
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2202000.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      girl!Dean_-_Character
  Additional Tags:
      Genderbending, Always_Female_Dean, Hurt/Comfort, Virginity
  Collections:
      spn_masquerade_Summer_2014
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-08-26 Words: 3015
****** you're the only one that's mine ******
by riyku
Summary
     Dean gets injured on a hunt and Sam has to patch her up. Things get a
     little out of hand.
Notes
     Written for this_prompt over at
     [http://l-stat.livejournal.net/img/community.gif?v=556?v=118.7]
spn_masquerade. Title from Murder by Death's "Brother." This is miles outside
of my comfort zone, which I suppose is what the challenge is all about. Mighty
shaky on it, folks, and concrit is very welcome.
Sam flips on the radio, thumbs at the dial until the static resolves into
gospel, some bible thumper preaching fire and brimstone. He leaves it, grateful
for the way it drowns out the labored sound of his sister's panting breath and
the high-pitched whine of the Impala's engine wound up too tight. Beside him,
Dean doesn't say a word, just breathes out a shaky, low grunt that sounds more
animal than human, and that's how Sam knows it's bad. Or if not bad, then
definitely not great.
Dean's hand is pressed to her side, slow trickle of blood leaking out between
her fingers. Her face is pale from the pain, dark smudges like dirty
thumbprints under her eyes and her pretty, pretty mouth isn't so pretty right
now, lips pulled back in a snarl and teeth chattering minutely.
He hadn't gotten a clear look at the thing that did this to her, only flashes
of it between the cornstalks (and of course it had to be a cornfield, clowns
and cornfields get to him, every single time). Long claws, skinny elongated
arms and legs covered with mottled grey skin, its eyes glinting pale yellow.
He's not sure which of them delivered the bullet that took it out, or whether
they'd killed it at all. He only knows that he'd shot at it, that he'd kept
shooting at it until his gun clicked empty and his wrist felt like it was about
to shatter from the recoil.
The hunt was supposed to be simple: research, track it, kill it. Easy like one,
two, three. It wound up getting complicated in a real big hurry.
"C'mon, Dean. Lemme see," Sam says. He pries one hand off of the steering wheel
and takes her by the wrist. His fingers skid across the blood on her skin as
she allows him to peel her hand away and get a quick look at the gash.
His stomach lurches. It's not the blood that gets to him. At fifteen he
probably knows more about triage than a second-year nursing student. It's the
feeling of her wrist under his fingers, so delicately boned and fragile,
completely engulfed by his hand.
Dean is everything to Sam, his universe entire, not so much the moon and stars
or anything as intangible as that, more like the bedrock beneath his feet,
solid and reliable and unchanging. And Sam wonders how it happened, when it
happened, that anything at all about his sister could seem so small and so
frail.
The sun is fiery glow in the rearview, hazy red through the pillar of dust
kicked up by the car's tires, so thick and tall that it might be visible from
space. The fields roll out forever on either side of them. Sam stretches
backward, reaching for the wadded mass of Dean's flannel in the backseat. The
car bumps out of the wheel ruts and Dean grunts.
"Eyes on the road, Sammy," she tells him. At least she's talking. Good. That's
good.
 
~*~*~*~
 
The neon hotel sign blinks, looks like salvation, a lighthouse steering sailors
through dangerous water. Sam hauls Dean out of the passenger seat and she's so
incredibly light, feels like nothing, and her blood looks black in the
flickering blue light. Her blood turns red again once he gets her into a room,
paid for with a credit card as fake as the ID in his wallet that says he's
eighteen, a three year lie. She leaves a trail of it on the grimy carpet, more
soaking into Sam's shirt. He spreads her out on the bed and opens the tap at
the sink, full on hot, leaves it running while he goes back to the trunk of the
car and finds the dinged-up ammo box that doubles as a first aid kit, and the
bottle of whiskey their father doesn't think they know about that he keeps
tucked under the passenger seat.
Back inside, back at the sink and steam clouds the mirror, wet towels so hot he
can hardly stand to touch them.
"Are you okay?" Dean's voice, shaky from the bed. In the fogged reflection, Sam
sees her struggle to sit up, hazy, like a ghost. He doesn't answer and the next
time she's louder. "Sammy. Are you okay." Less of a question, more like a
forceful benediction. A demand and now Sam can breathe again.
"Yeah. I'm good," he says, and Dean gives him a trembling half-smile, hands it
right on over like a gift.
He feeds her a percocet with a slug of booze, pours another slug onto her
wound. Liquor and blood on the sheets and she arches up, twists and turns like
she's got some lesser demon down her throat.
Three cuts across her ribs, two shallow and one not so much. It'll be stitches
for the middle gash. She kicks off her pants and when Sam cuts the t-shirt off
of her, she becomes very still, crosses her arms over her chest, shy in a way
that she usually never is.
