SpN Fic post:Lately
6/6/07 07:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Lately
Fandom: SpN
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: to NC-17
Summary:What happened before Sam left, from Dean's pov
A/N: This is![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mkitty3's PWP, because she has been very, very good to me. Any glaring mistakes of logic and sense are mine, God knows mecurtin did her very best to keep me on track. Thanks so much, my dear!
Word Count: 12514
posted in two parts
So, as punishment for not reading the Joker fic, you have to read this one. This is partially a repost--I had a few parts up, but this is the fic in it's entirety. I promise, it's not bad at all!
Lately
Lately, things were getting hard—difficult!—to deal with. He wasn’t really sure what to think. Except maybe he was kind of sick or something.
His brother was driving him nuts on all kinds of levels, and he couldn’t even say anything—what the fuck could he say—Hey, stop making me think about following you into the bathroom and dropping to my knees in front of you. Stop looking like sex. Stop looking at me!
It was like living with one of those fucking eye paintings—the shit people said when ever they tried to point out about what great shit a painting was—look the eyes follow you around the room. So fucking what. His brothers eyes followed *him* around and it wasn’t that terrific a thing. It was like being pinned…all the time.
He never said anything! He just looked! And worse—he was never sure where he was looking—at his face, or. Or his crotch.
What if he wasn’t looking at all?
What if…what if he was thinking the same thing….what if he was yelling in his mind over and over--stop looking at me?
Fuck.
Oh God….
“Dean?”
Oh shit—“What?”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine, go to sleep.” Oh God. Was he thinking that hard? His brother was trying to kill him. And now…pajamas. Pajamas were the issue. He remembered when Sam would leap out of the tub, squeaky clean and dripping wet, and they’d hustle him into his little flannel PJs, and throw his ass in bed, g’night and be done. Dad would slap him on the back and tell him good job, and he’d drift off to sleep, having done his duty by Sammy, and his dad….
Now. Now. Pajamas. Sam got older, and he didn’t have to run a tub for him or wash behind his ears—hand him the washcloth and growl, clean yer own butt and he’d giggle and dash for the bathroom, scrub and brush all by himself and--
Then that became a punch to the head and a shove into the bathroom—get cleaned you stink. Getting cursed at from behind a locked door, and him giggling and watching Letterman or whatever…waiting for Dad to come back. Done his duty.
That had worked out perfectly for years. Perfect. And then Sammy had to screw it up.
First time he noticed… it was summer, in Pennsylvania. Hot and sticky as hell but the dump they were staying in, miracle of miracles, had a real pool. Small as shit and never cold from all the other bodies in it but wet. Sam was making lunch, still dripping from the pool, smelling like pool, and wearing the bottoms of his PJs even though it was early still.
Cold, he said, when he asked why. He was smearing generic peanut butter over bread, the little plastic knife flipping and bending in his hand, cursing under his breath about dollar store plastic ware and….
Sam’s back was long, and brown from the sun and his shoulder blades slid under his skin like wings trying to break free…he felt like a pervert when he realized he was staring. No, he felt like a pervert when he realized he was staring and he was stiff. A little. Not a lot.
Yes he was. A lot.
Sam looked at him weird that night before he went to bed. The bigger bed. The one he shared with Dad. ‘Cause Dean was oldest and got his own bed. Yeah. He was the man.
He knew damn well why he got the single. Man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, without elbowing his brother. He was pathetically grateful his dad didn’t make a big deal over it. He didn’t think he could take a lecture on puberty and shit.
That’s what the internet was for.
It was weird how well he remembered that particular motel room.
It was long and narrow and the walls were cinderblock and painted pea soup green. And the bathroom door stuck. There was a full bed with a brown corduroy spread covering it against the wall facing the door, and nightstand and a twin bed, with a brown and green striped spread on it. The carpet was green. The curtains were green. There was a tiny fridge and a table with a chair next to it.
Maybe it was supposed to be a desk.
It was seriously ugly and seriously depressing and he spent any rare blessed time he was alone in the bathroom, jerking off. Oh god. For a damn long time the smell of peanut butter and chlorine made him horny as fuck. One time he scooped up peanut butter on his finger and sucked it clean while he jerked off. His knees gave out when he came that time.
Sammy wore the pajama bottoms out.
The next motel, he shared a bed with Sam.
That motel was on the edge of Hades. All day long, he’d sweat. All night long, he’d burn in hell.
Sam would lay next to him, rolled away and still as death, heat pouring off him, and the smell of his sweat forcing itself in his nose and. And it was too hot for pajamas Sam said, and wore boxers to bed--and he burned.
Sam was tall for his age, he shot up that summer, got really tall. And so thin, it was painful to look at.
He looked a lot that summer, oh god he looked an awful lot.
Come fall, Dad had an attack of parenting and somewhere in Jersey, he found a little house to rent, and a school to enroll Sam in and he was pretty glad not to move for a while. He put a poster on the wall on his side of the room. They went to Wal-Mart and bought sheets, blankets…house stuff. Clothes.
He slipped a package of pajamas into the cart. For Sam.
The house was a shotgun with faded linoleum in all the rooms…he remembered it felt gritty underfoot, and how cold it was in the morning. The place smelled like wet newspaper all the time…
For a little bit it was home.
With a back yard on the edge of northing, Dad taught him and Sam how to shoot. He taught them basic moves in self defense but mostly taught them how to protect themselves against the things a gun wouldn’t stop. Sam figured being a freshman in a strange town was pretty much the same as tackling a demon.
He explained to him the plastic knives were no go for school.
“Don’t worry about it, Sammy. You won’t stick out because you’re new.” Sam looked hopeful until he said, “You’ll stick out because you’re freakishly tall and ugly.”
They grappled around on the mostly sand of the backyard of that little gray house. Rolled around and around and landed in a pile of arms and legs and. He was hard enough to throb and he was tight against Sam’s back. Butt. He could feel Sam’s heart pounding, under his locked wrists he felt his ribs heaving, and he pried his hands apart and let Sam stand up.
Sam kicked him and walked into the house.
…it wasn’t an unfriendly kick.
When he came in the house Sam was making lunch, he made him a peanut butter sandwich too, without a word slid the plate across the table at him.
Even made him a glass of Boost.
He managed to choke down the sandwich without getting hard. Harder.
They sort of didn’t wrestle again…like, wrestled but not…like that.
He dreamed it though. All night long, dreamed of Sam moving against him, his cock pressed hard against his back, and rubbing, and rubbing…sometimes he’d wake up and hear an echo of a groan. He’d be pulsing in his shorts and for a moment feel—great until the guilt kicked his ass.
Pervert.
*****
Boxers. Low, hanging right at the edge of falling off.
Boxers…soft, really soft he knew, his were worn soft too. Washed over and over until the cotton was almost translucent and a little sweat made them cling like a second skin and you could see everything, Sam’s…everything. Hair. Skin. Freckles.
Cock.
Shit.
The beginning of fall and still hot, and they sat in the back yard in their shorts and threw darts at a target nailed on a tree. Toss, toss…Sam’s skin rolled over muscle smooth as water over river rocks. Surprising. Hard muscle. He checked his own arms—yeah. Not bad and when he looked up he was looking right into Sam’s eyes and they blushed. Sam tossed a dart at him.
“Fucker!”
“Pay attention.”
“Funny, mother fucker.”
He spent the afternoon watching Sam read, counting the freckles on his back, making patterns out of them…getting hard.
Leaving to jerk off in the bathroom. Fucker.
