Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12664347.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Getting_Together, Angst, First_Kiss, Frottage, Hand_Jobs, Sexual_Tension,
      Guilty_Dean, Pining, Cuddling_&_Snuggling, Drunken_Shenanigans, Snowed
      In, Cabin_Fic, John_Winchester's_A+_Parenting, Flirting, First_Time,
      Weecest
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-11-08 Chapters: 6/6 Words: 22725
****** howls in my bones ******
by weefaol
Summary
     When John gets a call to investigate a series of grisly animal
     killings, he drops Sam and Dean at an abandoned cabin two towns over.
     The boys find ways to keep busy — playing cards, watching movies,
     chopping wood — but with a howling winter storm on the way, there’s
     nowhere for Sam to hide his illicit feelings for his older brother.
     As the lure of desire threatens to devour him, Sam must learn to face
     the wolves that lurk outside and the monsters within.
     Written for the 2017 Wincest Big Bang.
Notes
     This weecest fic was written for the Wincest_Big_Bang_2017. There is
     no penetrative sex in this story. In my mind, it rests on the knife's
     edge between Mature and Explicit.
     This story inspired an incredible series of fan art by the lovely
     azziria. The artwork beautifully captures the themes of the fic and
     can be viewed in its entirety here. Azz, I'm so glad you picked my
     story. <3
     Special thanks to my wonderful beta, danischmannni, for providing
     such valuable feedback, including delightful sprinklings of OH DAMN
     GURL I SEE YOUs. You gave me the confidence to keep on track.
     Shout out to fellow writer and new friend, lolo313, whose emails were
     lovely signposts to help me navigate my first big bang.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** PROLOGUE *****
According to H. Rink’s Tales and Traditions of the Eskimo, in the barren lands
of the Arctic lives a Great Wolf called Amarok. Monstrous and bear-like in
features, it surveys its prey from afar with piercing gold eyes. If threatened,
its wrath is fierce and terrible. It hunts alone.
Legend tells of a young boy born with excess bones, ones with cracks and
splinters and bruises, a weakness for which he was shunned by his family.
Wishing to strengthen himself, the boy prayed to Amarok, who appeared and with
its tail struck the boy to the ground, knocking the excess bones from his body.
“These bones have prevented your growth. Now you are free of them,” said the
mighty Amarok and bade the boy return to improve his strength. Day after day,
the boy returned to wrestle Amarok, until he became strong enough to win his
family’s respect. Once more, the boy set out to thank the Amarok, but found he
had lost his way — memories of why he had left disappeared like a cool whisper
in the wind. He returned home, not knowing he had gone, and never thought of
Amarok again.
 
Amarok| \'a-ma-rock\’ | noun
1. a monstrous, bear-like wolf from the lands of the Arctic
2. from which nothing remains concealed
[https://www.google-analytics.com/collect?v=1&amp;tid=UA-116159460-
1&amp;cid=1&amp;t=event&amp;ec=Ao3&amp;ea=PROLOGUE]
***** MILK TEETH *****
i. at three weeks, a wolf pup’s milk teeth appear; the eyes have opened and
they start to explore the den
 
“Key’s under the mat. I’ll be back next —”
Sam Winchester slammed the door to the Impala in a huff, cutting his father
off. He couldn’t stomach another word. Another faceless town, another empty
shack, another lame excuse for Dad to dump them in the middle of nowhere. In
the dead of winter, too. He rapped cold knuckles on reinforced aluminum,
avoiding John’s eye in the rearview mirror. A second later, the trunk popped
open.
The Winchester arsenal was pristine, shiny metal all laid out, with two lumpy
duffle bags on top and even more cases of beer in the corners. Sam stashed one
of the six-packs in Dean’s duffle, muffling the clink clink with a cough. He
slung the bags over his shoulder and grabbed his shotgun, half-listening to his
father’s explanation about some hunt two towns over.
John was off to meet up with Uncle Bobby, who’d called yesterday about a pack
of werewolves stalking around Cook County. Clawing peoples’ guts out or
something. Sam didn’t care. Not this time. He’d been yanked out of school,
again, just when he was starting to make friends. And he couldn’t exactly
explain to Ms Matheson it was because his father was going on a werewolf
killing spree.
“Take this,” said John, tossing his hunting journal at Dean, who was leaning
down through the passenger window. “Make sure Sam studies up while I’m gone.”
Sam huffed. He’d practically memorized the thing already. Knew it better than
anyone. He kicked at the ground, keening off balance from the weight of the
bags.
Clink clink.
“Yessir,” said Dean, using his voice to cover the jingle of the beer bottles.
He straightened up and turned to Sam. With a grin, he undid the top of his
duffle bag and tucked the journal on top of the stolen six-pack. “Careful,
Sammy. Wouldn’t want you falling and breaking anything.” He winked.
Sam blushed, his cheeks burning pink. It was so cold their breath made little
puffs of smoke in the air. Sam breathed in, letting it fill his lungs and burn.
John leaned across the passenger’s seat. “Sam, don’t give your brother a hard
time. No one wants to listen to your bitching and complaining.”
Sam rolled his eyes. The thing about bitching and complaining was that, for
life with the Winchesters, there was always something to bitch and complain
about. This time, it was being stranded for God-knows how long in a ramshackle
old cabin in the middle of Buttfuck, Nowhere. Besides, what Dad never
understood was that most of Sam’s whining was saved for when he was around.
That life was simpler when it was just him and Dean.
At least, it used to be.
“Big storm coming,” said John, speaking directly to Dean now. “Should be plenty
of wood in the shed. If not, figure it out.”
Dean nodded and patted the door frame twice.
They watched as John rolled up the window and kicked the Impala into gear, a
roar in the winter stillness. Sam closed his eyes. His ears prickled with the
deafening engine’s rumble until it faded on up the road, leaving the two of
them in silence.
A hand mussing up his hair stirred Sam from his melancholy. Dean liberated one
of the duffles from Sam’s shoulder, beer bottles clinking, and sniffed the air.
“Dad’s right. Storm’s coming.”
Sam watched him walk up the covered walk, kicking snow out of the path and
avoiding patches of black ice until he reached the front porch of the cabin.
Sam sighed.
Bone-chilled broken homes.
That’s where Sam and Dean made their living.
                                      ***
The key wasn’t under the mat. Of course it wasn’t.
It was inside the snow-covered mailbox back out by the road, but it only took
Dean three-and-a-half minutes to find it. Good thing too, for it was freezing
out. And it wasn’t like the Winchesters could afford proper boots and hats. The
zipper on Dean’s jacket didn’t even zip, for Christ’s sake.
After rattling the rusty key around the lock, Dean shoved the mouldy door open
with his shoulder. The smell of musty curtains and kerosene filled Sam’s
nostrils. He followed his brother over the threshold and scoffed at what he
saw. It was one of the most derelict houses he’d ever had the misfortune of
stepping into. And Sam had seen enough of those for two lifetimes.
“What a dump,” he whined. He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw clicked.
Dean cast a long look around the living room before dropping his bag on the
couch. A puff of dust clouded the air. Dean wiggled his nose, trying not to
sneeze.
“It’s not so bad,” said Dean, avoiding Sam’s gaze and struggling to hide his
own disappointment. “We’ll survive.”
Sam’s shoulders slumped. He felt like sinking down, deep beneath the rotting
floorboards with the cockroaches. Felt like letting Dean tread all over him.
Because, even more than the run-down cabin, Sam hated how Dean always had to
put on a brave face. Hated how easy it was for Sam to see through it. For all
the secrets Dean struggled to keep buried.
But Sam had secrets too. Secrets so shameful, so sincere, and so easy to sink
into — one wrong move could ruin everything. And in one-room cabins, there was
nowhere to hide.
“Dean, don’t you ever wish we had a real house?”
“If we had a real house, we’d be just like everybody else.”
Sam sighed. Exactly.
He sulked for a few minutes while Dean did his routine inspection — checked the
cupboards for dead mice, made sure there was running water (bonus, it wasn’t
brown), and scanned for loose electrical wires. Despite his gloom, Sam secretly
relished his brother’s little hms and uh-huhs as he performed his inspection.
It was a ritual for every time Dad dropped them in a new place. Sam figured if
Dean hadn’t been raised a hunter, he could make a good living as a carpenter.
Or a mechanic.
Dean was always good with his hands.
“Gonna see what we got for wood.” Dean pulled his unzipped jacket tight and
headed out the back door to the shed.
Once he’d gone, Sam did his own exploration of the place. Everything from the
cigarette butts in the ashtray to the ugly macrame wallhangings was covered in
a thick layer of dust. And the cabin was tiny. The main room, which housed a
living room and kitchenette, was separated by a mouldy old couch. Apart from
that, there was only a closet-sized bathroom, and —
Sam stopped in his tracks.
There was one bedroom. One bed. A single.
Sam swallowed a nervous lump in his throat. They hadn’t shared a bed in months.
Dad had put a stop to that one morning after he’d found them tangled up
together, sound asleep under the sheets. Sam still remembered the bruise on his
arm from where Dad had yanked him out of bed, his gruff voice barking, You boys
are too old for this shit. After that, he’d always made sure there was an extra
cot in motel rooms.
But Sam missed it. Missed curling up in his brother’s arms. Missed the soft
caresses and gentle fingertips combing through his hair. The smell of Dean’s
skin and the calm rhythms of his breath. He wondered if Dean ever missed him
too.
Sam dug in his pocket for the old Mickey Mouse watch that had lost it straps
ages ago. He sighed. Only four o’ clock. He gazed longingly at the single bed.
Darkness couldn’t fall fast enough.
It took less than five minutes to explore every nook and cranny in the bedroom.
He learned the hard way that you needed to jiggle the dresser drawers open or
else the knobs would come off in your hand. In one drawer he found a few
mismatched socks, a faded T-shirt with a Budweiser logo on the front, a black
beanie, and a red and black flannel hunting jacket. He grabbed the T-shirt and
ran it over as many surfaces as he could, collecting the dust. Or just moving
it around. It made his nose itch.
He was just finishing dusting off the ancient 13-inch television in the living
room when Dean returned, a bundle of mismatched kindling in his arms.
“This is all there is for wood,” he said, biting his lip. He dropped the pile
next to the old stove, avoiding Sam’s eye.
Sam said nothing, just clenched the dust-ridden T-shirt in his fist. Dad was
such an asshole sometimes. He’d known damn well there’d be no wood. Because
John Winchester didn’t give two shits about quality of life. At their last
house, he’d even scolded Sam for feeding a stray cat. Don’t get attached to
that thing, Sam. We won’t be here long.
Dean, on the other hand, always went out of his way to make sure Sam had the
creature comforts that Dad dismissed as nonessentials. It was Dean who always
made sure there was a bowl of cornflakes on the table every morning before he
went to school. Who spent his last few dollars from under-the-table jobs on the
latest Spider-Man. Who never forgot to bring home a convenience store cake on
Sam’s birthday.
Dean was a better father than John ever was.
It made things confusing. Made it difficult for Sam to come to terms the
strange, not-brotherly, not-fatherly affection he held for Dean. The peculiar
dreams and freakish thoughts. The ones he nurtured late at night in darkened
bedrooms.
Sam was full of crossed wires. Pluck at the wrong one and he’d short-circuit.
“There’s some dead trees around back,” said Dean, blowing on his hands in an
attempt to warm them. “I’ll get to work.”
“Dean, wait.” Sam disappeared into the bedroom for a moment and returned with
the abandoned black beanie and flannel jacket. “Here.”
“Thank Jesus,” said Dean, gushing with relief. “It’s cold enough to freeze your
dick off.” He winked and pulled on the warmer outerwear.
Sam’s stomach flipped, watching him go. They would survive. They always did.
Because, even though the cabin was a bonafide hellhole, his brother was there.
Dean was all Sam ever needed.
And so much more than he could handle.
                                      ***
For two hours, Sam took his frustrations out on the wretched cabin. He scrubbed
the bathroom sink raw, scoured the grease-caked pots and pans, whacked the dust
from the couch cushions. The logic behind this was sound — if he buried himself
in the task at hand, he wouldn’t have time to look forward to being alone with
Dean. Wouldn’t take notice of the way his teenaged body buzzed in anticipation
of crawling into the single bed, tangled tight and torrid. Wouldn’t slide his
soapy hands over filthy water glasses while washing dishes, rubbing them clean,
and wishing to God he was someone else — someone beautiful.
Someone wanted.
An hour into his cleaning spree, sweating and covered in grime, he turned on
the shitty old TV and fiddled with the antenna until he found the sweet spot.
The local news station buzzed low in the empty cabin.
“Get out your hats and mittens. We’re in for what experts are calling the worst
winter storm in a decade…”
Sam shivered. The winter wind blew through cracks in the log cabin. Although
there wasn’t much to spare, he grabbed a roll of toilet paper to plug up the
gaps, preventing the worst of the icy blasts from breaching the walls. He found
some Saran Wrap in the kitchen drawer that looked older than Uncle Bobby. After
balling up several clumps in clingy frustration, he managed to make a decent
seal on the leakiest windows. Pastor Jim taught him that trick, but with duct
tape and a hairdryer. Church windows were always drafty.
When he’d reached the end of the cling wrap, Sam turned his attention to the
wood stove in the living room, scraping the corroded insides with an old
andiron. Once he got most of the gunk off, he arranged what little kindling
they had into a tepee with crumpled newspaper in the middle, just like Dean had
taught him. He dug around in their duffle bag pockets for a Zippo and lit a
fire on the hearth. It wasn’t big enough to heat the cabin — not by a long shot
— but it was a start.
Sam sat back on his heels and looked around. Despite the exhaustion that
flooded his bones, he had managed to whip the cabin into a passable living
space. He longed for a hot shower — to steam his skin until it flushed pink. He
pushed himself up off the floor and dragged his feet into the bathroom. There
was an old clawfoot tub with a rusty old spout that Sam longed to sink into. He
opened the hot water tap. It ran ice cold.
“Come on,” he whispered to no one. “Please.” He held his hand under the icy
stream, waiting and waiting for an onrush of heat that never came. He sighed. A
cold sponge bath would have to do. He washed up in the cold water until his
hands were numb, then returned to the fire to warm them.
Although his skin was like ice, the snaps and pops of the kindling ignited a
warmth inside his heart. Sounds that reminded him of pitched tents and roasted
marshmallows and scary ghost stories told with flashlights under chins. Of a
time before he knew the stories were true. Back when the only things that
scared him were school bullies and truck stop greasers. And Dean had protected
him, even back then. Always.
Once his hands regained feeling, he added a bit more kindling to keep the fire
going. It would need some bigger logs soon. He moved to the back window and
gazed out to the forest’s edge.
Dean was hard at work chopping wood. Red-faced and rugged, he lined up logs on
an old stump and brought the axe down to split them in half. Over and over, he
swung the axe, the dull thunk, thunk, thunk filling Sam’s ears. He watched,
scarcely breathing, his chest tightening. It made his heart ache for how hard
his brother always worked to provide. Made Sam want to do things to show Dean
how good, how deserving, he was.
Get on his knees and worship him.
Sam’s cheeks burned. Blood rushed through his body at the unbidden image. At
his willing submission. He was well-aware these feelings weren’t normal. That
he was poisoned with them. Tried time and time to push them down, but they
always bubbled up like honeyed bile. Syrupy and saccharine.
