SPN: When the night-air cools, R

[reikah]

Title: When the night-air cools
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Author: reikah
Rating: Hard R.
Beta: monkiedude.
Warnings: Sam's only fifteen in this fic, so... underage Wincest?
Word Count: 8,794

They shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a path through the woods
Before they planted the trees.
           - Rudyard Kipling

Shortly after Dean turns nineteen, John moves the family into a ratty apartment in Iowa. It's all crumbling walls and a shared bedroom, and on the very first day Dean and Sam bicker about what will go up on the tiny stretch of non-cracked wall between their beds, beside the window. Dean wins, and Sam bitches about the ratty Metallica poster for a whole day, in between circling obits in the local paper for their dad while John attempts to fix them both breakfast, glaring balefully at the apartment's creaky toaster as though he can manipulate it with his mind.

Dean ignores him with the lofty elder-brother air he knows Sam hates, and insists on playing the whole And Justice for All album on repeat as he drives his little brother to his first day of school, two weeks after they move in. It's not one of the best schools he or Sam has ever enrolled in - a series of squat, white-washed buildings, and the girls dress in long skirts and blouses and wear crucifixes around their throats or wrists. Problem with being in the Bible belt, Dean grouses; none of the girls put out.

"Dean!" Sam whines. "That's gross, man - you're such a pervert."

"What?" Dean grins, leans back and runs his hand over the wheel. He loves their car, always has. Dad's been talking lately about gifting it to him, picking something else for himself, and the thought of this baby being his sends a little tingle down his spine. "Girls exist, little brother. Don't tell me you haven't noticed them. I know what you do in those showers, and it isn't washing those luscious locks."

"Oh, fuck you," Sam spits, combing a hand quickly through his hair without even seeming to realise it. "Look, some of us - some of us have more important things to do than hang around perving over teenage girls!" He pushes the door open with more force than is strictly necessary, throwing his backpack over his shoulder, and slams it after him. He walks across the road to his newest school, hands in his pockets and head bowed, and doesn't look back once.

"I'm not even twenty yet," Dean protests, to nobody but the car. He rolls his eyes and sits back, still not letting go of the wheel, to watch Sam enter the school gates amidst the throng of other students. "See if I drop you off again," he grumbles when Sam's vanished, starts the engine, drives on. He has work, a full-time gig at a record store the other side of town. Crap wages, but they actually have rent that needs paying now, and fake credit cards don't work so well for that sort of thing.

Plus it's hard to hustle pool in a town you actually live in. You can only do it so many times before the locals wise up and, as Dean found out last time, tell people how you can't be trusted, how your whole family can't be trusted. Then Sam bitches you out because the other kids at school have started picking on him. Dean doesn't much care about his reputation, but if it makes Sam miserable, then that's it.

His boss at the record store is a total fucking douche - Colin to his customers, Bitchface to Dean. Okay, so maybe he's unfairly biased against the man because Colin insists on playing Bon-fucking-Jovi all day, but he really is a bitch sometimes. Like when Dean gets in a whole five minutes late, which he does today, because it takes a while to drive from the high school to here. He listens to the ensuing lecture as patiently as possible, though he can only endure so much hand flapping and wailing from a pudgy over-thirty Bon Jovi fan. He'd've quit ages ago, but they're all screwed if he doesn't have a job. Truth be told, he'd rather work in the local garage, but they'd had no vacancies, and duty to family required he bring in some money, no matter what or where from. He should probably be grateful he's not working in a clothing store or something equally horrific.

Bitchface has all the attention span of a gnat, thankfully enough, and the lecture only lasts ten minutes before Dean's sent out to man the cash register. This means sitting on a cheap-ass leather stool with his legs on the desk when his boss is busy out back, removing them before he gets back, and checking his cell every few minutes in case his dad's found a case or Sam feels like bugging him or hell, anything.

At fourteen- twenty-one, he gets a slight reprieve in the form of a curt text from his dad - werewolf in montana. be 2 days. key under doormat. pick ur brother up from school - and scowls at the display, wanting desperately to go with him. He's a damn good shot, now - John himself has admitted that Dean's almost ready to go on his own hunts - and werewolves are easy, anyway. The things reek, you can tell where they are by scent alone, and two days out of this backwater would be a goddamn lifesaver.

But Sammy's here, and Sammy's starting school, and Dean has a job he can't just skip out on, and fuck, he kinda hates it. He can't wait for Sam to graduate, like he never did - John broke his arm three months after Dean's eighteenth birthday, and Dean skipped school to help the old man out and just never returned. What did he care about a diploma? He already knew what his career was gonna be, and school qualifications weren't necessary. Sammy keeps making a fuss about Dean getting his GED, but Dean frankly can't care less. He just wants Sam to graduate so the whole Winchester family can get back to nomadic life, never needing to work for Bitchface or his brethren throughout society again.

The record store doesn't get many customers. Maybe it's the awful decor, or maybe it's the Bon Jovi; the few customers they do get tend to be female, and lurk behind one of the racks, peeking over it occasionally at Dean before giggling and ducking back out of sight. Dean's already gotten a good fuck out of one of those giggling chicks - named Samantha, ironically enough, who had flicked her hair and fluttered her eyelashes and pouted as she invited Dean out for a coffee, had scratched his back with long painted nails when he'd fucked her against the wall of the tiny cafe. He'd returned home reeking of her perfume, his back stinging with bloodied scratches. It'd hurt worse when Sam had thrown a pillow at him for sneaking in late and insisted he shower, before treating the gouges carefully and with a gentleness Dean didn't like to think about with iodine.

