8 Days of Wincest: Day 4
Pre-series drabble
Sam was seventeen when he pushed Dean up against the old oak tree behind the high school baseball diamond and shoved their lips together. It was shitty timing; Dean was pissed that Dad had left him behind on the most recent job, and Sam hadn’t managed to make a single friend at the newest school. There was only Dean, and Dean’s fierce scowl, and a sea of hostile strangers in the cafeteria.
Not even soccer helped. He missed shots, he carried when he should have passed, and his stupid, long legs kept tripping him up, making him slow and clumsy when he used to be quick and agile. He was ready to walk off the field, straight to the motel and into bed and refuse to crawl out until Dad came back, and then there was Dean, familiar and grim, touched white gold under the September sun.
Sam kissed him then, pushed him back until the both stopped short against the solid tree, and it took ten whole seconds before Dean grabbed his arms and shoved him back.
“What. The fuck. Sam,” he spat. “Are you nuts?”
And if I were, Sam thought, shaking and angry, terrified and buoyant, who would care besides you?
He kissed Dean again, hard enough that his teeth cut the inside of his lip. Dean grappled with his elbows for a second, strong enough to push Sam away if he really wanted to. If he wanted to, he’d stop it, Sam thought, and they kept kissing under the sinking sun.
Sam was seventeen when he pushed Dean up against the old oak tree behind the high school baseball diamond and shoved their lips together. It was shitty timing; Dean was pissed that Dad had left him behind on the most recent job, and Sam hadn’t managed to make a single friend at the newest school. There was only Dean, and Dean’s fierce scowl, and a sea of hostile strangers in the cafeteria.
Not even soccer helped. He missed shots, he carried when he should have passed, and his stupid, long legs kept tripping him up, making him slow and clumsy when he used to be quick and agile. He was ready to walk off the field, straight to the motel and into bed and refuse to crawl out until Dad came back, and then there was Dean, familiar and grim, touched white gold under the September sun.
Sam kissed him then, pushed him back until the both stopped short against the solid tree, and it took ten whole seconds before Dean grabbed his arms and shoved him back.
“What. The fuck. Sam,” he spat. “Are you nuts?”
And if I were, Sam thought, shaking and angry, terrified and buoyant, who would care besides you?
He kissed Dean again, hard enough that his teeth cut the inside of his lip. Dean grappled with his elbows for a second, strong enough to push Sam away if he really wanted to. If he wanted to, he’d stop it, Sam thought, and they kept kissing under the sinking sun.