World Forgotten Boys, Chapter 26 of 28 (Sam/Dean, Sam/Ross/Dean, Ross/Sarah)
Fic title: World's Forgotten Boys (link goes to masterpost)
Chapter: 26/28
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Sam/Ross/Dean, Ross/Sarah
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 7,805
Summary: Ross Winchester knows three things to be true: his father, John, is a hero; he’s going to be the best hunter in the goddamn world; and his two older brothers are in love with each other. An AU-version of seasons one and two where the Winchester Brothers mean Dean and Sam and Ross, where John is still missing, where Mary and Jess are still dead, and where Dean and Sam are still obsessed with each other.
A/N: I'm not even sure if there's anyone still reading this as I know I suck very much. I cannot believe that it has been a year since I last updated! I have had half of this chapter written since last February which is really very pathetic. But! I have never left a fic unfinished and I am way too fond of Ross to leave him to the sad fate of ending up as just another abandoned WIP. So, for what it's worth, here be the next part. The gorgeous and very sexy banner below was made by the awesome violateraindrop
A/N 2: I should mention that this is unbeta-ed. A lot of you will know that my former beta and collaborator on this fic, my dear Andreth, sadly passed away last year. I did think about asking one of my other lovely betas to take a look, but it felt strange to share this with anyone else as Andreth was such a big part of it, so I decided to just post unbeta-ed. Please forgive any glaring errors or Britishisms, or let me know - I promise not to cry too much ;D
Chapter 26
Previous Chapter
Ass-fucking is overrated, Ross decides, and it’s painful, like, really painful.
In fact, he has no freaking idea just why Sam and Dean are so obsessed by it. It’s seriously bugging him that he seems to be missing something. And he’s not just talking about the pain (he’s a hunter for fuck’s sake, he knows pain), though he has to admit that this pain, the pain of having a cock rammed up your much smaller and narrower asshole... Jesus Christ, that kinda pain is something else.
Of course, he’s not some ignorant slut just looking to get his kink on with some freaky ass-play. He knows what he’s talking about, he’s had a front row seat for this kinda crap for the past fuck knows how many years, thanks to his two older brothers. And to be fair to Dean and Sam, they did warn him about the pain: Sam with his eyes wide and solemn, asking again and again, “Are you sure? You don’t have to do this to prove anything to us, Ross. Are you sure? ‘Cause you know, man, it hurts the first time. It hurts a lot.” While Dean looked on warily, sitting back and shaking his head and saying, “You wanna be fucked in the ass, littlest bro, then you gotta ask Sammy. That’s a line I just can’t cross with you.”
And maybe that hurt a little - hearing Dean come out and say that to him, just another way that he came second best to Sam for Dean - but mostly, in a weird way, it was a relief. Having Dean pop his ass-cherry would just be, well - it would be weird, and even more fucked-up than normal. Maybe the line was there because Dean was the one who showed him how to lace up his sneakers with the two bunny ears, because Dean was the one who gave him his lunch money every day (where he got it from, Ross had never bothered to ask, knowing Dean he probably stole it), because Dean was the one who took the hems up and down on the hand-me-down pants he always got stuck with (being the youngest meant he never ever got anything fucking new and he had to put up with Dean's shitty sewing), because Dean was the one who wiped away the snot when he had a cold and wiped away the tears when he was upset (not that that happened very often, he was no pussy). Admittedly, he'd been dealing pretty fucking well with the fact that Dean was the guy who’d done all that kinda parental shit for him and Dean was also the guy he liked to make out with on a regular basis, all things considered and all that. But still, damn him, Dean was right, there was a line.
So, in the end, Sam was the one who took his ass virginity. Which was pretty fucked-up too in so many ways. After all, Sammy was his big brother just as much as Dean. But Sam was also… God, this was going to make him sound, like, the vainest person ever, but there was something about the way Sam looked at him, and something about the way that Sam looked like him. Ross already knew that the whole resemblance thing with Sam was a major freaking turn-on for both of them, but Sam was - man, he hated admitting this - but Sam had some really fucking impressive moves on him, way more impressive than Ross would ever have expected. It was no wonder Dean had pined so freaking much when Sammy was off doing the college thing.
So yeah, Sam ended up being his ass-cherry popper. Maybe with hindsight and everything they should’ve thought it all through better, but they were guys, Winchesters, and act-first-think-later had been Dean’s way of dealing with shit for years. Ross had always been impatient and there was a part of him that just wanted to get it over with, just tick that box and say, yeah, so I crossed incestuous butt-sex off the bucket list. Plus, Sam was all flashing-eyed and red-cheeked and giving Ross this heated sort of look that was kinda intimidating if it’d been anyone else except his dorky lame-ass brother, but it was flattering just how into the idea Sam seemed to be, so it never even occurred to Ross that Sam was a really big boy while his ass was virginal and that the entire process was a little like learning to shoot at seven years old with Dad’s huge fucking Colt instead of a kiddy-sized pop gun.
He sweated and shook and trembled as Sam tried to breach him, Dean holding onto him the entire time, whispering in his ear, “Just relax, Ross, just let it go, littlest bro. It’s okay, I’m here, I got you. We’re not gonna hurt you. It’ll be okay, just relax...” until Ross snapped and yelled out: “Fuck’s sake, Dean, I am fuckin’ relaxing!”
‘Cause it hurt, Jesus to Christ it hurt. Like someone shoving a really thick, really hot needle into him, a needle that was as thick as a freaking sawed-off. It didn’t seem to matter that Sam had supposedly “opened him up” with half a tub of lube because the lube was obviously defective and Sam was doing it totally wrong because it really fucking hurt. And the thing was, it wasn’t just about the agonizing pain because he could deal with pain, he was a hunter for Christ’s sake, it was just - God - it was more than that. It was the mental image of Sam’s cock going inside him, of what he must look like with his ass in the air and with himself all opened up like that, of the fucking intrusion. This was the part that was supposed to be hot; the part that Sam and Dean couldn’t get enough of, except it wasn’t hot. Not at all. It was gross and painful and degrading and he had seriously had enough.
“Stop! Okay, just stop!”
Sam froze and shared a look with Dean over Ross’s head. Ross gritted his teeth and grabbed hold of Dean’s forearm, hard enough for Dean to actually flinch while he flailed around with his other arm, trying to push Sam away from him. “Get off me, Sam! I ain’t doin’ this! I wanna stop!”
Sam pulled out of him, looking anxious and sheepish which normally would’ve made Ross feel a little guilty, but by that point his ass was throbbing way too much to give a shit about Sam’s feelings. He collapsed onto the bed and shook and sweated and panted some more, while his poor ass throbbed in time with the blood thumping in his head and Dean and Sam peppered him with stupid, worried questions. He ignored them both, gritted his teeth, slid bonelessly off the bed and practically crawled to the bathroom on his hands and knees.
His ass hurt for the following three days. Sam and Dean watched him with anxious, guilty expressions, exchanging these glances that were half-parts worry and half-parts unfulfilled sexual tension, ‘cause of course, his god-fucking-terrible ass-fucking experience meant that they were way too guilt-ridden to seek solace with each other. Not that he was gonna let them off the hook any time soon.
He felt cheated. Angry and resentful and pissed-off and fucking cheated. It wasn’t supposed to be like that. All those times he’d been forced to listen or watch Sam and Dean going at it, it was nothing like that for them. Sam and Dean loved fucking each other. They couldn’t get enough of it. Hell, they didn’t even care which way round they did it as long as they were joined by the cock.
He'd known it would suck the first time, but he thought it would be like smoking. Your first cigarette always sucks, it tastes like crap, but you get past it, you get over the choking and spluttering and horrible burning feel of the smoke down your throat, until it’s fucking awesome. He thought butt-sex would be like that, like you have to get past the pain and weirdness and grossness and the whole part where it fucking hurts like a bitch, until it’s easy and painless and as awesome as the first after-breakfast cigarette. Except he was never gonna know because there was no damn way he was ever trying it again.
**
“Lots of gay men never have anal sex,” Sam says about a week later, like, totally out of the fucking blue. Except it’s not out of the blue ‘cause Sam’s obviously been dwelling on Ross’s ass-related shortcomings all this time. They’re in a bar, Ross and Sam sitting a table, drinking, while Dean struts his stuff at the pool table. The thing is, Ross knows that Sam’s trying to be nice, but he’s just - he’s just so fucking sucky at it.
“I’m not gay!” he insists.
Sam looks like he’s about to roll his eyes, though he manages to restrain himself. “You know, you can like both. They even have a word for it.”
“Whatever. Just - I ain’t gay, dude. You should fuckin’ know that. I’m not like you.”
“I still like girls,” Sam says and Ross makes a little scoffing sound ‘cause seriously - when was the last time Sam ever got his mopey ass laid by a chick? He’s been pretty much Dean-Dean-Dean-Dean ever since they dragged him out of that burning building in Palo Alto. “All I’m saying is that anal sex is not for everybody. Even gay dudes who have been together a long time. It’s not as prevalent as some people think.”
“You and Dean seem to like it enough,” he snorts.
Sam’s mouth twitches up into a little smirk and he shrugs, trying to disguise the fact that he’s not acting totally smug. “Yeah. I guess we do,” he says. His eyes drift towards the pool table, like he can’t help himself, like as soon as anyone mentions Dean he’s gotta be immediately staring at him like the obsessive man-stalker he is.
