
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4719332.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester/Other(s)
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, John_Winchester, Bobby_Singer, Kate
      Milligan, Adam_Milligan
  Additional Tags:
      Mental_Institutions, Accidental_Incest, Blow_Jobs, Cutting, Eating
      Disorders, Come_Eating, Implied/Referenced_Underage_Prostitution, John
      Winchester's_A+_Parenting
  Collections:
      salt_burn_porn
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-09-03 Words: 1858
****** Separated in 1983 ******
by All_the_damned_vampires
Summary
     Written for tipsy_kitty's prompt “homesick” for salt_burn_porn. I
     played around a bit with the ideas of both “home” and “sick.” Thanks
     to lightinthehall for the speedy beta.
     Summary: Dean Winchester’s mother and brother died in a house fire.
     Not a day has gone by that Dean doesn’t think of them.
Notes
     Note: I haven’t specified ages in this story, but the four year age
     gap is the same, so the ‘underage’ aspect of this is deliberately
     vague. Be your own pervert!
Dean only gets a brief, uninterested glance at the library—the usual dusty
stacks, the smell of book glue, the row of Apple computers—before his new
roommate is pushing him roughly back against a rack of books, sinking to his
knees, hands working feverishly at the buckle of Dean’s belt. There’s a mouth
blowing wet heat through the denim cupping Dean’s crotch, then the hiss of a
zipper and then lips nipping gently at his dick through the fabric of his
briefs.
So much for ‘touring the facility’, Dean thinks.
“This okay?” his roommate asks eagerly and Dean looks down at that young,
earnest face, dimpled and smiling, brown bangs like a sheepdog and says, “Sure,
Sam.”
Sam grins impossibly wider, then he’s lifting Dean’s dick out of Dean’s jeans
to cup it gently in his hands, palm rasping along the shaft, and Dean closes
his eyes and lets it happen.
Sam. Sammy. Sam. The name gets Dean every time. It’s not so bad when the Sam in
question couldn’t possibly be his Sam: wrong age, different race, opposite
gender.  There was a Sam at one of the many elementary schools and a Sammie
with a big rack at the last high school and a Samuel the janitor in the
previous institution but none of them close enough to be his Sam.
“I want to suck you,” Sam murmurs from the floor and he’s the right age, yes he
is, and Dean should say no. What kind of sick fuck thinks about his dead baby
brother when a stranger asks to suck him off?
But Samuel Singer doesn’t look anything like Dad, like the fading picture of
Mom, with his pretty, tilted eyes and his cat’s smile and Dean nods his head
and says “Yes.”
Wet heat on the head of his cock, Dean looks down at Sam, swaddled in another
giant hoodie like the one he wore yesterday when they first met. He watches his
dick disappear inside Sam’s stretched, pink mouth. Sam’s looking up at him,
eyes wide and shiny, watching Dean as Dean is watching Sam. He’s young, too
young for Dean.  Even performing an act both obscene and sublime, Sam looks
innocent.
“It’s good,” Dean says and Sam’s eyes brighten at the praise. He bows his
shaggy head and sucks Dean deeper into his mouth, humming deep in his throat
and Dean feels the tip of his dick bump the back of Sam’s throat. He closes his
eyes. It feels good, so good. Dean thinks about all the times he’s been on his
knees, cold concrete making his kneecaps ache, the stink of some stranger’s
junk. Hunger twisting his belly even as he swallows down a slimy load, twenty
dollars shoved into the pocket of too tight, too short denim.
Dean opens his eyes as his mind skitters away from the memories. Sam’s gaze is
still fixed on Dean, but his eyelids are heavy and his cheeks pink with
pleasure.
“You like this?” Dean asks, just to be sure, and Sam’s cheeks get even pinker.
He hums an “uh-huh” around the shaft of Dean’s dick and Dean shivers, hips
lifting.
“Suck me, Sammy,” Dean whispers and Sam groans and renews his attentions,
pulling Dean deep into his throat.
He’s rougher than Dean thought he would be, this sweet-faced young kid. One of
Sam’s overgrown hands is gripping Dean’s ass, hauling him close on each stroke,
making him fuck Sam’s mouth.  The other is curled around the base of Dean’s
cock. That big hand is chasing Sam’s mouth as he moves up and down, Sam sucking
so hard it’s almost painful, tender scrape of teeth at the tip.
Dean reaches down, fingers fumbling through the tangles of Sam’s hair, sliding
down to cup the back of Sam’s head, to rub slowly at the sweat-slick skin of
Sam’s neck. There’s a series of bumps under Dean’s fingertips at the
intersection of Sam’s neck and his collarbone. Scar tissue, precise and small,
bringing the image of a firetruck ladder, or a railroad track to Dean's mind.
Toys beneath the tree, that last and final Christmas.
Sam’s rhythm stutters as Dean’s fingers drift over those tiny lines, then he
sucks harder, faster.  Dean lets his hand drift back up to Sam’s hair. It’s
coarse, thick, a bit dampened with sweat. Not baby-fine and silky beneath
Dean’s hand. Scent of half-grown boy rising up to tease Dean’s nose with who
Sam isn’t. When Dean closes his eyes at night, he can still smell Johnson’s
shampoo and baby powder.  His own body cradling the smaller frame of his baby
brother, mom’s hand drifting over both their heads, the last time he felt like
he was safe, like he belonged.
Letting go, Dean pumps his hips, fucks deep into Sam’s mouth, half-listening to
the murmurs of approval as Sam takes everything he has, gobbling his cock like
he’s been hungry for a lifetime. Dean’s hands on Sam’s head, his dick in his
mouth, is the closest feeling he’s had to home since he was four years old.
