World's Forgotten Boys, Chapter 16/28 - (Sam/Dean - NC-17)
Fic title: World's Forgotten Boys (link to the full verse)
Chapter 16/28
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 8,888
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 Masterpost
A/N Many thanks to my awesome beta andreth47 for her help with this one.
Chapter 16
It sometimes seems to Dean that they’ve been searching for Dad for all his life; those few stolen moments in Chicago barely count, just enough time for them all to figure out that Dad is still here, still alive and still the same, still on his epic quest to kill the thing - the demon - that killed Mom. But even before all that, before Dad went missing, there were so many times when he was never there, just Dean and Ross and hunting, and then when he was there, he wasn’t really, not entirely, always so distracted, so wrapped up in his big life’s purpose, in the job.
This time around, Dad is about the last thing Dean expects. He’s been too busy figuring out their next move, how to fix things with Ross, how to define what’s happening with him and Sam and their “relationship”. Then there’s Sam and Ross’s freaky vision crap, Ross’s debilitating headaches and Sam’s guilt-ridden nightmares, and hell, just keeping the three of them fed, clothed, not arrested, not dead and not killing each other is a full-time mission. So, yeah… he’s been kinda distracted. Besides, it ain’t like Dad can’t look after himself, Dad doesn’t need, doesn’t want their help right now. Dad will turn up when he decides the time is right.
Apparently, that time is now.
The knock on the window of the Impala makes them all jump, three choruses of: “Holy shit!” and then, there’s Dad, peering through the window, grinning at them fast and loose, and crawling into the back seat next to Sam. There’s no hello, they’re all too shell-shocked for that, Dad just takes the envelope they picked up from dead Daniel Elkins’ post office box from Dean’s hands and swears under his breath while Dean’s still gulping for air, still trying to take in the fact that Dad is here, in the car, with them, sitting calmly in the backseat of the Impala next to Sammy - a place Dean would never expect to see his father sit - but it’s him, real and alive and in the flesh. Dad.
He’s looking for a gun. Not just any gun. A super-powerful antique Colt revolver that’s been stolen by vampires, and wait a fucking minute… vampires?
‘I thought vampires were extinct,” Dean says.
“So did I,” says Dad, glancing up to catch Dean’s eye before he starts dishing out the lore on apparently non-extinct vampires in a voice that makes Dean feel like a teenager once more, warm and protected and stupidly and ridiculously happy to have his father so close.
The warm feeling lasts until Dad finishes up his speech, and climbs out of the car to go back into his truck. Ross scrambles out the shotgun seat to join him, eyes shining with happiness as Dad slings an arm around him and pulls him close, Ross burrowing his face into Dad’s shoulder and holding on tight. Dean watches them through the windshield; they break apart and walk towards the truck, Dad still with one arm slung around Ross’s shoulders, making Ross look suddenly smaller and younger, like the skinny teenager he used to be.
Sam slides out the backseat, waves a hand to Dad and Ross, and slips into shotgun next to Dean. So far, so just like it always used to be, like it should always be, but when Dean catches a glimpse of Sam’s face, his good mood instantly falls away. Sam is not looking happy, staring out the window with a morose set to his jaw and that unhappy crease back between his eyebrows.
“Jeez, dude, why the long face?”
“Shut up, Dean,” Sam mutters tiredly, not bothering to turn and look at him.
“Sam, c’mon, man. That was Dad. I thought you’d be happy to see him. Dad, Sammy.”
“I know who Dad is, Dean.”
“Well, what the fuck’s with you? Dad’s back with us, where he belongs. And he’s safe. He’s still alive. That’s worth celebrating, ain’t it?”
“Like we’re gonna take time out of this hunt to celebrate anything. We’re gonna find this fucking gun and then he’ll just leave again, go fight and hunt the demon on his own. You know it; I know it, so stop pretending like this time’s gonna be any different.”
There’s a long pause, then Dean sighs, says: “I don’t get it, man; you were - you and Dad - I thought you’d made your peace… I thought -“
“What? That we have one freakin’ hug and we’d all be good again. That changes nothing, Dean. He still told me to leave, still threw me out, never made any effort to see how I was doing -“
“That’s not true,” interrupts Dean.
Sam pauses, turns to look at him, with wide unimpressed eyes: “Oh, yeah?” He huffs out a bitter laugh. “You know, all that time I knew you were checkin’ up on me, you and Ross. I saw you once; you were watching me this one time, standing on the other side of the lawns outside the Biology buildings. You really stood out, thought you were so stealthy.”
“I was stealthy.”
Sam’s mouth crooks, his eyes crinkle as he darts Dean a look, “Not so much.”
“Huh, well, whatever. Not like it matters now.”
“No, no, you’re wrong, it still matters,” Sam says. Dean frowns, glances sideways at his brother; Sam’s nibbling on his bottom lip, looking thoughtful. He raises his hand, taps his knuckles against the window, his big long fingers against the steamed up glass, the rain sloshing down the pane. “It’s like - you were always there, always checking up on me, I always knew that if something happened, something big went down, then you’d be there for me. With Dad… I never felt like that. It was all over. Like I wasn’t even a member of the family anymore. Like I didn’t deserve to be, just because I dared to want something different.”
“Sam, that’s not true. Dad never gave up on you, man. He used to swing by Palo Alto all the time. I know he did.”
Sam makes a small scoffing sound at the back of his throat, “Yeah, sure he did. Quit making excuses for him. You always do that, Dean.”
“No,” Dean insists, “he did. I know he did. Look, this one time - me and Ross - we were passin’ by, pulled into this motel, the usual one we used to stay at, the Palm Tree. And his truck was there, right outside the clerk’s office. Now, are you tellin’ me there’s any other goddamn reason Dad would be spending the night in freakin’ Palo Alto? Other than checkin’ up on you? Yeah, I don’t freakin’ think so.”
Sam goes quiet, and they ride the rest of the way back to the motel in silence.
It’s like the old days. Dad springs for two rooms: Dad and Ross in one, Dean and Sam in the other, thin papery motel wall between them. Ross stands in the doorway of his and Dad’s room and watches them exit the Impala with a strange brooding look on his face, Dean glances at him for a second before he looks away, hit by a sudden stab of real and terrifying guilt.
He shuts the door to his and Sam’s room quickly, and exhales in relief. Of course that just leaves him alone with Sam, who’s standing in the middle of the room glaring viciously at the wall dividing their room from Dad’s. Obviously their little heart-to-heart in the car went down about as well as Dean expected.
Great. Just great.
He throws his duffle on the bed, and goes to take a shower.
He’s in there for all of three minutes before the shower curtain sweeps back with a flourish, and he sees Sam through the steam. His mouth drops open in shock when Sam, still fully dressed, pushes him aside and climbs in there with him.
“Uh, Sam - what the fuck…”
His words are choked off when Sam raises a hand to Dean’s face, cushioning his cheek and swiping his thumb over Dean’s lips in a deliberate brooding sort of gesture.
“Turn around, Dean,” Sam growls.
It all happens in silence. Sam’s soap-slicked fingers work into him, scissor him open like they have every time before, his soaked T-shirt painful against Dean’s pebbled sensitive skin, denim clad crotch rough against Dean’s ass, belt buckles cutting into Dean’s flesh.
He cries out in pain when Sam pushes inside him, it hurts like it hasn’t hurt in a long time, it hurts as if Sam doesn’t care that it hurts, it hurts as if this is Sam’s goal. Sam’s hand comes around him, hugging him, pulling him back tighter, firmer, closer into his arms, so he’s enveloped, smothered in Sammy, as close as two people can get before they disappear into each other. Sam murmurs something low and desperate and unintelligible into Dean’s neck as his huge hand grasps Dean’s cock, he gives it a tug, mouth and teeth sinking into Dean’s shoulder as he jerks him to a brutal climax.
They don’t look at each other afterwards. Sam steps out the shower in his soaked clothes, and trembling, Dean pulls the curtain closed. His asshole is sore, raw and hollow with the ache; his skin chafed red and pink, scratches and marks on his neck and back from Sam’s mouth and teeth. He looks down his body, watches the water wash away the thick globs of translucent come clinging to his pubes. He turns around and slowly spreads his ass-cheeks, wincing in pain at the hot water drumming against his skin, but wanting, needing to be rid of it all, squelchy and thick and dirty in his ass, because Sam didn’t use a condom, not this time.
He pulls the curtain back and freezes in shock: Sam’s sitting on the bathroom floor, still wearing his drenched clothes, puddles of water surrounding him, head and hands pillowed on his raised knees, black sheen of soaking wet hair obscuring his face.
Dean stares at him, slowly turning the knob of the shower to OFF. The water stops and everything goes quiet, Sam flinches, shoulders stiffening, readying himself for something. Dean climbs out the tub and kneels beside him, trying not to wince too noticeably, but goddamn it, his ass hurts.
“Sammy?” he says softly.
Sam’s shoulders stiffen again, and Dean reaches out one hand, placing it between his brother’s shoulder blades. He’s cold to the touch, wet t-shirt sodden and stiff.
“C’mon, Sam, gotta get these clothes off, man,” he says.
Sam raises his head, and Dean has a sudden flashback to Sammy aged seven, tear-stained bloodied face after a fight with Ross. I hate him; I hate him, Dean, spat out between swollen lips. Why’s he even here anyway? I hate him so much. Sam was still soft then; just seven years old, and he and Dad had never told him the truth about them, about the family business, about Mom. They’d protected him, looked after Sammy and then this new kid - this little brother - had arrived, unprotected and uncaring, and everything had changed.
Sam raises his arms, lets Dean tug the sodden shirt off him, the heavy cotton sticking around his elbows, his thick muscled arms.
“I’m sorry,” says Sam, his voice sounding about as watery as the damn floor.
“Nothin’ to be sorry for.”
“Yeah, no, I - I shouldn’t’ve. Not like that, Dean. I hurt you.”
“Not so much,” he lies. He manages to get the shirt over Sam’s head. He throws it across the floor and it lands with a dull splat on the linoleum.
“You’re lying,” says Sam soberly. He’s biting his lip, not looking at Dean, cold black strands of hair plastered to his face, droplets of water beaded on his eyelashes and red-rimmed eyes. “You’re sitting funny.”
Dean kinda wants to laugh, ‘cause yeah, he is, and thanks for that, Sam.
“S’not like I ain’t used to it. Get beaten up pretty fuckin’ regular, this is no different.”
“Yes it is.”
Oh for fuck’s sake. He wants to sigh out loud in exasperation. He thought they were past this, Sam’s been happy these last months, accepting of everything, even through all the shit with Ross, through their last run-in with Dad, though Dean’s beginning to appreciate right now just how much that did fuck him up. But Sam’s been here, with him, reliable and steady and seemingly content (save for the nightmares), while Dean and Ross have been the ones freaking out, the ones who have been floundering and flailing about, lost and confused.
“Sam, c’mon, man, quit it. You got nothing to apologize for. Seriously.”
Sam just makes a sound at the back of his throat, a low pained noise. Dean sighs, leans back against the side of the tub, bringing his knees up to his chest to rest his elbows on, tug his fingers through his wet hair.
Okay, so maybe Sam’s mini freak-out does have a point. That fuck was brutal and possessive, and all about dominance, all about Sam claiming him, and he’s still trying to get his head around it, process the fact that that was him and Sam. Sure, sometimes things can be rough between them, they’re two guys (two brothers) who kill things for a living, and he’s happy to admit that they do get off on the brotherly power dynamic between them, nothing gets him harder quicker than Sam hissing low and filthy in his ear: “You gonna get on your knees to suck my cock, big brother?”
