fic: 7/4/1996
Title: 7/4/1996
Genre: Sam/Dean
Rating: nc-17
Word Count: 2500
Notes: written for this prompt over at spn_masquerade Many thanks to the original requester. Warning for underage.
Summary: We've all seen what happened when Dean took Sam out to that field to light off fireworks, but we don't know what might have happened after.
They’re tearing down some two-lane country road, the kind that doesn’t have a name, only a number, a thin strip of blacktop unmarred by lane markers, damp and shiny under the wheels of the Impala. Iron Man is on the radio and Dean sings along in a trumped up, over the top British accent because he knows it makes Sam smile, maybe even laugh a little.
Dean really likes it when Sam laughs.
The song fades out and another one takes its place, low, slow slide of guitar and Dean reaches out to change the station, about to launch into a well thought out tirade because he’s willing to bet his best bowie knife against bumpkiss that Sam’s fucked around with the presets again, but Sam grabs his wrist, reflexes faster than a snake, holds him still with fingers that Dean swears are half an inch longer than they were two weeks ago. If he could get Sam to hold still for an hour, Dean thinks he’d be able to actually see him grow.
“No. Keep it. I like it. If you listen to the words, you’d like it too,” Sam says. His voice starts out squawky and finishes up a register deeper, a low purr. It’s the voice of someone a decade older than Sam, quiet and authoritative, what Sam will sound like once he finally settles into it. For a quick flash, hardly a blink, Dean can see the man his brother will become: tall, broad shouldered and strong, a sharp jaw and even sharper eyes that still light up with curiosity and unanswered questions. It does strange things to Dean, makes his skin feel too tight, sinks into his stomach as easy as a hot knife into soft butter.
“Fine,” Dean says, ignoring the choked sound of his own voice. “Have it your way.” He cautions a glance toward his brother, fast and fleeting. Sam’s got his legs jackknifed against the dash, fingers tapping on his knees. There are three identical cuts on the first three knuckles of his right hand, and those are the marks of a fighter, of punches thrown. Not the skinned knees and scuffed up chin of any other normal kid Sam’s age.
Never mind that.
“There. Right there, Dean,” Sam says, pointing out of the window of the Impala toward a break in the tree line and an empty field beyond it.
Dean pulls over and Sam jumps out before the car comes to a complete stop, hand held out impatiently for the keys then circling around to the trunk after Dean tosses them his way.
The dead of summer and it’s unnaturally cold here, and Dean shrugs his jacket straight on his shoulders as he levers himself out of the driver’s seat. He wants heat, a muggy summer night, but they always go where the job takes them and this time it’s taken them to the tip-top of Maine, so far north that it might as well be Canada at this point. Dad’s hunting some Indian ghost, a former Micmac straight out of a Stephen King novel, one who scalps his victims in an alarmingly stereotypical fashion. He left his boys with a hundred bucks, a cabinet full of ramen noodles and a see ya later, which had in turn left Sammy sullen, muttering about another holiday down the tubes.
Dean doesn’t get that. It’s not like the 4th of July is a real holiday anyway, not like Thanksgiving or Christmas or even birthdays, it’s just some excuse to drink beer and engage in a few pyromaniac inclinations. But Sam’s going through a phase, can’t seem to help finding faults in everything, like the entire world is gunning for him and him alone, so Dean had gone out with Sam in tow, grocery money in his back pocket and blown it all on fireworks.
The roman candles are first to go, and they shoot them off, holding them in their hands exactly like the guy who sold them said not to do, counting the rounds until ten. Sam looks up at him, happy like he hasn’t been in a while, arms flung around Dean’s waist. Dean feels a low curl of heat as Sam tightens down, thunks his head against Dean's chest. It’s been weeks, months since Dean’s had this much physical contact with Sam. Better to not touch him for too long. Better to not linger. Safer.
“Go ahead, Sammy. Have at it. Fire ‘em up,” Dean says, small push to his shoulder to get him going, because there’s no use doing a thing unless you’re willing to go all the way.
Sam dashes forward, Dean’s old zippo in his hand, hits every fuse he can see. Dean holds his breath as the sparks start to fly, and there’s Sam in the middle of them, lit up all golden, the brightest thing in Dean’s entire world, and for a moment things are okay. Sam’s happy and sparks land on his shoulders and everything’s as close to perfect as it ever gets.
