Two-Headed Boy: Nineteen
It’s so cold that Sam sees his breath as he climbs out of the car.
Dean had driven them out of town and into a place called Swamp Angel that is nothing more than a few houses strung together loosely between wide gulps of fields. It sounds like the ocean as the winter wind sweeps through, dragging against all the tall grass. Sam shivers, closes his eyes and lets the wind push his hair back from his face, let it rush all around him and he breathes it in, the bite of freezing cold sucked deep into his lungs that he lets out in a sigh.
“Gorgeous out, idn’t it?” Dean shuts the trunk, the two comforters from the beds at the motel draped over his arms along with a couple of Dad’s old military blankets. Sam opens his eyes and smiles at him before looking up at the sky. He has to lean back against the car as he does, has to brace himself to look up and see the explosion of stars overhead, the sky absolutely clear, unforgivingly cold, the moon a sliver of bone among them.
He shuts the car door and zips his hoodie up before wading through the grass toward Dean. They spread one Dad’s blankets and one of the motel ones out on the ground before crawling on top of them, the remaining two piled up so they can cover up with them when they finally get situated.
“Jesus, it’s been awhile since we seen a sky like this, huh, Sammy?” Dean’s voice is quiet with awe, his jacket zipped up as high as it’ll go, his cheeks already pink from the cold. Sam shuffles a little closer to him until they’re sitting side-by-side as close as they can be, their thighs touching, legs nearly tangling along the makeshift bed.
Sam hums in agreement, turning his attention back to the sky.
“Amazing when you can actually see the Milky Way.” It’s streaming out above them in cluttered swirls, cutting through all the stars like a river. Sam is suddenly so aware of Dean, of how close he is, how warm he is, how they’re practically even breathing in sync.
“Remember that one house we stayed at in Wisconsin for awhile when you were little? You were probably six, maybe seven.”
“Six,” Sam agrees softly, a smile already tugging on his lips.
“Yeah, and,” Dean laughs, a little laugh tumbling out of his mouth in a white puff, “And you were obsessed with Swiss Family Robinson, so you wanted to live outside. And we did it.”
“For about a week.” Sam grins, shaking his head at himself, at his tiny self’s lofty aspirations for roughing it, Disney-style.
“Eh, we coulda lasted longer. We had to leave though. You had your little flashlight and always made sure we had a book to read, and lots of water.” Dean nudges him with his shoulder and keeps it there, pressed in tight, head tipped to the side so he can look at Sam.
“And Fruit Roll-Ups. And a slingshot.”
“Remember when you tried to kill that grasshopper?”
Sam shudders. “God, don’t remind me.”
“Eh, I fixed it. Made us some bologna sandwiches instead.”
“Much less traumatizing.”
Dean snorts. “The grasshopper probably woulda been better for you.”
“And we used to watch the stars,” Sam continues, bringing it back around just to watch Dean’s face soften again. “And you used to make up names for them. And stories.”
“Oh, yeah.” Dean shakes his head, his shoulders pulling in a little, like he’s embarrassed by it. “Too lazy to learn the real names. Sorry about that.”
“I loved your stories so much better. The one about the fox and his hunt for mice and how he got enchanted by a witch? You remember?” Sam reaches over and runs a finger over the leg of Dean’s jeans, letting it slip into a tiny hole in them, touching the warm skin underneath. “So he thought he was a mouse? So he ran with the mice and protected them at the same time.”
“I was an idiot,” Dean mumbles, shifting around, somehow getting even closer to Sam. “Good thing you weren’t homeschooled. You’d still be walkin’ around countin’ on your fingers and toes.”
“You were amazing,” Sam whispers, turning toward Dean now, tugging his legs up Indian-style, both his knees pressing along the length of Dean’s thigh. “You made everything magic. And fun. You made me dream.”
“I tried,” Dean admits, and it’s so fragile, so obvious to Sam how much Dean really means it. Sam swallows, his eyes burning, always such a soft spot for Dean, for what Dean always did for him, has always done for him. It’s always meant so much. It’s why Sam can’t help but be in love with him, even now, up to this very night.
“There are constellations that are only visible in winter. Did you know that?” Sam moves now, slides down on the blanket until he’s lying back, staring straight up at the sky. Dean follows him, reaching down for the blankets and pulling them up around them, making sure Sam has plenty to tuck into his side before he settles in.
“Hm,” Dean replies, head tipping a little to the side until it rests against Sam’s. “I don’t think I did. Which ones?”
“There are a few.” Sam reaches over for Dean’s hand, cover it with his own and tugging Dean’s finger up until it’s pointing. Sam closes one eye and guides Dean’s hand around until he’s pointing to the right spot. “See the three stars lined up right there? That’s Orion’s belt. Orion’s one of the winter constellations. He’s the hunter.”
“Oh, yeah, I see it. Huh.” Dean curls his fingers around Sam’s, keeping them where they are. Sam smiles.
“Those two really bright ones right above those three? Those are his shoulders. And there are two under them that are his knees. And his head is--”
“That one right there.” Dean runs their fingers up until they’re looking at the same star, and Sam can’t help but grin at how happy Dean sounds.
“And he’s wearing a sword on his belt. Coming down from the star on the right, see it? It goes down one-two-three. There. And Orion Nebula is this bright cluster that--” Sam pauses, shaking his head with a laugh. “Nevermind. Sorry, I’m being lame.”
Dean lowers their hands and turns on his side so he’s facing Sam, keeping their fingers tangled. “Why is it lame? I didn’t know any of this stuff. I think it’s kind of amazing.”
Sam follows Dean’s lead, turning on his side until they’re face-to-face. He pulls the blankets up until they’re covering their shoulders, the tips of their noses red with cold.
“I got really into astronomy back in school. Just kind of a hobby, I guess. Jess had a telescope, and we’d--” He stops, swallowing hard, searching Dean’s eyes from this close. Dean’s watching him, listening, really listening, like he actually wants to hear. Sam braves on. “We’d go on the roof of one of the buildings on campus sometimes. It wasn’t as clear as this, but it was fun. I told her all the stories you used to tell me. About the stars.”
Dean’s lips curve into a smile. “She tell you I was crazy, too?”
Sam tightens his hand in Dean’s. “She said it’d make an amazing children’s book.”
Dean’s smile softens, his face easing into something thoughtful. “Did you tell her about me?”
Sam wants to look away but he can’t, not now, not when they’re this close. There’s nowhere else to look, nothing else but Dean now. “Not. Not really. Not a lot.”
Dean nods a bit, like he was expecting as much. Sam doesn’t know why but it hurts.
“Not a lot to tell, really,” Dean dismisses, his smile still there but it’s faded some.
“No,” Sam shakes his head, his voice a little stronger, clearer than it has been since they stepped out of the car. “No, that’s not it. It’s. It’s the opposite, really.”
Dean doesn’t speak for a minute, looking doubtful, like he wants to believe Sam but can’t seem to manage it.
“How?”
“Cause.” Sam stops, takes a deep breath. Searches Dean’s eyes. “Cause telling her about you would be telling her about myself. There’s no separation.”
Dean’s eyebrows furrow a little, like he’s trying to understand, like he really wants to understand. “I didn’t mean tell her about our life, about the hunting and everything. Just--”
“I couldn’t tell her about you because I wanted to keep you to myself. To. To keep you for myself. Because.” Their foreheads are almost touching, so close that he wants to close his eyes, but he doesn’t. He can’t. “Because if I started talking about you, I’d never stop. Because I can’t ever explain what you are to me. Because I don’t ever want anybody to understand us.”
