
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/998387.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, No_Archive_Warnings_Apply, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester/Original
      Female_Character(s)
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, Original_Female_Character(s)
  Additional Tags:
      Hand_Jobs, Blow_Jobs, Comeplay, Obsession, Weechesters, Drug_Use
  Series:
      Part 2 of The_Gospel_Truth
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-10-10 Words: 3072
****** Of that waylaying Light ******
by TheWaywardGospel
Summary
     Dean has this thing. This Sammy thing.
Notes
     The farthest Thunder that I heard
     Was nearer than the Sky
     And rumbles still, though torrid Noons
     Have lain their missiles by --
     The Lightning that preceded it
     Struck no one but myself --
     But I would not exchange the Bolt
     For all the rest of Life --
     Indebtedness to Oxygen
     The Happy may repay,
     But not the obligation
     To Electricity --
     It founds the Homes and decks the Days
     And every clamor bright
     Is but the gleam concomitant
     Of that waylaying Light --
     The Thought is quiet as a Flake --
     A Crash without a Sound,
     How Life's reverberation
     Its Explanation found –
     Emily Dickinson
      
     I wrote this whole thing while listening to Christopher Lennertz and
     Jay Gruska OST.
See the end of the work for more notes
Dean has this thing.  This Sammy thing.  It’s something that’s always just been
there and it’s really not a big deal.
 
When Sam was little, Dean always needed to be a part of his space.  He hated it
when Sam wanted privacy or something to himself. 
 
The first time Sam found out what his dick was for and tried to jerk off, Dean
insisted on pressing along Sam’s side in their shared motel bed.  Sam tried to
be all shy and embarrassed and whiny and “Deeaaannn!” about it, but Dean wasn’t
going to stand for any of that.
 
“C’mon, you little pervert.  What, do I gotta show ya?”  And though Dean had
been perfectly willing to do just that, Sam had huffed his little put-upon sigh
and slowly pushed his hand back down his boxers and resumed his curious
strokes, if a little more awkward about it than he had been before Dean’s
tingling Sammy-senses had woken him.
 
But that wasn’t good enough because Dean needed to see and know everything when
it came to Sam.  “You’re not doing it right.  Let me see!”  They wrestled over
Sam’s boxers and Sam’s petulant “Just leave me alone!” (and that was ridiculous
because just no!) until Dean finally yanked them out of Sam’s grip and pulled
them down his knobby knees.  Then Dean’s chest tightened up and he could have
purred in satisfaction because the sight of Sam’s hard little dick and smooth,
hairless balls was just another piece of his little brother that Dean could
claim and mark and say “I know this, I have witnessed it, and now it’s mine.” 
Another Sammy-moment that he could roll around and go crazy in.
 
“Told ya you’re not doing it right, dorkus.”
 
“Am too.”  But Dean had already pushed Sam’s hand off and replaced it with his
own, because this was his anyway, so why not?  Then any other complaints Sam
might have had fell short because suddenly it was too much, too much, too much
and he didn’t last even close to a minute, little boy spill on Dean’s hand and
stomach, because at some point, Sam had turned toward his center of gravity.
 
“Gross, dude!”  Dean complained as he rubbed the evidence into the skin of his
own chest and belly.  He wanted to wear it like a trophy because it felt like a
victory.  Sammy’s first orgasm and Sammy’s first hand job.  Those belonged to
Dean now.
 
--
 
A few years later, he was pissed that he didn’t get Sammy’s first kiss (so
stupid, he should have thought of that sooner!), but he teased and bullied the
kid until he got every last detail out of him so he could relive it in his own
imagination.  And when Sam admitted that it was more of a fumbling accident for
both him and Jenny Telson, it was like Christmas morning for Dean.  He tumbled
his brother onto the couch, straddled his hips, and then proceeded to lick his
soul out of his mouth.  Then rubbed him mercilessly through his jeans till he
was sobbing into Dean’s mouth and shooting in his pants.  And Dean claimed his
official first kiss.  Jenny Telson could fuck off and die.
 
