fic post - And Gravity, They Say, Is Weak
Title: And Gravity, They Say, Is Weak
Fandom: Supernatural (AU)
Pairings: Sam/Dean (primary), Sam/OMCs, Sam/OFCs
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 22 000
Warnings: incest, sexual situations involving a minor, statutory rape (consensual - Sam is 15)
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to these characters, nor even this plot.
Notes: This is basically a Sam-PoV retelling of lazy_daze's Big Bang fic, Supercross. I'm extremely grateful to lazy_daze for greenlighting this, for agreeing to look it over before I posted, and for generally being awesome about the whole thing.
Sam doesn’t really remember his parents. He was just a baby when his mom died; he only knows about her because Dean and Bobby and Ellen told him stories. He has a vague recollection of his dad, strong gentle hands and a gruff voice, but he wasn’t even three when his father rode away to his last FMX competition and got his spine crushed attempting a double backflip.
Every show is dedicated to their memory, and Sam appreciates the gesture, but he knows it’s more for the people who actually remember them. It’s Bobby and Ellen carrying on, with respect for the founders of the team, in loving memory of their best friends. Everyone who’s joined up with them has been filled in; they all know what it’s about, and they respect the origins. But at this point, honestly, very few of the crew and even fewer of the riders ever knew John and Mary.
Sam is okay with not remembering. He sometimes feels like he shouldn’t be, like he should miss the memories he doesn’t have, but that’s not the way it works. He doesn’t have parents, but he has Bobby and Ellen and the team.
Mostly, he has Dean. That’s really all he needs.
The first bike Sam ever sat on was a motorcycle. It was also the first bike he ever fell off of. Both things happened on the same day.
He was four, and he was bored, and he was always, always curious, and he wanted to see what it was like way up on Uncle Bobby’s big Yamaha. So he climbed up carefully, clambering with heroic effort of chubby arms and legs up to the leather seat. Once there, though, stuck in the dip of the saddle, he couldn’t reach the handlebars; that was frustrating, so he stretched as far as he could, steadying himself with his right hand on the front of the saddle, leaning over with his left arm out, aiming for the handlebar...
...and coming just short, and he’d leaned too far to get his balance back. His little body slipped right off the bike, and he got out a yelp made up of equal parts frustration and fear before he hit concrete and the wind went out of him in a whoosh.
He was so startled by the impact that for a moment he didn’t even think about crying. He didn’t even notice he wasn’t breathing until Dean appeared out of nowhere, frantic, saying, “Sammy, are you okay? Are you hurt? Sammy, look at me, Sammy, where does it hurt?” Then he tried to say he was okay, except nothing came out, and he heaved a desperate breath and burst into tears. Dean gathered him up in his arms and shushed him and held him close while he sobbed out his belated pain and fear.
Ellen came with a first aid kit and cleaned up the scrapes on his arm and his hip and his cheek. He hadn’t broken any of his resilient toddler bones, but the abraded skin stung and the little bump on his head ached, and he refused to be taken away from Dean during the patching-up process. Dean sat patiently, cross-legged on the concrete floor of the garage with Sammy in his arms, while Ellen gently cleaned out the scrapes and applied antibiotic cream and band-aids. When she finished and went to put away the kit, it was Dean who kissed the band-aid places to make them heal faster. Sam thought maybe Ellen didn’t know about doing that, which was weird, because she was a mom.
There’s nothing like the high of riding a show. He and Dean are on tonight, even more in tune with each other than usual and riding hot through the whole fifteen-minute routine. The roar of the crowd follows the team back to the prep area, and Sam pulls in to see that Dean’s already off his bike and mauling Bobby. Sam yanks off his helmet and hands off his own bike, lets Pamela wheel it away, before Dean turns to him with that brilliant face and lights up impossibly further. He’s like the sun, Sam orbiting him in their own private solar system, and he’s feeling the pull of his brother’s gravity stronger and stronger by the day.
Did we rock it or did we not, brother? Dean demands, and Sam smacks his palms and then grabs them, yanking him in for a fierce hug. Adrenaline buzzes through him and he can’t think of any better way to celebrate than to have Dean as close to him as possible.
I think we rocked it.
But the rest of the world still exists, and the results still aren’t in, so he lets Dean go with a last pat on the shoulder, unable to stop himself touching one more time.
There’s nothing like the high after a show.
They’ve won, of course. Winchester's Hunters, dominating their quarter-final, are one step closer to winning the Apocalypse tournament. It's almost surreal.
Later, after the media interviews and the celebration, when the intense discussion and analysis have run their course and the relaxed, contented part of the night has arrived, Sam sits with Dean in the cooling desert night.
They’ve both been drinking pretty steadily all evening, but Sam’s been holding his liquor better for a while now, and he’s not too far gone. It doesn’t matter, though; when he looks over at Dean, sitting there with his head tipped back and his eyes shut, enjoying the breeze, he still can’t imagine wanting anything else, now, tonight, ever.
He’s going to do something stupid soon, so he leans over and jostles his brother instead. Falling asleep already?
Dean slits his eyes open, squinting a little, and they glitter in the moonlight when he grins. Nah, just appreciating the moment. You look like you’re the one who’s about to keel over. Lightweight.
Sam shakes his head helplessly, because there’s no way he can explain to Dean right now what he makes him want to do, how the fact of him sitting there makes him want so much more, and having him at all should be enough but holding it all in is exhausting. Dean is exhausting him.
Dean reaches out to brush back the hair that’s fallen over Sam’s eyes, and it’s all he can do not to lean into the touch. He was going to make some kind of smart comeback, he was, but the gesture, automatic and intimate, stalls him. For a moment, looking at Dean, at the open affection in his eyes, Sam thinks, what if...?
Yeah? prompts Dean softly, and Sam realizes he’s been looking at him for some time. He shakes his head, deflects. Makes that smart comeback.
Deflection’s only going to keep working for so long.
Anything Dean did, Sam wanted to do. The first time he got to ride a bike by himself, Sam threw an epic tantrum and sulked for days afterwards because he couldn’t. The first trick Dean learned, Sam wanted to copy. No matter how many times Bobby, Ellen, Dean - anyone - explained, Sam would not accept that he couldn’t follow his brother all the time. Every time it happened, every time Dean hit a new milestone that was years away for Sam, it reminded him how far ahead Dean was. Even as he grew up and started to understand the physical reasons for all his restrictions, he couldn’t get over the half-formed fear that he’d never catch up to Dean, that someday Dean would get so far ahead that he’d never look back.
Today, though, for no apparent reason, Sam was pretty content. He and Dean were just messing around the practice arena; Sam was working up to a bar-hop, and for now he was just doing straight jumps, but without the agitation he usually felt about things these days. He concentrated on his technique, focusing on his timing and angles, making sure everything was second nature. He knew Dean was watching him out of the corner of his eye, off at the other end running through some basic tricks, and for once, Sam wasn’t antsy about catching up. Being on a bike was what he loved, and he let himself get absorbed in it, just enjoying the sensation of doing something he was awesome at. After landing yet another jump that felt like home, he felt satisfied that Bobby would let him start learning the trick once he saw how comfortable Sam had gotten on the ramps.
