spn: With bombs and the devil, and the kids keep comin' [sam/dean, adult]
Hey, it's Stef's birthday! HAVE SOME ILLEGAL FORNICATION! :|
Title: With bombs and the devil, and the kids keep comin'
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating/Warnings: Adult; graphic m/m content, graphic incest, underage--I am not kidding. Includes spanking, frottage, anal play, 69. Haha...um?
Word Count: approx. 5,000
Summary: Turns out, Dean sold his soul long before Wyoming.
Notes: Written for ignited on the occasion of her birthday. Stef, I think you’re PRETTY AMAZING. Never change, bb. ♥
Beta by affectingly, without whom I would really, really suck or something. And handholding by __tiana__, dontyouwaitup, lostt1, and ze_pink_lady. Who motivate me in all things. <3
The first time Dean ever lays a hand on his brother, Sam’s ten years old.
Dad’s taken off again, hot on the trail of a nasty Pishacha in Michigan, and he’s left Dean behind to deal with the questions and the fall-out from Sam’s ever-growing attitude about anything and everything to do with the hunt.
It’s just simple things at first; Sam doesn’t want leftover mac-and-cheese, he doesn’t want to make his bed, or follow Dean around after school so Dean can maybe get himself another lucky look up Suzy Thomas’ short pink skirt.
All Sam does want to do is glare up at Dean from under a shag of messy, untrimmed hair. Brown-green eyes full of upset and accusation and, “Why couldn’t he just take us with him?”
Dean bites back a weary reply. Flops down on the ancient, coffee-stained couch and toes off his sneakers. “You know why. Just leave it, Sam.”
Sam doesn’t, can’t, or won’t.
“It’s because of me.” He pushes away from the wall, little pink lips trembling with frustration and anger and something else Dean can’t put his finger on because, damn if Sam’s moods don’t just flip on a dime lately. “S’because I can’t lift the shotgun, can’t do anything right.”
To him, Dean hears the bitter addendum in his brother’s voice, and hell, after three days of dealing with Sam’s pissy-faced bitchiness, Dad’s cryptic phone calls, and Suzy’s goddamn teasing, flirty smiles, he’s past the point of pulling any punches. Not to mention he’s a little pissed off himself that he wound up having to babysit instead of helping out Dad.
“Yeah, that probably doesn’t help much, either,” he says, nasty and unkind, but immediately wants to take it back when he catches Sam’s eyes.
His little brother’s hands clench into fists, gaze shiny-wet and furious. “Shut up! I wish you’d just leave, too.”
He spares Dean one last loathing glance before turning on his heel and stomping into their bedroom. Dean closes his eyes and rubs his forehead as the door slams shut, sinks down low into the cushions. His fingers find the amulet underneath his shirt and squeeze.
Guilt’s not a feeling he enjoys, even if a part of himself still feels justified in telling Sam off. He’s just tired of always being the one who has to; tired of being the one to always get the combative side of his baby brother, whereas Dad gets silent Sam, or earnest Sam, or grateful Sam.
Still. None of that seems to matter ten minutes later, and Dean stands out in the hallway and listens to Sam stomping around, flinging himself against the mattress, the desk chair. When he opens the door, Sam’s staring out the window with puckered lips, knees drawn up and skinny arms folded around them.
“Hey,” Dean says, putting a bit of apology into the greeting. It’s too much to hope that it’ll be that simple, and sure enough, Sam barely glances up at him. Eyes narrowed, cheeks still pink with anger. Dean sits down next to him and wipes his hands against his thighs. Tries again. “There’s a, uh, Ninja Turtles marathon on cable. Wanna check it out?”
“You hate Ninja Turtles,” Sam mumbles, but he finally looks up, a gleam of something approaching interest in his eyes. Dean smirks.
“Yeah, well.” He shrugs his shoulders, leaves it at that. Catches Sam’s eyes again and after another moment of stubborn silence from his brother, he blows out an exasperated breath. “C’mon, Sammy…gimme a break here. Dad’s gone, I’m doin’ the best I can, okay?”
“But you’d rather be with him.” It’s not a question; Sam sounds insecure and even angrier than before, and it sparks off something helpless and frustrated inside of Dean.
He stands up, doesn’t bother to respond…not with Sam still looking up at him with big, hurt, betrayed eyes. “Fine, sit there and be a little bitch, then.”
“You’re the bitch!” Sam sits up on his knees, grabs a pillow and chucks it at Dean’s head. Dean catches it against his chest, stares at his brother as Sam starts yelling, “I hate you! You don’t like me, you think I’m just this stupid kid, and-”
“Jesus,” Dean interrupts, wide-eyed, dropping the pillow and barely ducking the swing of Sam’s arm. Momentum sends Sam right into him, knocking them both to the floor. Dean hisses, grabs his brother by the hair and jerks him up and away.
“The hell is wrong with you, you little…Sam, cut it out!”
Sam wriggles against him, panting out hiccupping breaths against Dean’s belly. He’s spread out across Dean’s lap, bottom in the air, Dean’s old Levis still a bit too loose around those wiry hips and sagging down past plain blue-cotton briefs.
“You’re not the boss of me,” Sam spits out, defiant and flushed, and Dean just reacts. Doesn’t think about it first. Brings his hand down with a crack that surprises them both. For a long moment after, his hand just rests there…stinging, riding the gentle undulation of Sam’s gasping breath.
Then, “You…hit me!”
Dean blinks stupidly, the exaggerated shock in Sam’s voice reverberating against thin walls. “You…”
Sam bursts into motion; Dean gets an elbow to the eye and yelps out a curse that would’ve made Dad’s hair stand on end. He grabs hold of Sam’s ankle as his brother starts clawing his way across the shabby carpeting, yanks him back across his lap. “You hit me first, you little shit!”
“You-You can’t.” Sam sounds choked, frozen under Dean’s grip. His voice loses that edge of certainty, even as he says again, “You can’t spank me, Dean, you’re not Dad.”
Dean chooses not to mention that Dad never spanks Sam anyway, never touched either one of them like that. Because he’s still got Sam pinned under his fists and goddamn it, the little brat deserves it. For all the whining, and bitching, and annoying the fuck out of Dean and Dad and everyone for no real reason at all, and-
“I’ll tell,” Sam whispers, sunbrowned skin stretched tight across his throat, pulse galloping wildly, and Dean’s own breath leaves him in a sudden, surefire gush. He stares down at his brother, sees the genuine anxiety pouring off of Sam, and self-disgust burns his fingers.
