World's Forgotten Boys, Chapter 14/28 - (Sam/Dean, Sam/Dean/OMC - R)
Fic title: World's Forgotten Boys (link to the full verse)
Chapter 14/28
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Sam/Dean/Ross
Rating: R
Word Count: about 10k
Warnings: I guess I should warn that this chapter contains some very mild het
Summary: Season 1 AU. Ross Christopher Winchester knows three things to be true: that his father, John, is a hero, that he's going to be the best hunter in the goddamn world, and that his two older brothers are in love with each other. An AU-version of Season 1 where The Winchester Boys mean Dean and Sam and Ross, where John is still missing, where Mary and Jess are still crispy-fried, and where Dean and Sam are still obsessed with one another...
Previous Chapters Link to the Masterpost
A/N I so need to apologise for not answering all your lovely comments to the last chapter, I am really sorry for this, but have been away from the internets recently due to the birth of my niece! Yes, my sister had another baby and I was once again her birth partner. After 36 hours of labour she had a little girl, totally gorgeous, called Isabelle and weighing in at 6lb7oz! Anyway, there was much rejoicing and catching up on sleep and not so much fic-writing, though things should be back to normal again now ;D
I also totally need to mention that the wonderful and talented space-raider182 drew a gorgeous picture of all three boys from the scene in Chapter 2 (I think!) here where they all get high together. I totally adore this picture: love Sam's sprawl over Dean, Dean's blissed-out expression and Ross's sulky face. Just magic. Go and check it out now!!!
Once again, this chapter was beta-ed by the lovely andreth47 Thanks so much for your comments & fb, hun!
Chapter 14
They stop at a gas station eight hours after leaving Chicago.
Sam’s woken up by Ross slamming the passenger side door, Dean shouting: “Mind the damn paintjob!”
He sits up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as he watches Ross head for the rest rooms tucked behind the office, shoulders hunched, stride tight and forceful. Dean lets out a long, hissed breath, the sound audible over the cooling engine.
Sam watches him turn around, lift the nozzle of the gas pump and slot it into place at the back of the car, the metallic click-clack sound as familiar as his brother’s breathing. Dean wanders round to the side of the car, leans against it, head upturned to let the sun spill over his face; he looks tired, small smears of blood still crusted to his temples and jaw where he hastily wiped it away, the butterfly band-aid Sam applied across his left cheek looking crooked after eight straight hours on the road.
Sam slides out the backseat, stretches out long, cramped limbs, feeling the welcome warmth of the mid morning sun on the back of his shoulders. Dean turns to look at him and Sam gives him a faint smile. Dean’s lip twitches in acknowledgement and he goes back to contemplating the spinning digits on the gas pump.
“Fuckin’ gas prices,” he bitches. It’s an old complaint, half-hearted at best, and really just Dean breaking the silence.
Sam moves to slide his arms around him, but Dean stiffens, the contact evidently unwelcome.
“Sam -“ he starts to say.
“Shut up,” Sam says quietly, “c’mere, I want to touch you.”
Dean hesitates, then the stiffness suddenly evaporates from his body as he all but sags against Sam, head falling onto his shoulder, hands coming up to smooth over his shoulder blades. Sam sighs out happily and pulls him in closer, strokes one hand over his short, bristled hair. This kind of contact is rare between them, even now when Dean is much less reluctant to touch him in public, when Dean’s happy for him to slide his hand into the back pocket of his jeans or pull him into an embrace, or even kiss him in someplace other than the car, a motel room or a men’s bathroom.
Sam moans out softly into Dean’s hair, feels Dean shift and shudder against him, almost as if he’s letting go, letting Sam hold him up and take care of him for once. It’s becoming less and less rare: Dean surrendering control to him, ever since Ross found out about them, since the visions, since Dad, God, since all this shit between the three of them, this past awful, incredible year…
There’s a part of Sam that likes this - being in charge, being the one to take care of Dean - in fact, he’s pretty happy to do exactly that. Dean’s always had to take on too much, ever since he was a kid, he’s always had this epic weight of responsibility, and he and Ross have always taken it for granted, assumed that Dean would figure out a way of paying for everything, Dean would turn up in the nick of time to rescue their asses, Dean would lie to school administrators for them, Dean would solve all their problems, have their backs. And Dean… well, he’s always done exactly that, gotten on with it, done what’s best for them, but it’s Sam’s turn to step up now, to take on some of Dean’s burden, to be the one to take control.
“You know, it’s gonna be okay, Dean. He’ll be okay,” he says reassuringly.
“What makes you so sure of that?”
“C’mon, this is Dad. He’s a great hunter; he knows how to look after himself.”
“Dad?” Dean sounds surprised. He pulls away slightly, tilts his head back to look up at Sam. “I wasn’t thinking about Dad.”
In the background, the pump clicks off, gas tank full, shuddering sound of the pump dying away, making everything quieter without the whirring background clanking. Who were you… he starts to think, but the answer’s obvious, glaringly obvious.
“Ross?” he says.
Dean’s mouth screws up unhappily and he tenses, shoulders hitching, fingers losing their grip on Sam, like he’s preparing himself to bolt. But Sam’s not gonna let him do that, he’s enjoying this contact way too much, enjoying the feeling of Dean against him, leaning on him, needing him, so he pulls him in tighter, claims him, strokes his fingers over the nape of Dean’s neck in a soothing gesture. Once again Dean puts up a token resistance before he gives in, pressing back against Sam, breath coming warm and clammy against Sam’s neck.
“Did something happen between you and Ross?” Sam asks.
From this angle, he can make out the top of Dean’s head and one side of his face, his ear and temple, the soft, fine lines around the one unhidden eye. He sees a muscle jump at the corner of Dean’s jaw, his mouth shaping into a grimace.
“I don’t wanna talk about this, Sam,” he says.
“Okay,” he says equably.
Even from this angle Sam can tell that Dean’s surprised, he cards his fingers through Dean’s short hair, Dean looks up, their eyes meeting, Sam gives him a disarming grin causing Dean to roll his eyes and jostle him. “You sure? Not like you to give in so easily.”
Sam shrugs, “I figure you’ll tell me when you want to. If it’s important.”
“Right,” Dean snorts.
Sam smiles at him and leans down, presses their foreheads together. “Kiss me,” he says.
Dean exhales, breath ghosting over Sam’s lips as Sam’s hands slide up to cup his jaw, tilting his face into a perfect position, thumbs resting on his cheekbones, his big hands cradling the entirety of Dean’s face, he leans down, brings their mouths together. They kiss for a while, though it doesn’t seem nearly long enough to Sam, but Dean’s pulling away from him already. Sam glances up, looks across the forecourt, over Dean’s shoulder, sees Ross standing outside the men’s room, cigarette in hand, eyes locked on them. He can’t read his younger brother’s expression from this distance, but he knows what it would be, and he feels a sudden stab of guilt, of anger and resentment - at this - this impossible, stupid situation.
He watches Ross throw his butt away, grind it out viciously with the heel of his boot, stomp across the forecourt towards them. Dean tenses up again, pulls away from Sam with a jerk, turning to meet Ross’s eyes.
“We ready to go?” Ross barks out, not looking either of them in the face.
Dean lets Sam bully him into the backseat, telling him that he needs a break, that Sam can take over driving. Dean gives in after some cursory grumbling while Ross takes shotgun, sulking and silent as he stares out the window. Dean’s out after only ten minutes, soft hiccupping snores threading through from the backseat. Sam watches him in the mirror while they wait at a red light, sees the slack, restful look to his face, cradled between the backseat and one of the windows, cheek pressed up against his old hoodie which seems to live in the backseat these days for that purpose, not that Sam ever wants to wear it again, thing’s had more drool on it than a dog’s favorite chew toy.
He nudges Ross, “Hey, you wanna put the radio on? Listen to something other than mullet rock for once?”
Ross turns his head to look at him and shrugs impassively, “If you want.”
“Cool,” says Sam with a nod. “You can pick.”
“Nah, you do it.”
It’s kinda shocking; Ross always has an opinion and he’s always wrestled for control of the radio dial like he’s wrestled for control of everything else in his life. Not that’s he’s ever succeeded, not with the radio at least, because that’s Dean’s baby.
Sam pulls them into a motel only three hours later. He’s exhausted and both Dean and Ross are asleep again, none of them have had a proper night’s sleep since… shit, since before Chicago at least. Before Meg and the daevas. Before Dad…
He kills the engine and leans over to tousle Ross’s hair, shake him awake. Ross blinks his eyes open and scowls at him. “Fuck off,” he slurs.
“We’re stopping,” says Sam. “For the night. Go get us a room, I’ll wake Dean.”
Dean’s so tired he’s almost staggering as they follow Ross into the room, shoulder knocking against Sam’s.
“You got us a king?” Sam asks in disbelief, halting by the door, bag slung over his shoulder.
“All there was,” shrugs Ross nonchalantly. “There’s a couch, too. So, you know, if you don’t want all three of us to bunk up together, then you can always take that, Sammy.”
There’s a moment of awkward silence until Dean growls out: “I’ll take the couch.”
Sam nods, throws his duffle onto the bed. Ross looks after Dean for a second, teeth gritted together, until he too growls out, “Fine, whatever.”
He thinks he gets it now, what’s going on, or what’s gone on between Ross and Dean. Dean must’ve said something, refused him, turned him down, and Ross, well, naturally Littlest Bro doesn’t like that.
He sleeps heavily for about six hours, wakes to hear the soft sound of Ross breathing next to him, Dean’s snores from the couch. He heaves out a sigh, twists onto his side, immediately freezing when he sees Ross’s face, eyes open, glinting eerily in the dark, fixed on him.
“You’re awake,” he hisses.
“Duh,” whispers Ross.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
Ross’s mouth twists into an irritable shape, “Can’t sleep.”
“Oh, sorry ‘bout that, man.”
“Whatever.” Ross closes his eyes, huffs out an irritated breath.
Sam regards him for moment, the slight flutter of his eyelashes, the unhappy tense curl to his lips, his dark hair mussed by sleep, he’s been letting it grow out, refused to get it cut the last time Dean did his own, and it’s grown out some, half-way between his own and Dean’s in length now, curling around his ears, making him look younger and the two of them look even more alike. He reaches out; touches it gingerly, fingertips running over the dark, feathery ends, Ross’s eyes snap open, fix on him.
“Watcha doin’, Sammy?”
“Just - shhh, relax,” he whispers, “I’m tryin’ to help you relax. So you can sleep.”
Ross gives him a wary look, but he doesn’t flinch when Sam touches him again, keeps his eyes locked on Sam’s face. It’s kinda unnerving, the way Ross has to keep his eyes open when they touch, when they kiss, always has to be there, in the moment, witnessing the moment.
“I think I like it like this,” he tells him, “your hair.”
Ross’s mouth goes all wry, a knowing glint seeping into his expression, and Sam feels a sudden burst of affection for him, it’s all so familiar - so Ross, that look on his face, the smart-ass little punk look - Sam knows that so well, recognizes it as something so fundamental to his brother. Ross is such a bundle of defense mechanisms, master of the preemptive strike, the instinctive defensive move, ready to shout back rather than actually listen, always expecting to hear or see the worst in anything, so much like Dad in that respect.
Ross was rejected by Dean; Sam knows that for sure now. He saw it in how awkward they were together, in Ross’s unhappy, sulky attitude in the car.
“What?” he asks, a smile tugging at his lips, “why you lookin’ at me like that?”
Ross just raises one eyebrow - his Dean look as Sam privately labels it - and smirks at him. “You like my hair like this 'cause it makes me look more like you.”
A prickle edges up his spine, skin tingling hot in the places where they’re almost touching. “Maybe,” he admits.
Ross’s smile gets wider, eviler, even more Dean-like and Sam can feel his cock wake up, start to thicken, heat boiling in his gut.
“Yeah, maybe,” scoffs Ross. “It turns you on, don’t it? You’re such a fuckin’ narcissist, Sammy.”
“Narcissist?” Sam repeats, amused, he never thought his brother knew such words.
Ross’s lip curls again, and his hand darts out, bracelets Sam’s wrist with strong fingers, he pulls Sam’s hand under the covers, pressing it up against the hard outline of his cock through his cotton shorts.
“If you wanna help me sleep, you can take care of that,” he says.
There’s a note of a challenge in his tone, and Sam feels his throat go dry, a tingle of gooseflesh, his cock getting really hard now.
Dean rejected Ross, he knows that, knows that this is what this has all been about, what this is all about. But he also knows what it’s like to be on the end of Dean’s 'No', it happened so frequently when they were younger: Dean pinging between devil-may-care, live-for-the-moment big brother who knew he was doing the wrong thing but just didn’t give a shit, to crippled by guilt and self-loathing big brother who hated himself more than anything and couldn’t bear the sight of his little brother, the face of his ultimate temptation.