…maybe he wants it too. Maybe he’s just waiting for him to say something. Maybe Sam wants him to make the first move, take it out of his hands. Why won’t Sam make the first move, take it out of his hands….
“Too hot, pussface.” The answer.
The question? Why are you not wearing boxers tonight? Too hot? Hot.
God he was in hell. New Jersey was hell.
Sticky hot clinging to the sheets and holding yourself hell and Sam is naked. Nude.
“Dean, can you—would you look at this? Is it normal?”
*Please don’t be looking at your cock.*
Looking.
Damn.
Hell.
“Look—looks like a pimple to me, scuzz. Nothing to worry about.”
“Are you sure?”
“What, you want me to look closer—you do.” *Fuck me* He reached out a hand; face screwed up in a grimace. *You can do this. Easy. Don’t think…* “Okay…” and lifted…lifted his cock to look.
He had to know. He must know, Sam was playing—pushing him, had to be—
It was alive in his hand. Hot and velvety, still soft and that kind of made him want to touch harder, stroke…he would not look at his face. He would not listen to Sam breathe… “Really Sam, normal.”
“Yeah?” He sounded a little winded.
“Yeah.” Maybe Sam sounded winded—but he sounded like someone’d punched him in the gut. Some body *should*. His fingers burned.
His gut burned remembering the twitch he’d felt when he laid Sam’s cock back against his thigh.
He was a fucking SAINT. One more inch and he’d have had his cock in his face. Two more inches and he could have licked it. Sam would have felt his breath on the head of his cock, and wasn’t it, maybe, a little, wet?
HELL.
Sick, sick bastard he was. Sam had no more idea what he was doing to him than a puppy chewing on your shoes…innocent. Clueless.
And going to bed naked all the time now.
Naked. He hated Sammy, hated him so much he could taste it. Hated him…realized his fingers were in his mouth and hated him some more.
Sam was trying to kill him, no doubt. Nude and brown still…the sun took a long time leaving Sam. He was the color of sun on bronze, the color of life, the color of warm. The color he saw in his dreams, the ones in which he’d climb into Sam’s bed naked, and put his arms around him and rub against him, and he didn’t know how to do what he wanted exactly but he wanted to learn and do it to Sam.
Dad would let him have the car sometimes and it was a relief to leave for a bit. Didn’t need to go far. The parking lot at the strip mall had everything he needed. Sometimes a joint, a beer, girls in the back seat.
Some girls would blow him and he made them do it in the car. He liked sitting with his legs far apart, and watching them bend over his cock. He liked it wet and sloppy. He liked noise. He liked repaying them, he liked eating them out. He liked fucking them, he liked doing it from behind, he liked their backs pressed into his chest, hard, flat.…
Once a girl let him fuck her in the ass and he thought he was going to die. He was all over her shaking, moaning, making too much noise, stuttering and plunging in and out and praying and he might have yelled out Sam’s name.
More than once.
Maybe screamed it about twenty times when his eyes rolled back and sparklers exploded in his head and his dick and his ass and—it was wild and he couldn’t get her out of the car fast enough. All he wanted was a shower and bed and a pillow over his head. His face. His nose. Fuck a pillow—a plastic bag….
Sam was awake and wanting to talk when he fell in the door but all he could see was his cock in his ass and he was a bastard to him but at least Sam shut up. He felt like shit but…he locked himself in the bathroom and showered and thought, ‘what the hell am I going to do?’
Jerk off.
With one finger touching himself, reaching behind him and touching…because he had to know, what did it feel like?
Pretty damn good, actually. The noisy kind of good…he had to keep a hand in his mouth to keep it down. Came back out , and Sammy was still awake, still nude.
No....
Naked, naked sounded nastier.
He was naked on top of the covers and beautiful and staring at him with some kind of hate in his eyes. Damn. Whatever he’d said to the boy must have been harsh…“What?”
“Nothing.” Jumped off the bed—*don’t look*--stomped off to the bathroom. *don’t look*
Okay…Sam shut the door and as soon as it was closed, he shoved his hand in his pants. *Just going to squeeze, one time. Twice, a squeeze or two, and I’ll stop*.
“Dean.”
Whipped his hand out of his pants fast enough to hurt. “What?”
“Come here.”
“Why?” Why…okay, this was a ‘why come here’, and a ‘why am I getting up again’ and a ‘why do I do pretty much whatever the boy wants’ why.
“Can you come here?”
He crawled out of the bed, reluctant, eager. Dry mouthed and scared. “What?”
“Is this a deer tick, there’s something on my back, I feel it.”
*Bitch. You know--you’re doing this on purpose--you’re trying to make me...cry, you bitch.* “I can’t see anything.”
“Really? ‘Cause I felt something…”
Crack. He *heard* his brain break. A wave of anger swept up and almost knocked him off his feet. *Stop! Stop! Stop…*
*You asked for it, boy.*
“Let me see…there *is* something there.” He touched that long brown back, “There? No…”
Slid his finger down slowly, slowly, tracing a line of bronze freckles, past the brown and onto skin so white and soft and “here, is this it?” and he twisted his finger to the right of his cleft, barely to the right and slowly--twisted it slowly, until he felt backward pressure against the fingertip sliding deeper in his cleft and he twisted his finger and slid closer and closer… “Does it itch?” he asked, and his voice broke a little. Sam shook his head, opened his mouth and some kind of noise creaked out….
In the really small bathroom, the sound of their breath was like the roar of a waterfall, and he put both his hands on Sam’s ass and pressed, dipped his head a fraction. Of. An. Inch. And heard the front door open.
He jerked away, and Sam turned around, hands over his cock. He looked relieved, needy, angry…angrier as he backed towards the door. Oh fuck. *Stop.*
Sam shook his head. “It’s not my fault.”
The door swung shut behind him, and he was staring at himself in the mirror, alone.
Pajamas, and boxers and naked skin…it was fucking winter and he was naked in the bed and *oh, no*, it wasn’t Sam’s fault and for one moment he thought *I could just…jump him. Jump on him and knock him down and—beat myself unconscious what the *fuck* am I thinking!*
God…if he held his breath really long, could he die? Fucking hell. Next time, he was going on the hunt, let Dad stay here with…Lolita. Okay, have to let that breath go.
Breathe.
And now he was panting, great, lovely.
By the time he had the guts to come out of the bathroom and walk the million miles to bed, Sam was snoring, stretched out and gone, sleeping the sleep of the innocent….
*****
Maine was ass-freezing cold. Winter there was every nightmare he’d ever had. Cold. Weird.
Werewolves liked it cold…
Things changed. He rode shotgun with Dad now while Sam stayed home on his own.
Maine was the first time he killed--killed something that bled, anyway.
Forgot most of it except the silver blade shoving into the thing’s chest--sticking first and then sliding in and all that hot hot blood poured over his hand—still creeped out that his first thought had been, ‘wow, warm.’ His hands were always cold and now they weren’t and then, the blood cooled right away and got thick and sticky and it’s head blew apart when Dad shot it and he threw up in the snow for like--*forever*. Threw up until his fucking *toes* hurt.
A part of him kept thinking, there’s a person under that fur and blood and I killed it. Dad patted him on the back and told him he was a good soldier. He kept apologizing, and hurling and Dad kept patting him…he kept seeing ice colored wolf eyes turn dark and human and...hurt. Full of hurt….
Two thousand stairs to their apartment over a ceramics studio…each one two hundred feet high, and by the time he was in the door, he was ready to die. Dad pulled him into the shower, washed him until the tacky gluey mess was gone, blood clung to places he swore it hadn’t touched. Blood was so fucking gross and he wanted to pour bleach over everywhere it touched.
