(no subject)
They sit in silence again, Dean and Zora both waiting on the other to make the first move and interrupt the tick, tick, tick, tick of the clock on the wall. They watch each other, two predators hunting for a subtle weakness to gain some upper-hand in this six hour long synopsis of Dean Winchester’s life. Dean’s not sure of much other than if he wins this argument nothing changes, he goes home, he goes to bed, and he’ll listen to Sam from the other side of a wall.
If Zora wins…
He doesn’t know what happens if Zora wins.
She clears her throat and Dean can breathe again.
“You know,” she says as she shifts in her seat, switching which leg is crossed over the other, “I used to live in Africa.” Af-ree-kah, she says.
Dean raises his eyebrows in a condescending ‘Ya’ don’t say!’ gesture mostly to distract from the fact that he’s stunned that they’re just not going to talk about this. He has arguments lined up and well-rehearsed, and they’re just going to skip over the fact that Dean was a shameless hand-jive away from perving all over his little brother? It didn’t count because Dean never touched himself. It didn’t count because he didn’t see. It didn’t count because it didn’t fucking count.
She levels a look on him of grand significance, conveying that she is being absolutely, from-the-core-of-her-being serious and he composes himself and mumbles a short apology.
She nods and continues.
“My brother and I were born in the Congo, but my mother brought us to Nigeria when we were both young. She made us go to school where they taught us English, but we never spoke it at home. Adjusting was difficult for me. My brother was very good at it, but I was not.” She shrugs and rubs her palms down her thighs. “We could not know it at the time because we were so small, but there was war around us. Our government was corrupt, run by people who did not have the interests of the people in their heads when they took the responsibility. Many people were very displeased and very vocal. I was sixteen when a riot in the streets took my brother’s life in front of my eyes. Do you know what his last words to me were?”
Even if Dean could guess, his mouth is too dry to say.
She smiles at him, a little sad and a little bitter. “Don’t cry.” She pauses, letting that sink in. Her lips tremble for a moment and Dean’s breathless with the enormity of the situation, that she’s letting him see back into her after he’s bared all for her. He wonders if therapists are allowed to do this- then remembers that he’s not in therapy.
“Do you know what I did?” Dr. Okoro asks softly.
Dean shakes his head.
“I wept.” She nods simply. “I wept for days. He asked me not to, with his dying words, and I could not give him that. He would rob me of my grief with his last breath, and I would not have it. My grief was mine and he would not take it from me, could not, because he was dead. Do you understand?”
He’s not sure what he’s supposed to be understanding.
She snorts through her nose and apparently her endless well of patience has finally run dry because she leans forward, nearly aggressive, and asks “Sam is dying in your arms and his last words to you are ‘Do not cry!’ what do you do, Dean?”
“I-.” Dean stammers. “I don’t know!” He tries to imagine it, holding Sam upright in the mud in the middle of nowhere with blood on his hands and none of it’s his and Sam whispers in his ear ‘Don’t cry, don’t you fucking cry for me.’
“What do you do?” she demands.
“Anything he asks!” he snaps back defensively. “Jesus! If he wanted me to fucking tap dance, I would!”
“But he is your brother, Dean.” Dr. Okoro reminds him. “You would not mourn your brother if he asked you?”
“God.” He scrubs a hand through his hair and thinks about it again. Sam’s chin on his shoulder and his legs folder up underneath him and Dean’s holding them both upright by the skin of his teeth and Sam’s lips bump his ear when he tells him not to cry. “It’s… if it’s the last damn thing he wants in the world from me, I’d give him anything.” He swallows hard. “He doesn’t want me to cry? I man the hell up because…”
“Because why?” She leans forward even farther into his space, grinding her heels into the carpet.
“Because it doesn’t matter!” Dean shouts. “It doesn’t matter what I feel! Nothing about me matters unless Sam-” he chokes off.
Unless Sam what, he thinks frantically.
Unless Sam approves, loves him back?
Nothing about him matters without Sam. Everything important about him, everything good and significant that makes up Dean Winchester is something Sam Winchester helped him put there. Dean loves him enough that if Sam told him not to cry about him dying, he wouldn’t cry. Because Sam asked him. Because Sam comes before he does.
He’d lasso the moon, reverse the earth’s rotation, hold a damn boom-box aloft while standing outside his window, conquer just about every other movie cliché he can think up and then make up a few more if Sam needed him to.
Whatever he wants comes second to Sam. Not even what Sam wants, but what Sam needs to be safe and healthy and, ideally, happy. Always has. Dean’s entertained the selfish yearning to keep Sam recently, and the want for things to go back to the way things were when they were children and he was father, mother, hero, idol, sun and stars to Sam, but if Sam left Dean wouldn’t follow him.
What do I want, Dean thinks.
He’s on the brink of some revelation, he thinks, when Dr. Okoro throws in “What do you think Sam would do if the situations were reversed?”
Dean doesn’t have to think. He knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Sam would rather die than put himself before Dean, has actually attempted to before.
He exhales.
Dr. Okoro settles back in her chair and steeples her fingers on her knee.
“I’m supposed to look out for him.” The air wheezes out of Dean’s lungs, thick and slow like molasses. His eyes burn like acid. “It’s not supposed to be like this. I’m supposed to protect him from bad stuff. Not- not like this. We’re not supposed to be- nobody should be like this.” He grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes until it hurts. “No wonder he’s so pissed at me.”
