Sam/Dean minibang fic: a theory of intimate grammar
Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 10,783
Contents: Underage sex, trans* character. Sam is sixteen and transitioning from female to male; he is biologically female but identifies as male.
Summary: Six months after Sam ran away at Flagstaff, Sam and Dean find themselves left at a cabin in the woods while their father chases down a lead. Sam’s got a secret he wants to tell Dean, but it seems as if the time is just never right.
A/N: Written for the samdean-otp minibang 2013. Many thanks and much love to pixymisa for choosing to illustrate this story and making such wonderful artwork for it; my beta applegeuse for reading the story and giving me loads of positive reinforcement and much-needed concrit; and riyku for organising the minibang and being there to help. ♥
ao3
ART POST
‘What?’ Dean asks, curling his toes in the water. They’re sitting at the edge of the lake behind the cabin at which Dad left them. It’s kind of breezy, the type of wind that’s slow and erratic but has a snippy sort of bite to it, suggesting an oncoming thunderstorm. If Sam squints, he can imagine that the air is maybe crackling with static. Maybe.
‘Sammy,’ Dean says, unusually patient. ‘You in there?’
‘Huh? Yeah. Yeah, Dean.’ Dean’s looking at him expectantly, like maybe Sam’s started saying something but forgotten what it was. He knows he’s doing that thing again, the one that Dean calls ‘getting lost in his head,’ but the slow-moving afternoon air is making him lazy with contentment, with approaching-summer smells that make him want to strip right there and dive into the pool.
But he won’t, because Dean’s there, and Sam’s... well. All his life, Sam’s been wrapped up tight in skin that never lets him forget how gangly and ungainly he is. Sam can’t skinny dip in front of Dean the way he could’ve done if they’d been brothers.
‘Spit it out, kid.’ Dean leans back on his palms, face turned to the sky. He’s all golden in the sunlight. Picture perfect, like someone dreamed up the ideal human and then brought him to life with intricate brushstrokes. He’s six feet tall and about twice as broad as Sam, whose skinny, lanky frame, with its barely-there breasts and its too-large clothes-most of them hand-me-downs from Dean-looks misshapen beside his brother’s, somehow, like he’s been put together from the scraps that were left behind after they were done making Dean.
‘I was. Uh, I was thinking of getting a haircut.’ Coward. Coward. At least he isn’t a liar. His hair’s almost down to his waist now, and he’s taken to binding it up in a tight knot at the nape of his neck.
‘Why? ‘S pretty.’ Dean’s large hand cups the back of Sam’s skull, fingers ruffling the mass of hair.
Sam twists away from the touch. ‘Don’t do that. Jerk.’
‘Bitch.’ Dean smiles, says the word the way he always does: no bite in it, its consonants softened to something that feels like fondness. His foot emerges from the water without a warning, splashing water all over Sam’s legs.
‘Dean!’ Sam thrashes his feet in the water, getting it all over Dean, and then it’s a total free-for-all, both of them splashing water over each other until they’re soaking, and Sam feels like a child again, genderless and monster-free.
‘C’mon, let’s go get changed.’ Dean gets to his feet, good humor still coloring the expression on his face, and Sam takes the proffered hand and lets himself be hauled up. Dean’s gaze flickers for a fraction of a moment to Sam’s chest, bare under his wet t-shirt. Sam rarely wears a bra.
A rainstorm catches them as they run back to the cabin, still laughing.
--
Chest-binding, Sam thinks sourly, sitting at the edge of the bathtub, is the worst thing ever. He doesn’t have the right kind of cloth to get it done correctly, and the result is that his chest ends up looking more pronounced than ever under his thin t-shirt. He’s torn strips from an old shirt of Dean’s for the purpose, and the cloth is just too thick to stay hidden under his cotton shirt. Then his eyes fall on the ever-present med kit lying on the bathroom counter, and he pulls out a roll of gauze. Perfect.
‘You asleep in there?’ Dean yells from outside, thumping on the door.
Sam groans as his hand jerks at the sudden banging on the door, the end of the gauze slipping out of his fingers and trailing to the floor. ‘You’re such an asshole,’ he says, loudly enough for Dean to hear.
‘Language, baby girl,’ Dean laughs, and Sam flinches at his own reflection in the mirror. Baby girl. If he’s honest with himself, it’s not an endearment he’s ever really hated, but it doesn’t fall right on his ears these days. It rubs in the fact that Dean might not be cool with Sam’s secret, and if he isn’t, Sam’s not even remotely sure what he’ll do. He wonders if Dean would be angry, or disgusted, or disappointed. If he’d out Sam to Dad, if Dad would find the whole thing funny. He’d probably ruffle Sam’s hair and call it a phase, as he’d done when Sam had developed a longing, at age twelve, for pink high heels. It’s mortifying to think about now, but Dad had laughed it off.
But Dean won’t laugh at this. Sam knows that with the kind of certainty with which he knows that he’s going to ace his SATs. He can’t predict what Dean’s reaction will be, but he knows that if Dean doesn’t accept him, their relationship will be destroyed for good. There’ll be no more gentle teasing, no more unofficial training or playful tussling. He imagines Dean withdrawing completely, becoming a stranger.
‘Seriously, Sammy, you alive in there?’ Dean’s being deliberately annoying, that thing he does when he’s secretly worried and doesn’t want to show it.
Despite himself, Sam smiles. He tucks the end of his bandage in and pulls on his shirt. Turning sideways, he examines his profile critically in the mirror. Not bad. If Dean isn’t assholish enough to stare at Sam’s chest too closely, he might get away with this for a while.
Dean’s got mac and cheese on the table when Sam emerges from the bathroom. ‘Hope you’re hungry.’
‘Starving,’ Sam says lightly, slipping into the chair next to Dean’s. They eat in silence for a while, Sam’s bare legs beginning to feel cold under his denim shorts. There’s a chill in the air from the rain, wisps of cold getting in through the cracks under the doors and windows.
‘Gotta check the salt lines,’ Dean mutters just when Sam starts to wonder if the salt that Dean had carefully laid is still intact after the rain. Dean sometimes has the habit of saying exactly what Sam’s thinking, and it’s something Sam has come to live with. He doesn’t dwell on it too deeply, scared of digging too much. Maybe he’ll find that monsters are the only thing that he and Dean have in common, that the only time they think the same thoughts is when they’re running on instinct, on rules their dad’s taught them. Don’t forget to salt the doors and windows. Always carry a lighter or matches. Sam, do as your brother says. Dean, look out for Sammy.
‘You, uh.’ Dean’s looking at Sam’s legs. ‘You wanna borrow my razor or something?’
Sam shrugs. He hasn’t shaved his legs for the last couple of weeks, and had wondered if Dean would notice. ‘Why? Does it bother you?’
Dean doesn’t look uncomfortable at the topic. Sam wonders why he’d even expected Dean to be, given that they’ve lived in each other’s pockets their whole lives and there’s little about Sam that Dean doesn’t know. Dean had known that Sam was going to start menstruating before Sam had. He’d looked proud, as though Sam had achieved something by bleeding. In the three years since Sam started his period, Dean’s usually the one who cheerfully buys the tampons. Sometimes there’s a box of condoms in the bag too. It’s not for Sam. Sam doesn’t want to picture Dean having sex, but there’s a strange sort of comfort in seeing the condoms sitting next to the tampons. The bag just has stuff they both need, and it’s no big deal.
‘Why?’ Dean asks, a pro at answering questions with questions. ‘It’s cool if you want to be a hairy lesbian.’
Sam flushes. ‘I’m not a lesbian.’ He pauses for a moment, reconsidering. ‘At least I don’t think I am.’
Dean gives him one of his easy grins. ‘Hey, it would actually be sorta hot if you were, you know?’
And okay, Sam knows his face must be flaming right then. ‘God, shut up, Dean. Do you even think about what you’re saying, or just let crap fall out of your mouth?’
Dean makes a face. ‘Now there’s an image I don’t need when I’m eating.’ Sam flicks a bit of cheese at him, more pissed than amused. Dean’s tongue licks the cheese neatly off the top of his lip. ‘Seriously, though. You got something going on I should know about?’
‘No.’ It comes out too quickly. Lying’s actually one of Sam’s best reflexes, brought about by too many years of having his dad and big brother watching every move he makes.
‘No, you don’t have anything going on, or no, it’s nothing you want to tell me about?’
‘Jesus, Dean. Just. Let it go, okay?’ He doesn’t look at Dean, and shovels the last of his food into his mouth. His hair is stupidly heavy where it’s bound at the nape of his neck. He resolves to chop it off the moment Dean leaves him alone, and resolutely doesn’t look at Dean as he clears up their plates and puts them in the sink.
--
When he was fourteen, Sam hadn’t yet started thinking of himself using male pronouns. He’d lived his whole life thinking of himself as an ungainly girl, queasy and embarrassed to be in his own skin.
Orlando wasn’t like a revelation. Sam-Samantha, then-knew from some of the crappy daytime shows on television that men were sometimes born women, and women were sometimes born men. Orlando wasn’t discussed in class-they’d been told to read an essay by Woolf, and Sam had been intrigued enough to check out some of her novels. At the beginning of the book, Orlando was a sixteen-year-old boy, but by the end of it, he was a boy in a woman’s body.
Woolf’s prose wasn’t Sam’s favorite kind. It was heavy, and sometimes full of description that bordered on the monotonous. But there were also words in the book that charmed their way into his imagination. Orlando’s nose was described as arrowy. It was a lovely word, a word that was made-up but still came instantly to life, bold and demanding and real. He’d finished the book sitting under a tree in the parking lot at school. The Impala wasn’t there; Dean must’ve skipped school again. It was almost six in the evening and shadows were gathering in the parking lot, trees rustling under a slowly stirring breeze.
Staring at the blank page at the end of the book, Sam didn’t hear the rumbling of the Impala, and he started violently when the car pulled up beside him. He stuffed his book into his bag and got into the passenger seat.
‘Sorry I’m late.’ Dean glanced at Sam, putting the car into drive. ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ Sam put on his headphones and turned his head toward the window. He wasn’t in the mood to face Dean’s questions right then. Orlando sat in his bag like a dirty little secret.
--
At the bottom of Sam’s duffel is a blister pack of testosterone pills. He’d got them for free from a guy at a bar in Flagstaff during the two weeks that he’d spent on his own, away from Dad and Dean. Freddie had been around Dean’s age, dark-haired and green-eyed. They’d spent the majority of their time together kissing in the back seat of Freddie’s Mustang, but when Freddie’s hand had moved between Sam’s legs, Sam had pulled away. It wasn’t that he was a prude, but he was messed up enough already without adding unplanned sex to the complications in his life.
Freddie had backed off immediately, even apologizing for trying to get to second base without Sam’s explicit consent, and then Sam had found the courage to bring up the topic of Freddie's gender.
They’d spent the night together, just cuddled under a thick blanket in the back seat, and Sam had found himself talking more than he remembered talking to anyone before, pouring out his thoughts without waiting to let himself think about the rightness or wrongness of it. There was a niggling voice at the back of his mind that told him that telling a stranger before telling Dean was a sort of betrayal, but another part of him knew that he could talk to Freddie only because Freddie was like Sam, because he didn’t have to worry about whether Freddie would care, whether he’d find Sam wrong or disgusting.
When the sun came up, Freddie drove Sam to a friend’s place and procured the pills for him, handing them to him with a stack of information and a list of websites and phone lines Sam could use, urging him to get a medical opinion before he did anything.
‘Hey, think you might want a dog?’ Sam asked him as they hugged goodbye.
Freddie said he’d be happy to take care of Bones, and Sam had gotten on to a bus for Sioux Falls with a heart that was lighter than it had been in ages. He reached Bobby’s place and got what he’d expected: a lecture from Dad that went on for what seemed to be hours, and a tight hug from Dean, who looked both relieved and betrayed.
Dean hadn’t brought up Flagstaff again.
--
‘You sure you don’t wanna come along?’ Dean asks for the thousandth time. He’s driving into town for supplies, and Sam really just wants to be alone for a while.
‘I’m sure, Dean.’ He gives Dean a little push. ‘Just go.’
Dean still hesitates, and it suddenly hits Sam why he’s so reluctant to leave. ‘Jesus, Dean, I’m not gonna go anywhere, okay?’
Dean’s gaze snaps up to Sam’s face, and he feels a twinge of guilt. ‘Look, I know Dad chewed you over when I... at Flagstaff. I won’t do it again, all right? I promise.’
‘You think that’s what I care about? What Dad’ll say if you run away again?’ Dean pulls on his jacket, but now his eyes aren’t leaving Sam’s face. ‘You think that’s what I-’
‘Look, I took care of myself, okay?’ Dean’s hurt is plain on his face, but Sam’s tired of appeasing him when his own insides are twisted up in a way he hasn’t been able to share with anyone since Freddie. ‘What more could you want, huh? I proved I could take care of myself, didn’t I?’
Dean opens his mouth, and then snaps it shut. He drives away without another word, and Sam sits down on the steps, hugging himself, watching the Impala until it’s not even a dark speck in the distance.
Twenty minutes later, Sam’s phone buzzes.
Need anything?
Sam smiles. Nah, I’m good, he texts back. Dean doesn’t text again, but something loosens inside Sam. He goes to find a pair of scissors, but there isn’t one at the cabin. The only pair he can find is the small one that’s part of the med kit, but it’ll have to do.
There’s no mirror in the cabin other than the one in the bathroom. The place belongs to a hunter friend of Dad’s, and is clearly meant to be no more than a safe house. Sam stands in front of the bathroom counter and unties his hair, letting it spill down his back. He’d started growing his hair a year ago in a somewhat misguided attempt to make himself more attractive, or at least that’s what he figures it was. His hair is definitely his best feature, long and silky and wavy. At first he’d been thrilled with the way it looked as it grew out. He’d always had longish hair, but he’d never let it grow more than shoulder-length before.
