spn_holidays fic, Paperwhites in bloom 1/1 - Wincest
Due to several factors, this is much later than I had intended. Good intentions and all of that, I suppose. Written for sinoftheday according to the first prompt, 1. Sam/Dean, Wincest, pre-series, underage, Sam as the aggressor, Dean angsts over wanting it too, schmoopy, gentle first time.
Paperwhites in bloom/Wincest/R
Pre-series, slight Sam/OMC
Sam gets the point, he just doesn’t listen.
Dean’s got more problems than most nineteen year olds, and some of them are worse than others. For example, the fact that he gets a boner when Sam walks through the kitchen in nothing but a pair of jeans that are too loose around the waist is pretty damned troubling. It is the worst of all of Dean’s problems, this thing too dangerous to name, even inside of his own head. It’s the worst, until Sam finds out.
* * *
Dean knows how it started. It's important to him, to remember the innocent beginnings. As a child, Sam had been affectionate and he'd had no qualms about demanding hugs when they weren't readily offered. He'd crawl into Dad's lap with his own book, fitting back to chest and content to read to himself while their father worked at the table. Dean would watch as Sam and Dad eventually started breathing in sync, at which point Sam was almost certain to fall asleep. Dad would place a broad hand against Sam's small chest to stabilize him and Dean could pretty much pinpoint the moment when all the tension would slip out of Dad's shoulders, and for as long as Sam slept he would just be daddy, and not a widow or a hunter. On bad nights, Dad would come into their room and pull Sam, still sleeping, from his bed just to hold the small body to his chest. Sam never woke up; he'd just slip his arms around Dad's neck and nuzzle into his shirt collar.
At eight Dean had felt too awkward going to his father in the night, bleary eyed and shaken from a nightmare as Sam often did. Instead, he'd followed Dad's example and would cross the floor of the small bedroom and slip under the covers with Sam. Within moments Sam would have rolled against his side, chin tucked against Dean's shoulder. Dean would listen to the occasional snuffling and let the feather-touch of Sam's expanding ribcage lull him to sleep. In the mornings, when Dad found them with legs tangled and blankets kicked off, Dean would explain that Sam had had a nightmare. Both Sam and Dad had accepted this explanation without question.
Dean got used to the comfort of sleeping next to Sam, and they didn’t always have the luxury of separate rooms or even separate beds. Sam stopped sneaking into Dad’s bed, after a nightmare he just curled into Dean’s ready embrace.
It was essentially a non issue until puberty hit, and Dean’s body seemed outside of control or discipline. It was embarrassing, waking up and realizing your erection was poking you brother in the hip, but Sam hadn’t woken up until Dean was already out of bed. It was easy to rationalize, it wasn’t like the proximity to Sammy was the cause, and Dean didn’t really worry about it outside of the obvious threat to his dignity. Except Dean couldn’t sleep alone anymore. He woke on the couch in a cold sweat, nerves calming only when he was shoulder-to-shoulder with Sam’s drowsy form. Worse still was Sam’s tendency to sprawl, arm outstretched here and leg throw there. Dean barely slept for days until he learned to toss Sam’s wayward limbs off in his sleep. It helped that Dean was the earlier riser, long out of bed when Sam’s eyes blinked open.
It’s fine, Dean has a handle on it, he has a system, except he’s not the only one who’s growing, maturing and eventually it’s not just the sensation of a warm body on the bed sending the wrong signals inside him. It’s the sensation of Sam’s body in particular, and Dean’s not ready for that.
* * *
The trouble with epiphanies, as anyone will tell you, is that they typically occur at the worst possible time.
“Seriously, Dean, what the hell?” Dad is sipping coffee and completely failing to mask the exhaustion riding hard on his face. Dean feels guilty, well, more guilty, knowing that he’s genuinely confusing his father.
“I just… I need space.” Dean says, rather lamely.
