But truly, I’ve wept too much!
The Dawns are heartbreaking, each moon hell, each sun bitter…
Dean thinks about making a catalog of Sam’s dreams, wonders how on the ball he’d be. Jess burning up is easy: always ends with Sam crying, bellowing her name and ‘no’, waking up gasping. Hunts are usually kicks and twitches, jerking awake only to fall back to sleep quickly. Sometimes he laughs in his sleep and Dean hopes those are dreams about the two of them; kids cracking up in the back of the Impala, Sam doubled over, cackling after some prank Dean stumbled into, maybe chuckling about girls.
But this dream, the one he walks in on, morning coffees in hand, comes few and far between and he’d thought it might have stopped altogether. Hoped so. It’s a dream that gives Dean nightmares.
He goes still, wondering if he should back up and wait it out, but when Sam shifts and his balled-up fists pull the thin blanket tight across his frame and his cock is clearly outlined, Dean becomes rooted to the spot, terrified, embarrassed, ashamed. Fascinated. Teeth grinding loudly, Sam’s head rocks back onto the crown and his cock jumps, pulses, god, Dean can see it actually swell when Sam comes, and he remembers the first time this dream had happened, the first time Sam had woken him up with that gravelly tooth-on-tooth sound, his little-boy erection poking Dean in the back, arms stiff at his sides and hands clenched, just like he’d been the first—
Sam’s eyes open. Quickly, without the drag of sleep. They go right to Dean and he knows Sam was aware of him there.
“Nightmare, Sammy?” he asks, trying for flippancy. Fails. His voice is too shaky.
“Seemed like it.”
“It’s not that bad. Not like some of the others. Was about you.”
Dean decides with all his might to ignore that.
What comes next is like a punch to the throat.
“Why’d you do it, Dean?”
“I—do what, Sammy?”
“You know what I’m talking about. When we were kids. I was what, ten?” he asks, sitting up in bed, the hot little wet spot against his leg making his shorts stick to his thigh. He’s mildly impressed when Dean doesn’t bother trying to pretend he doesn’t know what Sam’s talking about for more than a second.
“Hey, I was just a stupid kid, too. It’s no big deal, right?”
“Actually, it kind of is.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Sam frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean? Why did you do it?”
Dean’s lips tighten, his eyes flick around the room, but he doesn’t retreat like Sam thinks he wants to. Instead, he offers Sam the coffee, his body at an angle. Reaches out, keeps as much distance between them as possible. Sam takes it and sees his big brother flinch when their fingers touch.
“Why, Dean?” Sam repeats the question, softly this time.
Dean flings himself down on the other bed with sudden force, hissing when the coffee spills over the back of his hand.
“I don’t know, alright?” he barks and glares down at the offending coffee.
“So, you were just messing around? Trying things out?”
“Where did you learn to do that? Did Dad—”
Dean slams his coffee down on the nightstand hard enough that the top comes off and the scalding liquid splashes onto Dean’s leg, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s on his feet, looming, and Sam can’t tell if his brother will attack him or hug him.
“Did he fucking touch you, Sammy? I told him if he ever, ever, laid a hand on you like that I would gut him.”
“What, no, Dean. I was going to ask if he left a porn out or something that got you…I don’t know, curious?”
Sam watches as Dean relaxes some, steps back, shakes himself. Then he begins to pace, but it isn’t a frantic movement; rather, one designed to burn off murderous energy. Sam watches him, sips his coffee, thinks…
“Sammy, man, I’m sorry. I really am. It was stupid and I was confused and just a kid. I didn’t mean to mess you up or anything. I stopped…not more than a handful of times, right? I was hoping you wouldn’t remember, I guess, ’s why I never said anything. But I am sorry. Okay?”
Dean stops pacing and faces his brother, and when Sam doesn’t answer right away he hears Dean actually whine. A noise of fear and pain from deep in his chest, barely audible, then he backs up one step into the dresser when Sam comes off the bed and towards him, but Sam doesn’t let him get away. He blocks his escape with one leg between his brother’s and winds his arms around him before he can fight back. Dean goes rigid, his heart pounds against Sam’s, but Sam hugs him tighter.
