
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/445413.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Pre-Series
  Series:
      Part 1 of Ruins
  Stats:
      Published: 2008-07-21 Words: 2291
****** Ruined For All That Follow ******
by fourfreedoms
Summary
     Pre-series, Sam is 17. Sam thinks sex isn't fun, Dean decides to show
     him otherwise.
Notes
     I am the world's biggest liar apparently. A girl says she's done with
     this pairing, but then suddenly she's lying in bed, and she finds the
     words pouring out onto the page. Thanks go to
     [http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=93.3]
halfshellvenus who inadvertantly inspired me with the line about the heroine in
a book having "such magic orgasms...that it changes her entire life
thenceforward."
-Lauren
July, 2008
His skin’s on fire—too tight and itchy, like he’d gone sliding across carpet
naked. He knows if he stays out in the sun the burn will only become deeper,
damaging the tissue beneath. But he’s got nowhere else to go when it gets like
this. It’s too hot to run. The public pool is all he has. It’s crowded here,
half the lane lines removed so that the kids have a shallow area to swim in.
The diving pool is filled with bored pre-teens playing submarines.
He splits his lane with a guy doing a swift utilitarian free-style while Sam
flies through the water, arms winging up past the surface and striking with
enough force to make the nervous terrible feeling in his stomach going away.
He can’t stand to fight with his dad, but there are times when his father just
sets him right off, and he can’t fight the words pouring out of his mouth—he
takes a savage pleasure in walking away every time his father demands he turn
around. But there is always Dean’s face afterwards, shuttered in anger, but
above all disappointed. And Sam worries that maybe it’s enough to make Dean
stop loving him.
When he can’t take it anymore, when his lungs are too big in his chest, and
he’s starting to encroach on the other guy’s space, he pulls himself out of the
deep end, water gushing out his trunks from the motion. He realizes he forgot
to bring a towel. His stuff is next to a yellowing lawn chair, wallet tucked
into his left Air Jordan, clothes thrown together inside his gym bag.
He puts his shoes back on his feet without socks. He tries to work out what
he’s going to say when he gets back. He’s got to be careful. If he isn’t, he’ll
find himself mad at Dean for being mad at him. Sam fears Dean’s anger. It makes
him lash out—his fight or flight response kicking in so hard he barely knows
what’s happening. Sam only knows how to be calm in high stress situations.
Nothing in his upbringing has taught him to deal with the way things just play
out in day to day life.
He’s walking to the gate when he sees him. Dean is sitting by himself on a
swing, slowly swaying back and forth. He looks bored and pissed off, and Sam
wants to walk away. To make Dean realize how Sam deserves better, to make Dean
apologize to him, but none of this is Dean’s fault. Sam’s enormously conscious
of the chlorinated water dripping over his skin, itchy and annoying as it runs
off out of his hair and hits his shoulders, sliding down over his chest and
past his belly.
“You’re going to turn into a lobster if you keep coming here,” Dean says, tone
even. The swing is low enough that his fingertip is trailing only a few inches
above the ground. Sam sighs. He can’t think of anything to say back. Dean
doesn’t wait for him anyway. “Wanna get a pizza, rent a movie?”
Sam doesn’t want to. He wants to walk back home and go to sleep. He wants to
not be him anymore, but someone else who doesn’t feel like this. But he knows
better, if he doesn’t do something, it’ll only get worse, like sepsis festering
in a wound. He puts his shirt on and it sticks to his wet skin. Dean’s eyes
dart over him behind lowered lids. Sam wonders if his blue polo had picked up
dirt while he was in the pool, but he doesn’t see any smudges.
The town they’re living in has a blockbuster and a tiny little place called
Midtown that has a huge horror section. Dean has seen almost all of it, but
Ginger Snaps is out again so he grabs the 1992 Dracula with Keanu Reeves and
Sam groans. He can’t pick a movie for himself though, so he goes with it. When
Dean pays, a pack of popcorn and Redvines shoved in next to the tape, the
tension breaks. Dean’s being a glutton and Sam’s just along for the ride. The
air is still fragile between them, but Sam is not consumed with it anymore.