So, yeah… they’re both pretty twisted, he knows that. But this was different, for the first time ever Sam didn’t try to make it good for him, didn’t seem to care that he was hurting. Sam used him, for his own need, pleasure, catharsis, whatever it was…
“I shouldn’t’ve done it. I don’t know what…” Sam’s voice interrupts Dean’s thoughts; he jerks his head up, hears the words catch in Sam’s throat as he tries again: “I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I wasn’t thinking, Dean,” he breaks off and clenches his fists. “I just. I shouldn’t take it out on you. Just ‘cause Dad - ‘cause Dad’s a fucking ass. And just ‘cause - everything between me and Dad and -” He breaks off again with a nasty sounding chuckle, hand going up to fist his wet hair, push it out his face.
Dean sighs, “Yeah, well, get over it. Seriously, Sammy, put it to the back of your mind, just - forget about it, okay? We can deal with that shit later.”
Sam gives a hollow laugh, “Always your advice: forget about it. Well, sometimes, it’s not that easy.”
“Bullshit. It is that easy. You just - you ain’t tryin’ hard enough. Anyway, this time, man, I don’t wanna hear it. I want him to stick around. It’s Dad, Sam! Please, just - let me have this, okay?” He lifts his head, eyes meeting Sam’s; Sam’s staring back at him, eyes wide and shiny, “Sam?” he prompts.
Sam gulps, and nods, a quirk of his lips, that small fond curl to his mouth, “Yeah, okay.”
“Good,” Dean exhales. He puffs out his cheeks, shakes his head at his brother. “Now, c’mon, dude, gotta get you out of these wet clothes. Like a freakin’ emo kid, wallowing here in soaking wet clothes.”
Sam rolls his eyes at him, and Dean snorts, leans in to fumble with Sam’s jeans. The denim is soaked, stiff and chafing, the zipper still down, Sam’s now flaccid cock half hanging out, looking unusually small. He touches it with his fingertips; it feels strange, soft and squidgy and nothing like what he’s used to, usually by the time he gets to touch his brother’s cock, he’s at least half-hard, after all, Sam’s cock freaking loves him.
He wraps his fingers entirely around Sam’s soft cock. He can feel it start to thicken as he uses his other hand to pull down Sam’s jeans, the stiff wet denim hard to maneuver as he tugs them down the length of Sam’s long legs. Sam gives him some cursory help, kicking his feet and using one foot to push the rest off until he’s just wearing his drenched boxers, half-hard cock poking through the slit, Dean’s hand wrapped around it.
“You don’t have to do this,” Sam says.
“Do what? Look after you? Been doin’ that all my life, dude, you know that.”
“You don’t have to do it anymore,” repeats Sam, huffing out a wry painful smile. “You shouldn’t have to. I’m a grown man.”
“Yeah, tell that to you and your brother,” Dean retorts.
“Poor Dean, my poor Dean,” Sam murmurs, one big hand going out to cradle Dean’s face, thumb tracing a delicate path over Dean’s lips. “I forced you,” he whispers, low and quiet, his face scrunching up as the words struggle past his lips.
“Sam, for Christ’s sake,” Dean mutters. “No. You didn’t. I could’ve pushed you away anytime I wanted.”
“But, Dean -“
“It never occur to you that maybe I wanted to be taken hard and fast and rough like that? That I found it, uh, hot?” he raises his eyebrows, his best leer in place. It’s not entirely the truth, (though he had come pretty fast), it was too unusual, too un-Sam-like to be really what he wanted, and it was strange, and unsettling: the silence, the roughness, the way Sam hadn’t even gotten changed out of his clothes. But, hell, it was still sex with Sam, it was still the two of them, and he’s never not going to want that, however weird it is.
“You’re twisted,” says Sam, but he’s got a small smile on his face, watery and fond through the wetness in his eyes. “Kinky, Dean.”
“Yeah, whatever, guilty as charged.” He shrugs. “Now, get your ass in the shower, and I’ll suck you off.”
“Sammy looks good,” says Dad, and Dean stops in the middle of reading through the pages of research Sam dug up at the local library, amazed for a moment that Dad can been so blind. He swallows, feeling a mixture of relieved and guilty. “You been lookin’ after him good, Dean. That’s good.”
He nods stiffly. He never knows how to take it when Dad says nice shit like that.
“But what’s going on with my boy?”
Dad’s voice is hard, gaze steely when he meets Dean’s eyes. Dean tries not to flinch, he really does. But he has to look away, can’t meet Dad’s eyes.
“Uh, what do you mean, sir?” he says finally.
“He’s not himself,” says Dad.
He doesn’t know what to say. How can Dad be so blind when it comes to Sam, and yet with Ross… because Dad’s right. Ross is not good, not happy. He’s been wrong ever since Sam came back, ever since Jess died.
And now, God, everything’s so fucked up and he has no idea, no fucking clue what to do to put it right. What the three of them have been doing together, this weird crazy sort of madness that seems to have taken over their lives, like that play Ross and Sammy were in years ago - Lord of the Flies - schoolboys all let loose on an island, away from their parents. And he’s trying to set it right, but he just -
“Dean,” prompts Dad, and Dean suddenly wants to confess, wants to break down and tell him, tell his dad everything, beg him to put it right, to put them all right, put them back together like they used to be, like before Sammy left. But he’s scared, terrified, if Dad ever found out, if he knew about Ross…
“I don’t, uh, I don’t know. He missed you,” he says, because that part - that’s true. “He missed you a lot, sir.”
Dad looks momentarily taken aback by that, almost guilty behind the never-ending stoic mask. And yeah, maybe he deserves that, maybe it’s time that he took on some of the blame for all this, because however Dean looks at it, he knows that it isn’t all his fault. Everything that’s wrong with Ross, that’s wrong with Sam, that’s wrong with DeanandSamandRoss, all the shit they’ve been going through these past months, some of it is Dad’s fault.
If Dad hadn’t gone missing then he wouldn’t’ve gone to get Sam, wouldn’t have fucked up his perfect life at Stanford, and he and Sam wouldn’t’ve gotten involved again, and without that, without the knowledge of his and Sam’s relationship - whatever you want to call it - to deal with everyday, he’s pretty fucking sure Ross would never have even thought about Dean in that way.
But he’s just kidding himself. It’s not Dad’s fault, not really. So he left, left him and Ross without even a fucking text message, but Dean’s the one who fucked up. He should never have gone to get Sammy, it was a selfish decision, done because he was weak, because he missed Sam too much and because Dad being missing was the perfect excuse. If he hadn’t done that, if he’d been strong and kept away from Sam, then they wouldn’t be where they are now: Sam clinging to him, needing and wanting him far more than he ever used to, having given up his long cherished dreams of a normal life to devote everything to hunting, to revenge, but mainly to him, giving it all up to be with him. And Ross… there wouldn’t be this dirty little thing between them, and Ross wouldn’t look at him in that way because Dean would never have touched Ross. Never.
“I did what I had to, Dean, you know that. I have to protect you boys.”
“I know, I know, Dad, I do. But Ross, he, uh, he just missed you.”
Dad nods sharply, his dismissive nod, and that’s it, subject closed.
“C’mon, let’s go meet up with your brothers.”
They meet up with Ross and Sam in a roadside diner; they’ve got their heads bent over a local survey map, discussing something in low, serious tones of voice. Their heads jerk up simultaneously as Dean and Dad stride in, matching expressions and matching eyes raking over the two of them with identical raised eyebrows. Dean swallows, feeling Sam’s gaze linger long over him after they’ve taken a seat, making his spine tingle and his ass throb in remembrance of the night before. He edges into the booth beside him, trying to disguise the immediate wince as his still sore ass hits the bench.
“You okay there, Deano?” asks Ross.
His eyes flash towards Ross. His little brother’s watching him through narrowed eyes.
“Yeah, yeah, just peachy, kiddo,” he says, meeting Ross’s stare and raising him a death-glare.
Ross shrugs it off; he’s been immune to that look for years. “That’s good. Wouldn’t want you to go into the fight with you know… any injuries.”
“Dean, if you’re carryin’ any injuries, then you need to speak up now,” says Dad, raising his eyes briefly from the menu.
“I’m fine, Dad. Like I said, just peachy. Though thanks for askin’, Littlest Bro. Nice to know you care.” He smirks at Ross who glowers and looks away.
Beside him, Sam shifts, legs relaxing outwards so their thighs brush, he knows if he turns to look at Sam that he’ll be smirking, trying not to laugh out loud. He returns the pressure, and Sam’s foot hooks around his ankle so they’re completely lined up, touching ankle to hip.
“My, what a fine family y’all make,” says the middle-aged waitress with a welcoming grin to all of them, her eyes lingering when they reach Dad.
Dad smiles, easy and charming, and Dean’s hit by it - Dad - here, God, Dad, and he misses him so much for a second that he feels nauseous with it.
“Thanks, Susan,” says Dad, already noticing and cataloging her name badge. She blushes and he grins that slow easy grin again. “How about you tell me what’s good today.”
Dean finishes his meal and pushes his plate away, running one hand over his face, stubble rasping under his ring. He can feel both Sam and Ross’s eyes on him and the knowledge makes his stomach flip, an unwanted flinch of something deep and dark and hot in his belly, knowing that both his little brothers are watching him so intently. Sam slides his hand under the table, resting it big and warm on Dean’s thigh, he squeezes hard and Dean swallows, eyes darting around anxiously, hoping Dad hasn’t noticed anything. Dad hasn’t, he’s devouring his cheeseburger with the same single-minded attention he gives everything; Ross, however, is a different matter, he’s watching the two of them through narrowed, slitted eyes, his eyes darkening when his gaze crosses with Dean’s.
Dean ducks his head, slides his hand under the table and pushes Sam’s hand away, muttering, “Don’t,” low and hissed under his breath.
Sam smiles serenely, and leans back in the booth, arm sprawling out along the length of the bench seat so his fingers are brushing against the nape of Dean’s neck, that sensitive spot, teasing asshole.
Finally, Dad finishes his meal and pushes his own food away, he leans forward in his seat and they all follow suit. From a distance they must look like a conspiracy, all four of them, heads only inches apart, breathing each other’s air.
Dad starts to outline the plan, Dean glances up, Ross’s face is lit up, eyes locked on Dad with a expression that’s close to reverent. He unhooks his ankle and shifts minutely away from Sam, Sam’s mouth twitches, but he betrays nothing, he too is completely focused on Dad, on the plan, on what’s about to go down, on what Dad’s about to tell them:
"In 1835 Samuel Colt invented a gun that could kill anything…”
They get it in the end, a Winchester win, says Ross with a grin. It’s what he always used to call it when it all worked out and Dad came back safe: a Winchester win.
Dad claps Ross on the back, squeezes his shoulder and says they all could do with a drink.
“Cause we’re all legal now,” says Ross.
“Y’all make me feel old,” complains Dad but he’s smiling when he pours their shots. He raises his glass, eyes on Sam, “Sammy? You want to make the toast?”
Sam hesitates for a second, then grins, that big genuine smile of his that makes Dean’s stomach twist up. He raises his own shot, “To us,” Sam says. “And nailin’ that sonofabitch, because we’re gonna get it,” he looks at Dad, “together.”
Dad’s mouth twitches for a moment, then he nods, eyes flinty tough, “You’re goddamned right we are.”