“Okay,” Sam says. “It’s okay. It didn’t mess me up. I figured out pretty quick, talking to so many different kids, that that kind of thing happens sometimes, between friends or brothers. You weren’t trying to hurt me, and you did stop.”
Sam puts his head on Dean’s shoulder, turns slightly, his breath warm against Dean’s throat. “But why did you do it? Tell me.”
“Sammy, no, okay, can we just let it go?” Dean’s voice quivers, breaks a little, and he leans away from his brother’s lips even as his hands come up and his palms press against Sam’s ribs.
“It was Dad, wasn’t it?”
“C’mon, Sam. I don’t—”
“No, you do. You did to me what he was doing to you, and that’s when you knew it was fucked up, that’s why you stopped.”
Dean doesn’t reply, but his fingers curl into fists in Sam’s t-shirt. Sam steps in closer somehow, pushes his thigh between Dean’s legs. Their hip bones connect, hurt, and he braces himself.
“How long, Dean? How long did he do it? Did you make him stop?”
“I couldn’t. Not at first. He—I had to… You were…”
“You were protecting me from him?”
“Yeah,” Dean breathes, and Sam’s heart breaks.
“Jesus, Dean. Thank you. I love you.”
“You, too. Let go.”
But Sam doesn’t. He shifts and kisses Dean’s neck. “It didn’t mess me up,” he repeats, brushes his lips against sugared skin, aware that Dean has stopped breathing. “I want you to know that. You could have told me. About Dad. I would’ve made him stop.”
Dean swallows, his throat working under Sam’s lips. “Just a kid, Sammy… He quit. Sixteen.”
“I’m sorry,” he says and kisses him again.
At the panicked cry, Sam pulls his head back. A beam of early morning light comes through the curtains and slashes across Dean's face, casts a gold hue in his usually emerald eyes; like half-dried summer grass. He kisses Dean again, on the lips, and isn’t terribly surprised when he finds himself on his back on the nearest bed. Dean is still against the dresser, glaring down at him, wild-eyed and feral, teeth exposed and muscles clenched.
“You know, Dean, I didn’t want you to stop. I thought there was something wrong with me when you did, that you didn’t like me.”
“Sam,” Dean warns.
“But I know you do like me, and that isn’t why you stopped. You stopped because you’re good, and you only ever wanted to be good to me, and you thought it was wrong.”
“Maybe when we were kids. Not now.”
“Fuck this. I’m leaving.”
“Show me what Dad did to you.”
Dean whips around at that and Sam can’t help cringing when Dean lunges across the room and grabs him, pulls him up off the bed by his t-shirt, shakes him.
“You shut your fucking mouth, Sam, do you understand me?”
“Did he do that? Did he threaten you and jerk you around? Show me. If you could take it, I can. Maybe it would’ve been better if you’d let him have me, then we could have dealt with it together, at least. I could’ve been there for you. Show me how bad it was.”
“I am not like him!” Dean nearly screams.
“I know you’re not. Now you know it, too.”
Dean drops him, backs away, puts both hands over his face.
“Hey,” Sam says, so softly, knowing the effect that voice has on people in crisis, knowing Dean is not immune to it. “You’re forgiven. It wasn’t your fault what Dad did, and you didn’t hurt me. I liked it. I’ve never been able to stop thinking about it.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t like it!” Dean cries, behind his hands still. “I didn’t want it, I didn’t like it. I hated that I did it to you!”
“I know, Dean. Hey,” he says again, more forcefully. Dean lowers his hands and his lashes are wet, but he glares defiantly through his tears at his little brother. “Did it always hurt? I mean, was he always mean to you?”
“Why do—yes, alright! He always hurt me, he was always rough and mean and drunk and nasty and he never fucking brought me a sucker later to make up for it, or bought me a fucking toy. He always left bruises and always called me names and always told me to get the fuck away from him after, like it was my fault.”