Dean’s staring down at Sam, spinning around in his ratty jeans and ratty shoes and a sweatshirt three sizes too big, and he thinks about how everything Sam has ever had has been second hand, thrift store clothes and books stolen from libraries, a swiss army knife that he’d inherited from their father. Everything has belonged to someone else first, except for Dean’s heart, and that has always been Sam’s, right from the beginning, right from the start.
It took them almost an hour of driving around to find this place, and Dean doesn’t want to waste it, so he tosses his jacket onto the ground and lowers himself onto it, folds an arm behind his head.
Sam towers over him for a second, feet planted on either side of Dean’s head, but Dean doesn’t flinch. He trusts Sam.
“I thought you’d wanna head back,” Sam says, “get with that girl. What’s her name?”
“Randi. She puts a little heart over the ‘i’,” Dean supplies, a sarcastic twist to his mouth.
Sam snorts, flops down next to him, a mirror image.
“Anyway, I like it here,” Dean continues, and that’s the truth. The grass is soft on his back and now that the smoke from the fireworks has blown away, the sky is bright, the moon huge and clear and everything has that clean, fresh earth smell to it.
“Yeah, me too,” Sam agrees.
The back of his hand brushes against Dean’s, and that’s when Dean flinches. An unexpected taste like iron floods into his mouth and he should move his hand, pull it away like any normal person would, any normal person who doesn’t spend a lot of his time thinking about what it might be like to screw around with his kid brother. Dean doesn’t move, though, and Sam doesn’t let up, hooks his pinky finger around Dean’s ring finger and now there’s nothing to do but call it what it is. Intentional.
Sam’s screwed up, that’s all. He’s got his wires crossed, hasn’t been socialized enough, or has been socialized the wrong way. So much moving around festers its own kinda claustrophobia, a nearsighted sort of perspective, and it should be Dean’s job to set him dead to rights, keep him on the straight and narrow, but Dean’s starting to learn that he’s a little too sideways himself, as crooked as they come.
Then Sam rolls to his side, curled toward Dean like a question mark and lets his hand fall to Dean’s stomach, and Dean should roll away, get to his feet and walk to the car, or maybe run past it and keep running, but he can’t. Sam’s hand has him pinned in place, heavier than it has any right to be, under the command of some strange sorta of gravity.
“Sam,” Dean starts, a warning threaded through. “Stop.”
The pressure on Dean’s stomach doubles, Sam leaning into it now, and everything feels so hard, movement rendered suddenly impossible.
“I thought…” Sam says, his voice cracks. “You we’re finally looking at me again. It’s been forever.”
“Fuck, Sam. I’m always looking at you,” Dean says, and now he’s cracking too.
“Then do it now.”
Leave it to Sam to be the one who’s mature about all of this, to have his head on mostly straight, the one who needs empirical proof. Dean opens his eyes, and Sam’s closer than before, half leaning over Dean with his hair in his eyes and a hopeful, heartbreaking expression on his face.
Dean pushes at his bangs and says, “Most of the time, you’re the only thing I can see.”
There’s a soft noise when Sam breathes out, half question and half sigh and Dean’s stomach sinks, hits the deck with a hot swoop as he takes Sam by the back of the neck and pulls him close. Sam comes so easy, like he’s been waiting for it, misses Dean’s mouth and smears his lips along his jaw and Dean nearly puts a stop to all of it. They don’t fit, they’re misaligned, but then Dean’s fucked up instinct kicks in and he shifts, finds Sam’s mouth and licks into it, shows him how it’s done.
Sam’s all skinny arms and skinny legs, so fucking light once he’s crawled across Dean’s lap and straddled him, breathing tiny little moans into Dean’s mouth. He rubs his ass on Dean’s crotch, pushes his hands under Dean’s shirt, impatient like he’s always been, not sure where he wants to start or where he wants to end up.
Years and years of sparring means that they each understand the way the other moves, familiar in a way that’s well beyond intimate and more like second nature, like Sam could be an extension of his own body. Sam drops his shoulder then drops his hand to Dean’s dick, squeezes and scuffs his palm along it through his jeans, and when Dean’s stomach muscles clench Sam’s right there to catch him as Dean sits up, grabs a handful of Sam’s ass and forces him to slide in closer.