“Awesome,” says Dean and downs his, watching the others follow suit. His eyes flick to the Colt lying on the nearest bed on a sheet of newspaper. The Colt, it’s the kinda word that has to be capitalized. That weapon - it can finish this - finish everything Dad’s been working for his entire life. A freaking gun.
Dad chuckles at something Ross says, hand coming out to ruffle through Ross’s hair, fond curve to his mouth. “What happened here?” he says.
Ross ducks away from Dad’s hand, flushes, touches his hair self-consciously.
“Dunno,” he says, “just - don’t wanna get it cut.”
Dad shakes his head, eyes flicking from Ross to Sam. “Just like your brother, huh? I swear, you two boys get more alike, the more I see you.”
Ross shrugs, ducks his head, not meeting Dad’s eye, his cheeks flushed. Dean kicks him under the table and Ross’s head jerks up, he scowls at Dean and Dean grins back at him. This - this right now - it’s almost too good to be true: the four of them together, knocking back the shots, a win, a nest full of dead vamps, a super-awesome fucking gun that can actually kill that sonofabitch that took away their mom. It don’t get better than this.
“So, how about you boys tell me what you’ve been up to these past few months,” says Dad after another round of shots.
Dean’s brain fizzes, short-circuits and actually fucking stops dead for a second, leaving him blinking in terror and unable to look up, unable to meet his Dad's or his brothers’ eyes. The second seems to last for an eternity, and he nearly fucking passes out in relief when Dad adds:
“I wanna hear all about these hunts you’ve been doin’, what y’all’ve learned.”
Dean still can’t speak, and is it seriously possible to be rendered mute with relief - because he thinks he’s about there. Somewhere in the background, he hears Sam laugh shakily (evidently Sammy’s thought-process had taken the exact same dive his did) and start to talk. Soon, Sam and Ross are competing with each other to tell Dad the best most daring-sounding version of some of the hunts they’ve gotten through, looking to Dean for back-up and details, matching expressions of one-upmanship and glee on their faces, eyes lit up, mouths wide and smiling in that way that makes it hard for Dean to watch them without feeling dazzled.
Dean doesn’t bother interrupting, letting them tell the tale, watching them interact with Dad and each other, feeling a warm glow in his chest, love and affection and something else that he doesn’t want to analyze too closely. He catches Sam’s eyes over the table and sees them darken, gleaming and predatory, and he knows Sam’s thinking about the same thing. He watches Sam sit back in his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him, fingers playing idly with the label on his beer bottle, letting Ross tell the story of the pathetic ghost-busting duo in West Texas they’d run into. He looks completely relaxed and at ease, face flushed with alcohol and mouth playing a small amused smile, it makes Dean fidget in his seat, desperate with the urge to touch him.
Ross finishes up the story with a laugh, stumbles out his seat to go to the bathroom. “Oops,” he says, tripping over the edge of the couch with a shriek of laughter.
“I think someone’s had enough for one night,” says Dad, looking amused.
“Aw, fuck, fuck,” mutters Ross, scrambling into a sitting position, “I’m fine, Dad. God.”
Dean snorts, exchanges a look with Dad, he gets out of his seat, and whoa, he feels more than a little unsteady himself, the room hitching and tipping. That’s always the thing - it’s all good until you have to get up. He bends over Ross, grabs his arm, pulls him to his feet. “C’mon, kiddo.”
Ross’s expression goes softer, spongy and malleable and he leans into Dean, lets Dean take his weight, his breath a hot pant against Dean’s neck.
“He alright?” grunts Dad.
“Yeah, yeah, he’s fine.”
“You need a hand there?”
“No, no, I’m fine, Dad.”
“Good. Put him to bed. And you and Sammy get outta here. We got an early start tomorrow.”
“Yes sir,” he replies automatically.
He sees Sam get to his feet from the corner of his eye, pick up his hoodie from the back of the chair and walk out of there, leaving the motel room door open behind him. In his arms, Ross lurches, turning so he’s facing Dean, head resting on Dean’s shoulder. Dean tightens his grip on him and starts to maneuver them closer to one of the beds.
“Dean,” Ross whispers. Dean stills, flinching when he feels Ross’s mouth on his neck, tongue swiping against his skin. Shit.
“C’mon, let’s get you to bed, littlest bro,” he says loudly, hefting Ross away from him, and tumbling him to the bed. Ross sprawls on his back and looks up at Dean with a petulant look on his face.
“You’re no fun tonight, Dean.”
Shit. Shit.
“Yeah, well, fun’s over, dude. Sleep time’s now.”
“Yeah, right,” scoffs Ross. “Like you an’ Sammy gonna be sleepin’.” He laughs bitterly, words slurring as he slumps onto his front, as if he’s presenting his ass to Dean. He stares down at him, at the curve of Ross’s denim clad ass, remembers running his hand over it, squeezing the flesh, playing with his brother’s balls.
“Everything okay here, boys?”
He jumps, blushing and flinching when he feels Dad’s hand on his shoulder. He swallows, ducks his head, hiding his flushed guilty cheeks from his father.
“Uh, yeah, yeah. Everything’s fine. Ross’s just gonna sleep now. And I’m, uh, I’m going to bed, too.”
He straightens ups, and feeling steadier, turns to flash Dad a reassuring grin, curling his fingers around the crushed packet of cigarettes in his pocket, God, he needs a smoke.
“We’re leaving at 0800 hours, Dean,” says Dad.
Dean hesitates in the doorway, turning his head slightly to nod at Dad, Dad’s staring back at him, blank unreadable look on his face, he nods and leaves quickly.
He doesn’t go back to the room straight away, instead he paces around outside, smoking his cigarette because there’s no fucking way Sam’ll let him smoke in the room. Anyway, he doesn’t want to go in there yet, he feels odd, jittery, for once the nicotine’s not working properly to calm his shot to shit nerves. Goddamnit, that was… getting Ross drunk like that, stupid little dick, that was fucking close. He thinks suddenly of something Ross said about Dad, that morning when he told them that he knew, that he’d known for six fucking years, I don’t know, I think he suspected… Shit.
He heads back to their room, closing the door carefully behind him, shrugging off his jacket…
“Dean?”
He spins around to see Sam come out of the bathroom, soaking wet and wearing a towel knotted around his waist that looks miniature on him, torso bare, hair flat and dripping down his face. Dean stops still, frozen to the spot, the breath catching in the back of his throat, a tight prickle of heat pooling in his belly. Sam is… Sam’s so different now, not the skinny lanky kid he almost expects to see when he looks at him, particularly now with Dad being around, but Sam’s not that anymore, instead he’s this big tall dude who’s, let’s face it, ridiculously fucking hot.
It didn’t use to be like this. He never remembers finding Sam physically attractive in the old days, before he left, it wasn’t about that. It was something else, it was getting to the person Sam was underneath everything, being something for his brother who needed him and desired him above all others, it was making Sam feel special and feeling special himself because someone as smart and amazing as Sam wanted him.. It was something bigger than the two of them - something that made him feel ripped apart, left open and bare and stupidly vulnerable, something that he couldn’t help feeling - wrong love.
It wasn’t about physical attraction, that was too weak, that was something he could get from any chick or any dude in a bar, with Sam it was much more than that. When he was with Sam, he actually believed that there were such things as souls and that his and Sam’s were supposed to be together. And yes, he knew it was pathetic and he would seriously fucking kill himself if anyone ever found out that he - Dean Winchester - was having such lame thoughts about ”two souls coming together” for fuck’s sake, but this was him and Sam. This was something else. Besides, Sammy was young (Jesus, fifteen years old) when this thing started up between them, so the idea of finding him attractive was pretty fucking creepy, not that actually having sex with him was not creepy, because yeah, it kinda was. It just… it wasn’t like that.
When he saw him again, in that apartment in Palo Alto, up close and not from a distance, not across a library floor or a perfectly kept lawn…oooh boy… He can remember the gut punch, the slam-dunk to his chest that made his heart race and the zing-bolt of want flair up in his stomach, flashpoint to his cock, getting him harder fast than a hard-core porn-fest. And it was like he was like watching it in Technicolor: the whoosh of blood through his arteries, burst of sweat and heat to every pore, the one thought banging around his head: Jesus Christ, but Sammy is fuckin’ hot… It was the cheesiest scene from every cheesy movie when the two protagonists see each other from across a crowded room, like fucking Fatal Attraction, and he wanted, wanted so badly to be banging Sam in the goddamn elevator right then and there. But he held back, smile-smirked and stared greedily at him when Sam was looking elsewhere.
He breaks out of his momentary stupor and turns to snap the lock on the door, draw the curtains. When he turns around again, Sam is still standing there, still in his tiny towel, a considering, thoughtful look on his face. Dean wets his lips, says clearly:
“Drop the towel.”
Sam’s lip twitches but he obeys, unknotting the towel, letting it slide down his long, long legs to pool around his feet. Dean murmurs approval, his eyes raking hungrily over Sam’s body, taking in every single inch of it, Sam’s cock slowly growing and thickening as Dean keeps looking, rising up to a perfect 90’ angle.
“You done lookin’?” Sam asks, tilting his head and smirking at him.
“Nuh-uh, no way,” Dean answers. He keeps his eyes locked on Sam as he toes off his boots, kicking them aside to advance on his brother, Sam standing his ground and watching him with that same predatory gleam in his eyes as earlier in the evening. Dean stops just in front of him and places his palm flat on Sam’s chest, fingers pressing into the hard muscle and slippery wet skin. He pushes, forces Sam to walk backwards, stumbling when the back of his legs hit the bed, falling back into an elegant sprawl, thighs spread, cock thick and bobbing as it meets his flat, hard belly.
Dean takes a step back, smirks. “Stay there,” he commands. “And don’t touch yourself.”
Sam says nothing, eager to obey. Dean raises his hand to flick open the buttons of his shirt, shrug it over his shoulders, slide his belt out of his pants so it coils to the floor. He watches Sam closely: sees the flutter of his eyelashes, the red spread of color from his cheeks to his neck to his chest, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, long gorgeous fingers digging into his thighs hard enough to leave marks.
He needs to do this, he needs to be back in charge again, show Sam that he’s the big brother. He’s let Sam have his way too often, let him think he can get away with everything, just a flash of dimples and soft hurt eyes and Dean’s a sucker, ready to do whatever Sammy wants, and that might be true most of the time, but Sam needs to be told once again that Dean’s the oldest, Dean’s in charge, (at least when Dad ain’t around).
He knows it’s his fault, he’s been distracted, lost, confused by all this mess with Ross, but Dad’s back now and they need to put things right, get things in order before they go confront this demonic sonofabitch. He needs to be in control of something for once in his entire sorry life because he has no freaking idea what happens next.
His t-shirt is next, sliding over his head in an easy fluid motion, then he’s naked from the waist up, jeans unbuttoned. He places his palm over his chest, caressing his skin as he smoothes it slowly down his abs and belly, touching himself, letting himself enjoy it, fingers tingling as they ghost over his nipples and stomach muscles. He hears Sam’s sharp intake of breath and he smirks, feeling his own cock twitch as his hand slides lower, fingers brushing up against his pubes, ducking under his waistband. He doesn’t normally like doing this - putting on a show like a fucking male stripper - hell, he doesn’t need to do this, never really needs to make the effort, people usually want to fall into bed with him, and Sammy, well… Sam’s always been so easy, but this time he’s going to make Sam crazy, wants to send him there.
