SpN fic post:Lately
6/6/07 08:00 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 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
Part Two
Another motel, not much different from all the others, except it was in another county, another state. This new place has got a lawn in the back of it, drying into straw in the summer heat and, sitting on that, a couple of lawn chairs that might have been new when dinosaurs roamed the earth.
They were sitting in the antique lawn chairs, eating grilled cheese sandwiches he’d made on the hotplate, and just bullshitting…
“You know what I like? I like swimming.”
“Yeah, I think we all kinda noticed that. Anytime we’re near anything deeper than a puddle you wanna jump in.” he grins as he says it and Sam grins back, says, “Yeah, I wonder why that is?”
“Duh. Summer hot, water cool. Sammy, Sammy--always looking for some thing more. Sometimes Sam, a cigar is just a cigar.”
“…what?”
Shrugs. “I heard it somewhere—but I think it means, sometimes something just…is. You like to swim, ‘cause it’s fun.
Sam laughs. “Well, yeah, there’s that…but there’s more too. Floating, relaxed…it’s like flying kind of? I close my eyes and pretend I’m in the clouds.” Sam’s smiling, so he doesn’t have the heart to laugh at him--besides, he gets it. Completely gets what Sam’s trying to say. Maybe Sam doesn’t know himself but--getting away. It’s all about getting away.
What if Sam decides he needs to get *away* away?
What if he leaves?
Leaves him?
Sam turns to him and says, “I love you.”
He chokes a bit on a lump of sandwich, swallows hard. “Um. Yeah, me too. Besides we have to, we’re family. It’s the law.” Grins.
Sam’s looking serious. “No,” he says and his voice drops, it’s really deep. Like a man’s. Which, Sam is. A man. Or right there, right at the point you drop over and you’re not a boy anymore… "No, I mean, I *love* you.”
*Fuck. Don’t ruin it, why do you have to ruin it, we were having a nice time, don’t ruin it….*
“All we have is each other, don’t you see? Who else could understand--know what we do? Have what we have?”
He sits up, grabs Sam’s hand and —shit, his eyes light up like a fucking Christmas tree… “Sammy—Sam—we don’t have anything. You’re my brother—that’s it. I love you man, no doubt I do. I love Dad, I love you. That’s it. We’re family. We kinda have to love each other—no choice.”
Sam looks like he just got smacked. Shit.
“You get it?” *please get it so I can stop talking….* It was like kicking puppies.
No, it was like fucking stomping on their heads…no light in Sam’s eyes now. Something else.
“Liar. You’re a liar Dean.”
“No, kid, I’m telling the truth.” That you need to hear. “Believe it.” Please… “Understand?”
He expects Sam to yank his hand away, to yell—throw a tantrum. But he doesn’t. Sits there. Looks at him and nods, once.
That’s it.
It’s over. Sun’s almost down and it’s cold and…
Fuck.
*FUCK*
*******
Idaho. Oregon. All the way back to California before he makes Dad remember his promise--a base—a real place to live in—for Sammy.
That’s how they end up in a seen better days tract house, in a neighborhood whose backyards bordered hell. Last on the left, in the end of a cul de sac. Twenty-four/seven, the sound of truck tires barreling past on the interstate sang out to them, sometimes broken by the sound of metal impacting, shrieking sirens. After a while, hell, it was as good as a lullaby.
At night, the light from inside shone through gaps in the walls. If you squinted, it was kind of like Christmas lights all year long--real festive. There was a tree dying in the front yard, and in the back, an ancient swing set made of red paint and rust. When the wind got busy blowing, the swings moved, creaked and screamed like extras in a horror movie.
Didn’t bother them one bit—been there, done that. Things screaming in the night just meant lock and load.
There were other houses around them, close enough to open a window and touch the place next door--but they were alone. Just the way they liked it.
So…Sammy’s into his books, wrapped up in school like it’s fun or something. Dad’s kind of hanging around, cleaning guns, making notes, he’s got this big ass logbook, and he’s writing a lot.
Stuff starts accumulating. Dad brings home a table, a bookcase. He brings home a rug. Sam brings home teenage attitude.
The place starts to take on some personality. It’s becoming their place. Kind of like home….
It’s not long before Dad’s gone off again—Missouri, or Michigan or something, and not a fucking moment too soon.
Freedom!
He brings home a girl first night, kicks the newspapers under the couch, and smears a rag through the sticky rings on the coffee table. Sam’s in the kitchen washing dishes, and he's
on the couch with the chick, hands down her pants and tongue down her throat.
He hears a door slam. "Be right back.” Slithers off the couch and stalks back to their bedroom, ready to throw Sam out of the room-- hey, he’s gonna need the damn bed, after all…
Hunh. Sam’s in Dad’s room.
Good. Well…good. He doesn’t have to say anything. Good. Great. He tries the door and it’s locked. Fine. And good.
He fucks this girl so hard, the headboard slams into the wall, chipping cheap paint and plaster right off the motherfucker—slam slam slam and she’s screaming his name. Fuck yeah.
Every night Dad’s gone, a different girl is in the house and Sam sleeps in Dad’s bed.
*****
“So, I’m getting a tutor for…” Sam stops and laughs. Kind of rolls his eyes. “Never mind. Anyway, they’ll be over tonight.” He drops his spoon into the bowl of cereal, and sighs. “What are you doing tonight. Dean?”
He smirks, chews his toast open mouthed. “You mean who, don’t you?”
Sam makes him clean up, ‘cause he’s a God damn girl.
He’s fishing underwear out of the couch…silk, with some kind of…monkey printed on them or something. He watches Sam sweep the floor, the broom sweeps around the floor, under the chair and sweeps out socks and a book and a pizza crust and…Sam’s back is a long straight exclamation point of outrage…he looks down at the dust and junk and there’s a…oh.
A condom. Right.
Forgot about that…
“Sorry.”
“For what? That you’re a pig?”
That hurt… “Hey! Sex god, dude…”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah? Fuck you! Why are we cleaning like you’ve got a date? It’s just a fuckin’…”
Tutor.
*You’ve got a date. Of course you’ve got a date. Why not?*
It feels like shit.
“Yeah, well, I hope she likes peanut butter and crackers because I’m not cooking.”
"Jerk.”
“Bitch.”
*****
He doesn’t even see this tutor, he’s gone with Dad—there’s a favor Dad owes, and they’re off to do an exorcism. He fucking *hates* them. Sammy’s better with the Latin, but Dad needs muscle too…
Hate hate hate exorcisms, hates seeing the demon under human skin, hates seeing the other lurking in the human face. The eyes…eyes are the worst. If eyes are the window to the soul…
This one was every bit as horrible as he figured it would be. The kid—reminded him of Sam. It was bad, but it was over and everyone was alive, had all their fingers and toes, so it was a freaking success… he was going to believe the kid when he said he couldn’t remember anything.
No matter what the boy’s eyes said….
And they’re home sweet home--smell of roasting pork in the air, dogs are barking up and down the block, airplanes are droning overhead. Hot dry wind is whipping up the dust in the front yard, and in the distance he can hear some woman screaming curses.
God damn it’s good to be home again.
He’s grinning, getting ready to yell out Sam’s name and the door opens.
And there’s the Tutor. There he is.
“Dean.” Dad’s voice cuts through his shock like a knife. Damn it. He jogs back to get the bags, and Sam comes down the walk and holds the gate open for them, lets the tutor escape, books bumping on his hip as the kid makes a beeline for the street.
Dad walks past Sam, brisk, straight—he’s showing no sign of the exhaustion that’s gotta be eating him up, the bone creaking tired that’s painting dark smudges under his eyes—he just smiles at Sam like he’s happy to see him. “Sammy.” Slaps his shoulder and heads into the house, but Sam’s not looking at Dad anymore, he’s looking his way….
And still holding the gate.
*Okay.* He squeezes past and looks Sam in the eyes. “Your t-shirt...is…on backward.”
Sam doesn’t even blush, bastard, fucking…looks back all serious and says, “Are you jealous? I’m trying to make you jealous.”
What the fuck? “Dude…” *DAMN IT* Yes. "Yeah. I am.”
Sam nods, still serious. “Good. Good.”
He’s still standing on the sidewalk as Sam walks into the house. “The fuck?” Asks the dog slinking past, asks the clouds. “What the *fuck* just happened here? Can somebody explain how my *FUCKED* up life just got worse?”