He’d started tying it up after an incident at a gas station. They’d been on their way to a job somewhere in Arizona, following Dad’s truck. Dean had stopped for gas and Sam had gone into the little store at the gas station while Dean filled up the Impala’s tank. He’d shampooed his hair that morning and it hung loose and glossy around his shoulders. That had been before Flagstaff, but Sam had already started to forgo makeup. His lack of lipstick and eyeliner hadn’t stopped the guy at the cash register from flirting with Sam. He’d leaned in over the counter when he took Sam’s cash, scribbled his phone number down on a piece of paper and pushed it toward Sam until their fingers were brushing.
Sam started to pull back, but then the guy’s fingers were touching his hair, trailing through the strands. ‘You’re real pretty, you know that?’ he’d said. Sam jerked away from the touch, stepping back into a wall of muscle. Dean’s arm was around his shoulders before he could move away, and he found himself welcoming the weight of it, the strength of Dean’s fingers as they curled around his arm.
‘You ready to go, babe?’ Dean asked casually, completely ignoring the guy at the counter.
Sam nodded, grabbing his bags. On an impulse, he went up on his toes and kissed Dean’s cheek. Dean stiffened beside him, and for a moment Sam thought he’d taken the charade too far. But then Dean smiled, seemingly unfazed, and bent to brush his lips against Sam’s cheek, returning the kiss. He kept his arm around Sam as they walked out of the store. They pulled apart when they got to the car. Dean got in without a word, and they didn’t talk for miles after that, the pounding of Dean’s music through the car drowning out Sam’s thoughts.
It wasn’t until days later that he’d let himself wonder if Dean was just being protective at the gas station, or if he’d been jealous.
--
Cutting his hair with the small medical scissors takes ages. An hour later, Sam’s kind of close to screaming in frustration. He’s sweating despite the slight chill in the air, stripped down to a tank top and his boxers-okay, Dean’s boxers, but they’re an old pair that Dean probably doesn’t miss. Wearing panties is just another of those things that Sam can’t bring himself to do these days.
He’s sheared his hair up to his shoulders, and discarded strands litter the floor all around him. His bangs look terrible, falling unevenly into his eyes, looking like the edges of a hedge that’s been badly trimmed.
The sound of the Impala’s engine sends a small wave of panic through him. Dean’s probably going to laugh his head off at the mess that Sam’s made of his hair.
‘Sam?’ he hears Dean call.
‘In here,’ he calls back, grabbing his jeans and slipping them on. Turning on the faucet, he cups some water into his hands and combs it through his hair, trying to get it to lie flat.
Dean knocks on the door. ‘Hey, you okay?’
‘Yeah, Dean, I’m fine.’ Swallowing, he steps up to the door and opens it.
‘Holy shit, Sam, what’ve you done?’ Dean’s shocked gaze moves from Sam’s head to the clipped hair spread out over the floor.
‘What’s it look like?’ Sam says irritably. ‘Got sick of it.’ He gestures vaguely toward his head.
Dean says nothing for a minute. From the look on his face, it’s obvious that there’s a lot he wants to say, except maybe he doesn’t know where to start. Maybe he’s afraid of how Sam will react. Sam feels another twinge of guilt, and pushes it aside, annoyed. Dean’s kinda been on eggshells around Sam for the last six months, constantly watching what he says, as though he’s afraid that Sam will disappear again if he says something out of line. It’s not your fault, Sam’s been wanting to say. It wasn’t because of you that I left. But talking sensibly has kind of escaped them since Flagstaff, and Sam knows whose fault that is.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Dean says finally. ‘Let me, uh, lemme know if you need any help, okay?’
‘Actually, yeah, I do,’ Sam says quickly, before Dean can leave. ‘Could you, uh, could you maybe do the back? My arms are starting to hurt and it’s all uneven.’
‘Sure. Hang on a sec.’ Dean goes out of the bathroom and returns with one of the stools from the small kitchenette. ‘Here, sit.’
Sam sits facing the mirror but doesn’t look into it. If he’d had the time, he would have all but shorn his head, maybe given himself a crew cut. Those stupid scissors. Now the decision’s been taken away from him, and his squeezes his eyes shut to stop them from stinging with frustration.
Dean doesn’t reach for the scissors right away. He puts his hands on Sam’s shoulders and squeezes gently. ‘You sure you’re good, Sammy?’
‘Yeah.’ Sam doesn’t even manage to sound convincing to himself.
‘Hey, c’mere.’ Dean gathers him close and Sam turns around in his arms, burying his face in Dean’s neck. He’s still got his jacket on and he smells like sunlight. ‘You’re okay. It’s okay.’ Dean runs his fingers soothingly through Sam’s ruined hair, bending down to press a kiss against the crown of Sam’s head. They stay like that for a while, Sam breathing against Dean’s chest and Dean’s lips on Sam’s hair.
‘Sorry,’ Sam says eventually, pulling back a little and scrubbing a hand over his face. ‘I bet you think I’m a total idiot, huh.’
‘Nah.’ Dean gives him a smacking kiss against the side of his head, and picks up the scissors. ‘You sure you aren’t a lesbian, right?’
Sam lets out a laugh that sounds more like a half-sob. ‘Jerk. I told you I’m not.’ Truth be told, he isn’t really sure of his preferences. It’s not something he dwells much on. There’s too much else that needs sorting first, too many labels to try on before he decides which one suits him best.
‘You ready?’ Dean asks.
Sam nods, and turns back around to face the mirror. Dean’s standing behind him, his fingers smoothing Sam’s hair over his shoulders to gauge the damage. ‘A little shorter?’ he asks, and Sam nods.
Dean says nothing more and gets to work, snipping away at Sam’s hair. He’s not the most patient of guys, but no one would know it if they could see him now, focused on separating Sam’s hair into thin, manageable strands that can be cut with the small scissors. The snip snip snip of the scissors and Dean’s even breathing lull Sam into a kind of half-doze as he sits still on his stool, only moving his head when Dean wordlessly nudges it to one side or the other. When Dean’s done with the back, Sam’s hair is neat and even, curling just below his ears.
‘Good?’ Dean asks, his fingers curled into the hair at the nape of Sam’s neck. His thumb is warm against Sam’s bare skin.
Sam nods. ‘I still look like a scarecrow from the front.’
Dean chuckles. ‘I’m getting there, kid.’ He moves his hand away from Sam’s neck, putting it on his shoulder and guiding him to turn around until he’s facing Dean. ‘Look up for a bit.’ Dean cups Sam’s chin and tilts his head up. His hand stays there while he combs through Sam’s bangs with the fingers of his other hand. ‘Long or short?’
‘Uh, short.’ Sam can smell Dean’s aftershave. He wonders if they put pheromones or something in that shit, because it always smells so good, but he rarely gets to smell it from so close. Without meaning to, he suddenly remembers what Freddie had smelt like. Whatever cologne he’d had on had smelt musky and strongly masculine, tinted with the smell of cigarettes and a bit of sweat.
Before Sam can dwell further on the topic, the silver glint of the scissors in front of his face pulls his attention away from his thoughts. ‘Close your eyes,’ Dean says. ‘Wouldn’t wanna get hair in them.’
With his eyes closed, Sam’s mind is free to wander back to its thoughts, but it’s a little difficult to focus on them when Dean’s hand is cupping his face, holding him still as he carefully cuts Sam’s bangs. Being unable to open his eyes heightens his sense of touch, and he almost imagines he can feel the soft huffs of Dean’s breath against the sensitive skin of his face. He parts his knees a little as Dean shifts closer and tilts Sam’s head a little further back. ‘Almost done,’ he says, and Sam hears the snip of the scissors again. He feels tiny clippings of hair float past his nose.
‘Tickles,’ he says, wrinkling his nose.
‘Stay still,’ Dean says, but there’s a smile in his voice, and Sam obeys, his hands clenching around the rim of his stool to keep his balance. His instincts are to grab on to Dean’s waist to be sure he won’t fall, but something else tells him it would be disastrous to touch Dean now.
‘There, all done.’ Eyes still shut, Sam hears a tiny clink as Dean puts the scissors down on the counter. Then his fingertips are over Sam’s face, brushing away bits of hair with light touches that Sam can barely feel.
What he can feel is a distinct throbbing between his legs, a wetness so palpable that he’s sure Dean can smell it. Mortified, he starts closing his legs only to realize that Dean’s still standing between his knees, and he hurriedly snaps his legs apart again.
Dean’s hands are back on his shoulders, guiding him to turn around. Sam swings around on the stool, opening his eyes.
He looks at himself, critically appraising Dean’s work. It’s much easier if he thinks of it that way, because being objective about his appearance has never been one of Sam’s strong points. His bangs are still there, still looking a little too silky for Sam’s liking, but they’re short, barely brushing the tops of his eyebrows.
‘You like it?’ Dean asks, his hands still on Sam’s shoulders.
Sam takes a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. He’s completely on edge, Dean’s fingers like a brand against his skin. ‘It... yeah, it’s great,’ he manages. ‘Thanks, Dean.’
‘Awesome.’ Dean sounds a little remote. Maybe he’s tired from standing so long. ‘You should give it a wash. You, uh, you want me to shampoo it for you?’
Sam gets to his feet so fast that he nearly knocks the stool over. ‘No! No, I’ll, uh. Think I’ll take a shower.’
‘’Kay,’ Dean says agreeably. ‘I’ll just clean up here.’
Sam bites back a groan. They’re used to sharing a bathroom, one of them behind the shower curtain while the other brushes his teeth or pees or whatever, and Dean’s just going to think he’s being weird if he says that cleaning up can wait.
He steps into the tub and draws the plastic curtain before stripping and turning on the water. He just stands there for a few minutes, letting the water trail down his body as he listens to the sounds of Dean sweeping up his discarded hair. By the time the door closes behind Dean with a soft click, Sam’s desperate to touch himself. He sinks to his knees and spreads them apart, pressing his forehead to the wall as his hand works between his legs.
Sam’s collected quite a bit of fantasy material in his head over the years, but this time, none of his usual fantasies are accessible through the warm, stifling memory of Dean’s presence in the room. Dean’s smell, Dean’s hands, Dean’s breath. Sam turns his head against the wall in front of him, cheek pressed to the tiles, his ass pushing back helplessly as he thrusts his hips against his hand, trying to come just from the friction of his fingers, trying to force every thought out of his head.
It almost works. Just as he feels his orgasm build, he becomes aware of the rivulets of water trickling steadily between the cheeks of his ass, and for one perfect instant, his mind gives him the image of Dean kneeling behind him, licking him there, and the trickles of water are Dean’s soft tongue, tasting Sam, the tip of it pushing against his asshole. Sam comes with a gasp, his thighs quivering with the intensity of it, his fingers stroking himself with an erratic rhythm, instinctively drawing the pleasure out. He’s wrung dry and he can’t stop shaking, and it’s a while before he realizes that he’s crying.
--
He’s pretty sure Dean notices his red eyes as soon as he emerges from the bathroom, but Sam’s attention is instantly drawn by something else. His duffel is sitting in the middle of the bed, unzipped, clothes spilling out. Dean’s sitting on the couch, and in his hand is Sam’s strip of testosterone pills.
Sam takes a step toward him, his hands clenched. ‘Dean, what the fuck.’
Dean just looks up at him, unfazed. He’s had a few minutes to think about it, after all. ‘Something you want to tell me, Sam?’
Sam snatches the pills away and tosses them back into his bag. ‘You had no right. No fucking right to touch my stuff.’ His hands are shaking, and so is his voice.
‘You’re right, I didn’t.’ Dean still sounds irritatingly calm. ‘But I did it anyway, ’cause I’m your fucking big brother and you’ve been-damn it, Sam, you’ve been hiding stuff from me. Stuff that could seriously fuck you up.’
Dean still hasn’t raised his voice, and Sam almost wishes he would. He wants Dean to yell at him, maybe throw things around in anger and then storm out to get drunk. Leave Sam alone. Leave him alone for hours and then come back in the middle of the night, smelling of alcohol and cigarettes and sex, maybe pass out on the couch.
But Dean’s not doing any of those things. He’s just sitting there on the couch, his hands on his knees, palms up, fingers curled limp against each other.
Sam sinks down on the bed, covering his eyes with a hand that won’t stop shaking. ‘I didn’t. I didn’t take any of those, Dean.’
Dean exhales slowly, audibly, as if he’s been holding his breath for several minutes. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I believe you. I want to know why you have them. Where you got them.’
‘Flagstaff,’ Sam whispers. ‘There was... there was someone.’
Time freezes for a while. Sam sits on the edge of the bed with his fists screwed into his eyes, unmoving.
Then Dean says ‘Jesus fucking Christ’ and launches himself off the couch, his hands clamping down on Sam’s shoulders. ‘Sam, c’mon. C’mon, Sam, fucking look at me.’
Sam looks at him. There’s nothing else to be done. Things spiralled out of his hands the moment he stepped out of the bathroom and now it’s like the force of Dean’s anger is sweeping him along with it, sweeping them both along.
‘You telling me-you telling me that all the time I was going out of my freaking mind looking for you, all that time-you were screwing some douchebag? Damn it, Sam, I said look at me.’
Sam flinches, turning his eyes back up to Dean’s face. His expression is contorted, and it almost looks like despair, like grief, rather than rage. ‘I didn’t-’ Sam starts to say, but stops as one of Dean’s hands lifts from his shoulder. He puts an arm instinctively in front of his face, anticipating a blow.
It doesn’t come. Dean lets go of Sam completely and takes a step back, his hands held up in front of him. ‘I wasn’t... I wasn’t gonna hit you, Sam. You-jesus, how could you think that?’
Sam doesn’t answer. He wouldn’t know what to say, even if he could bring himself to speak. He doesn’t know why he’d thought Dean was going to strike him. Dean’s never hit him, ever. He focuses on trying to breathe, feeling as though he’s going to fly apart any second. ‘Just... just don’t touch me right now,’ he manages finally.
Dean steps back further. ‘I-I know you wanna be left alone right now, but don’t-I can’t, Sam. Don’t ask me to go.’
Sam looks around blindly, not really seeing anything. He can hear Dean’s labored breaths, and it hurts to listen to them. He reaches reflexively for a t-shirt that’s half-hanging out of his duffel, and stuffs it back in. ‘I don’t want to look at you right now,’ he says. It’s a lie, and his chest hurts with the small, sharp pain of it.