“I won’t hurt you.”
Dean looks stricken. He cocks his head, blinks rapidly. “What? What the fuck does that mean?”
Sam knows it’s wrong, knows it will mess with him, but he thinks this is the only way to get his brother not to fight him. Hopefully. He stands up, using the inches he has on Dean to tower as best he can, rolls his shoulders back, his chest out, deepens his voice to match their father’s timbre.
“Dean, come over here. Now.”
“No, Sammy," Dean pleads and his voice shakes, head shakes, but his body responds. His steps are small and reluctant, his expression sullen, but he moves.
Once Dean’s in reach, Sam drops his posture and again curls his arms around him, but his hands move along Dean’s back, fingers reach into the collar of his flannel and he pulls down, drags the shirt off his shoulders and off his body, and then his hands are under the t-shirt. He tugs up until it joins the flannel on the floor.
Dean’s torso is a fine network of scars, ones Sam long ago memorized, but he wonders now…
“Did he leave any marks on you? Scars? Answer me, Dean.”
It should be frightening how easy it is to mimic his father’s tone, it should be disgusting to Sam that he does it now to manipulate Dean, but all he can think of is how Dean’s body radiates heat, how his skin is ridiculously soft, how he is not tense or fighting any longer. His big brother shifts, lifts his right hand, fingers seeking and finding little crescent ridges high on his ribs, just under his armpit. The scars are wide, as if the nails dug in and pulled hard, ripped the skin back. Sam catches Dean’s bicep and pulls his arm out of the way and presses his lips to the mark, inhales his brother’s scent, somehow like caramel.
Dean gestures, moves his left leg and Sam pulls him forward and sits back down on the bed. Dean’s eyes close and he bites his lip, hard, tries to hide the pout that bows his mouth when Sam pops the buttons on his jeans. He sees a final tear squeeze out when Dean shifts a hip to help Sam pull them down.
Dean’s hand swings to the back, hesitates, goes to the front and he spreads his legs, left hand between them, points to the fleshy inside of his thigh. There are layers there and now that Sam knows what to look for he can tell the difference between the fingernail scars and the ones made by teeth. He leans in and kisses those, too. Dean’s eyes are open when Sam glances back up, and he keeps his lips close to his brother’s skin as he speaks.
“I won’t hurt you,” he repeats. “I want to make it feel good. Like you made me feel good.” He nuzzles his face against Dean’s thigh, letting his nose bump against the taut swell of his briefs. “But I want you to tell me what he did, okay? So I can make it better.”
He stands up slowly, carefully, not wanting to startle Dean. He can feel how frightened he is, how nervous and guilty. He knows his brother so well.
“Did he ever kiss you, Dean?”
Dean's throat tries to work but he can only shake his head, once.
“He didn’t love you, you know that, right? I’ve always thought he hated us. Blamed us for what happened to our family. But I don’t hate you. I love you.”
The last word is blurred slightly as Sam kisses his brother before it’s finished, and this time Dean does not shove him away. His soft lips part, his mouth opens and lets Sam’s tongue in and he tastes of coffee and whisky—he must have a bottle under Baby’s seat, Sam realises. He moves closer, deeper, tilts his head and licks for the back of Dean’s teeth and smiles into the kiss when Dean’s hands find his hips for balance.
Sam breaks away to brush his mouth along Dean’s jaw, the fluttering pulse in his neck, up to the edge of his ear, only to return to those perfect lips and he finds them open, willing, eager. He is nearly breathless when he pulls away the next time, and Dean’s eyes shine, though he looks distant, still hiding. Sam needs him here, now.
“Tell me, okay? What would he do first?”
“He’d drink,” Dean mumbles and wrinkles his nose and both brothers laugh, and the tension eases.
“That’s the way he started everything, Dean. C’mon.”
“I don’t… Not sure I can.”
