
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6142247.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, John_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Diary/Journal, Sibling_Incest, Underage_Sex, Crossdressing, Angst_with_a
      Happy_Ending
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-03-01 Words: 11542
****** The Spiral Notebook ******
by Juul
Summary
     Sam writes in a spiral notebook.
     I never understood how people could be lovesick. Love is a good
     emotion, right? A happy one? It makes you feel all fluttery and
     excited and energetic? Fuck that. You shouldn’t believe all of the
     things you hear. Being in love is the worst. I can’t sit still for
     three goddamn seconds. I’m always wondering where Dean is, what he’s
     doing, who he’s with. I’m always waiting for him to come pick me up
     from school, or to come home from work. Whatever I’m doing, I want
     him there to help me with it, and once he’s there I become completely
     useless.
     Dean accidentally finds the notebook.
Notes
     Title: The Spiral Notebook
     Author: hastendownthewinchesters
     Artist: nonexistenz, you’ve done an amazing job!
     The_beautiful_art
     Pairing: Wincest
     Rating: NC-17
     Warnings: some self-harm and self loathing, crossdressing, incest and
     underage (Sam’s 17 when things start really heating up for him.)
     Beta: my friend @adamsdreamthief, thanks darling!
     Notes: Written for the Sam Winchester Big Bang 2016, thanks go out to
     the mods for hosting this wonderful event.
See the end of the work for more notes
[http://i.imgur.com/xZYytOH.jpg]\
There is no privacy that summer. There is only two identical duffel bags
stuffed to bursting with handguns and clothes and hastily gathered mementos.
That day, when Dean dives in in search of a pair of swimming trunks, is the
first time it goes wrong. Later, he considers it a miracle that it never went
wrong before, that he could always effortlessly tell the bags apart. But his
hand is invading Sam’s personal space, the only personal space he has, before
he even knows he’s doing it, and his fingers close around something smooth: a
book.
Dean is a secret reader. Sam always gets all the credit for being a brainiac,
but Dad’s the only one who doesn’t know that Dean devours stories as eagerly as
his brother, if not more so. Sam’s got a brilliant mind for logic and numbers,
Dean is one to be sucked in by adventure. Unable to resist temptation, he pulls
the book out of the bag and looks at it.
Except it isn’t a book, not really. It’s a spiral notebook, torn around the
edges, with a black cover and a sticker on it that reads: “Sam Winchester’s
Journal. Personal.” That should be all the warning he needs, really, except it
isn’t. There is an immeasurable moment of hesitation. Then, Dean is suddenly
reading his little brother’s diary, making himself comfortable in a cross-
legged position on the double bed in the house they’re squatting in in
Oklahoma.
Sam is swimming outside by himself.
May 2nd, 1998
I turned fifteen today. I told some people at school, and when Miss Seaborn
heard me talking to them, she gave me this notebook. Technically it’s school
property, but it was a leftover from last year. She gave it to me because she
says I have a talent for writing. She’s an English teacher, so I bet she says
that to all the kids. Anyway, my birthday was fine. Dad returned just in time
from his Wendigo hunt nearby to have a piece of pie with us at the diner, and
Dean had saved up to buy me a new book, whichever one I wanted. So now I’m
reading The Catcher In The Rye again. I thought it would be nice to have my own
copy, since it’s on reading lists wherever I go to school. Also, because I
still can’t figure out why that guy is so obsessed with those ducks. Got to go
now, Dean wants me to turn off the light.
May 3rd, 1998
There’s no point in me keeping a diary, really. Either my life is too boring
for words, like it is right now, or there is so much happening at once that I
can’t find a moment to write it down. It’s either high school, on which there
is nothing interesting to say, or hunting, on which there is simply too much to
say. And Dad has written all of that down in his journal already. Bye.
August 13th, 1998
I fucking hate August. I fucking hate summer. Why do we always have to be in
cold places during winter and warm places during summer? Why don’t we do the
California hunts in January and the Minnesota hunts in August? Why doesn’t
anybody ever think of that? Right now we’re in Arizona (yeah, you got that
right) and it’s nothing but a vengeful spirit. Honestly, I think I’ll die of
boredom. And Dean keeps telling me to quit complaining about Dad, when all Dad
ever does is complain about me. Fuck it all.
Dean remembered that summer. It was only two years ago, and Sam had been so
angry and irritable all the time. He felt a little sick to his stomach,
thinking about that time. It seemed like after those ghost hunts in Arizona, he
and Sam had steadily begun to drift apart. These days, Sam seemed like your
typical moody seventeen-year-old, but seeing him like that made Dean uneasy,
like something was boiling just beneath the surface. Sam had closed in on
himself, started hiding things, not just from Dad but from Dean, too.
Apprehension filled him in an ice-cold wave. Could it really be this easy?
Could he find out what was wrong with Sammy, what had gone wrong between him
and Sammy, without having to ask him about it? Could he just read it in this
notebook? No, he couldn’t justify that to himself. Heavy with a mix of guilt
and curiosity, Dean tucked the notebook back in the duffel, slipped on his
swimming trunks and went to join Sam at the lake.
******************************************************
That night, to keep his mind occupied, Dean stole Sam’s copy of The Catcher In
The Rye and sat up reading it until two AM, since Dad wasn’t around to make him
turn in any earlier than that. Sam was right, it was a funny thing about those
ducks. Sam was already warmly snuggled up to Dean and snoring softly when he
decided to put the book away.
Of course, the trouble didn’t end there. Dean finished reading The Catcher In
The Rye over the next few days, and with nothing to occupy his mind, his
thoughts circled back to Sam’s notebook. What answers could it possibly provide
to Sam’s distant behavior? It wasn’t a physical distance per se, they shared
motel beds and clothes same as always, it was just that Sam never really talked
about anything anymore. Not friends, not homework, not anything else he was
interested in. It seemed like the only two topics of conversation these days
were food and hunts.
That night, feeling overheated and sleepy from the Oklahoma sun, Dean tightened
his arm around Sam’s thin shoulder and steeled his nerve.
“How’ve you been, Sammy?”
Sam remained quiet for a good long time, his breathing soft but audible. He
turned his head to get a better look at Dean’s face and squinted in the
darkness.
“Fine,” his voice was soft. “Are you okay, Dean?”
This was exactly the problem. Why the hell could they only have a conversation
if something was wrong?
“I’m fine, Sammy. I just wanted to know how you were doing,” he sighed. “Forget
it. ‘Night, Sam.”
There was another long silence. Then, or maybe Dean just imagined it, an
exhaled: “Oh.”
And a bit louder: “Night, Dean.”
***********************************
The next day, Dean gave Sam a couple of dollars of Dad’s money, since there was
probably enough to last them till his return, and told Sam to walk to town.
“If I have to reread one of those goddamned Penguin Pockets one more time, I
swear to God I’ll lose my mind. Buy us a new book. Something cheap, and
something I haven’t read before. I don’t care if it’s girly as fuck.”
That got a good giggle out of Sam, and a lot of confused looks. Sure, he was
getting pretty bored himself, but there was a line, and romance novels were way
over it.