He doesn’t look at Dean. There’s a long, neverending silence, and then the sound of Dean’s boots against the floor before he steps out and shuts the door quietly behind him.
--
Sam wakes to the sound of rain. It’s rude and noisy, clattering away against the roof of the cabin. He rolls over and stares at the ceiling, disoriented for a moment, before the memory of last night hits him like a nightmare that’s almost gotten away.
He sits up quickly, reaching for the bottle of water on the nightstand and taking several gulps, fighting back the urge to throw up. He can’t remember if the bottle had been there when he went to sleep. He looks around, but there’s no sign of Dean, and the couch doesn’t look slept on.
Throwing the blankets off-he doesn’t remember covering himself up, either-he goes barefoot to the door and wrenches it open. He hadn’t heard the car drive away last night, and had gone to bed reasonably sure that Dean was sleeping in the Impala.
He winces as his feet hit the stony path, slushy with rain. Blinking water out of his eyes, he goes up to the car. The sight of Dean asleep in the back seat sends relief thrumming through him, and he sags bonelessly against the car for a moment. The windows are rolled all the way up and there’s condensation forming on them, but he can see Dean clearly enough, his long legs bent at the knees and his jacket rolled up under his head, his face pressed against his makeshift pillow, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Fuck, he must be cold.
Sam puts his hand over the door handle, and remembers the expression on Dean’s face last night. His face is still tight with tension, but at least he’s asleep. Stepping back from the car, Sam goes back into the cabin.
He’s got coffee brewing when he hears the door creak open. He senses Dean’s presence behind him, but he doesn’t turn around. After a minute, Dean goes into the bathroom and shuts the door.
As the water starts to run, Sam gets out another mug and makes coffee for them both. He’s not about to deprive Dean of caffeine, even if they aren’t talking and the guy’s a total jerk.
Dean comes out a few minutes later, scrubbing at his wet hair with a towel. ‘This for me?’ he says with a sheepish smile, gesturing toward the mug of coffee Sam’s left for him. Sam pushes it toward him, not trusting himself to speak just yet. He’s seen that smile on Dean’s face before, but this is the first time that he wants to push Dean up against the wall and kiss it off his face, bite at his lips until they’re red and wet and Sam’s.
Dean inhales his coffee in a few quick gulps, and then pours out more for them both, filling his mug and topping Sam’s up. Sam takes his mug over to the couch, not reacting when Dean sits down tentatively at the other end, leaving a considerable amount of distance between them.
‘If you,’ Dean begins, rubbing a hand over his freshly-shaven face. ‘If you want me to leave, I’ll, uh. I can go.’
‘Where will you go?’ Sam looks down at the floor between his knees, focusing on the swirls of the old wood.
‘I. I dunno, Sam. I’m just. I just wanna do what’s best for you.’
Dean sounds wrecked, and there’s that surge of guilt again, pressing up from Sam’s throat and making him taste bile. ‘No. I don’t. I don’t want you to go. You’re the only... Fuck, Dean.’
Dean makes an aborted movement with his hand, as if he’s about to reach for Sam. ‘Then I’m not gonna leave you, okay? I promise. Sammy.’
It’s not until Dean says his nickname that Sam realizes he’s been dying to hear it. He’s always hated the way it sounds, one syllable dragged into two, a mockery of his name, but he’s also always known that Dean’s the most affectionate when he says it, and Sam’s starved for Dean’s affection, having deprived himself of it over the last six months.
Sam lets out a little snort of disbelief. ‘You wouldn’t have left me anyway.’
Dean gives him a shaky sort of smile. ‘No, I guess not.’
Sam looks away again. He knows he should probably look Dean in the eyes for this, but he can’t bring himself to. ‘I ran away,’ he says, ‘because I couldn’t breathe, Dean. I had no idea who I was or what I was and there was no one... there was nothing I could do about it.’
Dean makes a sound from the back of his throat , but doesn’t say anything. Sam knows what it’s costing him to stay quiet, let Sam talk, and he continues quickly. ‘I don’t... I don’t think of myself as a girl, Dean. I haven’t for at least a year. The pills... they’re for. For transgendered women. Or men. Fuck, I don’t even know.’
‘What’ll they do to you? If you take them?’ Dean’s voice is toneless, and when Sam glances at him, there’s no real expression on his face. His eyes are shuttered, his lips pressed together.
‘Uh, they’ll give me... facial hair. Make me bigger. I think.’
‘And that’s what you want?’
‘I don’t know, Dean. Maybe. It can’t hurt to try it, you know?’
Dean gives him a small shake of the head, and Sam doesn’t know what it means, if Dean’s saying he understands or if he’s indicating that Sam’s a grade-A freak. ‘I hate not knowing what you’re thinking,’ Sam says, the words tumbling out of his mouth, colored with despair.
‘I’m listening, Sammy.’ Dean puts his hand on the couch between them, not touching Sam, but Sam reaches out and grabs it, squeezing their fingers together. He gives Dean’s hand a tug, and Dean slides closer to him. Sam gets under his arm, curling his fingers into Dean’s faded old Zeppelin t-shirt.
He wants to tell Dean he misses him, that he’s missed him since Flagstaff, since that night he bared his heart to a stranger and replaced his brother with emptiness. Seeming to sense that Sam can’t really talk at the moment, Dean tightens his arms around Sam and just holds him, kissing the top of his head as he’d done the previous day. Sam pushes a hand up under Dean’s shirt, pressing his palm against the warmth of Dean’s skin.
He hears Dean inhale sharply, and pulls back. ‘I’m not. I’m not trying to molest you,’ he says with a strained laugh.
‘Damn it, Sammy, don’t say things like that.’
Sam may have lost the ability to know what Dean’s thinking, but he knows Dean, and Dean isn’t pushing him away. There’s nothing Sam has that Dean could want, but he pushes himself up on his knees anyway, straddling Dean, slipping his fingers into Dean’s hair, tracing the curve of his lips with his thumb. He wants to ask for permission to have this, to have Dean, if only just the one time, but if he asks and Dean says no, he’ll never be able to ask again. Leaning forward, he presses his closed lips against Dean’s.
Dean’s hands come up to frame Sam’s face. He doesn’t push Sam away, but he doesn’t kiss back, either. When Sam draws his head back, Dean opens his mouth to say something, and Sam can’t bear to hear it. Pressing himself against Dean, he kisses his brother again, hears Dean make a helpless sound against his mouth. ‘Please, Dean.’
He feels a shudder run through Dean, and Dean nods, his hands still cupped over Sam’s face. His mouth opens against Sam’s, and the first brush of his tongue against Sam’s has Sam bucking his hips involuntarily against Dean’s.
‘Sammy,’ Dean says into his mouth. ‘Sammy, are you sure-’
‘Yes. Yes, please, yes.’ Sam kisses Dean again, more fiercely this time, almost stabbing his tongue into Dean’s mouth, grabbing a handful of Dean’s hair and holding his head in place. Dean doesn’t hesitate this time, kissing Sam back with a desperation that almost equals Sam’s own, his hands leaving Sam’s face to travel down to his waist and pull him closer. Sam gasps against Dean’s mouth when he feels the hard line of Dean’s cock below him, pressing up against his ass. He bites at Dean’s mouth, thrusting a hand between their bodies to grind his palm against Dean’s cock. Dean thrusts up against his hand, crying out in surprise. ‘Sammy. Fuck.’
‘Want to suck your cock,’ Sam says, biting a trail of kisses down Dean’s jaw, his throat. ‘Let me, Dean, please.’
Without waiting for an answer-he has to have this, now, before Dean puts it to a stop-he slides down to the floor between Dean’s legs, wrenching his jeans open.
‘Sammy, wait, jesus, Sam-’
Sam doesn’t wait. If he could, he’d draw this out, tease Dean with slow, affectionate licks of his tongue before swallowing him down, learn the taste of him and commit it to memory, trace every vein and lick the wetness forming at the head of his cock, bury his nose in the wiry hair at the base of Dean’s cock and inhale his fragrance. But there’s no time for that, and so he puts his lips around the head of Dean’s cock and pulls Dean into his mouth, sucking hard at the same time.
Dean lets out a strangled sound, his thighs tensing under the clamps of Sam’s hands, which are holding him firmly in place. Sam shuts his eyes and keeps sucking, not stopping even when the head of Dean’s cock hits the back of his throat and he almost gags. Wrenching his jaws apart as far as he can, he keeps up the suction at the base of Dean’s cock and lashes the length of it with his tongue. His eyes quickly begin to water, but he digs his fingers into the hard flesh of Dean’s thighs and keeps going. One of Dean’s hands is cupped around the back of Sam’s head. Sam opens his eyes to find that Dean’s other hand is clenched hard into the backrest of the couch behind him, his head thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut. Sam makes a sound at the back of his throat, pushing his face closer against Dean, taking him impossibly deeper. Dean’s lips part in a soundless gasp, his eyelids fluttering open.
‘Sammy, I’m gonna...’ Dean’s hand grips the hair at the back of Sam’s head, trying to pull him off, but Sam shakes his head and sucks harder, bobbing his head up and down, forcing Dean to fuck in and out of his mouth. Pushing Dean’s thighs further apart, he gets a hand into Dean’s jeans and searches blindly for his hole, pushing a dry fingertip inside. Dean comes with a half-sob, his hand tightening in Sam’s hair and his hips finally thrusting up against Sam’s face as he comes down Sam’s throat.
‘Christ,’ Dean says, his hand still clenched in Sam’s hair. ‘Jesus fucking Christ, Sammy.’
Sam doesn’t answer. Unbuttoning his jeans and yanking his zipper down, he thrusts a hand into his boxers as he begins to lap at Dean’s cock, licking him clean. Dean’s body is shuddering with aftershocks. He lifts his head, pets weakly at Sam’s hair, murmurs filthy encouragement that makes Sam feel as though he’s driving off the edge of a cliff. He comes on his fingers, rubbing his cheek against Dean’s softening cock, smearing himself with his own saliva and the remains of Dean’s come.
Dean reaches down and drags Sam into his arms, pressing their foreheads together. ‘Sam,’ he says. He sounds a little broken, but Sam doesn’t care. Dean’s his to break, to put together again.
‘Thank you,’ he says, touching Dean’s lips. Dean sucks Sam’s fingers into his mouth, cleaning Sam’s come off them, biting down lightly when Sam tries to pull his fingers back. ‘Dean, no,’ he says, pushing at Dean’s chest, and Dean releases his fingers.
‘I thought... Sorry, Sammy, I thought you wanted me to do that.’ Dean still looks a little dazed, but Sam can feel himself pulling back already, his body wanting to curl in on itself as it usually does after an orgasm. He kisses Dean gently before getting off him and zipping himself up.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sam says. ‘I shouldn’t have... Dean, you wanted that, right?’
‘Yeah, Sammy. Just... come here. Please.’ Dean reaches for him, and Sam can’t bring himself to deny Dean anything at that point. He curls up beside Dean, picking up his forgotten mug of coffee to give his hands something to do.
Dean does a bit of a face-plant into Sam’s lap, and Sam lets out a laugh and lets Dean lie there with his head on Sam’s knee, absently stroking Dean’s hair while he sips his coffee. He feels pleasantly drained, noticing vaguely that his body seems to be getting accustomed to having someone else so close. When Dean’s breathing starts to even out, Sam tugs lightly at his hair. ‘Bed. Come on.’
Dean makes a sound of assent, and they tumble together on the bed, Dean’s head pillowed on Sam’s shoulder. Sam turns his head against Dean’s, and falls asleep with his face buried in Dean’s hair.
--
When Sam wakes for the second time that day, the rain’s still falling. He can smell frying eggs and buttered toast and freshly-brewed coffee.
By the time he sits up, pushing his hands back through his messy hair, Dean’s already back at his side, carrying a tray. ‘Brunch in bed?’ he asks. He sets the tray carefully on the bed and leans down for a quick kiss.
‘You taste like coffee,’ Sam says accusingly, and Dean laughs.
‘Made you some, kid. I know how cranky you get without caffeine.’
They sit cross-legged on the bed, facing each other, and devour the toast and eggs in minutes. Dean stretches out on the bed when they’re done, propping himself up on an elbow and watching Sam drink his coffee. ‘You good?’ he asks, putting his hand on Sam’s knee and leaving it there.
Sam takes another sip of coffee. ‘It depends.’
‘On what?’ Dean raises his eyebrows. His eyes are very green in the sunlight spilling in from the window, and Sam kind of hates how stupidly in love he feels at the moment.
‘Can I suck your cock again?’ he says lightly, pushing a foot against Dean’s chest.
Dean laughs, pressing a kiss against Sam’s big toe. ‘You can do anything you want to me, Sammy.’ His hand curls around the arch of Sam’s foot, squeezing gently.
‘Yeah?’ Sam asks over the rim of his cup.
‘Yeah, Sam.’ Dean kisses his foot again. He’s not smiling anymore, but he looks relaxed. ‘But we gotta talk, yeah?’
Sam nods, setting his mug on the night stand and pulling his knees up to his chest. Dean rolls over on to his front, crossing his arms and resting his chin on them, looking up at Sam. ‘You really want to take those pills?’
‘Yeah. I think so. I wanna check first that they’re safe, though. I’ve got some info, websites and stuff.’
‘Where’d you get all that? That guy at Flagstaff?’ Dean’s expression is carefully neutral.
‘Some of it. Dean, I...’
‘You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,’ Dean says quickly.
‘I didn’t fuck him, Dean. He wasn’t... he was like me. And I’ve never... not with anyone. Just you.’
‘Thank fuck.’ Dean crawls over to Sam and wraps him up in his arms, kissing his face, his hair. ‘God, Sam, when I thought about what some guy could’ve done to you, I just... I thought I’d lose my mind. I wanted to smash up the car last night, I was so out of it.’
Sam pulls back a little. ‘I know how you get about me, Dean, but you can’t go around being possessive. I don’t like that.’