He could keep going. He loved the feeling of being airborne, of having control in the middle of something that would freak out most kids his age, but Dean was doing his thing down the other end, and watching Dean was something Sam didn’t think he’d ever get tired of. He gunned his bike toward the other end and pulled up off to the side, out of the way.
Dean glanced over, their eyes meeting briefly across the distance, before he went back to what he was doing. Just goofing around, riding a wheelie for a bit, looping around the two sides of the ramp, and finally going for a last jump.
Dean’s seat-grab was as good as anyone’s on the team, even though he’d never actually ridden out for a show. Sam watched as his brother hit the edge of the ramp, and then hit the top of his arc, lifting away from his bike like gravity had let him go for a moment. Time slowed, and Sam could see the bunching muscles in Dean’s arms through his sleeves, the grip of his fingers, the set of his head on his neck, the long lines of his legs, and then everything coalesced again, Dean and his bike becoming a single unit once more, and he landed the jump and swooped over to Sam, skidding to a stop in front of him.
He yanked off his helmet, grinning. “Jealous, Sammy?”
Sam grinned back, but slowly, still feeling like time was not quite progressing properly. Dean’s face was too bright, shiny with sweat in the sunlight, and Sam found himself tracking a drop down his brother’s neck. Distracted, it took him a little too long to find a comeback, and Dean, interpreting that to mean he’d hit a nerve, pulled himself down a notch.
“Hey, you know I didn’t mean that. You’re looking really good, there’s no way Bobby’ll hold you back now, kiddo.”
Sam shook his head, blinking, mildly frustrated without quite understanding why. “Yeah, I know.” He flashed another brief smile. “Thanks, Dean. I’m just... let’s just go back. I need a shower.”
They rode back together. Sam had his shower; when he came out, Dean tugged at his wet hair and threatened to cut it again, and things were back to normal.
As if the stress of competing in the first-ever national group motocross tournament isn't enough, there's an extra monkey wrench to worry about. The advent of Azazel’s prefab dream team on the GFMX scene is nothing but bad news. With its blatant poaching and cutthroat sponsorship tactics, the corporate nightmare that can afford to buy its riders’ loyalty spreads fear and dissent across the nation.
It’s getting to Sam, a little. He’s never seen the Demons perform, but everyone’s heard the rumours, and they’ve bought top-notch talent, no doubt about it. He knows his team is awesome - he knows he and Dean are awesome - but there’s uncertainty that he can’t shake. That wouldn’t be so bad - they’re just another team to compete against, from one perspective - but the headhunting seriously upsets him if he thinks about it for too long. For one thing, it’s a soulless way to put a team together and it goes against the spirit of the entire sport, and for another, there is no way his brother won’t eventually be a target. Dean’s a headliner, the older brother, effectively the team leader. There’s no way he’s not in their scope.
Dean wouldn’t leave. His team is his family is his life, and other people would probably laugh at Sam’s certainty, people who didn’t know Dean, but there’s no possibility that anything Azazel might offer could tempt him. He’s uptight about something, though, has been for a while, way longer than the anniversaries of their parents’ deaths should account for, and Sam’s best guess is that Dean’s as upset about the Demons as he is. If they approached Dean with an offer, they'd be lucky to leave with their faces intact.
He can’t think of anything else that might be bothering Dean, but if it’s Azazel, it’s still a little weird. He knows Dean won’t defect; he wonders if Dean realizes that. Maybe he’s somehow worrying that Sam’s doubting him? It’s kind of convoluted, yeah, but under that straightforward biker exterior, Dean is a damn cipher sometimes.
Then again, it could be something completely different, and whatever it is, it’s messing with Dean. Neither of them is particularly keen on talking about stuff like this, but Sam doesn’t see any other option. At least if he broaches a conversation, maybe Dean will give him a clue to what’s really wrong.
He finds Dean kind of by accident in the practice arena, just doing jumps. Even as he approaches he can’t quite suppress the surge of little-boy admiration, that awe in his big brother that he’s had to squelch for so many years, afraid that if he lets any of it slip out it’ll drag everything else with it into the open. Dean comes to meet him, and he makes sure nothing’s showing on his face.
He came over to take a break from hauling equipment and get in a little practice, but it seems like as good a time as any, so he asks. He gets the beginning of a brush-off - Nothing, dude, I swear - but the attached excuse seems to confirm that it’s Azazel that’s got Dean off balance. Except he’s hiding his face, putting his helmet back on as he talks.
Sam bites his lip, rolls with it. Even if it’s not the whole truth, it’s a legitimate source of stress, and they should probably talk about it. He tentatively brings up the headhunting - What if they come to us?
Dean’s reaction is not what he expects. Why? Would you consider it? Sharp, like he believes it’s a possibility, and Sam just doesn’t know what to do with that. He blurts out a denial, vehement, and fumbles to explain why it’s impossible, unthinkable, without coming out and saying what he really wants to. What comes out is close enough.
I would never leave you.
Dean looks away, then, drops his eyes, but Sam saw. The relief there, a gut-deep thing that he wasn’t supposed to witness. Years’ worth of practice gets him through the rest of the conversation, mask of sarcasm and levity firmly in place, but he has food for thought. For later.
Right now, they’re going to practice being awesome together.
When Sam was in ninth grade, things became irrevocably complicated. The catalyst was an English essay.
Mrs. Coulter instructed them to write a paper about someone they admired. Everyone groaned, because this was totally a sixth-grade assignment, and Mrs. Coulter told them sharply that she expected a great deal more depth from them than she’d expect from sixth-graders, and no one was getting out of this.
Sam didn’t mind. It was pretty much a given that he’d pick Dean as his subject, and he never gave it a second thought until he sat down to actually write the thing and realised that if Dean happened to read any of it over his shoulder, he was never, ever going to live it down. It was a daunting thought, but Dean was out training, and he thought he should be able to get it finished in the hour or so before Dean was due back. Really, this was probably the easiest paper he was going to have to write in his entire academic career, ever.
He started writing.
Forty-five minutes later, the door banged open and Dean came tromping in. “Hey, little brother!” he called, heading straight for the kitchen and a glass of water before he came into their room, where Sam had been working at the rickety little table he called a desk. Sam was yanked out of his paper with a jolt - it was almost done, and what if Dean saw? He didn’t have time to analyze why it seemed so world-endingly terrible that Dean might read what Sam had written about him; he was busy shoving down his panic. The kitchen detour gave Sam a little time to pull himself together and hide the paper under a textbook, swiveling around on his creaky chair to face his brother as he entered their room. He tried for normal, but he was too unnerved to put on much of a show, and Dean, damn his attention, noticed.
“’m I interrupting something?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.
“No, just homework.” Sam almost winced at how his voice came out a little unstable, a little breathless, but at least, thank God, it hadn’t cracked.
“Right.” Dean smirked. “Homework makes you blush like a girl. Not like I care, but you might wanna save it for the shower, dude.”
Sam’s face burned hotter, right out to his ears. “I wasn’t!” he protested, voice splitting awkwardly this time, not doing him any favours in the credibility department.
“What, then,” Dean was disbelievingly mocking, “you writing some girl a love letter? You gotta know, Sammy, poetry ain’t gonna get you...”
“Shut up!” He couldn’t handle Dean like this, not right now. “Just shut up, Dean.” He wanted to disappear, just sink right into a hole in the ground and never come out. Failing that, the best he could do was leave. He shoved himself up from the chair, which protested with a loud squawk, and pushed past his bemused brother to the door. Pausing just outside, he turned and added, “And my name isn’t Sammy, it’s Sam.”
