So Much it Burns
Title: So Much it Burns
Author: Zomb13Cat
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 14,664
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing. If I did Supernatural would have about 8000% more brothertouching.
Preview: It was at this moment that Sam decreed, with unfaltering determination, that if Dean yearned for him even half as much as he did for Dean, Sam would make sure to give and take everything they both needed.
Warning/Kinks: Underage (Sam is 16). Masturbation. Frottage. Pushy!Sam. Guilty!Dean. Bratty!Sam. Jealous!Dean. First time. Barebacking. Very brief Het (not very graphic)
A.N: ell this turned out a little differently than what I first intended. It started out as just an excuse to write a series of escalating porny interactions between the boys and then this (sort of) plot snuck in out of nowhere. It’s actually one of the longest things involving Sam and Dean I’ve written thus far (I actually already even have a small timestamp in mind) so I really hope you all like it. The first two sections might start a little slow (they’re short tho) but it does get dirtier better I promise
So much it burns
. Shock
It’s funny how things tend to sneak up on you when you least expect them. One moment you’re in the middle of summer break, baking in the sweltering august heat in a Texan motel room with a busted ceiling fan and a drippy faucet and the next you’re in Maine surrounded by cheery carved pumpkins and cotton cobwebs because it’s suddenly October 31st and Dean - a pair of candy corn tucked under his upper lip like faux-fangs -- keeps pelting you with pieces of black licorice, and you can’t help but wonder where the time went. But then there are those times when things don’t so much sneak up, but bash into you like a Mack-truck with a faulty break system. Like the time Sam realized that he had feelings for Dean. Feelings that weren’t that all together brotherly and people wouldn’t approve of - unless they were Anne Rice or V.C. Andrews - and would probably get him sent to a therapist and possibly Social Services
They were staying in a cottage; that had a faulty water heater but was big enough that Dean and he didn’t have to share a room, so that counted as a win in Sam’s book; near the outskirts of town. The day had started out well enough -good even- it was a Saturday and Dad was away dealing with a haunting and wouldn’t be back until late afternoon Sunday; the temperamental water heater had decided to cooperate this morning, and when they went out for breakfast the local diner was having a two-for-one deal on ghost shaped pancakes. Dean had been acting really nice lately -almost confusingly so- even offering to take Sam Trick-or-Treating later -which if Sam hadn’t been 15 and a boy he might have totally agreed to. They had even gone to a little second-hand store in search of a cheap, last-minute Halloween costume -not that Sam was actually considering it. The store had been picked clean, but Sam did manage to find a cool, vintage Batman T-shirt which Dean, being the jerk he is, had swiped for himself, worn out of the store despite it being a tad too small for him. Afterwards, Dean had treated him to a B-Horror double feature at the local theater. That’s where the day had started to skew
The aisles were all but deserted, only a handful of people -mostly couples- had managed to turn up for the gem of classic cinema that involved something about possessed-zombie sheep on a murderous rampage. Sam sat clutching a large tub of popcorn and a jumbo soda, eagerly awaiting Dean’s own personal version of Mystery Science Theater 3000 when they arrived. Two co-eds, dressed as a fairy and a pink flamingo respectively, decided to sit right in front of them despite having the option to sit almost anywhere else. One small hair-flip from the fairy and Dean was lost to him for the next three and a half hours. Sam tried to focus his attention on the bad movie, ignore the equally bad flirting going on around him but it was a monumentally difficult task when each exaggerated giggle and clichéd pickup line made him want to roll his eyeballs all the way to the back of his skull. That coupled with a “Right Sammy?” every fifteen minutes had made it near impossible to follow the movie’s sure to be riveting plot. It was right around the time one of the Demon Sheep was driving off a cliff -and what the hell was up with this movie?- that Dean finally said “I’d love to go to your costume party” and Sam knew that he’d end up alone, watching local-access TV and binging on pixie-stix because there would be no way Dean would let him tag along.