“Just close your eyes.”
When he does—a quick, worried glance from those summer-bright eyes first—Sam puts one hand to Dean’s cheek, leans in and kisses his shoulder, then his neck again, worries at the lobe of Dean’s ear, and whispers encouragement to him.
Finally: “He’d put me in his lap. H-hold me down. Ch-choke me. Dig in with his nails so I’d struggle, m-move around. Hand over my mouth.”
“God, Dean. Here, come here.” Sam pulls Dean down against him, meets no resistance. Into his lap would be uncomfortable at this age, so he settles him between his long legs and puts his hands, lightly, on Dean’s body. His heart, his belly.
“I want to make you move around, too. But not like that.”
He starts slow: pets, strokes, massages along the muscles and bones, curves and valleys and hollows, explores, learns his brother’s body with his palms and fingertips the way he’s learned it with his eyes: carefully, purposefully. Dean takes short, shallow breaths, and Sam takes his time, waits, coaxes, until he feels his brother sigh in his arms, feels him relax and lean back against him. Then he brushes a hand upwards, his long fingers circle, his thumb hooking around Dean’s throat. The pressure is so slight but Dean still freezes, and Sam smiles to himself.
He pulls gently, tilting Dean’s head to one side, exposes his neck and it isn’t more than a minute later that Dean relaxes again as Sam kisses and licks and sucks not quite hard enough to leave a mark, and then Dean moves. His back arches, his ass scoots a little against Sam. He moves his grip up on Dean’s throat, plucking at his lips where he’s bitten them again, then palms briefly over the plushness there just to feel Dean’s heart hammer under his hand, then he works his fingers inside Dean’s mouth. They are slick in a moment, and Dean sucks and swirls his tongue, holds with his teeth, and Sam’s cock aches. He catches one of Dean’s nipples with his other hand and pinches it, and Dean’s lips tighten around his fingers and a groan vibrates through him.
“That’s good, that’s so good, Dean. You are so fucking hot, you know that? My fucking beautiful brother. I love being around you, love seeing girls look at you. Guys, too. It’s such a turn on, knowing they all want you, and they can’t have you, none of them. Unless you say so. And they are all just begging you with their eyes to choose them. I get to see you every single day, get to see you sleep and laugh and fight and drive—that’s when you’re the hottest: driving your car, singing to yourself, so perfect and oblivious and just so you, fuck! I’ve come in my jeans just watching you, know that?”
Dean snorts, thrashes his head against Sam’s shoulder in denial, but Sam whispers into his ear, makes him writhe as he breaks the words up with kisses and tongue flicks.
“It’s true. Dark night, in the rain, you over there singing, I’ve wanted to lean across and suck your cock while we’re doing ninety down the highway, have you push my head down, come in my throat so deep I don’t even have to swallow. You’ve noticed me slouched down, knees up on the dash, asked me what the fuck my problem was—it was always you, but it wasn’t a problem. I was so fucking hard, wanting you. Like I am now,” Sam says, bucking his hips forward, grinding his hard-on against Dean’s back. And, fuck, his brother moans. Sam pulls his fingers slowly from Dean’s mouth, wetting his lips and chin, and then he tightens the hand back around his throat. This time Dean doesn’t freeze; he wiggles, arches, until Sam speaks again.
“Did he ever jerk you off?”
It’s as if Dean’s forgotten how they got this far, and he suddenly tries to get away. He scrabbles at Sam’s hand, tries to pry him off, pushing himself halfway to his feet, but Sam won’t let him go.
“Answer me!” Sam orders and jerks him back down, wraps his legs around Dean’s, locks his ankles.
“No, fuck! No, he didn’t,” Dean spits. Sam loosens his grip.
“Okay, thank you. That’s good, you’re good, thank you. Calm down, okay?” Sam holds him, rocks his hips slightly, reminds Dean. “Did you want him to? No, wait, dammit, hold still. You have to tell me.”