“All of a sudden, you need space?” Dad’s eyebrows are rising, and Dean thanks every god, spirit, and angel he can think of that Dad remains so clueless about some parenting things. It doesn’t strike him as odd that his son, a senior in high school, would still be sharing a bed with his brother. “Look, buddy, I’m sorry, but take a look around you. We’re in the middle of Wisconsin in November and the heating in this place is for shit. We don’t notice it as much, but Sammy… Christ. The kid’s all bones, there’s no fat on him at all and he’s walking around freezing all day long. Right now, best thing is for you two to bunk together, keep each other warm.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, looking away from Dad’s earnest expression and trying to ignore all the images that “keeping each other warm” conjures up. Sam’s wrapped in so many layers he looks like a toddler in a snowsuit, lumbering around with knees and elbows that can’t quite bend, and he’s still shivering. Sam’s not built for cold, not this new Sam who is made of angles and coltish limbs.
That night Sam sticks the toes of his stocking covered feet under the bottoms of Dean’s pajama pants.
“Sam, Jesus!” Dean can feel the cold of Sam’s feet through the loose knit.
“I’m cold, Dean,” Sam whines quietly, a vibration against Dean’s spine.
“Deal with it,” Dean says, turning over on his back so Sam can’t try to spoon.
“I’m trying, fucker,” Sam says, eyes bright in the darkness. “How would you like to be a damned popsicle all day, every day?” Without waiting for an answer he curls up against Dean’s side, cheek resting on Dean’s shoulder and a leg thrown across his knee.
“Sam,” Dean hisses, trying to pry his arm from beneath Sam’s to push him off.
“What is wrong with you? Since when do you care?” Sam says, “I’m not going to try and mack on you or something, I just want to be warm enough to sleep.”
Dean stiffens at Sam’s choice of words and counts backwards from ten. Sam, Know-It-All Sam, notices.
“Is that it?” he asks, curious now. “Are you like a homophobe now?”
“Shut up, Samuel,” Dean says tersely, hoping his tone will indicate the seriousness of the matter. He feels a sharp poke to his breastbone and looks down to see Sam’s chin propped there, shadowed cat-eyes watching him.
“Nah, that’s not it,” Sam dismisses after a moment. He huffs a laugh then, the movement of his ribs against Dean’s sending ripples down Dean’s spine. “Did I hump you in my sleep or something?” he smirks.
“No! But if you do, you’ll be sleeping on the floor and I don’t give a shit how cold it is, got that?” Dean lifts a shoulder to smack Sam in the armpit.
“Ow, fucker,” Sam says quietly, but he settles farther against the mattress until his leg and arm and the only parts of his body touching Dean.
Dean lays awake until the first rays of pink light cut through the blinds, dick throbbing with the awareness of Sam’s knee on his thigh.
* * *
By summertime Dean is ready to explode. Meteorology is the bane of his existence as July finds them in Mississippi. Dean goes through four girlfriends and two boyfriends, trying to fuck the sick feelings out of his system. It doesn’t work. The heat is making him crazy; he’s off-kilter, perpetually soaked in sweat and constantly thirsty in a way that goes beyond water or piss-bad beer. Dad is barely around, he trusts Dean to keep Sam in line, to manage without him, and the irony doesn’t escape him.
Sam absorbs the heat. He tans to a burnished gold and his skin is constantly dewy and just a little bit damp, the ends of his too-long hair curling against the back of his neck. It’s all bad enough, but in the past months Sam has grown into his angles and coltish limbs and seems to exude a lazy sensuality that people other than Dean are noticing.
People come around the bungalow looking for Sam, boys and girls and some kids older than Dean. Dean sees his own interest reflected in some of their gazes, and he impresses upon them a need to forget Sam’s name. Still, Sam goes into town, sipping sweet tea from the diner in the park, and often Dean sees him sitting with the kids he’s met.
It isn’t fair, it isn’t right, but Dean hates it that Sam is giving himself to others, these strangers with their honeyed drawls and open invitations. He sneers at the girls, but the guys… Dean can’t stand the idea of broad palms cupping Sam’s slim hips, blunt fingertips tracing the curves there, dipping below the waistband of his jeans…
Dean spends the afternoons watching Sam and his evenings in the shower, cold water battering his skin as he fumbles with his persistent erection.
