
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1268164.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Unrequited_Love, Sexual_Fantasy, Total_Bummer, Masturbation, Pre-Series
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-03-04 Words: 1969
****** Half of a Love Story ******
by KateThorne
Notes
     Don't read this. You don't want to read this. I bummed myself out
     writing it. Go read some nice porn or fluff. This is neither. You
     don't want to be here. I'm the poor bastard with the feels in my
     heart who needs to write them down.
     Turn around before it's too late.
Sam couldn't say when he realized it. All he could ever say was that it defined
him, consumed him, destroyed him and saved him. It was the kind of obsessive
love that swirls like a ride at a carnival, just him and the poor object of his
affection, trapped in a construct of dirty metal. He couldn't say when he
realized it but he knew he would never be able to pinpoint when it stopped.
Because it never stopped. He was strapped into the dirty metal for good and
there was no getting out.
Puberty would be the easiest and most obvious landmark. Finally, a tangible
manifestation of something he was just beginning to understand. That hazy
curtain of youth was falling back and suddenly he was at least physically aware
of his captivity.
He was twelve and he walked into the motel room early, despite having put up
quite a fuss about a school project needing extra hours at the library. John
was gone, as always and forever, and Dean was sprawled on the bed.
Before Sam noticed the movie and what Dean was doing with it, he noticed the
smell. It was something primal, animal in its muskiness and intoxicating in the
small room. Sam heard the comically loud groan from the television screen and
then let his eyes snap to Dean with his hand in his lap. There was a smell and
a fast snapping rhythm and Sam was entranced by it.
"Jesus fucking—Oi, perv, shut the door and take a picture, will you?!" barked
Dean when he realized that his private moment was suddenly much less private.
Despite his bravado, Sam saw his brother's ears turn pink as he hastily zipped
himself back into his pants. There was another groan and Dean thrashed on the
bed for the remote before lunging across the room to turn off the television
manually.
Dean opened and closed his mouth a few times before throwing on that mask of
his; hard, indifferent and unashamed.
"Casa Erotica. Dad always uses the same password, if you wanted…" and Dean
looked down at Sam, clearly wishing himself elsewhere.
Sam knew about sex, the things from school, at least. He knew about ovaries and
fallopian tubes and sperm and eggs. He even had a general idea of the act, a
million sitcoms of a man and a woman and a passionate kiss, then fade to black,
cut to commercial and the camera opened to the next morning and tastefully
draped sheets.
But he had never seen it so explicitly portrayed. The woman's opening was
glistening. The man's cock and balls were hairy. And the smell, which Sam now
realized was the odor of sex, haunted his senses as vividly as the pixelated
image of the woman. She was pretty, blonde and tan, on her hands and knees and
its direct connection to Dean and Dean's lazy rhythm as he watched, entranced,
as her glistening rose-petal vagina was penetrated.
Sam was sure that it was at least heavily implied, if not stated outright, that
Dean was going to be the person Sam went to for The Talk. And, clearly, Dean
was wondering just where to start. Dean never kept secrets from Sam, even
proudly declared when he 'nailed' Mandy Simmons in the tenth grade, but now
there was a smell and bodily fluids and something much more complicated to work
through. Sam smiled at Dean, that same hard mask that Dean had perfected
himself, and let Dean off the hook.
"We're good, Dean. Sorry I… intruded."
Dean looked immensely relived and mortified at the same time. "Ok, nerd, um…
so, dinner? I'll go… pick something up." And Dean ran out the door before Sam
had time to do or say anything else. Dean escaped the stifling room,
uncomfortably silent with the TV off and still lingering with the smell of
Dean's sex.
Sam walked to the bed where Dean was and sat on it, looking around. On the
night stand was a bottle of lotion, the aloe vera scented perfume mixed with
that heady scent and Sam was much more curious about the latter. He laid down
on the bed, horizontally to the Dean's vertical position earlier. Placing his
head where Dean's lap had been Sam took a deep sniff.
It was Dean's smell.
After that, Sam was suddenly much more aware of his own body, the tightness in
his stomach, the pressure between his legs. As he cleaned himself in the
shower, he began to stroke himself like Dean had, finding that the rhythm was
not unique to Dean but the rhythm of sex altogether. Sam was a little
disappointed at that.
As Sam masturbated, images flashed through his mind, never really settling on
anything in particular. A woman from a magazine ad. The porn star's glittering
lips between her legs. The motion was satisfying, like scratching the most
delicious itch, but never became anything more than a rhythm until Sam got
bored or tired.
Finally, on a night when Dean was out on a date, Sam turned on the television
and found the same video that Dean had watched. Almost automatically, his
sweatpants expanded and as a reflex, Sam started pumping himself as he watched
the girl bend over. Sam heard the door. Sam heard the footsteps and a very
small, distant part of him told him to stop and put himself away. But he
didn't. Perhaps it was because Sam was always very curious by nature and had a
perverse need to know what would happen next.
Or perhaps it was because he had realized it by then.