Dad wrapped him in a big towel and rubbed him from head to toe like he was five—and finally he could breathe again. “I’m sorry. Dad, I’m sorry.”
“For what? *I’m* sorry—shoulda got the shot sooner…you were great, Dean, you were a soldier, you were brave…” over and over.
He felt such love for Dad.
And then Dad left. “Back tomorrow, okay?” He was gone and leaving him alone with Sam, still shaky. Still feeling the blood. Still wrapped in a towel….
“Are you okay?” Sam looked scared.
“Duh.” ‘Course he was okay. Obviously. ‘Cause if he wasn’t…
“Yeah. Dad wouldn’t. Dad couldn’t…so you’re okay.”
He was nodding and shivering and really, really fucking tired. Crawled up on the bed and lay down, pulled the pillow over his head, and Sam lay down next to him and sighed. Put his arms around him. All he could do was pretend to be asleep.
Sam pushed closer, rocked himself closer and then—rocked against him. Again, again until hot breath flowed over the back of his neck, and his ear, and a small voice groaned, “I want to touch you.” Big hand roamed along the flap of the towel that was all that was saving him from going to hell, boy, it was getting harder and harder not to move back, not to press against Sammy—it was plain hard. A snicker in his ear told him that Sam had found that out too.
Sigh. Big sigh. Big honkin' sigh and a curse and a slap—“you understand WRONG, don’t you? Like, this is so fuckin’ wrong?”
“Shut up and let me make you feel better. I promise I won’t do anything—just hold you.”
“Okay.”
Because, sometimes it was too hard to fight, and sometimes, any kind of close is a good close…fucking unbelievable that he could fall asleep with Sam’s cock pressed so tight against his ass he could feel his pulse. Unbelievable--but he did.
****
Next morning he sat in the big window in the living-kitchen-dining-laundry room, the gray light of a winter afternoon made him feel he was in an alien world. The gray floorboards were cold underfoot, and he kept thinking about snow--white, white snow. Sam sat across from him, perched on the arm of the beat-up couch and sipped coffee from a big ugly mug. Studied him.
“You okay?”
“Told you last night I was. I am.”
“I mean about--”
“About what? I slept pretty hard last night. I was damn tired.”
Sam looked at him. “Yeah. Yeah. Listen—Dad was a dick for leaving you last night.” Put down his cup next to him and wandered back to the bedroom, and he sat in the window and drank the rest of Sam’s coffee and counted snowflakes….
*****
Road Trip. Oh Gawd. Fuckin’ hell. Every time he heard the words, his gut cramped. But he grinned like he loved it—Road Trip! Fuckin’ yay! ‘Cause Dad didn’t need extra shit and Sam didn’t need to know how much not a fuckin’ adventure it was.
California was calling. At least it’d be warm.
And then…and then….there were days and days in the back seat of the car.
Days.
Daysdaysdays.
Days.
Okay, four days but time always moved slower in hell….
The backseat got smaller as the DAYS went by and there was no where to go, his beat up old walkman didn’t work anymore, and walls of pillows didn’t work anymore and shoving his fingers in his ears and slamming his eyes shut didn’t work anymore.
“Dean, move *over*.”
“Stop touching me.”
“*You* stop touching—”
“No, you stop touching—
“Oh for—shut the hell up the *both* of you or so help me, I’ll kill you.”
Nervous laughter because it was Dad and you never knew…. Looked up and caught Dad in the rear view mirror staring at him. ‘You’re the oldest’ in his eyes. Which meant he had to look out for Sam and be an example and weren’t they way too fucking old for him to be baby sitting his brother? *And if you knew what your Sam was doing…trying to do….*
Zillions of miles and landmarks zipping past unvisited--they were getting to know all the rest stops intimately. They could fill an album with pics of rest stops—here’s the vending machine in New York, here’s a really nice picnic table in Illinois….
Dad drove he drove Sam drove.
Night and day flowed past one another like water and night came and Sam was leaning on his shoulder, dozing on and off. He was too tired to push him off, too tired to pretend he didn’t like it, and after a while, he dozed off himself.
Opened his eyes.
There was a weight in his lap. Warm and heavy.
The road tossed the weight against him and back, against him and back, and he was hard. Heat on his cock. Pressure, pleasant pressure.
He closed his eyes again and sent up a prayer to…wherever, and opened his eyes. Looked down into his lap.
Looking for what he had no idea because who the hell would it be but Sam and there he was in his lap. *Can’t move*…and his ass was itching fierce. Of course.
The slightest move and he’d be….god, nose to cock with him.
Maybe…maybe Sam was asleep. Maybe he’d just keep his eyes closed. And keep really really quiet.
Maybe Sam wasn’t really pressing his mouth against his zipper, and he wasn’t swelling to fill what little space was left in his jeans, and he couldn’t feel hot gusts of air leaking through the denim and onto his cock. He didn’t just squirt pre-come in his boxers because he wasn’t so excited he was on the verge of coming.
*Fuck me*
The added strain, beyond the strain that his brother…may or may not be trying to make him come in his pants, was keeping his mouth shut in front of Dad…*Dad pull over pull over*
No matter how much you try, you can’t force a person to develop ESP when you want them to have it. He gave it a try anyway.
He really did. Right up until the point that Sam opened his mouth and bit down the length of his zipper. Hot moist breath, and the pinch of Sammy’s puppy teeth and he was shivering wildly. He would have paid a fortune to not be in that car right at that moment. Sam’s teeth closed over the tip of his cock hidden under the denim and cotton and he breathed out while doing it and it was—so fucking hot, his cock jumped and burned and he would have paid a fortune for Dad to not be in the car at that moment.
He couldn’t tell Sam to stop.
He couldn’t open his mouth.
Because he wanted to scream….
*FUCKFUCK*
Slickhotwet shot out of his cock and filled his shorts and he imagined his hands went up to cup Sam’s head and he imagined he lifted his hips and pumped into his mouth and Sam swallowed all of him greedily, and he whipped his head back and forth and screamed Sammy, suck me, of god, oh shit your mouth is so hot…
Which would have been horribly wrong and hotter than hell, better than reality.
He sat frozen, not moving, not breathing not swallowing feeling his cock pulse hard. Realizing Sam’s chin was jammed into his thigh and he was letting out the same kind of low, slow nearly silent breath, and he could feel the tension in Sammy’s body flow out, and he moved his hand. Kinda accidentally brushed Sam’s crotch. And got a shiver and a breath and Sam was.
He could feel Sam move under the palm he had pressed hard against his zipper. Oh god good—No! Oh God, this is not good.
Next rest stop, he was gonna poke his eyes out. He was gonna poke his eyes out, and cut out his brain and his evil possessed cock….
Sam squeezed his leg and rubbed little circles on it.
And oh sure, that made it all better….
The slide of light over his brother’s face as they drove in and out of darkness…made him feel soft. Possessive. He loved him.
He really loved Sam.
******
Street lights cast an orange glow through the windows, the big blue signs led them to a rest stop, time to stretch and move and remember that he had feet and legs and an ass and maybe they could eat…
Instead, Dad and Sam are in the car asleep and he’s in a stall in the stop, his ass bumping against the cold metal wall, and his cock down some kid’s throat…and he could breathe, and moan, yank his hair and tell the kid, “watch out,. I’m going to fuckin’ come, it’s--” he shook from head to toe, and the mouth drew back, slickly wet and smooth all over the inside like satin, his tongue was hot and silky on his cock, his lips plush and wet and he said, “Come in my mouth.”
