You're in a car with a beautiful boy, Dean. ( Part II )
This is one of those feelings you don’t want to name. It’s
partly because you can’t and mostly because you choose to acknowledge the
danger of definitions. It’s the loose feeling in your stomach before a fight
and the tight wind of your lungs before a confession. You’re daring yourself to
run away, just to see how it’ll turn out if you take the radical. But then you
think of fate and those sayings your mother used to tell you about people and
possibilities: Whatever is for you won’t go past you, Dean. But then again this
is Sam we’re talking about, and you’re certain that she wouldn’t apply that to what
you’re doing to her baby. Or what you’re letting him do to you.
You imagine future you stalking up to your face and telling you that you done the right thing - but then he can’t tell you what the right is because that ruins the balance of the universe or some cliché shit like that. Maybe this is all about free will and how no matter how hard decisions are they’ll always be the right ones; but that means your Dad was right, and well, if he could see you right now you’re positive the last thing you’ll taste is road and not your brother.
So you take it as it is, right on the chin. Then you bite your tongue and instead of the words, “This isn’t for us, Sam. We can’t do this.” You say nothing and secretly hope that Sam will take over. But your mind recoils and it’s back to square one all over again - getting stuck in the webs of right, wrong and what’s best for Sammy and not you.
Then all the decisions are made when you let him into your lap.
You feel like you’ve been pushed down a hill with wheels in the space of where your feet used to be. You’re tumbling fast, all chances of redeeming yourself flying by in streaks of smeared colour. Turns out this is going to be your life now. But you can’t help but think that it was him who gave you that little nudge in the first place and instead of frustration and contempt all that rises in you is need.
The rain is tintacking down now and you can feel the chill through the windowpane crawl under your sleeves. Your skin begins to prickle and then his knee is digging into your thigh and suddenly it’s so quiet. He’s grown so big, he’s trying to keep steady but the wheel is pushing against his back and he’s even had to put a hand on the roof to lower himself into your space. It’s awkward but you’ve never imagined it to be as real as this, so somehow it’s perfect. He’s brave and your pride is beneath the wave of awe - you’ve never been this afraid.
He’s holding your collar like he’s about to punch you, his knees are all over the place and he’s got this look in his half lidded eyes that make you forget about your lost father and your dead mother and how they’ll look at you in shame. He has taken you back to the stolen car and reminded you of the good feeling that came before the slope of self-hate.
You, Dean Winchester, feel this weight lift as your brother, Sam, Sammy, Sasquatch, decides that it’s alright to crush his bones against yours and his lips ever so gently against your own. A leash has been lifted and instead of tearing off and away from whatever was holding you back you sit there with your tail between your legs and a whimper huddling away in your chest.
You’re fists haven’t moved from your thighs and you can feel the white pop of your knuckles strain with every ‘no’ you’ve ever told yourself. Sam’s eyes flicker up and he’s meeting yours, the rain sheets down and his voice comes out so small, “Kiss me back.” There is no way he’s going to let go of your jacket and as he sits down in your lap, this spike jolts up through your stomach from the swollen hill in your jeans and before he can open his mouth to say, “Please, Dean, I need you to,” your hands have splayed open and smoothed up and over the insides of his thighs. Thumbs pushing into denim, an animal inside you has finally been let loose and as you push Sam back into the steering wheel he makes this sweet noise that you catch with your mouth.
The rain hushes down harder like it was somehow personifying your father. But the thing is, you’re not paying attention anymore. Your ears have filled with a thump-thump of blood and Sam’s squirming and grinning in your lap when the horn squawks behind his back. He brings his big hands around your neck and rubs the pads of his thumbs into the bristles of hair catching your throat, but the gentle touch is lost when his hips bump downwards and the firm mound of his backside humps into the place he was never supposed to be. Then it’s like you’ve been plucked out your body because you can hear the groan come out of your body, but you don’t imagine actually letting it past your lips. It’s all prickly heat radiating like a thousand sensitive feelers pumping the underside of your cock and Sam’s telling you something, words moulding into the push of your lips because he’s stuck between you and the wheel; the space getting tighter and tighter, your mind is a rocket’s speed of SamSamSam - the phantom that used to haunt the empty passenger seat.
This here, this hot buzz of things that hummed beneath the undertow of your adolescence is a fresh breeze in your tired bones. The thing you never touched but dreamt of on occasion, the thing you believed would bring you down one day because all your life ever seemed to consist of was tape decks and wishing the car had kept the smell of Sam a while longer after he left, this is finally setting you free. And with every push and kiss and mumble of Sam’s voice rumbling through your chest, the sharper the taste of happiness becomes.
