
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/181588.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Pre-Series
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-04-10 Words: 2392
****** Our Winter ******
by roxymissrose
Summary
     a random winter afternoon in their lives, slightly shmoopish,
     slightly angsty, with a dash of porn.
original post date:2-9-2011
Snow dotted the window pane, clumped up on the tiny holes in the screen that
covered the upper half of the window. The thick aluminum frame surrounding it
shook with the strength of the wind ripping through the alleyway, cold whistled
in through the gaps.
The narrow room was white and gray, the light that filled it wavered like the
world was underwater. The snow-muffled quiet fed his worst fear--that he was
alone, no Dad, no Sam, locked in with only himself as company. He sat curled
over his knees on the thin, nubby carpet and waited for that fear to overwhelm
him.
Behind him the door opened, horror movie slow, a long throaty squeal of
reluctant hinges…if his luck followed course, it meant a monster was behind
him.
"Dean?" Sam's voice. The joy at hearing it so intense it was painful; the lift
of his heart edged onto agony and brought him close to collapse. Dean. Sam
spoke his name like he was singing. Dean couldn't remember the last time Sam
sounded so happy to say his name. Warm, thin arms wrap around his neck and
chase the chill from the entire room.
"Come out and help me make dinner."
Dean pulled Sam around to face him, smiled at him, pushed shaggy hair off his
forehead, the way he did a million times a day. Sam stared into his eyes with
an anxious look, a nervous, bold, bratty, typical Sammy look and Dean laughed,
pulled Sam all the way down so he straddled Dean like a rocking horse.
"Dean! Stop!" But he was full of laughter, teeth so white and smile so sweet,
lips wide and pink, shiny with spit he licked onto them—just--Dean palmed the
back of his head, felt thick silky strands shift and tangle in his fingers and
kissed Sam. Sam leaned into it, making happy little greedy noises.
"Can't stop, can't let you go. You're mine, no matter what. I'll keep you here.
Make you stay."
Sam slid off his lap and the world dropped away, fast and deep, like he'd
stepped off the edge of a cliff. "You can't…" he heard the hurt; it followed
him right out into the waking world, the sound of Sam's voice too loud in the
silence of the narrow little room.
"Dean? You up?"
He blinked, and the rasp of his eyelashes against the pillow confused him. He
drew his head up, blindly turning towards the sound of Sam's voice. Sam's head
was poked around the frame of the doorway, and Dean grinned, the thought going
somewhat muzzily through his head that it was like his own private puppet show.
Sam asked again if he was finally awake, his voice on the edge of pissy and
neutral, a clear signal Sam was worried—big girl.
"Yeah…why?"
"Thought I heard you callin' me".
"Oh." Dean blinked gummy lashes, smacked dry lips. "Yeah…no, I was. Nightmare…I
think. Dreamt it was snowing."
"Yeah? Since when is snow scary?"
Dean threw out the first thing that came to mind. "It was zombie snow," he
said, and Sam snorted.
"Oooh, 'course, makes so much sense. Snow that had a craving for brains?"
Dean grinned. "Yup."
"So, the nightmare part came when the snow got pissed off you had nothing to
feed it?"
"Fuck you, Samster.
"Dude, that wasn't even funny when I was twelve and actually had hamster
cheeks." But Sam was smiling so Dean counted it a win.
"Samster."
"Spleeeeen." Sam looked victorious so Dean wasn't about to tell him it'd never
been much of a come back and just acted monstrously affronted instead.
Sam was already down the hallway, sock feet shushing over the crappy carpeting
stapled to every floor in the whole house, before Dean managed to pull himself
all the way back to waking. He snagged a pair of sweats out of the pile of
clean clothes on Sam's bed, not stopping to check whose they were. He trudged
out into the hallway before they started to slip around his hips. Probably
Dad's, then. He shrugged. He'd never been choosy about what to wear, never had
the time.
Sam was standing at the counter when Dean joined him in the kitchen, the light
coming through the window making him a black silhouette of too-thin frame and
wild hair that Dean would recognize anywhere. He could be blind, and still he'd
know his brother, by touch, by smell. The thought propelled him forward--he
sank his nose into the spot on the back of Sam's neck where the curls crimped
up from sleep and sweat and left a small bare spot on his nape, concentrated
scent of Sam right there. Dean leaned in and scented him, rubbed his nose
gently there and when Sam's shoulders slumped and he let out a soft exhale,
Dean touched that spot with the tip of his tongue—salt, smooth, clean. His Sam.
