[Nym] Hush (Don't Tell a Soul) [1/6]
Title: Hush (Don't Tell a Soul) [1/6]
Author: nymeria
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Sam/Jess, Dean/Other
Rating: Adult
Word Count: 30,275 in total, 5,279 this chapter
Genre: AU.
Notes: This story is complete, and will be posted a chapter a day. Epilogue kindly written by the ever-obliging poisontaster, who also provided initial on-the-spot beta-reading. Final editing/britpicking by the lovely estrella30, for whom I am incredibly grateful. Love the betas, folk, for they are awesome.
Chapters: [Part one] [Part two] [Part three] [Part four] [Part five] [Part six] [Epilogue]
Perdus les rêves de s'aimer,
Le temps où on avait rien fait,
Il nous reste toute une vie pour pleurer
Et maintenant nous sommes tout seuls.
Protége-moi
Sam has a little constellation of moles on his back, just under his right shoulder blade. When Sam was much younger, still young enough for Dean to get away with bathing him, he would touch each one gently with the pad of his forefinger and count them out loud. "One-two-three-four-stop squirming, Sammy!" And his little brother would glare at him as if to say it wasn't his fault he was ticklish.
Looking back, Dean thinks he loved Sam even then.
Now Sam's breath is harsh, just under his ear, and his little brother's hair is soft against the side of his face, body tense in his arms. Dean rubs his hand absently over the warm expanse of his brother's back and says, "Sam?"
"Fuck me," Sam hisses, heated, in his skin, and Dean bites back a moan.
He knows this isn't real; he's not a moron. He knows vaguely it's wrong to have recurring wet dreams about your little brother but the Sam in his arms is so warm, smells so good, and so he swallows and licks his lips and turns his head, mouths at the shell of Sam's ear and says, breathlessly, "Okay."
He gently turns onto his side, pushing at Sam until he's on his back on the bed, all golden skin and stubborn, beautiful eyes. There's something wrong with the way the sheets move under his brother's body, but it's easy to ignore it; Dean leans over and presses a soft, warm kiss onto Sam's lips, allowing himself this tenderness here which he never gets to display in real life. Sam tastes like sugar, and Dean knows that's unrealistic and stupid but hey, it's a dream, anything goes; he slides his palms over the soft, smooth skin of his brother's belly, relishing in the feeling of Sam.
"Can I blow you?" he asks, straddling his brother's thighs. He's as naked and hard as Sam is and he doesn't care.
He grins as Sam's mouth parts, pretty pink lips all kissable, and dips his head, licking at the hollow of his brother's throat. Sam gasps and shifts, huge hands rising to cradle his shoulders; when he glances up his brother's eyes are closed and he looks blissful, pleased. It's easier to slide down his body - and Jesus, he could've sworn the bed wasn't long enough for this, but then again, dream - towards Sam's dick.
"Jesus Christ, Dean," Sam hisses when Dean sweeps his hands over Sam's belly and down to his thighs, spreading his legs a little and pinning him in place. Dean flashes a brief smile up the length of Sam's body and leans in closer, lips brushing the fine wiry hairs at the base of Sam's cock, the wrinkled soft skin over his balls.
Sam's cock is way bigger than Dean thought it would be, and he takes his time licking up the underside, eyes darting towards Sam's face every now and then to test what his reaction is. Sam's biting his lower lip, huge hands clenched in snow-white faux-sheets, hair tousled and chest heaving with the effort of staying still; Dean swirls his tongue around the head, bobs down to take it into his mouth, and tightens his fingers on his brother's thighs when Sam tries to thrust.
"Ssssh," he murmurs, backing off, and Sam raises his head off the pillow, big green eyes. Dean flutters a hand down the inside of his thigh in reassurance, licks at the little spot Sam'd gasped at on his journey up. "Sssh, Sammy, I'm -"
Sam's eyes harden and he glances up at the ceiling, scowls. "Wait. Damnit. We'll continue this tomorrow." Dean blinks in confusion and Sam raises a hand, runs it gently through his hair. "See you," he says, and Dean opens his eyes to his cellphone ringing obnoxiously on the night table, jittering itself towards his alarm clock as it vibrates. His still-hard cock throbs between his legs and he moans, kicking the covers down to his ankles and rolling into his back, reaching for the phone in a motion still heavy with sleep.
"Dean," Sam says cheerfully when he opens it, before he's even had a chance to say anything. "Hey, man, this is your eight am wake-up call. You gotta be at the station by nine, right?"
"I was having a really good dream," Dean grouses, shifting so the sweat pants he wore to bed don't rub against his dick, and Sam snorts. He can hear traffic in the background and closes his eyes, briefly mentally running through Sam's schedule. "You on your way to school?"
"Yup. Got English first," Sam says, as though Dean doesn't know. "Did my homework and got my part of the presentation ready. Let's hope Claire did hers." There's a pause and then Sam says, hopefully, "You coming to have dinner with us again this Saturday? Jess says she's totally gonna do another pie, the way you seemed to like her last one."
Dean hums agreement and hooks a thumb into his waistband, pulling the pants down slowly. "Yeah, 'course," he says. "Although I can feed myself, man. Cooked your dinner for six years, didn't I?"
"Spaghetti and cheese does not a dinner make," Sam replies patiently. "You only made a salad because I forced you to, otherwise I'd have, like, scurvy or something."
"Drama queen," Dean says, not entirely able to keep all of his affection out of his voice, and shifts. The cheap mattress creaks under him, and he closes his eyes, presses the heel of his right hand to his temple. His cock aches and he desperately wants to climb in the goddamn shower.
"Jerk. So, is that a yes?"
"I already said it was." Dean sits up and swings his legs over the edge of his bed, climbing slowly to his feet. "Look, I gotta go make breakfast and stuff, dude, so go to class, have fun, and don't do anything I'd do. Geek."
"Love you too, Dean," Sam says with a laugh, and a car honks in the distance. "See you when you get off work. Just to be sure you remember, we are going to catch a movie together tonight, right?"
"Yeah, yeah," Dean mutters, elbowing his bathroom door open. "Sure. See you, Sam." He hangs up once Sam's finished his goodbyes and tosses his cell on the kitchen counter above his sink; reaches over the shower cubicle, flips the switch on and grabs a wash cloth from the rack before climbing in under the spray. His dick is still painfully hard and it's with a sense of relief that he finally closes his hand around, leaning against the wall for support and allowing his eyes to close as he jerks himself off.
He curls his fingers around the base of his dick and tugs upwards with practised ease. It's been a long while since he last got laid, outside of wet dreams and his imagination, and he's maybe more familiar with his hand than even guys his age normally are.
He thinks about Sam the way he was in his dream, smoky-eyed and warm, when he comes.