Dean looks pained. ‘I can’t help it, Sammy. You’re my little-’
Sam puts his hand over Dean’s mouth. ‘Don’t. Don’t say it.’
Dean nods. When Sam pulls his hand away, he says, ‘I’m your big brother. It’s my job to look out for you, you know?’
‘I don’t need looking after, Dean. And I need you to respect my boundaries.’
‘Do those boundaries involve you fucking other people?’
‘I don’t know, okay?’ Sam pushes his hands back through his hair, tugging at it and making his scalp tingle. A world of hurt appears in Dean’s eyes, and Sam looks away. ‘It’s... it’s not likely, Dean. There’s just so much I’m trying to figure out, and I can’t be with someone I can’t trust. Right now, the only person I trust is you.’
‘Right now,’ Dean echoes. There’s that shuttered look on his face again, the one that Sam knows Dean puts up to stop himself from getting hurt further.
‘Yeah, right now. I don’t even know myself, Dean. I don’t know... I don’t even know what I’m gonna tell Dad. And this... this thing between us, whatever it is... You don’t even... Fuck, Dean, you like women.’
‘So?’
‘So I’m not one.’
‘I don’t care what you are, Sam.’
‘You don’t care that I’m a guy? In a girl’s body?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘I can’t fuck like a girl, Dean. Not ever.’
Dean frowns. ‘Do you hate your body?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘Then why-’
‘I don’t know, Dean. I may not know for a long time, maybe never. I’m just... I’m kinda just going with my instincts here.’
Dean runs a hand up Sam’s arm. ‘I get it.’ At Sam’s skeptical look, he smiles. ‘Okay, I’m trying to get it. Can we change the subject a little?’
Sam shrugs.
‘How can I-you know, make love to you?’ Dean flushes a little, and Sam grins.
‘You’re kind of adorable right now,’ he says, ruffling Dean’s hair.
Dean bats his hand away. ‘Shut up, I’m serious. Can I-can I go down on you?’
‘You want to?’
‘Fuck, yeah.’
‘Dean Winchester, wanting to eat his little sister’s pussy,’ Sam says with a grin, and Dean groans and buries his face in Sam’s stomach.
Then he lifts his head, grinning wickedly. ‘What if I wanna eat my little brother’s ass?’ He touches a fingertip to the button on Sam’s jeans.
‘What, now?’ Sam’s breath catches at the look on Dean’s face.
‘No time like the present,’ Dean murmurs, flicking open Sam’s button. ‘Yeah?’
Sam nods, his mouth dry. Dean slides his jeans and boxers all the way off, leaving him naked from the waist down, and Sam quickly rolls on to his front.
Dean moves his lips over the curves of Sam’s ass, kissing every inch of it until Sam is squirming for more. Parting Sam’s cheeks with his hands, he presses a kiss over Sam’s hole. ‘Hey,’ he says, his voice muffled. ‘You got a vibrator?’
‘In my bag.’ Sam throws him a glance over his shoulder. ‘Not the one you looked through, obviously.’
Dean kisses his hip with an apologetic smile. ‘But I’m forgiven, right?’
‘Shut up and get my bag, jerk.’
Dean does as he’s told, grinning like he just won the lottery. Sam can’t blame him, because he’s feeling pretty much the same.
Sam pulls his small vibrator out of the side pocket of his backpack. Dean kisses his shoulder, nuzzling in for a bit. ‘Can you come in this position? On your front?’
‘I think so, yeah.’
‘Might make it easier if you’re up on all fours.’ Dean puts his hands on Sam’s hips, guiding him up.
When Sam’s in position, Dean gets back behind him and spreads him open again. He doesn’t linger this time, going straight for Sam’s hole and pressing little kisses against it. He licks a slow, wet stripe over Sam’s crack, and Sam shudders. ‘Dean.’
‘You okay?’
Sam pushes his ass back against Dean’s face. ‘Don’t stop.’
In response, Dean swirls the tip of his tongue against Sam’s asshole. Sam feels himself clench involuntarily, but Dean licks at him slowly and patiently, opening him up until Dean can begin to slide his tongue in a little. When he can’t take it anymore, Sam turns on his vibrator and presses it where he needs it the most, propping himself up on one arm, his head hanging between his shoulders. When his arm gives out, he pushes his face into the pillow, his ass raised high, Dean’s mouth relentless on him. Sam’s hips buck frantically, down against the vibrator and back up against Dean’s mouth, struggling to maintain a rhythm until Dean grasps his hips and holds him in place, guiding Sam to hump the vibrator while he fucks Sam’s ass with his tongue. Sam hadn’t thought he’d ever enjoy the sensation of being pinned down for real, even though he’d fantasized about it before, but having Dean’s hands and mouth on him is like a drug that his body can’t get enough of. He comes, shaking uncontrollably, when Dean slides a finger into his spit-slick ass and fucks it gently in and out.
--
‘I want you to fuck me,’ Sam says the next morning.
They’ve barely left the bed in the last twelve hours. Sam’s quickly discovered that one of his favorite things is to have Dean kiss him while he fingers Sam’s ass. They’re doing that now, and Dean’s finger stills inside Sam when he hears what Sam has just said.
‘Sammy-’
Sam shuts him up with a long kiss, clenching his ass around Dean’s finger to encourage him to keep moving.
‘Sammy,’ Dean says between kisses, fucking his finger in and out of Sam’s hole. It’s wet with Dean’s saliva and some cherry-flavored, edible lube that Dean had in his bag. Sam had teased him mercilessly about it until he’d discovered just how far up his ass Dean’s tongue and fingers could get when he’d been opened up with lube. ‘Not gonna hurt you,’ Dean says against his mouth.
‘You won’t.’
‘Yeah, I will. I’m not doing that to you, Sam. Not yet.’
‘You’re no fun.’ Sam groans into another kiss as Dean slides another finger inside him.
‘You can fuck me, though. If you like.’
‘Fuck, Dean.’ Sam hadn’t wanted to come yet, but Dean’s words have him stroking himself immediately, arousal spiking high at the thought of it.
‘You like the idea, hm?’ Dean kisses him long and slow and filthy, his cock gliding along Sam’s bare thigh and leaving a thin wet trail behind. ‘Want you to put your fingers in me, open me up nice and slow. Gonna get you one of those big cocks, the ones that vibrate, so you can grind against it while you fuck me open with it. Tie me down so I can’t escape, fuck me good and hard, make me scream.’
Sam shudders and comes, kind of hating his body for giving in before he could hear the rest of Dean’s fantasy. When he says as much, Dean resumes talking until they both come, shaking apart together before falling asleep tangled up in the damp sheets, exhausted.
--
Sam loves grammar. There’s something about clauses and subjunctives and the nuts and bolts of sentence structure that has a well-defined logic that appeals to Sam’s brain. He loves the universality of grammar, the fact that it’s the common element in all the books that he reads. Words defy him sometimes, but grammar never does.
Dean stirs next to him, mumbling something in his sleep before he rolls over, his eyes opening into bleary slits. ‘Can’t sleep?’ he asks, pulling himself closer to Sam and wrapping an arm around his waist.
Sam makes a noncommittal sound, slipping his bookmark into place and sliding his book under his pillow. He runs his hand over Dean’s back, stopping at the nape of his neck to tug at his t-shirt. ‘Take this off?’
Dean complies, still only half-awake, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it aside. He settles back down against Sam, seeming to sense that Sam doesn’t want anything more than to feel Dean’s skin against him. He runs the flat of his hand up Dean’s bare arm, moves his hand along Dean’s collarbone, down his chest. Dean’s got the kind of chest Sam wishes he had, flat and toned with just the right amount of hair, not too much, just enough for Sam to feel a slight fuzz beneath his palm as he glides his hand over Dean’s chest, presses it over Dean’s heart. Oddly enough, he doesn’t feel jealous of the body that Dean has, not when Dean’s practically given it to Sam. It’s an odd kind of ownership, knowing he can do what he wants with Dean, touch him any way he likes.
Dean’s half-turned into him, his body a long line of warmth along Sam’s side, his hand resting lightly on Sam’s stomach. Sam’s wrung two orgasms out of him in the last couple of hours, the last one more desperate than the one before it, Sam’s fingers driving deep into Dean, getting numb from how hard Dean’s ass had clutched at them.
Sam runs his fingers through the soft spikes of Dean’s hair, mussing it up even more. ‘Thank you,’ he says, not sure if Dean’s still listening.
Dean presses a sleepy kiss against Sam’s shoulder, his eyes still closed. ‘Do anything for you, Sammy.’
--
Even as he spends the next few days learning Dean’s body, Sam knows that he isn’t returning the favor, not completely. He only takes the bandage off his chest when he’s alone in the shower, and he hasn’t let Dean bring him off, not directly.
Dean doesn’t push him. Once, when they’ve making love, Dean’s fingers moving in Sam’s ass and his mouth on Sam’s neck, he moves lower, kissing along the edge of the tightly-wrapped gauze. ‘Does this hurt?’ he murmurs.
Sam pushes a hand through Dean’s hair. ‘Not really. Kinda used to it now.’ He’s stroking Dean’s cock with a slow-moving hand, trying to match the careful pace of Dean’s fingers inside him.
‘You gonna take it off? Let me see you?’
Sam rolls his hips, clenches his ass tight around the slow glide of Dean’s fingers, encouraging him to move faster. ‘No. Don’t stop, Dean. Feels so good.’
He speeds up the movement of his hand on Dean’s cock, cupping his palm over the head on the upstroke, just the way Dean likes. He makes Dean come before he gets himself off.
--
Dad calls two days ahead of schedule, saying he’s on his way back. Sam only hears Dean’s end of the conversation, but it’s enough for him to know that they don’t have much time left.
‘It’s okay,’ Dean says when he hangs up. ‘This isn’t... we’ll figure something out, okay? Nothing has to change.’
Sam doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes. ‘Everything’s changed, Dean.’
‘Why? Because Dad’s coming back?’
‘Don’t play dumb, Dean.’ Sam knows he isn’t being fair, but he can’t help feeling as though having sex with Dean is like a fragile new language that’s never going to get the chance to develop into anything more complex than dirty words and half-finished phrases. ‘Everything’s been changing for the last few days, and you know that.’
Dean takes a step toward Sam, but stops before he gets closer. ‘So what’re you saying?’
Sam sits down on the couch, trying not to feel overwhelmed. ‘I don’t know, Dean. I don’t know how we can keep this up when Dad’s around.’
‘Are you saying we shouldn’t...?’ Dean gestures between the two of them.
Sam shrugs. ‘What else is left to do, right?’ he says. There’s a bitterness in his voice, his mouth, and he knows the source of it isn’t Dean. ‘You got the novelty of fucking your sister. That’s going to be a cool story to tell at the bar, huh? You can move on now. Find something more exciting to do.’
‘Seriously, Sam?’ Dean’s hands are clenched. ‘You saying these things to push me? See how far I’ll go?’
‘This isn’t about you. Every single damned thing isn’t about you, Dean.’
‘Then what? Why would you say those things?’
‘Because I’m fucked up, okay? I don’t know a thing about myself and now I’m going to lose you and I don’t know how to deal with everything.’
‘Lose me?’ Dean repeats, his face blank. ‘I’m not your boyfriend, Sam. I’m your brother.’ He turns away. ‘Get packed. Dad’ll be here soon.’
--
Sam strips off and gets under the shower, childishly intent on scrubbing every trace of Dean off his skin. The alternative would be to be paralysed with pain.
There’s no knock on the door, no reminder of how close they’ve been over the last few days. Sam turns Dean’s words over and over in his head. Had he meant that Sam shouldn’t expect Dean to be anything but brotherly? Or had he meant that Sam wouldn’t lose Dean because Dean was Sam’s brother? Either way, Sam has a decision to make.
--
Sam slips out of the shower and dries himself. He puts on his bra: just an A cup, but still padded-a girl at his last school had shown him how to stuff his bra-because he’s so skinny. Barely a girl at all.
He uses Dean’s razor to shave his legs, nicking himself in a few spots but not really caring. The razor’s new, clean. Sterile. He pulls on a pair of plain cotton panties and blow-dries his hair, and then pulls on his denim shorts and a tank top that’s slightly too small, highlighting the padded bra with its fake breasts. He puts on lip gloss without looking in the mirror.
--
Dean doesn’t say anything when Sam gets out of the shower. Together, they make sure that the cabin has been aired and cleaned up thoroughly, the sheets laundered and sanitized. Sam doesn’t take a last look at the cabin as he steps out and shuts the door behind him.
They put their bags in the back seat and wait for Dad’s truck to pull up beside them. He’s probably just minutes away, and there’s an ache in Sam that he can’t describe.
‘You’re not fucked up,’ Dean says finally. He glances at Sam. ‘I know... I know this isn’t about me, Sam, but. If you don’t want me to-’
‘I didn’t mean that,’ Sam cuts in quickly. He reaches for Dean’s hand, tangles their fingers together. ‘I didn’t. I’m sorry, Dean.’
Dean lets out a relieved breath, squeezing Sam’s hand. He reaches up with his free hand to cup Sam’s cheek. ‘You never have to apologize to me, okay?’
‘Love means never having to say you’re sorry?’ Sam jokes weakly.
Dean doesn’t laugh, but his eyes crinkle a little at the corners. ‘Something like that, yeah. So, uh...’
‘What?’
‘Why’re you dressed like that?’
Sam slides across the seat until he’s pressed up against Dean’s chest. He tucks his head under Dean’s chin. ‘I don’t know,’ he says into Dean’s jacket. ‘Dad, maybe.’
Dean wraps an arm around Sam, keeping him close. His arms are warm, and maybe their lives aren’t exactly safe, but the last week has been the only time in six months that Sam hasn’t felt like a freak. Maybe Dad isn’t the only reason Sam still wants to hide behind a costume, but Dean knows, and Dean doesn’t care. Dean’s still got Sam’s back.
Dean kisses the top of Sam’s head, his arms tight around Sam. ‘It’s gonna be okay, little brother.’
Despite himself, Sam believes him. He pulls back a little. ‘Can I kiss you?’