"How is it you manage to find the cheapest floozies in town within a week?" Sam had asked quietly, pressing iodine-soaked tissue paper against the longest of the scratches. Dean'd flinched and Sam had pressed his other hand against the small of his back, reassuring. "Sorry. They're pretty deep. Those must've been some nails."

"Didn't notice at the time," Dean had replied, teeth gritted. Sam had sighed, dabbing gently, and he'd fisted his hands in his lap, uncomfortably aware of how warm Sam was behind him, clad in only a pair of ratty old pyjama bottoms several inches too short on him. The elastic in the waist had given up several states and a couple of inches ago; Sam constantly had to hitch the damn things up, bitched about his lack of decent sleepwear constantly. Wasn't like John or Dean could've foreseen the growth spurt his formerly-chubby body had gone through over the last few months, ending up a few inches taller than Dean, skinny and always cold and hungry and with clothes that didn't quite fit, feeling alienated by his height as much as everything else in his life.

Still, Dean's fairly sure his baby brother will adapt well to his new school, here. Sam always did - made friends, joined clubs, even got a girlfriend in South Carolina Dean'd teased him mercilessly about until they had to leave. And that's kinda the clincher - for all Sam's ability to settle in, it just means it breaks his heart all the harder when they walk away from whatever town's playing home for this month, this year.

Someday, Dean fears, they're going to pack up, get ready to leave, and discover Sam's dug his heels in so hard and so deep he won't be able to come with. Worse, won't want to, and Dean pushes that thought away very very hard, hiding it in some part of his head rather than confronting it. Sam won't leave his family, not even if he loves school and debate club that much. Dean's tells himself that none of Sam's friends are as awesome as his older brother is, and not even Sam beginning to butt horns with John a little more than normal can beat that.

Now, if only he can sort out the way his body's been responding to Sam lately, everything will be fine. He knows their family's fucked up, by normal standards (but it's ours, he always amends with a fierce sort of pride) but even so... it's not right, for your younger brother to get you hard. Maybe he needs to get laid more - he doesn't even normally like guys, can count those experiences on one hand, so why does the sharp rise of Sam's hip-bone - lit by the streetlights outside over the top of those loose pyjama bottoms as Sam tosses and turns in his sleep - get him so worked up? Why is it he's nineteen years old, about to possess the family car, and the elegant dip of his baby brother's spine has him stuffing his fingers into his mouth, whimpering in the dark, thrusting quietly as he can into the mattress, other hand wrapped tight around his cock?

Their dad would take a baseball bat to him if he knew, and that's all that's prevented Dean from going to him and asking for like, an exorcism or something. Anything. Because his baby brother is fifteen and he's pretty damn sure that jerking off in the shower (and making those delicious little moans) is the closest Sammy's ever gotten to sex, and Dean will be fucked if he'll touch Sammy, ruin those last shreds of innocence. Sam's not the boy he used to be, the wide-eyed child who used to climb into Dean's bed, shivering after a bad dream; he's nearly a man grown, and Dean won't take that last step with him.

Not even if the feel of Sam's hands on his skin, that soft touch on the night Sam patched him up, were enough to send him wild, make him wanna bolt to the bathroom, hide in there until this, this, this whatever it is fades. He has more self-control than that, or so he hopes.

Or so he hopes.

Sam is waiting for him at the school gates, perched on the garden wall of one of the houses neighbouring the main entrance. His bag sits at his feet, and he's picking at a spare thread in his jeans; they're too big for him, because anything that fits he outgrows within a week. They're also patched and repaired, multiple times.

Sometimes Dean wishes there were, maybe, just a little more he could do for Sam. He knows Sam resents the Goodwill raids, the second- or third-hand clothing, the lack of a permanent address; the resentment has been bubbling for a while now, and Dean notices it spilling into Sam's conflicts with their dad more and more. He wishes there were more he could do, but there isn't; it's up to him to try and keep Sam's spirits up, keep him from focusing on this.

"Hey, pretty," he says, pulling the Impala slowly up next to the curb and leaning over to open the passenger door. "How much d'ya charge per hour?"

"Oh, go fuck yourself," Sam says, but he's smiling a little, and climbs into the car without a problem, stretching his legs uncomfortably in the limited space. Neither of the Winchesters bother with a seat belt; Dean just puts his foot to the accelerator as soon as Sam slams the door closed. He keeps the car at a sedate pace the whole journey home, well-versed by his father in what happens to a young man with a car registered in someone else's name, filled with weaponry, who's caught speeding.

The door key is indeed under the welcome mat. Sam finds it while Dean locks the car, follows him up the stairs that lead to their apartment. They'd stopped for take-out, and Dean has the food in a bag under one arm. Sam holds the door open for him, but is already scanning the apartment, checking the white line of salt circling the door, across the windowsill, for any signs of a break-in.

The apartment is mostly the same as they'd left it, save for a piece of paper on the table. Dean puts the bag down next to it, glances it over as he takes various boxes out and pushes them towards Sam - won't be enough to fill him, but hell, he's lanky enough to need all the food he can get. He'll eat all of his share and pinch Dean's leftovers, too, and by eleven be peeking through the fridge.

"What is it?" Sam asks, pulling a chair back and grabbing one of the boxes, opening it and sighing at the burger inside. "Hope you bought a salad."