“Have you ever considered,” Dr. Okoro interjects, “that Sam was never upset with you because you had corrupted him, but more because you blamed yourself for things about him that you had no control over?”
Dean coughs up a reedy, thin laugh. “Aren’t you supposed to be discouraging this shit?”
“I am not here to tell you that there is something wrong with you, Dean.” She straightens her glasses on her nose. “I will not prescribe you medication or tell you what to do to make yourself what you think you should be; normal or better or anything other than Dean. I am here to help you live with yourself, Dean. I cannot, will not, encourage you to be something or to do something you do not want. You are you. Sam is Sam. You make yourself. Not me, not your father, not Mr. Gambol. Not anyone else. Your sorrows and your joys are yours to make and keep, whoever you make them with and wherever you keep them is up to you. You have control. You are your own master.”
He doesn’t know what to say. Dr. Zora Okoro shakes his hand and turns him out back into the world.
He doesn’t know if he lost the argument or not.
-
The door clicks shut softly behind him as Dean steps into the foyer of the home he's lived in all his life. The air is stagnant, stale in a way that speaks to his father’s anal-retentive tyranny over the thermostat. He toes off his boots and socks and stuffs them under the hall table like his mother's been telling him not to do since he was six. The worn soft wood in the hall is chilly under his feet as he pads his way to the kitchen. It should feel familiar after years and years, but everything's different now. Everything's changed.
And Dean would be lying if he said that he wasn't piss terrified.
He exhales a sigh and shoulders his way into the kitchen.
The pale light stretches across the kitchen floor from the family room, volume of the television cranked down so low Dean hadn't heard it from the front hall. The single step bridging the kitchen and the family room creaks slightly when he goes down to investigate.
The electric blue light flickers across Sam features, alternately bathing him in radiance and dancing shadows across the planes and slopes of his body. Dean doesn't try and stop himself from chasing the shadows with his eyes down the dip of his spine as he breathes slow and even in his sleep. Somewhere between sixteen and eighteen Sam's shoulders decided that they needed to be wide enough to carry all the burdens he packs on his back, but his hips never got the memo, still narrow and slender. His legs go on and on and on for miles, a twisting and curling road that tucks up against his chest in a hairpin curve that Dean would have taken at 50mph in the Impala, tires squealing and radio blaring. His long hair puffs and deflates with his breath, nose crushed into the back of the sofa.
Dean wonders for a moment what it’s like to work at The Louvre, or the Sydney Opera House, to sweep the floors around the Hagia Sophia, drive across the Golden Gate Bridge every morning to get to work, look at the Empire State Building outside of your office window, to teach scuba lessons in the Great Barrier Reef, or have the Aurora Borealis touch the air outside of your house. Do they ever forget how wonderful the things they see every day are?
Do they ever catch themselves staring and realize that, oh -oh- this is amazing. This is spectacular! This is beautiful! Somebody! Somebody, come look at this! Come look at how beautiful this is! Come look and see how wonderful this is! Come watch! It’s important, it’s so important!
Because that’s how Dean’s feeling right now.
A faint smile touches Sam’s mouth and he hums contentedly as Dean stares on, flexing his feet comfortably before settling again.
Dean stares at his toes. He doesn't know why, but he does. They're there. Long and knobby and gross but cute in the way that toes are sometimes prone to be. They don't look like the chubby baby toes Dean used to blow raspberries against eighteen years ago. He glances up to Sam's hands. Long, strong fingers wind up in a blanket that's half on the couch. Those aren't the little fists that tried to pry off his nose when he was four. Except they are. Those hands got as big as Dean's hands. Those hands got as big as John's hands. Those hands got bigger.
Jesus Christ, Dean thinks. Somewhere along the way Sam's gone and grown up on him.
The realization is crippling. It's what Sam's been trying to tell him since he was fourteen, what Dr. Zora Okoro has been trying to trick him into discovering all day, and he connects the god damn dots staring at Sam's toes.
"Fuck." He scrubs his hands through his hair, scratching roughly at his scalp. "Fuck." His blood's pumping now, heart pounding and he doesn't know what that means.
He hasn't lost Sam.
Sam's right there on the couch.
He hasn't ruined Sam.
Sam's right there. Asleep and alive.
Sam just grew up without him.
Dean takes a deep breath and steels himself, because he fully intends on catching up.
"Sam." His voice is glass-gargling rough and his hand shakes when he reaches out and jostles Sam's shoulder gently. "Sammy."
Sam wuffs and stirs, eyes blinking open blearily. A lazy smile smooths over his lips as he focuses on Dean above him. "Hey," he mumbles and stretches. "Did you just get home, man? 'S late."
"Yeah." Dean's fingers twitch uncomfortably with the urge to card through Sam's sleep tousled hair and feel. "Sorry. I didn't think you'd be waiting up for me or I would have come home sooner."
"'S okay," Sam assures, lazy smile lingering. "What'd Dr. O want?" He tucks his legs up higher so that Dean has space to sit on the couch.
“Just to talk about some stuff.” Dean settles next to Sam, cushions still sleep warm underneath of him, sinking through him to penetrate his bones.
“Yeah?” He props himself up on his elbows. “What kinda stuff?”
“You kinda stuff.” Dean sighs.
Sam fidgets and clears his throat uncomfortably. “Anything in particular?” He tries to smile but the corners of his lips twitch spastically. Sam’s always had a shit poker face.
Dean smiles fondly and scrubs a hand through his own hair. “No,” he says and he’s not even sure if he’s lying. “Just…stuff.”