He pushes Sam backwards, climbs onto the bed to straddle him, he seizes Sam’s wrists and yanks his hands over his head, pinning him to the mattress. Sam is breathing heavily underneath him, chest rising and falling with panted breaths, eyelashes fluttering over dark dilated pupils.
“I’m gonna fuck you,” Dean whispers. “Gonna give it to you hard and fast, little brother.”
Sam lets out a moan, teeth biting into his bottom lip, Dean leans down, licks a long dirty path over his brother’s mouth, over those nibbling teeth, slicking saliva over Sam’s pink lips. He leans back to catch his breath, tangle his fingers in Sam’s hair to twist his head, bare his neck and sink his teeth into soft unsuspecting skin. Sam trembles beneath him, letting out more helpless moans, he always goes crazy for this - for Dean’s teeth on this one spot, this pressure point, and God, Dean wants to bite him, the urge to devour, to eat, to consume him makes his knees shake, his body press down on Sam’s, blanket him from head to toe, grind his denim clad crotch against Sam’s erection.
“Get on your knees,” he snarls.
He sits back, shucks down his jeans, his eyes not leaving Sam as Sam slowly turns over, getting to trembling knees, head ducked and dark mop of hair falling over his face. Dean leans over him, fisting his own cock in one hand, the other squeezing and massaging Sam’s round ass cheeks, pressing red marks into the comically pale flesh. He pushes his fingers into Sam’s mouth, Sam sucks greedily, making loud, slurping sounds, tongue running over the sensitive pads of Dean’s fingertips, making him shiver as Sam whimpers. He pulls his fingers out, thick threads of spit, slick and translucent, syrupy thick trails that he works into Sam’s asshole, one finger, then two, quick and impatient, Sam’s ass muscles clenching around him, his moans getting louder in the silent room.
“Shut up, be quiet,” Dean hisses, his mind jumping to Dad and Ross in the neighboring room. He should’ve thought of that, should’ve put on the TV, remembered how goddamn noisy Sam gets when he’s being fucked, or when he’s doing the fucking, hell, how goddamn noisy Sam always gets with sex.
Sam snaps his mouth shut, twists his head so his eyes meet Dean’s, burning shining gaze, the ring of hazel around his pupils almost vanished with his arousal. “Do it,” he murmurs, lips glistening and pink as they work around the words. “Fuckin’ do it already, Dean. No lube, don’t need no fuckin’ lube.”
“Good, ‘cause I ain’t using any.”
He doesn’t hesitate, pulls his fingers out, lines up his saliva slick cock and pushes in, forcing through the hard tight entrance, up and up, deeper and deeper inside his brother, until he’s there, balls pressing up against Sam’s ass, the two of them joined like a freaking ball socket.
“Dean?” Sam gasps.
“I’m here, can’t you feel it?” Sam’s breath hitches, a small amused sound that catches at the back of his throat. “My huge throbbing man-beast in your tight little hole?” Dean whispers, amusement coating his words.
Sam huffs a laugh again, reaches behind to slap Dean on the thigh; Dean’s smile widens, he catches Sam’s hand, twines their fingers together and squeezes hard. He starts to thrust, counting the beats in his head, feeling the building, bubbling pleasure deep in his gut, his chest, his groin, his dick so thick and hard in Sam’s ass. Sam’s pushing back greedily, meeting every slam of Dean’s hips, letting Dean in deeper and deeper, panting for breath, fingers a death grip on Dean’s hand.
They keep quiet, no words this time, no murmured, “Oh yeah, right there, so good, so fuckin’ hot, God, Sam, God, Dean, want you, so fuckin’ amazing…” not when their father’s on the other side of that wall, the room already alight with the sound of their panted mingled breathing.
“Jesus… God… Sam…” But even with his awareness of their dad so near, it's too much, and Dean can’t help the words tumbling from his panting breathless mouth as he comes. He pulls out of Sam, rolls him over to jack himself off, ride the last moments of his orgasm and paint Sam’s gleaming gorgeous body with it. Sam’s cock is still hard, he can never come while Dean is still inside him, so Dean takes him into his mouth, sucks him off with a couple of swoops of his tongue, and then Sam is coming and crying, fingers clawing helplessly at Dean’s arms and shoulders, panting out his name.
Dean collapses to the bed beside his brother and pants for air; his tongue is coated with Sam’s release, his whole body covered in Sam’s sweat.
“That was freakin’ amazing,” Sam breathes, he turns his head, presses a kiss against Dean’s cheek. “You’re amazing.”
“Yeah, I know,” Dean answers smugly.
Sam chuckles, squeezes Dean’s thigh, “I think I kinda like it when you take control like that.”
“That’s ‘cause you’re secretly a slutty little bottom who likes to pretend he’s a big manly top.” Dean rolls to his side, props himself up on one elbow to look down at Sam. “But I’m on to you, dude.”
Sam pulls a face, “Whatever. You’ve got jizz your chin.”
“Well it wouldn’t be the first time.”
He smirks and rolls off the bed, getting to his feet to pad to the bathroom, “First shower’s mine!”
He awakes with a jolt to the sound of Sam’s voice, his helpless, agonized cries beating against his ears:
Jess, no, no, I promise, I didn’t… I’m so sorry, baby… Jess, no! NO!
“Sam? Sammy?”
Sam’s thrashing beside him, eyes wide, stricken, wet with fear and tears while his mouth keeps working, babbling pleas and curses.
“Sam, c’mon, man, it’s okay, I’m here. Sammy, it’s okay, it’s me, it’s Dean…”
But Sam isn’t hearing him, he’s caught up in whatever nightmare has him tonight, squirming and trapped in their cocoon of blankets and his own fucked-up head.
“Boys? Dean? Sam? What’s going on in there?”
Dean freezes at the sound of his father’s voice, his heavy knock at their flimsy room door.
He gulps, slides out of bed and opens the door to his father. Dad strides past him, pushing Dean aside as he moves to snap on the light, bathing the room in harsh bright light. Dean blinks and stares at him: he’s still wearing the same clothes from earlier, the same rumpled jeans and shirt; he can’t have even gone to bed.
“What’s going on?” he demands.
Dean’s mouth works soundlessly, he thrusts out his hand, indicates the bed, “Sammy, uh, he’s havin’ a nightmare.”
“I can see that,” growls Dad. “Why haven’t you woken him up, Dean?”
“I, uh, sometimes, I can’t,” Dean stammers. Dad turns to look at him, eyes dark and narrowed, for a long moment Sam’s moans and pleas fade away, and Dean’s only aware of his father’s gaze, piercing into him, rummaging through his head, picking out the truth from the bullshit. He swallows, ducks his head, needing to look away.
“Why is the other bed still made?” Dad asks, his voice as clear as glass.
Shit. Dean freezes, heart speeding up, stomach fluttering, his eyes dart over the room: one bed, they only used one bed, the same bed for fucking, for sleeping, the other still made, strewn with weapons and research, so obviously untouched, he was going to mess it up in the morning, never thought that Dad would come by during the night…
“Dean. Answer me. Why were you sleeping in the same bed as your brother?”
“We, uh, were sharin’,” he whispers, “’cause of this - his nightmares. He gets so fucked-up with it… I, uh, I have to…” he trails off hopelessly, tries to swallow, but his throat has dried up along with the words, mouth and lips as dry and parched as sand.
The silence is long and devastating, broken only by the sound of Sam’s helpless moans, quieter now, he’s coming out of it, he’ll wake soon, it’s the usual pattern.
“Wake him up. Deal with it, Dean. We’ve got a long drive tomorrow, I want you boys alert and you won’t be if you don’t get some sleep. If we’re doing this then we’re carrying no passengers.”
The words are final, one last command, and Dad’s gone, door closing behind him like a book slamming shut. End of chapter.
Dean stands in the middle of the room, fingers fisting and unfisting, heart hammering, breath caught in his throat.
Shit, oh God, shit, he knows, he’s got to know, he knows, how long has he known?
“Dean?” Sam’s voice jolts him back to the present. He spins around, stares at his brother. Sam’s awake, blinking at the fierce overhead light, hand raised to shield his eyes. “Was Dad here?”
“Yes,” Dean swallows. “He just left. You, uh, you okay?”
Sam says nothing, lets out a long exhausted breath. Dean bites his lip, moves to sink to the edge of the bed, mattress dipping under his weight, he stretches out a hand, pushes Sam’s damp thick hair off his forehead. “The Jess dream again?”
“It’s always that dream,” Sam says soberly. His voice sounds flat, drained. “She’s there, on the ceiling, right there, and I can’t reach her, I can’t save her. She always burns.” He breaks off, licks his lips, there are tears beading at the edges of his pink dark-circled eyes, “We have to get this thing, Dean. For her, I have to - it’s my fault, if I’d been there -“
“Then you’d be dead too,” Dean cuts in.
“I shouldn’t’ve left; I should never have gone with you guys. Hell, I should never have gone to fuckin’ college, if I hadn’t met her then she’d still be alive -“
“You don’t know that,” Dean insists.
“Dean, c’mon!” Sam shrugs Dean’s hand off him. “That’s bullshit and you know it! Jess died because of me! S’fuckin’ obvious.” He pushes the covers aside, and brushing past Dean, slides out of bed, heading for the bathroom.
Dean sits on the edge of the bed for a moment, staring down at his fingers, lying loose and useless in his lap, he hears the sound of Sam moving around the bathroom, toilet flushing, tap running, shower cranking awake. He can’t think right now, this is too much. Dad knows. He didn’t even act surprised. He didn’t sound surprised. But he said nothing. But he knows.
He gets to his feet automatically, moving to lean against the doorframe, needing to be near Sam. Sam’s sitting on the closed lid of the toilet with his head in his hands, the steady drum of the shower loud and claustrophobic in the room.
“Sammy? Whatcha doin’?”
“Having a shower, what’s it look like?” comes Sam’s muffled response.
The belligerent pissy tone to Sam’s voice reminds Dean sharply of Ross, and he feels the absurd urge to laugh out loud, despite everything, this whole fucked-up mess. Dad -
“I think Dad knows,” he says suddenly.
Sam’s head jerks up; he stares at Dean, blinks. “What?”
“About us, you and me. I think he knows. Fact is I’m pretty sure he does.”
Sam licks his lips again, like he’s buying himself some time to take it in, another freaking blow, another punch to the gut. “Shit,” he says finally.
It’s kinda a lame summation on the entire situation and Dean can feel that urge to laugh out loud bubbling up even stronger, maybe he’s hysterical, fuck that; maybe he’s going crazy, like, legitimately take-me-to-the-nut-house crazy.
He snorts, a bark of pained, raw laughter, he shakes his head, meeting Sam’s shocked gaze, Sam’s eyes narrow irritably, “Dean, this ain’t funny.”
“What, man? C’mon, it kinda is.”
“What? Dad knowing about us? Or me having dreams about my dead girlfriend? Yeah, completely hilarious,” Sam says darkly.
“Whatever,” Dean sighs, he rubs his hand across his eyes, shucks down his boxers, pulls off his t-shirt until he’s naked.
Sam’s regarding him warily. “What you doing?”
“Might as well use that shower, you’ve had the water on long enough,” he shrugs. He pulls the shower curtain aside and climbs in, steam wrapping around him, hot beads of water lashing against his calves. He raises his eyebrows at Sam. “You joining me?”
Sam blinks at him, then slowly, he shakes his head, his mouth twitching in that slow fond way that makes Dean feel warm, what he thinks of as Sam’s you’re such a fuckin’ idiot, and I’m way more mature than you, but I love you anyway look.