"Sure, and I got extra grease on it, just for you," Dean replies, rolling his eyes as he tosses Sam a Caesar salad in a transparent plastic box. Sam catches it deftly, grins a little in the way that lights up his eyes and dimples his cheeks just slightly, and Dean very carefully looks away. "It's a receipt for a rented car - jeez, he could've just asked me, I'd've driven her back for him." He doesn't need to say who 'she' is; Sam teases him plenty about his affection for the Impala.

He taps the amount at the bottom with a thumb nail, knows the spare cash they keep in the jar under the desk will've been dented considerably, and sighs. He'd kinda wanted to take Sammy out and get him some new jeans this weekend, but hunting comes first, and well, it's not like Sam knew about the plan to get bitter about it. He reaches into the bag, taking out the last of Sam's food and pushes it over to him, sliding into a seat opposite before emptying the sack of his own meal. Sam is quiet, for once, munching peacefully on his salad with the white plastic fork that came with, and it's a calm, comfortable air. Dean finishes his first burger, wiping his hands on the cheap complimentary napkin. "So," he says, awkwardly, "how was school?"

Sam spears a particularly crunchy bit of cabbage and twirls it, absently. "Okay, I guess," he says. "Teachers seem okay. I got some homework?"

"Yeah?" Dean opens his own salad, quietly, keeping his eyes on a spot of wall two inches to the left of Sam's ear. Sam runs a hand through his hair, ruffling his messy bangs - it's been too long since they last had the opportunity to cut their hair, but really, the style looks kinda good on him.

"Yeah, math. And some biology, too. Do I still have that lab coat from my old school?"

"Uh... yeah, I think so. In the blue crate, at the back of Dad's room." The salad's okay - Dean's had better - but he makes of show of hating the way it tastes. It's not that he doesn't like eating healthy - Dad always says a healthy diet leads to a healthy body, after all - but take-away salad is just... flat.

"Are we ever gonna unpack those crates?" Sam talks with a mouthful of lettuce, and Dean can't resist catapulting the grape on his fork at his little brother, grinning at Sam's indignant yelp of protest.

"Dude, don't talk with your mouth full," he says, smugly, and Sam shoots him a withering glare and tosses the grape back. It lands neatly back in the plastic container.

"You are such a dork, man," his brother says, but there are shadows of dimples, and Dean just leans back in his chair, straightens an imaginary tie and runs his hand through his hair in a dramatic display of pompousness that has Sam snorting, the dimples now actually visible.

"Dunno when we'll sort out those crates. Probably shouldn't get too comfortable, anyway," Dean offers when he's done with his little performance, and Sam stabs the last piece of his salad with a viciousness that maybe a carrot just doesn't deserve. "Sam -"

"I know," Sam growls, grabbing at the carrot with his fingers when it falls off the plastic fork and shoving it into his mouth. "I know, I just... it sucks, okay? Being the only kid in school with third-hand clothes? I just... I just wanna make some friends, without having to anticipate when we'll eventually have to leave, you know?"

Dean doesn't, not really. He stopped trying to make friends at his schools when he turned fourteen. For Sam's sake, however, he shrugs and puts what he hopes is a sympathetic expression on his face; his brother isn't fooled, just sneers, rolls his eyes and slams the salad box closed.

"I'm going to do my homework," he says, "I'll call you if I need any help."

And just like that, he's gone, tossing the empty boxes in the kitchen trash can on his way down the hall to their room. Dean sighs, buries his face in his hands, abruptly way too weary of this. He's slow rising to his feet, but pads down the hall with all the stealth his father taught him and listens at the door for - well, anything. Sobbing. Things hitting walls. His poster ripping, although if Sam does that his sympathy card is gonna go up in a fit of flames.

There's nothing, and after five minutes, he creeps back the way he came, clears the table, cleans the kitchen and even takes the trash out. Sam doesn't stir from his room, and Dean tries not to worry - remembers too clearly being Sammy's age, wanting to be a professional quarterback and fuming when his father wouldn't let him go. He'd been very good, good enough the school coach was talking about calling in college scouts; John had sent Sammy out to do the laundry when Dean told him, sat across from Dean at the kitchen table and very clearly outlined just why Dean couldn't leave, couldn't take up football. Dean'd understood, even though it hurt. The family, and particularly Sammy, come first, always.

Sam's sulking fit lasts throughout the evening, and the bedroom door doesn't open until almost eleven. Dean's sitting on the couch, a newspaper open on his lap, half-heartedly checking the obits while paying more attention to an old Charlton Heston movie playing on the TV. He thinks it might be Soylent Green. Last time he saw that, he damn near got left behind in Indiana, Dad sick of his constant quoting the phrase 'soylent green is people' and Sam's whining about how goddamn lame it was, Dean, seriously, quit it.

"Hey," Sammy says softly, one hand still on the handle of the door, like he might bolt if Dean makes any sudden moves.

"Hey," Dean replies, briskly folding up the paper and tossing it to the other side of the couch. He twists to get a glance at Sammy, who's once again dressed in his faded pyjama bottoms and is shifting his weight from foot to foot. "You goin' to bed?"

Sam nods, quietly, and lets go of the door handle, slipping into the bathroom and shutting himself in. Dean gets up, switches off the TV, and heads into their room, getting changed to the sound of Sam brushing his teeth with more vigour than normal. He wonders briefly what Sam's been doing, to warrant that sort of cleansing, and sniffs the air experimentally; the window's closed, and he can't smell anything different.