The TV buzzed in the quiet of the cabin, breaking Sam’s torrid trance.
“Have your emergency kits ready and plenty of food in the pantry.”
Sam scoffed. It was ironic, really. As far Sam was concerned, the Winchesters’
entire lives were emergency kits. They’d been surviving on nothing for years —
scraping and clawing for every meal, every tank of gas, every pair of
underwear. Other families had normal problems. Where to send their kids to
college. Which soccer team had the best coach. Those families didn’t know
anything about real problems, like trying to get a good night’s sleep in the
backseat of a ’67 Chevy. Or the whiplash that came with crossing state lines,
new schools and new rules. Or how to grocery shop at Gas-N-Sip. Sam envied
normal problems.
Thunk, thunk, thunk.
A fist clenched around his heart.
Dean Winchester was the one thing normal families didn’t have. The one true
thing Sam was grateful for. As long as he had Dean, things would turn out
alright in the end.
Tired and sore, he flopped down on the couch and dug in his back pocket for his
tattered copy of Jack London’s White Fang. He settled in under a fluffy
blanket, flipped it open to the dog-eared page, and began to read:
But it did not all happen in a day, this giving over of himself, body and soul,
to the man-animals. He could not immediately forego his wild heritage and his
memories of the Wild. There were days when he crept to the edge of the forest
and stood and listened to something calling him far and away.
                                      ***
Sam was in a big clearing, snow-covered and desolate. The wind whistled and
howled, but he was not afraid. He stood at the centre of it wearing an old
Zeppelin tee, but he was not cold. He squinted into the snowfall, the fluffy
flakes catching on his lashes. A familiar, yet oddly figured, shape trudged
through the snow towards him. Lop-sided and six-legged.
He blinked. In his heart of hearts, Sam knew who it was. But it still didn’t
make any sense.
At last, it got close enough to recognize that the misshapen thing was, in
fact, two creatures, both of which he knew intimately.
Dean.
His older brother, bowlegs and all, strutted towards him with a lopsided grin.
In his hand was a chain leash tethered to an enormous wolf, which walked
obediently at his side. Sam should have been afraid. Should have turned and ran
as fast as he could away from the beast. But his feet stayed firmly planted.
It was puzzling. Dean knew better than to lead such a wretched creature to him.
And yet he kept walking — always towards Sam. The wolf at his side stirred when
it neared the centre of the clearing, licking its fangs and snapping its jowls.
Eager to sink its teeth in. Dean tugged firmly on the leash, reigning in the
beast. Its master.
Sam’s legs were weak. He envied the animal. Because, deep down, he knew how
desperately he wished to crawl on hands and knees and bend to big brother’s
will. To be clawed and scratched until he was made to whimper. Until he was
broken-in. Forever enfettered.
Dean Winchester was a wolf tamer.
Awoooooooo.
The landscape plunged into the darkness as the low howl of the wolf prickled at
Sam’s ears. It was haunting, sinister, near. He turned his head.
There was white fur everywhere. Smothering…
“Sammy. Sam.”
Sam shot up, his heart racing. He blinked in the darkness. It was well past
dusk now and standing over him was a tall figure, but one he instantly
recognized.
The two-legged Dean, an armful of wood balanced in the crook of his elbow. “You
okay?”
“Yeah,” said Sam, trying to catch his breath. He threw off the furry white
blanket, releasing the smouldering heat trapped beneath. Weird dream. “Guess I
fell asleep.”
“Without me? Rude.” Dean grinned. He dropped the logs by the wood stove with a
loud whomp.
Sam shifted, wincing when a sharp corner dug at his ribcage. He reached down
and dislodged his copy of White Fang. You’d think, with the family business and
all, he’d learn to stop reading about wolves.
Dean reached up and pulled on the chain for the hanging lightbulb. “Cabin looks
good, Sammy.” He ruffled Sam’s hair. “Now, you gonna help me with this wood or
what?”
Sam hummed and rubbed his eyes.
One smile from Dean was all it took to keep the monsters at bay.
                                      ***
After Sam helped Dean move the woodpile to the back porch, they headed back
into the cabin. Dean went straight for the fire, carefully stacking two smaller
logs on top of the kindling. He paused, letting his hands warm near the flame.
“Winter can go to Hell,” he said with a scowl. His cheeks and nose were tinged
a pretty pink from the cold.
Sam flopped down onto the couch, repressing the urge to cup those nippy cheeks
in his palms. “What if we moved to Arizona? I hear it’s hot there.”
“Arizona?” Dean rubbed his hands together in front of the stove. “Why not
Hawaii? More tropical.” He sighed dreamily. “Can’t you picture us laying on a
beach somewhere? Palm trees swaying, drinks flowing, girls in coconut bikinis…”
Sam grinned, ignoring the last part. He wasn’t interested in the last part.
Never had been. “Sounds nice.”
It was dusk now and the snow was coming down in droves. The TV buzzed.
“A special news bulletin… Several power outages have been reported in Cook
County as winds of up to 60 miles per hour are blasting power lines. Residents
are being urged to stay indoors and to make sure they have a surplus of
candles, matches, and canned goods.”
Dean smirked. “Do you have our surplus of candles and matches ready, Sammy?”
“Yeah, right next to my pet unicorn,” said Sam. “We don’t even have hot water.”
The lightbulb hanging from the chain overhead the living room flickered, but
stayed illuminated. For now. They exchanged a look.
“If the power goes out, we’ll just have to snuggle up to keep warm,” said Dean
with a grin.
The tips of Sam’s ears burned. “Like we used to…”
“Haven’t done that in awhile,” Dean added, quietly. “Dad said we got too old
for it.”
Sam put on his best Dad voice. “Sam, be a man and sleep in your own damn bed.”
Dean scoffed. “If being a man means freezing to death in this shithole, then
call me a bitch and get on with it.”
Sam laughed. Dad’s rules were so arbitrary. Even at fourteen he knew that being
a man wasn’t about some mindless ability to withstand the elements — cold,
filth, rugged, worn. It was about putting others before yourself, owning up to
your failures, having beliefs and sticking to them. It was Dean Winchester. And
the only thing Sam ever wanted to be was just like him.
“Game of Spades?” Dean dug an old deck of cards out of the coffee table drawer.
“Sure. Loser makes dinner.”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “You’re on.”
Five hands and five losses later, Sam sat back on the couch while Dean gathered
up the cards. He watched the way Dean’s tongue poked out the side of his mouth
the same way it did when he hustled pool.
“Better luck next time, little brother,” said Dean, waggling his eyebrows.
Sam never minded when Dean beat him. Not when he got the chance to catch a
glimpse of that tongue.
Dean stood up, wincing as he shifted his bones. He was already stiff from
chopping wood. “Gotta take a piss.”
Sam watched him shuffle across the living room, slipping his flannel button-up
off his shoulders and draping it over the back of the couch. He shivered as
Dean rounded the sofa, his fingertips trailing along the back of it. Couldn’t
take his eyes off his muscular arms — contoured forearm flexors that gave way
to beautiful biceps. Real, grown-up anatomy.
The bathroom door clicked shut. Momentary relief. Sam could breathe again. He
had stolen plenty of glances at his brother’s body over the years, but it never
failed to take his breath away — just how grown up Dean looked now. Like those
underwear models in department store catalogues Sam sometimes snuck looks at.
Soft, supple, and masculine — all at once.
Sam stared down at his own body, poking at his ribcage through his shirt. He
was all skin and bones in comparison. He wished he looked like Dean. Wished
more than anything that he could be worthy of his affections. He doubted any of
the girls who rolled out of motel beds or left lipstick stains on leather
interiors could ever be enough. Because Dean deserved the world — and Sam
couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t been head over heels in love with him.
Daydreams like these made him dizzy. He closed his eyes, letting his head
dangle over the top of the couch. Let himself get light-headed. Swallowed his
feelings.
The cool press of fingertips to his temples brought them right back up again.
“It’s an icebox in there,” said Dean, standing behind the couch and massaging
Sam’s head in soothing circles. “Dad sure knows how to pick ‘em.”
Sam melted into Dean’s touch, hands combing gently through his hair. Dean was
the only one he allowed to pet him like this. Intimate. Wholehearted. And it
was becoming more and more rare. Dad hardly ever left them alone for long
enough. To take their time.
“What’s he hunting anyway?” hummed Sam, toes tingling. “What’s so important
that we had to drop everything and leave? I hate changing schools.” Fourth one
this term.
“Some werewolf,” said Dean, kneading and pressing. “Bobby’s been tracking it
for months. Guess it had pups not long ago and they’re big enough to start
killing now. Dad wants to take ‘em out before they’re full grown.”
“Our Dad… the puppy killer. Great.”
Dean snickered. He bent down over the couch, lowering his lips to Sam’s ear.
“Puppies with a thirst for little brother blood…”
Sam shivered. “M’not little, Dean.” His stomach flipped when Dean swept back
the hair that fell over Sam’s face, bunching it in his fists.
“I know…” said Dean, petting him gently. “You’re getting taller.” He gave a
careful tug, stretching Sam’s neck further over the back of the couch,
lengthening his throat.
A hot, pink flush crept down his neck. Dean would surely notice. But he
couldn’t move — not under the hypnotic press of Dean’s hands, the low voice
reverberating in his ear.
“Hey,” murmured Dean, “I thought you were gonna do something for me…”
Sam’s eyes fluttered open. Even upside-down, his brother was stunning. Those
dark green eyes. The freckles on his nose and pretty pink lips. He swallowed,
felt his throat bob like a man dying of thirst.
“Come on,” said Dean, low and insistent, tugging at Sam’s hair. “A bet’s a
bet.”
Sam’s body got hard. “I don’t —“
“You’re making me dinner, bitch.” Dean grinned. He mussed up Sam’s hair and
pushed his head forward.
The dizzy spell was broken. Just when Sam was beginning to find his footing.
“Hope you like expired canned beans,” he said, standing up. “Cause that’s all
we got.” He carefully adjusted his jeans as he rounded the couch.
“I saw some squirrels out by the woods…” said Dean, waggling his eyebrows.
Sam rolled his eyes, heading to the kitchen. “Leave the critters alone. Don’t
be like Dad.”
He began rooting around in the cupboard for the canned goods he’d seen earlier.
As he clicked open the can with his Swiss Army knife, he felt the distinctive
burn of eyes on the back of his neck. The tips of his ears flushed pink. Surely
he was imagining the whole thing — the scan of greedy green eyes, the shallow
breath and gravelly hum…
“Guess anything looks good when you’re hungry enough.”
Sam turned just in time to catch the way Dean bit at his bottom lip, his eyes
transfixed. He inhaled, sharp like a knife. “What?”
Dean flinched, reseting his face. “Nothing.” He toed at the floor. “Hey, what’s
the mattress situation? Any weird stains?”
Sam shook his head, shaking his filthy mind clean like an Etch-a-Sketch. “Just
dusty. I zipped our sleeping bags together.” He poured the can of beans into a
pot. When Dean didn’t respond, he added a quiet, “Is that okay?”
Sam would crumble if it wasn’t.
He turned to see Dean shrug, wearing a cheeky half-smile. “Long as you don’t
kick the crap out of me in your sleep like you always do.”
Sam blushed. “I don’t do that…”
“You’re a kicker, Sammy,” Dean grinned. “Don’t deny it. It’s just who you are.”
“Shut up,” said Sam, rolling his eyes. “At least I don’t snore.”
Dean’s mouth dropped open in offence. He raked his eyes over Sam’s body. “Oh,
you are gonna get it later, little brother. When you least expect it.”
“We’ll see. I’m a kicker, remember?”
“Hey, no one’s kicked me out of bed yet,” Dean grinned and cocked an eyebrow.
Sam blushed, a deeper scarlet this time. Nearly fainted when Dean pulled his T-
shirt over his head, revealing his smooth, muscular chest.
“I’m gonna wash up. Got sap all over me.” Dean bunched up his shirt and then
chucked the sweaty bundle at Sam, who caught it against his chest. He chuckled
and strutted to the bathroom, locking himself in.
Sam clutched the shirt in his trembling hands and, without a second thought,
brought it to his face. He inhaled the sweet smell of Dean. Got stoned and
stupid on it — floating high above the clouds and buried deep in ocean crypts.
Forever trapped in the in-between. In purgatory.
                                      ***
After Dean had washed up and they’d eaten their fill of baked beans, a wave of
exhaustion hit Sam like a thud to the chest. Evidently, his wolfish nap hadn’t
really been all that restful. He leaned against the kitchen counter and closed
his eyes.
Dean squeezed some old dish soap into the empty pot and let it fill up with
sudsy water. “Bedtime. Go brush your teeth.”
Sam smiled and sleep-walked to the bathroom. When Dad wasn’t around, bedtime
was his favourite ritual. Instead of taking their usual turns in the bathroom,
Sam and Dean would get ready side-by-side — brushing teeth, washing faces,
prodding at new muscles in the mirror. It was so much more fun, more intimate,
than the artificial walls constructed by Dad — where growing bodies were
something to hide away. Close the door, Dad would say. No one wants to see your
scrawny ass.
But not tonight.
On nights like these, doors were left open, quarters were close. Clothes were
shared and stripped off. Sam’s Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles pyjamas from
Walmart didn’t fit him anymore, so he stripped down to his boxers and rooted
around in Dean’s duffle. Whatever he could do to make himself look more like
his brother, he did. Dean never had any trouble looking good in bed. The skanky
girls who paraded around whichever house Dad dropped them off in a given week
were evidence of that. The way their soft, curvy skin looked in his oversized
T-shirts, bare ass peeking out from below the hem. Sam was always jealous of
Dean’s girls.
At last, he dug around enough to find one of Dean’s old Black Sabbath shirts.
He pulled it over his head, smiled as the loose fabric clung to him in new
places. Teenaged places. And when he was finally satisfied with the way he
looked, loosely decked out in T-shirt and boxers, Sam clicked off the lamp and
lay down on the mattress, shimmying into the fastened-together sleeping bags.
He closed his eyes and fisted the front of Dean’s shirt in his hand, feeling
its softness against his chest. He thought about strutting around in it, just
like one of Dean’s girls. Maybe, just for one night, he could pretend. Make-
believe at being worshipped by Dean Winchester while wearing it.
Sam smiled into the pillow when he heard the chain-click of the living room
lightbulb and, a moment later, the soft pitter-patter of feet across the
bedroom floor. He secretly longed for nights like this. When they would zip
their bags together, just like Uncle Bobby had taught them when they were kids,
and fall asleep in each other’s arms, nestled together in a cocoon of safety,
comfort, warmth.
The mattress dipped and creaked.
“Fire’s good for a few hours,” said Dean, a low hum in the dark. He climbed
carefully into the sleeping bag next to Sam. His bare chest radiated heat.
“I’ll get up later. Add a couple logs so we don’t freeze.”
“Freeze?” said Dean, a glint in his eye. He rolled over and tackled Sam,
wrapping his arms around him and squeezing him tight against his chest. “Not
when I’ve got my skinny little electric blanket with me…”
They laughed and tussled around in the sleeping bag, Dean’s hands creeping up
under Sam’s shirt and onto his ribcage. Sam’s most ticklish spot. And Dean knew
it.
“Quit it,” he said, giggling as Dean’s fingers danced relentless across his
ribs.
