
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8696494.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Pre-Canon
  Collections:
      Sinful_Desire
  Stats:
      Published: 2006-06-30 Words: 3839
****** The Crumbling Difference Between Wrong and Right ******
by keepaofthecheez [archived by sinfuldesire_archivist]
Summary
     Dean knows the exact moment Sam grew up. Spoiler for 1x18, Something
     Wicked, mentioned within and underage Wincest.
Notes
     Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally
     archived at Sinful-Desire.org. To preserve the archive, we began
     importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in
     November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted
     announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or
     know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on
     Sinful_Desire_collection_profile.
Title: The Crumbling Difference Between Wrong and Right
Author:
[[info]]
keepaofthecheez
Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: R for language and incest.
Category: (underaged) Wincest, slash
Word Count: 3, 708
Spoilers: Spoiler for 1x18, Something Wicked, mentioned within. You have been
warned.
Warnings: incest, underaged sexual situations
Disclaimer: Oh, if only.
Summary: Dean knows the exact moment Sam grew up.
Notes: This originally began as (yet another) prompt from [[info]]wendy, but
then sort of evolved into what it is now. Also, I have to give a major shoutout
to all of the authors who’ve written wee!Wincest, particularly [
[info]]drvsilla, because I’ve been inhaling that shit like whoa recently,
and…yeah. See what happens when you people leave me to my own devices?





Dean could remember the exact moment Sammy grew up.

He wasn’t quite sure how it happened…one minute his baby brother was playing
with Hot Wheels and watching Saturday morning cartoons, and the next he was
targeting werewolves and demons with a skill that far surpassed his short
thirteen years. He grew quieter, more reflective. Harder. Which was to be
expected, and what needed to happen in the life they led, but Dean found that
he missed that childish innocence, even though he knew neither of them had
truly been innocent since That Night.

The only time Sam really seemed to let his guard down anymore was with Dean,
and then only when they were alone. Late at night, when he’d pad across the
carpeting of their bedroom floor and hover over Dean’s half-awake figure in
bed, that simple question burning in his eyes.

Dean would grunt, roll over to make room, and Sam would slip in behind him.
Dean would feel the tense muscles of his brother’s smaller form finally grow
lax; listen to the sound of Sammy’s breathing even out and deepen until his
brother finally found peace inside. In that, Sammy was still innocent. All it
took was the reassurance that Dean was still there, and to a lesser extent,
that Dad was still there, and all of the world’s problems vanished for
fragments of a time.

Dean had lost that luxury the night he’d watched a Shtriga attempt to drain the
soul from his brother’s body. He was more aware than ever that every moment he
lived could likely be the end, and he generally strove to make the best of
that, all clichés aside. Protecting Dad and Sammy came before anything he
wanted for himself, but there were times when he couldn’t help but
wonder…couldn’t stop the fantasies that secretly shamed him from weaving
through his mind.

He figured Freud would have had a field day with his situation. Three men –
stuck together with little to no contact from the outside world for long
periods at a time.

Dean didn’t count the demons and spirits they hunted.

It was probably textbook that he’d eventually start to wonder, and coupled with
the hero worship evident in Sammy’s eyes every time he looked at Dean…well, who
could resist that? Particularly when Sam’s awkward and lanky body filled out
and strengthened as the years tacked on.

The first time sleeping in the same bed as Sam had given him a hard-on, Dean
should’ve nipped it in the bud. Despite his inner monologues with Freud, he
knew it was wrong. Brothers shouldn’t feel that way about one another, it
wasn’t normal. He shouldn’t want to run his hand along the lean line of Sam’s
hip, find out whether or not his brother’s skin felt as baby-smooth as it once
had when he’d been in charge of bathing Sammy while Dad was on a run.

The feel of Sammy pressing up against him, as if he were literally trying to
burrow inside of Dean, shouldn’t turn him on. He shouldn’t have woken up hard
and sweaty from dreams of biting soft lips until they were red and swollen,
humping against tender, virgin flesh until it gave way and pleasured him.

But he did.