His boss is a broad-shouldered man named Walter in his late forties, premature grey peppering his dark brown hair and beard. He reminds Dean a little of his dad, although John Winchester's been dead for just over eight years now and so maybe it's his memory playing tricks on him, he's not sure. Either way, Walter can shout and bully his boys around as loud as Dean's father ever could, and he sneaks into the Palo Alto fire station five minutes late (Impala wouldn't start - he totally needs to get his baby checked over) to find the man in full drill-sergeant mood.
"The car died," Dean says quickly as the man approaches. "I had -"
Walter interrupts him with a curt nod, crossing his arms over his chest. He's three inches shorter than Dean, and still manages to make the younger man feel small. "Are you ready for tomorrow?" he asks, voice as close to pleasant as it can be, and Dean pounces on the opportunity, nods eagerly.
"Yessir," he says, sliding his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, a nervous habit. "I've done all the reading you suggested. I think I'll pass."
"Think? You think you'll pass?" Walter raises his gargantuan eyebrows - or more likely, 'eyebrow' - and scowls, and Dean shrugs.
"I've done all the reading and I think I'm pretty damn good with the equipment, sir, but you never know," he says, and Walter eyes him for a few more seconds.
"I think you'll do okay," he says gruffly, after the silence draws out into something uncomfortable. "You've been working here a year and you've done good so far." Dean resists the urge to preen, just stares back at the fire chief, and eventually Walter gives a tiny nod and steps away. "You're working a late shift tonight, Dean, I hope you didn't have any plans," he calls over his shoulder, and Dean carefully resists the urge to flip him off.
He stows his stuff in his locker and changes into his uniform. Palo Alto's a college town, but it's normally pretty quiet, and Dean joins several of his co-workers in the common room for a game of poker. Sam had declared him a lucky bastard after the first time he'd visited Dean at work, although he'd stopped after that time when Dean fell through some stairs trying to get this panicked chick out of her boyfriend's bedroom. He hadn't been badly hurt, but Sam worried enough.
"Morning, Dean," Frank says, greeting him with a nod. He's the oldest guy there, aside from Walter, and a real good cheat when it comes to poker. Not as good as Dean, admittedly, but for a few years before Dad died Dean'd been hustling so many different games for their income it was almost unbelievable.
He's still got the knack, though he doesn't use it here; just leans over the table and snags the deck off Frank before the bastard can palm the picture cards. His co-workers shift around the table, and the guy to Dean's right, Ed, offers him a stick of chewing gum from a torn brightly-coloured packet. Dean accepts and deliberately chews obnoxiously loud as he deals the cards around the table.
Their first 911 call doesn't occur until after lunch, when Dean's filling out some paperwork on a suspected arson for some insurance company. He's moving instantly, because there's nothing he hates more than paperwork except maybe having to talk to people from social services ("We're here to check on you and your brother, Dean. You're his legal guardian now, and we need to be sure you can provide for him."), and they're out in under five minutes.
It's not a bad fire, thankfully; some stupid college undergrad setting her lunch on fire and panicking when it spread rather than using the fire blanket conveniently hanging on the kitchen wall. At least she didn't try to pour water on the frying pan like some do. Dean and the others work on extinguishing the blaze while Tom, the newbie, talks to the chick and her friend; the girl's terrified but the friend's flirting, all mascara and breasts practically popping out of her tiny shirt. She turns them on Dean, too, when he trudges over to report.
Sam'd joked that Dean only signed up to the Palo Alto firefighting department because chicks liked firemen, and Dean had rolled his eyes and swatted him with the dishcloth. In truth, it'd been because he was bored. Sam'd just announced he was moving out of their tiny apartment and into another one with Jess, and Dean was fed up with shelf-stacking and the local garage. When the ad came up in the local paper, it'd been a bit of a no-brainer, although Dean has yet to get laid in the line of duty.
"Hi," he says, giving her a friendly smile. "Fire's out, and we'll be going soon. You and your friend might need to give the details to that cop over there." He jerks his chin towards the squad car parked nearby with the bored police officer sitting on the hood, unzips the heavy jacket. "Tom, you gonna help me get everything stowed?"
"Uh... Sure," Tom says, giving the chick with the boobs on display a hopeless smile. His left cheek dimples when he grins. "Sorry about the fire, ma'am, we're glad we could help."
"'Glad we could help'?" Dean mocks when they're peeling off their protective gear outside the truck, and Tom colors. "What the fuck, man?"
"I panicked! She's hot, okay? Not that you'd notice." Tom yanks his own jacket off, moving quickly, and Dean pauses, eyes him.
"What d'you mean by that?" he asks, and Tom snorts, rolls his eyes. "Tom?"
"Look, dude, everyone in the station knows. You don't have to hide it anymore, man. We get that you're totally gay, okay?" He folds up his jacket and Dean thinks this might be the first time he's been struck utterly speechless by something since he got the call from that Connecticut hospital telling him his father had died.
"You thought I was gay?" he manages, when Tom shoves his jacket in the back of the truck. "Like... gay?"
Tom rolls his eyes again and smirks, and Dean kind of wants to punch him in the face. "Exactly like 'gay', Dean, yes," he says, all bratty and superior. "Every chick we meet wants to jump your bones and you snub them all, man. Not that I'm complaining, since I get to console them after you ignore them, but man, you are kinda obvious."
"And that makes me gay? I'm not gay," Dean protests, following him as Tom strides towards the truck's cab. "I'm like... ninety-five per cent straight."
Tom snorts, climbing into the cab, and Dean scrambles in next to him. "Whatever, man."
"It's true! I just, I just don't look at the girls at the bars we go to. They're not my type."
"Yeah, they're female. Look, Dean -"
"I've dated girls," Dean points out, smugly.
Tom pauses. "When?"
"You don't remember Steph? From, like, three months ago?"
"You mean the chick you broke up with because, and I quote, 'your brother didn't like her'?" Tom lifts his eyebrows and Dean thinks maybe he wants to both punch the guy in the face and elbow him in the stomach. "Lame excuse, man."
Dean opens his mouth to protest that it's the truth, and then pauses. It probably doesn't say good things about his masculinity that he'd dumped a hot girl because Sam had said she was too bitchy. It's also probably not a good idea to bring up Sam at all, especially not when he's getting way more than Dean these days from a hot blonde with a sweet smile who adores his little brother in all the ways Dean had never allowed himself to.
It's a sad fact that he's pathetically subservient to Sam, but he can't help himself. He always has been. Never could say no to his brother, even going to the point of moving here with Sam from Connecticut when Sam got his Stanford scholarship. He'd been relatively comfortable in Connecticut, a high school drop-out working two jobs to pay for their godawful little apartment, but Sam'd wanted to go to California and Dean had tagged along at his heels, too stupid to turn him down.