“Say mercy.”
“Jerk…”
“Say it,” said Dean, climbing on top of him with an impish grin. He held him
down, pressing his weight into Sam’s body. “Say it and I’ll stop.”
Sam’s breath hitched. Suddenly, the whole thing wasn’t so funny. Not when he
could feel the blood rushing south, towards his teenaged cock. He tried his
best to wriggle his hips away from Dean. To hide the way he felt. He gasped for
air; got lost in Dean’s dark eyes. The smell of him, the warmth. He couldn’t
breathe.
“Okay, okay, mercy,” said Sam, feeling light-headed and hot. “Mercy, please.”
Dean grinned. “Ha! Bitch.” He rolled off Sam, letting him catch his breath. His
gaze turned soft. “C’mere…”
Dean snuggled up against Sam’s back, wrapped his arms around his middle. He
pulled him close, the way they used to when they were kids. When things were
innocent. Sam relaxed into Dean’s warm chest, snug and slotted together like
two missing puzzle pieces. They’d learned to mould together like this in shared
twin beds and under blankets on leather backseats. They’d gotten used to
breathing the same air, no personal space, always touching.
Sam thought he might die if he went without Dean’s touch for too long.
The snow was coming down in droves now. Flurries as big as Sam had ever seen
pelted against the window, making a little triangular stack of white snow on
the window sill. He watched it for awhile, feeling snuggly and content as
Dean’s breathing slowed to shallow sleep-lulls. His pleasant haze, however, was
interrupted when a flash of movement at the window caught Sam’s eye.
He blinked. He must be seeing things.
Careful not to disturb Dean, who hummed softly when Sam slipped out of his
grasp, he tiptoed over to the window and peered outside. His heart nearly
stopped.
Near the forest’s edge, a great hulking figure stalked back and forth, pawing
over where Dean had been splitting logs earlier. Sam swallowed, a lump in his
throat. Blood pounded in his ears. There was a monster outside. It had golden
eyes. They were fixed on Sam. Watching. Waiting.
Awoooo.
That sound. That howl. Heart-racing, he was about to yell for Dean when…
Blink. It was gone.
No monster. No paw prints. Nothing. As if it were never there at all.
He rubbed at his eyes. He was just imagining things. That was it. Because there
was no way he had just seen a bear-sized wolf in the backyard. Shaking, he
stepped away from the window and took a few steadying breaths. He crawled back
into bed, burrowing down under the covers.
The wind howled outside.
Yes, that was all it was. The wind.
He pressed up against Dean, nuzzled his nose at his collarbone. Tried his best
to swallow the words stuck in his throat, but they ended up coming up instead.
“There was a wolf outside,” he whispered, trembling. “It came to get me.” It
was humiliating, how childish he sounded. Like a little boy worrying his
mother. But when Dean pulled him close, held him tight like this, he felt
anything but small.
“Shhh,” soothed Dean in half-sleep, rubbing little circles at the small of his
back. “No nightmares tonight.” It was scarcely a whisper, but it echoed off
Sam’s ears like the pleasant hum of honeybees.
Sam relaxed, feeling safe again. Like nothing could ever hurt him. Dean’s arms
were strong enough to keep the winter wolves at bay.
They drifted into a tangled sleep — breathing in tandem, chests expanding,
melting together like they always had in cold cottages.
Sam dreamt of the wolves that night. But he dreamed of Dean more.
[https://www.google-analytics.com/collect?v=1&amp;tid=UA-116159460-
1&amp;cid=1&amp;t=event&amp;ec=Ao3&amp;ea=1:MILKTEETH]
***** WEANED *****
ii. at six to eight weeks, pups are weaned; they begin to travel to the
rendezvous site to meet others
 
“Rugaru.”
Sam watched as Dean sat across the breakfast table, holding Dad’s journal with
a mischievously cocked eyebrow.
“Kill it with fire.” Sam didn’t need to wait for Dean to confirm the answer —
Sam knew supernatural lore like the back of his hand.
“Too easy,” said Dean, shaking his head. He took a bite of his breakfast
(leftover baked beans), then set down his spoon and flipped the page. The spine
tugged a little at the seams as Dean ran his finger along it. For all the
action the journal had seen, it was a miracle it was still in one piece.
“Ah, here we go,” said Dean, clearing his throat. “Shtriga.”
“Consecrated iron. But only while feeding.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Nerd.” He half-heartedly flipped a few more pages.
“Okay, how ‘bout mutant three-breasted prostitutes?”
Sam laughed. “Only in Schwarzenegger movies.”
“And that’s a damn shame,” said Dean, snapping the journal shut, signalling the
end of their study session. He got up from the table. “Speaking of movies… You
find anything to do for fun in this dump?”
Sam shrugged, casting a glance out the front window. The snow had stopped
overnight, but not before it had sufficiently blanketed the landscape. There
was nothing but white for miles.
“There’s a deck of cards and an old crib board in the bedroom. Only two pegs
missing.”
“What’d we use last time? Matches?” Dean rooted around in the kitchen drawer.
“Toothpicks,” said Sam, following behind as his brother moved on to the main
living area, inspecting the various nooks and crannies in old furniture.
“Right,” said Dean, pulling a an old manilla notepad out of a drawer and
tossing it onto the coffee table. “Well, hangman’s an option. Tic-tac-toe?”
“Hangman’s no fun if you can’t spell…”
Dean balked. “Hey, the whole ‘I before E’ thing is bullshit.”
Sam grinned and turned his attention to the little wooden cabinet where the
television sat. As he rummaged through it, he was pleasantly surprised to find
a VHS player in there, along with a basket containing a few tapes — Miller’s
Crossing, Uncle Buck, and…
“Hell, yes!” said Sam, grinning when he found the Holy Grail. “Dean, look.”
He held up a VHS copy of The Lost Boys, Sam and Dean’s second favourite
eighties movie after Die Hard. The one where two Arizona-born brothers move to
Santa Cruz and end up fighting a gang of leather-wearing, maggot-eating
vampires. It was the best.
Dean’s eyes widened. “Cancel your plans, Sammy. We’re watching that tonight.”
“Why not now? I’m bored.” He wasn’t really. Sam was never bored when Dean was
around.
Dean smirked. “Because I’m gonna kick your ass at crib now.”
While Sam begrudgingly set up the crib board, Dean took a closer look at the
VHS cabinet, rooting through some of the other tapes, mostly home-recorded
episodes of Unsolved Mysteries and The Bold and the Beautifuljudging by the
handwritten labels.
“Heyyy…” Dean grinned like a ten year old boy on Christmas morning when he
pulled out a well-worn VHS porno from the 1970s. He waggled it excitedly at
Sam. “The Lost Boys might have to wait.”
“Dean, there’s no way I’m watching Saturday Night Beaver with you.” He shoved
the tape away in disgust.
Dean shrugged. “Guess I’ll have to wait till you’re fast asleep before I knock
one out.” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Ha. Like that’s ever stopped you before…”
Dean’s laughed and shook his head. “That’s it, you little shit.” He fanned out
the deck of cards and shuffled them. “Your ass is grass.”
                                      ***
They spent the rest of the morning playing cards. Sam had miraculously managed
to beat his brother at cribbage. Twice. Dean chalked up his bad luck to missing
his morning coffee.
“Gotta do a supply run,” grumbled Dean, when Sam out pegged him for the second
time that day.
Sam shot him a look. There was nothing to see but fluffy white snow for miles.
“Dean, come on. It’s like Hoth out there.”
“I need my coffee, Sammy,” said Dean, pulling on his hunter’s boots. “And
unless you can pull a few more cans of soup out of your ass…”
“But you’ll freeze.” He watched helplessly as Dean buttoned his nearly-dry
flannel overcoat. It was utterly insufficient for the weather, but they had
nothing else.
“Kid, we won’t last till the end of tomorrow if I don’t scrounge something up.
There’s a corner store a few miles back.”
“But —“
“Gummy worms or red vines?”
He sighed, knowing there was no way he could talk Dean out of this one.
Stubborn idiot. “Gummy worms.”
Dean nodded, grabbing the flannel hunting jacket.
Sam winced as Dean headed for the door. The snow had fallen to knee-level and
there was no plow service in the middle of God-knows-where. Plus, there was the
whole issue of werewolves roaming around two towns over.
“Wait,” pleaded Sam. He ran to the bedroom and dumped the contents of his
duffle bag onto the floor. Bunched up the bag in his hands, grabbed a pair of
mismatched socks, and returned to the living room.
Dean was tugging at his collar in a futile attempt to better cover his face.
“Here,” said Sam, shoving the empty bag and socks into Dean’s hands. “Wear
those as mittens.”
Dean raised an eyebrow at the wooly socks. “You want me to look like a mental
patient in front of the whole neighbourhood?” He made a sweeping gesture toward
the front window, which showed nothing but whiteout snow for miles on end. He
grinned, then bonked Sam on the head with the balled-up socks. Slipped them on
like sock-puppets and mimed, “Thanks, Sammy.”
“Come home soon,” said Sam, wistfully.
Dean winked. And then he was gone.
                                      ***
Sam couldn’t keep still all afternoon. He’d tried to watch the cheesy soap
operas on the local station. He really did. Some guy found out the woman he was
having sex with was actually his great-aunt or something. And there were tears.
Rivers of them. He got bored after two episodes, so he stacked the pile of wood
on the back porch until his fingers turned blue. Later, he tried to settle down
to read his book, but eventually threw White Fang aside after re-reading the
same sentence fifteen times.
He couldn’t focus. He was too preoccupied with thoughts of Dean. Where he was.
What he was doing. If he was frozen solid in a snowbank somewhere, surrounded
by instant coffee and gummy worms. He shook his head to snap himself out of it.
 He’s fine. He’ll be back soon.
To distract himself, he busied himself with various chores around the house —
gave the bedroom a decent clean, rid more dust from the couch cushions, scoured
the frying pan until the decades-old char broke up. He boiled water and made
cinnamon tea with long expired spice-sticks. Stole a few peanut M&Ms from the
secret stash in Dean’s duffle. Had an unfortunate ice cold shower.
Time seemed to stand still.
Later, after dealing enough hands of Solitaire to make his head spin, he put on
Miller’s Crossing, which, as he discovered, was the most boring movie in all of
existence. Then again, he’d missed most of it from checking the front window
for Dean-shaped figures in the distance. Then he checked some more. The snow
was starting up again; the sky a dark grey, nearing dusk.
His stomach sank. Just a few hours ago, Sam had stood right there, stupid and
helpless, while the only thing he cared about in the whole world walked out the
door, leaving a blast of wintery air in his stead. He’d watched dumbly as Dean
trudged up the walkway through knee-deep snow, forging his way through the
drifts, the empty duffle slung over his shoulder. Fucking gummy worms. It would
take forever for Dean to get to the store. He’d be exhausted. Frost-bitten. Sam
chewed the inside of his lip.
 How could I have let him go?
Just then, his miserable existence was interrupted by a bone-chilling cry.
 Awooooooo.
Sam’s heart lurched into overdrive.
Wolves.
He ran to the window and squinted into the storm, scanning desperately for a
spot of grey in the blinding white. He’d only ever seen run-of-the-mill wolves
before, not ones that ripped the flesh off your bones for sport. Ones that
turned you. Made you monstrous, like them.
Sam’s bones trembled as another blood-curdling wail pierced the air.
 Awoooooo. Woo-woo-woooo.
His blood ran cold.
Dean was out there. Alone.
Sam scampered to the bedroom and grabbed his shotgun, loaded it up with shells
and stuffed a few more in his jeans pocket. It was wishful thinking, really.
Because, when it came to werewolves, you’d best make sure to kill them on the
first go round. There’d be no time to reload, no time for a miss, with three-
hundred pounds of monster charging at you. It said so in Dad’s journal.
Sam shook his head. He couldn’t think about that now. Couldn’t think about
razor-sharp wolf claws tearing at his brother’s chest, giant paws trampling his
broken body. He was about to be sick. He slapped himself hard on the cheek.
Cold be damned, he laced up his boots and threw open the cabin door. He stepped
into the fray, shotgun locked and loaded. Trudged across the front yard,
peering around for yellow eyes and blood-red fangs. The hairs on his neck stood
on end in a way that had nothing to do with the bitter cold. This was fear. And
he was wracked with it. Deep and primal and pressing in on him like he was
drowning.
He swallowed, focusing on the task at hand. There were no signs of the animal.
No paw prints in the snow, no echoing howls, no greyish figures in the
distance.
Then, up ahead, Sam spotted a dark figure. But it wasn’t the fleeting bound of
a wolf. No. There was no mistaking the slow, measured trudge of this
magnificent creature.
Dean.
Sam surged forward, catapulting through the thigh-high snowbanks in a T-shirt
and jeans, shotgun at the ready. Dean was slogging through the snow, head bowed
and jacket half held up to protect his face, sock-mittens coated white with
frost. He walked off-kilter, the heavy burden of the now full duffle draped
over his shoulder.
“Dean!” Sam cried out, closer and closer. Almost there.
A whip of furry wind skimmed at his arms, a flash of golden-yellow eyes, an
almighty howl.
 Awooooo.
Sam couldn’t help himself. He tossed his gun aside and leapt desperately into
his brother’s arms, knocking them both into the snow.
Dean, weary with exhaustion, buried his windburned face in Sam’s neck. “S - s…”
Sam pulled him close, feeling Dean’s frozen, chapped lips nuzzle against his
neck. Barely moving, barely breathing.
 Dean was alive.
But Sam knew better than to linger. He refocused his efforts on making sure
they were safe. He looked around for signs of the howling beast, the golden
eyes Sam swore had been imprinted on the backs of his eyelids. Fear seeped into
his gut as he picked up his gun.
“Come on,” he urged, helping pull Dean up from the snowy ground. It took some
effort — Dean was like dead weight, drained and near collapse. The duffle bag
was caught around his arm.
Using pure adrenaline, Sam helped pull his brother back to the safety of the
cabin, shotgun dragging in the snow. He breathed a sigh of relief when they, at
last, reached the porch steps.
If being ripped open by wolves was Sam’s fate, he wouldn’t let it be today.
At last, Sam had managed to drag Dean back inside, the fire-warm cabin a
welcome refuge from the fray. Sam let the heavy duffle bag of goods fall to the
floor and focused on getting Dean’s freezer-burned body over to the couch. His
skin smelled of winter air and icicles. Sam’s was blood and fear.
“Come on,” he said, tugging on Dean’s shoulder. “Over by the fire.”
Dean was nearly frozen stiff. Didn’t move, didn’t speak, barely breathed.
“Get these off,” said Sam. He made quick work of removing his brother’s outer
layers once Dean had slumped back onto the couch — pulled the ice-caked socks
from his hands, shoved the makeshift jacket to the floor, and flung the snow-
soaked hat across the room. He didn’t like the way the tips of Dean’s ears and
nose shone bone white or how little he was moving as Sam stripped him down,
piece by piece. Normally, Dean didn’t let Sam make a fuss over him. But Dean
sat still as a stone while Sam tugged at him like a rag doll. As he undid his
belt buckle and shucked down his jeans, leaving him in just boxers. Sam winced.
Dean’s legs were rubbed raw with windburn. Prolonged exposure.
