
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/51307.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Porn_Battle, Challenge_Response, Wincest_-_Freeform, Boarding_School,
      Alternate_Canon, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon, Alternate_Universe_-
      Boarding_School, Teacher-Student, 1000-3000_words, 1000-5000_Words, As
      Certain_Dark_Things
  Series:
      Part 2 of As_Certain_Dark_Things
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-01-15 Words: 2476
****** As Certain Dark Things ******
by azephirin
Summary
     Two people, each with their secrets.
Notes
     Boarding school AU! Yeah, I finally did it. I posted an_abridged
     version for
     [[info]]
oxoniensis's Porn Battle, but the full version is below. Title from Sonnet
XVII, by Pablo Neruda. Underage depending on your sensibilities: Sam is 17,
Dean 21.
See the end of the work for more notes
Sam Conover thought the best part of senior year was going to be applying to
college, getting the hell out into the real world. Senior privileges like
exclusive use of the heretofore forbidden Senior Circle in the middle of
campus. Maybe talking his way into taking calc at the university (off-campus!)
rather than as an AP class. Maybe sneaking over to St. Mary's to get laid once
in a while.
He didn't figure on Dean Winchester.
Dean Winchester is one of the crop of new teachers, just out of MIT, and Sam
has never wished more that he were back in algebra I. He even tries to think of
some excuse—he needs a refresher course, something—but the fact is that he's
one of the best math students they have, and there's no fathomable reason to
put a graduating-with-honors senior into a freshman math class.
Then he learns that Mr. Winchester is going to be coaching the crew team. Sam
has never rowed before.
That doesn't stop him.
Very little, in fact, stops Sam when he wants something.
It also happens that Mr. Winchester, like the rest of the interns (the school's
term for just-out-of-college first-year teachers), has an apartment in the
dorms. He's not on Sam's hall—he's one hall over—but that's close enough for
Sam to appear quite innocently of an evening, asking for help with his calc
homework.
As it turns out, Sam requires a lot of help on his calc homework. Oddly, only
Mr. Winchester is able to explain the theorems in a way he understands.
Fall break rolls around, and Sam doesn't go home. He could take the train, or
his father would send the driver, but his father will just work the entire time
anyway, with maybe some time off for drinking, and really Sam has better things
to do.
Mr. Winchester is one of the teachers who volunteered—or who was volunteered—to
stay on campus over break with the skeleton crew of kids who are staying on
campus. Naturally, Sam appears at his apartment door midafternoon on Saturday,
calculus book in hand.
Mr. Winchester's mouth quirks when he opens the door to Sam's knock. He looks
entirely unsurprised. "Don't you ever bother Mrs. Henderson with this stuff?"
he says, but he's smiling.
"I understand it better from you," says Sam innocently.
"I'm starting to think you understand it just fine," Mr. Winchester says. "I
just don't get why you need to hear it from me."
Fuck it. There's no one around. Sam's got nothing to lose. He leans against the
doorframe and looks at his crew coach through his lashes. "Mr. Winchester," he
purrs, "do you really need me to explain?"
There's a silence as they look at each other. Mr. Winchester's green eyes are
wide with shock—and with something else. Sam can't quite name it, but he can
identify it easily enough.
"You can call me Dean," Mr. Winchester says after a moment.
                                **************
 
Sam never thought he'd want to go to his knees for another man—that's something
girls, and only girls, have always done for him—but when the door is closed and
locked and they're inside Mr. Winchester's—Dean's—small bedroom, it's the first
thing Sam does. Dean's cock is heavy and musky in his mouth, and Sam pulls back
to look up at him. "I've never done this to anyone else before." He takes one
of Dean's hands, puts it on his head. "Tell me what to do," Sam says.
Dean's hand tightens in Sam's hair, then loosens. "You have no idea what you
look like right now." His voice is low, almost broken. "God, I've been having
dreams about this. I tried not to, and they just got worse."
"You have me now." Sam leans forward to lick delicately at the head of Dean's
cock, and Dean gasps. "I'm yours," Sam says. "So tell me what to do."
"I like it hard," Dean says. "And right there, under the head, on the glans—"
He takes Sam's hand and shows him that spot. Sam knows it, because he likes to
be touched, licked there, too.