Dean grins. ‘You really have to ask?’
~end
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 10,783
Contents: Underage sex, trans* character. Sam is sixteen and transitioning from female to male; he is biologically female but identifies as male.
Summary: Six months after Sam ran away at Flagstaff, Sam and Dean find themselves left at a cabin in the woods while their father chases down a lead. Sam’s got a secret he wants to tell Dean, but it seems as if the time is just never right.
A/N: Written for the samdean-otp minibang 2013. Many thanks and much love to pixymisa for choosing to illustrate this story and making such wonderful artwork for it; my beta applegeuse for reading the story and giving me loads of positive reinforcement and much-needed concrit; and riyku for organising the minibang and being there to help. ♥
ao3
ART POST
‘What?’ Dean asks, curling his toes in the water. They’re sitting at the edge of the lake behind the cabin at which Dad left them. It’s kind of breezy, the type of wind that’s slow and erratic but has a snippy sort of bite to it, suggesting an oncoming thunderstorm. If Sam squints, he can imagine that the air is maybe crackling with static. Maybe.
‘Sammy,’ Dean says, unusually patient. ‘You in there?’
‘Huh? Yeah. Yeah, Dean.’ Dean’s looking at him expectantly, like maybe Sam’s started saying something but forgotten what it was. He knows he’s doing that thing again, the one that Dean calls ‘getting lost in his head,’ but the slow-moving afternoon air is making him lazy with contentment, with approaching-summer smells that make him want to strip right there and dive into the pool.
But he won’t, because Dean’s there, and Sam’s... well. All his life, Sam’s been wrapped up tight in skin that never lets him forget how gangly and ungainly he is. Sam can’t skinny dip in front of Dean the way he could’ve done if they’d been brothers.
‘Spit it out, kid.’ Dean leans back on his palms, face turned to the sky. He’s all golden in the sunlight. Picture perfect, like someone dreamed up the ideal human and then brought him to life with intricate brushstrokes. He’s six feet tall and about twice as broad as Sam, whose skinny, lanky frame, with its barely-there breasts and its too-large clothes-most of them hand-me-downs from Dean-looks misshapen beside his brother’s, somehow, like he’s been put together from the scraps that were left behind after they were done making Dean.
‘I was. Uh, I was thinking of getting a haircut.’ Coward. Coward. At least he isn’t a liar. His hair’s almost down to his waist now, and he’s taken to binding it up in a tight knot at the nape of his neck.
‘Why? ‘S pretty.’ Dean’s large hand cups the back of Sam’s skull, fingers ruffling the mass of hair.
Sam twists away from the touch. ‘Don’t do that. Jerk.’
‘Bitch.’ Dean smiles, says the word the way he always does: no bite in it, its consonants softened to something that feels like fondness. His foot emerges from the water without a warning, splashing water all over Sam’s legs.
‘Dean!’ Sam thrashes his feet in the water, getting it all over Dean, and then it’s a total free-for-all, both of them splashing water over each other until they’re soaking, and Sam feels like a child again, genderless and monster-free.
‘C’mon, let’s go get changed.’ Dean gets to his feet, good humor still coloring the expression on his face, and Sam takes the proffered hand and lets himself be hauled up. Dean’s gaze flickers for a fraction of a moment to Sam’s chest, bare under his wet t-shirt. Sam rarely wears a bra.
A rainstorm catches them as they run back to the cabin, still laughing.
--
Chest-binding, Sam thinks sourly, sitting at the edge of the bathtub, is the worst thing ever. He doesn’t have the right kind of cloth to get it done correctly, and the result is that his chest ends up looking more pronounced than ever under his thin t-shirt. He’s torn strips from an old shirt of Dean’s for the purpose, and the cloth is just too thick to stay hidden under his cotton shirt. Then his eyes fall on the ever-present med kit lying on the bathroom counter, and he pulls out a roll of gauze. Perfect.
‘You asleep in there?’ Dean yells from outside, thumping on the door.
Sam groans as his hand jerks at the sudden banging on the door, the end of the gauze slipping out of his fingers and trailing to the floor. ‘You’re such an asshole,’ he says, loudly enough for Dean to hear.
‘Language, baby girl,’ Dean laughs, and Sam flinches at his own reflection in the mirror. Baby girl. If he’s honest with himself, it’s not an endearment he’s ever really hated, but it doesn’t fall right on his ears these days. It rubs in the fact that Dean might not be cool with Sam’s secret, and if he isn’t, Sam’s not even remotely sure what he’ll do. He wonders if Dean would be angry, or disgusted, or disappointed. If he’d out Sam to Dad, if Dad would find the whole thing funny. He’d probably ruffle Sam’s hair and call it a phase, as he’d done when Sam had developed a longing, at age twelve, for pink high heels. It’s mortifying to think about now, but Dad had laughed it off.
But Dean won’t laugh at this. Sam knows that with the kind of certainty with which he knows that he’s going to ace his SATs. He can’t predict what Dean’s reaction will be, but he knows that if Dean doesn’t accept him, their relationship will be destroyed for good. There’ll be no more gentle teasing, no more unofficial training or playful tussling. He imagines Dean withdrawing completely, becoming a stranger.
‘Seriously, Sammy, you alive in there?’ Dean’s being deliberately annoying, that thing he does when he’s secretly worried and doesn’t want to show it.
Despite himself, Sam smiles. He tucks the end of his bandage in and pulls on his shirt. Turning sideways, he examines his profile critically in the mirror. Not bad. If Dean isn’t assholish enough to stare at Sam’s chest too closely, he might get away with this for a while.
Dean’s got mac and cheese on the table when Sam emerges from the bathroom. ‘Hope you’re hungry.’
‘Starving,’ Sam says lightly, slipping into the chair next to Dean’s. They eat in silence for a while, Sam’s bare legs beginning to feel cold under his denim shorts. There’s a chill in the air from the rain, wisps of cold getting in through the cracks under the doors and windows.
‘Gotta check the salt lines,’ Dean mutters just when Sam starts to wonder if the salt that Dean had carefully laid is still intact after the rain. Dean sometimes has the habit of saying exactly what Sam’s thinking, and it’s something Sam has come to live with. He doesn’t dwell on it too deeply, scared of digging too much. Maybe he’ll find that monsters are the only thing that he and Dean have in common, that the only time they think the same thoughts is when they’re running on instinct, on rules their dad’s taught them. Don’t forget to salt the doors and windows. Always carry a lighter or matches. Sam, do as your brother says. Dean, look out for Sammy.
‘You, uh.’ Dean’s looking at Sam’s legs. ‘You wanna borrow my razor or something?’
Sam shrugs. He hasn’t shaved his legs for the last couple of weeks, and had wondered if Dean would notice. ‘Why? Does it bother you?’
Dean doesn’t look uncomfortable at the topic. Sam wonders why he’d even expected Dean to be, given that they’ve lived in each other’s pockets their whole lives and there’s little about Sam that Dean doesn’t know. Dean had known that Sam was going to start menstruating before Sam had. He’d looked proud, as though Sam had achieved something by bleeding. In the three years since Sam started his period, Dean’s usually the one who cheerfully buys the tampons. Sometimes there’s a box of condoms in the bag too. It’s not for Sam. Sam doesn’t want to picture Dean having sex, but there’s a strange sort of comfort in seeing the condoms sitting next to the tampons. The bag just has stuff they both need, and it’s no big deal.
‘Why?’ Dean asks, a pro at answering questions with questions. ‘It’s cool if you want to be a hairy lesbian.’
Sam flushes. ‘I’m not a lesbian.’ He pauses for a moment, reconsidering. ‘At least I don’t think I am.’
Dean gives him one of his easy grins. ‘Hey, it would actually be sorta hot if you were, you know?’
And okay, Sam knows his face must be flaming right then. ‘God, shut up, Dean. Do you even think about what you’re saying, or just let crap fall out of your mouth?’
Dean makes a face. ‘Now there’s an image I don’t need when I’m eating.’ Sam flicks a bit of cheese at him, more pissed than amused. Dean’s tongue licks the cheese neatly off the top of his lip. ‘Seriously, though. You got something going on I should know about?’
‘No.’ It comes out too quickly. Lying’s actually one of Sam’s best reflexes, brought about by too many years of having his dad and big brother watching every move he makes.
‘No, you don’t have anything going on, or no, it’s nothing you want to tell me about?’
‘Jesus, Dean. Just. Let it go, okay?’ He doesn’t look at Dean, and shovels the last of his food into his mouth. His hair is stupidly heavy where it’s bound at the nape of his neck. He resolves to chop it off the moment Dean leaves him alone, and resolutely doesn’t look at Dean as he clears up their plates and puts them in the sink.
--
When he was fourteen, Sam hadn’t yet started thinking of himself using male pronouns. He’d lived his whole life thinking of himself as an ungainly girl, queasy and embarrassed to be in his own skin.
Orlando wasn’t like a revelation. Sam-Samantha, then-knew from some of the crappy daytime shows on television that men were sometimes born women, and women were sometimes born men. Orlando wasn’t discussed in class-they’d been told to read an essay by Woolf, and Sam had been intrigued enough to check out some of her novels. At the beginning of the book, Orlando was a sixteen-year-old boy, but by the end of it, he was a boy in a woman’s body.
Woolf’s prose wasn’t Sam’s favorite kind. It was heavy, and sometimes full of description that bordered on the monotonous. But there were also words in the book that charmed their way into his imagination. Orlando’s nose was described as arrowy. It was a lovely word, a word that was made-up but still came instantly to life, bold and demanding and real. He’d finished the book sitting under a tree in the parking lot at school. The Impala wasn’t there; Dean must’ve skipped school again. It was almost six in the evening and shadows were gathering in the parking lot, trees rustling under a slowly stirring breeze.
Staring at the blank page at the end of the book, Sam didn’t hear the rumbling of the Impala, and he started violently when the car pulled up beside him. He stuffed his book into his bag and got into the passenger seat.
‘Sorry I’m late.’ Dean glanced at Sam, putting the car into drive. ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ Sam put on his headphones and turned his head toward the window. He wasn’t in the mood to face Dean’s questions right then. Orlando sat in his bag like a dirty little secret.
--
At the bottom of Sam’s duffel is a blister pack of testosterone pills. He’d got them for free from a guy at a bar in Flagstaff during the two weeks that he’d spent on his own, away from Dad and Dean. Freddie had been around Dean’s age, dark-haired and green-eyed. They’d spent the majority of their time together kissing in the back seat of Freddie’s Mustang, but when Freddie’s hand had moved between Sam’s legs, Sam had pulled away. It wasn’t that he was a prude, but he was messed up enough already without adding unplanned sex to the complications in his life.
Freddie had backed off immediately, even apologizing for trying to get to second base without Sam’s explicit consent, and then Sam had found the courage to bring up the topic of Freddie's gender.
They’d spent the night together, just cuddled under a thick blanket in the back seat, and Sam had found himself talking more than he remembered talking to anyone before, pouring out his thoughts without waiting to let himself think about the rightness or wrongness of it. There was a niggling voice at the back of his mind that told him that telling a stranger before telling Dean was a sort of betrayal, but another part of him knew that he could talk to Freddie only because Freddie was like Sam, because he didn’t have to worry about whether Freddie would care, whether he’d find Sam wrong or disgusting.
When the sun came up, Freddie drove Sam to a friend’s place and procured the pills for him, handing them to him with a stack of information and a list of websites and phone lines Sam could use, urging him to get a medical opinion before he did anything.
‘Hey, think you might want a dog?’ Sam asked him as they hugged goodbye.
Freddie said he’d be happy to take care of Bones, and Sam had gotten on to a bus for Sioux Falls with a heart that was lighter than it had been in ages. He reached Bobby’s place and got what he’d expected: a lecture from Dad that went on for what seemed to be hours, and a tight hug from Dean, who looked both relieved and betrayed.
Dean hadn’t brought up Flagstaff again.
--
‘You sure you don’t wanna come along?’ Dean asks for the thousandth time. He’s driving into town for supplies, and Sam really just wants to be alone for a while.
‘I’m sure, Dean.’ He gives Dean a little push. ‘Just go.’
Dean still hesitates, and it suddenly hits Sam why he’s so reluctant to leave. ‘Jesus, Dean, I’m not gonna go anywhere, okay?’
Dean’s gaze snaps up to Sam’s face, and he feels a twinge of guilt. ‘Look, I know Dad chewed you over when I... at Flagstaff. I won’t do it again, all right? I promise.’
‘You think that’s what I care about? What Dad’ll say if you run away again?’ Dean pulls on his jacket, but now his eyes aren’t leaving Sam’s face. ‘You think that’s what I-’
‘Look, I took care of myself, okay?’ Dean’s hurt is plain on his face, but Sam’s tired of appeasing him when his own insides are twisted up in a way he hasn’t been able to share with anyone since Freddie. ‘What more could you want, huh? I proved I could take care of myself, didn’t I?’
Dean opens his mouth, and then snaps it shut. He drives away without another word, and Sam sits down on the steps, hugging himself, watching the Impala until it’s not even a dark speck in the distance.
Twenty minutes later, Sam’s phone buzzes.
Need anything?
Sam smiles. Nah, I’m good, he texts back. Dean doesn’t text again, but something loosens inside Sam. He goes to find a pair of scissors, but there isn’t one at the cabin. The only pair he can find is the small one that’s part of the med kit, but it’ll have to do.
There’s no mirror in the cabin other than the one in the bathroom. The place belongs to a hunter friend of Dad’s, and is clearly meant to be no more than a safe house. Sam stands in front of the bathroom counter and unties his hair, letting it spill down his back. He’d started growing his hair a year ago in a somewhat misguided attempt to make himself more attractive, or at least that’s what he figures it was. His hair is definitely his best feature, long and silky and wavy. At first he’d been thrilled with the way it looked as it grew out. He’d always had longish hair, but he’d never let it grow more than shoulder-length before.