When Dean was sure Sam had left, he rolled over to Sam’s side of their bed and
started digging through his duffel for the notebook. There was only the
slightest bit of guilt gnawing at him. If this was what it took to restore his
relationship with Sam, to get the warm, fuzzy feeling of talking to and
laughing with his brother back, this was what he would do.
August 15th, 1998
Arizona is warmer than any place inhabited by human society has any right to
be. I’ve barely spent an hour out of the water all day, and that hour was a big
mistake. I was walking back to the house to have something to eat, but then I
heard noises. The soft, moaning noises of a girl, in fact. Dean had a girl in
our living room, and that was fine, since he’s nineteen years old and both Dad
and I weren’t in. I turned around to go looking for food someplace else, but
the house is a dump and you could literally hear their breathing through the
front door.
Dean made a low sound in his throat. I knew that sound. He makes it all the
time when he’s jerking off while he thinks I’m asleep. But this time he was
making it for that girl. He was making that sound because he was fucking that
girl. I could hear the sofa creaking and, when I held my breath, I could even
hear the soft slippery noises, the way a porno sounds when there’s no crappy
dialogue or music.
I should have walked away, I know I should have, but Dean was fucking her, and
I’ve never fucked anyone, and from the sounds of it she was having a good time
and I figured if I was very quiet, if I was very observant, I might pick up a
pointer or two. Of course I was hard by then (I’m always hard these days) and I
did my best to listen. The girl went:
“oh yeah, oh yeah, oh fuck yeah”
Her voice really annoyed me, because it sounded totally fake. I wanted to hear
more of Dean. Then there was a swooshing sound, like maybe they changed
positions, and the girl was silent. Over the sounds of their harsh breathing I
could hear Dean mutter:
“God, doesn’t that look beautiful? Doesn’t that look absolutely gorgeous? You
like that baby? Ass up in the air for me? So tight, so fuckin’ tight.”
Then the girls started her ridiculous squealing again and I bolted. I couldn’t
shake the hard-on even when I went swimming again later. He’d been fucking that
girl from behind.
Dean went cold all over, then hot, the way you do when you misstep while
carrying something valuable. He remembered that girl, of course he did. She had
been older, a waitress in a Flagstaff diner near where they’d been staying,
gorgeous blonde, curly hair and full lips with bright red lipstick. Sam was
right, she had been obnoxiously noisy. Noisy enough that it made Dean really
uncomfortable that Sam had overheard them. He didn’t seem too upset though,
he’d certainly never mentioned it. More importantly, the diary had more entries
in it. Dean let curiosity get the better of him, and he read on.
August 16th, 1998
I jerked off last night thinking about Dean and that girl he was with. I saw
her later, and she didn’t look nice at all. She seemed moody, and she was
chewing disgusting pink gum. I wonder what she’s got to be moody about, since
it looks to me like she had some spectacular sex. Maybe it’s different for
girls, maybe they don’t like it as much? I wonder what it would be like to have
a pussy. I know it gets wet when a girl is turned on, so I guess that means
they must enjoy it. Would be very different, though, from having a cock.
August 20th, 1998
I haven’t seen the girl around again, and Dad’s come back. He says we’re going
up North now. I’m unusually excited about that, because at least it’ll get us
out of the heat. Dean doesn’t seem too hung up on the girl, he was eager to
leave, too. I hope we can swing by Bobby’s soon. I miss Bobby. Mostly, I miss
Redbeard.
August 21st, 1998
My prayers have been answered. We’re slowly but steadily moving towards Sioux
Falls, and although Dad says ‘hunts are unpredictable, boys, can’t make any
promises,” I’m pretty sure we’re heading towards Bobby’s.
Dean has taken to sitting in the front with Dad. He says it’s just so he can
help read the maps but I know the truth: he’s figured me out. He saw me
listening to him with the bubblegum girl the other day and now he thinks I’m
some kind of pervert. He’s always talking to Dad these days as though I’m not
even there, always picking out the music he knows I hate. I fucking hate every
piece of music in that godforsaken glove department.
Fuck Dean, and fuck Dad, too. At least now I get to stretch my legs over the
backseat and get some decent sleep for a change.
Dean was suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling that he was intruding, that he
was trespassing. Sam was so unbelievably angry. He was angry at Dad, which made
sense, but he was also so angry with Dean that it hurt, and angry with the
world in a way that Dean just didn’t see any reason for. It was painful to
read. But he couldn’t stop himself, he couldn’t help wondering what was going
on inside Sam’s head back then. He decided that reconnecting with his brother
was more important than a little bit of guilt, and he read on.
August 22nd, 1998
Sitting in a car is quite possibly the most boring thing that humanity has ever
conceived. At least if I was behind the wheel, I’d have something to focus on.
This way it’s really just miles and miles and miles of open road and changing
from one uncomfortable sitting position into another. I can see that Dean
enjoys it, he thrives on the open road, but I just hate how stiflingly hot it
gets, and how sometimes we don’t see anyone but each other for hours. I wish I
lived in one spot, where I really knew the people, or nowhere at all, where we
knew no one who didn’t ride in the Impala with us. I can’t stand switching back
and forth between being social and being a recluse. It’s driving me insane. I
guess there is some point to keeping a diary, after all.
 
August 23rd, 1998
Sometimes our life isn’t all bad, you know. We arrived at Bobby’s today.
Before we did, after the last rest stop, Dean joined me in the backseat. We
were singing along to all of the songs of Born To Run, (I must admit I quite
like that one) tapping along with our fingers on the back of the seats and
singing, Dean grinning like a complete idiot.
“Roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair
Well, the night's busting open, these two lanes will take us anywhere”
I always hear those lines in Dean’s hoarse voice instead of the Boss’. Some
days, it’s pretty good, you know. We have a home in the Impala. I have Dean all
to myself there. His eyes can be so bright sometimes, because our hunting makes
him feel free. We rolled down the windows and his hair became all ruffled and
we made Dad turn the song up louder to hear it over the noise of the road, and
he played it for us again and again. Now Dean and I are in our room at Bobby’s,
and Redbeard is sleeping on my legs. He’s getting old, but his fur is still
gorgeous.
August 24th, 1998
I’m in deep shit, it seems. It’s six in the morning and I’m wide awake and
here’s why: Dean had an erection earlier and he sort of pushed it against my
asscrack. Erections happen all the time with us, it’s no big deal. The problem
is that I got hard when I felt Dean against me. That’s never happened before.
I’m pretty vague on what gets me off, to tell you the truth. It’s not your
average things, like girls and boobs and plasticky moans. I saw a porno once
with an girl acting all fake and I didn’t enjoy it at all. I’ve considered that
this might make me gay, but I don’t know. I guess if feeling someone rub their
dick against you gets you hard, it probably means you’re gay. But it was Dean.
I don’t know. I can’t sleep anymore, but I can’t jerk off right now either, and
I can’t sneak out of the room. Dean will notice if I get up, and he’ll go
haywire, start looking for a threat and checking the salt lines and then I
won’t even want to jerk off in the bathroom anymore. Jesus fuck.
