(no subject)
Title: This Con that We Call Love
Pairing: Sam/Dean, slight Sam/Jess
Rating: R
Word Count: ~2.2k
Warnings/Kinks: Underage, Dub-Con
Notes: Title from FUN's "Some Nights" because shut up I can't stop making pop songs about Wincest okay
Notes (2): Also, unbeta'd, so, y'know, mistakes are all mine and such and such
The thing about being in love with your big brother is that there is no getting out of it. There is no “it’s just a phase”, there is no growing out of it as you grow out of your hero worship. There is no light at the end of this tunnel, because there is no end to it at all, and there is no shovel for you to grab hold of and slam into the dirt wall until you make your own exit. You are in freefall, always, falling down the rabbit hole and grasping at the tables and lamps that float by in some desperate grab for stability.
-
Sam knows this. He wakes up one morning, thirteen years old and covered in sweat, his boxers sticky and clinging to his thighs, and he knows with a cold certainty that the previous night’s dream of skin and green eyes and whispered promises will not be the only one of its kind. He lies there, terrified and filled with dread, for a good hour before Dean stirs in the other bed and rolls off of the mattress with a groan and a thump as his feet hit the ground. Sam stays perfectly still, his eyes glued to the ceiling. He can see Dean walk by, and his brother doesn’t so much as hesitate when passing by Sam’s bed before he’s in the bathroom, and the shower turns on.
As soon as the door shuts, Sam leaps out of bed, bundling up the sheets and stuffing them in the laundry bag. When Dean gets out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, he looks pointedly at the bare bed and then at Sam, a smirk tugging at his lips and Sam is suddenly floored by a short, vivid memory from the dream: Dean’s lips on his, Dean’s lips on his neck, breathing out Sammy and Love You onto Sam’s skin.
Sam’s face burns in embarrassment and he has to tear his gaze away from Dean’s because there’s no way this feeling isn’t showing all over his face; this thing that he suddenly wants with an intensity that he knows is never going away, this is disgusting and filthy and nothing so damning could possibly stay hidden. Not from Dean. Not from his big brother, who knew that Sam had a big exam coming up just from the tension in Sam’s shoulders and surprised him the morning of the test with blueberry pancakes and orange juice. There is no hiding this thing from him.
Except that, miraculously, there is.
Sam handles it. He doesn’t mention it, and Dean doesn’t mention it, and Sam has never felt so good about lying to his brother.
-
The thing about being in love with your big brother is this: the reason you never fall out of love is that you already know everything there is to know. With other couples, Sam guesses, the “falling out of love” sensation comes from finding those little aggravating ticks and habits about the other person and floating back to solid ground. With Sam, and with Sam’s love for Dean, this is why Sam believes his problem will not end, not ever. Instead of pulling him back to the ground, these frustrating parts of Dean have simply created a rope, tied to Sam’s ankle and anchored in a spike in the ground, keeping him from soaring too high, but never, ever, gripping Sam and dragging him towards the grass far, far below.
-
Sam manages to keep it under wraps for a long, long time. He’s sixteen when he thinks it’s all shot to Hell, though.
They’re sparring-- always stressful for Sam, if for no other reason than that any accidental boners are so much more likely to brush against Dean at some point-- and Sam is distracted, because of school, and Dad, and because Dean is all around him, and he ends up flat on his back in the dirt with Dean straddling his hips.
Sam panics, and the fucking thing of it is, he would have saved himself a year of paranoia and panic attacks if he’d just stayed still. But he doesn’t. Dean above him, sitting right on Sam’s gut, too fucking close to his dick, has his blood rushing between his legs and countless dream-memories kick-starting in Sam’s mind, flooding his brain one after another. Dean, riding Sam after a long day at school; Dean, overcome with lust during a sparring match and pinning Sam to the dirt, shoving his legs apart and eating him out until Sam is reduced to a whimpering, shaking mess; Dean, collapsing on top of him and holding Sam, warm and perfect and home, whispering soft I love yous over and over and over again.
Dean’s still laughing. He presses Sam to the ground with his hands on Sam’s shoulders, still smiling as he says, “Pinned ya, Sammy.” Sam gasps and pushes, throwing Dean off-balance and sending them rolling in the dirt in a struggle for dominance, throwing up clouds of dust in their wake. Despite Sam’s attempts, he’s desperate and not thinking any farther than get away get away get away, and Dean has him flat again without much of a fight.
