
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/618645.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      girl!Sam_Winchester/Dean_Winchester, Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      girl!Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Sibling_Incest
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-01-01 Words: 2416
****** Just Keeping You In Check ******
by liketogetlost
Summary
     He's watching Sam. Out of the corner of his eye, between the endless
     stretch of blurring pavement in front of him and the gas gage, is Sam
     with her long limbs that threaten to poke out the car windows and her
     long, wild mane of hair that always seems to be in her face, caught
     on the wind and waving like a flag.
Notes
     Sam's always been a girl, she's fifteen and yes I know, I'm headed to
     the pit.
Dean's watching Sam. He's always watching Sam, has been since their dad placed
her in his arms. But it's past two am, and his eyes are heavy with the events
of the day and he can't let himself sleep until she does. Digging up the graves
of five different angry spirits that all hung out together fifty years ago only
to decide friends forever really did mean forever was hard work. Sam was shit
with a shovel but at least she helped salt and burn the bones.
It's a habit, a thing he's done since they were kids, and he'll just continue
to jerk awake until he knows she's out so there's no use just letting himself
drift off. But tonight Sam can't sleep, which means Dean can't sleep.
His weight is heavy on top of the worn springs of the hotel mattress, but he's
exhausted and even the lumps beneath him feel comforting against his tired
muscles. The night is quiet save for the phantom sounds of the highway and the
few cars that drive in and out of the parking lot outside. Sam's legs rustle
beneath the sheets of her bed, unshaved and rough against the cheap fabric and
he can almost feel her frustration as she tosses and turns for the umpteenth
time that hour.
He's about ready to reach over and turn on the light when he catches the sight
of her hand snaking beneath her sheet and burrowing down to her waist.
He thinks she's probably just scratching her stomach until he hears her
restrained sigh, almost inaudible against the whir of the air conditioner at
the window.
Sam touches herself, jerks off, masturbates, whatever. He knows this, he's not
stupid. She's a teenage girl, and whether guys think so or not girls enjoy sex
too. But it's not something he likes to think about in relation to Sam. But
there it is, in the bed next to him, just two feet of crud covered motel floor
separating him from this Sam. This Sam who's...
Who's just let out a small moan that hits him right in his stomach and makes
him harder than anything. He thinks it's probably time to close his eyes,
probably find a way to cover his ears too but his eyes are greedy and they feed
on the sight of the tell tale movement of her wrist beneath the sheet, the
silhouette of her against the light that hits the back wall, the bit of the
sheet he can see through when she arches her back above the bed.
His throat convulses and he swallows, mouth suddenly dry and his tongue thick
in his mouth like he should say something, tell her to keep her hands above the
covers for the night, Sammy, haha no big deal like he can make a joke of it.
But he doesn't want to, wants to keep watching, wants to see her, oh fuck, hear
her come and it makes him feel sick and hot beneath the thin blanket all at
once.
So he watches Sam. Watches her black outline shift in the dark, her muscles
tensing and relaxing beneath her skin. He watches her chin poke the air, head
tossed back at a particularly effective stroke of her fingers. He thinks he
sees a flash of her tongue but he can't be sure, but it's likely, swiped across
her bottom lip when the tension inside her begins to coil in her belly and
spread out through her body like vines from a tree.
He keeps watching and when her throat cracks like she wants to scream but
can't, and her foot digs into the mattress and slips across the sheet and off
the side of the bed, he grips his pillow beneath his head and tries to hold in
the deep breath he so desperately needs to let out.
He doesn't quit watching until the speeding swell of her chest dies down to
normal, and she slides rather than flops onto her side facing away from him and
he hears the first soft snore from her mouth that means she's asleep.
He's left with hard on that actually hurts and a pool of sweat that makes his
t-shirt stick to his lower back. Left watching as she sleeps, watching her grow
up before his eyes.