******
He’s in one bed, and Sam’s in the other. He can’t keep his eyes off Sammy, because really? He’s starting to scare the shit out of him. He watches him through narrowed eyes; faking sleep himself until Sam snores, and he knows for sure he’s asleep and gratefully turns to the wall. He’ll never sleep. Never.
That kid’s eyes are there every time he shuts his own.
Feels a dip in the bed…oh God…not again…
He feels something warm, a silky weight glide along the inside of his thigh, and he groans. Slides back, pushes, and there’s a wet trail now, nudges against him, slides between his thighs, sliding in a thicker pool of wet. And he has to stop this right now, now. Sam’s cock under his balls, past them, back, Sam’s shoving himself between his thighs and all he can do is tighten until he’s stiff all over—shuddering every time that hot smooth head rubs against him. He’s shaking, stuttering out, “ Dad…Dad could come in.”
“So? He knows we sleep in the same bed some time…” he bites the back of his neck. “I want to be in you.”
*No!* But he quakes...bites his lip. Muscles seize up, Sam’s groaning, and the sound of it is so hot and he has to come. He feels Sam’s fingers drill into the thin skin stretched tight over his hips, feels hot wet spread over his legs, can feel Sam’s cock jump as he comes all over him…
Wakes up holding in a groan, alone, the newspaper rough sheets scraping against the head of his cock, and wet, shit…all over, all his.
*****
The tutor comes out of the house and looks over to where he’s sitting in the car, doors open and the old head station Dad listens to banging on the radio. He looks over at Our Tutor, and grins, raises his eyebrows. The kid looks rumpled and crumbled and he wonders just how much Sammy’s learning here. What he’s learning.
The kid heads for the gate, and he asks, “Hey, need a ride?” and something in the back of his mind kind of kicks in…not a real good thing, not a real bad thing…yet.
“Sure—thanks.”
Off they go, and he feels…chatty. Kind of talkative. “So, Sam’s in your class? Yeah? How’s he doing? Good? Good. Wanna get something? Coke or something? You have to go home right now?” That get’s a slow smile, and a blush…yeah.
So they end up in the parking lot behind the playground and by this time it’s dark and no one sane is out there…He’s sitting in the back of the car. If the car could talk—he’d be dead meat.
The kid’s on his lap, and he’s kissing him, talking to the kid between hungry kisses… “I won’t tell…you his boyfriend? No? Good…” He kisses him, searches out every little spot in his mouth for Sam, under his tongue, his lips, inside his cheeks, he chases any possible trace of Sam, warm and a little salty—sucks his tongue and thinks about sucking his cock. “He touch you? Where? Here?”
He slides down on the little strip of floor with his ass against the front seat, one foot jammed against the console, unzipping the kid, yanking his jeans down. “Turn around, hold the seat back…you liked it? When he fucked you?” Asks again, with his lips grazing flesh, a kiss…*was he good, did he make you come like that, did he…did he say my name?*
Lips press against the hot hole exposed, hot, wet, red…when his tongue touches him, the kid jerks away, but he holds him—won’t let him move…*Did he fuck you hard?* He works his tongue in, wet and spit. He tries to shove as much into that little hole as he can, he’s not even thinking of anything but Sam now—this kid is nobody, just where Sam was and he wants to be there—he wants Sam. Wants to feel what this kid felt.
He really wants to be fucked by Sam and he really wants to *not* be fucked by him and it’s kind of too much, and he starts to cry, thank God, quietly. But tears keep filling his eyes and running down and he feels like an idiot. A crucified idiot.
He fucks this kid, fucks him carefully, like he’s made of glass…because really? He wants to hurt him.
Afterward, when the tutor is gone and he’s back home again, he parks in the drive and lays on the back seat, face pressed to the vinyl. He smells plastic and dust. Upholstery. Old carpet and hotdogs and the faintest whiff of smoke, vomit…and sex.
******
Something is going on. Sam’s been weird—weirder—lately. It’s like he’s alternating between excited and…and guilty. Maybe…maybe he’s in love with. Someone.
And that would be okay. Sam shouldn’t feel guilty, not at all. *yes he should* It would be right, good.
It would be a damn relief. He’s certain he can handle it…better than he has so far.
*shit*.
******
It’s Family Night. The Winchester version anyway.
The diner is small, and kind of dark. Its cleanliness is suspect but it’s cheap and the plates are piled high with food, and more importantly, the food’s damn good.
He’s working his way through a mountain of buttery fries, bites a finger by accident ‘cause Sam’s staring at him. Staring so hard that he begins to sweat, just a little tickle between his shoulder blades but still….
The spot Sam’s staring at –the base of his throat--itches. Burns.
Sam’s licking ketchup off his fingers; and for one weird moment, he can feel Sam’s tongue, hot and wet right there, in the hollow of his throat.
There are spots of bright red ketchup in the corners of Sam’s mouth. Dad is talking about—oh God, something…he’s trying to listen, he really is trying fuckin’ hard to pay attention to whatever the hell it is Dad’s saying...but Sam’s tongue is worming its way in the creases of his lip, searching for ketchup--licking and—licking. *FUCK.*
*BITCH!*
He reaches under the table and adjusts himself. Sam’s looking at him, and he smiles— a nice smile. A sweet kind of ‘I’m happy, aren’t you happy?’ smile. “It’s a nice night, hunh? Weather’s nice,” Sam says.
Dad says, “Yeah, it’s pretty nice. Good sleeping weather.”
And Sam smiles at him and says, “Yeah, good sleeping…” only it’s more like a—like he *breathes* it instead of saying it.
Dad smiles and chews his burger, and Sam says, “We should sleep outside tonight, Dean,” smiles again and that tickle of sweat between his shoulder blades grows…his t-shirt is sticking to his back….
“Yeah, maybe…” and his voice is a stranger’s, dry and faint.
Sam drops ketchup on his t-shirt. Frowns, and tries to lift it off with the side of his finger—sucks the smear of red from it, his tongue chases it right down to the web between his fingers.
He swears he plays with it for a moment. Swears Sam’s eyes flutter shut for a moment.
He can feel his cock jump. Is he…does he really not get what it’s doing to him?
He feels his eyes fill and wants to bite his own hand. Bitch. Crybaby. Pussy.
Sam smiles again, a gentle curve that sweeps the ends of his mouth into a bow, and slants his eyes. They glitter like a cat’s but his expression is sweet. No…kind. Kind.
Dad gets up to get something from the car—he says. Sam maybe buys it but he knows damn well Dad’s out there to cop a smoke.
He waits until Dad’s cleared the diner doors before turning to Sam and hissing, “Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Just--stop it Sam!”
“I don’t know what you’re doing, Dean, but I’m eating. Eat *your* food and shut up, will you?”
“You--You’re not doing it on purpose?” He’s feeling a little stupid now—kind of like a pervert. A blind perv.
Sam snorts. “What do you think is happening here, Dean?”
“I don’t know…” He looks out the window, sees a little orange flame flare in the car, sees his own face in the glass—Sam’s—sees Sam staring again.
Feels his foot. Feels that foot encased in ratty Converses nudge his ankle--careful, barely a real touch—*Fuck!*
“What?”
“Gotta go—be right back.”
God! He jumps up and dashes to the bathroom. Closes the door carefully behind him, locks it—that’s important, the locking part. He opens his pants, bites his lip. Pulls down his boxers, and takes his cock in hand.
Comes without a sound, tosses the gummy tissues into the bowl and flushes. Calmly. Waits until the flush leaves his face and he’s breathing normally again.
Bastard.
Dad’s back at the table, smelling faintly of smoke and beer, directs a little shamefaced grin at him.
What can he do? He grins back at Dad. Secrets Dad, we all have them…God, do we ever.
Sam smiles up at him, cat-eyed and angelic at once. “You okay?” And sucks at the straw standing up in his coke, the pointed tip of his tongue searching for the hole in the end of the straw….
“Yes! I mean…yes.”
*deep breath* Yes.”
Dad looks at him with some surprise, and Sam looks at him like…like the Earth just opened up and puked out a million dollars and Pamela Anderson. Tom Cruise. Whatever.
Dad shrugs. He’s given up trying to understand the bizarro language he claims they have.