"Dean. Stop."
Dean pulled back, enough that no part of them touched but the heat settled
between them and warmed his skin. "Sorry. Forgot."
Sam nodded, still turned away from Dean. "You want an egg or toast?"
"Toast, I'll make it myself." Dean moved away, yanked the toaster out from
under the sink, and the bread from the plastic box over the cupboard. He
upended the toaster over the sink and banged it hard a couple of times and
Sam's face twisted. Nothing fell out except crumbs, though Sam jumped when a
burnt chunk of toast dropped into the sink.
"All clean," Dean said and ruffled Sam's bed wild hair, sighed when Sam sighed.
"I know. But it won't be much longer before Dad's back and we're out of here."
Not that either of them had any expectation that the next place was going to be
better, still, there was always a chance….
"Yeah." Instead of the relief Dean had hoped for, Sam just looked tired. Dean
hated it—he'd rather Sam look pissed than resigned. He'd rather Sam scream and
shout than make that little sound of utter defeat. He shoved him, hard, and Sam
whirled around.
"Stop. What's wrong with you?" His eyes darted to Dean's chest and Dean's hand
rose instinctively before dropping.
"I'll make French toast if you want."
"What? Really? Why?" and Sam's eyes went flat with suspicion. "What did you
do?"
"Shit, nothing, I'm just trying to be nice."
"Right. Nice." Sam's eyes lowered to the edge of the bandage wrapping Dean's
chest, and to the line of butterflies holding the edges of the shallow grooves
on his upper chest and shoulder closed, along with a whisker or two of black
thread. He shook his head. "Nice. Did you call Dad? He won't let you hunt, you
know. Or…did you sneak out last night?"
"Dude. I didn't fucking call Dad, and I sure as hell didn't slip out last
night—or any night since." Dean tossed hair out of his eyes and scowled.
"Since--you know."
"Yeah." Sam carefully, tentatively, laid his hand across the bandages. He took
a deep breath and said, "When I said stop I meant…I don't want you hurting.
More, I mean. And, it's like I always want to be touching you and touching you
makes me want more…I just want you."
"God…" Dean shoved the sweat pants down and kicked them to the side. He took
Sam's hands and backed up until his calves hit one of the kitchen chairs and he
sat, pulled Sam down on top of him and a flash of the dream surfaced, Sam
rocking on his lap. "I swear it's okay, we'll stop if it gets to be too much,
promise…."
Dean pressed kisses all along his jaw, loved the feel of Sam's long colt legs
draping over his, downy warm insides of Sam's thighs moving against his with
the way his muscles bunched and tightened. Dean slid his hands under Sam,
lifted him closer, pressed him chest to chest, dick to dick against him. Dean
shuddered at the new feeling of warmth, moaned as Sam ground his erection into
him, both of them so hard it almost hurt—he managed to keep the gasp inside
when Sam's chest put pressure against the stitches on Dean's.
"I hate this, you getting hurt, hate it so much, hate always being afraid…"
Sam's mouth dropped to his, so soft and sweet, the sweetness of coffee with
cream and sugar lingering in the warm wet places that Dean licked at, sucked
from his tongue and rubbed from the roof of his mouth. Sam laughed quietly,
still mouth to mouth, when Dean walked fingers up his ribs, danced fingertips
into his armpits and ended cupping the arch of Sam's shoulders. He groaned and
coaxed Dean's tongue into his mouth with his own.
They moved against one another, slow and careful. It was new, to do it this
way, without the edge of desperation, without clawing and biting and shoving
hard and frantic against one another. This care was new and Dean…he liked it
very much, and at the same time wondered what brought it on—Sam wasn't usually
so careful, or so thorough. "C'mon, Sam, move--you won't hurt me."
He shook his head. "Not that. I just…I wish we could always have it like this."
That surprised Dean, and something other than lust heated him. Still…"Now you
do, but some day you'll want something else, someone else."
"That's stupid. I won't ever need anyone else."