"Yeah, well," he mutters, settling down in his seat, and Tom just smirks at him. "Your mom is a lame excuse."
The ride back is relatively quiet, and Dean busies himself tapping out an AC/DC song on the back of the seat in front of him until Craig turns around and yells at him to quit it. He then switches to some Metallica, just to annoy the guy, and Ed, the driver, hums along.
"So, me and the guys were thinking of going out tomorrow," Tom says casually, and Dean glances over, cocks an eyebrow. "Well, tonight, too, but we know you've got the late shift. You think you're up for coming with us? There'll be girls there, although I'm probably barking up the wrong tree."
Dean hesitates, glancing down at his feet, and then recalls with startling clarity the dream he had this morning, of Sam warm and naked. He hopes he manages to hide his blush. "Yeah," he says. "Sure." He fixes Tom with a glare and adds, pointedly, "I like girls."
When Tom fakes a coughing fit of disbelief, Dean's all too happy to give into his urges and punch the man, if only on the shoulder.
"This," he says, loudly, above the whiny pop-rock floating out of the speakers, "Is not music."
"Is too," Tom shoots back, coming away from the bar with a beer bottle in each hand. "You're just retarded."
"Go fuck your senile old grandmother," Dean mutters as he snatches one of the bottles, and eyes the crowd. The bar's busy tonight - it's football season, and most people here are celebrating the win by the Chargers. Most of the throng are men, although there are quite a few women, several of which are eyeing him thoughtfully. Dean can't help but be apprehensive; he'd met Steph in a bar, dragged there by a Sam celebrating his mid-term results. The evening had ended with her giving him a blowjob in his car.
"Just because you like that guitar-heavy trash doesn't mean the rest of us have to, man," Tom says, taking a sip of his beer, and then, "The chick in the strappy top-thing near the pool table looks like she's fucking you in her mind."
Dean nearly spits his drink out over the table and Tom cackles, the bastard; he has to turn towards the bartender to swallow it, and by the time he's turned around, the afore-mentioned 'girl in the strappy top-thing' (a redhead, and a stacked one at that) is right there.
"Hi," she says without preamble, giving him a bright smile. She has a light Irish lilt in her voice; immigrated when young, if Dean's any judge. Tom, the fucker, moves away to make room for her between them. "I'm Siobhan."
"Dean," he says weakly. Used to be he was real good at this flirting thing, could dance these steps better than anyone. Then his taste suddenly turned to certain people six foot five and with a dick. "Listen, I -"
"He's a firefighter, we just got off shift," Tom interrupts, flashing Siobhan a warm grin. She lifts her eyebrows, smiles, and Tom raises his bottle and gestures over at Dean. "He's a bit shy. Just warnin' you. And now I'm going."
Dead, Dean thinks sourly. So fucking dead.
"Hi," he says aloud. Siobhan grins. "Don't mind him, he's a douche. Can I... Can I buy you a drink, or something?"
"Sure," she says, turning around to fold her arms over the bar, eyes on him. He swallows and takes his wallet from his pocket. "I'll have a Smirnoff. Are you really a firefighter?"
Dean blinks and nods. "Yeah. Just passed my last exam, actually." The bartender wanders over and Dean orders a Smirnoff for her and, while the man bends down to fetch one from the cooler under the counter, sips at his beer.
"I didn't know firemen had to take exams. Don't they just like, run you through an obstacle course or something?" she asks, and Dean pauses, lowers the bottle slowly.
"Er," he says, picking at the label with his thumbnail. "No." He snakes his other hand into his pocket, stroking his cell, and wishes desperately Sam would call with a minor emergency that requires his immediate presence. "We take a written test and train for a couple of months, then another one after we've been working for a year."
"Huh," Siobhan says, and manages to sound utterly bored. "That sounds like a lot of work for putting fires out."
Dean contemplates texting Sam and asking to be rescued.
"So you haven't been, like, doing it long, then?" she asks, and smiles cheerfully as the bartender passes over her drink. Dean hands the man a ten dollar bill, cups his palm for the change.
"No, not really. Not like Tom over there." He jerks his head in Tom's direction and she turns, smiles. He breathes a small sigh of relief while her back's turned, but then she looks back over at him. "He's been doing it for five years," he lies blatantly and hopefully, and she laughs and takes a mouthful off her drink.
"So... why firefighting?" she queries, clearly fumbling to make small talk, and he sighs, knocks back the rest of his beer. "Did you always want to do it?"
"No," he says, and then summarises in a flat monologue the relevant parts. "My dad died when I was eighteen. I dropped out of high school to raise my younger brother. We only moved here a couple of years ago." She blinks and her mouth opens to offer him sympathy and he shakes his head, closes his eyes. "No. Don't. Please." He's heard enough stupid apologies, had his head patted enough times. It's not a big deal. It happened, he coped.
"I think that's kind of.. hot," she offers, running her tongue seductively around her lips, and he realises then that he doesn't care. That she's doing nothing for him, and neither are the other girls in the bar, and all he really wants to do is maybe call Sam up and reschedule yesterday's movie date, or talk Sam into leaving Jess and homework for one night to rent zombie movies together and stay up way too late talking about the zombie nest Dean'd rooted out once when he was seventeen. He doesn't want to chat to this dumb chick or spend his Friday evening in a bar with shitty music and bad beer.
"Look, I'm sorry, but I gotta go," he says, and then because he realizes this is kind of proving Tom's point, gives in and says, "My boyfriend's waiting up for me."
It's kind of funny how quickly her expression blanks, then twists into indifference. "Sure," she says. "Thanks for the drink." And then she's moving on, Dean already forgotten, and he sighs and shakes his head.
He sneaks out of the bar before Tom finds another sleazy chick to push him at and walks back to his apartment. It's only maybe fifteen minutes, and it's refreshingly cool outside. He passes Sam's place on the way, but when he glances up the lights are out and the curtains closed, and he shrugs and carries on. His brother said something about taking Jess out to celebrate her half-birthday, and Dean had rolled his eyes and pretended to gag on the stifling sweetness. Then, Sam had full-on football tackled him to the floor and beat him soundly with one of Dean's own couch cushions.
His apartment is dark when he opens the door and he strips off his coat, kicks off his shoes, and makes his way to the kitchen for a drink. He still has half a bottle of Coke in the fridge and he takes it out, pours himself a glass and then heads into the living room, where he curls up on the couch and turns on the TV. The sci-fi channel is showing reruns of Battlestar Galactica and he settles down to watch the show, safe in the knowledge that for all his disturbing urges, he's not trying to escape from a group of killer robots who bumped off the rest of his race.
