
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4898413.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, John_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Sibling_Incest, First_Time, Anal_Sex, Bittersweet, Established
      Relationship, Porn_with_Feelings, Pre-Series
  Collections:
      Sinful_Desire
  Stats:
      Published: 2007-02-10 Words: 5435
****** Don't Be Afraid (C'mon Baby) ******
by poisontaster
Summary
     Sam's had enough. Dean can think of one thing he hasn't given Sam
     yet. (Sam is 16)
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Dad stepped through the door of the rented cabin shouting, "Sam-may!" but Dean
knew then. Dean knew right away. Sammy doesn't go to bed when they're out on
the hunt. Sammy doesn't sleep. He listens for the rumble of the Impala. He sits
within sight of the door and pretends to do his homework. He looks from the
corners of his eyes.
"He's not here," Dean says and his voice feels like it comes from a million
miles away. Dad looks at Dean strangely but he pulls his pistol from the back
of his pants. They search the house but Dean already knows…Sam's not here. Sam
is gone.
Sam is gone.
"Doesn't look like there was a break-in," Dad says. His eyes are hot, angry.
Dean doesn't know how Dad does it when he only feels cold. Dad's hands fall
onto his shoulders, pressing, gripping hard. "Did he say anything to you? About
where he would go? If he had a plan?"
Dean shakes his head hard. "No, Dad. Nothing like that."
Dad's fingers tighten even more, until Dean feels it all the way to the bone.
"I need you to think, Dean. Who are Sammy's friends? Where would he go?"
"I don't know." The truth is, it didn't seem like Sam had even bothered to try
and make friends this time around, sticking closer to home more than usual,
most of it closeted up in the room he and Dean shared.
Share, Dean thinks suddenly and fiercely. Don't put a past tense on it.
"Dean, we need to find your brother and quick. You know what's out there."
"Yes, sir."
                                      ***
Dad sends Dean in to search the town while he takes the woods. Dean doesn't
like splitting the family up even more, but he knows rationally they'll cover
more territory this way. Sam isn't in any of the places he goes first; the
library and school are closed and Sam's not on their steps or playgrounds. The
one all-night diner is full of kids, but none of them are his kid brother.
Under the suspicious, eagle eye of the elderly woman taking tickets, it takes a
while for Dean to sneak in and out of the two movies at the theater only to
come up empty again.
Dean's running out of places to go.
He resists the impulse to call Dad; Dad won't appreciate him wasting time on
that if he doesn't have any news and if Dad had found Sammy, he would've called
Dean. He needs to focus.
Where would Sammy go? Dean wonders, striding fast up the riverfront walkway. It
isn't as if they've been in town all that… Dean tallies how long they've been
in River's Walk. Whoa. Has it been six months already?
Dean thinks it's maybe just chance that he happens to turn his head then.
Rivers are problematic. Running water dispels or discourages a lot of evils,
but there are those that live in rivers or fresh water specifically and he
never feels entirely comfortable walking alongside it without checking it out
every few feet.
In any case, under the faint orange light of the river walk lights, he sees a
familiar pair of lanky legs, splayed out in front of a tree, an even more
familiar shaggy head, lolling loosely on his neck.
"Sam?" Panic makes his voice sound like it's scraped through with gravel as he
hops the short, ornamental fence and tears across the grass. "Sam?"
Sam jerks and, as Dean pulls up even, raises his head to blink owlishly at his
brother. A moment later, Sam frowns and waves one of his hands wildly. "Go
'way, Dean."
Dean spots the pretty-much empty bottle of tequila in the fork of Sam's legs
and his sweaty-palmed panic turns to irritation and disgust. "Oh, you…you are
such a dead man," Dean promises. "Jesus, Sammy, what the fuck were you
thinking? Wandering off? Getting drunk? You're gonna be lucky if Dad doesn't
lock you in the trunk."
"'N this would be diff'rent from th'rest of my life…how?" Sam's stork-long legs
pull up to his chest in slow motion like he's going to get up. Digging his cell
phone out of his pocket, Dean reaches out with one booted foot and pushes Sam
sideways. Sam topples like Humpty Dumpty,
"Stay right there, Princess. I gotta call Dad and tell him your damn fool ass
isn't dead."