He says, “Dean, you’re crushing my spine.” And you laugh against his lips because he’s trying to use his flat bitch-tone, and he’s kissing you, and he’s yours. He’s finally yours. It lights up inside you, burning up like those fireworks and he shuffles closer, sinking into your skin. You look up one more time and he’s towering above you like the giant saviour he is and always will be, and right there, in that little moment with the rain coating the car and the evergreen and mud smell of his clothes burning at your senses, everything is okay, Dean.
You imagine future you stalking up to your face and telling you that you done the right thing - but then he can’t tell you what the right is because that ruins the balance of the universe or some cliché shit like that. Maybe this is all about free will and how no matter how hard decisions are they’ll always be the right ones; but that means your Dad was right, and well, if he could see you right now you’re positive the last thing you’ll taste is road and not your brother.
So you take it as it is, right on the chin. Then you bite your tongue and instead of the words, “This isn’t for us, Sam. We can’t do this.” You say nothing and secretly hope that Sam will take over. But your mind recoils and it’s back to square one all over again - getting stuck in the webs of right, wrong and what’s best for Sammy and not you.
Then all the decisions are made when you let him into your lap.
You feel like you’ve been pushed down a hill with wheels in the space of where your feet used to be. You’re tumbling fast, all chances of redeeming yourself flying by in streaks of smeared colour. Turns out this is going to be your life now. But you can’t help but think that it was him who gave you that little nudge in the first place and instead of frustration and contempt all that rises in you is need.
The rain is tintacking down now and you can feel the chill through the windowpane crawl under your sleeves. Your skin begins to prickle and then his knee is digging into your thigh and suddenly it’s so quiet. He’s grown so big, he’s trying to keep steady but the wheel is pushing against his back and he’s even had to put a hand on the roof to lower himself into your space. It’s awkward but you’ve never imagined it to be as real as this, so somehow it’s perfect. He’s brave and your pride is beneath the wave of awe - you’ve never been this afraid.
He’s holding your collar like he’s about to punch you, his knees are all over the place and he’s got this look in his half lidded eyes that make you forget about your lost father and your dead mother and how they’ll look at you in shame. He has taken you back to the stolen car and reminded you of the good feeling that came before the slope of self-hate.
You, Dean Winchester, feel this weight lift as your brother, Sam, Sammy, Sasquatch, decides that it’s alright to crush his bones against yours and his lips ever so gently against your own. A leash has been lifted and instead of tearing off and away from whatever was holding you back you sit there with your tail between your legs and a whimper huddling away in your chest.
You’re fists haven’t moved from your thighs and you can feel the white pop of your knuckles strain with every ‘no’ you’ve ever told yourself. Sam’s eyes flicker up and he’s meeting yours, the rain sheets down and his voice comes out so small, “Kiss me back.” There is no way he’s going to let go of your jacket and as he sits down in your lap, this spike jolts up through your stomach from the swollen hill in your jeans and before he can open his mouth to say, “Please, Dean, I need you to,” your hands have splayed open and smoothed up and over the insides of his thighs. Thumbs pushing into denim, an animal inside you has finally been let loose and as you push Sam back into the steering wheel he makes this sweet noise that you catch with your mouth.
The rain hushes down harder like it was somehow personifying your father. But the thing is, you’re not paying attention anymore. Your ears have filled with a thump-thump of blood and Sam’s squirming and grinning in your lap when the horn squawks behind his back. He brings his big hands around your neck and rubs the pads of his thumbs into the bristles of hair catching your throat, but the gentle touch is lost when his hips bump downwards and the firm mound of his backside humps into the place he was never supposed to be. Then it’s like you’ve been plucked out your body because you can hear the groan come out of your body, but you don’t imagine actually letting it past your lips. It’s all prickly heat radiating like a thousand sensitive feelers pumping the underside of your cock and Sam’s telling you something, words moulding into the push of your lips because he’s stuck between you and the wheel; the space getting tighter and tighter, your mind is a rocket’s speed of SamSamSam - the phantom that used to haunt the empty passenger seat.
This here, this hot buzz of things that hummed beneath the undertow of your adolescence is a fresh breeze in your tired bones. The thing you never touched but dreamt of on occasion, the thing you believed would bring you down one day because all your life ever seemed to consist of was tape decks and wishing the car had kept the smell of Sam a while longer after he left, this is finally setting you free. And with every push and kiss and mumble of Sam’s voice rumbling through your chest, the sharper the taste of happiness becomes.
He says, “Dean, you’re crushing my spine.” And you laugh against his lips because he’s trying to use his flat bitch-tone, and he’s kissing you, and he’s yours. He’s finally yours. It lights up inside you, burning up like those fireworks and he shuffles closer, sinking into your skin. You look up one more time and he’s towering above you like the giant saviour he is and always will be, and right there, in that little moment with the rain coating the car and the evergreen and mud smell of his clothes burning at your senses, everything is okay, Dean.