Sam gnaws slightly at the corner of his mouth and Dean watches unabashedly, fingers twitching.
“Oh. Okay,” Sam says awkwardly once he figures out that Dean’s not going to expand. They sit together in the static light of the television for a few more beats before Sam clears his throat and scrubs his palms down his thighs. “I guess I’m gonna head to bed then.”
The moment’s slipping away faster than Dean can keep track of and Sam’s unfolding his body from the couch and taking his warmth with him when he gets up to leave. His knees creak and pop when he stands, disks of his spine realigning with a crackle when he straightens out and the moment is dancing away.
They both startle when Dean’s hand reaches out and wraps around Sam’s wrist, stilling him.
“Dean?” is all Sam has time to get about before Dean stands up without the leisure of stretching and popping back into alignment and presses his lips into his brother’s.
He’s not sure what he was expecting, to be honest. He hadn’t really planned any farther ahead than this and was really just too shocked that their faces hadn’t simply repelled one another by some holy force to do anything more than to hold his mouth to Sam’s in a soft press of dry, sensitive skin. Sam’s rigid against him and that’s no good, Dean realizes. He opens his eyes and sees Sam staring at him.
Their lips catch and stick when Dean pulls away and Sam’s still staring at him, eyes wide and chest heaving at a rapidly growing pace that speaks of a fast track to hyperventilation.
“Sam.” Dean’s voice is a rough grating sound coughed up from the back of his throat as the fear that maybe he’s read this wrong seizes the base of his spine. Maybe he’s made up everything; maybe Sam fixed himself and fell out of love with his brother somewhere along the way. A cold sweat breaks out across the back of his neck and he feels a bit like crying because, oh god, he just-
“Dean?” Sam rasps. His pulse jumps visibly in his neck, a shiny cold sweat beading at his hairline. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Dean opens his mouth to blurt something stupid like ‘Incest. What are you doing?’ but then he looks at Sam, really looks at him and how his bottom lip trembles. His eyes are flayed open and raw and Dean can see for the first time in four years every single thought running through Sam’s head and, god, it feels like being able to breathe again. Even as Dean watches a steel cold rage clouding over Sam’s face he can’t bring himself to regret a single second.
“You can’t just fuck with me like that!” Sam shouts, voice tight and eyes glossy as he shoves Dean quick and hard in the chest. “You think this is fucking funny?”
His hands are at Sam’s face, cupping and clutching reverently before Sam can even finish the sentence. “No! God, no!” Sam’s thin fingers curl around his wrists and Dean’s not sure whether he wants him to stop touching or never leave. “I would never- Jesus, Sam- how could you think…” Too many thoughts stumble around inside his head all at once and he blunders over the notion that Sam could even consider the idea that he was joking about this- whatever the hell they were doing. Like he was playing some practical joke by kissing his brother and was just going to wait until Sam kissed back until he could shout ‘Gothcha!’ “Jesus, Sam.”
Sam’s fingers dig into his wrists, pressing Dean’s hands harder into his jaw like an anchor as he trembles and fights against a looming panic attack.
“C’mon, breathe for me, Sammy,” Dean smiles weakly and runs the rough pads of his thumbs up over Sam’s high cheekbones. “Deep breaths.” He demonstrates exaggeratedly. Sam gives him a watery laugh that more for Dean’s comfort than actual substance, but he doesn’t let go of his wrists so Dean counts it as a win.
They stand like that for a few long moments, clinging to one another in the electric shadows cast by the television, breathing together until Sam can say “You don’t want this. Not really.”
Sam doesn’t see the smirk that coils up the corners of Dean’s lips because his eyes are closed, like he’s steeling himself for rejection.
“Yeah?” Dean sounds smug even in his own ears. “Why don’t you just let me decide that?”
This time when Dean kisses Sam it’s a bit more spectacular mostly because after a few blank second Sam starts to kiss him back, albeit tentatively. Dean obligates himself to pick up the slack, presses forward and coaxes. Sam’s slow, stiff, sluggish to react. Dean knows Sam is a fully functional kisser, if Charlie’s dazed looks are any tip off, but he’s holding back now.
“What are you afraid of?” Dean asks, the very inside of his lips catch-dragging over Sam’s in the bare millimeters between them, because he’s genuinely curious why Sam’s freezing up now, of all times.
“Eternal damnation? Getting lynched?” Sam’s laugh has a manic hysteria edging in on it and the gust of exhaled air that comes with it burns down the length of Dean’s neck. “I don’t know.”
“Then kiss me back.” Dean nips lightly at Sam’s bottom lip.
“We’re brothers, Dean,” Sam breathes into his mouth, like he needs reminding.
“Yeah, Sam.” He knocks their noses together gently. “Yeah, we are.”
When Sam’s dam breaks, it breaks hard.
Dean’s shoved down hard back onto the couch, landing with a muffled ‘oof’ that Sam smothers on his lips as he climbs into his lap, straddling his thighs. His tongue spirals into Dean’s mouth, hot and wet and demanding. All Dean can do is knot his fingers into the back of Sam’s shirt, his hair, and hold on. There’s teeth nipping and tongues dancing and fingers clutching and it clicks in Dean’s head that Sam’s wanted and waited for this for four years. Maybe longer. He’s wanted this with every breath of him and given up everything to make sure that he didn’t get it, and then Dean just offers it up like it’s no big deal.
It is a big deal.
It is a very big deal.
It would be a very big deal if they weren’t related. It would be a very big deal if they weren’t related and one of them was a woman.