Dean said, “Okay, hey, wait a minute, Sam,” but then Sam was out of the house and Dean wasn’t following. Sam had a momentary grave misgiving about leaving Dean alone where he might find the paper, but it wasn’t likely he’d actually go looking through Sam’s desk. All that was usually on it was schoolwork, and it wasn’t like Dean was going to start digging through his little brother’s math worksheets or anything like that. Dean was probably just shrugging off Sam’s outburst as hormone-related, and going ahead with his usual shower.
The sudden flare-up of anger didn’t last very long, but its impetus carried Sam out behind the garage, where the shade was cool and the grass was long. He leaned against the concrete and slid uncomfortably down to sit with his knees up and his head resting against the wall, eyes closing as the last of his anger ebbed. It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t. Probably Dean had already dismissed the whole scene; god knew he hadn’t exactly been a model citizen when he’d gone through puberty. He was probably more interested in getting the sweat and grime of the day’s practice off his skin, pulling off his damp t-shirt and wiping off his face and chest with it the way he always did. He’d be streaking the dirt around even worse, but that didn’t matter, because he was headed for the tiny bathroom, wide shoulders working as he undid his jeans, shucked his boxers and stepped out of everything, and then he’d turn on the water and get into the shower and what the hell, Sam was hard in his jeans and touching himself.
A high, startled sound escaped him as he realised what he was doing, but he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t find the brakes. He pictured the water running down his brother’s muscled back, over his chest, pictured Dean tilting his head back to wet his hair, exposing his throat. Sam was rubbing himself through his jeans, hips hitching desperately, the urgent friction so necessary he couldn’t even stop to get his fly open and his hand inside. He whined low in his throat, tried to swallow the sound, bit down on his lip to keep himself from crying out. He thought of Dean with his hands all over himself, washing away the dirt, maybe taking his cock in his hand and doing the same thing that Sam was doing right now, and that was it. He spurted in his pants with a ragged, stifled moan, bright pleasure washing through him, as hard as he’d ever come since he found out what else his dick was for.
For a few minutes he couldn’t do much but sit there behind the garage, shocked and panting. He opened his eyes, finally, a little surprised that the sky was still blue and bright, that the grass was still green when he’d just gotten off thinking about his big brother.
Later, he thought about scrapping his essay, terrified that somehow anyone reading it would know. In the end, though, he carefully finished the last paragraph when Dean wasn’t around and handed it in early.
Sam is all about planning. He makes lists, he weighs the pros and cons, and he follows through on his determined course of action. It made him awesome at schoolwork and it’s served him well his whole life, even though sometimes his plans fall through.
This time it’s more of an experiment, carefully worked out for minimum risk. Throughout the rest of the afternoon, he’s been thinking about the conversation with Dean out at the practice arena, and what it meant. He’s been wondering how to interpret it; after the shock of learning that his brother was capable of thinking he might leave, he’s been trying to make sense of Dean’s reaction to his declaration to the contrary.
If it were him, he knows why he’d be so scared, so relieved. It’s not him, though. And, okay, maybe he’s reading too much into this, because Dean’s his brother, and you don’t bail on your family like that.
But he can’t shake the idea that it might be more. That the fact that Dean loves him and would be devastated if he left could have the potential to be what Sam never thought was possible. Dean is still keeping something from him, and Sam is driving himself slowly insane trying to come up with alternatives that don’t cause a feral, fluttering hope to rise in his chest. He’s been keeping his feelings bottled up for years, and with the strain of this competition season on top of everything else, he’s dangerously low on fortitude right now. Something’s eating Dean, something even he can’t or won’t explain, and Sam has to know if there’s even a chance that there could be anything there.
Outwardly he goes on as usual, because he’s fucking ace at pretending nothing’s up, but he’s planning.
It was months before Sam could properly come to terms with what he felt for his brother. Even then, he was sure it was something he could change. It was just because they lived in such close quarters all the time, he argued to himself, and he already admired Dean. It had to be just the proximity that had pushed him across the line from wanting a body like his brother’s to wanting his brother’s body.
Gradually, he formulated a plan.
The plan involved other boys, boys who weren’t Dean. If he was just wired to like boys, maybe he was only fixating on Dean because Dean was always there and there weren’t really any other targets. In the summertime, though, they picked up crew, and there were usually a lot of younger guys in the mix. Most of them were older than Dean, but a couple were around his age or younger, and Sam was fifteen now and starting to look it. He was still kind of skinny, but growing fast, and he was pretty well liked. Maybe, if he could find somebody a little closer to his age, he could get over Dean. That was the plan, going in.
The first one was seventeen and his name was Alex. He was taller than Sam and pretty muscular for a seventeen-year-old, with short blond hair and a friendly, slightly gap-toothed grin; he was tagging along with his uncle, one of the bike techs, to learn the ropes. Sam was always friendly with all the new people, learning names quickly and interested in what they had to say, so it wasn’t hard to strike up a conversation with Alex. He told Sam he wasn’t sure what he wanted to be, but bikes were cool, and it might be cool to work on them.
Sam couldn’t say he was impressed by the guy’s intellect, but he saw how Alex looked at him, and thought, what the hell. It ended up as a rushed exchange of handjobs in a storage shed, and they both felt awkward enough afterward that they didn’t really talk for the rest of the summer. So that didn’t work out.
The next one was actually almost a year older than Dean, and Sam fully realized that what he was angling for was statutory rape, but if anyone could get him over Dean, it would be someone like Mark - tall, built, dark eyes and longish dark hair, and a face just this side of too square. Not a Dean substitute in looks, and yeah, Sam thought about these things; now that he was paying attention, he could see other men besides his brother as attractive, and Mark was definitely attractive in a way that he felt in his gut. He left it for a few weeks after Alex, made cautious by the experience, but he didn’t think he was imagining the way Mark’s eyes followed him, zeroing in on the exposed skin of his belly when he stretched. Unfortunately, Dean had a fairly acute awareness of what Sam was doing at any given time, so Sam was going to have to be very careful.
Dean, of course, was in the habit of trying to seduce any pretty thing that would look at him twice, so if you paid attention, it was pretty easy to figure out when he was getting laid. All Sam had to do was make sure anything that happened with Mark happened within that time frame, and that Bobby and Ellen didn’t catch on.
Provided he could get anything to happen with Mark in the first place. He genuinely liked Mark; the guy wasn’t brilliantly witty, but he had a shrewd, grown-up sense of humour that excited and drew Sam, and he liked talking about bikes and engines, which Sam was always up for, so before anything else, they actually got on pretty well. And Mark - well, Mark was a good guy. Mark was not the kind of guy to take advantage of a kid three-quarters his age, as he explained somewhat desperately to Sam when Sam found him tinkering with an older bike after hours and finally cornered him.
“I know,” said Sam. “That’s why I want it to be you.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking for, Sam.” It was obvious that Mark was about an inch away from losing the self-control that kept him backing up every time Sam tried close the three feet between them.
“Yeah,” said Sam, “I do.” It was only half true, but it was true enough to say out loud.
“I don’t want to be that guy,” was Mark’s final plea.