Dean’s just staring at him, staring into him, his eyes night-green out here, a green that’s drank down all the light and is left with shadows; they’re bright and intense and utterly focused on him.
“Nobody’d ever understand us, Sammy,” he murmurs, untangling his hand from Sam’s to lift up from under the covers, fingers pushing into Sam’s hair, stroking it back from his face. Sam’s eyelashes flutter, his entire body straining out for Dean, one of his legs tangling between his. “Nobody can ever get that close to understand.”
“I don’t want them to,” Sam whispers, a confession. His breath is trembling now and Dean is somehow closer, the frozen tip of his nose sliding over Sam’s cheek, not warming him but sharing the cold. “I never want to share you with anybody.”
“Why, Sammy? Tell me. Tell me.” Dean’s hand drifts down to his cheek, his palm still warm as it cups it, the wide of his thumb stroking over Sam’s mouth. Sam’s arm wraps around Dean’s waist, tucks in tight to him, his heart thudding dully in his ribs, in his ears.
“Because you’re mine.”
“Yeah,” Dean breathes, his eyes so clear, clear as the sky overhead. “Yeah, I am.”
The kiss is a first but it feels like the middle of something, like finishing a sentence, like the exhale from a long-drawn breath. It’s the first time their mouths have touched but it doesn’t feel new, doesn’t feel unknown. It feels like comfort, tastes familiar, the same kind of warmth that Dean shares with his hands, with his arms, with his smile.
Sam parts his lips for him and Dean comes in, tucks right in with the soft of his tongue and all the pieces lock together, finally, finally, all of the parts of them that have been dancing around each other all their lives finally meeting, touching in all the right places for the very first time. Like every single breath and spoken word and moment of silence has brought them up to this, to right here, to the shared warmth between their mouths.
Dean’s thumb strokes over the line of Sam’s cheek, quickening a little heat back to his skin just as he surges closer, their tongues tangling in a sweet, elated slide. In oh, there you are and finally, finally you’re here.
Sam draws Dean’s bottom lip into his mouth, the soft pillow of it fitting in perfectly and he sucks on it as sweet as it deserves. Dean sighs, every single thing about him open, giving, right here. They trade soft kisses, each one like a gift from one to the other to the other until they’re back in each other’s mouths, like they don’t want it to end, never want to let go.
Sam has started trembling somewhere along the way, the rise of emotion in him taking awhile but it comes to the surface finally, leaving his body in a gasping sob. Their mouths pause against each other, pinkened, swollen lips rubbing numb together as their eyes slip open, lock together. Sam’s are glistening with tears, his chin trembling, his hand in a tight clutch on the back of Dean’s jacket.
“Dean,” he says, and it’s a plea, a plea for a hundred things, and Dean understands them all, down to the very last one. Sam knows because of the way Dean nods, the way he takes his mouth again, kissing him hard and hungry this time, so hard his nose presses into Sam’s cold cheek.
They feed from each other for what feels like hours, for what could very well be hours, the moon drifting along lazily overhead. Sam has long since lost feeling in his lips, is only aware of how hot their mouths are together, how fat and slick his lips feel when Dean sinks his teeth into them, when he sucks on them one at a time.
He licks at Dean’s spit, swallows it down and now intimately knows the taste of his mouth but there aren’t words for it, not a single one. It’s just an extension of how Dean smells, of the color of his eyes, of the endlessness of his freckles, the pink swell of his mouth, the seashell curve of his ear. He tastes like how beautiful he is. He tastes like how much Sam loves him.
Their kisses ease out into their mouths just touching, nestled together tiredly, breath leaving in slow, sated pants. They’re still clutched together, braided up tight under the blankets, never going to let go. They fall asleep at some point, probably mid-kiss, probably mid-thought, on a shared sigh.
That night doesn’t change them in the daylight, for better or for worse.
Dean still leaves Sam locked out of the car sometimes. Sam still rolls his eyes at Dean, still corrects his grammar at the most annoying moments. Dean still steals fries off of Sam’s plate and Sam still bitches when Dean turns the music up too loud.
But there’s an intimacy now, a slowness to their blinks when they look at each other, a stronger hesitation to turn away.
They don’t kiss like that night again, but there are moments. Moments in the middle of the night when Sam wakes up with Dean’s lips against his forehead, pressing kiss after slow kiss, like he’s just dreaming. Like the way Sam cradles Dean’s hand in his lap while he’s driving sometimes, spreads Dean’s fingers out on his thigh and strokes over each of them, tendering each knuckle, each scar, each hurt. Drunk on it, on how it’s okay that he does this now, that Dean lets him.
Sam dreams of blonde hair and oak trees and smells burning flesh and he wakes up with a jolting start, the gasp already being drawn before he opens his eyes.
His chest doesn’t have room to expand completely because there’s a tight band across it, tight and warm and strong as steel, and before Sam starts to struggle, there’s a mouth against his ear, lips soft, breath sour.
“Shh. Sammy, ‘sokay. It’s okay.”
Sam pants, quick and afraid like he’s being chased, like there’s still something here to be afraid of.
“Shhh. C’mon, little brother. ‘m right here. Just calm down.”
Sam closes his eyes to the darkness again, finally exhaling fast, in relief. He’s drenched in sweat, his t-shirt soaked through, and his stomach is trembling, tight with fear.
“Sorry,” he sighs, his entire body relaxing back against his brother, easing into the nuzzle of Dean’s nose over his cheek, those lips pressing once and sweet to his neck.
“Wanna talk about it?”
Sam shakes his head before he can even process the question, before he can even consider it.
“Just a bad dream. Sorry. If.” He swallows, waking up a little more for the ache it puts in his chest to say this. “If you wanna sleep in the other bed--”
“Hey,” Dean interrupts him, his voice still soft, like he doesn’t want them to wake up any more than they are already. “I put up with your snoring and talking in your sleep and stealing covers and kicking me, just like I always have. I’m not gonna bitch out now. Got it?”
Sam can’t help but smile tiredly, nestling back into the curve of Dean’s body as Dean’s hand presses into his belly, rubbing in a slow, soothing circle.
“I don’t snore.”
Dean’s teeth close around his earlobe, biting and tugging gently. Sam jerks against him, letting out a warning grunt just as Dean’s arms tighten around him again.
“Night, Sammy.”
The next time he has the dream, it sets them on the road to Lawrence.
Dean looks gaunt, hollowed out as he drives there, and Sam can’t forget the look on his face from earlier, the terrified, young look when Dean realized where they had to go. Sam glances over at him in the driver’s seat, studying him in profile, the full curve of his mouth, the intent dreaminess of his eyes as he focuses both on the road and on his thoughts one million miles away.
“You’re beautiful,” Sam says, soft, unexpected.
That draws Dean right back down into his body, into the car, makes him shoot a glance over at Sam, eyebrows raised.
“Somebody dare you to say that? Was it Bobby?”
Sam smirks at him just as Dean looks away, but Dean’s smiling now, little and he’s trying really hard to hide it.
Sam rests his head against the cold window, stares off into the flats of Nebraska.
“Always thought it. Always. Even when before I knew what it meant. Way before I knew I wasn’t supposed to think it. Not about you.”
