Going In For The Kill
Prequel to Tied Me Over and Twist The Knife. Part of the Stanford Era Verse (as its know called!)
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I'm going in for the kill. I'm doing it for a thrill. I'm hoping you'll understand, and not let go of my hand...
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Sam is 5 years old when he first realises that Dean is his saviour. He lets go of Dean's hand, because “Dean, I'm 5, not 4.” and loses him. Loses sight of Dean in the crowded market, loses sight of Dad. And everything goes white. He can't hear from the panic buzzing in his head and his hand feels cold where its not clasped in Dean's.
A hand claps him on the shoulder and a man leers at him, teeth broken and dirty, his dirty fingers, mud under the nails, wind around his wrist and he tugs. Sam tugs back, shouting out Dean's name in panic.
And then Dean is there, 9 year old fists hitting the man squarely on the jaw and knee colliding with his groin with a sickening crunch. Dean grabs Sam's hand and runs, twists and turns through the crowd until Sam's lungs are burning.
“Don't you do that again Sammy. You hear me?” Sam reaches up his chubby hands and cups Dean's face.
“Ok Dean. Sorry.” And Dean sighs and smiles and his lungs stop burning.
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Sam is 12 when he first feels something hot pooling in his stomach when Dean touches him. But he's 12, and touching anything makes him feel funny, like he doesn't fit his own skin.
Sam got kicked in the shins during soccer. Going for a tackle and someone's foot collided with his shin, studs from the boot biting into his skin and Dean, because Dean had been watching, not Dad, never Dad, Dean had been there in a second, hands covering the blood seeping from his skin.
“Dude, I'm not 5 anymore.” He says and Dean smirks.
“You tackle like a 5 year old Sammy.” Dean fingers flex against Sam's skin and it burns. He stands, hobbles once and pushes of Dean's hands.
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Sam is 16 when he first looks at Dean and wonders what it would be like to run his hands over Dean's skin.
Dean is 20 and parading around the poor excuse for a garden that their poor excuse for a house has in just a pair of jeans, slung low on his hips, feet bare. He's flexing his muscles, showing off that wide expanse of hard, tanned flesh, imperfections caused by cuts and bruises only serving to make it that much more perfect. Sam turns away and flushes cold and hot when Dean tackles him from behind, knocking him to the ground.
“Gotta keep your wits about you Sammy.” He says, wicked leer on his lips and Sam wonders what his mouth tastes like.
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Sam is 17 when he first crowds behind Dean whilst he's washing up, his hands hemming his brother in and pushes his noise into the crook of Dean's neck. Licking at the skin between his hair line and his t-shirt, the skin that's been taunting him for the past year.
“The hell Sam?” He shouts and elbows Sam in the ribs. Hard. Sam stumbles back and Dean turns to him, hands griping the edge of the sink so hard his knuckles are white. Dean's eyes are large and he looks like a caged animal, ready to pounce and Sam has never felt more hungry in his entire life.
“The hell Sammy?” He asks again and Sam can't get the words out. Dean is on him in a second, so many times he's done that, taken Sam by surprise, and Sam gasps when Dean crowds in.
“What. The. Hell. Sam?” He repeats. Sam swallows.
He's running out of the kitchen before Dean can ask again.
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Sam is 18 when he first kisses Dean. His fingers wrap around Dean's wrists, pinning them to the damp stained wall of the crappy motel room and he covers Dean's mouth with his own. Dean fights hard to get away, hips bucking against Sam's frantically.
Sam pulls away, disgusted with himself for pushing that on Dean.
“You better be fucking sure Sammy.” Dean says before wrenching his hands out of Sam's grasp, curling his fingers into Sam's shirt and pulling him close.
Its perfect. Harsh and needy and perfect.
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Sam is just 19 when he first leaves Dean.
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I'm going in for the kill. I'm doing it for a thrill. I'm hoping you'll understand, and not let go of my hand...
-------------------
Sam is 5 years old when he first realises that Dean is his saviour. He lets go of Dean's hand, because “Dean, I'm 5, not 4.” and loses him. Loses sight of Dean in the crowded market, loses sight of Dad. And everything goes white. He can't hear from the panic buzzing in his head and his hand feels cold where its not clasped in Dean's.
A hand claps him on the shoulder and a man leers at him, teeth broken and dirty, his dirty fingers, mud under the nails, wind around his wrist and he tugs. Sam tugs back, shouting out Dean's name in panic.
And then Dean is there, 9 year old fists hitting the man squarely on the jaw and knee colliding with his groin with a sickening crunch. Dean grabs Sam's hand and runs, twists and turns through the crowd until Sam's lungs are burning.
“Don't you do that again Sammy. You hear me?” Sam reaches up his chubby hands and cups Dean's face.
“Ok Dean. Sorry.” And Dean sighs and smiles and his lungs stop burning.
------------
Sam is 12 when he first feels something hot pooling in his stomach when Dean touches him. But he's 12, and touching anything makes him feel funny, like he doesn't fit his own skin.
Sam got kicked in the shins during soccer. Going for a tackle and someone's foot collided with his shin, studs from the boot biting into his skin and Dean, because Dean had been watching, not Dad, never Dad, Dean had been there in a second, hands covering the blood seeping from his skin.
“Dude, I'm not 5 anymore.” He says and Dean smirks.
“You tackle like a 5 year old Sammy.” Dean fingers flex against Sam's skin and it burns. He stands, hobbles once and pushes of Dean's hands.
------------
Sam is 16 when he first looks at Dean and wonders what it would be like to run his hands over Dean's skin.
Dean is 20 and parading around the poor excuse for a garden that their poor excuse for a house has in just a pair of jeans, slung low on his hips, feet bare. He's flexing his muscles, showing off that wide expanse of hard, tanned flesh, imperfections caused by cuts and bruises only serving to make it that much more perfect. Sam turns away and flushes cold and hot when Dean tackles him from behind, knocking him to the ground.
“Gotta keep your wits about you Sammy.” He says, wicked leer on his lips and Sam wonders what his mouth tastes like.
------------
Sam is 17 when he first crowds behind Dean whilst he's washing up, his hands hemming his brother in and pushes his noise into the crook of Dean's neck. Licking at the skin between his hair line and his t-shirt, the skin that's been taunting him for the past year.
“The hell Sam?” He shouts and elbows Sam in the ribs. Hard. Sam stumbles back and Dean turns to him, hands griping the edge of the sink so hard his knuckles are white. Dean's eyes are large and he looks like a caged animal, ready to pounce and Sam has never felt more hungry in his entire life.
“The hell Sammy?” He asks again and Sam can't get the words out. Dean is on him in a second, so many times he's done that, taken Sam by surprise, and Sam gasps when Dean crowds in.
“What. The. Hell. Sam?” He repeats. Sam swallows.
He's running out of the kitchen before Dean can ask again.
------------
Sam is 18 when he first kisses Dean. His fingers wrap around Dean's wrists, pinning them to the damp stained wall of the crappy motel room and he covers Dean's mouth with his own. Dean fights hard to get away, hips bucking against Sam's frantically.
Sam pulls away, disgusted with himself for pushing that on Dean.
“You better be fucking sure Sammy.” Dean says before wrenching his hands out of Sam's grasp, curling his fingers into Sam's shirt and pulling him close.
Its perfect. Harsh and needy and perfect.
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Sam is just 19 when he first leaves Dean.