(no subject)
Dean doesn’t realize that he’s waiting for Dr. Okoro to judge him until she doesn’t.
She continues to sit and look at Dean, no identifiable emotion in her face except for interest. Dean pulls at the collar of his shirt and swallows uncomfortably under her observation.
“So,” she starts, satisfied that Dean has no more to say on the subject matter. “Why do you think it was so important for you to know if Sam is attracted to you because of you rather than your looks?”
“I don’t know,” Dean snaps defensively. He realizes intentionally provoking Sam like that wasn’t exactly his crowning moment.
“Do you question why other people are attracted to you?” she inquires.
Dean chews on the inside of his lip. “I don’t care why other people are attracted to me.”
“Why do you think that is?”
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.
“I dunno,” Dean shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest and hitching his shoulders up around his ears.
“Alright,” Dr. Okoro digresses. “May I ask you a different question, then?” The inflection of the ‘k’ on the end of ‘ask’ is a harsh clack after the smooth hiss of the ‘s’.
“Shoot,” Dean prompts.
She’s got firm, intelligent eyes when she looks up straight at Dean and asks, “Have you ever been attracted to Sam as well?”
“I-.” Dean splutters, shock punching him in the stomach hard enough that he coughs and chokes on his own spit. He has to lean forward over his own knees to hack until his airways are clear again. He can feel his face getting hot and turning fuchsia as he struggles for oxygen. “What?” he wheezes.
“Sam,” Dr. Okoro repeats, practically the poster-child for infinite patience. “Have you ever found yourself attracted to him?” she asks simply, no pressure behind the question.
“I-.” Dean starts again, floored by the surrealism of the situation. She was actually asking him if Sam did it for him ever. “I-” he tries again, stalling out a third time. “It was one time and it doesn’t even count!”
-
Sam’s sixteen and their parents are out visiting one of John’s old Marine buddies for the weekend and Dean should have seen it coming.
Dean lost his virginity when he was fifteen to Andrea George under similar circumstances, John and Mary out for the day visiting with Mary’s cousin, Gwen, while she was in town. It had been a little awkward and fumbling on Dean’s part, but Andrea was a pro, pushed him down onto his mattress and told him to hush up while she worked her magic.
Dean had mustered a grin through his nerves (Sex. He was going to have sex. With Andrea fucking George. Wait until he told Sam.) and muttered something honey-sweet before grinding up into her with the intent to make her shudder and gasp.
It was embarrassingly short in duration but on her way out Andrea kissed him and winked, said they’d work on it next time.
Dean walked back to his room to see Sam peeking out of his doorway, eyes wide and confused.
Dean’s the one wide-eyed and confused this time around.
He walked in his room to grab something, he’s sure he did, but Sam’s laughter filtering in through the thin wall distracts him, draws his attention to the sounds of heavy breathing and Charlie asking “Are you sure?”
The bottom of Dean’s skull drops out and his brains leak all down the back of his shirt, because -what?
“Yeah, yeah, c’mon,” Sam whisper-pants back.
“Damn tease,” Charlie rumbles. “Can’t believe you planned this out. Sneaky, sneaky, Sammy.”
Dean’s hand tenses into a fist.
“C’mon, I told you not to call me Sammy, Charlie,” Sam whines. “Especially not now.”
“I know,” Charlie whispers. “Sorry,” he mumbles and the sound is punctuated by the soft, wet sound of open mouthed kisses on dry skin and Sam’s huffed laughter. “Sorry,” kiss, “Sorry,” kiss, “Sorry,” kiss.
“You’re an ass,” Sam chuffs affectionately and Dean can hear sheets rustling.
“Yeah,” Charlie muses and Dean can just imagine the one dimple he has in his left cheek digging in as he shoots Sam a lopsided grin from wherever he’s situated draped over Sam’s bed, or Sam. “But you love me.”
Dean realizes he hasn’t moved a muscle in several long moments, standing statue-still in the center of his own bedroom, staring at the pale blue wall between his room and Sam’s.
“Would you just hurry up?” Sam whines impatiently.
“Whoa-ho-ho,” Charlie chuckles, “Sam Winchester, pushy bottom, who would have thought?”
Dean’s knees turn into marshmallows without his express permission and he stumbles forward to hit the floor with a muffled thud that they can’t hear on the other side of the wall over the sound of giddy laughter. There’s a roaring in his ears that’s threatening to lay him out flat on his back and a hot, swirling soup of dark feelings low in his stomach that are all telling him to get the fuck in there and drag Charlie out by his hair because he’s touching Sam.