He’s not totally sure what he’s agreed to. He’s scared shitless. What happens next?
Is he supposed to do something, or just lay back and think of puppies and ice-cream? What does Sam want? What does he *want*? Him. Sam wants him.
And God, he wants Sam. Sam’s hand on him, Sam’s mouth on him—he’s wanted it forever, so much sometimes it made him sick. It made him cry, it made him almost hurt himself jerking off. Coming, driving fingers into his eyes when he did. And God, don’t ever fucking enjoy it. Because that would make him a perv.
Okay, the truth? He wants to be—fucked raw, broken, ripped to pieces; he wants Sam to just be there forever.
If Sam doesn’t want that, what’s left in the world?
How does he live?
******
When?
Now that Sam’s got him locked up and panting for it, he’s…it’s…slow. Suddenly all that desperation, that anger, raw want he used to see in Sam’s eyes--it’s all gone. Now it’s all about sweet *bland* looks, and little drifting touches. Smiles, all sweet and puppy faced, so…fucking innocent. It makes him think maybe he’s a little…maybe he wanted too much?
It’s…horrible. Like torture. It’s cruel, and it hurts but Sam doesn’t seem to get it. He just keeps saying, “Wait ‘til Dad’s gone, wait…”
Wait is making him NUTS. God—Sam must be made of iron or something.
Sammy’s making him crazy—*crazier*. ‘Wait’ is going to fucking *kill* him.
So, waiting, and waiting. When Dad finally tells him he’s taking off for a few weeks, he has to bite his lip hard to keep from *screaming*
“Be gone for a while. You boys take care of each other, hear?” Dad gives him the manly pat-rub-slap on his shoulder. He gets this brief flash of wanting to salute but has enough damn sense not to—bad enough that he’s grinning like an idiot. “Be careful Dad—have a good time.” *FUCK* “I mean—you know what I mean.”
*FUCKME* “Um. Yeah.”
Dad gives him an odd look before he leaves.
From the edge of the driveway, he watches the truck leave. Looks back to the house and Sam’s watching too…the taillights flash red and they’re gone and God, he wants Dad to come back right now.
See? Crazy.
*****
Dad’s been gone for two days.
He’s making dinner—mac and cheese and hamburger, and because he’s been watching the cooking channel, slices up a tomato on the side. Festive, and also healthy. He pours a glass of milk for both of them, and calls Sam to dinner.
Calls. Calls again.
“Yo, Sammy, I didn’t slave over a hot stove for nothing. Get your narrow butt out here.”
“…Dean.”
“What?” He’s moving toward the bedroom already, trying to keep the scowl in place, ready to yell.
The room’s dark, because the shades are drawn, the curtains pulled. Sam’s sitting with his back to the headboard, wearing boxers.
Blue boxers, and the sheets are blue. Sam’s making a little come here motion with his hand.
There’s no way he can move. He’s not ready. Not ready for this. This is bad.
If he steps over the line, it’s not ever going to be the same. Even though he said yes, there’s no way he can ever be ready for this.
One step…another. Another. Sam looks so patient. Waiting. How did he get to be so good at waiting?
Another, and his throat is closing, and sweat prickles his lip…his eyes flutter. It’s painful to take another step, but he does and his knees are hitting the bed.
“Okay…” The voice doesn’t sound like his. It’s dry and dusty like--like a mummy’s voice. Wonder if mummies really can …
“Dean? Are you here with me?”
*Nod, do something move* “…Uh-hunh…”
Drops to the bed because his knees give way, and Sam pulls him close, kind of drags him really. Sam grabs his calves, wraps his legs around his skinny boxer covered waist. Stops him when he goes to pull his shirt over his head.
“No, let me do it.” Sam unbuttons each fucking button on his shirt like it’s a fucking test. Slow and careful, and pulls the shirt open even slower. Fingertips slide over his nipples—they’re tingling and stiff before Sam even gets there. He jumps when the cool pads of his fingers graze them.
He’s got his eyes closed. His hands are fisted, and he’s got them pressed against his belly. It’s stupid—like he’s trying to protect himself or something. Sam snorts quietly, “come on…” manages to pull one of his hands away. He’s surprised how slowly gently, he does it.
Sam whispers in his ear, “Don’t you want to touch me?” and suddenly his hand is pressed over the incredibly hot, hard cock straining up in Sam’s boxers.
It’s like his fingers grip by instinct, squeezing, wrapping best they can with all that material in the way. They both groan, they both flex, him against his leg and Sam in his hand--he keeps his eyes closed because if he looked, he’d probably chicken out, or—or faint or—come right away, and at the moment, any of those seem like terrible things to happen….
Sam’s mouth opens against his ear, and he says very carefully, “Feel that? That’s yours, for you…I want to touch you too.” There’s a wet mouth dragging down his neck, and across his chest, over his nipples, teeth nip and pinch—tongue, scrubbing, soothing…he’s so hard, it hurts. “Sam!”
He feels the button on his jeans being worked open, and the zipper being teased down, he feels Sam’s touch, warm, rough fingertips rubbing his belly, catching in his hair. Stopping just at the base of his cock and fuck, he *knew* Sam would be a horrible fucking tease in bed too….
Warm breath leaks out of him, he can’t stop sighing…it’s just like being in a dream, the kind where he has no control--he’s just laying back like a bitch and taking it, letting Sam call the shots, letting him be in charge…never ever thought Sam being the one in control would be so fuckin’ hot. It’s—it’s incredible. He feels hot and loopy--like being dipped in warm taffy, and all his muscles unlock, melt. Sam moves him like a doll, strips him, positions him, touches him where he wants to, how he wants to and it’s all good…
Sam’s sucking a trial from his breastbone to his cock. His cock is jumping with every tiny nibbling kiss laid on it. His eyes fly open when Sam takes him in hand, holds his cock so the head fills his palm…then traces over the tip with the index finger of his free hand. That feels—so damn good—he opens his mouth to beg for more and Sam swirls precome around and very deliberately licks his finger clean, eyes locked on his. Sam’s tasting him—shit--his cock is jumping up and begging, and he’s dizzy, feels like he’s falling into Sam’s eyes.
“Should I—should I put it in my mouth?” Sam asks, so sweetly tentative, so at odds with the seducer he’s been, that he wonders if it’s part of the game—and he doesn’t even care.* ‘should I put it in my mouth’…let me think about that…* “Oh God...”
Sam snickers a little breathelssy…
“Oh, you’re an *asshole* Sam—yes, fuck yes,” he’s almost yelping, and nodding frantically, and when Sam does just that, it makes him cry out quietly. He turns his face to the pillow and gives up. Gives in.
This is it. The beginning of a dream, finally come true…the moment he’s wanted , fantasized about and now that it’s happening he can admit it—he’s built it up in his mind--into something so earth shattering, incredible, amazing and perfect, that real life can’t begin to be a fraction of how good he’s dreamt it—and it’s not.
It’s so much more. It’s fucking unbelievable. It’s so incredible he makes Sam stop. He pushes him away. “If you don’t stop now, I’ll come in your mouth.” Just saying that makes his hips come off the bed, makes his cock jump.
Sam crawls up his body and when their cocks touch and drag against each other he yells, and they both laugh.
It’s the laugh that does it—suddenly it’s like all the walls topple, fall--there’s nothing between them now, except skin. They roll against each other, they’re licking and sucking and biting anything that gets in the way, and laughing…telling each other how wonderful and beautiful, how hot, how hard, so…
Miraculous.
Miracle.
He’s falling and before he falls completely, there’s this one moment—he’s got this one moment in which time freezes, and he sees himself sitting on the front step with his brother, ruffling his hair, explaining that this—this sex stuff was private stuff, and a big old door should be kept between them on that, and that all this weird stuff he was feeling was natural and normal, but just raging teen hormones and they were just stuck together too often, don’t worry, he’d get over it…
but that’s not happening in this universe… “Sam, Sam….”
“Dean…” Sam lifts his legs. “Dean.” Drops them over his shoulders. “Dean.” He’s pushing in, and it hurts…it feels so good. And hurts, and feels good, and his head whips back and forth...it’s like being on fire from the inside, and the gritty burn begins to ease until it's like…velvet , smooth as cream, hot and there’s this—jolt—this electric explosion.