Sam's having trouble coordinating his limbs into the motions necessary to get
up, flailing weakly like an upended—really spindly—turtle, but he manages to
lift his head long enough to give Dean a death glare.
"Did you find him?" Dad asks immediately, when he picks up the line. "Is he
okay?"
"Yeah, he's fine," Dean says, deciding the better part of valor is to skip over
the completely wasted-drunk part.
"I want both of you to get your asses back to the cabinimmediately." There's
edged frost dripping off Dad's voice like an icicle sharp enough to cut.
Dean looks at Sam again, who's at least managed to get his arms under him,
unruly hair hanging down to hide his face. "Yes, sir," Dean answers
thoughtfully and Dad clicks off, somehow making the absence of sound as loud as
if he slammed the phone down.
"He tell you t'kill me," Sam mumbles, when Dean bends down and pushes the
Cuervo bottle out of the way, "or's he want the pleasure hisself?" Dean sighs
grabs Sam at the belt and shirtsleeve and hauls his brother up. Sam comes up
easily, all lanky elbows and knees and worlds away from the chubby kid he was
at twelve. Sam's arm wraps death-grip tight around Dean's neck and Sam drags
himself all the way upright slowly, too much off his weight hanging off Dean.
"You are fucked. Up," Dean says, not sure whether to be admiring or disgusted.
Who knew little Sammy-Stick-in-the-Mud had it in him? At the same time, he's
aware of how furious Dad's going to be—hell, already is—and how dog-sick Sam's
going to be tomorrow while Dad tortures him for it. John Winchester is not a
man kind to hangovers, not even his own. Quieter, Dean asks, "Jesus, Sammy,
what were you doing?"
"The only thing I could," Sam says, head lolling back on his neck so he can
look at Dean with glittering eyes. There's such bitterness in his words and his
face that Dean flinches. "T'fuck m'I supposed to do? Wait 'round t'see which
one of you doesn't come home this time? Or if anyone comes home at all? Fuck."
The last word is loud, almost-shouted, and overwhelms Dean in raunchy tequila-
whiff. "M'tired of waiting for y'all."
There's no way Dean's getting Sam home in this condition.
                                      ***
When Dean dumps him unceremoniously into the diner booth, Sam puts his face
down on the cool Formica and wishes he could die. There's salt gritting under
his cheek and he can feel it sticking to his sweaty skin and he couldn't care
less.
Dean negotiates—flirts, the fucking whore—with the waitress for two cups of
coffee and a plate of fries and Sam flings one arm over his eyes to block out
the too bright fluorescents, his belly hot, volatile, and very unhappy.
"Thought you were supposed to take me home," Sam growls when Dean finally
plants his ass on the other side of the booth. "Not take me out on the town."
"Shut up," Dean says absently, fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers. Sam
knows this because he knows Dean and because Dean keeps tapping the bottoms
into the table like goddamn castanets. "There was no way I could take you home
like that and you know it."
"Oh, what does Dad care?" Sam snaps, lifting his head from his arm. "This is
fucking bullshit, Dean. He gets drunk all the time."
"He's not sixteen and wasn't told—ordered—to keep his ass home. And it's not
all the time."
"You were drinking at sixteen."
Dean snorts. "Yeah, and I knew better than to get caught at it." Tired of the
salt and pepper shakers, Dean spins them into the booth wall and starts tearing
the cheap paper napkins from the dispenser into strips. Sam sighs. At least
it's quieter.
They're silent for a while and it feels lumpy and out of sorts, just like Sam
himself. The waitress brings their coffee. Sam scalds his tongue on the first
mouthful but he doesn't care, aware that he'll need to be a lot more sober than
he is now to deal with Dad.
"The thing is, Dean…I can't even run away." It comes out quiet but it surprises
him. It's been on his mind, but he never meant to say anything about it. Not to
Dad and especially not to Dean. The stricken look on Dean's face reminds him of
all the reasons why, but his voice keeps going on without him, because he's
drunk and he's pissed and he's unhappy and he's choking on it. "Who's gonna
hire a sixteen year old kid?" he asks, his voice gaining an edge. "Fucking
nobody. Nobody legit. And that means I'm either bussing tables for quarters or
peddling my ass until the end of time and for what? I deserve better than that.
