Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8298037.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, John_Winchester, Original_Characters
  Additional Tags:
      Pre-Series, Weecest, Halloween_Costumes, Crossdressing, First_Time,
      Barebacking, Horror
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-10-16 Words: 4159
****** i float now, forever ******
by dollylux
Summary
     Sam invites Dean to a party thrown by a friend from school. (Sam's
     fourteen.)
Notes
     title from 'rewind' by afi.
See the end of the work for more notes
Sammy gets out of school at 3:30, and Dean’s always there at 3:25, all alone in
the high school parking lot like an overprotective mother.
He doesn’t mind.
The bell rings and then there’s a beat of quiet followed by a bright burst of
sound that breaks through and doesn’t stop. Dean closes his eyes and leans his
head back on the rest, one arm draped casually in the open window, leather
jacket warming in the October sun.
He used to watch the throngs of kids, searching for his little brother, but the
anxiety and desperation of it would have him a frazzled wreck before Sam’s
little hand closed around the metal handle of the door. So, he plays it cool
now, looking much more relaxed than he is.
He still has nightmares that one day, Sam just won’t come out.
“Dean,” Sam sighs, so close.
Dean’s eyes fly open and he sits up again, squinting out of his own window
where Sam stands, blocking out the sun and looking a little embarrassed.
“Get in,” Dean tells him.
“I told you, you don’t have to come get me every day.” He’s looking around from
under his dark, messy waves, shifting from foot to Converse-clad foot, probably
nervous that his friends can see.
“Well, I’m here now, so.” He shrugs, tipping his hand back to snag one of Sam’s
belt loops and tugging, just to annoy him. “C’mon. Dad’s back.”
“There’s a party tonight,” Sam says, blurts like he’s been working up the nerve
during the school day. He licks his lips, quick and anxious. “A Halloween
party. At a friend’s house.”
Dean just stares at him blankly, all the words filtering through his Zeppelin-
laden brain but not computing, not coming together as something his little
brother would say or give two shits about.
“And?”
“And I’m going,” Sam declares, defensive, ready for Dean to deny him. “So, I
don’t need a ride. We’re all getting ready at Tyler’s house.”
Dean doesn’t tell him that it sounds like something a bunch of girls would do,
doesn’t ask who the fuck Tyler is, doesn’t ask why he’s just now hearing about
this party. He shoves down the worry and reminds himself that he’s supposed to
play the part of the cool big brother. I mean, he’s already got the clothes and
the car and all.
“I need an address,” he finally says. “And you’re home by midnight.”
“I’m spending the night!” Sam’s got a hand on something in his pocket, a bright
orange slip of paper, but he doesn’t pull it out yet.
“Whatever,” Dean huffs, snapping his fingers impatiently. “Gimme the address.”
Sam squints at him, half because of the sun and half because of some distrust
that Dean doesn’t think he’s earned. Dean thinks Sam still hasn’t forgiven him
for dropping out of school last month, three weeks into his senior year.
He pulls the paper out and passes it to Dean, an invitation that has been
folded and refolded a dozen times. He glances over it, memorizes the address,
and stuffs it in the pocket of his jacket.
“You should come by.”
It’s a tone Dean’s never heard out of Sam before, a knowing, playful one, like
the tip of a foot dragged over the ground. Flirty. It was fucking flirty.
He glances back up at him, slow like a dog worried about being scolded. Sam’s
got a quiet smile on his face, not a hint of flush on his cheeks, so
unrepentant. Dean meets his eyes and the heat that floods through every cell in
his body is fucking unparalleled.
“Yeah,” he manages, croaks. Shifts on the vinyl seat like a virgin. “Yeah, I
might stop by.”
It stays like that between them for a few seconds, that loaded, heavy feeling
out of nowhere. Sam smirks, a dimple peeking through, and he lets his small
fingers drag over Dean’s much longer ones hanging out of the window.
“See ya.”
He walks away, little and sultry in secondhand jeans and a five-year-old
backpack.
Dean’s head falls back, eyes on the ceiling. He’s very, very aware of the state
of his cock.
“Jesus,” he breathes.
 
He waits a few hours, takes the car to get washed, stops to grab some barbecue
for him and Dad to have for dinner. He waits for the sun to sink and the colors
to fade, and he showers, throws on some of the Cool Water he keeps hidden in a
sock in his duffel, and leaves while Dad makes a call to Bobby.