Her skin is hot and supple under Sam's hands as he cleans her up, kneels beside
the bed, elbows on the mattress like he's about to say his nighttime prayers
and asks her if she's ready. She nods, licks her lips, gaze floating up toward
the ceiling, exhaling through her mouth when the needle goes in.
As he stitches her, his knuckles rub against the underside of her breast,
against her bra, formerly silky but now stiff with her blood. He can see the
hard peaks of her nipples through it when she uncrosses her arms, grips the
headboard with one hand and slides the other against his neck with an
encouraging little squeeze.
Dean moves up, threads his hair through her fingers and slurs, "Pretty soon
it'll be longer than mine."
And that is something Sam doesn't need right now. Both the snark and the feel
of her short nails scratching across his scalp, working out the knots in his
hair.
It's always there, and at fifteen Sam's resigned to the fact that it'll
probably always be there, this low thrum under his skin that spikes up hot
whenever he's got a hand on his sister, the way his stomach hooks whenever Dean
walks out of the bathroom in nothing but her underwear and a t-shirt, the way
she looks at him sometimes, like she can see every single one of his filthy
secrets, like they're writ large all over his body
She's tougher than them, more stoic than Sam and their father combined, has
always acted like she's got something to prove and can't seem to see that she's
already proven it over and over again. She's always been one of the guys, hacks
at her hair with a straight razor because she likes the choppy way it makes it
look, lives in ratty cut-offs and combat boots because it's best for the job.
But sometimes she'll come out of the shower smelling like strawberries, hair
damp and dripping onto her back and a bottle of black nail polish that she
lifted from the five and dime in her hand. She'll plop down on the bed beside
Sam and shove her feet into his lap and Sam knows the drill, thankful that his
pants are always a few sizes too big and even more thankful when she doesn't
say anything about the flush that sets his face on fire.
But now Sam's cock is starting to thicken, grow hot and damp in his pants, and
it's gotta be the tail end of his adrenaline boost that got them this far that
makes it impossible to will it back down. He rubs his crotch against the side
of the bed and stays there for a second as he reaches for the bandage and tapes
it to her ribs.
"Looking good, brother mine," Dean says with a sweet little curve to her mouth.
"I mighta done better, of course. Sure as hell coulda done it faster."
"I'd like to see you try," he shoots back, weak, but he's honestly glad to get
the butt end of Dean's ego, reestablish this balance to the status quo.
Dean sits up a little, turns her back to him and winces as she tries to reach
around her body to unhook her bra, the skin around her stitches pulling too
tight. "Gimme a hand, would ya?"
It's like a wrecking ball just punched him in the chest. He's mostly fine with
cleaning her up, fixing her where she's ripped open, but this is something else
entirely. A step too far. Ten steps too far. He swallows. A dry click in his
throat.
"It's not rocket science, Sam." Dean glances over her shoulder, smug and
smirking. "Besides, you'll have to learn eventually. It's one of those
important life skills."
"Fuck off," Sam says without heat, and his voice sounds thick and unreliable to
his own ears. His fingers are unreliable too, clumsy and too big on the clasp
but he gets it done, and now he's got the sight of his sister's back to deal
with, all that skin with nothing to break it up. He slips the strap off of her
shoulder on the injured side, the back of his fingers sliding on her skin and
when he hears her breath catch, he tells himself it's just the pain. It's gotta
be the pain.
"Grab me a shirt," she says as she holds up her bra, thumbs at the crusting
blood then throws it on the floor.
Sam's bag is closer so he hands her one of his, his body turned away at an
awkward angle. He doesn't want to see her except in all of the ways that he
really, really does. Most of all, he doesn't want her to see him. It's a good
plan, a self-preserving plan, but then she pulls the shirt on over her head,
holds the neck of it up to her nose and breathes in deep.
Dean smells like him now and there are unexpected consequences to that. Things
that Sam never could have foreseen. Sam's so hard he might very well die soon,
and there's no hiding it. He expects her to give him crap, bitch about boystink
or make some off color remark about a stain, but she doesn't. Instead she pulls
at the collar until it's stretched enough to fall of one of her shoulders and
then she pulls at Sam, a slim finger hooked through his waistband.
"What..." Sam starts, but goes with it anyway. Stubbornness is one of her
defining character traits and if he doesn't, she'll only yank harder, do more
damage.
Her gaze lands on his crotch then ticks up to his face. She looks at him, eyes
glazed and as bright as broken bottle glass. Her mouth falls open and her
tongue sneaks out to hit her lip and Sam can't move, can't look away. It's his
sister, fierce and beautiful in ways that no one but Sam will ever see and he's
helpless, stuck there, feeling like his chest might rip open any second so that
his heart can finally, once and for all, land squarely in her hands.
"It's okay," Dean insists, makes room beside her likes she's done a thousand
times before and tugs him down. "I know. I've known for a while now. You're not
as smart as you think you are."
"But you're my--" Sam tries, and now Sam's stretched out beside her, and his
hand is shaking as he finds her hip but hers is rock solid, steady on the side
of his face, covering his ear. His heart pounds and it sounds like the ocean.