He checks the windowsill in their room first, satisfied that the salt circle is intact and the crucifixes he and Sam nailed either side are still there. There's another ring of salt along the exterior - and interior - of their door, and a protection rune from Mesopotamia carved on the inside; Dean runs his fingers along the groves, and nods at Sam when his little brother emerges. "Bathroom's secure," Sam says quietly, this a part of their ritual, and Dean continues on to check the living room, while Sam does the kitchen.

When the house has been checked all over, they finally head back to their room. Dean sets his alarm - he's more likely than Sam to wake up at its call, and he needs to be up earlier anyway - and Sam switches the light out when Dean gives him a nod, padding across the threadbare carpet to his own bed in the dark. Dean doesn't know if Sam's forgiven him - he's not sure he's done anything that requires forgiveness, or even how to make it up to Sam if he has - but he figures it'll blow away by morning. So many of Sam's odd moods normally do. And if they don't, he can arrange a training session, let Sam get it out of his system that way.

The mattress is lumpy, and the springs creaky. Dean tosses and turns at first, trying to get comfortable, and eventually sits up, pummeling the equally aged pillow into something that resembles a comfortable shape. Sam hisses at him to shut the fuck up and quit making so much noise from the other bed, and despite the pissy mood Sam's been in all evening, Dean can't help but mutter, "Looks like someone didn't jerk off this evening."

"Excuse me?" Sam's pillow catches him in the face, too dark for him to see it in time to duck. "Dean, what is your obsession with me and masturbation today? Seriously!" Sam's voice is low, even though Dad's not in the next room to kick the door open and glare them both into silence, and Dean wrenches the pillow away, tosses it atop his own and happily flops back into it. "Oh, Jesus, Dean - gimme my pillow back."

"Nope," Dean replies cheerfully, and this time he can see it when Sammy springs at him, clearing the narrow gap between their beds with a graceful pounce. He elbows his little brother in the sternum, and Sam hisses and jams an elbow straight into his belly, scrambling up Dean like a monkey, grabbing for his pillow. He's warm and surprisingly heavy, given how skinny he is, and Dean grits his teeth, works both hands under him to shove hard at Sam's torso. "Sam!" he snarls, pushing up as hard as he can and growling as Sam stubbornly presses back down. "Sam, get off!"

"Give me back my pillow then, you douche," Sam snaps, and Dean lifts his head, just enough for Sam to be able to rip the scuzzy pillow out from beneath him. His little brother sits back, balancing his weight on Dean's lower belly, looking completely proud of himself; his expression changes when Dean bucks hard beneath him, slanting his hips and applying enough pressure to Sam's with his hands to send his brother sprawling to the floor.

Sam lands with a yip of surprise, on his ass with his newly-long legs stretched out before him and this confused, puzzled and slightly indignant expression on his face that would be hilarious any other time. Dean's cock is half-hard in his boxers, would be perfectly happy if Sam would straddle Dean all day, and he is very, very glad it's dark. "Way to have a sense of humour failure," Sam growls, picking himself up and hitching up his pyjama bottoms, which have slipped low enough to flash Dean a glimpse of dark brown curls.

"Yeah, well," Dean says, and guesses he's lucky he can manage even that. Sam stands between their beds and there's a shadow across his face, masking his expression; Dean feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, feels his arms tense. If Sam pushes this wrestling fit, Dean won't play nice.

But Sam just snorts once, sharply, in disgust, bending and snatching up his pillow from the floor. He throws it onto his bed and climbs in after, his movements pointed, jerky, and Dean swallows, wets his dry lips with his tongue. "'night, Sammy," he says, relieved that Sam didn't force anything, and his brother grunts in response, twitches the duvet firmly to cover him from neck to shin. His bare feet poke out over the bottom of the mattress, the bed too small for him; he rolls to face the wall, putting his back to Dean in an unmistakable gesture.

Dean is at once relieved that nothing happened, relieved that he can still have a healthy relationship with Sam (when he stops sulking). His brother is his constant friend and companion, and the problem with his secret is that it will ruin everything if it comes out. He doesn't think he could face up to it if that happened, but at the same time... a part of him is curious, wants to know Sam's reaction to being kissed, the taste of Sam's skin and the texture of that dark patch of wiry hair. Dean swallows, revolted and aroused, and rolls over too, facing the bare wall. His cock is throbbing in his boxers, hard and hot and uncomfortable; Dean bites his lip, slides a hand down into his underwear as quietly as possible.

He jacks himself off in the dark with Sam not three feet away, and his little brother is the only thing on his mind when he comes.

Sam is already awake when Dean's alarm goes off the next morning. He smashes the off button with a fist, drawing his arm back only to throw it across his eyes, shielding them from the morning sun. "Fuck," he mumbles, speech slurred with sleep still; Sam shifts on the other bed and tosses a pair of socks at him.

"Hey," he says, and gives Dean a steady, even look he doesn't like when he uncovers his eyes. "We got a half hour left to get ready." Sam's already showered, his hair darker with water, and dressed; he sits cross-legged on his bed, his hands folded loosely in his lap. "I'll make breakfast while you shower," he offers and Dean nods, peels back the duvet and sits up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed.

"'kay," he adds after a few seconds, because Sam hasn't moved. "Eggs?"

"There's none left," Sam replies stiffly. "Just toast with imaginary butter."

