The rest of "Once Bitten", seeing as how I fail at life.
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He had to all but carry Sammy to the lumpy, cigarette-smelling double in the back of the motel room, simply because of the fact that his darling baby brother was otherwise occupied at the moment, pressing a series of frenzied, biting kisses to somewhere in the vicinity below his left ear. He was heavy, with his legs straddling Dean's waist and his bony-ass arms locked fatally around Dean's neck; shit, the elder Winchester was used to carrying chicks this way, but certainly not his little brother, who really wasn't...little at all. He struggled past the table that supported the stupid little 13-inch color TV, trying to ignore the flashes of pain that were coming repeatedly from the skin on his neck - God, his brother sucked at this, and not in any potentially good way - and nearly tripped over a bunch in the carpet, causing Sam to pause for a minute and raise his head as Dean wobbled, cursed, and very nearly said to hell with the entire thing all together.
But...well, there were worse things in the world than carrying one's 150-pound brother across a motel room with a bust shoulder and an aching head. Surely. He just had to think of them. He put on his half-charming, half-apologetic 'eh, what are you gonna do about it?' grin, and stepped past the bunch in the carpet, taking the last few steps towards the bed in an ungraceful rush. He'd meant to just sort of set Sam down gently in the middle, but Sam wouldn't let go of him, and they both sort of fell onto the bed with matching "oof!"s, a tangle of clothes and limbs and Sam's stupid shaggy hair, falling into his slightly startled face.
"What...?" he began, breathily, voice cracking on the 'a' sound like it always did, and Dean shut him up with a hand over his mouth, letting his face fall into something he hoped resembled patient, if not slightly put-upon.
"Hey," he said, quiet and easy. "Hey." Sam stopped trying to pull the hand over his mouth away and looked at him, eyes nearly black with emotion and the shitty light of the room. "Listen, Sammy, this is a bedroom, not a battlefield, all right? You don't have to fight me on everything, you know. All I need from you is a little favor, okay? You don't know what the hell you're doing, so I just need you to take it easy, breathe in some oxygen to that little brain of yours, and let me, all right? If all you want from me is a fight, then sure, we'll take it out back by the dumpsters and bleed each other proper. But..." And here he stumbled a little over his words, unsure of what to say, "...I'm not gonna be rough with you, you hear me? Even if you want me to. We're not in a wrestling match, kiddo, we're..." And he really couldn't figure out how to put that into words, so he shrugged, indifferently, and used the hand that used to be covering his brother's mouth to push some of that slightly curly hair back off of his forehead. His skin was hot, covered in sweat, and his eyes seemed fever-bright, looking at Dean with a tangle of emotions that were damned near impossible to decipher.
"Okay," he replied, voice gone hoarse with - dear sweet Jesus - desire, wetting his lips in a way that made him seem unbearably pathetic and young. He didn't move his arms from around his brother's neck, but he no longer seemed to be trying to drag him this way and that anymore, either, and his breathing quieted to the closest he was going to be to calm all night, an arrhythmic pant that still threatened to escalate at the slightest provocation. Still...it would have to do. Dean glanced at the clock - 1:11, and that meant he was going to have to move his ass.
He asked, because he had to hear it, though he already knew the answer: "Sam, is it...all right?"
Instantaneously, though out of breath: "Yeah, it is."
Well, then.
His baby brother's first kiss was a dry one, almost chaste, lips on lips like two junior high kids at their very first school dance, all hand-holding and nervous blushes and sideways glances stolen from the corners of eyes when the other wasn't looking. It had none of the unbearable tension that they had been feeling the entire evening, and Dean pulled back for a second to get some air, letting out a long breath against his brother's lips that was almost a laugh, and pushing himself up on his hands a little, to disperse some of his weight. He closed his eyes and tried to pretend that it was someone else; anyone else.
It made the second kiss easier, deeper: he opened his mouth a little bit and was rewarded with Sam doing a mimic of the same. They breathed the same air, for a moment or two, the bed creaking ever-so slightly under their combined weight, and it was a terrifying thing to move his hands, and feel Sam's pulse, fluttering rapidly under his fingertips; to move his lips, and feel the whole of his mouth vibrate with the force of Sam's responding moan.
It was downright shameful of him to hide the reality of what he was doing behind closed eyelids, so he forced them open with bitter resolve, breaking off the kiss and etching every line of his brother's half-hurt, half-longing face into his despicable memory. Long ago, after the death of their mother had left him broken and burning and barely at an age to understand what any of that meant, he had made a promise to the sky: I'll keep them both happy, I swear, as long as they're with me.
