Fic: Look at me and know
Title: Look at me and know
Author: joans23
Paring: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Words: 1766
Summary: If he wasn’t his brother, maybe he’d love him back.
Notes: Warning for underage!Sam (aged about 14). My first mini_nanowrimo project is done. \o/! Title and cut from Anyone Who Had A Heart by Shelby Lynne.
Sam can’t remember the last time Dean’s hands weren’t clenched. He can’t bear to look at them anymore. Tight fists hanging by his sides waiting in line at the movies. White knuckled grip on his toothbrush and the basin’s edge. Dean’s eyes crinkle when he cracks a grin and some lame joke, but his hands … they are always filled with rage.
He remembers one time when he was little; he made a bet with Tommy Wilkens that he could eat a whole pound of the sugary homemade fudge they sold at the corner store. He won. He also got the worst stomach ache ever and Dean rubbed his tummy until he fell asleep. Every so often he would roll himself into a tight little ball in the middle of the bed and groan in mock pain, not even one piece of candy eaten. He would always wake up with Dean’s open hand splayed heavily on his stomach and try to keep his breathing steady to watch its rise and fall a little bit longer.
He thinks about it all the time now when his muscles cramp and the ache in his bones won’t let him rest. Dad calls them growing pains, but Sam doesn’t really care what they’re called, he just knows it hurts. He keeps waiting for Dean to touch him and make it all better, but Dean just lays there with his back turned stiff and straight at Sam and those damn fists curled underneath his pillow.
~*~
It’s somewhere in the middle of the night when Dad and Dean come stumbling in from a hunt. Sam wakes up when Dean switches on the bathroom light, but Dean tells him everything is fine, to go back to sleep. He listens to Dean moving around, the sounds dull and muted by the door Dean pulled shut behind him, but still there. He imagines Dean looking at his tired reflection in the foggy mirror; fingers covered in dirt and blood, but loose, as they brush once over his head to rest on the back of his neck.
He must have dozed off again, because the next thing he knows Dean’s lips are pressed soft and slightly wet against his temple and Sam is sure he must still be dreaming.
“Good night, Sammy,” he whispers.
“Dean?”
Dean startles, pulls away immediately, but Sam is looking up at him with big, round eyes and there’s no escape. Dean tries to look away and hide his eyes; guilty, like that time he got caught shoplifting. Dad thought it was for some condoms and a soda and made him train double time for a month, but all he had hidden in his back pocket was some pencils for Sam.
Sam reaches out for him, but Dean just turns away and gets into his own bed.
“Go back to sleep, Sam.”
~*~
It’s worse when Dad’s not around. Dean’s outside before Sam even wakes up and only comes back long after Sam’s gone to bed again, smelling of dust and sweat. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t eat, doesn’t even drag Sam outside to train like Dad told him to. He just runs and shoots and rolls around in the yard wrestling invisible demons.
Sam goes outside sometimes to watch him. Dean runs away if he catches him, so he hides around corners or behind the skeletons of half rusted junk cars. He watches Dean punch the air, punch the fence, punch the ground until his fingers are mangled, blood seeping from the broken skin stretched ever tightly across bitter bones.
Dean is beautiful when he moves like that. Like he’s facing off against hell itself and it’s his soul to pay if he loses. Sam watches unblinkingly until he can’t stand it anymore. He can feel tears burning in his eyes, presses an open palm against his half-hard cock as he slinks away.
~*~
He’s looking at Dean again, pulling aside the threadbare curtains to spy at his brother’s distorted image through the watermarked windows. He’s absently biting at the thumb nail of his right hand as his left dips under the waistband of his jeans.
Sam palms his cock, hand moving up and down haltingly until he drops his head forward to smack loudly against the dirty glass as his orgasm hits quick and hard. He lets his forehead rest against the cool surface, nostrils flaring wide with rushing breaths as he keeps his lips sealed tight against the dangerous words that threaten to tumble out.
Instead of calming down, his breathing keeps speeding up, a wild panicky ache clenching at his chest and he spits out Dean’s name as the first broken sob burst from his lips.
“Sam?”
Sam whirls around to find Dean framed by blinding sunlight in the open doorway. He’s still got his hand down the front of his pants. Sam rips it out, smearing come against his stomach and the bottom of his shirt. He tries to hide it behind his back, but Dean’s already seen him, is staring at him in horror.
“What are you doing?”
