
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5455169.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, Mary_Winchester, Ellen_Harvelle
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Civil_War, Soldier_Dean_Winchester, Weecest,
      Underage_Sex, Codependent_Winchesters
  Series:
      Part 18 of Fic_Advent_Calendar_2015:_Siblings,_Husbands,_Lovely_Ladies,
      and_Other_Miscreants
  Collections:
      (12•X)•4_≠_Twelve_Days_of_Xmas._Four_Writers._Various_Fandoms
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-12-18 Words: 4042
****** follow the star wheresoever it went ******
by dollylux
Summary
     Union soldier Dean Winchester gets a furlough to come home for
     Christmas. (Civil War-era AU.)
Notes
     day eighteen | prompt: luster
     i'm a little in love with this AU. dean's letter was written with the
     help of many letters i read from soldiers home to their loved ones
     (especially their sisters, interestingly enough). the_thing_about_the
     drummer_boys_is_a_true_story. the plot of this story is very loosely
     inspired by the 1994 film adaptation of little women, one of my
     favorite books and movies.
     inspiration for dean: one | two
     inspiration for their house is orchard house, louisa may alcott's
     family home and where she set little women: one | two | three
     sam is 12 and dean is 16.
See the end of the work for more notes
Camp Near Ooltewah Tennessee
Wednesday November 2nd, 1864
Dearest Brother,
It has rained for a whole week without pause here in Tennessee, and the roads
are so muddy it makes any amount of walking near unbearable. After marching for
twenty miles it is no comfort to lie down at night in the wet without any
cover. I am tired past the point of humor. I can barely recall the light always
to be found in your eyes or the small tucks of joy on either side of your mouth
when you turn that smile on me. Johnny Sampson is here with me and he speaks
often of his wife’s smile, of her dimples, and when he does I only think of
yours.
I do not recall if I told you but a few months ago I was so very near home that
I could taste Momma’s roast chicken. Cptn was invited to a ball put on by the
Mass. regiment, one that required the men to dress in our finest and play at
being in society for a night. It was quite a shock, being in amongst the warmth
and well-dressed gentlemen and with as much wine and food as I could take.
There were a few women there, but some of the boy-girls (our drummer boys,
dressed up in silks and lace) were so much better looking that they left. The
soft little drummers were so beautiful I bet you could not have spotted them
for being boys. Some of them looked good enough to lay with, and I know some of
them did get laid with. I could not do it, sweetest brother. Not with all the
wine in our young but dearly beloved country.
Please know that though I am here beneath this leaking cover to get this letter
off to you with no food and only bad water in my belly, I think eternally of
you and my heart is North, nestled into our Home, with you.
Write as soon as you are able and do let me know if you are in need of any
stamps as I have many. Enclosed is my pay for the last two months. Give Momma
my love but please save some for yourself.
I still remain your adoring brother
Dean Winchester
You must look
At that above
And then you will
Soon write to your
Brother love
 
Momma had always gently teased Dean at how he dotes on Sam, about his near-
smothering that Sam should have grown out of enjoying, but he never did.
He never has.
“Momma, what do you think Dean’s doing on this night? Right this very minute?”
Sam sounds wistful and he is, staring outside the icy window at the snow
falling without any hint at ceasing. It is the coldest winter Sam can recall in
his twelve years of life, and he wonders if Dean misses Massachusetts where he
is down South, if he misses all this snow or if he is grateful for the more
temperate climates of Tennessee and Georgia.
“Well,” Momma sighs, twining the garland around the bannister with careful,
methodical movements, “I pray that he is having a Christmas feast. That he is
someplace warm and someplace safe, and that he can see that same bright star
outside. Do you see it, Sammy?”
She’s behind him suddenly at the window, drawing the curtain back so she can
peer out into the night and up, up, up.
“I see it,” Sam breathes, his heart racing with the sudden feeling of closeness
with his brother, pressed so close to the window that his nose smudges the
frost. He does indeed see it, can’t take his eyes off of it now that he does.
“Tell me again about the star, Momma. Please?”
“That is the North Star,” she tells him, wrapping around him warm from behind,
her tired fingers carding through his hair. “That is the star that shines for
you and your brother. It got big and cold and bright when Dean left us to go to
war, and it stayed that way because it shines right over our house. So whenever
Dean sees it in the sky, he will know that he’s looking toward our home.”