“Yeah, okay,” Sam says.
Next chapter
Chapter 16/28
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 8,888
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 Masterpost
A/N Many thanks to my awesome beta andreth47 for her help with this one.
Chapter 16
It sometimes seems to Dean that they’ve been searching for Dad for all his life; those few stolen moments in Chicago barely count, just enough time for them all to figure out that Dad is still here, still alive and still the same, still on his epic quest to kill the thing - the demon - that killed Mom. But even before all that, before Dad went missing, there were so many times when he was never there, just Dean and Ross and hunting, and then when he was there, he wasn’t really, not entirely, always so distracted, so wrapped up in his big life’s purpose, in the job.
This time around, Dad is about the last thing Dean expects. He’s been too busy figuring out their next move, how to fix things with Ross, how to define what’s happening with him and Sam and their “relationship”. Then there’s Sam and Ross’s freaky vision crap, Ross’s debilitating headaches and Sam’s guilt-ridden nightmares, and hell, just keeping the three of them fed, clothed, not arrested, not dead and not killing each other is a full-time mission. So, yeah… he’s been kinda distracted. Besides, it ain’t like Dad can’t look after himself, Dad doesn’t need, doesn’t want their help right now. Dad will turn up when he decides the time is right.
Apparently, that time is now.
The knock on the window of the Impala makes them all jump, three choruses of: “Holy shit!” and then, there’s Dad, peering through the window, grinning at them fast and loose, and crawling into the back seat next to Sam. There’s no hello, they’re all too shell-shocked for that, Dad just takes the envelope they picked up from dead Daniel Elkins’ post office box from Dean’s hands and swears under his breath while Dean’s still gulping for air, still trying to take in the fact that Dad is here, in the car, with them, sitting calmly in the backseat of the Impala next to Sammy - a place Dean would never expect to see his father sit - but it’s him, real and alive and in the flesh. Dad.
He’s looking for a gun. Not just any gun. A super-powerful antique Colt revolver that’s been stolen by vampires, and wait a fucking minute… vampires?
‘I thought vampires were extinct,” Dean says.
“So did I,” says Dad, glancing up to catch Dean’s eye before he starts dishing out the lore on apparently non-extinct vampires in a voice that makes Dean feel like a teenager once more, warm and protected and stupidly and ridiculously happy to have his father so close.
The warm feeling lasts until Dad finishes up his speech, and climbs out of the car to go back into his truck. Ross scrambles out the shotgun seat to join him, eyes shining with happiness as Dad slings an arm around him and pulls him close, Ross burrowing his face into Dad’s shoulder and holding on tight. Dean watches them through the windshield; they break apart and walk towards the truck, Dad still with one arm slung around Ross’s shoulders, making Ross look suddenly smaller and younger, like the skinny teenager he used to be.
Sam slides out the backseat, waves a hand to Dad and Ross, and slips into shotgun next to Dean. So far, so just like it always used to be, like it should always be, but when Dean catches a glimpse of Sam’s face, his good mood instantly falls away. Sam is not looking happy, staring out the window with a morose set to his jaw and that unhappy crease back between his eyebrows.
“Jeez, dude, why the long face?”
“Shut up, Dean,” Sam mutters tiredly, not bothering to turn and look at him.
“Sam, c’mon, man. That was Dad. I thought you’d be happy to see him. Dad, Sammy.”
“I know who Dad is, Dean.”
“Well, what the fuck’s with you? Dad’s back with us, where he belongs. And he’s safe. He’s still alive. That’s worth celebrating, ain’t it?”
“Like we’re gonna take time out of this hunt to celebrate anything. We’re gonna find this fucking gun and then he’ll just leave again, go fight and hunt the demon on his own. You know it; I know it, so stop pretending like this time’s gonna be any different.”
There’s a long pause, then Dean sighs, says: “I don’t get it, man; you were - you and Dad - I thought you’d made your peace… I thought -“
“What? That we have one freakin’ hug and we’d all be good again. That changes nothing, Dean. He still told me to leave, still threw me out, never made any effort to see how I was doing -“
“That’s not true,” interrupts Dean.
Sam pauses, turns to look at him, with wide unimpressed eyes: “Oh, yeah?” He huffs out a bitter laugh. “You know, all that time I knew you were checkin’ up on me, you and Ross. I saw you once; you were watching me this one time, standing on the other side of the lawns outside the Biology buildings. You really stood out, thought you were so stealthy.”
“I was stealthy.”
Sam’s mouth crooks, his eyes crinkle as he darts Dean a look, “Not so much.”
“Huh, well, whatever. Not like it matters now.”
“No, no, you’re wrong, it still matters,” Sam says. Dean frowns, glances sideways at his brother; Sam’s nibbling on his bottom lip, looking thoughtful. He raises his hand, taps his knuckles against the window, his big long fingers against the steamed up glass, the rain sloshing down the pane. “It’s like - you were always there, always checking up on me, I always knew that if something happened, something big went down, then you’d be there for me. With Dad… I never felt like that. It was all over. Like I wasn’t even a member of the family anymore. Like I didn’t deserve to be, just because I dared to want something different.”
“Sam, that’s not true. Dad never gave up on you, man. He used to swing by Palo Alto all the time. I know he did.”
Sam makes a small scoffing sound at the back of his throat, “Yeah, sure he did. Quit making excuses for him. You always do that, Dean.”
“No,” Dean insists, “he did. I know he did. Look, this one time - me and Ross - we were passin’ by, pulled into this motel, the usual one we used to stay at, the Palm Tree. And his truck was there, right outside the clerk’s office. Now, are you tellin’ me there’s any other goddamn reason Dad would be spending the night in freakin’ Palo Alto? Other than checkin’ up on you? Yeah, I don’t freakin’ think so.”
Sam goes quiet, and they ride the rest of the way back to the motel in silence.
It’s like the old days. Dad springs for two rooms: Dad and Ross in one, Dean and Sam in the other, thin papery motel wall between them. Ross stands in the doorway of his and Dad’s room and watches them exit the Impala with a strange brooding look on his face, Dean glances at him for a second before he looks away, hit by a sudden stab of real and terrifying guilt.
He shuts the door to his and Sam’s room quickly, and exhales in relief. Of course that just leaves him alone with Sam, who’s standing in the middle of the room glaring viciously at the wall dividing their room from Dad’s. Obviously their little heart-to-heart in the car went down about as well as Dean expected.
Great. Just great.
He throws his duffle on the bed, and goes to take a shower.
He’s in there for all of three minutes before the shower curtain sweeps back with a flourish, and he sees Sam through the steam. His mouth drops open in shock when Sam, still fully dressed, pushes him aside and climbs in there with him.
“Uh, Sam - what the fuck…”
His words are choked off when Sam raises a hand to Dean’s face, cushioning his cheek and swiping his thumb over Dean’s lips in a deliberate brooding sort of gesture.
“Turn around, Dean,” Sam growls.
It all happens in silence. Sam’s soap-slicked fingers work into him, scissor him open like they have every time before, his soaked T-shirt painful against Dean’s pebbled sensitive skin, denim clad crotch rough against Dean’s ass, belt buckles cutting into Dean’s flesh.
He cries out in pain when Sam pushes inside him, it hurts like it hasn’t hurt in a long time, it hurts as if Sam doesn’t care that it hurts, it hurts as if this is Sam’s goal. Sam’s hand comes around him, hugging him, pulling him back tighter, firmer, closer into his arms, so he’s enveloped, smothered in Sammy, as close as two people can get before they disappear into each other. Sam murmurs something low and desperate and unintelligible into Dean’s neck as his huge hand grasps Dean’s cock, he gives it a tug, mouth and teeth sinking into Dean’s shoulder as he jerks him to a brutal climax.
They don’t look at each other afterwards. Sam steps out the shower in his soaked clothes, and trembling, Dean pulls the curtain closed. His asshole is sore, raw and hollow with the ache; his skin chafed red and pink, scratches and marks on his neck and back from Sam’s mouth and teeth. He looks down his body, watches the water wash away the thick globs of translucent come clinging to his pubes. He turns around and slowly spreads his ass-cheeks, wincing in pain at the hot water drumming against his skin, but wanting, needing to be rid of it all, squelchy and thick and dirty in his ass, because Sam didn’t use a condom, not this time.
He pulls the curtain back and freezes in shock: Sam’s sitting on the bathroom floor, still wearing his drenched clothes, puddles of water surrounding him, head and hands pillowed on his raised knees, black sheen of soaking wet hair obscuring his face.
Dean stares at him, slowly turning the knob of the shower to OFF. The water stops and everything goes quiet, Sam flinches, shoulders stiffening, readying himself for something. Dean climbs out the tub and kneels beside him, trying not to wince too noticeably, but goddamn it, his ass hurts.
“Sammy?” he says softly.
Sam’s shoulders stiffen again, and Dean reaches out one hand, placing it between his brother’s shoulder blades. He’s cold to the touch, wet t-shirt sodden and stiff.
“C’mon, Sam, gotta get these clothes off, man,” he says.
Sam raises his head, and Dean has a sudden flashback to Sammy aged seven, tear-stained bloodied face after a fight with Ross. I hate him; I hate him, Dean, spat out between swollen lips. Why’s he even here anyway? I hate him so much. Sam was still soft then; just seven years old, and he and Dad had never told him the truth about them, about the family business, about Mom. They’d protected him, looked after Sammy and then this new kid - this little brother - had arrived, unprotected and uncaring, and everything had changed.
Sam raises his arms, lets Dean tug the sodden shirt off him, the heavy cotton sticking around his elbows, his thick muscled arms.
“I’m sorry,” says Sam, his voice sounding about as watery as the damn floor.
“Nothin’ to be sorry for.”
“Yeah, no, I - I shouldn’t’ve. Not like that, Dean. I hurt you.”
“Not so much,” he lies. He manages to get the shirt over Sam’s head. He throws it across the floor and it lands with a dull splat on the linoleum.
“You’re lying,” says Sam soberly. He’s biting his lip, not looking at Dean, cold black strands of hair plastered to his face, droplets of water beaded on his eyelashes and red-rimmed eyes. “You’re sitting funny.”
Dean kinda wants to laugh, ‘cause yeah, he is, and thanks for that, Sam.
“S’not like I ain’t used to it. Get beaten up pretty fuckin’ regular, this is no different.”
“Yes it is.”
Oh for fuck’s sake. He wants to sigh out loud in exasperation. He thought they were past this, Sam’s been happy these last months, accepting of everything, even through all the shit with Ross, through their last run-in with Dad, though Dean’s beginning to appreciate right now just how much that did fuck him up. But Sam’s been here, with him, reliable and steady and seemingly content (save for the nightmares), while Dean and Ross have been the ones freaking out, the ones who have been floundering and flailing about, lost and confused.
“Sam, c’mon, man, quit it. You got nothing to apologize for. Seriously.”
Sam just makes a sound at the back of his throat, a low pained noise. Dean sighs, leans back against the side of the tub, bringing his knees up to his chest to rest his elbows on, tug his fingers through his wet hair.
Okay, so maybe Sam’s mini freak-out does have a point. That fuck was brutal and possessive, and all about dominance, all about Sam claiming him, and he’s still trying to get his head around it, process the fact that that was him and Sam. Sure, sometimes things can be rough between them, they’re two guys (two brothers) who kill things for a living, and he’s happy to admit that they do get off on the brotherly power dynamic between them, nothing gets him harder quicker than Sam hissing low and filthy in his ear: “You gonna get on your knees to suck my cock, big brother?”