Dean’s picked up some fans from somewhere, just a couple of girls leaning over the table, watching him play, eyes wide, teeth shiny and arms pressed against their sides in that way that makes their tits look more prominent. Whatever, it’s a look Ross can appreciate even if Dean’s way too into dick these days to really get it. Dean’s acting the part though, flirting like crazy and flashing his teeth, all smug and attention-whorey. The girls laugh and one of them actually claps her hands together, while Dean laps up the attention and leans over the table to take his next shot. His opponent, some dweeby loser, looks seriously pissed, standing off to one side and glaring at Dean from over the rim of his beer bottle, obviously figuring out that he's being totally played. And if looks could kill… oh boy, Deano’d be fucking smoking ash on the floor right now.
Dean’s shot connects and the girls cheer. Dean straightens, does this goofy little bow thing that sends the girls giggling. He strides around the table to take his next shot, looking up for a second and looking their way, his gaze connecting with Sam’s. Dean keeps staring their way as he chalks up the end up of his cue, his mouth curling upwards into a little smirk that’s eerily similar to the one on Sam’s face right now.
Beside Ross, Sam rolls his eyes, mutters, “Show-off,” but he’s smiling too, that possessive, hot glint in his eyes, the same one Sam’s given Ross enough times over the past few weeks, and that’s a memory to make him feel uncomfortable right now. Ross swallows, manages this half-hearted snorting-scoffing noise as he raises his beer bottle to take a pull. Sam’s sprawled across the booth, taking up as much space as he can. His legs are stretched out under the table, thighs loosely spread, one big hand resting on his thigh, close to the seam of his jeans, and Ross can clearly make out the shape of his erection through the denim. Ross presses his lips together, he can practically feel his stupid face heating up, irritation and annoyance with Sam for just being - God - for being so damn blatant about it, staring at Dean like he’s planning on freaking devouring him later.
“I’m just gonna -“ Sam says, not bothering to complete the sentence. He slides out of the booth, saunters across the bar towards Dean. It’s almost funny, the way he’s walking across there, this rolling sort of strut that's partly about arrogance and partly about the fact he’s sporting a ginormous woody in his luckily loose-fitting jeans. Dean’s just finishing up taking another shot as Sam slides in to stand behind him, like, directly behind him. Dean straightens and his ass is right in Sam’s personal space, brushing up against the front of his jeans. Dean jumps, startled, obviously too distracted to notice Sam’s approach, and Sam slides out a steadying hand, wraps it tight around Dean’s forearm from behind.
Sam leans in, whispers something into Dean’s ear, mouth brushing his ear lobe. Dean stills, listening hard, then a smile breaks out across his face. He tilts his head to one side to peer up at Sam; he says something and then slides away out of Sam’s grasp to take another shot. Sam takes a step back from the table and crosses his arms. He watches Dean wipe the table clean, ball after ball sliding home while the dweeby dude glowers from the side and the girls cheer Dean on.
Dean snatches up the crumpled bills lying on the side of the table when he’s done, and brings them to his mouth for a smacking kiss. Ross makes a face ‘cause seriously, so gross, who the fuck knows where that shit has been? Sam slides up behind Dean again, reaching around Dean’s body to take the money from his hand and rifle through it before he pockets the lot. Dean slings an arm around Sam’s neck and drags him forward to meet the girls and then it’s all happy get-to-know you shit, the girls looking greedily between Dean and Sam, Dean still with his arm around Sam and Sam pressed up against Dean in a blatant, ass-grabbing way. The four of them all head off towards the bar, Dean sparing a moment to flash Ross a smirk over his shoulder and pat Sammy on the ass.
Ross rolls his eyes and takes another swig of his beer. He works his way steadily through another couple of beers as he watches the action. All four of them are acting like they’re having the time of their life, the girls leaning into Dean and Sam and all of them knocking back shots and getting annoying and loud and giggly.
I killed Dad for them.
The thought slams into him, savage and sudden, and he freezes with his beer against his lips, pulse beating hot and heavy in his head.
I killed Dad for them.
Oh God, he hasn’t - hasn’t thought about - about that night - about what happened that night. Dean on the floor, unconscious, not moving. Dad’s hands around Sam’s throat.
It was for them. I shot him for them. To save them.
The bottle slips in his grasp, chilly damp glass sliding against his fingers. He grabs for it, manages to set it tremblingly on the table. He stares down at his hand, the damp, pink pads of his fingers. It’s shaking. He’s shaking, goose flesh popping on his arms and neck.
But Dean said - he said that I did the right thing. I did what Dad wanted. I killed the demon. Me. I did what he could never do, and Dad would be proud of me.
But he hadn’t been thinking about the demon. He hadn’t been thinking about anything except Dean and Sam and saving Dean and Sam and so he’d used the Colt and he’d killed Dad. He’d chosen his brothers over his dad.
He takes a breath, lifts his head. His vision is bleary, heart thumping. He feels dizzy. He feels like he’s gonna throw up. He’s still shaking.
He stumbles out the booth, grabs onto the back to steady himself, fingers punching into the soft plastic. He pushes himself forward, propels himself out the bar and out into the parking lot, legs working independent of his brain. The parking lot is full, cars washed with moonlight and street-light. He makes for the Impala, leans against it, palms on the cold metal. It’s damp, dewy, cold. He hangs his head, breathes in and out, tries to force his heart to stop thumping.
He needs to get a grip. He needs to get a fucking grip, right now. He’s acting ridiculous and pathetic and he’s supposed to be a hunter, not some little bitch who just breaks down sobbing and shaking all the damn time. It’s not surprising that Dean keeps putting off going on an actual hunt when he’s in this crappy shape.
He fumbles his phone out of his pocket, his few contacts scroll past too quickly, stupid tiny buttons under his clumsy fingers. He swears under his breath, tries to calm himself and then tries again. He gets Sarah’s name on the third pass. He hits the send button and lifts the phone to his ear as it rings.
He doesn’t expect her to pick up, she hasn’t done the last few times he’s tried to call, so he’s a little blindsided when she answers on the third ring. “Ross?”
“Uh, Sarah? That you?”
“It’s my phone, of course it’s me.” She sounds amused, a fond sort of tone to her voice that makes the smile flicker then scroll across his face. The last time they had actually managed to talk it’d been stilted and awkward - probably his own fault. He’d felt weird talking to her, making out like everything was normal and fine and peachy between them when everything with Dean and Sam was - well, what it was.
“Oh, how are you?” he says.
“I’m good, baby. Listen, I’m glad you called, I was about to call you, I've got a surprise for you.”
“A surprise?” he echoes.
“Uh-huh, a surprise. Where are you? Are you guys still in Texas?”
“Yeah. That’s right. Why?”
“Anywhere near Dallas?”
“Just outside of Austin. So, yeah, that’s real close.”
“Awesome,” she says. “You want to meet me in Dallas? I’m flying in tomorrow first thing for a meeting. I have a room booked at the Hilton. I was thinking we could take a couple of days, just hang out? That sound okay to you?”
“Yeah, yeah. I mean, yeah, definitely. It sounds, like, really good. I wanna see you. It feels like it’s been years.” He’s grinning full-on now, her words finally sinking in, and he doesn’t care, doesn’t give a crap how desperate or needy he must sound. He can see Sarah again. Tomorrow. Get away from Sam and Dean and just - all this - just for a couple of days and - Christ - it all sounds so good: holed up in a fancy hotel with Sarah and room service and a massive bed.
“Great,” she says. “Listen, so you go talk to Sam and Dean and figure out how you’re going to get here, okay?”
“Oh that should be fine,” he says with a shrug. “If Dean doesn’t wanna give me a ride then I’ll just steal a car.”
“Ross, come on, be serious.” She huffs out a breath, half-laughing, half-incredulous.
“I am being serious! Totally serious.”
“You’re going to steal a car?” she repeats.
“Sure I am. Done it loads of times before. It’s no big deal.”
She sighs heavily, the sort of a sigh that reminds him of Dean doing his super-patient-and-matyred-big-brother thing. “Ross, c’mon. I don’t want you to steal a car. If you do that, I’ll spend all of tomorrow worrying about you being arrested.”
“I won’t be arrested. I know what to do, I’ve done it -“
“- loads of times before. Yes, I know, you said so. Just - not this time, okay? Promise you won’t. Can’t you catch a bus if Dean won’t let you borrow the car?”
“Dean ain’t gonna let me borrow the car, he’s totally possessive about it. He’s got, like, this complex about it. He never even lets me drive it when it’s just us and he’s about to drop dead. He says I can’t drive for shit, which is total bullshit. But, hey, don’t worry, babe, I’ll just sweet-talk him into giving me a ride. We ain’t working any jobs right now, so he and Sammy’ve got nothing better to do. ‘Cept each other of course, and that shit can wait.”
“Right,” she says, her tone a little dry this time. “Well, whatever you work out - just let me know, okay?”
“Sure thing, babe.”
She pauses and he hears her lick her lips, a rustling whooshing sound like running water. He tries to picture the apartment, everything soft and nice and clean and comforting. He thinks of her standing at the kitchen sink, its gleaming clean basin and taps, the phone tucked between her neck and shoulder, her hair coming loose from the soft ponytail she always wears when she’s hanging out at home.
“I should go,” she says and he’s relieved to hear that she sounds reluctant and not like she’s actually wanting to get off the line. He’s gotten that impression before, though that could just be him acting all paranoid, it’s hard to tell sometimes. “I have to pack and make this call to the buyer and the bank to make sure everything’s okay,” she adds with a sigh. “But we’ll see each other tomorrow, okay, honey?”