Twenty minutes later he’s parking the car in somebody’s lawn and sauntering up
to a middle-class-white-people house in the suburbs. There are carved pumpkins
flickering with candles on either side of the steps and leaves crunching under
his boots as he makes his way to the front door and rings the bell.
A girl dressed as an angel answers, all blonde curls, a shimmery pink mouth,
and glittering halo. She gives him a long once-over and smiles, leaning against
the door in a way that lets Dean see through her sheer slip to young, curvy
body underneath.
“And what are you supposed to be?” she asks.
“Dean Winchester.” He tugs the invitation out of his pocket and hands it to her
before stepping into the house and squeezing past her, eyes darting around the
crowded livingroom for a familiar mop of hair.
That horrible “Barbie Girl” song is blasting from some speaker in the far
corner of the room, and underage people in all kinds of insane costumes are
dancing and bumping awkwardly together like some kind of nightmarish, tribal
mating ritual.
Dean’s somewhat secret introversion rears its head, and he shoves his hands
into his pockets and hunches up his shoulders as he makes his way through the
room, kicking himself for not pre-gaming this shit.
“Hey.”
A girl dressed as Wednesday Addams is suddenly in front of him, only a few
inches shorter than him and smiling in a way that totally breaks character. He
comes to a stop, sparing her a glance before his eyes continue their hunter-
focused search for Sam.
“Hey,” he replies.
“Wanna dance?” She sounds so young, so honestly hopeful, like maybe she’s
hoping to get her first kiss tonight. It makes Dean relax a little, and he
finally looks down at her, meeting dark eyes on a pale face, and he smiles.
“Sure, why not?”
He lets her guide him through the mass of people to some randomly acceptable
spot, and he can’t help but react when he feels the warm press of her body
along his front, when her arms lift to wrap around his neck.
“No way you go to this school,” she says as he puts his hands carefully on her
hips, trying to keep his own from digging in too hard against her.
“I should be,” he replies, weirdly honest. “But, uh. No, I don’t. My brother
does though. Do you know--”
“Excuse me.”
Dean sees another flash of blonde out of his periphery, and he wonders briefly
if he’s stepped into some kind of complex teen girl drama between two friends.
When he turns his head completely, he stops. Stops moving, stops breathing,
stops blinking.
Because while the blonde, shoulder-length wig and the yellow plaid schoolgirl
skirt and jacket with a lemon yellow cardigan underneath and the thigh high
white socks are unfamiliar, that kiss-tip nose, beauty mark, and those five-
color eyes are one hundred percent Sam Winchester.
“Can I cut in?” Sam-as-the-chick-from-Clueless asks Dean, completely ignoring
Wednesday Addams.
“Actually, we just--”
“Yeah,” Dean interrupts her, his hands falling from her body and limp at his
sides, like he’s waiting for Sam to make the first move in whatever this is.
“Definitely.”
Wednesday disappears like this is a dream, and Dean can only watch helplessly
as Sam, still nearly a foot shorter than him and looking so convincingly female
that it is completely fucking Dean up, pushes in close and right up against
Dean, that tiny plaid skirt sliding along Dean’s jeans, long, skinny legs
wrapped up so tight in those good-girl socks.
Dean completely bypasses Sam’s hips and wraps his arms around his tiny waist,
pulling him in close with a possessiveness even he didn’t know existed. Sam
melts against him, pushing up onto the tips of his toes in his Lolita saddle
shoes and wrapping his arms around Dean’s neck, messing up his popped leather
collar and absolutely shattering everything Dean thought he knew about Sam,
about himself.
“Jesus Christ, Sammy,” he breathes.
“Do you like it?” He has mascara on, his lashes so long they’re as illegal as
the rest of him, and he even smells like cotton candy lipgloss and some kind of
powdery perfume. Dean can feel the heavy fall of blonde hair dragging over his
knuckles as he slides one hand up Sam’s back, straight up his spine and back
down, lower, nearly over the babydoll curve of his ass. “I’m Cher from
Clueless.”
“Yeah, I…” Dean licks his lips, searching Sam’s face like he still can’t
believe it, “I figured that out. You look… I mean, fuck, Sam. You… you look--”
“Do I look pretty?” Sam’s staring right into his eyes as he digs in even
tighter against Dean, making sure he can feel every lithe, boy-line of him, the
soft curve of his tummy digging in hard against Dean’s dick that is straining
with humiliating desperation against the front of his jeans.
“You look like a goddamn dream,” Dean says softly, so afraid of getting this
wrong, of saying the wrong thing, scaring Sam off. There’s a darkness creeping
up in him, blurring his edges, prickling up his spine and at the most tightly-
locked parts of his mind.