It wasn’t until after the credits had rolled and the lights in the theater had been turned back on that Sam finally got a good look at the two girls. They were wearing fishnets, and costumes so short and low cut that Sam wondered how they weren’t freezing on such a cold October day, along with enough body glitter to make a disco ball jealous. They were also both really pretty, so it was really no wonder why Dean was interested. The flamingo scrawled detailed directions to the party on the back of an old receipt in a neat, loopy script before they left with pleasant goodbyes and silver bell giggles. And Sam couldn’t help but abhor them despite -or perhaps because of- all their niceties.
They left the theater, a little extra pep in Dean’s step -and Sam was beginning to hate him just a little bit as well- and picked up a cheap five dollar pizza for dinner. Dean scarfed down three slices and a glass of apple juice before he went to his room to change. It was around 9pm by the time Dean finally came out. Sam was busy sitting on the lumpy couch reading an old copy of Pulp he had swiped from Dean’s bag. He spared a quick glance toward his brother, Dean’s hair was gelled back and he had swapped the Batman T-shirt for a plain white one.
“You know it’s a costume party right?” Sam asked.
“I am in costume.” Sam cocked an eyebrow to the reply. “I’m a greaser.” Dean said, putting on a pair of sunglasses.
“You’re a douchebag.” Sam rolled his eyes and returned his attention to the worn paperback.
“Don’t wait up.” Dean ruffled his hair as he walked past him. The door slammed shut and moments later the familiar roar and purr of the Impala’s engine started and gradually faded away, leaving the cottage eerily silent.
Sam didn’t wait up. He went to bed at around 11:30pm after having re-read the same paragraph for the fourth time. He stripped down to his boxer shorts and pulled on the discarded Batman T-shirt, because after all it should have been his, sunk into the too firm mattress and wrapped the scratchy army surplus covers around himself before drifting off to a dead sleep. Some undetermined amount of time later he was woken up by a heavy thud. Sam let his eyes droop, thinking for a moment it had only been a dream. That was until a throaty, unmistakably female, laugh filtered through his sleep muddled mind, followed by a low rumble that was unquestionably Dean.
For a moment, Sam couldn’t make heads or tails of the situation. Dean couldn’t have brought a girl home with him could he? But he did. And Sam couldn’t be hearing what he thought he was hearing, could he? But he was. That’s when Sam realized just how paper thin the walls of the cottage actually were. Every sound behind the closed door audible almost magnified. The heavy clomp of boots intermingled with the dainty clink of heels as they stumbled backwards towards their destination. The jarring thud of a body having impacted against the wall. Those moist and dirty slurps and high pitched whines and eager groans. Sam should have covered his ears. Should have muffled the sounds with his pillow. But he didn’t -couldn’t really. He was frozen in place, eyes wide and heart caught in his throat.
There was the clear-cut open and shut of the door to the next room. Followed by a giggle and the sharp screech of old mattress springs. Then the sound of zippers being pulled down and cloth hitting the floor. The thump of Dean’s boots, the clink of his belt, Sam’s helpful mind supplied. His imagination working overtime to paint detailed pictures that went along with the sounds. And then it started; mostly the girl; high, breathless whimpers and frantic little wails; A torrent of “God” “Fuck” “Yes” punctuated by the whine of the mattress springs; And that obscene slap of skin on skin. Things slowed down to a steady, relentless pace. Quiet. Quiet enough that he could hear them both, that he could hear Dean. Dean’s heavy breath and guttural groans. That frantic Unf, Unf, Unf, that made something twist in the pit of Sam’s stomach. The fragile moment passed too quickly, the creak of the mattress speeding up along with the girl’s wails that upsurged before breaking off followed moments later by Dean’s harsh agonized gasp.