No one else is home so it’s okay to scream….
Sam is hanging over him, and he looks stunned. His mouth is round, perfectly o shaped—*my cock was right there, on his tongue.* Sam’s eyes are wide and black and suddenly, they flood with tears, his mouth widens, he grits his teeth and throws his head back. Sam groan faster and faster until he’s screaming—but low, so low and harsh, it’s gotta hurt.
His brother’s fucking him. His brother’s cock his hands his mouth his spit his sweat…his come….
He feels heat—feels Sam’s come inside him, feels his own spilling between them, bellies wet with sweat and come sliding against each other panting, ribs swelling and flattening…it’s over.
Opens his eyes and feels like he’s dropped a million miles, like he’s fallen into a dream of heaven, like he’s king of the world…can’t help laughing at how beat up he feels, and it feels so fucking—“Awesome.”
Sam snickers against his shoulder, and he sticks a hand between their heaving bellies and pulls it out, curious…in awe. Pearly fluid webs his fingers, clings before reluctantly dripping down his palm…it’s him, and his brother, together, mixed up, combined…he licks his palm and Sam moans, tightens the arms around his neck and he’s moaning in his ear, “I love you, Dean, I love you, never…never…”
And he says back, “I’ll never leave you either, promise.” He’s happy, for once, really just…happy. Alive. Content. Having sex with someone you love is. Fucking. Amazing. He’s so fucking happy.
They fuck some more, they rest, they eat, they fuck some more. The room is thick with the smell of seat and come, thick with the smell of them, their heat…they shower, and fuck in the shower, and it’s the best motherfucking use of water, ever.
Sometime around the next afternoon, he wakes up, with a song in his heart and a smile on his lips. Shit. It *was* just that simple. Sam was right—nothing’s changed and there’s just this extra thing, this incredible extra thing--they have another way to say I love you and it’s fucking incredible and the world is still outside the window. The sun still came up, the birds are still singing, fuckin’ kids are still outside screaming their brains out….there’s no flaming pit opening under the bed, no lightning strikes.
His ass feels like it got sandpapered—it’s is sore as hell and he moves just because he wants to feel it hurt and he can’t stop grinning.
Sam’s in the shower, so he kicks the sheets off and strokes himself until he’s hard again and lays back, smirking, waiting.
Sam’s standing in the doorway, head down, toweling his hair.
“Hey…”
“Hey.” His head’s down, and his eyes, they glance over and slide away.
It doesn’t take a fucking rocket scientist to tell what’s going on here, and he knows Sam like no one else in the world. His gut is already freezing but he smiles. “Come here, Sam. Lay down with me.”
Nods, head still down, eyes still dancing away but he drops the towel and he’s right there, spread over the sheets and on him. He makes Sam look at him, trying to keep the grip on his chin gentle…and he sees it, deep in is eyes. He can see it, and it’s not fair, because he didn’t do it. He would never have done it…he didn’t ask for it, Sam did, and now Sam’s got this look—looking at him like he’s Sam’s Terrible Horrible Mistake…
*oh no. no.* “Hey, you okay?” *please don’t* “You all right?”
“Oh, yeah, better than all right—I’m great.” Sam closes his eyes and wraps himself around his neck and legs. The fuzz that’s been making Sam’s chin look dirty scrapes along his cheek.
“You need a shave,” Sam says and he *sounds* okay…
“Yeah, you too…” Maybe he misread—maybe *he’s* the one freaking, not Sam…reading something into nothing….
“You know I love you right?”
“Yeah, ‘course. I love you too. Sam?”
“Uhmm?”
“I *really* love you. I mean, with everything, y’know?”
“’Course I do. Me too, Dean.”
He heaves a sigh. “Yeah. I know that.”
******
The difference between wanting something and having it can be incredible, like jumping the Snake River Canyon--and making it. Like hitting the lottery all by yourself. Like being dropped into a nest of vampires and coming out on top, alive and breathing and feeling fucking invincible. King of the damn world.
There are *no* motherfucking words to describe getting it all and losing for getting it.
There’s no way to describe what it’s like to find out what you thought was yours was a dream or a lie or a mistake…to find out that he’s someone’s mistake. He has to spend a lot of energy pushing everything away, under, keeping away from Sam. Not touching, not looking. He’s got to do this so he can breathe, keep on moving. Because when he doesn't Sam is there again, like someone ripping at a half healed scab—pulling him back into the pit they dug.
Like it's not killing him. Like it's not killing the both of them.
The wanting is awful, now that his body knows. It fills his gut and his bones and pushes everything else out. It's too big to be contained--it flips, turns in on itself grows and grows until it's almost…good. It fills him up like nothing did, except Sam….
He wonders--how the fuck did it get like this? How did it get so…sad? Bad, he expected—anger, he could have accepted, even hatred he could have dealt with but this lingering sadness...he has these brief moments in which he wishes he were dead, he wishes he hadn’t said yes.
Mostly though, in those rare moments he thinks about all this shit honestly--even knee deep in pain and self pity, he’s gotta admit--kind of glad he did what he did. Because if he’d said no, he’d have spent the rest of his life wondering, and pretty much, he’d rather have the pain and the knowing than not.
Does that make him an idiot, he wonders, or a masochist? Or just a seriously pathetic fucking loser?
******
Dad’s in the middle of bad times, there have been a few too many hunts gone wrong lately, a little more booze to kill the pain there aren’t any doctors for, so he’s on edge more than usual, and more than fucked up when Sam drops his bomb…he has to get between the two of them to keep them from kicking the crap out of each other—
What a shit-storm…he's holding Dad back and yelling for Sam to fucking leave already, get out, go…they’ve all known he was leaving for weeks, but until he’s in the doorway, with a beat up duffle bag crammed with his stuff--so fucking pitifully small, that bag…until that moment, no one believed it, not even Sam, from the stunned look on his face.
A trickle of words turn to a waterfall of words, and anger turns to rage and betrayal and it’s just about the worst fuckin’ night he’s had that doesn’t involve salt, or silver or holy water….
It’s pretty fucking bad—so much so that when Sam slams the door behind himself, it’s a relief. For all of about five minutes.
After that, he spends days learning how to breathe again. He wonders desperately who he is without Sam, what his purpose is. It takes him weeks to get strong enough to call him, to actually hear his voice…after he realizes just how much pain it causes Sam to talk to him, he works even harder to get the strength to stop. It’s all he can give Sam….
Life goes on, and after a while, he realizes that it's not just Sam he's responsible for. He lives for Dad, does what he can…moves with him, runs his errands, lives the same life Dad lives. Tries to be as much like Dad as he can, because he seems to have found some way to live with all this shit.
What the fuck--it's a living, right?
******
Lately, He dreams--a lot--real vivid dreams, full of touch and smell and even taste…dreams of boxers, of plaid pajama bottoms, twisted around long sleep heavy legs. He dreams of peanut butter and chlorine, kisses sweet and wet, desperate stolen touches and he dreams that Sam is fucking him, slowly, slowly, so slowly it makes him cry and he wakes up, wet faced and glued to his pillow….
*****
Dad's gone.
Has been gone for weeks and Dean's alone and that—that's something he can't do. He has no idea where his dad can be…but he knows where Sammy is, and like it or not, he needs help.
He needs his brother….
Sammy…*Sam* owes him this one thing. One thing and then he'll let him go again. One little favor, for all the favors he's done Sam. A few days out of his life, against the lifetime that's he dedicated to his brother, how can that hurt? One favor and he'd let him go again…he knows he can do that….
It's time to go get him back.
5-25-2007
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
Part Two
Another motel, not much different from all the others, except it was in another county, another state. This new place has got a lawn in the back of it, drying into straw in the summer heat and, sitting on that, a couple of lawn chairs that might have been new when dinosaurs roamed the earth.
They were sitting in the antique lawn chairs, eating grilled cheese sandwiches he’d made on the hotplate, and just bullshitting…
“You know what I like? I like swimming.”
“Yeah, I think we all kinda noticed that. Anytime we’re near anything deeper than a puddle you wanna jump in.” he grins as he says it and Sam grins back, says, “Yeah, I wonder why that is?”
“Duh. Summer hot, water cool. Sammy, Sammy--always looking for some thing more. Sometimes Sam, a cigar is just a cigar.”