Dean chews on that for a minute, eyes focused once again, but his mouth is soft, like he’s ready to speak.
“Can’t think of a better word? Like dashing? Or handsome? Or buff?”
Sam lets out a breath of laughter, the grin spreading across his mouth slow, adoring. “Sorry, Dean. You’re beautiful. I don’t make the rules.”
Dean frowns then, lips pushing into a pout.
“Just. Don’t go tellin’ anybody that shit, arrite?”
His cheeks are a little pink, but at least there’s humor back on his face, the grey, faraway of earlier replaced with awkward self-awareness and a teeny bit of pride. Sam leans over, presses a kiss to the apple of Dean’s cheek, just to watch him squirm.
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
They sleep in a motel room that night in their hometown, just a few blocks from their old house. Dean had found his way through the streets without effort or pause, like he’s thought about these streets hundreds of times over the span of his life, like he was born with knowledge of them in his bones.
They lie still in the darkness next to each other, both awake and knowing it. Sam can’t shake the smell of the house--the faint mustiness, the smell of a heater being turned on for the first time in months, the smell of toasted bread and apple juice. He wonders if it used to smell like that, if Mom made it smell like that. Wonders if it was familiar for Dean. If Dean even remembers what the house used to smell like.
He glances over at him, sees Dean’s lashes move in silhouette against the backdrop of the window.
“What are you thinkin’ about?”
Sam keeps his voice soft, doesn’t want to startle Dean, but he’s never really worried about something like that before. Dean’s always been so unshakeable, like he could brush off anything, always land on his feet. He’s seemed raw all day, like he’s tender to the touch, like he’s been ready to just turn around and run.
And Dean Winchester never runs.
“Just,” Dean starts, his voice a low scratch, tongue soothing out over dry lips, “just how we’re home. In Lawrence. And how even home, we’re sleepin’ in a motel.”
Sam hums in understanding before he draws in a slow breath that he lets out in a sigh. He turns on his side, facing Dean, arm curled up under his pillow. He wants to reach out and touch him, wants to burrow in close, to hug Dean like he’s wanted to all day, but something about Dean, about his quiet, the distance he put between them when he climbed into bed, tells Sam not to, to just leave him alone.
“He still hasn’t called.” Dean’s so quiet he almost sounds like he’s talking to himself, but Sam hears it. “I just. I just don’t know what it means. Maybe somethin’s really happened to him. Maybe he--”
“He’s alive, Dean. C’mon.” Sam risks it, puts on a brave face and moves closer, fingers pressing into the stiff, cheaply-washed topsheet right next to Dean’s ribs. “You’d know if something happened to him. You’d know. Somebody would’ve heard something by now. Would have let us know.”
“Somebody should know where he is anyway.” Dean sounds mad, frustrated, like he’s gritting his teeth. His hands are clasped tight together, resting on his stomach. Sam’s fingers flex in the sheets to keep from touching them. “It’s bullshit how nobody’s heard from him. Bullshit.”
“You’d know,” Sam repeats, the words sounding trite, repetitive but he means them, believes them. “Just like I’d know if anything ever happened to you. I’d just know, Dean.”
“If I ever do this to you, I give you full permission to punch me, okay?”
Sam sighs, feeling so tired suddenly that he can barely keep his eyes open. He takes a deep breath and makes his move, scooting down a little on the bed to tuck his face into Dean’s neck, his legs curled awkwardly, bare feet hanging out from beneath the covers and off the bed. He slides his hand across Dean’s stomach, over soft cotton and the tight, tensed muscles to hug him, to just wrap around him as much as he will allow himself.
“Last time I saw him was in Denver,” Sam says into Dean’s skin, into warm, paperthin jersey. “Last time I saw him, he wouldn’t even look at me.”
Dean tenses under him.
“Sam--”
“I just,” Sam presses on, his thumb stroking at Dean’s ribs, bumping over and over the ridges of them. “I just wanna make it right. To say I’m sorry.”
Dean’s hands untangle now, finally, one of them sliding up across Sam’s spine, tired fingers pushing into the thick of his hair. He sighs.
“Pretty sure he forgave you before you even left the state.”
Sam snorts. “Don’t be so sure about that.”
Dean’s hand tightens into a gentle pulse of pressure in Sam’s hair, like he’s thinking, trying to get Sam’s attention.
“Talk to me. Tell me something.”
Sam frowns, heart swooping in dread for no real reason.
“What do you mean?”
He feels Dean shrug.
“Dunno, just. Anything. Something about you I might not know. That I missed. Just.” Sam realizes then, in that pause, just how fragile Dean is right now. How he’s just barely holding himself together. “Just talk. Okay?”
“Okay, Dean,” he whispers, not wanting to talk, not here in the quiet of night, not when they’re curled up like this, all vulnerable to each other, not when he’s been thinking of absolutely nothing except for how to get Dean to kiss him again. But he’ll do anything Dean asks. Anything.
Dean’s hand cards through his hair, thick fingers pushing back from his hairline to his crown and down to his nape before starting over again, and Sam spreads his hand out over Dean’s chest, heel of it resting right over Dean’s heart. And he thinks.
“I haven’t see any of the Lord of the Rings movies without you. I just. Couldn’t. You know?”
He hears Dean hum, a surprised, happy sound, and it makes him hug closer to Dean, smiling a little against his neck.
“Think we need to fix that with a marathon real soon, what do you think?”
Sam nods, doesn’t care if Dean saw any of them without him, doesn’t really want to hear about it if he has. “And, uh. Maybe after I can read the book for us? Like I used to?”
Dean’s chest jumps as he huffs out a laugh. “Can you say that one word yet?”
Sam smirks, lifts his head to glare down at Dean.
“What word?”
“You know the one.”
Sam raises his eyebrows.
“You can’t say it right either.”
Dean shrugs. “Yeah, well. I didn’t go to Stanford, so.”
Sam narrows his eyes. “Númenórean.”
Dean grins.
“‘Nyoooma-nyoo-nooma--Dean, can I just say Elros’ family?’” Dean mimics back-in-the-day-Sam’s voice so well it’s creepy, down to the inflection of his own name. Sam’s hand tightens into a tickle along Dean’s ribs and Dean jerks, grunts and squirms around it but doesn’t move otherwise.
Sam huffs, all of it in play and they both know it, always know it. He settles back down against Dean and is immediately rewarded with Dean’s fingers touching over his earlobe, down his cheek before tucking his hair behind his ear. He nestles in tight.
“It’s okay. I don’t have to read it again.”
“You are cute as shit when you’re poutin’, you know that, Sammy?”
Sam sighs. “Dean.”
“No, you are! Always have been. That little mouth, are you kiddin’ me?” Dean lifts up until Sam is curled up on the mattress instead of his brother, and Dean is leaning down over him, looming all warm and soft and smiling in the dark and God, this. This is what Sam’s always wanted. He reaches up to touch Dean’s stomach through his shirt, just because he can.
“Am not,” he says again thoughtlessly, focused on other things entirely now. Dean’s searching his face like there’s something to see, something worth remembering, even though Sam’s just in a stretched-out, secondhand t-shirt in this $35 a night motel room bed, still that awkward, aching boy, just in a longer body now.
“Hey, Sammy, you remember that song you used to sing in the mornin’?”
Sam frowns. “...I had a song?”
“Yeah! That one about, uh. What was it? Froot Loops?”