“What if I want you to be?” Sam took another step forward, and Mark hit the wall and cursed, pupils blown with lust. “What if I told you this is the best thing you can do for me right now?” He kept his voice deliberately low, hoping for seductive, and stepped right into Mark’s space, defiantly meeting his eyes.
Mark cursed again, drawn out and half inaudible even to Sam, and Sam could see the instant his restraint broke. The next moment, strong, callused hands gripped his face, and Mark was kissing him like he was about to disappear. Sam clutched at his grease-stained t-shirt and pushed into him eagerly, opening to Mark’s tongue, letting him do what he wanted, loving every second of it, trying to believe he wasn’t imagining Dean behind his closed eyelids. After a few passive moments, he felt bold enough to try to reciprocate, sliding his tongue out along Mark’s and clumsily probing behind his teeth. Mark groaned quietly and let go of Sam’s face with one hand, sliding it down to his hip, and Sam shifted forward, bringing his denim-covered erection into contact with Mark’s strong thigh. This close, he felt the hot press of Mark’s arousal against his hip, and tentatively rubbed up against him. The response was a bitten-off curse, and Mark took his hips in both hands and shifted him further off centre, directing Sam away from the bulge in his work jeans, but at the same time gently encouraging Sam to keep on going. One large rough hand slid up Sam’s back under his shirt, a hand so like Dean’s, and maybe this wasn’t going to work, but the other hand settled just above his ass, and Sam took the hint - was past the ability not to, at this point. His hips moved without conscious input from him, and his head dropped back, pleasure sparking through him. Mark left his mouth and kissed along his jaw, behind his ear, down his neck, and it was a good thing he was holding him, Sam thought dizzily as he clung, because he wasn’t sure his legs would bear his weight.
It was over pretty quickly. For a moment, Sam pressed his face into Mark’s shoulder and tried to get his bearings, and then remembered that Mark was still in need. He reached for his waistband, but his hands were caught and trapped.
“Not here,” said Mark. “Can you come by my trailer later?”
That summer, Mark taught Sam nearly everything he knew. It wasn’t enough.
Late in August, he was on his knees in Mark’s trailer, loving that he was nearly choking, hating that it wasn’t Dean. It was one of his inconvenient moments of clarity, and it was impossible to ignore. When he got up and kissed Mark, it was for the last time.
Let it never be said that Sam Winchester doesn’t make the most of the resources at hand.
This morning, when they were starting to get settled into the current training camp, he met the lot attendant, a little blonde girl named Cindy who’s new this summer. After his conversation and impromptu practice with Dean at the practice arena, he’s gone back to moving equipment around, occasionally taking a break and chatting with Cindy some more. Sam always enjoys talking to new people, and Cindy has some good stories from college. It’s enough to make him wonder what it would have been like if he’d gone, but not nearly enough to make him seriously consider it. Mostly it’s just interesting to hear about.
The fact that Cindy is seriously hot definitely doesn’t hurt his enjoyment of their conversations. She’s wearing a flouncy white skirt and these impractical spindly heels that just about anybody else would break an ankle over, and it’s kind of incredible, but at one point Sam witnesses her running in those things. She’s petite and bouncy and has a killer smile, and she’s also very, very obvious. In short, exactly what he’s looking for.
Sam has found that, as he gets older, the girls in his age group get easier. Cindy seems like she wants to make things very easy for Sam, and it fits right in with his half-formed plan.
In the evening, when most everything’s been set up and people are starting to turn in, Cindy’s still hanging around, throwing him those glances. He’s pretty grimy, been working up a sweat hauling shit around all day, but he figures if she doesn’t care, he doesn’t have to. They start up another conversation composed largely of flirting, and end up wandering a little aimlessly as they talk. Sam, though, knows exactly where they’re going; he’s careful not to seem too much like he’s steering, but they end up back among the living trailers, and soon they’re alone between Victor and Corbett’s empty trailer and Sam’s own.
There’s enough light to see by, but there’s no one else around; they’re blocked off from the rest of the camp, no one to see or hear. Except for Dean, who went to bed an hour ago.
They come to a stop, and Cindy steps deliberately away from him to lean on the bike that’s standing there. It’s Sam’s bike, but he doesn’t think she knows that. Girl’s got good instincts, though; hot girl plus bike is generally a winning combination, and Sam’s not exactly immune to the effect. Smirking, she hops up onto the seat, feet dangling, and yeah, it’s a nice visual.
Mostly, thought, he’s hyper-aware of Dean, presumably sleeping on the other side of the thin trailer wall. If he knows Dean, he won’t be asleep for much longer. Maybe he’s awake even now. After all, Sam’s in the vicinity, and Dean has a history of paying really close attention to his brother.
It’s worth a shot, right?
He has no idea what they’re even talking about anymore; he’s fairly certain the conversation stopped having any importance some time back. So he steps in, leans one hand on the seat next to her, takes her jaw gently in his other hand, and kisses her.
It’s a bit like a floodgate opening. Pretty soon she’s got his shirt off, and then he gets rid of hers, her pretty little breasts fitting so soft and easy in his hands. He leans down to suck one pert nipple into his mouth, and she drops her head back with a soft gasp.
His undershirt goes next, and then her skirt and panties, and then he’s lifting her by the hips, shifting her to get a better angle before he goes down.
He likes doing this; it’s never grossed him out, and being able to make a girl come with just his mouth is kind of a point of pride. And, sure, it gets him hot. Now, though, he’s so turned on he can hardly even concentrate on what he’s doing, and there’s no question about what the difference is this time: it’s a performance. This is for Dean. Sure, he might be sleeping, but the chance that he’s not? The thought that Dean might wake up in the middle of this and look out, might already be watching? It’s making Sam crazy.
Cindy flutters around his tongue and comes with a broken-off cry, and he rides it out, mouth still busy, until she pulls him up and reaches for his fly.
If Dean is watching this...
Even as she pulls him out and starts working, her small hands clever with perfect friction, part of his mind is working to convince the rest that he’s an idiot. Most of his brain, though, is stuck on the sensations rippling through him, and the absurd, frantic fantasy that his brother is witness to this, that his brother will see him for what he is.
The thought pushes him over the edge faster than Cindy alone ever could, and he comes with a groan.
There’s a thud from inside the trailer, and Sam almost stops breathing, turning his head to look. The light’s wrong, he can’t see in the window, but he knows what he heard.
Maybe Dean’s just shocked at Sam’s lack of consideration.
Maybe he rolled over too far in his sleep.
Maybe.
Sam turns back to Cindy, who’s looking thoroughly pleased with herself. He kisses her again, then cleans her off, and the bike - there’s come all over his shirt now, but better his clothing than hers.
When she’s dressed again, he offers to walk her back to her uncle’s house across the lot, but she says she’ll be fine, so he lets her go alone. It’s a closed lot, anyway.
When he opens his trailer he’s hit with an unmistakable smell. It’s faint, but it’s there, and Sam’s pulse kicks up a few notches, thumping in his throat. He goes in and takes his shoes off, walks over to stand between their beds. Dean is breathing deeply and evenly and doing a damn good job of feigning sleep, but he’s never figured out that the way he breathes when he’s actually asleep isn’t quite that smooth.
Sam thinks about calling him on it, but this isn’t the time. He turns around and gets into his own bed. Much as his brain wants to keep him awake, his body just had an orgasm, and he falls asleep almost immediately.