Sam lived Dean’s guilt, saw it first hand, heard enough of the “no, we can’t” and the “not anymore, we gotta stop”, and the “please, Sammy, no, not this time” pleas to know how Ross feels. The only thing he’s grateful for right now, the only fucking good thing in their current shitty existence is that Dean’s finally gotten over all that, come to terms with what they have, accepted that Sam is his and he is Sam’s for the rest of their lives and that no crisis of conscience is powerful enough to make those feelings go away.
He doesn’t honestly know if Ross feels what he used to feel for Dean: that surety and belief, the burning need and disregard for everything else except having his big brother, but he does know that to have the person you love more than any other tell you no can rip the skin off your body, leave you exposed and vulnerable in a way that nothing else can.
And then there’s everything with Dad…
So, yeah… maybe this is compassion, maybe this is his own guilty conscience, his fucked-up way of saying sorry to his younger brother for all those years of rivalry and rejection, or maybe this is just because his cock is hard and Ross has all the right bits in all the right places and he looks and feels really fucking good and hell, Sam’s just fucking kinky enough to want it.
He raises his eyes again, meets Ross’s gaze, Ross smirks, mouth curling upwards, cocky and self-assured once more, defensive prickliness melting away in the face of Sam’s obvious acquiescence. His fingers tighten their grip on Sam’s hand, pressing Sam’s palm down harder against his cock, Sam flexes his fingers, drags them over his brother’s sac, the soft vulnerable flesh, hears Ross’s sharp intake of breath, and it’s his own turn to smirk, do the Dean look. He cups his fingers around his brother’s balls, feeling the weight in his hand; he shifts closer, bringing their bodies up flush, their thighs bumping together.
Ross doesn’t say anything, eyes still completely focused on him, but Sam watches the ripple of his throat, the hitch of his breath and he knows that Ross wants this - wants him. He leans in, Ross’s breath tight and warm against his cheek, and starts to work his hand up and down his brother’s cock, fingers dry and rough, just how Ross likes it.
***********************
Dean’s dreaming about Sam. Sam’s young in the dream, maybe twelve, thirteen, though Dean still seems to be his current age, his hands, his body when he glances down seem the same, he’s even wearing the torn grey Henley he’s had on all day. He and Sammy - young twelve year old Sammy - are in a bathroom somewhere, perhaps Bobby Singer’s place, the room seems familiar in a way that none of the motel rooms or rentals or squat places they ever lived in were, it’s somewhere they’ve been more than once, somewhere they know and feel comfortable in. He’s sitting on the lid of the closed toilet, hands resting demurely on his lap, and Sam - young Sammy - is looming over him, holding a razor, his eyes wide and solemn as he says gravely, “You need a shave, Dean; you should let me shave you.”
He nods at Sammy, agreeing, Sam grins suddenly, flashes him that brief, dazzling smile of his, and places his small hand on Dean’s jaw, pushes his head back so his neck is bared.
“Keep still,” he says, voice going serious again.
Dean watches him closely as Sam leans over him, he’s got his lip caught between his teeth as he lathers up Dean’s face, and he looks so solemn, so focused, that crease between his eyebrows that means he’s concentrating heavily - the Sammy thinking face that hasn’t changed in twelve years..
He wakes up before Sam gets to touch his face with the razor and thinks, of course, this is how it is. He raises his hand to his face and feels the stubble against his fingers. Everything seems suddenly clear to him, everything he’s done, everything that’s happening now: Dad, Ross, Sam, himself - it’s all overwhelmingly clear, though he can’t see just how it’s so clear, the dream already fading from his mind, the clarity of that moment - the moment Dream Sammy put his hand on Dean’s face and pushed his head back - already evaporating from his memory, taking that absolute clarity with it.
He blinks his eyes open and realizes what’s awoken him: there are sounds coming from the big king bed, low whispering and a shifting and rustling of bodies and bedding, a slight creak of the mattress and tight, heavy breathing sounds that make his skin start to prickle, blood start to pump faster, because he recognizes those sounds. There’s a closed-off choking noise, a whimpering gasp that he knows - his stomach lurches again and he hears the quiet, intimate whispering again, the bitten off, muffled laugh.
He sits up, says loudly: “You finished?”
There’s a deathly moment of silence then a pair of dark, tousled heads appear from under the comforter, two pairs of slanted eyes glittering in the dark fix on him.
“Dean…” says Sam, and his tone is wary, guilty, caught-out-right-now.
“Were you watchin’?” demands Ross, no wariness or guilt in his voice. “Or listening?”
“You weren’t exactly quiet,” he says.
“Whatever, like you weren’t totally gettin’ off on it.”
He feels the heat rush to his face, a tell-tale flush, and he can feel his cock twitch at the accusation, because he can’t deny that this - the thought of Sam and Ross fooling around under the covers - it makes something stir in his gut, but he’s not going to admit that, not admit any weakness in front of Ross, not now.
He swallows, barks out: “Go to sleep!”
He throws himself back onto the couch, shifting onto his side, putting his back to them, trying to forget the knowing look on his youngest brother’s face.
“Hey, if you want me to come on over there and help you out, you only need to say so, big bro,” Ross calls out.
Keeping his back to them, Dean raises his arm, gives them the finger.
Ross laughs out loud, “Sonofabitch is sexually frustrated. You should take care of that, Sam.”
“You should go to fuckin’ sleep!” growls out Dean.
He hears the sound of one of them hitting the mattress, more rustling and shuffling sounds, an irritable hiss from Sam followed by Ross’s snap of a laugh. He sighs heavily, shifts onto his back and sits up again, he needs a fucking cigarette.
He can feel both sets of eyes on him as he heads outside, leather jacket thrown on over his bare torso, bare feet crammed into his unlaced boots. He closes the motel room door behind them, it’s one of those rooms that opens straight out onto the parking lot and he walks the few yards towards the Impala - his girl. He leans up against it, the metal practically freezing against his almost bare ass, the thin cotton of his boxers not doing much to keep him warm. He shivers and gets his cigarettes out his pocket, lights up quickly.
So Sam and Ross were fooling around, behind his back, like, literally behind his back, while he was asleep. How long has this been going on? Was this the first time since he and Ross had had their little talk? Or have they been doing this before? When he wasn’t around? Catching these little moments together. God, but he’s sounding as paranoid as Dad, and really, what the fuck does it matter, anyway? It’s not like he and Ross haven’t done shit without Sam knowing, or he and Sam doing shit without Ross knowing… that was going for years, except, no, it wasn’t, because Ross knew all along.
Whatever. If Sam and Ross want to fool around together then that’s their issue, their thing, nothing to do with him.
But, seriously, Sammy and Ross? Without him? He can’t - there’s part of him that’s just not processing this, that can’t get his head around it. Sam and Ross don’t get on, they fight if they’re left in a room together for longer than thirty minutes, though, okay, that’s maybe an exaggeration, but Sam and Ross together -
He swallows, flicks the ash from his cigarette to the damp concrete. Sure, he’s seen them together, has instigated it, that first time - telling Sam to suck off Ross, that was him - and other times, plenty of other times, watching the two of them make out and screw around, always riding that borderline, like something’s just fizzing away under the surface of them, waiting to ignite into furious fucking or equally furious fist-fighting. He’s thought about them too, when he’s jerked off in the shower, when he’s fisted his hand around his cock and told them to do it again.
And they are doing it again. Without him.
He tosses away his finished butt and goes back into the room. It seems dark after the lit-up parking lot, the bed just a big shape of lumpen bodies, and he can’t make out if they’re curled up together or are two separate lumps, the thought that they might be curled up together, that after they’ve jerked each other off, they gonna - what - cuddle? Sam and Ross? Yeah, sure. But still, the thought makes something unfurl nastily in the pit of his stomach and he clamps back on it. It’s ludicrous for him to feel… resentful? Angry? Shit, jealous? They’re his brothers and he’s hardly in a position to pass judgment - exactly the words Ross said to him only yesterday, the day before - God, he’s really lost track of time - whatever, he doesn’t get to do that, decide what goes and what doesn’t between Sam and Ross, not after he was the one who started all this crap in the first place.
He closes the door gently, the click of the lock slotting into place. He turns and leans back against it, eyes roaming over the entire room, taking in the usual mess of their duffles and clothes and take out boxes littering the floor, weapons in a pile in the corner. Dad wouldn’t like that, Dad would be seriously pissed with him if he could see the way they were treating their weapons. His eyes flick back to the bed and he freezes for a second, Sam’s staring up at him, unblinking, big-eyed solemn stare that’s freakishly similar to the young Sammy in his dream. Sam smiles at him and waves one of his huge hands, pulling the covers back and patting the mattress beside him.
“C’mere,” he murmurs.
Dean pulls a face at him, irritated, “No thanks,” he bites back.
Sam rolls his eyes, shuffles so he’s leaning on his side, propped up on his elbow. He stretches out one of his long arms, fingers wiggling, “C’mon, c’mere. Plenty of room.”
He hesitates, but Sam smiles once more, and that’s it, he’s done, can’t say no to that face, and Sam knows it, the bitch.
He shrugs off his jacket and boots and pads toward the bed. The mattress dips as he edges onto the bed, Sam shuffling back to Ross’s muffled protests to make room for him, but he’s sliding under the covers quickly, feeling Sam’s arms wrap around him and pull him in closer, his back to Sam’s chest, Sam’s huge hand over his belly. Sam nuzzles into the crook of his neck and he can practically feel the flinch, the curve of Sam’s frown.
“Cigarette smoke, lovely,” Sam comments.
He huffs out a breath, “Should be used to it by now, man.”
“Hmmm, maybe,” murmurs Sam.
The smell or taste or whatever doesn’t seem to be deterring him any, and he’s already opening his mouth, laying soft kisses along Dean’s nape, up into his hairline and across the breadth of his shoulders. Dean shivers, pinpricks of arousal flushing down his skin, making his cock wake up again, Sam’s hand drifting lower, fingers brushing the waistband of his shorts.
“Take ‘em off,” Sam whispers. His fingers caught in the waistband.
“You do it,” Dean retorts.
Sam huffs out a laugh, presses a sloppy kiss to his shoulder and pushes down Dean’s shorts, catching over the curve of his ass, tangling between his thighs. Then Sam’s hand is on his cock, making a fist, thumb dragging over the head. He hitches in a breath, flinching, squirming against Sam, feeling Sam’s own erection riding his ass crack.
“Hey, let me look,” comes the voice from behind them.
Dean twists his head around, sees Ross leaning over Sam, chin hooked on Sam’s shoulder, eyes glued to the place where Sam’s hand is outlined under the covers. Dean pulls a face at him and Ross smirks, leans over and pulls the covers down, exposing their nakedness, his thick, hard cock covered by Sam’s hand, Sam’s legs entwined with his own.
“Thought you’d gotten yours,” Dean says.
Ross shrugs, “No such thing as enough, Deano. Anyway, I wanna watch. Ain’t that my prerogative?”
Dean rolls his eyes, exchanges a look with Sam. Sam’s looking amused, a pink flush to his cheeks, his dark hair plastered to his face with sweat. Ross shifts closer and Dean watches his youngest brother’s hand come around Sam, sliding down to meet Sam’s own, their fingers entwining where they’re touching him.
“Dude,” he starts to say, but the sentence is cut off, Sam using his free hand to turn his face around, their mouths meeting, “Shhh, shut up,” Sam tells him, “let us do this, take care of you.”
“Sam…” but it’s pointless to protest, Sam’s lips, Sam’s tongue are invading his mouth, taking him in a long kiss, so he relaxes, concentrates on this: Sam’s mouth on his, Sam’s hand on his cock, Sam’s body pressed up against his own, covering him from head to toe. He tries to forget that Ross is there too, that this isn’t part of his plan, that this isn’t what they should be doing, that this is wrong.
“Dean,” Sam murmurs, whispering his name into his skin, “Dean, Dean, Dean…”
And if Sam’s voice becomes mixed with Ross’s, then it’s not his fault. He closes his eyes and just goes with it.
The last time the three of them shared a bed, he was in the middle, this time Sam has that place. He still wakes first, though, shuffles out the door for a cigarette, and he’s not surprised when Ross joins him, suffering from serious bed-head, hand outstretched to prize the smoking cigarette from between Dean’s fingers.
“See,” Ross says after he takes a long, long drag on Dean’s cigarette, little punk. “You don’t have to be all freakin’ moral about everything, shit can work out between the three of us.” He tilts his head, gives Dean a sideways look, a quirk of his lip, “I can be good.”
Dean snorts, takes the cigarette back. “Yeah, sure you can.”
“Sammy’s cool with it,” Ross retorts. “Only you with the fuckin’ issues, man.”
“Sam can do what he wants,” Dean says, he blinks, takes a long drag, “he’s a big boy.”
Ross sniggers at that, “Yeah, not like I ain’t noticed.”
Dean resists the temptation to roll his eyes, instead looking out across the lot, to the row of rooms opposite, the faded gilded numbers on red painted doors.
Ross elbows him, “Hey, you and me - we’re cool, right? You ain’t pissed about me and Sam?”