There's always a bright side, Sam told him once way back, when Dean held his first handful of bills and dad's check book and realized he didn't know what to do. He sips at his Coke and settles down against the couch. He doesn't realize he's falling asleep until Sam shoves his thumb in between his lips and grins down at him, eyes bright.
"Hi," his brother says, and pulls his hand out only so that he can bend down and kiss Dean messily.
"Hi to you too," Dean replies when they part, a little breathlessly, and wraps his hands around Sam's shoulders, tries to shove him on his back on the white-sheeted bed again. Sam tucks his limbs in and squirms, shoving Dean off, and pushes himself up so that they can kiss again.
"No," Sam murmurs when they part. "This time, I'm in charge." He dips his head for a third kiss, this one sort of heated and with far more tongue than Dean's used to; he moans into his brother's mouth, lets his eyes close. His cock is stirring, lengthening and thickening against Sam's belly, and his brother grins into his mouth when he feels it.
"I missed you today," Dean says shyly, feeling like a moron even though this is a dream, and Sam hushes him gently, runs a hand down his chest to rub his belly soothingly. "Tom dragged me out to this bar, and there was this annoying chick there..."
"Did you tell her to back off, you belonged to someone else?" Sam asks, punctuating each word with a soft kiss to Dean's throat, and Dean can't help but blush a little, pleased to be wanted even by a dream version of his brother. Sam's skin is soft under his hands, and he cards his fingers through his little brother's hair, enjoying its softness.
"No. I didn't remember." Sam rolls his eyes and the hand on his belly sweeps lower, wrapping around his cock; Dean sucks in a quick breath, surprised as always by how large Sam's hands are compared to practically everything. His brother twists and shoots him a swift, reassuring smile before beginning to pull, jacking Dean off quickly and competently. Three nights in a row, these dreams, and Dean really can't say he minds. He'd rather have the illusion than nothing.
"Come for me," Sam says softly, rubbing his thumb gently over the head, and Dean whimpers, hand tightening in Sam's hair. Sam nuzzles his neck. "Come for me, please?" His other hand darts down to cup Dean's balls and Dean can't help himself. He turns onto his side, arching a little into Sam, and his brother continues touching him and he just... he comes over Sam's hands despite his best efforts to hold on, and Sam just laughs and sticks his fingers in his mouth, licking off the excess semen.
"I feel like I'm sixteen again," Dean mutters, grumpy, and Sam dips his head, crawls up on his elbows and knees to climb over Dean solely to curl against his back, bracketing him reassuringly. "If, like, I wore pants in this place, you could probably make me come in them."
Sam huffs out a soft laugh, stirring the fine hairs at the nape of Dean's neck, and one of his hands settles gently on Dean's hip. He's hard, his dick pressing comfortably into the crease of Dean's ass, but Dean's not ready to go there yet and so he hasn't pushed it. He does rock back against Sam, however, grinning at his little brother's soft gasp. "Is this the time to ask you how your day was?"
"You're such a bastard," Sam mutters, thrusting slightly despite himself, and Dean closes his eyes, laughs.
"Says you," he replies, feeling giddy not just with the satisfaction of orgasm but also something else, something warm and soft.
Sam tucks his head into the slope where his shoulder becomes his neck and licks a slow line up behind his ear, bites the lobe gently. Dean gasps, surprised at the sensation it evokes, and his toes curl slightly; Sam nuzzles the thin skin below his ear and murmurs, "Wanna watch me masturbate?" and Dean discovers he still apparently has the recovery time he did ten years ago.
He moves with Sam when his brother sits up, spreading his legs gracefully and leaning against the fat fluffy pillows that seem to come with the scenery. His dick is gorgeous, in Dean's estimation, pink and curving towards his navel, a drop of pre-come gathering at the slit; Sam skates his palm over the crown, wiping away the drop, then eyes his hand and licks it clean. Dean thinks he makes an embarrassing whimpering noise, but then Sam's reaching for his nipples and he thinks he can be excused.
"Do you... do you maybe want some help?" he asks, unsure, fumbling, because dream or not this is his brother and he hates feeling anything less than perfectly in control around Sammy. He swallows and shifts closer, and Sam closes his eyes and takes in a deep shivery breath, eyelashes fluttering. He looks gorgeous, and Dean doesn't think he can be blamed for wanting him.
"Yeah," Sam whispers, so soft Dean nearly misses it. "Oh, God. Yeah." He pinches one of his nipples, drawing it into a peaked little nub, and Dean's mouth suddenly feels totally dry.
Dean scoots across the bed until their thighs are touching and Sam bends, leaning into him, one hand still on his nipple, the other resting loosely on his thigh. Dean reaches out for his brother slowly and molds his own hand against Sam's back, marvelling at how, tall man though he be, Sam always manages to dwarf him.
"Do you remember back in Connecticut?" he asks softly as he fits their joined hands around Sam's dick. "When you'd be masturbating in the bathroom and I'd, like, be getting the couch ready for bed?"
"You stopped sharing - Oh, God - a room with me when I was - mmm - fifteen," Sam says, panting slightly as Dean gently frees Sam's hand and slides his own down to cup his brother's sac, rub his thumb over the sensitive strip just behind.
"Yeah, you were... I couldn't... anyway. There was this time where you'd make these little noises when you came, and I... I sort of think of those noises when I jerk off even now."
"Pervert," Sam says, but fondly, and he leans forward to kiss Dean as a kind of unspoken apology. He tastes so fucking good. Dean closes his eyes and whimpers, sweeps his thumb over that patch once more and then grins as Sam makes that noise, that sort of breathy, pleased gasp, and comes.
"That one," Dean says, unnecessarily, and Sam snorts, pushes at him until they're both lying down, Dean tucked into Sam's arms. The come over Sam's belly is already fading - not drying, just fading, and Dean rubs his little brother's stomach softly over and over until it's gone completely. Sam is warm around him, so strong, and his grip on Dean is somehow gentle. Dean buries his face in his brother's clavicle and breathes in sweat and something else, something Sammy. "What happens if you fall asleep in a dream, do you think?" he asks sleepily, writing things on Sam's navel with his fingertips, and his brother pets him, huge hand rubbing circles on his back.
"I think you wake up. Like double negatives, they cancel themselves out." Sam's voice is a sated rumble and Dean shifts a little closer, something gnawing at the back of his mind. This, these moments, the - the holding and the being held, those are the favorite parts of his dreams, the quiet peaceful moments that make him kind of wish he never has to leave.
"Okay," he says, cracking his eyes open to thin slits. "Catch me before I wake."