He was cramming his tee-shirt in his mouth and shaking all over, and yelling into the wad of fabric—it felt so good to let go--he fucked the stranger’s mouth and called him.
Well.
There was ever only one name that fell out of his mouth…when it was like this.
He got blown in a rest stop. A strange guy blew him in a rest stop. He was giggling against the door after the guy left, maybe from shock a little. as he pulled his shirt down, and pulled up his pants he thought how different it’d been than with a girl, more…more like he’d dreamed of. He liked it.
Until he got back in the car and Sam was awake.
How was it any of his business what he did and how fuckin’ sick was it that he felt—guilty? Guilty.
Really, though, if the shoe was on the other foot, how much would he hate seeing Sam come back to him, sated and rumpled and walking that loose-hipped way you get when sex makes all your muscles loopy and warm…could he lean over and whisper, “I imagined it was you—I always do?”
Better…or worse?
******
Winter. Spring. Summer. Fall.
California. Washington. Idaho.
Away. Moving all the time. Moving like—fuck not even like gypsies, they were staggering in circles around the country, pointless, killing and killing and killing…Dad was looking for the Holy Grail. Or Death, or Lucifer--or fuck, maybe the perfect burger, what the fuck.
They drove through Nevada hot…dry…kind of fugly.
Tires whirring over the road, cars flashing past them, hot dry air whistling in the open windows. Dad pointing out mountains, and Sam sitting back, arms crossed, eyes squinched... “They’re brown.”
Why couldn’t Sam even try to play the game? What the fuck would it hurt him to make Dad happy?
Okay, so Dad had to be gone a lot and when he wasn’t gone he sometimes he got…drunk. A little. Not a little drunk, he meant it happened not that often. Even so, Dad wasn’t ever—out of it—never that.
Just sometimes, a little, a little harsh. He didn’t mean it, he never did—but Dad had all kinds of memories lurking after him. Of hunts. And of—of Mom. The service…shit happened. Happens. And sometimes you can’t sink those memories. Sometimes they float back to the top.
He did what Dad told him, though—he protected Sammy. If it meant taking him out for a coke, or even sleeping in the back seat of the car, all good.
He explained it, as much as he could. Dad didn’t mean it, he didn’t want to be like that .It was just an accident, and it didn’t happen that much anyway. And when it did, Dad was always awfully sorry. “You know he loves you.”
So. Sometimes they slept in the car. No sweat.
‘Course, he bitched and bitched, because no fuckin’ way would he admit how much he. He liked it. Sleeping in the car with Sam. Close to Sam.
Sitting up all night long, cause there’d long been no room for the both of them to stretch out. Sitting up side by side, Sam with his head tilted back, ridiculously long legs folded up—and asleep in instants, fucker. All the time, Sam’s the first to sleep and he—he gets to stay awake and watch him…yay. Fuckin’ yay.
Carefully sitting upright and painfully hard, and Sammy, he drools and snores and wraps his arms around him, climbs him like a monkey and drools in his neck, and shoves a hand between his legs and sometimes presses hard against him God. T-shirts wet with sweat, skin sticking to the seats, jeans wet behind the knees and the waistband and in the crease of their hips and wherever they touched.
Mornings break the heat, it’s cooler, comfortable, and then finally he can ease into sleep. The cooler air always makes Sam drive his nose into any warm spot…neck, cheek, ear…God.
******
Dad’s gone. The TV’s off, Sam’s got a local newspaper from somewhere, and a piece of the hotel ‘stationary’, a chewed up pencil in his hand. Brows kinked, the tip of a pointed pink tongue peeked out every once in a while to swipe along his upper lip.
The whole bed’s full of Sam. His head’s against the wall, his long brown legs hang over the side of the bed; his bare feet are on the floor, scuffing up the cheap thin mat masquerading as a rug.
God damn, he realizes, Sammy grew. He’s grown.
He grew so much.
What puppy fat he had is gone, and thin’s been over laid with muscle. He’s harder than when they were Jersey. He pictured hard muscle under his hand, over him pushing into him…
Stop looking, mother fucker, stop thinking...
The worst part? He knows, he knows if he says the word, he could have him. Have it. All.
He only has to say yes.
“Dean?”
*wasn’t looking at you--* “Hunh? I mean—what? Ye--”…swallowed hard. “Yes?”
“You think….Dad will let us stay put for a while?”
“Sam. I can’t predict what Dad will want to do.”
Just that quick, Sam starts to shut down and he grabs to keep him from going farther away. “Let me talk to him, okay?”
Sam nods.
He argued with Dad. Dad wanted to keep moving so he spun it like a motherfucker--a base, for a while, they needed a base—a safe place to plan and organize hunting trips. They were all tired of wandering across the country, right? They needed a break. “Just a few months…maybe…a year. A year, Dad. Catch our breaths.
Please.”
He’s wiped out after, wrung dry. He hates begging…
Trying to sleep, pretending the air conditioner hacking its guts out in the window is at least cooling some air as it dies. He feels the mattress sink. The sheets are so lousy that when Sam slides across them, they sound like paper crumbling.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“Sam, get back in your bed. Please.”
“Are you sure? I can stay…” Hot breath, so close it feels damp. So close Sam’s lips are teasing the shell of his ear.
*no fuck no, of course I’m not sure—I wanna fuck you touch you all over lick every inch of you* “I’m sure. Go.”
There are sixty fucking tiles on the ceiling right over his bed. Maybe…they’re made of asbestos, and maybe if he’s really fucking lucky, they’ll flake all over him and fill his lungs and he’ll be dead by morning….holding his breath hadn’t helped….
******
Floating in a pool full of lukewarm chlorine, letting the sun spin pinwheels in red and orange on the inside of his eyelids….keeping his thoughts trained on float, float…nothing but that, and ignore the feel of water lapping at his ribs like a little tongue…
Drifting and thinking… floating out here was a treat. Sam was long old enough to take care of himself…okay, so he was listening with every cell trained on their room, and wishing he had that x-ray vision so he could make sure Sam was okay, and maybe now he should get out of the water…
“Dean.”
*Getting out now.*
“What?” He stroked for the pool side, to Sam sitting at the edge now. Waiting for him.
“Nothing. Just wondering when you were coming in. I’m hungry.” Sam makes a face, and kicks the water—
“You can’t feed yourself?” Sam makes a noise, disgust, exasperation, he laughs and drops his chin on Sam’s knee and lets go, floating in the water—the only thing holding him up is his brother’s knee, the only thing keeping him from floating away…sinking…
“I can, but I like it better when you do it.”
“Sammy, Sammy—you know I can’t follow you around your whole life, cooking and cleaning for you…besides, being a bitch is your role.” Supposed to be a joke, but Sam looks away again with that odd little twist to his mouth. So fucking bitter, so…so hard…it’s not fucking fair, but that’s a thought he shoved down deep—along with all the other fucking baggage, shit….“Okay, what the fuck do you want for lunch, Sammy?”
“Nothing, never mind, I’m not hungry…”
“Hey…hey…” he risks touching Sam’s knee with his hand too, the taut brown skin is hot, sun hot, and it feels like it’s burning under his cold fingers. “You know I’m kidding right?” *Fuckin’ hell, don’t make me say it.* “Seriously, what do you want and don’t say PB and J, so help me…”
The ghost echo of lust makes his cock move…Sammy laughs, and splashes him, pushes him off and down into the water. He pops up to the surface again a few feet away, grinning, but Sam’s already jumped to his feet, running barefoot across the hot concrete.