Dean could not remember this incident, but that wasn’t what bothered him. Was
Sam gay? If he was, why didn’t Dean know about it? Hadn’t he figured it out in
his head yet, wasn’t he ready to share? Or, and a little voice in his brain
suggested this might be the case, didn’t Sam trust Dean enough to tell him? The
idea made him feel guilty, somehow, as though he had squandered Sam’s trust. He
was also acutely aware that some time had passed since he’d opened the
notebook, and Sam could return at any moment. Quickly, Dean tucked the notebook
back into the duffel and went into the living room to switch on the TV. Right
then, Sam walked in.
“Watcha get us?” Dean asked, keeping his eyes plastered to the TV.
“Promise not to hate me too much?”
Dean snorted. “I’ll make no such promise, princess.”
“I got the collected works of Jane Austen.”
Dean groaned. “You really are a princess.”
“Hey,” Sam defended himself, “you said yourself you wanted it girly as fuck.
This is about as girly as they come. Besides, it’s six novels, which means
it’ll take ages to read, and it was only a dollar for all of them.”
“I didn’t say I wanted girly,” Dean grumbled. “But I guess you’re right.”
He took the set gratefully and didn’t notice that Sam had another book tucked
into the waistband of his jeans.
***********************************
It became a real problem after that, almost like an addiction. Dean would look
at Sam, would see the hard angles of his elbows and his knees and the angry
clench of his jaw, and he would become desperate with the need to know what was
happening underneath. He wanted all of Sam’s secrets, wanted to see the parts
of his soul that he kept hidden deep, he wanted it to be as effortless as it
used to be. He wanted his brother back. He would go jittery with powerlessness
and wait until Sam was asleep until he read from the notebook by the light of
the streetlamp outside.
It was tricky, because Sam would usually write a few paragraphs before he went
to sleep, and Dean usually had to reach over his slender shoulders to the
nightstand on the other side to grab the notebook. It was the most selfish
thing he had ever done, to keep turning those pages when all of them were
soaked through with Sam’s secrets, yet it was impossible to stop.
August 25th, 1998
Since it’s the middle of summer I can’t exactly go meet new people anywhere. I
wish I could. I wish I could go back to Indiana, just for a little bit, so I
could kiss Angie Roberts again. I didn’t have this diary when that happened,
but I’ll write about it now.
I didn’t know her. I’d seen her, the way you see pretty girls who wear t-shirts
with The Smiths on them, the way you spot anyone brave enough to wear a bright
yellow jacket. I was in the library, and I knew that she was there. We were all
the way in the back of the room, and I could see her Docs peeking out from
under the bookcases. She was looking at me, looking in a way that made me hot,
and then she was walking around the bookcase and kissing me. It was crazy,
because she did it with so much hunger, like she really wanted it, and then
backed off and never talked to me again.
All I could think about was Dean, and the way girls throw themselves at him all
the time, like Angie randomly did that time with me. I don’t think she still
would have done it, though, if she had known that Dean was my brother, if she
had known that Dean existed.
August 26th, 1998
Dean’s got a job here. He’s fixing up cars at the local auto shop. I don’t
think I’ve ever seen anything like it. This morning he was up earlier than me
and he was whistling while making us breakfast. He walked there, the whole
twenty minutes in the suffocating heat, and he walked back in the afternoon,
too.
I want to rip my ears off of my head now. I would, but Dean would probably find
a way to reattach them and then keep talking about the Corvette he fixed up
earlier. Apparently, she was a wet dream come true. I can picture it, Dean
under a bright red corvette, his legs and his jeans sticking out from under the
hood, as well as the little sliver of skin you see when his henley rides up.
It’s a miracle he hasn’t brought a girl home yet, looking like that.
August 27th, 1998
I brought Dean some lunch today. I didn’t have anything to do, I finished
reading Sense & Sensibility, and it was way too hot in the apartment. Sense &
Sensibility is amazing, by the way. Elinor Dashwood kicks ass, but don’t tell
Dean I said that.
I brought him a couple of sandwiches and some root beer, and I swear to god
when I got there it was just like I pictured it. He was on his back under the
car, and you could see his jeans and the little flat part of his stomach. I
hadn’t pictured it with the hairs there, the lightest smattering of dark brown
hairs, but when I saw them I thought: “Duh.”
Dean came out from under the car to greet me and he bent over the hood to grab
a rag and clean his fingers with it. When I said I’d brought him a slice of pie
from the diner, he gave me a grin that was brighter than the sun.
I am in so much trouble and I don’t have the first clue how to deal with it.
August 28th, 1998
I had a dream last night. I’ll write it down here, because this diary is mine,
but then I’ll never think of it again. I’m just getting rid of it, just putting
it away.
In the dream, it was just like yesterday afternoon at first. I came to the
garage to bring Dean his lunch, and he slid out from under the car all sweaty
and gross, and he grinned at me when he saw the pie. Then, I sank down on my
knees and opened his jeans and took his cock in my mouth.
What monsters do I know that plant dreams in your head? Maybe I should keep my
eye out for one. I never thought about Dean’s dick before, certainly not about
having it in my face like that, but right now it’s all I can think about. Since
it was a dream, his cock was big but it fit into my mouth easily, and it tasted
salty and warm and heavy and so, so good. I felt a bit like I was a girl,
because I know this is what girls do for Dean.
I know that, because he sometimes tells me. He told me the other day, about a
blowjob he got, and there seem to be a lot of rules for that sort of thing.
Firstly, you gotta use lots of spit to make it slick, and keep your teeth out
of the way, and relax your throat, and don’t forget about the balls and all
that. When I woke up, come was sticking to the inside of my boxers.
Possible explanations for what the fuck is happening to me
something supernatural is influencing my dreams
it is perfectly normal to have wet dreams about your brother, it’s just one of
those things no one has ever bothered to tell me
I actually want to blow Dean, in which case, I am severely fucked in the head
Dean went hot all over with the strangest mix of apprehension and relief. On
the one hand, his dick had gone painfully hard against his zipper, his
breathing was labored, and he felt like he could fly. Maybe, just maybe, if
this was what Sam really wanted, Dean could give it to him. Dean could make his
Sammy so happy, so loved, he had always known that he was the only one who
could do it, had always known how badly he needed to take care of him. Maybe
there were some crossed wires somewhere in the Winchester genes, and Dean
wasn’t alone.
On the other hand, if this was true, if this was real, if this was what Sam
wanted, Dean thought he might burn to cinders. There was a hurricane building
up inside of him, such a deep feeling of love mixed in with awe and protective
instincts because every single thing about his Sammy was so, so beautiful. It
scared him, because if he allowed himself, if he let himself love Sam the way
he had always wanted, after all those years of choking it down, the force of it
might consume them both.
They were always with Dad, of course. Dean couldn’t really reach out to Sam
right now, no matter how badly he wanted to, because they were with Dad at the
moment and if he got an inkling of what was happening, he’d shoot Dean in the
head. There was no doubt about it. The thought of defying Dad like this, of
permanently and finally choosing Sam over everything else, made him feel
elated. He read on.