The meaning had changed a bit when he grew older: I'll be the first to go, gladly, so long as I'm not the last, but the sincerity of it remained the same, and he wouldn't shut his eyes to this; no, not even to this. He looked at Sam (lips shaking and bruised red), and he looked at the clock again (1:16), and felt a sudden grudging respect towards the passage of time.
He kept it slow, and easy, for the first few minutes, introducing his tongue by degrees, and with the same gentle finesse he used on all virgins of that age - though always girls, admittedly - and gave his brother curt but heartfelt encouragement in the moments in between when they would break for air. Sam, when he really got into it, was a natural at this sort of thing, it seemed, and it didn't take much instruction for him to expand their playing field intentionally: he pulled back for a moment, nibbled on Dean's lower lip with a seriousness he usually reserved for studying, before closing the gap between them again, a slow frenzy starting to work its way up through his wiry frame.
It was getting easier and easier to kiss, and around the time it felt like it was getting too easy to do that, Dean swerved his head off to the side fluidly, setting the fingers of his left hand lightly atop Sam's already-protesting mouth, and buried his face in his brother's neck, catching the scent of sweat, dirt, and a strange sort of musty smell that he figured must be the smell of books. He let out a small 'heh' of laughter at that thought and breathed deeply of it again, feeling his teeth graze the cords of Sam's neck in a way that made his skin tingle, and his brother jump. He stayed still for a moment, until he was sure Sam wasn't going to say anything stupid and ruin the silence, and when he was sure of that, he lowered both of his hands to the hem of that ridiculously uniform gray hoodie, and slid them neatly under.
Sam jumped, and tried to squirm away, and Dean let him: maybe he changed his mind, after all, and that thought must have shown itself on his face, because Sam swallowed, loudly, and started to wriggle his way back down again, a little sheepish, and shit, why was it all of those pathetic things about him that made him so hot? Dean's mouth went uncomfortably dry.
"Listen," he managed to choke, from somewhere around his straining throat. "I know you're nervous, all right? But if you do something like that again, then I'll think you've changed your mind, and..." And he didn't want to say, don't, because, well, that was sick and wrong and downright evil of him, but - "...well, it's all right to change your mind, Sammy, but we don't really have time to be playing Hot and Cold either, you dig me?" He glanced at the clock again - 1:31, and boy, did time just fucking fly.
"O...Okay," Sam agreed, and he should have looked idiotic with his belt half undone and both his hoodie and his T-shirt riding up somewhere around his ribs, but he...didn't. He actually looked...oh, dear God - hot, with his stomach exposed and the sharp lines of his pelvis showing, with his cheeks flushed and his hair framing his face softly, lips wetted and currently parted in a bizarrely alluring fashion. Shit. Shitshitshit.
"Lift your head," Dean ordered, a lot more rough than he'd meant to, but Sam complied anyway, craning his neck at what had to be an uncomfortable angle. Dean leaned into him, a bit, hands finding the bottom of his hoodie again, except this time he pulled it up, past his heaving chest, past his shaking shoulders, and over his head. The nondescript black T-shirt underneath went quickly after that, and before Dean could even allow himself the time to process that this was real, that this was serious, and that he was doing this to his little brother, he moved.
Perversely, he tried to remember what it was that girls used to do to him that he liked, and reflect it back onto his brother; a practice that worked in theory, at best, but Sam didn't seem to mind, and hell, that was all that mattered. Dean peppered kisses along his neck, his collarbone, down his chest; he kissed, and nipped, and sucked, and found himself growing used to the fact that yes, the hard-on he was starting to feel pressed up against his belly was, in fact, his own. It didn't matter. None of it did. It was just Sam - Sam, Sam, Sam, and the way his fingers gripped mercilessly at Dean's hair, never letting him go. It was the way he twisted when lips that were starting to grow their own sort of desperate found his hardened nipples, in the way he groaned when hot, hot fingers started to slide themselves down past the waistband of his jeans.
And he had to ask, again, though it was fairly safe to say that the two of them had already reached the point of no return: "Sam, is it...all right?"
His brother kissed him in reply.
Feeling something start to curl in his stomach that actually wasn't disgust, Dean neatly whipped the rest of Sam's belt through its loops and tossed it to the corner of the room, fingers toying with the button of Sam's Levis as though delaying the moment would somehow delay the inevitable. He really had crossed that bridge (cock hard in his jeans and the fluttering of his stomach at last chalked up to arousal), but he waited patiently for Sammy to join him on the other side, everything else beat down to nothing save the next step his brother would take.