Sam has always been precocious, Dean knows this, it just never occurs to him that Sam might be watching back.
* * *
The house is quiet, absent of the clicking of the ceiling fan.
“Fucking brownouts, Jesus,” Dean wheezes. The curtain barely trembles from the air flow coming in the open window and Dean thinks he might actually die. He doesn’t have the energy to have another cold shower; he’s glued to the sheets of his bed anyway. He’s wearing nothing but boxer shorts, miserable and sticky.
The creak of floorboards gives him a moment’s warning before the door opens. Sam is a silhouette in the moonlight, picking his way through the dirty laundry on the floor.
“Not cold now, huh?” Dean chuckles.
“Nope,” Sam says, bed dipping under his weight.
“Dude, no offence, but get the fuck away from me. You are not…oh,” Dean’s objections trail off into a murmur as Sam wraps a cold, wet cloth around his neck. He sees the big mixing bowl then, ice cubes and facecloths floating in tap water. He shivers, barely chocking back a pleased moan, when Sam places more wet cloths on his arms and then his thighs.
“Feel better?” Sam asks.
“God, yeah,” Dean breathes. For a brief moment it’s too much, he feels like he’s going to shake apart, but the shock of the cold passes and leaves a quiet comfort behind. Sam sits next to him, occasionally dipping the cloths in the water again, once rubbing them against his own skin. Dean lies still under Sam’s steady hands, pulse thrumming and equal parts terrified and blissful. Sam doesn’t speak, that makes it easier, and Dean let’s himself be taken care of. He closes his eyes; the tenderness is so much easier to bear that way. When Sam reaches across the replace the cloth on his thigh and his arm brushes against Dean’s crotch they both pretend that Dean’s cock isn’t full and curved against his waistband.
* * *
It’s not that simple. Sam pushes. He’s always pushing. After the brownout he touches Dean, nothing overt but Dean can feel the shift between them. Accidental, deliberate, knuckles against his brow and a palm on his back, it’s a surfeit that Dean is not equipped to handle. Dean steps back, away, hoping that Sam will get the point. Sam gets the point, he just doesn’t listen.
Tuesday night and Sam says he’s going out. There’s a blues club across from the grocer, smoky with alcoves everywhere, it was built for sinners. Sam’s been there before, but Dean didn’t know.
“How do you get in?” Dean asks, grudgingly impressed.
“No one gives a shit, as long as I don’t order any liquor.” Sam shrugs, and Dean scowls. Somehow, Sam’s favourite t-shirts shrunk in the wash and now they strain across his chest, hug the curves of his shoulder blades and offer occasional views of his taught stomach.
“What’s the point, then?” Dean sneers.
“First, the music is okay. And I said I can’t order anything, they don’t mind if I drink.” Sam’s tone is too meaningful to be misunderstood. They don’t talk about it anymore. It would be pointless to tell Sam he can’t go, Dad wouldn’t be able to resist the ultimatum, but Dean doesn’t waste time with lame tactics.
He follows Sam into town.
Sam disappears into the crowd at the bar; Dean doesn’t want to stay too close. Sam was right, the music’s okay. Dean doesn’t try to order a drink, he has a passable i.d., but with Sam playing games he knows he’s better off sober. The buzz that’s been under his skin since Dad drove off three weeks ago is too loud, anyway.
He’s starting to suspect that Sam snuck back out again by the time he sees him.
Sam is sitting across a man’s lap. Dean can’t make out his face, the lighting is bad, but he can see the outline of his palm underneath Sam’s t-shirt, making sweeping motions up and down his back, and his mouth goes painfully dry when he sees the man duck to start kissing Sam’s neck. Sam seems more interested in sipping his beer and watching the band, but he’s accommodating when big hands grip his hips to pull him higher up onto the man’s lap.
Dean’s crossing the room before he can fully register the move, the sound of his sneakers on the sticky floor heavy in his ears. Sam doesn’t see him until he’s almost on top of the table, and he quickly drops his beer on the off-balance surface before Dean’s hand makes contact with his arm.