--
He's watching Sam. Out of the corner of his eye, between the endless stretch of
blurring pavement in front of him and the gas gage, is Sam with her long limbs
that threaten to poke out the car windows and her long, wild mane of hair that
always seems to be in her face, caught on the wind and waving like a flag. Her
nose is stuck between the pages of a book, something about animals and a farm,
she'd told him it was some kind of satire, whatever that meant. The wind whips
the pages so she has to hold the book flat against her lap.
It's hot, and Sam would say 'duh, it's the desert', but this heat comes from
deep inside him and seeps out of his pores like lava from a volcano. He wishes
there was more space between them on the front seat of the Impala.
“Quit looking at me.” Sam says, eyes still glued to the page and scratching at
a bug bite on her knee. Her feet are pressed to the glove box and her fucking
legs, stuck out the bottoms of a pair of his old jeans she cut into shorts, are
so long her knees practically push into her face. She's always growing, she's
almost taller than him for chrissakes, awkward and gangly but something inside
tells him she would have been a ballerina, if not for everything.
“I'm not.” He can't even come up with a clever quip because he is, actually.
“Whatever.” But there's a smile in her voice. She picks at another bug bite
that's scabbed over and collects the skin and blood beneath her nails.
“Don't pick at those, you'll leave scars.” He says absently, automatically.
Like a father.
She rolls her eyes which he doesn't see but she's fifteen, she's always rolling
her eyes. “Not like I don't have enough of those.” She mutters, low in her
throat but loud enough so he can hear like she really wants him to.
His eyes are burning, probably red and dry from the desert air. A sigh escapes
him, and he's turning off the pavement to stop on the abandoned slice of earth
next to the road. “I need a fucking nap.”
She throws her book on the dash and laughs, the sound of which is muddled by
the sound of a freaky sounding bird in the distance and she turns for a second
to hear it's next cry. Seconds pass and it doesn't speak again, and when she
looks over he's hunched down in the seat with his arms crossed over his chest
and his eyes closed.
“Figures you're tired, fucking peeping Tom.” It's mumbled but again, it's not
like she doesn't want him to hear.
The heat is bubbling inside him again when he cracks open an eye in her
direction. “What?”
“I couldn't sleep, alright? It's not like I wanted an audience.” She wants him
to think she's actually pissed, but he sees the crook of her smile in the
sideview mirror next to her.
“Sam, just. Shut up and take a fucking nap, okay? We got a long way 'til we hit
dad's new coordinates in Arizona.” He checks to make sure his shotgun is safe
in the backseat just in case and shuts his eyes again.
He jumps, ready to grab for the gun when he feels a weight on his lap. A knot
tightens in his stomach when he opens his eyes to Sam, legs straddling him, the
pink of her breasts, still small but growing, visible through a thin layer of
cotton wife beater and practically in his face.
Her eyes are set on him, big and brown and serious, which is how she usually
looks when she's trying to appear brave. The sunkissed locks of her hair are in
tangles around her face and her lips are still red from the fruit punch she got
from the gas station miles back. She stirs him like a spoon in a cup of coffee
and he's drowning, he can't breathe.
“Sam. Get off.” Is not what he wants to say, but does.
Her smile is almost feral, and wide, from ear to scarred ear. “I did, last
night.”
His eyes roll but his stomach clenches and he grabs her by the waist to pull
her off. She's ahead of him, hands gripping the back of his seat, and she winds
up settled against him closer, thighs trapping him and arms that go on forever
creating a bastardized fence around him.
“You wanna watch me, Dean? Pervert.” But she's still smiling, and her hands
leave the back of the seat to slowly undo the button of her shorts.
That pool of sweat is back, along with another couple puddles in other places
along his body. He tries not to let his eyelids fall and his gaze flicker to
her busy hands but they do and he fails and when he looks at her face again
she's full on grinning at him.