August 29th 1998
I’ve done my research. I am, after all and in spite of everything, my father’s
son. There was almost nothing on sibling incest in the local library, though I
did find some pamphlets for incest survivors. Those aren’t for me, though. I
know it for sure, now. I want Dean. I want it. Maybe I’ve always wanted him,
exactly in that way. The lack of information rules out my theory about me being
perfectly normal. I didn’t really think so, anyway.
Dad’s journal doesn’t mention anything about creatures that influence dreams.
There’s djinns, of course, which make your dreams into near-reality, and
there’s Sirens, which take the form of what you want and lure you with it. I
haven’t been able to find any creatures that alters what you want. What would
be the point of messing with that, anyway? People want what they want, and if
you dangle it in front of them, they go a lot reckless and a little crazy.
Case in point, I can’t stop thinking about Dean. I lay awake at night and often
feel his erection bump into me under the covers. I get so hard I think I might
cry. I want to give him everything, I want to mold myself into whatever he
wants. I want him to own me. I want to be his.
Since all of that is impossible, since I can never ever have any of it, I
mostly just want to forget.
Dean felt hot and uncomfortable. He had never, up until this point, been very
aware of his skin, but right now it felt too tight and small around his body.
He thought he might suffocate in it, but he read on.
September 2nd, 1998
So, I managed to forget for a while. Dad’s out on a hunt and Dean spent the
night somewhere else. I’m not going to think about where. I found a bottle of
bourbon in the back of a cupboard. Dad never bothers to hide anything properly,
because he doesn’t think we’d act out. I drank a lot of the bourbon. It was
disgusting at first but got better after a while, and I managed to knock myself
out pretty quickly. No dreams. The next day I told Dean I had the flu and he
called off work to feed me chicken soup. I told him not to do it, but he just
gets like that sometimes.
I thought I’d found a fix with the bourbon but then he comes along with the
soup and I’m in deeper than I thought before.
It’s strange, though. I’ve always loved Dean. There has been Dean in my life
since I can remember. I brought art projects home from school, excited about
showing them to him. My science fair wasn’t complete without him. I told him
about Angie Roberts. He tells me about mom. I love him, I have always loved
him, with the endless tenacity of growing pains. I can feel how much I love him
tugging at my bones, making my very structure tremble, and it’s a persistent
ache. Sometimes I can forget about it for a second, I can be distracted, but it
never disappears. It never lets me go.
How long has this been going on without me noticing? I feel like an idiot.
September 3rd, 1998
School starts up again this week and I feel sick to my stomach. I will have to
meet all of the new people, all of the teachers will ask me about my family and
my hopes and dreams for the future. I won’t get to bring Dean his lunch. We’ve
moved on from the last place we were at, and I won’t see miss Seaborn again,
but I’ve already forgotten the name of the place we’re at now. It’s in
Illinois, somewhere.
September 4th, 1998
Another dream, but this one was more distressing than the last one. I didn’t
think that was possible. I was lying in bed with Dean, exactly the way we’d
been when I closed my eyes that evening. In the dream, he was whispering things
in my ear.
First it was absolute filth, which I could sort of handle. I mean, I fell
apart, it was the hottest dream I’ve ever had. Hell, it was the hottest
experience I’ve ever had, real or imagined. But then he started whispering
other things, special things. Compliments, but like, in a way that was really
intent and serious. He told me he loved me, and I knew, I just knew he didn’t
mean the brotherly kind of love. I could tell that he meant it, too. When I
woke up I’d already come, and then all of a sudden I was crying.
I hid in the bathroom until the crying was over, and it was the shittiest I’ve
ever felt. It’s so real. It’s like a weight on my shoulders, a prickle under my
skin. It’s as inevitable as the sun in my eyes. I love him. I love him. And I
end up distancing myself from him because of it.
Worst of all, the dreams aren’t real.
At this point, Dean had started to cry soundlessly. He was praying Sam wouldn’t
come home from wherever he was for a while, just so that Dean could read on and
figure out his own feelings. Sam had been so sad for so long and Dean had never
even known. It broke his heart.
September 4th, 1998
I’m writing this in the bathroom at school. I skipped algebra. Sue me. I
already covered all that stuff three states ago.
I never understood how people could be lovesick. Love is a good emotion, right?
A happy one? It makes you feel all fluttery and excited and energetic? Fuck
that. You shouldn’t believe all of the things you hear. Being in love is the
worst. I can’t sit still for three goddamn seconds. I’m always wondering where
Dean is, what he’s doing, who he’s with. I’m always waiting for him to come
pick me up from school, or to come home from work. Whatever I’m doing, I want
him there to help me with it, and once he’s there I become completely useless.
It’s pathetic because we’ve been around each other for fifteen years already,
and I know I used to be able to use my brain and my hands and my mouth to
perform basic tasks such as thinking and touching and talking for most of that
time. Now, I can’t. When he looks at me, I lose my train of thought. When he’s
close to me, things fall out of my hands, mugs break into pieces, homework ends
up in a scattered pile on the floor, because I can’t hold on to them. When he
talks to me, asks me how I’m doing or what I want for dinner or any of the
other million things we used to discuss, my throat closes up.
It’s terrible. I hate myself for how much I love it.
Dean hated himself too. It seemed like Sam loved him enough for both of them.
Dean definitely loved Sam enough for both of them.
September 5th 1998
I came home from school today and Dean was asleep on the couch. He was
barefoot, and his pointer toe is slightly longer than his big toe. I want to
die. I probably will. Cause of death: I’m not sure, but it feels like being
consumed by fire.
September 6th 1998
Something is wrong with me. Don’t think I don’t know that, because I do. I
wonder whether it’s to do with hunting. Could this be something that happens
when you’re always in the car? Does this happen to people who were practically
raised by their siblings? I’m just grasping at straws here. I know I’m fucked.
I’m going to go talk to a guidance counselor, I think.
September 7th 1998
Talked to the guidance counselor. She asked a bunch of irrelevant questions
along the lines of where we lived before and what kind of work does Dad do and
what happened to mom. I couldn’t tell her any of it, and even as I was saying
absolutely nothing, I still felt like I was betraying Dean. If something’s
wrong, we keep it in the family.
I couldn’t go through with it. I just walked out halfway through the session.
She has no idea how messed up I am.
September 10th 1998
I figured it out today. It’s so blatantly obvious I’m amazed I didn’t think of
it before. I was injured on a hunt today. It was just some shards of glass in
the palm of my hand, but Dean completely lost his shit. He still thinks I’m a
child.
That’s not the point, though. The point is the sharpness, the brightness, of
glass shards piercing my skin. The pain lasted a while, and the whole time I
wasn’t thinking about Dean. It felt like I was ridding myself of what was wrong
with me, like the glass was cutting the dirty part of me out. Everything was
clear and fuzzy at once. Pain can save me, I know it.
Going to sleep now, I’m exhausted.