So, yeah… they’re both pretty twisted, he knows that. But this was different, for the first time ever Sam didn’t try to make it good for him, didn’t seem to care that he was hurting. Sam used him, for his own need, pleasure, catharsis, whatever it was…
“I shouldn’t’ve done it. I don’t know what…” Sam’s voice interrupts Dean’s thoughts; he jerks his head up, hears the words catch in Sam’s throat as he tries again: “I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I wasn’t thinking, Dean,” he breaks off and clenches his fists. “I just. I shouldn’t take it out on you. Just ‘cause Dad - ‘cause Dad’s a fucking ass. And just ‘cause - everything between me and Dad and -” He breaks off again with a nasty sounding chuckle, hand going up to fist his wet hair, push it out his face.
Dean sighs, “Yeah, well, get over it. Seriously, Sammy, put it to the back of your mind, just - forget about it, okay? We can deal with that shit later.”
Sam gives a hollow laugh, “Always your advice: forget about it. Well, sometimes, it’s not that easy.”
“Bullshit. It is that easy. You just - you ain’t tryin’ hard enough. Anyway, this time, man, I don’t wanna hear it. I want him to stick around. It’s Dad, Sam! Please, just - let me have this, okay?” He lifts his head, eyes meeting Sam’s; Sam’s staring back at him, eyes wide and shiny, “Sam?” he prompts.
Sam gulps, and nods, a quirk of his lips, that small fond curl to his mouth, “Yeah, okay.”
“Good,” Dean exhales. He puffs out his cheeks, shakes his head at his brother. “Now, c’mon, dude, gotta get you out of these wet clothes. Like a freakin’ emo kid, wallowing here in soaking wet clothes.”
Sam rolls his eyes at him, and Dean snorts, leans in to fumble with Sam’s jeans. The denim is soaked, stiff and chafing, the zipper still down, Sam’s now flaccid cock half hanging out, looking unusually small. He touches it with his fingertips; it feels strange, soft and squidgy and nothing like what he’s used to, usually by the time he gets to touch his brother’s cock, he’s at least half-hard, after all, Sam’s cock freaking loves him.
He wraps his fingers entirely around Sam’s soft cock. He can feel it start to thicken as he uses his other hand to pull down Sam’s jeans, the stiff wet denim hard to maneuver as he tugs them down the length of Sam’s long legs. Sam gives him some cursory help, kicking his feet and using one foot to push the rest off until he’s just wearing his drenched boxers, half-hard cock poking through the slit, Dean’s hand wrapped around it.
“You don’t have to do this,” Sam says.
“Do what? Look after you? Been doin’ that all my life, dude, you know that.”
“You don’t have to do it anymore,” repeats Sam, huffing out a wry painful smile. “You shouldn’t have to. I’m a grown man.”
“Yeah, tell that to you and your brother,” Dean retorts.
“Poor Dean, my poor Dean,” Sam murmurs, one big hand going out to cradle Dean’s face, thumb tracing a delicate path over Dean’s lips. “I forced you,” he whispers, low and quiet, his face scrunching up as the words struggle past his lips.
“Sam, for Christ’s sake,” Dean mutters. “No. You didn’t. I could’ve pushed you away anytime I wanted.”
“But, Dean -“
“It never occur to you that maybe I wanted to be taken hard and fast and rough like that? That I found it, uh, hot?” he raises his eyebrows, his best leer in place. It’s not entirely the truth, (though he had come pretty fast), it was too unusual, too un-Sam-like to be really what he wanted, and it was strange, and unsettling: the silence, the roughness, the way Sam hadn’t even gotten changed out of his clothes. But, hell, it was still sex with Sam, it was still the two of them, and he’s never not going to want that, however weird it is.
“You’re twisted,” says Sam, but he’s got a small smile on his face, watery and fond through the wetness in his eyes. “Kinky, Dean.”
“Yeah, whatever, guilty as charged.” He shrugs. “Now, get your ass in the shower, and I’ll suck you off.”
“Sammy looks good,” says Dad, and Dean stops in the middle of reading through the pages of research Sam dug up at the local library, amazed for a moment that Dad can been so blind. He swallows, feeling a mixture of relieved and guilty. “You been lookin’ after him good, Dean. That’s good.”
He nods stiffly. He never knows how to take it when Dad says nice shit like that.
“But what’s going on with my boy?”
Dad’s voice is hard, gaze steely when he meets Dean’s eyes. Dean tries not to flinch, he really does. But he has to look away, can’t meet Dad’s eyes.
“Uh, what do you mean, sir?” he says finally.
“He’s not himself,” says Dad.
He doesn’t know what to say. How can Dad be so blind when it comes to Sam, and yet with Ross… because Dad’s right. Ross is not good, not happy. He’s been wrong ever since Sam came back, ever since Jess died.
And now, God, everything’s so fucked up and he has no idea, no fucking clue what to do to put it right. What the three of them have been doing together, this weird crazy sort of madness that seems to have taken over their lives, like that play Ross and Sammy were in years ago - Lord of the Flies - schoolboys all let loose on an island, away from their parents. And he’s trying to set it right, but he just -
“Dean,” prompts Dad, and Dean suddenly wants to confess, wants to break down and tell him, tell his dad everything, beg him to put it right, to put them all right, put them back together like they used to be, like before Sammy left. But he’s scared, terrified, if Dad ever found out, if he knew about Ross…
“I don’t, uh, I don’t know. He missed you,” he says, because that part - that’s true. “He missed you a lot, sir.”
Dad looks momentarily taken aback by that, almost guilty behind the never-ending stoic mask. And yeah, maybe he deserves that, maybe it’s time that he took on some of the blame for all this, because however Dean looks at it, he knows that it isn’t all his fault. Everything that’s wrong with Ross, that’s wrong with Sam, that’s wrong with DeanandSamandRoss, all the shit they’ve been going through these past months, some of it is Dad’s fault.
If Dad hadn’t gone missing then he wouldn’t’ve gone to get Sam, wouldn’t have fucked up his perfect life at Stanford, and he and Sam wouldn’t’ve gotten involved again, and without that, without the knowledge of his and Sam’s relationship - whatever you want to call it - to deal with everyday, he’s pretty fucking sure Ross would never have even thought about Dean in that way.
But he’s just kidding himself. It’s not Dad’s fault, not really. So he left, left him and Ross without even a fucking text message, but Dean’s the one who fucked up. He should never have gone to get Sammy, it was a selfish decision, done because he was weak, because he missed Sam too much and because Dad being missing was the perfect excuse. If he hadn’t done that, if he’d been strong and kept away from Sam, then they wouldn’t be where they are now: Sam clinging to him, needing and wanting him far more than he ever used to, having given up his long cherished dreams of a normal life to devote everything to hunting, to revenge, but mainly to him, giving it all up to be with him. And Ross… there wouldn’t be this dirty little thing between them, and Ross wouldn’t look at him in that way because Dean would never have touched Ross. Never.
“I did what I had to, Dean, you know that. I have to protect you boys.”
“I know, I know, Dad, I do. But Ross, he, uh, he just missed you.”
Dad nods sharply, his dismissive nod, and that’s it, subject closed.
“C’mon, let’s go meet up with your brothers.”
They meet up with Ross and Sam in a roadside diner; they’ve got their heads bent over a local survey map, discussing something in low, serious tones of voice. Their heads jerk up simultaneously as Dean and Dad stride in, matching expressions and matching eyes raking over the two of them with identical raised eyebrows. Dean swallows, feeling Sam’s gaze linger long over him after they’ve taken a seat, making his spine tingle and his ass throb in remembrance of the night before. He edges into the booth beside him, trying to disguise the immediate wince as his still sore ass hits the bench.
“You okay there, Deano?” asks Ross.
His eyes flash towards Ross. His little brother’s watching him through narrowed eyes.
“Yeah, yeah, just peachy, kiddo,” he says, meeting Ross’s stare and raising him a death-glare.
Ross shrugs it off; he’s been immune to that look for years. “That’s good. Wouldn’t want you to go into the fight with you know… any injuries.”
“Dean, if you’re carryin’ any injuries, then you need to speak up now,” says Dad, raising his eyes briefly from the menu.
“I’m fine, Dad. Like I said, just peachy. Though thanks for askin’, Littlest Bro. Nice to know you care.” He smirks at Ross who glowers and looks away.
Beside him, Sam shifts, legs relaxing outwards so their thighs brush, he knows if he turns to look at Sam that he’ll be smirking, trying not to laugh out loud. He returns the pressure, and Sam’s foot hooks around his ankle so they’re completely lined up, touching ankle to hip.
“My, what a fine family y’all make,” says the middle-aged waitress with a welcoming grin to all of them, her eyes lingering when they reach Dad.
Dad smiles, easy and charming, and Dean’s hit by it - Dad - here, God, Dad, and he misses him so much for a second that he feels nauseous with it.
“Thanks, Susan,” says Dad, already noticing and cataloging her name badge. She blushes and he grins that slow easy grin again. “How about you tell me what’s good today.”
Dean finishes his meal and pushes his plate away, running one hand over his face, stubble rasping under his ring. He can feel both Sam and Ross’s eyes on him and the knowledge makes his stomach flip, an unwanted flinch of something deep and dark and hot in his belly, knowing that both his little brothers are watching him so intently. Sam slides his hand under the table, resting it big and warm on Dean’s thigh, he squeezes hard and Dean swallows, eyes darting around anxiously, hoping Dad hasn’t noticed anything. Dad hasn’t, he’s devouring his cheeseburger with the same single-minded attention he gives everything; Ross, however, is a different matter, he’s watching the two of them through narrowed, slitted eyes, his eyes darkening when his gaze crosses with Dean’s.
Dean ducks his head, slides his hand under the table and pushes Sam’s hand away, muttering, “Don’t,” low and hissed under his breath.
Sam smiles serenely, and leans back in the booth, arm sprawling out along the length of the bench seat so his fingers are brushing against the nape of Dean’s neck, that sensitive spot, teasing asshole.
Finally, Dad finishes his meal and pushes his own food away, he leans forward in his seat and they all follow suit. From a distance they must look like a conspiracy, all four of them, heads only inches apart, breathing each other’s air.
Dad starts to outline the plan, Dean glances up, Ross’s face is lit up, eyes locked on Dad with a expression that’s close to reverent. He unhooks his ankle and shifts minutely away from Sam, Sam’s mouth twitches, but he betrays nothing, he too is completely focused on Dad, on the plan, on what’s about to go down, on what Dad’s about to tell them:
"In 1835 Samuel Colt invented a gun that could kill anything…”
They get it in the end, a Winchester win, says Ross with a grin. It’s what he always used to call it when it all worked out and Dad came back safe: a Winchester win.
Dad claps Ross on the back, squeezes his shoulder and says they all could do with a drink.
“Cause we’re all legal now,” says Ross.
“Y’all make me feel old,” complains Dad but he’s smiling when he pours their shots. He raises his glass, eyes on Sam, “Sammy? You want to make the toast?”
Sam hesitates for a second, then grins, that big genuine smile of his that makes Dean’s stomach twist up. He raises his own shot, “To us,” Sam says. “And nailin’ that sonofabitch, because we’re gonna get it,” he looks at Dad, “together.”
Dad’s mouth twitches for a moment, then he nods, eyes flinty tough, “You’re goddamned right we are.”