Sam scrambles to his knees when Dean shoves him away, pressed up against the dresser with his pants still loose around his waist and a red flush staining his cheeks. Dean can’t bring himself to look for more than a second.
“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he says, quiet and horrible, feeling Sam watching him from across the room. He lifts his gaze, blurred and stinging. “Sammy, I-”
Sam’s mouth trembles. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out, and Dean has that much warning before Sam throws his arms around his neck and hugs him so tight Dean can’t force out more than little, shallow breaths at a time. “I’m sorry I made you mad, I didn’t-”
“Whoa.” Dean catches his brother by the elbows and pulls him back gently. Makes Sam look him in the eye, and feels something heavy and warm lodge itself up high in his chest. “Hey, I’m not mad,” he says, soft as Sam looks away and sniffs. Dean shakes him a little. Harder, “I’m not.”
Sam still won’t really look right at him, but the corners of his mouth quirk a little. “I guess I was acting like a little bitch,” he says in a small voice, and Dean sighs.
“Sam, you are a little bitch.”
“You’re such a jerk!” But Sam’s laughing, and those brown-green eyes are shining with something besides tears. Dean grins back at him, and just like that, they’re okay. Sam bites his lip, curls his fingertips into the carpet. “And I wasn’t gonna tell…not really.”
“Let’s just forget about it,” Dean suggests, because the reminder’s still a weird, insistent knot in his belly. Sam agrees, and it doesn’t happen again for three years.
xxx
Sam’s thirteenth birthday, Dad calls from highway 41 on his way to Indiana.
Dean hangs up, swallowing a curse and shoving his cell in his back pocket. He waits for Sam outside the walls of the middle school, the Chevy’s engine a soothing backdrop to the frustration climbing inside his skin.
A bell rings inside the school and within a minute kids come pouring out; Dean keeps an eye out for Sam’s shaggy head and skinny shoulders, wishes for the cigarettes he swore to give up six months ago. When he catches sight of his brother, he whistles for Sam’s attention, and Sam looks over. Eyes lighting up along with a small grin as he ducks his head and makes his way through the crowd and toward Dean.
Smirk in place, Dean leans against the Impala’s front bumper and waits for Sam to get closer before saying, “So. Pepperoni or sausage, birthday boy?”
Sam grins like the dork Dean’s always teasing him about being and stows his bookbag in the backseat before slipping into the passenger side. “Both?”
Dean laughs. It falls a little flat, but Sam doesn’t seem to notice, continuing on with, “Two extra-large, case of Dr Pepper, and Die Hard’s sounding pretty good to me.”
“You’re speaking my language, Sammy.” But Dean’s knuckles are white around the wheel, and he can’t quite bring himself to look back over, meet Sam’s enthusiasm.
“You think Dad’ll let me have a beer?” Sam asks, sitting up straighter, a breathless sort of excitement coloring his voice and making Dean’s eyes hurt. “You were thirteen, right?”
“Uh, yeah, about that…” He braces himself for the darkening of those eyes, that smile. Widens his own until his lips feel too-stretched and ache. “Dad’s, um. Well, he’s not gonna be…” He chances a glance in his brother’s direction and, sure enough, realization is creeping across Sam’s features and wiping away any sign of his previous good mood. “It’s just…complicated,” Dean says, feeling lame and ridiculous.
“He left.” Sam’s voice is flat when it comes, a thread of anger simmering underneath that surprises Dean with its intensity. “I don’t fucking believe this.”
“Language,” Dean says weakly, ignoring the incredulous look Sam sends him. He clears his throat. “Look, Sam, it’s important-”
“Yeah, more important than me,” Sam bites off, sullen features pressed up against the window glass.
“Come on.”
“Bet you wish you were with him, too, huh?”
Dean’s teeth clamp together, jaw working. “Don’t put words in my mouth, kid.”
Sam makes a disgusted sound and doesn’t speak to Dean the rest of the way to the apartment. When Dean pulls into the parking lot, Sam’s out and bounding up the fire escape before Dean can even call out his name.
He turns off the engine and sits in the car for several minutes. Frustration’s ripe on his tongue, helpless, and he slams a fist against the wheel before shoving open the door, grabbing Sam’s bag and slinging it over his shoulder.
The television’s still on in the den, some action series rerun Dean had been half-watching before running out to pick up Sam, but Sam’s nowhere to be found. Dean drops his brother’s school books on the floor and wipes a hand down his face.
Friggin’ great.
He finds Sam spread out on his double bed, face pressed against the pillows and back a tense, rigid line. Dean watches him for a minute, then leans up against the doorjamb. Clears his throat.
“You want me to call for the pizza? Run to the video store?”
“Not hungry,” Sam says, grits out, and Dean sighs at the familiar tone. Then, “Just do whatever the hell you want.”
“Hey,” Dean says, because damn it, none of this is his fault. “Watch your mouth. Unless you want-”
“What?” Sam suddenly sits up, glares at Dean full-on with all the pent up anger and teenage bitterness Dean suddenly realizes he’s been burying all along. “You gonna spank me again if I don’t behave?”
Dean’s response gets lost somewhere behind the lump in his throat. Sam’s watching him with hooded, blatantly challenging eyes and it somehow jumpstarts Dean’s voice again. “We agreed not to mention that,” he says, voice shaking, and Sam looks away. Mumbles something under his breath that makes Dean blink. “What was that?”
“I said fuck you, Dean.” Sam’s gaze returns, brighter and sharper than before. “You think you can just make everything all better with pizza and some crappy movies?”
“Okay, you know what?” Dean’s own irritation is starting to take root. “Don’t take your teenage angsto-rebellion out on me, dude. Case you haven’t realized, I ain’t the one who left your ass high and dry! I’m just the one stuck here dealing with it like fuckin’ always.”
Sam’s fists clench and he’s off the bed and in Dean’s face within seconds, which Dean would find hilarious any other time but now. His brother’s grown a good several inches over the past few months, but he’s still too slight compared to Dean’s stocky build. That doesn’t seem to stop Sam from shoving him back a full step.