Sam’s still kissing him, gnawing painlessly at his mouth while he tries to get his hand down Dean’s jeans, inexperienced and uncoordinated, but goddamn he’s catching on, apparently a quick study not only with obscure lore and arcane languages but also the obscene art of fucking around with his brother, and Dean goes from zero to really fucking fast, almost loses it when Sam gets his hand in far enough in to slip his fingers across the damp tip of Dean’s dick.
Holy mother of fuck, Dean’s not gonna blow before his kid brother, competitive in this like he is with everything else. Dean grunts, heaves Sam to the ground so hard his breath comes out in a forced whoosh, legs sprawled open and his arms flung out above his head. His mouth is bitten raw, slick with Dean’s spit and his skin shines with sweat and he’s squirming under the onslaught of Dean’s relentless gaze, a flush beating out the pale light of the moon, but he deserves that. He’d asked Dean to look at him, after all.
“C’mere, Dean. Goddamnit, come here.” Sam pleads like it hurts, all wanting and needy, so Dean tugs at Sam’s pants and barely gets his own past his hips, grips Sam’s cock and jacks him a couple of times, palm stuttering and dry and there goes one line in the sand, crossed like it’s nothing. Sam kicks his pants off, leaves them tangled around one ankle and pulls his legs up to his chest, ass entirely on display. And there goes another line, crossed so hard and so fast that Dean can’t even see it in the rearview when he spits on his fingers and shoves one of them inside of Sam’s ass, too deep and too fast and Sam cries out, and a second later begs him not to stop, begs him to give him more, give him anything.
It’s desperation that drives Dean forward, makes him drill into Sam with a decisive snap of his hips, but it’s Sam that keeps him there, legs wrapped around Dean’s middle and his arms strong as metal around his shoulders.
Even at his age, Sam’s known pain, physical and otherwise, and it’s gotta hurt, gotta burn, the way that Dean breaches him with nothing but a little spit and precome to ease the way, but clearly Sam’s determined to push through it, get to the other side. Dean can feel Sam’s body give and relax around him, learn how to work with this new intrusion. Make room for him.
He pulls out nearly all the way, slams back in, circles his hips and can’t get enough of the feel of it, Sam so tight and hot and good on his dick. Sam clenches around him like he’s trying to pull him in further, heels pressed into the backs of Dean’s knees and his arms implacable around his ribs, his face pressed hot and sweaty against Dean’s neck, groaning into his skin.
Sam’s whole body pulls tighter than piano wire, his fingernails rip into Dean’s back and he comes, shoots sticky between their stomachs, all over Dean’s shirt. Dean’s mind swims wildly along a tangent and he wishes he’d taken it off first, thinks about how Sam’s gonna have to do the laundry for a month over this particular infraction before all of his attention zeros back in on his dick, the rapidly building inertia of his orgasm, no going back.
Dean collapses on his brother, lets Sam take the full measure of his weight and it pushes another low moan out of Sam’s mouth, this one sweet and happy as Dean shudders and shakes against him. After a minute, the night rushes in, the coolness of the air, constant drone of cicadas, the distant sound of tires moving fast on asphalt.
Sam’s hands are restless on Dean’s back, counting the notches of his spine, soothing the scrapes his fingernails left behind.
“Are you gonna freak out now?” Sam says it like it’s inevitable, like he’s biding his time and building an argument.
“Gimme a minute,” Dean replies, not sure if it’s a yes or a no. There’s an enormous difference between fucking his baby brother and living with the fact that he’s just fucked his baby brother. There’s an even bigger difference between doing it and wanting to do it again. Soon and in a bed next time, with something better than spit and bad intentions, Zeppelin on the radio and maybe a candle or two.
“Maybe we can get a place tonight? One of those singles with a big kingsize bed. Order pizza. Just you and me.” Sam’s sweatshirt is off of one arm and his t-shirt is pushed up to his armpits. He’s too skinny, growing too fast for the rest of him to catch up. Dean can count every one of his ribs, see each bone in the complex mechanism of his hips.
“Yeah, Sammy.” Dean’s heart is like a jackhammer in his chest and he loves this kid so fucking much. This kid, who’s idea of a big night out is a different hotel room than the one they’re currently living in, pizza and fireworks and an enormous fucking bed. “Of course. Just you and me.”