“Pinned ya again,” he crows triumphantly. Sam makes a grab for Dean’s shoulders, and Dean grips Sam’s wrists, holding them roughly against the hard dirt beside Sam’s head while he tuts, “Ah, ah, ah, Sammy. Not getting away that easily.” He leans forward, and that scoots his lower half down Sam’s body, until their hips are pressed together, and Sam breaks for a moment, moaning and rocking his hips up against Dean’s. He doesn’t even realize he’s done it until Dean pulls back, his eyes wide and his lips parted in shock, and before Sam can get out the rushed and desperate Sorry bro you know how it is sixteen getting hard if the wind blows the right way you know right you know don’t you it’s nothing, Dean is up and off of him, tossing some dismissal behind him as he heads back into the abandoned house that they’re calling “Home” for the next two weeks.
Sam lies there for a while, feeling thirteen and dirty and awful, until Dean comes out again, calling him in for dinner. When he gets inside, Dean all but shoves him into the shower.
“Sam, I know you’re a girl and all, but even girls have to clean the pipes,” Dean instructs. “I know I’m hot shit, but I do not need you being all sexually repressed and getting a stiffy while I’m all over you, kay?” He throws one of his magazines in and slams the door in Sam’s face, shouting, “Also, congratulations on being fucking proportional!” before stomping off and into the kitchen.
Dean teases him again when he gets out of the shower, asking about his crush, and Sam thinks I just got off thinking about you swallowing my dick, does that count? and he says, “Fuck off, jerk,” and Dean calls him a bitch and downs his drink, and it’s amazing.
Sam doesn’t cry from relief, but it’s a close thing.
-
The thing about being in love is that it makes you overlook things. It makes you hopeful when you know you shouldn’t be. It makes you blind to the fact that what you are doing is wrong. It wraps a silk scarf across your eyes, and when you feel someone wrapping themselves around you, you just hope to God that it’s the person you want it to be, and you pray that if you untie this blindfold on and look at their face, they’re wearing the same expression you are. Then it ties your hands behind your back so that the only way the scarf is coming away from your eyes is if the person holding you wants you to see them. It’s terrifying.
-
On a clear June night, when Sam is eighteen, Dean barges into their motel room with a hard line set to his mouth, his eyes blazing with determination and red-rimmed. Sam looks up from his spot on the bed, frowning.
“Dean?” Dean stalks over to their bed, his face two parts determined and one part terrified. “Dean, what the hell’s going on?” Dean stops at the side of the bed, just by where Sam’s sitting. Before Sam can get any other protests out, Dean leans in and grabs Sam’s collar, hauling him in for a kiss. Sam gasps and Dean’s tongue is there, licking at his teeth and the insides of his lips, and Sam doesn’t even think before he arches up and moans into his brother’s mouth. Dean pulls back and huffs out a quiet laugh, and Sam whines at the loss, reaching out blindly for his brother, tugging on his shirt insistently until Dean falls down onto the bed, straddling Sam and biting at Sam’s neck. Sam groans at the feel of him, weighing him down, anchoring him to the bed. Dean rocks his hips, rolling against Sam’s dick, and when Sam paws helplessly at Dean’s shirt hem he strips off his jacket, tossing it to the floor. Sam says, “Dean,” because it’s the only thing he can think right now, and Dean shushes him by crushing his mouth to Sam’s and undoing Sam’s belt and shoving his pants down and off Sam’s legs.
Dean makes fast work of their clothes, rolling their hips together. He kisses down Sam’s neck, and when Sam groans as Dean’s lips graze his collarbone, Dean latches on and sucks hard, drawing a thick shout from Sams throat. Sam digs his fingers into the back of Dean’s neck and rocks upwards, pressing their cocks together. Dean’s motions get faster and sloppier, and when Sam says his name again, Dean bites down on Sam’s skin until all Sam can do is make quiet, wordless gasps into the thick air. Dean reaches down and runs his fingers up and down Sam’s cock slowly, almost shyly, and it’s enough to push Sam over the edge with a cry.
By the time he comes down from his high, Dean’s rolled off of him, the side of his arm pressing against Sam’s. The room is quiet, except for their labored breathing, and after a moment, Dean’s fingers brush lightly across Sam’s hip. Sam jolts at the touch, and Dean’s hand jerks back.
“You wanted that. You wanted it, right, Sammy?” Dean’s voice is quiet and shaky and the slightest bit slurred. Sam grabs Dean’s hand and laces their fingers together, then brings their hands up to press kisses to Dean’s knuckles. He looks up at Dean; his brother’s eyes are wide and his cheeks flushed. Pride surges through him when he realizes that there are going to be bruises on the back of Dean’s neck tomorrow.