Sam closes his eyes just as Dean’s hand spreads out over his thin stomach. “Oh, Jesus.”
“It was so cute.”
Sam opens his eyes just so he can raise his eyebrows at his brother again. “Are you talkin’ about the one where I just said Froot Loops a bunch of times?”
“There was a melody to it! It was kinda like ‘Froooot Loops! FrootLoopsFrootLoops… FROOT LOOPS.’”
“...Wow.”
“Hey! You were like, three. It was cute as shit.” Dean’s half on top of him now, and Sam can’t help that he’s smiling now, can’t help the way his cheeks flush.
“Doubt it.”
“And besides you weren’t good with Rs or Ls yet then, so it sounded like ‘Fwoot Woops! FwootWoopsFwootWoops--’”
Sam pounces then, lifting up and tackling Dean back to the bed, bracing himself up over him to grin at his smug face.
“Shut up, Dean.”
Dean’s smile is huge and kind of fucking adorable, and Sam can’t help the way his body arches, the way he reacts when Dean’s hands light on his back and slide down, fingers sweeping in hard and deep into the arch of it.
“Mmm,” Dean sighs, letting his hands pushing back up before sliding down again, stopping now on the swell of Sam’s ass. “You like that, Sammy?”
Sam spreads his legs around Dean’s body, knees digging into the flimsy mattress so he can push back into those hands, so he can curl up and into them like a cat. His eyes slip closed and he pulls his lips into his mouth to keep in all the sounds he wants to make.
“Like anything you do. Anything. Always have.” It’s the last two words that have his cheeks flushing hot, that are the actual confession. Dean’s hands rub at the small of his back, pushing him into a deeper arch, his ass popped up high and presented to the empty room. It doesn’t feel real.
“Since when? How long?” It’s manipulative and they both know it, like interrogation by torture. Dean’s fingertips dig in at the tight curve of his ass and Sam pushes himself into a deeper curl for it, ass tipping up to try and get at Dean’s hands.
“Too long,” Sam breathes between soft pants, finally lowering his body enough to let their dicks press together for the first time and he shakes all over, so, so fucking close already to just losing it. He’s mindless, brain on a constant, enthralled loop of DeanDeanDeanDeanDeanDeanDean. “I was eleven.”
“Eleven? Jesus fuckin’--” Dean growls and Sam has to open his eyes then, to look down and see the lust-blown wide of Dean’s pupils, see the sweat gathering at his temples and in the V of his neck, to see how pink his mouth is in the scant light from the window and the hunger in his eyes.
Dean’s hands push down over his ass for the first time, grabbing at him rough and possessive, not being careful at all, not being gentle but Sam never wants him to be, wants him to bruise, wants it to hurt, wants to remember. He whimpers and rocks into those hands, pushing hard enough into them that Dean spreads his cheeks, hot air sweeping all along his crack through his thin pants, and fuck, it feels so good.
“God, I just wasted all that time, didn’t I? All those years. They’re just gone and I can’t. I can’t ever get ‘em back. I can never have that boy again. And I can see you, just like you were back then. So little and those eyes on me, just always starin’ up at me. I could have had you then, couldn’t I? Made you mine even back then.” Dean’s rambling, mindless and honest and he’s hauling Sam up with his grip on his ass, dragging the burning aches of their dicks together.
Sam is shaking, braced up over his brother, the muscles in his arms trembling but he stays up because he knows if he doesn’t, he’s going to get at Dean’s mouth, he’s going to kiss him until he tastes his fill of him. It’s burning up in the room suddenly, when it had been so chilly earlier, it’s eerie-quiet and the bed is groaning under their combined weight, squeaking every time Sam drags his body hard over his brother’s. He finally finds his voice, finishes his confession.
“I’m. I still feel like that with you. That boy. I’m always that boy with you, Dean.”
Dean growls, his fingertips digging in hard, stroking over the sides of Sam’s hole through his sweatpants. “Will you still be my boy? My little boy, Sammy. Can you still be him for me?”
“Yeah, Dean. God. Yeah. I-I promise.” He drops down finally, can’t stay up any longer, wraps his arms around the pillow around Dean’s head, knees sliding out further on the mattress so he can get in deep, so their dicks are choking tight against each other, pre-come soaking in his pants, making it burning hot and slippery as he fucks against Dean, humps at his dick.
“Ride it, Sammy,” Dean says low in his ear, hands still on his ass, haven’t left, just guiding him, encouraging every rut of his hips. “C’mon, little brother. Gonna make me come.”
Sam really gets into it then, now that he has a goal in mind, now that he has that beautiful bit of encouragement. Make Dean come, make Dean come. His Dean, his Dean. The bed is shaking now, jarring hard against the wall, the frame shuddering but he doesn’t stop, can’t stop, the friction inside of his pants not exactly right but they’re as good as naked, as close as sharing skin, sharing a body and Sam’s shaking all over now, little, humiliating sounds leaving his mouth but he’s flying high because this is happening, this is happening, this is Dean and Sam’s gonna. He’s gonna.
“Dean,” he begs, that word the last he can manage before Dean’s hauling him in for a kiss, one hand now on the back of his head to pull him in, the other hand spread out all possessive over his entire ass and god, Sam’s coming, coming like he’s been holding it in for half his life, all those eleven years, like he’s been saving it all up for this and he’s finally letting go.
He’s panting into Dean’s mouth more than kissing him, just letting Dean’s tongue in him, letting it lick its fill, letting him taste while he comes. It’s so wet now, every fuck of his hips punctuated with a loud squelch and Dean’s rumbling low in his chest, panting hard under him and Sam gathers himself back together even though he’s still soaring, still shaking and he fucks down hard into Dean, giving his dick all the friction he possibly can and fuck, Dean is so beautiful, he’s dripping with sweat and pink all over and he’s whimpering, actually whimpering, in Sam’s mouth.
“Make me come, Sammy, make me come. Make me come,” he chants under his breath, right into Sam’s mouth and Sam rides him even harder, all his muscles shaking with the effort. Dean is pounding up against him, giving as good as he gets, his hips rubbing in deep and he makes the most gorgeous sounds when he starts to come, unaware, groaning sounds like he can’t hear himself, like he’s just feeling it, has to let it out. He feels Dean pulsing so hot under him, feels every spurt filling his underwear, every jump of his dick, and it’s enough to make Sam wish he could come again.
They strain against each other, pushing and rubbing and riding it out and they’re finally kissing again, deep, greedy licks and sucks of tongue. They slow to a stop but keep kissing, keep feeding, keep shaking together.
Dean sighs finally, both of his arms wrapped around Sam now, clutching him down against himself, and Sam sinks down on top of him, boneless and foreheads pressing.
“Sorry,” he says into Dean’s mouth, trying to lift up off of him but Dean holds tight, pulls him back down as he shakes his head.
“Just. Just stay right here. It’s okay.”
“We’re gross, Dean,” Sam reminds him but he doesn’t really care, doesn’t mean it. He’ll stay in spunk-filled pants all night if it means he can be this close, if it means their ribs can bruise each other, their hearts can thump together all night. Dean seems to agree because he just lowers his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to Sam’s sweaty neck before he sighs, relaxing under the weight of Sam’s body.
Sam lowers a little, just enough to take his place against Dean’s neck, arms slipping up around it, too. He doesn’t think about it, doesn’t obsess over what just happened, not now. Now, everything feels just right, feels like it’s finally, finally how it’s supposed to be.
next.