“Then why don’t you just go with him next time, if I’m such a hassle?”
“Maybe I fuckin’ will,” Dean grits out, hands on Sam’s shoulders as he shoves back. “Save me from this bullshit over and over and over-”
Sam’s fist catches him by surprise; pain starbursts behind his left eye and Dean staggers back into the wall. Bounces off and catches sight of Sam’s surprised gaze, fingers still clenched and raised chin-high as he stares at the bruise Dean can already feel blossoming.
Sam’s throat works; something hot and thready and unmentionable starts building under Dean’s skin, making his fingers and palms itch. Before he can fully work out the thought in his own mind, he’s grabbing Sam, sitting on the bed and tossing his brother over his leg. Jerking him by the beltloop, until he can bring his hand down. Hard.
Sam cries out, a muffled sound against Dean’s thigh, and he tries to buck up and off Dean’s lap. “Dean-”
“You wanna go again?” He doesn’t know where the words are coming from, fingers yanking at Sam’s pants until his-goddamn-baby brother’s ass is bare, pants tangled around Sam’s ankles. “You think you can just do whatever the hell you want, say whatever, take a swing at me and get nothing back?”
Dean’s eye is on fire, and he smacks the heel of his hand against Sam, watches the pale skin go flush with heat and feels a sick sense of accomplishment.
“Fuck you,” Sam chokes out, almost a whine this time, but he’s not trying to get away. Which is maybe more disturbing than anything else. Dean wants to chalk it up to embarrassment-he has Sam bare-assed and shocked across his thighs, for God’s sake-but Sam’s just lying there. Breathing heavy and…waiting.
Dean’s fingers smudge the faint lines of fire across Sam’s skin. “You ready to apologize?”
Sam doesn’t reply at first, just harsh, shallow breath and heavy-lidded eyes. Then, “Screw you, Dean.” But it’s too soft to mean any real threat.
Dean grits his teeth, spanks him again. Hears Sam’s sharp gasp, feels the slight wiggle of his hips, and has to fight down a surge of warmth down low in his belly.
Christ.
“Say you’re sorry, Sammy,” he says, an almost pleading note in his voice now. He doesn’t know what’s happening, how to stop it or if he even wants to. And Sam’s just lying there, taking it, pliant and submissive for the first time in longer than Dean can even remember. It’s a heady rush in Dean’s veins.
“No.”
“I’m not joking.” Dean tries again, desperation quickening his breath. “I will beat your ass, Sam. Black and blue, you hear me? Say you’re sorry.”
“Do it, then,” and it’s a fiery taunt along with a slow roll of hips. “You won’t do it.”
Which is just the thing to say to make sure Dean does.
This time it’s a series of smacks, high up on Sam’s thighs, spreading out across his bottom, and Sam swears and bucks and whines without ever really trying to make him stop. Dean’s almost dizzy with anticipation by the time Sam starts to cry, just a choking little sob that’s equal parts frustration and something else Dean can’t put a name to. But it has his hand slowing, fingers almost caressing the palmprints left behind.
“You sorry now?” he asks softly. Sam turns his head, cheek brushing Dean’s thigh, and Dean realizes with a shock that he’s hard. Aching, and when Sam turns sleep-heavy, glazed eyes on him, he grinds his teeth to keep from grabbing the back of his brother’s head and pressing it back against his lap.
Sam’s voice is a thick, honest whisper. “No.”
And, yeah. Dean isn’t too sorry, either.
xxx
After that, Sam starts acting out more and more. Bitching about the smallest of things to the bigger stuff: Dad’s drunken benders, school, Dean’s money-making schemes.
Dean lets him complain until the sun goes down and they’re alone in their room, and then he takes Sam over his knee. Spanks his little brother until Sam’s bottom turns pink and he’s swallowing back needy little groans that shoot straight to Dean’s frustrated cock.
It’s the only way Dean knows how to make this okay; laying his hands on his brother somehow helps them both, keeps them in line and grounded and Sam wants it. Says as much, sometimes, when Dean’s got him so worked over that they’re both shaking and it’s wrong and so fucked up, and Dean just isn’t sure until Sam begs him in that choked-off whimper not to stop.
And then Sam starts asking for more.
xxx
The first time Dean touches his brother, really, really touches him, Sam’s three weeks shy of fourteen.
Sam won’t sleep anymore without getting spanked first, biting Dean’s head off at every turn and fucking him up until he gets what he wants. One night Dean wrestles him down on the bed, Sam’s smart mouth still ringing in his ears, and Sam just…blurts it out. Leaves them both stock-still, panting, long, young limbs tangled and twisted up.
Dean moves first. Slips his fingers down the crease of Sam’s ass, practically shaking when Sam spreads his legs, lifts his hips and buries his face against the mattress with an almost inaudible sound. His dick’s so hard in his shorts; Sam’s skin-soft and too-hot, and Dean bites down on his lip as his finger brushes Sam’s hole.
“Sammy?” Dean says, the name trembling on his tongue. “God, are you…is this…”
“Yeah.” Sam rocks against him, shocky-soft whimper when Dean’s finger slips across that dark, hidden place. “Dean.”
“Stop?” Dean asks, almost hoping Sam will ask him to stop, make him stop, because Dean’s too far fucking gone to do it himself. And Sam feels too good, pressed up tight against his fingertip and rocking back into every slow stroke Dean makes over his hole.
But Sam doesn’t stop him, just writhes on his lap until Dean feels his brother’s hard, wet little dick against his thigh and swallows a groan. He wants…God, he wants stuff that makes his blood boil and his skin crawl whenever he imagines what anyone else would have to say about it. Wants to spread Sam’s legs wide open and lick between his thighs, taste what Dean’s hands do to him.
The words burn on Dean’s tongue, slipping off, sloppy, dirty, and Sam keens down deep in his chest and says, “Please.”
“Fuck, Sam.” Dean closes his eyes, light-headed, uncertain. “What the hell are we doin’?”
Sam’s fingers clench against Dean’s upper thighs. “Dunno. It feels good.”
He’s practically rubbing off against Dean’s leg, all young enthusiasm and horniness, and Dean grits his teeth. Places a hand square in the center of Sam’s bowed-up back and presses down slooow. His finger works the tight ring of flesh between his brother’s legs, teasing, curious, never more than whisper-soft and hesitant.