“Yeah, okay, sure we will, not gonna miss that.”
She huffs out a soft, amused breath. “Great. Call me when you’ve figured things out.”
“Yeah, okay,” he says, but she’s already rung off.
He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth, surprised to feel that he’s still smiling. He locks his phone screen and slides it back in his pocket and heads into the bar to break the good news.
**
Dean only puts up a token protest about driving to Dallas for what he insists on calling Ross’s “fancy-ass booty call”. Sam just listens to Ross’s explanation and shrugs, saying, “I think that sounds good. You guys need to figure out what you want together.”
“What do you mean: what we want together?” Ross asks.
Sam blinks at him like he’s acting like a total dumbass and not getting something really freaking obvious. “Well you know. Your relationship, dude. You gotta figure out where things stand between you. If you want to carry on being girlfriend and boyfriend or whatever, or if you want to go your separate ways. It’s not fair to keep things up in the air like this. For either of you.”
Dean groans and looks up from the laptop. “Jesus, Sam, give the kid a break.”
“What? Am I the only one actually confronting the issue here?”
Ross looks between his brothers, feeling his pulse start to spark up. There’s something here he’s totally not getting. He's just looking forward to spending a couple of days with his girl, hanging out and having a lot of sex and eating a lot of fancy room service and now he’s supposed to be sitting down with her and talking about their relationship? Shit.
“What issue?” Dean says.
Sam sighs and shakes his head. He looks at Ross, he actually looks kind of sympathetic, his understanding face, the one Ross has seen him use on loads of grieving relatives in the past.
“Why can’t we just have fun?” Ross says, and his voice sounds kinda pathetic and plaintive in his ears. “I mean - I was just gonna go and see her and hang out and just -“
“Have lots of sex,” Dean adds matter-of-factly.
“Well duh. I mean, I don’t, like, wanna waste time having deep and meaningful conversations,” he adds.
Sam shrugs. “Okay. Okay, fine, whatever. If that works for you then cool.”
He swallows, nods his head, but Sam's not meeting his eyes, still looking concerned, and seriously, what is with him? Why the hell is Sam acting like he’s the freaking Relationship Yoda all of a sudden? Okay, so Sam’s the only one who’s actually managed to have anything resembling a normal relationship with a non-relative that’s lasted more than a month, but still, Sam is not the fucking expert. Besides, there's no damn way he's taking relationship advice from someone whose last and only girlfriend ended up crispy fried by a demon and who’s been in crazy incestuous love with his older brother most of his life.
He swallows, pushes back the sudden memory of Jess; nice, blond, sweet Jessica who’d welcomed him and Dean so warmly that one time so long ago, Jess who'd been so smart and friendly and hot, who’d baked brownies especially for them and spoken about Sam like he was this dude Ross had never met before. She hadn’t deserved what happened to her, no way, but getting involved with Sam - with them - had signed her death warrant. Not that he and Sarah are anything like Sam and Jess. For a start, Sarah knows all about what he does, she knows about demons and ghosts and creepy-ass paintings, she’s seen it with her own eyes. She's got protections in her apartment, he’d seen to that. She's smart and capable and tough and he’s told her loads of stuff, he's not keeping her in the dark like Sammy did with his girl. It's not the same at all.
He licks his lips, turns his attention back to his phone where he’s been typing out a long message to Sarah for the past five minutes, letting her know that Dean’s agreed to give him a ride to Dallas. He can feel both his brothers looking at him, Dean with that penetrating, older-brother concerned look, the one that’s so fucking difficult to ignore.
“Hey, maybe we should go with him?” Dean says.
Ross looks up from his phone, watches Dean shut the laptop and slide off the bed, cross the room to the coffee machine. “What do you mean?” he asks suspiciously.
Dean takes his sweet time filling his mug, his back to them. He turns around, parks his ass against the crappy counter and shrugs. “Like, we could get a room in the hotel too? Would be nice stayin’ somewhere fancy for once.” He waves his arm at the crumbling plaster, peeling paint and weird twisted patches of damp on the walls around them. “’Stead of a shit-hole like this. Whatcha think, Sammy?”
“I think there’s no freakin’ way you two are staying in my hotel!” Ross interrupts. “Like, just no way, man.”
“Your hotel?” Dean parrots, cocking up one eyebrow. “Since when is it your hotel?”
“Whatever. You know what I mean. I don’t want you sniffing round there. It’ll be weird.”
He’s itching to spell it out: it’s not just about seeing Sarah again, it’s also about getting away from the two of them, about just - just having some freaking space. He loves his brothers. He loves them a lot, in lots of different ways, haha, but God - he just - he wants some goddamn time away from them. Christ, is that too much to ask?
He can feel Sam’s eyes on him, watching him thoughtfully. God, it's always like this these days. Always one of them (or both of them) watching him with these same damn looks of brotherly concern. He can practically imagine what’s going through their minds: Is Ross okay? Is Littlest Bro okay? Is he gonna start crying again? Is he gonna finally have that fucking breakdown he’s been promising ever since - ever since -
And that’s another reason why it’ll just be so goddamn nice to get away from here. From this. From them.
I killed Dad for them.
He forces away the thought, the fucking refrain that’s been hammering around his brain since the previous night. He tangles his hands in the comforter, watches Dean sip his coffee and trade significant looks with Sam over the rim of his mug.
“I’m sure we can find another hotel close by,” Sam says, using his ultra-reasonable tone of voice. “Would that be okay for you, Ross?”
Ross makes a face and Sam grins back at him. He guesses that everything’s been decided.
**
ROOM 302. SEE YOU SOON. XO the text reads. Ross grins and tucks his phone away into his pocket.
“That’s the look of a guy who’s about to get laid,” Dean comments, eyes on the driving mirror as he reverse parks into the busy street outside the hotel.
“Yeah, well, you would know,” Ross says.
Dean grins unashamedly and elbows Ross in the ribs. “I would definitely know. But this ain’t about me, littlest bro, this is about you. Now, are you packing?”
Ross rolls his eyes at his brother and raises his knee. He rolls up the hem of his jeans to expose the knife and knife holster strapped to his ankle. He unzips his jacket and holds the left side open so Dean can see his Taurus tucked into the inner pocket.
“And?” Dean prompts.
“And,” he mimics, making a face and doing a dead-on accurate impression of Dean at his most annoying and bossy - which is most of the time.
Dean just raises an eyebrow. Ross groans at him and digs around in the backpack lying between his feet. He tugs out a handful of condoms and waves them in Dean’s face. “Happy now?”
“Eight?” Dean says, his face creasing into amused lines. “Seriously? Eight? Kinda ambitious, don’t you think?”
He shrugs, gives Dean a smug look. “Nope. Not at all. Don’t judge me by your standards, Deano.”
Dean smirks and leans in, gaze dropping to Ross’s crotch area and slowly, aggravatingly, lingeringly, sliding upwards to his face. He raises his hand to cup Ross’s cheek, forcibly turning his head so their eyes meet. Ross swallows, feeling his blood rush south and his tongue come out to wet his lips despite himself. Dean is looking at him with that dark, knowing gaze, the same look he’s given Sam so many times over the years, the same look he’s been giving him over the past couple of months. He feels his stomach flip over and his lips shape Dean’s name. “Dean… what?”
Dean leans in, brings their mouths together. The kiss is hard and quick, Dean’s fingers digging into the back of his skull, and then Dean is pulling away, the heated look falling from his eyes and that familiar brotherly look sliding back over his face in its place. He pats Ross’s cheek a couple of times, gives him an affectionate smile. “Don’t keep her waiting,” he says.
Ross hesitates, swallows, his whole body feels hot and flushed and his dick is half-hard in his jeans. He feels blindsided and he wants to curse out his brother for doing that to him right before he’s about to meet Sarah for the first time in three months, for making him feel like that, like he’s been turned-over and then thrown away. He fumbles with the door handle, suddenly desperate to be out the car and away from Dean. He spills out onto the sidewalk, stumbles a little as he crams the condoms back into the bag and zips it up. He swallows hard again, shoulders the backpack and heads into the hotel. He doesn’t look back.
He takes the elevator up to the third floor feeling jittery and a little nervous, though his stupid dick has finally deflated, thank God. He flexes his fingers, alters his grip on the backpack slung over one shoulder. There’s an older couple in the elevator, talking together in some language he doesn’t recognize and watching him warily from the corner of their eyes. He ignores them and practically leaps out the elevator when it arrives at his floor. Sarah’s room is at one end of the corridor, about as far away from an exit as it’s possible to be - which wouldn’t be his choice, but he’s not the one choosing this time. He notes the location of the fire escape and tracks up and down the corridor a couple of times to check on any other escape routes.
He knocks on the door to 302 and barely has to wait three seconds before Sarah opens it. She breaks into a smile as soon as she sees him and cranes up on tiptoes, her hand stretching out to cup the back of his neck. He lets her pull him in, smiling goofily, huffing out a breath when their lips meet. He drops his hands to her waist, edges her forward, the backpack sliding down his arm and catching on his elbow, banging against both their hips.
She pulls back, laughs a little, licks her lips. “You should come inside,” she says, taking a shuffling step backwards.
The door thuds closed behind him and he drops the backpack to the floor, barely pausing before he surges forward, curling his arms around her once more and pulling her in. They fumble-kiss their way across the room to the enormous double bed until they’re falling backwards with a winded ouff of breath, the soft pillowy mattress and comforter clinging around them. She laughs into his mouth and threads her fingers into his hair. Her legs curl around his hips and she arches up into him. He’s getting hard again - he is hard again - and he hears her groan when he grinds his erection down into her. One of her hands snakes in between their bodies and he feels her (surprisingly small) fingers fumbling with his fly.