His eyes are wide, little boy innocent face, but Dean knows his littlest brother too fucking well to fall for that, Ross isn’t sorry, not for whatever he and Sam have been doing together. Does Ross really want Sam? Or is just some sort of elaborate scheme to piss Dean off? And if it is, why the fuck hasn’t Sam realized it, and if he has - why doesn’t he seem to give a shit? Jesus, that’s way too many fucking questions for this time in the morning.
“Why would I be pissed about that?” he asks evenly.
Ross shrugs, “Dunno, man. Just thought you might be.”
“You mean you hoped I would be?” Dean retorts.
“Whatever.” Ross smirks, completely not denying it.
“I told you, kiddo, you and Sam, you do what you want. I just - man, I can’t do that shit no more. You and me, I just.” He breaks off, flicks the butt to the ground, watches it sizzle pathetically on the damp concrete. “I told you that,” he adds forcefully.
“So what was last night?” demands Ross. “I was there too.”
Dean swallows, shakes his head, doesn’t look up. “Fuck, man, I don’t know. That was for Sam.”
“Right, yeah. Whatever,” Ross scoffs.
They don’t say anything for a moment, Dean sighs, raises his head, makes a move to go back into the room, wake Sam. Ross’s hand darts out, grabs onto his sleeve, pulls him around. Dean jerks his head up, sees his brother’s face: shit-eating grin completely fallen away to expose big-eyed, little-boy sincerity, genuine this time. Ross gazes at him, eyes raking over his face as if he’s trying to see something there, read something there. He raises his free hand, touches Dean’s eyebrow with his fingertips, places his palm on Dean’s cheek, turns his face so they’re completely nose to nose, nowhere to look but into each other’s eyes.
“Dean, I mean it; I can be good, go along with whatever you want. And me and Sam - we can be good too, we can be good together, you just - the two of you - you can’t cut me out completely. You can’t do that. I’m your brother; I ain’t got no one else ‘cause Dad is - he’s -”
His stomach knots up, guts churning at the barely hidden desperation in Ross’s tone. He raises his own hand, places it over Ross’s, his brain providing a quick flash memory to last night, Ross’s fingers entwined with Sam’s working up and down his shaft, Ross sucking his own fingers, coating them with saliva, using the slick to work over the head of Dean’s cock while Sam’s big fingers played with his balls. The two of them servicing, doing things - to him. Let us take care of you… Sam’s voice, so soft and persuasive, matching pairs of big dark eyes and slanted evil grins. Jesus.
He swallows, pushes back the images, concentrates on this: here and now, he and Ross. He doesn’t need to say anything, just fists his fingers in his little brother’s shirt, pulls him in hard, arms wrapping around him as they have done so many times before.
“Hey, listen to me: you’re my brother, you’re always gonna be my brother, I’m always gonna be there for you, you dumb idiot. That ain’t never gonna change.”
Ross nods, jerks his head back, makes to pull himself away.
“No,” Dean insists, tightening his hold, “listen, 'cause I don’t think you’re gettin’ this, Littlest Bro. This sex shit - me sayin’ no to that - to me and you like that - it don’t matter. Not to what we are. 'Cause you’re my brother, you and Sammy, it’s us against the world, kiddo, ain’t that what Dad’s always sayin’. And you gotta quit worrying about Dad too, ‘cause he’ll be okay. We’ll find him again and shit will be good, like it used to be.”
He loosens his hold on Ross, letting the kid slip away from him, hair even more tousled after its encounter with Dean’s shirt. Dean eyes him warily, but Ross is hiding his face again, fumbling for another cigarette, eyes focused on the other side of the parking lot, the couple leaving room 12.
“You hungry?” he asks.
Ross gives a sort of shrug, doesn’t look up. “Guess.”
“Good. Well I’m gonna take a walk down this fine main street, see if there’s any diners doin’ breakfast. You get inside and tell Sam to pick up his shit.”
Ross nods, fingers clutched around his cigarette, eyes still not meeting Dean’s.
“Good boy, see you in five.”
****************************
It just figures that the cute art chick goes for Sam. Just ‘cause he can shoot the shit about some freaking creepy-ass painting and Grand Wood and providences and whatever the fuck they were talking about, shit makes fuck all sense to him. Though, she seems way interested in Sam which… come on, can’t she, like, see the gay for herself? Can’t she see the way he’s so not really into any of the conversation starters she tries with him? Can’t she see that he’s looking over her fucking shoulder at Dean stuffing his mouth with mini quiches the entire time they’re having their lame conversation?
Whatever. He gives her a long look as the stuffy dude throws them out, she’s still staring after Sam, though, but she catches his eye and blushes slightly, totally caught out. It’s pretty cute but also way annoying, ‘cause why Sam? He’s equally, if not more, hot than Sam, just ‘cause he ain’t got this fancy-ass education and pansy-ass art knowledge.
“How about asking Sarah about the painting?” Dean suggests after Sam bangs on some more about the freaking provenances and the painting’s history and cursed objects and other things that Ross has just, like, kinda tuned out.
Sam looks confused for a moment, closing the lid of his laptop and frowning at Dean who’s also totally not researching the case at all but lying on the bed reading an ancient copy of Hot Rod.
“Who?” asks Sam.
Jesus, this is so freaking typical. It was always like this: the cute, classy, smart chicks always used to go for Sam, like that preacher’s daughter back in Iowa, and Lucy, the chick who he lost his virginity to way back when, and countless other girls at loads of other schools. It’s gotta be the height, the freakishly tall thing, ‘cause there ain’t no freaking way Sam’s hotter than him or Dean in looks, and okay, so maybe Dean’s pick-up lines are kinda sleazy and those smart and classy chicks are not the sort to be caught with a line like that, and Sam’s got that whole college boy working for him, but still…
“Duh, Sarah,” he interrupts, “you know, the totally smokin’ chick at the art thing, the one you were banging on about Grand Wood -“
“Grant Wood,” Sam corrects.
“Whatever. Anyway, her. It’s, like, her gallery, she must have access to the freakin’ providences.”
“Provenances.”
Ross rolls his eyes and exchanges a look with Dean who’s looking amused by the whole exchange, eyes flickering over Sam’s frowning face in an affectionate sort of way.
“You think I should call her up, ask her about them?” says Sam, tapping his fingers distractedly against the lid of his laptop.
“Yeah, take her out to dinner somewhere nice,” Dean says with a shrug.
“Why would I wanna do that? I can just ask her.”
Sam looks genuinely confused, and will someone buy the dude a fucking clue already? They may look alike, but sometimes he seriously believes he and Sam are from a different planet.
“Duh, maybe 'cause she was, like, majorly into you,” he says. “And she’d be more likely to dish the dirt if you, like, butter her up, and flirt and shit, and then maybe fuck her in the back of the Impala. That’s what I’d do, dude.”
Dean laughs out loud but Sam’s frowning even harder, looking insulted at the idea that shock, horror, some poor deluded chick thinks he’s hot and that… oh my God, they might use that to their advantage in cracking this case. Perhaps all those years of fucking around with Dean have actually brain-damaged the two of them in some way, because sometimes he really wonders about Dean too.
“C’mon, man, I was joking. S’not like you have to, like, actually sleep with her if you’re too chicken,” he tells him.
Dean snorts and slides off the bed, crossing the freak-ass disco motel room to grab his cigarettes off the table, slapping Sam’s ass on the way over.
“Sam, seriously dude, she was way into you. It’s all for the good of the case, man, the good of humanity, if it makes you feel better,” Dean tells him.
Ross laughs and watches Sam pull a face at Dean’s retreating back.
“Don’t worry, Sammy, me and Dean’ll protect you from the evil girl parts.”
“Fuck off,” Sam says distractedly.
Ross sniggers again and goes out after Dean; he needs to bum a cigarette.
In the end, Sam agrees to go out with the art chick, with Sarah. She makes reservations at some classy restaurant place which means that they have to use their suits again, and Sam bitches royally as he attempts to iron his one dress shirt with the motel’s lethally hot iron.
“I can’t believe you’re pimpin’ me out like this,” he whines.
Dean looks up from where he’s making notes in Dad’s journal at the kitchenette table. “Dude, we’re not pimpin’ you out.”
“Hell, I’ll do it,” Ross offers.
Because yeah, he’d do it. He totally doesn’t mind being pimped out, he’s quite happy to take one for the team that way, and that chick was cute. Way hotter than the last girl he slept with - a barely legal truck stop waitress in Missoula - and that was freaking ages ago, because since then, hell, for so freaking long it feels like now, it’s just been the three of them, though, he’s not even sure if they have that anymore, not after Dean totally kicking him to the curb, and he just -
Man, he just, like, wants some time away from it all, some time to be normal and regular and not have to think about Dean and Sam and DeanandSam and Dad and everything else that’s beating around his brain and making him fucking stir crazy. So, yeah, the prospect of going out to some fancy-ass restaurant with some smoking hot chick and eating nice shit and flirting and maybe getting laid epically at the end of it all… God, he wants that, like, really fucking wants it.
Anyway, back in the here and now, Sam’s stopped sulking and is looking at him hopefully. He looks kinda comical, standing there, steaming iron in hand, dressed in just his boxers, socks and an undershirt, his hair just starting to dry, ends curling up around his ears just like it used to do when he was a kid and they’d just gotten out of the bath, huddled up in their towels in front of the TV, and Ross feels a flash of warmth… affection…? in his belly as he watches him, ‘cause Jesus, his brother’s such a dork, and so freaking transparent. He’s probably thinking how if Ross goes out with Sarah, he can stay behind and bang Dean up against that glitzy disco-queen mirror, ‘cause he totally knows that Sammy’s a kinky fucker like that.
“Really?” asks Sam.
“Ah, man, c’mon,” interrupts Dean. “Sam - she wanted to go out with you. You can’t stand the poor girl up now. S’fuckin’ bad manners.”
“I’m not talking about standing her up, Dean,” Sam says, “I’m talking about me - I dunno - gettin’ sick or something and Ross going instead. That way he can pump her for the intel -“
“S’not all I’ll be fuckin’ pumpin’ her for,” Ross interjects.
Sam rolls his eyes at him. “Dude, not helping.” Ross shrugs and smirks, but Sam just frowns more deeply and turns back to Dean, immediately dropping the frown for that dumb, wide-eyed, earnest face of his that Ross always knew was totally fake but never failed to work on Dean anyway. “C’mon, Dean. This is good for everyone, she’ll easily be able to tell that I’m not really into her, that I’m just putting it on, girls aren’t stupid, man.”
“Yeah, Deano, let me work some of the patented Winchester charm on her!” Ross adds with a leer.
Dean makes a sort of scoffing sound then sighs manfully, “Jesus, alright, whatever, do what you want.”
When he gets to the restaurant he starts to have second thoughts because fuck, this place is fancy, like posh restaurant from a TV series fancy. He hesitates and the snooty waiter (of course he’s snooty) looks him up and down and asks for ID, which… so fucking embarrassing. Still, it’s not like he can cause a scene here, and as he shows the guy one of the fakes, he thinks about how he could totally, like, take him apart if he wanted to, nail him to the floor with a left hook, prick wouldn’t even see it coming.
He leads Ross over to the table where the chick - Sarah, he needs to remember that - is waiting for him. She looks surprised to see him, and kinda disappointed which is… shit, it’s disappointing. He can’t believe he’s second best to Sam, though, fuck, when has he not been second best to Sam?
“You’re not Sam,” she says, “I, um, it was Sam I was speaking to on the phone, right? The one I made the date with?”
“Yes, you were. And yes, you’re right, I’m not Sam. I’m Ross. We did meet. In the, uh, the art place, before your dad had us kicked out.”
She looks slightly amused, an ironic kinda smile edging at the corners of her mouth. “Yes, of course, I remember. Sorry about that.” Her smile gets wider, more genuine, and he smiles back at her - one of his biggest, most charming smiles.
“Uh, well, thing is, Sam, he got sick, uh, both him and Dean got sick. Like, literally sick, puking up and a fever. We think it was some bad shrimp. They ate it, I didn’t.”
“Oh, okaaay,” she says slowly, eyebrows going up in a puzzled sort of way which is pretty cute. “That’s too bad. Sorry to hear it.”
“Yeah, shit luck for them, especially for Sammy, he was really looking forward to going out with you,” he says, using his most sincere voice. “But, not for me. 'Cause I get to take his place, have dinner with you.” He aims for a lower-wattage smile this time, slightly less charm, less Dean and more Sammy, the whole aw-shucks, I’m just a good handsome boy smile that Sam can fucking live off. She looks at him for a moment as if she’s considering it, then she shrugs, waves a hand at the place setting opposite her.
“Okay, I suppose, seeing as you’re here. Take a seat. It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.”
He sits down, feeling his suit pull uncomfortably around his shoulders as he squirms in the seriously straight-backed chair. “Oh come on, I find that hard to believe that, cute girl like you.”
She rolls her eyes, gives him a self-deprecating smile. “Yes, well, believe it. My alternative is a night in with a TV movie and microwave pizza.”
“Yeah and my alternative is going back to a motel room and listening to my brothers throw up all night.”
If of course you replace throw up with fuck around.