Sam sucks Dean for a while, tonguing that small, sensitive place, using fingers
to play with Dean's balls the way he himself enjoys. Sam is almost painfully
hard, listening to Dean's gasps, but Sam refuses to touch himself—when he
comes, he wants it to be because Dean brought it out of him. But, God, he's not
sure how long he can last like this, especially not when Dean moans his name.
"Stop," Dean says, and, surprised, Sam does. Dean sits down on the bed,
heavily, and puts his hands on Sam's face, kisses him. "My knees were about to
give out," Dean adds, laughing breathlessly, and kisses him again, hands buried
in his hair.
Dean lets him up, and Sam stretches out on the bed, runs his hands down his
chest, dares to cup himself in one palm. He arches into his own touch, he can't
help it, and Dean's staring again.
Sam makes a space for Dean between his legs, and Dean fits himself there like
they've been doing this for years, like they were made for his, and Sam has to
kiss him, can't do anything else. He's been unquestionably on top with every
girl he's been with—that's just how it is—but he's not so sure now, lying here
under Dean and biting his lip to keep from crying out when the shape of Dean's
erect cock brushes against his own.
Dean unbuttons Sam's shirt—it's by Etro, officially a birthday present last
spring, although Sam's pretty sure that his father's secretary actually bought
it—and the crisp dry-clean-only fabric falls into a heap on the floor. Dean's
got on a V-neck sweater, plain and soft and dark blue, and Sam sits up to pull
it over his head. Jeans are next: Sam's gray Rock & Republics, Dean's battered
whatever-they-ares, patched in the knees. Sam's briefs, Dean's boxers.
Naked, Dean is perfect. The nubs of his nipples invite biting, and the lines of
his abs are a predetermined path for Sam's tongue. Sam touches him with a
reverence that's new, lying on his back and looking up at Dean, trailing his
hands over his torso and thighs until he finally settles one around Dean's
cock. He wants to see Dean come and come apart under his touch, and he jacks
Dean slowly, gently, rubbing his thumb over the head, his forefinger over the
glans. Dean's hips rock down into Sam's, and Dean breathes, "Harder. Please."
What can Sam do but comply?
Dean starts to come, and Sam watches greedily as his head goes back, his fists
clench, and he spills white and hot and urgent over Sam's hand and belly. Dean
opens his eyes as he shudders out the aftershocks, and Sam runs his fingers
through Dean's come, lifts them to his mouth to taste it.
Dean licks the rest of it away, and Sam nearly comes just from that.
"What do you want?" Dean asks, low, moving to lie next to Sam and trace the
outlines of his body with one hand. "My hand? My mouth?"
Your cock, Sam almost says, but he's not sure he's ready for that. Next time,
though...
"Your mouth," Sam whispers, and his wish is immediately granted.
Dean's lips are the kind of lush that give even good people ideas. Sam has
never claimed to be good. He fights to keep his eyes open as Dean moves up and
down on him, and he knows he isn't going to last long—he can't believe he's
lasted as long as he has already. And with Dean's clever fingers exploring him,
his mouth warm and wet, there's no way Sam can keep himself from coming, not
while he's watching Dean's eyes fall closed as he sucks Sam's cock. "I—I'm—" is
all the warning he's able to manage (it's rude to come in a girl's mouth if she
doesn't say you can, and Sam figures the same rule applies to guys), but Dean
doesn't pull back and jack him through the rest of it; instead he wraps a hand
around Sam's hip and does it harder, cheeks hollowing, and that's it, Sam's
done. He can't bite back his cry this time, and his vision goes white when
orgasm hits, the most intense of his life, obliterating everything but himself
and Dean.
It takes Sam a few minutes to recover, and he's sprawled across Dean's chest
when he does. Dean's stroking his hair, and he lightly kisses the top of Sam's
head. "You OK?"
"I am so more than OK," Sam says.
Dean doesn't seem to be freaking out about the student/teacher thing, at least
not yet, and Sam's not going to encourage him. It's against the rules—it's way,
way, way against the rules—but it's not like Sam has ever had much regard for
the rules anyway, unless they can somehow get him what he wants. He kisses
Dean's chest and spreads a hand over where, below, surrounded by muscle and
protected by bone, his heart is.
Outside, it's cloudy, and without lights on, the room is darker even than the
steely grey of the late afternoon. The darkness is somehow more intimate, and
they lie together, talking, kissing, exploring each other.