We deserve better than that."
"Sammy—"
"No!" Sam shakes off Dean's hand when Dean reaches for him and almost knocks
over his coffee cup in the process. "I'm fucking sick of it, Dean."
"Sam…it's not that bad, man. I know it feels like that now…"
"It feels like that all the time, Dean."
Dean's head jerks slightly in acknowledgment. "Didn't we stay here all year, so
you could stay in the same school, keep the same friends? He's trying, man."
Sam's mouth twists and he looks down into his coffee while his eyes burn and
prickle. "It's not just that," he says, fighting to push his voice out steadily
through the tightness of his throat. "I'm tired of this, Dean. I'm tired of
waiting for you."
He looks up. He's not sure exactly what expression he expects to see on his
brother's face, but he doesn't expect blankness and for whatever reason that
just pisses him off more.
"What?" Dean's eyebrows wrinkle in over his nose. "What are you even talking
about?"
Sam pushes up so that the table's edge digs into his thighs and leans over the
table, into Dean's face. "I'm sick of waiting for you to figure us out," he
hisses angrily, wishing his dick didn't twitch just at the proximity to Dean.
He's angry, he reminds it. "You won't be with me but you won't let me be with
anyone else, either."
Dean sputters, eyes frantically going side to side to see if anyone's
overhearing this conversation. They don't talk about it. They never talk about
it. It's the unspoken rule of fucking around with your brother and if there's
one thing Winchesters know well, it's the goddamn rules.
                                      ***
"Bullshit," Dean says weakly, easing back in the booth as far from Sam's
looming face as he can. "And sit the fuck down. Drink your coffee."
He's just drunk, Dean reminds himself, wiping his sweating palms on his jeans.
Just drunk with a head full of steam. Get him sobered up and it'll all be fine.
Because if he says some shit in front of Dad, I'ma kill him.
Sam glares at him but he plunks down heavily in his seat again. "What about the
time Kate Chaucer was going to suck my dick and you totally walked in on us and
cockblocked me?"
"Kate Chaucer is a total skeeze!" Dean protests. "And she was going to give you
a disease!"
Dean most definitely does not think about what it felt like, seeing the skanky
bitch on her too-skinny knees in front of Sammy—his Sammy—with his cock already
in her hand. He doesn't think about his creeping sense of satisfaction at the
startled looks on their faces when he walked in.
And he most certainly doesn't think about the way he sucked Sam off afterwards
until he just about screamed.
"I'm sixteen!" Sam yelps, "and I was about to get my dick sucked! Do you think
I cared?"
Sam's getting louder and they're starting to attract attention from the other
diners. Dean gulps at his coffee and wipes his free hand on his jeans again.
Because that's all he needs; his little brother announcing to the whole damned
town that his older brother's been fucking him—or fucking around, at any rate,
since they haven't actually ever gotten to the fucking.
"Sam," Dean says through gritted teeth, "do you think you could chill out for
like…five minutes?"
"No," Sam answers thinly, looking a lot older than sixteen as his face draws
taut. "No, I'm tired of being calm about this. I'm tired of being quiet about
this. You mess around with me and you mess me up and you won't fuck me but you
won't let me fuck anyone else. It's not fair, Dean. I'm sick of it." He knocks
his coffee cup over suddenly, sending brown liquid racing towards Dean's side
of the table. Dean yelps and scrambles out of the way hurriedly, almost missing
it when Sam growls, "I'm sick of everything," and stomps out.
"Sam—" Dean takes a step towards the door, catches the waitress's eagle eye and
then stops to dig hastily through the crumpled up money in his pocket. He pulls
out a ten, throws it on the table and then runs after his brother. "Sammy!"
He has to chase Sam for about a block and a half before he can catch up with
the lanky fucker. Sam tries to dodge aside, but Dean grabs him by the arm and
manhandles him into the nearby alley.
"Don't—" Sam says, clearly expecting Dean to argue more about this with him.