She seems to relent at that and laughs. “Well, then, let’s order.”
An hour later, and he’s actually really enjoying himself. She’s cute, fucking hot actually, great shoulders, man, great tits, and shit, he’s missed tits. All his fantasies recently have been about hard muscled bodies and fucking penises for fuck’s sake - which is all kinds of wrong - getting hard over what are obviously a good pair of tits under that classy black dress of hers feels like coming home to see Dad lying on the couch after he’s been away for weeks on a hunt.
She’s great company, seems really into him, and sure the wine’s helping, they’re already on their second bottle, and it’s going down pretty fucking nicely thank you, and there she was suggesting they’d get beer at first because she thought he’d be scared by the wine list. What the fuck’s there to be scared of, you just look at the prices and point, fucking easy shit.
He’s telling her a story, this one’s true, about that one time in ninth grade he and Sam were expelled for fighting, not each other, but some older senior kids who’d had it in for him from the beginning, fucking cornered him after school one day, four on one, cowardly assholes, luckily for him, Sam had gotten out of his geek club early and arrived just in time to even the odds. The four assholes had been no match for both him and Sam together, and they’d beaten them to the ground in the end, sent one of the bitches to fucking hospital, ruined his football career for the rest of the year. Unfortunately, the administration hadn’t been happy about that and they’d both been royally expelled and Dean had been seriously pissed.
She laughs, says, “My first boyfriend back in high school played football. He was an asshole.”
“They’re always assholes,” Ross says.
She quirks her lip, helps herself to another healthy glug of wine.
“So, uh, how come you ain’t been out on a date for so long?” he asks after a couple of minutes silence.
She sighs and sets down her glass, raises her fingers to her collarbone, an unconscious sort of gesture, as if she’s thinking something over. “My mom died recently, well, uh, I guess not recently, a couple of years ago, just after I left college. Since then…” she trails off, shrugs awkwardly, “I guess I’ve kinda turned into a hermit.”
“Well that’s a damn shame,” he says forcefully, “’cause if you don’t mind me sayin’, you’re a seriously hot piece of ass. Way too hot to be a freakin’ hermit.”
“Wow, I don’t think anyone’s ever said anything like that to me before.” Her voice gets sarcastic, eyebrows all hiked up in a way that reminds him of Sam.
“Well you never met anyone like me before,” he answers matter-of-factly, this time trying for his disarming grin. It obviously works because she rolls her eyes and quirks her lips in a way that means she’s trying to hold back a laugh, a real smile.
“So it seems,” she says.
There’s another moment of silence when the waiter, not the snooty one but another one, comes by to refill their glasses again, and Ross leans back in his seat, lets the guy lean over, it’s kinda awesome being waited on like these, though he can imagine it getting old fast.
She catches his eye and smiles awkwardly. He clears his throat, says abruptly, “My mom’s dead, too.” He doesn’t know why he’s said it, one of the first rules Dad drummed into them was not to divulge any personal information, and if you have to, then keep it vague, shit that can’t be checked. “It happened years ago, like, I was five or six, I’m not sure, and I don’t really remember her, but, yeah. I, uh, I get it, you know. It sucks.”
“Yeah,” she says quietly, “yeah, it does.”
They go silent again and the waiter comes by, clears their main courses, leaves the dessert menu, Sarah picks it up, starts to skim it distractedly.
“So, you’re all brothers, all three of you?” she asks, placing the menu back on the table and reaching for her wine glass again.
“Uh, yeah,” he says, feeling on edge for the first time, he doesn’t want to talk about Dean and Sam, doesn’t want to think about the two of them 'cause he knows if he does, he’s gonna start thinking about what they’re probably up to right now, and he wants to get away from all that shit, wants to forget about it for one goddamn night.
She nods thoughtfully. “And you’re the youngest?”
“Yeah.”
“So did you go to college too? Like Sam?”
“Who me?” he lets out a sudden laugh, “Yeah, right.”
She looks surprised, and shit, yeah, they’re supposed to be antique dealers, old family firm, etc… Fuck, chances are, in the real world, he would have a college degree, fancy-ass learning and all that jazz. God, sometimes he sucks at this undercover shit.
“Uh, it was, the job - family business and all that, Dad thought I could, like, learn on the job. Anyway, Sam’s enough college boy for all of us. He went to Stanford.”
“Really?” Her eyebrows go up, but this time it’s ‘cause she’s impressed. “That’s a great school.”
“Yeah,” he shrugs, “So he says. Man, I don’t know from shit.”
She laughs out loud at that, leaning back in her chair and giving him this sort of appraising look that’s pretty fucking unnerving, kind of reminds him of the looks Bobby used to give them after they’d skipped curfew, but it’s also a billion fucking miles away from Bobby’s old looks, 'cause it’s like she’s mentally undressing him, checking out the size of his package through his tight dress pants, and Bobby most definitely never did that, seriously, the thought is really fucking gross.
He licks his lips, watches her eyes run over his face, down his body, feeling weirdly self-conscious. This is a new thing for him, he’s always sure of himself, particularly with chicks, he knows he’s a hot piece of ass, he normally fucking loves it when they check him out like this, 'cause they always like what they see, course they fucking do.
It’s gotta be all this crap that’s been going on with Dean and Sam, Dean the other night telling him no, fucking rejecting him. He doesn’t get rejected often, not used to it, and, whatever, he’s not going there right now, not gonna think about Dean and Sammy, let that shit ruin this evening.
The dessert comes, she ordered it, said it would be awesome, and it looks it. Sorbet or something, totally new to him, but it’s really fucking good, refreshing, sweet, tangy, and man, it’s so good to eat real, proper food for once.
“So, if you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?” she asks, spoon poised half way to her mouth.
He hesitates, his immediate reaction to the question is to lie, course it fucking is, but he’s already told the truth tonight, mentioned his own mom and he never talks about that, not even to Dean, especially not to Dean.
He opens his mouth, says in a rush, “I’m twenty one.”
She gives an embarrassed sort of twitch of a laugh and shakes her head. “God, I thought so. I’m older than you.”
“Not by much!”
“I’m twenty four, nearly twenty five,” she says with a confiding look. “An older woman.”
He grins, licking his lips in a way that he knows is one of his most seductive moves. “Then it’s fucking lucky I really like older women.”
He offers to drop her home and she agrees, directs him to her house. All the lights are off and she tells him that her father’s out, is always out. It’s kinda awkward for a moment, then she leans over, puts one hand on his face, turning him so their eyes meet.
“You wanna make out?” she asks with a quirk of a smile. “Before I have to go back in?”
And, man, fuck, yeah, course he fucking does.
It turns into something more than making out pretty fucking quickly. He can feel her hands all over him, tugging at his jacket, pushing it over his shoulders, fingers clenching into the thick muscle of his arms as she groans into his mouth. Fuck, she wants him bad.
“God, Ross, this car is hot,” she gasps between kisses, and he kinda likes her all the more for that, can practically hear Dean’s purr of approval.
He grabs her head with both hands, fists his fingers into her long hair, and fuck, gets hit with a sense memory of Sam - fisting his fingers in Sam’s stupid brown hair, both of them making out, too rough, biting each other’s lips, more like fighting than kissing, Dean’s voice in his ear…
He pushes the thought away with a shudder and pushes his tongue into her mouth. She whimpers and sucks on it, pulling him in closer with her hand wrapped around his dumb, cheap tie. Her nails dig into him, leaving marks, and man, he should’ve known… chicks like this - classy, arty chicks - they’re always the kinky ones, the ones who want to just fucking go for it.
He pulls away and pants for breath, her eyes wide, lipstick and eyeliner smudged, sheen of sweat on her upper lip, face like a chick in a freaking R’n’B video.
“You, uh, you wanna -“ he murmurs. “In the backseat?”
She hesitates for a second, biting her already bitten lips, then nods, expression completely certain. “Yeah, okay.”
He grins, huge and genuine, “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she clarifies with a smile. “But, uh, hope you got protection ‘cause I’m pretty sure the condom in my purse has expired.”
He laughs shakily and drags one hand down her silky black dress, cups her ass. “Oh yeah, I’m always prepared.”
When he gets back, he doesn’t know who looks the most well-fucked: himself with the evidence of the awesome sex he just had all over his chest and back in the shape of Sarah’s kick-ass manicure or Dean and Sam who are both lying naked on top of one of the beds, sweaty and gross, smelling of jizz and sharing a tub of Häagen Dazs.
“Fuck, you two are so freakin’ gay.”
“Fuck you,” retorts Dean, helping himself to an enormous spoonful of ice cream. “For that, I’m not letting you share.”
“Don’t wanna. I had sorbet for dessert. It was awesome.”
“Sorbet? And you say we’re gay? Jesus, dude.”
Ross pulls a face at him and throws the comforter from his own bed at the two of them. “Fuck’s sake, cover your naked asses up, wouldya? S’fucking off-putting!”
“Seem to remember you weren’t complaining about our naked asses the other night,” comments Sam.
He ignores him, feeling his stomach muscles clench up. “Yeah, whatever,” he mutters.
Dean gives him an unimpressed, yeah, right look, eyebrows raised all obnoxious big brother style, while Sam asks: “Did you get the provenances?”
“Huh?”
“Ah, man, Ross. The freakin’ provenances,” Dean says, “you know, what you were supposed to ask her about. The reason you went on the fuckin’ date.”
He shrugs, suddenly remembering, but they got forgotten somewhere, probably between orgasms, his head between Sarah’s thighs and his cock inside her. How was he supposed to remember the case after that?
“Don’t shit it, I’ll get ‘em tomorrow,” he says finally.
Dean lets out a long, pissed breath, shaking his head, and Sam gives this scornful sorta snort, like either of them can judge him, it’s, like, pretty goddamn obvious exactly what they’ve been doing all night, and it totally ain’t working on this fucking case. He ignores them, tugs off his jacket and heads for the bedroom.
“Don’t bother hiding, Littlest Bro - I can see the hickeys!” Dean calls after him.
Ross looks in the mirror, fuck him, Dean’s right, there are hickeys all over his neck. He prods one and grins at his reflection. Awesome. He sees Dean approach in the mirror, leaning his (still naked ass) up against the doorframe and staring at him with a strange look on his face.
“I see you got some then,” he says.
“Damn straight.”
“That’s my boy.” He comes forward until he’s standing real close by Ross’s shoulder. “Was she good?”
Ross hesitates, feeling his stomach flip over. Fuck, Dean’s close, so close that he can smell him, that sweaty sex smell that’s a mixture of Dean and Sam and every fucked up thing they’ve been doing all night. Dean was always interested in his sex life, they’d trade stories, Dean banging on about this chick, that dude he’d hooked up with the previous night, leering and gesturing and pulling faces that would have Ross rolling his eyes and begging him to shut the fuck up. Dean would just laugh and ask him about his own conquests. He never felt embarrassed trading these stories with Dean, it was just the way they were. They lived far too close together, too much in each other’s goddamn faces all the time for any of this shit to keep private, and Dean always seemed to enjoy hearing about his hook-ups as much as he did enjoy telling his own… which is pretty fucked-up when he thinks about it now.
“Yeah,” he nods awkwardly. “It was great.”
“Just great?” Dean asks, eyebrows going up as he slides closer. He stares at the patch of skin revealed through Ross’s open collar, and leans in, putting one finger up against one of the hickeys, pressing it into Ross’s skin. It’s like everything’s stopped for a moment, and he remembers doing the same thing to Dean the first time he realized he wanted him: pressing him up against the stall of a men’s bathroom and pressing at the marks Sam had left on Dean’s throat, wanting to get rid of them, erase them from his brother’s body.
He feels a lurch of nausea in his stomach, like he’s going to throw up, that gross acid-biley taste at the back of his throat. He stares at Dean’s fingers, so close that they’re fuzzy and distorted in his vision. He can see the mark out of the corner of his eye, red and purple and… embarrassing, shameful, the mark of a slut, of a stupid teenager who lets someone mark them up. The first time Dean came home with some slut’s marks on his neck Dad laughed at him, and told him he was a dumb horny kid for letting some girl mark him like that, Dean blushed and Ross felt pleased.
He feels embarrassed now, remembering the contempt in Dad’s voice. In the car, he felt Sarah’s mouth on him, her lips and teeth, and he didn’t tell her to stop like he usually did to girls. He let her do it 'cause… he’s not fucking sure why he did. Perhaps this was what he was secretly wanting the whole time - to get exactly this reaction from Dean - this weird creepy-strange look on his brother’s face obviously trying to hold something back as he stares at Ross in the mirror.
There’s a long moment of silence, then he hears Sam call out from the other room, “What you guys doing?”
Dean pulls his hand back fast, like he’s been burned, like Ross is something forbidden, something he shouldn’t be touching.
“Just s’long as you didn’t get jizz on my upholstery, bitch,” he says, turning on that obnoxious big brother voice again, but it sounds fake this time, like Dean’s uncomfortable saying it.
He doesn’t get the chance to respond because Dean’s already stalking back to the bedroom, back to Sam.