This: Dean hooking his arm around his little brother’s back and pulling him forward so that they can rock and flex together, sharing air and space; this is a very big deal.
“Jesus, Sam,” Dean breathes.
“Is this okay?” Sam tenses, ready to be up and off and apologizing to Dean frantically for pushing too hard or too quickly or even at all at the very hint of any discomfort whatsoever.
“Yeah, yeah.” Dean nods quickly. “I just… Jesus, Sam.”
Sam’s eyes -foxish, slanted and colored every natural color the world has to offer, mundane and exotic alike- flick over Dean’s face and Dean watches the recognition bleed in to his expression as Sam registers that his tone was one of awe rather than whatever negative thing Sam thought was lurking under his tongue.
Dean pants out a breath and kisses the underside of Sam’s jaw reverently. Sam’s fingers flex and clench into his biceps
“Tell me,” Sam rasps and Dean can feel the words vibrate in his throat through his lips. “Tell me about how much you want this. Please, Dean.”
“You wanna know?” Dean rumbles and listens as a dark, heady thread of something feral possessive weaves into his tone. He gets two handfuls of Sam’s ass and kneads hard enough that he starts to get high off the idea of his handprints bruising there, aching dully every time Sam sits down for the next week like a neon sign that says ‘DEAN WAS HERE’. “You wanna know about how fucking crazy you make me? How I don’t know who I am without you? How the only goddamn thing in this whole world I want,” he punctuates the word by rolling his hips up into Sam and Sam makes a wrecked sound and neither of them are fully hard yet- not enough foreplay yet, but they’re sure as hell not soft either- they grind together until they get there, “Is you?”
He rocks up into the thick, hot line of Sam’s dick, locking together so that he’s rubbing up into the notch of Sam’s hipbone and Sam’s got the inner crease of his thigh to bear down into.
“Yes.” Sam puffs into his ear. His hands tremble as they trace over Dean’s body, roaming restlessly. “God, yes.”
Something about the statement strikes him the exact wrong way and Dean bites down on Sam’s collarbone hard enough that Sam’s head snaps back and he cries out.
“God doesn’t belong here,” Dean growls and shakes his head like a wild animal, snorting furiously as he remembers Gambol’s words and the nightmares and the crucifix in the kitchen. “Not between you and me, Sam. We’ve gotten this far without Him, I’ll take you to the fucking gates of Hell and burn them down if that’s the way it has to be, but don’t you bring Him here. Not right now when it’s just you and me.”
Sam exhales, one hand massaging at the back of Dean’s neck as the other cards up into his hair. He quirks his head to the side. Something old and sad lingers in the back of his eyes as he looks Dean over, long and slow, takes him in piece by piece. “You don’t believe in God, Dean,” he says softly. “What does it matter?”
“You do.” Dean ducks forward underneath Sam’s inspection and presses his lips to the corner of his mouth, letting them smear into the growing curve and a hesitant smile and he mumbles, “It matters.” He takes Sam’s lower lip between his teeth and finally gets to taste one of those sweet puppy noises he heard a year ago, and it’s as addictive as he thought it would be.
“Mm,” Sam makes a surprised hum and rocks down into Dean involuntarily when his hips jerk and roll, the denim of their jeans rasping together over their hard cocks. “Dean, Dean,” Sam pants into Dean’s mouth, “Dean, wait.”
Dean freezes.
“I just,” Sam breathes heavily and drags his lower lip back into his own possession and unhooks Dean’s hands from digging possessively into his hipbones -when the shit did that happen?- and holds onto them so Dean can’t try to push Sam off or pull Sam in. Neutral territory. As neutral as territory where his little brother is straddling his lap and making small aborted churning motions like he just can’t help scraping the bitter-sweet edge of needy pressure by grinding their cocks together can get.
“What do you want out of this?” Sam demands seriously, like Dean telling him that he was kicking God out and inviting Sam in wasn’t commitment enough or something. Like he didn’t just make Sam his religion. “I need to know now so I don’t get… excited or anything, I guess.” Sam’s mouth is pink and wet around the words, and Dean wants it back on his pronto. Better yet, wants to see it stretched obscenely around his cock as Sam looks up at him through his eyelashes and Dean whispers mud and filth about how pretty he looks.
So, in for a penny, in for an incestuous pound.
“Would you let me fuck you?” Dean asks, voice deceptively conversational because the idea simultaneously thrills and scares the fucking shit out of him.
Sam’s hands clench down on his as his cock tries to strangle itself against Dean’s thigh and his eyes roll back in his head slightly, every muscle in his body strung tight like a violin string about to snap. “Shit, Dean,” he gasps. The red staining high on his cheekbones highlights his darks eyes and Dean thinks it’s a very, very good look on him. “You can’t just say shit like that to me!”
“What?” Dean chuckles darkly, voice like thick cigarette smoke in one of those bars he’s always hunting for someone to share his bed with who’s good enough, Sam enough, to keep around. “Not even when I mean it?”
Sam’s thighs tense and he starts to rock into Dean with earnest. Little half-whines that Dean’s sure Sam doesn’t even know he’s making leak out from his throat, tinny and tight with wanting.
In that moment where Sam’s distracted Dean tilts up his hips and yanks on Sam’s grip over his hands and Sam topples into his chest. Dean’s arms are steel vices around Sam’s back as he holds him there like a ragdoll, sucks a bruise into the back hinge of his jaw that Sam might have to explain to somebody later and Dean wants to be there to watch him stammer and flush.