Sam's next step ended with his hands resting hesitantly atop the button of Dean's jeans, an unconscious reflection of his elder brother. They hung that way for a moment - Sam sprawled out over the bed and Dean sprawled out all over Sam - and something about the moment just seemed to click with the both of them, because in the next instant, they were at each other's clothes in a flash, stripping them off of each other like stripping paint from drywall, and when they were both completely naked, Dean accomplished two things at once: grabbing Sam's cock, and grabbing Sam's hand, which was wrapped around his cock.
"What - ?" Sam started, in pathetically wounded perplexion, ugliness and self-doubt mirrored in his eyes, but he never got very far with that train of thought: Dean made an apologetic noise, out of the back of his throat, and then stroked.
It was like setting dry brush afire; Sam jerked, then groaned, then tossed his head back against the lumpy motel pillow like a stallion tossing its head against an oncoming storm. The skin of his cock was strangely satiny under Dean's hand, and when he felt Sam's wrist go slack and fall away, he used his other hand to manipulate his balls - something he knew felt good, from personal experience. He breathed in through his mouth and got the taste of sex on his tongue, and though he wanted to just close his eyes and ride along with the rhythm of the moment, he knew that to do so would just make him a coward, so he inhaled that scent, and he identified it with Sam, and he did his best to ignore the aching stiffness of his own hard-on, dripping slightly with pre-come at the end.
"Nnnnnnnnn," Sam was moaning, hair all but plastered to his head by a heavy layer of sweat, hips jerking up into his brother's hands of their own volition, lithe fingers bunching and twisting in the scratchy coverlets of the motel bed. He threw his legs around Dean's back, all but knocking him over in the process, and his heart was beating so furiously that it could be blamed for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. "Ah, God, Dean - "
And as Dean answered his brother's low, heartfelt groan with a matching one of his own, his hand tightened reflexively right under the head of his brother's cock, and Sam came half-screaming with a twist to his spine and Dean's name on his lips like a dying curse.
Something white went spilling over his hands, and something black went spilling over his heart, and he stared at a whole lot of nothing as Sam nursed himself down from overload, breath coming in fractured gasps and tension leaking out of him into nothing.
After, another one of their silences reigned supreme, but for Sammy, at least, it was comfortable, and Dean sat back on his haunches, willing himself to stop shaking. He looked disdainfully at the slimy, gooey mess that was now all over his fingers, and when he started glancing around the motel for some sort of towel, he caught Sam staring at him, shadowed and glassy-eyed, a sort of unfocused expression on his face that implied that sex was the drug that he was never really going to get the hang of.
"Sticky fingers," he said, voice practically a purr in post-orgasmic afterglow, "you always did get the last McDonald's french fry." A pause, and a half-laugh, half-contented sigh. "See, that? That's the punch line."
Punch li...? Dean thought, before he remembered, and the remembering did nothing to alleviate his distress. "Real funny, Sammy," he muttered, taking care to keep his throbbing cock from view as he stumbled off the bed and in the direction of the bathroom, being sure to shut the door and lock it tight.
In the darkest corner of the shower, back up against the wall, he jerked himself off to the tune of AC/DC's "Thunderstruck", and asked of his subconscious, pleadingly, to let him think of anyone other than Sam.
He washed the come down the tub and he washed his face from the sink when he was done, and as he walked back out into the pitch-black bedroom, it was his only consolation to himself to think that his imagination had always sucked, anyway.
"Sleep over here?" Sam asked him, drowsily, when he returned, still spread-eagled atop the paisley-print motel sheets without any sort of decency whatsoever. Bizarrely, in the aftermath, it was a lot easier to look at him naked, and Dean shrugged, wondering if the lie would show in his eyes as he replied, steadily: "Yeah, sure."
He threw the covers over Sammy and climbed into bed himself, fighting the almost comfortable feeling of sleepiness that started to descend upon him. His brother spooned up against him, immediately, because he always did that when they were kids, and it seemed to be something he'd never grow out of, and he whispered a satiated "good night" into Dean's ear before burrowing his face into the crook of his elder brother's neck.
Dean stayed up for a while, thinking of this and that until Sam's breathing had finally evened out into that of regular sleep, and just as he was brutalizing himself over why he had bitten his brother like that, and started this whole thing, he caught a glimpse of the clock - 2:25 - and managed to shove all of those regrets away for another time. For now, he had work to do.