He tries not to look at himself again as he gets undressed to shower.
Next chapter
Chapter 14/28
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Sam/Dean/Ross
Rating: R
Word Count: about 10k
Warnings: I guess I should warn that this chapter contains some very mild het
Summary: Season 1 AU. Ross Christopher Winchester knows three things to be true: that his father, John, is a hero, that he's going to be the best hunter in the goddamn world, and that his two older brothers are in love with each other. An AU-version of Season 1 where The Winchester Boys mean Dean and Sam and Ross, where John is still missing, where Mary and Jess are still crispy-fried, and where Dean and Sam are still obsessed with one another...
Previous Chapters Link to the Masterpost
A/N I so need to apologise for not answering all your lovely comments to the last chapter, I am really sorry for this, but have been away from the internets recently due to the birth of my niece! Yes, my sister had another baby and I was once again her birth partner. After 36 hours of labour she had a little girl, totally gorgeous, called Isabelle and weighing in at 6lb7oz! Anyway, there was much rejoicing and catching up on sleep and not so much fic-writing, though things should be back to normal again now ;D
I also totally need to mention that the wonderful and talented space-raider182 drew a gorgeous picture of all three boys from the scene in Chapter 2 (I think!) here where they all get high together. I totally adore this picture: love Sam's sprawl over Dean, Dean's blissed-out expression and Ross's sulky face. Just magic. Go and check it out now!!!
Once again, this chapter was beta-ed by the lovely andreth47 Thanks so much for your comments & fb, hun!
Chapter 14
They stop at a gas station eight hours after leaving Chicago.
Sam’s woken up by Ross slamming the passenger side door, Dean shouting: “Mind the damn paintjob!”
He sits up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as he watches Ross head for the rest rooms tucked behind the office, shoulders hunched, stride tight and forceful. Dean lets out a long, hissed breath, the sound audible over the cooling engine.
Sam watches him turn around, lift the nozzle of the gas pump and slot it into place at the back of the car, the metallic click-clack sound as familiar as his brother’s breathing. Dean wanders round to the side of the car, leans against it, head upturned to let the sun spill over his face; he looks tired, small smears of blood still crusted to his temples and jaw where he hastily wiped it away, the butterfly band-aid Sam applied across his left cheek looking crooked after eight straight hours on the road.
Sam slides out the backseat, stretches out long, cramped limbs, feeling the welcome warmth of the mid morning sun on the back of his shoulders. Dean turns to look at him and Sam gives him a faint smile. Dean’s lip twitches in acknowledgement and he goes back to contemplating the spinning digits on the gas pump.
“Fuckin’ gas prices,” he bitches. It’s an old complaint, half-hearted at best, and really just Dean breaking the silence.
Sam moves to slide his arms around him, but Dean stiffens, the contact evidently unwelcome.
“Sam -“ he starts to say.
“Shut up,” Sam says quietly, “c’mere, I want to touch you.”
Dean hesitates, then the stiffness suddenly evaporates from his body as he all but sags against Sam, head falling onto his shoulder, hands coming up to smooth over his shoulder blades. Sam sighs out happily and pulls him in closer, strokes one hand over his short, bristled hair. This kind of contact is rare between them, even now when Dean is much less reluctant to touch him in public, when Dean’s happy for him to slide his hand into the back pocket of his jeans or pull him into an embrace, or even kiss him in someplace other than the car, a motel room or a men’s bathroom.
Sam moans out softly into Dean’s hair, feels Dean shift and shudder against him, almost as if he’s letting go, letting Sam hold him up and take care of him for once. It’s becoming less and less rare: Dean surrendering control to him, ever since Ross found out about them, since the visions, since Dad, God, since all this shit between the three of them, this past awful, incredible year…
There’s a part of Sam that likes this - being in charge, being the one to take care of Dean - in fact, he’s pretty happy to do exactly that. Dean’s always had to take on too much, ever since he was a kid, he’s always had this epic weight of responsibility, and he and Ross have always taken it for granted, assumed that Dean would figure out a way of paying for everything, Dean would turn up in the nick of time to rescue their asses, Dean would lie to school administrators for them, Dean would solve all their problems, have their backs. And Dean… well, he’s always done exactly that, gotten on with it, done what’s best for them, but it’s Sam’s turn to step up now, to take on some of Dean’s burden, to be the one to take control.
“You know, it’s gonna be okay, Dean. He’ll be okay,” he says reassuringly.
“What makes you so sure of that?”
“C’mon, this is Dad. He’s a great hunter; he knows how to look after himself.”
“Dad?” Dean sounds surprised. He pulls away slightly, tilts his head back to look up at Sam. “I wasn’t thinking about Dad.”
In the background, the pump clicks off, gas tank full, shuddering sound of the pump dying away, making everything quieter without the whirring background clanking. Who were you… he starts to think, but the answer’s obvious, glaringly obvious.
“Ross?” he says.
Dean’s mouth screws up unhappily and he tenses, shoulders hitching, fingers losing their grip on Sam, like he’s preparing himself to bolt. But Sam’s not gonna let him do that, he’s enjoying this contact way too much, enjoying the feeling of Dean against him, leaning on him, needing him, so he pulls him in tighter, claims him, strokes his fingers over the nape of Dean’s neck in a soothing gesture. Once again Dean puts up a token resistance before he gives in, pressing back against Sam, breath coming warm and clammy against Sam’s neck.
“Did something happen between you and Ross?” Sam asks.
From this angle, he can make out the top of Dean’s head and one side of his face, his ear and temple, the soft, fine lines around the one unhidden eye. He sees a muscle jump at the corner of Dean’s jaw, his mouth shaping into a grimace.
“I don’t wanna talk about this, Sam,” he says.
“Okay,” he says equably.
Even from this angle Sam can tell that Dean’s surprised, he cards his fingers through Dean’s short hair, Dean looks up, their eyes meeting, Sam gives him a disarming grin causing Dean to roll his eyes and jostle him. “You sure? Not like you to give in so easily.”
Sam shrugs, “I figure you’ll tell me when you want to. If it’s important.”
“Right,” Dean snorts.
Sam smiles at him and leans down, presses their foreheads together. “Kiss me,” he says.
Dean exhales, breath ghosting over Sam’s lips as Sam’s hands slide up to cup his jaw, tilting his face into a perfect position, thumbs resting on his cheekbones, his big hands cradling the entirety of Dean’s face, he leans down, brings their mouths together. They kiss for a while, though it doesn’t seem nearly long enough to Sam, but Dean’s pulling away from him already. Sam glances up, looks across the forecourt, over Dean’s shoulder, sees Ross standing outside the men’s room, cigarette in hand, eyes locked on them. He can’t read his younger brother’s expression from this distance, but he knows what it would be, and he feels a sudden stab of guilt, of anger and resentment - at this - this impossible, stupid situation.
He watches Ross throw his butt away, grind it out viciously with the heel of his boot, stomp across the forecourt towards them. Dean tenses up again, pulls away from Sam with a jerk, turning to meet Ross’s eyes.
“We ready to go?” Ross barks out, not looking either of them in the face.
Dean lets Sam bully him into the backseat, telling him that he needs a break, that Sam can take over driving. Dean gives in after some cursory grumbling while Ross takes shotgun, sulking and silent as he stares out the window. Dean’s out after only ten minutes, soft hiccupping snores threading through from the backseat. Sam watches him in the mirror while they wait at a red light, sees the slack, restful look to his face, cradled between the backseat and one of the windows, cheek pressed up against his old hoodie which seems to live in the backseat these days for that purpose, not that Sam ever wants to wear it again, thing’s had more drool on it than a dog’s favorite chew toy.
He nudges Ross, “Hey, you wanna put the radio on? Listen to something other than mullet rock for once?”
Ross turns his head to look at him and shrugs impassively, “If you want.”
“Cool,” says Sam with a nod. “You can pick.”
“Nah, you do it.”
It’s kinda shocking; Ross always has an opinion and he’s always wrestled for control of the radio dial like he’s wrestled for control of everything else in his life. Not that’s he’s ever succeeded, not with the radio at least, because that’s Dean’s baby.
Sam pulls them into a motel only three hours later. He’s exhausted and both Dean and Ross are asleep again, none of them have had a proper night’s sleep since… shit, since before Chicago at least. Before Meg and the daevas. Before Dad…
He kills the engine and leans over to tousle Ross’s hair, shake him awake. Ross blinks his eyes open and scowls at him. “Fuck off,” he slurs.
“We’re stopping,” says Sam. “For the night. Go get us a room, I’ll wake Dean.”
Dean’s so tired he’s almost staggering as they follow Ross into the room, shoulder knocking against Sam’s.
“You got us a king?” Sam asks in disbelief, halting by the door, bag slung over his shoulder.
“All there was,” shrugs Ross nonchalantly. “There’s a couch, too. So, you know, if you don’t want all three of us to bunk up together, then you can always take that, Sammy.”
There’s a moment of awkward silence until Dean growls out: “I’ll take the couch.”
Sam nods, throws his duffle onto the bed. Ross looks after Dean for a second, teeth gritted together, until he too growls out, “Fine, whatever.”
He thinks he gets it now, what’s going on, or what’s gone on between Ross and Dean. Dean must’ve said something, refused him, turned him down, and Ross, well, naturally Littlest Bro doesn’t like that.
He sleeps heavily for about six hours, wakes to hear the soft sound of Ross breathing next to him, Dean’s snores from the couch. He heaves out a sigh, twists onto his side, immediately freezing when he sees Ross’s face, eyes open, glinting eerily in the dark, fixed on him.
“You’re awake,” he hisses.
“Duh,” whispers Ross.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
Ross’s mouth twists into an irritable shape, “Can’t sleep.”
“Oh, sorry ‘bout that, man.”
“Whatever.” Ross closes his eyes, huffs out an irritated breath.
Sam regards him for moment, the slight flutter of his eyelashes, the unhappy tense curl to his lips, his dark hair mussed by sleep, he’s been letting it grow out, refused to get it cut the last time Dean did his own, and it’s grown out some, half-way between his own and Dean’s in length now, curling around his ears, making him look younger and the two of them look even more alike. He reaches out; touches it gingerly, fingertips running over the dark, feathery ends, Ross’s eyes snap open, fix on him.
“Watcha doin’, Sammy?”
“Just - shhh, relax,” he whispers, “I’m tryin’ to help you relax. So you can sleep.”
Ross gives him a wary look, but he doesn’t flinch when Sam touches him again, keeps his eyes locked on Sam’s face. It’s kinda unnerving, the way Ross has to keep his eyes open when they touch, when they kiss, always has to be there, in the moment, witnessing the moment.
“I think I like it like this,” he tells him, “your hair.”
Ross’s mouth goes all wry, a knowing glint seeping into his expression, and Sam feels a sudden burst of affection for him, it’s all so familiar - so Ross, that look on his face, the smart-ass little punk look - Sam knows that so well, recognizes it as something so fundamental to his brother. Ross is such a bundle of defense mechanisms, master of the preemptive strike, the instinctive defensive move, ready to shout back rather than actually listen, always expecting to hear or see the worst in anything, so much like Dad in that respect.
Ross was rejected by Dean; Sam knows that for sure now. He saw it in how awkward they were together, in Ross’s unhappy, sulky attitude in the car.
“What?” he asks, a smile tugging at his lips, “why you lookin’ at me like that?”
Ross just raises one eyebrow - his Dean look as Sam privately labels it - and smirks at him. “You like my hair like this 'cause it makes me look more like you.”
A prickle edges up his spine, skin tingling hot in the places where they’re almost touching. “Maybe,” he admits.
Ross’s smile gets wider, eviler, even more Dean-like and Sam can feel his cock wake up, start to thicken, heat boiling in his gut.
“Yeah, maybe,” scoffs Ross. “It turns you on, don’t it? You’re such a fuckin’ narcissist, Sammy.”
“Narcissist?” Sam repeats, amused, he never thought his brother knew such words.
Ross’s lip curls again, and his hand darts out, bracelets Sam’s wrist with strong fingers, he pulls Sam’s hand under the covers, pressing it up against the hard outline of his cock through his cotton shorts.
“If you wanna help me sleep, you can take care of that,” he says.
There’s a note of a challenge in his tone, and Sam feels his throat go dry, a tingle of gooseflesh, his cock getting really hard now.
Dean rejected Ross, he knows that, knows that this is what this has all been about, what this is all about. But he also knows what it’s like to be on the end of Dean’s 'No', it happened so frequently when they were younger: Dean pinging between devil-may-care, live-for-the-moment big brother who knew he was doing the wrong thing but just didn’t give a shit, to crippled by guilt and self-loathing big brother who hated himself more than anything and couldn’t bear the sight of his little brother, the face of his ultimate temptation.
Sam lived Dean’s guilt, saw it first hand, heard enough of the “no, we can’t” and the “not anymore, we gotta stop”, and the “please, Sammy, no, not this time” pleas to know how Ross feels. The only thing he’s grateful for right now, the only fucking good thing in their current shitty existence is that Dean’s finally gotten over all that, come to terms with what they have, accepted that Sam is his and he is Sam’s for the rest of their lives and that no crisis of conscience is powerful enough to make those feelings go away.