“Want you inside me, want you to fuck me,” she whispers into his ear, and he groans out his appreciation and agreement, pushing back to put some space between their bodies so she can unzip his fly completely.
She forces his jeans down over his hips and ass, her fingers brushing against his exposed hipbones and treasure trail. “God, you - your body, the way you look, Ross,” she whispers and he feels his face flush hot at the appreciation and admiration in her voice. He knows he’s a hot piece of ass, he knows that, but hearing someone like Sarah say it, someone who’s so smart and beautiful is just - he doesn’t know the words to describe it, but he knows that he likes it a lot.
“Ain’t so bad yourself,” he mutters into her neck.
She tilts her head back and laughs breathily, her eyes hot and dark as they meet his, her cheeks pink, her hair a little damp around the temples. “Undress me,” she tells him.
They don’t manage to get completely undressed the first time and they probably look totally ridiculous. He’s still wearing his socks for one thing and fucking with socks on always makes you look like a dork. She’s got her pantyhose caught around one ankle and her bra’s still on for fuck’s sake - which is epic fail on his part, but whatever, she feels amazing. He’s just impressed that he managed to stop for long enough to get the condom on.
And yeah, by the way, Deano, one condom down, seven to go. He’s easily gonna use all eight over two days.
The second time they do manage to get naked. It’s a bit slower and he lasts longer and he takes his time to make sure she really appreciates it, going down on her and giving her some of his best moves. God, he loves pussy, he loves the taste and smell and feel and everything about it. He can’t understand how Sam and Dean can be so blasé about giving it up, and okay so they’ve got that fucked-up crazy about each other shit working for them, but the thought of never being able to go down on a chick again or fondle a great pair of tits or just - just be inside a girl again - he doesn’t think he could do that no matter how much he liked the guy. Plus there’s the whole part where he’s never ever gonna try any kind of butt-sex ever again; even if he gets to top the next time, he’s just not doing that.
The third time she sucks him off in the shower. She’s not as good as Sam or Dean, but it’s still incredible and it’s - it’s Sarah, it's his girl. He puts his hand on the side of her face to stop her half-way through and she slides off him, tilts her head back and blinks up at him, water running down her cheeks, flattening her hair to her scalp, making her eyelashes shine.
“Hey, come up here,” he says.
She smiles and gets to her feet. He pulls her in, the head of his cock brushing against her belly, as they kiss. They end up fucking on the bathroom floor, it’s impossible in the shower, too slippery and too small and he has to bend his knees to get inside her properly and that’s just uncomfortable. Instead, he sits on the edge of the tub and she sinks down onto him, riding him, both of them wet and sweaty and giggling.
Afterwards he picks her up, carries her back into the bedroom and throws her down onto the bed. She snuggles up into him and they take a well-deserved nap. He falls asleep, wondering vaguely just how she isn’t sore yet when his dick is already feeling seriously chafed.
**
“Where’d you get that?” Sarah asks.
They’re awake and they’ve eaten room service and he’s not quite sure what time it is, only that it’s late. His phone is blinking at him from the nightstand, showing that he has messages, but he’s ignoring it. They’ll be from Sam or Dean and he’s not thinking about his brothers right now.
Sarah’s tucked up close to him, naked, her hair a half-dried, crazy tangle that reminds him disconcertingly of Sam, except he’s not thinking about Sam right now.
“What?” he says.
“This.” Her nail scrapes gently over a mark on his shoulder. He glances down at it, just noticing it from the corner of his eye, and - shit - that’s a hickey. It’s definitely a hickey.
“Looks like a hickey to me,” she says. “One that I didn’t give you.”
“Nah, just a hunt,” he says, quietly impressed with how convincing he sounds.
“A hunt? How did a hunt give you a hickey?”
“A vamp. Tried to take a bite outta me. Almost succeeded but Dean got it. Chopped the bitch’s head off.”
The corner of her mouth twitches, she looks amused. “You’re such a bad liar, Ross.”
“I - what? No, seriously, babe, it’s true.”
“No it’s not. Tell me who it was. Was it Sam or was it Dean?”
He freezes, blood draining from his face. He blinks, pulls his head back, turning so he can look her directly in the eyes. She looks amused, her mouth curled into a cruel, mocking shape. “Which of your big brothers gave you that hickey, Ross?”
Your big brothers… but she doesn’t know that Dean is his -
He swallows, whispers, “Christo.”
She flinches, her eyes flash black. He jerks back, stumbles off the bed, crying, “Christo, Christo, Christo!”
Her mouth twists into a snarl, teeth barred. She surges off the bed, belts him across the face with a resounding, stinging slap that vibrates through his skull.
“Shut that pretty face or I’ll cut out your tongue!”
“No, no, no…” He shakes his head, holds his hand to his burning cheek. “No - get out of her! Get out of her, you fuckin’ bitch!”
She launches at him, sends him sprawling to the floor. His head crashes back against the carpet, his vision swims. She pushes him down, straddles his thighs. She wraps her fingers, around his throat, forces back his head, fingers twisting into the bones of his jaw.
“Shut up!” she hisses.
Her eyes are still black, and he can see it now, can see the demon in her, can see that evil piece of crap inside her - inside his girl, inside his girl that he’s been - oh God - how long? How long? Has it been here this whole time? While they were -
He wriggles, tries to buck her off, hips lifting, but she’s too strong, way too fucking strong, fingers grinding into his skin. Dean, Sam, God - where are you? Dean? Sammy? Please. Dad?
Her mouth twists up into a snarling smile, she cackles in amusement. “No point screaming now. You’re on your own, pretty boy. All alone, just how I want you. Now, open up. That’s right.” She leans in closer, pinches his nose closed, her voice cloying and sickly-sweet as she coos: “Open up for me, Ross. Bend over and open up for me, just like you do for the rest of your family. Open up for Daddy.”
He’s shaking, tears springing to his eyes, an instinctive reaction to the breath choking from his throat, his blocked nose, and God - he’s gotta - he’s gotta breathe - but he can’t ‘cause if he does -
Oh God. She throws back her head, black cloud rushing up in a malevolent stream and oh God - oh no - he has to, shit - fuck - God help him. He opens his mouth, gasps for breath. The cloud plows down, knocks into him, driving into him with a force that chokes and burns and scalds and then everything goes dark.
***
He comes back to life in a car.
“Oh, you’re awake.”
The voice is his own, his accent, his stupid mocking voice, except that’s not him, not him that’s talking ‘cause he’s… He tries to move, tries to see. A blink of a road, a car’s interior, reflection of headlights in the windshield, darkness outside.
“Yeah, that’s right, we’re on the move.”
His mouth won’t work, he can’t talk, but he can think. He thinks the question: Where are we going?
“Like I’m going to tell you. You’re the passenger here, sweet-cheeks. Just sit back and get snug, because you’re going nowhere.”
The realization knocks into him: he’s possessed. He’s fucking possessed. That’s the demon. The demon who was in Sarah. Oh God, Sarah.
What did you do with Sarah?
The voice chuckles, slithering and amused. “Don’t you worry about your sweet girlfriend, baby. She’s going to be just fine. Of course she won’t want anything to do with your fucked-up ass anymore. Not after what I told her.”
What did you tell her?
“Oh, just the truth,” the demon says breezily. “What you and your big brothers have been up to these past few weeks. And yes - I told her about Dean. About him being your brother too. Trust me, honey, you just became the brand new resident of Dumpsville.”
You sonofabitch…
“Oh c’mon, littlest bro, the girl deserved the truth! And if you weren’t gonna be straight with her…” The demon guffaws. “Straight with her - yeah, right, that’s a good one.”
You ain’t funny.
“Oh, I’m positively hilarious, darling.” The demon pauses and Ross can feel it - hear it - licking its lips - can see the ghost of a reflection in the rearview mirror, his own mouth twisted up into a delighted grimace. “You know, you and your brothers have got to be about the stupidest sonsofbitches I’ve ever come across, and believe me, I’ve come across a few. All these years pretending to be big strong hunters and you never once thought about protecting your tasty hides against possession. Even after dear old daddy got his slow, worthless ass possessed. But no, you’re just too busy fingering each other’s sweet spots to think about getting yourselves real protection. Not that I’m complaining, sweetheart, makes my job much easier.” It laughs, a stupid, snickering, sneering sound that he can’t believe is his own voice.
Dean and Sam will know I’m gone. They’ll come after you.
“Oh, I’m counting on it,” the demon says confidently. “You think this is just about you, Ross? It’s never been just about you. You know you’re not the important one in this family. You never have been. Tch, tch, little brother. No, in about four or five hours from now, Dean and Sam will be discovering a nice little surprise in your hotel room -“
Oh God, Sarah -
“No, don’t worry, honey-buns, your soon to be ex-girlfriend is not dead. Not yet at least. That would be far too boring. Besides, I need her. She needs to tell Dean and Sam just exactly where we’re headed.”
Where are we headed, you fucking sonofabitch?
The demon chuckles again. “I told you before, that’s something you’re just going to have to wait and find out. All in good time, hot-stuff, all in good time. Now, how about you keep your pretty little cakehole shut for the next few hours and let daddy do the driving, okay?”