"My favourite," Dean says dryly. He stands and stretches, knocking a kink out of his spine; regrets falling asleep the way he did last night, sated and boneless, more hanging off the bed than resting on it. "You leave a towel for me?"

"Yeah." Sam tilts his head, an oddly satisfied expression crossing his face, and Dean swallows, instantly apprehensive. His brother is a sweet enough kid most of the time, except when he's really, really not. "So. You feeling better now that you've jerked off?"

Dean freezes, snaps his head up, and Sam grins, bright and wicked. He opens his mouth, but the only noise that emerges is a sort of sharp inhale, and he has the awkward feeling he's blushing. Jesus Christ.

"What? Only funny when you tease me about it?" Sam folds his hands in his lap, grinning like a shark. Holy fuck, Dean thinks numbly, he's learning from me. "Seriously, dude, I could hear you. I know what it sounds like. And you weren't exactly subtle. So, who were you thinking about? That chick from the record store? I've noticed you haven't been sneaking in through the window as often as you were when we first got here..."

"Christ, Sam," Dean says, his mouth running on auto while his brain is busy going Oh my god next I'm going to turn up in class naked, apparently unhindered by the fact that he doesn't even go to school anymore. Sam's watching him with this expression on his face, close to apprehension or something, and Dean realises he's been asked a question. "N-no," he manages. "Not the chick from the record store."

Sam leans forward, the cautious look fading a little, and drums his fingers on his knee. "Then who?" he asks, in what he probably imagines is a sly tone. Dean really wishes that something would bust the door down, grab him by the ankles, and haul him off to provide a handy source of sustenance for its young. Anything rather than having Sam quiz him on his wank-fantasies, many of which had centred around the hollow of his little brother's hip, the smoothness of the skin there.

"Your girlfriend Lou," he says, as curtly as he can. "She was totally hot, for a fourteen-year-old."

"Liar," Sam says, and unfolds his legs, inching himself forward to hang off the edge of the bed. "You were dating seniors when you were fourteen, man. Seriously, who was it?" Dean fixes him with a death glare, which Sam cheerfully ignores. "Would it help," his little brother adds, "if I told you I masturbated in the shower this morning -"

Oh, God. "Yeah, it'd remind me to disinfect the bathroom," Dean snaps, and Sam blinks, clearly not expecting that. "Look, I don't know why you think this is any of your business, Sam, but it's kinda creepy -"

"I thought of you when I touched myself," Sam says flatly, cutting over Dean like his statement is something that has to be heard no matter what, and Dean's brain crashes to a shrieking halt against a massive block, sending flaming debris all over the mental rails. Most of the debris seems to consist of simply punctuation, !!!!!! and ?!?!?!?!?! crowding out anything involving actual words.

"Holy fuck," Dean whispers, voicing the most coherent of them, and Sam gives him a hopeful grin, brushing his scruffy hair out of his eyes. He looks much younger than he is, suddenly, and Dean swallows. "Holy fuck."

"So." Sam sounds a little breathless, and Dean realises with sudden, gut-wrenching clarity that his brother is embarrassingly, painfully, completely and utterly virginal. Sam doesn't know what he wants. Hell, it's been drilled into Dean throughout various schools: teenagers undergoing puberty may pass through phases of confusion about their sexual orientation, and Sam... well, Sam's tall and still growing and kinda spotty, and he probably won't always want this.

"I. Um." He has to grasp for the words, not sure exactly how to stop this inexperienced, not-particularly-subtle seduction and trying to ignore the part of him that's busy cheering Sam on. Sam is leaning forward, over the edge of his bed, fingers digging into the coverlet; his cheeks are flushed and his pupils a little dilated, and Dean doesn't need to look twice to know that his brother's hard. The thought makes his stomach plunge and his cock stir, and that's when it hits him that maybe Sammy never wanted this in the first place, maybe this is the work of a succubus or an incubus or something. "That's new?" he offers, glad he has some measure of cocky bastard back in his voice.

Sam shakes his head, disagreeing, and holds up a hand. "Months," Sam he says, flashing Dean a quick grin, and Dean's heart skips a beat. "Right after that troll in Tennessee, remember?"

Dean does remember Sam climbing into his bed that night, not unheard of when they were younger, but much rarer once Sam hit his teenage years. He swallows, and says, gently, "And you're sure you, uh, came to this by yourself?"

Sam blinks, puzzled, and then comprehension dawns briefly before his expression hardens. "You think I'm under some sort of spell," he says stiffly.

"Well, yeah," Dean admits. "It's... you don't just... look, Sam, it's... not right, okay? It's just..."

"It's just what?" Sam snaps, leaning back. His eyes are narrowed and he looks sulky, like when Dad orders him to skip debate club to practise with a crossbow. "'cause I'm pretty sure you're feeling the not-rightness too, Dean, unless -"

"Look," Dean says, loudly, pushing himself to his feet. Sam raises his chin, squaring his shoulders defiantly, and Dean sighs, not really up to a fight with Sam's puppy-dog eyes. "Sam," he says, firmly, and repeats it when Sam's mouth thins into a line. "Sam. I'm gonna have my shower, drop you off at school, then we can spend this afternoon looking for exorcism spells, or something."

His little brother opens his mouth to protest, but Dean ignores him with all the skill he can, slipping past the arm Sam half-heartedly raises to grab him and out the door, into the tiny cramped bathroom. The floor is wet still from Sam's shower, though his brother has thrown a towel over it next to the shower stall. There's another ratty, threadbare towel, stolen from a motel in Nebraska two years ago, folded over the edge of the sink; Dean sighs, and yanks the shower curtain back, stripping as efficiently as possible.