Sam squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to steady his heavy breath and pounding heart. And then it hit him, that painful, throbbing ache between his legs. It was almost like an all-consuming burn, from the pit of his stomach to the tip of his cock. Too painful to even move, to breathe, to think. Just do it. He thought to himself. Take care of the problem and go to sleep. Carefully, as quiet as possible, he pulled his shorts down, the soaked fabric clinging at the head of his dick. The cold air of the room stung at his sensitive skin. Sam wrapped a hand around himself, the sensation too much, almost painful caused him to hiss through his teeth. He bit on his lower lip, clamped his left hand over his mouth and began working himself with quick, urgent strokes, more concerned with finishing than acquiring any pleasure. Sam tried to picture the flamingo’s pink fishnet clad legs, or the fairy’s glittered breasts, but his mind had other ideas. It kept supplying him with images of a broad freckled back, lean muscled thighs, and strong arms that could hold him down and take what they wanted. Suddenly, he was all too keenly aware of the strong spicy scent wafting from what he was wearing. The scent of Dean. Enveloping him, choking him. He dragged heavy breaths through his nose, felt the musky scent from the T-shirt --Dean’s T-shirt-- magnify to the point where he could almost taste it, so he bit down hard enough on his lip to taste the coppery tang of blood instead, and came violently with a muffled whimper, Dean’s pained gasp echoing in his head like a promise. Sam closed his eyes, tried to steady his painfully hitching breath, and began to drift off with the sudden horrified realization that he had feelings for Dean. He’d pictured Dean. He Wanted Dean.
2. Awe
ThThe next morning Sam awoke with a messed up head; a swollen, bloody lip; and a soiled, itchy belly and thighs. He dashed to the bathroom and cleaned himself off. Sam made his way to the small kitchenette as stealthily as possible in hopes of avoiding Dean and his guest, only to be greeted by a very sated looking Dean eating cold pizza right out of the box.
“Morning-“ Dean sing-songed but his face fell stony as he turned to look at Sam. “What happened to you? You look horrible.” Sam flinched when Dean reached out to touch him.
“I fell.” Sam ducked out of Dean’s reach, the lie sounding less than convincing even to his own ears, and made his way to a half empty box of cereal
“Okay, Weirdy McWeirdson.” Dean, thankfully, dropped the subject and returned to his half-eaten, stale pizza flicking concerned gazes in Sam’s direction, trying to wheedle information out of him for the rest of the morning until John got home and set them to running laps.
From there on out, Sam made it a point to avoid Dean like the plague. Making sure they were never alone in the same room for very long; pretending he was so engrossed in whatever book, or paper, or cereal box he was reading that he didn’t notice there were other people around; even going so far as to ride with Dad on the longer stretches of road when they traveled, which was saying something because there was only so much of Dad Sam could take at any one time.
“You know it’s perfectly normal, right?” John started and Sam had to suppress his urge to snort. Nothing in their lives was normal. “Getting tired of being the little brother. Having Dean always take the lead.” Sam kept quiet. Better to have Dad think the cause of Sam’s erratic behavior plain ol’ teenage animosity than the deep-burning want for his big brother it actually was. “There’s this Salt and Burn down in Orlando.” John continued, not paying attention to anything other than the deserted road in front of them. “Could be it’s time to go on your first Solo.”
The Salt and Burn had been easy. Just a regular haunting that took less than a week to take care of, and that was only because the possessed item was an antique broche the in-keeper never took off. Why anyone would make a broche out of human hair was beyond Sam, but he wasn’t one to judge. In the end Sam had snuck into the old woman’s room while she was taking a bath and pilfered the piece of haunted jewelry right from under her nose.
When they finally met up with Dean that odd, fluttery feeling returned to Sam’s stomach and a deep, iron-clad press he hadn’t even realized was there released from his chest. It turned out that the only thing worse than being around Dean all the time was not being around Dean all the time. That was when Sam decided that he could make it work. If it meant not losing Dean, he could suppress all the feelings and the need. He could pretend it was simple admiration and nothing more if it meant Dean would keep looking at him with a sense of pride and not one of disgust or disappointment
-W-
The time Sam realized his feelings might not be all that one-sided came out of left field. It wasn’t the sudden, horrifying shock his own insight had been. It was astonishing. Like finding out you had won a raffle without realizing you had bought a ticket.
