
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2198106.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Collections:
      spn_masquerade_Summer_2014
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-08-25 Words: 2566
****** 7/4/1996 ******
by riyku
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.
Notes
     written for this_prompt over at
     [http://l-stat.livejournal.net/img/community.gif?v=556?v=118.7]
spn_masquerade Many thanks to the original requester.
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 the 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
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