“Since I was thirteen,” he says, and Dean sucks in a sharp breath.
“Sorry,” Dean says, and Sam leans forward, pressing their lips together quickly. Dean’s lips catch on Sam’s when he speaks. “You’re happy now, Sammy?”
He’s never been happier.
They sleep just like, curled together without a stitch between them.
Sam says, “I love you,” and Dean’s arm tightens around Sam’s middle. He doesn’t say anything back, but then, Sam doesn’t expect him to.
He’s never had a better night’s sleep.
The next morning, he’s practically singing as he goes around the room, gathering their clothes. When he picks up Dean’s jacket, a paper falls out, and Sam’s humming when he picks it up.
The header reads STANFORD UNIVERSITY, and Sam only gets so far as Congratulations, Sam Winchester! before he drops the paper to the ground and collapses with a choked-off sob. Dean wakes up and rushes to his side, tugging his boxers on before he drops to the ground beside him, asking over and over Sammy what’s wrong thought you said you were happy you wanted it you’re happy right Sammy?
Sam doesn’t touch Dean again until he leaves the week after. Before he steps on the bus, he darts in and presses his lips to Dean’s, and Dean pushes him away too fast for it to be anything but instinct. When Sam steps back, Dean says, “Sam, wait--” and reaches out for him, trying to pull him back in for a kiss, and Sam can’t help but push Dean away and rush onto the bus.
To his credit, he doesn’t cry until they pass the city limits sign.
-
The thing about being in love with Jess is that even though this tunnel that you’ve been stuck in has no opening for sunshine to stream through, you see a light, and you run toward it, feet pounding into the dirt, thinking that you’ve found it, you’ve found your way out. When you get there, the tunnel doesn’t end; instead, there’s a girl. She is funny and she is stubborn and she likes classical music and 90’s country, and she loves to paint, and her hair shines gold. Her smile lights up the room and it fills you with hope, and in this tunnel that you’ve been stuck in, it illuminates the dark that you’ve been wandering since you were thirteen.
The thing about being in love with Jess is that you forget you haven’t fallen out of love with your big brother until her light goes out in a rush of fire, and now that your eyes have adjusted to the light, you are blinded by the darkness, and you have to keep on walking.
Pairing: Sam/Dean, slight Sam/Jess
Rating: R
Word Count: ~2.2k
Warnings/Kinks: Underage, Dub-Con
Notes: Title from FUN's "Some Nights" because shut up I can't stop making pop songs about Wincest okay
Notes (2): Also, unbeta'd, so, y'know, mistakes are all mine and such and such
The thing about being in love with your big brother is that there is no getting out of it. There is no “it’s just a phase”, there is no growing out of it as you grow out of your hero worship. There is no light at the end of this tunnel, because there is no end to it at all, and there is no shovel for you to grab hold of and slam into the dirt wall until you make your own exit. You are in freefall, always, falling down the rabbit hole and grasping at the tables and lamps that float by in some desperate grab for stability.
-
Sam knows this. He wakes up one morning, thirteen years old and covered in sweat, his boxers sticky and clinging to his thighs, and he knows with a cold certainty that the previous night’s dream of skin and green eyes and whispered promises will not be the only one of its kind. He lies there, terrified and filled with dread, for a good hour before Dean stirs in the other bed and rolls off of the mattress with a groan and a thump as his feet hit the ground. Sam stays perfectly still, his eyes glued to the ceiling. He can see Dean walk by, and his brother doesn’t so much as hesitate when passing by Sam’s bed before he’s in the bathroom, and the shower turns on.
As soon as the door shuts, Sam leaps out of bed, bundling up the sheets and stuffing them in the laundry bag. When Dean gets out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, he looks pointedly at the bare bed and then at Sam, a smirk tugging at his lips and Sam is suddenly floored by a short, vivid memory from the dream: Dean’s lips on his, Dean’s lips on his neck, breathing out Sammy and Love You onto Sam’s skin.
Sam’s face burns in embarrassment and he has to tear his gaze away from Dean’s because there’s no way this feeling isn’t showing all over his face; this thing that he suddenly wants with an intensity that he knows is never going away, this is disgusting and filthy and nothing so damning could possibly stay hidden. Not from Dean. Not from his big brother, who knew that Sam had a big exam coming up just from the tension in Sam’s shoulders and surprised him the morning of the test with blueberry pancakes and orange juice. There is no hiding this thing from him.
Except that, miraculously, there is.