Dean had driven them out of town and into a place called Swamp Angel that is nothing more than a few houses strung together loosely between wide gulps of fields. It sounds like the ocean as the winter wind sweeps through, dragging against all the tall grass. Sam shivers, closes his eyes and lets the wind push his hair back from his face, let it rush all around him and he breathes it in, the bite of freezing cold sucked deep into his lungs that he lets out in a sigh.
“Gorgeous out, idn’t it?” Dean shuts the trunk, the two comforters from the beds at the motel draped over his arms along with a couple of Dad’s old military blankets. Sam opens his eyes and smiles at him before looking up at the sky. He has to lean back against the car as he does, has to brace himself to look up and see the explosion of stars overhead, the sky absolutely clear, unforgivingly cold, the moon a sliver of bone among them.
He shuts the car door and zips his hoodie up before wading through the grass toward Dean. They spread one Dad’s blankets and one of the motel ones out on the ground before crawling on top of them, the remaining two piled up so they can cover up with them when they finally get situated.
“Jesus, it’s been awhile since we seen a sky like this, huh, Sammy?” Dean’s voice is quiet with awe, his jacket zipped up as high as it’ll go, his cheeks already pink from the cold. Sam shuffles a little closer to him until they’re sitting side-by-side as close as they can be, their thighs touching, legs nearly tangling along the makeshift bed.
Sam hums in agreement, turning his attention back to the sky.
“Amazing when you can actually see the Milky Way.” It’s streaming out above them in cluttered swirls, cutting through all the stars like a river. Sam is suddenly so aware of Dean, of how close he is, how warm he is, how they’re practically even breathing in sync.
“Remember that one house we stayed at in Wisconsin for awhile when you were little? You were probably six, maybe seven.”
“Six,” Sam agrees softly, a smile already tugging on his lips.
“Yeah, and,” Dean laughs, a little laugh tumbling out of his mouth in a white puff, “And you were obsessed with Swiss Family Robinson, so you wanted to live outside. And we did it.”
“For about a week.” Sam grins, shaking his head at himself, at his tiny self’s lofty aspirations for roughing it, Disney-style.
“Eh, we coulda lasted longer. We had to leave though. You had your little flashlight and always made sure we had a book to read, and lots of water.” Dean nudges him with his shoulder and keeps it there, pressed in tight, head tipped to the side so he can look at Sam.
“And Fruit Roll-Ups. And a slingshot.”
“Remember when you tried to kill that grasshopper?”
Sam shudders. “God, don’t remind me.”
“Eh, I fixed it. Made us some bologna sandwiches instead.”
“Much less traumatizing.”
Dean snorts. “The grasshopper probably woulda been better for you.”
“And we used to watch the stars,” Sam continues, bringing it back around just to watch Dean’s face soften again. “And you used to make up names for them. And stories.”
“Oh, yeah.” Dean shakes his head, his shoulders pulling in a little, like he’s embarrassed by it. “Too lazy to learn the real names. Sorry about that.”
“I loved your stories so much better. The one about the fox and his hunt for mice and how he got enchanted by a witch? You remember?” Sam reaches over and runs a finger over the leg of Dean’s jeans, letting it slip into a tiny hole in them, touching the warm skin underneath. “So he thought he was a mouse? So he ran with the mice and protected them at the same time.”
“I was an idiot,” Dean mumbles, shifting around, somehow getting even closer to Sam. “Good thing you weren’t homeschooled. You’d still be walkin’ around countin’ on your fingers and toes.”
“You were amazing,” Sam whispers, turning toward Dean now, tugging his legs up Indian-style, both his knees pressing along the length of Dean’s thigh. “You made everything magic. And fun. You made me dream.”
“I tried,” Dean admits, and it’s so fragile, so obvious to Sam how much Dean really means it. Sam swallows, his eyes burning, always such a soft spot for Dean, for what Dean always did for him, has always done for him. It’s always meant so much. It’s why Sam can’t help but be in love with him, even now, up to this very night.
“There are constellations that are only visible in winter. Did you know that?” Sam moves now, slides down on the blanket until he’s lying back, staring straight up at the sky. Dean follows him, reaching down for the blankets and pulling them up around them, making sure Sam has plenty to tuck into his side before he settles in.
“Hm,” Dean replies, head tipping a little to the side until it rests against Sam’s. “I don’t think I did. Which ones?”
“There are a few.” Sam reaches over for Dean’s hand, cover it with his own and tugging Dean’s finger up until it’s pointing. Sam closes one eye and guides Dean’s hand around until he’s pointing to the right spot. “See the three stars lined up right there? That’s Orion’s belt. Orion’s one of the winter constellations. He’s the hunter.”
“Oh, yeah, I see it. Huh.” Dean curls his fingers around Sam’s, keeping them where they are. Sam smiles.
“Those two really bright ones right above those three? Those are his shoulders. And there are two under them that are his knees. And his head is--”
“That one right there.” Dean runs their fingers up until they’re looking at the same star, and Sam can’t help but grin at how happy Dean sounds.
“And he’s wearing a sword on his belt. Coming down from the star on the right, see it? It goes down one-two-three. There. And Orion Nebula is this bright cluster that--” Sam pauses, shaking his head with a laugh. “Nevermind. Sorry, I’m being lame.”
Dean lowers their hands and turns on his side so he’s facing Sam, keeping their fingers tangled. “Why is it lame? I didn’t know any of this stuff. I think it’s kind of amazing.”
Sam follows Dean’s lead, turning on his side until they’re face-to-face. He pulls the blankets up until they’re covering their shoulders, the tips of their noses red with cold.
“I got really into astronomy back in school. Just kind of a hobby, I guess. Jess had a telescope, and we’d--” He stops, swallowing hard, searching Dean’s eyes from this close. Dean’s watching him, listening, really listening, like he actually wants to hear. Sam braves on. “We’d go on the roof of one of the buildings on campus sometimes. It wasn’t as clear as this, but it was fun. I told her all the stories you used to tell me. About the stars.”
Dean’s lips curve into a smile. “She tell you I was crazy, too?”
Sam tightens his hand in Dean’s. “She said it’d make an amazing children’s book.”
Dean’s smile softens, his face easing into something thoughtful. “Did you tell her about me?”
Sam wants to look away but he can’t, not now, not when they’re this close. There’s nowhere else to look, nothing else but Dean now. “Not. Not really. Not a lot.”
Dean nods a bit, like he was expecting as much. Sam doesn’t know why but it hurts.
“Not a lot to tell, really,” Dean dismisses, his smile still there but it’s faded some.
“No,” Sam shakes his head, his voice a little stronger, clearer than it has been since they stepped out of the car. “No, that’s not it. It’s. It’s the opposite, really.”
Dean doesn’t speak for a minute, looking doubtful, like he wants to believe Sam but can’t seem to manage it.
“How?”
“Cause.” Sam stops, takes a deep breath. Searches Dean’s eyes. “Cause telling her about you would be telling her about myself. There’s no separation.”
Dean’s eyebrows furrow a little, like he’s trying to understand, like he really wants to understand. “I didn’t mean tell her about our life, about the hunting and everything. Just--”
“I couldn’t tell her about you because I wanted to keep you to myself. To. To keep you for myself. Because.” Their foreheads are almost touching, so close that he wants to close his eyes, but he doesn’t. He can’t. “Because if I started talking about you, I’d never stop. Because I can’t ever explain what you are to me. Because I don’t ever want anybody to understand us.”