He’d started tying it up after an incident at a gas station. They’d been on their way to a job somewhere in Arizona, following Dad’s truck. Dean had stopped for gas and Sam had gone into the little store at the gas station while Dean filled up the Impala’s tank. He’d shampooed his hair that morning and it hung loose and glossy around his shoulders. That had been before Flagstaff, but Sam had already started to forgo makeup. His lack of lipstick and eyeliner hadn’t stopped the guy at the cash register from flirting with Sam. He’d leaned in over the counter when he took Sam’s cash, scribbled his phone number down on a piece of paper and pushed it toward Sam until their fingers were brushing.
Sam started to pull back, but then the guy’s fingers were touching his hair, trailing through the strands. ‘You’re real pretty, you know that?’ he’d said. Sam jerked away from the touch, stepping back into a wall of muscle. Dean’s arm was around his shoulders before he could move away, and he found himself welcoming the weight of it, the strength of Dean’s fingers as they curled around his arm.
‘You ready to go, babe?’ Dean asked casually, completely ignoring the guy at the counter.
Sam nodded, grabbing his bags. On an impulse, he went up on his toes and kissed Dean’s cheek. Dean stiffened beside him, and for a moment Sam thought he’d taken the charade too far. But then Dean smiled, seemingly unfazed, and bent to brush his lips against Sam’s cheek, returning the kiss. He kept his arm around Sam as they walked out of the store. They pulled apart when they got to the car. Dean got in without a word, and they didn’t talk for miles after that, the pounding of Dean’s music through the car drowning out Sam’s thoughts.
It wasn’t until days later that he’d let himself wonder if Dean was just being protective at the gas station, or if he’d been jealous.
--
Cutting his hair with the small medical scissors takes ages. An hour later, Sam’s kind of close to screaming in frustration. He’s sweating despite the slight chill in the air, stripped down to a tank top and his boxers-okay, Dean’s boxers, but they’re an old pair that Dean probably doesn’t miss. Wearing panties is just another of those things that Sam can’t bring himself to do these days.
He’s sheared his hair up to his shoulders, and discarded strands litter the floor all around him. His bangs look terrible, falling unevenly into his eyes, looking like the edges of a hedge that’s been badly trimmed.
The sound of the Impala’s engine sends a small wave of panic through him. Dean’s probably going to laugh his head off at the mess that Sam’s made of his hair.
‘Sam?’ he hears Dean call.
‘In here,’ he calls back, grabbing his jeans and slipping them on. Turning on the faucet, he cups some water into his hands and combs it through his hair, trying to get it to lie flat.
Dean knocks on the door. ‘Hey, you okay?’
‘Yeah, Dean, I’m fine.’ Swallowing, he steps up to the door and opens it.
‘Holy shit, Sam, what’ve you done?’ Dean’s shocked gaze moves from Sam’s head to the clipped hair spread out over the floor.
‘What’s it look like?’ Sam says irritably. ‘Got sick of it.’ He gestures vaguely toward his head.
Dean says nothing for a minute. From the look on his face, it’s obvious that there’s a lot he wants to say, except maybe he doesn’t know where to start. Maybe he’s afraid of how Sam will react. Sam feels another twinge of guilt, and pushes it aside, annoyed. Dean’s kinda been on eggshells around Sam for the last six months, constantly watching what he says, as though he’s afraid that Sam will disappear again if he says something out of line. It’s not your fault, Sam’s been wanting to say. It wasn’t because of you that I left. But talking sensibly has kind of escaped them since Flagstaff, and Sam knows whose fault that is.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Dean says finally. ‘Let me, uh, lemme know if you need any help, okay?’
‘Actually, yeah, I do,’ Sam says quickly, before Dean can leave. ‘Could you, uh, could you maybe do the back? My arms are starting to hurt and it’s all uneven.’
‘Sure. Hang on a sec.’ Dean goes out of the bathroom and returns with one of the stools from the small kitchenette. ‘Here, sit.’
Sam sits facing the mirror but doesn’t look into it. If he’d had the time, he would have all but shorn his head, maybe given himself a crew cut. Those stupid scissors. Now the decision’s been taken away from him, and his squeezes his eyes shut to stop them from stinging with frustration.
Dean doesn’t reach for the scissors right away. He puts his hands on Sam’s shoulders and squeezes gently. ‘You sure you’re good, Sammy?’
‘Yeah.’ Sam doesn’t even manage to sound convincing to himself.
‘Hey, c’mere.’ Dean gathers him close and Sam turns around in his arms, burying his face in Dean’s neck. He’s still got his jacket on and he smells like sunlight. ‘You’re okay. It’s okay.’ Dean runs his fingers soothingly through Sam’s ruined hair, bending down to press a kiss against the crown of Sam’s head. They stay like that for a while, Sam breathing against Dean’s chest and Dean’s lips on Sam’s hair.
‘Sorry,’ Sam says eventually, pulling back a little and scrubbing a hand over his face. ‘I bet you think I’m a total idiot, huh.’
‘Nah.’ Dean gives him a smacking kiss against the side of his head, and picks up the scissors. ‘You sure you aren’t a lesbian, right?’
Sam lets out a laugh that sounds more like a half-sob. ‘Jerk. I told you I’m not.’ Truth be told, he isn’t really sure of his preferences. It’s not something he dwells much on. There’s too much else that needs sorting first, too many labels to try on before he decides which one suits him best.
‘You ready?’ Dean asks.
Sam nods, and turns back around to face the mirror. Dean’s standing behind him, his fingers smoothing Sam’s hair over his shoulders to gauge the damage. ‘A little shorter?’ he asks, and Sam nods.
Dean says nothing more and gets to work, snipping away at Sam’s hair. He’s not the most patient of guys, but no one would know it if they could see him now, focused on separating Sam’s hair into thin, manageable strands that can be cut with the small scissors. The snip snip snip of the scissors and Dean’s even breathing lull Sam into a kind of half-doze as he sits still on his stool, only moving his head when Dean wordlessly nudges it to one side or the other. When Dean’s done with the back, Sam’s hair is neat and even, curling just below his ears.
‘Good?’ Dean asks, his fingers curled into the hair at the nape of Sam’s neck. His thumb is warm against Sam’s bare skin.
Sam nods. ‘I still look like a scarecrow from the front.’
Dean chuckles. ‘I’m getting there, kid.’ He moves his hand away from Sam’s neck, putting it on his shoulder and guiding him to turn around until he’s facing Dean. ‘Look up for a bit.’ Dean cups Sam’s chin and tilts his head up. His hand stays there while he combs through Sam’s bangs with the fingers of his other hand. ‘Long or short?’
‘Uh, short.’ Sam can smell Dean’s aftershave. He wonders if they put pheromones or something in that shit, because it always smells so good, but he rarely gets to smell it from so close. Without meaning to, he suddenly remembers what Freddie had smelt like. Whatever cologne he’d had on had smelt musky and strongly masculine, tinted with the smell of cigarettes and a bit of sweat.
Before Sam can dwell further on the topic, the silver glint of the scissors in front of his face pulls his attention away from his thoughts. ‘Close your eyes,’ Dean says. ‘Wouldn’t wanna get hair in them.’
With his eyes closed, Sam’s mind is free to wander back to its thoughts, but it’s a little difficult to focus on them when Dean’s hand is cupping his face, holding him still as he carefully cuts Sam’s bangs. Being unable to open his eyes heightens his sense of touch, and he almost imagines he can feel the soft huffs of Dean’s breath against the sensitive skin of his face. He parts his knees a little as Dean shifts closer and tilts Sam’s head a little further back. ‘Almost done,’ he says, and Sam hears the snip of the scissors again. He feels tiny clippings of hair float past his nose.
‘Tickles,’ he says, wrinkling his nose.
‘Stay still,’ Dean says, but there’s a smile in his voice, and Sam obeys, his hands clenching around the rim of his stool to keep his balance. His instincts are to grab on to Dean’s waist to be sure he won’t fall, but something else tells him it would be disastrous to touch Dean now.
‘There, all done.’ Eyes still shut, Sam hears a tiny clink as Dean puts the scissors down on the counter. Then his fingertips are over Sam’s face, brushing away bits of hair with light touches that Sam can barely feel.
What he can feel is a distinct throbbing between his legs, a wetness so palpable that he’s sure Dean can smell it. Mortified, he starts closing his legs only to realize that Dean’s still standing between his knees, and he hurriedly snaps his legs apart again.
Dean’s hands are back on his shoulders, guiding him to turn around. Sam swings around on the stool, opening his eyes.
He looks at himself, critically appraising Dean’s work. It’s much easier if he thinks of it that way, because being objective about his appearance has never been one of Sam’s strong points. His bangs are still there, still looking a little too silky for Sam’s liking, but they’re short, barely brushing the tops of his eyebrows.
‘You like it?’ Dean asks, his hands still on Sam’s shoulders.
Sam takes a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. He’s completely on edge, Dean’s fingers like a brand against his skin. ‘It... yeah, it’s great,’ he manages. ‘Thanks, Dean.’
‘Awesome.’ Dean sounds a little remote. Maybe he’s tired from standing so long. ‘You should give it a wash. You, uh, you want me to shampoo it for you?’
Sam gets to his feet so fast that he nearly knocks the stool over. ‘No! No, I’ll, uh. Think I’ll take a shower.’
‘’Kay,’ Dean says agreeably. ‘I’ll just clean up here.’
Sam bites back a groan. They’re used to sharing a bathroom, one of them behind the shower curtain while the other brushes his teeth or pees or whatever, and Dean’s just going to think he’s being weird if he says that cleaning up can wait.
He steps into the tub and draws the plastic curtain before stripping and turning on the water. He just stands there for a few minutes, letting the water trail down his body as he listens to the sounds of Dean sweeping up his discarded hair. By the time the door closes behind Dean with a soft click, Sam’s desperate to touch himself. He sinks to his knees and spreads them apart, pressing his forehead to the wall as his hand works between his legs.
Sam’s collected quite a bit of fantasy material in his head over the years, but this time, none of his usual fantasies are accessible through the warm, stifling memory of Dean’s presence in the room. Dean’s smell, Dean’s hands, Dean’s breath. Sam turns his head against the wall in front of him, cheek pressed to the tiles, his ass pushing back helplessly as he thrusts his hips against his hand, trying to come just from the friction of his fingers, trying to force every thought out of his head.
It almost works. Just as he feels his orgasm build, he becomes aware of the rivulets of water trickling steadily between the cheeks of his ass, and for one perfect instant, his mind gives him the image of Dean kneeling behind him, licking him there, and the trickles of water are Dean’s soft tongue, tasting Sam, the tip of it pushing against his asshole. Sam comes with a gasp, his thighs quivering with the intensity of it, his fingers stroking himself with an erratic rhythm, instinctively drawing the pleasure out. He’s wrung dry and he can’t stop shaking, and it’s a while before he realizes that he’s crying.
--
He’s pretty sure Dean notices his red eyes as soon as he emerges from the bathroom, but Sam’s attention is instantly drawn by something else. His duffel is sitting in the middle of the bed, unzipped, clothes spilling out. Dean’s sitting on the couch, and in his hand is Sam’s strip of testosterone pills.
Sam takes a step toward him, his hands clenched. ‘Dean, what the fuck.’
Dean just looks up at him, unfazed. He’s had a few minutes to think about it, after all. ‘Something you want to tell me, Sam?’
Sam snatches the pills away and tosses them back into his bag. ‘You had no right. No fucking right to touch my stuff.’ His hands are shaking, and so is his voice.
‘You’re right, I didn’t.’ Dean still sounds irritatingly calm. ‘But I did it anyway, ’cause I’m your fucking big brother and you’ve been-damn it, Sam, you’ve been hiding stuff from me. Stuff that could seriously fuck you up.’
Dean still hasn’t raised his voice, and Sam almost wishes he would. He wants Dean to yell at him, maybe throw things around in anger and then storm out to get drunk. Leave Sam alone. Leave him alone for hours and then come back in the middle of the night, smelling of alcohol and cigarettes and sex, maybe pass out on the couch.
But Dean’s not doing any of those things. He’s just sitting there on the couch, his hands on his knees, palms up, fingers curled limp against each other.
Sam sinks down on the bed, covering his eyes with a hand that won’t stop shaking. ‘I didn’t. I didn’t take any of those, Dean.’
Dean exhales slowly, audibly, as if he’s been holding his breath for several minutes. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I believe you. I want to know why you have them. Where you got them.’
‘Flagstaff,’ Sam whispers. ‘There was... there was someone.’
Time freezes for a while. Sam sits on the edge of the bed with his fists screwed into his eyes, unmoving.
Then Dean says ‘Jesus fucking Christ’ and launches himself off the couch, his hands clamping down on Sam’s shoulders. ‘Sam, c’mon. C’mon, Sam, fucking look at me.’
Sam looks at him. There’s nothing else to be done. Things spiralled out of his hands the moment he stepped out of the bathroom and now it’s like the force of Dean’s anger is sweeping him along with it, sweeping them both along.
‘You telling me-you telling me that all the time I was going out of my freaking mind looking for you, all that time-you were screwing some douchebag? Damn it, Sam, I said look at me.’
Sam flinches, turning his eyes back up to Dean’s face. His expression is contorted, and it almost looks like despair, like grief, rather than rage. ‘I didn’t-’ Sam starts to say, but stops as one of Dean’s hands lifts from his shoulder. He puts an arm instinctively in front of his face, anticipating a blow.
It doesn’t come. Dean lets go of Sam completely and takes a step back, his hands held up in front of him. ‘I wasn’t... I wasn’t gonna hit you, Sam. You-jesus, how could you think that?’
Sam doesn’t answer. He wouldn’t know what to say, even if he could bring himself to speak. He doesn’t know why he’d thought Dean was going to strike him. Dean’s never hit him, ever. He focuses on trying to breathe, feeling as though he’s going to fly apart any second. ‘Just... just don’t touch me right now,’ he manages finally.
Dean steps back further. ‘I-I know you wanna be left alone right now, but don’t-I can’t, Sam. Don’t ask me to go.’
Sam looks around blindly, not really seeing anything. He can hear Dean’s labored breaths, and it hurts to listen to them. He reaches reflexively for a t-shirt that’s half-hanging out of his duffel, and stuffs it back in. ‘I don’t want to look at you right now,’ he says. It’s a lie, and his chest hurts with the small, sharp pain of it.