The moment Dean realized that Sammy – that he and Sammy – would never be the
same, was the moment he looked into his brother’s eyes and saw the questions
lurking there. The mingled curiosity and desire that tormented him on a regular
basis. And Dean knew, he just knew he should’ve said no when Sam asked without
words if he could climb under the sheets, shifting his weight from hip to hip
as Dean stared up at him, pulse roaring in his ears.

Sam was sixteen now. There was really no reason for it, and they both knew it.
And yet, Dean rolled over, staring at the wall as Sam’s developing body slid in
behind him, too close. They both were breathing too raggedly to be normal, and
Dean shifted awkwardly as the mattress protested beneath the weight of their
bodies.

“Dean,” Sam had whispered, and Dean had frozen mid-scratch of his calf. He
hadn’t turned around, but he’d answered Sam’s soft question with a grunt. A
long moment passed before he’d felt his brother’s fingers coasting down his
arm, and then Sammy was cradling against him, sighing into his hair. Dean had
felt the brush of Sam’s ridiculously long lashes fluttering at the base of his
neck, and had gone immediately and irrevocably hard.

Wrongwrongwrong.

Around a thick tongue he managed to find the words to ask, “Sammy…what’s the
matter?”

His skin tingled when lips skimmed along his neck, too faint to be real, but
just enough that he couldn’t ignore the sensation. The promise. And then, Sam’s
voice, riding the end of puberty to something deep and magnetic in intensity,
answered, “I just...”

Dean held his breath, frozen, unmoving as the seconds dragged on.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Sam settled for, a low mutter. His arm tightened around
Dean’s middle, and he let out a sigh. “Better now.”

Silence echoed the sentiment, and Dean had swallowed past his heart in his
throat as he’d struggled to remain still. Fought not to press back against the
warmth that called to him like a siren’s song.

In the end all of his efforts had been in vain anyway, because Sam’s fingers
began a slow cruise along his arm, down to his waist, where his large palm had
settled low on Dean’s stomach. Dean’s flesh had jerked in response, and he’d
bitten back a chagrined groan, voice cracking in the still air as he’d
whispered, “Sam, what are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” Sam had whispered back, pressing the heel of his hand into
Dean’s abdomen, fingertips hovering over the cloth that stretched tight across
Dean’s rapidly swelling groin. His breath was harsh in Dean’s ear, and Dean had
felt both elated and miserable by the turn of events.

Somehow he knew this was his fault. Somehow, Sam had cottoned onto his feelings
– twisted and perverted as they were – and was trying to assuage Dean’s guilt
by letting him know it was okay. Dean knew damn well how Sam clung to him, knew
the depth of his brother’s dependence on him.

It’d taken every ounce of his strength to reach down, cover Sam’s wandering
fingers and still them from their quest beneath the waistband of his
sweatpants. Twisting around, he’d met Sam’s gaze in the dark and shaken his
head, a simple “no” falling from his lips.

Frustration had darkened Sam’s eyes. “But I thought…” he’d trailed off,
understanding dawning across his features and then he’d leaned in, nose to nose
with Dean. “It’s okay. I want this, too.”

Oh, Christ.

Dean had opened his mouth, unsure of what he meant to say, but Sam’s lips
covered his, awkward and seeking as their noses bumped and teeth clacked
together. Dean had let out a low whine – of defeat? Acceptance? Regret? – and
then they were kissing hungrily, the sheets tangling around them as limbs
flailed and stretched.

And it’d felt so goddamn right, which was impossible. Sam was underneath him by
then, and Dean had broken the desperate kiss, staring down at Sam with wild
eyes. Mind racing. Sam had licked his lips, and in that instant Dean didn’t
recognize the brother he’d helped raise. This was no idealistic child, no
defiant teenager. Sam was full grown and knew exactly what he wanted.

Dean could barely recall jumping out of the bed, feeling like someone had
slammed a sledgehammer against his chest. He was out of the room in a flash,
ignoring the sound of Sam’s voice as he threw open the front door, bare feet
finding dewy grass. He’d spent the night in the field that bordered their small
home, shivering in the pale moonlight and praying to God Sam wouldn’t follow
him.