But Dean just slams his lips over Sam's. He tells himself it's to shut Sam up,
but that's not it. Not really. Just like this isn't really about Sam leaving
the apartment or getting drunk. It's everything. It's their whole stupid life
and wanting things you can never really have.
It's them.
Sam's lips are pursed and resistant, but Dean doesn't give up, kissing Sam as
hard as he can and with all his considerable expertise. His hands are on Sam's
waist and he squeezes and kneads the skin in time to the push of his cock
against Sam's, feeling Sam get harder and looser with every thrust.
Finally, Sam's mouth opens on a soft, aching moan and Sam's arms wrap around
Dean's neck, pulling him tight against his body.
I'm sorry, Dean says with the curling slip of his tongue into his brother's
mouth. Sam is so warm in his arms, all their angles fitting into each other's
spaces until there's no room between them. I wish it could be different.
And beside those normal non-verbal reassurances, a new message, a promise that
Dean doesn't trust himself to say aloud: Okay. Whatever you want. Us.
He can taste the tequila in Sam's mouth, bitter heat on his tongue; Dean chases
the hints of it, as if he can lick them out and somehow keep Dad from knowing
that Sam's totally shitfaced. Sam whimpers and writhes harder against Dean's
thigh between his legs.
"Dean….Dean…" Sam pants, pulling away from the kiss with a soft, luscious
noise. His eyes are huge in the dimness and suddenly he's slithering from
Dean's grip, working at Dean's buckle and trying to go to his knees. "I
wanna…let me…"
Dean grabs Sam's fingers, makes them stop. "Wait. Wait. Sam."
Sam's shaking his head, expression close to pleading. "Don't," he whispers,
barely loud enough for Dean to hear. "Don't say no. Please, Dean…"
Dean crouches down and kisses Sam again, soft, like he'd kiss a girl and then
harder, like he only ever kisses Sam. Hungry. Wanting. Wanting so much, too
much. "Dad's waiting," he reminds Sam when he can pull himself away. Sam's eyes
flicker and then hide behind sullen lids and long lashes. "We gotta deal with
him first."
"Is he mad?" Sam asks, still whispering, still not looking. "Is he real mad?"
"Yeah." Dean squeezes Sam's shoulder. "But it'll be okay."
"And then you and me?" Sam's eyes open all the way, hopeful, bright.
Dean feels like he's selling his soul to the devil, but he nods. "Yeah, Sam.
You and me."
                                      ***
Sam pounds his sore fist into the mattress again and again but it does nothing
to ease the ugly red burn of anger in his chest nor drown out the sound of Dad
as—finished with Sam and his useless defiance—he reams Dean a new one.
"…drunk? Did you really think I wouldn't smell it on him?"
Dean's replies, few and far between, are lower, unintelligible through the
apartment's walls but even that—that Dean doesn't (won't) yell, won't tell Dad
what a hypocritical, obsessed fuck-up he is, won't do anything except stand
there and take it—infuriates him.
"…'posed to keep an eye on him! Look out for him."
When Dad? When exactly? In between making silver hollow points and burning the
shit out of himself because we can't afford good molds? Or maybe while he's out
talking up some pretty clerk at the receptionists office so you can get a look
at the birth and death certificates? Or even while the two of you are out on
the hunt and he needs to be watching his own ass? Isthatwhen Dean is supposed
to be making sure I'm staying at home like a good little boy?
"…and how did he get his hands on it? Don't think I don't know, Dean. Don't you
for one second…"
Sam flexes his hand, relishing the ache deep down to the bone. He'd hit the
wall. Right in front of Dad, which is how he ended up getting ordered to his
room 'to sleep it off' like he's still a kid. Which is how Dad is always going
to treat him, until whenever he manages to get out of here.
And he's got to get out of here.
"…seriously don't know what I'm going to do with either one of you, but this
behavior is going to stop. Now. Do you understand me?"
Sam doesn't hear Dean say anything at all, but a couple moments later, the
front door slams and before too long, he hears the car start with a rusty,
protesting squeal.
Off to the bar, I bet, Sam thinks viciously, disgusted, and flops over onto his
back.