He cleaned the place up; wiped any sign of strange fluids from the carpet and the sheets (couldn't do a thing about Sammy, though, and he prayed that no one would notice), and he righted all of the furniture that they had knocked over; two chairs and the lamp. He picked their clothes up from the various corners of the room and threw them about in a bit of a closer proximity than they had been (their dad would be equally as suspicious if their room was too neat). He had just finished up, and was rubbing the ache from his wounded shoulder - now aggravated by the spectacular handjob he had just given his baby brother - when Sam stirred, made a pitiful sort of inquisitive noise, and flung his arms out blindly in the dark.
Dean filled the space in less than a second, half-kneeling, half laying down on the bed with his forehead against his brother's chest and his arms wrapped around his sides, petting him in all the comforting ways he knew how. (Which weren't many, sadly.) He stayed that way for a while, hurting his back and his neck and his godforsaken shoulder again, until he was sure that Sam had gone back to sleep for good, upon which he straightened up the covers, patted his brother one last time atop the head, and all but fell into the safety of his own bed.
Sam was going to be pissed when he woke up, and to be honest...Dean wasn't entirely sure if he knew over what. He didn't want to know, honestly. Doors number 1 and 2 had both proved to be disastrous in their own ways, and door number 3 was suicide, which was an option he was pretty sure he didn't want to take...not yet, at least. Now, if their dad found out what had happened...
Disastrous, yes, but he would never regret it. The look on Sam's face alone had made it worth his while.
It was terrible, really; the things that he would do for love.
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He was awakened in the morning by someone rudely drawing the curtains back from the window with a violent shink. He threw an arm reflexively over his eyes, squinting out the sun, and he was met with the sight of a familiar silhouette, tall and lean with the bulk of a backpack hanging from its shoulder.
"I'm gonna be late for school," Sam announced, dully, a flood of emotions festering like a wound in the undercurrents of his tone. "Dad's not home yet, so you've gotta take me."
Dean sat up, groggily, and was rewarded for his effort with an egg sandwich and a cup of coffee being shoved ungracefully into his face. The hands that held those objects were shaking, badly.
He tried the coffee, found it bland, and took a bite of the sandwich, which was delicious. Sam had no sense of good coffee, but his cooking, at least, was top-notch. As he chewed, Dean attempted to scan his brother's face for something, anything, in his fuzzy early-morning haze, but he found nothing there that was too his liking, and so he finished the rest of his sandwich in a single chomp and swung his legs out from under the covers.
At the sight of his bare skin, Sam opened his mouth as though to say something, then seemed to think better of it, and pointedly turned his back as the elder Winchester threw on some clothes. Digging the keys to the crappy Rent-A-Car they had charged for the week out of yesterday's jeans, Dean yawned, took another swig of the dredge that was supposed to pass as decent coffee, and pushed open the door of the motel room. He chanced a glance around the room as he left - their dad had never been home, shit - and he held it open for Sam, who shoved past him so violently that they both nearly went toppling over the steps, before tromping down the stairs to the parking lot in sullen silence.
Dean exhaled, loudly, and followed a bit more slowly, wondering whether the cause of Sam's anger was door number 1 or door number 2, and wondering why the option of door number 3 was suddenly looking more and more appealing. He got behind the wheel of the lame-ass '94 Camry and started up the engine, finding nothing at all satisfying about the quiet, sputtering way it turned itself over. Sam glared dejectedly out the window.
The drive to the high school was made in silence. Dean didn't really care to break it, but he didn't have much of a choice, either, when they got there: it was bad luck, dammit, for him not to send his brother off to school without some sort of farewell. He had learned the hard way, that in this business, all it took was a single ill-willed thought to turn someone's day absolutely upside-down. Had learned the hard way that saying anything to anyone could very well be the last thing you say to that person, and from that, he took what he said to his brother seriously, because - all other jokes and frivolities aside - his brother was probably the person he cared about the most in the entire world.
So Dean swallowed his self-disgust, and forced a painful smile onto his tired face. "Have a nice day at school, Sammy."
Sam slammed the car door angrily, but bent down again to look through the open passenger window, hair falling into his eyes and jaw set into a stubborn line. His eyes, when at war with his bared teeth and trembling hands, could only be described as 'lost'.
"It's 'Sam'," he said, chokingly.
AN: ...I get the 'vaguely unfinished' vibe from this, don't ask me why. If it wasn't, like, 473084328432 words already, I would have expanded on it more, but I always get nervous about my long fics when I'm new to a fandom, so. Have some ANGSTY EMO UNDONE FIC WRRRRRRRRRY instead. :D I secretly love fics where one of the characters calls the OMG WAAAAAAAAHMBULANCE on him/herself, so expect to see more stuff like that from me in the future. As well as fics of stupidly long length, since, well...it's like herpes. It happens more than you think. /retarderyyyyyyyy