Sam's used up most of the hot water, but Dean's used to cold showers, and he just sets his jaw and reaches blindly for the soap. His dick is half-hard again from the encounter with Sam, and he slips a hand around it, determined to jerk off and get the hell out of there as soon as possible. He needs to drive Sam to school, even though frankly he's not looking forward to the inevitable awkward silence. Maybe he'll call their dad this evening, if the public library's computers fail to shed any light on this whole mess; tell him that he thinks Sam's been possessed by a succubus - Dad'll have his guts for being so careless, for letting something happen to Sam, but it'll be the truth, and maybe he can help.

Dean closes his eyes under the stinging cold water, slapping the other hand against the equally chill tiles for balance, and cups his balls, hissing under his breath. The thing is, even if they get this thing out of Sam, this - this - won't go away. He's tried, he really has, but it's not something you can just turn off when you don't want it. He growls quietly to himself, eyes closed, releases his balls to thumb the spot under the head that he likes and breathes Sam's name on a long exhale, feeling guilty for doing so.

That, of course, is when Sam shoves the bathroom door open.

Dean's eyes snap open and he accidentally inhales a mouthful of water, which sends him into a coughing fit that lasts right up until Sam pulls the shower curtain away. His little brother's mouth is thin and his eyes are hard, and Dean knows he's trapped.

"I'm not," is the first thing Sam says, which takes Dean by surprise, having expected a You fuckhead.

"Huh?" he replies, intelligently, voice still thick and husky from the coughing fit. The water's still pouring down and makes it a little hard to hear Sam, but he can't quite motivate himself to turn away, switch the shower off.

"Possessed." Sam's eyebrows draw together, and he tosses his head like a small Shetland pony, shaking some of his hair back over his face. "I thought about it, and I wondered if you were right, but you're not. I'm not possessed. I just want to... touch you." Sam blushes at those last two words, clearly too embarrassed to say exactly what he wants to touch and how. Dean thumbs some sopping hair of his own out of his face, heart hammering in his chest. "And I would really like it if you could... touch me. Too. I mean. If you want to."

No, Sam. That would be wrong. I'm responsible for you, it's my job to keep you safe, I can't 'touch you'. It'd be a total violation of, of big brother rights says Dean's responsible side. Out loud, he says "Mmgft?"

"... What?" Sam replies, shooting him a look Dean's all too familiar with, one that says clearly You're a moron. Dean's hand is still wrapped around his dick, and the other is still pressed against the tiles. Sam has his face tilted slightly upwards, eyes dark, and he's sweet and so close and he wants this. It's surprisingly easy to simply lean over, out of the cubicle, and kiss Sam. He tastes nothing like he did in the (privately somewhat soppy) dreams Dean's been having on and off since he first noticed that his brother is beautiful, the ones he wouldn't admit to having even under torture, the ones where... well, they're private.

Sam kisses him back, with far too much enthusiasm, leaning closer and not seeming to care that the spray from the shower is dampening his clothing. He doesn't kiss well - too much teeth, not enough tongue - but he's making this sort of whining, desperate noise into Dean's mouth and it's really, really cute. And also disturbingly hot.

Dean breaks the kiss with great effort, panting for breath and his cock ridiculously hard in his grip. Sam sways on his feet, blinking, lips a little redder and a sort of warm flush spreading through his cheeks; then he smiles, warmer than Dean's seen him do for ages. "So," his little brother says, sounds a little breathless himself. "Uh. You, um, want any help with that?" He's still staring into Dean's eyes, but it's not hard to work out what he's talking about. Dean feels himself flush, too, really not sure that he should allow Sam to give him a handjob in the shower, despite the kissing..

"Could we maybe date first?" Dean offers, tries one of his grins, and Sam rolls his eyes. "I mean, your dad, princess -"

"Oh, shut up," Sam replies snippily, but despite his firm words, the hand he puts over Dean's own is tentative, unsure. It's also utterly unexpected.

"Sam!" Dean recoils, nearly slips on the wet floor of the cubicle. "Okay, Sam, stop. You're only fifteen!"

"So?" Sam's gaze meets his, flat, challenging. "My birthday's not for another five months, and I am definitely not waiting that long."

Dean swallows, feeling off-balance by this wanting, aggressive aspect to his baby brother as much as by the cold water still pouring down his skin. He shivers, stands up straighter, and takes a hand off his dick. "Sam," he says, but Sam just sighs. "Look, I've... wanted this for a long time." It almost hurts to admit it, but there, it's done, the truth's out there. He's never confessed it before, not outside his own head.

"So why are you fighting me?" Sam demands, busy rolling his right sleeve up. Dean swallows, but all Sam does is reach behind him and shut the shower off. "You're gonna get hypothermia like that, jackass," he adds, almost as an afterthought. The shower cubicle is about six inches above the rest of the bathroom, and standing in it, Dean has to look down - although not by that much - to meet Sam's eyes.

"I'm your big brother," he says in a voice that's little more than a whisper, and a wretched one at that.

"And?" Sam replies, gently, and sighs. Before Dean can stop him, he's kicking his sneakers off, climbing into the cramped little cubicle with Dean fully clothed. There's just enough space for the two of them without limbs being put in bizarre places, and the rasp of Sam's shirt against his wet skin makes Dean shudder, leaves goosebumps in its wake. The way they're pressed together, Dean can feel the heavy fullness of Sam's cock, hard and hot even through his jeans, against his hip; it's something surprisingly familiar, and he flushes darkly even as his own body tunes itself into the aria that is Sam.