-tbc
Next chapter →
Dark and dangerous like a secret
That gets whispered in a hush (don't tell a soul)
When I wake the things I dreamt about you
Last night make me blush
Ghost
Author: nymeria
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Sam/Jess, Dean/Other
Rating: Adult
Word Count: 30,275 in total, 5,279 this chapter
Genre: AU.
Notes: This story is complete, and will be posted a chapter a day. Epilogue kindly written by the ever-obliging poisontaster, who also provided initial on-the-spot beta-reading. Final editing/britpicking by the lovely estrella30, for whom I am incredibly grateful. Love the betas, folk, for they are awesome.
Chapters: [Part one] [Part two] [Part three] [Part four] [Part five] [Part six] [Epilogue]
Perdus les rêves de s'aimer,
Le temps où on avait rien fait,
Il nous reste toute une vie pour pleurer
Et maintenant nous sommes tout seuls.
Protége-moi
Sam has a little constellation of moles on his back, just under his right shoulder blade. When Sam was much younger, still young enough for Dean to get away with bathing him, he would touch each one gently with the pad of his forefinger and count them out loud. "One-two-three-four-stop squirming, Sammy!" And his little brother would glare at him as if to say it wasn't his fault he was ticklish.
Looking back, Dean thinks he loved Sam even then.
Now Sam's breath is harsh, just under his ear, and his little brother's hair is soft against the side of his face, body tense in his arms. Dean rubs his hand absently over the warm expanse of his brother's back and says, "Sam?"
"Fuck me," Sam hisses, heated, in his skin, and Dean bites back a moan.
He knows this isn't real; he's not a moron. He knows vaguely it's wrong to have recurring wet dreams about your little brother but the Sam in his arms is so warm, smells so good, and so he swallows and licks his lips and turns his head, mouths at the shell of Sam's ear and says, breathlessly, "Okay."
He gently turns onto his side, pushing at Sam until he's on his back on the bed, all golden skin and stubborn, beautiful eyes. There's something wrong with the way the sheets move under his brother's body, but it's easy to ignore it; Dean leans over and presses a soft, warm kiss onto Sam's lips, allowing himself this tenderness here which he never gets to display in real life. Sam tastes like sugar, and Dean knows that's unrealistic and stupid but hey, it's a dream, anything goes; he slides his palms over the soft, smooth skin of his brother's belly, relishing in the feeling of Sam.
"Can I blow you?" he asks, straddling his brother's thighs. He's as naked and hard as Sam is and he doesn't care.
He grins as Sam's mouth parts, pretty pink lips all kissable, and dips his head, licking at the hollow of his brother's throat. Sam gasps and shifts, huge hands rising to cradle his shoulders; when he glances up his brother's eyes are closed and he looks blissful, pleased. It's easier to slide down his body - and Jesus, he could've sworn the bed wasn't long enough for this, but then again, dream - towards Sam's dick.
"Jesus Christ, Dean," Sam hisses when Dean sweeps his hands over Sam's belly and down to his thighs, spreading his legs a little and pinning him in place. Dean flashes a brief smile up the length of Sam's body and leans in closer, lips brushing the fine wiry hairs at the base of Sam's cock, the wrinkled soft skin over his balls.
Sam's cock is way bigger than Dean thought it would be, and he takes his time licking up the underside, eyes darting towards Sam's face every now and then to test what his reaction is. Sam's biting his lower lip, huge hands clenched in snow-white faux-sheets, hair tousled and chest heaving with the effort of staying still; Dean swirls his tongue around the head, bobs down to take it into his mouth, and tightens his fingers on his brother's thighs when Sam tries to thrust.
"Ssssh," he murmurs, backing off, and Sam raises his head off the pillow, big green eyes. Dean flutters a hand down the inside of his thigh in reassurance, licks at the little spot Sam'd gasped at on his journey up. "Sssh, Sammy, I'm -"
Sam's eyes harden and he glances up at the ceiling, scowls. "Wait. Damnit. We'll continue this tomorrow." Dean blinks in confusion and Sam raises a hand, runs it gently through his hair. "See you," he says, and Dean opens his eyes to his cellphone ringing obnoxiously on the night table, jittering itself towards his alarm clock as it vibrates. His still-hard cock throbs between his legs and he moans, kicking the covers down to his ankles and rolling into his back, reaching for the phone in a motion still heavy with sleep.
"Dean," Sam says cheerfully when he opens it, before he's even had a chance to say anything. "Hey, man, this is your eight am wake-up call. You gotta be at the station by nine, right?"
"I was having a really good dream," Dean grouses, shifting so the sweat pants he wore to bed don't rub against his dick, and Sam snorts. He can hear traffic in the background and closes his eyes, briefly mentally running through Sam's schedule. "You on your way to school?"
"Yup. Got English first," Sam says, as though Dean doesn't know. "Did my homework and got my part of the presentation ready. Let's hope Claire did hers." There's a pause and then Sam says, hopefully, "You coming to have dinner with us again this Saturday? Jess says she's totally gonna do another pie, the way you seemed to like her last one."
Dean hums agreement and hooks a thumb into his waistband, pulling the pants down slowly. "Yeah, 'course," he says. "Although I can feed myself, man. Cooked your dinner for six years, didn't I?"
"Spaghetti and cheese does not a dinner make," Sam replies patiently. "You only made a salad because I forced you to, otherwise I'd have, like, scurvy or something."
"Drama queen," Dean says, not entirely able to keep all of his affection out of his voice, and shifts. The cheap mattress creaks under him, and he closes his eyes, presses the heel of his right hand to his temple. His cock aches and he desperately wants to climb in the goddamn shower.
"Jerk. So, is that a yes?"
"I already said it was." Dean sits up and swings his legs over the edge of his bed, climbing slowly to his feet. "Look, I gotta go make breakfast and stuff, dude, so go to class, have fun, and don't do anything I'd do. Geek."
"Love you too, Dean," Sam says with a laugh, and a car honks in the distance. "See you when you get off work. Just to be sure you remember, we are going to catch a movie together tonight, right?"
"Yeah, yeah," Dean mutters, elbowing his bathroom door open. "Sure. See you, Sam." He hangs up once Sam's finished his goodbyes and tosses his cell on the kitchen counter above his sink; reaches over the shower cubicle, flips the switch on and grabs a wash cloth from the rack before climbing in under the spray. His dick is still painfully hard and it's with a sense of relief that he finally closes his hand around, leaning against the wall for support and allowing his eyes to close as he jerks himself off.
He curls his fingers around the base of his dick and tugs upwards with practised ease. It's been a long while since he last got laid, outside of wet dreams and his imagination, and he's maybe more familiar with his hand than even guys his age normally are.
He thinks about Sam the way he was in his dream, smoky-eyed and warm, when he comes.