He wonders if Dean's still going to come to him. In the alley, it seemed like
Dean was saying, or promising…something. Sam presses the side of his hand into
his half-hard cock, not sure what Dean said or offered or promised anymore.
He's wanted this so long, having to fight Dean every step of the way for each
kiss, each suck or touch. The way he has to fight for everything, all the time.
The plumbing chugs and clanks and a second after, Sam hears the shower start
with a loud squeal that tapers off into a rattling hum. The shower. Dean is
showering.
Disappointment curdles with the rest of the tequila in Sam's belly. Of course.
He should've known better than to think anything would change, especially after
Dad got through with Dean.
Just another reason to get the hell out of here, Sam thinks ripping up the
sheet and blanket impatiently and crawling underneath. He's too hot, though and
after flopping back and forth for a few minutes—which is doing nothing for his
wobbly stomach—he shoves the covers down to cover his feet and just sweats into
the open air, listening to Dean shower and trying very hard not to imagine what
Dean looks like while doing it.
…not thinking at all about how his nipples are probably poking through the suds
or the way he lingers on his stomach, making circles around and around and
around or how he almost always gets at least half hard…FUCK!
Sam slams onto his back and opens his eyes to the ceiling—the slowly rotating
ceiling. He wonders if anyone in the history of the world has ever hated their
life as much as he hates his right now.
The shower cuts off and Sam quickly closes his eyes and lets his body go slack,
sinking into the mattress. There isn't much he can do about his dick, but
whatever. Dean ignores it the rest of the goddamn time, why should tonight be
any different?
The door opens and Sam opens his eyes just a crack. Not enough for Dean to see,
but enough so he can make out Dean's silhouette. Dean looks thinner, wirier
than he does in his clothes; towel knotted low on his hips and spread wide over
his bow legs. Sam thinks about the space between Dean's legs, just wide enough
for Sam's cupped hand. He wants to squirm but he makes himself stay still,
hardening in his shorts.
Dean's head turns towards Sam, even though his eyes can't have adjusted to the
dark yet and Sam watches his shoulders drop, hears the soft half-noise of
Dean's sigh.
Dean sits on the edge of his bed, head down and something in his hands, half-
hidden by his fingers. "Sam?"
Sam doesn't say anything, still burning low in his belly.
"Sam. Look at me, please."
There's a tone to Dean's voice, softer than usual, a little bit desperate. Sam
opens his eyes and raises his head a little from the pillow. It doesn't gentle
his voice any when he demands, "What?"
"I haven't done this a lot," Dean says, turning the tube—it's a tube—around in
his hands. "I don't…the guys were a lot older than me. They wanted… I…" Dean
sighs. Sam sits up all the way, his legs jostling Dean's for space in the too-
few inches between the beds. "Anyway, I don't think… You're my little brother
and I can't…I can't. But if you wanna fuck, then we could do that. I mean…I'd
let you and I want to. If you want to."
Sam doesn't know what to do with that, all at once. The thought of Dean with
guys, other guys, older guys. Guys that had put their dicks… And Dean wants him
to… And he and Dean could. Dean would let him.
He feels sick, the thought of some other guy and Dean. At the same time, his
cock is so hard it aches and he presses his hand into it, disgusted and horny
and thoroughly confused. "…Dean?" he asks, voice cracking like it's still a
year ago.
Dean looks up finally. When he sees the look on Sam's face, he smiles, crooked
and rueful. "Aw, no. No, it's fine, Sammy." He grabs Sam's hand and guides it
to his crotch; Dean's cock jerks against Sam's palm and he cups it almost
reflexively. "It's okay. Really. I liked it. I like it and you… It'll be good.
Let me show you."
Dean scoops his fingers under Sam's shirt, lifts the hem. Sam feels weird and
numb and shy as Dean drags it over his head. He feels so hot in his skin but
he's covered in goosebumps. "Dean? Dean, I want…"
"You want this," Dean answers, putting a hand on either of Sam's thighs. Sam's
cock stirs, almost painfully, like it's trying to reach for Dean. "Don't you?"