******
continued in part two
Fandom: SpN
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: to NC-17
Summary:What happened before Sam left, from Dean's pov
A/N: This is
mkitty3's PWP, because she has been very, very good to me. Any glaring mistakes of logic and sense are mine, God knows mecurtin did her very best to keep me on track. Thanks so much, my dear!Word Count: 12514
posted in two parts
So, as punishment for not reading the Joker fic, you have to read this one. This is partially a repost--I had a few parts up, but this is the fic in it's entirety. I promise, it's not bad at all!
Lately
Lately, things were getting hard—difficult!—to deal with. He wasn’t really sure what to think. Except maybe he was kind of sick or something.
His brother was driving him nuts on all kinds of levels, and he couldn’t even say anything—what the fuck could he say—Hey, stop making me think about following you into the bathroom and dropping to my knees in front of you. Stop looking like sex. Stop looking at me!
It was like living with one of those fucking eye paintings—the shit people said when ever they tried to point out about what great shit a painting was—look the eyes follow you around the room. So fucking what. His brothers eyes followed *him* around and it wasn’t that terrific a thing. It was like being pinned…all the time.
He never said anything! He just looked! And worse—he was never sure where he was looking—at his face, or. Or his crotch.
What if he wasn’t looking at all?
What if…what if he was thinking the same thing….what if he was yelling in his mind over and over--stop looking at me?
Fuck.
Oh God….
“Dean?”
Oh shit—“What?”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine, go to sleep.” Oh God. Was he thinking that hard? His brother was trying to kill him. And now…pajamas. Pajamas were the issue. He remembered when Sam would leap out of the tub, squeaky clean and dripping wet, and they’d hustle him into his little flannel PJs, and throw his ass in bed, g’night and be done. Dad would slap him on the back and tell him good job, and he’d drift off to sleep, having done his duty by Sammy, and his dad….
Now. Now. Pajamas. Sam got older, and he didn’t have to run a tub for him or wash behind his ears—hand him the washcloth and growl, clean yer own butt and he’d giggle and dash for the bathroom, scrub and brush all by himself and--
Then that became a punch to the head and a shove into the bathroom—get cleaned you stink. Getting cursed at from behind a locked door, and him giggling and watching Letterman or whatever…waiting for Dad to come back. Done his duty.
That had worked out perfectly for years. Perfect. And then Sammy had to screw it up.
First time he noticed… it was summer, in Pennsylvania. Hot and sticky as hell but the dump they were staying in, miracle of miracles, had a real pool. Small as shit and never cold from all the other bodies in it but wet. Sam was making lunch, still dripping from the pool, smelling like pool, and wearing the bottoms of his PJs even though it was early still.
Cold, he said, when he asked why. He was smearing generic peanut butter over bread, the little plastic knife flipping and bending in his hand, cursing under his breath about dollar store plastic ware and….
Sam’s back was long, and brown from the sun and his shoulder blades slid under his skin like wings trying to break free…he felt like a pervert when he realized he was staring. No, he felt like a pervert when he realized he was staring and he was stiff. A little. Not a lot.
Yes he was. A lot.
Sam looked at him weird that night before he went to bed. The bigger bed. The one he shared with Dad. ‘Cause Dean was oldest and got his own bed. Yeah. He was the man.
He knew damn well why he got the single. Man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, without elbowing his brother. He was pathetically grateful his dad didn’t make a big deal over it. He didn’t think he could take a lecture on puberty and shit.
That’s what the internet was for.
It was weird how well he remembered that particular motel room.
It was long and narrow and the walls were cinderblock and painted pea soup green. And the bathroom door stuck. There was a full bed with a brown corduroy spread covering it against the wall facing the door, and nightstand and a twin bed, with a brown and green striped spread on it. The carpet was green. The curtains were green. There was a tiny fridge and a table with a chair next to it.
Maybe it was supposed to be a desk.
It was seriously ugly and seriously depressing and he spent any rare blessed time he was alone in the bathroom, jerking off. Oh god. For a damn long time the smell of peanut butter and chlorine made him horny as fuck. One time he scooped up peanut butter on his finger and sucked it clean while he jerked off. His knees gave out when he came that time.
Sammy wore the pajama bottoms out.
The next motel, he shared a bed with Sam.
That motel was on the edge of Hades. All day long, he’d sweat. All night long, he’d burn in hell.
Sam would lay next to him, rolled away and still as death, heat pouring off him, and the smell of his sweat forcing itself in his nose and. And it was too hot for pajamas Sam said, and wore boxers to bed--and he burned.
Sam was tall for his age, he shot up that summer, got really tall. And so thin, it was painful to look at.
He looked a lot that summer, oh god he looked an awful lot.
Come fall, Dad had an attack of parenting and somewhere in Jersey, he found a little house to rent, and a school to enroll Sam in and he was pretty glad not to move for a while. He put a poster on the wall on his side of the room. They went to Wal-Mart and bought sheets, blankets…house stuff. Clothes.
He slipped a package of pajamas into the cart. For Sam.
The house was a shotgun with faded linoleum in all the rooms…he remembered it felt gritty underfoot, and how cold it was in the morning. The place smelled like wet newspaper all the time…
For a little bit it was home.
With a back yard on the edge of northing, Dad taught him and Sam how to shoot. He taught them basic moves in self defense but mostly taught them how to protect themselves against the things a gun wouldn’t stop. Sam figured being a freshman in a strange town was pretty much the same as tackling a demon.
He explained to him the plastic knives were no go for school.
“Don’t worry about it, Sammy. You won’t stick out because you’re new.” Sam looked hopeful until he said, “You’ll stick out because you’re freakishly tall and ugly.”
They grappled around on the mostly sand of the backyard of that little gray house. Rolled around and around and landed in a pile of arms and legs and. He was hard enough to throb and he was tight against Sam’s back. Butt. He could feel Sam’s heart pounding, under his locked wrists he felt his ribs heaving, and he pried his hands apart and let Sam stand up.
Sam kicked him and walked into the house.
…it wasn’t an unfriendly kick.
When he came in the house Sam was making lunch, he made him a peanut butter sandwich too, without a word slid the plate across the table at him.
Even made him a glass of Boost.
He managed to choke down the sandwich without getting hard. Harder.
They sort of didn’t wrestle again…like, wrestled but not…like that.
He dreamed it though. All night long, dreamed of Sam moving against him, his cock pressed hard against his back, and rubbing, and rubbing…sometimes he’d wake up and hear an echo of a groan. He’d be pulsing in his shorts and for a moment feel—great until the guilt kicked his ass.
Pervert.
*****
Boxers. Low, hanging right at the edge of falling off.
Boxers…soft, really soft he knew, his were worn soft too. Washed over and over until the cotton was almost translucent and a little sweat made them cling like a second skin and you could see everything, Sam’s…everything. Hair. Skin. Freckles.
Cock.
Shit.
The beginning of fall and still hot, and they sat in the back yard in their shorts and threw darts at a target nailed on a tree. Toss, toss…Sam’s skin rolled over muscle smooth as water over river rocks. Surprising. Hard muscle. He checked his own arms—yeah. Not bad and when he looked up he was looking right into Sam’s eyes and they blushed. Sam tossed a dart at him.
“Fucker!”
“Pay attention.”
“Funny, mother fucker.”
He spent the afternoon watching Sam read, counting the freckles on his back, making patterns out of them…getting hard.
Leaving to jerk off in the bathroom. Fucker.
…maybe he wants it too. Maybe he’s just waiting for him to say something. Maybe Sam wants him to make the first move, take it out of his hands. Why won’t Sam make the first move, take it out of his hands….