Sam hopes Dean doesn’t ask him why he has to tell him. There’s not a good reason. But he lucks out; Dean’s mind is not clear, and Sam keeps up his distraction, tilts his hips, pushes.
“I—I don’t know. Maybe. Sometimes. Just. To feel good? I don’t know. No,” he decides finally. He jerks in Sam’s grip and Sam lets him have some room and is pleased when Dean only uses it to peer around at him. He looks hurt, his eyes red-rimmed, his mouth open, slack, his brows drawn down.
“Do you want me to?”
“I want to, but I want you to say it if you do. Ask me to.”
He waits, searches his brother’s face, sees the want, the fear, disgust, anger and lust all play across his features.
“Touch. Will you? Touch me?”
Sam’s hand is his answer. He wraps it without hesitation around his brother’s cock, over his briefs, grips, tugs the material down over the sensitive head, long fingers able to scoop under his balls and lift them up tight, all one long motion that he repeats until Dean mutters.
Sam lets him up and Dean bounces on the bed, one practiced move and he is naked. Hard. Cock jutting out, thick and perfect. He reaches for Sam but he is caught and Sam lies back, pulls him down. He kisses Dean again, Sam’s hands somehow everywhere, and Dean suddenly catches fire. It’s hard for Sam to get him to stop, his hair too short in the back to grab, and Sam resorts to flipping them both, ends up on top of his brother.
“Strong,” Dean says and beams. “You feel good.”
Sam smiles down at him, then hates himself just a little. “When did it start?”
Dean’s smile fades from his eyes first, and his lips twitch, pull down at the corners, and he turns his head to the side, glances up at Sam almost mischievously.
“Sammy, c’mon, d’we have—”
Sam lifts his hand and Dean flinches like Sam knew he would. “Yes. We have to. How old were you?”
Dean makes a noise, but it’s not quite a word.
“Ten.” Dean’s eyes close. “Three days after your birthday. We were in Des Moines. There was a lady staying in the motel with a bunch of other kids and Dad let you go stay the night with them.”
“I remember. I begged him. What happened?”
“Did he hit you?”
“Yeah,” Dean barely breathes the word. “I woke up. I dunno, missed you. He was watching some skin flick, but I didn’t know what it was, the fuck did I know? I asked him what the movie was, sat up in—on the couch, I was on this hide-a-bed but it wasn’t pulled out because you weren’t there. He hit me, just backhanded me. Grabbed me, my arm, yanked me over to him. I was petrified, you know? My nose bleeding, my eyes watering, I couldn’t tell what he was doing. He… I-I don’t wanna.”
“Dean, how can I make it better if you don’t tell me?”
“You can’t make it better!”
Sam has not let his guard down, knew there was more fight left in his brother and it comes out now. Dean whips his head around, intent on banging it against Sam’s, and his body twists, follows through. He scrambles, claws, and kicks his heels, tries to pry Sam off him, but Sam has the leverage. He dodges Dean’s blows easily and pins him, keeps out of reach of his teeth and elbows.
“Stop it! Dean! You’re going to hurt me. Is that what you want? After all this, you want to hurt me? Fucking chill, okay? Just calm down. I know this will make you feel better, just telling me about it. Do you want me to stop touching you? Stop being this close?”
Dean pants, glares, sweat sprung on his brow, but he swallows hard and Sam feels him relax minutely.
“No,” he growls, reluctance obvious in both the admission and the want.
“Finish the story and I’ll let you go.”
Dean huffs and tosses his head back, growls again, but the words come, clipped and awful.
“Couldn’t see. Told me to open my mouth wide. I did and he put his dick in. Told me to hold still. Jerked off. I gagged and spit it back on him, buncha blood and come and snot, and he hit me again. Fucking spanked me. Picked me up and dropped me on the floor, kicked me around the room, against the wall. Beat me black and blue. Told you I fell off the counter.”
“Yeah, I remember that, too.”