“Gonna cream my shorts, dude,” Dean admits in a husky murmur, and Sam stiffens up underneath him. Squeezes his legs tight together, and then, he’s digging blunt nails hard into Dean’s jeans. Moaning and humping and making the sweetest little groaning sounds as Dean feels wet warmth spread out across his thigh.
“Oh, fuck,” he says, realization dawning, drawing his balls up tight. “Oh, Christ, Sam.”
Sam’s already, amazingly, recovering, scrambling up to push Dean back flat against the bed. His hair’s mussed, eyes dark and heavy. Dean stares at the pretty flush across those cheekbones and swallows, lets Sam climb over him and grind down against the hard ridge of his cock. He reaches for Sam’s hips, pulls him tighter, closer.
Sam chews on his bottom lip until it swells pink, tongue leaving a slick and shiny trail that Dean follows on a groan. Reaching up, grabbing Sam’s neck and dragging him down. It’s not a kiss, not really. He just takes Sam’s lip and bites, humps his hips up and between Sam’s thighs until he’s shooting his own hot load into cotton and denim.
xxx
“Dean, lemme…”
Dean twists his head, pressing his hot cheek against the pillow and shivering a little when the air conditioner kicks on. It’s unforgivingly cold against the sweat slicking his body, and Dean sucks his lip between his teeth and squeezes his eyes closed. Opens them back up.
“Sammy,” he says, whines, cock hard and throbbing between his legs. “You-You shouldn’t…”
Sam hums and splays his fingers wide across Dean’s chest. “Wanna,” he says, licking his lips and making Dean’s cock pulse, trickle. “Wanna touch you, want you to touch me.”
“M’always touchin’ you.” Dean shifts his hips, unable to let himself look down, see his naked body on display for his baby brother. Shame’s thick in his blood, sure, but even more…excitement, and Dean’s breath hitches when Sam lowers his mouth. Tongues a nipple and grinds his hips, desperate, hungry noises escaping his throat.
He sucks hard; Dean’s hips start rolling. He’s aching for something to rub up against, eyes closed so tight tears start leaking from the corners. “Sammy,” he groans, breathless, choked. “Sammy, Sammy…wanna taste you, too.”
“My turn,” Sam says, and it sounds like a question. Dean lifts his head, drops it back several times in quick, frustrated succession. He’s past caring if this is right or wrong, this minute, he just wants to get off. Get Sam off. Feel that sweet young body clench and clutch at him, and, oh.
Sam maps his tongue down across Dean’s belly. He’s shaking under the weight of Dean’s hands, and Dean never even remembered touching Sam’s shoulders. Pressing him down, down…until Sam’s pretty, slick mouth is open and gasping over the head of his dick.
Dean holds his gaze, voice a trembling order. “Lick it.”
His brother, his fourteen year old brother, shudders. Swipes his tongue across his mouth and flushes to the tips of his ears. Dean groans at that little sliver of pink, thinks back on the last blowjob he got, from Tina down at the grocery store just a few short weeks back.
He can barely remember the sweet heat of her mouth, already knows this’ll be nothing like it, quick and dirty, Sam’s mouth a sloppy clutch as he opens wide enough to suck the head of Dean’s cock inside. Burning, torturous heat, and Dean lifts a fist to his lips. Clamps down, teeth on knuckle.
Sam licks him, slow at first, then feeding off Dean’s helpless groans, he works faster. Never gets any farther than the head, relishing curious attention on the leaking slit, and Dean starts off on a tangent of filthy instruction. Begging, hoarse pleas that make Sam blush and his eyes go bright.
“C’mere,” Dean says several minutes later, sweat-slick and flushed from his cheeks to his toes. He reaches down with clumsy hands, tries to force Sam up and off his dick, but Sam only digs in with his feet, stubborn temper Dean recognizes all too well flashing in pretty, tip-tilted eyes.
Dean sighs. “Damn it, Sammy, just wanna make you feel good, too.”
Sam blinks, cocks his head. “How?”
Immediate, honest curiosity gleams in Sam’s eyes and Dean wants to laugh. Or maybe cry. But shame, guilt, is nothing compared to the urgent, sick need to touch, taste, own Sam.
Dean’s never owned anything in his life, not really.
He pulls Sam up by the hips, forces his brother to turn around. Sit himself square on Dean’s chest. He catches the quickest glimpse of that pretty-pink little hole, before licking his lips and shoving the forbidden, nasty urge right back down inside that dark part of himself. Focusing instead on the flush of Sam’s cock, he pulls the leaking tip to his mouth and sucks a kiss against it.
Sam jerks, drawls his name in a sweet little whimper and starts to fidget while Dean huffs a laugh and says, “Good?”
“Dean.”
Dean closes his eyes, loses himself in the sweet-bitter flavor, unfamiliar but not. Lets Sam ride his mouth for a minute before pushing against the tense line of his back. Sam drops his head between Dean’s knees, open mouth against Dean’s thigh on a keening sob.
Dean doesn’t want to stop sucking Sam’s cock, so he just lifts his hips pointedly. Thinks loudly at Sam and hopes something gets through, because he’s thisclose to blowing his wad all over Sam’s poor face and he really, really wants to feel that sweet mouth on him again before it happens.
Sam gets the point, wrapping his lips around Dean and trying to follow Dean’s lead. Short, shallow thrusts of his little hips keeping time with the clumsy, awkward curl of his tongue, and Dean fucks against Sammy’s mouth until he comes down his baby brother’s throat.
Sam pulls off after the second splash, eyes wide and dazed. He whispers Dean’s name, watches the steady leak of come and squeezes his eyes shut before whimpering. Pulling back and shooting his own jizz across Dean’s mouth. It’s boiling hot, still boyishly thin and soupy, and Dean licks his lips, bites down, and struggles to catch his breath.
xxx
When Sam turns eighteen, Dean buys him a bottle of Jack. The minute Dad disappears he sucks Sam off in the shower, beats his ass until Sam’s eyes well up, and then lets his brother force him onto his hands and knees on the floor of their latest shithole apartment.
Sam fucks him hard, hot, pulling Dean back on his cock and snapping minejustmine into Dean’s skin. Dean’s legs shake, throat raw and palms still stinging.