Sam doesn't trust his voice, so he nods. "Yeah." His hand scrapes across Dean's
face, rough, clumsy, turning it towards him. He feels like he wants to shatter
Dean into a million pieces and at the same time, he wants to cradle Dean in
both his hands like something fragile, precious. Sam doesn't understand it; it
feels like too much for his body to contain. "Dean, I…" His breath sighs out.
"Yeah."
Dean's fingers dig into Sam's thighs for a second. "We're not girls, Sam. We're
not going to do this like girls."
It's just starting to sink in that they're going to do this (omg!) at all and
Sam's quick to nod. "Yeah, Dean. Okay."
Dean nods. "Okay."
Dean's lips smash into his like a sneak attack, bowling Sam back on the bed.
Sam grunts and flails, grabbing onto Dean's shoulder and the towel at Dean's
waist, which unknots and slips away, leaving Sam holding clean, damp, warm
skin. Sam's cock fills and unfurls with aching suddenness and, to his surprise,
Dean moans into Sam's mouth.
A softer kiss then, the sloppy devouring of Sam's mouth. Gentle nibbles of
teeth, the probe and taste of Dean's tongue, twining around his. Dean's hands
on his skin. All over his skin. Touching him. Stroking him. Sam's trying to
reciprocate, to get his hands on Dean, but mostly he feels heavy, thick,
willing to do…whatever. Dean strips Sam out of his boxers and lays him out,
hard and aching, soft and pliant.
"It'll be good," Dean says again, squirting lube into his cupped palm and then
wrapping his fingers around Sam's cock. Sam cries out, arching up into that
firm touch and then flushes with heat, with shame. It's not like Dean's never
touched his cock before.
"Shhhh," Dean says, rubbing circles on Sam's belly with one hand while the
other slides up and down the length of Sam's cock again and again, making Sam
mewl and rock up. Sam's so hard. He doesn't know if his dick's ever been this
hard. "Sammy. It's good. I'll be real good."
Dean lays down next to him, crowded on the narrow bed, and Sam kilts on his
side, reaching between Dean's legs to curl his fingers around the fat, swollen
head of Dean's cock, touch the pearling wetness with the ball of his thumb,
slurring across the slit.
"Like this," Dean says and untangles Sam's fingers to shift down, onto his
stomach. He puts Sam's hand on the curve, where his ass rounds into the bone of
his hip and then stretches his arms up, over his head.
Sam runs the tips of his fingers over Dean's ass, up into the heavy muscles in
his back and then down, to the soft, sparsely haired skin of Dean's thighs.
Dean sighs and spreads his legs wider, pushing his face into the pillow.
Sam traces the cleft of Dean's ass with one finger, the tip catching on Dean's
rim. There is more slickness here, making Dean soft. Dean wriggles impatiently.
"Sam—"
Sam wants to fuck him. His stomach aches with it, his skin burns with it, his
cock is so full and taut he thinks he could die. But this, Dean's face turned
away, shoved down, body spread like…like meat. This isn't what he wants.
"Dean." He tugs at his brother's hip. "Dean, turn over."
Dean groans and stretches, a shudder running through his skin. "Fuck, Sammy,
are we going to do this or not? Because I taught you better than to cocktease,
goddamn it."
"I just… Can I see you? I want… Can we look at each other?"
"Okay, but when I did this before, it was like this."
And Sam will be the first to say that Dean spread out wide on his belly, ass
canted up, is one of the most brain-meltingly hot things Sam has ever seen.
But… He doesn't want this to be the same as those other times. He doesn't want
to be 'just some dude' to Dean, who fucks him and then…what? Disappears?
"Well, I'm not those other guys, Dean." Sam puts his hand on Dean's hip and
drags his brother back toward him. Dean's ass brushes against Sam's cock and he
has to take a moment to concentrate on not coming all over Dean's skin because
that's so not going to happen, I'll never hear the end of it. "I want to see
you."
"Jesus, Sammy, I'm bareass naked here. How much more of me is there to see?"
Sam's jaw sets, his fingertips curl and scratch the soft skin of Dean's hip. "I
want to see," he says again and Dean sighs.