He’s about to protest again before he feels the darkness start to swamp him, pushing him underground - down and down - and he’s sinking, sinking, until everything goes dark again.
On to the... Next Chapter
Chapter: 26/28
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Sam/Ross/Dean, Ross/Sarah
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 7,805
Summary: Ross Winchester knows three things to be true: his father, John, is a hero; he’s going to be the best hunter in the goddamn world; and his two older brothers are in love with each other. An AU-version of seasons one and two where the Winchester Brothers mean Dean and Sam and Ross, where John is still missing, where Mary and Jess are still dead, and where Dean and Sam are still obsessed with each other.
A/N: I'm not even sure if there's anyone still reading this as I know I suck very much. I cannot believe that it has been a year since I last updated! I have had half of this chapter written since last February which is really very pathetic. But! I have never left a fic unfinished and I am way too fond of Ross to leave him to the sad fate of ending up as just another abandoned WIP. So, for what it's worth, here be the next part. The gorgeous and very sexy banner below was made by the awesome violateraindrop
A/N 2: I should mention that this is unbeta-ed. A lot of you will know that my former beta and collaborator on this fic, my dear Andreth, sadly passed away last year. I did think about asking one of my other lovely betas to take a look, but it felt strange to share this with anyone else as Andreth was such a big part of it, so I decided to just post unbeta-ed. Please forgive any glaring errors or Britishisms, or let me know - I promise not to cry too much ;D
Chapter 26
Previous Chapter
Ass-fucking is overrated, Ross decides, and it’s painful, like, really painful.
In fact, he has no freaking idea just why Sam and Dean are so obsessed by it. It’s seriously bugging him that he seems to be missing something. And he’s not just talking about the pain (he’s a hunter for fuck’s sake, he knows pain), though he has to admit that this pain, the pain of having a cock rammed up your much smaller and narrower asshole... Jesus Christ, that kinda pain is something else.
Of course, he’s not some ignorant slut just looking to get his kink on with some freaky ass-play. He knows what he’s talking about, he’s had a front row seat for this kinda crap for the past fuck knows how many years, thanks to his two older brothers. And to be fair to Dean and Sam, they did warn him about the pain: Sam with his eyes wide and solemn, asking again and again, “Are you sure? You don’t have to do this to prove anything to us, Ross. Are you sure? ‘Cause you know, man, it hurts the first time. It hurts a lot.” While Dean looked on warily, sitting back and shaking his head and saying, “You wanna be fucked in the ass, littlest bro, then you gotta ask Sammy. That’s a line I just can’t cross with you.”
And maybe that hurt a little - hearing Dean come out and say that to him, just another way that he came second best to Sam for Dean - but mostly, in a weird way, it was a relief. Having Dean pop his ass-cherry would just be, well - it would be weird, and even more fucked-up than normal. Maybe the line was there because Dean was the one who showed him how to lace up his sneakers with the two bunny ears, because Dean was the one who gave him his lunch money every day (where he got it from, Ross had never bothered to ask, knowing Dean he probably stole it), because Dean was the one who took the hems up and down on the hand-me-down pants he always got stuck with (being the youngest meant he never ever got anything fucking new and he had to put up with Dean's shitty sewing), because Dean was the one who wiped away the snot when he had a cold and wiped away the tears when he was upset (not that that happened very often, he was no pussy). Admittedly, he'd been dealing pretty fucking well with the fact that Dean was the guy who’d done all that kinda parental shit for him and Dean was also the guy he liked to make out with on a regular basis, all things considered and all that. But still, damn him, Dean was right, there was a line.
So, in the end, Sam was the one who took his ass virginity. Which was pretty fucked-up too in so many ways. After all, Sammy was his big brother just as much as Dean. But Sam was also… God, this was going to make him sound, like, the vainest person ever, but there was something about the way Sam looked at him, and something about the way that Sam looked like him. Ross already knew that the whole resemblance thing with Sam was a major freaking turn-on for both of them, but Sam was - man, he hated admitting this - but Sam had some really fucking impressive moves on him, way more impressive than Ross would ever have expected. It was no wonder Dean had pined so freaking much when Sammy was off doing the college thing.
So yeah, Sam ended up being his ass-cherry popper. Maybe with hindsight and everything they should’ve thought it all through better, but they were guys, Winchesters, and act-first-think-later had been Dean’s way of dealing with shit for years. Ross had always been impatient and there was a part of him that just wanted to get it over with, just tick that box and say, yeah, so I crossed incestuous butt-sex off the bucket list. Plus, Sam was all flashing-eyed and red-cheeked and giving Ross this heated sort of look that was kinda intimidating if it’d been anyone else except his dorky lame-ass brother, but it was flattering just how into the idea Sam seemed to be, so it never even occurred to Ross that Sam was a really big boy while his ass was virginal and that the entire process was a little like learning to shoot at seven years old with Dad’s huge fucking Colt instead of a kiddy-sized pop gun.
He sweated and shook and trembled as Sam tried to breach him, Dean holding onto him the entire time, whispering in his ear, “Just relax, Ross, just let it go, littlest bro. It’s okay, I’m here, I got you. We’re not gonna hurt you. It’ll be okay, just relax...” until Ross snapped and yelled out: “Fuck’s sake, Dean, I am fuckin’ relaxing!”
‘Cause it hurt, Jesus to Christ it hurt. Like someone shoving a really thick, really hot needle into him, a needle that was as thick as a freaking sawed-off. It didn’t seem to matter that Sam had supposedly “opened him up” with half a tub of lube because the lube was obviously defective and Sam was doing it totally wrong because it really fucking hurt. And the thing was, it wasn’t just about the agonizing pain because he could deal with pain, he was a hunter for Christ’s sake, it was just - God - it was more than that. It was the mental image of Sam’s cock going inside him, of what he must look like with his ass in the air and with himself all opened up like that, of the fucking intrusion. This was the part that was supposed to be hot; the part that Sam and Dean couldn’t get enough of, except it wasn’t hot. Not at all. It was gross and painful and degrading and he had seriously had enough.
“Stop! Okay, just stop!”
Sam froze and shared a look with Dean over Ross’s head. Ross gritted his teeth and grabbed hold of Dean’s forearm, hard enough for Dean to actually flinch while he flailed around with his other arm, trying to push Sam away from him. “Get off me, Sam! I ain’t doin’ this! I wanna stop!”
Sam pulled out of him, looking anxious and sheepish which normally would’ve made Ross feel a little guilty, but by that point his ass was throbbing way too much to give a shit about Sam’s feelings. He collapsed onto the bed and shook and sweated and panted some more, while his poor ass throbbed in time with the blood thumping in his head and Dean and Sam peppered him with stupid, worried questions. He ignored them both, gritted his teeth, slid bonelessly off the bed and practically crawled to the bathroom on his hands and knees.
His ass hurt for the following three days. Sam and Dean watched him with anxious, guilty expressions, exchanging these glances that were half-parts worry and half-parts unfulfilled sexual tension, ‘cause of course, his god-fucking-terrible ass-fucking experience meant that they were way too guilt-ridden to seek solace with each other. Not that he was gonna let them off the hook any time soon.
He felt cheated. Angry and resentful and pissed-off and fucking cheated. It wasn’t supposed to be like that. All those times he’d been forced to listen or watch Sam and Dean going at it, it was nothing like that for them. Sam and Dean loved fucking each other. They couldn’t get enough of it. Hell, they didn’t even care which way round they did it as long as they were joined by the cock.
He'd known it would suck the first time, but he thought it would be like smoking. Your first cigarette always sucks, it tastes like crap, but you get past it, you get over the choking and spluttering and horrible burning feel of the smoke down your throat, until it’s fucking awesome. He thought butt-sex would be like that, like you have to get past the pain and weirdness and grossness and the whole part where it fucking hurts like a bitch, until it’s easy and painless and as awesome as the first after-breakfast cigarette. Except he was never gonna know because there was no damn way he was ever trying it again.
**
“Lots of gay men never have anal sex,” Sam says about a week later, like, totally out of the fucking blue. Except it’s not out of the blue ‘cause Sam’s obviously been dwelling on Ross’s ass-related shortcomings all this time. They’re in a bar, Ross and Sam sitting a table, drinking, while Dean struts his stuff at the pool table. The thing is, Ross knows that Sam’s trying to be nice, but he’s just - he’s just so fucking sucky at it.
“I’m not gay!” he insists.
Sam looks like he’s about to roll his eyes, though he manages to restrain himself. “You know, you can like both. They even have a word for it.”
“Whatever. Just - I ain’t gay, dude. You should fuckin’ know that. I’m not like you.”
“I still like girls,” Sam says and Ross makes a little scoffing sound ‘cause seriously - when was the last time Sam ever got his mopey ass laid by a chick? He’s been pretty much Dean-Dean-Dean-Dean ever since they dragged him out of that burning building in Palo Alto. “All I’m saying is that anal sex is not for everybody. Even gay dudes who have been together a long time. It’s not as prevalent as some people think.”
“You and Dean seem to like it enough,” he snorts.
Sam’s mouth twitches up into a little smirk and he shrugs, trying to disguise the fact that he’s not acting totally smug. “Yeah. I guess we do,” he says. His eyes drift towards the pool table, like he can’t help himself, like as soon as anyone mentions Dean he’s gotta be immediately staring at him like the obsessive man-stalker he is.