He fingers the bruises for days after Sam leaves for California, and wonders if maybe somewhere else, Sam’s doing the same.
-the end-
Title: With bombs and the devil, and the kids keep comin'
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating/Warnings: Adult; graphic m/m content, graphic incest, underage--I am not kidding. Includes spanking, frottage, anal play, 69. Haha...um?
Word Count: approx. 5,000
Summary: Turns out, Dean sold his soul long before Wyoming.
Notes: Written for ignited on the occasion of her birthday. Stef, I think you’re PRETTY AMAZING. Never change, bb. ♥
Beta by affectingly, without whom I would really, really suck or something. And handholding by __tiana__, dontyouwaitup, lostt1, and ze_pink_lady. Who motivate me in all things. <3
The first time Dean ever lays a hand on his brother, Sam’s ten years old.
Dad’s taken off again, hot on the trail of a nasty Pishacha in Michigan, and he’s left Dean behind to deal with the questions and the fall-out from Sam’s ever-growing attitude about anything and everything to do with the hunt.
It’s just simple things at first; Sam doesn’t want leftover mac-and-cheese, he doesn’t want to make his bed, or follow Dean around after school so Dean can maybe get himself another lucky look up Suzy Thomas’ short pink skirt.
All Sam does want to do is glare up at Dean from under a shag of messy, untrimmed hair. Brown-green eyes full of upset and accusation and, “Why couldn’t he just take us with him?”
Dean bites back a weary reply. Flops down on the ancient, coffee-stained couch and toes off his sneakers. “You know why. Just leave it, Sam.”
Sam doesn’t, can’t, or won’t.
“It’s because of me.” He pushes away from the wall, little pink lips trembling with frustration and anger and something else Dean can’t put his finger on because, damn if Sam’s moods don’t just flip on a dime lately. “S’because I can’t lift the shotgun, can’t do anything right.”
To him, Dean hears the bitter addendum in his brother’s voice, and hell, after three days of dealing with Sam’s pissy-faced bitchiness, Dad’s cryptic phone calls, and Suzy’s goddamn teasing, flirty smiles, he’s past the point of pulling any punches. Not to mention he’s a little pissed off himself that he wound up having to babysit instead of helping out Dad.
“Yeah, that probably doesn’t help much, either,” he says, nasty and unkind, but immediately wants to take it back when he catches Sam’s eyes.
His little brother’s hands clench into fists, gaze shiny-wet and furious. “Shut up! I wish you’d just leave, too.”
He spares Dean one last loathing glance before turning on his heel and stomping into their bedroom. Dean closes his eyes and rubs his forehead as the door slams shut, sinks down low into the cushions. His fingers find the amulet underneath his shirt and squeeze.
Guilt’s not a feeling he enjoys, even if a part of himself still feels justified in telling Sam off. He’s just tired of always being the one who has to; tired of being the one to always get the combative side of his baby brother, whereas Dad gets silent Sam, or earnest Sam, or grateful Sam.
Still. None of that seems to matter ten minutes later, and Dean stands out in the hallway and listens to Sam stomping around, flinging himself against the mattress, the desk chair. When he opens the door, Sam’s staring out the window with puckered lips, knees drawn up and skinny arms folded around them.
“Hey,” Dean says, putting a bit of apology into the greeting. It’s too much to hope that it’ll be that simple, and sure enough, Sam barely glances up at him. Eyes narrowed, cheeks still pink with anger. Dean sits down next to him and wipes his hands against his thighs. Tries again. “There’s a, uh, Ninja Turtles marathon on cable. Wanna check it out?”
“You hate Ninja Turtles,” Sam mumbles, but he finally looks up, a gleam of something approaching interest in his eyes. Dean smirks.
“Yeah, well.” He shrugs his shoulders, leaves it at that. Catches Sam’s eyes again and after another moment of stubborn silence from his brother, he blows out an exasperated breath. “C’mon, Sammy…gimme a break here. Dad’s gone, I’m doin’ the best I can, okay?”
“But you’d rather be with him.” It’s not a question; Sam sounds insecure and even angrier than before, and it sparks off something helpless and frustrated inside of Dean.
He stands up, doesn’t bother to respond…not with Sam still looking up at him with big, hurt, betrayed eyes. “Fine, sit there and be a little bitch, then.”
“You’re the bitch!” Sam sits up on his knees, grabs a pillow and chucks it at Dean’s head. Dean catches it against his chest, stares at his brother as Sam starts yelling, “I hate you! You don’t like me, you think I’m just this stupid kid, and-”
“Jesus,” Dean interrupts, wide-eyed, dropping the pillow and barely ducking the swing of Sam’s arm. Momentum sends Sam right into him, knocking them both to the floor. Dean hisses, grabs his brother by the hair and jerks him up and away.
“The hell is wrong with you, you little…Sam, cut it out!”
Sam wriggles against him, panting out hiccupping breaths against Dean’s belly. He’s spread out across Dean’s lap, bottom in the air, Dean’s old Levis still a bit too loose around those wiry hips and sagging down past plain blue-cotton briefs.
“You’re not the boss of me,” Sam spits out, defiant and flushed, and Dean just reacts. Doesn’t think about it first. Brings his hand down with a crack that surprises them both. For a long moment after, his hand just rests there…stinging, riding the gentle undulation of Sam’s gasping breath.
Then, “You…hit me!”
Dean blinks stupidly, the exaggerated shock in Sam’s voice reverberating against thin walls. “You…”
Sam bursts into motion; Dean gets an elbow to the eye and yelps out a curse that would’ve made Dad’s hair stand on end. He grabs hold of Sam’s ankle as his brother starts clawing his way across the shabby carpeting, yanks him back across his lap. “You hit me first, you little shit!”
“You-You can’t.” Sam sounds choked, frozen under Dean’s grip. His voice loses that edge of certainty, even as he says again, “You can’t spank me, Dean, you’re not Dad.”
Dean chooses not to mention that Dad never spanks Sam anyway, never touched either one of them like that. Because he’s still got Sam pinned under his fists and goddamn it, the little brat deserves it. For all the whining, and bitching, and annoying the fuck out of Dean and Dad and everyone for no real reason at all, and-
“I’ll tell,” Sam whispers, sunbrowned skin stretched tight across his throat, pulse galloping wildly, and Dean’s own breath leaves him in a sudden, surefire gush. He stares down at his brother, sees the genuine anxiety pouring off of Sam, and self-disgust burns his fingers.