“Dean, I …”
“No, I don’t want to hear it. Just go. Get cleaned up.”
Sam ignores him, steps closer to Dean. Dean stands his ground, shoves his fists into his pockets and stares Sam down.
“Don’t you love me, Dean?”
Dean stays silent for an instant and then the fight dissolves from his stance and his shoulders slump forward.
“You know I do, Sam. This … isn’t about love.”
“Yes it is. I love you, Dean. I want …”
“What? What do you want, Sam?”
“I want you to say it back. I want you to … I want …”
Sam takes another half step forward, really getting up into Dean’s space. Crowding him back against the wall. His heartbeat is heavy and laboured, a dull thud-thud in his chest that’s almost too painful to bear. Dean’s ragged breath washes over his face, pushes past his parted lips until he can taste it on the back of his tongue.
He catches sight of his hand hovering next to Dean’s face, stares at it for a second like he has no idea how it got there. His eyes flick back to Dean and Dean is staring at it too. He’s leaning into it a little bit, so near Sam can just about feel Dean’s stubble under his palm. His shoulders are pulled back though, trying to push through the barrier behind him.
“Dean …”
Dean looks back at Sam, and for the first time his eyes are just as naked as Sam’s; nothing hidden between them. Then Sam blinks and Dean’s eyes narrow dangerously. He grabs Sam’s hand away from his face, holds it in an iron grip in one hand as he undoes his pants with the other.
Before he pushes Sam’s hand against his crotch, Sam catches sight of Dean’s cock curling up against his stomach; angry and red.
“Is this what you want, Sammy?”
Sam doesn’t say anything, leans in to kiss Dean instead. Dean turns his face away and Sam ends up with his lips buried against Dean’s neck. Dean doesn’t loosen his grip, rubs Sam’s open fingers hard against his cock, covering them in slick precome. Sam tries to curl them around Dean’s hard length, but it’s too fast, too rough.
Dean’s shoulders start shaking and the filthy words that have been pouring from his mouth are reduced to short, harsh grunts. Sam pulls back a little, in time to see his brother’s face distort into something he hardly recognizes. Dean’s eyes are squeezed shut tightly against the tears that are streaming down his cheeks as he spills over their slowing hands. There is snot running from his nose, it’s getting on his lips that are pulled thin against a wild silent scream. Sam recognizes pain, anguish so deep and profound it stabs deep into his heart.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to feel good and right and perfect. Dean is supposed to love him.
Sam is deathly quiet when Dean finally pulls Sam’s hand away from his spent cock. He doesn’t let it go and stands looking down at it laying slack and covered in come on his splayed fingers. Then Dean simply tips his hand and Sam lets it fall to his side and just hang there as he waits for Dean to look up at him.
Dean just keeps staring at Sam’s hand, not even blinking. Sam slowly lifts it again and Dean’s eyes are following, travelling up Sam’s body as it moves towards his mouth. He holds it up in front of his face and he can smell the salty and pungent odour of Dean’s come on his fingers. Tentatively he slips two into his mouth and sucks at them noisily. With a groan Dean looks Sam in the eye and Sam’s eyes are big and round, just like he knew they would be.
“I’m sorry, Sammy. So sorry.”
“It’s okay, Dean.”
“No, it’s … I’m not supposed to … I’m sor …”
Dean breath hitches, cuts off on the last syllable. He buries his face in his hands, sinks down onto his knees.
“What have I done?”
Sam kneels in front of Dean, takes his hands away softly and lays them down palms facing up against his thighs.
“Dean. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Sam slides his hands over Dean’s again and again, his skin tingling where their open palms meet.
“How can you say that, Sammy? I made you …”
“You didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to. I. I wanted to, Dean.”
Sam reaches out and wipes the tears from Dean’s cheek. Dean turns his face into Sam’s hand, brushing a kiss against the thumb Sam trails over his lips.
Sam slips his hand back, curling his fingers around the base of Dean’s skull and drags him forward slowly, his eyes never leaving Dean’s. Their first kiss is dry, lips pressed hard and fleetingly against each other. Sam lets go of Dean and Dean leans back a little, eyes roaming over Sam like he’s looking for something.
He must find whatever it is he’s looking for because he starts to smile. It’s warm and true and Sam can’t help but letting his own relieved smile sneak over his features.
Then it’s Dean reaching for Sam and Sam stops him, takes hold of his hand to look at it for a moment; so open, for him. He places it over his mouth, closes his eyes and waits for Dean's kiss.