Dean’s picked up some fans from somewhere, just a couple of girls leaning over the table, watching him play, eyes wide, teeth shiny and arms pressed against their sides in that way that makes their tits look more prominent. Whatever, it’s a look Ross can appreciate even if Dean’s way too into dick these days to really get it. Dean’s acting the part though, flirting like crazy and flashing his teeth, all smug and attention-whorey. The girls laugh and one of them actually claps her hands together, while Dean laps up the attention and leans over the table to take his next shot. His opponent, some dweeby loser, looks seriously pissed, standing off to one side and glaring at Dean from over the rim of his beer bottle, obviously figuring out that he's being totally played. And if looks could kill… oh boy, Deano’d be fucking smoking ash on the floor right now.
Dean’s shot connects and the girls cheer. Dean straightens, does this goofy little bow thing that sends the girls giggling. He strides around the table to take his next shot, looking up for a second and looking their way, his gaze connecting with Sam’s. Dean keeps staring their way as he chalks up the end up of his cue, his mouth curling upwards into a little smirk that’s eerily similar to the one on Sam’s face right now.
Beside Ross, Sam rolls his eyes, mutters, “Show-off,” but he’s smiling too, that possessive, hot glint in his eyes, the same one Sam’s given Ross enough times over the past few weeks, and that’s a memory to make him feel uncomfortable right now. Ross swallows, manages this half-hearted snorting-scoffing noise as he raises his beer bottle to take a pull. Sam’s sprawled across the booth, taking up as much space as he can. His legs are stretched out under the table, thighs loosely spread, one big hand resting on his thigh, close to the seam of his jeans, and Ross can clearly make out the shape of his erection through the denim. Ross presses his lips together, he can practically feel his stupid face heating up, irritation and annoyance with Sam for just being - God - for being so damn blatant about it, staring at Dean like he’s planning on freaking devouring him later.
“I’m just gonna -“ Sam says, not bothering to complete the sentence. He slides out of the booth, saunters across the bar towards Dean. It’s almost funny, the way he’s walking across there, this rolling sort of strut that's partly about arrogance and partly about the fact he’s sporting a ginormous woody in his luckily loose-fitting jeans. Dean’s just finishing up taking another shot as Sam slides in to stand behind him, like, directly behind him. Dean straightens and his ass is right in Sam’s personal space, brushing up against the front of his jeans. Dean jumps, startled, obviously too distracted to notice Sam’s approach, and Sam slides out a steadying hand, wraps it tight around Dean’s forearm from behind.
Sam leans in, whispers something into Dean’s ear, mouth brushing his ear lobe. Dean stills, listening hard, then a smile breaks out across his face. He tilts his head to one side to peer up at Sam; he says something and then slides away out of Sam’s grasp to take another shot. Sam takes a step back from the table and crosses his arms. He watches Dean wipe the table clean, ball after ball sliding home while the dweeby dude glowers from the side and the girls cheer Dean on.
Dean snatches up the crumpled bills lying on the side of the table when he’s done, and brings them to his mouth for a smacking kiss. Ross makes a face ‘cause seriously, so gross, who the fuck knows where that shit has been? Sam slides up behind Dean again, reaching around Dean’s body to take the money from his hand and rifle through it before he pockets the lot. Dean slings an arm around Sam’s neck and drags him forward to meet the girls and then it’s all happy get-to-know you shit, the girls looking greedily between Dean and Sam, Dean still with his arm around Sam and Sam pressed up against Dean in a blatant, ass-grabbing way. The four of them all head off towards the bar, Dean sparing a moment to flash Ross a smirk over his shoulder and pat Sammy on the ass.
Ross rolls his eyes and takes another swig of his beer. He works his way steadily through another couple of beers as he watches the action. All four of them are acting like they’re having the time of their life, the girls leaning into Dean and Sam and all of them knocking back shots and getting annoying and loud and giggly.
I killed Dad for them.
The thought slams into him, savage and sudden, and he freezes with his beer against his lips, pulse beating hot and heavy in his head.
I killed Dad for them.
Oh God, he hasn’t - hasn’t thought about - about that night - about what happened that night. Dean on the floor, unconscious, not moving. Dad’s hands around Sam’s throat.
It was for them. I shot him for them. To save them.
The bottle slips in his grasp, chilly damp glass sliding against his fingers. He grabs for it, manages to set it tremblingly on the table. He stares down at his hand, the damp, pink pads of his fingers. It’s shaking. He’s shaking, goose flesh popping on his arms and neck.
But Dean said - he said that I did the right thing. I did what Dad wanted. I killed the demon. Me. I did what he could never do, and Dad would be proud of me.
But he hadn’t been thinking about the demon. He hadn’t been thinking about anything except Dean and Sam and saving Dean and Sam and so he’d used the Colt and he’d killed Dad. He’d chosen his brothers over his dad.
He takes a breath, lifts his head. His vision is bleary, heart thumping. He feels dizzy. He feels like he’s gonna throw up. He’s still shaking.
He stumbles out the booth, grabs onto the back to steady himself, fingers punching into the soft plastic. He pushes himself forward, propels himself out the bar and out into the parking lot, legs working independent of his brain. The parking lot is full, cars washed with moonlight and street-light. He makes for the Impala, leans against it, palms on the cold metal. It’s damp, dewy, cold. He hangs his head, breathes in and out, tries to force his heart to stop thumping.
He needs to get a grip. He needs to get a fucking grip, right now. He’s acting ridiculous and pathetic and he’s supposed to be a hunter, not some little bitch who just breaks down sobbing and shaking all the damn time. It’s not surprising that Dean keeps putting off going on an actual hunt when he’s in this crappy shape.
He fumbles his phone out of his pocket, his few contacts scroll past too quickly, stupid tiny buttons under his clumsy fingers. He swears under his breath, tries to calm himself and then tries again. He gets Sarah’s name on the third pass. He hits the send button and lifts the phone to his ear as it rings.
He doesn’t expect her to pick up, she hasn’t done the last few times he’s tried to call, so he’s a little blindsided when she answers on the third ring. “Ross?”
“Uh, Sarah? That you?”
“It’s my phone, of course it’s me.” She sounds amused, a fond sort of tone to her voice that makes the smile flicker then scroll across his face. The last time they had actually managed to talk it’d been stilted and awkward - probably his own fault. He’d felt weird talking to her, making out like everything was normal and fine and peachy between them when everything with Dean and Sam was - well, what it was.
“Oh, how are you?” he says.
“I’m good, baby. Listen, I’m glad you called, I was about to call you, I've got a surprise for you.”
“A surprise?” he echoes.
“Uh-huh, a surprise. Where are you? Are you guys still in Texas?”
“Yeah. That’s right. Why?”
“Anywhere near Dallas?”
“Just outside of Austin. So, yeah, that’s real close.”
“Awesome,” she says. “You want to meet me in Dallas? I’m flying in tomorrow first thing for a meeting. I have a room booked at the Hilton. I was thinking we could take a couple of days, just hang out? That sound okay to you?”
“Yeah, yeah. I mean, yeah, definitely. It sounds, like, really good. I wanna see you. It feels like it’s been years.” He’s grinning full-on now, her words finally sinking in, and he doesn’t care, doesn’t give a crap how desperate or needy he must sound. He can see Sarah again. Tomorrow. Get away from Sam and Dean and just - all this - just for a couple of days and - Christ - it all sounds so good: holed up in a fancy hotel with Sarah and room service and a massive bed.
“Great,” she says. “Listen, so you go talk to Sam and Dean and figure out how you’re going to get here, okay?”
“Oh that should be fine,” he says with a shrug. “If Dean doesn’t wanna give me a ride then I’ll just steal a car.”
“Ross, come on, be serious.” She huffs out a breath, half-laughing, half-incredulous.
“I am being serious! Totally serious.”
“You’re going to steal a car?” she repeats.
“Sure I am. Done it loads of times before. It’s no big deal.”
She sighs heavily, the sort of a sigh that reminds him of Dean doing his super-patient-and-matyred-big-brother thing. “Ross, c’mon. I don’t want you to steal a car. If you do that, I’ll spend all of tomorrow worrying about you being arrested.”
“I won’t be arrested. I know what to do, I’ve done it -“
“- loads of times before. Yes, I know, you said so. Just - not this time, okay? Promise you won’t. Can’t you catch a bus if Dean won’t let you borrow the car?”
“Dean ain’t gonna let me borrow the car, he’s totally possessive about it. He’s got, like, this complex about it. He never even lets me drive it when it’s just us and he’s about to drop dead. He says I can’t drive for shit, which is total bullshit. But, hey, don’t worry, babe, I’ll just sweet-talk him into giving me a ride. We ain’t working any jobs right now, so he and Sammy’ve got nothing better to do. ‘Cept each other of course, and that shit can wait.”
“Right,” she says, her tone a little dry this time. “Well, whatever you work out - just let me know, okay?”
“Sure thing, babe.”
She pauses and he hears her lick her lips, a rustling whooshing sound like running water. He tries to picture the apartment, everything soft and nice and clean and comforting. He thinks of her standing at the kitchen sink, its gleaming clean basin and taps, the phone tucked between her neck and shoulder, her hair coming loose from the soft ponytail she always wears when she’s hanging out at home.
“I should go,” she says and he’s relieved to hear that she sounds reluctant and not like she’s actually wanting to get off the line. He’s gotten that impression before, though that could just be him acting all paranoid, it’s hard to tell sometimes. “I have to pack and make this call to the buyer and the bank to make sure everything’s okay,” she adds with a sigh. “But we’ll see each other tomorrow, okay, honey?”
“Yeah, okay, sure we will, not gonna miss that.”