“Hey,” the guy says when Sam is yanked to his feet. Sam stumbles back with the force of Dean’s shove and Dean swings out at the man’s chin. Closer, he can see that the man is older, probably mid-twenties.
“Dean,” Sam says, voice shaking and face pale. Dean just grabs Sam’s arm again and drags him out of the bar. The guy doesn’t try to follow, Dean figures he knows near enough how young Sam is. “Dean, what,” Sam says before his back hits the wall and Dean’s mouth slams against his.
Dean can’t even think, his pants are too tight and there’s a pounding in his ears and head and chest and Sam’s chest is pressed tight against his and his lips taste like beer and sweat and Dean needs more. Sam’s mouth opens under his, whether in surprise or by design and Dean licks past soft lips and shoves a leg between Sam’s thighs. He thinks he might explode and Sam’s hands are twisted in his shirt and he’s not pushing, he’s arching against Dean and making a little mewling noise and…
Dean staggers back with a cry.
“Dean,” Sam says again, cheeks flushed and panting slightly.
“Goddamnit, Sam,” Dean says, voice broken open. “Why do you always have to push things? Jesus, Sam. Why couldn’t you leave me alone?”
Sam is trembling all over now, his t-shirt rucked up and wrinkled, palms flat against the wall likes he needs the support.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“You’re always sorry,” Dean says, feeling slightly hysterical. He tries to remember if he had anything to drink. “You’re always sorry, but I’m the one who pays the price. Can’t you ever think of anyone but yourself?” Dean demands, pleased by the shocked look on Sam’s face. He wants to hurt Sam, wants to break him down and make him cry.
“I thought I was,” Sam says, “I thought you wanted…”
“You’re wrong!” Dean cuts him off quickly, can’t bear to hear the rest of that sentence. “You’re just a stupid kid, you don’t know anything.”
Sam draws in a shaky breath, pushing off the wall and taking a few halting steps forward.
“What should I do?” he asks quietly.
“Just stay away from me right now,” Dean says, voice cold. Sam stumbles back then, for a moment Dean thinks he might fall.
“Okay,” Sam says.
Dean can’t stand another moment, can’t hear another word. He has to force himself not to jog back to where he parked the Impala. He doesn’t look in the rearview mirror when he pulls away.
* * *
There’s a window seat in the landing on the second floor. Sam sits there most afternoons to read. Dean looks out across their small backyard, into the trees beyond, and tells himself not to cry. He tries not to think about the things he said to Sam. Tries not to think about where Sam is, not with the guy from the bar, please God, or when Sam will come home.
Tries, but fails. He’s waiting to hear the key in the door, straining towards the stairs like he can will Sam to come home sooner. It’s a surprise when he hears the sounds, he doesn’t move.
Sam’s footsteps are heavy on the stairs, Dean has his back to him but he can hear Sam pause at the top. A rustle and then Sam is on the window seat behind to him, perched on the edge with a cautious hand on Dean’s arm.
“I’m sorry, Dean. Really, I didn’t mean to push you,” Sam says and Dean feels stupid and horrible, like a virgin giving an amorous suitor the cold shoulder.
“You weren’t wrong,” he says finally.
“I know,” Sam whispers. “I’m still sorry.”
“Me too,” Dean says, turning to pull Sam against him. Sam comes willingly, legs tangled underneath him until he’s straddling Dean’s lap. “We don’t…”
Sam leans in then, his hands on Dean’s waist and his mouth on Dean’s. Dean slides his hands under Sam’s shirt, calloused palms mapping the curves of the well-known body. Sam trembles when he thumbs his nipples, rocking into Dean’s lap. Dean gasps at the friction against his stirring cock. He deepens the kiss then, gripping Sam’s firm ass in his hands and lifting his hips so the back and forth motion creates the tightest contact. He wants to lay Sam down, undress him and lick, kiss, and suck his way across his body, but for now this is what he needs. Hands tight and clenching, mouths hot and demanding, moans and whimpers and the perfect friction.
“Uh, fuck,” Sam groans when Dean palms his cock through his jeans. Sam’s back arches under the touch and Dean nuzzles the delicate skin under Sam’s ear. Even with come pulsing in his own jeans, mouth clamped on the damp curve of Sam’s throat, Dean knows he shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t crave Sam’s body this way, but with Sam keening softly in his ear, he knows he won’t stop.