Sam handles it. He doesn’t mention it, and Dean doesn’t mention it, and Sam has never felt so good about lying to his brother.
-
The thing about being in love with your big brother is this: the reason you never fall out of love is that you already know everything there is to know. With other couples, Sam guesses, the “falling out of love” sensation comes from finding those little aggravating ticks and habits about the other person and floating back to solid ground. With Sam, and with Sam’s love for Dean, this is why Sam believes his problem will not end, not ever. Instead of pulling him back to the ground, these frustrating parts of Dean have simply created a rope, tied to Sam’s ankle and anchored in a spike in the ground, keeping him from soaring too high, but never, ever, gripping Sam and dragging him towards the grass far, far below.
-
Sam manages to keep it under wraps for a long, long time. He’s sixteen when he thinks it’s all shot to Hell, though.
They’re sparring-- always stressful for Sam, if for no other reason than that any accidental boners are so much more likely to brush against Dean at some point-- and Sam is distracted, because of school, and Dad, and because Dean is all around him, and he ends up flat on his back in the dirt with Dean straddling his hips.
Sam panics, and the fucking thing of it is, he would have saved himself a year of paranoia and panic attacks if he’d just stayed still. But he doesn’t. Dean above him, sitting right on Sam’s gut, too fucking close to his dick, has his blood rushing between his legs and countless dream-memories kick-starting in Sam’s mind, flooding his brain one after another. Dean, riding Sam after a long day at school; Dean, overcome with lust during a sparring match and pinning Sam to the dirt, shoving his legs apart and eating him out until Sam is reduced to a whimpering, shaking mess; Dean, collapsing on top of him and holding Sam, warm and perfect and home, whispering soft I love yous over and over and over again.
Dean’s still laughing. He presses Sam to the ground with his hands on Sam’s shoulders, still smiling as he says, “Pinned ya, Sammy.” Sam gasps and pushes, throwing Dean off-balance and sending them rolling in the dirt in a struggle for dominance, throwing up clouds of dust in their wake. Despite Sam’s attempts, he’s desperate and not thinking any farther than get away get away get away, and Dean has him flat again without much of a fight.
“Pinned ya again,” he crows triumphantly. Sam makes a grab for Dean’s shoulders, and Dean grips Sam’s wrists, holding them roughly against the hard dirt beside Sam’s head while he tuts, “Ah, ah, ah, Sammy. Not getting away that easily.” He leans forward, and that scoots his lower half down Sam’s body, until their hips are pressed together, and Sam breaks for a moment, moaning and rocking his hips up against Dean’s. He doesn’t even realize he’s done it until Dean pulls back, his eyes wide and his lips parted in shock, and before Sam can get out the rushed and desperate Sorry bro you know how it is sixteen getting hard if the wind blows the right way you know right you know don’t you it’s nothing, Dean is up and off of him, tossing some dismissal behind him as he heads back into the abandoned house that they’re calling “Home” for the next two weeks.
Sam lies there for a while, feeling thirteen and dirty and awful, until Dean comes out again, calling him in for dinner. When he gets inside, Dean all but shoves him into the shower.
“Sam, I know you’re a girl and all, but even girls have to clean the pipes,” Dean instructs. “I know I’m hot shit, but I do not need you being all sexually repressed and getting a stiffy while I’m all over you, kay?” He throws one of his magazines in and slams the door in Sam’s face, shouting, “Also, congratulations on being fucking proportional!” before stomping off and into the kitchen.
Dean teases him again when he gets out of the shower, asking about his crush, and Sam thinks I just got off thinking about you swallowing my dick, does that count? and he says, “Fuck off, jerk,” and Dean calls him a bitch and downs his drink, and it’s amazing.
Sam doesn’t cry from relief, but it’s a close thing.
-
The thing about being in love is that it makes you overlook things. It makes you hopeful when you know you shouldn’t be. It makes you blind to the fact that what you are doing is wrong. It wraps a silk scarf across your eyes, and when you feel someone wrapping themselves around you, you just hope to God that it’s the person you want it to be, and you pray that if you untie this blindfold on and look at their face, they’re wearing the same expression you are. Then it ties your hands behind your back so that the only way the scarf is coming away from your eyes is if the person holding you wants you to see them. It’s terrifying.
-
On a clear June night, when Sam is eighteen, Dean barges into their motel room with a hard line set to his mouth, his eyes blazing with determination and red-rimmed. Sam looks up from his spot on the bed, frowning.