She huffs out a soft, amused breath. “Great. Call me when you’ve figured things out.”
“Yeah, okay,” he says, but she’s already rung off.
He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth, surprised to feel that he’s still smiling. He locks his phone screen and slides it back in his pocket and heads into the bar to break the good news.
**
Dean only puts up a token protest about driving to Dallas for what he insists on calling Ross’s “fancy-ass booty call”. Sam just listens to Ross’s explanation and shrugs, saying, “I think that sounds good. You guys need to figure out what you want together.”
“What do you mean: what we want together?” Ross asks.
Sam blinks at him like he’s acting like a total dumbass and not getting something really freaking obvious. “Well you know. Your relationship, dude. You gotta figure out where things stand between you. If you want to carry on being girlfriend and boyfriend or whatever, or if you want to go your separate ways. It’s not fair to keep things up in the air like this. For either of you.”
Dean groans and looks up from the laptop. “Jesus, Sam, give the kid a break.”
“What? Am I the only one actually confronting the issue here?”
Ross looks between his brothers, feeling his pulse start to spark up. There’s something here he’s totally not getting. He's just looking forward to spending a couple of days with his girl, hanging out and having a lot of sex and eating a lot of fancy room service and now he’s supposed to be sitting down with her and talking about their relationship? Shit.
“What issue?” Dean says.
Sam sighs and shakes his head. He looks at Ross, he actually looks kind of sympathetic, his understanding face, the one Ross has seen him use on loads of grieving relatives in the past.
“Why can’t we just have fun?” Ross says, and his voice sounds kinda pathetic and plaintive in his ears. “I mean - I was just gonna go and see her and hang out and just -“
“Have lots of sex,” Dean adds matter-of-factly.
“Well duh. I mean, I don’t, like, wanna waste time having deep and meaningful conversations,” he adds.
Sam shrugs. “Okay. Okay, fine, whatever. If that works for you then cool.”
He swallows, nods his head, but Sam's not meeting his eyes, still looking concerned, and seriously, what is with him? Why the hell is Sam acting like he’s the freaking Relationship Yoda all of a sudden? Okay, so Sam’s the only one who’s actually managed to have anything resembling a normal relationship with a non-relative that’s lasted more than a month, but still, Sam is not the fucking expert. Besides, there's no damn way he's taking relationship advice from someone whose last and only girlfriend ended up crispy fried by a demon and who’s been in crazy incestuous love with his older brother most of his life.
He swallows, pushes back the sudden memory of Jess; nice, blond, sweet Jessica who’d welcomed him and Dean so warmly that one time so long ago, Jess who'd been so smart and friendly and hot, who’d baked brownies especially for them and spoken about Sam like he was this dude Ross had never met before. She hadn’t deserved what happened to her, no way, but getting involved with Sam - with them - had signed her death warrant. Not that he and Sarah are anything like Sam and Jess. For a start, Sarah knows all about what he does, she knows about demons and ghosts and creepy-ass paintings, she’s seen it with her own eyes. She's got protections in her apartment, he’d seen to that. She's smart and capable and tough and he’s told her loads of stuff, he's not keeping her in the dark like Sammy did with his girl. It's not the same at all.
He licks his lips, turns his attention back to his phone where he’s been typing out a long message to Sarah for the past five minutes, letting her know that Dean’s agreed to give him a ride to Dallas. He can feel both his brothers looking at him, Dean with that penetrating, older-brother concerned look, the one that’s so fucking difficult to ignore.
“Hey, maybe we should go with him?” Dean says.
Ross looks up from his phone, watches Dean shut the laptop and slide off the bed, cross the room to the coffee machine. “What do you mean?” he asks suspiciously.
Dean takes his sweet time filling his mug, his back to them. He turns around, parks his ass against the crappy counter and shrugs. “Like, we could get a room in the hotel too? Would be nice stayin’ somewhere fancy for once.” He waves his arm at the crumbling plaster, peeling paint and weird twisted patches of damp on the walls around them. “’Stead of a shit-hole like this. Whatcha think, Sammy?”
“I think there’s no freakin’ way you two are staying in my hotel!” Ross interrupts. “Like, just no way, man.”
“Your hotel?” Dean parrots, cocking up one eyebrow. “Since when is it your hotel?”
“Whatever. You know what I mean. I don’t want you sniffing round there. It’ll be weird.”
He’s itching to spell it out: it’s not just about seeing Sarah again, it’s also about getting away from the two of them, about just - just having some freaking space. He loves his brothers. He loves them a lot, in lots of different ways, haha, but God - he just - he wants some goddamn time away from them. Christ, is that too much to ask?
He can feel Sam’s eyes on him, watching him thoughtfully. God, it's always like this these days. Always one of them (or both of them) watching him with these same damn looks of brotherly concern. He can practically imagine what’s going through their minds: Is Ross okay? Is Littlest Bro okay? Is he gonna start crying again? Is he gonna finally have that fucking breakdown he’s been promising ever since - ever since -
And that’s another reason why it’ll just be so goddamn nice to get away from here. From this. From them.
I killed Dad for them.
He forces away the thought, the fucking refrain that’s been hammering around his brain since the previous night. He tangles his hands in the comforter, watches Dean sip his coffee and trade significant looks with Sam over the rim of his mug.
“I’m sure we can find another hotel close by,” Sam says, using his ultra-reasonable tone of voice. “Would that be okay for you, Ross?”
Ross makes a face and Sam grins back at him. He guesses that everything’s been decided.
**
ROOM 302. SEE YOU SOON. XO the text reads. Ross grins and tucks his phone away into his pocket.
“That’s the look of a guy who’s about to get laid,” Dean comments, eyes on the driving mirror as he reverse parks into the busy street outside the hotel.
“Yeah, well, you would know,” Ross says.
Dean grins unashamedly and elbows Ross in the ribs. “I would definitely know. But this ain’t about me, littlest bro, this is about you. Now, are you packing?”
Ross rolls his eyes at his brother and raises his knee. He rolls up the hem of his jeans to expose the knife and knife holster strapped to his ankle. He unzips his jacket and holds the left side open so Dean can see his Taurus tucked into the inner pocket.
“And?” Dean prompts.
“And,” he mimics, making a face and doing a dead-on accurate impression of Dean at his most annoying and bossy - which is most of the time.
Dean just raises an eyebrow. Ross groans at him and digs around in the backpack lying between his feet. He tugs out a handful of condoms and waves them in Dean’s face. “Happy now?”
“Eight?” Dean says, his face creasing into amused lines. “Seriously? Eight? Kinda ambitious, don’t you think?”
He shrugs, gives Dean a smug look. “Nope. Not at all. Don’t judge me by your standards, Deano.”
Dean smirks and leans in, gaze dropping to Ross’s crotch area and slowly, aggravatingly, lingeringly, sliding upwards to his face. He raises his hand to cup Ross’s cheek, forcibly turning his head so their eyes meet. Ross swallows, feeling his blood rush south and his tongue come out to wet his lips despite himself. Dean is looking at him with that dark, knowing gaze, the same look he’s given Sam so many times over the years, the same look he’s been giving him over the past couple of months. He feels his stomach flip over and his lips shape Dean’s name. “Dean… what?”
Dean leans in, brings their mouths together. The kiss is hard and quick, Dean’s fingers digging into the back of his skull, and then Dean is pulling away, the heated look falling from his eyes and that familiar brotherly look sliding back over his face in its place. He pats Ross’s cheek a couple of times, gives him an affectionate smile. “Don’t keep her waiting,” he says.
Ross hesitates, swallows, his whole body feels hot and flushed and his dick is half-hard in his jeans. He feels blindsided and he wants to curse out his brother for doing that to him right before he’s about to meet Sarah for the first time in three months, for making him feel like that, like he’s been turned-over and then thrown away. He fumbles with the door handle, suddenly desperate to be out the car and away from Dean. He spills out onto the sidewalk, stumbles a little as he crams the condoms back into the bag and zips it up. He swallows hard again, shoulders the backpack and heads into the hotel. He doesn’t look back.
He takes the elevator up to the third floor feeling jittery and a little nervous, though his stupid dick has finally deflated, thank God. He flexes his fingers, alters his grip on the backpack slung over one shoulder. There’s an older couple in the elevator, talking together in some language he doesn’t recognize and watching him warily from the corner of their eyes. He ignores them and practically leaps out the elevator when it arrives at his floor. Sarah’s room is at one end of the corridor, about as far away from an exit as it’s possible to be - which wouldn’t be his choice, but he’s not the one choosing this time. He notes the location of the fire escape and tracks up and down the corridor a couple of times to check on any other escape routes.
He knocks on the door to 302 and barely has to wait three seconds before Sarah opens it. She breaks into a smile as soon as she sees him and cranes up on tiptoes, her hand stretching out to cup the back of his neck. He lets her pull him in, smiling goofily, huffing out a breath when their lips meet. He drops his hands to her waist, edges her forward, the backpack sliding down his arm and catching on his elbow, banging against both their hips.
She pulls back, laughs a little, licks her lips. “You should come inside,” she says, taking a shuffling step backwards.
The door thuds closed behind him and he drops the backpack to the floor, barely pausing before he surges forward, curling his arms around her once more and pulling her in. They fumble-kiss their way across the room to the enormous double bed until they’re falling backwards with a winded ouff of breath, the soft pillowy mattress and comforter clinging around them. She laughs into his mouth and threads her fingers into his hair. Her legs curl around his hips and she arches up into him. He’s getting hard again - he is hard again - and he hears her groan when he grinds his erection down into her. One of her hands snakes in between their bodies and he feels her (surprisingly small) fingers fumbling with his fly.