“Wanna fuck you,” Dean grits out.
“Have you ever even been with a dude?” Sam laughs tightly again, fingers trembling on Dean’s shoulders and hips rolling with Dean’s. His pupils are eating away the color is his eyes, making him look feral with this tacky, sludgy thing mucking up the air between them that makes it hard to breathe or think or move.
“Can’t be too different from anal with a chick,” Dean snorts. “Assholes are assholes.”
Sam makes a face and Dean wants to laugh at the fact that Sam has the capacity to be affronted by Dean’s crassness when he’s humping his brother into a couch.
He stifles a smile into the slope of Sam’s shoulder, sucks another few marks there to disguise it. “C’mon, Sammy. I’ll give it to you like you need it, yeah? Hard and fast so you can feel me later, give you bruises so you’ll remember that I was there.”
“Fuck.” Sam’s voice is airy and thin. “I just- we have to- my bedroom, now, c’mon.”
They fumble to the floor together, hissing and writhing until Dean drags them upright, the stitches of Sam’s shirt popping as he knuckles his collar and hauls them both into a position bipedal enough for them to stumble the way to the front hallway before Sam’s pressed to the wall and Dean’s got a hand fisted in his stupid long hair, tracing over the scar just behind his ear. Sam’s hands slide up underneath his shirt and feel like branding irons on his stomach, burning Sam’s fingerprints into his skin so that anything with eyes can see. They’re not so much kissing anymore as they are mouthing and panting at each other as they grind and grope.
“Shit,” Sam cusses. “No, no, c’mon, bedroom.”
“Right,” Dean grumbles as he maps out a tender spot behind Sam’s ear that makes him shudder down to his knees.
They stagger through Sam’s door after the two tries it takes them to coordinate a single-file path through the doorframe that won’t fit the width of both their shoulders at once.
“When did you know?” Sam asks and Dean thinks he’s being intentionally vague just to piss him off.
“Know-” Dean starts to ask, but doesn’t like his mouth being away from Sam’s skin long enough to finish the question, so takes a short hickey break between that and, “What?”
“That you wanted this?” Sam pushes him down on the mattress and tugs at his shirt like he’s offended that Dean’s still wearing it.
“When did you?” Dean snaps back, and he would be blushing if he weren’t already flushed all to hell.
“I was twelve,” Sam mutters half into the sheets as leans over the side of the bed so far that Dean has to catch his hips to keep him up on the mattress as he sifts through the dirty socks and stray pens that have accumulated under there. “We were at the beach and I couldn’t stop staring at the freckles on your back. And, like, I kept wanting to touch them, I guess. So I kissed one on your shoulder and you laughed and dunked me in the ocean and we had to share a bed in the motel room and I woke up so hard I couldn’t think straight and I wanted to throw up. So...” He glances over his shoulder at Dean, one arm still under the bed.
It hits Dean all over again how long Sam’s lived with this thing and how clueless he was, is.
“Yeah?” he asks, mouth dry. “That’s…a while ago, Sam.” He’s so behind in this game he’s pretty sure he should get some sort of sympathetic handicap.
Sam tenses slightly underneath him and Dean buries his nose into the valley of his spine and nuzzles gently through the soft worn fabric of the t-shirt that Dean isn’t entirely sure wasn’t his own at some point in time, assuring Sam that’s it’s okay. Everything is okay.
“Do you remember when you and Charlie started dating?” Dean asks absently; thumb slipping up under the back of Sam’s shirt to stroke at the warm, smooth dip of his lower back. “You two’d go out to the movies or something and you’d be gone forever. Dad told me he was going to tie me down if I didn’t stop pacing every time you left the damn house. You’d get home and it’d be dark and you’d be all… kissed. Your hair’d be all messed up and you’d have this stupid look on your face.”
Sam shoots him another look over his shoulder, eyebrows hitched together in confusion. Dean can feel the coil and release of the muscles in his back like they’re rolling right out of Sam and into him.
“I didn’t like it.”
Sam sits up, feels like a cresting wave underneath Dean’s hands, and kisses him full on the mouth, demands Dean let him in and give back every ounce of bruising attention he’s getting.
“Shit, Sam,” Dean pants.
“Clothes off, c’mon,” Sam huffs, stripping off his shirt, and Dean notices for the first time that he’s scrounged up a bottle of lube from under his bed. One of the cheap KY tubes from the drug store with the loopy fonts that Dean’s sure must appeal to some sort of demographic, but he can’t fathom who. The tube’s mostly full, Dean notes, but he doesn’t know whether he’s feeling smug that Charlie couldn’t put a dent in the small bottle or pissed that he’d even gotten that far.
“Clothes, Dean,” Sam intones impatiently as he shimmies out of his jeans and snatches the lube back up off the comforter.
The groan that tears itself out of Dean’s chest when Sam’s cock slaps up against his stomach, hard and wet and fucking gorgeous, is practically animal and Sam shudders with it, goosebumps rising all over his flushed skin. Sam’s mouth tastes faintly of cherry soda and cheese pizza, his neck tastes like skin and sin, his shoulders taste like sunshine and sweat, his torso tastes like the novelty spearmint and eucalyptus soap in the shower, and his cock tastes like bitter and wrong and good and hot and Dean’s not gonna stop.