He doesn’t honestly know if Ross feels what he used to feel for Dean: that surety and belief, the burning need and disregard for everything else except having his big brother, but he does know that to have the person you love more than any other tell you no can rip the skin off your body, leave you exposed and vulnerable in a way that nothing else can.
And then there’s everything with Dad…
So, yeah… maybe this is compassion, maybe this is his own guilty conscience, his fucked-up way of saying sorry to his younger brother for all those years of rivalry and rejection, or maybe this is just because his cock is hard and Ross has all the right bits in all the right places and he looks and feels really fucking good and hell, Sam’s just fucking kinky enough to want it.
He raises his eyes again, meets Ross’s gaze, Ross smirks, mouth curling upwards, cocky and self-assured once more, defensive prickliness melting away in the face of Sam’s obvious acquiescence. His fingers tighten their grip on Sam’s hand, pressing Sam’s palm down harder against his cock, Sam flexes his fingers, drags them over his brother’s sac, the soft vulnerable flesh, hears Ross’s sharp intake of breath, and it’s his own turn to smirk, do the Dean look. He cups his fingers around his brother’s balls, feeling the weight in his hand; he shifts closer, bringing their bodies up flush, their thighs bumping together.
Ross doesn’t say anything, eyes still completely focused on him, but Sam watches the ripple of his throat, the hitch of his breath and he knows that Ross wants this - wants him. He leans in, Ross’s breath tight and warm against his cheek, and starts to work his hand up and down his brother’s cock, fingers dry and rough, just how Ross likes it.
***********************
Dean’s dreaming about Sam. Sam’s young in the dream, maybe twelve, thirteen, though Dean still seems to be his current age, his hands, his body when he glances down seem the same, he’s even wearing the torn grey Henley he’s had on all day. He and Sammy - young twelve year old Sammy - are in a bathroom somewhere, perhaps Bobby Singer’s place, the room seems familiar in a way that none of the motel rooms or rentals or squat places they ever lived in were, it’s somewhere they’ve been more than once, somewhere they know and feel comfortable in. He’s sitting on the lid of the closed toilet, hands resting demurely on his lap, and Sam - young Sammy - is looming over him, holding a razor, his eyes wide and solemn as he says gravely, “You need a shave, Dean; you should let me shave you.”
He nods at Sammy, agreeing, Sam grins suddenly, flashes him that brief, dazzling smile of his, and places his small hand on Dean’s jaw, pushes his head back so his neck is bared.
“Keep still,” he says, voice going serious again.
Dean watches him closely as Sam leans over him, he’s got his lip caught between his teeth as he lathers up Dean’s face, and he looks so solemn, so focused, that crease between his eyebrows that means he’s concentrating heavily - the Sammy thinking face that hasn’t changed in twelve years..
He wakes up before Sam gets to touch his face with the razor and thinks, of course, this is how it is. He raises his hand to his face and feels the stubble against his fingers. Everything seems suddenly clear to him, everything he’s done, everything that’s happening now: Dad, Ross, Sam, himself - it’s all overwhelmingly clear, though he can’t see just how it’s so clear, the dream already fading from his mind, the clarity of that moment - the moment Dream Sammy put his hand on Dean’s face and pushed his head back - already evaporating from his memory, taking that absolute clarity with it.
He blinks his eyes open and realizes what’s awoken him: there are sounds coming from the big king bed, low whispering and a shifting and rustling of bodies and bedding, a slight creak of the mattress and tight, heavy breathing sounds that make his skin start to prickle, blood start to pump faster, because he recognizes those sounds. There’s a closed-off choking noise, a whimpering gasp that he knows - his stomach lurches again and he hears the quiet, intimate whispering again, the bitten off, muffled laugh.
He sits up, says loudly: “You finished?”
There’s a deathly moment of silence then a pair of dark, tousled heads appear from under the comforter, two pairs of slanted eyes glittering in the dark fix on him.
“Dean…” says Sam, and his tone is wary, guilty, caught-out-right-now.
“Were you watchin’?” demands Ross, no wariness or guilt in his voice. “Or listening?”
“You weren’t exactly quiet,” he says.
“Whatever, like you weren’t totally gettin’ off on it.”
He feels the heat rush to his face, a tell-tale flush, and he can feel his cock twitch at the accusation, because he can’t deny that this - the thought of Sam and Ross fooling around under the covers - it makes something stir in his gut, but he’s not going to admit that, not admit any weakness in front of Ross, not now.
He swallows, barks out: “Go to sleep!”
He throws himself back onto the couch, shifting onto his side, putting his back to them, trying to forget the knowing look on his youngest brother’s face.
“Hey, if you want me to come on over there and help you out, you only need to say so, big bro,” Ross calls out.
Keeping his back to them, Dean raises his arm, gives them the finger.
Ross laughs out loud, “Sonofabitch is sexually frustrated. You should take care of that, Sam.”
“You should go to fuckin’ sleep!” growls out Dean.
He hears the sound of one of them hitting the mattress, more rustling and shuffling sounds, an irritable hiss from Sam followed by Ross’s snap of a laugh. He sighs heavily, shifts onto his back and sits up again, he needs a fucking cigarette.
He can feel both sets of eyes on him as he heads outside, leather jacket thrown on over his bare torso, bare feet crammed into his unlaced boots. He closes the motel room door behind them, it’s one of those rooms that opens straight out onto the parking lot and he walks the few yards towards the Impala - his girl. He leans up against it, the metal practically freezing against his almost bare ass, the thin cotton of his boxers not doing much to keep him warm. He shivers and gets his cigarettes out his pocket, lights up quickly.
So Sam and Ross were fooling around, behind his back, like, literally behind his back, while he was asleep. How long has this been going on? Was this the first time since he and Ross had had their little talk? Or have they been doing this before? When he wasn’t around? Catching these little moments together. God, but he’s sounding as paranoid as Dad, and really, what the fuck does it matter, anyway? It’s not like he and Ross haven’t done shit without Sam knowing, or he and Sam doing shit without Ross knowing… that was going for years, except, no, it wasn’t, because Ross knew all along.
Whatever. If Sam and Ross want to fool around together then that’s their issue, their thing, nothing to do with him.
But, seriously, Sammy and Ross? Without him? He can’t - there’s part of him that’s just not processing this, that can’t get his head around it. Sam and Ross don’t get on, they fight if they’re left in a room together for longer than thirty minutes, though, okay, that’s maybe an exaggeration, but Sam and Ross together -
He swallows, flicks the ash from his cigarette to the damp concrete. Sure, he’s seen them together, has instigated it, that first time - telling Sam to suck off Ross, that was him - and other times, plenty of other times, watching the two of them make out and screw around, always riding that borderline, like something’s just fizzing away under the surface of them, waiting to ignite into furious fucking or equally furious fist-fighting. He’s thought about them too, when he’s jerked off in the shower, when he’s fisted his hand around his cock and told them to do it again.
And they are doing it again. Without him.
He tosses away his finished butt and goes back into the room. It seems dark after the lit-up parking lot, the bed just a big shape of lumpen bodies, and he can’t make out if they’re curled up together or are two separate lumps, the thought that they might be curled up together, that after they’ve jerked each other off, they gonna - what - cuddle? Sam and Ross? Yeah, sure. But still, the thought makes something unfurl nastily in the pit of his stomach and he clamps back on it. It’s ludicrous for him to feel… resentful? Angry? Shit, jealous? They’re his brothers and he’s hardly in a position to pass judgment - exactly the words Ross said to him only yesterday, the day before - God, he’s really lost track of time - whatever, he doesn’t get to do that, decide what goes and what doesn’t between Sam and Ross, not after he was the one who started all this crap in the first place.
He closes the door gently, the click of the lock slotting into place. He turns and leans back against it, eyes roaming over the entire room, taking in the usual mess of their duffles and clothes and take out boxes littering the floor, weapons in a pile in the corner. Dad wouldn’t like that, Dad would be seriously pissed with him if he could see the way they were treating their weapons. His eyes flick back to the bed and he freezes for a second, Sam’s staring up at him, unblinking, big-eyed solemn stare that’s freakishly similar to the young Sammy in his dream. Sam smiles at him and waves one of his huge hands, pulling the covers back and patting the mattress beside him.
“C’mere,” he murmurs.
Dean pulls a face at him, irritated, “No thanks,” he bites back.
Sam rolls his eyes, shuffles so he’s leaning on his side, propped up on his elbow. He stretches out one of his long arms, fingers wiggling, “C’mon, c’mere. Plenty of room.”
He hesitates, but Sam smiles once more, and that’s it, he’s done, can’t say no to that face, and Sam knows it, the bitch.
He shrugs off his jacket and boots and pads toward the bed. The mattress dips as he edges onto the bed, Sam shuffling back to Ross’s muffled protests to make room for him, but he’s sliding under the covers quickly, feeling Sam’s arms wrap around him and pull him in closer, his back to Sam’s chest, Sam’s huge hand over his belly. Sam nuzzles into the crook of his neck and he can practically feel the flinch, the curve of Sam’s frown.
“Cigarette smoke, lovely,” Sam comments.
He huffs out a breath, “Should be used to it by now, man.”
“Hmmm, maybe,” murmurs Sam.
The smell or taste or whatever doesn’t seem to be deterring him any, and he’s already opening his mouth, laying soft kisses along Dean’s nape, up into his hairline and across the breadth of his shoulders. Dean shivers, pinpricks of arousal flushing down his skin, making his cock wake up again, Sam’s hand drifting lower, fingers brushing the waistband of his shorts.
“Take ‘em off,” Sam whispers. His fingers caught in the waistband.
“You do it,” Dean retorts.
Sam huffs out a laugh, presses a sloppy kiss to his shoulder and pushes down Dean’s shorts, catching over the curve of his ass, tangling between his thighs. Then Sam’s hand is on his cock, making a fist, thumb dragging over the head. He hitches in a breath, flinching, squirming against Sam, feeling Sam’s own erection riding his ass crack.
“Hey, let me look,” comes the voice from behind them.
Dean twists his head around, sees Ross leaning over Sam, chin hooked on Sam’s shoulder, eyes glued to the place where Sam’s hand is outlined under the covers. Dean pulls a face at him and Ross smirks, leans over and pulls the covers down, exposing their nakedness, his thick, hard cock covered by Sam’s hand, Sam’s legs entwined with his own.
“Thought you’d gotten yours,” Dean says.
Ross shrugs, “No such thing as enough, Deano. Anyway, I wanna watch. Ain’t that my prerogative?”
Dean rolls his eyes, exchanges a look with Sam. Sam’s looking amused, a pink flush to his cheeks, his dark hair plastered to his face with sweat. Ross shifts closer and Dean watches his youngest brother’s hand come around Sam, sliding down to meet Sam’s own, their fingers entwining where they’re touching him.
“Dude,” he starts to say, but the sentence is cut off, Sam using his free hand to turn his face around, their mouths meeting, “Shhh, shut up,” Sam tells him, “let us do this, take care of you.”
“Sam…” but it’s pointless to protest, Sam’s lips, Sam’s tongue are invading his mouth, taking him in a long kiss, so he relaxes, concentrates on this: Sam’s mouth on his, Sam’s hand on his cock, Sam’s body pressed up against his own, covering him from head to toe. He tries to forget that Ross is there too, that this isn’t part of his plan, that this isn’t what they should be doing, that this is wrong.
“Dean,” Sam murmurs, whispering his name into his skin, “Dean, Dean, Dean…”
And if Sam’s voice becomes mixed with Ross’s, then it’s not his fault. He closes his eyes and just goes with it.
The last time the three of them shared a bed, he was in the middle, this time Sam has that place. He still wakes first, though, shuffles out the door for a cigarette, and he’s not surprised when Ross joins him, suffering from serious bed-head, hand outstretched to prize the smoking cigarette from between Dean’s fingers.
“See,” Ross says after he takes a long, long drag on Dean’s cigarette, little punk. “You don’t have to be all freakin’ moral about everything, shit can work out between the three of us.” He tilts his head, gives Dean a sideways look, a quirk of his lip, “I can be good.”
Dean snorts, takes the cigarette back. “Yeah, sure you can.”
“Sammy’s cool with it,” Ross retorts. “Only you with the fuckin’ issues, man.”
“Sam can do what he wants,” Dean says, he blinks, takes a long drag, “he’s a big boy.”
Ross sniggers at that, “Yeah, not like I ain’t noticed.”
Dean resists the temptation to roll his eyes, instead looking out across the lot, to the row of rooms opposite, the faded gilded numbers on red painted doors.
Ross elbows him, “Hey, you and me - we’re cool, right? You ain’t pissed about me and Sam?”