Sam scrambles to his knees when Dean shoves him away, pressed up against the dresser with his pants still loose around his waist and a red flush staining his cheeks. Dean can’t bring himself to look for more than a second.
“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he says, quiet and horrible, feeling Sam watching him from across the room. He lifts his gaze, blurred and stinging. “Sammy, I-”
Sam’s mouth trembles. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out, and Dean has that much warning before Sam throws his arms around his neck and hugs him so tight Dean can’t force out more than little, shallow breaths at a time. “I’m sorry I made you mad, I didn’t-”
“Whoa.” Dean catches his brother by the elbows and pulls him back gently. Makes Sam look him in the eye, and feels something heavy and warm lodge itself up high in his chest. “Hey, I’m not mad,” he says, soft as Sam looks away and sniffs. Dean shakes him a little. Harder, “I’m not.”
Sam still won’t really look right at him, but the corners of his mouth quirk a little. “I guess I was acting like a little bitch,” he says in a small voice, and Dean sighs.
“Sam, you are a little bitch.”
“You’re such a jerk!” But Sam’s laughing, and those brown-green eyes are shining with something besides tears. Dean grins back at him, and just like that, they’re okay. Sam bites his lip, curls his fingertips into the carpet. “And I wasn’t gonna tell…not really.”
“Let’s just forget about it,” Dean suggests, because the reminder’s still a weird, insistent knot in his belly. Sam agrees, and it doesn’t happen again for three years.
xxx
Sam’s thirteenth birthday, Dad calls from highway 41 on his way to Indiana.
Dean hangs up, swallowing a curse and shoving his cell in his back pocket. He waits for Sam outside the walls of the middle school, the Chevy’s engine a soothing backdrop to the frustration climbing inside his skin.
A bell rings inside the school and within a minute kids come pouring out; Dean keeps an eye out for Sam’s shaggy head and skinny shoulders, wishes for the cigarettes he swore to give up six months ago. When he catches sight of his brother, he whistles for Sam’s attention, and Sam looks over. Eyes lighting up along with a small grin as he ducks his head and makes his way through the crowd and toward Dean.
Smirk in place, Dean leans against the Impala’s front bumper and waits for Sam to get closer before saying, “So. Pepperoni or sausage, birthday boy?”
Sam grins like the dork Dean’s always teasing him about being and stows his bookbag in the backseat before slipping into the passenger side. “Both?”
Dean laughs. It falls a little flat, but Sam doesn’t seem to notice, continuing on with, “Two extra-large, case of Dr Pepper, and Die Hard’s sounding pretty good to me.”
“You’re speaking my language, Sammy.” But Dean’s knuckles are white around the wheel, and he can’t quite bring himself to look back over, meet Sam’s enthusiasm.
“You think Dad’ll let me have a beer?” Sam asks, sitting up straighter, a breathless sort of excitement coloring his voice and making Dean’s eyes hurt. “You were thirteen, right?”
“Uh, yeah, about that…” He braces himself for the darkening of those eyes, that smile. Widens his own until his lips feel too-stretched and ache. “Dad’s, um. Well, he’s not gonna be…” He chances a glance in his brother’s direction and, sure enough, realization is creeping across Sam’s features and wiping away any sign of his previous good mood. “It’s just…complicated,” Dean says, feeling lame and ridiculous.
“He left.” Sam’s voice is flat when it comes, a thread of anger simmering underneath that surprises Dean with its intensity. “I don’t fucking believe this.”
“Language,” Dean says weakly, ignoring the incredulous look Sam sends him. He clears his throat. “Look, Sam, it’s important-”
“Yeah, more important than me,” Sam bites off, sullen features pressed up against the window glass.
“Come on.”
“Bet you wish you were with him, too, huh?”
Dean’s teeth clamp together, jaw working. “Don’t put words in my mouth, kid.”
Sam makes a disgusted sound and doesn’t speak to Dean the rest of the way to the apartment. When Dean pulls into the parking lot, Sam’s out and bounding up the fire escape before Dean can even call out his name.
He turns off the engine and sits in the car for several minutes. Frustration’s ripe on his tongue, helpless, and he slams a fist against the wheel before shoving open the door, grabbing Sam’s bag and slinging it over his shoulder.
The television’s still on in the den, some action series rerun Dean had been half-watching before running out to pick up Sam, but Sam’s nowhere to be found. Dean drops his brother’s school books on the floor and wipes a hand down his face.
Friggin’ great.
He finds Sam spread out on his double bed, face pressed against the pillows and back a tense, rigid line. Dean watches him for a minute, then leans up against the doorjamb. Clears his throat.
“You want me to call for the pizza? Run to the video store?”
“Not hungry,” Sam says, grits out, and Dean sighs at the familiar tone. Then, “Just do whatever the hell you want.”
“Hey,” Dean says, because damn it, none of this is his fault. “Watch your mouth. Unless you want-”
“What?” Sam suddenly sits up, glares at Dean full-on with all the pent up anger and teenage bitterness Dean suddenly realizes he’s been burying all along. “You gonna spank me again if I don’t behave?”
Dean’s response gets lost somewhere behind the lump in his throat. Sam’s watching him with hooded, blatantly challenging eyes and it somehow jumpstarts Dean’s voice again. “We agreed not to mention that,” he says, voice shaking, and Sam looks away. Mumbles something under his breath that makes Dean blink. “What was that?”
“I said fuck you, Dean.” Sam’s gaze returns, brighter and sharper than before. “You think you can just make everything all better with pizza and some crappy movies?”
“Okay, you know what?” Dean’s own irritation is starting to take root. “Don’t take your teenage angsto-rebellion out on me, dude. Case you haven’t realized, I ain’t the one who left your ass high and dry! I’m just the one stuck here dealing with it like fuckin’ always.”
Sam’s fists clench and he’s off the bed and in Dean’s face within seconds, which Dean would find hilarious any other time but now. His brother’s grown a good several inches over the past few months, but he’s still too slight compared to Dean’s stocky build. That doesn’t seem to stop Sam from shoving him back a full step.
“Then why don’t you just go with him next time, if I’m such a hassle?”