Paperwhites in bloom/Wincest/R
Pre-series, slight Sam/OMC
Sam gets the point, he just doesn’t listen.
Dean’s got more problems than most nineteen year olds, and some of them are worse than others. For example, the fact that he gets a boner when Sam walks through the kitchen in nothing but a pair of jeans that are too loose around the waist is pretty damned troubling. It is the worst of all of Dean’s problems, this thing too dangerous to name, even inside of his own head. It’s the worst, until Sam finds out.
* * *
Dean knows how it started. It's important to him, to remember the innocent beginnings. As a child, Sam had been affectionate and he'd had no qualms about demanding hugs when they weren't readily offered. He'd crawl into Dad's lap with his own book, fitting back to chest and content to read to himself while their father worked at the table. Dean would watch as Sam and Dad eventually started breathing in sync, at which point Sam was almost certain to fall asleep. Dad would place a broad hand against Sam's small chest to stabilize him and Dean could pretty much pinpoint the moment when all the tension would slip out of Dad's shoulders, and for as long as Sam slept he would just be daddy, and not a widow or a hunter. On bad nights, Dad would come into their room and pull Sam, still sleeping, from his bed just to hold the small body to his chest. Sam never woke up; he'd just slip his arms around Dad's neck and nuzzle into his shirt collar.
At eight Dean had felt too awkward going to his father in the night, bleary eyed and shaken from a nightmare as Sam often did. Instead, he'd followed Dad's example and would cross the floor of the small bedroom and slip under the covers with Sam. Within moments Sam would have rolled against his side, chin tucked against Dean's shoulder. Dean would listen to the occasional snuffling and let the feather-touch of Sam's expanding ribcage lull him to sleep. In the mornings, when Dad found them with legs tangled and blankets kicked off, Dean would explain that Sam had had a nightmare. Both Sam and Dad had accepted this explanation without question.
Dean got used to the comfort of sleeping next to Sam, and they didn’t always have the luxury of separate rooms or even separate beds. Sam stopped sneaking into Dad’s bed, after a nightmare he just curled into Dean’s ready embrace.
It was essentially a non issue until puberty hit, and Dean’s body seemed outside of control or discipline. It was embarrassing, waking up and realizing your erection was poking you brother in the hip, but Sam hadn’t woken up until Dean was already out of bed. It was easy to rationalize, it wasn’t like the proximity to Sammy was the cause, and Dean didn’t really worry about it outside of the obvious threat to his dignity. Except Dean couldn’t sleep alone anymore. He woke on the couch in a cold sweat, nerves calming only when he was shoulder-to-shoulder with Sam’s drowsy form. Worse still was Sam’s tendency to sprawl, arm outstretched here and leg throw there. Dean barely slept for days until he learned to toss Sam’s wayward limbs off in his sleep. It helped that Dean was the earlier riser, long out of bed when Sam’s eyes blinked open.
It’s fine, Dean has a handle on it, he has a system, except he’s not the only one who’s growing, maturing and eventually it’s not just the sensation of a warm body on the bed sending the wrong signals inside him. It’s the sensation of Sam’s body in particular, and Dean’s not ready for that.
* * *
The trouble with epiphanies, as anyone will tell you, is that they typically occur at the worst possible time.
“Seriously, Dean, what the hell?” Dad is sipping coffee and completely failing to mask the exhaustion riding hard on his face. Dean feels guilty, well, more guilty, knowing that he’s genuinely confusing his father.
“I just… I need space.” Dean says, rather lamely.