September 11th 1998
My hand is still all fucked up, I can’t even hold a pen, so I stayed home from
school today. I took a long walk. It’s too soon, I decided, to make another
cut, but I can scratch at the ones from yesterday and it’s almost as good. It
hurts again, but in a dull way. Dull pain is the kind of pain I always feel
when I look directly at Dean, so it’s not a relief, really.
I know what Dean would say if he ever read this. Don’t think I don’t know. But
when you’re drowning you don’t really give a shit what’s keeping you afloat.
Dean was full out sobbing now. He pulled up the sleeve from his left wrist and
looked at the scratches he had made there with razorblades. They were a little
older than this diary entry, made when Dean himself was sixteen years old. Sam
had been only twelve. Dean still hated himself when he thought about those
days, when Sam was still small and childlike and trusting, and Dean would
sometimes clutch him to his lap a little too closely, and smell his hair and
feel confused. He knew he would kill or die for Sam in a heartbeat, and there
would never be anyone else for him. No one was ever as important as his little
brother. And that was freakin’ insane.
September 12th 1998, but only just. It’s a quarter past twelve
I’m on the couch. Why do you think I’m on the couch? Guessed it in one; it’s
because Dean’s in our bed fucking a random girl from a bar. I can mostly hear
her high pitched noises and the slamming of the bed against the wall, but
sometimes I can hear Dean, and every sound is like an electric shock to my
system. I could know, I’ve actually been shocked with electricity a couple of
times.
Dad’s out on a hunt, of course. I don’t think Dean would bring a girl home
otherwise. I wonder if that’s how I’d sound if Dean fucked me. I’m going to
turn off the light now, I don’t want them to know I’m awake. I don’t understand
how they can think I’d sleep through this, though.
September 13th 1998
What a wonderful surprise. The girl was still there when I woke up this
morning. She’s not Dean’s usual type, curvy, with dark hair, dark eyes, and
horn-rimmed glasses. She’s reading one of my books right now, still in my bed
with my brother, while I’m on the couch.
It’s not just any old book, either. She’s got her manicured fingers all over
Harry Potter And The Goblet Of Fire. If she tears any of the pages or bends the
spine, I’ll kill her.
The skin on my hands is all cracked and dry because I’ve been swimming in the
lake. I can pull at it in some places around my cuticles, and it will bleed. If
I press down on the places where it bleeds, the pain is sharp, and I can be
away from the couch for a moment. It’s a Saturday, so I don’t have anywhere
else to escape to. Just the tiny little droplets of blood welling up from under
my skin. Those droplets are getting out, you know? They’re getting away. I’m
still stuck here.
September 13th, 1998, the afternoon
The girl, Alice, said goodbye to me when she left. She asked me who my favorite
Harry Potter character was, too. Dean’s out now, to get breakfast. I’ve already
showered.
Here’s the thing. The girl forgot something. It’s one of those frilly
underthings girls wear in movies, a soft fabric with pink and white flowers on
it. Does Dean like that sort of thing? Does he go hard when he sees a girl
wearing it?
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
I put the nightgown thingy in my duffel.
September 14th 1998
A disaster almost happened today. I woke up, and Dean was lying next to me, and
he was already awake. That almost never happens, because he’s the laziest guy
in the world. But he was awake this time, and he was looking at me. Really
looking, at every inch of skin. He even pulled down the sheet a bit to see more
of my shoulders. I think he thought I was still asleep.
I felt him looking at me, and I couldn’t bear it, so I opened my eyes. Except
that didn’t stop him looking. All of a sudden, I felt like I was choking. I
could feel the words coming up in my throat, and I almost couldn’t swallow them
back down.
“Dean, I love you. I have always loved you so, so much. How can you not know?
Why can’t you see I’ll keep loving you just like this, like a wildfire, until
there’s nothing left of me?”
I only got as far as “Dean, I,” before my throat closed up again and I felt
myself start to cry. Dean left the bed then, said he had to take a leak, but I
think he knows. He’s figured me out. It’s so obvious. I’m so obvious. He’ll
hate me now, he’ll think I’m disgusting. He’ll tell dad and they’ll kill me,
because I’m a monster.
Two rooms over, the screen door slammed. Sam was home. Shit. Dean wiped his
eyes and blew his nose in the sleeve of his sweatshirt. It was already sweaty
and disgusting and it had motor oil stains all over, so who gave a fuck.
Hastily, he stuffed the spiral notebook back in the duffel, and got up to greet
Sam in the kitchen.
“Hey there, dude. How was school?”
Sam gave him a withering look. “Well, it was just great, Dean, what did you
expect?”
Dean raised his eyebrows. Not good, then.
“Wanna talk about it?” he tried, but Sam had already gone into their bedroom
and slammed the door shut.
He was back not a minute later though, all color now drained from his face.
“Dean,” he said, looking at the floor, his voice barely above a whisper. “Have
you seen my notebook?”
Shit. Don’t give yourself away, Winchester. You’re a world-class hunter and a
pool hustler, your pokerface can fool anyone. Not Sammy, though, never Sam.
“No,” he’d aimed for casual but it came out a bit strangled. “Where’d you see
it last?”
Sam had started to go red, and he looked up now. He’d figured it out. “In my
duffel, Dean. My notebook is always in my duffel.”
“Well,” Dean leaned against the doorway, trying to make his body language
casual, and made sure to meet Sam’s eyes. That was convincing lying 101; always
look them in the eye.
“Are you sure it isn’t in there? Or did it get mixed in with your homework?”
“No. It didn’t.”
“Why don’t you go check?”
“Because it’s not fucking there, Dean! I left it in my duffel this morning, in
the front pocket, and now it’s gone!” Sam was completely red now, shaking with
anger, his voice raised.
“Well, Sammy,” that was a low blow. He knew the nickname annoyed Sam.
“Notebooks don’t usually go off on their own. Why don’t you check again?”
That had been a stupid thing to do, to infuriate Sam further, when Dean knew
perfectly well what had happened. He’d put the notebook back in the wrong
duffel. Sam was lightning-fast, checked the front pocket of his duffel then
rounded up on Dean again.
“It’s not there! Where the fuck is my notebook, Dean?”
“Calm down,” Dean said, making his voice soft and soothing even though he was
everything but calm himself. “Look in your book bag before you have a full-
fledged bitching episode.”
Sam stomped off in the direction of the living room to rummage through his
backpack, which was exactly what Dean had been aiming for. He dashed into the
bedroom, took the notebook out of his own duffel and yelled: “It’s right here!”
Sam was by his side in an instant.
“Where was it?” he was breathless with relief.
“Under the bed, geek boy,” Dean explained. “What’s so important about this
notebook anyway?”
He only asked because it was what he would have done, if he had been a normal
brother. If Sam and him had been normal brothers. Sam turned bright red again,
snatched the notebook from Dean’s outstretched hand and stomped off.
***********************************************************************************
For a few days, Dean managed to keep himself away from Sam’s diary. The
temptation, the pull of it, was amazingly strong, but he thought of the hurt
look on Sam’s face when he’d though Dean had stolen it, and exercised
restraint. He was terrified, absolutely terrified, that Sam still suspected
he’d read it, and that this was a breach of confidence from which their
relationship would never recover.