“Maybe I fuckin’ will,” Dean grits out, hands on Sam’s shoulders as he shoves back. “Save me from this bullshit over and over and over-”
Sam’s fist catches him by surprise; pain starbursts behind his left eye and Dean staggers back into the wall. Bounces off and catches sight of Sam’s surprised gaze, fingers still clenched and raised chin-high as he stares at the bruise Dean can already feel blossoming.
Sam’s throat works; something hot and thready and unmentionable starts building under Dean’s skin, making his fingers and palms itch. Before he can fully work out the thought in his own mind, he’s grabbing Sam, sitting on the bed and tossing his brother over his leg. Jerking him by the beltloop, until he can bring his hand down. Hard.
Sam cries out, a muffled sound against Dean’s thigh, and he tries to buck up and off Dean’s lap. “Dean-”
“You wanna go again?” He doesn’t know where the words are coming from, fingers yanking at Sam’s pants until his-goddamn-baby brother’s ass is bare, pants tangled around Sam’s ankles. “You think you can just do whatever the hell you want, say whatever, take a swing at me and get nothing back?”
Dean’s eye is on fire, and he smacks the heel of his hand against Sam, watches the pale skin go flush with heat and feels a sick sense of accomplishment.
“Fuck you,” Sam chokes out, almost a whine this time, but he’s not trying to get away. Which is maybe more disturbing than anything else. Dean wants to chalk it up to embarrassment-he has Sam bare-assed and shocked across his thighs, for God’s sake-but Sam’s just lying there. Breathing heavy and…waiting.
Dean’s fingers smudge the faint lines of fire across Sam’s skin. “You ready to apologize?”
Sam doesn’t reply at first, just harsh, shallow breath and heavy-lidded eyes. Then, “Screw you, Dean.” But it’s too soft to mean any real threat.
Dean grits his teeth, spanks him again. Hears Sam’s sharp gasp, feels the slight wiggle of his hips, and has to fight down a surge of warmth down low in his belly.
Christ.
“Say you’re sorry, Sammy,” he says, an almost pleading note in his voice now. He doesn’t know what’s happening, how to stop it or if he even wants to. And Sam’s just lying there, taking it, pliant and submissive for the first time in longer than Dean can even remember. It’s a heady rush in Dean’s veins.
“No.”
“I’m not joking.” Dean tries again, desperation quickening his breath. “I will beat your ass, Sam. Black and blue, you hear me? Say you’re sorry.”
“Do it, then,” and it’s a fiery taunt along with a slow roll of hips. “You won’t do it.”
Which is just the thing to say to make sure Dean does.
This time it’s a series of smacks, high up on Sam’s thighs, spreading out across his bottom, and Sam swears and bucks and whines without ever really trying to make him stop. Dean’s almost dizzy with anticipation by the time Sam starts to cry, just a choking little sob that’s equal parts frustration and something else Dean can’t put a name to. But it has his hand slowing, fingers almost caressing the palmprints left behind.
“You sorry now?” he asks softly. Sam turns his head, cheek brushing Dean’s thigh, and Dean realizes with a shock that he’s hard. Aching, and when Sam turns sleep-heavy, glazed eyes on him, he grinds his teeth to keep from grabbing the back of his brother’s head and pressing it back against his lap.
Sam’s voice is a thick, honest whisper. “No.”
And, yeah. Dean isn’t too sorry, either.
xxx
After that, Sam starts acting out more and more. Bitching about the smallest of things to the bigger stuff: Dad’s drunken benders, school, Dean’s money-making schemes.
Dean lets him complain until the sun goes down and they’re alone in their room, and then he takes Sam over his knee. Spanks his little brother until Sam’s bottom turns pink and he’s swallowing back needy little groans that shoot straight to Dean’s frustrated cock.
It’s the only way Dean knows how to make this okay; laying his hands on his brother somehow helps them both, keeps them in line and grounded and Sam wants it. Says as much, sometimes, when Dean’s got him so worked over that they’re both shaking and it’s wrong and so fucked up, and Dean just isn’t sure until Sam begs him in that choked-off whimper not to stop.
And then Sam starts asking for more.
xxx
The first time Dean touches his brother, really, really touches him, Sam’s three weeks shy of fourteen.
Sam won’t sleep anymore without getting spanked first, biting Dean’s head off at every turn and fucking him up until he gets what he wants. One night Dean wrestles him down on the bed, Sam’s smart mouth still ringing in his ears, and Sam just…blurts it out. Leaves them both stock-still, panting, long, young limbs tangled and twisted up.
Dean moves first. Slips his fingers down the crease of Sam’s ass, practically shaking when Sam spreads his legs, lifts his hips and buries his face against the mattress with an almost inaudible sound. His dick’s so hard in his shorts; Sam’s skin-soft and too-hot, and Dean bites down on his lip as his finger brushes Sam’s hole.
“Sammy?” Dean says, the name trembling on his tongue. “God, are you…is this…”
“Yeah.” Sam rocks against him, shocky-soft whimper when Dean’s finger slips across that dark, hidden place. “Dean.”
“Stop?” Dean asks, almost hoping Sam will ask him to stop, make him stop, because Dean’s too far fucking gone to do it himself. And Sam feels too good, pressed up tight against his fingertip and rocking back into every slow stroke Dean makes over his hole.
But Sam doesn’t stop him, just writhes on his lap until Dean feels his brother’s hard, wet little dick against his thigh and swallows a groan. He wants…God, he wants stuff that makes his blood boil and his skin crawl whenever he imagines what anyone else would have to say about it. Wants to spread Sam’s legs wide open and lick between his thighs, taste what Dean’s hands do to him.
The words burn on Dean’s tongue, slipping off, sloppy, dirty, and Sam keens down deep in his chest and says, “Please.”
“Fuck, Sam.” Dean closes his eyes, light-headed, uncertain. “What the hell are we doin’?”
Sam’s fingers clench against Dean’s upper thighs. “Dunno. It feels good.”
He’s practically rubbing off against Dean’s leg, all young enthusiasm and horniness, and Dean grits his teeth. Places a hand square in the center of Sam’s bowed-up back and presses down slooow. His finger works the tight ring of flesh between his brother’s legs, teasing, curious, never more than whisper-soft and hesitant.