They order a pizza with the works and pop the tape in. He doesn’t know what
he’s expecting. A piece of crap to be sure, but perhaps also something with a
little similarity to the horror genre. Instead there are pale breasts
emblazoned on the screen within five minutes and Sadie Frost accidentally
enjoying her rape at the hands of Dracula in wolf form. It’s demented. Bram
Stoker is probably off crying wherever writers go after they die. He wants to
barf every single time they keep going on about how it’s the greatest love
story ever told. Why did Coppola agree to make this picture? Sam is mystified.
Dean is rapt at the breasts.
“Ugh,” he finally says. “I’m going to go read a book.”
“Huh?” Dean replies, finally tearing his eyes away from the screen. “Why?”
“Sex is gross, especially like this.”
Dean laughs, a little incredulously. “Dude, you’re seventeen, not five—I think
it’s time we got over cooties.”
Sam’s skin simmers like the sun is still shining on it. “I just…don’t like it,”
he says after a long moment of Dean staring at him with eyebrows raised.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa when did you—” Dean breaks off, suddenly shy. He switches off
the TV.
Sam shrugs and leans back into the couch. “Couple of months ago, it was
unworthy of note.”
Dean is still staring at him, but his mouth has dropped open. “I have a robot
for a brother,” he whispers dramatically.
“Oh shut up,” Sam says and crosses his arms.
Dean shakes his head in wonder. “You must not have been doing it right.”
Sam is angry now, he can feel it dripping down his throat, congealing around
his heart and filling up his lungs. “No, Dean, I was doing it right. It just
wasn’t any good. It was like kissing—a complete misrepresentation. I’d rather
have been by myself.”
“Holy—” Dean tosses the remote aside. “You have got to be wired wrong, somebody
took all the DNA connected to your dick and replaced it with Oxford English
Dictionary.”
“Dean!” Sam shot up from the couch, breath whooshing out of his mouth. "Don’t
you think I’d like to enjoy it? That I’d like to feel a connection to someone?"
Dean blinks at him. “Connection? Oh my god! Do you have a dick at all?” He
looks at Sam's crotch, horrified.
Sam blows out another breath. “Clearly I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Dean is off the couch. “No, clearly you should have said something sooner.” Sam
stomps over to the little kitchen that is separated from the living room by a
cheap formica counter. The fridge has an electric water dispenser in the door,
and Sam shoves a glass underneath it, feeling like he never should’ve left the
pool at all. “Look, dude, we can fix this, I know a girl in town. She’ll
totally—”
Sam is tempted to throw the contents of his cup at Dean and stalk off to bed,
but he settles for a big swallow of water. Dean isn’t mocking, he’s genuinely
concerned which is both insulting and painful. He turns around, ready to leave
the room and slam his door behind him, when Dean grabs his wrist. “Look, Sammy,
don’t be mad—it’s just, sex is amazing, and if it isn’t working for you than
that really, really fucking sucks.”
Sam groans.
“Maybe that girl was just a bad kisser, don’t knock it, just because you had
one lousy experience.”
Sam laughs, but it’s bitter, shards of glass mixed in arsenic. “Dean, I have
kissed a lot of people, for all I know it’s just me.” He tries to pull his
wrist back, but Dean doesn’t let go.
“This is tragic. This is like children starving in Africa.”
“Don’t be an ass—” he starts, but he’s interrupted by Dean leaning into his
space and brushing their lips together. He poised to back away, to seal his
lips up tight, and try not to make any noise of disgust, but then Dean’s other
hand slides up his back to grip his neck and draw him in closer. He touches
their mouths together again, a trace of tongue just behind parted lips. And Sam
should be running away screaming, filling his mouth with Cascade dish detergent
to wash out the sensation of his brother kissing him, but he’s too astonished
by the fact that he doesn’t hate it. In fact, it feels good. It is, it
is—crazy, but…
Sam stops thinking when Dean walks him back into the counter and their bodies
are brought flush. Sam has a quick intake of breath when the heat of Dean melts
into his already sensitized skin and then the tip of Dean’s tongue is playfully
pushing into his mouth. His hand is tight in Sam’s hair, angling his head to
best advantage. Sam is just barely taller than Dean, but he’s slim against
Dean’s broad chest and strong arms. He feels completely enveloped, and his
heart rate keeps sky rocketing higher because Dean’s still got his hand tight
on Sam’s wrist, his thumb swiping carelessly over Sam’s pulse.