“You have hypothermia,” said Sam, grabbing the comforter he’d left warming near
the fire. He loosely wrapped Dean up in it like a big cocoon and shook his
head, putting everything he’d seen on the Discovery Channel about organ failure
out of his mind. Bit his lip and wracked his brain.
Body heat.
Desperate, Sam stripped off his own clothes and climbed into Dean’s lap.
Pressed their bare chests together and pulled the comforter around them, snug
and warm. Dean, quiet and unmoving, buried his face in the crook of Sam’s neck.
The tip of his nose felt like ice. Sam hugged him around the head, giving over
all his warmth.
After clinging to each other for several long minutes, Dean began to shiver.
“That’s good,” said Sam, hugging him tighter. “It means your body is starting
to warm itself up.”
Dean nuzzled his ice-chapped lips against Sam’s neck, teeth chattering. He
squeezed Sam tightly around his middle. I’m scared, it said. It was one of the
only times Dean couldn’t hide his fear deep down, away from the world. Away
from Sam.
“It’s okay, Dean. You’re safe,” he whispered, nuzzling his mouth against the
tips of Dean’s ear. “You’re home.”
                                      ***
They stayed like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, for God knows how long. It
was the first time Dean had ever felt young to Sam. In between shivers and
little lip trembles, Sam caught a glimpse of what sort of boy Dean might have
been if he hadn’t been thrust into playing daddy for a good-for-nothing kid.
Slowly, Dean’s body regained movement — the graze of fingertips on his bare
back, a cold nose nestled in Sam’s hair, a tiny sigh of warm air on his
collarbone. Reluctantly, Sam pulled his head back from cradling Dean’s and
looked him in the eye. Dean met his gaze, looking like a lost puppy.
Sam’s fingertips brushed sweetly against the amulet, which rested ice cold
against Dean’s heart. Sam started to pull it up and off.
“Leave it,” Dean urged in a husky whisper, grabbing Sam’s hand and holding it
in place.
They stared at each other, silent and steadfast. There was nothing but
reverence in Dean’s gaze, all precious and pretty-eyed for his protector.
Needing him.
Temporary, thought Sam, blood rushing through his veins. With trembling hands,
he cupped Dean’s cheek, heart fluttering when Dean closed his eyes and leaned
into his touch.
“I shouldn’t have let you go,” Sam whispered.
Dean’s chin wobbled, teeth chattering. “S-since when—” His voice was hoarse,
ragged raw like the cords had frozen solid. “Since when d-do I ever l-listen to
your sorry ass?”
Sam smiled and pulled Dean into him again, nuzzling cheek to cheek. “You always
listen to me. Bitch.”
Dean hummed, “Jerk.”
Felt him smile against his ear.
They huddled up for an hour more, until Dean’s chest began to rise and fall as
normal and the tips of his ears were pink again. At long last, Sam pulled
himself away, climbing carefully out of his brother’s lap.
Dean winced at the loss of heat, but Sam was relieved to see that his legs were
a less angry shade of red now. He tucked the comforter back around Dean’s
front, tugging until it enveloped him.
Sam cocked his head, surveying his handiwork. “You’re kinda cute when you’re
helpless.”
Dean blushed and batted his eyes, his long lashes making Sam’s stomach flip.
Sam kneeled down in front of the chair and began to untie Dean’s boots, the
cold laces making his fingertips burn. “How do you feel?”
“Tingly,” said Dean, raising an eyebrow. “But not in the good way.”
Sam laughed and slipped off Dean’s boots, prompting a wince of achy discomfort.
“It’s okay. It’s just your body adjusting.”
Even through the Kodiak socks they’d sprung for last winter, Dean’s feet felt
like icicles. One at a time, Sam held each foot in his hands, rubbing them
gently. He pressed carefully along the ends of Dean’s socks, gently flattening
his toes from being frozen and overcrowded in his hunting boots.
He wasn’t expecting to hear what he heard next.
Wasn’t expecting Dean to moan like that.
Sam’s mouth went dry, his head spinning with want. Until now, he’d only ever
heard Dean make sounds like that in his fucked-up fantasies. Or through bedroom
doors, hidden away, muffled. Never this clear. Never this close.
Dean moaned again. “Keep that up and I’ll start tingling in all the right
places.”
“I — I thought you said only girls get horny when you rub their feet…”
“I lied,” said Dean with a grin. He cast a cheeky glance downward. “You using
my own tricks on me, Sammy?”
Sam swallowed, his face hot. “You wish…”
For a brief instant, Dean’s eyes flared with something dark and beautiful. But
he bit his bottom lip and looked away, melting into the couch cushions and
letting Sam rub him to his heart’s content.
He was so beautiful, his brother. The pink-tinged nose and cheeks, the rumpled
beanie hair, the way his five o’ clock shadow crept down along the length of
his neck. Equal parts soft and rigid. Sweet as pie and tough as nails. He
wondered if other people, girls, saw everything he saw in Dean. If they didn’t,
they were blind.
Dean was making the most obscene little breathy noises, ones that weren’t
supposed to make Sam dizzy with the desire to spur him on, to hear more. He
nearly fainted when Dean let his head fall back against the couch, closed his
eyes and whimpered sweetly, “That’s good, Sammy.”
Got hard in his jeans when Dean, in a trance, reached down and pressed his
fingertips to Sam’s head, rubbing intoxicating circles into his scalp. The
touch of him, the implicit authority of it, was making Sam crazy. It flooded
his body with impossible want.
It had to stop. There was no way he could let Dean see that deeply hidden part
of him. Despite how much he might like to. Or how much his mind was beginning
to trick him into thinking that maybe, just maybe…
 He could never want me like that.
“You need to drink something,” said Sam, tearing himself away. Flustered, he
fumbled at the front of his jeans. “Be right back.”
Sam nearly tripped over himself in his rush to reach the safe confines of the
bedroom. He closed the door behind him and fell back against it, feeling the
scrape of the wood on his bare back. He took a deep breath.
It wasn’t as if Dean could ever want him back. Dean was too perfect, too good,
too much of a chick-magnet to be what Sam wanted. What he needed. And yet, in
moments like these, ones that were becoming less few and far between, Sam could
swear he saw something in Dean’s eyes. Longing. Desire. A depraved desperation
that mirrored his own. He wondered if other brothers flirted with sin the way
they did. If it was normal.
Or something else entirely.
He wrenched himself away from the door and dug around his dumped-out
possessions, looking for something. At last, his fingers grasped it, one of his
most cherished belongings — a single packet of hot chocolate mix, the kind with
the mini marshmallows in it.
He returned to the kitchen and flicked on the kettle, pointedly avoided mussing
his hand through Dean’s hair as he passed. With care, he ripped open the foil
package and tipped the powder out into an old camp stove mug. It wasn’t much,
but it was all Sam had to give.
Except that wasn’t true at all. If Dean let him, Sam would give everything he
had to the brother he couldn’t bear to live without.
Once the kettle had reached a rolling boil, Sam made quick work of the cocoa.
The spoon ting-tinged against the cup as he stirred in the hot water, watching
the little powder crystals dissolve into a rich, silky brew. It was much too
watery and the marshmallows were shrivelled from being so old, but it was all
they had. Taking care not to spill a drop, he returned to where Dean sat,
nestled, on the sofa.
“Can you hold this steady?” he asked, handing the hot mug over.
Dean shot him a look. “I’m just cold, Sam. Not an invalid.” He poked his right
hand up out of the blankets and carefully took the cup. “Aw, it’s got the
little marshmallows…”
Sam smiled, his cheeks tinging pink at the compliment. It was his favourite
thing in the world, being praised by Dean. “You have to wait five minutes or
you’ll burn your tongue.”
Dean cocked an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t want that.”
Sam blushed. Apparently, Dean couldn’t talk about his tongue without it driving
him crazy.
You are sick.
But he couldn’t help but notice the way Dean was looking at him, almost like a
piece of meat to be devoured. All this flirting was doing sinful things to
Sam’s teenaged body. Having nothing but his thin boxers to hide behind, he
turned and grabbed the abandoned duffle bag as a distraction. He dragged it
over to where Dean sat and plunked himself down on the floor, digging at the
knotted string. “Let’s see what you brought home…”
Dean waggled his eyebrows. “Lots of goodies.”
Sam unzipped the bag and began pulling items out like it was Christmas morning.
Cans of baked beans, pancake mix, milk, Sunny D (Sam’s favourite), chocolate
chips, instant coffee, Oreos, a couple of crossword puzzle books, gummy worms,
and… of course…
“Busty Asian Beauties,” said Sam, rolling his eyes. “Really?”
Dean grinned. “The bare necessities of life, Sammy boy. Emphasis on bare.”
“Idiot,” he scoffed, tossing the magazine aside. “Why do you need those,
anyway? Can’t you just use your imagination like a normal person?”
Dean shifted a little, cleared his throat. He avoided Sam’s eyes, focusing much
too intently on the little marshmallows floating around on top of the cocoa.
Sam frowned. He knew that look. The I’m warning you, don’t dig any deeperone.
Or maybe that was just wish fulfillment. He ignored whatever hoops his brain
was trying to jump through and, instead, turned back to Dean’s treasure trove.
“Where’d you get the money to pay for all this?”
“Well, considering the store was closed and my fingers turned blue while
jimmying the lock…” Dean shrugged. “I left a few bucks on the counter.”
“Come on, stealing? You realize how easy it would be to trace us back here,
don’t you? It’s not like you left snow tracks or anything…”
Dean’s eyes bulged. “Who’s gonna go outside in this?” He nodded towards the
window, where the snow was coming down in droves. “They’d have to be badass.”
“That’s one word for it.”
Dean grinned. “So,” he said, nudging Sam’s thigh with his foot, “you gonna open
up that porno or what?”
“Gross, Dean.” He wondered what his brother would say if he told him he didn’t
find the girls on the cover attractive at all.
“You’re right,” Dean grinned. “Better to wait till I get feeling back in my
extremities.”
Sam couldn’t help but laugh. He wanted so badly to curl up in Dean’s lap, but
he didn’t trust himself. Not for one second. Because that would mean wriggling
and rubbing and skin-to-skin contact and raging teenaged hormones.
“Here,” said Sam, moving to the television and fiddling with the basket of VHS
tapes. He pulled one labelled “A.G.” out and pushed it into the VCR. “I found
something you’ll like.”
After the zebra stripes stopped their flickering, the introduction to a taped
episode of American Gladiators splashed across the screen.
“Yes,” said Dean, his eyes lighting up.
Sam smiled and nestled next to him on the couch, careful to stay outside of the
protective blanket cocoon. They watched the goofy hosts introduce the two
competitors that would challenge the gladiators.
After the first run, Sam snuck a peek at Dean. He was holding the cup of cocoa
to his lips, gently blowing steam off the top. He took a noisy slurp and
smacked his lips together like rich people did with fancy glasses of wine. It
made Sam snicker.
“Oh, man,” said Dean, nearly melting at the hot cocoa rushing down his throat,
warming his belly. “That is good.”
Sam blushed. “You’re just saying that…”
Dean took another drink, a heartier gulp this time. It was pornographic, the
way the lump in his throat bobbed as he swallowed the hot liquid down, the
cords of his throat muscles contracting and releasing. Dean’s pretty lips
gleaming wetly with cocoa and saliva from licks of his own tongue. He moved the
cup down to Sam’s lips. “Taste it.”
Sam’s heart hammered in his chest. He opened his mouth, placing his lips around
the ridge of the cup. They caught eyes as Dean carefully tipped the cup back
until a gulp of hot chocolate filled Sam’s mouth, a little bit dribbling out of
the corners. He swallowed. It was good. The perfect mix of chocolate and heat
and gooey marshmallow. His lips where Dean’s had been.
Dean shifted. He ran his thumb along the trail of rogue cocoa that dribbled
from Sam’s lips down to his chin. Pushed the sugary droplets back up to Sam’s
mouth, nudging his thumb between his lips and pressing gently inside.
 Ohhh, god.
Sam closed his eyes and sucked the wet cocoa off of Dean’s thumb. His dick
hardened instantly when Dean pushed a little further inside, teasing along the
tip of Sam’s tongue, before withdrawing it again. Sam watched, rapt and lusty,
as Dean brought his thumb to his own mouth, sucking it clean before taking
another drink as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
It was then that Sam realized. It was Dean’s mouth that made him so alluring.
The cheeky snark and playboy wit. Tongue-lashes and drill sergeant commands.
The soft curve of pretty lips and honeyed licks of tongue.
If Dean let him, Sam would worship at the alter of that mouth.
His dizzying thoughts were interrupted by Dean’s pointing at the TV. “Shit,
Turbo. She’s smokin’ hot. Eh, Sammy?”
Sam forced his attention to the blonde bodybuilder, an achy surge spreading
through him. “Er, yeah, Dean.”
Truth was, he hated her and any other girl Dean took interest in.
Dean would never know.
                                      ***
Day turned to dusk, craving to lust, in the little cabin at the edge of the
woods. A wooden refuge in the middle of nowhere, where animal instincts reared
their ugly head and the urge to kiss big brothers bubbled up like poison. Sam
was usually good at repressing these things. He’d done so all his life.
Tonight, he would lose.
He almost lost control when Dean had fallen into a gentle sleep, head lolling
softly against Sam’s, pretty pink lips parted, devilish sprinkling of freckles
on his nose. Sam prayed to whatever devil-god was listening for just one press
of their mouths together. One touch, one taste. He promised to just take that
much. Because he was sure he could endure a thousands lifetimes on just the
whisper of a kiss.
He chewed at the inside of his cheek to quell the hunger.
By the end of the third American Gladiatorsmatch, night had well fallen and
Dean was still dozing on the couch. Careful not to wake him, Sam slid his
shoulder out from under Dean’s head and crept over the kitchenette. Using the
corner store surplus, he whipped up a helping of tuna noodle casserole. The
smell eventually caused Dean to stir and retreat momentarily into the bedroom.
“Much better,” said Dean when he emerged wearing more layers of clothing — a
black Zeppelin tee and a pair of thin grey sweats that bulged in exactly the
right places.
Sam bit his lip, trying not to stare as Dean dished out a hearty serving of
casserole for each of them. He figured Dean was the only person in the world
who looked just as good with clothes on as he did off.
They ate in silence. Four hours in the snow and Dean was ravenous. “This is
good shit, Sammy,” he said through a mouthful of noodles. “Hits the spot.”
“Better than beans at least,” Sam shrugged. He let his fork clattered against
the bowl. “Oh, I almost forgot!”
He scampered to the back door and stepped out onto the porch, ignoring Dean’s
grunt of “Snow. Evil.” He returned with an ice cold bottle of beer. Plunked it
down in front of Dean. “There’s more where that came from, too.”
Dean’s eyes lit up. He appraised his little brother from head to toe, devilish
green eyes flaring. “Oh Sammy, you’re the best wife ever.”
Sam blushed. “Yeah, cook and clean all day to keep my jerk of a husband happy.”
“Hey, chicks like jerks,” said Dean, opening the bottle with a tsst. “None of
that nice guy crap.”
Sam rolled his eyes. Because he knew, deep down, past all the masculine
bravado, Dean was one of the nicest guys there was. Sam, however, was a
different story. He had a darkness within him he couldn’t quite explain. He’d
felt it since he was just a baby. But it had always manifested in prolonged
gazes at Dean’s body, spending hours and hours wondering what his skin tasted
like.