--
 
Dean may not have been able to claim Sammy’s first blow job, but at least he
got to see it firsthand.  And he definitely liked Katie Donaldson better than
that bitch Jenny, because Katie was a straight up slut.  A slut for cock and a
slut for attention, as she had absolutely no qualms about kneeling down on the
(really uncomfortable looking) bleachers, unzipping Sam’s jeans, and swallowing
down all that gorgeous Sammy-dick.  With Dean sitting right next to him in the
deserted school practice fields.  Granted, the impressive joint they were all
passing around might have had something to do with it.  (Because if Sammy
wanted to know what it was like to check out for a bit, like hell was he doing
it with anyone but his big brother.  Katie just better count her lucky stars
that she got to witness it.)  As soon as Sam forgot the need to breathe, Dean
climbed in behind him and eased him back against his chest – he had taught the
kid everything from using the potty to tying his shoes, no reason why his first
blow job would be any different.  He rested his chin in the crook of Sam’s neck
so he would have a clear view of the main attraction between Sam’s legs, then
rucked his little brother’s shirt up under his arms and pushed his thighs
wider, encouraging the lucky bitch to take him deeper, petting his fingers
through the soft hair trailing down from Sam’s navel.  Dean took another hit
off the joint and then guided Sam’s mouth to his own to shotgun him, whispering
smoke and devotion against his lips.  God, he looked so good all messed up. 
 
Dean snuffled into that little secret place behind Sam’s ear to breathe in the
deep, concentrated scent of Sammy.  That was all for him and Katie wasn’t going
to know about it.  Although, in an offhand way, Dean would maybe admit that he
was impressed.  Sammy was no less well-endowed than himself, and yet he could
see her throat working around that beautiful cockhead. 
 
As Sam arched into a tense bow, one giant hand clenched around the back of
Dean’s neck like a tether, Dean ran his fingers up the taut form and tickled
across Sam’s ribs.  Then roughly ground the heels of his palms against his
nipples.  Sam chocked on a scream and buried his face into Dean’s neck as he
went off the handles and released all his tension into the anonymous mouth. 
Because at some point, maybe from the beginning, she had ceased to be a part of
this.  Instead, Dean basked in the trembles and shudders, feeling them as his
own as Sam unconsciously squeeze-released-squeeze-released his thigh in rhythm
with the pulses of his orgasm – determined to hold onto his big brother through
the whole ride.  Dean hummed in bone-deep satisfaction and mouthed along the
soft skin exposed at Sam’s neckline.  He could feel volcanic puffs of air
against his neck, wet lips dragging against his skin and as much as he bitched
and whined about it like a little girl, Dean knew Sam was just as hopeless and
consumed with Dean’s thing as Dean was himself. 
 
He couldn’t stop smiling as he reached a warm hand down to cup Sam’s balls and
help him float a while longer in the aftershocks.  With the other hand, he
swiped his thumb across Katie’s bottom lip and lifted the smear of come to his
own mouth, sucking and licking off every last trace.  It was so fucking good.
 
--
 
Dean got through the horrific timespan of Sam’s college years with the memory
of Sam finally popping his cherry.  And just like the little geek-boy that he
was, of course he finally scored big off his prom date of all things – Heather
Lacey.  And no, Dean doesn’t find it weird that he can accurately recall the
names and faces of every single one of the girls that have been allowed to
share some aspects of his baby brother’s formative experiences, but cannot for
the life of him remember what the hell the name of that waitress he went home
with on Thursday was.  Suzie, Shelley, Stacey, something or other.  It doesn’t
really matter.  What matters is that Sam didn’t offer to turn on the light when
he and Heather stumbled through the doorway because he knew Dean was sprawled
in a chair in the far corner of the room.  What matters is that Sam got Heather
on her hands and knees across the bed, so that she couldn’t see Dean step up
behind them.  What matters is that Dean framed Sammy’s waist with his hands and
guided his thrusts with his own hips.  What matters is that when Sammy’s eyes
rolled back into his head, Dean licked the ecstasy out of his mouth. 
 
Thank God Heather got off on being used fast and dirty (and was maybe drunk
enough to courteously pass out right after), because Sam and Dean were too
wrapped up in their own muffled cocoon to pay her any mind. 
 
--
 
When Dean finally got his little brother back from that big, ugly other world,
neither of them could ignore the fact that Dean’s thing had twisted and
changed.  It grew hooks and claws and latched on in every way it could. 
Because Sam had had something separate.  Something away from Dean and now there
were too many things Dean didn’t know.  So he broke and smashed and yelled and
screamed, then made Sam come in his mouth as he forced out every minute detail,
every insignificant little memory that he could recount, anything that Dean
could take in as Sammy.  But dammit, it hurt.  It hurt so badly because Dean
didn’t get to calm him down, because it wasn’t the end of the world when a
midterm came back with a B-.  Didn’t get to make fun of him when Sam thought
about rushing a fraternity for a whole minute.  Didn’t to see how giddy Sammy
was after his first date with Jess. 
 