He doesn’t look at Dean. There’s a long, neverending silence, and then the sound of Dean’s boots against the floor before he steps out and shuts the door quietly behind him.
--
Sam wakes to the sound of rain. It’s rude and noisy, clattering away against the roof of the cabin. He rolls over and stares at the ceiling, disoriented for a moment, before the memory of last night hits him like a nightmare that’s almost gotten away.
He sits up quickly, reaching for the bottle of water on the nightstand and taking several gulps, fighting back the urge to throw up. He can’t remember if the bottle had been there when he went to sleep. He looks around, but there’s no sign of Dean, and the couch doesn’t look slept on.
Throwing the blankets off-he doesn’t remember covering himself up, either-he goes barefoot to the door and wrenches it open. He hadn’t heard the car drive away last night, and had gone to bed reasonably sure that Dean was sleeping in the Impala.
He winces as his feet hit the stony path, slushy with rain. Blinking water out of his eyes, he goes up to the car. The sight of Dean asleep in the back seat sends relief thrumming through him, and he sags bonelessly against the car for a moment. The windows are rolled all the way up and there’s condensation forming on them, but he can see Dean clearly enough, his long legs bent at the knees and his jacket rolled up under his head, his face pressed against his makeshift pillow, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Fuck, he must be cold.
Sam puts his hand over the door handle, and remembers the expression on Dean’s face last night. His face is still tight with tension, but at least he’s asleep. Stepping back from the car, Sam goes back into the cabin.
He’s got coffee brewing when he hears the door creak open. He senses Dean’s presence behind him, but he doesn’t turn around. After a minute, Dean goes into the bathroom and shuts the door.
As the water starts to run, Sam gets out another mug and makes coffee for them both. He’s not about to deprive Dean of caffeine, even if they aren’t talking and the guy’s a total jerk.
Dean comes out a few minutes later, scrubbing at his wet hair with a towel. ‘This for me?’ he says with a sheepish smile, gesturing toward the mug of coffee Sam’s left for him. Sam pushes it toward him, not trusting himself to speak just yet. He’s seen that smile on Dean’s face before, but this is the first time that he wants to push Dean up against the wall and kiss it off his face, bite at his lips until they’re red and wet and Sam’s.
Dean inhales his coffee in a few quick gulps, and then pours out more for them both, filling his mug and topping Sam’s up. Sam takes his mug over to the couch, not reacting when Dean sits down tentatively at the other end, leaving a considerable amount of distance between them.
‘If you,’ Dean begins, rubbing a hand over his freshly-shaven face. ‘If you want me to leave, I’ll, uh. I can go.’
‘Where will you go?’ Sam looks down at the floor between his knees, focusing on the swirls of the old wood.
‘I. I dunno, Sam. I’m just. I just wanna do what’s best for you.’
Dean sounds wrecked, and there’s that surge of guilt again, pressing up from Sam’s throat and making him taste bile. ‘No. I don’t. I don’t want you to go. You’re the only... Fuck, Dean.’
Dean makes an aborted movement with his hand, as if he’s about to reach for Sam. ‘Then I’m not gonna leave you, okay? I promise. Sammy.’
It’s not until Dean says his nickname that Sam realizes he’s been dying to hear it. He’s always hated the way it sounds, one syllable dragged into two, a mockery of his name, but he’s also always known that Dean’s the most affectionate when he says it, and Sam’s starved for Dean’s affection, having deprived himself of it over the last six months.
Sam lets out a little snort of disbelief. ‘You wouldn’t have left me anyway.’
Dean gives him a shaky sort of smile. ‘No, I guess not.’
Sam looks away again. He knows he should probably look Dean in the eyes for this, but he can’t bring himself to. ‘I ran away,’ he says, ‘because I couldn’t breathe, Dean. I had no idea who I was or what I was and there was no one... there was nothing I could do about it.’
Dean makes a sound from the back of his throat , but doesn’t say anything. Sam knows what it’s costing him to stay quiet, let Sam talk, and he continues quickly. ‘I don’t... I don’t think of myself as a girl, Dean. I haven’t for at least a year. The pills... they’re for. For transgendered women. Or men. Fuck, I don’t even know.’
‘What’ll they do to you? If you take them?’ Dean’s voice is toneless, and when Sam glances at him, there’s no real expression on his face. His eyes are shuttered, his lips pressed together.
‘Uh, they’ll give me... facial hair. Make me bigger. I think.’
‘And that’s what you want?’
‘I don’t know, Dean. Maybe. It can’t hurt to try it, you know?’
Dean gives him a small shake of the head, and Sam doesn’t know what it means, if Dean’s saying he understands or if he’s indicating that Sam’s a grade-A freak. ‘I hate not knowing what you’re thinking,’ Sam says, the words tumbling out of his mouth, colored with despair.
‘I’m listening, Sammy.’ Dean puts his hand on the couch between them, not touching Sam, but Sam reaches out and grabs it, squeezing their fingers together. He gives Dean’s hand a tug, and Dean slides closer to him. Sam gets under his arm, curling his fingers into Dean’s faded old Zeppelin t-shirt.
He wants to tell Dean he misses him, that he’s missed him since Flagstaff, since that night he bared his heart to a stranger and replaced his brother with emptiness. Seeming to sense that Sam can’t really talk at the moment, Dean tightens his arms around Sam and just holds him, kissing the top of his head as he’d done the previous day. Sam pushes a hand up under Dean’s shirt, pressing his palm against the warmth of Dean’s skin.
He hears Dean inhale sharply, and pulls back. ‘I’m not. I’m not trying to molest you,’ he says with a strained laugh.
‘Damn it, Sammy, don’t say things like that.’
Sam may have lost the ability to know what Dean’s thinking, but he knows Dean, and Dean isn’t pushing him away. There’s nothing Sam has that Dean could want, but he pushes himself up on his knees anyway, straddling Dean, slipping his fingers into Dean’s hair, tracing the curve of his lips with his thumb. He wants to ask for permission to have this, to have Dean, if only just the one time, but if he asks and Dean says no, he’ll never be able to ask again. Leaning forward, he presses his closed lips against Dean’s.
Dean’s hands come up to frame Sam’s face. He doesn’t push Sam away, but he doesn’t kiss back, either. When Sam draws his head back, Dean opens his mouth to say something, and Sam can’t bear to hear it. Pressing himself against Dean, he kisses his brother again, hears Dean make a helpless sound against his mouth. ‘Please, Dean.’
He feels a shudder run through Dean, and Dean nods, his hands still cupped over Sam’s face. His mouth opens against Sam’s, and the first brush of his tongue against Sam’s has Sam bucking his hips involuntarily against Dean’s.
‘Sammy,’ Dean says into his mouth. ‘Sammy, are you sure-’
‘Yes. Yes, please, yes.’ Sam kisses Dean again, more fiercely this time, almost stabbing his tongue into Dean’s mouth, grabbing a handful of Dean’s hair and holding his head in place. Dean doesn’t hesitate this time, kissing Sam back with a desperation that almost equals Sam’s own, his hands leaving Sam’s face to travel down to his waist and pull him closer. Sam gasps against Dean’s mouth when he feels the hard line of Dean’s cock below him, pressing up against his ass. He bites at Dean’s mouth, thrusting a hand between their bodies to grind his palm against Dean’s cock. Dean thrusts up against his hand, crying out in surprise. ‘Sammy. Fuck.’
‘Want to suck your cock,’ Sam says, biting a trail of kisses down Dean’s jaw, his throat. ‘Let me, Dean, please.’
Without waiting for an answer-he has to have this, now, before Dean puts it to a stop-he slides down to the floor between Dean’s legs, wrenching his jeans open.
‘Sammy, wait, jesus, Sam-’
Sam doesn’t wait. If he could, he’d draw this out, tease Dean with slow, affectionate licks of his tongue before swallowing him down, learn the taste of him and commit it to memory, trace every vein and lick the wetness forming at the head of his cock, bury his nose in the wiry hair at the base of Dean’s cock and inhale his fragrance. But there’s no time for that, and so he puts his lips around the head of Dean’s cock and pulls Dean into his mouth, sucking hard at the same time.
Dean lets out a strangled sound, his thighs tensing under the clamps of Sam’s hands, which are holding him firmly in place. Sam shuts his eyes and keeps sucking, not stopping even when the head of Dean’s cock hits the back of his throat and he almost gags. Wrenching his jaws apart as far as he can, he keeps up the suction at the base of Dean’s cock and lashes the length of it with his tongue. His eyes quickly begin to water, but he digs his fingers into the hard flesh of Dean’s thighs and keeps going. One of Dean’s hands is cupped around the back of Sam’s head. Sam opens his eyes to find that Dean’s other hand is clenched hard into the backrest of the couch behind him, his head thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut. Sam makes a sound at the back of his throat, pushing his face closer against Dean, taking him impossibly deeper. Dean’s lips part in a soundless gasp, his eyelids fluttering open.
‘Sammy, I’m gonna...’ Dean’s hand grips the hair at the back of Sam’s head, trying to pull him off, but Sam shakes his head and sucks harder, bobbing his head up and down, forcing Dean to fuck in and out of his mouth. Pushing Dean’s thighs further apart, he gets a hand into Dean’s jeans and searches blindly for his hole, pushing a dry fingertip inside. Dean comes with a half-sob, his hand tightening in Sam’s hair and his hips finally thrusting up against Sam’s face as he comes down Sam’s throat.
‘Christ,’ Dean says, his hand still clenched in Sam’s hair. ‘Jesus fucking Christ, Sammy.’
Sam doesn’t answer. Unbuttoning his jeans and yanking his zipper down, he thrusts a hand into his boxers as he begins to lap at Dean’s cock, licking him clean. Dean’s body is shuddering with aftershocks. He lifts his head, pets weakly at Sam’s hair, murmurs filthy encouragement that makes Sam feel as though he’s driving off the edge of a cliff. He comes on his fingers, rubbing his cheek against Dean’s softening cock, smearing himself with his own saliva and the remains of Dean’s come.
Dean reaches down and drags Sam into his arms, pressing their foreheads together. ‘Sam,’ he says. He sounds a little broken, but Sam doesn’t care. Dean’s his to break, to put together again.
‘Thank you,’ he says, touching Dean’s lips. Dean sucks Sam’s fingers into his mouth, cleaning Sam’s come off them, biting down lightly when Sam tries to pull his fingers back. ‘Dean, no,’ he says, pushing at Dean’s chest, and Dean releases his fingers.
‘I thought... Sorry, Sammy, I thought you wanted me to do that.’ Dean still looks a little dazed, but Sam can feel himself pulling back already, his body wanting to curl in on itself as it usually does after an orgasm. He kisses Dean gently before getting off him and zipping himself up.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sam says. ‘I shouldn’t have... Dean, you wanted that, right?’
‘Yeah, Sammy. Just... come here. Please.’ Dean reaches for him, and Sam can’t bring himself to deny Dean anything at that point. He curls up beside Dean, picking up his forgotten mug of coffee to give his hands something to do.
Dean does a bit of a face-plant into Sam’s lap, and Sam lets out a laugh and lets Dean lie there with his head on Sam’s knee, absently stroking Dean’s hair while he sips his coffee. He feels pleasantly drained, noticing vaguely that his body seems to be getting accustomed to having someone else so close. When Dean’s breathing starts to even out, Sam tugs lightly at his hair. ‘Bed. Come on.’
Dean makes a sound of assent, and they tumble together on the bed, Dean’s head pillowed on Sam’s shoulder. Sam turns his head against Dean’s, and falls asleep with his face buried in Dean’s hair.
--
When Sam wakes for the second time that day, the rain’s still falling. He can smell frying eggs and buttered toast and freshly-brewed coffee.
By the time he sits up, pushing his hands back through his messy hair, Dean’s already back at his side, carrying a tray. ‘Brunch in bed?’ he asks. He sets the tray carefully on the bed and leans down for a quick kiss.
‘You taste like coffee,’ Sam says accusingly, and Dean laughs.
‘Made you some, kid. I know how cranky you get without caffeine.’
They sit cross-legged on the bed, facing each other, and devour the toast and eggs in minutes. Dean stretches out on the bed when they’re done, propping himself up on an elbow and watching Sam drink his coffee. ‘You good?’ he asks, putting his hand on Sam’s knee and leaving it there.
Sam takes another sip of coffee. ‘It depends.’
‘On what?’ Dean raises his eyebrows. His eyes are very green in the sunlight spilling in from the window, and Sam kind of hates how stupidly in love he feels at the moment.
‘Can I suck your cock again?’ he says lightly, pushing a foot against Dean’s chest.
Dean laughs, pressing a kiss against Sam’s big toe. ‘You can do anything you want to me, Sammy.’ His hand curls around the arch of Sam’s foot, squeezing gently.
‘Yeah?’ Sam asks over the rim of his cup.
‘Yeah, Sam.’ Dean kisses his foot again. He’s not smiling anymore, but he looks relaxed. ‘But we gotta talk, yeah?’
Sam nods, setting his mug on the night stand and pulling his knees up to his chest. Dean rolls over on to his front, crossing his arms and resting his chin on them, looking up at Sam. ‘You really want to take those pills?’
‘Yeah. I think so. I wanna check first that they’re safe, though. I’ve got some info, websites and stuff.’
‘Where’d you get all that? That guy at Flagstaff?’ Dean’s expression is carefully neutral.
‘Some of it. Dean, I...’
‘You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,’ Dean says quickly.
‘I didn’t fuck him, Dean. He wasn’t... he was like me. And I’ve never... not with anyone. Just you.’
‘Thank fuck.’ Dean crawls over to Sam and wraps him up in his arms, kissing his face, his hair. ‘God, Sam, when I thought about what some guy could’ve done to you, I just... I thought I’d lose my mind. I wanted to smash up the car last night, I was so out of it.’
Sam pulls back a little. ‘I know how you get about me, Dean, but you can’t go around being possessive. I don’t like that.’