It was Sam’s sixteenth birthday. Dean woke him with a smack on the thigh and a “Happy sweet sixteen, Sammy!” Before placing a shiny, pink, plastic tiara on his head -because he’s Dean and Dean does shit like that- and snapping a few Polaroids to immortalize the moment. Sam blinked disoriented; the camera’s flash having thrown him for a loop. “Get dressed.” Dean began as he shook the developing photo. “Dad’s taking you to get your license.
The trip to the DMV was long and dull. The lines too long and crowded and the test too simple and almost pointless as he’d known how to drive since he was nine. When they walked out of the main building Dean was waiting outside, propped against the shiny black Impala, arms crossed and looking slightly smug. Dad gave Sam one solid clap on the back before he clambered back into his truck and drove off without a word. “You’re licensed.” Dean spoke, more a statement than a question, but Sam pulled out the proof anyway. “Good.” Dean tossed the keys at him and slipped into the passenger side. He let Sam drive everywhere, anywhere he wanted, without snide comment or complaint. They went to the museum, the arcade, a second hand book store, and a vintage record store. They even went to the aquarium, because Sam was running out of ideas but Dean wasn’t complaining. Once it was sufficiently late, they swung by a local Chinese restaurant and picked up a few to-go boxes of sweet and sour chicken, chow-mein, and fried rice. Dean and his fake ID managed to scrounge up a case of beer and a bottle of Jack. When they got back to the motel, Dad and his truck were gone, probably out celebrating the fact it was a Monday. They ate straight out of the boxes, perched on the hood of the Impala. Split an egg roll and the bottle of whiskey and managed to almost completely finish off the beer.
Sam laughed at Dean’s cheesy puns as he cleared away the debris, threw it out in the nearest trash can
“You comin’?” He called out as he swayed towards their room, stumbled slightly with the key despite having been the one to have had less to drink.
“In’a minute.” Dean said, cracking open another beer. Once inside, Sam kicked off his shoes, but otherwise didn’t bother undressing. The world was fuzzy at the edges and the bed was warm so he couldn’t be bothered by such trivial things as tucked in shirts or rumpled denim. Not even the stupid pink tiara balanced precariously over the head board was bothering him. He closed his eyes, tried willing himself to sleep unsuccessfully. There was too much stimulation in his mind. A strange electric sensation prickling underneath his skin.
It was around half an hour later that Dean finally came in from the cold. Sam kept his eyes closed, struggled not to jolt upright when the sound of Dean’s footfalls grew louder and stopped right next to him. It took all of Sam’s self-control not to squirm under Dean’s gaze. He kept his eyes closed, breath shallow and even, and struggled not to shudder when he felt a quick, tentative brush of fingertips against his cheek, soft and barely perceptible before it was gone. Then the bolder press of Dean’s palm cupping Sam’s face. The heat of Dean’s skin made Sam’s whole body throb. “Happy, Swee’ Six’een, Sammy.” Dean slurred as he brushed the pad of his rough, calloused thumb against the curve of Sam’s bottom lip, the skin catching and dragging with the friction. Sam let out a shuddered breath he couldn’t contain, cursed himself internally, but otherwise didn’t betray his current state. But it was too late, Dean let go as if burned, made a sound that was more animal than human. He quickly made his way into the bathroom and slammed the door shut. Sam listened intently to the creak of pressure being applied to the wooden door and the faint reverberation of heavy breaths. There was the blare of the shower running followed by a slight yelp and then the telltale echo of muffled grunts. Sam’s eyes snapped open with the insight of what it all meant. It hadn’t been a normal, brotherly touch. It was the type of touch that came with something more, something akin to longing. And that could only mean… Dean felt something for him. Dean wanted him.
It was at this moment that Sam decreed, with unfaltering determination, that if Dean yearned for him even half as much as he did for Dean, Sam would make sure to give and take everything they both needed.
Part 2