His boss is a broad-shouldered man named Walter in his late forties, premature grey peppering his dark brown hair and beard. He reminds Dean a little of his dad, although John Winchester's been dead for just over eight years now and so maybe it's his memory playing tricks on him, he's not sure. Either way, Walter can shout and bully his boys around as loud as Dean's father ever could, and he sneaks into the Palo Alto fire station five minutes late (Impala wouldn't start - he totally needs to get his baby checked over) to find the man in full drill-sergeant mood.
"The car died," Dean says quickly as the man approaches. "I had -"
Walter interrupts him with a curt nod, crossing his arms over his chest. He's three inches shorter than Dean, and still manages to make the younger man feel small. "Are you ready for tomorrow?" he asks, voice as close to pleasant as it can be, and Dean pounces on the opportunity, nods eagerly.
"Yessir," he says, sliding his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, a nervous habit. "I've done all the reading you suggested. I think I'll pass."
"Think? You think you'll pass?" Walter raises his gargantuan eyebrows - or more likely, 'eyebrow' - and scowls, and Dean shrugs.
"I've done all the reading and I think I'm pretty damn good with the equipment, sir, but you never know," he says, and Walter eyes him for a few more seconds.
"I think you'll do okay," he says gruffly, after the silence draws out into something uncomfortable. "You've been working here a year and you've done good so far." Dean resists the urge to preen, just stares back at the fire chief, and eventually Walter gives a tiny nod and steps away. "You're working a late shift tonight, Dean, I hope you didn't have any plans," he calls over his shoulder, and Dean carefully resists the urge to flip him off.
He stows his stuff in his locker and changes into his uniform. Palo Alto's a college town, but it's normally pretty quiet, and Dean joins several of his co-workers in the common room for a game of poker. Sam had declared him a lucky bastard after the first time he'd visited Dean at work, although he'd stopped after that time when Dean fell through some stairs trying to get this panicked chick out of her boyfriend's bedroom. He hadn't been badly hurt, but Sam worried enough.
"Morning, Dean," Frank says, greeting him with a nod. He's the oldest guy there, aside from Walter, and a real good cheat when it comes to poker. Not as good as Dean, admittedly, but for a few years before Dad died Dean'd been hustling so many different games for their income it was almost unbelievable.
He's still got the knack, though he doesn't use it here; just leans over the table and snags the deck off Frank before the bastard can palm the picture cards. His co-workers shift around the table, and the guy to Dean's right, Ed, offers him a stick of chewing gum from a torn brightly-coloured packet. Dean accepts and deliberately chews obnoxiously loud as he deals the cards around the table.
Their first 911 call doesn't occur until after lunch, when Dean's filling out some paperwork on a suspected arson for some insurance company. He's moving instantly, because there's nothing he hates more than paperwork except maybe having to talk to people from social services ("We're here to check on you and your brother, Dean. You're his legal guardian now, and we need to be sure you can provide for him."), and they're out in under five minutes.
It's not a bad fire, thankfully; some stupid college undergrad setting her lunch on fire and panicking when it spread rather than using the fire blanket conveniently hanging on the kitchen wall. At least she didn't try to pour water on the frying pan like some do. Dean and the others work on extinguishing the blaze while Tom, the newbie, talks to the chick and her friend; the girl's terrified but the friend's flirting, all mascara and breasts practically popping out of her tiny shirt. She turns them on Dean, too, when he trudges over to report.
Sam'd joked that Dean only signed up to the Palo Alto firefighting department because chicks liked firemen, and Dean had rolled his eyes and swatted him with the dishcloth. In truth, it'd been because he was bored. Sam'd just announced he was moving out of their tiny apartment and into another one with Jess, and Dean was fed up with shelf-stacking and the local garage. When the ad came up in the local paper, it'd been a bit of a no-brainer, although Dean has yet to get laid in the line of duty.
"Hi," he says, giving her a friendly smile. "Fire's out, and we'll be going soon. You and your friend might need to give the details to that cop over there." He jerks his chin towards the squad car parked nearby with the bored police officer sitting on the hood, unzips the heavy jacket. "Tom, you gonna help me get everything stowed?"
"Uh... Sure," Tom says, giving the chick with the boobs on display a hopeless smile. His left cheek dimples when he grins. "Sorry about the fire, ma'am, we're glad we could help."
"'Glad we could help'?" Dean mocks when they're peeling off their protective gear outside the truck, and Tom colors. "What the fuck, man?"
"I panicked! She's hot, okay? Not that you'd notice." Tom yanks his own jacket off, moving quickly, and Dean pauses, eyes him.
"What d'you mean by that?" he asks, and Tom snorts, rolls his eyes. "Tom?"
"Look, dude, everyone in the station knows. You don't have to hide it anymore, man. We get that you're totally gay, okay?" He folds up his jacket and Dean thinks this might be the first time he's been struck utterly speechless by something since he got the call from that Connecticut hospital telling him his father had died.
"You thought I was gay?" he manages, when Tom shoves his jacket in the back of the truck. "Like... gay?"
Tom rolls his eyes again and smirks, and Dean kind of wants to punch him in the face. "Exactly like 'gay', Dean, yes," he says, all bratty and superior. "Every chick we meet wants to jump your bones and you snub them all, man. Not that I'm complaining, since I get to console them after you ignore them, but man, you are kinda obvious."
"And that makes me gay? I'm not gay," Dean protests, following him as Tom strides towards the truck's cab. "I'm like... ninety-five per cent straight."
Tom snorts, climbing into the cab, and Dean scrambles in next to him. "Whatever, man."
"It's true! I just, I just don't look at the girls at the bars we go to. They're not my type."
"Yeah, they're female. Look, Dean -"
"I've dated girls," Dean points out, smugly.
Tom pauses. "When?"
"You don't remember Steph? From, like, three months ago?"
"You mean the chick you broke up with because, and I quote, 'your brother didn't like her'?" Tom lifts his eyebrows and Dean thinks maybe he wants to both punch the guy in the face and elbow him in the stomach. "Lame excuse, man."
Dean opens his mouth to protest that it's the truth, and then pauses. It probably doesn't say good things about his masculinity that he'd dumped a hot girl because Sam had said she was too bitchy. It's also probably not a good idea to bring up Sam at all, especially not when he's getting way more than Dean these days from a hot blonde with a sweet smile who adores his little brother in all the ways Dean had never allowed himself to.
It's a sad fact that he's pathetically subservient to Sam, but he can't help himself. He always has been. Never could say no to his brother, even going to the point of moving here with Sam from Connecticut when Sam got his Stanford scholarship. He'd been relatively comfortable in Connecticut, a high school drop-out working two jobs to pay for their godawful little apartment, but Sam'd wanted to go to California and Dean had tagged along at his heels, too stupid to turn him down.