Sam loosens his grip on Dean slowly, but Dean doesn’t try to get away again. He is quiet, eyes closed tight, cock half-hard and wet at the tip. Sam wipes his eye on his shoulder and worms his body against Dean’s side, rests his head on his arm. His brother fights back his own tears. And rage. He trembles; muscles jump. Sam hums Nothing Else Matters softly, and only when Dean’s breathing finds a normal pace does he touch him again. A hand on his chest at first; pressure, warmth, closeness. By degrees, he edges down, skirts his navel, brushes through the hairs below, rolls over hip bones and along that perfect plane of muscle on his lower belly. Starts over from the top. On the third pass, when he reaches the line of hair at Dean’s pubic mound, Dean’s cock jumps and nudges the back of his hand.
Up on one elbow, Sam watches his own hand caress his brother, watches Dean, gauges his mood. His lips part for an inhalation as pleasure seeps through his pain, and his eyes open, but the pupils are pinpoints in the green, stressed and confused. Instead of bringing him to another peak, sure now that Dean can separate what they’re doing from what’s been done, Sam keeps him level.
“Was that the worst? The first time?”
“No. Not even.”
“You ran away.”
It’s hard not to falter when Sam hears that. He had escaped on Dean’s watch, caught a bus to Arizona, paid in cash he’d been saving for a room, found a dog. It had been so much fun, though he knew Dean and Dad would find him eventually. He’d had to get away, his dad’s anger and drinking and Dean’s moodiness almost comically annoying and boring and depressing to his eleven-year-old self.
Without a prompt, his eyes on his little brother’s hand gently tugging and stroking his cock, deftly moving over the sensitive head, plucking and rubbing all the right spots, Dean says, “He told me he’d kill me if we didn’t find you. That he’d rather have you than me, only kept me around to watch out for you and I sucked at that. I don’t know how many times he did it those first couple of nights before we found a lead—”
“Did what, Dean?”
“Fucked me. R-raped me. Was so drunk at night. Whiskey dick, you know? Start, stop, cry, puke, do it again. Put me in handcuffs. Hit me with his belt. Fuckin’ buckle on it. Oh, more scars.” He points, jagged white slashes near his sternum. Sam kisses them. Dean sighs.
“I wish you would have killed him.”
“Couldn’t,” Dean says, matter-of-fact. “He kept you safe.”
“You did.” Sam’s tongue trails along the path his hand had taken earlier, down.
“Nah. I lost you more than once. And he knew more. Had to learn from him, learn to hunt and protect you and save people.”
Sam’s hand is flat against the underside of Dean’s cock, pressing it firmly down into his belly, moving in circles.
“I like that.”
“Mm, good. You ever jerk off to it? What he did to you?”
Dean’s hands twitch at his sides and Sam readies himself, but the fight doesn’t come this time.
“Guess so,” Dean admits, his voice small, sad. “Not him, though. Different—ah!” He loses his words when he feels Sam’s erection nudge his side, and Sam tightens his grip, stroking.
“Different?” Sam prompts.
“Uh. Sam. Like. Um, someone else, anyone, I don’t know, not him, not hurting me. Fucking…fucking me. Dunno, offering myself, having them want me, happy with me. Christ, Sammy, gonna.”
“Not yet, baby.”
Sam takes his hand away and crawls back over him, and Dean doesn’t protest the name or being denied. He blinks up at Sam, face relaxed, almost sleepy, entranced. He spreads his legs, lets Sam kneel between them, and he is so fucking gorgeous it makes Sam’s stomach flutter. The smattering of freckles, wolfish ears, pillowed lips. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, bow legs. Sam runs his fingertips over every last detail, even twists around and makes Dean squirm when he wiggles his straight toes. He grins at Dean, is rewarded with that disarming half-smile, the one that tipsy girls take as a personal challenge.
“I’m happy with you, Dean. Doesn’t matter that we fight sometimes, get pissed off. Just doesn’t matter, ok?”
“Ok,” Dean says, no voice.
One finger now skims along the veins and ridges, teases Dean’s blood-dark, trickling cock again.
