraphs - they accumulate. All
while the guilt about it fades, just like the taste of perfume and rum and
resistance eventually has faded.
Ever since that swing of a baseball bat (and maybe even next to accepting Sam's
kiss in that bathroom all those months ago), maybe this one is the worst of
Dean's betrayals.
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