“All of a sudden, you need space?” Dad’s eyebrows are rising, and Dean thanks every god, spirit, and angel he can think of that Dad remains so clueless about some parenting things. It doesn’t strike him as odd that his son, a senior in high school, would still be sharing a bed with his brother. “Look, buddy, I’m sorry, but take a look around you. We’re in the middle of Wisconsin in November and the heating in this place is for shit. We don’t notice it as much, but Sammy… Christ. The kid’s all bones, there’s no fat on him at all and he’s walking around freezing all day long. Right now, best thing is for you two to bunk together, keep each other warm.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, looking away from Dad’s earnest expression and trying to ignore all the images that “keeping each other warm” conjures up. Sam’s wrapped in so many layers he looks like a toddler in a snowsuit, lumbering around with knees and elbows that can’t quite bend, and he’s still shivering. Sam’s not built for cold, not this new Sam who is made of angles and coltish limbs.
That night Sam sticks the toes of his stocking covered feet under the bottoms of Dean’s pajama pants.
“Sam, Jesus!” Dean can feel the cold of Sam’s feet through the loose knit.
“I’m cold, Dean,” Sam whines quietly, a vibration against Dean’s spine.
“Deal with it,” Dean says, turning over on his back so Sam can’t try to spoon.
“I’m trying, fucker,” Sam says, eyes bright in the darkness. “How would you like to be a damned popsicle all day, every day?” Without waiting for an answer he curls up against Dean’s side, cheek resting on Dean’s shoulder and a leg thrown across his knee.
“Sam,” Dean hisses, trying to pry his arm from beneath Sam’s to push him off.
“What is wrong with you? Since when do you care?” Sam says, “I’m not going to try and mack on you or something, I just want to be warm enough to sleep.”
Dean stiffens at Sam’s choice of words and counts backwards from ten. Sam, Know-It-All Sam, notices.
“Is that it?” he asks, curious now. “Are you like a homophobe now?”
“Shut up, Samuel,” Dean says tersely, hoping his tone will indicate the seriousness of the matter. He feels a sharp poke to his breastbone and looks down to see Sam’s chin propped there, shadowed cat-eyes watching him.
“Nah, that’s not it,” Sam dismisses after a moment. He huffs a laugh then, the movement of his ribs against Dean’s sending ripples down Dean’s spine. “Did I hump you in my sleep or something?” he smirks.
“No! But if you do, you’ll be sleeping on the floor and I don’t give a shit how cold it is, got that?” Dean lifts a shoulder to smack Sam in the armpit.
“Ow, fucker,” Sam says quietly, but he settles farther against the mattress until his leg and arm and the only parts of his body touching Dean.
Dean lays awake until the first rays of pink light cut through the blinds, dick throbbing with the awareness of Sam’s knee on his thigh.
* * *
By summertime Dean is ready to explode. Meteorology is the bane of his existence as July finds them in Mississippi. Dean goes through four girlfriends and two boyfriends, trying to fuck the sick feelings out of his system. It doesn’t work. The heat is making him crazy; he’s off-kilter, perpetually soaked in sweat and constantly thirsty in a way that goes beyond water or piss-bad beer. Dad is barely around, he trusts Dean to keep Sam in line, to manage without him, and the irony doesn’t escape him.
Sam absorbs the heat. He tans to a burnished gold and his skin is constantly dewy and just a little bit damp, the ends of his too-long hair curling against the back of his neck. It’s all bad enough, but in the past months Sam has grown into his angles and coltish limbs and seems to exude a lazy sensuality that people other than Dean are noticing.
People come around the bungalow looking for Sam, boys and girls and some kids older than Dean. Dean sees his own interest reflected in some of their gazes, and he impresses upon them a need to forget Sam’s name. Still, Sam goes into town, sipping sweet tea from the diner in the park, and often Dean sees him sitting with the kids he’s met.
It isn’t fair, it isn’t right, but Dean hates it that Sam is giving himself to others, these strangers with their honeyed drawls and open invitations. He sneers at the girls, but the guys… Dean can’t stand the idea of broad palms cupping Sam’s slim hips, blunt fingertips tracing the curves there, dipping below the waistband of his jeans…
Dean spends the afternoons watching Sam and his evenings in the shower, cold water battering his skin as he fumbles with his persistent erection.
Sam has always been precocious, Dean knows this, it just never occurs to him that Sam might be watching back.
* * *
The house is quiet, absent of the clicking of the ceiling fan.