Dean closed his eyes, brought their cheeks together. "Yes you will," his mouth
said, but his heart said fuck yes, and thank youand you promise, promise me
never—
"I don't think so, anyway," Sam murmured but Dean didn't hear that, not really.
He was too stuck on forever and always and planning how to make it work.
Sam pushed him back, gave room for already huge hands to slide between them.
"Don’t jump around, you'll bust a stitch…just, let me do this."
Dean watched Sam's hand wrap around his dick. "Sam. Shit." Every time Sam did
that, it felt wild, crazy--amazing. Dean's heart slammed around his ribs, his
breath held—stopped. Sam too--stopped and started, hand loose and then too
tight and then erratic little jerks along Dean's length…Sam glanced at him,
small smile broken by the tip of his tongue, narrowed eyes glittering.
"You fucking tease, you little—"
Sam laughed, done torturing, he picked up the pace. Sweet and right, fast, the
way Dean liked it, and he told Sam so, rough words tumbling out of his mouth.
Dean fumbled Sam's t-shirt out of the way, slid his hand into Sam's boxers and
touched, rolled his palm over Sam's dick, smearing precome around on his flat,
soft, baby-smooth belly. Sam jerked, curled into Dean with a small gasp, hair
brushing Dean's mouth, cheek.
"Think you're funny don’t you, Sammy. This funny, make you laugh?" He rubbed
his thumb over the tight, silky head of Sam's dick, pressed it into the
steadily wetter slit, pressed until slick coated the crown, and the pad of his
thumb…
"No, no, it's not funny—" Sam's voice spiraled up, higher, louder, and Dean
shoved his thumb into his mouth, sucked the taste away. Pressed his palm
against his mouth and licked, pulled his hand away nearly dripping wet. "Come
on, fuck my hand," he said, tightening his grip around Sam, watching his face,
feeling his heart race. "Fuck…you're such a mess, Sam--look at you. Face all
red, sweating, dick leaking all over…"
Sam groaned, froze on Dean's lap—his body went tight and he arched back so
quick, so hard, Dean almost lost him. He locked his arm behind Sam's back, held
on and let Sam fall apart, come striping Dean's chest, his own, making a mess
of both their hands….Sam blinked like he was confused, then gave Dean a slow
dimpled smile as he came back. Dean sucked in a shuddery breath, caught by
white snow at the window, grey light in the room and Sam's heavy breath against
his ear.
Before he could stop him, Sam slid down Dean's legs, ending with a thump on his
knees, between Dean's. "Let me take care of you," he said, and opened his mouth
over the end of Dean's dick. Dean tensed and groaned, one hand splayed out over
the bandage wrapping his chest, the other on Sam's head, following the gentle
bobbing movement, riding it as he sped up. Dean tried not to wiggle on the
chair, tried not to strain sore ribs and healing cuts but his hips weren't
hearing it. Sam was good at this, and it didn’t take long. Dean came with a
groan and a promise moaned into the air.
"You okay?" Sam wiped his mouth with the back of one hand, the other perched
protectively over Dean's hand on his chest. He licked the corners of his mouth,
eyes on the bandages.
"Yeah…think you blew my brains out. Tired again."
"Eat first, nap later. No PT today."
"Hell no. Fact, I got a better idea." He snagged a slice of bread and threw the
bag in the fridge. "Come on," and dragged Sam back down the hall, cramming the
slice in his mouth and ignoring Sam's little outbursts of disgust.
 
They wrapped around each other in Sam's bed, with pillows stolen from Dean's.
Sam pushed and shoved until Dean's head was under Sam's chin, his arms loose
around him and an ankle hooked around Dean's calf. What little light that came
through the cloudy window made the world feel like it was underwater. The thick
quiet in the narrow room settled over them, broken only by their breath, the
slow squeak of the bed frame shifting.
"I think we'll always be together. Even when this stuff is over, we'll be
together, right Dean?"
"Through hell and high water, Sammy." He didn't want to say that it would never
be over. Nineteen and he knew that it would always be this way. Never really
thought it could be anything else. Someday soon, Sam would come around; he'd
get it, and be okay with it, once he realized that this way, doing this thing,
they really would be together always.
2-9-2011
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