--fin
Thanks for reading!
Genre: Sam/Dean
Rating: nc-17
Word Count: 2500
Notes: written for this prompt over at spn_masquerade Many thanks to the original requester. Warning for underage.
Summary: We've all seen what happened when Dean took Sam out to that field to light off fireworks, but we don't know what might have happened after.
They’re tearing down some two-lane country road, the kind that doesn’t have a name, only a number, a thin strip of blacktop unmarred by lane markers, damp and shiny under the wheels of the Impala. Iron Man is on the radio and Dean sings along in a trumped up, over the top British accent because he knows it makes Sam smile, maybe even laugh a little.
Dean really likes it when Sam laughs.
The song fades out and another one takes its place, low, slow slide of guitar and Dean reaches out to change the station, about to launch into a well thought out tirade because he’s willing to bet his best bowie knife against bumpkiss that Sam’s fucked around with the presets again, but Sam grabs his wrist, reflexes faster than a snake, holds him still with fingers that Dean swears are half an inch longer than they were two weeks ago. If he could get Sam to hold still for an hour, Dean thinks he’d be able to actually see him grow.
“No. Keep it. I like it. If you listen to the words, you’d like it too,” Sam says. His voice starts out squawky and finishes up a register deeper, a low purr. It’s the voice of someone a decade older than Sam, quiet and authoritative, what Sam will sound like once he finally settles into it. For a quick flash, hardly a blink, Dean can see the man his brother will become: tall, broad shouldered and strong, a sharp jaw and even sharper eyes that still light up with curiosity and unanswered questions. It does strange things to Dean, makes his skin feel too tight, sinks into his stomach as easy as a hot knife into soft butter.
“Fine,” Dean says, ignoring the choked sound of his own voice. “Have it your way.” He cautions a glance toward his brother, fast and fleeting. Sam’s got his legs jackknifed against the dash, fingers tapping on his knees. There are three identical cuts on the first three knuckles of his right hand, and those are the marks of a fighter, of punches thrown. Not the skinned knees and scuffed up chin of any other normal kid Sam’s age.
Never mind that.
“There. Right there, Dean,” Sam says, pointing out of the window of the Impala toward a break in the tree line and an empty field beyond it.
Dean pulls over and Sam jumps out before the car comes to a complete stop, hand held out impatiently for the keys then circling around to the trunk after Dean tosses them his way.
The dead of summer and it’s unnaturally cold here, and Dean shrugs his jacket straight on his shoulders as he levers himself out of the driver’s seat. He wants heat, a muggy summer night, but they always go where the job takes them and this time it’s taken them to the tip-top of Maine, so far north that it might as well be Canada at this point. Dad’s hunting some Indian ghost, a former Micmac straight out of a Stephen King novel, one who scalps his victims in an alarmingly stereotypical fashion. He left his boys with a hundred bucks, a cabinet full of ramen noodles and a see ya later, which had in turn left Sammy sullen, muttering about another holiday down the tubes.
Dean doesn’t get that. It’s not like the 4th of July is a real holiday anyway, not like Thanksgiving or Christmas or even birthdays, it’s just some excuse to drink beer and engage in a few pyromaniac inclinations. But Sam’s going through a phase, can’t seem to help finding faults in everything, like the entire world is gunning for him and him alone, so Dean had gone out with Sam in tow, grocery money in his back pocket and blown it all on fireworks.
The roman candles are first to go, and they shoot them off, holding them in their hands exactly like the guy who sold them said not to do, counting the rounds until ten. Sam looks up at him, happy like he hasn’t been in a while, arms flung around Dean’s waist. Dean feels a low curl of heat as Sam tightens down, thunks his head against Dean's chest. It’s been weeks, months since Dean’s had this much physical contact with Sam. Better to not touch him for too long. Better to not linger. Safer.
“Go ahead, Sammy. Have at it. Fire ‘em up,” Dean says, small push to his shoulder to get him going, because there’s no use doing a thing unless you’re willing to go all the way.
Sam dashes forward, Dean’s old zippo in his hand, hits every fuse he can see. Dean holds his breath as the sparks start to fly, and there’s Sam in the middle of them, lit up all golden, the brightest thing in Dean’s entire world, and for a moment things are okay. Sam’s happy and sparks land on his shoulders and everything’s as close to perfect as it ever gets.