"Yeah, well," he mutters, settling down in his seat, and Tom just smirks at him. "Your mom is a lame excuse."
The ride back is relatively quiet, and Dean busies himself tapping out an AC/DC song on the back of the seat in front of him until Craig turns around and yells at him to quit it. He then switches to some Metallica, just to annoy the guy, and Ed, the driver, hums along.
"So, me and the guys were thinking of going out tomorrow," Tom says casually, and Dean glances over, cocks an eyebrow. "Well, tonight, too, but we know you've got the late shift. You think you're up for coming with us? There'll be girls there, although I'm probably barking up the wrong tree."
Dean hesitates, glancing down at his feet, and then recalls with startling clarity the dream he had this morning, of Sam warm and naked. He hopes he manages to hide his blush. "Yeah," he says. "Sure." He fixes Tom with a glare and adds, pointedly, "I like girls."
When Tom fakes a coughing fit of disbelief, Dean's all too happy to give into his urges and punch the man, if only on the shoulder.
"This," he says, loudly, above the whiny pop-rock floating out of the speakers, "Is not music."
"Is too," Tom shoots back, coming away from the bar with a beer bottle in each hand. "You're just retarded."
"Go fuck your senile old grandmother," Dean mutters as he snatches one of the bottles, and eyes the crowd. The bar's busy tonight - it's football season, and most people here are celebrating the win by the Chargers. Most of the throng are men, although there are quite a few women, several of which are eyeing him thoughtfully. Dean can't help but be apprehensive; he'd met Steph in a bar, dragged there by a Sam celebrating his mid-term results. The evening had ended with her giving him a blowjob in his car.
"Just because you like that guitar-heavy trash doesn't mean the rest of us have to, man," Tom says, taking a sip of his beer, and then, "The chick in the strappy top-thing near the pool table looks like she's fucking you in her mind."
Dean nearly spits his drink out over the table and Tom cackles, the bastard; he has to turn towards the bartender to swallow it, and by the time he's turned around, the afore-mentioned 'girl in the strappy top-thing' (a redhead, and a stacked one at that) is right there.
"Hi," she says without preamble, giving him a bright smile. She has a light Irish lilt in her voice; immigrated when young, if Dean's any judge. Tom, the fucker, moves away to make room for her between them. "I'm Siobhan."
"Dean," he says weakly. Used to be he was real good at this flirting thing, could dance these steps better than anyone. Then his taste suddenly turned to certain people six foot five and with a dick. "Listen, I -"
"He's a firefighter, we just got off shift," Tom interrupts, flashing Siobhan a warm grin. She lifts her eyebrows, smiles, and Tom raises his bottle and gestures over at Dean. "He's a bit shy. Just warnin' you. And now I'm going."
Dead, Dean thinks sourly. So fucking dead.
"Hi," he says aloud. Siobhan grins. "Don't mind him, he's a douche. Can I... Can I buy you a drink, or something?"
"Sure," she says, turning around to fold her arms over the bar, eyes on him. He swallows and takes his wallet from his pocket. "I'll have a Smirnoff. Are you really a firefighter?"
Dean blinks and nods. "Yeah. Just passed my last exam, actually." The bartender wanders over and Dean orders a Smirnoff for her and, while the man bends down to fetch one from the cooler under the counter, sips at his beer.
"I didn't know firemen had to take exams. Don't they just like, run you through an obstacle course or something?" she asks, and Dean pauses, lowers the bottle slowly.
"Er," he says, picking at the label with his thumbnail. "No." He snakes his other hand into his pocket, stroking his cell, and wishes desperately Sam would call with a minor emergency that requires his immediate presence. "We take a written test and train for a couple of months, then another one after we've been working for a year."
"Huh," Siobhan says, and manages to sound utterly bored. "That sounds like a lot of work for putting fires out."
Dean contemplates texting Sam and asking to be rescued.
"So you haven't been, like, doing it long, then?" she asks, and smiles cheerfully as the bartender passes over her drink. Dean hands the man a ten dollar bill, cups his palm for the change.
"No, not really. Not like Tom over there." He jerks his head in Tom's direction and she turns, smiles. He breathes a small sigh of relief while her back's turned, but then she looks back over at him. "He's been doing it for five years," he lies blatantly and hopefully, and she laughs and takes a mouthful off her drink.
"So... why firefighting?" she queries, clearly fumbling to make small talk, and he sighs, knocks back the rest of his beer. "Did you always want to do it?"
"No," he says, and then summarises in a flat monologue the relevant parts. "My dad died when I was eighteen. I dropped out of high school to raise my younger brother. We only moved here a couple of years ago." She blinks and her mouth opens to offer him sympathy and he shakes his head, closes his eyes. "No. Don't. Please." He's heard enough stupid apologies, had his head patted enough times. It's not a big deal. It happened, he coped.
"I think that's kind of.. hot," she offers, running her tongue seductively around her lips, and he realises then that he doesn't care. That she's doing nothing for him, and neither are the other girls in the bar, and all he really wants to do is maybe call Sam up and reschedule yesterday's movie date, or talk Sam into leaving Jess and homework for one night to rent zombie movies together and stay up way too late talking about the zombie nest Dean'd rooted out once when he was seventeen. He doesn't want to chat to this dumb chick or spend his Friday evening in a bar with shitty music and bad beer.
"Look, I'm sorry, but I gotta go," he says, and then because he realizes this is kind of proving Tom's point, gives in and says, "My boyfriend's waiting up for me."
It's kind of funny how quickly her expression blanks, then twists into indifference. "Sure," she says. "Thanks for the drink." And then she's moving on, Dean already forgotten, and he sighs and shakes his head.
He sneaks out of the bar before Tom finds another sleazy chick to push him at and walks back to his apartment. It's only maybe fifteen minutes, and it's refreshingly cool outside. He passes Sam's place on the way, but when he glances up the lights are out and the curtains closed, and he shrugs and carries on. His brother said something about taking Jess out to celebrate her half-birthday, and Dean had rolled his eyes and pretended to gag on the stifling sweetness. Then, Sam had full-on football tackled him to the floor and beat him soundly with one of Dean's own couch cushions.
His apartment is dark when he opens the door and he strips off his coat, kicks off his shoes, and makes his way to the kitchen for a drink. He still has half a bottle of Coke in the fridge and he takes it out, pours himself a glass and then heads into the living room, where he curls up on the couch and turns on the TV. The sci-fi channel is showing reruns of Battlestar Galactica and he settles down to watch the show, safe in the knowledge that for all his disturbing urges, he's not trying to escape from a group of killer robots who bumped off the rest of his race.