There isn’t a single bone in his body lying right now; he’s thought about this
before. In feverish, starving depth.
“Prettier than any girl at this party?” Sam’s fishing for compliments, for
reassurance, and Dean’s ready to get on his knees and lick his shoes, if that’s
what his boy needs to feel pretty, to feel beautiful.
“Prettier than any girl, anywhere.” A beat, a sharp suck of breath, and he
finally does it: slides a hand down, down until it’s cupping Sam’s ass, the
tips of his fingers spanning past that skimpy skirt and digging into the back
of a smooth, shaved thigh. He can feel cotton panties underneath the skirt,
feel the clinging hem of it over the tiny curve of one cheek.
Sam’s burning up now, hot like a fever dream, even the tip of his nose flushed
as he strains up even closer, that glossy mouth leaving a smudge-kiss against
Dean’s ear when it presses there to whisper.
“There’s a room upstairs. Tyler’s little sister’s room. Will you fuck me in
it?”
It’s shocking to hear those words out of Sam’s mouth, and it’s incomprehensible
that they’re being said to him.
A hunger grows in him that makes him feel so much bigger than Sam, makes him
feel dangerous and black-hearted with the animal need to push his dick into
something tight until it submits to him. He’s reaching down before he even
realizes it and lifting Sam right up off the floor, hands on his little girl
panties, a few of his fingers pushed under them, perilously close to Sam’s
asshole.
“Which room?”
“Third on the left,” Sam sighs, pleased, like he already has everything he
wanted. His arms are around Dean’s neck and his hot mouth is bumping clumsily
over Dean’s scruffy jaw, too blurry for kisses but it makes goosebumps fly all
over Dean’s body, makes the front of his jeans dark in a growing spot of slick.
The door’s already cracked open, a low golden glow coming from a lacy white
lamp on the nightstand. The room is a shrine of baby pink, white, and little
girl, and Dean lowers Sam onto the twin bed after locking the door behind them,
standing over him for a minute, staring at his little lemondrop of sunshine in
the pastel world they’re locked in now.
Sam spreads his thighs like pay-per-view, slow and smooth and completely, not
stopping until the skirt falls away and flashes virgin-white panties with a
little-boy dick bulge in them. Sammy reaches down and hooks a skinny finger in
the panties and tugs them to the side with far too much irreverence, like he
doesn’t know how dangerously beautiful he looks.
“I used Vaseline,” Sam tells him, pulling one asscheek away from the other to
show Dean the shadowed slick place where his tiny asshole is nestled. “I’m
ready. I’m ready for you, Dean, just--”
“Fuck.” It comes out like a punch and it hurts like one. Dean fumbles with his
belt, his jeans as he slides his other hand up along Sam’s shin to push his
sock down a little, revealing the curve of his knobby, flush-dotted knee. He
crawls up onto the bed and goes in face-first, kissing along the side of his
knee and down, down, headed for that place between Sam’s legs where all the
heat is coming from.
His dick’s in his hand now and he’s jacking it slow, smearing slick around on
the fat head and trying to ignore how his hand’s shaking. Sam’s skin is like
silk, freshly, carefully shaved and soft like he powdered all over, like he
knew this was gonna happen.
He slides his fingers across the crotch of Sam’s panties and pulls hard,
yanking them up and off of him in one fluid motion, and Sam kicks them off when
they get caught on one of his saddle shoes. His little dick is standing
straight up and tenting his skirt, but once Dean catches sight of that little
rosecurl of pink, he’s gone.
He can tell Sam’s fingered soft, that he’s full of Vaseline and ready to go,
and just the thought of it, of Sam carefully fingering himself in anticipation
of Dean’s dick is enough to make him violent with impatience. His hands dig in
hard enough to bruise as he shoves Sam’s thighs wide and pushes them back, up
toward his chest so he can get to his ass faster.
Dean swears he smells cherries when he pushes into him, breaks the seal of his
little brother’s virginity and forces the thick heft of his dick into the
tightest place Dean’s ever been.
Sam sobs, his wig fallen off and leaving him messy-haired and ruined-looking
already, his long-lashed eyes squeezed shut tight, tears clinging to the
mascaraed tips. Dean doesn’t wait, can’t wait, hasn’t learned yet how to use
any sort of finesse, but they’ll learn together. They’ll learn.