“…what?”
Shrugs. “I heard it somewhere—but I think it means, sometimes something just…is. You like to swim, ‘cause it’s fun.
Sam laughs. “Well, yeah, there’s that…but there’s more too. Floating, relaxed…it’s like flying kind of? I close my eyes and pretend I’m in the clouds.” Sam’s smiling, so he doesn’t have the heart to laugh at him--besides, he gets it. Completely gets what Sam’s trying to say. Maybe Sam doesn’t know himself but--getting away. It’s all about getting away.
What if Sam decides he needs to get *away* away?
What if he leaves?
Leaves him?
Sam turns to him and says, “I love you.”
He chokes a bit on a lump of sandwich, swallows hard. “Um. Yeah, me too. Besides we have to, we’re family. It’s the law.” Grins.
Sam’s looking serious. “No,” he says and his voice drops, it’s really deep. Like a man’s. Which, Sam is. A man. Or right there, right at the point you drop over and you’re not a boy anymore… "No, I mean, I *love* you.”
*Fuck. Don’t ruin it, why do you have to ruin it, we were having a nice time, don’t ruin it….*
“All we have is each other, don’t you see? Who else could understand--know what we do? Have what we have?”
He sits up, grabs Sam’s hand and —shit, his eyes light up like a fucking Christmas tree… “Sammy—Sam—we don’t have anything. You’re my brother—that’s it. I love you man, no doubt I do. I love Dad, I love you. That’s it. We’re family. We kinda have to love each other—no choice.”
Sam looks like he just got smacked. Shit.
“You get it?” *please get it so I can stop talking….* It was like kicking puppies.
No, it was like fucking stomping on their heads…no light in Sam’s eyes now. Something else.
“Liar. You’re a liar Dean.”
“No, kid, I’m telling the truth.” That you need to hear. “Believe it.” Please… “Understand?”
He expects Sam to yank his hand away, to yell—throw a tantrum. But he doesn’t. Sits there. Looks at him and nods, once.
That’s it.
It’s over. Sun’s almost down and it’s cold and…
Fuck.
*FUCK*
*******
Idaho. Oregon. All the way back to California before he makes Dad remember his promise--a base—a real place to live in—for Sammy.
That’s how they end up in a seen better days tract house, in a neighborhood whose backyards bordered hell. Last on the left, in the end of a cul de sac. Twenty-four/seven, the sound of truck tires barreling past on the interstate sang out to them, sometimes broken by the sound of metal impacting, shrieking sirens. After a while, hell, it was as good as a lullaby.
At night, the light from inside shone through gaps in the walls. If you squinted, it was kind of like Christmas lights all year long--real festive. There was a tree dying in the front yard, and in the back, an ancient swing set made of red paint and rust. When the wind got busy blowing, the swings moved, creaked and screamed like extras in a horror movie.
Didn’t bother them one bit—been there, done that. Things screaming in the night just meant lock and load.
There were other houses around them, close enough to open a window and touch the place next door--but they were alone. Just the way they liked it.
So…Sammy’s into his books, wrapped up in school like it’s fun or something. Dad’s kind of hanging around, cleaning guns, making notes, he’s got this big ass logbook, and he’s writing a lot.
Stuff starts accumulating. Dad brings home a table, a bookcase. He brings home a rug. Sam brings home teenage attitude.
The place starts to take on some personality. It’s becoming their place. Kind of like home….
It’s not long before Dad’s gone off again—Missouri, or Michigan or something, and not a fucking moment too soon.
Freedom!
He brings home a girl first night, kicks the newspapers under the couch, and smears a rag through the sticky rings on the coffee table. Sam’s in the kitchen washing dishes, and he's
on the couch with the chick, hands down her pants and tongue down her throat.
He hears a door slam. "Be right back.” Slithers off the couch and stalks back to their bedroom, ready to throw Sam out of the room-- hey, he’s gonna need the damn bed, after all…
Hunh. Sam’s in Dad’s room.
Good. Well…good. He doesn’t have to say anything. Good. Great. He tries the door and it’s locked. Fine. And good.
He fucks this girl so hard, the headboard slams into the wall, chipping cheap paint and plaster right off the motherfucker—slam slam slam and she’s screaming his name. Fuck yeah.
Every night Dad’s gone, a different girl is in the house and Sam sleeps in Dad’s bed.
*****
“So, I’m getting a tutor for…” Sam stops and laughs. Kind of rolls his eyes. “Never mind. Anyway, they’ll be over tonight.” He drops his spoon into the bowl of cereal, and sighs. “What are you doing tonight. Dean?”
He smirks, chews his toast open mouthed. “You mean who, don’t you?”
Sam makes him clean up, ‘cause he’s a God damn girl.
He’s fishing underwear out of the couch…silk, with some kind of…monkey printed on them or something. He watches Sam sweep the floor, the broom sweeps around the floor, under the chair and sweeps out socks and a book and a pizza crust and…Sam’s back is a long straight exclamation point of outrage…he looks down at the dust and junk and there’s a…oh.
A condom. Right.
Forgot about that…
“Sorry.”
“For what? That you’re a pig?”
That hurt… “Hey! Sex god, dude…”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah? Fuck you! Why are we cleaning like you’ve got a date? It’s just a fuckin’…”
Tutor.
*You’ve got a date. Of course you’ve got a date. Why not?*
It feels like shit.
“Yeah, well, I hope she likes peanut butter and crackers because I’m not cooking.”
"Jerk.”
“Bitch.”
*****
He doesn’t even see this tutor, he’s gone with Dad—there’s a favor Dad owes, and they’re off to do an exorcism. He fucking *hates* them. Sammy’s better with the Latin, but Dad needs muscle too…
Hate hate hate exorcisms, hates seeing the demon under human skin, hates seeing the other lurking in the human face. The eyes…eyes are the worst. If eyes are the window to the soul…
This one was every bit as horrible as he figured it would be. The kid—reminded him of Sam. It was bad, but it was over and everyone was alive, had all their fingers and toes, so it was a freaking success… he was going to believe the kid when he said he couldn’t remember anything.
No matter what the boy’s eyes said….
And they’re home sweet home--smell of roasting pork in the air, dogs are barking up and down the block, airplanes are droning overhead. Hot dry wind is whipping up the dust in the front yard, and in the distance he can hear some woman screaming curses.
God damn it’s good to be home again.
He’s grinning, getting ready to yell out Sam’s name and the door opens.
And there’s the Tutor. There he is.
“Dean.” Dad’s voice cuts through his shock like a knife. Damn it. He jogs back to get the bags, and Sam comes down the walk and holds the gate open for them, lets the tutor escape, books bumping on his hip as the kid makes a beeline for the street.
Dad walks past Sam, brisk, straight—he’s showing no sign of the exhaustion that’s gotta be eating him up, the bone creaking tired that’s painting dark smudges under his eyes—he just smiles at Sam like he’s happy to see him. “Sammy.” Slaps his shoulder and heads into the house, but Sam’s not looking at Dad anymore, he’s looking his way….
And still holding the gate.
*Okay.* He squeezes past and looks Sam in the eyes. “Your t-shirt...is…on backward.”
Sam doesn’t even blush, bastard, fucking…looks back all serious and says, “Are you jealous? I’m trying to make you jealous.”
What the fuck? “Dude…” *DAMN IT* Yes. "Yeah. I am.”
Sam nods, still serious. “Good. Good.”
He’s still standing on the sidewalk as Sam walks into the house. “The fuck?” Asks the dog slinking past, asks the clouds. “What the *fuck* just happened here? Can somebody explain how my *FUCKED* up life just got worse?”
******
He’s in one bed, and Sam’s in the other. He can’t keep his eyes off Sammy, because really? He’s starting to scare the shit out of him. He watches him through narrowed eyes; faking sleep himself until Sam snores, and he knows for sure he’s asleep and gratefully turns to the wall. He’ll never sleep. Never.
That kid’s eyes are there every time he shuts his own.
Feels a dip in the bed…oh God…not again…
He feels something warm, a silky weight glide along the inside of his thigh, and he groans. Slides back, pushes, and there’s a wet trail now, nudges against him, slides between his thighs, sliding in a thicker pool of wet. And he has to stop this right now, now. Sam’s cock under his balls, past them, back, Sam’s shoving himself between his thighs and all he can do is tighten until he’s stiff all over—shuddering every time that hot smooth head rubs against him. He’s shaking, stuttering out, “ Dad…Dad could come in.”