There's always a bright side, Sam told him once way back, when Dean held his first handful of bills and dad's check book and realized he didn't know what to do. He sips at his Coke and settles down against the couch. He doesn't realize he's falling asleep until Sam shoves his thumb in between his lips and grins down at him, eyes bright.
"Hi," his brother says, and pulls his hand out only so that he can bend down and kiss Dean messily.
"Hi to you too," Dean replies when they part, a little breathlessly, and wraps his hands around Sam's shoulders, tries to shove him on his back on the white-sheeted bed again. Sam tucks his limbs in and squirms, shoving Dean off, and pushes himself up so that they can kiss again.
"No," Sam murmurs when they part. "This time, I'm in charge." He dips his head for a third kiss, this one sort of heated and with far more tongue than Dean's used to; he moans into his brother's mouth, lets his eyes close. His cock is stirring, lengthening and thickening against Sam's belly, and his brother grins into his mouth when he feels it.
"I missed you today," Dean says shyly, feeling like a moron even though this is a dream, and Sam hushes him gently, runs a hand down his chest to rub his belly soothingly. "Tom dragged me out to this bar, and there was this annoying chick there..."
"Did you tell her to back off, you belonged to someone else?" Sam asks, punctuating each word with a soft kiss to Dean's throat, and Dean can't help but blush a little, pleased to be wanted even by a dream version of his brother. Sam's skin is soft under his hands, and he cards his fingers through his little brother's hair, enjoying its softness.
"No. I didn't remember." Sam rolls his eyes and the hand on his belly sweeps lower, wrapping around his cock; Dean sucks in a quick breath, surprised as always by how large Sam's hands are compared to practically everything. His brother twists and shoots him a swift, reassuring smile before beginning to pull, jacking Dean off quickly and competently. Three nights in a row, these dreams, and Dean really can't say he minds. He'd rather have the illusion than nothing.
"Come for me," Sam says softly, rubbing his thumb gently over the head, and Dean whimpers, hand tightening in Sam's hair. Sam nuzzles his neck. "Come for me, please?" His other hand darts down to cup Dean's balls and Dean can't help himself. He turns onto his side, arching a little into Sam, and his brother continues touching him and he just... he comes over Sam's hands despite his best efforts to hold on, and Sam just laughs and sticks his fingers in his mouth, licking off the excess semen.
"I feel like I'm sixteen again," Dean mutters, grumpy, and Sam dips his head, crawls up on his elbows and knees to climb over Dean solely to curl against his back, bracketing him reassuringly. "If, like, I wore pants in this place, you could probably make me come in them."
Sam huffs out a soft laugh, stirring the fine hairs at the nape of Dean's neck, and one of his hands settles gently on Dean's hip. He's hard, his dick pressing comfortably into the crease of Dean's ass, but Dean's not ready to go there yet and so he hasn't pushed it. He does rock back against Sam, however, grinning at his little brother's soft gasp. "Is this the time to ask you how your day was?"
"You're such a bastard," Sam mutters, thrusting slightly despite himself, and Dean closes his eyes, laughs.
"Says you," he replies, feeling giddy not just with the satisfaction of orgasm but also something else, something warm and soft.
Sam tucks his head into the slope where his shoulder becomes his neck and licks a slow line up behind his ear, bites the lobe gently. Dean gasps, surprised at the sensation it evokes, and his toes curl slightly; Sam nuzzles the thin skin below his ear and murmurs, "Wanna watch me masturbate?" and Dean discovers he still apparently has the recovery time he did ten years ago.
He moves with Sam when his brother sits up, spreading his legs gracefully and leaning against the fat fluffy pillows that seem to come with the scenery. His dick is gorgeous, in Dean's estimation, pink and curving towards his navel, a drop of pre-come gathering at the slit; Sam skates his palm over the crown, wiping away the drop, then eyes his hand and licks it clean. Dean thinks he makes an embarrassing whimpering noise, but then Sam's reaching for his nipples and he thinks he can be excused.
"Do you... do you maybe want some help?" he asks, unsure, fumbling, because dream or not this is his brother and he hates feeling anything less than perfectly in control around Sammy. He swallows and shifts closer, and Sam closes his eyes and takes in a deep shivery breath, eyelashes fluttering. He looks gorgeous, and Dean doesn't think he can be blamed for wanting him.
"Yeah," Sam whispers, so soft Dean nearly misses it. "Oh, God. Yeah." He pinches one of his nipples, drawing it into a peaked little nub, and Dean's mouth suddenly feels totally dry.
Dean scoots across the bed until their thighs are touching and Sam bends, leaning into him, one hand still on his nipple, the other resting loosely on his thigh. Dean reaches out for his brother slowly and molds his own hand against Sam's back, marvelling at how, tall man though he be, Sam always manages to dwarf him.
"Do you remember back in Connecticut?" he asks softly as he fits their joined hands around Sam's dick. "When you'd be masturbating in the bathroom and I'd, like, be getting the couch ready for bed?"
"You stopped sharing - Oh, God - a room with me when I was - mmm - fifteen," Sam says, panting slightly as Dean gently frees Sam's hand and slides his own down to cup his brother's sac, rub his thumb over the sensitive strip just behind.
"Yeah, you were... I couldn't... anyway. There was this time where you'd make these little noises when you came, and I... I sort of think of those noises when I jerk off even now."
"Pervert," Sam says, but fondly, and he leans forward to kiss Dean as a kind of unspoken apology. He tastes so fucking good. Dean closes his eyes and whimpers, sweeps his thumb over that patch once more and then grins as Sam makes that noise, that sort of breathy, pleased gasp, and comes.
"That one," Dean says, unnecessarily, and Sam snorts, pushes at him until they're both lying down, Dean tucked into Sam's arms. The come over Sam's belly is already fading - not drying, just fading, and Dean rubs his little brother's stomach softly over and over until it's gone completely. Sam is warm around him, so strong, and his grip on Dean is somehow gentle. Dean buries his face in his brother's clavicle and breathes in sweat and something else, something Sammy. "What happens if you fall asleep in a dream, do you think?" he asks sleepily, writing things on Sam's navel with his fingertips, and his brother pets him, huge hand rubbing circles on his back.
"I think you wake up. Like double negatives, they cancel themselves out." Sam's voice is a sated rumble and Dean shifts a little closer, something gnawing at the back of his mind. This, these moments, the - the holding and the being held, those are the favorite parts of his dreams, the quiet peaceful moments that make him kind of wish he never has to leave.
"Okay," he says, cracking his eyes open to thin slits. "Catch me before I wake."
-tbc
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Dark and dangerous like a secret
That gets whispered in a hush (don't tell a soul)
When I wake the things I dreamt about you
Last night make me blush
Ghost