It didn’t exactly help that Dean had been forced to stop reading in medias res.
Sam had put Alice’s undergarment in his duffel, but what had happened next?
Dean was ashamed to admit that he hardly remembered Alice, but based on Sam’s
description he did remember her nightgown. It wasn’t exactly a nightgown,
though. If he remembered correctly she’d already been wearing it under her
dress when he brought her home with him.
Why did Sam keep it? Was it still in his duffel? He could check. He could just
check really quickly, and no one would ever know. But what on earth would Sam
hang onto an old piece of lingerie for, one that had belonged to a girl he
professed to dislike? Dean didn’t check.
He thought of Sam hanging on to it, though. He considered the possibility of
Sam pressing his nose into the fabric, hoping to smell Dean’s smell. The notion
was ridiculous. They shared a bed, they knew each other’s smells almost too
well.
September 15th 1998
It smells like him a bit. Mostly it smells the way fabric always does, clean
and starchy, but I can also smell Dean. Of course, I buried my nose in it for
ages and ages trying to hold on to the scent. I think he fucked her in it.
I’ve locked myself in the bathroom with the undergarment and my diary, and as
I’m writing this my dick is impossibly hard. I know what I’m going to do now.
No one’s home, so I can.
I’ve put on the thing. Wikipedia says it’s a negligee. It looks weird on me
because I’m so slender, but it feels nice on my skin. Soft and swishy. It’s
about the right size. Alice is older than me, but I’m taller and I don’t have
boobs. My cock is still hard and you can see it through the fabric, sticking
up. It’s a little wet at the tip. God, this is so hot. Oh my God. Imagine if
Dean saw this. Imagine if Dean read this diary entry.
I’m going to jerk off now. I won’t even pretend I won’t be thinking about Dean
while I do it.
Dean’s cheeks were hot. His palms were sweaty. His cock was so hard in his
tight jeans that he couldn’t quite sit still from the pressure. Sam had worn
that thing. Even better, or in a way worse, he had gotten off on it. He had
gotten off on making himself pretty for Dean. Jesus.
The guilt at reading Sam’s personal diary hit him in another strong wave. He
was such a selfish asshole, and a pervert to boot. The fact that Sam had
fantasized about him reading this didn’t mean he’d ever wanted it to happen. He
hadn’t meant for it to happen. People thought about all kinds of kinky shit
that they never wanted to happen for real.
Dean went into the bathroom and jerked off quickly and roughly, trying to
punish himself with mechanical, pleasureless strokes, expelling all of his
dirty, wrong, guilty, horrible thoughts in a quick, unsatisfying orgasm.
After the first time Dean had jerked off while fantasizing about his brother,
it was time to make a choice. He could either fight his feelings the way he’d
been taught, with stone-cold all-encompassing Winchester denial, or he could
face facts and admit, at the very least to himself, that he was a fucked up son
of a bitch. For the next few days, he kept going back and forth between the two
options.
He made a conscious effort not to touch Sam; not to pat his shoulder, not to
brush a hand through his hair, not to lie close to him at night. If Sam noticed
it he didn’t let on, but the physical distance was hard on Dean. He was
conscious of every missed opportunity, every inch of bare, tanned, smooth skin
he wasn’t putting his hands on. The plan wasn’t to make him want it even more,
damn it. He was so fucked.
Three days after the beginning of Dean’s self-imposed no-touching rule, all
hell broke loose. The worst kinds of hell are the ones where nothing happens,
and everything is quiet, but inside your head the old you dies and is replaced
by an entirely new person. That’s what happened to Dean on the morning of
August 26th of the year 2000. Nothing was happening, and then, everything was
happening all at once.
He was standing by the stove, frying some bacon, and Sam came out of bed into
the kitchen. He was wearing a thin, gray t-shirt, old and previously Dean’s. He
was badly in need of a haircut and greasy wisps of his fringe were tickling his
eyebrows. His eyes were fuzzy and sleepy and he didn’t really look at Dean,
just groaned happily at the smell of bacon and went to pour himself some
cereal.
Just as Sam sat down and brought the spoonful of Froot Loops to his lips, Dean
burnt his fingers on the frying pan.
He had made the mistake of looking over at Sammy, beautiful, sweet, sleepy
Sammy, soft around the edges and so fragile and gorgeous that Dean wasn’t sure
he’d survive it. He turned back to the stove and everything clicked; this was
love. This feeling, this soft, gentle hurricane of ice and fire and fear and
elation, was everything Jane Austen had written about, and it seemed, now, that
she had written it especially for them.
Sam was everything. He was everything in the whole wide world. Sam was more
important than air and food and family and hunts and the Impala. Sam was more
important than Dad, even, and it made Dean blush guiltily to think it. He loved
Sam so much that he didn’t know how he could have missed it for so long.
He turned around and flipped the strips of bacon onto a plate, offering them to
Sam with a grin that was, perhaps, a bit too broad. Now there was only the
matter of telling Sam. Dean swallowed down his fear and looked at the eager way
Sam ate his breakfast.
************************************************
The elation lasted for the rest of the day. Dean was besides himself with joy,
giggly and floaty and all-out ridiculous, and he told Sam his good mood was
because of the weekend, and the weather, and pretty much every excuse he could
think of.
Over the course of the evening, Dean’s happiness deflated. He was finally clear
on what he wanted, yes, and that was something, but the prospect of confronting
Sam was so terrifying that it made his breathe hitch just thinking about it. He
was a disgusting pervert for having any sort of sexual thoughts about his
younger brother, even if these thoughts were infused with reverence and love
and adoration. He wasn’t fooling himself into thinking that made everything
okay.
There was also the horrible possibility that Sam’s feelings towards him could
have changed over the last two years. Two years was a long time to yearn for
someone if you honestly believed you never stood a chance with them. Any self-
preservation instinct Sam has would have told him to disentangle himself from
Dean. Then again, Sammy really wasn’t one for self-preservation.
In spite of this paralyzing uncertainty, Dean didn’t want to read any more of
Sam’s diary entries. He’d already betrayed Sam’s trust in a very basic way, he
was going to fess up to everything honestly and just hope and pray to whatever
was out there that Sam would forgive him, and that he still felt the same about
Dean. “I’ll keep loving you just like this, like a wildfire, until there’s
nothing left of me,” Dean’s brain helpfully supplied, and the words, which had
been written in Sam’s tidy lettering in the ruffled spiral notebook, gave him a
bit more confidence.
Reading Sam’s diary had been wrong, he knew it, but he’d been able to justify
it to himself as long as he only did it to restore their relationship. He’d
told himself he only did it to regain his understanding of Sam, to get back the
almost telepathic connection they’d shared as kids. A few diary entries later,
he was reading to untangle the wet hot slippery mess of feelings welling up
inside of him, and then he’d just been reading because he couldn’t not. But now
that he’d figured himself out, it was time to man up and fess up. He was only
waiting for the right moment.