He hadn’t. And Dean had trudged back inside the next morning, meeting the
surprised eyes of his father across the breakfast table. Sam wouldn’t even look
at him, and Dean knew what needed to be done.

When his father had casually mentioned a trip to the closest city – which was a
good two hour drive away - for ammunitions and supplies, Dean had jumped at the
opportunity, surprising both his father and Sam, whose head had finally snapped
up to stare at Dean through betrayed eyes. Dean hadn’t let himself look back.

Might take a few days, he’d said instead, valiantly maintaining eye contact
with his father, heart beating a rapid tattoo in his chest. We’re out of holy
water.

Two hours later, he was driving down dusty roads, a week’s worth of clothing
shoved in the back of the Impala and enough money in his wallet to fund
whatever the Winchesters needed. The first thing he did when he got to town was
find a giggling, willing blonde and take her out behind the nearest building
and fuck her until Sam’s face was a blur in his mind.

Not that he actually achieved said goal, but he didn’t think the girl noticed
when he moaned out someone else’s name. It wasn’t like he knew hers, or vice
versa. It wasn’t until she was gone, disappearing back inside the roadside
diner, that he began shaking and wondering what the hell could fix him again.

And on and on it went for days, until the stench of cheap perfume and sex
permeated his senses and made him nauseous. By then he was merely postponing
the inevitable anyway, so he finally packed up everything and headed back home.
Which was where he found himself now, staring out through the windshield as the
sun glared off the glass and heated the interior of the car. Dean made an
absent reminder to himself to get the AC fixed, and then continued wondering
how the hell he was gonna confront Sam when he got home.

Something had to be said. He could pretend the little heated encounter had
never happened between them, and in truth it would probably make things easier
all around, but Dean had never been one to back down from a battle. And Sam
could be a stubborn son of a bitch when he wanted to be, and Dean was pretty
damn sure his brother wouldn’t be off somewhere licking his wounds when he
arrived.

Which was why the silence ensconcing the house when he walked through the door
that night took him aback for a moment. As his eyes began adjusting to the dim
light, his ears picked up the sound of a television from the direction of his
father’s room. Which meant that his dad was most likely passed out, possibly
drunk. Never a good sign.

Nasty guilt began to eat at him, and he hoped that nothing had happened between
the other two Winchester males while he’d been away. He was all too aware of
the often volatile relationship Sam and their dad shared lately, and without
Dean there to serve as a buffer…God only knew the arguments that could’ve taken
place. All because he was a pansy-ass who couldn’t deal with letting down a
sixteen year-old boy.

He moved down the hallway, feet dragging as he neared the bedroom he shared
with Sam. For a split-second, he debated over just sleeping on the couch.
Giving himself another few hour’s reprieve. Then again, Dean wasn’t really
looking forward to a night of tossing and turning on an ancient sofa that had
long outgrown its ability to provide comfort.

Hell, maybe he’d get lucky and Sam would already be asleep, too.

Of course, Dean had never really been lucky, which solidified the moment he
opened the door to find Sam spread out on his back across his bed, staring at
the ceiling. For long moments, neither moved, and then Sam sat up.

Those eyes watched him in the dark, taking inventory, cataloguing Dean’s every
nervous twitch. Knowingly. Lips parted, and Dean braced himself for the torrent
of the full-blown Winchester tantrum sure to follow.

“Find everything you needed?”

Dean’s breath came out on a rushed gasp at the unexpected words, calmly spoken
like nothing had ever happened between them. Like every moment he’d spent
agonizing over for the past week was all some kind of sick joke his mind had
cooked up to punish him for his darkest sins. All he could manage was a nod,
and a strangled, “Yeah.”

Sam continued to stare at him, and only the faintest pinch at the corners of
his mouth alluded to the fact that he was less than happy about the current
situation. “Good.” His voice held an indescribable note, but Dean was pretty
damn sure of the context when Sam suddenly came to his feet, eyes never leaving
Dean’s as he crossed the well-worn carpet.

A flush crept up Dean’s neck when he found himself backing away, desperation
taking him by the throat as his back met the smooth wooden door. He recognized
the glint in his brother’s eye now; that familiar expression he’d tried so hard
to wipe from his memory with too much alcohol and cheap women.