Sam wasn’t a nice guy. Wasn’t a jerk either. He was a fucking devil child.
“Hey, so earlier…” said Dean, after a loud swallow of beer. “When you came to
meet me, why’d you bring the shotgun?”
In all the desperation to warm Dean up, Sam had nearly forgotten about the
strange howling, the golden eyes, the impending sense of doom. Of something
lurking not far off.
“I, um… I thought I saw something.”
“Like what?”
Sam shrugged. It seemed so strange to think of it now. Like it hadn’t actually
happened. Like it wasn’t real. “I dunno. Some sort of, um, creature.”
“Ghost? Ghoul? Emo zombie? Give me something…”
Sam wracked his brain. “Like a werewolf, but bigger. Half-wolf, half-bear.”
“A were-bear?” said Dean, grinning. “Sam, are you on crack?”
“No, shut up,” he chuckled, then reconsidered. “Well, maybe. I’m not even sure
what I saw anymore. I was going stir-crazy, cooped up in here all day.”
Dean snickered. “A were-bear…”
Sam laughed along with him. It did sound ridiculous.
After a minute of levity, things got still again.
Sam glanced at his brother, quietly added, “I did hear howling though.”
Dean stiffened. He nodded once. “Probably just coyotes. Nothin’ to worry
about.” His eyes flicked to the gun at the door. “Keep your shotgun loaded.”
The wood stove snapped and crackled with dry logs as they settled in for movie
night, the promised viewing of The Lost Boys. Dean, sufficiently defrosted,
snuggled against the corner of the couch, letting his legs sprawl across length
of the cushions. Sam popped the cassette into the VHS player and hit ‘Play.’
“C’mere, squirt,” said Dean, shimmying his hips a little to make room.
Sam, feeling nervous, shuffled over to the couch, opting to lift Dean’s legs
and plunk down on the middle cushion. Strapping himself in with Dean’s legs
like a roller coaster safety bar was certainly a lower risk than where he
wanted to sit — curled right up in Dean’s lap with his hands on his chest,
feeling his heart beat.
Before they’d settled in, Dean had braved the elements long enough to raid the
back porch beer stash, setting three chilled bottles within reach. He twisted
open the cap on one bottle as the movie started, 1980s electro-synth humming
through the speakers. A few aerial shots of the twinkling night lights of the
Santa Cruz amusement park led into THE LOST BOYS title card.
“Hell yeah,” said Dean, smiling around the lip of the beer bottle.
Sam smiled too. It was one of his favourite memories, watching The Lost Boys on
Halloween with Dean. Sam had been nine years old and there was a scene where
the two brother characters crouched down underneath a windowsill, when Michael
was trying to warn his younger brother about the vampires. He remembered
feeling funny — a good funny, almost giddy, thrilled — when the character had
grabbed his little brother’s jaw and leaned in, almost like a love scene. It
was a rush, watching them, looking as though they might kiss. Sam always wished
they would. Wondered what might’ve happened if the cameras weren’t rolling. If
they were alone.
He could never quite explain it to Dean.
They watched in rapt devotion as a nineteen-year-old Kiefer Sutherland — the
head of the vampires — led his gang around the boardwalk, terrorizing civilians
with their long black leather and spiky hair, while the brothers explored
Murderville, U.S.A. Sam smiled when the Frog Brothers, young vampire hunters,
showed up.
“Ah haaa,” said Dean, echoing Sam’s amusement. “You’d better get yourself a
garlic T-shirt, buddy…”
“…or it’s your funeral!”
Dean laughed at Sam’s timing and took a long swig of beer. He stretched himself
out on the couch, lengthening his body so his T-shirt lifted a little, exposing
his belly and the soft little patch of hair that dipped down below his sweats.
Without thinking, Sam shimmied closer, smoothing out his body until he was
laying alongside his brother, squeezed pleasantly into the space between Dean
and the back of the couch. Dean shifted his hips, turning in slightly to make
more room.
“The Frog Brothers are the best,” said Sam, relaxing against the side of Dean’s
chest.
“Instant classics,” said Dean, grinning as he cracked another beer. He fit his
mouth perfectly around the lip and took a swig. Then, to Sam’s surprise, Dean
held the bottle down towards him, a wordless offering.
Sam blinked. Dean had never let him have a drink before. He took the beer
bottle in his hand. “Thanks.”
“Don’t tell Dad,” said Dean with a nudge.
Sam’s hands trembled. This moment, it was important. So he took great care not
to do anything stupid like knock his teeth on the lip or tip the bottle up too
far and dribble like a fool. He closed his lips around the bottle, the way he
had watched Dean do a million times, and took a swig. The bitter taste of cold
beer washed over his tongue, down his throat.
It was disgusting.
He scrunched his nose in distaste before smoothing out his features again. Dean
was watching him, surveying. Sam took another sip, swallowing quickly this
time, and handed the bottle back to Dean.
“You get used to it,” said Dean, a twinkle in his eye. He squeezed Sam’s
shoulder and took another drink.
Sam, starting to feel a bit of beer in his blood, stared at the way Dean held
the bottle loosely in his fingers, thumb edging around the lip. Sam sighed,
melting into his brother’s side. Dean always looked so cool.
As they watched the Frog Brothers battle the vamps, Dean handed him the bottle
several more times, until Sam actually got used to the taste. Until a warm,
fuzzy glow hummed through his veins, warming him from head to toe. The alcohol
made his tongue loose in a way that felt nice, like warm molasses. A goofy
smile spread across his face as he watched Michael being taken in by the
vampire clan. A hot rush washed over him when the older brother stripped,
muscles bulging and strong, to fuck his love interest, Star.
“I like when he does that…” murmured Sam, fawning over the image of a thrusting
Jason Patric and feeling bold enough to tell Dean about it.
Dean hummed. “Yeah, Jami Gertz is a total babe.”
Sam smiled and tucked a little closer into Dean’s chest, rubbing his cheek
against his shoulder. Snaked his arm across Dean’s waist and squeezed him
close, beer swimming warmly in his veins. “I like Michael’s muscles.”
“Er, yeah, he’s a good-lookin’ dude.” Dean cleared his throat, a breathy laugh
escaping from his lips. “You, uh… you hot for him or something?”
Sam shrugged, playfully. “Maybe.”
Dean shifted a little, adjusting his hips. “Nothin’ wrong with that.”
Sam smiled, buzzing with contentment against Dean’s side. Heard the thum-thump,
thum-thumpof Dean’s heart in his ears. Sam’s toes tingled when the music
crescendo hit — riding high with the vampires above the clouds as the sexy
synth of “Cry Little Sister” blasted through the speakers. Because Sam was high
too, here with Dean, alcohol and adrenaline rushing through his veins. He gazed
up at Dean, spellbound and dauntless. “I like your muscles, Dean.”
Dean swallowed loudly. Shivered in his bones. “Yeah?” He took another deep swig
of beer, fingers trembling as he passed Sam the bottle one more time.
Sam’s cheeks burned hot. “Dean…” he whined, burrowing himself into Dean’s
chest.
“What?” A low huff of laughter escaped Dean’s lips.
Sam smiled shyly. “I feel funny.”
Dean grinned. “You’re drunk as a skunk, that’s why.” He wrapped his free arm
around Sam’s body and squeezed him close. Murmured lowly in his ear, “Better
your first time’s with me than at some party where everyone’s puking their guts
out.”
“Yeah,” said Sam, feeling electricity in his veins. He gazed up at his brother
with pretty puppy dog eyes. He blinked. It was now or never. “I want all my
firsts to be with you, Dean.”
Dean shivered, breath catching in his chest. The vampires were long since
forgotten.
Sam’s hand squeezed at Dean’s chest, grasping a fistful of his T-shirt and
pulling himself upwards. Fingered at the collar, nuzzled his nose at the hollow
of his throat.
Dean’s chest heaved up and down, like he was struggling for air. Throat
hitching, his voice soft, tender, broken. “Come on, Sam, what’re you —”
Sam ignored him. He shifted, turned over on his belly, and half-nestled himself
in the space between Dean’s legs. Inched up his chest little by little. He had
to get closer. Always closer. He couldn’t pull away if he tried. He was
magnetized. “Please…” he whispered, nose nuzzling at Dean’s collarbone, his
neck, the stubble against his jawbone. Breathed in the sweet smell of him, wood
smoke and gun powder. Dragged his teeth along the skin of his neck, planting
little nips and soft kisses as he went.
Dean exhaled, letting Sam melt into him. His hands shook as he pulled Sam up
further onto his chest, so he could wrap snugly around Dean’s torso. Clutched
at Sam like he would slip through his fingers the tighter he gripped. Ran a
trembling hand through his hair. “Sammy.”
Sam was hard and aching for release. And Dean wasn’t saying no. They had passed
the point of no return. Sam rubbed his leaking cock through well-worn jeans,
against his brother’s belly, and it didn’t matter that it wasn’t normal because
it felt oh-so-good and it was with Dean.
Dean clutched him close as Sam’s slow ruts grew in desperation. There were
beautiful, anguished sounds spilling out of Dean’s pretty mouth. The huffs of
breath, the hums and whimpers, the desperate little “c’meres” and “Sammys”as
his fingers gripped Sam’s head, petting him. Wanting more, indulging in it,
letting the beautiful poison inside take over.
Sam’s brain was fuzzy. He rolled his hips with the help of big brother’s
guiding hand, as the friction and pressure built and built and built some more.
His cock swelled, hard and achy against Dean’s belly. He breathed hot onto the
skin of his brother’s neck, dragged his beer-wet mouth along the base of his
jaw. Fluttered a whisper at his ear, “Dean, I’m gonna…”
“It’s okay, Sammy,” he hushed, voice trembling. “It’s okay…”
One more slide of his hips brought Sam to the knife’s edge. White sparks
fluttered in front of his eyes when Dean gave a gentle tug on his hair and
Sam’s cock bled hot release, the blooming patch of warm wetness making Dean’s
skin sticky.
Sam trembled in the aftermath, his brain foggy and blissed out. But his fall
through ecstasy came to a halting crash when hard fingertips pressed bruises
into his arms.
“Ow,” said Sam, feeling the ache of bone as Dean pushed him away. Watched him
get up from the couch and walk quickly across the living room. He didn’t look
at Sam, not once, as he closed the bathroom door behind him.
Sam lay in quiet contentment, his system in shock from what just transpired. He
stared past the TV as Corey Haim joyfully crooned “I ain’t got a maaan!” in the
bathtub. Relaxed into the couch cushions, replaying the sweet way Dean’s lips
pouted for him, the little whimpers and whines. He rubbed at the shape of
Dean’s fingertips, purpling on Sam’s skin. Marked by him.
He smiled like a wolf in the dark.
Some time later, the bathroom door creaked open. Sam hit pause on the movie and
turned to his brother. “You missed Michael turning into a vampire. I’ll rewind
it.”
Dean paused outside the bathroom, his eyes glued to the floor. “Don’t bother.”
His voice sounded all gravelly and strange. He scratched at the back of his
head. “I’m gonna lay down for a bit. I feel…”—he trailed off—“sick.”
It was barely a whisper, but it reverberated off of Sam’s ears like a clap of
thunder. He watched Dean, his face a deepening shade of red. He still couldn’t
look at Sam.
“Can I come with you?” he asked weakly.
Dean’s shoulders hunched inward. He toed a little at a loose floorboard,
looking like his very soul was contorting in agony.
“Nah, kid. Just… just stay out here tonight.”
Sam’s stomach dropped. He watched, helpless, as Dean retreated into the bedroom
and closed the door. If he strained his ears, he could just make out the sound
of a body sliding down the door, slumping in a heap at the bottom. Between
wood-panelled walls, a low sob pierced the silence, followed by an anguished
moan.
Tonight, Sam Winchester would bite his knuckles white.
[https://www.google-analytics.com/collect?v=1&amp;tid=UA-116159460-
1&amp;cid=1&amp;t=event&amp;ec=Ao3&amp;ea=2:WEANED]
***** BLOODLUST *****
iii. at twelve weeks, pups develop a bloodlust by playing with the bones of
dead animals; they “kill” their toys over and over, carrying them around like
trophies
 
Sam awoke to a body on fire. The morning winter sunlight streamed through the
cabin windows, blinding his sleep-ridden eyes. Everything burned. The sticky
skin under wool blankets. The muscles in his neck, kinked out of place. The
blood in his veins as vivid memories came flooding back — Dean’s guiding hands,
trembling bones, sweet whispers and whimpers in the dark. An eternal dream
actualized. The implicit promise of more. Of everything.
He groaned and turned over on his stomach, adjusting the blanket for relief
from the heat and the ache and the blinding sun. Buried his head in the soft
fabric of Dean’s sweater he was using as a pillow. He breathed in. The smell of
him — Old Spice and whiskey — filled his body, alighted his senses. He smiled
in half-sleep, revelling in happy morning arousal. Let the sounds of last night
echo in his ears — breathy grunts, the swish swish of rubbed clothing, and the
way Sam’s name sounded, rough and ragged on Dean’s tongue. Sam hummed and
fucked a little into the couch, craving that sweet friction and knowing now it
could never be enough.
A few minutes later, he was wrenched from his sinful stupor by the clunk of a
bowl being placed in the sink and footsteps towards the bathroom. Sam’s eyes
blinked open. The magnitude of last night alighted him like a firework,
sparking impossible questions — what happens nows and where do we go from
heres. Questions he wasn’t sure he wanted answered.
Trepidatiously, Sam lifted his head when Dean reopened the bathroom door. He
watched his brother cross to the kitchenette, fill up a glass of water and gulp
it down.
“Figured you fell into a beer coma,” said Sam, carefully.
Dean ignored him. Took another drink and set the glass on the counter.
Sam tried again, speaking more clearly now. “I swear, I don’t know how you and
Dad can drink so —“
 Slam.
Sam blinked, stunned at the empty silence that followed Dean’s slamming the
bedroom door. He looked over at the kitchen table. There was a bowl of dry
cornflakes set out for him, just like always. It should have made Sam happy,
but it only made his eyes burn.
He buried his head in Dean’s sweater and cried.
                                      ***
It was near noon when Dean emerged from the bedroom again, stomping around the
cabin in his still-damp boots, waking Sam from his pity-fuelled nap on the
couch. This time, Sam didn’t speak, didn’t lift his head, didn’t do anything
that might drive Dean back into hiding again. He scarcely dared to breathe.
“Gonna chop more wood,” said Dean, gruffly. “How ‘bout you get your scrawny ass
up and do something useful for a change?”
Sam gritted his teeth as the sound of Dean slipping into his makeshift winter
garb mixed with the sound of blood pumping in his ears. He pushed himself up
off the couch and watched Dean walk to the back door.
“You sound just like him,” said Sam, words dripping with vitriol. “Just like
Dad.”
Dean flinched. It was the worst possible insult coming from Sam. He shook his
head and slipped out the back door, letting it slam behind him.
Sam fumed, clenching his fist and slamming it against the back of the couch. He
hated when Dean acted like this — like a complete dick. The Dean who slammed
doors and huffed and puffed and masked his pain with anger. And Sam knew him
too well to put up with this bullshit. He knew Dean was hurting. And it was all
Sam’s fault. He closed his eyes, praying for a how-to guide that would fix it.