They end up in some weird, knotty tangle-sprawl, with Dean half on his side and
half on his belly and Sam leaning over, into him, his thigh pushed between
Dean's. The head of Sam's cock touches Dean there and Sam feels Dean pucker,
feels Dean tense up all over. Sam guesses he understands; he's put his fingers
up his ass, wanting to be ready for when and if Dean had ever said yes and just
that had felt so big, stretching and burning. He wants Dean's cock, but he's
scared too, which was always part of it. And now it's the other way around and
Dean's letting him…
Sam bites his lip, an agony of indecision. Then Dean wiggles back impatiently
and Sam's dick nudges into him, just a little more. "C'mon Sammy; we don't got
all night."
Sam skims his fingers slowly over the bony peak of Dean's hip, down across
smooth, delicate skin and into the rough of Dean's hair. He grabs Dean's cock
at the root and then strokes up, towards the tip, hesitant but firm. Dean
inhales, unsteadily. His body moves like he doesn't know whether to push
forward or back and his cock gets firmer, hotter in Sam's grip. Sam jacks him
again, better this time, and at the same moment, grabs his own dick and thrusts
forward into Dean.
Dean makes a noise, breathless and wanting, and reaches back to grip Sam's hip.
Sam isn't sure if this means stop, goddamn it or go, you idiot and so he kind
of stalls out, uncertain, until Dean pushes back, driving Sam deeper.
"Is… Is it?"
Dean pants shallowly, writhing his hips and taking more of Sam into him. "Yeah,
s'okay, Sam; s'good…oh..oh, like that."
Sam thrusts again, trying carefully to repeat whatever it is that made Dean
gasp and tighten that way around him. This time Dean moans, and Sam smiles
against Dean's shoulder, delighted and does it again and again, feeling Dean
shudder from the inside.
Dean's so tight around him, so hot, so much better than his hand or Dean's, or
even Dean's amazing, wonderful, talented mouth. Sam slides one arm under his
brother and pulls Dean back against him, knowing—understanding—for the first
time what he wants better with his body than his head. Dean's leg wraps around
Sam's, foot hooking behind Sam's calf.
"Sam," Dean breathes and Sam buries his face in the back of Dean's neck tasting
sweat and soap and skin. He wraps both arms around Dean, pulling him tighter,
thrusting faster. "I need, I gotta…"
Dean reaches for his cock, stripping it in hard, rough strokes. His breaths are
short, high-pitched and Dean turns his face into his armpit as if he doesn't
want Sam to hear. It makes Sam's balls tighten and shift and he gasps, "Dean,
you gotta, I wanna…"
And then he's coming, hard and violent, grinding his face into Dean's neck,
grinding his dick inside Dean deep as he can again and again. Dean makes a
noise, barely audible. Sam feels come splash against his forearms, feels Dean
twist and seize around his softening cock, dragging spurt after spurt out of
Sam until he's whimpering into Dean's skin torn between pleasure and pain.
Afterwards, Dean reaches over and snags his towel from the floor, cleaning them
both briskly, roughly. Sam's eyes feel so heavy; his whole body feels like it's
been sunk in concrete but he still sees the way Dean's eyes avoid looking him.
Sam fights against drowsiness, reaching for Dean's wrist.
Dean stiffens. "Go to sleep, Sam."
"Stay," Sam rasps, the only word he can summon.
Dean is still a really long time. Long enough that Sam starts drifting, his
fingers still clasped around his brother's arm. Then Dean sighs and slides down
next to him. "Move over, Squirt."
Sam turns on his side and scoots closer to the wall. Dean curls in behind him,
arm sliding warm over Sam's waist, his breath ghosting warm across the cooling
skin of Sam's nape.
"Don't die," Sam whispers, folding his arm over Dean's and pulling it tight
into his body.
Dean shivers, so gently that Sam wouldn't have been able to feel it if they
weren't tangled up so close. "Don't leave," Dean answers, even more quietly and
hides his face in Sam's skin.
End Notes
     Written as a pinch hit in the 2007 spn_holidays for benitle . Her
     request was: Wincest, angst that leads to something tender/schmoopy,
     first time fic, bottom!Dean, preferably pre-season (i.e. Weecest,
     something like Sam around 16). I failed just a bit with the schmoopy.
     Thanks to maygra for beta duties.
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