"Oh! Uh, shit, uh, sorry!" said Dean, turning away to face the closed door,
"Sorry, Sammy, maybe we should make a system or something." He said with a
strained chuckle on the end. Sam slowly pulled his pants up and turned off the
video, but otherwise didn't move or say anything.
He waited curiously, perhaps hopefully.
Dean turned back around and, after looking at Sam for a second, rolled his eyes
back up to the ceiling.
"Uh, dude," he said, and Sam realized that he was still fully aroused. Dean
smiled weakly, "Uh, how about you hop in the shower and, uh, clean up, and I'll
set the table." He held up a grease spotted take-out bag.
In the shower, Sam let himself resume the rhythm, but it was faster now, the
itch was all consuming, knotting his insides, clenching his hips. The reel of
images started up again, but instead of glistening pussy lips there were
footsteps and the comically wide green eyes. But instead of turning away,
horrified, Sam's imagination took over and Dean stayed. He stood there and
watched, breathed in Sam's smell and was mesmerized by Sam's rhythm. In the
fantasy, Dean didn't look away, didn't hide from Sam's vulnerability and need.
In the fantasy, Dean unconsciously licked his lip like he sometimes did when he
was thinking or listening real hard and Sam finally, officially conquered that
wall in his stomach. He came; beautiful, undignified splurts of himself washing
down the drain with the water.
It wasn't until he was fourteen that, in the fantasy, Dean took those three
deliberate steps across the room to his bed. Dean took his hand and replaced
it, matching his pace and watching Sam fall apart beneath him. It wasn't until
he was sixteen that this fantasy Dean lowered his head and accepted him into
his mouth. Dean on his knees in the bathrooms of a 24 hour diner. Dean rolling
over in the night and reaching across their bed to press a finger to Sam's
hole. Sam in the back seat of the Impala, crying in pain and ecstasy as Dean
claimed him fully, holding his thighs against his chest and watching as Sam
imploded.
Sometimes he dreamed of the first time, Dean's eyes filled with concern, fear,
and yet unmistakeable want. That addictivley dark battle of 'Dirtywrongbad' was
overridden by 'lovelovelove' and then it was sweaty, panted bliss. Sometimes he
fantasized about waking up in bed together, then the comfortable, lazy morning
sex of long lovers. Sometimes Dean kissed him, slow, savoring, with no where to
be an no agenda. Sometimes Dean shoved him down and took ruthlessly, as though
he was as starving for Sam as Sam was for him.
And the fantasies consumed him, burned him like a fever, fueling him like dry
kindling in a forrest fire. It got to the point that Sam preferred his moments
in the shower, the Dean of his fantasies to the one in real life. Because this
Dean, the real Dean, was the grown up one, the confident one, the one with his
shit together, but he wasn't the one who groaned Sam's name: a plea for mercy
and a plea for more at once.
So Sam left, because he had to. As long as he was with Dean, he was addicted to
that smell and that fantasy of a motel room and a lingering gaze. All Sam
wanted from Dean was to be laid bare before him, stripped of his clothes, of
his dignity, of his pride and his shame and just let Dean take whatever was
left. It was the only thing he wanted and the only thing he could never have,
so Sam left to find whatever was second best.
He got to Stanford, and he got drunk. The memory of Dean's betrayed expression,
a face so contorted with hurt that it was beyond recognition and the
realization that Sam had smashed that up all by himself were the only things he
took with him. Dean gave Sam everything, everything thing he had and it would
never be enough. Because Sam didn't know when he realized that it would never
go away. He didn't know if it was when he was twelve and he smelled his brother
and felt a pull in his gut, like gravity. Dean was so bright and burning with
life and sexuality and beauty and Sam was just some pathetic meteor, orbiting
it. He never as close as he needed to be but close enough to get burned
nonetheless. And Sam left, some miracle or curse pulled him from his endless
torment and it was downright frigid out here without Dean.
Dean had looked at him like Sam had wrecked the impala into the last apple
orchard on earth, dooming him to a life without pie and his car. Because Dean
loved simple things, easy things, like pie and his car and his brother. Sam
loved nothing but Dean's smell and rhythm. He pulled his phone out of his
pocket and composed a text to a number that he would never forget for as long
as he lived.
"I am in love with you." He typed and he stared at it and wondered if six
words, so simple and small and generic on the bright screen could convey the
six years worth of nights and touches and smells that Sam had played out
through his head.
They had moved together. They had held together. They had tasted each other and
it was all in Sam's head. It was only in Sam's head. In real life, Sam had laid
himself bare and Dean had turned around and faced the door. Their love, their
intimacy, their shared desire and shame and need was cut in half. It was just
Sam. It would never be anything besides just Sam. Their love story was cut in
half. It was better that way.
Sam sobbed. Alone, in a bar with a fake ID, Sam sobbed over his cell phone. He
hurriedly deleted part of the message.
"I love you." It read.
Six simple words, an entire epic love story, were cut in half. It was better
that way.
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