“Fucking brownouts, Jesus,” Dean wheezes. The curtain barely trembles from the air flow coming in the open window and Dean thinks he might actually die. He doesn’t have the energy to have another cold shower; he’s glued to the sheets of his bed anyway. He’s wearing nothing but boxer shorts, miserable and sticky.
The creak of floorboards gives him a moment’s warning before the door opens. Sam is a silhouette in the moonlight, picking his way through the dirty laundry on the floor.
“Not cold now, huh?” Dean chuckles.
“Nope,” Sam says, bed dipping under his weight.
“Dude, no offence, but get the fuck away from me. You are not…oh,” Dean’s objections trail off into a murmur as Sam wraps a cold, wet cloth around his neck. He sees the big mixing bowl then, ice cubes and facecloths floating in tap water. He shivers, barely chocking back a pleased moan, when Sam places more wet cloths on his arms and then his thighs.
“Feel better?” Sam asks.
“God, yeah,” Dean breathes. For a brief moment it’s too much, he feels like he’s going to shake apart, but the shock of the cold passes and leaves a quiet comfort behind. Sam sits next to him, occasionally dipping the cloths in the water again, once rubbing them against his own skin. Dean lies still under Sam’s steady hands, pulse thrumming and equal parts terrified and blissful. Sam doesn’t speak, that makes it easier, and Dean let’s himself be taken care of. He closes his eyes; the tenderness is so much easier to bear that way. When Sam reaches across the replace the cloth on his thigh and his arm brushes against Dean’s crotch they both pretend that Dean’s cock isn’t full and curved against his waistband.
* * *
It’s not that simple. Sam pushes. He’s always pushing. After the brownout he touches Dean, nothing overt but Dean can feel the shift between them. Accidental, deliberate, knuckles against his brow and a palm on his back, it’s a surfeit that Dean is not equipped to handle. Dean steps back, away, hoping that Sam will get the point. Sam gets the point, he just doesn’t listen.
Tuesday night and Sam says he’s going out. There’s a blues club across from the grocer, smoky with alcoves everywhere, it was built for sinners. Sam’s been there before, but Dean didn’t know.
“How do you get in?” Dean asks, grudgingly impressed.
“No one gives a shit, as long as I don’t order any liquor.” Sam shrugs, and Dean scowls. Somehow, Sam’s favourite t-shirts shrunk in the wash and now they strain across his chest, hug the curves of his shoulder blades and offer occasional views of his taught stomach.
“What’s the point, then?” Dean sneers.
“First, the music is okay. And I said I can’t order anything, they don’t mind if I drink.” Sam’s tone is too meaningful to be misunderstood. They don’t talk about it anymore. It would be pointless to tell Sam he can’t go, Dad wouldn’t be able to resist the ultimatum, but Dean doesn’t waste time with lame tactics.
He follows Sam into town.
Sam disappears into the crowd at the bar; Dean doesn’t want to stay too close. Sam was right, the music’s okay. Dean doesn’t try to order a drink, he has a passable i.d., but with Sam playing games he knows he’s better off sober. The buzz that’s been under his skin since Dad drove off three weeks ago is too loud, anyway.
He’s starting to suspect that Sam snuck back out again by the time he sees him.
Sam is sitting across a man’s lap. Dean can’t make out his face, the lighting is bad, but he can see the outline of his palm underneath Sam’s t-shirt, making sweeping motions up and down his back, and his mouth goes painfully dry when he sees the man duck to start kissing Sam’s neck. Sam seems more interested in sipping his beer and watching the band, but he’s accommodating when big hands grip his hips to pull him higher up onto the man’s lap.
Dean’s crossing the room before he can fully register the move, the sound of his sneakers on the sticky floor heavy in his ears. Sam doesn’t see him until he’s almost on top of the table, and he quickly drops his beer on the off-balance surface before Dean’s hand makes contact with his arm.
“Hey,” the guy says when Sam is yanked to his feet. Sam stumbles back with the force of Dean’s shove and Dean swings out at the man’s chin. Closer, he can see that the man is older, probably mid-twenties.