“Toward me,” Sam whispers, tears in his eyes, the small curve of his chin
trembling.
“Toward you,” she echoes in the softest breath before pressing a kiss to the
top of Sam’s head. “Now, come away from the window. You know Dean would scold
you for being so close to all that cold. Would you like to tie on the bows
round the garland?”
Sam holds in a sigh because, young as he is, he knows this is a dreadfully hard
holiday for his mother, too. That this is when she misses Daddy the most
fiercely, that she must miss him as much as Sam misses Dean. Only Dean will
come back to Sam, and Daddy is asleep in the ground where he and Momma brought
him flowers yesterday.
Dean will never sleep in the ground, not without Sam in his arms.
Sam gets the last bow tied at the foot of the stairs when he hears it. It is
not a sound, not precisely, but more of a rush of movement, of energy, from
outside.
“Momma?” he calls, afraid. He knows Daddy’s old rifle is by the door, knows
exactly where to hide in the house if anyone were to come in by force. Sam is
still small for his age, and he knows already that his strength is not in
fighting, in protection. That is Dean’s strength, that is what Dean is doing
right now, out there. He is protecting Sam, protecting their family.
“Momma!” he shouts again, a sob caught in his throat. He can hear boots in the
snow drawing nearer and nearer to the front door, and he turns just in time to
see Momma and Miss Ellen come rushing into the room, their faces smooth with
fear and concern.
“Sam, don’t shout,” Momma scolds him, sounding breathless, startled. Her hands
come to light on his shoulders just as the doorknob turns, and Sam barely hears
Miss Ellen’s cry of “oh my Heavens!” as the door is pushed open, the winter
breaking in as a bone-crushing rush of cold and snow, and suddenly, beyond all
hope, Dean is there.
Sam can only stare, every single muscle in his body frozen, his eyes wide and
he doesn’t think he will ever blink again because Dean is here, Dean is real,
frozen-cheeked and right in front of him. He looks so handsome in his blue
uniform, his shoulders broader than they were nearly a year ago but his waist
is slim under his black leather belt. His face is pale, thinner than Sam
remembers but it’s nearly hidden beneath the full scruff of his dark blonde
beard, mustache, and sideburns. His eyes are right on Sam and he’s grinning and
he’s real.
Momma and Miss Ellen rush toward him in a flurry of cries and exclamations and
warm hands on his winter-rosy face, and Sam can do nothing but crumple where he
is, but sink to his knees on the hardwood floor and let the tears fall.
“Sammy,” comes Dean’s voice, finally, and it’s so much deeper than when he
left, when he was just a stubborn boy of fifteen, determined to take his
father’s place in the war after his body was brought home. He’d signed up and
used his height to his advantage to convince them he was eighteen, and he’d
left before dawn one morning, leaving Sam warm in bed with silent tears
streaming down his face.
There’s a rush of boots and Dean is suddenly everywhere, on his knees right
there in front of him, his cold cold hands on Sam’s cheeks, his nearly
unknowable face so near his own, his hot breath rushing over Sam, straight up
into his nostrils.
“Baby,” Dean whispers and it’s so low and aching and ground out that Sam
awakens at the sound of it, he blinks through his tears and looks up to meet
Dean’s eyes, finding tears there as well, making the green in Dean’s eyes as
bright as the tree over on the table nearby. “My love.”
Sam throws his arms around Dean’s neck and lets himself be lifted, first onto
his feet and then into Dean’s arms. He can feel the quiet, watchful gaze of
Momma and Ellen behind Dean, but they don’t matter, not right now. He tucks his
face into Dean’s neck, a cold brass button digging into his cheek as he lets
out a sob from deep within, someplace Sam didn’t even know existed, a place of
relief and joy instead of fear and prayers and dread.
Momma wraps her arms around both of them, handing Dean’s hat to Ellen so she
can stroke through his sweaty hair and kiss the side of Dean’s face.
“Ellen, throw another log on the fire and fetch us a blanket. My boy here is
freezing,” Momma says, her normally steady voice trembling with excitement.