Dean’s staring down at Sam, spinning around in his ratty jeans and ratty shoes and a sweatshirt three sizes too big, and he thinks about how everything Sam has ever had has been second hand, thrift store clothes and books stolen from libraries, a swiss army knife that he’d inherited from their father. Everything has belonged to someone else first, except for Dean’s heart, and that has always been Sam’s, right from the beginning, right from the start.
It took them almost an hour of driving around to find this place, and Dean doesn’t want to waste it, so he tosses his jacket onto the ground and lowers himself onto it, folds an arm behind his head.
Sam towers over him for a second, feet planted on either side of Dean’s head, but Dean doesn’t flinch. He trusts Sam.
“I thought you’d wanna head back,” Sam says, “get with that girl. What’s her name?”
“Randi. She puts a little heart over the ‘i’,” Dean supplies, a sarcastic twist to his mouth.
Sam snorts, flops down next to him, a mirror image.
“Anyway, I like it here,” Dean continues, and that’s the truth. The grass is soft on his back and now that the smoke from the fireworks has blown away, the sky is bright, the moon huge and clear and everything has that clean, fresh earth smell to it.
“Yeah, me too,” Sam agrees.
The back of his hand brushes against Dean’s, and that’s when Dean flinches. An unexpected taste like iron floods into his mouth and he should move his hand, pull it away like any normal person would, any normal person who doesn’t spend a lot of his time thinking about what it might be like to screw around with his kid brother. Dean doesn’t move, though, and Sam doesn’t let up, hooks his pinky finger around Dean’s ring finger and now there’s nothing to do but call it what it is. Intentional.
Sam’s screwed up, that’s all. He’s got his wires crossed, hasn’t been socialized enough, or has been socialized the wrong way. So much moving around festers its own kinda claustrophobia, a nearsighted sort of perspective, and it should be Dean’s job to set him dead to rights, keep him on the straight and narrow, but Dean’s starting to learn that he’s a little too sideways himself, as crooked as they come.
Then Sam rolls to his side, curled toward Dean like a question mark and lets his hand fall to Dean’s stomach, and Dean should roll away, get to his feet and walk to the car, or maybe run past it and keep running, but he can’t. Sam’s hand has him pinned in place, heavier than it has any right to be, under the command of some strange sorta of gravity.
“Sam,” Dean starts, a warning threaded through. “Stop.”
The pressure on Dean’s stomach doubles, Sam leaning into it now, and everything feels so hard, movement rendered suddenly impossible.
“I thought…” Sam says, his voice cracks. “You we’re finally looking at me again. It’s been forever.”
“Fuck, Sam. I’m always looking at you,” Dean says, and now he’s cracking too.
“Then do it now.”
Leave it to Sam to be the one who’s mature about all of this, to have his head on mostly straight, the one who needs empirical proof. Dean opens his eyes, and Sam’s closer than before, half leaning over Dean with his hair in his eyes and a hopeful, heartbreaking expression on his face.
Dean pushes at his bangs and says, “Most of the time, you’re the only thing I can see.”
There’s a soft noise when Sam breathes out, half question and half sigh and Dean’s stomach sinks, hits the deck with a hot swoop as he takes Sam by the back of the neck and pulls him close. Sam comes so easy, like he’s been waiting for it, misses Dean’s mouth and smears his lips along his jaw and Dean nearly puts a stop to all of it. They don’t fit, they’re misaligned, but then Dean’s fucked up instinct kicks in and he shifts, finds Sam’s mouth and licks into it, shows him how it’s done.
Sam’s all skinny arms and skinny legs, so fucking light once he’s crawled across Dean’s lap and straddled him, breathing tiny little moans into Dean’s mouth. He rubs his ass on Dean’s crotch, pushes his hands under Dean’s shirt, impatient like he’s always been, not sure where he wants to start or where he wants to end up.
Years and years of sparring means that they each understand the way the other moves, familiar in a way that’s well beyond intimate and more like second nature, like Sam could be an extension of his own body. Sam drops his shoulder then drops his hand to Dean’s dick, squeezes and scuffs his palm along it through his jeans, and when Dean’s stomach muscles clench Sam’s right there to catch him as Dean sits up, grabs a handful of Sam’s ass and forces him to slide in closer.