“Dean,” Sam says, voice shaking and face pale. Dean just grabs Sam’s arm again and drags him out of the bar. The guy doesn’t try to follow, Dean figures he knows near enough how young Sam is. “Dean, what,” Sam says before his back hits the wall and Dean’s mouth slams against his.
Dean can’t even think, his pants are too tight and there’s a pounding in his ears and head and chest and Sam’s chest is pressed tight against his and his lips taste like beer and sweat and Dean needs more. Sam’s mouth opens under his, whether in surprise or by design and Dean licks past soft lips and shoves a leg between Sam’s thighs. He thinks he might explode and Sam’s hands are twisted in his shirt and he’s not pushing, he’s arching against Dean and making a little mewling noise and…
Dean staggers back with a cry.
“Dean,” Sam says again, cheeks flushed and panting slightly.
“Goddamnit, Sam,” Dean says, voice broken open. “Why do you always have to push things? Jesus, Sam. Why couldn’t you leave me alone?”
Sam is trembling all over now, his t-shirt rucked up and wrinkled, palms flat against the wall likes he needs the support.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“You’re always sorry,” Dean says, feeling slightly hysterical. He tries to remember if he had anything to drink. “You’re always sorry, but I’m the one who pays the price. Can’t you ever think of anyone but yourself?” Dean demands, pleased by the shocked look on Sam’s face. He wants to hurt Sam, wants to break him down and make him cry.
“I thought I was,” Sam says, “I thought you wanted…”
“You’re wrong!” Dean cuts him off quickly, can’t bear to hear the rest of that sentence. “You’re just a stupid kid, you don’t know anything.”
Sam draws in a shaky breath, pushing off the wall and taking a few halting steps forward.
“What should I do?” he asks quietly.
“Just stay away from me right now,” Dean says, voice cold. Sam stumbles back then, for a moment Dean thinks he might fall.
“Okay,” Sam says.
Dean can’t stand another moment, can’t hear another word. He has to force himself not to jog back to where he parked the Impala. He doesn’t look in the rearview mirror when he pulls away.
* * *
There’s a window seat in the landing on the second floor. Sam sits there most afternoons to read. Dean looks out across their small backyard, into the trees beyond, and tells himself not to cry. He tries not to think about the things he said to Sam. Tries not to think about where Sam is, not with the guy from the bar, please God, or when Sam will come home.
Tries, but fails. He’s waiting to hear the key in the door, straining towards the stairs like he can will Sam to come home sooner. It’s a surprise when he hears the sounds, he doesn’t move.
Sam’s footsteps are heavy on the stairs, Dean has his back to him but he can hear Sam pause at the top. A rustle and then Sam is on the window seat behind to him, perched on the edge with a cautious hand on Dean’s arm.
“I’m sorry, Dean. Really, I didn’t mean to push you,” Sam says and Dean feels stupid and horrible, like a virgin giving an amorous suitor the cold shoulder.
“You weren’t wrong,” he says finally.
“I know,” Sam whispers. “I’m still sorry.”
“Me too,” Dean says, turning to pull Sam against him. Sam comes willingly, legs tangled underneath him until he’s straddling Dean’s lap. “We don’t…”
Sam leans in then, his hands on Dean’s waist and his mouth on Dean’s. Dean slides his hands under Sam’s shirt, calloused palms mapping the curves of the well-known body. Sam trembles when he thumbs his nipples, rocking into Dean’s lap. Dean gasps at the friction against his stirring cock. He deepens the kiss then, gripping Sam’s firm ass in his hands and lifting his hips so the back and forth motion creates the tightest contact. He wants to lay Sam down, undress him and lick, kiss, and suck his way across his body, but for now this is what he needs. Hands tight and clenching, mouths hot and demanding, moans and whimpers and the perfect friction.
“Uh, fuck,” Sam groans when Dean palms his cock through his jeans. Sam’s back arches under the touch and Dean nuzzles the delicate skin under Sam’s ear. Even with come pulsing in his own jeans, mouth clamped on the damp curve of Sam’s throat, Dean knows he shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t crave Sam’s body this way, but with Sam keening softly in his ear, he knows he won’t stop.