“Gonna cream my shorts, dude,” Dean admits in a husky murmur, and Sam stiffens up underneath him. Squeezes his legs tight together, and then, he’s digging blunt nails hard into Dean’s jeans. Moaning and humping and making the sweetest little groaning sounds as Dean feels wet warmth spread out across his thigh.
“Oh, fuck,” he says, realization dawning, drawing his balls up tight. “Oh, Christ, Sam.”
Sam’s already, amazingly, recovering, scrambling up to push Dean back flat against the bed. His hair’s mussed, eyes dark and heavy. Dean stares at the pretty flush across those cheekbones and swallows, lets Sam climb over him and grind down against the hard ridge of his cock. He reaches for Sam’s hips, pulls him tighter, closer.
Sam chews on his bottom lip until it swells pink, tongue leaving a slick and shiny trail that Dean follows on a groan. Reaching up, grabbing Sam’s neck and dragging him down. It’s not a kiss, not really. He just takes Sam’s lip and bites, humps his hips up and between Sam’s thighs until he’s shooting his own hot load into cotton and denim.
xxx
“Dean, lemme…”
Dean twists his head, pressing his hot cheek against the pillow and shivering a little when the air conditioner kicks on. It’s unforgivingly cold against the sweat slicking his body, and Dean sucks his lip between his teeth and squeezes his eyes closed. Opens them back up.
“Sammy,” he says, whines, cock hard and throbbing between his legs. “You-You shouldn’t…”
Sam hums and splays his fingers wide across Dean’s chest. “Wanna,” he says, licking his lips and making Dean’s cock pulse, trickle. “Wanna touch you, want you to touch me.”
“M’always touchin’ you.” Dean shifts his hips, unable to let himself look down, see his naked body on display for his baby brother. Shame’s thick in his blood, sure, but even more…excitement, and Dean’s breath hitches when Sam lowers his mouth. Tongues a nipple and grinds his hips, desperate, hungry noises escaping his throat.
He sucks hard; Dean’s hips start rolling. He’s aching for something to rub up against, eyes closed so tight tears start leaking from the corners. “Sammy,” he groans, breathless, choked. “Sammy, Sammy…wanna taste you, too.”
“My turn,” Sam says, and it sounds like a question. Dean lifts his head, drops it back several times in quick, frustrated succession. He’s past caring if this is right or wrong, this minute, he just wants to get off. Get Sam off. Feel that sweet young body clench and clutch at him, and, oh.
Sam maps his tongue down across Dean’s belly. He’s shaking under the weight of Dean’s hands, and Dean never even remembered touching Sam’s shoulders. Pressing him down, down…until Sam’s pretty, slick mouth is open and gasping over the head of his dick.
Dean holds his gaze, voice a trembling order. “Lick it.”
His brother, his fourteen year old brother, shudders. Swipes his tongue across his mouth and flushes to the tips of his ears. Dean groans at that little sliver of pink, thinks back on the last blowjob he got, from Tina down at the grocery store just a few short weeks back.
He can barely remember the sweet heat of her mouth, already knows this’ll be nothing like it, quick and dirty, Sam’s mouth a sloppy clutch as he opens wide enough to suck the head of Dean’s cock inside. Burning, torturous heat, and Dean lifts a fist to his lips. Clamps down, teeth on knuckle.
Sam licks him, slow at first, then feeding off Dean’s helpless groans, he works faster. Never gets any farther than the head, relishing curious attention on the leaking slit, and Dean starts off on a tangent of filthy instruction. Begging, hoarse pleas that make Sam blush and his eyes go bright.
“C’mere,” Dean says several minutes later, sweat-slick and flushed from his cheeks to his toes. He reaches down with clumsy hands, tries to force Sam up and off his dick, but Sam only digs in with his feet, stubborn temper Dean recognizes all too well flashing in pretty, tip-tilted eyes.
Dean sighs. “Damn it, Sammy, just wanna make you feel good, too.”
Sam blinks, cocks his head. “How?”
Immediate, honest curiosity gleams in Sam’s eyes and Dean wants to laugh. Or maybe cry. But shame, guilt, is nothing compared to the urgent, sick need to touch, taste, own Sam.
Dean’s never owned anything in his life, not really.
He pulls Sam up by the hips, forces his brother to turn around. Sit himself square on Dean’s chest. He catches the quickest glimpse of that pretty-pink little hole, before licking his lips and shoving the forbidden, nasty urge right back down inside that dark part of himself. Focusing instead on the flush of Sam’s cock, he pulls the leaking tip to his mouth and sucks a kiss against it.
Sam jerks, drawls his name in a sweet little whimper and starts to fidget while Dean huffs a laugh and says, “Good?”
“Dean.”
Dean closes his eyes, loses himself in the sweet-bitter flavor, unfamiliar but not. Lets Sam ride his mouth for a minute before pushing against the tense line of his back. Sam drops his head between Dean’s knees, open mouth against Dean’s thigh on a keening sob.
Dean doesn’t want to stop sucking Sam’s cock, so he just lifts his hips pointedly. Thinks loudly at Sam and hopes something gets through, because he’s thisclose to blowing his wad all over Sam’s poor face and he really, really wants to feel that sweet mouth on him again before it happens.
Sam gets the point, wrapping his lips around Dean and trying to follow Dean’s lead. Short, shallow thrusts of his little hips keeping time with the clumsy, awkward curl of his tongue, and Dean fucks against Sammy’s mouth until he comes down his baby brother’s throat.
Sam pulls off after the second splash, eyes wide and dazed. He whispers Dean’s name, watches the steady leak of come and squeezes his eyes shut before whimpering. Pulling back and shooting his own jizz across Dean’s mouth. It’s boiling hot, still boyishly thin and soupy, and Dean licks his lips, bites down, and struggles to catch his breath.
xxx
When Sam turns eighteen, Dean buys him a bottle of Jack. The minute Dad disappears he sucks Sam off in the shower, beats his ass until Sam’s eyes well up, and then lets his brother force him onto his hands and knees on the floor of their latest shithole apartment.
Sam fucks him hard, hot, pulling Dean back on his cock and snapping minejustmine into Dean’s skin. Dean’s legs shake, throat raw and palms still stinging.
He fingers the bruises for days after Sam leaves for California, and wonders if maybe somewhere else, Sam’s doing the same.
-the end-