“Dean,” Sam whines, hands kneading into Dean’s shoulders because he doesn’t know whether to push his brother away or pull him closer as Dean tests the tastes and textures of everything against his tongue and lips. His thighs twitch and jump when Dean sucks at the head, licks up the pearl of precome shamelessly despite the bitterness he’s not sure he likes with a dirty, dark rumble low in his throat that gets Sam jolting and grinding his heels into the mattress.
Dean’s hands roam, up over Sam’s stomach, down the insides of his thighs, up underneath the smooth skin behind his knees, the curve of his calves, all those places that would have been a little bit strange, a little bit blasphemous for him to want to touch before. But, he figures he’s got Sam’s dick in his mouth, he’s allowed to feel up Sam’s ankles if he wants.
“Dean, c’mon,” Sam whines. “I don’t wanna come like this yet! You promised!”
And it’s the funniest damned thing. Dean’s got Sam’s dick in his mouth and Sam’s whining like he’s still eleven and he’s waiting impatiently for Dean to kiss his booboos better so he can go back outside and play. That should freak him out. That should really freak him out.
“Sorry, sorry,” Dean buries his forehead in Sam’s thigh, breathes in deep so that he won’t ever forget what Sam smells like when he needs him, wants him more than anything. His cock jerks, trapped and contorted uncomfortably in the confines of his jeans and practically getting rubbed raw with all the unconscious air-fucking Dean’s getting nowhere with except to rut against the abrasive cotton of his boxers. “Just had to.” He sucks a small welt into the joint of Sam’s hip and pulls back to watch the ovular patch of skin he’d latched on to flush and knows that it will purple and bruise before the hour’s out.
“Fuck,” Sam whimpers and fidgets. “Dean, please.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Dean tugs the lube out from Sam’s stiff fingers. “I’ve got you, Sam. Gonna take care of you, promise. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”
He’s done this a few times before. Not enough to make him a certifiable expert or anything, but Dean would be lying if he said that he didn’t know his way around an asshole, alright. There’s no delicate way to put it.
He ducks one shoulder under Sam’s knee and Sam lets his other leg fall away, opens himself up so Dean can see everything.
Dean runs his hands down the smooth skin of Sam’s inner thighs, rough mechanic’s callouses scraping gently against pale flesh. Dean’s mouth waters.
“Stop fucking around,” Sam growls as his hands twist anxiously into the sheets and Dean stifles a smile in the inside of his knee.
“Bossy, bossy.”
The lube smells of nothing in particular while still having a palpable aroma when Dean pops the cap and slicks up two fingers.
“Come on,” Sam wriggles impatiently and Dean realizes that reasonably the best way to shut him up is to keep his mouth occupied and sets about doing just that, tonguing and fingering Sam open as he writhes like a live wire. Sam’s hot on the inside. Hot and smooth like velvet and Dean wants to tell him how perfect and pink and pretty he looks spreading open for Dean’s fingers, how he’ll look better spreading for his dick, but he thinks Sam might tease him for trying to wax dirty poetic at a time like this. It doesn’t stop Dean from thinking it, though.
“Mm,” Sam hums impatiently into Dean’s mouth and shoves back into his hand insistently, and six years, Dean thinks. Six fucking years Sam’s wanted this.
“I know, I know,” Dean soothes with his tone and the hand he doesn’t have rocking up into Sam. “I got you.”
Sam makes the sound that’s the bastard child of a whimper and a scream, Dean’s name caught in the limbo between his lungs and his throat and only eking out as a wordless tremble. “Hurry up,” he breathes. “Just, please, Dean.”
Six years. Fuck.
“Soon, soon, promise.” Dean’s fingers pump harder into the slick, tight heat of Sam, mapping out the impossible smoothness as a muscle in the back of his hand cramps up and he tries to really wrap his brain around the idea that he’s inside Sam. Sam’s spreading out for him, opening up wide so that Dean can slot home and fuck into him, show him how much he loves, wants, needs; make him feel everything that Dean feels; make it good; make it perfect. The idea is volcanic in his veins, roaring hot and addictive through his body. “I don’t want it to hurt.” His fingers curl and skate around something dense that’s got Sam going taut and cussing up a blue streak in his ear.
“Want it to hurt,” Sam pants, hot and damp into Dean’s ear as he wriggles uncontrollably. “Want to feel you later, Dean. I don’t want to fucking walk straight after this is over, and if you can’t do that for me-”
Dean’s growl cuts him off and he should not be letting Sam talk him out of a decent prep job. He should not be shucking off his jeans, kicking and flailing idiotically until he can shimmy them down to his knees and toe them off violently. He should not be burying his forehead into Sam’s shoulder and asking “Condom?”
Sam ducks and noses at the underside of his jaw, panting humidly into his neck. “No, no. Just you.”
Dean wants to chew at his lower lip and think it over -he doesn’t have anything, but Sam doesn’t know that and Sam’s only ever been with one guy before and if Charlie gave Sam anything Dean’s going to fucking skin him- but Sam takes care of that for him, sinking his teeth into the swell of his lip and suckling at it and it’s like he’s got his mouth around Dean’s cock instead for all it’s doing to Dean’s ability to think clearly. The thought of being inside Sam, all of that hot and slick and smooth and wet bearing down at him from all angles without the thin barrier of latex between them almost has him rutting into Sam’s hip and blowing it like he hasn’t since he was a kid.
Sam sits up, takes Dean with him and flips them to that he’s on top, smiling deviously, and Dean maybe starts to babble a little bit when he gets a hand around his poor neglected dick - tacky slick with lube and who gives a shit when Sam got a hold of the bottle- and tosses a leg over Dean’s hips, effectively pinning and straddling him again.