“So? He knows we sleep in the same bed some time…” he bites the back of his neck. “I want to be in you.”
*No!* But he quakes...bites his lip. Muscles seize up, Sam’s groaning, and the sound of it is so hot and he has to come. He feels Sam’s fingers drill into the thin skin stretched tight over his hips, feels hot wet spread over his legs, can feel Sam’s cock jump as he comes all over him…
Wakes up holding in a groan, alone, the newspaper rough sheets scraping against the head of his cock, and wet, shit…all over, all his.
*****
The tutor comes out of the house and looks over to where he’s sitting in the car, doors open and the old head station Dad listens to banging on the radio. He looks over at Our Tutor, and grins, raises his eyebrows. The kid looks rumpled and crumbled and he wonders just how much Sammy’s learning here. What he’s learning.
The kid heads for the gate, and he asks, “Hey, need a ride?” and something in the back of his mind kind of kicks in…not a real good thing, not a real bad thing…yet.
“Sure—thanks.”
Off they go, and he feels…chatty. Kind of talkative. “So, Sam’s in your class? Yeah? How’s he doing? Good? Good. Wanna get something? Coke or something? You have to go home right now?” That get’s a slow smile, and a blush…yeah.
So they end up in the parking lot behind the playground and by this time it’s dark and no one sane is out there…He’s sitting in the back of the car. If the car could talk—he’d be dead meat.
The kid’s on his lap, and he’s kissing him, talking to the kid between hungry kisses… “I won’t tell…you his boyfriend? No? Good…” He kisses him, searches out every little spot in his mouth for Sam, under his tongue, his lips, inside his cheeks, he chases any possible trace of Sam, warm and a little salty—sucks his tongue and thinks about sucking his cock. “He touch you? Where? Here?”
He slides down on the little strip of floor with his ass against the front seat, one foot jammed against the console, unzipping the kid, yanking his jeans down. “Turn around, hold the seat back…you liked it? When he fucked you?” Asks again, with his lips grazing flesh, a kiss…*was he good, did he make you come like that, did he…did he say my name?*
Lips press against the hot hole exposed, hot, wet, red…when his tongue touches him, the kid jerks away, but he holds him—won’t let him move…*Did he fuck you hard?* He works his tongue in, wet and spit. He tries to shove as much into that little hole as he can, he’s not even thinking of anything but Sam now—this kid is nobody, just where Sam was and he wants to be there—he wants Sam. Wants to feel what this kid felt.
He really wants to be fucked by Sam and he really wants to *not* be fucked by him and it’s kind of too much, and he starts to cry, thank God, quietly. But tears keep filling his eyes and running down and he feels like an idiot. A crucified idiot.
He fucks this kid, fucks him carefully, like he’s made of glass…because really? He wants to hurt him.
Afterward, when the tutor is gone and he’s back home again, he parks in the drive and lays on the back seat, face pressed to the vinyl. He smells plastic and dust. Upholstery. Old carpet and hotdogs and the faintest whiff of smoke, vomit…and sex.
******
Something is going on. Sam’s been weird—weirder—lately. It’s like he’s alternating between excited and…and guilty. Maybe…maybe he’s in love with. Someone.
And that would be okay. Sam shouldn’t feel guilty, not at all. *yes he should* It would be right, good.
It would be a damn relief. He’s certain he can handle it…better than he has so far.
*shit*.
******
It’s Family Night. The Winchester version anyway.
The diner is small, and kind of dark. Its cleanliness is suspect but it’s cheap and the plates are piled high with food, and more importantly, the food’s damn good.
He’s working his way through a mountain of buttery fries, bites a finger by accident ‘cause Sam’s staring at him. Staring so hard that he begins to sweat, just a little tickle between his shoulder blades but still….
The spot Sam’s staring at –the base of his throat--itches. Burns.
Sam’s licking ketchup off his fingers; and for one weird moment, he can feel Sam’s tongue, hot and wet right there, in the hollow of his throat.
There are spots of bright red ketchup in the corners of Sam’s mouth. Dad is talking about—oh God, something…he’s trying to listen, he really is trying fuckin’ hard to pay attention to whatever the hell it is Dad’s saying...but Sam’s tongue is worming its way in the creases of his lip, searching for ketchup--licking and—licking. *FUCK.*
*BITCH!*
He reaches under the table and adjusts himself. Sam’s looking at him, and he smiles— a nice smile. A sweet kind of ‘I’m happy, aren’t you happy?’ smile. “It’s a nice night, hunh? Weather’s nice,” Sam says.
Dad says, “Yeah, it’s pretty nice. Good sleeping weather.”
And Sam smiles at him and says, “Yeah, good sleeping…” only it’s more like a—like he *breathes* it instead of saying it.
Dad smiles and chews his burger, and Sam says, “We should sleep outside tonight, Dean,” smiles again and that tickle of sweat between his shoulder blades grows…his t-shirt is sticking to his back….
“Yeah, maybe…” and his voice is a stranger’s, dry and faint.
Sam drops ketchup on his t-shirt. Frowns, and tries to lift it off with the side of his finger—sucks the smear of red from it, his tongue chases it right down to the web between his fingers.
He swears he plays with it for a moment. Swears Sam’s eyes flutter shut for a moment.
He can feel his cock jump. Is he…does he really not get what it’s doing to him?
He feels his eyes fill and wants to bite his own hand. Bitch. Crybaby. Pussy.
Sam smiles again, a gentle curve that sweeps the ends of his mouth into a bow, and slants his eyes. They glitter like a cat’s but his expression is sweet. No…kind. Kind.
Dad gets up to get something from the car—he says. Sam maybe buys it but he knows damn well Dad’s out there to cop a smoke.
He waits until Dad’s cleared the diner doors before turning to Sam and hissing, “Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Just--stop it Sam!”
“I don’t know what you’re doing, Dean, but I’m eating. Eat *your* food and shut up, will you?”
“You--You’re not doing it on purpose?” He’s feeling a little stupid now—kind of like a pervert. A blind perv.
Sam snorts. “What do you think is happening here, Dean?”
“I don’t know…” He looks out the window, sees a little orange flame flare in the car, sees his own face in the glass—Sam’s—sees Sam staring again.
Feels his foot. Feels that foot encased in ratty Converses nudge his ankle--careful, barely a real touch—*Fuck!*
“What?”
“Gotta go—be right back.”
God! He jumps up and dashes to the bathroom. Closes the door carefully behind him, locks it—that’s important, the locking part. He opens his pants, bites his lip. Pulls down his boxers, and takes his cock in hand.
Comes without a sound, tosses the gummy tissues into the bowl and flushes. Calmly. Waits until the flush leaves his face and he’s breathing normally again.
Bastard.
Dad’s back at the table, smelling faintly of smoke and beer, directs a little shamefaced grin at him.
What can he do? He grins back at Dad. Secrets Dad, we all have them…God, do we ever.
Sam smiles up at him, cat-eyed and angelic at once. “You okay?” And sucks at the straw standing up in his coke, the pointed tip of his tongue searching for the hole in the end of the straw….
“Yes! I mean…yes.”
*deep breath* Yes.”
Dad looks at him with some surprise, and Sam looks at him like…like the Earth just opened up and puked out a million dollars and Pamela Anderson. Tom Cruise. Whatever.
Dad shrugs. He’s given up trying to understand the bizarro language he claims they have.
He’s not totally sure what he’s agreed to. He’s scared shitless. What happens next?
Is he supposed to do something, or just lay back and think of puppies and ice-cream? What does Sam want? What does he *want*? Him. Sam wants him.
And God, he wants Sam. Sam’s hand on him, Sam’s mouth on him—he’s wanted it forever, so much sometimes it made him sick. It made him cry, it made him almost hurt himself jerking off. Coming, driving fingers into his eyes when he did. And God, don’t ever fucking enjoy it. Because that would make him a perv.
Okay, the truth? He wants to be—fucked raw, broken, ripped to pieces; he wants Sam to just be there forever.
If Sam doesn’t want that, what’s left in the world?
How does he live?
******
When?