They discover they were both adopted: Sam when he was six months old, Dean
unofficially by his aunt and uncle. "There was a fire," he says, drawing
circles on Sam's back. "My mom and my little brother died, but my dad and I
made it. After that, he kind of...he kind of lost it. Took off after what he
thought killed my mom, and left me with my mom's sister and her husband."
"Did he ever find it?" Sam wonders a little bit that Dean uses it and not him
(or even her), but doesn't remark on it.
"My aunt said once, 'He's looking for something he better pray he never finds,'
but she wouldn't explain what she meant. I don't know. It's like this big blank
space that no one talks about. I was pretty young when they died, but I swear I
remember carrying my brother out. Everybody says he died, though—that there's
no way that could have happened. I even looked up the death certificate the
last time I was home in Lawrence, and everything was in place. So I
guess...it's one of those situations where you wish so hard for something that
your mind starts to believe it's true."
"I'm sorry," Sam says, and he is.
"It was a long time ago," Dean says, like that somehow makes it less bad.
"Your dad's still around?"
"Yeah, he turns up now and then. He came to my college graduation, but I
wouldn't have even seen him if I hadn't happened to glance at the back of the
yard when I went up to get my diploma. No one else in the family saw him." Dean
shifts, says, "Your family's in Connecticut?"
"New Canaan. Pretty much rich asshole central. My dad fits right in."
"What about your mom?"
"She's dead."
It's Dean's turn to say, "I'm sorry," and Sam says, "Thanks." He buries his
face in Dean's neck, smelling his soap and clean sweat, and when Dean's arms
come around him, Sam thinks, with a certainty that scares him a little, This is
where I belong.
He opens his mouth and says something he's never said aloud before. "I saw it
happen."
"God, Sam, that's awful."
"I don't mean when it actually happened. I wasn't there. They were driving back
from Nantucket—I stayed home because I had a swim meet. I saw...I saw it happen
ahead of time. I begged them not to go, and when they went anyway, I asked them
to wait and come back maybe a day or so later. Just long enough that it
wouldn't be raining anymore. My dad told me I was being neurotic and he had to
go to work Monday, and they drove back Sunday night in the rain, and somebody
coming in the other direction hydroplaned and hit them. My dad broke his arm
but he was ultimately fine. My mom was killed."
"And you saw it ahead of time?"
"I dreamed it. Same thing with our housekeeper's son—he really wanted to go
bungee jumping, and I dreamed that the cable was going to break, and I told
Maria about it and she didn't let him go."
"So he was OK?"
"Juan was fine. But one of his friends, who did go, his cable broke, and now
he's paralyzed. I guess that's better, because I don't know him, and I've known
Maria and her family my whole life, but it still sucks pretty hard. He's one of
Juan's really good friends." Sam adds, "My dad doesn't really talk to me much,
after what happened with my mom. I think he blames himself, and maybe it's
easier to blame me, too, in some oblique way."
"You think you'll ever try to find your birth parents?"
"I don't know," Sam says. "Probably not. I mean, if they didn't want me then,
why would they want me now?"
"Maybe it's not that simple," Dean says. "People give kids away for all kinds
of reasons. Your parents might have been really young, or really poor, or both,
and felt like they couldn't raise a kid and do a good job of it."
"But I wasn't adopted at birth; it was a few months later. Why keep a kid and
then give him away?"
"Maybe they tried, and realized they couldn't do it," Dean says. "I'm just
saying, you never know."
"Maybe," Sam says. He kisses the underside of Dean's jaw, his temple; takes
Dean's earlobe into his mouth and sucks gently. Dean shivers.
"If you're trying for a distraction," Dean says, "it's working."
Sam smiles. "Good."
                          **************************
 
In a battered black car on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, a man pulls into the
parking lot of a rest stop and consults a road atlas. He's not even halfway to
where he's going, and he's still got hundreds of miles to go.
On the seventy-fifth floor of a skyscraper in the Financial District of New
York City, a man sits in his office, immersed in documents collected during
discovery for a real-estate lawsuit. It's late afternoon on a weekend, but he
won't go home for several hours.
In their front yard in Lawrence, Kansas, a man and his wife mulch their garden.
Their pumpkins aren't State Fair prizewinners, but they're fine enough that
most of their neighborhood buys them for Halloween.
And on the second floor of a stone building, Gothic and gray, in Rockshire,
Massachusetts, two people, each with their secrets, fall in love.
End Notes
     This story has a sequel, Set_the_Fire_to_the_Third_Bar.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