Author: joans23
Paring: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Words: 1766
Summary: If he wasn’t his brother, maybe he’d love him back.
Notes: Warning for underage!Sam (aged about 14). My first mini_nanowrimo project is done. \o/! Title and cut from Anyone Who Had A Heart by Shelby Lynne.
Sam can’t remember the last time Dean’s hands weren’t clenched. He can’t bear to look at them anymore. Tight fists hanging by his sides waiting in line at the movies. White knuckled grip on his toothbrush and the basin’s edge. Dean’s eyes crinkle when he cracks a grin and some lame joke, but his hands … they are always filled with rage.
He remembers one time when he was little; he made a bet with Tommy Wilkens that he could eat a whole pound of the sugary homemade fudge they sold at the corner store. He won. He also got the worst stomach ache ever and Dean rubbed his tummy until he fell asleep. Every so often he would roll himself into a tight little ball in the middle of the bed and groan in mock pain, not even one piece of candy eaten. He would always wake up with Dean’s open hand splayed heavily on his stomach and try to keep his breathing steady to watch its rise and fall a little bit longer.
He thinks about it all the time now when his muscles cramp and the ache in his bones won’t let him rest. Dad calls them growing pains, but Sam doesn’t really care what they’re called, he just knows it hurts. He keeps waiting for Dean to touch him and make it all better, but Dean just lays there with his back turned stiff and straight at Sam and those damn fists curled underneath his pillow.
~*~
It’s somewhere in the middle of the night when Dad and Dean come stumbling in from a hunt. Sam wakes up when Dean switches on the bathroom light, but Dean tells him everything is fine, to go back to sleep. He listens to Dean moving around, the sounds dull and muted by the door Dean pulled shut behind him, but still there. He imagines Dean looking at his tired reflection in the foggy mirror; fingers covered in dirt and blood, but loose, as they brush once over his head to rest on the back of his neck.
He must have dozed off again, because the next thing he knows Dean’s lips are pressed soft and slightly wet against his temple and Sam is sure he must still be dreaming.
“Good night, Sammy,” he whispers.
“Dean?”
Dean startles, pulls away immediately, but Sam is looking up at him with big, round eyes and there’s no escape. Dean tries to look away and hide his eyes; guilty, like that time he got caught shoplifting. Dad thought it was for some condoms and a soda and made him train double time for a month, but all he had hidden in his back pocket was some pencils for Sam.
Sam reaches out for him, but Dean just turns away and gets into his own bed.
“Go back to sleep, Sam.”
~*~
It’s worse when Dad’s not around. Dean’s outside before Sam even wakes up and only comes back long after Sam’s gone to bed again, smelling of dust and sweat. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t eat, doesn’t even drag Sam outside to train like Dad told him to. He just runs and shoots and rolls around in the yard wrestling invisible demons.
Sam goes outside sometimes to watch him. Dean runs away if he catches him, so he hides around corners or behind the skeletons of half rusted junk cars. He watches Dean punch the air, punch the fence, punch the ground until his fingers are mangled, blood seeping from the broken skin stretched ever tightly across bitter bones.
Dean is beautiful when he moves like that. Like he’s facing off against hell itself and it’s his soul to pay if he loses. Sam watches unblinkingly until he can’t stand it anymore. He can feel tears burning in his eyes, presses an open palm against his half-hard cock as he slinks away.
~*~
He’s looking at Dean again, pulling aside the threadbare curtains to spy at his brother’s distorted image through the watermarked windows. He’s absently biting at the thumb nail of his right hand as his left dips under the waistband of his jeans.
Sam palms his cock, hand moving up and down haltingly until he drops his head forward to smack loudly against the dirty glass as his orgasm hits quick and hard. He lets his forehead rest against the cool surface, nostrils flaring wide with rushing breaths as he keeps his lips sealed tight against the dangerous words that threaten to tumble out.
Instead of calming down, his breathing keeps speeding up, a wild panicky ache clenching at his chest and he spits out Dean’s name as the first broken sob burst from his lips.
“Sam?”
Sam whirls around to find Dean framed by blinding sunlight in the open doorway. He’s still got his hand down the front of his pants. Sam rips it out, smearing come against his stomach and the bottom of his shirt. He tries to hide it behind his back, but Dean’s already seen him, is staring at him in horror.
“What are you doing?”
“Dean, I …”
“No, I don’t want to hear it. Just go. Get cleaned up.”