Dean’s just staring at him, staring into him, his eyes night-green out here, a green that’s drank down all the light and is left with shadows; they’re bright and intense and utterly focused on him.
“Nobody’d ever understand us, Sammy,” he murmurs, untangling his hand from Sam’s to lift up from under the covers, fingers pushing into Sam’s hair, stroking it back from his face. Sam’s eyelashes flutter, his entire body straining out for Dean, one of his legs tangling between his. “Nobody can ever get that close to understand.”
“I don’t want them to,” Sam whispers, a confession. His breath is trembling now and Dean is somehow closer, the frozen tip of his nose sliding over Sam’s cheek, not warming him but sharing the cold. “I never want to share you with anybody.”
“Why, Sammy? Tell me. Tell me.” Dean’s hand drifts down to his cheek, his palm still warm as it cups it, the wide of his thumb stroking over Sam’s mouth. Sam’s arm wraps around Dean’s waist, tucks in tight to him, his heart thudding dully in his ribs, in his ears.
“Because you’re mine.”
“Yeah,” Dean breathes, his eyes so clear, clear as the sky overhead. “Yeah, I am.”
The kiss is a first but it feels like the middle of something, like finishing a sentence, like the exhale from a long-drawn breath. It’s the first time their mouths have touched but it doesn’t feel new, doesn’t feel unknown. It feels like comfort, tastes familiar, the same kind of warmth that Dean shares with his hands, with his arms, with his smile.
Sam parts his lips for him and Dean comes in, tucks right in with the soft of his tongue and all the pieces lock together, finally, finally, all of the parts of them that have been dancing around each other all their lives finally meeting, touching in all the right places for the very first time. Like every single breath and spoken word and moment of silence has brought them up to this, to right here, to the shared warmth between their mouths.
Dean’s thumb strokes over the line of Sam’s cheek, quickening a little heat back to his skin just as he surges closer, their tongues tangling in a sweet, elated slide. In oh, there you are and finally, finally you’re here.
Sam draws Dean’s bottom lip into his mouth, the soft pillow of it fitting in perfectly and he sucks on it as sweet as it deserves. Dean sighs, every single thing about him open, giving, right here. They trade soft kisses, each one like a gift from one to the other to the other until they’re back in each other’s mouths, like they don’t want it to end, never want to let go.
Sam has started trembling somewhere along the way, the rise of emotion in him taking awhile but it comes to the surface finally, leaving his body in a gasping sob. Their mouths pause against each other, pinkened, swollen lips rubbing numb together as their eyes slip open, lock together. Sam’s are glistening with tears, his chin trembling, his hand in a tight clutch on the back of Dean’s jacket.
“Dean,” he says, and it’s a plea, a plea for a hundred things, and Dean understands them all, down to the very last one. Sam knows because of the way Dean nods, the way he takes his mouth again, kissing him hard and hungry this time, so hard his nose presses into Sam’s cold cheek.
They feed from each other for what feels like hours, for what could very well be hours, the moon drifting along lazily overhead. Sam has long since lost feeling in his lips, is only aware of how hot their mouths are together, how fat and slick his lips feel when Dean sinks his teeth into them, when he sucks on them one at a time.
He licks at Dean’s spit, swallows it down and now intimately knows the taste of his mouth but there aren’t words for it, not a single one. It’s just an extension of how Dean smells, of the color of his eyes, of the endlessness of his freckles, the pink swell of his mouth, the seashell curve of his ear. He tastes like how beautiful he is. He tastes like how much Sam loves him.
Their kisses ease out into their mouths just touching, nestled together tiredly, breath leaving in slow, sated pants. They’re still clutched together, braided up tight under the blankets, never going to let go. They fall asleep at some point, probably mid-kiss, probably mid-thought, on a shared sigh.
That night doesn’t change them in the daylight, for better or for worse.
Dean still leaves Sam locked out of the car sometimes. Sam still rolls his eyes at Dean, still corrects his grammar at the most annoying moments. Dean still steals fries off of Sam’s plate and Sam still bitches when Dean turns the music up too loud.
But there’s an intimacy now, a slowness to their blinks when they look at each other, a stronger hesitation to turn away.
They don’t kiss like that night again, but there are moments. Moments in the middle of the night when Sam wakes up with Dean’s lips against his forehead, pressing kiss after slow kiss, like he’s just dreaming. Like the way Sam cradles Dean’s hand in his lap while he’s driving sometimes, spreads Dean’s fingers out on his thigh and strokes over each of them, tendering each knuckle, each scar, each hurt. Drunk on it, on how it’s okay that he does this now, that Dean lets him.
Sam dreams of blonde hair and oak trees and smells burning flesh and he wakes up with a jolting start, the gasp already being drawn before he opens his eyes.
His chest doesn’t have room to expand completely because there’s a tight band across it, tight and warm and strong as steel, and before Sam starts to struggle, there’s a mouth against his ear, lips soft, breath sour.
“Shh. Sammy, ‘sokay. It’s okay.”
Sam pants, quick and afraid like he’s being chased, like there’s still something here to be afraid of.
“Shhh. C’mon, little brother. ‘m right here. Just calm down.”
Sam closes his eyes to the darkness again, finally exhaling fast, in relief. He’s drenched in sweat, his t-shirt soaked through, and his stomach is trembling, tight with fear.
“Sorry,” he sighs, his entire body relaxing back against his brother, easing into the nuzzle of Dean’s nose over his cheek, those lips pressing once and sweet to his neck.
“Wanna talk about it?”
Sam shakes his head before he can even process the question, before he can even consider it.
“Just a bad dream. Sorry. If.” He swallows, waking up a little more for the ache it puts in his chest to say this. “If you wanna sleep in the other bed--”
“Hey,” Dean interrupts him, his voice still soft, like he doesn’t want them to wake up any more than they are already. “I put up with your snoring and talking in your sleep and stealing covers and kicking me, just like I always have. I’m not gonna bitch out now. Got it?”
Sam can’t help but smile tiredly, nestling back into the curve of Dean’s body as Dean’s hand presses into his belly, rubbing in a slow, soothing circle.
“I don’t snore.”
Dean’s teeth close around his earlobe, biting and tugging gently. Sam jerks against him, letting out a warning grunt just as Dean’s arms tighten around him again.
“Night, Sammy.”
The next time he has the dream, it sets them on the road to Lawrence.
Dean looks gaunt, hollowed out as he drives there, and Sam can’t forget the look on his face from earlier, the terrified, young look when Dean realized where they had to go. Sam glances over at him in the driver’s seat, studying him in profile, the full curve of his mouth, the intent dreaminess of his eyes as he focuses both on the road and on his thoughts one million miles away.
“You’re beautiful,” Sam says, soft, unexpected.
That draws Dean right back down into his body, into the car, makes him shoot a glance over at Sam, eyebrows raised.
“Somebody dare you to say that? Was it Bobby?”
Sam smirks at him just as Dean looks away, but Dean’s smiling now, little and he’s trying really hard to hide it.
Sam rests his head against the cold window, stares off into the flats of Nebraska.
“Always thought it. Always. Even when before I knew what it meant. Way before I knew I wasn’t supposed to think it. Not about you.”
Dean chews on that for a minute, eyes focused once again, but his mouth is soft, like he’s ready to speak.