The right moment came and went. It came again, and went again, and still Dean
could not gather up his courage. Each right moment looked something like this:
it was when Dad was away, would be for at least a few more days, but not much
longer in case Sam reacted poorly to Dean’s confession. So they were alone, and
Sam appeared relaxed and relatively un-moody. There was some alcohol in Dean’s
system, but not enough to make him lose focus, and the TV was on for background
noise.
“Sammy?”
Wrong word. Wrong word. The nickname rubbed Sam the wrong way. This wasn’t
going to be the night.
“Yeah, Dean?”
“Nothing, dude. Scoot over.”
Then they’d cuddle, the way they used to as kids, and it was almost enough to
make Dean spill out the white hot confession burning on his tongue, but not
quite. If he said it, he might never sit next to his brother like this again.
So he didn’t.
************************************************************************************
When, at last, it happened, it was easy. They were actually in the Impala,
following behind Dad, who was in his truck, heading towards Nebraska. Sam was
scribbling in the spiral notebook, and Dean was looking at the road, and at the
way Sam’s hair covered his eyes a little, and his long legs didn’t quite fit in
the footwell, hadn’t for years.
“Sam?”
Sam didn’t look up, but that was okay. Dean was looking at the road.
“I’m in love with you.” He was Dean Winchester, not a man of many words. This
was the truth, he was going to be upfront about it.
Sam looked up at him now, openly stared, his mouth open a little. He forced out
a chuckle.
“Dean, I…”
A beat.
Sam tried again. “Is this a joke?”
His voice was a little higher than usual, like he was choking back tears.
Cursing his own rashness, Dean pulled over onto the shoulder and made sure to
look Sam right in the eye.
“It’s not a joke, Sam. I am in love with you. Sweaty hands, heart palpitations,
can’t concentrate, the whole nine yards.”
Sam was still looking at him with the big brown eyes and a broad grin. Dean
leaned over and kissed him. Sammy’s lips were chapped and a little clumsy, but
he was so, so eager, leaned towards Dean to take in his scent, and made a
little noise in the back of his throat. He didn’t pull away, Dean didn’t pull
away, and then it was a tentative touching of tongues, such a sweet sensation
that Dean thought maybe he was dreaming. Wet, too. Wet, because Sam was crying.
Dean pulled away, then.
“Hey, hey hey. Sammy, look at me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I thought… Oh God,
Sam, I’m so sorry. Please look at me?”
But Sam was crying softly, looking at his shoes.
“I’m moving to Palo Alto next year. I got accepted into Stanford.”
Dean was speechless.
Dad was miles ahead of them by now, but Dean was sure he could think of a
convincing lie to explain their delay. There was a lump in his throat, but he
was mostly relieved that Sam hadn’t called him a disgusting pervert yet.
“Oh. I’m so goddamned fucking proud of you, Sammy.”
Now Sam met Dean’s eyes. He looked even more disbelieving than before, when
Dean had suddenly leaned over to kiss him.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” Dean cleared his throat. “You’re amazing. You’ll do so well. I have
some savings in an account, I always meant for you to have them on your
eighteenth birthday.”
“I got a full ride.”
Dean gaped at him. “My incredible little brother,” he muttered, more for
himself than for Sam.
“So,” he cupped Sam’s cheek gently with one hand, and stroked his thumb over
the sharp jaw. He wanted to kiss Sam, right there. He wanted to kiss him
everywhere. He kissed him again. Softly, briefly, on the mouth, then on his
nose, his forehead, both his cheeks and his eyelids. He gently wiped away the
drying tears and looked and looked and drank his little brother in, and
thought, just for a split second, that they would never have to catch up with
Dad.
“Sammy?” Nothing was as hard as not kissing Sam once he knew what kissing Sam
was like, but there was one more thing. “I read your notebook.”
Sam looked over at him and, to Dean’s great surprise, began to laugh.
“What’s funny?
“It’s just that… oh God, Dean, I’ve kind of been meaning for you to find it,
actually.”
Dean was speechless.
“I had to tell you before I left, you had to know. But I couldn’t look you in
the eye and say it, Dean.”
“Say what, exactly?”
“That I love you.”
Dean shivered a little. “But then, why were you crying just now?”
“Because I really am going to Palo Alto. And I’m in love with you, I love you
so much, but we can’t be together there.”
Sam loved him. Sam loved him. Sam loved him. Sam loved him.
“Why can’t we, Sammy? Why can’t we be together there?”
Sam just looked at him. Dean raised his eyebrows. “What? They don’t have hunts
in California? They don’t have auto repair shops and burgers with onions and
fries? ‘Cos if they don’t, I’ll still come with you. You’re more important to
me than all those things.”
Sam immediately leapt over the console and vaulted himself into Dean’s lap, his
grin bigger and more genuine than Dean had ever seen. His eyes were carefree.
And then they were kissing again.
July 20th 2000
I was right. Kissing Dean feels like infinity. His lips are so gorgeous. I’ve
probably written more in this diary about Dean’s lips than about anything else,
but there’s a good reason for that. I mean, have you seen them? What happened
was this:
We were in the Impala, a couple of miles behind Dad, and all of a sudden he
told me he was in love with me. I thought for sure I hadn’t heard him right,
but his eyes were serious. Serious, and so motherfucking green I thought it
would kill me.
So then I couldn’t keep it in a second longer, I told him about Stanford, and I
felt like the biggest idiot in the world. I just got the one thing I’d always
wanted, and in one sentence I’d already managed to alienate and anger him
again. Except he wasn’t angry. He was proud. I didn’t really believe he loved
me like that until he told me he was proud of me.
Here’s the biggest thing though; he’s coming with me to Stanford.
I can’t quite believe it.
We made out in the car for a really long time, and when we caught up to Dad
Dean told him we had a flat, but I was so giggly I don’t really think he
believed us. Don’t know what he believed, though.
I’ve been hard since Dean leaned in to me and it occurred to me that this was
it; that he was going to kiss me with those lips. My groin aches from wanting
and my jaw aches from smiling. Also, we’re sharing a bed tonight. Oh God. Oh my
God we’re sharing a bed tonight.
They did share a bed that night. After a quick Chinese take out meal both boys
pleaded exhaustion from the long drive and, Dean added, the terrible ordeal of
the Impala’s flat tire, and they disappeared together into their room.
Sam, who had been hungry for Dean and wanting and just all-out fucking pining
for years, was surprised by the force with which Dean kissed him. He could feel
all of the desire that had built up inside him over time, all of the ways it
had made him feel dirty and wrong and so fucking good all at once, reflected at
him from Dean. He could tell by the way Dean was clutching at his neck with
blunt fingernails that they were in this together, that however fucked up and
destructive and perverted Sam was, he would never be alone again. He allowed
Dean to press him against the door, to trap him between his arms, and pulled
him even closer with both feet hooked around his hips.
There it was. It was a quick flash of friction, clumsy and muted by the fabric
of their jeans, but Sam went absolutely insane with lust. He whined into Dean’s
mouth and started grappling at his belt buckle to get to his cock.
“Shhh,” Dean’s mouth was so deliciously close to his ear. His breath was hot.
“Shh, little brother. Don’t rush it. There’s no hurry, baby.”