Dean wanted to tear something bloody.
 
Then Sam turned around and threw it all back, bruised and bloodied Dean as he
raged, his fury exploding with all the things Dean threw away on others instead
of giving them to Sam to be treasured and adored.  And in the storm of Sam,
Dean came twice in blinding torrents and then he finally understood this thing.
 
--
 
It is an explosive thing, a dangerous thing, but it’s not really a big deal. 
It’s Dean’s and he’s handling it just fine.
 
--
 
But maybe sometimes, like right now, Dean needs a hit of that dirty, wonderful
thing because sometimes he comes too close to losing Sam again and that thing
needs to know that Sam is right here, Dean has him, and everything that is Sam
is Dean. 
 
Fresh off a hunt that they hadn’t even gone looking for and it takes Dean
exactly 17 minutes to floor it from the burning ruin of that house to their
motel.  As soon as the door is open, he has Sam shoved down onto the closest
bed and he’s frantically working at his own jeans.  And dammit it’s
frustrating, because the world is moving too slowly and everything’s working
against him and he needs these fucking clothes off and he needs to feel Sam,
needs to touch and smell and taste and know everything.  Needs to know that
everything is still right here, still whole and breathing and alive and Sammy. 
Sammy.
 
When the obstacles are finally gone, he’s clambering on top of Sam, pushing him
down and spreading him out for Dean to map and wander.  He pushes Sam’s shirt
up and out of the way so he can lay his ear to his chest, listen to the
reverberating whumpwhump – whumpwhump of that most beloved sound.  Then he
scrambles up further to his little brother’s neck and opens his mouth around
the fluttering pulse, not sucking or kissing, just simply letting it jump and
dance against his tongue.  He can feel Sam’s fingers burrowing and tunneling in
his hair, trying to settle him, but it’s really not going to work because he
needs too much right now.  Needs all of it. 
 
With a willing and pliant Sammy, this would be easier – and probably a lot
sexier –  but Sam has suddenly reverted into 12-year-old gangly limbs and
elbows.  After several floppy fish moments, Dean has finally wrangled his
ginormous little brother out of his own clothes and slams him flat on his back
again.  And then Dean really lets that thing loose.
 
There’s so much, and it’s all for him, all there for Dean to have and hold and
bind to him and no one else.  He’s like a kid on a sugar high, bouncing from
here to there, fluttering stomach to delicate thigh, sharp hip to sensitive
inner elbow.  He can’t stay too long in one spot, has to see and experience and
know everything right now. 
 
But then, when he’s finally visited every last square inch, then he goes back
to savor the journey. 
 
He traces the delicate webbing in between each finger, follows the whorls and
patterns of a palm.  Licks across the gossamer skin of wrist, forearm, and
bicep.  He stuffs his face into the heated cavern of an armpit – Sam squirms
and whines, but Dean pinches his side because he will not be denied this. 
 
Sammy.  Sammy.  Sammy.
 
He laps and drinks from the hollow at his throat, spans across the rugged
planes of shoulders and chest, slides down rung after rung of ladder-ribs, then
teases and swirls into the pool of Sam’s navel.  Sam’s panting and spasming in
aborted jerks and arches, broken hmms and ahhhs that have gone needy and pitchy
as Dean mouths hosannas against the veined petal-flesh of his severely rigid
dick, devoutly suckling at the satin weight of his balls.
 
He fumbles Sam over onto his stomach, takes only a second to appreciate this
new frontier, before dipping down to drag his stubbled cheek across the expanse
of Sam’s exposed back, inhaling the vulnerable scent in the valley of his spine
and sucking great bruises into the pliable skin at the curve of his ass.  Dean
smiles briefly at the image of a giant marker planted here to proclaim the
‘territory of Dean’.  The ass-hickeys are a good alternative though.  And maybe
some nice red handprints too.  Yeah, those will look very nice. 
 
Sam arches up into each hard smack until his ass is glowing and hot.  Dean
doesn’t even realize he’s been rambling this whole time.
 
“Fucking mine, Sammy.  All mine.  Everything.  All of it.  This nice, red ass
and that big dick.  Even your stupid fucking hair.  Mine, mine, mine!” 
Everything punctuated with a satisfying slap of ass.
 