The image rises unbidden behind Dean’s eyes of Sam lying underneath Charlie, thighs splayed wide, naked and pale, a red flush swarming underneath his skin down his neck and over his chest as the embarrassment over his nudity wars with how much he wants. Sam’s wiry now, spindly and bony where he used to be pudgy with baby fat. He’s long and thin, taller than Charlie, as tall as Dean. Dean can just picture it, though. Sam’s pale skin under Charlie’s tan hands, panting and vying and Dean’s feeling lightheaded, he’s sure there was enough air in this room a few minutes ago.
“C’mon,” Sam whines again. “This is worse than the first time you let me blow you, Jesus, Charlie.”
Dean’s ability to string together rational thoughts fractures into millions of infinitesimal shards that get flushed into his veins and clot in his arteries. Oh God, he’s having a heart attack. He’s actually having a heart attack.
“I just don’t want it to hurt,” Charlie promises tenderly, voice muffled and words slurred into Sam’s skin and Sam hums approvingly.
“Hey,” Sam whispers, Dean has to lean in to hear. “I trust you, okay?”
Dean’s going to throw up.
Charlie makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Sam mumbles back, voice gentle and coaxing. “So stop fucking around and get your cock in my ass.”
Dean chokes, stifles the sound by stuffing his fist in his mouth. He should go. He should really, really go.
There’s a long, strangled groan from the other side of the wall, Charlie whispering “It’s okay, you’re okay, you’re perfect, it’s okay,” and Dean should really get the fuck out of there.
“Yeah, yeah, just,” Sam pants, voice high and tight as he wheezes out a gruff laugh that’s not there for his own sake, “gimme a second.”
Dean puts his hands on his face like it’s going to help him hold himself together and thinks ‘That’s what Sam sounds like with a cock up his ass.’ Huh.
“All the time in the world, okay,” Charlie mutters and then the wet, panting sounds of lips mashing and tongues churning fill Dean’s head. “Have I ever told you,” Charlie breaks off, words interspersed with the small, soft smack of him sucking little love bites down Sam’s neck and Dean’s going to scream if he has to look at them later, “about the first time I knew I liked you?”
Sam laughs again, but it’s still a little strained. Probably because, y’know, he has a cock in his ass. “No. Tell me.” His voice is high and breathy and Dean doesn’t realize that he’s grinding his cheekbone into the drywall just to try and get closer to the only thing comfortable and right in this whole situation.
“It was after one of your brother’s baseball games,” Charlie whispers like a secret, voice low and intimate and Dean feels like he’s intruding -- knows that he’s intruding. “I was sitting down the bleachers from you and Dean came up to bat and you screamed and you screamed,” he pauses, laughs at the memory and maybe churns his hips if the sound Sam makes is anything to go by. “And then -whap- he hit this spectacular homerun and the crowd was going crazy but I could still hear you, over everybody else. And after everyone else had calmed down you were still clapping and asking everyone if they’d seen that. It was the sweetest,” the sound of his tongue rasping against the underside of Sam’s jaw is barely a whisper to Dean, “damn thing. I wanted to eat you up.”
There’s something ironic in there, Dean’s just too stupid right now to find out what it is. Give him a minute.
“C’mon,” Sam pants. “I’m ready now, do it.”
Dean presses his ear to the wall, imagines he can hear the slick sound of Charlie pulling out and this is sick and he should leave, but Charlie slams home and the sound Sam makes -fucking keening and desperate- settles like molten sugar in the marrow of Dean’s bones and he’s not going anywhere.
Dean’s front-brain stutters out and goes offline. He pants like an asthmatic, face flushing hot all over and he lets his thoughts wander into the room next door.
“Oh,” Sam breathes.
“Yeah?” there’s a smirk in Charlie’s voice. “Tell me. You like it?”
“God, God.” The bed springs start to squeal rhythmically. “Oh my God.”
Charlie laughs and Dean just wishes he would shut the fuck up so that he can hear Sam, because Sam sounds sweet- so damn saccharine sweet it’s going to give Dean cavities even though he’s not there to lick it up out of Sam’s mouth.
“Tell me?” Charlie sounds like he’s trying to make a demand, but it comes out like a question. A meow where there should have been a roar. “Tell me how good it is?”
Dean’s fingers knot into his own hair so hard he would be afraid that he’s going to pull his scalp clean from his skull if he actually had the capacity to be afraid of anything at all.
“Right there,” is all Sam responds with, breathy. “Harder, harder, c’mon,” he pants, needy.
He shouldn’t be needy. He should be blissed. He should be screaming ‘yes, yes, yes’. Christ, doesn’t Charlie know? Harder means harder. What part of that isn’t he getting as Sam continues to make those choked off, unfulfilled noises.
This isn’t what Sam needs. He’s desperate, wanting, and he’s not getting.
Dean knows. Dean knows that he needs rough, claiming, possessive. He needs it like he needs everything in life- a little bit punishing.