He digs his knees into the bed and drops his weight on Sam’s tiny body,
crushing his ninety-pound little brother under him on a borrowed schoolgirl’s
bed and shoving his hips forward until his pubic bone pushes bruise-hard into
Sam’s bare taint.
He’s nestled in eight inches deep, surrounded by the throbbing, tensed channel
of Sam’s guts, and he can feel the stretched-thin strain of his rim caught up
tight around the base of his cock. He feels wet just like a girl, so sopping
wet it churns around his dick when he shifts inside of him.
“I got it,” Dean whispers as he kisses along Sam’s girl-smooth chin, his tear-
stained jaw, his hands pushing at Sam’s hair and tucking it sweetly behind his
ears as he rocks slowly on top of him, grinding in even deeper, making sure
he’s touching as far inside of Sam as he can get. “It’s mine. Nobody else’ll
ever have it now.”
Sam whimpers, his trembling hands fluttering on Dean’s cheeks and in his gelled
hair, not landing anywhere too long as he tries to kiss back, only calming down
when their mouths brush each other for the first time.
Sam’s breath shudders like a wreck against his parted lips, and he drinks down
the taste of his little brother’s fucked up pleasure-pain as he finally draws
his hips back and digs back in, not stopping even when Sam thrashes under him,
his legs wrapping up tight around Dean’s hips, socks dragged down under his
knees.
“Hurts,” Sam sobs between kisses, their foreheads digging together hard, bodies
curled up so tight together that it would be disturbing to anybody else, with
anybody else.
“Want me to stop?” Dean asks, licking Sam’s lipgloss off his own lips before he
ventures up to tongue away his tears, to breathe in the salty smell of them as
he ruts deep and ruthless into Sam’s body.
Sam shakes his head, chasing Dean’s mouth and sucking on his bottom lip when he
finds it. One hand is clutched up at the back of Dean’s leather jacket, and
they’re both sweating hard in their layers, the bed whining under their weight
with every obsessive movement they make together.
“Do me harder,” he whispers.
It gets nasty when Sam starts to loosen up a little, his asshole finally giving
in and relaxing as Dean fucks it soft, leaving enough room for air to get in
with every thrust so that it’s wet and loud and sloppy now, the sin of it
making Dean fuck that much harder, making Sam cry like Dean’s forcing him, like
Dean’s fucking something out of him that’s needed to come out for a long time.
It’s so good, so goddamn good, that Dean couldn’t last a second longer if he
tried.
He starts to come in a gush, and Sam’s hole pushes out hard as Sam’s orgasm
pulses through him, the combination forcing Dean’s dick out, and it pops out of
Sam in an explosion of come and pushed-out pink while Sam rocks on the bed,
hips fucking up, hands gripping Dean hard.
“Put it back in put it back in fuck me Dean fuck me fuck me--”
Dean scrambles to wrap a hand around his dick and shove it back in, forcing Sam
to take him all the way again even as come still spurts out of his shuddering
slit. He digs in hard and stays there, not letting Sam’s tight, talented cunt
push him out again. It’s soaking wet between them now, clothes ruined with the
mess of both their jizz, and Dean can’t do anything but kiss Sam’s keening
little mouth and rut inside of him like he’s trying to make sure it takes.
He feels exhausted suddenly, drained to an extent that he’s never known before,
and he doesn’t realize that he’s crying until Sam is kissing at his wet cheeks,
pulling him in close and working his asshole around his still-pulsing dick,
milking him dry.
“That was perfect,” Sam mumbles against his lips, and it’s the smile that Dean
feels on his mouth that brings him back into himself, makes him huff out a
tired laugh and relax completely on top of Sam, probably suffocating him, but
Sam doesn’t complain.
“Lemme take you home,” Dean says quietly, obsessively tucking a single, long
lock of Sam’s sweaty hair behind his ear over and over and over. “When Dad goes
to bed we can--”
“I promised Tyler I’d stay the night,” Sam cuts in, pressing a final kiss to
Dean’s mouth before he starts to squirm under him. “You can head home. I’ll be
back in the morning. Promise.”
Dean wants to protest, wants to forgo all pride and beg Sam to come home with
him, but he’s so fucking tired that he can’t think of anything but going back
to their shitty, rented house, collapsing in the bed, and sleeping until noon.
“Alright,” he sighs, already aching with the thought of not being inside of
him, of being able to taste his mouth whenever he wants. He lifts off of Sam
and onto shaky legs, looking down at the front of his open pants and letting
out a shock of laughter.