He doubted he’d find such a thing in the old cabin drawers.
Soon, the familiar thunk, thunk, thunk of an axe splitting wood pounded in
Sam’s ears. He got up and peeked out the window. Dean was back in his old
rhythm — chop, rip, toss — taking his frustration out on the poor logs.
 How about you get your scrawny ass up and do something useful for a change?
Sam gritted his teeth. In an effort to appease his stupid brother, he pulled on
his boots, hoodie, coat, and the pair of sock-mittens and headed out to the
back porch to continue stacking the wood. God only knew how long Dad would be
gone this time and they needed to do what they could to prepare for more stormy
weather. Dean didn’t look at him. He just swung the axe again and again,
tossing the chopped up logs into an already healthy pile near the stump.
Never underestimate the repressed rage of a Winchester.
They worked in silence until Sam had nearly caught up to Dean’s laboured
chopping. After piling the last of the wood, he turned towards his brother, who
still wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t meet his eye.
Sam clenched his fists. Enough was enough. He wouldn’t be ignored. Not this
time. Not when the elephant in the room was as big as a Titan. He marched up to
his brother, adrenaline coursing through his veins. “Are we gonna talk about
it?”
Dean’s nostrils flared. He was laser-focused on the log in front of him.
“Nothing to talk about.”
Whomp. The axe came down so hard its blade got stuck in the stump.
Sam huffed. There was no way Dean was getting off that easy. Not with a hundred
and forty pounds of stubborn standing in front of him. “Don’t do that. Don’t do
that thing where you pretend everything’s fine.”
Dean fiddled with the axe, trying to remove it from its sticking place. “Drop
it, Sam,” he muttered in warning.
But Sam was reckless. He never listened to warnings.
He stepped forward. “No. This isn’t something we can just sweep under the rug,
Dean. This is important.”
Dean froze, immobile. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, his eyes
still glued to the axe. He shook his head. “I’m not talking about this. Not
with you.”
“Then who else, Dean?” Sam spread his arms in a dramatic fashion. “Dad? Uncle
Bobby? Some random bar bitch who doesn’t give a shit about you?” Sam’s voice
grew louder and louder until he reached his breaking point. “Look at me, Dean.
I’m all you’ve got.”
It was as if Dean’s very bones had begun to vibrate. The axe quivered in his
hands until, in the blink of an eye, he launched himself at Sam, grabbing him
by the scruff of his collar. “You listen to me,” he said, shaking Sam once. “I
can’t, okay?”
“Why?” Sam spat, goading him on, at the mercy of Dean’s ironclad grip. At least
he was looking at him.
All at once, anger, pain, and hurt flashed through Dean’s eyes. His jaw
twitched, the acid words bubbling at the tip of his tongue finally spilled
over. “Because you don’t know what kinds of fucked up things are goin’ on in my
head, that’s why!” He released the grip on his jacket, sending Sam staggering
backwards.
Sam blinked. “You think I’m stupid, Dean? You think I don’t have the same
thoughts? That I’m… not normal?”
Dean’s bottom lip trembled, determination setting along his jawline. He stared
into nothing and shook his head. “This is crazy. This isn’t happening.”
“Just admit it, Dean,” said Sam, daring to step towards him. “Admit that you
want it too and we can — oof!“
Sam hit the ground with a thud, Dean had shoved him away so violently. He
stared up at his brother, who leaned over him, snapping and spitting vitriol.
“This can never happen. Ever.” Shoved a finger in Sam’s face. “What’s the
matter with you? It’s disgusting.”
That word hit Sam like a stab to the heart. He felt his whole soul collapse in
on itself. He imagined his body shrinking — brittle and broken in the snow.
Dean’s eyes softened, turned from anger to agony. Turned the key to the little
black box he kept his heart locked in. Then he looked away. “We’re done,” he
murmured. “We’re done talking about this. I mean it, Sam.”
Sam’s ears were ringing. Felt dizzy as he pushed himself up off the ground,
tears stinging his eyes. His boots left fresh prints as he trudged past Dean,
towards the the snowy path that led into the woods, shoulders slumped forward
with the weight of dejection.
Leaving his love behind.
He wandered aimlessly through the woods, until he became aware of tiny forest
sounds — the creak of snow-covered pine branches, straining under the added
weight, and birds fluttering from one tree to another, dropping little heaps of
white powder. The intense quiet, the utter absence of humanity, made Sam’s head
swim, nearly bringing him to his knees. He felt light-headed and sick with the
sudden realization that he’d gone and messed everything up. That, last night,
he’d lost Dean forever. And all because Sam was was stupid enough to believe
that the very wrong, very unnatural, thing he had always wanted… was okay. The
worst thing was, he’d actually convinced himself that Dean had wanted it too.
“Oh God…” said Sam, with a shaky exhale. He felt sick. Like the world he knew
was collapsing in on him. There were monsters closing in — encircling,
suffocating, ripping his chest cavity open and sinking their teeth in. He fell
to his knees, clutching his chest with one hand, his ribcage swelling with
anguish.
There were howls in his bones.
The whole world blurred. He closed his eyes, breathing in the smell of dank,
matted fur crusted with dark red blood. Low growls pulsed deep in his ears.
Slippery, sharp teeth slid across his skin, leaving little white lines that
faded pink. There was warm blood oozing down his face. He could taste the iron
on his lips.
The devil’s darkness devoured him. He let it.
                                      ***
Later, much later, Sam’s eyes fluttered open. The white glow of the snowy
forest made him squint. He blinked a few times to get his bearings. His hands
itched, near numb from where he’d collapsed in the snow. His lips felt funny.
One lick of them and he tasted metal. He rubbed at them with his fingers,
feeling the crusted blood.
Nosebleed.
He hadn’t got one since he was eight years old. And he remembered it well. He’d
gotten lost at the local fairground, separated from Dean. Until last night, it
had been his worst memory.
Now he had a new one. Dean didn’t want him. Not now, not ever.
There could be nothing worse.
He clutched at his heart, achy and weak. Used what energy he had left to push
himself up, legs wobbling like a baby deer. His head was pounding. But, amidst
the throbbing, he could almost swear he heard…
Awooooooo.
Sam’s heart stopped. A wolf’s howl echoed in his ears. And, in an instant, the
nausea that roiled in his stomach turned to adrenaline. His ears prickled,
straining to pinpoint the direction of padded paws on snow, the snarling of
jaws, the smell of warm blood embedded in its fur.
Without another thought, Sam turned and ran. Ran as fast as his legs would
carry him, through the snow, through the damp, through his own worry and fear
and oh-god-why-didn’t-I-bring-my-shotgun. There was something at his heels,
snapping and clawing and nipping, but he surged onward — didn’t dare look back.
He kept running, hoping to hell that his legs didn’t give out and his boots
stayed laced up — in double-knots like Dean always taught him.
Dean.
His saving grace. His end point. Always.
Sam ran as fast as he ever had before, no conscious thoughts except Dean-Dean-
Dean. To jump into his arms, wrapped up safe and warm. He was all-consumed with
it.
Get to Dean. Get to Dean.
At last, he burst forth from the thick of the wood and into the backyard.
Nearly collapsed with relief when he looked to the cabin and saw his brother,
gazing out the back window with a worried expression.
Sam bent forward, putting his hands on his thighs and tried to catch his ragged
breath. The knobs of his knees shook like the dickens, but he chanced a glance
behind him, back into the forest. There was nothing there but the set of
footprints he walked in with. Whatever monster had been chasing at his heels
seemed to have retreated back from whence it came.
Not today.
After taking a moment to catch his breath, he began his walk back towards the
cabin. When he reached the porch, the door swung open and Dean appeared, a
concerned furrow in his brow. His hackles up.
“Sam?” He took a hesitant step forward when he saw the bloody nose. “You’re
bleeding…“
“I’m fine,” said Sam, covering his nose and giving a dismissive wave. He shot
Dean a sour look. “Everything’s normal. Remember?”
Dean stared, his mouth all scrunched up like it was fighting to hold the words
in. Sam ignored him, brushing past to get inside. His weak heart couldn’t take
Dean’s fussing over a bloody nose. Couldn’t bear to be touched by him, all
earnest and tender like. Instead, he marched to the bathroom, holding his nose
and examining the damage in the mirror.
It wasn’t too bad. Other than the nosebleed, he’d gotten a couple of minor cuts
and scrapes from tearing through the brambles. He grabbed a wad of toilet paper
and began dabbing at the dried blood. He cursed at his reflection in the
mirror, feeling stupid and angry for storming off into the woods in the first
place. He knew it wasn’t smart to go anywhere alone, especially with a pack of
werewolves roaming around. But he’d gone and done it anyway. Drawn deeper into
the thicket as if some invisible rope had been tugging at his bellybutton.
He could have sworn he heard something in the woods, summoning him near, like a
siren’s call…
“Sammy?”
Dean appeared at the bathroom door, his shoulders slunk forward, looking
nervous.
Sam kept his eyes fixed on the mirror. “Go away, Dean.” He wet another wad of
toilet paper and dabbed it at his nose.
“Here,” said Dean, softly, stepping forward. “Let me…“
Sam, who’d had enough of Dean’s interfering for the day, shoved him violently
away. “I don’t need you.”
Dean, taken aback, shuffled back outside the bathroom, his head hung low.
Sam slammed the door, making it clear that he wanted to be left alone. Hurt and
anger coursed through his veins. He took a moment to regain his normal
breathing and continued to patch himself up, splashing water on his face until
most of the swelling went down.
Soon, he emerged from the bathroom, feeling slightly more put together. Dean
was playing Solitaire on the coffee table and half-turned his head when he
heard Sam walk to the bedroom. He shut the door, barricading himself inside. He
collapsed, exhausted, on the sleeping-bag bed.
The quiet click-click-clickof cards on the table ticked in his ears like a time
bomb.
                                      ***
Some time later, in-between dreams, Sam was roused by the squeak of the wood
stove door. Listened as Dean stoked the fire, and then treaded nearer. Even in
half-sleep, he recognized Dean’s gait tiptoeing across the creaky floorboards.
Heard the bedroom door open and the swish of socks as Dean shuffled over to the
bed.
Sam, in a fog of sleep and exhaustion, let out a little sigh as Dean slipped
off his jeans and climbed into the sleeping bag. Relished the smell of him as
he snuggled up against Sam’s back, wrapped his arms around his middle and
pulled him close.
I must be dreaming, Sam thought. But in dreams Dean’s skin wouldn’t be so cool
to the touch. No, this was real. And Sam got lost in it. Gave everything of his
mind, body, and soul over to be held like this — like he meant something. Like
he mattered.
Dean nuzzled close, burrowing his nose at the back of Sam’s neck. “I’m sorry
you got hurt,” he hummed in double meaning, making little vibrations against
his skin. “Please, Sammy, tell me what happened.”
Sam breathed a sleepy exhale. “I fell. That’s all.”
Soft fingers trailed across his cheek, combing his hair away. He felt Dean
shift to get a good look at the source of the blood, then settle back down
again. Sam drowned in Dean’s touch, letting himself forget last night, forget
their stupid fight. Forget that anything could have ever come between them.
Whatever misgivings his brother had been harbouring must have gotten buried in
the stack of split wood, because now, in the warmth of their shared bed, Dean
didn’t treat Sam like he was a freak or hot to the touch.
If Dean touched him, Sam would burn.
A little huff of air escaped Sam’s lungs when Dean snaked his arms even tighter
around his middle, drawing him close, impossibly close, to his chest. Dean’s
breath hitched as he moved his lips to Sam’s ear. He whispered, “I’m sorry
about before.”
Sam’s whole body caught fire, warming him from the tips of his ears to his
toes. Dean never said sorry. Not with so many words, at least.
“Used to it, jerk,” he replied, mumbling into the pillow and secretly wishing
he could stay like this, wrapped up in Dean’s arms, forever.
Dean’s fingers trembled as he gave Sam another little I’m sorrysqueeze. “I — I
didn’t mean it. What I said…”
Sam squeezed his eyes shut and tried to prevent the words — it’s disgusting —
from floating up to his brain. He’d already buried them deep. “Just forget it,”
he hummed. He melted into the embrace, stretching his bones in perfect
alignment with his brother’s. Tilted his head back to expose the milky pale of
his neck. He felt love-drunk. “I missed you last night.”
Dean smiled against the back of Sam’s neck, his lips trailing softly across his
skin. “Missed you too, baby.”
He felt Dean twitch, perhaps surprising himself at the way the word baby
spilled so easily from his lips. A shiver trailed up Sam’s spine, vertebrae
lighting up like letters in a neon marquis. Quietly wondered if Dean called any
of his girlfriends baby. His skin burned hot, desperately wishing he was the
only one.
“Gotta check on the fire,” said Dean, squeezing him once more. He tried to pull
himself away, but Sam grabbed his wrists and held them tight to his chest.
“Five more minutes,” murmured Sam, cuffing him, holding him hostage. He felt
Dean smile, the corner of his mouth brushing just below Sam’s ear in a way that
made him feel all warm and fuzzy.
“Needy bitch.”
It was as close to a truce as Sam could ever hope for.
They drifted to sleep in each other’s arms, revelling in the warmth. They’d
learned to fit together like this in shared twin beds and under thin blankets
on leather backseats. They were used to breathing the same air, no personal
space, always touching.
Sam would die if he went without Dean’s touch for too long.
                                      ***
After God knows how long, when the fog of sleep lifted, Sam felt Dean stirring.
Thick, big brother fingers ran along Sam’s torso, stretching his body out from
behind. He felt Dean breathe him in, stealing his scent, his life-force, his
oxygen.
“Mmm,” Dean hummed in sleep-stupor. Sam felt him smile against his skin.
Every now and then, Dean would give Sam a little squeeze, tugging Sam close as
if he would slip away at any second. Sam relished those clutches and the
intense feeling of belonging — that he was Dean’s.
Two souls intertwined. Inseparable.
Dean lay quiet behind him, save for the occasional shudder exhale. His
brother’s whole body seemed to hum with nervous energy. It made Sam’s blood
quicken. Dean’s beautiful hands, with their nimble fingers, ran along the front
of Sam’s T-shirt, down his chest, ribs. He shivered when those careful fingers
dipped below the hem of Sam’s shirt and danced along the warm strip of belly
flesh. They were trembling.
Sam hummed and dared to keen his hips slightly forward, trying to Jedi-mind-
trick him into dipping lower, exploring new and grown-up parts of Sam his
brother didn’t know about yet. Sam was hard, his teenaged cock pressing
insistent against his well-worn jeans. He whimpered. If Dean would only tug
them down a little, just one inch, he would see the swollen head, peeking out
all pretty pink and wet for him.
Only for him.
“Dean…” He wanted Dean to touch him. Milk him until he was blistered and
bruised and swollen good. He achedfor it.
Dean shuddered against him, a shaky breath against the nape of his neck, and
then his lips were dragging across Sam’s skin, nibbling in half-commitment. As
if it wasn’t really incest if you just felt your little brother up from behind,
with skittish hands, lips, and tongue.
“Sammy, I don’t know…” he breathed, ghosting his lips over Sam’s skin. But it
was a lie. Because Dean did know. He knew full well. That a line was crossed
last night — a moment when everything changed. There was no going back now.
Incest had no half-measures.