“Sam.” The word was a pleading whisper, begging for…what? Dean wasn’t sure he
even knew anymore. Every method of resistance he’d thought he’d mastered during
the time apart from Sam had gone up in smoke the minute his brother had looked
up at him, eyes filled with hurt and accusation.

Sam stopped a foot away, tension vibrating in the air between them. His hands
curled into fists at his sides, and Dean absently wondered if he should worry
about protecting himself from more than just Sam’s words. When his brother
finally spoke, there was a thread of vibrant emotion weighing down the simple
phrases. “You left. Because of me. Because of what we…what I tried to make us
do.”

And just like that, Dean Winchester became the biggest asshole to ever walk the
planet. His expression crumpled in on itself, body sagging against the door as
Sam’s lower lip trembled, reminding him of a time not that long ago when his
baby brother would look up at him with similar features. Always needing Dean’s
comfort, his reassurance that things would be okay.

Dean, I’m scared.

I’ll always be here, Sammy. Nothing can hurt you while I’m here.

“Sam,” he said again, and a ghost of those memories must have haunted his
voice, because Sam’s expression went hard and he closed the distance between
them in swift movements Dean couldn’t evade.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he hissed, hand shooting out to gather the
material of Dean’s shirt in his fist. Eyes flashing, nostrils flaring. “I’m not
a goddamn kid anymore, Dean! Don’t you fucking dare.”

His voice broke on the word, and Dean wanted to cry out, But you are.

And that was only one of the reasons why this was a bad idea, why he’d had to
leave once Sam’s touches stopped seeking comfort and began searching for
something else. Something Dean wanted ohsofuckingbadly, but…no. He couldn’t let
himself go there, even for a mere instant.

“Back up now,” he warned, adding some bite to his tone despite the clench
somewhere in his middle. His hands came up to rest against Sam’s chest and he
shoved, gently at first. Enough to punctuate his statement. When Sam didn’t
budge, barely even flinched, Dean refused to acknowledge the perverse thrill
that raced down his spine, pushing harder.

Sam just stared at him, lips lifting into a mocking, taunting smirk. “Make me,”
he answered, and the quiet words insinuated more than a sixteen year-old boy
had any business thinking about, to Dean’s flustered mind. Sure, he’d been an
early bloomer himself, but Sam…Sam was Sam. Sam was interested in school and
research and those ridiculous National Geographic specials about the last maned
wolf in Africa. Sam wasn’t interested in the dirty and filthy things that
forever occupied Dean’s brain.

Except, apparently he was, because he took that moment to lean in and add, “Did
you leave because you liked it, Dean? Is that what it was?” His knee worked its
way in between Dean’s legs, and then he was pressing up fully against Dean’s
front. Dean sucked in sharply, looking off to the side, unable to meet Sam’s
determined gaze.

“I said back off,” he muttered, but the words were shaky and untethered.
Swallowing roughly, he focused on the faded striped wallpaper that decorated
their room. Torn and curling up in certain places, it was tangible evidence of
years spent without change. Without progress.

Dean’s lids fell when Sam breathed against his cheek, hints of stubble
scratching Dean’s neck when he buried his face there. “Dean…please…”

And he sounded so much like Dean’s Sammy then, the Sammy he’d held at night
when the creatures they slaughtered and the battles they fought finally took
their toll. The Sammy who looked up to him as an idol, not this new Sam who
looked down at Dean from a three-inch height difference with unreadable shadows
in his eyes.

Dean let out a soft sound as Sam’s hands closed over his on the door, coaxing,
spreading his fingers out wide. Tangling their fingers together as he shifted
to get closer. And Dean let him, breath coming shallow and short. Nothing good
would come of this, but he didn’t have the power to resist Sam.

Not like this.

Then…soft, wet heat tickled his skin, and Dean swallowed a groan as Sam’s lips
pressed in the curve of his neck, his brother’s harsh breathing a staccato
backdrop as they moved against one another. He couldn’t keep his hips from
pumping slightly, couldn’t prevent the answering whimper that escaped Sam’s
throat.