“Can’t think of a better word? Like dashing? Or handsome? Or buff?”
Sam lets out a breath of laughter, the grin spreading across his mouth slow, adoring. “Sorry, Dean. You’re beautiful. I don’t make the rules.”
Dean frowns then, lips pushing into a pout.
“Just. Don’t go tellin’ anybody that shit, arrite?”
His cheeks are a little pink, but at least there’s humor back on his face, the grey, faraway of earlier replaced with awkward self-awareness and a teeny bit of pride. Sam leans over, presses a kiss to the apple of Dean’s cheek, just to watch him squirm.
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
They sleep in a motel room that night in their hometown, just a few blocks from their old house. Dean had found his way through the streets without effort or pause, like he’s thought about these streets hundreds of times over the span of his life, like he was born with knowledge of them in his bones.
They lie still in the darkness next to each other, both awake and knowing it. Sam can’t shake the smell of the house--the faint mustiness, the smell of a heater being turned on for the first time in months, the smell of toasted bread and apple juice. He wonders if it used to smell like that, if Mom made it smell like that. Wonders if it was familiar for Dean. If Dean even remembers what the house used to smell like.
He glances over at him, sees Dean’s lashes move in silhouette against the backdrop of the window.
“What are you thinkin’ about?”
Sam keeps his voice soft, doesn’t want to startle Dean, but he’s never really worried about something like that before. Dean’s always been so unshakeable, like he could brush off anything, always land on his feet. He’s seemed raw all day, like he’s tender to the touch, like he’s been ready to just turn around and run.
And Dean Winchester never runs.
“Just,” Dean starts, his voice a low scratch, tongue soothing out over dry lips, “just how we’re home. In Lawrence. And how even home, we’re sleepin’ in a motel.”
Sam hums in understanding before he draws in a slow breath that he lets out in a sigh. He turns on his side, facing Dean, arm curled up under his pillow. He wants to reach out and touch him, wants to burrow in close, to hug Dean like he’s wanted to all day, but something about Dean, about his quiet, the distance he put between them when he climbed into bed, tells Sam not to, to just leave him alone.
“He still hasn’t called.” Dean’s so quiet he almost sounds like he’s talking to himself, but Sam hears it. “I just. I just don’t know what it means. Maybe somethin’s really happened to him. Maybe he--”
“He’s alive, Dean. C’mon.” Sam risks it, puts on a brave face and moves closer, fingers pressing into the stiff, cheaply-washed topsheet right next to Dean’s ribs. “You’d know if something happened to him. You’d know. Somebody would’ve heard something by now. Would have let us know.”
“Somebody should know where he is anyway.” Dean sounds mad, frustrated, like he’s gritting his teeth. His hands are clasped tight together, resting on his stomach. Sam’s fingers flex in the sheets to keep from touching them. “It’s bullshit how nobody’s heard from him. Bullshit.”
“You’d know,” Sam repeats, the words sounding trite, repetitive but he means them, believes them. “Just like I’d know if anything ever happened to you. I’d just know, Dean.”
“If I ever do this to you, I give you full permission to punch me, okay?”
Sam sighs, feeling so tired suddenly that he can barely keep his eyes open. He takes a deep breath and makes his move, scooting down a little on the bed to tuck his face into Dean’s neck, his legs curled awkwardly, bare feet hanging out from beneath the covers and off the bed. He slides his hand across Dean’s stomach, over soft cotton and the tight, tensed muscles to hug him, to just wrap around him as much as he will allow himself.
“Last time I saw him was in Denver,” Sam says into Dean’s skin, into warm, paperthin jersey. “Last time I saw him, he wouldn’t even look at me.”
Dean tenses under him.
“Sam--”
“I just,” Sam presses on, his thumb stroking at Dean’s ribs, bumping over and over the ridges of them. “I just wanna make it right. To say I’m sorry.”
Dean’s hands untangle now, finally, one of them sliding up across Sam’s spine, tired fingers pushing into the thick of his hair. He sighs.
“Pretty sure he forgave you before you even left the state.”
Sam snorts. “Don’t be so sure about that.”
Dean’s hand tightens into a gentle pulse of pressure in Sam’s hair, like he’s thinking, trying to get Sam’s attention.
“Talk to me. Tell me something.”
Sam frowns, heart swooping in dread for no real reason.
“What do you mean?”
He feels Dean shrug.
“Dunno, just. Anything. Something about you I might not know. That I missed. Just.” Sam realizes then, in that pause, just how fragile Dean is right now. How he’s just barely holding himself together. “Just talk. Okay?”
“Okay, Dean,” he whispers, not wanting to talk, not here in the quiet of night, not when they’re curled up like this, all vulnerable to each other, not when he’s been thinking of absolutely nothing except for how to get Dean to kiss him again. But he’ll do anything Dean asks. Anything.
Dean’s hand cards through his hair, thick fingers pushing back from his hairline to his crown and down to his nape before starting over again, and Sam spreads his hand out over Dean’s chest, heel of it resting right over Dean’s heart. And he thinks.
“I haven’t see any of the Lord of the Rings movies without you. I just. Couldn’t. You know?”
He hears Dean hum, a surprised, happy sound, and it makes him hug closer to Dean, smiling a little against his neck.
“Think we need to fix that with a marathon real soon, what do you think?”
Sam nods, doesn’t care if Dean saw any of them without him, doesn’t really want to hear about it if he has. “And, uh. Maybe after I can read the book for us? Like I used to?”
Dean’s chest jumps as he huffs out a laugh. “Can you say that one word yet?”
Sam smirks, lifts his head to glare down at Dean.
“What word?”
“You know the one.”
Sam raises his eyebrows.
“You can’t say it right either.”
Dean shrugs. “Yeah, well. I didn’t go to Stanford, so.”
Sam narrows his eyes. “Númenórean.”
Dean grins.
“‘Nyoooma-nyoo-nooma--Dean, can I just say Elros’ family?’” Dean mimics back-in-the-day-Sam’s voice so well it’s creepy, down to the inflection of his own name. Sam’s hand tightens into a tickle along Dean’s ribs and Dean jerks, grunts and squirms around it but doesn’t move otherwise.
Sam huffs, all of it in play and they both know it, always know it. He settles back down against Dean and is immediately rewarded with Dean’s fingers touching over his earlobe, down his cheek before tucking his hair behind his ear. He nestles in tight.
“It’s okay. I don’t have to read it again.”
“You are cute as shit when you’re poutin’, you know that, Sammy?”
Sam sighs. “Dean.”
“No, you are! Always have been. That little mouth, are you kiddin’ me?” Dean lifts up until Sam is curled up on the mattress instead of his brother, and Dean is leaning down over him, looming all warm and soft and smiling in the dark and God, this. This is what Sam’s always wanted. He reaches up to touch Dean’s stomach through his shirt, just because he can.
“Am not,” he says again thoughtlessly, focused on other things entirely now. Dean’s searching his face like there’s something to see, something worth remembering, even though Sam’s just in a stretched-out, secondhand t-shirt in this $35 a night motel room bed, still that awkward, aching boy, just in a longer body now.
“Hey, Sammy, you remember that song you used to sing in the mornin’?”
Sam frowns. “...I had a song?”
“Yeah! That one about, uh. What was it? Froot Loops?”
Sam closes his eyes just as Dean’s hand spreads out over his thin stomach. “Oh, Jesus.”