“Shit. Shit, Sam! You gonna ride me?” Dean blathers. “Gonna fuck yourself on me, huh? Do it how you like it?”
A wounded sound gets punched out of Sam’s stomach and he curls in on himself slightly for a moment, fighting for control. The sensual roll of his hips when he goes up to his knees over top of Dean is going to drive him absolutely insane. Dean has to touch as Sam lines himself up, his hands smearing sweat and lube and saliva as he palms at Sam’s sides. His hands look so big when he slides them up Sam’s hips, traces the wings of his hipbones, feels his way up and up and up until he’s got his fingers slotting into the grooves of Sam’s ribs and he can feel the flex and span of them as they warp naturally to make room for his lungs. He feels each little hitch of breath and puppy dog noise transmitted through his fingers.
The lamp on Sam’s night table gleams harshly against Sam’s sweat glazed body and Dean watches every muscle rise and fall out of sharp definition as the glide and slip gracefully under the planes of his summer-tan skin, like he’s made out of liquid instead of flesh and bone.
Sam bites his lip around a sound that Dean laments that he never got to hear unbridled, and starts to lower himself down.
Rationally Dean knows that cocks weren’t made for this -he only skipped out on, like, half of Phys. Ed., thank you- but when Sam rolls his hips and eases down in one slow, steady, torturous push that’s got him opening up to let Dean in, Dean’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to do anything else for the rest of forever, put a fork in him, he is done.
“Ah, ah.” Sam’s breath catches in his chest when he’s got Dean’s cock as deep as it’s ever going to get and Dean has to uncross his eyes and take a step-by-step walk-through of how to breathe because he can’t remember for the life of him.
“Sam,” he bites off, because it’s the only word in the world that matters anymore. “Sammy.” He clutches for him, their skin slipping against one another.
Sam’s all around him. Every angle, every touch, every sight, every smell. He’s bearing down on him from all sides and Dean’s about to lose his damn mind because there shouldn’t be this much goodyesplease in one place.
“Good?” Sam asks, and Dean’s sure that if he could uncross his eyes long enough to take in details he’d see a lit up expression all over Sam’s face. Because Sam wants this to be good for him, too. He wants to give Dean this, and he wants to make it spectacular.
Dean only sucks in a breath and holds on to Sam tighter, marking up every inch of Sam he can get to.
Sam’s hair sticks to his temples, clumps together behind his ears and around the base of his skull. His body is a lavish snake when he churns his hips, doesn’t lift off and fuck back down but opts instead to roll and rock down on Dean, clenching his inner muscles and Dean doesn’t know if he’s got the sanctity of mind to handle being on the receiving end of the teasing right now.
He scores his fingernails down Sam’s back and Sam arches, spine bowing and Dean whines, grinds his heels into the mattress and bucks upwards. “Nobody likes a tease, Sam.”
“Not teasing.” Sam smiles, eyes flashing dark and brilliant as his lower lip gets snagged underneath his canine tooth. “Just wringing you out for all you’ve got, Dean.” He rolls his hips, tracing a figure-eight with his pelvis.
“Fuck.” Dean’s eyes roll back in his head and he is sure now that he’s actually fucking a demon.
Sam rolls his hips again, one hand planted solidly on Dean’s chest to steady himself as he rocks down on Dean’s dick purposefully, searchingly. Dean doesn’t know what he’s searching for, exactly; he’s not educated enough in the ways of gay sex to really grasp what’s going on here, but he knows when Sam finds it because his fingers splay and clench into the meat of Dean’s pectoral and he outright mewls.
Prostate, Dean’s brain supplies from some back file he didn’t know he had. He’s too dumbstruck watching the flush settles high on Sam’s cheekbones and the beads of sweat on his forehead catch in the lamplight like dewy windows in the morning to pay any attention.
“There, there,” Sam pants frantically. “Right there, Dean, c’mon.”
Sam’s reached a towering six feet, three inches in height last they measured, but he’s still eighteen. He’s still a little stringy and there are places on him that need filling out and toughening up. His face is still a little boyish, his eyes a little wide, his lips a little pink. His hair flops and bounces in time with him as his skinny teenager body works itself down on Dean’s cock and to Dean he’s god damn perfect.
Dean can feel Sam’s thighs tremble underneath his hands and bracketing his waist as he lifts himself up so that the rim of his hole is clinging around the crown of Dean’s dick, stuttering pulses of involuntarily clenching muscles keeping them together before Sam slams back down and they both shout out, sounding like the noises were punched straight out of their stomachs. Sam keeps the pace as well as he can but starts to lag, sobs of frustration wracking his chest.
“I can’t- I can’t,” he whimpers and slams home again. “Dean, please, please.”
Dean fucks up into Sam one last time before he rolls the both of them, Sam pressed down into the mattress underneath of him and there’s this feral, animal thing in the back of Dean’s head growling ‘yes, this, now, mine, fuck, take, take, take,’ and it takes a few moment to realize that Dean’s repeating the litany aloud. He digs his toes into the mattress for leverage and fucks Sam like he means it. Sam jolts underneath him with every snap of his hips, shouting out little ‘ah, ah, ah’s every time they clash together. They bite and scratch and grope, leaving every fingerprint and bite mark they can because they need to prove something both of them already know.
They belong to each other.
Sam comes with Dean pistoning into him and whispering, “Everything, Sam. Everything,” into his ear.