“Awesome,” says Dean and downs his, watching the others follow suit. His eyes flick to the Colt lying on the nearest bed on a sheet of newspaper. The Colt, it’s the kinda word that has to be capitalized. That weapon - it can finish this - finish everything Dad’s been working for his entire life. A freaking gun.
Dad chuckles at something Ross says, hand coming out to ruffle through Ross’s hair, fond curve to his mouth. “What happened here?” he says.
Ross ducks away from Dad’s hand, flushes, touches his hair self-consciously.
“Dunno,” he says, “just - don’t wanna get it cut.”
Dad shakes his head, eyes flicking from Ross to Sam. “Just like your brother, huh? I swear, you two boys get more alike, the more I see you.”
Ross shrugs, ducks his head, not meeting Dad’s eye, his cheeks flushed. Dean kicks him under the table and Ross’s head jerks up, he scowls at Dean and Dean grins back at him. This - this right now - it’s almost too good to be true: the four of them together, knocking back the shots, a win, a nest full of dead vamps, a super-awesome fucking gun that can actually kill that sonofabitch that took away their mom. It don’t get better than this.
“So, how about you boys tell me what you’ve been up to these past few months,” says Dad after another round of shots.
Dean’s brain fizzes, short-circuits and actually fucking stops dead for a second, leaving him blinking in terror and unable to look up, unable to meet his Dad's or his brothers’ eyes. The second seems to last for an eternity, and he nearly fucking passes out in relief when Dad adds:
“I wanna hear all about these hunts you’ve been doin’, what y’all’ve learned.”
Dean still can’t speak, and is it seriously possible to be rendered mute with relief - because he thinks he’s about there. Somewhere in the background, he hears Sam laugh shakily (evidently Sammy’s thought-process had taken the exact same dive his did) and start to talk. Soon, Sam and Ross are competing with each other to tell Dad the best most daring-sounding version of some of the hunts they’ve gotten through, looking to Dean for back-up and details, matching expressions of one-upmanship and glee on their faces, eyes lit up, mouths wide and smiling in that way that makes it hard for Dean to watch them without feeling dazzled.
Dean doesn’t bother interrupting, letting them tell the tale, watching them interact with Dad and each other, feeling a warm glow in his chest, love and affection and something else that he doesn’t want to analyze too closely. He catches Sam’s eyes over the table and sees them darken, gleaming and predatory, and he knows Sam’s thinking about the same thing. He watches Sam sit back in his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him, fingers playing idly with the label on his beer bottle, letting Ross tell the story of the pathetic ghost-busting duo in West Texas they’d run into. He looks completely relaxed and at ease, face flushed with alcohol and mouth playing a small amused smile, it makes Dean fidget in his seat, desperate with the urge to touch him.
Ross finishes up the story with a laugh, stumbles out his seat to go to the bathroom. “Oops,” he says, tripping over the edge of the couch with a shriek of laughter.
“I think someone’s had enough for one night,” says Dad, looking amused.
“Aw, fuck, fuck,” mutters Ross, scrambling into a sitting position, “I’m fine, Dad. God.”
Dean snorts, exchanges a look with Dad, he gets out of his seat, and whoa, he feels more than a little unsteady himself, the room hitching and tipping. That’s always the thing - it’s all good until you have to get up. He bends over Ross, grabs his arm, pulls him to his feet. “C’mon, kiddo.”
Ross’s expression goes softer, spongy and malleable and he leans into Dean, lets Dean take his weight, his breath a hot pant against Dean’s neck.
“He alright?” grunts Dad.
“Yeah, yeah, he’s fine.”
“You need a hand there?”
“No, no, I’m fine, Dad.”
“Good. Put him to bed. And you and Sammy get outta here. We got an early start tomorrow.”
“Yes sir,” he replies automatically.
He sees Sam get to his feet from the corner of his eye, pick up his hoodie from the back of the chair and walk out of there, leaving the motel room door open behind him. In his arms, Ross lurches, turning so he’s facing Dean, head resting on Dean’s shoulder. Dean tightens his grip on him and starts to maneuver them closer to one of the beds.
“Dean,” Ross whispers. Dean stills, flinching when he feels Ross’s mouth on his neck, tongue swiping against his skin. Shit.
“C’mon, let’s get you to bed, littlest bro,” he says loudly, hefting Ross away from him, and tumbling him to the bed. Ross sprawls on his back and looks up at Dean with a petulant look on his face.
“You’re no fun tonight, Dean.”
Shit. Shit.
“Yeah, well, fun’s over, dude. Sleep time’s now.”
“Yeah, right,” scoffs Ross. “Like you an’ Sammy gonna be sleepin’.” He laughs bitterly, words slurring as he slumps onto his front, as if he’s presenting his ass to Dean. He stares down at him, at the curve of Ross’s denim clad ass, remembers running his hand over it, squeezing the flesh, playing with his brother’s balls.
“Everything okay here, boys?”
He jumps, blushing and flinching when he feels Dad’s hand on his shoulder. He swallows, ducks his head, hiding his flushed guilty cheeks from his father.
“Uh, yeah, yeah. Everything’s fine. Ross’s just gonna sleep now. And I’m, uh, I’m going to bed, too.”
He straightens ups, and feeling steadier, turns to flash Dad a reassuring grin, curling his fingers around the crushed packet of cigarettes in his pocket, God, he needs a smoke.
“We’re leaving at 0800 hours, Dean,” says Dad.
Dean hesitates in the doorway, turning his head slightly to nod at Dad, Dad’s staring back at him, blank unreadable look on his face, he nods and leaves quickly.
He doesn’t go back to the room straight away, instead he paces around outside, smoking his cigarette because there’s no fucking way Sam’ll let him smoke in the room. Anyway, he doesn’t want to go in there yet, he feels odd, jittery, for once the nicotine’s not working properly to calm his shot to shit nerves. Goddamnit, that was… getting Ross drunk like that, stupid little dick, that was fucking close. He thinks suddenly of something Ross said about Dad, that morning when he told them that he knew, that he’d known for six fucking years, I don’t know, I think he suspected… Shit.
He heads back to their room, closing the door carefully behind him, shrugging off his jacket…
“Dean?”
He spins around to see Sam come out of the bathroom, soaking wet and wearing a towel knotted around his waist that looks miniature on him, torso bare, hair flat and dripping down his face. Dean stops still, frozen to the spot, the breath catching in the back of his throat, a tight prickle of heat pooling in his belly. Sam is… Sam’s so different now, not the skinny lanky kid he almost expects to see when he looks at him, particularly now with Dad being around, but Sam’s not that anymore, instead he’s this big tall dude who’s, let’s face it, ridiculously fucking hot.
It didn’t use to be like this. He never remembers finding Sam physically attractive in the old days, before he left, it wasn’t about that. It was something else, it was getting to the person Sam was underneath everything, being something for his brother who needed him and desired him above all others, it was making Sam feel special and feeling special himself because someone as smart and amazing as Sam wanted him.. It was something bigger than the two of them - something that made him feel ripped apart, left open and bare and stupidly vulnerable, something that he couldn’t help feeling - wrong love.
It wasn’t about physical attraction, that was too weak, that was something he could get from any chick or any dude in a bar, with Sam it was much more than that. When he was with Sam, he actually believed that there were such things as souls and that his and Sam’s were supposed to be together. And yes, he knew it was pathetic and he would seriously fucking kill himself if anyone ever found out that he - Dean Winchester - was having such lame thoughts about ”two souls coming together” for fuck’s sake, but this was him and Sam. This was something else. Besides, Sammy was young (Jesus, fifteen years old) when this thing started up between them, so the idea of finding him attractive was pretty fucking creepy, not that actually having sex with him was not creepy, because yeah, it kinda was. It just… it wasn’t like that.
When he saw him again, in that apartment in Palo Alto, up close and not from a distance, not across a library floor or a perfectly kept lawn…oooh boy… He can remember the gut punch, the slam-dunk to his chest that made his heart race and the zing-bolt of want flair up in his stomach, flashpoint to his cock, getting him harder fast than a hard-core porn-fest. And it was like he was like watching it in Technicolor: the whoosh of blood through his arteries, burst of sweat and heat to every pore, the one thought banging around his head: Jesus Christ, but Sammy is fuckin’ hot… It was the cheesiest scene from every cheesy movie when the two protagonists see each other from across a crowded room, like fucking Fatal Attraction, and he wanted, wanted so badly to be banging Sam in the goddamn elevator right then and there. But he held back, smile-smirked and stared greedily at him when Sam was looking elsewhere.
He breaks out of his momentary stupor and turns to snap the lock on the door, draw the curtains. When he turns around again, Sam is still standing there, still in his tiny towel, a considering, thoughtful look on his face. Dean wets his lips, says clearly:
“Drop the towel.”
Sam’s lip twitches but he obeys, unknotting the towel, letting it slide down his long, long legs to pool around his feet. Dean murmurs approval, his eyes raking hungrily over Sam’s body, taking in every single inch of it, Sam’s cock slowly growing and thickening as Dean keeps looking, rising up to a perfect 90’ angle.
“You done lookin’?” Sam asks, tilting his head and smirking at him.
“Nuh-uh, no way,” Dean answers. He keeps his eyes locked on Sam as he toes off his boots, kicking them aside to advance on his brother, Sam standing his ground and watching him with that same predatory gleam in his eyes as earlier in the evening. Dean stops just in front of him and places his palm flat on Sam’s chest, fingers pressing into the hard muscle and slippery wet skin. He pushes, forces Sam to walk backwards, stumbling when the back of his legs hit the bed, falling back into an elegant sprawl, thighs spread, cock thick and bobbing as it meets his flat, hard belly.
Dean takes a step back, smirks. “Stay there,” he commands. “And don’t touch yourself.”
Sam says nothing, eager to obey. Dean raises his hand to flick open the buttons of his shirt, shrug it over his shoulders, slide his belt out of his pants so it coils to the floor. He watches Sam closely: sees the flutter of his eyelashes, the red spread of color from his cheeks to his neck to his chest, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, long gorgeous fingers digging into his thighs hard enough to leave marks.
He needs to do this, he needs to be back in charge again, show Sam that he’s the big brother. He’s let Sam have his way too often, let him think he can get away with everything, just a flash of dimples and soft hurt eyes and Dean’s a sucker, ready to do whatever Sammy wants, and that might be true most of the time, but Sam needs to be told once again that Dean’s the oldest, Dean’s in charge, (at least when Dad ain’t around).
He knows it’s his fault, he’s been distracted, lost, confused by all this mess with Ross, but Dad’s back now and they need to put things right, get things in order before they go confront this demonic sonofabitch. He needs to be in control of something for once in his entire sorry life because he has no freaking idea what happens next.
His t-shirt is next, sliding over his head in an easy fluid motion, then he’s naked from the waist up, jeans unbuttoned. He places his palm over his chest, caressing his skin as he smoothes it slowly down his abs and belly, touching himself, letting himself enjoy it, fingers tingling as they ghost over his nipples and stomach muscles. He hears Sam’s sharp intake of breath and he smirks, feeling his own cock twitch as his hand slides lower, fingers brushing up against his pubes, ducking under his waistband. He doesn’t normally like doing this - putting on a show like a fucking male stripper - hell, he doesn’t need to do this, never really needs to make the effort, people usually want to fall into bed with him, and Sammy, well… Sam’s always been so easy, but this time he’s going to make Sam crazy, wants to send him there.
He pushes Sam backwards, climbs onto the bed to straddle him, he seizes Sam’s wrists and yanks his hands over his head, pinning him to the mattress. Sam is breathing heavily underneath him, chest rising and falling with panted breaths, eyelashes fluttering over dark dilated pupils.