His eyes are wide, little boy innocent face, but Dean knows his littlest brother too fucking well to fall for that, Ross isn’t sorry, not for whatever he and Sam have been doing together. Does Ross really want Sam? Or is just some sort of elaborate scheme to piss Dean off? And if it is, why the fuck hasn’t Sam realized it, and if he has - why doesn’t he seem to give a shit? Jesus, that’s way too many fucking questions for this time in the morning.
“Why would I be pissed about that?” he asks evenly.
Ross shrugs, “Dunno, man. Just thought you might be.”
“You mean you hoped I would be?” Dean retorts.
“Whatever.” Ross smirks, completely not denying it.
“I told you, kiddo, you and Sam, you do what you want. I just - man, I can’t do that shit no more. You and me, I just.” He breaks off, flicks the butt to the ground, watches it sizzle pathetically on the damp concrete. “I told you that,” he adds forcefully.
“So what was last night?” demands Ross. “I was there too.”
Dean swallows, shakes his head, doesn’t look up. “Fuck, man, I don’t know. That was for Sam.”
“Right, yeah. Whatever,” Ross scoffs.
They don’t say anything for a moment, Dean sighs, raises his head, makes a move to go back into the room, wake Sam. Ross’s hand darts out, grabs onto his sleeve, pulls him around. Dean jerks his head up, sees his brother’s face: shit-eating grin completely fallen away to expose big-eyed, little-boy sincerity, genuine this time. Ross gazes at him, eyes raking over his face as if he’s trying to see something there, read something there. He raises his free hand, touches Dean’s eyebrow with his fingertips, places his palm on Dean’s cheek, turns his face so they’re completely nose to nose, nowhere to look but into each other’s eyes.
“Dean, I mean it; I can be good, go along with whatever you want. And me and Sam - we can be good too, we can be good together, you just - the two of you - you can’t cut me out completely. You can’t do that. I’m your brother; I ain’t got no one else ‘cause Dad is - he’s -”
His stomach knots up, guts churning at the barely hidden desperation in Ross’s tone. He raises his own hand, places it over Ross’s, his brain providing a quick flash memory to last night, Ross’s fingers entwined with Sam’s working up and down his shaft, Ross sucking his own fingers, coating them with saliva, using the slick to work over the head of Dean’s cock while Sam’s big fingers played with his balls. The two of them servicing, doing things - to him. Let us take care of you… Sam’s voice, so soft and persuasive, matching pairs of big dark eyes and slanted evil grins. Jesus.
He swallows, pushes back the images, concentrates on this: here and now, he and Ross. He doesn’t need to say anything, just fists his fingers in his little brother’s shirt, pulls him in hard, arms wrapping around him as they have done so many times before.
“Hey, listen to me: you’re my brother, you’re always gonna be my brother, I’m always gonna be there for you, you dumb idiot. That ain’t never gonna change.”
Ross nods, jerks his head back, makes to pull himself away.
“No,” Dean insists, tightening his hold, “listen, 'cause I don’t think you’re gettin’ this, Littlest Bro. This sex shit - me sayin’ no to that - to me and you like that - it don’t matter. Not to what we are. 'Cause you’re my brother, you and Sammy, it’s us against the world, kiddo, ain’t that what Dad’s always sayin’. And you gotta quit worrying about Dad too, ‘cause he’ll be okay. We’ll find him again and shit will be good, like it used to be.”
He loosens his hold on Ross, letting the kid slip away from him, hair even more tousled after its encounter with Dean’s shirt. Dean eyes him warily, but Ross is hiding his face again, fumbling for another cigarette, eyes focused on the other side of the parking lot, the couple leaving room 12.
“You hungry?” he asks.
Ross gives a sort of shrug, doesn’t look up. “Guess.”
“Good. Well I’m gonna take a walk down this fine main street, see if there’s any diners doin’ breakfast. You get inside and tell Sam to pick up his shit.”
Ross nods, fingers clutched around his cigarette, eyes still not meeting Dean’s.
“Good boy, see you in five.”
****************************
It just figures that the cute art chick goes for Sam. Just ‘cause he can shoot the shit about some freaking creepy-ass painting and Grand Wood and providences and whatever the fuck they were talking about, shit makes fuck all sense to him. Though, she seems way interested in Sam which… come on, can’t she, like, see the gay for herself? Can’t she see the way he’s so not really into any of the conversation starters she tries with him? Can’t she see that he’s looking over her fucking shoulder at Dean stuffing his mouth with mini quiches the entire time they’re having their lame conversation?
Whatever. He gives her a long look as the stuffy dude throws them out, she’s still staring after Sam, though, but she catches his eye and blushes slightly, totally caught out. It’s pretty cute but also way annoying, ‘cause why Sam? He’s equally, if not more, hot than Sam, just ‘cause he ain’t got this fancy-ass education and pansy-ass art knowledge.
“How about asking Sarah about the painting?” Dean suggests after Sam bangs on some more about the freaking provenances and the painting’s history and cursed objects and other things that Ross has just, like, kinda tuned out.
Sam looks confused for a moment, closing the lid of his laptop and frowning at Dean who’s also totally not researching the case at all but lying on the bed reading an ancient copy of Hot Rod.
“Who?” asks Sam.
Jesus, this is so freaking typical. It was always like this: the cute, classy, smart chicks always used to go for Sam, like that preacher’s daughter back in Iowa, and Lucy, the chick who he lost his virginity to way back when, and countless other girls at loads of other schools. It’s gotta be the height, the freakishly tall thing, ‘cause there ain’t no freaking way Sam’s hotter than him or Dean in looks, and okay, so maybe Dean’s pick-up lines are kinda sleazy and those smart and classy chicks are not the sort to be caught with a line like that, and Sam’s got that whole college boy working for him, but still…
“Duh, Sarah,” he interrupts, “you know, the totally smokin’ chick at the art thing, the one you were banging on about Grand Wood -“
“Grant Wood,” Sam corrects.
“Whatever. Anyway, her. It’s, like, her gallery, she must have access to the freakin’ providences.”
“Provenances.”
Ross rolls his eyes and exchanges a look with Dean who’s looking amused by the whole exchange, eyes flickering over Sam’s frowning face in an affectionate sort of way.
“You think I should call her up, ask her about them?” says Sam, tapping his fingers distractedly against the lid of his laptop.
“Yeah, take her out to dinner somewhere nice,” Dean says with a shrug.
“Why would I wanna do that? I can just ask her.”
Sam looks genuinely confused, and will someone buy the dude a fucking clue already? They may look alike, but sometimes he seriously believes he and Sam are from a different planet.
“Duh, maybe 'cause she was, like, majorly into you,” he says. “And she’d be more likely to dish the dirt if you, like, butter her up, and flirt and shit, and then maybe fuck her in the back of the Impala. That’s what I’d do, dude.”
Dean laughs out loud but Sam’s frowning even harder, looking insulted at the idea that shock, horror, some poor deluded chick thinks he’s hot and that… oh my God, they might use that to their advantage in cracking this case. Perhaps all those years of fucking around with Dean have actually brain-damaged the two of them in some way, because sometimes he really wonders about Dean too.
“C’mon, man, I was joking. S’not like you have to, like, actually sleep with her if you’re too chicken,” he tells him.
Dean snorts and slides off the bed, crossing the freak-ass disco motel room to grab his cigarettes off the table, slapping Sam’s ass on the way over.
“Sam, seriously dude, she was way into you. It’s all for the good of the case, man, the good of humanity, if it makes you feel better,” Dean tells him.
Ross laughs and watches Sam pull a face at Dean’s retreating back.
“Don’t worry, Sammy, me and Dean’ll protect you from the evil girl parts.”
“Fuck off,” Sam says distractedly.
Ross sniggers again and goes out after Dean; he needs to bum a cigarette.
In the end, Sam agrees to go out with the art chick, with Sarah. She makes reservations at some classy restaurant place which means that they have to use their suits again, and Sam bitches royally as he attempts to iron his one dress shirt with the motel’s lethally hot iron.
“I can’t believe you’re pimpin’ me out like this,” he whines.
Dean looks up from where he’s making notes in Dad’s journal at the kitchenette table. “Dude, we’re not pimpin’ you out.”
“Hell, I’ll do it,” Ross offers.
Because yeah, he’d do it. He totally doesn’t mind being pimped out, he’s quite happy to take one for the team that way, and that chick was cute. Way hotter than the last girl he slept with - a barely legal truck stop waitress in Missoula - and that was freaking ages ago, because since then, hell, for so freaking long it feels like now, it’s just been the three of them, though, he’s not even sure if they have that anymore, not after Dean totally kicking him to the curb, and he just -
Man, he just, like, wants some time away from it all, some time to be normal and regular and not have to think about Dean and Sam and DeanandSam and Dad and everything else that’s beating around his brain and making him fucking stir crazy. So, yeah, the prospect of going out to some fancy-ass restaurant with some smoking hot chick and eating nice shit and flirting and maybe getting laid epically at the end of it all… God, he wants that, like, really fucking wants it.
Anyway, back in the here and now, Sam’s stopped sulking and is looking at him hopefully. He looks kinda comical, standing there, steaming iron in hand, dressed in just his boxers, socks and an undershirt, his hair just starting to dry, ends curling up around his ears just like it used to do when he was a kid and they’d just gotten out of the bath, huddled up in their towels in front of the TV, and Ross feels a flash of warmth… affection…? in his belly as he watches him, ‘cause Jesus, his brother’s such a dork, and so freaking transparent. He’s probably thinking how if Ross goes out with Sarah, he can stay behind and bang Dean up against that glitzy disco-queen mirror, ‘cause he totally knows that Sammy’s a kinky fucker like that.
“Really?” asks Sam.
“Ah, man, c’mon,” interrupts Dean. “Sam - she wanted to go out with you. You can’t stand the poor girl up now. S’fuckin’ bad manners.”
“I’m not talking about standing her up, Dean,” Sam says, “I’m talking about me - I dunno - gettin’ sick or something and Ross going instead. That way he can pump her for the intel -“
“S’not all I’ll be fuckin’ pumpin’ her for,” Ross interjects.
Sam rolls his eyes at him. “Dude, not helping.” Ross shrugs and smirks, but Sam just frowns more deeply and turns back to Dean, immediately dropping the frown for that dumb, wide-eyed, earnest face of his that Ross always knew was totally fake but never failed to work on Dean anyway. “C’mon, Dean. This is good for everyone, she’ll easily be able to tell that I’m not really into her, that I’m just putting it on, girls aren’t stupid, man.”
“Yeah, Deano, let me work some of the patented Winchester charm on her!” Ross adds with a leer.
Dean makes a sort of scoffing sound then sighs manfully, “Jesus, alright, whatever, do what you want.”
When he gets to the restaurant he starts to have second thoughts because fuck, this place is fancy, like posh restaurant from a TV series fancy. He hesitates and the snooty waiter (of course he’s snooty) looks him up and down and asks for ID, which… so fucking embarrassing. Still, it’s not like he can cause a scene here, and as he shows the guy one of the fakes, he thinks about how he could totally, like, take him apart if he wanted to, nail him to the floor with a left hook, prick wouldn’t even see it coming.
He leads Ross over to the table where the chick - Sarah, he needs to remember that - is waiting for him. She looks surprised to see him, and kinda disappointed which is… shit, it’s disappointing. He can’t believe he’s second best to Sam, though, fuck, when has he not been second best to Sam?
“You’re not Sam,” she says, “I, um, it was Sam I was speaking to on the phone, right? The one I made the date with?”
“Yes, you were. And yes, you’re right, I’m not Sam. I’m Ross. We did meet. In the, uh, the art place, before your dad had us kicked out.”
She looks slightly amused, an ironic kinda smile edging at the corners of her mouth. “Yes, of course, I remember. Sorry about that.” Her smile gets wider, more genuine, and he smiles back at her - one of his biggest, most charming smiles.
“Uh, well, thing is, Sam, he got sick, uh, both him and Dean got sick. Like, literally sick, puking up and a fever. We think it was some bad shrimp. They ate it, I didn’t.”
“Oh, okaaay,” she says slowly, eyebrows going up in a puzzled sort of way which is pretty cute. “That’s too bad. Sorry to hear it.”
“Yeah, shit luck for them, especially for Sammy, he was really looking forward to going out with you,” he says, using his most sincere voice. “But, not for me. 'Cause I get to take his place, have dinner with you.” He aims for a lower-wattage smile this time, slightly less charm, less Dean and more Sammy, the whole aw-shucks, I’m just a good handsome boy smile that Sam can fucking live off. She looks at him for a moment as if she’s considering it, then she shrugs, waves a hand at the place setting opposite her.
“Okay, I suppose, seeing as you’re here. Take a seat. It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.”
He sits down, feeling his suit pull uncomfortably around his shoulders as he squirms in the seriously straight-backed chair. “Oh come on, I find that hard to believe that, cute girl like you.”
She rolls her eyes, gives him a self-deprecating smile. “Yes, well, believe it. My alternative is a night in with a TV movie and microwave pizza.”
“Yeah and my alternative is going back to a motel room and listening to my brothers throw up all night.”
If of course you replace throw up with fuck around.
She seems to relent at that and laughs. “Well, then, let’s order.”