Sam moans, he can’t help it, and he feels Dean smile into the kiss, deepening
it at the same time. Their tongues tangle together, and Dean’s breathing hard
through his nose. Arousal is spreading in Sam’s belly, lighting up every single
area their bodies touch. When Sam boldly sucks on Dean’s tongue, he’s rewarded
with a sharp groan and Dean hiking him up onto the kitchen counter so he can
push his body between Sam’s thighs.
Sam tears his mouth away when their dicks brush together. He can’t get enough
air in through his nose. It feels like forcing himself through the water until
his lungs burn and tighten, only a million times better. He can’t quite get his
mind around the fact that Dean is just as hard as he is.
“I gotta say, I don’t think it’s you, Sammy,” Dean whispers into the skin bared
by his collar. Sam’s hips jerk and Dean uses a hand at the small of his back to
grind him harder against his dick. He curses, fingers digging in to the dip in
Sam’s spine. Words are spilling out of Sam’s mouth, nonsense, logorrhea. Dean’s
hips work faster against him, the inside of Sam’s thighs will be red tomorrow
from where denim met bare skin.
Suddenly he feels like he’s got to touch Dean everywhere. He fists his hands in
Dean’s t-shirt, shoving it up around Dean’s ribs because Dean refuses to stop
touching Sam so he can pull it off. The tips of his blunt and bitten-down nails
run over the smooth skin of Dean’s back. He loves the way Dean’s muscles tense
and release under his touch, but he adores the way Dean hisses when the pads of
his fingertips pass over the tiny taut nubs of Dean’s nipples.
Sam is burning up, his cock is heavy with blood and he feels like electricity
is surging out of Dean through his right palm and up his body and then down
again to run out his left hand back into Dean. Dean keeps taking his mouth,
rhythmically fucking it with his tongue, showing Sam what it would be like if
he tipped himself back and let Dean inside.
They’re too tight together for Sam to get a hand between them, so he pushes it
past the waistband at the back of Dean’s jeans, cupping the firm globe of
Dean’s ass. The skin is sensitive just above the tailbone. Sam knows from his
own experience and he lets his thumb skate back and forth over it. Dean’s teeth
sink into his lower lip, and that is it for Sam. His head falls back on his
neck and his whole body jerks as he pulses out in his shorts. Dean is
muttering, “Yeah, just like that,” over and over again, until Sam feels
completely wrung out, muscles trembling from overexertion.
Dean kisses him through it, hips pushing hard into Sam’s slowly softening dick,
while Sam cries out from the pleasure-pain of it. Dean comes a minute later
with Sam’s name drifting through the air, bouncing off the cupboards, before
sinking under Sam’s skin.
They don’t move. Sam literally cannot process what just happened, and while Sam
has never feared his father, he fears what would happen if John were to find
out. Because he could make Dean hate it.
“Heh, knew I could get you to enjoy sex,” Dean tells him when he finally pulls
back, derailing Sam’s anxiety. He winces at his wet jeans and walks like John
Wayne over the paper-towel holder. Sam drops his elbows to the counter so he
can prop himself up.
“I can’t believe…” he starts.
“What? That orgasms are magically awesome?” Dean says, lightning quick grin on
his face. “Yeah, I’m just that good. You should talk to that girl I know in
town.”
Sam jumps down off the counter and shakes his head going to the half-bath in
the hallway to clean up. “What you are is a complete tool.” He has to ignore
the way he’s shaking in front of the mirror.
The anxiety is back. Sam has found his connection, and he knows from Dean’s
jocular tone and his return to the movie, that he is never going to be allowed
to have it again.
"Oh god, did she just--" Dean calls out. "Sam, get back here, this movie is
amazing!"
*
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