Dean looks pained. ‘I can’t help it, Sammy. You’re my little-’
Sam puts his hand over Dean’s mouth. ‘Don’t. Don’t say it.’
Dean nods. When Sam pulls his hand away, he says, ‘I’m your big brother. It’s my job to look out for you, you know?’
‘I don’t need looking after, Dean. And I need you to respect my boundaries.’
‘Do those boundaries involve you fucking other people?’
‘I don’t know, okay?’ Sam pushes his hands back through his hair, tugging at it and making his scalp tingle. A world of hurt appears in Dean’s eyes, and Sam looks away. ‘It’s... it’s not likely, Dean. There’s just so much I’m trying to figure out, and I can’t be with someone I can’t trust. Right now, the only person I trust is you.’
‘Right now,’ Dean echoes. There’s that shuttered look on his face again, the one that Sam knows Dean puts up to stop himself from getting hurt further.
‘Yeah, right now. I don’t even know myself, Dean. I don’t know... I don’t even know what I’m gonna tell Dad. And this... this thing between us, whatever it is... You don’t even... Fuck, Dean, you like women.’
‘So?’
‘So I’m not one.’
‘I don’t care what you are, Sam.’
‘You don’t care that I’m a guy? In a girl’s body?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘I can’t fuck like a girl, Dean. Not ever.’
Dean frowns. ‘Do you hate your body?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘Then why-’
‘I don’t know, Dean. I may not know for a long time, maybe never. I’m just... I’m kinda just going with my instincts here.’
Dean runs a hand up Sam’s arm. ‘I get it.’ At Sam’s skeptical look, he smiles. ‘Okay, I’m trying to get it. Can we change the subject a little?’
Sam shrugs.
‘How can I-you know, make love to you?’ Dean flushes a little, and Sam grins.
‘You’re kind of adorable right now,’ he says, ruffling Dean’s hair.
Dean bats his hand away. ‘Shut up, I’m serious. Can I-can I go down on you?’
‘You want to?’
‘Fuck, yeah.’
‘Dean Winchester, wanting to eat his little sister’s pussy,’ Sam says with a grin, and Dean groans and buries his face in Sam’s stomach.
Then he lifts his head, grinning wickedly. ‘What if I wanna eat my little brother’s ass?’ He touches a fingertip to the button on Sam’s jeans.
‘What, now?’ Sam’s breath catches at the look on Dean’s face.
‘No time like the present,’ Dean murmurs, flicking open Sam’s button. ‘Yeah?’
Sam nods, his mouth dry. Dean slides his jeans and boxers all the way off, leaving him naked from the waist down, and Sam quickly rolls on to his front.
Dean moves his lips over the curves of Sam’s ass, kissing every inch of it until Sam is squirming for more. Parting Sam’s cheeks with his hands, he presses a kiss over Sam’s hole. ‘Hey,’ he says, his voice muffled. ‘You got a vibrator?’
‘In my bag.’ Sam throws him a glance over his shoulder. ‘Not the one you looked through, obviously.’
Dean kisses his hip with an apologetic smile. ‘But I’m forgiven, right?’
‘Shut up and get my bag, jerk.’
Dean does as he’s told, grinning like he just won the lottery. Sam can’t blame him, because he’s feeling pretty much the same.
Sam pulls his small vibrator out of the side pocket of his backpack. Dean kisses his shoulder, nuzzling in for a bit. ‘Can you come in this position? On your front?’
‘I think so, yeah.’
‘Might make it easier if you’re up on all fours.’ Dean puts his hands on Sam’s hips, guiding him up.
When Sam’s in position, Dean gets back behind him and spreads him open again. He doesn’t linger this time, going straight for Sam’s hole and pressing little kisses against it. He licks a slow, wet stripe over Sam’s crack, and Sam shudders. ‘Dean.’
‘You okay?’
Sam pushes his ass back against Dean’s face. ‘Don’t stop.’
In response, Dean swirls the tip of his tongue against Sam’s asshole. Sam feels himself clench involuntarily, but Dean licks at him slowly and patiently, opening him up until Dean can begin to slide his tongue in a little. When he can’t take it anymore, Sam turns on his vibrator and presses it where he needs it the most, propping himself up on one arm, his head hanging between his shoulders. When his arm gives out, he pushes his face into the pillow, his ass raised high, Dean’s mouth relentless on him. Sam’s hips buck frantically, down against the vibrator and back up against Dean’s mouth, struggling to maintain a rhythm until Dean grasps his hips and holds him in place, guiding Sam to hump the vibrator while he fucks Sam’s ass with his tongue. Sam hadn’t thought he’d ever enjoy the sensation of being pinned down for real, even though he’d fantasized about it before, but having Dean’s hands and mouth on him is like a drug that his body can’t get enough of. He comes, shaking uncontrollably, when Dean slides a finger into his spit-slick ass and fucks it gently in and out.
--
‘I want you to fuck me,’ Sam says the next morning.
They’ve barely left the bed in the last twelve hours. Sam’s quickly discovered that one of his favorite things is to have Dean kiss him while he fingers Sam’s ass. They’re doing that now, and Dean’s finger stills inside Sam when he hears what Sam has just said.
‘Sammy-’
Sam shuts him up with a long kiss, clenching his ass around Dean’s finger to encourage him to keep moving.
‘Sammy,’ Dean says between kisses, fucking his finger in and out of Sam’s hole. It’s wet with Dean’s saliva and some cherry-flavored, edible lube that Dean had in his bag. Sam had teased him mercilessly about it until he’d discovered just how far up his ass Dean’s tongue and fingers could get when he’d been opened up with lube. ‘Not gonna hurt you,’ Dean says against his mouth.
‘You won’t.’
‘Yeah, I will. I’m not doing that to you, Sam. Not yet.’
‘You’re no fun.’ Sam groans into another kiss as Dean slides another finger inside him.
‘You can fuck me, though. If you like.’
‘Fuck, Dean.’ Sam hadn’t wanted to come yet, but Dean’s words have him stroking himself immediately, arousal spiking high at the thought of it.
‘You like the idea, hm?’ Dean kisses him long and slow and filthy, his cock gliding along Sam’s bare thigh and leaving a thin wet trail behind. ‘Want you to put your fingers in me, open me up nice and slow. Gonna get you one of those big cocks, the ones that vibrate, so you can grind against it while you fuck me open with it. Tie me down so I can’t escape, fuck me good and hard, make me scream.’
Sam shudders and comes, kind of hating his body for giving in before he could hear the rest of Dean’s fantasy. When he says as much, Dean resumes talking until they both come, shaking apart together before falling asleep tangled up in the damp sheets, exhausted.
--
Sam loves grammar. There’s something about clauses and subjunctives and the nuts and bolts of sentence structure that has a well-defined logic that appeals to Sam’s brain. He loves the universality of grammar, the fact that it’s the common element in all the books that he reads. Words defy him sometimes, but grammar never does.
Dean stirs next to him, mumbling something in his sleep before he rolls over, his eyes opening into bleary slits. ‘Can’t sleep?’ he asks, pulling himself closer to Sam and wrapping an arm around his waist.
Sam makes a noncommittal sound, slipping his bookmark into place and sliding his book under his pillow. He runs his hand over Dean’s back, stopping at the nape of his neck to tug at his t-shirt. ‘Take this off?’
Dean complies, still only half-awake, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it aside. He settles back down against Sam, seeming to sense that Sam doesn’t want anything more than to feel Dean’s skin against him. He runs the flat of his hand up Dean’s bare arm, moves his hand along Dean’s collarbone, down his chest. Dean’s got the kind of chest Sam wishes he had, flat and toned with just the right amount of hair, not too much, just enough for Sam to feel a slight fuzz beneath his palm as he glides his hand over Dean’s chest, presses it over Dean’s heart. Oddly enough, he doesn’t feel jealous of the body that Dean has, not when Dean’s practically given it to Sam. It’s an odd kind of ownership, knowing he can do what he wants with Dean, touch him any way he likes.
Dean’s half-turned into him, his body a long line of warmth along Sam’s side, his hand resting lightly on Sam’s stomach. Sam’s wrung two orgasms out of him in the last couple of hours, the last one more desperate than the one before it, Sam’s fingers driving deep into Dean, getting numb from how hard Dean’s ass had clutched at them.
Sam runs his fingers through the soft spikes of Dean’s hair, mussing it up even more. ‘Thank you,’ he says, not sure if Dean’s still listening.
Dean presses a sleepy kiss against Sam’s shoulder, his eyes still closed. ‘Do anything for you, Sammy.’
--
Even as he spends the next few days learning Dean’s body, Sam knows that he isn’t returning the favor, not completely. He only takes the bandage off his chest when he’s alone in the shower, and he hasn’t let Dean bring him off, not directly.
Dean doesn’t push him. Once, when they’ve making love, Dean’s fingers moving in Sam’s ass and his mouth on Sam’s neck, he moves lower, kissing along the edge of the tightly-wrapped gauze. ‘Does this hurt?’ he murmurs.
Sam pushes a hand through Dean’s hair. ‘Not really. Kinda used to it now.’ He’s stroking Dean’s cock with a slow-moving hand, trying to match the careful pace of Dean’s fingers inside him.
‘You gonna take it off? Let me see you?’
Sam rolls his hips, clenches his ass tight around the slow glide of Dean’s fingers, encouraging him to move faster. ‘No. Don’t stop, Dean. Feels so good.’
He speeds up the movement of his hand on Dean’s cock, cupping his palm over the head on the upstroke, just the way Dean likes. He makes Dean come before he gets himself off.
--
Dad calls two days ahead of schedule, saying he’s on his way back. Sam only hears Dean’s end of the conversation, but it’s enough for him to know that they don’t have much time left.
‘It’s okay,’ Dean says when he hangs up. ‘This isn’t... we’ll figure something out, okay? Nothing has to change.’
Sam doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes. ‘Everything’s changed, Dean.’
‘Why? Because Dad’s coming back?’
‘Don’t play dumb, Dean.’ Sam knows he isn’t being fair, but he can’t help feeling as though having sex with Dean is like a fragile new language that’s never going to get the chance to develop into anything more complex than dirty words and half-finished phrases. ‘Everything’s been changing for the last few days, and you know that.’
Dean takes a step toward Sam, but stops before he gets closer. ‘So what’re you saying?’
Sam sits down on the couch, trying not to feel overwhelmed. ‘I don’t know, Dean. I don’t know how we can keep this up when Dad’s around.’
‘Are you saying we shouldn’t...?’ Dean gestures between the two of them.
Sam shrugs. ‘What else is left to do, right?’ he says. There’s a bitterness in his voice, his mouth, and he knows the source of it isn’t Dean. ‘You got the novelty of fucking your sister. That’s going to be a cool story to tell at the bar, huh? You can move on now. Find something more exciting to do.’
‘Seriously, Sam?’ Dean’s hands are clenched. ‘You saying these things to push me? See how far I’ll go?’
‘This isn’t about you. Every single damned thing isn’t about you, Dean.’
‘Then what? Why would you say those things?’
‘Because I’m fucked up, okay? I don’t know a thing about myself and now I’m going to lose you and I don’t know how to deal with everything.’
‘Lose me?’ Dean repeats, his face blank. ‘I’m not your boyfriend, Sam. I’m your brother.’ He turns away. ‘Get packed. Dad’ll be here soon.’
--
Sam strips off and gets under the shower, childishly intent on scrubbing every trace of Dean off his skin. The alternative would be to be paralysed with pain.
There’s no knock on the door, no reminder of how close they’ve been over the last few days. Sam turns Dean’s words over and over in his head. Had he meant that Sam shouldn’t expect Dean to be anything but brotherly? Or had he meant that Sam wouldn’t lose Dean because Dean was Sam’s brother? Either way, Sam has a decision to make.
--
Sam slips out of the shower and dries himself. He puts on his bra: just an A cup, but still padded-a girl at his last school had shown him how to stuff his bra-because he’s so skinny. Barely a girl at all.
He uses Dean’s razor to shave his legs, nicking himself in a few spots but not really caring. The razor’s new, clean. Sterile. He pulls on a pair of plain cotton panties and blow-dries his hair, and then pulls on his denim shorts and a tank top that’s slightly too small, highlighting the padded bra with its fake breasts. He puts on lip gloss without looking in the mirror.
--
Dean doesn’t say anything when Sam gets out of the shower. Together, they make sure that the cabin has been aired and cleaned up thoroughly, the sheets laundered and sanitized. Sam doesn’t take a last look at the cabin as he steps out and shuts the door behind him.
They put their bags in the back seat and wait for Dad’s truck to pull up beside them. He’s probably just minutes away, and there’s an ache in Sam that he can’t describe.
‘You’re not fucked up,’ Dean says finally. He glances at Sam. ‘I know... I know this isn’t about me, Sam, but. If you don’t want me to-’
‘I didn’t mean that,’ Sam cuts in quickly. He reaches for Dean’s hand, tangles their fingers together. ‘I didn’t. I’m sorry, Dean.’
Dean lets out a relieved breath, squeezing Sam’s hand. He reaches up with his free hand to cup Sam’s cheek. ‘You never have to apologize to me, okay?’
‘Love means never having to say you’re sorry?’ Sam jokes weakly.
Dean doesn’t laugh, but his eyes crinkle a little at the corners. ‘Something like that, yeah. So, uh...’
‘What?’
‘Why’re you dressed like that?’
Sam slides across the seat until he’s pressed up against Dean’s chest. He tucks his head under Dean’s chin. ‘I don’t know,’ he says into Dean’s jacket. ‘Dad, maybe.’
Dean wraps an arm around Sam, keeping him close. His arms are warm, and maybe their lives aren’t exactly safe, but the last week has been the only time in six months that Sam hasn’t felt like a freak. Maybe Dad isn’t the only reason Sam still wants to hide behind a costume, but Dean knows, and Dean doesn’t care. Dean’s still got Sam’s back.
Dean kisses the top of Sam’s head, his arms tight around Sam. ‘It’s gonna be okay, little brother.’
Despite himself, Sam believes him. He pulls back a little. ‘Can I kiss you?’
Dean grins. ‘You really have to ask?’
~end