“Please, Dean,” he whined in hushed prayer. “Don’t stop.”
Dean’s breath burned the nape of his neck and his stiff cock nudged at Sam’s
ass, eighteen year old sex-trained hips canting forward in absent-minded ruts.
Making Sam’s head spin. Sam’s own hips bucked forward so his swollen dick could
rub against his too-loose jeans.
Dean’s hand trembled against Sam’s bare-belly, still fighting it, but his lips
were kissing the back of Sam’s neck for real now, with hot-wet tongue and silky
mmms, and it was only a matter of time before that shaky hand slid lower and
lower and oh god yes this was finally happening and…
 BOOOOM.
They jolted upright, dicks hard and blood pumping because something outside was
trying to get in. Scraping and hounding at the front door. Looking for
something. Someone.
The wolves had finally come to get him.
“Stay here,” said Dean, rolling off the bed with lightning speed, grabbing
Sam’s shotgun and cocking it ready in one fluid motion. Nimble and dangerous,
he moved across the room and inched the door open with the double-barrel.
Sam’s heart got stuck in his throat as he watched Dean slip out the bedroom
door, ready to meet whatever beast was about to gain entry. Ready to throw
himself at the mercy of fangs and claws and snapping jowls, all for Sam. All
for him.
He swallowed his heart. He would be damned if he let teeth that weren’t his own
sink deep into Dean’s flesh. Wouldn’t let him slip away this time.
Sam leapt out of bed and ran to the bedroom door, hiding behind the frame and
peeking out into the living room. In the shadows of night, he saw Dean poised
to shoot — to kill.
 BOOOOOM.
The cabin rumbled with the force of a thousand storms. The front door burst
open.
The hulking form of John Winchester silhouetted against the blinding gale.
                                      ***
John Winchester stepped inside the cabin, bringing with him the chill of cold,
and slammed the door. Dean lowered his shotgun.
“Get your ass in gear,” said Dad, blunt as always. “Me and Bobby need your
help.”
Dean nodded. “I’ll get Sam.”
“No, Sam stays,” said John, shaking his head. “He’ll just get in the way.”
Sam’s stomach dropped as he listened. Yes, he knew he wasn’t as big or strong
as Dad or Dean, but he could handle a shotgun just fine. He wasn’t completely
useless.
John stomped over to the kitchen, shoving a few spoonfuls of leftover casserole
into his mouth. “Come on, we gotta go. Werewolves are tearing people up two
towns over.”
Sam squinted into the darkness, watching as Dean’s body stiffened, his
shoulders tensing. He stayed rooted to the edge of the door frame, listening.
Out of sight, out of mind.
“Dad, we can’t leave him here,” said Dean, his voice cracking.
John found a half-drunk beer on the counter and downed it. “Safest place for
him.”
“No, it’s not,” Dean hung his head. “There’s — there might be something out
there…”
John froze, surveying Dean with scepticism. “Like what?”
“I didn’t see. But, Sammy, he heard —“
“What’d it look like?”
Dean’s shoulder’s slumped, knowing full well how Dad would react. “Uh, like a …
like a hybrid of —“
“Spit it out, boy.”
“— a were-bear. Okay?”
Sam cringed from the safety of the bedroom, watching Dad’s face morph from
concerned parent to are you fucking kidding me? Dean stared at the floor.
“Jesus,” John balked, giving Dean a pitiful glare. “You and me both know that
boy has an overactive imagination. Lemme guess, he’s having those weirdo
nightmares, too.” He shook his head, reloading his gun in the fire’s light.
“Now pack your bags. People are dying, Dean. You want that on your conscience?”
Dean clenched his fists. “We can’t just leave him here in the middle of
nowhere. He’s scared.”
“He’ll be fine,” said John, putting his foot down. “He’s got food, water, and
enough wood to last him a week.”
Sam’s eyes flared. What John so conveniently left out was that the reason they
had so much wood was because Dean had nearly froze to death chopping it while
he was out cavorting with old hunting buddies and shooting monsters. Of course,
Dean didn’t mention it. Sam gritted his teeth.
John moved to the cabin door, snapped his gun shut, and turned to face his
eldest son. Gave him an I’m warning you look.
Against all of his training to come at Dad’s call, Dean stayed firmly rooted.
“Dad, come on,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “He’s just little.”
“Jesus Christ, Dean, what’s gotten into you?” John scoffed. “He’s not a fuckin’
kid anymore. He can take care of himself.”
“I know he can,” said Dean, eyes blazing at Dad. “He’s been doing it for
fourteen years. That’s not the point.”
John straightened up, his gaze turning dangerous. He took a step toward Dean.
“You wanna run that by me again?”
Dean shivered. Sam did too. Because he knew, with that one look, no matter how
much Dean loved Sam and how much he begged him to stay, that it was a lost
cause. They were all so stubborn and well-trained. Sam knew that when John
Winchester said ‘jump,’ Dean said, ‘How high?’ He couldn’t help it.
Dean slumped his shoulders in defeat. “I’ll get my bag.”
John nodded, his eyes raging, before slamming the cabin door behind him and
heading back out to the car.
In a huff, Dean slipped on his hunter’s boots and stormed back toward the
bedroom, jaw set with determination. He pushed past Sam without looking at him.
“You can’t leave,” said Sam, watching Dean gather up his things and shove them
violently into the duffle. “Not now. Not like this.”
Not when they had finally been so close to getting everything they ever wanted,
in shared beds with shared hearts.
Dean zipped his duffle, avoiding his eyes. “I have to.”
“You don’t,” said Sam, stepping back into the darkened bedroom. “It’s easy.
Just, stay. Please.” He strode up to Dean and pawed at the front of his shirt,
buried his nose in his chest. Breathed him in. “Stay with me and we can be
happy, Dean.”
Dean shoved him away, his eyes wide with fear.
“Jesus, Sam. Do you know what you’re asking? You want me to be the one to cross
that line. You want meto give you permission. Permission to — to… oh god.” Dean
was shaking. His voice quivered. “I’m supposed to take care of you, Sammy. I’m
supposed to protect you from people like me. For Christ’s sake, I’m your
brother.”
That word sliced through Sam like a poisoned blade.
“I know, okay? How we feel… it’s not normal,” Sam pleaded like a dying man.
“But when has normal ever worked for us? Our lives are messed up. The way Dad
raised us? Growing up on our own?” Sam took a steadying breath. “I thought I
would grow out of this. That it was a phase.” He dared to step forward again
and grab hold of Dean’s arms. “But, Dean, you’re all I ever wanted. Blood or
not.”
Dean’s carefully constructed facade, the one that kept all his feelings buried
deep, crumbled. In an instant, he changed from a strong, tough hunter to an
intensely vulnerable man, standing before Sam like he had nothing left to lose.
Bared like an open wound, a hot lightning strike to an exposed nerve.
Sam watched as Dean’s chin trembled, his eyes, frantic and frenetic, searching
his brother’s face. He shook his head, hiding his teary eyes from Sam’s
scrutiny.
“I have to go,” said Dean, slinging his duffle over his shoulder. “Keep your
shotgun close. Don’t go outside.”
He meant to blow right past Sam, meant to shut himself off and run away from
his problems like he always did. But when Sam gave a gentle tug on his arm,
Dean let himself be slowed for just a moment, caught between his brother’s
determination and his father’s impatience. Everything in his body seemed to
scream stay, stay, stay, but the pull of John’s command kept Dean’s feet
moving, like a brainwashed soldier. Always falling in line. Marching onward.
“Dean,” Sam whispered, letting his brother’s arm slip through his hands, their
fingertips nudging together for the briefest of instances.
With the trudge of heavy soles and the slam of a door, Dean was gone.
[https://www.google-analytics.com/collect?v=1&amp;tid=UA-116159460-
1&amp;cid=1&amp;t=event&amp;ec=Ao3&amp;ea=3:BLOODLUST]
***** DEVOUR *****
iv. at seven to eight months, matured wolves join the pack for their first real
hunt; they have gained the strength to lure and devour large animals
 
Three days passed. Three days and four hours since Sam stood at the window,
watching the Impala’s wheels spin away up the snow-covered lane. Three days
since he’d met Dean’s green eyes, resolute and broken through the passenger’s
window. Shipped off to the front line. Trained to kill, to forsake love and
tenderness and comfort for the call of duty.
Sam had stayed at the window for hours that night, staring at the end of the
lane, waiting for a six foot figure to come marching back to him. For a
homecoming that never came. They never had a home to come back to.
He didn’t sleep a wink. He sobbed into his pillow until his eyes ran dry. Pined
till his stomach hurt. The pain, the dull ache, of Dean’s absence was too much
to bear this time. It was as if his raw flesh was being pummelled, over and
over.
If bad thoughts could leave bruises, Sam would be purpled and blued.
He stayed in bed the entire next day, until the bright white snowscape faded to
grey. The second night dragged on forever, the dark cloud of emptiness never
dissipating. He tried to get comfortable in the zipped-together sleeping bags,
but there was too much room. Too much empty space. It was dead quiet. No creaky
footsteps, no pop of the logs, no soft big brother breathing. Half of Sam
craved for the light of morning, when he could see a little clearer, move a
little easier. The other half wished the blackness of night would just swallow
him up forever.
At long last, the yellowing dim of daylight, once again, flooded the room. The
sun — that great artificial beacon in the dark — bearing a false promise that
everything would be okay. It wouldn’t. Could never be. Because, after
everything, Dean just couldn’t bring himself to surrender to the feelings
they’d both ignored for too long. And now that Sam knew he felt the same, it
dug into his heart like a knife.
Dean was gone. He had chosen the hunter’s life. Forsaken their love. And he
always would.
Sam clenched his fists so hard his fingernails left little crescent moon cuts
in his palms. He hated John Winchester. Hated him with every fibre of his
being. How he ordered Dean around like a drill sergeant. How he trained him
like a dog. Like he was some bitch-pup, leashed and let out sparingly. As long
as Dad was around, Dean could never stretch his legs without reaching the end
of the lead, the chain digging in to his throat without warning. Choking him
into compliance.
Feeling empty, Sam dragged his feet across the bedroom floor and into the
living room. The cabin was cold. The fire had gone out. He stoked the coals
half-heartedly but couldn’t bring himself to build a new one.
Sam was numb.
He spent most of that second day lazing on the couch in quiet melancholy.
Occasionally, he got up and milled about, feeling sorry for himself. When dusk
settled in again, he grabbed his copy of White Fangand headed back into the
bedroom. He flopped down on the bed, wriggling around on the rumpled sleeping
bags until he got somewhat comfortable. Rolled over and let himself sink down
into the slight dip from where Dean had slept the night before. Melted into the
contour of his body.
He tried to read for a bit, but his eyes glazed over, the memory of two nights
ago haunting him like bitter spectres. How warm Dean’s hand felt on his belly,
inching downward. How much Sam wished he would have just put his hands on him,
pulling and squeezing as he slipped over the edge. To feel what it was like,
what he was like, just once.
There was no telling when Dean would be back this time. Or if he would ever
truly come back. Maybe Dad would ship him off to military school to teach him a
lesson for mouthing off. Sam didn’t think he could survive if Dean went away
for good. Not when it hurt this much.
But then, the thought of seeing Dean every day, being so close but not nearly
as close as he needed, would surely kill him. There were no two ways about it.
Like everything else in their lives, this thing between them had always been a
matter of life or death. And death was winning.
If he couldn’t have Dean, there was nothing to live for.
                                      ***
Sam spent the next day convincing himself that Dean was coming back. He built
up the fire from scratch, using old yellowing newspapers he found in the closet
as kindling. He cleaned the kitchen, scrubbed and scoured until his hands
blistered. Went to the window more times than he could count, as if, by sheer
tyranny of will, he would see the Impala inching up the road, snowflakes
sparking in the headlights, tire treads in the snow.
It never came.
He spent an inordinate amount of time filling the pot with boiling water and
transferring it to the bathtub until it was halfway full. He stripped down and
climbed in, hot water searing his skin and shocking his system. Forced himself
to stay under until he got used to it, scorched flesh be damned.
As he lay, suspended, in the water, Sam closed his eyes and imagined a life
with Dean, free from the crushing inevitability of the hunt, far away from
demons and monsters and the supernatural. He pictured them living in a little
farmhouse someplace warm. Someplace with a yard and a wooden fence and a
fireplace. Where deer would come by in the mornings and eat berries off the
bushes. Where Dean could work with his hands — tinkering with the Impala,
carving wooden furniture, making cherry pie. Where he could get a good night’s
rest, for once.
And Sam would take care of him — cook him dinner and massage his tired muscles,
place a soft blanket over him when he fell asleep after watching the game. More
than anything, he wanted to make Dean feel good. To worship him on hands and
knees. To give back for all the times Dean took care of him. For all the times
Dean held him in his arms, protected him from monsters, set off fireworks on
the fourth of July.
It would be heaven. And it would never happen.
Because Dean was a hunter, through and through. And there was no happiness for
men like them.
Sam’s body shivered. He had lay in the bath for so long the boiling water had
gone cold. Shaking and soaked to the bone, he pulled the plug and slowly pushed
himself up, knees wobbling and lips trembling. It took everything he had not to
break down and cry, to resist collapsing onto the bathroom floor and curling up
into a ball of pain and fear and abandonment. But he persevered. Managed to
wrap himself in a towel and tousle most of his hair dry. Slipped on his T-shirt
and jeans and float, ghostlike, out to the living room. He thought about
checking the window one last time, but ultimately decided against it. Instead,
he added another log to the fire and flicked on the television for the
background noise, plunking himself down on the couch for yet another sleepless
night.
For hours, Sam lay, wide awake and worried, in the quiet of the cabin. He
couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t shut his brain off. A wave of nausea churned in his
belly, making his skin clammy. His idyllic dreams of farmhouses had receded,
bringing clearer and clearer into vision the real consequences of what Sam had
done. Here, in the lonely confines of the cabin, the invisible line that
screamed brother! was coming sharply into focus. The line Sam had so brazenly
crossed several nights ago.
Yes, he’d gotten what he’d wanted — to feel Dean’s skin under his lips, hear
his breathy sighs, intense and vulnerable. But at what price? To be left alone
and unwanted as he had always been? To catch a glimpse of the life he craved,
he pined for, with every inch of his being?
Sam inhaled sharply, catching himself as his eyes burned. Swallowed his
feelings down. The terrifying words he’d refused to let reach his ear drums
until now.
 He doesn’t love you that way. He never will.
Sam’s whole body shook as he curled up into a ball on the couch. Through bleary
eyes, he stared blankly at the white noise on the television. He grabbed one of
the couch cushions and hugged it tightly to his chest, trying to ease the empty
ache. Sobbed into it. He’d never felt more lonely in his life.
In the distance, on the edges of a dream, he heard the low, mournful croon of a
wolf’s howl. It made his insides curl with overwhelming sadness, ache, longing.
Somewhere, a sorry creature’s heart was breaking. And, in some strange way, he
felt connected to it. Had a vision of the beast hunting him down, gently
devouring him in one swallow.
Giving himself over to the warm, wet darkness.
                                      ***
Time ceased to exist. At some point, under the cover of night, Sam stirred
beneath the sheets. He was in a half-wakened dream, memories swirling in and
out of focus in the oppressive shadows of the cabin. An underwater drone of
voices and growls echoed deep in his ears. With a spike of adrenaline to his
chest, he realized he was no longer alone. Not really.