Part II
Fandom: Supernatural (AU)
Pairings: Sam/Dean (primary), Sam/OMCs, Sam/OFCs
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 22 000
Warnings: incest, sexual situations involving a minor, statutory rape (consensual - Sam is 15)
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to these characters, nor even this plot.
Notes: This is basically a Sam-PoV retelling of lazy_daze's Big Bang fic, Supercross. I'm extremely grateful to lazy_daze for greenlighting this, for agreeing to look it over before I posted, and for generally being awesome about the whole thing.
Sam doesn’t really remember his parents. He was just a baby when his mom died; he only knows about her because Dean and Bobby and Ellen told him stories. He has a vague recollection of his dad, strong gentle hands and a gruff voice, but he wasn’t even three when his father rode away to his last FMX competition and got his spine crushed attempting a double backflip.
Every show is dedicated to their memory, and Sam appreciates the gesture, but he knows it’s more for the people who actually remember them. It’s Bobby and Ellen carrying on, with respect for the founders of the team, in loving memory of their best friends. Everyone who’s joined up with them has been filled in; they all know what it’s about, and they respect the origins. But at this point, honestly, very few of the crew and even fewer of the riders ever knew John and Mary.
Sam is okay with not remembering. He sometimes feels like he shouldn’t be, like he should miss the memories he doesn’t have, but that’s not the way it works. He doesn’t have parents, but he has Bobby and Ellen and the team.
Mostly, he has Dean. That’s really all he needs.
The first bike Sam ever sat on was a motorcycle. It was also the first bike he ever fell off of. Both things happened on the same day.
He was four, and he was bored, and he was always, always curious, and he wanted to see what it was like way up on Uncle Bobby’s big Yamaha. So he climbed up carefully, clambering with heroic effort of chubby arms and legs up to the leather seat. Once there, though, stuck in the dip of the saddle, he couldn’t reach the handlebars; that was frustrating, so he stretched as far as he could, steadying himself with his right hand on the front of the saddle, leaning over with his left arm out, aiming for the handlebar...
...and coming just short, and he’d leaned too far to get his balance back. His little body slipped right off the bike, and he got out a yelp made up of equal parts frustration and fear before he hit concrete and the wind went out of him in a whoosh.
He was so startled by the impact that for a moment he didn’t even think about crying. He didn’t even notice he wasn’t breathing until Dean appeared out of nowhere, frantic, saying, “Sammy, are you okay? Are you hurt? Sammy, look at me, Sammy, where does it hurt?” Then he tried to say he was okay, except nothing came out, and he heaved a desperate breath and burst into tears. Dean gathered him up in his arms and shushed him and held him close while he sobbed out his belated pain and fear.
Ellen came with a first aid kit and cleaned up the scrapes on his arm and his hip and his cheek. He hadn’t broken any of his resilient toddler bones, but the abraded skin stung and the little bump on his head ached, and he refused to be taken away from Dean during the patching-up process. Dean sat patiently, cross-legged on the concrete floor of the garage with Sammy in his arms, while Ellen gently cleaned out the scrapes and applied antibiotic cream and band-aids. When she finished and went to put away the kit, it was Dean who kissed the band-aid places to make them heal faster. Sam thought maybe Ellen didn’t know about doing that, which was weird, because she was a mom.
There’s nothing like the high of riding a show. He and Dean are on tonight, even more in tune with each other than usual and riding hot through the whole fifteen-minute routine. The roar of the crowd follows the team back to the prep area, and Sam pulls in to see that Dean’s already off his bike and mauling Bobby. Sam yanks off his helmet and hands off his own bike, lets Pamela wheel it away, before Dean turns to him with that brilliant face and lights up impossibly further. He’s like the sun, Sam orbiting him in their own private solar system, and he’s feeling the pull of his brother’s gravity stronger and stronger by the day.
Did we rock it or did we not, brother? Dean demands, and Sam smacks his palms and then grabs them, yanking him in for a fierce hug. Adrenaline buzzes through him and he can’t think of any better way to celebrate than to have Dean as close to him as possible.
I think we rocked it.
But the rest of the world still exists, and the results still aren’t in, so he lets Dean go with a last pat on the shoulder, unable to stop himself touching one more time.
There’s nothing like the high after a show.
They’ve won, of course. Winchester's Hunters, dominating their quarter-final, are one step closer to winning the Apocalypse tournament. It's almost surreal.
Later, after the media interviews and the celebration, when the intense discussion and analysis have run their course and the relaxed, contented part of the night has arrived, Sam sits with Dean in the cooling desert night.
They’ve both been drinking pretty steadily all evening, but Sam’s been holding his liquor better for a while now, and he’s not too far gone. It doesn’t matter, though; when he looks over at Dean, sitting there with his head tipped back and his eyes shut, enjoying the breeze, he still can’t imagine wanting anything else, now, tonight, ever.
He’s going to do something stupid soon, so he leans over and jostles his brother instead. Falling asleep already?
Dean slits his eyes open, squinting a little, and they glitter in the moonlight when he grins. Nah, just appreciating the moment. You look like you’re the one who’s about to keel over. Lightweight.
Sam shakes his head helplessly, because there’s no way he can explain to Dean right now what he makes him want to do, how the fact of him sitting there makes him want so much more, and having him at all should be enough but holding it all in is exhausting. Dean is exhausting him.
Dean reaches out to brush back the hair that’s fallen over Sam’s eyes, and it’s all he can do not to lean into the touch. He was going to make some kind of smart comeback, he was, but the gesture, automatic and intimate, stalls him. For a moment, looking at Dean, at the open affection in his eyes, Sam thinks, what if...?
Yeah? prompts Dean softly, and Sam realizes he’s been looking at him for some time. He shakes his head, deflects. Makes that smart comeback.
Deflection’s only going to keep working for so long.
Anything Dean did, Sam wanted to do. The first time he got to ride a bike by himself, Sam threw an epic tantrum and sulked for days afterwards because he couldn’t. The first trick Dean learned, Sam wanted to copy. No matter how many times Bobby, Ellen, Dean - anyone - explained, Sam would not accept that he couldn’t follow his brother all the time. Every time it happened, every time Dean hit a new milestone that was years away for Sam, it reminded him how far ahead Dean was. Even as he grew up and started to understand the physical reasons for all his restrictions, he couldn’t get over the half-formed fear that he’d never catch up to Dean, that someday Dean would get so far ahead that he’d never look back.
Today, though, for no apparent reason, Sam was pretty content. He and Dean were just messing around the practice arena; Sam was working up to a bar-hop, and for now he was just doing straight jumps, but without the agitation he usually felt about things these days. He concentrated on his technique, focusing on his timing and angles, making sure everything was second nature. He knew Dean was watching him out of the corner of his eye, off at the other end running through some basic tricks, and for once, Sam wasn’t antsy about catching up. Being on a bike was what he loved, and he let himself get absorbed in it, just enjoying the sensation of doing something he was awesome at. After landing yet another jump that felt like home, he felt satisfied that Bobby would let him start learning the trick once he saw how comfortable Sam had gotten on the ramps.
He could keep going. He loved the feeling of being airborne, of having control in the middle of something that would freak out most kids his age, but Dean was doing his thing down the other end, and watching Dean was something Sam didn’t think he’d ever get tired of. He gunned his bike toward the other end and pulled up off to the side, out of the way.