“Want you inside me, want you to fuck me,” she whispers into his ear, and he groans out his appreciation and agreement, pushing back to put some space between their bodies so she can unzip his fly completely.
She forces his jeans down over his hips and ass, her fingers brushing against his exposed hipbones and treasure trail. “God, you - your body, the way you look, Ross,” she whispers and he feels his face flush hot at the appreciation and admiration in her voice. He knows he’s a hot piece of ass, he knows that, but hearing someone like Sarah say it, someone who’s so smart and beautiful is just - he doesn’t know the words to describe it, but he knows that he likes it a lot.
“Ain’t so bad yourself,” he mutters into her neck.
She tilts her head back and laughs breathily, her eyes hot and dark as they meet his, her cheeks pink, her hair a little damp around the temples. “Undress me,” she tells him.
They don’t manage to get completely undressed the first time and they probably look totally ridiculous. He’s still wearing his socks for one thing and fucking with socks on always makes you look like a dork. She’s got her pantyhose caught around one ankle and her bra’s still on for fuck’s sake - which is epic fail on his part, but whatever, she feels amazing. He’s just impressed that he managed to stop for long enough to get the condom on.
And yeah, by the way, Deano, one condom down, seven to go. He’s easily gonna use all eight over two days.
The second time they do manage to get naked. It’s a bit slower and he lasts longer and he takes his time to make sure she really appreciates it, going down on her and giving her some of his best moves. God, he loves pussy, he loves the taste and smell and feel and everything about it. He can’t understand how Sam and Dean can be so blasé about giving it up, and okay so they’ve got that fucked-up crazy about each other shit working for them, but the thought of never being able to go down on a chick again or fondle a great pair of tits or just - just be inside a girl again - he doesn’t think he could do that no matter how much he liked the guy. Plus there’s the whole part where he’s never ever gonna try any kind of butt-sex ever again; even if he gets to top the next time, he’s just not doing that.
The third time she sucks him off in the shower. She’s not as good as Sam or Dean, but it’s still incredible and it’s - it’s Sarah, it's his girl. He puts his hand on the side of her face to stop her half-way through and she slides off him, tilts her head back and blinks up at him, water running down her cheeks, flattening her hair to her scalp, making her eyelashes shine.
“Hey, come up here,” he says.
She smiles and gets to her feet. He pulls her in, the head of his cock brushing against her belly, as they kiss. They end up fucking on the bathroom floor, it’s impossible in the shower, too slippery and too small and he has to bend his knees to get inside her properly and that’s just uncomfortable. Instead, he sits on the edge of the tub and she sinks down onto him, riding him, both of them wet and sweaty and giggling.
Afterwards he picks her up, carries her back into the bedroom and throws her down onto the bed. She snuggles up into him and they take a well-deserved nap. He falls asleep, wondering vaguely just how she isn’t sore yet when his dick is already feeling seriously chafed.
**
“Where’d you get that?” Sarah asks.
They’re awake and they’ve eaten room service and he’s not quite sure what time it is, only that it’s late. His phone is blinking at him from the nightstand, showing that he has messages, but he’s ignoring it. They’ll be from Sam or Dean and he’s not thinking about his brothers right now.
Sarah’s tucked up close to him, naked, her hair a half-dried, crazy tangle that reminds him disconcertingly of Sam, except he’s not thinking about Sam right now.
“What?” he says.
“This.” Her nail scrapes gently over a mark on his shoulder. He glances down at it, just noticing it from the corner of his eye, and - shit - that’s a hickey. It’s definitely a hickey.
“Looks like a hickey to me,” she says. “One that I didn’t give you.”
“Nah, just a hunt,” he says, quietly impressed with how convincing he sounds.
“A hunt? How did a hunt give you a hickey?”
“A vamp. Tried to take a bite outta me. Almost succeeded but Dean got it. Chopped the bitch’s head off.”
The corner of her mouth twitches, she looks amused. “You’re such a bad liar, Ross.”
“I - what? No, seriously, babe, it’s true.”
“No it’s not. Tell me who it was. Was it Sam or was it Dean?”
He freezes, blood draining from his face. He blinks, pulls his head back, turning so he can look her directly in the eyes. She looks amused, her mouth curled into a cruel, mocking shape. “Which of your big brothers gave you that hickey, Ross?”
Your big brothers… but she doesn’t know that Dean is his -
He swallows, whispers, “Christo.”
She flinches, her eyes flash black. He jerks back, stumbles off the bed, crying, “Christo, Christo, Christo!”
Her mouth twists into a snarl, teeth barred. She surges off the bed, belts him across the face with a resounding, stinging slap that vibrates through his skull.
“Shut that pretty face or I’ll cut out your tongue!”
“No, no, no…” He shakes his head, holds his hand to his burning cheek. “No - get out of her! Get out of her, you fuckin’ bitch!”
She launches at him, sends him sprawling to the floor. His head crashes back against the carpet, his vision swims. She pushes him down, straddles his thighs. She wraps her fingers, around his throat, forces back his head, fingers twisting into the bones of his jaw.
“Shut up!” she hisses.
Her eyes are still black, and he can see it now, can see the demon in her, can see that evil piece of crap inside her - inside his girl, inside his girl that he’s been - oh God - how long? How long? Has it been here this whole time? While they were -
He wriggles, tries to buck her off, hips lifting, but she’s too strong, way too fucking strong, fingers grinding into his skin. Dean, Sam, God - where are you? Dean? Sammy? Please. Dad?
Her mouth twists up into a snarling smile, she cackles in amusement. “No point screaming now. You’re on your own, pretty boy. All alone, just how I want you. Now, open up. That’s right.” She leans in closer, pinches his nose closed, her voice cloying and sickly-sweet as she coos: “Open up for me, Ross. Bend over and open up for me, just like you do for the rest of your family. Open up for Daddy.”
He’s shaking, tears springing to his eyes, an instinctive reaction to the breath choking from his throat, his blocked nose, and God - he’s gotta - he’s gotta breathe - but he can’t ‘cause if he does -
Oh God. She throws back her head, black cloud rushing up in a malevolent stream and oh God - oh no - he has to, shit - fuck - God help him. He opens his mouth, gasps for breath. The cloud plows down, knocks into him, driving into him with a force that chokes and burns and scalds and then everything goes dark.
***
He comes back to life in a car.
“Oh, you’re awake.”
The voice is his own, his accent, his stupid mocking voice, except that’s not him, not him that’s talking ‘cause he’s… He tries to move, tries to see. A blink of a road, a car’s interior, reflection of headlights in the windshield, darkness outside.
“Yeah, that’s right, we’re on the move.”
His mouth won’t work, he can’t talk, but he can think. He thinks the question: Where are we going?
“Like I’m going to tell you. You’re the passenger here, sweet-cheeks. Just sit back and get snug, because you’re going nowhere.”
The realization knocks into him: he’s possessed. He’s fucking possessed. That’s the demon. The demon who was in Sarah. Oh God, Sarah.
What did you do with Sarah?
The voice chuckles, slithering and amused. “Don’t you worry about your sweet girlfriend, baby. She’s going to be just fine. Of course she won’t want anything to do with your fucked-up ass anymore. Not after what I told her.”
What did you tell her?
“Oh, just the truth,” the demon says breezily. “What you and your big brothers have been up to these past few weeks. And yes - I told her about Dean. About him being your brother too. Trust me, honey, you just became the brand new resident of Dumpsville.”
You sonofabitch…
“Oh c’mon, littlest bro, the girl deserved the truth! And if you weren’t gonna be straight with her…” The demon guffaws. “Straight with her - yeah, right, that’s a good one.”
You ain’t funny.
“Oh, I’m positively hilarious, darling.” The demon pauses and Ross can feel it - hear it - licking its lips - can see the ghost of a reflection in the rearview mirror, his own mouth twisted up into a delighted grimace. “You know, you and your brothers have got to be about the stupidest sonsofbitches I’ve ever come across, and believe me, I’ve come across a few. All these years pretending to be big strong hunters and you never once thought about protecting your tasty hides against possession. Even after dear old daddy got his slow, worthless ass possessed. But no, you’re just too busy fingering each other’s sweet spots to think about getting yourselves real protection. Not that I’m complaining, sweetheart, makes my job much easier.” It laughs, a stupid, snickering, sneering sound that he can’t believe is his own voice.
Dean and Sam will know I’m gone. They’ll come after you.
“Oh, I’m counting on it,” the demon says confidently. “You think this is just about you, Ross? It’s never been just about you. You know you’re not the important one in this family. You never have been. Tch, tch, little brother. No, in about four or five hours from now, Dean and Sam will be discovering a nice little surprise in your hotel room -“
Oh God, Sarah -
“No, don’t worry, honey-buns, your soon to be ex-girlfriend is not dead. Not yet at least. That would be far too boring. Besides, I need her. She needs to tell Dean and Sam just exactly where we’re headed.”
Where are we headed, you fucking sonofabitch?
The demon chuckles again. “I told you before, that’s something you’re just going to have to wait and find out. All in good time, hot-stuff, all in good time. Now, how about you keep your pretty little cakehole shut for the next few hours and let daddy do the driving, okay?”
He’s about to protest again before he feels the darkness start to swamp him, pushing him underground - down and down - and he’s sinking, sinking, until everything goes dark again.
On to the... Next Chapter