And Sam fucking loves it.  Goes nuts for it.  He’s just bowed up like a bitch
in heat, nodding dumbly, mumbling, “yeah, yeah, yeah.”
 
When Dean’s hand is finally as sore as the ass he’s punishing, he pulls Sam’s
hips up higher and takes a delectable cheek in each hand.  It’s Dean’s hot
breath ghosting across Sam’s entrance that finally shakes him out of the fog a
bit to regain some anxiety.  “Dean, m’gross.”  There’s a little bit of a blush
involved that tinges the cheeks on his face almost the same color as the ones
gripped in Dean’s hands.
 
And yes, they’re both pretty gross at this point, running and fighting and
bleeding.  There was no small amount of sweat, blood, and guts on this hunt. 
But Dean just growls in warning and squeezes Sam’s ass sharply before spreading
him even wider and moving in to take a slow, deep lick.  Sam shuts up then and
face plants into the mattress with an obscene groan.
 
Dean uses two fingers to spread the furled entrance wider and then lays his
tongue flat against it.  He can feel the muscles dance and flirt against his
tongue, trying to seduce it in.  Dean gives it a sloppy kiss, but doesn’t take
it up on its invitation.  They’re pretty gross after all.
 
He rolls Sam back over onto his back and moves into the cradle of the thighs
that have opened so willingly for him.  Like coming home.  He fits his own
stone-dick in next to Sammy’s in the hot, wet sleeve of their bodies then just
fucking goes to town.  If he wasn’t so far gone, he’d take the time to open Sam
up, get him all wet and loose and then fuck him through the mattress.  But he’s
dancing on a glass edge as it is; Sam’s no better, so he just needs to take.
 
Dean thrusts, snaps, and rolls his hips mercilessly, relentlessly, and the
headboard is smashing into the wall over and over, gouging great pits into the
plaster.  Sam is practically sobbing, just a debauched mess, as he grips Dean’s
ass in his hands, draws his knees up higher, and urges Dean tighter and
harder. 
 
“Such a slut.  Such a slut for me.  Aren’t you Sammy?  Such a fucking…ah fuck –
fuck…yeah – fucking slut.  I’m gonna make you come all over yourself.”  Dean
hooks one of Sam’s knees and pulls it higher around his waist, then leans his
weight to the other side on his forearm and grinds hard and dirty against that
sweet dick.  Sam whines and begs incoherently. 
 
“You gonna come?  You gonna come like I tell you and be a good boy?  You
better.  You better fucking come right n-”  Dean doesn’t even get to finish
before great jets of come are shooting into the slight space between them,
streaking Sam’s stomach, chest, splattering his neck, chin, and jaw, and
beautifully, devastatingly, painting his lips, cheeks, and tongue.  Before Sam
can catch his breath, close his mouth, Dean is chasing the sweet, bitter
essence in.  He’s drinking it right back out of Sam. 
 
Dean picks up his pace, frantically fucking against Sam, slipping and sliding
in the mess between their bellies, even though he’s trying to hold back with
all his might.  God, he’s never going to come, never wants to cross that finish
line.  Fuck blue balls, he just wants to hang in this buzzing, desperate limbo,
all tangled up in orgasmic little brother.  It’s too good and once it’s over,
Dean spends every second trying to claw his way back.  But then Sam is slipping
his hand down and pressing two fingers firmly against his hole. 
 
That line hits him hard, like a fucking freight train.
 
When he comes back, a few millennia later, he’s sprawled across a ragdoll baby
brother.  All giant noodle limbs.  He’d move, but he knows that Sam enjoys the
anchoring weight, likes being held in place.  Plus, he likes the idea of a
Sammy bed. 
 
They’re now even grosser, drying sweat and come gluing them together and Dean
can’t think of a more wonderful idea.  He lifts his head slightly to find Sam
just barely awake.  His eyes are glassy and he’s wearing a big, lazy cat grin. 
Dean smirks back then leans in to kiss him soft and sweet with his eyes open. 
Just like Sam likes.
 
Because Sam has this thing.
End Notes
     Wincest completes me, fills me up, and makes me whole. No, like
     seriously. There’s nothing else I need in life. But if you enjoyed
     reading and leave comments or kudos, it’s just like the whipped
     cream, sprinkles, and goddamn cherry on top. Thanks for reading!
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