“I’m gonna fuck you,” Dean whispers. “Gonna give it to you hard and fast, little brother.”
Sam lets out a moan, teeth biting into his bottom lip, Dean leans down, licks a long dirty path over his brother’s mouth, over those nibbling teeth, slicking saliva over Sam’s pink lips. He leans back to catch his breath, tangle his fingers in Sam’s hair to twist his head, bare his neck and sink his teeth into soft unsuspecting skin. Sam trembles beneath him, letting out more helpless moans, he always goes crazy for this - for Dean’s teeth on this one spot, this pressure point, and God, Dean wants to bite him, the urge to devour, to eat, to consume him makes his knees shake, his body press down on Sam’s, blanket him from head to toe, grind his denim clad crotch against Sam’s erection.
“Get on your knees,” he snarls.
He sits back, shucks down his jeans, his eyes not leaving Sam as Sam slowly turns over, getting to trembling knees, head ducked and dark mop of hair falling over his face. Dean leans over him, fisting his own cock in one hand, the other squeezing and massaging Sam’s round ass cheeks, pressing red marks into the comically pale flesh. He pushes his fingers into Sam’s mouth, Sam sucks greedily, making loud, slurping sounds, tongue running over the sensitive pads of Dean’s fingertips, making him shiver as Sam whimpers. He pulls his fingers out, thick threads of spit, slick and translucent, syrupy thick trails that he works into Sam’s asshole, one finger, then two, quick and impatient, Sam’s ass muscles clenching around him, his moans getting louder in the silent room.
“Shut up, be quiet,” Dean hisses, his mind jumping to Dad and Ross in the neighboring room. He should’ve thought of that, should’ve put on the TV, remembered how goddamn noisy Sam gets when he’s being fucked, or when he’s doing the fucking, hell, how goddamn noisy Sam always gets with sex.
Sam snaps his mouth shut, twists his head so his eyes meet Dean’s, burning shining gaze, the ring of hazel around his pupils almost vanished with his arousal. “Do it,” he murmurs, lips glistening and pink as they work around the words. “Fuckin’ do it already, Dean. No lube, don’t need no fuckin’ lube.”
“Good, ‘cause I ain’t using any.”
He doesn’t hesitate, pulls his fingers out, lines up his saliva slick cock and pushes in, forcing through the hard tight entrance, up and up, deeper and deeper inside his brother, until he’s there, balls pressing up against Sam’s ass, the two of them joined like a freaking ball socket.
“Dean?” Sam gasps.
“I’m here, can’t you feel it?” Sam’s breath hitches, a small amused sound that catches at the back of his throat. “My huge throbbing man-beast in your tight little hole?” Dean whispers, amusement coating his words.
Sam huffs a laugh again, reaches behind to slap Dean on the thigh; Dean’s smile widens, he catches Sam’s hand, twines their fingers together and squeezes hard. He starts to thrust, counting the beats in his head, feeling the building, bubbling pleasure deep in his gut, his chest, his groin, his dick so thick and hard in Sam’s ass. Sam’s pushing back greedily, meeting every slam of Dean’s hips, letting Dean in deeper and deeper, panting for breath, fingers a death grip on Dean’s hand.
They keep quiet, no words this time, no murmured, “Oh yeah, right there, so good, so fuckin’ hot, God, Sam, God, Dean, want you, so fuckin’ amazing…” not when their father’s on the other side of that wall, the room already alight with the sound of their panted mingled breathing.
“Jesus… God… Sam…” But even with his awareness of their dad so near, it's too much, and Dean can’t help the words tumbling from his panting breathless mouth as he comes. He pulls out of Sam, rolls him over to jack himself off, ride the last moments of his orgasm and paint Sam’s gleaming gorgeous body with it. Sam’s cock is still hard, he can never come while Dean is still inside him, so Dean takes him into his mouth, sucks him off with a couple of swoops of his tongue, and then Sam is coming and crying, fingers clawing helplessly at Dean’s arms and shoulders, panting out his name.
Dean collapses to the bed beside his brother and pants for air; his tongue is coated with Sam’s release, his whole body covered in Sam’s sweat.
“That was freakin’ amazing,” Sam breathes, he turns his head, presses a kiss against Dean’s cheek. “You’re amazing.”
“Yeah, I know,” Dean answers smugly.
Sam chuckles, squeezes Dean’s thigh, “I think I kinda like it when you take control like that.”
“That’s ‘cause you’re secretly a slutty little bottom who likes to pretend he’s a big manly top.” Dean rolls to his side, props himself up on one elbow to look down at Sam. “But I’m on to you, dude.”
Sam pulls a face, “Whatever. You’ve got jizz your chin.”
“Well it wouldn’t be the first time.”
He smirks and rolls off the bed, getting to his feet to pad to the bathroom, “First shower’s mine!”
He awakes with a jolt to the sound of Sam’s voice, his helpless, agonized cries beating against his ears:
Jess, no, no, I promise, I didn’t… I’m so sorry, baby… Jess, no! NO!
“Sam? Sammy?”
Sam’s thrashing beside him, eyes wide, stricken, wet with fear and tears while his mouth keeps working, babbling pleas and curses.
“Sam, c’mon, man, it’s okay, I’m here. Sammy, it’s okay, it’s me, it’s Dean…”
But Sam isn’t hearing him, he’s caught up in whatever nightmare has him tonight, squirming and trapped in their cocoon of blankets and his own fucked-up head.
“Boys? Dean? Sam? What’s going on in there?”
Dean freezes at the sound of his father’s voice, his heavy knock at their flimsy room door.
He gulps, slides out of bed and opens the door to his father. Dad strides past him, pushing Dean aside as he moves to snap on the light, bathing the room in harsh bright light. Dean blinks and stares at him: he’s still wearing the same clothes from earlier, the same rumpled jeans and shirt; he can’t have even gone to bed.
“What’s going on?” he demands.
Dean’s mouth works soundlessly, he thrusts out his hand, indicates the bed, “Sammy, uh, he’s havin’ a nightmare.”
“I can see that,” growls Dad. “Why haven’t you woken him up, Dean?”
“I, uh, sometimes, I can’t,” Dean stammers. Dad turns to look at him, eyes dark and narrowed, for a long moment Sam’s moans and pleas fade away, and Dean’s only aware of his father’s gaze, piercing into him, rummaging through his head, picking out the truth from the bullshit. He swallows, ducks his head, needing to look away.
“Why is the other bed still made?” Dad asks, his voice as clear as glass.
Shit. Dean freezes, heart speeding up, stomach fluttering, his eyes dart over the room: one bed, they only used one bed, the same bed for fucking, for sleeping, the other still made, strewn with weapons and research, so obviously untouched, he was going to mess it up in the morning, never thought that Dad would come by during the night…
“Dean. Answer me. Why were you sleeping in the same bed as your brother?”
“We, uh, were sharin’,” he whispers, “’cause of this - his nightmares. He gets so fucked-up with it… I, uh, I have to…” he trails off hopelessly, tries to swallow, but his throat has dried up along with the words, mouth and lips as dry and parched as sand.
The silence is long and devastating, broken only by the sound of Sam’s helpless moans, quieter now, he’s coming out of it, he’ll wake soon, it’s the usual pattern.
“Wake him up. Deal with it, Dean. We’ve got a long drive tomorrow, I want you boys alert and you won’t be if you don’t get some sleep. If we’re doing this then we’re carrying no passengers.”
The words are final, one last command, and Dad’s gone, door closing behind him like a book slamming shut. End of chapter.
Dean stands in the middle of the room, fingers fisting and unfisting, heart hammering, breath caught in his throat.
Shit, oh God, shit, he knows, he’s got to know, he knows, how long has he known?
“Dean?” Sam’s voice jolts him back to the present. He spins around, stares at his brother. Sam’s awake, blinking at the fierce overhead light, hand raised to shield his eyes. “Was Dad here?”
“Yes,” Dean swallows. “He just left. You, uh, you okay?”
Sam says nothing, lets out a long exhausted breath. Dean bites his lip, moves to sink to the edge of the bed, mattress dipping under his weight, he stretches out a hand, pushes Sam’s damp thick hair off his forehead. “The Jess dream again?”
“It’s always that dream,” Sam says soberly. His voice sounds flat, drained. “She’s there, on the ceiling, right there, and I can’t reach her, I can’t save her. She always burns.” He breaks off, licks his lips, there are tears beading at the edges of his pink dark-circled eyes, “We have to get this thing, Dean. For her, I have to - it’s my fault, if I’d been there -“
“Then you’d be dead too,” Dean cuts in.
“I shouldn’t’ve left; I should never have gone with you guys. Hell, I should never have gone to fuckin’ college, if I hadn’t met her then she’d still be alive -“
“You don’t know that,” Dean insists.
“Dean, c’mon!” Sam shrugs Dean’s hand off him. “That’s bullshit and you know it! Jess died because of me! S’fuckin’ obvious.” He pushes the covers aside, and brushing past Dean, slides out of bed, heading for the bathroom.
Dean sits on the edge of the bed for a moment, staring down at his fingers, lying loose and useless in his lap, he hears the sound of Sam moving around the bathroom, toilet flushing, tap running, shower cranking awake. He can’t think right now, this is too much. Dad knows. He didn’t even act surprised. He didn’t sound surprised. But he said nothing. But he knows.
He gets to his feet automatically, moving to lean against the doorframe, needing to be near Sam. Sam’s sitting on the closed lid of the toilet with his head in his hands, the steady drum of the shower loud and claustrophobic in the room.
“Sammy? Whatcha doin’?”
“Having a shower, what’s it look like?” comes Sam’s muffled response.
The belligerent pissy tone to Sam’s voice reminds Dean sharply of Ross, and he feels the absurd urge to laugh out loud, despite everything, this whole fucked-up mess. Dad -
“I think Dad knows,” he says suddenly.
Sam’s head jerks up; he stares at Dean, blinks. “What?”
“About us, you and me. I think he knows. Fact is I’m pretty sure he does.”
Sam licks his lips again, like he’s buying himself some time to take it in, another freaking blow, another punch to the gut. “Shit,” he says finally.
It’s kinda a lame summation on the entire situation and Dean can feel that urge to laugh out loud bubbling up even stronger, maybe he’s hysterical, fuck that; maybe he’s going crazy, like, legitimately take-me-to-the-nut-house crazy.
He snorts, a bark of pained, raw laughter, he shakes his head, meeting Sam’s shocked gaze, Sam’s eyes narrow irritably, “Dean, this ain’t funny.”
“What, man? C’mon, it kinda is.”
“What? Dad knowing about us? Or me having dreams about my dead girlfriend? Yeah, completely hilarious,” Sam says darkly.
“Whatever,” Dean sighs, he rubs his hand across his eyes, shucks down his boxers, pulls off his t-shirt until he’s naked.
Sam’s regarding him warily. “What you doing?”
“Might as well use that shower, you’ve had the water on long enough,” he shrugs. He pulls the shower curtain aside and climbs in, steam wrapping around him, hot beads of water lashing against his calves. He raises his eyebrows at Sam. “You joining me?”
Sam blinks at him, then slowly, he shakes his head, his mouth twitching in that slow fond way that makes Dean feel warm, what he thinks of as Sam’s you’re such a fuckin’ idiot, and I’m way more mature than you, but I love you anyway look.
“Yeah, okay,” Sam says.
Next chapter