“Too hot, pussface.” The answer.
The question? Why are you not wearing boxers tonight? Too hot? Hot.
God he was in hell. New Jersey was hell.
Sticky hot clinging to the sheets and holding yourself hell and Sam is naked. Nude.
“Dean, can you—would you look at this? Is it normal?”
*Please don’t be looking at your cock.*
Looking.
Damn.
Hell.
“Look—looks like a pimple to me, scuzz. Nothing to worry about.”
“Are you sure?”
“What, you want me to look closer—you do.” *Fuck me* He reached out a hand; face screwed up in a grimace. *You can do this. Easy. Don’t think…* “Okay…” and lifted…lifted his cock to look.
He had to know. He must know, Sam was playing—pushing him, had to be—
It was alive in his hand. Hot and velvety, still soft and that kind of made him want to touch harder, stroke…he would not look at his face. He would not listen to Sam breathe… “Really Sam, normal.”
“Yeah?” He sounded a little winded.
“Yeah.” Maybe Sam sounded winded—but he sounded like someone’d punched him in the gut. Some body *should*. His fingers burned.
His gut burned remembering the twitch he’d felt when he laid Sam’s cock back against his thigh.
He was a fucking SAINT. One more inch and he’d have had his cock in his face. Two more inches and he could have licked it. Sam would have felt his breath on the head of his cock, and wasn’t it, maybe, a little, wet?
HELL.
Sick, sick bastard he was. Sam had no more idea what he was doing to him than a puppy chewing on your shoes…innocent. Clueless.
And going to bed naked all the time now.
Naked. He hated Sammy, hated him so much he could taste it. Hated him…realized his fingers were in his mouth and hated him some more.
Sam was trying to kill him, no doubt. Nude and brown still…the sun took a long time leaving Sam. He was the color of sun on bronze, the color of life, the color of warm. The color he saw in his dreams, the ones in which he’d climb into Sam’s bed naked, and put his arms around him and rub against him, and he didn’t know how to do what he wanted exactly but he wanted to learn and do it to Sam.
Dad would let him have the car sometimes and it was a relief to leave for a bit. Didn’t need to go far. The parking lot at the strip mall had everything he needed. Sometimes a joint, a beer, girls in the back seat.
Some girls would blow him and he made them do it in the car. He liked sitting with his legs far apart, and watching them bend over his cock. He liked it wet and sloppy. He liked noise. He liked repaying them, he liked eating them out. He liked fucking them, he liked doing it from behind, he liked their backs pressed into his chest, hard, flat.…
Once a girl let him fuck her in the ass and he thought he was going to die. He was all over her shaking, moaning, making too much noise, stuttering and plunging in and out and praying and he might have yelled out Sam’s name.
More than once.
Maybe screamed it about twenty times when his eyes rolled back and sparklers exploded in his head and his dick and his ass and—it was wild and he couldn’t get her out of the car fast enough. All he wanted was a shower and bed and a pillow over his head. His face. His nose. Fuck a pillow—a plastic bag….
Sam was awake and wanting to talk when he fell in the door but all he could see was his cock in his ass and he was a bastard to him but at least Sam shut up. He felt like shit but…he locked himself in the bathroom and showered and thought, ‘what the hell am I going to do?’
Jerk off.
With one finger touching himself, reaching behind him and touching…because he had to know, what did it feel like?
Pretty damn good, actually. The noisy kind of good…he had to keep a hand in his mouth to keep it down. Came back out , and Sammy was still awake, still nude.
No....
Naked, naked sounded nastier.
He was naked on top of the covers and beautiful and staring at him with some kind of hate in his eyes. Damn. Whatever he’d said to the boy must have been harsh…“What?”
“Nothing.” Jumped off the bed—*don’t look*--stomped off to the bathroom. *don’t look*
Okay…Sam shut the door and as soon as it was closed, he shoved his hand in his pants. *Just going to squeeze, one time. Twice, a squeeze or two, and I’ll stop*.
“Dean.”
Whipped his hand out of his pants fast enough to hurt. “What?”
“Come here.”
“Why?” Why…okay, this was a ‘why come here’, and a ‘why am I getting up again’ and a ‘why do I do pretty much whatever the boy wants’ why.
“Can you come here?”
He crawled out of the bed, reluctant, eager. Dry mouthed and scared. “What?”
“Is this a deer tick, there’s something on my back, I feel it.”
*Bitch. You know--you’re doing this on purpose--you’re trying to make me...cry, you bitch.* “I can’t see anything.”
“Really? ‘Cause I felt something…”
Crack. He *heard* his brain break. A wave of anger swept up and almost knocked him off his feet. *Stop! Stop! Stop…*
*You asked for it, boy.*
“Let me see…there *is* something there.” He touched that long brown back, “There? No…”
Slid his finger down slowly, slowly, tracing a line of bronze freckles, past the brown and onto skin so white and soft and “here, is this it?” and he twisted his finger to the right of his cleft, barely to the right and slowly--twisted it slowly, until he felt backward pressure against the fingertip sliding deeper in his cleft and he twisted his finger and slid closer and closer… “Does it itch?” he asked, and his voice broke a little. Sam shook his head, opened his mouth and some kind of noise creaked out….
In the really small bathroom, the sound of their breath was like the roar of a waterfall, and he put both his hands on Sam’s ass and pressed, dipped his head a fraction. Of. An. Inch. And heard the front door open.
He jerked away, and Sam turned around, hands over his cock. He looked relieved, needy, angry…angrier as he backed towards the door. Oh fuck. *Stop.*
Sam shook his head. “It’s not my fault.”
The door swung shut behind him, and he was staring at himself in the mirror, alone.
Pajamas, and boxers and naked skin…it was fucking winter and he was naked in the bed and *oh, no*, it wasn’t Sam’s fault and for one moment he thought *I could just…jump him. Jump on him and knock him down and—beat myself unconscious what the *fuck* am I thinking!*
God…if he held his breath really long, could he die? Fucking hell. Next time, he was going on the hunt, let Dad stay here with…Lolita. Okay, have to let that breath go.
Breathe.
And now he was panting, great, lovely.
By the time he had the guts to come out of the bathroom and walk the million miles to bed, Sam was snoring, stretched out and gone, sleeping the sleep of the innocent….
*****
Maine was ass-freezing cold. Winter there was every nightmare he’d ever had. Cold. Weird.
Werewolves liked it cold…
Things changed. He rode shotgun with Dad now while Sam stayed home on his own.
Maine was the first time he killed--killed something that bled, anyway.
Forgot most of it except the silver blade shoving into the thing’s chest--sticking first and then sliding in and all that hot hot blood poured over his hand—still creeped out that his first thought had been, ‘wow, warm.’ His hands were always cold and now they weren’t and then, the blood cooled right away and got thick and sticky and it’s head blew apart when Dad shot it and he threw up in the snow for like--*forever*. Threw up until his fucking *toes* hurt.
A part of him kept thinking, there’s a person under that fur and blood and I killed it. Dad patted him on the back and told him he was a good soldier. He kept apologizing, and hurling and Dad kept patting him…he kept seeing ice colored wolf eyes turn dark and human and...hurt. Full of hurt….
Two thousand stairs to their apartment over a ceramics studio…each one two hundred feet high, and by the time he was in the door, he was ready to die. Dad pulled him into the shower, washed him until the tacky gluey mess was gone, blood clung to places he swore it hadn’t touched. Blood was so fucking gross and he wanted to pour bleach over everywhere it touched.