An hour later, and he’s actually really enjoying himself. She’s cute, fucking hot actually, great shoulders, man, great tits, and shit, he’s missed tits. All his fantasies recently have been about hard muscled bodies and fucking penises for fuck’s sake - which is all kinds of wrong - getting hard over what are obviously a good pair of tits under that classy black dress of hers feels like coming home to see Dad lying on the couch after he’s been away for weeks on a hunt.
She’s great company, seems really into him, and sure the wine’s helping, they’re already on their second bottle, and it’s going down pretty fucking nicely thank you, and there she was suggesting they’d get beer at first because she thought he’d be scared by the wine list. What the fuck’s there to be scared of, you just look at the prices and point, fucking easy shit.
He’s telling her a story, this one’s true, about that one time in ninth grade he and Sam were expelled for fighting, not each other, but some older senior kids who’d had it in for him from the beginning, fucking cornered him after school one day, four on one, cowardly assholes, luckily for him, Sam had gotten out of his geek club early and arrived just in time to even the odds. The four assholes had been no match for both him and Sam together, and they’d beaten them to the ground in the end, sent one of the bitches to fucking hospital, ruined his football career for the rest of the year. Unfortunately, the administration hadn’t been happy about that and they’d both been royally expelled and Dean had been seriously pissed.
She laughs, says, “My first boyfriend back in high school played football. He was an asshole.”
“They’re always assholes,” Ross says.
She quirks her lip, helps herself to another healthy glug of wine.
“So, uh, how come you ain’t been out on a date for so long?” he asks after a couple of minutes silence.
She sighs and sets down her glass, raises her fingers to her collarbone, an unconscious sort of gesture, as if she’s thinking something over. “My mom died recently, well, uh, I guess not recently, a couple of years ago, just after I left college. Since then…” she trails off, shrugs awkwardly, “I guess I’ve kinda turned into a hermit.”
“Well that’s a damn shame,” he says forcefully, “’cause if you don’t mind me sayin’, you’re a seriously hot piece of ass. Way too hot to be a freakin’ hermit.”
“Wow, I don’t think anyone’s ever said anything like that to me before.” Her voice gets sarcastic, eyebrows all hiked up in a way that reminds him of Sam.
“Well you never met anyone like me before,” he answers matter-of-factly, this time trying for his disarming grin. It obviously works because she rolls her eyes and quirks her lips in a way that means she’s trying to hold back a laugh, a real smile.
“So it seems,” she says.
There’s another moment of silence when the waiter, not the snooty one but another one, comes by to refill their glasses again, and Ross leans back in his seat, lets the guy lean over, it’s kinda awesome being waited on like these, though he can imagine it getting old fast.
She catches his eye and smiles awkwardly. He clears his throat, says abruptly, “My mom’s dead, too.” He doesn’t know why he’s said it, one of the first rules Dad drummed into them was not to divulge any personal information, and if you have to, then keep it vague, shit that can’t be checked. “It happened years ago, like, I was five or six, I’m not sure, and I don’t really remember her, but, yeah. I, uh, I get it, you know. It sucks.”
“Yeah,” she says quietly, “yeah, it does.”
They go silent again and the waiter comes by, clears their main courses, leaves the dessert menu, Sarah picks it up, starts to skim it distractedly.
“So, you’re all brothers, all three of you?” she asks, placing the menu back on the table and reaching for her wine glass again.
“Uh, yeah,” he says, feeling on edge for the first time, he doesn’t want to talk about Dean and Sam, doesn’t want to think about the two of them 'cause he knows if he does, he’s gonna start thinking about what they’re probably up to right now, and he wants to get away from all that shit, wants to forget about it for one goddamn night.
She nods thoughtfully. “And you’re the youngest?”
“Yeah.”
“So did you go to college too? Like Sam?”
“Who me?” he lets out a sudden laugh, “Yeah, right.”
She looks surprised, and shit, yeah, they’re supposed to be antique dealers, old family firm, etc… Fuck, chances are, in the real world, he would have a college degree, fancy-ass learning and all that jazz. God, sometimes he sucks at this undercover shit.
“Uh, it was, the job - family business and all that, Dad thought I could, like, learn on the job. Anyway, Sam’s enough college boy for all of us. He went to Stanford.”
“Really?” Her eyebrows go up, but this time it’s ‘cause she’s impressed. “That’s a great school.”
“Yeah,” he shrugs, “So he says. Man, I don’t know from shit.”
She laughs out loud at that, leaning back in her chair and giving him this sort of appraising look that’s pretty fucking unnerving, kind of reminds him of the looks Bobby used to give them after they’d skipped curfew, but it’s also a billion fucking miles away from Bobby’s old looks, 'cause it’s like she’s mentally undressing him, checking out the size of his package through his tight dress pants, and Bobby most definitely never did that, seriously, the thought is really fucking gross.
He licks his lips, watches her eyes run over his face, down his body, feeling weirdly self-conscious. This is a new thing for him, he’s always sure of himself, particularly with chicks, he knows he’s a hot piece of ass, he normally fucking loves it when they check him out like this, 'cause they always like what they see, course they fucking do.
It’s gotta be all this crap that’s been going on with Dean and Sam, Dean the other night telling him no, fucking rejecting him. He doesn’t get rejected often, not used to it, and, whatever, he’s not going there right now, not gonna think about Dean and Sammy, let that shit ruin this evening.
The dessert comes, she ordered it, said it would be awesome, and it looks it. Sorbet or something, totally new to him, but it’s really fucking good, refreshing, sweet, tangy, and man, it’s so good to eat real, proper food for once.
“So, if you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?” she asks, spoon poised half way to her mouth.
He hesitates, his immediate reaction to the question is to lie, course it fucking is, but he’s already told the truth tonight, mentioned his own mom and he never talks about that, not even to Dean, especially not to Dean.
He opens his mouth, says in a rush, “I’m twenty one.”
She gives an embarrassed sort of twitch of a laugh and shakes her head. “God, I thought so. I’m older than you.”
“Not by much!”
“I’m twenty four, nearly twenty five,” she says with a confiding look. “An older woman.”
He grins, licking his lips in a way that he knows is one of his most seductive moves. “Then it’s fucking lucky I really like older women.”
He offers to drop her home and she agrees, directs him to her house. All the lights are off and she tells him that her father’s out, is always out. It’s kinda awkward for a moment, then she leans over, puts one hand on his face, turning him so their eyes meet.
“You wanna make out?” she asks with a quirk of a smile. “Before I have to go back in?”
And, man, fuck, yeah, course he fucking does.
It turns into something more than making out pretty fucking quickly. He can feel her hands all over him, tugging at his jacket, pushing it over his shoulders, fingers clenching into the thick muscle of his arms as she groans into his mouth. Fuck, she wants him bad.
“God, Ross, this car is hot,” she gasps between kisses, and he kinda likes her all the more for that, can practically hear Dean’s purr of approval.
He grabs her head with both hands, fists his fingers into her long hair, and fuck, gets hit with a sense memory of Sam - fisting his fingers in Sam’s stupid brown hair, both of them making out, too rough, biting each other’s lips, more like fighting than kissing, Dean’s voice in his ear…
He pushes the thought away with a shudder and pushes his tongue into her mouth. She whimpers and sucks on it, pulling him in closer with her hand wrapped around his dumb, cheap tie. Her nails dig into him, leaving marks, and man, he should’ve known… chicks like this - classy, arty chicks - they’re always the kinky ones, the ones who want to just fucking go for it.
He pulls away and pants for breath, her eyes wide, lipstick and eyeliner smudged, sheen of sweat on her upper lip, face like a chick in a freaking R’n’B video.
“You, uh, you wanna -“ he murmurs. “In the backseat?”
She hesitates for a second, biting her already bitten lips, then nods, expression completely certain. “Yeah, okay.”
He grins, huge and genuine, “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she clarifies with a smile. “But, uh, hope you got protection ‘cause I’m pretty sure the condom in my purse has expired.”
He laughs shakily and drags one hand down her silky black dress, cups her ass. “Oh yeah, I’m always prepared.”
When he gets back, he doesn’t know who looks the most well-fucked: himself with the evidence of the awesome sex he just had all over his chest and back in the shape of Sarah’s kick-ass manicure or Dean and Sam who are both lying naked on top of one of the beds, sweaty and gross, smelling of jizz and sharing a tub of Häagen Dazs.
“Fuck, you two are so freakin’ gay.”
“Fuck you,” retorts Dean, helping himself to an enormous spoonful of ice cream. “For that, I’m not letting you share.”
“Don’t wanna. I had sorbet for dessert. It was awesome.”
“Sorbet? And you say we’re gay? Jesus, dude.”
Ross pulls a face at him and throws the comforter from his own bed at the two of them. “Fuck’s sake, cover your naked asses up, wouldya? S’fucking off-putting!”
“Seem to remember you weren’t complaining about our naked asses the other night,” comments Sam.
He ignores him, feeling his stomach muscles clench up. “Yeah, whatever,” he mutters.
Dean gives him an unimpressed, yeah, right look, eyebrows raised all obnoxious big brother style, while Sam asks: “Did you get the provenances?”
“Huh?”
“Ah, man, Ross. The freakin’ provenances,” Dean says, “you know, what you were supposed to ask her about. The reason you went on the fuckin’ date.”
He shrugs, suddenly remembering, but they got forgotten somewhere, probably between orgasms, his head between Sarah’s thighs and his cock inside her. How was he supposed to remember the case after that?
“Don’t shit it, I’ll get ‘em tomorrow,” he says finally.
Dean lets out a long, pissed breath, shaking his head, and Sam gives this scornful sorta snort, like either of them can judge him, it’s, like, pretty goddamn obvious exactly what they’ve been doing all night, and it totally ain’t working on this fucking case. He ignores them, tugs off his jacket and heads for the bedroom.
“Don’t bother hiding, Littlest Bro - I can see the hickeys!” Dean calls after him.
Ross looks in the mirror, fuck him, Dean’s right, there are hickeys all over his neck. He prods one and grins at his reflection. Awesome. He sees Dean approach in the mirror, leaning his (still naked ass) up against the doorframe and staring at him with a strange look on his face.
“I see you got some then,” he says.
“Damn straight.”
“That’s my boy.” He comes forward until he’s standing real close by Ross’s shoulder. “Was she good?”
Ross hesitates, feeling his stomach flip over. Fuck, Dean’s close, so close that he can smell him, that sweaty sex smell that’s a mixture of Dean and Sam and every fucked up thing they’ve been doing all night. Dean was always interested in his sex life, they’d trade stories, Dean banging on about this chick, that dude he’d hooked up with the previous night, leering and gesturing and pulling faces that would have Ross rolling his eyes and begging him to shut the fuck up. Dean would just laugh and ask him about his own conquests. He never felt embarrassed trading these stories with Dean, it was just the way they were. They lived far too close together, too much in each other’s goddamn faces all the time for any of this shit to keep private, and Dean always seemed to enjoy hearing about his hook-ups as much as he did enjoy telling his own… which is pretty fucked-up when he thinks about it now.
“Yeah,” he nods awkwardly. “It was great.”
“Just great?” Dean asks, eyebrows going up as he slides closer. He stares at the patch of skin revealed through Ross’s open collar, and leans in, putting one finger up against one of the hickeys, pressing it into Ross’s skin. It’s like everything’s stopped for a moment, and he remembers doing the same thing to Dean the first time he realized he wanted him: pressing him up against the stall of a men’s bathroom and pressing at the marks Sam had left on Dean’s throat, wanting to get rid of them, erase them from his brother’s body.
He feels a lurch of nausea in his stomach, like he’s going to throw up, that gross acid-biley taste at the back of his throat. He stares at Dean’s fingers, so close that they’re fuzzy and distorted in his vision. He can see the mark out of the corner of his eye, red and purple and… embarrassing, shameful, the mark of a slut, of a stupid teenager who lets someone mark them up. The first time Dean came home with some slut’s marks on his neck Dad laughed at him, and told him he was a dumb horny kid for letting some girl mark him like that, Dean blushed and Ross felt pleased.
He feels embarrassed now, remembering the contempt in Dad’s voice. In the car, he felt Sarah’s mouth on him, her lips and teeth, and he didn’t tell her to stop like he usually did to girls. He let her do it 'cause… he’s not fucking sure why he did. Perhaps this was what he was secretly wanting the whole time - to get exactly this reaction from Dean - this weird creepy-strange look on his brother’s face obviously trying to hold something back as he stares at Ross in the mirror.
There’s a long moment of silence, then he hears Sam call out from the other room, “What you guys doing?”
Dean pulls his hand back fast, like he’s been burned, like Ross is something forbidden, something he shouldn’t be touching.
“Just s’long as you didn’t get jizz on my upholstery, bitch,” he says, turning on that obnoxious big brother voice again, but it sounds fake this time, like Dean’s uncomfortable saying it.
He doesn’t get the chance to respond because Dean’s already stalking back to the bedroom, back to Sam.
He tries not to look at himself again as he gets undressed to shower.
Next chapter