Dean glanced over, their eyes meeting briefly across the distance, before he went back to what he was doing. Just goofing around, riding a wheelie for a bit, looping around the two sides of the ramp, and finally going for a last jump.
Dean’s seat-grab was as good as anyone’s on the team, even though he’d never actually ridden out for a show. Sam watched as his brother hit the edge of the ramp, and then hit the top of his arc, lifting away from his bike like gravity had let him go for a moment. Time slowed, and Sam could see the bunching muscles in Dean’s arms through his sleeves, the grip of his fingers, the set of his head on his neck, the long lines of his legs, and then everything coalesced again, Dean and his bike becoming a single unit once more, and he landed the jump and swooped over to Sam, skidding to a stop in front of him.
He yanked off his helmet, grinning. “Jealous, Sammy?”
Sam grinned back, but slowly, still feeling like time was not quite progressing properly. Dean’s face was too bright, shiny with sweat in the sunlight, and Sam found himself tracking a drop down his brother’s neck. Distracted, it took him a little too long to find a comeback, and Dean, interpreting that to mean he’d hit a nerve, pulled himself down a notch.
“Hey, you know I didn’t mean that. You’re looking really good, there’s no way Bobby’ll hold you back now, kiddo.”
Sam shook his head, blinking, mildly frustrated without quite understanding why. “Yeah, I know.” He flashed another brief smile. “Thanks, Dean. I’m just... let’s just go back. I need a shower.”
They rode back together. Sam had his shower; when he came out, Dean tugged at his wet hair and threatened to cut it again, and things were back to normal.
As if the stress of competing in the first-ever national group motocross tournament isn't enough, there's an extra monkey wrench to worry about. The advent of Azazel’s prefab dream team on the GFMX scene is nothing but bad news. With its blatant poaching and cutthroat sponsorship tactics, the corporate nightmare that can afford to buy its riders’ loyalty spreads fear and dissent across the nation.
It’s getting to Sam, a little. He’s never seen the Demons perform, but everyone’s heard the rumours, and they’ve bought top-notch talent, no doubt about it. He knows his team is awesome - he knows he and Dean are awesome - but there’s uncertainty that he can’t shake. That wouldn’t be so bad - they’re just another team to compete against, from one perspective - but the headhunting seriously upsets him if he thinks about it for too long. For one thing, it’s a soulless way to put a team together and it goes against the spirit of the entire sport, and for another, there is no way his brother won’t eventually be a target. Dean’s a headliner, the older brother, effectively the team leader. There’s no way he’s not in their scope.
Dean wouldn’t leave. His team is his family is his life, and other people would probably laugh at Sam’s certainty, people who didn’t know Dean, but there’s no possibility that anything Azazel might offer could tempt him. He’s uptight about something, though, has been for a while, way longer than the anniversaries of their parents’ deaths should account for, and Sam’s best guess is that Dean’s as upset about the Demons as he is. If they approached Dean with an offer, they'd be lucky to leave with their faces intact.
He can’t think of anything else that might be bothering Dean, but if it’s Azazel, it’s still a little weird. He knows Dean won’t defect; he wonders if Dean realizes that. Maybe he’s somehow worrying that Sam’s doubting him? It’s kind of convoluted, yeah, but under that straightforward biker exterior, Dean is a damn cipher sometimes.
Then again, it could be something completely different, and whatever it is, it’s messing with Dean. Neither of them is particularly keen on talking about stuff like this, but Sam doesn’t see any other option. At least if he broaches a conversation, maybe Dean will give him a clue to what’s really wrong.
He finds Dean kind of by accident in the practice arena, just doing jumps. Even as he approaches he can’t quite suppress the surge of little-boy admiration, that awe in his big brother that he’s had to squelch for so many years, afraid that if he lets any of it slip out it’ll drag everything else with it into the open. Dean comes to meet him, and he makes sure nothing’s showing on his face.
He came over to take a break from hauling equipment and get in a little practice, but it seems like as good a time as any, so he asks. He gets the beginning of a brush-off - Nothing, dude, I swear - but the attached excuse seems to confirm that it’s Azazel that’s got Dean off balance. Except he’s hiding his face, putting his helmet back on as he talks.
Sam bites his lip, rolls with it. Even if it’s not the whole truth, it’s a legitimate source of stress, and they should probably talk about it. He tentatively brings up the headhunting - What if they come to us?
Dean’s reaction is not what he expects. Why? Would you consider it? Sharp, like he believes it’s a possibility, and Sam just doesn’t know what to do with that. He blurts out a denial, vehement, and fumbles to explain why it’s impossible, unthinkable, without coming out and saying what he really wants to. What comes out is close enough.
I would never leave you.
Dean looks away, then, drops his eyes, but Sam saw. The relief there, a gut-deep thing that he wasn’t supposed to witness. Years’ worth of practice gets him through the rest of the conversation, mask of sarcasm and levity firmly in place, but he has food for thought. For later.
Right now, they’re going to practice being awesome together.
When Sam was in ninth grade, things became irrevocably complicated. The catalyst was an English essay.
Mrs. Coulter instructed them to write a paper about someone they admired. Everyone groaned, because this was totally a sixth-grade assignment, and Mrs. Coulter told them sharply that she expected a great deal more depth from them than she’d expect from sixth-graders, and no one was getting out of this.
Sam didn’t mind. It was pretty much a given that he’d pick Dean as his subject, and he never gave it a second thought until he sat down to actually write the thing and realised that if Dean happened to read any of it over his shoulder, he was never, ever going to live it down. It was a daunting thought, but Dean was out training, and he thought he should be able to get it finished in the hour or so before Dean was due back. Really, this was probably the easiest paper he was going to have to write in his entire academic career, ever.
He started writing.
Forty-five minutes later, the door banged open and Dean came tromping in. “Hey, little brother!” he called, heading straight for the kitchen and a glass of water before he came into their room, where Sam had been working at the rickety little table he called a desk. Sam was yanked out of his paper with a jolt - it was almost done, and what if Dean saw? He didn’t have time to analyze why it seemed so world-endingly terrible that Dean might read what Sam had written about him; he was busy shoving down his panic. The kitchen detour gave Sam a little time to pull himself together and hide the paper under a textbook, swiveling around on his creaky chair to face his brother as he entered their room. He tried for normal, but he was too unnerved to put on much of a show, and Dean, damn his attention, noticed.
“’m I interrupting something?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.
“No, just homework.” Sam almost winced at how his voice came out a little unstable, a little breathless, but at least, thank God, it hadn’t cracked.
“Right.” Dean smirked. “Homework makes you blush like a girl. Not like I care, but you might wanna save it for the shower, dude.”
Sam’s face burned hotter, right out to his ears. “I wasn’t!” he protested, voice splitting awkwardly this time, not doing him any favours in the credibility department.
“What, then,” Dean was disbelievingly mocking, “you writing some girl a love letter? You gotta know, Sammy, poetry ain’t gonna get you...”
“Shut up!” He couldn’t handle Dean like this, not right now. “Just shut up, Dean.” He wanted to disappear, just sink right into a hole in the ground and never come out. Failing that, the best he could do was leave. He shoved himself up from the chair, which protested with a loud squawk, and pushed past his bemused brother to the door. Pausing just outside, he turned and added, “And my name isn’t Sammy, it’s Sam.”