“Come, Dean. Sit by the fire and warm up.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever warm up again, Momma,” Dean sighs as he lets her
guide him to the chair in front of the fireplace. Sam stays where he is,
wrapped around his brother and ending up tucked in his lap like a child when
Dean settles into the chair, their father’s chair. “I had to walk from the
train station because there were no horses left by the time I arrived.”
Ellen drapes a blanket over Dean and Sam and pulls out the footstool to prop
Dean’s feet up. Sam watches with quiet eyes as Momma pulls Dean’s boots and wet
socks off, her strong hands rubbing warmth back into Dean’s reddened, curled
feet.
“All our prayers are answered,” Ellen says with tears in her warm brown eyes,
reaching down to make sure Dean is covered up well by the blanket. “Mrs.
Winchester, I shall boil some water for our soldier to have a bath.”
“Thank you, Ellen. How are you home, my beautiful boy?” Momma reaches up to cup
Dean’s cheek and drop kisses all over his face, smiling against his skin while
Sam looks on, his arms tight around Dean. “How are you home to us on Christmas
Eve?”
“I applied for a furlough near the end of summer only to have it ignored. I
wanted to travel home and see you before it got too cold, but nearly all the
other boys had the same idea. Nobody wants to travel in the winter, and so in
winter it was granted.” Dean has his arms around Sam, one of his big, thawing
hands cupping nearly one whole side of Sam’s face; cheek tucked into his palm,
fingers in Sam’s spoiled-child clean curls, thumb stroking along the apple of
his cheek and over Sam’s beauty mark, over and over. Sam closes his eyes and
melts against him, nose pressed to Dean’s sweaty neck so he can breathe him in.
“How long can I have you?” Sam asks softly, mouth pressed to the heel of Dean’s
hand.
“For thirty days,” Dean whispers with a smile against Sam’s temple before he
buries a secret kiss there. “And I will not leave your side for anything in the
world while I am here.”
 
Momma forces them apart so that Dean can bathe and shave as he is eager to do,
and Sam busies himself with changing the sheets on Dean’s bed, the one that has
been their bed for most of their lives, unbeknownst to anyone save perhaps
Ellen. Sam hasn’t been allowed to sleep in it since Dean has been gone, and he
has barely had the heart to go into the room, to be surrounded by Dean’s things
and their paused life and the faded memories of the quiet love they shared
there.
He makes the bed with a gladness he didn’t know he possessed, and he goes about
tidying up the room, lighting a candle in the corner so that Dean has some warm
light to see by when he comes in later.
He ventures back downstairs and helps Miss Ellen set the table; shining up each
fork and knife before placing them by their fine but faintly chipped china
plates.
The war hasn’t been kind to anyone.
Dean comes back downstairs in a warm wool sweater Momma had knitted for Daddy,
a pair of soft grey trousers, and the thickest socks Momma had been able to
find without holes in them. He’s clean-shaven now, his young, tired face bare
and pale and so suddenly familiar that Sam finds himself crying all over again.
He eats dinner in Dean’s lap, scolded by Momma and Ellen the whole time, but
Dean only keeps him tucked up close, a hand gripping high on the back of Sam’s
thigh to keep him in place while they share nearly three plates of food.
Dean regales them with stories of the war, with tales of men they know from
town and their fates, with the wickedness of Confederate soldiers and even
those on their own side. He tells them of rotten food and violence surely
censored for his audience and about the beautiful, ancient hills of Tennessee
and Georgia, about the blazing sunsets there and the fireflies that come out at
night on warm summer evenings.
After dinner and in front of the fire once more, he pulls an orange out of his
haversack and holds it up like a gold coin for Sam’s starry eyes. They peel it
and eat it together while Momma and Ellen dress the tree, Sam’s fingers sticky,
dripping with the bright juice that Dean licks off with a relish he hadn’t even
shown at the dinner table. Sam watches him lick and lick until his hands are
clean of juice and shiny with Dean’s spit, and they nestle in close in the
high-backed chair, staring deep into each other’s eyes, sharing wordless
promises of what the night upstairs, in their bed, will bring.
Miss Ellen has a fine, low voice, and she starts the singing as they all gather
at last in front of the fire, the candles lit on the tree, the whole house
smelling of pine and burning applewood and the damp wool of Dean’s clothes
drying by the fire.