“It was so cute.”
Sam opens his eyes just so he can raise his eyebrows at his brother again. “Are you talkin’ about the one where I just said Froot Loops a bunch of times?”
“There was a melody to it! It was kinda like ‘Froooot Loops! FrootLoopsFrootLoops… FROOT LOOPS.’”
“...Wow.”
“Hey! You were like, three. It was cute as shit.” Dean’s half on top of him now, and Sam can’t help that he’s smiling now, can’t help the way his cheeks flush.
“Doubt it.”
“And besides you weren’t good with Rs or Ls yet then, so it sounded like ‘Fwoot Woops! FwootWoopsFwootWoops--’”
Sam pounces then, lifting up and tackling Dean back to the bed, bracing himself up over him to grin at his smug face.
“Shut up, Dean.”
Dean’s smile is huge and kind of fucking adorable, and Sam can’t help the way his body arches, the way he reacts when Dean’s hands light on his back and slide down, fingers sweeping in hard and deep into the arch of it.
“Mmm,” Dean sighs, letting his hands pushing back up before sliding down again, stopping now on the swell of Sam’s ass. “You like that, Sammy?”
Sam spreads his legs around Dean’s body, knees digging into the flimsy mattress so he can push back into those hands, so he can curl up and into them like a cat. His eyes slip closed and he pulls his lips into his mouth to keep in all the sounds he wants to make.
“Like anything you do. Anything. Always have.” It’s the last two words that have his cheeks flushing hot, that are the actual confession. Dean’s hands rub at the small of his back, pushing him into a deeper arch, his ass popped up high and presented to the empty room. It doesn’t feel real.
“Since when? How long?” It’s manipulative and they both know it, like interrogation by torture. Dean’s fingertips dig in at the tight curve of his ass and Sam pushes himself into a deeper curl for it, ass tipping up to try and get at Dean’s hands.
“Too long,” Sam breathes between soft pants, finally lowering his body enough to let their dicks press together for the first time and he shakes all over, so, so fucking close already to just losing it. He’s mindless, brain on a constant, enthralled loop of DeanDeanDeanDeanDeanDeanDean. “I was eleven.”
“Eleven? Jesus fuckin’--” Dean growls and Sam has to open his eyes then, to look down and see the lust-blown wide of Dean’s pupils, see the sweat gathering at his temples and in the V of his neck, to see how pink his mouth is in the scant light from the window and the hunger in his eyes.
Dean’s hands push down over his ass for the first time, grabbing at him rough and possessive, not being careful at all, not being gentle but Sam never wants him to be, wants him to bruise, wants it to hurt, wants to remember. He whimpers and rocks into those hands, pushing hard enough into them that Dean spreads his cheeks, hot air sweeping all along his crack through his thin pants, and fuck, it feels so good.
“God, I just wasted all that time, didn’t I? All those years. They’re just gone and I can’t. I can’t ever get ‘em back. I can never have that boy again. And I can see you, just like you were back then. So little and those eyes on me, just always starin’ up at me. I could have had you then, couldn’t I? Made you mine even back then.” Dean’s rambling, mindless and honest and he’s hauling Sam up with his grip on his ass, dragging the burning aches of their dicks together.
Sam is shaking, braced up over his brother, the muscles in his arms trembling but he stays up because he knows if he doesn’t, he’s going to get at Dean’s mouth, he’s going to kiss him until he tastes his fill of him. It’s burning up in the room suddenly, when it had been so chilly earlier, it’s eerie-quiet and the bed is groaning under their combined weight, squeaking every time Sam drags his body hard over his brother’s. He finally finds his voice, finishes his confession.
“I’m. I still feel like that with you. That boy. I’m always that boy with you, Dean.”
Dean growls, his fingertips digging in hard, stroking over the sides of Sam’s hole through his sweatpants. “Will you still be my boy? My little boy, Sammy. Can you still be him for me?”
“Yeah, Dean. God. Yeah. I-I promise.” He drops down finally, can’t stay up any longer, wraps his arms around the pillow around Dean’s head, knees sliding out further on the mattress so he can get in deep, so their dicks are choking tight against each other, pre-come soaking in his pants, making it burning hot and slippery as he fucks against Dean, humps at his dick.
“Ride it, Sammy,” Dean says low in his ear, hands still on his ass, haven’t left, just guiding him, encouraging every rut of his hips. “C’mon, little brother. Gonna make me come.”
Sam really gets into it then, now that he has a goal in mind, now that he has that beautiful bit of encouragement. Make Dean come, make Dean come. His Dean, his Dean. The bed is shaking now, jarring hard against the wall, the frame shuddering but he doesn’t stop, can’t stop, the friction inside of his pants not exactly right but they’re as good as naked, as close as sharing skin, sharing a body and Sam’s shaking all over now, little, humiliating sounds leaving his mouth but he’s flying high because this is happening, this is happening, this is Dean and Sam’s gonna. He’s gonna.
“Dean,” he begs, that word the last he can manage before Dean’s hauling him in for a kiss, one hand now on the back of his head to pull him in, the other hand spread out all possessive over his entire ass and god, Sam’s coming, coming like he’s been holding it in for half his life, all those eleven years, like he’s been saving it all up for this and he’s finally letting go.
He’s panting into Dean’s mouth more than kissing him, just letting Dean’s tongue in him, letting it lick its fill, letting him taste while he comes. It’s so wet now, every fuck of his hips punctuated with a loud squelch and Dean’s rumbling low in his chest, panting hard under him and Sam gathers himself back together even though he’s still soaring, still shaking and he fucks down hard into Dean, giving his dick all the friction he possibly can and fuck, Dean is so beautiful, he’s dripping with sweat and pink all over and he’s whimpering, actually whimpering, in Sam’s mouth.
“Make me come, Sammy, make me come. Make me come,” he chants under his breath, right into Sam’s mouth and Sam rides him even harder, all his muscles shaking with the effort. Dean is pounding up against him, giving as good as he gets, his hips rubbing in deep and he makes the most gorgeous sounds when he starts to come, unaware, groaning sounds like he can’t hear himself, like he’s just feeling it, has to let it out. He feels Dean pulsing so hot under him, feels every spurt filling his underwear, every jump of his dick, and it’s enough to make Sam wish he could come again.
They strain against each other, pushing and rubbing and riding it out and they’re finally kissing again, deep, greedy licks and sucks of tongue. They slow to a stop but keep kissing, keep feeding, keep shaking together.
Dean sighs finally, both of his arms wrapped around Sam now, clutching him down against himself, and Sam sinks down on top of him, boneless and foreheads pressing.
“Sorry,” he says into Dean’s mouth, trying to lift up off of him but Dean holds tight, pulls him back down as he shakes his head.
“Just. Just stay right here. It’s okay.”
“We’re gross, Dean,” Sam reminds him but he doesn’t really care, doesn’t mean it. He’ll stay in spunk-filled pants all night if it means he can be this close, if it means their ribs can bruise each other, their hearts can thump together all night. Dean seems to agree because he just lowers his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to Sam’s sweaty neck before he sighs, relaxing under the weight of Sam’s body.
Sam lowers a little, just enough to take his place against Dean’s neck, arms slipping up around it, too. He doesn’t think about it, doesn’t obsess over what just happened, not now. Now, everything feels just right, feels like it’s finally, finally how it’s supposed to be.
next.