Dad wrapped him in a big towel and rubbed him from head to toe like he was five—and finally he could breathe again. “I’m sorry. Dad, I’m sorry.”
“For what? *I’m* sorry—shoulda got the shot sooner…you were great, Dean, you were a soldier, you were brave…” over and over.
He felt such love for Dad.
And then Dad left. “Back tomorrow, okay?” He was gone and leaving him alone with Sam, still shaky. Still feeling the blood. Still wrapped in a towel….
“Are you okay?” Sam looked scared.
“Duh.” ‘Course he was okay. Obviously. ‘Cause if he wasn’t…
“Yeah. Dad wouldn’t. Dad couldn’t…so you’re okay.”
He was nodding and shivering and really, really fucking tired. Crawled up on the bed and lay down, pulled the pillow over his head, and Sam lay down next to him and sighed. Put his arms around him. All he could do was pretend to be asleep.
Sam pushed closer, rocked himself closer and then—rocked against him. Again, again until hot breath flowed over the back of his neck, and his ear, and a small voice groaned, “I want to touch you.” Big hand roamed along the flap of the towel that was all that was saving him from going to hell, boy, it was getting harder and harder not to move back, not to press against Sammy—it was plain hard. A snicker in his ear told him that Sam had found that out too.
Sigh. Big sigh. Big honkin' sigh and a curse and a slap—“you understand WRONG, don’t you? Like, this is so fuckin’ wrong?”
“Shut up and let me make you feel better. I promise I won’t do anything—just hold you.”
“Okay.”
Because, sometimes it was too hard to fight, and sometimes, any kind of close is a good close…fucking unbelievable that he could fall asleep with Sam’s cock pressed so tight against his ass he could feel his pulse. Unbelievable--but he did.
****
Next morning he sat in the big window in the living-kitchen-dining-laundry room, the gray light of a winter afternoon made him feel he was in an alien world. The gray floorboards were cold underfoot, and he kept thinking about snow--white, white snow. Sam sat across from him, perched on the arm of the beat-up couch and sipped coffee from a big ugly mug. Studied him.
“You okay?”
“Told you last night I was. I am.”
“I mean about--”
“About what? I slept pretty hard last night. I was damn tired.”
Sam looked at him. “Yeah. Yeah. Listen—Dad was a dick for leaving you last night.” Put down his cup next to him and wandered back to the bedroom, and he sat in the window and drank the rest of Sam’s coffee and counted snowflakes….
*****
Road Trip. Oh Gawd. Fuckin’ hell. Every time he heard the words, his gut cramped. But he grinned like he loved it—Road Trip! Fuckin’ yay! ‘Cause Dad didn’t need extra shit and Sam didn’t need to know how much not a fuckin’ adventure it was.
California was calling. At least it’d be warm.
And then…and then….there were days and days in the back seat of the car.
Days.
Daysdaysdays.
Days.
Okay, four days but time always moved slower in hell….
The backseat got smaller as the DAYS went by and there was no where to go, his beat up old walkman didn’t work anymore, and walls of pillows didn’t work anymore and shoving his fingers in his ears and slamming his eyes shut didn’t work anymore.
“Dean, move *over*.”
“Stop touching me.”
“*You* stop touching—”
“No, you stop touching—
“Oh for—shut the hell up the *both* of you or so help me, I’ll kill you.”
Nervous laughter because it was Dad and you never knew…. Looked up and caught Dad in the rear view mirror staring at him. ‘You’re the oldest’ in his eyes. Which meant he had to look out for Sam and be an example and weren’t they way too fucking old for him to be baby sitting his brother? *And if you knew what your Sam was doing…trying to do….*
Zillions of miles and landmarks zipping past unvisited--they were getting to know all the rest stops intimately. They could fill an album with pics of rest stops—here’s the vending machine in New York, here’s a really nice picnic table in Illinois….
Dad drove he drove Sam drove.
Night and day flowed past one another like water and night came and Sam was leaning on his shoulder, dozing on and off. He was too tired to push him off, too tired to pretend he didn’t like it, and after a while, he dozed off himself.
Opened his eyes.
There was a weight in his lap. Warm and heavy.
The road tossed the weight against him and back, against him and back, and he was hard. Heat on his cock. Pressure, pleasant pressure.
He closed his eyes again and sent up a prayer to…wherever, and opened his eyes. Looked down into his lap.
Looking for what he had no idea because who the hell would it be but Sam and there he was in his lap. *Can’t move*…and his ass was itching fierce. Of course.
The slightest move and he’d be….god, nose to cock with him.
Maybe…maybe Sam was asleep. Maybe he’d just keep his eyes closed. And keep really really quiet.
Maybe Sam wasn’t really pressing his mouth against his zipper, and he wasn’t swelling to fill what little space was left in his jeans, and he couldn’t feel hot gusts of air leaking through the denim and onto his cock. He didn’t just squirt pre-come in his boxers because he wasn’t so excited he was on the verge of coming.
*Fuck me*
The added strain, beyond the strain that his brother…may or may not be trying to make him come in his pants, was keeping his mouth shut in front of Dad…*Dad pull over pull over*
No matter how much you try, you can’t force a person to develop ESP when you want them to have it. He gave it a try anyway.
He really did. Right up until the point that Sam opened his mouth and bit down the length of his zipper. Hot moist breath, and the pinch of Sammy’s puppy teeth and he was shivering wildly. He would have paid a fortune to not be in that car right at that moment. Sam’s teeth closed over the tip of his cock hidden under the denim and cotton and he breathed out while doing it and it was—so fucking hot, his cock jumped and burned and he would have paid a fortune for Dad to not be in the car at that moment.
He couldn’t tell Sam to stop.
He couldn’t open his mouth.
Because he wanted to scream….
*FUCKFUCK*
Slickhotwet shot out of his cock and filled his shorts and he imagined his hands went up to cup Sam’s head and he imagined he lifted his hips and pumped into his mouth and Sam swallowed all of him greedily, and he whipped his head back and forth and screamed Sammy, suck me, of god, oh shit your mouth is so hot…
Which would have been horribly wrong and hotter than hell, better than reality.
He sat frozen, not moving, not breathing not swallowing feeling his cock pulse hard. Realizing Sam’s chin was jammed into his thigh and he was letting out the same kind of low, slow nearly silent breath, and he could feel the tension in Sammy’s body flow out, and he moved his hand. Kinda accidentally brushed Sam’s crotch. And got a shiver and a breath and Sam was.
He could feel Sam move under the palm he had pressed hard against his zipper. Oh god good—No! Oh God, this is not good.
Next rest stop, he was gonna poke his eyes out. He was gonna poke his eyes out, and cut out his brain and his evil possessed cock….
Sam squeezed his leg and rubbed little circles on it.
And oh sure, that made it all better….
The slide of light over his brother’s face as they drove in and out of darkness…made him feel soft. Possessive. He loved him.
He really loved Sam.
******
Street lights cast an orange glow through the windows, the big blue signs led them to a rest stop, time to stretch and move and remember that he had feet and legs and an ass and maybe they could eat…
Instead, Dad and Sam are in the car asleep and he’s in a stall in the stop, his ass bumping against the cold metal wall, and his cock down some kid’s throat…and he could breathe, and moan, yank his hair and tell the kid, “watch out,. I’m going to fuckin’ come, it’s--” he shook from head to toe, and the mouth drew back, slickly wet and smooth all over the inside like satin, his tongue was hot and silky on his cock, his lips plush and wet and he said, “Come in my mouth.”
He was cramming his tee-shirt in his mouth and shaking all over, and yelling into the wad of fabric—it felt so good to let go--he fucked the stranger’s mouth and called him.