Dean comes with Sam clenching around him and whispering, “Yes, yes, yes,” back.
-
When Sam Winchester was eight years old he realized he was in love with his older brother. He figures there’s no way to pinpoint when he actually fell in love with Dean. Somewhere between his first word being ‘Dee’ and him taking his first steps toward him, Sam guesses. He made Dean promise to marry him when he was six with a ring-pop, so mostly he doesn’t stress so much about the ‘when’ as much as he does the ‘why’.
Dean is…
Dean is.
Sam doesn’t have words for what Dean is.
Dean’s everything. He’s smart and stupid and clever and crass and funny in the worst way and the best way and, to Sam, he is everything.
He figures out that that’s not right when he’s ten and Matt and Colin Castillo down the street get into a fight on their front lawn and their mother has to drag them apart, shouting herself hoarse about how if they can’t get along she’s going to tan their hides.
There’s something wrong with Dean and him, then, if that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Well, something wrong with him at least.
He tries to bring it up once but Dean just tells him that Matt doesn’t know his ears from his ass and Sam giggles until he forgets why he was even upset. He shakes it off, settles back into life, but the thought never really leaves him.
He’s twelve when he realizes how deep that ‘wrongness’ about him goes.
He’s thirteen when he decides to kill himself.
He’s fourteen when he gets scared enough to try.
He’s fifteen when Dean scares him shitless by even considering the Marines and he tries to make everything right by going to Charlie instead of Dean, because Charlie’s sweet and smart and not his brother, and can scrub the blood off his face just as well as Dean can.
He’s sixteen when he and Charlie fuck for the first time and he knows that he shouldn’t be imagining he can hear Dean gasp and groan on the other side of the wall.
He’s seventeen when he finally pulls through on his ‘Healthy, Non Self-Destructive Lifestyle Choice’ that Dr. Okoro helped him come up with by getting into a top ten school across the continental United States.
He’s eighteen when Dean gets a call from his therapist, is gone until after dark, comes home and fucks Sam’s brains out.
Sam’s got a sore ass and a lot of questions.
“Yer thinkin’ too loud,” Dean slurs into his collarbones.
Sam continues to fret, undeterred.
Dean rolls his eyes and re-focuses seriously, body shifting underneath Sam so he can prop himself on one elbow and stare down at Sam sternly. “Okay. What, Sam?”
“You know…” Sam nibbles at his lower lip. “This doesn’t have to change anything.”
There’s a dawning sort of malevolent wonderment in Dean’s eyes, like Sam just said something so stupid he’s actually almost impressed. “This changes everything.”
He catches Sam’s chin with his palm when he tries to turn away, angles his eyes up so they’re only paying attention to each other. “What’s bugging you, Sam?”
“What do you mean ‘what’s bugging me?’” Sam stares at him incredulously. “How are you not even freaking out a little bit right now!”
Dean makes a face like ‘oh, is that it?’, like Sam’s concern for his mental health post-brother-fucking is something trivial, and settles back down, pulls Sam close so their chests press tight together and Sam can feel the movement telegraph all the way down to Dean’s stomach when he shrugs. “I dunno. I went to therapy.”
“You went-” Sam’s mocking repetition of Dean’s statement is interrupted by an incredulous bark. “I’ve been in therapy for four years and I’m not even handling this well, Dean!”
“Guess I’m just well-adjusted, then.” Dean shrugs again, shoots Sam a smug grin before it bleeds off his face slowly. “I mean… you don’t regret it or anything, do you?” He tenses, starts to recoil.
Sam punches him in the shoulder. Hard.
“Ow!” Dean hisses and pouts. “Shit, Sam!”
“Shut up,” Sam snaps and forces his way back under Dean’s arm, burrows into his chest and settles down for a nap, maybe elbowing and kneeing a bit more than necessary.
Dean’s fingers find Sam’s hair and Sam hums approvingly when he starts to comb out the kinks and scratch languorously at his scalp. Sam’s eyes slip shut and for the first time since he was fourteen, pinned to the floor underneath his older brother’s body and sporting some pretty impressive wood, that he’s felt okay about anything.
The nameless, emotive thing coiled tight in the chasm of Sam’s chest relaxes underneath his ribs for the first time since he fumbled open a package of sleeping pills and tore a page out of his algebra notebook four years ago and just started scribbling apologies.
He feels… good.
The sensation is so unusual in of itself that Sam confuses it with slight indigestion for a while.
“Hey, Sam?” Dean’s voice is pitched low, honey-sweet and rich.
“Mm?” Sam mumbles because he can’t be bothered to make coherent words and phrases right now.
“I was thinking…” Dean’s pause makes Sam open his eyes and for the first time Dean’s the one who looks like he’s not so sure about things.
“Yeah?” Sam says slowly, dragging the word out.
“What if we went on a road trip this summer?” He doesn’t look at Sam when he asks. “Over to California and back, maybe check out the Stanford campus while we’re there. Maybe we could see if there are any garages in town looking for some help?” Sam doesn’t know what expression in on his face when Dean finally musters up the courage to look at him, but his eyes get stuck and he gets brave enough to say, “Y’know, you and me and my baby and every motel room from here to Palo Alto. Maybe we could just take some time to figure us out?” His voice lilts up at the end in a muted, hopeful sort of pitch that Sam’s not sure he’s heard out of Dean’s mouth before.
The smile sneaks up on Sam, cracks across his lips like melting permafrost. “Yeah, Dean. I’d like that.”