She pulls her pants down just far enough to bring down both flaps of fabric
over her legs so her cheap, dollar store underwear are exposed to him. It's
fucking sexier than any fancy lingerie and when her hand creeps below the
waistband, knuckles bulging against the cotton, bit of her white skin that's
never seen the light of day flashed in contrast to her sometimes sunburnt
tummy, she sighs and her breath hits his face like a hot desert wind.
“Sam... Sammy...” He's trying for defiant, stubborn brother but it comes out
more like wound up high school boy begging to get to second base in the
backseat of his dad's Chevy.
Her hand moves lower, more of her wrist disappears beneath the waistband and
she makes a choked “Ah!” sound, like she's found the treasure buried under the
x.
He's frozen solid, toes curled inside his boots and back slack against the hot
leather of the car and he couldn't move if someone put the shotgun in the
backseat to his head and told him to. He's transfixed by the slide of Sam's
hips as her hand works between her legs, slow and steady and he's wondering,
not trying to wonder how those hips would work against his own.
Her mouth has turned down from it's devilish grin, now it's slack and open,
tongue red beyond her lips and lashes fluttering against her cheeks and she's
lost her own game, finished teasing him and lost in the touch of her own hand.
He says her name and she tilts her head, licking her lips.
“Sammy... fuck, didn't, I didn't even know you... did...” He chokes, swallows,
and she moans.
“Too much, god. Need it, so much.” Slow strokes and she's panting above him and
it's better than any fucking porno he'd have to pay for.
He's only now realizing he's cutting into his own palms, nails marking
crescents into his skin and he clenches and unclenches his fists beside his
thighs. He won't allow himself to touch her, oh to touch her, but he watches
every movement like he's flesh and sweat and bone against her moving form.
“Knew you were watching, wanted you to, oh! Wanted you watching...You're always
watching me, Dean.” Her hand grips the headrest behind him, tiny hairs on her
arm brushing his cheek and it makes his head swim, makes him realize just how
tight his jeans have gotten and just how little it takes for her to drive him
crazy.
Cars drive past them and the road continues on forever and his whole world is
Sam's hand and what it's busy doing inside his old jeans.
His hands move of their own accord and end up on her thighs, or as close to her
thighs as he'll allow them to get. Fingertips brushing skin and rough,
calloused pads catching on stray strands of fabric from the frayed edges of her
shorts. She shudders and he swears, face caught in the heat of her neck when
she leans down and rests her forehead on the back of the seat.
“Gonna come...” She gasps, inches from his ear, and he bucks up into nothing
but imagines it's her, tight and slick and fuck he can hear how wet she is as
her fingers dip inside her over and over.
He lets his lips ghost the line of her jaw and he might even taste a drop of
her sweat when he licks at his bottom lip. “Fuck, Sammy...baby...”
Another choked sob and finally, his name, and his kid sister is shuddering,
coming apart above him on the side of the road of some shit town in the desert.
Her ass only touches his lap when she can't hold herself up anymore, spent and
breathing heavy against his chest. Her hips twitch a few times against his and
he swears, eyes rolling into the back of his head.
His hands are still on her thighs, this time sweaty palm to skin, and he snaps
them back like from a burning flame. She's in the passenger seat before he can
blink and he's not noticing, inwardly groaning over how she puts her two clever
fingers in her mouth and sucks before zipping up her shorts.
The freaky sounding bird yells again and she turns away from him.
“I gotta take a piss.” He mumbles, losing his grip on the door handle twice
before getting it open.
--
Sam's watching Dean. Her knees are in her face again, feet pressed flat against
the glove box and she bites her lip at the picture of him in the sideview,
facing digging into his arm as he leans against a dying tree and quickly jerks
himself off.
When he comes back she pretends to be asleep, though he knows even she can't
sleep through the loud slam of the car door. The Impala starts and rumbles
beneath her, and she feels them move back onto the road, the sting of the hot
wind on her face. She can feel his eyes running up and down her between miles
and she grins against the leather.
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