“Dean?” Dean stalks over to their bed, his face two parts determined and one part terrified. “Dean, what the hell’s going on?” Dean stops at the side of the bed, just by where Sam’s sitting. Before Sam can get any other protests out, Dean leans in and grabs Sam’s collar, hauling him in for a kiss. Sam gasps and Dean’s tongue is there, licking at his teeth and the insides of his lips, and Sam doesn’t even think before he arches up and moans into his brother’s mouth. Dean pulls back and huffs out a quiet laugh, and Sam whines at the loss, reaching out blindly for his brother, tugging on his shirt insistently until Dean falls down onto the bed, straddling Sam and biting at Sam’s neck. Sam groans at the feel of him, weighing him down, anchoring him to the bed. Dean rocks his hips, rolling against Sam’s dick, and when Sam paws helplessly at Dean’s shirt hem he strips off his jacket, tossing it to the floor. Sam says, “Dean,” because it’s the only thing he can think right now, and Dean shushes him by crushing his mouth to Sam’s and undoing Sam’s belt and shoving his pants down and off Sam’s legs.
Dean makes fast work of their clothes, rolling their hips together. He kisses down Sam’s neck, and when Sam groans as Dean’s lips graze his collarbone, Dean latches on and sucks hard, drawing a thick shout from Sams throat. Sam digs his fingers into the back of Dean’s neck and rocks upwards, pressing their cocks together. Dean’s motions get faster and sloppier, and when Sam says his name again, Dean bites down on Sam’s skin until all Sam can do is make quiet, wordless gasps into the thick air. Dean reaches down and runs his fingers up and down Sam’s cock slowly, almost shyly, and it’s enough to push Sam over the edge with a cry.
By the time he comes down from his high, Dean’s rolled off of him, the side of his arm pressing against Sam’s. The room is quiet, except for their labored breathing, and after a moment, Dean’s fingers brush lightly across Sam’s hip. Sam jolts at the touch, and Dean’s hand jerks back.
“You wanted that. You wanted it, right, Sammy?” Dean’s voice is quiet and shaky and the slightest bit slurred. Sam grabs Dean’s hand and laces their fingers together, then brings their hands up to press kisses to Dean’s knuckles. He looks up at Dean; his brother’s eyes are wide and his cheeks flushed. Pride surges through him when he realizes that there are going to be bruises on the back of Dean’s neck tomorrow.
“Since I was thirteen,” he says, and Dean sucks in a sharp breath.
“Sorry,” Dean says, and Sam leans forward, pressing their lips together quickly. Dean’s lips catch on Sam’s when he speaks. “You’re happy now, Sammy?”
He’s never been happier.
They sleep just like, curled together without a stitch between them.
Sam says, “I love you,” and Dean’s arm tightens around Sam’s middle. He doesn’t say anything back, but then, Sam doesn’t expect him to.
He’s never had a better night’s sleep.
The next morning, he’s practically singing as he goes around the room, gathering their clothes. When he picks up Dean’s jacket, a paper falls out, and Sam’s humming when he picks it up.
The header reads STANFORD UNIVERSITY, and Sam only gets so far as Congratulations, Sam Winchester! before he drops the paper to the ground and collapses with a choked-off sob. Dean wakes up and rushes to his side, tugging his boxers on before he drops to the ground beside him, asking over and over Sammy what’s wrong thought you said you were happy you wanted it you’re happy right Sammy?
Sam doesn’t touch Dean again until he leaves the week after. Before he steps on the bus, he darts in and presses his lips to Dean’s, and Dean pushes him away too fast for it to be anything but instinct. When Sam steps back, Dean says, “Sam, wait--” and reaches out for him, trying to pull him back in for a kiss, and Sam can’t help but push Dean away and rush onto the bus.
To his credit, he doesn’t cry until they pass the city limits sign.
-
The thing about being in love with Jess is that even though this tunnel that you’ve been stuck in has no opening for sunshine to stream through, you see a light, and you run toward it, feet pounding into the dirt, thinking that you’ve found it, you’ve found your way out. When you get there, the tunnel doesn’t end; instead, there’s a girl. She is funny and she is stubborn and she likes classical music and 90’s country, and she loves to paint, and her hair shines gold. Her smile lights up the room and it fills you with hope, and in this tunnel that you’ve been stuck in, it illuminates the dark that you’ve been wandering since you were thirteen.
The thing about being in love with Jess is that you forget you haven’t fallen out of love with your big brother until her light goes out in a rush of fire, and now that your eyes have adjusted to the light, you are blinded by the darkness, and you have to keep on walking.