Coming, he’s coming, and Dean wants to bend down, to press his face to Sam’s
hair, but he slams his head back against the books instead, white dots dancing
behind his closed eyes. The pleasure washes the sadness out as it always does,
leaving Dean drifting blank and quiet, everything he’s ever lost seeming far
away and unimportant.
“Hey. Hey.”  Sam’s hand is on his face, a pat that’s too gentle to be called a
slap. “You okay?”
No. No, he’s not. He’s a ghost. Dean’s spent most of his life stuffing himself
into the ill-fitting shell of white trash survivalist. He knows how to suck
dick for rent money, to dodge out on the motel bills, to clean and load a
shotgun, to shoplift without suspicion.
What he doesn’t know is how to let go of everything his dad has taught him to
be. How to believe in a constant home and a full belly, no need to hide or
hoard food. How to smile in the Sears portrait studio next to John Winchester’s
new, pretty, blonde, replacement wife Kate and their perfect, new, replacement
baby. How to start over from when he was four, before he lost his mom and his
brother, and fake an interest in college or a career.
Like all the desperate, painful years between had never happened.
“I can…” Dean fumbles at the drawstring of Sam’s oversized track pants. He’s a
little ashamed of himself, but not enough to stop. And he pays his debts.
“You don’t have to,” Sam says, mouth swollen and color still hectic in his
cheeks.
“I want to,” Dean says and he does. Thank God Sam isn’t his brother, couldn’t
be. Sam looks delicious leaning back against the stacks, swimming in his baggy
clothes, only his thin neck and wrists giving any indication of the shape of
the body beneath the clothes.
Dean gets on his knees.
And Dean thinks this might be the first time.  The first time he’s gotten on
his knees for a guy willingly, without any money between them. It’s hard to
remember sometimes, hunger making him dull-witted, Dad fucking off to who knows
where and Dean scrambling for cash to keep himself fed. Later, it was older
women, the rich moms of kids from school, thighs wrapped around his neck and
pussy in his face. And then girls his own age--sweet and shy or sad and trashy-
-chipped candy-colored polish on their toes.
As Dean works Sam’s pants off his hips, fingers slipping on the satiny
material, a puff of scent slips from Sam’s skin and right into Dean’s brain.
 Dean slides a finger down the cut of Sam’s hip, white baby powder lingering
sweetly on Sam’s skin. With a silent question set into his face, Dean slides
his eyes up to where Sam is watching him.
“I sweat. A lot,” Sam says, tugging fretfully at the zipper on his hoodie. He’s
dressed for winter in July, layers of fabric between himself and the raw,
painful world. It’s easy enough for Dean to understand.
There’s a row of tiny, pink ridges starting at the top of Sam’s thigh and Dean
knows what he’s seeing. He’s seen it before. He’s back in Rhonda Hurley’s
bedroom, that girl with the wounded, doe eyes surrounded by dark, winged liner.
She’s on her back and he’s got his face pressed to the velvet skin of her inner
thigh.  She smells like Love’s Baby Soft and there are four small, healed
slashes on the back of her knee.
“Just leave it alone, Dean,” Sam says as Dean runs a finger along those
precise, raised lines.  And Dean does because he understands. Sometimes it’s
easier to wear your scars on the outside. Sam shouldn’t have a reason, but he’s
here just as Dean’s here, hoping to be healed, fixed. Made into whatever
they’re supposed to be, so they can live in the ‘real’ world.
So they can just be normal.
He shouldn’t have a reason, but Dean’s seen the collection of pictures Sam
keeps proudly displayed on his side of the room, pictures of Sam with his
father, the one Sam says insists on being called ‘Bobby,’ not ‘Dad.’ Pictures
of Sam holding trophies, Sam dressed in grass-stained soccer clothes, Sam in a
middle school mortarboard cap, gripping a graduation certificate. In each one,
Bobby wears a tight, grim expression in contrast to Sam’s sunny smile. He's
leaning in, loving hand on Sam’s shoulder, but his eyes are far away, like
Sam’s holding him hostage.
Dean wonders if there’s an inch of unblemished skin under Sam’s many layers.
Instead of an apology, Dean draws Sam deep into his mouth. He’s good at this,
good at sucking dick, and Sam’s cock fills his mouth, long and thick and blood-
hot. Sam smells like sour-yeast and baby powder and it’s good, it’s sending
Dean spiraling under a throb of lazy pleasure. That innocent smell that Dean
associates with family and peace transmuted, different but still familiar.  The
scent of Sam making everything new again.
He’s an eager boy and Sam pumps his hips fervently, teeth digging into his own
bottom lip, soft growls issuing from his throat. Sam rests his hands on Dean’s
shoulders then stifles a shout as he comes, as noisy as Dean was quiet.
“Oh God,” Sam groans.
It’s the simplest thing in the world for Dean to rise to his feet and wrap his
arms around Sam, letting Sam brace his wobbly legs, his hand fisted at the back
of Dean’s shirt. They’re mouth to mouth, breathing in each other’s breath, and
then Sam presses his lips in a clumsy kiss to Dean’s mouth.
In Dean’s mouth is the taste of Sam’s spit and Dean’s own come, sharp and
tangy. Dean feels a bit sick to his stomach, even as he slips his tongue in
Sam’s mouth and lets Sam suck on his tongue, sharing pieces of themselves in
each slip-slide of their mouths.
Even so it feels warm and safe and right.
It feels the closest yet to coming home.
 
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