Sam’s still kissing him, gnawing painlessly at his mouth while he tries to get his hand down Dean’s jeans, inexperienced and uncoordinated, but goddamn he’s catching on, apparently a quick study not only with obscure lore and arcane languages but also the obscene art of fucking around with his brother, and Dean goes from zero to really fucking fast, almost loses it when Sam gets his hand in far enough in to slip his fingers across the damp tip of Dean’s dick.
Holy mother of fuck, Dean’s not gonna blow before his kid brother, competitive in this like he is with everything else. Dean grunts, heaves Sam to the ground so hard his breath comes out in a forced whoosh, legs sprawled open and his arms flung out above his head. His mouth is bitten raw, slick with Dean’s spit and his skin shines with sweat and he’s squirming under the onslaught of Dean’s relentless gaze, a flush beating out the pale light of the moon, but he deserves that. He’d asked Dean to look at him, after all.
“C’mere, Dean. Goddamnit, come here.” Sam pleads like it hurts, all wanting and needy, so Dean tugs at Sam’s pants and barely gets his own past his hips, grips Sam’s cock and jacks him a couple of times, palm stuttering and dry and there goes one line in the sand, crossed like it’s nothing. Sam kicks his pants off, leaves them tangled around one ankle and pulls his legs up to his chest, ass entirely on display. And there goes another line, crossed so hard and so fast that Dean can’t even see it in the rearview when he spits on his fingers and shoves one of them inside of Sam’s ass, too deep and too fast and Sam cries out, and a second later begs him not to stop, begs him to give him more, give him anything.
It’s desperation that drives Dean forward, makes him drill into Sam with a decisive snap of his hips, but it’s Sam that keeps him there, legs wrapped around Dean’s middle and his arms strong as metal around his shoulders.
Even at his age, Sam’s known pain, physical and otherwise, and it’s gotta hurt, gotta burn, the way that Dean breaches him with nothing but a little spit and precome to ease the way, but clearly Sam’s determined to push through it, get to the other side. Dean can feel Sam’s body give and relax around him, learn how to work with this new intrusion. Make room for him.
He pulls out nearly all the way, slams back in, circles his hips and can’t get enough of the feel of it, Sam so tight and hot and good on his dick. Sam clenches around him like he’s trying to pull him in further, heels pressed into the backs of Dean’s knees and his arms implacable around his ribs, his face pressed hot and sweaty against Dean’s neck, groaning into his skin.
Sam’s whole body pulls tighter than piano wire, his fingernails rip into Dean’s back and he comes, shoots sticky between their stomachs, all over Dean’s shirt. Dean’s mind swims wildly along a tangent and he wishes he’d taken it off first, thinks about how Sam’s gonna have to do the laundry for a month over this particular infraction before all of his attention zeros back in on his dick, the rapidly building inertia of his orgasm, no going back.
Dean collapses on his brother, lets Sam take the full measure of his weight and it pushes another low moan out of Sam’s mouth, this one sweet and happy as Dean shudders and shakes against him. After a minute, the night rushes in, the coolness of the air, constant drone of cicadas, the distant sound of tires moving fast on asphalt.
Sam’s hands are restless on Dean’s back, counting the notches of his spine, soothing the scrapes his fingernails left behind.
“Are you gonna freak out now?” Sam says it like it’s inevitable, like he’s biding his time and building an argument.
“Gimme a minute,” Dean replies, not sure if it’s a yes or a no. There’s an enormous difference between fucking his baby brother and living with the fact that he’s just fucked his baby brother. There’s an even bigger difference between doing it and wanting to do it again. Soon and in a bed next time, with something better than spit and bad intentions, Zeppelin on the radio and maybe a candle or two.
“Maybe we can get a place tonight? One of those singles with a big kingsize bed. Order pizza. Just you and me.” Sam’s sweatshirt is off of one arm and his t-shirt is pushed up to his armpits. He’s too skinny, growing too fast for the rest of him to catch up. Dean can count every one of his ribs, see each bone in the complex mechanism of his hips.
“Yeah, Sammy.” Dean’s heart is like a jackhammer in his chest and he loves this kid so fucking much. This kid, who’s idea of a big night out is a different hotel room than the one they’re currently living in, pizza and fireworks and an enormous fucking bed. “Of course. Just you and me.”
--fin
Thanks for reading!