“Don’t leave,” Sam begged, fingers squeezing Dean’s as he mouthed desperately
along Dean’s jaw line. “Don’t leave me…”

“I…I won’t. Never,” Dean promised thickly, every hesitation evaporating as
Sam’s lips brushed the corner of his mouth. He let out a sigh as Sam’s nose
nuzzled, urging him to tilt his head just enough… “Sammy…”

Sam caught his name with his tongue, drawing on Dean’s hungrily as his own hips
ground helpless circles against Dean’s middle. Pressed up against the door with
nowhere to go, Dean could only concentrate on keeping himself upright and not
coming in his pants like a goddamn nine year-old with his first real boner.

Sam let go of his hands, and Dean reached up and grabbed his brother by the
shoulders, catching Sam’s eye long enough for unspoken words to be passed
between them. And then, Christ…Sam was lowering himself to his knees, and Dean
wasn’t stopping him…hands sliding up and into Sam’s shaggy mass of hair as he
bit his lower lip and squeezed his eyes shut.

Sam’s fingers were working jerkily at his belt, and Dean spread his legs,
throat working as a thousand reasons as to why this was wrong wrong wrong flew
in and out of his brain. And yet, he kept a subtle pressure on Sam’s scalp,
fingers twisted in the silky curls so that his brother couldn’t escape. That
is, if he’d even wanted to.

The exact opposite was proven the minute Sam got his hands in Dean’s jeans,
shoving the denim down his hips and hooking his fingers in the band of Dean’s
boxers. Dean’s heart was thundering in his ears, so he didn’t quite catch Sam’s
words at first. Lashes fluttering, he glanced down to find his brother staring
up at him, a flush highlighting Sam’s cheeks as he waited for some kind of
response from Dean.

Dean hadn’t heard the question, but he knew the answer Sam was looking for. The
only one he wanted to give. Nodding shakily, he whispered, “Yeah, Sammy,”
running his fingers through Sam’s hair, gripping tightly. “Do it.”

The second his brother’s tongue touched his cock, Dean whimpered in unholy
glee. Sam sucked gently on the head, tongue swirling and curling around Dean’s
overly-aroused flesh until he was no longer holding himself up, but was relying
on Sam’s shoulders and hands at his hips to keep him from sliding down the
doorframe.

It wasn’t the best head he’d ever received by a long shot, but none of the
blowjobs from random strangers over the past few years could compare to the
sight of Sam – his Sam – on his knees, mouthing at his cock with the same zest
and desperation he showed whenever he sought Dean’s approval over something.
Dean realized the sickness inherent in that, but couldn’t bring himself to give
a damn when Sam tried to take him deeper, throat muscles gagging around Dean’s
length as he backed off, looking up at Dean through apologetic eyes.

“It’s okay, baby,” Dean found himself whispering, emotion hitting him so hard
and abruptly that his body began a slow tremble. Words poured out from
somewhere inside of him, things he could never say to anyone but Sam. He cupped
his brother’s cheek, feeling the slick-slide of his cock within Sam’s mouth
with a sort of dazed awe.

Sam held his gaze the entire time, eyes shining with something Dean couldn’t
quite put a name to, although he was pretty sure the same expression was
mirrored on his own features. When the moment finally came, Dean pulled away on
a quiet groan, catching his come in his hand as Sam sat back on his heels,
panting and watching him through half-closed eyes.

Dean’s head fell back against the door with a thump, and then he was sliding,
sliding…bare ass hitting the carpet as he struggled to think through the blur
of orgasm. Before he could speak, Sam was in his lap, tugging on his earlobe
with his teeth and humping furiously. Dean held onto his hips as Sam got
himself off with soft whimpers and hard thrusts.

“S’okay,” he sighed, soothed, near-to-bursting with love as Sam’s thighs
tightened around him, hips pistoning faster, and then he was saying Dean’s name
over and over, and Dean caught his feverish cries with his mouth. Sweat mingled
with saliva, and they were both messy and wrecked, but Dean couldn’t remember
ever feeling more satisfied.

And really, all their issues could wait forever.
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