Awooooo.
A haunting chill swept through him. It was outside. He could hear it. It had
finally come for him.
Sam got up and went to the back window. He squinted. There was an enormous
black shape at the edge of the woods, bearlike and brazen. He blinked once and
it was gone. His eyes were playing tricks on him.
In a blackout fog, he stumbled across the bedroom, feeling his way in the
darkness. He had never sleepwalked before. The low mewling of the wolf was
interrupted by fuzzy snippets of the local news. He didn’t remember leaving the
television on.
“Breaking news out of Cook County. Two men have been mauled to death by a pack
of wild wolves.”
Sam’s heart stopped. He couldn’t see. The sweat from his forehead was stinging
his eyes.
“The bodies are yet to be identified, but it is believed the men were father
and son. An amulet was found at the scene.”
The power had gone out. The voices were silenced.
Dean was gone. Dead. Torn up and eaten out by blood-stained jowls. And the
person who Sam loved most in the world had been ripped clean from him. All
because of the snake-like sickness inside him. This sinner’s stench that
followed Sam wherever he went.
Awooooo!
He heard it loud and clear now — the monster that had been on Sam’s heels for
years, creeping closer and closer until it had, at last, bared its fangs in the
forest. Now, it was stalking up to this godforsaken cabin, ready to swallow him
whole. It was inevitable. Because something deep within, a dark part of him,
had always known it would come. That all his sins would catch up with him. That
his feelings for Dean, his blood-brother and protector, would devour him from
within. It was only a matter of time.
Sam, in a trance, turned to the front door. He felt a strange pull at his
bellybutton, beckoning him outside. He moved slowly, as if tethered to the
animal. He opened the door with a creak, letting the cold winter wind pummel
his body, weak and weary. He had nothing more left to give. Nothing more left
to say. To feel. Just succumb to the great darkness.
The wind whipped at his limbs as he stood on the threshold, one bare foot
hovering dangerously over the front porch. He opened his eyes, looking straight
out into the fray. The snow swirled in the night wind, blasting his face, his
bare arms and bare feet with icy pellets. There was a voice inside his head,
gruff and alluring, beckoning him forward.
Sam… Samuel… Sam-awooooo.
The voice seemed to echo in his very soul, the sound vibrating his bones like a
sonic boom, propelling him forward. He stepped down the front porch stairs and
walked up the path, being tugged by an invisible hand, lured by the howl.
Awooooo! Come meet me one last time.
Snow and ice pelted off his body, but Sam hardly noticed. He just kept gliding
forward into the dark, into the night, pulled by the disembodied voice until he
had well passed the neighbouring cabin, half a mile down the road.
That’s when he saw it.
The animal that had haunted him for years. Two golden yellow eyes glowing in
the darkness. It glided towards him, snarling and growling. Snapping its
silvery jaws. Ready to run him down. To kill and consume.
And, this time, Sam would let it.
The beast advanced slowly, predatory, the light of its golden eyes growing
brighter and brighter in the dark. It was enormous, bigger than any bear Sam
had seen and twice the size of dire wolves in fairy tales. Dean used to read
those to him at night.
Dean.
Sam breathed in the icy, winter air and let his mind be filled with thoughts of
his brother. How their souls were intertwined. How he would see him again in
heaven or hell or wherever hunters were sent after they died. How maybe, just
maybe, in that world, they could be together. And everything would be
beautiful.
The light from the beast’s eyes was so bright it nearly blinded him. The wind
thrashed his hair, his skin, his soul.
AWOOOOOOOO.
The wolf let out one final howl — one of conquest, of imminent feast and of
bloodlust. Sam, bone chilled and numb, let it wash over him. Let it echo
through his bones and turn his blood to ice. He heard its paws crunch through
snow, smelled the dried blood on its jowls, felt its soft fur…
This was it.
This was the end.
Dean.
“SAMMY!”
That voice. His voice.
Sam collapsed to the ground, hitting the ice with a thud.
BOOM.
The sound of a shotgun split the air. A yelp, a howl.
BOOM. BOOM.
Two more. A beastly whimper and whine, defeated.
Sam’s ears were ringing.
And then there was nothing.
                                      ***
He woke up some time later. The first thing he felt was warmth — two strong
arms cradling him. He breathed in, nose buried into the collar of a stiff old
leather jacket. Gunpowder, whiskey, aftershave. Dean.
“Sammy?”
The familiar voice broke. Shaky fingers clutched at the back of Sam’s T-shirt.
“Sam, wake up.”
“Dean…” Sam exhaled, a smile at the corner of his lips. The relief of it, of
his brother’s tender embrace, made his body shake and shiver.
Dean pulled him close to his chest, so tight Sam could scarcely breathe. But it
didn’t matter, because it meant Dean was here. Not dead and splayed open in
some hospital morgue. Not in some nameless town with werewolf on his heels.
No. Dean was here with Sam. Holding him. On the creaky sleeping-bag bed.
Breathing. Alive.
Sam shook. “I… I thought you were —”
“It’s okay,” said Dean, a promise. He nuzzled his cheek against Sam’s head. “I
came back.” He gently pried Sam away from where he clung to Dean’s chest and
swept a trembling hand over his face. “Couldn’t stay away a second longer.”
Through the tears in his own eyes, Sam stared into the piercing green like he’d
done a thousand times before. But this time, in his brother’s eyes, he saw
something he had only ever dreamt of, only ever wished for in his wildest
dreams. It was a look, not just of reverence, love, or devotion, but of
rapture. Of want. Of desire.
“Sammy, I’m so sorry,” he whispered. He laid a hand on Sam’s cheek and gently
smoothed his thumb over his baby pink lips. “I never should have left.” Pressed
a kiss to the rosy apple of Sam’s cheek. “Not like that.” Pressed another to
his dimple. “Never like that…” Another at the corner of his mouth.
Their eyes met, half-lidded with arousal and adoration. Dean was gazing at
Sam’s lips now.
This was it. This was the moment he’d spent every single night dreaming about
since he was eight years old. Sam was weak with want.
“Oh God, Sammy…”
And then Dean kissed him. Kissed him so perfect on the lips. Chaste, sweet.
Just a taste. Sam’s first.
Forever changing his world.
Dean pulled back, his mouth hovering just inches away. His eyes searched Sam’s,
searching for any sign of protest, any change of mind.
Not on your life.
“Dean, kiss me…” Sam leaned in and pressed his own mouth to Dean’s. His belly
fluttered with dizzying want when Dean breathed into him, the sigh of relief,
the slip of tongue, a tease of what was to come. This time, Dean kissed him for
real. Without reservation. Without pause or concern or stubborn what ifs…
Sam would never feel small again.
Not with the way Dean cradled him in his lap, in his arms, kissing him with a
tenderness that grew more desperate, more urgent, with every touch, every
breath, every taste of Sam’s tongue. In between kisses, Dean would shudder an
exhale, his throat ragged and raw. He was broken. Twisted. Debauched. But it
didn’t matter, because Sam was too.
Dean tilted Sam’s face to the side, allowing their mouths to fit together like
a perfect puzzle. Slipped his tongue into Sam’s mouth, sliding it gently along
his own. He held Sam close, lifted them both up and turned, gently laying him
on the bed.
Sam watched, his cherry red lips swollen and wet, pupils dilated and lustful,
heart thumping in his chest. Dean stood over him, gazing down like Sam was the
most precious thing in the world.
“Perfect…” whispered Dean in reverence. He pulled his own shirt over his head
and tossed it to the floor.
Sam’s toes curled with want. His big brother was more gorgeous than a Greek
god. Gods were cast of stone. Dean Winchester was warm flesh and blood.
The bed sank as Dean crawled onto it. He straddled Sam’s legs, stroked a hand
through his hair to brush it away. Then, with all the tenderness in the world,
he cupped Sam’s cheek and kissed him. Kissed him beautiful and deep before
fluttering his lips down to Sam’s neck, marking his smooth flesh with teeth,
lips, and tongue. His hands found the hem of Sam’s T-shirt and slipped
underneath, rucking the fabric up as his strong, calloused fingers traced along
new, grown-up muscles.
His mouth found them too.
Dean scooted down, kissing Sam’s belly, licking around his navel. Kissed up
along his piano-key ribs and across his chest, teething at his nipples. Mouthed
his way along every freckle, every bone, every scar. Eighteen years old and
already an expert on the human body, the perfect places to press and pull to
make it shiver and twitch.
Dean could draw a map to Sam’s sweet spots from memory.
Sam, feeling innocent and unversed under the spell of Dean’s arousal, raised
his arms, helping Dean pull off his own T-shirt until they were both half-bare.
Their mouths met each other again, kisses desperate now that they were skin-on-
skin. Sam melted under him, his clumsy mouth taking everything Dean was
offering and Dean’s weight pressing him into the mattress. He relished the way
Dean’s hips ground against his own, feeling the hard press of their swollen
cocks together through tattered and too-loose jeans.
Sam whimpered. “Dean, please…” He bucked his hips up, rubbing through rough
denim.
Dean shuddered against him, a shaky breath at his neck. He thumbed at the
button on Sam’s jeans, slipping it open and snicked the zipper down. Wriggled
the fabric down bit by bit.
He hesitated, surveying Sam carefully. “Sam, you know I would never… I would
never hurt you like that. Okay?”
By the tortured look on Dean’s face, Sam could tell he was trying to convince
himself that touching your little brother like this was somehow okay. That
there would be a sign from God or the universe or whatever telling him they
would let this one slide.
Turns out, Sam was all the sign he needed.
He hugged Dean to him, whispering in hushed prayer, “Dean, I can take it.
Please, hurt me just a little…”
Dean’s hand shook on Sam’s chest as if it had a life of its own, but his hand
slid lower, pushing Sam’s boxers to his knees.
Sam bucked up in desperation as his cock sprung up into cool air. Gasped when
Dean’s hand gripped it so good, his thumb smearing the slippery wad of pre-cum
around. He pumped his fist, tight and warm, up over the swollen head, twisting
his wrist and hand-fucking him as they kissed.
Sam had never felt anything so good. He moaned like a horny schoolgirl as Dean
worked him over, slowly at first, palming his cock until it was slicked good
with Sam’s leaking want. He was keening and desperate for his brother. Knew he
wouldn’t last long.
“Dean,” he groaned in between kisses, amidst teeth-nibbles on lips. Whimpered
as Dean’s hand sped up slightly, working him over. He nearly lost it from the
succulent little moans falling from his big brother’s mouth. Ones that sent an
electric zing straight to Sam’s cock.
“Oh, God, Sammy,” murmured Dean, watching Sam fall apart underneath him.
Rutting himself slow and good up against little brother’s leg like a bitch in
heat. “I - I’ve wanted this for so long…”
Sam’s breath hitched. His eyes burned with tears as he brother jerked him good.
He moaned. Could feel the hard outline of Dean’s cock on his leg and he wanted
to touch it, to taste it. To make him see stars. The pressure was building, a
warmth was spreading from the tips of his fingers down to his toes.
“I’m… I’m gonna…”
“It’s okay, sweetheart. Come for me, Sammy.”
“Dean…”
Sparks and stars and warmth flooded him from his brain to his cock, filling him
with heat and ecstasy. He was coming in glorious spurts all over his belly,
white honey spilling onto Dean’s hand.
Dean, too, shuddered and moaned, biting and breathing against Sam’s neck as his
own seed spilled, warm and wet in his jeans.
It was heaven. It was bliss. It was everything Sam had ever prayed for.
And it was only the beginning.
After a few quiet minutes of catching breaths, they shifted, settling into each
other like tangled lovers on the edge of the earth.
“Love you,” said Sam, a whisper in the afterglow. His eyes fluttered open just
enough to catch Dean’s own soften.
“Love you, too,” he hushed, cheeks flushing a pretty pink. “Don’t say it
enough.”
They lay in silence, Sam’s head resting on Dean’s chest, measuring as the
breaths went from wild and desperate to slow and measured. He didn’t think
there was a place more wonderful than nestled in Dean’s arms, listening to the
low thrum of his blood rushing.
Beat-beat. Beat-beat. Sam-my. Sam-my.
He closed his eyes and imagined his name etched into Dean’s heart.
                                      ***
The storm outside had abated, the soft flakes lit up like shimmering stars in
the moonlight. They drifted in and out of sleep. Sam lay silent, basking in the
steady rise and fall of Dean’s chest against his cheek. Sighed peacefully when
Dean ran his fingers along the knots of his spine, soothing him. Every now and
then, Dean would hum softly and plant a small kiss on Sam’s forehead, or softly
run his thumb across his cheek.
Little love taps.
Through their hushed pillow talk, Dean told him he and Dad had made quick work
of the wolves. How, ever since he’d left, Dean had felt off-kilter and out of
place, like something was pulling him back to the cabin. Warning him Sam was in
harm’s way.
“Felt it in my bones, Sammy,” said Dean. “I just knew. Knew I had to come
back.”
“I felt it too,” said Sam, softly. “I swear, it was like something had grabbed
hold of my soul.” His voice trembled. Tears burned in his eyes. “The wolf. It
almost pulled me away. Until you killed it with the shotgun.”
Dean creased his eyebrows, frowning. “I didn’t… Sammy, there was no —“ He
exhaled softly and his face smoothed out again. He wrapped his arms around Sam,
snuggling him close. “Shhh, it’s okay. You’re safe.” He rocked him gently
against his chest, petting his hair. “You’re never gonna lose me again. I
promise.”
Sam swallowed the lump in his throat and leaned forward to kiss Dean. A
promise, a vow. Unbreakable.
They kissed and snuggled for the rest of the night, revelling in the warmth of
each other. At around quarter past three, Dean rolled over and sighed.
“What is it?” hushed Sam, pulling his brother tight.
Dean breathed a laugh. “After the hunt, Dad and Bobby went to the bar, so I
stole the Impala to get back here.”
“Dad’s gonna kill you,” he grinned, letting out a sleepy chuckle.
Dean hummed, planting kisses at Sam’s throat. “Yeah, I’m going straight to
Hell.”
Sam whispered soft in his brother’s ear.
“Take me there.”
[https://www.google-analytics.com/collect?v=1&amp;tid=UA-116159460-
1&amp;cid=1&amp;t=event&amp;ec=Ao3&amp;ea=4:DEVOUR]
***** EPILOGUE *****
In Dr Robert Brown’s translation of Tales and Traditions of the Eskimo, he
takes great care to preserve H. Rink’s encounters with the Inuit, including
supplemental observations about their habits, beliefs, and “other
peculiarities.” One of these peculiarities is the addition of an alternative
telling of the legend of the Great Wolf called Amarok.
In this version, the boy who gained enough strength to, at last, withstand and
defeat the mighty Amarok was so full of pride that he took to roaming back and
forth across the country to show off his strength, protecting those under
threat from supernatural beasts. Rink recounts, “Even nowadays the boy is known
all along the coast, and in many places there are marks of his great deeds
still shown, and this is why the history of the Amarok is supposed to be true.”
[https://www.google-analytics.com/collect?v=1&amp;tid=UA-116159460-
1&amp;cid=1&amp;t=event&amp;ec=Ao3&amp;ea=EPILOGUE]
End Notes
     Find more of my wolfish tales on tumblr.
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