"You smell good," Sam murmurs, long-fingered hands curling slowly around Dean's bare wrists. His brother leans forward, balancing himself on the balls of his feet, not seeming to care about the damp patch spreading over his clothing from where Dean's skin is still wet. Sam kisses the side of Dean's neck, nibbling experimentally in a way which he probably thinks is hot, is actually kinda painful, and gets Dean whimpering into his little brother's messy brown hair anyway.

"Sam," he says, or maybe he only thinks he does, but either way Sam stops biting him and just nuzzles, slow and thoughtful even as his hands release Dean's wrists, slip hesitantly southwards. "Sam."

"Mmm?" Sam sounds drowsy and content, cards the tips of his fingers through the very top of Dean's pubic hair. Dean draws in a deep breath, feeling his cock respond to the gentle touch, and then exhales on a rising whimper as Sam drags a thumb cautiously up the shaft, face still buried in the crook of his neck.

"I- You have to. Strip. Or at least undo your jeans. Or something." Dean's voice sounds like a stranger's, nervous and tense even in his own ears. He doesn't know why, exactly; he's no virgin, not even with guys.

Probably because Sam is his brother.

"'kay." Sam nips again at Dean's neck, will probably leave a heck of an ugly hickey when he's done, and that's gonna be hard to explain to Bitchface. He makes no move to unbuckle his belt, however, and Dean releases with a sort of breathless wonder - mixed with a healthy dose of pure terror - that Sam wants him to do it. His hands feel like wood as they trace the leather, as they unsnap the buckle slowly and reach for the bright little metal button hidden beneath. Sam's breathing encouragement into his skin, steady streams of noise that sound like yeah, that's right, keep on going, I want you, it's okay.

The button parts and Dean's hands speed up, faster, as they pull the zipper down. Sam's wearing a pair of dark blue boxers under his jeans, but when Dean hesitates, Sam slips his other hand down and under, twisting it past Dean's, to touch his balls lightly with the tip of an index finger. The contact is enough to make Dean hiss, a thick encouraging sound, but Sam doesn't repeat it, just nuzzles again at Dean's neck. "Go for it," he murmurs, and Dean closes his eyes, nods just once, and plunges his hand into Sam's underwear.

Sam's cock is hot and hard, the tip slick with pre-come. It's bigger than Dean's, already, and Sam gasps softly when Dean grips it gently, pushing his brother's jeans and boxers down with the other hand. They pool around Sam's ankles, and maybe when Dean opens his eyes his little brother looks a little ridiculous, bare-assed with his shirt soaked from embracing a just-showered Dean. Dean can't say he notices. His attention is on Sam's cock, dark with blood and so very hard, and suddenly, like a switch has been flipped, some of the tension drains away, just like that.

"I'm going to blow you," he murmurs, and Sam whines, thrusting into his hand. For all Sam's earlier bossiness, he's the virgin here, doesn't complain when Dean begins to sink to his knees. He slides his hands down Sam's body as he goes, settling them around his brother's hips, and Sam winds his long fingers in his hair, seeking purchase. I'm going to blow my baby brother in the shower, some part of him points out, but now it's not urgent, just an observation, and the noise Sam makes when Dean leans forward, fluttering his tongue over the slit, is enough to kill off any worries he might have had. He's not a master of blowjobs, but he knows enough to make this good for Sammy; tightens his hold on Sam's hips when his brother bucks forward.

Sam's murmuring his name on repeat, like one of those Latin exorcism mantras Dad had them memorising when they were much younger than this. He squeezes the arc of Sam's hipbone briefly, reassurance, relief, and opens his mouth for the head. No teeth, just tongue, he reminds himself, and closes his mouth as he leans forward again.

Blowjobs aren't easy. Soon, his knees ache, his jaw aches, and it's only the breathy quality of Sam's moans, rising and rising in pitch until he’s almost keening, that keeps him from giving up. His brother has pretty good stamina for a virgin, and Dean makes a note to himself to tease Sammy about his alone time with his hand more often; before he can develop the thought any more, Sam's fingers tighten in his hair, and his little brother hisses his name, wetly. It's all the warning he needs to back off, finish Sam off with his hand even as he rises to his feet.

Sam comes - over Dean's hand - with a soft whine, happy and content. Dean grins at that, lets his brother slump forward onto his shoulder without complaint - although he does surreptitiously wipe his hand clean on Sam's shirt. His own cock throbs hotly between his legs and he slips his free hand down, figuring Sam too orgasm-sated to be much good for anything; he's surprised when Sam reaches out and twines their hands together, pointedly pushing down. Sam raises his head, quiet but firm, and Dean sees the gleam of Winchester steel in his eyes.

"Together," he says, and as he closes one huge hand around Dean's cock, Dean knows he can't argue with that.

The popcorn is a little soggy and maybe not salty enough, but Sam doesn't complain, just takes the bowl and watches Dean settle himself down on the other end of the couch with an odd expression on his face, something Dean's not used to. The TV's on - Star Wars, one of Dean's favourite movies and Sam's most-watched - and about halfway through; Sam holds out a hand, offers Dean the bowl. "So," he says, and his voice is maybe more steady than Dean thinks it should be. "Did I - did I do good?"