“Fuck, I’m a fuckin’ mess.” Come clings to his pubes and is already staining
his jeans, and just one look down at Sam’s fucked-out, creamy hole makes his
laughter die, makes his softening dick pulse with greedy want.
“...You sure you don’t wanna come home?” he asks Sam’s asshole, licking his
lips.
“Go,” Sam laughs, kicking gently at Dean’s thigh with one of his shoes. “I’ll
clean up in here. Go on.”
Dean wrinkles his nose as he forces his dick back into his underwear and zips
up, and he pauses at the door to turn and look at Sam who’s still sprawl-limbed
and beautiful on the bed.
It occurs to Dean that he’s been in love with Sam his whole, entire life, even
if it’s only been sharpened into a point for the first time tonight.
“Bye, Sammy,” he says.
Sam stretches out on the bed, long and kittenish, and he blows Dean a kiss
before sliding a hand down between his now closed thighs, fingers disappearing.
“Bye, Dean.”
 
The drive home seems to take hours, and Dean ties the flannel he’d been wearing
under his jacket around his waist before he goes into the house, hoping Dad
doesn’t ask why he looks like a grunge kid all of a sudden.
The livingroom light is on when Dean opens the door, and he’s surprised to see
the back of Dad’s head over the edge of the couch cushion.
“Didn’t think you’d still be up,” Dean says, turning to lock the door, to kick
the salt line back where he’d disturbed it.
“Yeah, we rented Slaughter-house Five,” Dad replies from the couch, and it’s
the pronoun that gives Dean pause, makes his head tip to the side as he walks
over, an amused smile on his face.
“‘We’? How many have you had toni--”
“Dad said Mom loved this movie,” Sam says from under Dad’s arm, his hand in a
bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. “It’s pretty good.”
“It’s almost over,” Dad says with a yawn, finally looking up at Dean. “Did you
have fun at that party or whatever?”
Dean stares at Sam with his mouth open, and he feels so weak suddenly that he
has to reach out and grab hold of the couch to keep from falling over.
“Speaking of having too many,” Dad says, his laugh tight with concern. “You
better not’ve driven home like that.”
“How long have you been here?” Dean asks Sam, fingers tightening on the worn
couch cushion.
Sam lifts his head, pulling his ranch-flavored finger out of his mouth and
frowning at Dean.
“Awhile? I dunno. I went to the library with Andie and came home. I waited for
you after school but you never showed up.”
It sounds vaguely hurt, accusatory, and Dean feels all the blood drain from his
face as his heart thuds loudly in his ears.
“You… you were--didn’t you go to a party tonight? At Tyler’s?”
Sam rolls his eyes and refocuses on the TV, reaching into the bag of chips
again.
“Tyler doesn’t know I exist. I’m not cool enough to be invited to one of his
parties.” Sam shrugs, little shoulder lifting under his Pearl Jam t-shirt.
“Whatever. I don’t care.”
“He got home right after you left. You okay, Dean?” Dad is frowning at him,
studying him closely, too closely. Dean backs away from the couch, a dizziness
clouding his vision that has him fumbling his way across the room and to the
hallway.
“I’m going to bed,” he mumbles, his mind racing even as his body feels like it
weighs a ton, and it takes all of his energy to drag himself to his room. He
strips his clothes off and pulls on a pair of boxers from the floor, collapsing
on the bed in the comforting dark.
It comes back to him in a flood: the loudness of the party, the music,
Wednesday Addams, Sammy as Cher, Sammy in yellow plaid and over-the-knee socks,
Sammy’s thighs around his waist and his tears in his mouth and his slutty moans
and the delicious, suffocating, perfect tightness of his ass around Dean’s too-
big cock--
“Dean?”
Sam in the doorway, silhouetted by the light from the livingroom. Dean feels
like he’s going to throw up.
“I’m okay,” he manages, tears blurring his eyes. Impossible. It’s impossible.
Sam comes in the room and closes the door behind him, and there’s a tiny dip on
the bed and suddenly Sam is pushing himself into Dean’s arms, wrapping his own
around Dean’s neck and hugging him tight.
“I’m not mad that you didn't come get me,” Sam says against his throat, fingers
working at the tight muscles at the back of Dean’s neck. Dean realizes he’s too
exhausted to move, too weak, like he’d been drugged, like he’d had his
lifeblood sucked out of him.
It wasn’t Sam, his mind tells him with the very last of his energy, and he
loses consciousness then, pulled under before he feels the terrible shatter of
his heart.
End Notes
     [prompt: Hugged/kissed wrong person in a costume like my friend’s.]
      
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