Now that Sam’s got him locked up and panting for it, he’s…it’s…slow. Suddenly all that desperation, that anger, raw want he used to see in Sam’s eyes--it’s all gone. Now it’s all about sweet *bland* looks, and little drifting touches. Smiles, all sweet and puppy faced, so…fucking innocent. It makes him think maybe he’s a little…maybe he wanted too much?
It’s…horrible. Like torture. It’s cruel, and it hurts but Sam doesn’t seem to get it. He just keeps saying, “Wait ‘til Dad’s gone, wait…”
Wait is making him NUTS. God—Sam must be made of iron or something.
Sammy’s making him crazy—*crazier*. ‘Wait’ is going to fucking *kill* him.
So, waiting, and waiting. When Dad finally tells him he’s taking off for a few weeks, he has to bite his lip hard to keep from *screaming*
“Be gone for a while. You boys take care of each other, hear?” Dad gives him the manly pat-rub-slap on his shoulder. He gets this brief flash of wanting to salute but has enough damn sense not to—bad enough that he’s grinning like an idiot. “Be careful Dad—have a good time.” *FUCK* “I mean—you know what I mean.”
*FUCKME* “Um. Yeah.”
Dad gives him an odd look before he leaves.
From the edge of the driveway, he watches the truck leave. Looks back to the house and Sam’s watching too…the taillights flash red and they’re gone and God, he wants Dad to come back right now.
See? Crazy.
*****
Dad’s been gone for two days.
He’s making dinner—mac and cheese and hamburger, and because he’s been watching the cooking channel, slices up a tomato on the side. Festive, and also healthy. He pours a glass of milk for both of them, and calls Sam to dinner.
Calls. Calls again.
“Yo, Sammy, I didn’t slave over a hot stove for nothing. Get your narrow butt out here.”
“…Dean.”
“What?” He’s moving toward the bedroom already, trying to keep the scowl in place, ready to yell.
The room’s dark, because the shades are drawn, the curtains pulled. Sam’s sitting with his back to the headboard, wearing boxers.
Blue boxers, and the sheets are blue. Sam’s making a little come here motion with his hand.
There’s no way he can move. He’s not ready. Not ready for this. This is bad.
If he steps over the line, it’s not ever going to be the same. Even though he said yes, there’s no way he can ever be ready for this.
One step…another. Another. Sam looks so patient. Waiting. How did he get to be so good at waiting?
Another, and his throat is closing, and sweat prickles his lip…his eyes flutter. It’s painful to take another step, but he does and his knees are hitting the bed.
“Okay…” The voice doesn’t sound like his. It’s dry and dusty like--like a mummy’s voice. Wonder if mummies really can …
“Dean? Are you here with me?”
*Nod, do something move* “…Uh-hunh…”
Drops to the bed because his knees give way, and Sam pulls him close, kind of drags him really. Sam grabs his calves, wraps his legs around his skinny boxer covered waist. Stops him when he goes to pull his shirt over his head.
“No, let me do it.” Sam unbuttons each fucking button on his shirt like it’s a fucking test. Slow and careful, and pulls the shirt open even slower. Fingertips slide over his nipples—they’re tingling and stiff before Sam even gets there. He jumps when the cool pads of his fingers graze them.
He’s got his eyes closed. His hands are fisted, and he’s got them pressed against his belly. It’s stupid—like he’s trying to protect himself or something. Sam snorts quietly, “come on…” manages to pull one of his hands away. He’s surprised how slowly gently, he does it.
Sam whispers in his ear, “Don’t you want to touch me?” and suddenly his hand is pressed over the incredibly hot, hard cock straining up in Sam’s boxers.
It’s like his fingers grip by instinct, squeezing, wrapping best they can with all that material in the way. They both groan, they both flex, him against his leg and Sam in his hand--he keeps his eyes closed because if he looked, he’d probably chicken out, or—or faint or—come right away, and at the moment, any of those seem like terrible things to happen….
Sam’s mouth opens against his ear, and he says very carefully, “Feel that? That’s yours, for you…I want to touch you too.” There’s a wet mouth dragging down his neck, and across his chest, over his nipples, teeth nip and pinch—tongue, scrubbing, soothing…he’s so hard, it hurts. “Sam!”
He feels the button on his jeans being worked open, and the zipper being teased down, he feels Sam’s touch, warm, rough fingertips rubbing his belly, catching in his hair. Stopping just at the base of his cock and fuck, he *knew* Sam would be a horrible fucking tease in bed too….
Warm breath leaks out of him, he can’t stop sighing…it’s just like being in a dream, the kind where he has no control--he’s just laying back like a bitch and taking it, letting Sam call the shots, letting him be in charge…never ever thought Sam being the one in control would be so fuckin’ hot. It’s—it’s incredible. He feels hot and loopy--like being dipped in warm taffy, and all his muscles unlock, melt. Sam moves him like a doll, strips him, positions him, touches him where he wants to, how he wants to and it’s all good…
Sam’s sucking a trial from his breastbone to his cock. His cock is jumping with every tiny nibbling kiss laid on it. His eyes fly open when Sam takes him in hand, holds his cock so the head fills his palm…then traces over the tip with the index finger of his free hand. That feels—so damn good—he opens his mouth to beg for more and Sam swirls precome around and very deliberately licks his finger clean, eyes locked on his. Sam’s tasting him—shit--his cock is jumping up and begging, and he’s dizzy, feels like he’s falling into Sam’s eyes.
“Should I—should I put it in my mouth?” Sam asks, so sweetly tentative, so at odds with the seducer he’s been, that he wonders if it’s part of the game—and he doesn’t even care.* ‘should I put it in my mouth’…let me think about that…* “Oh God...”
Sam snickers a little breathelssy…
“Oh, you’re an *asshole* Sam—yes, fuck yes,” he’s almost yelping, and nodding frantically, and when Sam does just that, it makes him cry out quietly. He turns his face to the pillow and gives up. Gives in.
This is it. The beginning of a dream, finally come true…the moment he’s wanted , fantasized about and now that it’s happening he can admit it—he’s built it up in his mind--into something so earth shattering, incredible, amazing and perfect, that real life can’t begin to be a fraction of how good he’s dreamt it—and it’s not.
It’s so much more. It’s fucking unbelievable. It’s so incredible he makes Sam stop. He pushes him away. “If you don’t stop now, I’ll come in your mouth.” Just saying that makes his hips come off the bed, makes his cock jump.
Sam crawls up his body and when their cocks touch and drag against each other he yells, and they both laugh.
It’s the laugh that does it—suddenly it’s like all the walls topple, fall--there’s nothing between them now, except skin. They roll against each other, they’re licking and sucking and biting anything that gets in the way, and laughing…telling each other how wonderful and beautiful, how hot, how hard, so…
Miraculous.
Miracle.
He’s falling and before he falls completely, there’s this one moment—he’s got this one moment in which time freezes, and he sees himself sitting on the front step with his brother, ruffling his hair, explaining that this—this sex stuff was private stuff, and a big old door should be kept between them on that, and that all this weird stuff he was feeling was natural and normal, but just raging teen hormones and they were just stuck together too often, don’t worry, he’d get over it…
but that’s not happening in this universe… “Sam, Sam….”
“Dean…” Sam lifts his legs. “Dean.” Drops them over his shoulders. “Dean.” He’s pushing in, and it hurts…it feels so good. And hurts, and feels good, and his head whips back and forth...it’s like being on fire from the inside, and the gritty burn begins to ease until it's like…velvet , smooth as cream, hot and there’s this—jolt—this electric explosion.
No one else is home so it’s okay to scream….
Sam is hanging over him, and he looks stunned. His mouth is round, perfectly o shaped—*my cock was right there, on his tongue.* Sam’s eyes are wide and black and suddenly, they flood with tears, his mouth widens, he grits his teeth and throws his head back. Sam groan faster and faster until he’s screaming—but low, so low and harsh, it’s gotta hurt.
His brother’s fucking him. His brother’s cock his hands his mouth his spit his sweat…his come….
He feels heat—feels Sam’s come inside him, feels his own spilling between them, bellies wet with sweat and come sliding against each other panting, ribs swelling and flattening…it’s over.
Opens his eyes and feels like he’s dropped a million miles, like he’s fallen into a dream of heaven, like he’s king of the world…can’t help laughing at how beat up he feels, and it feels so fucking—“Awesome.”