Dean said, “Okay, hey, wait a minute, Sam,” but then Sam was out of the house and Dean wasn’t following. Sam had a momentary grave misgiving about leaving Dean alone where he might find the paper, but it wasn’t likely he’d actually go looking through Sam’s desk. All that was usually on it was schoolwork, and it wasn’t like Dean was going to start digging through his little brother’s math worksheets or anything like that. Dean was probably just shrugging off Sam’s outburst as hormone-related, and going ahead with his usual shower.
The sudden flare-up of anger didn’t last very long, but its impetus carried Sam out behind the garage, where the shade was cool and the grass was long. He leaned against the concrete and slid uncomfortably down to sit with his knees up and his head resting against the wall, eyes closing as the last of his anger ebbed. It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t. Probably Dean had already dismissed the whole scene; god knew he hadn’t exactly been a model citizen when he’d gone through puberty. He was probably more interested in getting the sweat and grime of the day’s practice off his skin, pulling off his damp t-shirt and wiping off his face and chest with it the way he always did. He’d be streaking the dirt around even worse, but that didn’t matter, because he was headed for the tiny bathroom, wide shoulders working as he undid his jeans, shucked his boxers and stepped out of everything, and then he’d turn on the water and get into the shower and what the hell, Sam was hard in his jeans and touching himself.
A high, startled sound escaped him as he realised what he was doing, but he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t find the brakes. He pictured the water running down his brother’s muscled back, over his chest, pictured Dean tilting his head back to wet his hair, exposing his throat. Sam was rubbing himself through his jeans, hips hitching desperately, the urgent friction so necessary he couldn’t even stop to get his fly open and his hand inside. He whined low in his throat, tried to swallow the sound, bit down on his lip to keep himself from crying out. He thought of Dean with his hands all over himself, washing away the dirt, maybe taking his cock in his hand and doing the same thing that Sam was doing right now, and that was it. He spurted in his pants with a ragged, stifled moan, bright pleasure washing through him, as hard as he’d ever come since he found out what else his dick was for.
For a few minutes he couldn’t do much but sit there behind the garage, shocked and panting. He opened his eyes, finally, a little surprised that the sky was still blue and bright, that the grass was still green when he’d just gotten off thinking about his big brother.
Later, he thought about scrapping his essay, terrified that somehow anyone reading it would know. In the end, though, he carefully finished the last paragraph when Dean wasn’t around and handed it in early.
Sam is all about planning. He makes lists, he weighs the pros and cons, and he follows through on his determined course of action. It made him awesome at schoolwork and it’s served him well his whole life, even though sometimes his plans fall through.
This time it’s more of an experiment, carefully worked out for minimum risk. Throughout the rest of the afternoon, he’s been thinking about the conversation with Dean out at the practice arena, and what it meant. He’s been wondering how to interpret it; after the shock of learning that his brother was capable of thinking he might leave, he’s been trying to make sense of Dean’s reaction to his declaration to the contrary.
If it were him, he knows why he’d be so scared, so relieved. It’s not him, though. And, okay, maybe he’s reading too much into this, because Dean’s his brother, and you don’t bail on your family like that.
But he can’t shake the idea that it might be more. That the fact that Dean loves him and would be devastated if he left could have the potential to be what Sam never thought was possible. Dean is still keeping something from him, and Sam is driving himself slowly insane trying to come up with alternatives that don’t cause a feral, fluttering hope to rise in his chest. He’s been keeping his feelings bottled up for years, and with the strain of this competition season on top of everything else, he’s dangerously low on fortitude right now. Something’s eating Dean, something even he can’t or won’t explain, and Sam has to know if there’s even a chance that there could be anything there.
Outwardly he goes on as usual, because he’s fucking ace at pretending nothing’s up, but he’s planning.
It was months before Sam could properly come to terms with what he felt for his brother. Even then, he was sure it was something he could change. It was just because they lived in such close quarters all the time, he argued to himself, and he already admired Dean. It had to be just the proximity that had pushed him across the line from wanting a body like his brother’s to wanting his brother’s body.
Gradually, he formulated a plan.
The plan involved other boys, boys who weren’t Dean. If he was just wired to like boys, maybe he was only fixating on Dean because Dean was always there and there weren’t really any other targets. In the summertime, though, they picked up crew, and there were usually a lot of younger guys in the mix. Most of them were older than Dean, but a couple were around his age or younger, and Sam was fifteen now and starting to look it. He was still kind of skinny, but growing fast, and he was pretty well liked. Maybe, if he could find somebody a little closer to his age, he could get over Dean. That was the plan, going in.
The first one was seventeen and his name was Alex. He was taller than Sam and pretty muscular for a seventeen-year-old, with short blond hair and a friendly, slightly gap-toothed grin; he was tagging along with his uncle, one of the bike techs, to learn the ropes. Sam was always friendly with all the new people, learning names quickly and interested in what they had to say, so it wasn’t hard to strike up a conversation with Alex. He told Sam he wasn’t sure what he wanted to be, but bikes were cool, and it might be cool to work on them.
Sam couldn’t say he was impressed by the guy’s intellect, but he saw how Alex looked at him, and thought, what the hell. It ended up as a rushed exchange of handjobs in a storage shed, and they both felt awkward enough afterward that they didn’t really talk for the rest of the summer. So that didn’t work out.
The next one was actually almost a year older than Dean, and Sam fully realized that what he was angling for was statutory rape, but if anyone could get him over Dean, it would be someone like Mark - tall, built, dark eyes and longish dark hair, and a face just this side of too square. Not a Dean substitute in looks, and yeah, Sam thought about these things; now that he was paying attention, he could see other men besides his brother as attractive, and Mark was definitely attractive in a way that he felt in his gut. He left it for a few weeks after Alex, made cautious by the experience, but he didn’t think he was imagining the way Mark’s eyes followed him, zeroing in on the exposed skin of his belly when he stretched. Unfortunately, Dean had a fairly acute awareness of what Sam was doing at any given time, so Sam was going to have to be very careful.
Dean, of course, was in the habit of trying to seduce any pretty thing that would look at him twice, so if you paid attention, it was pretty easy to figure out when he was getting laid. All Sam had to do was make sure anything that happened with Mark happened within that time frame, and that Bobby and Ellen didn’t catch on.
Provided he could get anything to happen with Mark in the first place. He genuinely liked Mark; the guy wasn’t brilliantly witty, but he had a shrewd, grown-up sense of humour that excited and drew Sam, and he liked talking about bikes and engines, which Sam was always up for, so before anything else, they actually got on pretty well. And Mark - well, Mark was a good guy. Mark was not the kind of guy to take advantage of a kid three-quarters his age, as he explained somewhat desperately to Sam when Sam found him tinkering with an older bike after hours and finally cornered him.
“I know,” said Sam. “That’s why I want it to be you.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking for, Sam.” It was obvious that Mark was about an inch away from losing the self-control that kept him backing up every time Sam tried close the three feet between them.
“Yeah,” said Sam, “I do.” It was only half true, but it was true enough to say out loud.
“I don’t want to be that guy,” was Mark’s final plea.
