Supernatural ficlet: can't stop
can't stop [Supernatural, Dean/Sam, PG-13, 806 words, pre-Stanford. A remix of the Sam and a ruler scene from a foreign land in Dean's pov. Stand alone. For nova_berry who requested the original story and lazy-daze who prompted me to tell a story from a different pov.]
can't stop
You have to laugh. Because this is Sam, your little brother, and nothing else will do.
So you laugh like it's the funniest thing you've seen in forever. You point and laugh and ignore the look in Sam's eyes, the humiliation and the shame. The hurt because it's you laughing at him. You laugh because you can't do anything else.
*
The door's shut, but that doesn't mean a thing. The neighbors' cat gets in sometimes, a long-haired thing that molts all over the place, and Sam doesn't like hair on his bed - makes him sneeze, he says. He's fussy like that, so he'll shut the door, even on a day like today when you want all the air you can get in the house, because the fans creak and sway but don't do shit towards cooling the place down.
You've been outside for three hours, and it isn't even lunch time but your shirt's stuck to your back and your pits stink like a racehorse, and you're gonna change before you sit down with a beer. So you walk in the bedroom, and Sam's standing there. In the middle of the room, and he's wearing a tee-shirt, but it's too small for him, yet another thing he's grown out of this year. Bare white ass showing beneath it, scrawny pale legs and jeans around his ankles like a hobble.
You guess, then, even before he turns, because you can see enough to know what he's doing. Half a turn when he hears you, and his mouth's hanging open in shock, but you're looking lower. Dick out, hard, and he's hung, the kid is, and you're impressed though you'll never say it. He's bigger than you were, his age, and that's another thing you'll never tell him. Dick out, and he's gotten it lined up on a ruler. The one he does math with, and just thinking that startles your eyes up and your brain back into gear.
You've only got a second to give the right reaction, and you've got to get it right. So you laugh. Because.
You should turn away, of course, out the door and close it behind you, but your feet are lead, and you're stuck in a cycle of pointing and laughing that you can't break. And then Sam's pulled his pants up and he's swearing at you - you think he's got tears in his eyes but you look away, because there are boundaries, and watching him cry is outside the limits - and that's when you can move again.
You've gotta say something, because if you don't, if you walk out the door now and you've not said a word, it'll be there, between you, something awkward and you won't be able to look at each other. You don't know how you know that, you just do.
So, "It'll grow, you know," you say, and it's a joke, because Sammy's got nothing to worry about. But it's a bad time for jokes and you know that as soon as the words are out.
Thing about words, though, there's no taking them back. No do-overs. Though maybe Sam's not gotten that message because he throws a book at you like he can bat the words straight back at you. Big hands around it, and you know what they say about big hands, no worries there, Sammy.
You leave at last, still laughing - it's a disease or curse or something, the way you can't stop laughing - and you slam the door behind you.
You lean against the door, and now you can stop laughing, too late. And all the thoughts the laughter kept away come racing into your head like starved cattle to a manger. You press your hand, hard against your zipper, wanting it to hurt, because you've gone and gotten hard and it's your little brother in there. And you don't think of him like that.
Naked.
Beautiful.
Except you do, now, because you know the weight of his cock in your hand and you know the way his body arcs when he's about to come, you've pressed your dick in the crack of his ass and come without a touch.
You lean against the door, and you close your eyes. Bite your lip until you taste blood and it's not punishment enough for what you're thinking.
You don't change, and you leave the beer in the fridge. You go back out into the hot noon sun and you work so hard there's no more liquid to sweat out of you.
It's still not enough.
*
But when Sam's whimpering, still asleep in a nightmare, curled up like a frightened insect, you wake him. And when he needs you, looks at you with eyes that say stay, you curl up around him.
You can't help it, and that'll never change.
//
can't stop
You have to laugh. Because this is Sam, your little brother, and nothing else will do.
So you laugh like it's the funniest thing you've seen in forever. You point and laugh and ignore the look in Sam's eyes, the humiliation and the shame. The hurt because it's you laughing at him. You laugh because you can't do anything else.
*
The door's shut, but that doesn't mean a thing. The neighbors' cat gets in sometimes, a long-haired thing that molts all over the place, and Sam doesn't like hair on his bed - makes him sneeze, he says. He's fussy like that, so he'll shut the door, even on a day like today when you want all the air you can get in the house, because the fans creak and sway but don't do shit towards cooling the place down.
You've been outside for three hours, and it isn't even lunch time but your shirt's stuck to your back and your pits stink like a racehorse, and you're gonna change before you sit down with a beer. So you walk in the bedroom, and Sam's standing there. In the middle of the room, and he's wearing a tee-shirt, but it's too small for him, yet another thing he's grown out of this year. Bare white ass showing beneath it, scrawny pale legs and jeans around his ankles like a hobble.
You guess, then, even before he turns, because you can see enough to know what he's doing. Half a turn when he hears you, and his mouth's hanging open in shock, but you're looking lower. Dick out, hard, and he's hung, the kid is, and you're impressed though you'll never say it. He's bigger than you were, his age, and that's another thing you'll never tell him. Dick out, and he's gotten it lined up on a ruler. The one he does math with, and just thinking that startles your eyes up and your brain back into gear.
You've only got a second to give the right reaction, and you've got to get it right. So you laugh. Because.
You should turn away, of course, out the door and close it behind you, but your feet are lead, and you're stuck in a cycle of pointing and laughing that you can't break. And then Sam's pulled his pants up and he's swearing at you - you think he's got tears in his eyes but you look away, because there are boundaries, and watching him cry is outside the limits - and that's when you can move again.
You've gotta say something, because if you don't, if you walk out the door now and you've not said a word, it'll be there, between you, something awkward and you won't be able to look at each other. You don't know how you know that, you just do.
So, "It'll grow, you know," you say, and it's a joke, because Sammy's got nothing to worry about. But it's a bad time for jokes and you know that as soon as the words are out.
Thing about words, though, there's no taking them back. No do-overs. Though maybe Sam's not gotten that message because he throws a book at you like he can bat the words straight back at you. Big hands around it, and you know what they say about big hands, no worries there, Sammy.
You leave at last, still laughing - it's a disease or curse or something, the way you can't stop laughing - and you slam the door behind you.
You lean against the door, and now you can stop laughing, too late. And all the thoughts the laughter kept away come racing into your head like starved cattle to a manger. You press your hand, hard against your zipper, wanting it to hurt, because you've gone and gotten hard and it's your little brother in there. And you don't think of him like that.
Naked.
Beautiful.
Except you do, now, because you know the weight of his cock in your hand and you know the way his body arcs when he's about to come, you've pressed your dick in the crack of his ass and come without a touch.
You lean against the door, and you close your eyes. Bite your lip until you taste blood and it's not punishment enough for what you're thinking.
You don't change, and you leave the beer in the fridge. You go back out into the hot noon sun and you work so hard there's no more liquid to sweat out of you.
It's still not enough.
*
But when Sam's whimpering, still asleep in a nightmare, curled up like a frightened insect, you wake him. And when he needs you, looks at you with eyes that say stay, you curl up around him.
You can't help it, and that'll never change.
//