Momma is mending Dean’s coat, bent over her work as she sews on a missing
button, the brass lustering like the sun in the light of the fire. She has a
sweet voice, just like an angel, Daddy used to say, and she joins Ellen in
song, the sound of them singing “O Holy Night” like a spirit moving in the
warm, love-filled room.
Dean joins in at “The First Noel”, his voice a low, honeyed scratch against the
side of Sam’s heated cheek, all the grit of war gone from him as he lifts his
voice with the higher notes, and Sam can only close his eyes and listen, tears
falling silently from his eyes while he holds onto Dean like they’re flying.
Dean is wrapped around him so tight, so completely that Sam doesn’t know how
much of him is even visible.
He awakes to movement, to Ellen and Momma’s voices far below while he is
carried up and up in Dean’s strong arms. He stays still in them, trusting Dean
without an ounce of hesitation, watching through sleep-heavy lashes as Dean
walks them into his room and closes the door. The house is quiet except for the
bitter wind beating against the windowpanes when Sam stirs in Dean’s arms,
lifting his head to catch Dean’s mouth in their first kiss in ten months.
Dean groans like it hurts as he gathers Sam up deeper in his arms that have
gotten immeasurably stronger since they last held Sam like this, and his tongue
slides into Sam’s mouth like it’s seeking sanctuary. Sam shivers all over,
letting out a hot puff of air as Dean explores the slick insides of his mouth,
as their lips, chapped and sore from underuse, glide together, wetted by their
mingled saliva.
“Need you,” Dean husks against his mouth just before his perfect teeth sink
into Sam’s fattened bottom lip. Sam arches deep around the pull of Dean’s hands
that grip at his ass so desperately that it’s almost violent. Sam can feel a
hot rush of tears from Dean’s eyes, can feel them where their cheeks are
pressed together. He cups Dean’s face and rests their heads together, panting
against Dean’s trembling mouth.
“Let me get ready. It will only take a moment,” Sam promises him, dropping down
gently from Dean’s arms and wiping away the tears on his newly shaven face.
“Get under the covers and wait for me.”
He dashes out of the room on silent boy-feet, crossing the hall to the bath. He
relieves himself in the toilet, making sure he’s empty before he wipes himself
clean with a cloth dipped in nearly freezing cold water. He changes into his
nightshirt, wearing only that small slip of fabric and nothing under it as he
slips back through the dark hallway and into the room where Dean is waiting for
him.
He pulls the door closed behind him and lets his eyes adjust to the dim light
from the candle on the nightstand. Dean is in bed wearing nothing but his
drawers that are unbuttoned, the hot, red line of his stiff cock standing up
out of them. Sam licks his lips and walks toward the bed, his eyes never
straying.
Dean grabs him before he can even climb up to join him on the bed, snatching
him off his feet and bearing him down onto the mattress and covering them both
with the thick blankets and quilts. Sam gasps when Dean pushes his thin legs
apart, when he feels the heft of Dean’s body slip between his pale thighs, hot
and hungry like only a man can be.
Dean kisses bruises onto his mouth as he ruts against him like a dog, grinding
his cock against Sam’s little one until it’s just as stiff and leaking as his
own. Sam pants into Dean’s mouth, his arms tight about his neck, dizzy with how
hard Dean is kissing him, with the love he feels coursing between them right
now like a circuit, with how much his insides ache with the need to be
stretched.
Dean’s fingers are suddenly right there, right where Sam needs him, and Sam
cries out, his body jolting under Dean’s while his hole is rubbed with the
olive oil they keep tucked under the mattress.
“I promise we’ll take our time later,” Dean tells him, his breath hot and
panting into Sam’s mouth, “but right now… oh, Sammy, right now--”
“Take me,” Sam gasps, pushing down against Dean’s fingers just as Dean slips
them inside of him, two whole, thick fingers, rough with callouses and
strengthened by a hard life, pushing straight up and curling inside of Sam’s
freshly cleaned body. “Dean, please. I need you to.”
He can hear the dirty, slick sounds of Dean coating his prick with oil and then
those fingers leave him, replaced by the living, scorching throb of Dean’s
cockhead. Sam strangles out a whine, his eyes blown wide in the candlelit room,
staring right up at Dean’s beautiful face that is slack with bliss.