“What if I want you to be?” Sam took another step forward, and Mark hit the wall and cursed, pupils blown with lust. “What if I told you this is the best thing you can do for me right now?” He kept his voice deliberately low, hoping for seductive, and stepped right into Mark’s space, defiantly meeting his eyes.
Mark cursed again, drawn out and half inaudible even to Sam, and Sam could see the instant his restraint broke. The next moment, strong, callused hands gripped his face, and Mark was kissing him like he was about to disappear. Sam clutched at his grease-stained t-shirt and pushed into him eagerly, opening to Mark’s tongue, letting him do what he wanted, loving every second of it, trying to believe he wasn’t imagining Dean behind his closed eyelids. After a few passive moments, he felt bold enough to try to reciprocate, sliding his tongue out along Mark’s and clumsily probing behind his teeth. Mark groaned quietly and let go of Sam’s face with one hand, sliding it down to his hip, and Sam shifted forward, bringing his denim-covered erection into contact with Mark’s strong thigh. This close, he felt the hot press of Mark’s arousal against his hip, and tentatively rubbed up against him. The response was a bitten-off curse, and Mark took his hips in both hands and shifted him further off centre, directing Sam away from the bulge in his work jeans, but at the same time gently encouraging Sam to keep on going. One large rough hand slid up Sam’s back under his shirt, a hand so like Dean’s, and maybe this wasn’t going to work, but the other hand settled just above his ass, and Sam took the hint - was past the ability not to, at this point. His hips moved without conscious input from him, and his head dropped back, pleasure sparking through him. Mark left his mouth and kissed along his jaw, behind his ear, down his neck, and it was a good thing he was holding him, Sam thought dizzily as he clung, because he wasn’t sure his legs would bear his weight.
It was over pretty quickly. For a moment, Sam pressed his face into Mark’s shoulder and tried to get his bearings, and then remembered that Mark was still in need. He reached for his waistband, but his hands were caught and trapped.
“Not here,” said Mark. “Can you come by my trailer later?”
That summer, Mark taught Sam nearly everything he knew. It wasn’t enough.
Late in August, he was on his knees in Mark’s trailer, loving that he was nearly choking, hating that it wasn’t Dean. It was one of his inconvenient moments of clarity, and it was impossible to ignore. When he got up and kissed Mark, it was for the last time.
Let it never be said that Sam Winchester doesn’t make the most of the resources at hand.
This morning, when they were starting to get settled into the current training camp, he met the lot attendant, a little blonde girl named Cindy who’s new this summer. After his conversation and impromptu practice with Dean at the practice arena, he’s gone back to moving equipment around, occasionally taking a break and chatting with Cindy some more. Sam always enjoys talking to new people, and Cindy has some good stories from college. It’s enough to make him wonder what it would have been like if he’d gone, but not nearly enough to make him seriously consider it. Mostly it’s just interesting to hear about.
The fact that Cindy is seriously hot definitely doesn’t hurt his enjoyment of their conversations. She’s wearing a flouncy white skirt and these impractical spindly heels that just about anybody else would break an ankle over, and it’s kind of incredible, but at one point Sam witnesses her running in those things. She’s petite and bouncy and has a killer smile, and she’s also very, very obvious. In short, exactly what he’s looking for.
Sam has found that, as he gets older, the girls in his age group get easier. Cindy seems like she wants to make things very easy for Sam, and it fits right in with his half-formed plan.
In the evening, when most everything’s been set up and people are starting to turn in, Cindy’s still hanging around, throwing him those glances. He’s pretty grimy, been working up a sweat hauling shit around all day, but he figures if she doesn’t care, he doesn’t have to. They start up another conversation composed largely of flirting, and end up wandering a little aimlessly as they talk. Sam, though, knows exactly where they’re going; he’s careful not to seem too much like he’s steering, but they end up back among the living trailers, and soon they’re alone between Victor and Corbett’s empty trailer and Sam’s own.
There’s enough light to see by, but there’s no one else around; they’re blocked off from the rest of the camp, no one to see or hear. Except for Dean, who went to bed an hour ago.
They come to a stop, and Cindy steps deliberately away from him to lean on the bike that’s standing there. It’s Sam’s bike, but he doesn’t think she knows that. Girl’s got good instincts, though; hot girl plus bike is generally a winning combination, and Sam’s not exactly immune to the effect. Smirking, she hops up onto the seat, feet dangling, and yeah, it’s a nice visual.
Mostly, thought, he’s hyper-aware of Dean, presumably sleeping on the other side of the thin trailer wall. If he knows Dean, he won’t be asleep for much longer. Maybe he’s awake even now. After all, Sam’s in the vicinity, and Dean has a history of paying really close attention to his brother.
It’s worth a shot, right?
He has no idea what they’re even talking about anymore; he’s fairly certain the conversation stopped having any importance some time back. So he steps in, leans one hand on the seat next to her, takes her jaw gently in his other hand, and kisses her.
It’s a bit like a floodgate opening. Pretty soon she’s got his shirt off, and then he gets rid of hers, her pretty little breasts fitting so soft and easy in his hands. He leans down to suck one pert nipple into his mouth, and she drops her head back with a soft gasp.
His undershirt goes next, and then her skirt and panties, and then he’s lifting her by the hips, shifting her to get a better angle before he goes down.
He likes doing this; it’s never grossed him out, and being able to make a girl come with just his mouth is kind of a point of pride. And, sure, it gets him hot. Now, though, he’s so turned on he can hardly even concentrate on what he’s doing, and there’s no question about what the difference is this time: it’s a performance. This is for Dean. Sure, he might be sleeping, but the chance that he’s not? The thought that Dean might wake up in the middle of this and look out, might already be watching? It’s making Sam crazy.
Cindy flutters around his tongue and comes with a broken-off cry, and he rides it out, mouth still busy, until she pulls him up and reaches for his fly.
If Dean is watching this...
Even as she pulls him out and starts working, her small hands clever with perfect friction, part of his mind is working to convince the rest that he’s an idiot. Most of his brain, though, is stuck on the sensations rippling through him, and the absurd, frantic fantasy that his brother is witness to this, that his brother will see him for what he is.
The thought pushes him over the edge faster than Cindy alone ever could, and he comes with a groan.
There’s a thud from inside the trailer, and Sam almost stops breathing, turning his head to look. The light’s wrong, he can’t see in the window, but he knows what he heard.
Maybe Dean’s just shocked at Sam’s lack of consideration.
Maybe he rolled over too far in his sleep.
Maybe.
Sam turns back to Cindy, who’s looking thoroughly pleased with herself. He kisses her again, then cleans her off, and the bike - there’s come all over his shirt now, but better his clothing than hers.
When she’s dressed again, he offers to walk her back to her uncle’s house across the lot, but she says she’ll be fine, so he lets her go alone. It’s a closed lot, anyway.
When he opens his trailer he’s hit with an unmistakable smell. It’s faint, but it’s there, and Sam’s pulse kicks up a few notches, thumping in his throat. He goes in and takes his shoes off, walks over to stand between their beds. Dean is breathing deeply and evenly and doing a damn good job of feigning sleep, but he’s never figured out that the way he breathes when he’s actually asleep isn’t quite that smooth.
Sam thinks about calling him on it, but this isn’t the time. He turns around and gets into his own bed. Much as his brain wants to keep him awake, his body just had an orgasm, and he falls asleep almost immediately.
Part II