Well.
There was ever only one name that fell out of his mouth…when it was like this.
He got blown in a rest stop. A strange guy blew him in a rest stop. He was giggling against the door after the guy left, maybe from shock a little. as he pulled his shirt down, and pulled up his pants he thought how different it’d been than with a girl, more…more like he’d dreamed of. He liked it.
Until he got back in the car and Sam was awake.
How was it any of his business what he did and how fuckin’ sick was it that he felt—guilty? Guilty.
Really, though, if the shoe was on the other foot, how much would he hate seeing Sam come back to him, sated and rumpled and walking that loose-hipped way you get when sex makes all your muscles loopy and warm…could he lean over and whisper, “I imagined it was you—I always do?”
Better…or worse?
******
Winter. Spring. Summer. Fall.
California. Washington. Idaho.
Away. Moving all the time. Moving like—fuck not even like gypsies, they were staggering in circles around the country, pointless, killing and killing and killing…Dad was looking for the Holy Grail. Or Death, or Lucifer--or fuck, maybe the perfect burger, what the fuck.
They drove through Nevada hot…dry…kind of fugly.
Tires whirring over the road, cars flashing past them, hot dry air whistling in the open windows. Dad pointing out mountains, and Sam sitting back, arms crossed, eyes squinched... “They’re brown.”
Why couldn’t Sam even try to play the game? What the fuck would it hurt him to make Dad happy?
Okay, so Dad had to be gone a lot and when he wasn’t gone he sometimes he got…drunk. A little. Not a little drunk, he meant it happened not that often. Even so, Dad wasn’t ever—out of it—never that.
Just sometimes, a little, a little harsh. He didn’t mean it, he never did—but Dad had all kinds of memories lurking after him. Of hunts. And of—of Mom. The service…shit happened. Happens. And sometimes you can’t sink those memories. Sometimes they float back to the top.
He did what Dad told him, though—he protected Sammy. If it meant taking him out for a coke, or even sleeping in the back seat of the car, all good.
He explained it, as much as he could. Dad didn’t mean it, he didn’t want to be like that .It was just an accident, and it didn’t happen that much anyway. And when it did, Dad was always awfully sorry. “You know he loves you.”
So. Sometimes they slept in the car. No sweat.
‘Course, he bitched and bitched, because no fuckin’ way would he admit how much he. He liked it. Sleeping in the car with Sam. Close to Sam.
Sitting up all night long, cause there’d long been no room for the both of them to stretch out. Sitting up side by side, Sam with his head tilted back, ridiculously long legs folded up—and asleep in instants, fucker. All the time, Sam’s the first to sleep and he—he gets to stay awake and watch him…yay. Fuckin’ yay.
Carefully sitting upright and painfully hard, and Sammy, he drools and snores and wraps his arms around him, climbs him like a monkey and drools in his neck, and shoves a hand between his legs and sometimes presses hard against him God. T-shirts wet with sweat, skin sticking to the seats, jeans wet behind the knees and the waistband and in the crease of their hips and wherever they touched.
Mornings break the heat, it’s cooler, comfortable, and then finally he can ease into sleep. The cooler air always makes Sam drive his nose into any warm spot…neck, cheek, ear…God.
******
Dad’s gone. The TV’s off, Sam’s got a local newspaper from somewhere, and a piece of the hotel ‘stationary’, a chewed up pencil in his hand. Brows kinked, the tip of a pointed pink tongue peeked out every once in a while to swipe along his upper lip.
The whole bed’s full of Sam. His head’s against the wall, his long brown legs hang over the side of the bed; his bare feet are on the floor, scuffing up the cheap thin mat masquerading as a rug.
God damn, he realizes, Sammy grew. He’s grown.
He grew so much.
What puppy fat he had is gone, and thin’s been over laid with muscle. He’s harder than when they were Jersey. He pictured hard muscle under his hand, over him pushing into him…
Stop looking, mother fucker, stop thinking...
The worst part? He knows, he knows if he says the word, he could have him. Have it. All.
He only has to say yes.
“Dean?”
*wasn’t looking at you--* “Hunh? I mean—what? Ye--”…swallowed hard. “Yes?”
“You think….Dad will let us stay put for a while?”
“Sam. I can’t predict what Dad will want to do.”
Just that quick, Sam starts to shut down and he grabs to keep him from going farther away. “Let me talk to him, okay?”
Sam nods.
He argued with Dad. Dad wanted to keep moving so he spun it like a motherfucker--a base, for a while, they needed a base—a safe place to plan and organize hunting trips. They were all tired of wandering across the country, right? They needed a break. “Just a few months…maybe…a year. A year, Dad. Catch our breaths.
Please.”
He’s wiped out after, wrung dry. He hates begging…
Trying to sleep, pretending the air conditioner hacking its guts out in the window is at least cooling some air as it dies. He feels the mattress sink. The sheets are so lousy that when Sam slides across them, they sound like paper crumbling.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“Sam, get back in your bed. Please.”
“Are you sure? I can stay…” Hot breath, so close it feels damp. So close Sam’s lips are teasing the shell of his ear.
*no fuck no, of course I’m not sure—I wanna fuck you touch you all over lick every inch of you* “I’m sure. Go.”
There are sixty fucking tiles on the ceiling right over his bed. Maybe…they’re made of asbestos, and maybe if he’s really fucking lucky, they’ll flake all over him and fill his lungs and he’ll be dead by morning….holding his breath hadn’t helped….
******
Floating in a pool full of lukewarm chlorine, letting the sun spin pinwheels in red and orange on the inside of his eyelids….keeping his thoughts trained on float, float…nothing but that, and ignore the feel of water lapping at his ribs like a little tongue…
Drifting and thinking… floating out here was a treat. Sam was long old enough to take care of himself…okay, so he was listening with every cell trained on their room, and wishing he had that x-ray vision so he could make sure Sam was okay, and maybe now he should get out of the water…
“Dean.”
*Getting out now.*
“What?” He stroked for the pool side, to Sam sitting at the edge now. Waiting for him.
“Nothing. Just wondering when you were coming in. I’m hungry.” Sam makes a face, and kicks the water—
“You can’t feed yourself?” Sam makes a noise, disgust, exasperation, he laughs and drops his chin on Sam’s knee and lets go, floating in the water—the only thing holding him up is his brother’s knee, the only thing keeping him from floating away…sinking…
“I can, but I like it better when you do it.”
“Sammy, Sammy—you know I can’t follow you around your whole life, cooking and cleaning for you…besides, being a bitch is your role.” Supposed to be a joke, but Sam looks away again with that odd little twist to his mouth. So fucking bitter, so…so hard…it’s not fucking fair, but that’s a thought he shoved down deep—along with all the other fucking baggage, shit….“Okay, what the fuck do you want for lunch, Sammy?”
“Nothing, never mind, I’m not hungry…”
“Hey…hey…” he risks touching Sam’s knee with his hand too, the taut brown skin is hot, sun hot, and it feels like it’s burning under his cold fingers. “You know I’m kidding right?” *Fuckin’ hell, don’t make me say it.* “Seriously, what do you want and don’t say PB and J, so help me…”
The ghost echo of lust makes his cock move…Sammy laughs, and splashes him, pushes him off and down into the water. He pops up to the surface again a few feet away, grinning, but Sam’s already jumped to his feet, running barefoot across the hot concrete.
******
continued in part two
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6/7/07 12:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
6/7/07 02:30 pm (UTC)The icon might be a wee bit unsettling...*g*