He knows somewhere in the back of his mind that he’s too young for a cock as
big as Dean’s, that he’s not a very big boy, not yet, and that every time Dean
finishes with him, his insides are ruined for days. But he also knows that he’s
too young to be the man of a household, to have lost a father to a war that
threatens every single day to take his brother from him, too.
This, Dean pressing inside of him, filling him until it feels like even his
throat is swollen with cock, is the only thing that brings him comfort. And he
has never spared more than a few seconds to any guilt for it.
Dean forces him open, muscles his way into the virgin tightness of Sam’s of
little body, slides in until he’s completely rooted, the soft tangle of his
pubic hair scratching against the swell of Sam's taint and his tight, silken
pink balls.
Sam is completely gathered under Dean then, covered by him, Dean’s arms so
strong as he holds Sam, his face tucked into Sam’s neck. Sam closes his eyes
and forces himself to breathe, to soften up inside for Dean enough for him not
to feel choked. He strokes through Dean’s hair, dirty nails dragging along his
scalp as he presses kisses along Dean’s hairline, licking away the sweat
gathered there.
“Don’t make a sound, Sammy,” Dean murmurs against his neck, fingers pressing
hard along Sam’s spine as he starts to fuck him. Sam buries his face in Dean’s
hair, arms desperate and clutched around his neck, hiding soft, hitching little
sobs against the top of Dean’s head while he’s torn open by his brother’s cock
in quick, careful thrusts that won’t make the bed squeak.
His knees knock against Dean’s ribs before they tuck under his armpits,
spreading Sam open wider around Dean’s body even as he’s folded up, making a
tighter trap for Dean to force open. It’s the best it’s ever been, it hurts
more than it ever has since the first time when he was truly too little and
Dean was fumbling and rough with his eagerness, but it’s exactly what Sam
needs, what he has dreamt about all these long months apart, it’s an
unignorable reminder that Dean is here, that the heaven moving inside of him is
the boy who has held his heart since before Sam knew how to say his name.
He comes apart completely untouched, just shivering beneath his brother and all
around his cock that feels enormous and heavy inside of him, ruining his
hitched-up nightshirt and clutching at his brother with his arms and his legs.
He whimpers as Dean fucks him through it, the wide flare at the tip of his
prick holding Sam open so wide that his thighs shake.
“Dean,” he gasps, tucking his face down, seeking out Dean’s mouth that finds
him in the dark, that slides against his own so that Dean can lick at him while
he spends between their grinding bodies.
Dean’s thrusts get harder then, making the bed shake almost dangerously loud,
the steady rhythm of it so telling, so scandalous that it makes Sam blush even
as he’s licked into by his brother’s greedy tongue. He feels it when Dean
starts to spend inside of him, can’t help it, it’s so close down there, so
tight and intimate because of how tiny his hole is even when it’s being held
open wide by dick; he feels every pulsing jerk of Dean’s prick when it shoots
load after load inside of him.
They search each other’s eyes while Dean gives it up to him, while he fills Sam
with his burning seed, and it’s so much that Sam feels swollen with it. Dean
hand finds its way between them, pressing firm on Sam’s lower body like he
knows exactly what Sam had been thinking, like he wants to feel how distended
Sam is, too.
Dean gives one final, violent push like a punctuation, grinding in deep while
Sam flutters around him, milking at him. Sam smiles dreamily when Dean sinks
down on top of him finally, his full weight making the bed whine when he
settles in, practically suffocating Sam but it’s exactly what he wants.
“Merry Christmas, my dearest little one,” Dean whispers against his mouth, hand
up to push Sam’s hair back from his face, both of them ignoring how his fingers
tremble as he does. Sam strokes up and down Dean’s back, over the still-soft
curve of his ass that he squeezes adoringly. Sam smiles into the kisses Dean
can’t seem to stop giving him, and the candle near the bed finally goes out,
the wick burnt away, leaving them in utter, cradled darkness.
End Notes
     on december 22nd, 1864, general sherman presented lincoln with a
     priceless gift: the city of savannah, georgia. savannah was one of
     the last major ports that remained open to the confederates, and its
     sacking marked the beginning of the end of the american civil war.
     the war ended april 9, 1865; dean would only have to endure a few
     more months of being a soldier after this story was set.
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