“I don’t ever want you to jerk off thinking about any of that. How about we make a whole new set of memories for you? Or better yet, don’t jerk off at all. Come to me. Let me do it. I will never, ever, tell you no. Just tell me you need me. Will you?”
“Yes,” a breathed word, drawn out, Dean’s eyes wide.
Sam nods and leans down and the first touch of his tongue against Dean’s swollen flesh makes him gasp. The second lick, a long swipe from root to tip, and Dean curses. The next, his lips part and kiss the leaking head, swirl wetly over it, and Sam feels his brother touch him. Feels his warm, calloused hand on the back of his neck. He doesn’t pull, doesn’t force, just rests it there. His thumb brushes up into Sam’s hair, slides along the shell of his ear.
Sam is tired of hurting Dean, tired of his own heart aching, tired of hating their father, but the end is in sight, he thinks.
“Dean, did it ever feel good? I mean, did you ever get off while he was doing it?”
“No, Sammy…” But it’s not denial, it’s a plea. Sam goes flat, laps at the base of Dean’s cock, lower, lifts his balls with his tongue.
“Dean, c’mon. You promised.”
He hadn’t, not that, but Sam knows he’s too torn, too far gone to remember otherwise.
“Oh. No. Just.”
Frustrated, Dean finally moves, bucks against Sam’s mouth, needy and desperate, maybe hoping to distract his little brother, but Sam can’t stop now.
“Once. The last time.”
There’s vehemence in the word and Sam’s stomach knots. Sixteen, he’d said. Sam remembers Dean at sixteen. Filling out, tall, slender, had lost that roundness, that ginger-bully look he’d had before adolescence settled in. At sixteen Dean’s face was all cheekbones and jaw, thick lashes, his body corded muscle and quickness.
Sam had noticed the changes mostly because his brother’s attitude had changed, had become more lighthearted, softer. He laughed more, and always took Sam with him when he went places. Sometimes it had pissed Sam off, being dragged around to parks and parties and places he was too young, too easily bored, to enjoy, especially when Dean almost always brought a girl along with them.
But there had been good things about it. Sometimes they went to the girl’s house where there would be video games or dogs to play with and Dean would disappear with the girl and leave Sam to pretend this was their house, their fridge full of food, their backyard with a tree to climb.
Sam doesn’t push him. Instead, he opens his mouth and breathes out, long and steady, lets the warmth flood over Dean’s groin, then follows with his tongue, even hotter, and the inside of his mouth is Hell-hot in Heaven by the way Dean groans as his fingers dig into Sam’s shoulder.
“Ah, shit. You. Away at camp, or, dunno, field trip. Fucking church thing, something. Knew what was gonna happen. You gone, he always took his time. Handcuffed. Did it over and over again, until it didn’t hurt anymore. Numb. Loose. Left me, the last night before you came back, went to the bar, probably got turned down, came back shitfaced and took his sweet fucking time. I was asleep, still cuffed. He had me ass up before I knew it. In deep. It felt good. No burn, no blood, still wet from—from before. He must’ve been thinking ’bout some chick, whatever, ’cause it was slow, and I came. Didn’t even—couldn’t—touch myself. Just happened. Made him, too. So pissed. He started hitting me, calling me a faggot, and he got his belt. But I got it away from him. Handcuffed. I was getting strong, Sam, and he finally figured it out, too. I got the belt, got it around his neck, him on the ground, my fucking wrists bleeding. Kicked the shit outta him. Got the keys, cuffed him and dragged him into the bathroom. Left him there. Picked you up at school the next day, took you out for breakfast, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah, it was. You were so cute. Happy. You didn’t even ask where he was. He was gone when we got back, gone for a few days. That was the end of it. Never touched me again. But I watched. Made sure he never went after you. Warned him.” Dean pauses, takes a deep breath, his first since this had started. Then, “Sammy, take your clothes off, will you?”
“Are you sure? We don’t have to.”