Sam snickers against his shoulder, and he sticks a hand between their heaving bellies and pulls it out, curious…in awe. Pearly fluid webs his fingers, clings before reluctantly dripping down his palm…it’s him, and his brother, together, mixed up, combined…he licks his palm and Sam moans, tightens the arms around his neck and he’s moaning in his ear, “I love you, Dean, I love you, never…never…”
And he says back, “I’ll never leave you either, promise.” He’s happy, for once, really just…happy. Alive. Content. Having sex with someone you love is. Fucking. Amazing. He’s so fucking happy.
They fuck some more, they rest, they eat, they fuck some more. The room is thick with the smell of seat and come, thick with the smell of them, their heat…they shower, and fuck in the shower, and it’s the best motherfucking use of water, ever.
Sometime around the next afternoon, he wakes up, with a song in his heart and a smile on his lips. Shit. It *was* just that simple. Sam was right—nothing’s changed and there’s just this extra thing, this incredible extra thing--they have another way to say I love you and it’s fucking incredible and the world is still outside the window. The sun still came up, the birds are still singing, fuckin’ kids are still outside screaming their brains out….there’s no flaming pit opening under the bed, no lightning strikes.
His ass feels like it got sandpapered—it’s is sore as hell and he moves just because he wants to feel it hurt and he can’t stop grinning.
Sam’s in the shower, so he kicks the sheets off and strokes himself until he’s hard again and lays back, smirking, waiting.
Sam’s standing in the doorway, head down, toweling his hair.
“Hey…”
“Hey.” His head’s down, and his eyes, they glance over and slide away.
It doesn’t take a fucking rocket scientist to tell what’s going on here, and he knows Sam like no one else in the world. His gut is already freezing but he smiles. “Come here, Sam. Lay down with me.”
Nods, head still down, eyes still dancing away but he drops the towel and he’s right there, spread over the sheets and on him. He makes Sam look at him, trying to keep the grip on his chin gentle…and he sees it, deep in is eyes. He can see it, and it’s not fair, because he didn’t do it. He would never have done it…he didn’t ask for it, Sam did, and now Sam’s got this look—looking at him like he’s Sam’s Terrible Horrible Mistake…
*oh no. no.* “Hey, you okay?” *please don’t* “You all right?”
“Oh, yeah, better than all right—I’m great.” Sam closes his eyes and wraps himself around his neck and legs. The fuzz that’s been making Sam’s chin look dirty scrapes along his cheek.
“You need a shave,” Sam says and he *sounds* okay…
“Yeah, you too…” Maybe he misread—maybe *he’s* the one freaking, not Sam…reading something into nothing….
“You know I love you right?”
“Yeah, ‘course. I love you too. Sam?”
“Uhmm?”
“I *really* love you. I mean, with everything, y’know?”
“’Course I do. Me too, Dean.”
He heaves a sigh. “Yeah. I know that.”
******
The difference between wanting something and having it can be incredible, like jumping the Snake River Canyon--and making it. Like hitting the lottery all by yourself. Like being dropped into a nest of vampires and coming out on top, alive and breathing and feeling fucking invincible. King of the damn world.
There are *no* motherfucking words to describe getting it all and losing for getting it.
There’s no way to describe what it’s like to find out what you thought was yours was a dream or a lie or a mistake…to find out that he’s someone’s mistake. He has to spend a lot of energy pushing everything away, under, keeping away from Sam. Not touching, not looking. He’s got to do this so he can breathe, keep on moving. Because when he doesn't Sam is there again, like someone ripping at a half healed scab—pulling him back into the pit they dug.
Like it's not killing him. Like it's not killing the both of them.
The wanting is awful, now that his body knows. It fills his gut and his bones and pushes everything else out. It's too big to be contained--it flips, turns in on itself grows and grows until it's almost…good. It fills him up like nothing did, except Sam….
He wonders--how the fuck did it get like this? How did it get so…sad? Bad, he expected—anger, he could have accepted, even hatred he could have dealt with but this lingering sadness...he has these brief moments in which he wishes he were dead, he wishes he hadn’t said yes.
Mostly though, in those rare moments he thinks about all this shit honestly--even knee deep in pain and self pity, he’s gotta admit--kind of glad he did what he did. Because if he’d said no, he’d have spent the rest of his life wondering, and pretty much, he’d rather have the pain and the knowing than not.
Does that make him an idiot, he wonders, or a masochist? Or just a seriously pathetic fucking loser?
******
Dad’s in the middle of bad times, there have been a few too many hunts gone wrong lately, a little more booze to kill the pain there aren’t any doctors for, so he’s on edge more than usual, and more than fucked up when Sam drops his bomb…he has to get between the two of them to keep them from kicking the crap out of each other—
What a shit-storm…he's holding Dad back and yelling for Sam to fucking leave already, get out, go…they’ve all known he was leaving for weeks, but until he’s in the doorway, with a beat up duffle bag crammed with his stuff--so fucking pitifully small, that bag…until that moment, no one believed it, not even Sam, from the stunned look on his face.
A trickle of words turn to a waterfall of words, and anger turns to rage and betrayal and it’s just about the worst fuckin’ night he’s had that doesn’t involve salt, or silver or holy water….
It’s pretty fucking bad—so much so that when Sam slams the door behind himself, it’s a relief. For all of about five minutes.
After that, he spends days learning how to breathe again. He wonders desperately who he is without Sam, what his purpose is. It takes him weeks to get strong enough to call him, to actually hear his voice…after he realizes just how much pain it causes Sam to talk to him, he works even harder to get the strength to stop. It’s all he can give Sam….
Life goes on, and after a while, he realizes that it's not just Sam he's responsible for. He lives for Dad, does what he can…moves with him, runs his errands, lives the same life Dad lives. Tries to be as much like Dad as he can, because he seems to have found some way to live with all this shit.
What the fuck--it's a living, right?
******
Lately, He dreams--a lot--real vivid dreams, full of touch and smell and even taste…dreams of boxers, of plaid pajama bottoms, twisted around long sleep heavy legs. He dreams of peanut butter and chlorine, kisses sweet and wet, desperate stolen touches and he dreams that Sam is fucking him, slowly, slowly, so slowly it makes him cry and he wakes up, wet faced and glued to his pillow….
*****
Dad's gone.
Has been gone for weeks and Dean's alone and that—that's something he can't do. He has no idea where his dad can be…but he knows where Sammy is, and like it or not, he needs help.
He needs his brother….
Sammy…*Sam* owes him this one thing. One thing and then he'll let him go again. One little favor, for all the favors he's done Sam. A few days out of his life, against the lifetime that's he dedicated to his brother, how can that hurt? One favor and he'd let him go again…he knows he can do that….
It's time to go get him back.
5-25-2007
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(no subject)
6/7/07 01:15 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/7/07 01:44 am (UTC)I love reading in all different kinds of fandoms. One of my favorites are
(no subject)
6/7/07 01:52 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/7/07 01:25 am (UTC)A few days out of his life, against the lifetime that's he dedicated to his brother, how can that hurt? One favor and he'd let him go again…he knows he can do that….
You keep telling yourself that, Dean.
(no subject)
6/7/07 01:45 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/7/07 03:16 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/7/07 05:17 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/7/07 03:49 pm (UTC)The writing looks real good but....ick.
(no subject)
6/7/07 04:11 pm (UTC)(no subject)
6/7/07 04:32 pm (UTC)Remember, you're the one who told me my daddybadtouch parts were so vague as to be nearly non-existent. *G*
(no subject)
6/7/07 06:43 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/7/07 07:38 am (UTC)Ah sadly, no TBC. It's finished--you know what happens next from the show. *G*
(no subject)
6/7/07 08:05 pm (UTC)I know i read this but i don't see a comment...where is my comment!!!!
Are you posting things twice just to confuse me or what?
*flails*
I love this, you know.
(no subject)
6/8/07 01:59 am (UTC)sorry! *hughugug*
(no subject)
6/8/07 02:11 am (UTC)You are doing it on purpose!!
:)
(no subject)
6/7/07 09:41 pm (UTC)Dean.. ;_;
(no subject)
6/8/07 02:00 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/9/07 02:13 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/9/07 04:18 am (UTC)Thank you so much. Damn, thank you.