"And you're mine," she interrupts. "And it's still okay. It's always gonna be
okay." To prove it, she leans in close and kisses him. It's soft, definite,
gets very hot very quickly as she sets her teeth in his bottom lip then sucks
on it, slicks her tongue inside. She does it like it's the easiest thing, like
it's not hellfire and damnation and illegal in every single state in the union
and Sam goes with it, clutches at her waist and almost loses it when she pushes
him onto his back and forces his pants down, just enough to get a hand on his
cock.
There's confidence in every single move she makes, as if she's planned it out
for months and months, choreographed and predicted everything Sam might do.
Every shiver. Every tiny hitch of his hips. She shifts on top of him and
straddles him and now it's a whole new level of fucked up, the way she rocks
against him, the heat between her legs as she rubs herself off on the hard line
of his cock.
Sam is wrecked, amazed, not sure where to look first and can't figure out what
to do with his hands but Dean seems to know precisely how she wants this to go
and takes him by the wrists, draws his hands up along her thighs. So soft.
Uncharted territory.
"Am I your first?" She's got his hands under her shirt now, fingers all tangled
together, and she's still rocking down on him, speeding up.
"Yeah," Sam says, and there's no point in lying. There's nothing she doesn't
know about him.
"Good. That's--that's fucking good."
He can see the outline of his hand through her shirt, five fingers splayed wide
on her breast and it's hotter that way, somehow more intimate. Dean arches back
as Sam accidentally scrapes his fingernail against her nipple, so he does it
again, circles it with his thumbnail and it pushes a moan out of her, makes her
slip her eyes closed and tighten her thighs on his hips.
It would take so little. She's so close, right there, so wet and hot and all
Sam would need to do is push up, push in. If stubbornness is one of Dean's
defining character traits, then beating Sam to the punch, doing everything
first has got to be another. She doesn't even bother with her panties, just
pulls them to the side and takes Sam by the base of his cock. She pauses, peers
down at Sam like she's looking for some kinda answer and all Sam can do is
minutely nod, hold his breath while she sinks down on him, takes him all the
way in. It's hot, so fucking wet and Sam's just starting to wrap his head
around it when she bears down, clenches somewhere deep inside, works herself
almost all the way off then slams home again.
Nothing in his life has prepared Sam for this, for the push and pull of his
sister's body as she starts to ride him hard. Sam's transfixed by the way she
swallows him up, by the sight of his own cock all wet with her slick. He's
taken down by it, dismantled at the sound of their skin slapping together and
Dean's hushed little sighs.
Sam begins bucking up, remembers he has hands and circles his thumb around
Dean's clit and her hips snap forward, a look of pure surprise on her face that
melts into something almost pained and then she's trembling everywhere,
clutching at Sam and getting slicker, tighter.
"Damn, Sammy," she breathes, still rocking on him. "C'mon. C'mon.."
He did that to her. He can't believe that he did that to her, and it's that
thought that tips him over, makes him thrust up to meet her, hands locked down
on her thighs and his whole body straining as he shoots.
His vision zeroes down, becomes basic, reduced to nothing outside of his
beautiful, violent sister. She can put a bullet through a nickel at twenty
paces, can field strip an automatic rifle fast enough to put any well-trained
Marine to shame. Sam's timed her. She uses her looks as a weapon, every swish
of her hips is an inherent dare, her smile sharper and more dangerous than a
switchblade. But right now she's pliant under his hands, lets herself get
pulled down by the back of her neck, her hard body soft like silk, her mouth
slick as she sucks on his tongue.
One more long, lingering kiss and she rolls off of him, tucks herself along his
side and jabs Sam with her knee when he goes to throw an arm across her waist.
"Watch the stitches, bitch."
Sam grins.
 
~*~*~*~
 
In the morning, Sam leaves the key to the motel room on the dresser and closes
the door behind him. Dean's blood is on the carpet and Sam's spunk is on the
sheets and neither of them are in the mood to talk their way out of it.
Dean wants breakfast, eggs and pancakes and four different kinds of meat, and
Sam's happy to go along with that. He's happy for an excuse to sit across the
table from her, tangle their legs together and stare at her until she rolls her
eyes and kicks him, and then he'll stare some more.
Behind the office, the manager's teenaged son has one of the housekeepers
pinned against the wall. He has his hands buried in her dark, wavy hair and she
has hers up his shirt.
"Look, Sammy," Dean says, nudging his side with her elbow, "true love."
Sam kicks a loose pebble across the parking lot, ducks his head and looks away
when the two kids spring apart, startled.
He knows what true love is. He knows what it looks like and how it feels. True
love is an open highway and a fast car that's black as night. True love is his
sister's blood under his fingernails and the crooked scar on her ribs that
she'll carry for the rest of her life. True love is target practice and
training, aiming at bottles and tin cans for hours and hours and running three
miles every morning before school, so that when it's real he'll get there in
time, and when it's real he will not miss.
--fin
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