He said “baby” in a way that made Sam glad he wasn’t standing on his own two
feet just then. He whimpered a little more, tried to get closer to Dean, but he
wasn’t quite in control of his muscles. His skin was buzzing and he though he
would die, just die, if Dean didn’t get his hands all over him soon.
It should be no surprise that Dean enjoyed pleasing Sammy, making him happy and
putting Sam’s needs before his own. Wasn’t that the way it worked in all of
their relationship? So Dean laid Sam down gently on the bed and started kissing
down Sam’s body, from his mouth over his chin onto his jaw, and lingering at
the nape of his neck for so, so long but never long enough.
Sam became aware that he was making little noises, sounds of pleasure and
pleading and mostly just Dean’s name. He pulled at Dean’s shoulders with sweaty
hands, trying to get Dean’s mouth on his own or get it further down; he
couldn’t choose; pictured Dean’s lips around his cock and whined a little.
“It’s okay Sammy, it’s okay,” Dean whispered, his breath hot against Sam’s
abdomen, where he was just the slightest bit ticklish. “I’m not going anywhere.
I’m right here with you, baby boy. I’m going to give you everything you want,
whatever you want. What do you want, baby?”
It took Sam a moment to respond to that, his mind reeling with all of the
possibilities, all of the thing he wanted that he could now have and he
couldn’t quite believe it yet. The list at the back of his notebook poped into
his head, and he wondered whether Dean had read it.
“Can I suck your cock?” The words were out before he knew it.
Dean stilled suddenly, and for one ice-cold terrifying moment Sam thought he
screwed up, until Dean said, in a mock put-upon tone: “But I wanted to do
something for you.”
Sam couldn’t help it, he laughed. “Dean…” Now he was really feeling shy, but it
was important to be honest. “I desperately want to do it. Can I put my mouth on
you, please, please?” He rolled his hips and let his hard-on press against
Dean, just to emphasize how badly he wanted it.
Dean relented, rolled off of Sam’s body and pulled his jeans down. Sam couldn’t
hide his grin. He stilled Dean’s hand before the boxers came off, just looking
at the midnight blue fabric and the bulge and the wet spot at the tip, and his
mouth watered. Slowly, slowly, he pulled the boxers down.
Dean’s cock is as fucking pretty as the rest of him, Sam thought. It was long
and slender and smooth and the most appealing shade of pink and Sam stuck his
tongue out to taste and thought yes, because Dean made a little noise that Sam
has wanted to hear forever, and the taste wasn’t bad at all. He went slowly,
telling himself it was to tease Dean, but it was actually an exploration; he
had no idea what the hell he was doing, and he needed to take his cue from
Dean’s breathing, the twitching motions of his hips and his long slender
fingers gently petting Sam’s hair. As far as he could tell, he was doing a
bang-up job, because Dean came quickly, yelping out “Sam, Sam, Sam” and trying
to pull him off but Sam was determined to swallow, and he did.
He watched Dean’s face as he came, eyes scrunched shut and mouth open. This had
been way more satisfying than Sam had ever imagined. He waited for Dean to
float down from his post-coital cloud and enjoyed the ache of his own cock in
his jeans. Would Dean? Would he?
“Lie down, Sammy.”
Dean started off by kissing Sam’s neck again, in that one insane spot behind
his ear and Sam thought, fleetingly, of all the people who go about their lives
every day. Do they know, do they have any idea, that sex feels like this? That
it makes your skin buzz and your heart throb and your brain log off? If they
do, what the fuck is anyone ever doing out of bed?
“Oh God, Dean, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon.”
Dean had kissed and nibbled his way down Sam’s chest, pulled Sam’s boxers down
and was now nosing at his shaft, licking up the thick vein on the underside,
and then, gently, so gently, took Sam’s cock head in his mouth. It was so
incredible that Sam could feel tears well up in the corners of his eyes. He
struggled to keep his eyes from blurring and looked down at Dean’s face, his
mouth stretched open so wide and his green eyes glinting with mischief. In the
next moment, Sam came.There was no time to warn Dean, but he didn’t need to
because Dean swallowed, and swallowed again, and didn’t choke once.
“Oooooh,” Sam’s voice was hoarse from moaning, his whole body tingling with
aftershocks of pleasure and he was completely flabbergasted by the intensity of
it.
Dean wiggled his eyebrows. “Good, huh?”
Sam couldn’t respond, but there was no need to anyway. Dean ran a hand up Sam’s
slender side, tweaked a nipple until Sam squeaks, and whispered; “There’s loads
more where that came from, baby boy.”
**************************************************************************
On the last page of the notebook, and continued onto the back cover, was an
untitled list. The writing turned smaller and smaller with each item, as though
Sam was afraid he’d never have enough space for all of it. It took him exactly
three months in Palo Alto to show the list to Dean, and by then they’d crossed
off a lot of its goals already.
    * For Dean to kiss me until I can’t breathe.
    * For Dean to hold my hand somewhere public, without anyone knowing we’re
      brothers.
    * To make out with Dean in the back of a movie theatre.
    * To wake Dean up by blowing him.
    * To blow him in a truckstop bathroom.
    * To show him that stupid negligee and have him fuck me in it. How fast do
      you think he’ll forget the name of that girl it belonged to?
    * To kiss his neck until there’s a big red hickey where anyone could see.
      Dad would think he got it off some random girl, but it would actually be
      mine.
    * I want to blow him in a diner while he eats a slice of pie. I just
      really, really, really want to blow him all the time.
    * To fuck him. Do you think he’d let me? I’d let him do it to me. I would.
      Any way he wanted. I would do anything for him.
    * Okay, yeah, I kind of want to buy him something for Valentine’s Day. Sue
      me.
    * I want to cook him dinner, too.
    * I want to be the big spoon.
    * But I want to be the little spoon even more.
    * If he gets hurt on a hunt, I want to kiss the bandages after I’ve applied
      them.
    * I want him to wear make-up for me. Lipgloss, and mascara too. Fucking
      eyeliner. Green eyeshadow, can you imagine?
    * I want to bake gingerbread together next Christmas, like we did that one
      time in Delaware.
    * I want to blow him while he’s driving the Impala.
    * I want him to fuck me in the backseat of the Impala. Also, I never ever
      want him to fuck anyone else in there ever again. I don’t want him to
      fuck anyone but me, anywhere.
    * I want him to fuck me over the hood of the car, too.
    * I want to play Truth or Dare, and wring every single dirty little twisted
      fantasy Dean has ever had out of him. Then, I want to make them all come
      true.
    * I want him to wash my hair.* *in the shower or in a bathtub together, I’m
      not picky.
    * I want to take him on a picnic on a sunny afternoon, and I want to lie in
      the grass and listen to his heartbeat and watch his nose get sunburned.
    * I want to cuddle on the couch while we watch The Big Lebowski
    * I want the first time I get really drunk to be with Dean.
    * One day, I want us to own a dog together.
End Notes
     End Notes This is the babydoll Sam wears (I pictured the one in the
     Pinky Cheeks color): Babydoll
  Works inspired by this one
      [Art]_The_Spiral_Notebook by Nonexistenz
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