Charlie can get the job done, if the random “C’mon, c’mon”s interrupted with “Yes!”s are anything to go by, but he’s not doing it right. Not in a way that’s going to leave Sam panting and sweating with the dull thrum of a fucking fantastic orgasm radiating from his spine outwards.
The fact that Sam can blurt “Fuck me like you mean it!” after the actual fucking is well underway is indicative to the fact that Sam is not having hot, stupid sex.
Sam deserves some fucking idiotic sex. Sam deserves to be flushed out, blissed out, fucked out. Sam deserves to not be able to use his tongue properly do to post-coital senselessness.
Dean presses his cheek to the wall and listens. Time could have turned into potatoes and he wouldn’t have noticed for all the attention he’s paying to it. All that matters is this bone-deep hunger pooling heavily in Dean’s gut that doesn’t feel like a complete and total stranger to him and the pitched, breathy keen of Sam on the other side of the wall.
This is fucked up, Dean thinks as he grinds his mouth into the drywall, lips bruising. This is really fucked up.
Sam comes virgin-fast and Dean has to press himself against the wall to hear the soft sound he makes. He just wishes Charlie would stop with the “I’ve got you, so perfect, Sam, Sam,”s because he can’t fucking hear. Leave it to Chuck Patton to fuck Dean over even when he’s fucking Sam. Or fuck Dean over because he’s fucking Sam. Either way he’s cutting off the delicate sound of Sam’s coming, and Dean is unappreciative.
It hits Dean like a punch to the chest and is converted somewhere in his brain into smelted lead that seeps down the line of his spine to settle in his pelvis and Dean has to stuff his hands between his thighs and squeeze his knees together because no fucking way is he going to lose it over the tinny sound Sam makes when he comes. He bites his lip swollen to keep from making a sympathetic gasp.
Sam’s voice gives out to pants and the bed springs keep creaking and Dean has to go.
Car keys.
He came in here to get his keys.
He can’t keep his legs organized underneath of him when he scrambles up to the dresser, ends up hitting his knee on the corner of his bed and has to limp out the door, nearly taking the lamp on the dresser with him.
The sound of the mattress echoes in his head and he blatantly refuses to touch his cock, even if the inseam of his jeans is imprinting itself in his groin at this point.
It’s natural, he thinks. Like listening to porn. He loves porn. Porn is great. Just because he sorta got revved and ready listening to his brother get off doesn’t mean that porn is any less awesome. Yeah. It’s not like he was even in the room with them either, he didn’t see anything. He was on the other side of the wall. It doesn’t count. Just sex noises triggering his hind brain. It’s practically Pavlov. Dogs drooling, erections popping up, bells, sex moans- it’s all the same. It doesn’t count.
Dean drives out twenty minutes as he sweats and tries not to think about it, hits up the first bar he sees, doesn’t order a drink because he forgot his wallet and his fake ID on his dresser.
He’s like a bad joke.
A kid with a boner walks into a bar, finds the first girl with with shorter dark hair, long, long legs, and dimples that he sees and fucks her in the back seat of his car.
He doesn’t ask for her name but he tells her his so that he can hear her scream it as he fucks her hard and fast and dirty in the backseat of the Impala, suspension squealing as the car rocks in time with the rolling of his hips into her. He whispers filth into her ear the entire time about how she’s not going to need anyone after him, how he’s going to take care of her and make her feel so good, better than anyone else.
The punch-line is how he hopes her name is Pammy or Tammy or something.
-
Dean gets home late. Early, rather.
He shrugs off his coat, shoves his shoes under the table, and pads his way into the kitchen to get a drink and fully does not expect to find Charlie still in his house, let alone curled up on Dean’s fucking couch.
Charlie hovers a finger over his mouth over the back of the couch, indicating Dean should keep it down, and then gestures down to the lump slumped into his side which Dean figures out is Sam when it snuffles and wriggles closer into Charlie’s warmth.
Dean’s drawn down to the family room like he and Sam are made of magnets and Dean’s the negative and Sam’s the positive. He stands off to the side and watches Charlie lay a gentle hand on the back of Sam’s head.
“He really is something, y’know,” Charlie mumbles, staring down at Sam.
Dean knows. He wonders if Charlie has any idea.
-
Sam and Charlie last through the end of the school year. Charlie goes to college and the sex isn’t good enough to justify not seeing other people.
-
The next year passes and Sam takes his SATs and ACTs and APs and a shit load of other acronyms Dean never bothered with.
Stanford gives him a full scholarship.
One thousand eight hundred and fifty two miles away from Dean.
Dean wants to be happy for him. Dean wants a lot of things.
Sam looks at him sometimes and Dean knows that when he leaves he’s not ever coming back.
Part Six