Dean is thankful he hadn't yet put the popcorn in his mouth, or else he might've choked on it. As it was, he had to pick stray kernels off the couch and floor, which conveniently gave him an excuse not to look at Sam's worried face. "Yeah," he says, while he chases a kernel that's rolled under a cushion. "Yeah, you were, um, awesome, Sam. "

Sam smiles, gives a little triumphant toss of his head, and settles further down against the couch, swaying just a little towards Dean. The movement is barely perceptible. "Where did you learn to do that thing with your mouth?" he asks, all bright eyes and enthusiasm. "Could I maybe try it next time?"

Dean swallows, leaning back into the arm of the chair, and rubs his hands over his face. It was unnervingly easy to look at Sam afterwards, when Sam had jerked him off and then licked his hand clean, eyes smoky and pure sex. "Uh, I guess," he ventures, cautiously, unwilling to commit to something that may or may not come to pass. "Anyway, I spoke to Dad."

"What did he say?"

"He said..." Dean runs a thumb around the edge of the bowl, feeling the chips in the rim. "He said I should stay home from work and keep an eye on you."

"On me?" Sam lifts his eyebrows, tucks his legs a little closer to his body, leans a little towards Dean. Dean wants to reach out, rest a hand on his brother's knee, touch Sam somehow. He just thought - well, blowing his baby brother in their bathroom not forty-five minutes ago would change something.

"Yeah, you. He said since you have that migraine and all, maybe you shouldn’t go to school. Although he did say to tell you that you're not going to take another day off from now until Christmas, barring any hunts."

"Figures," Sam mutters darkly, draws the popcorn back and nestles it in his lap. "Thanks to lying to Dad for me," he adds, as an afterthought, and Dean shrugs uncomfortably. On screen, Leia and Luke meet for the first time; Dean tilts his head, thinking of the crush they had on each other, and wonders if it still would've existed if they'd been raised together, or if he and Sam are freaks in society. He's done research, anyway, knows there's this thing - Munchausen's effect? Westermarcke syndrome? One of those - which dictates that he should not be sexually attracted to Sammy at all, not according to basic psychiatry. Well, he's always known he was a freak.

"Missing anything interesting?" he asks casually, holding out his hand, and takes a handful of popcorn when Sam holds out the bowl. Neither of them take their eyes off the screen.

"Math," Sam says.

Aren't you a little short to be a stormtrooper? Leia asks Luke finally, her image warped by the ancient television and much-watched worn-down tape. Sam mouths the words as she says them, and Dean glances over at him. His little brother doesn't look angry, just... distant, and Dean hopes, really hopes, that he hasn't done anything he shouldn't.

"You don't like math anyway," he offers, aiming for nonchalance. Sam nods, tipping the bowl to pour the last of the popcorn into his hand, and diplomatically divides the kernels in half. He then tosses his head back and pops both halves into his mouth, and Dean rolls his eyes.

He can't say he's not pleased, however, when Sam leans over, balancing on his knee, and brazenly presses himself close, going for a messy, popcorn-filled kiss right there on their couch. It's salty and warm and, well, pleasant, and Dean's chest buzzes softly, and maybe a little sadly, at the sensation.

"You know this is going to blow up in our faces," he says, when they part. Sam rolls his eyes, licks up a straying crumb clinging to the corner of his mouth.

I'm here to rescue you, Luke says. I've got your R2 unit. I'm here with Ben Kenobi.

"Yeah," Sam replies, voice soft and almost lost in the sound from the TV. "I know." He's still hovering, close to Dean, eyes on the TV.

"You won't always want this," Dean continues, voice wavering, barely perceptible, without resolve. It's true. It hurts to contemplate it, but it's there. Sam's been looking at girls, regardless of his supposed crush on Dean, and they're just... Dean can't see any way they can keep this going, even if Sam were willing; Dad would slap them both silly if he found out, and the three of them live in such close proximity it's inevitable unless they stop. If they do... well, why would his brother, who's just learning how to speak to girls without making a fool of himself, want to wait? Sam won't be content with the few days they can get, here and then, while Dad's off in some backwards stunt hunting something he can't postpone until the weekend, drag them along after. Darth Vader announces he intends to kill Obi-wan Kenobi, the light gleaming off his sinister helmet and his voice as menacing as his headgear. "Not to mention other things. You know, like Dad. I mean -"

"Dean," Sam interrupts, wearily. "Not now, man." He leans into Dean, cutting off any further argument with his body, and pillows his head on his older brother's knee. "Obi-wan's about to kick it, you always like that part."

Dean hesitates only a moment before carefully settling his left hand at the nape of Sam's neck, stroking the fine hairs there in a repetitive motion with his thumb, feeling a fond expression on his face that he's only too grateful his brother can't see.

It's not right, it's not healthy, it's not good and it will blow up in their faces. But it's theirs, and that has to count for something.

-fini

Afterword: The legal age of consent in Iowa, according to the internet, is actually sixteen. There appear to be no laws specifically regarding gay sex there.

For wendy, who asked nicely. This is the longest SPN fic I've written so far, much to my surprise. Many thanks to monkiedude, for beta-ing and also... whatever the American version of Britpicking is, and who also saved Dean from accidently shooting his own balls off via typo. Also thanks to keepaofthecheez and bleedingsand, both of whom responded admirably when wailed at about how the porn 'just wasn't coming' and offered general advice as well as, when necessary, an alibi.