Sam ignores him, steps closer to Dean. Dean stands his ground, shoves his fists into his pockets and stares Sam down.
“Don’t you love me, Dean?”
Dean stays silent for an instant and then the fight dissolves from his stance and his shoulders slump forward.
“You know I do, Sam. This … isn’t about love.”
“Yes it is. I love you, Dean. I want …”
“What? What do you want, Sam?”
“I want you to say it back. I want you to … I want …”
Sam takes another half step forward, really getting up into Dean’s space. Crowding him back against the wall. His heartbeat is heavy and laboured, a dull thud-thud in his chest that’s almost too painful to bear. Dean’s ragged breath washes over his face, pushes past his parted lips until he can taste it on the back of his tongue.
He catches sight of his hand hovering next to Dean’s face, stares at it for a second like he has no idea how it got there. His eyes flick back to Dean and Dean is staring at it too. He’s leaning into it a little bit, so near Sam can just about feel Dean’s stubble under his palm. His shoulders are pulled back though, trying to push through the barrier behind him.
“Dean …”
Dean looks back at Sam, and for the first time his eyes are just as naked as Sam’s; nothing hidden between them. Then Sam blinks and Dean’s eyes narrow dangerously. He grabs Sam’s hand away from his face, holds it in an iron grip in one hand as he undoes his pants with the other.
Before he pushes Sam’s hand against his crotch, Sam catches sight of Dean’s cock curling up against his stomach; angry and red.
“Is this what you want, Sammy?”
Sam doesn’t say anything, leans in to kiss Dean instead. Dean turns his face away and Sam ends up with his lips buried against Dean’s neck. Dean doesn’t loosen his grip, rubs Sam’s open fingers hard against his cock, covering them in slick precome. Sam tries to curl them around Dean’s hard length, but it’s too fast, too rough.
Dean’s shoulders start shaking and the filthy words that have been pouring from his mouth are reduced to short, harsh grunts. Sam pulls back a little, in time to see his brother’s face distort into something he hardly recognizes. Dean’s eyes are squeezed shut tightly against the tears that are streaming down his cheeks as he spills over their slowing hands. There is snot running from his nose, it’s getting on his lips that are pulled thin against a wild silent scream. Sam recognizes pain, anguish so deep and profound it stabs deep into his heart.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to feel good and right and perfect. Dean is supposed to love him.
Sam is deathly quiet when Dean finally pulls Sam’s hand away from his spent cock. He doesn’t let it go and stands looking down at it laying slack and covered in come on his splayed fingers. Then Dean simply tips his hand and Sam lets it fall to his side and just hang there as he waits for Dean to look up at him.
Dean just keeps staring at Sam’s hand, not even blinking. Sam slowly lifts it again and Dean’s eyes are following, travelling up Sam’s body as it moves towards his mouth. He holds it up in front of his face and he can smell the salty and pungent odour of Dean’s come on his fingers. Tentatively he slips two into his mouth and sucks at them noisily. With a groan Dean looks Sam in the eye and Sam’s eyes are big and round, just like he knew they would be.
“I’m sorry, Sammy. So sorry.”
“It’s okay, Dean.”
“No, it’s … I’m not supposed to … I’m sor …”
Dean breath hitches, cuts off on the last syllable. He buries his face in his hands, sinks down onto his knees.
“What have I done?”
Sam kneels in front of Dean, takes his hands away softly and lays them down palms facing up against his thighs.
“Dean. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Sam slides his hands over Dean’s again and again, his skin tingling where their open palms meet.
“How can you say that, Sammy? I made you …”
“You didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to. I. I wanted to, Dean.”
Sam reaches out and wipes the tears from Dean’s cheek. Dean turns his face into Sam’s hand, brushing a kiss against the thumb Sam trails over his lips.
Sam slips his hand back, curling his fingers around the base of Dean’s skull and drags him forward slowly, his eyes never leaving Dean’s. Their first kiss is dry, lips pressed hard and fleetingly against each other. Sam lets go of Dean and Dean leans back a little, eyes roaming over Sam like he’s looking for something.
He must find whatever it is he’s looking for because he starts to smile. It’s warm and true and Sam can’t help but letting his own relieved smile sneak over his features.
Then it’s Dean reaching for Sam and Sam stops him, takes hold of his hand to look at it for a moment; so open, for him. He places it over his mouth, closes his eyes and waits for Dean's kiss.