“Have to,” Dean says firmly. Fighting back tears, he tries to smile but it comes across as a grimace of pain. Sam’s fierce brother. Hunter, fighter, warrior, broken by their abusive, piece of shit father whom Sam had saved from Hell. Would have left him there, had he known. Dean wouldn’t have. Dean still would have done everything in his power to save him.
“Love you, Dean.”
“Said that. You, too.”
On his knees, Sam pulls his shirt over his head and slowly, watching Dean carefully, hooks his thumbs into his briefs and drags them down. Dean’s eyes follow Sam’s hands, pause, his lashes flutter and his eyes shoot back up to Sam’s face.
“Does it look like his?”
Dean gives a weak nod, unfocused eyes settled somewhere near Sam’s collarbone. Sam has one last question.
Dean licks his lips. “’S bigger. Thicker.” Dean actually cringes as he says it and Sam reaches out, palms his chin, tilts his head up, forces him to look at him.
“It’s okay, baby. We’ll go slow. Whatever you need.”
His brother can only stare, green eyes glassy and blown, and he gasps when Sam’s fingers find his cock again, skim lower, brush his hole, and Dean’s soft lips open, his canines show, and his hips roll, helpless and hungry.
“I want to fuck you. Make you feel so good. I know it does. I let a couple of boys fuck me, did you know that?”
“No. No, Sammy, why?”
“Because I wanted you. I pretended they were you, Dean. Pretended my big brother was fucking me in the ass where he’d put his fingers before, and I loved it. It felt fucking good, amazing, and I know I can make it like that for you. Do you want me to?”
“God, fuck. Sam, christ.”
Sam laughs at that and bends over Dean.
This kiss is the best, Sam thinks. Dean is pliant, all the fight gone out of him. He makes a small cry into Sam’s mouth when his hips settle over Dean’s, when their cocks brush skin on skin for the first time, and then he is licking, nipping, begging for Sam’s tongue and Sam gives it to him, smiles to himself even though it hurts as Dean sucks hard. He concentrates elsewhere, rolls his hips, grinds over Dean. Their cocks spoon together, Sam being built like their father, cock curving downward, hangs heavy, Dean’s trapped against his own belly.
It isn't long before Dean’s teeth scrape along Sam’s tongue and his lips pop off as he arches.
“How do you want it, Dean?”
There’s a moment of vacancy in his brother’s expression, a spark of panic in his eyes, but Sam’s smile, his closeness, his fingers scratching lightly on Dean’s scalp, seems to help focus him. He bites his lip again and, almost shyly, keeping eye contact with Sam until the last moment, he turns onto his stomach, knees slightly bent and legs wide.
Sam pauses only long enough to be astounded by the sweep up from the small of his back into that perfect, muscular ass, the split shaved smooth, and that is so goddamned hot. But he’s looked all his life, and there’ll be more time for it later. Now he wants to taste.
The heat, the salt sweat, he laps at it all, swallows, drools, makes muffled noises into Dean’s flesh. He worms his tongue in deep, opens his mouth wide to sweep his tongue against Dean’s balls, darts between them and his asshole until Dean rocks back against his face, angles himself so Sam knows just what he really wants. Sam’s tongue slips into the tight ring of Dean’s body, wiggles, pulls back and swirls, then darts in again and distantly he can hear Dean’s curses and lusty complaints become unintelligible when Sam’s finger joins his tongue. Dean’s body takes it easily up to the knuckle, and soon a second finger is scissoring inside him and Sam pulls back just enough to see clearly, to watch. He goes slow, doesn’t twist, just lets his fingers slip back and forth over each other until Dean suddenly pushes back again, hard, wanting.
“Just a sec. Stay right there.”
The bottle of lube from the bottom of his backpack in hand, he is back on the bed in a flash, his fingers saliva wet and inside Dean again before his brother has time to turn and look for him. Sam pops the cap with his other hand, lets a drizzle down over his fingers as he pulls them out and Dean sighs his pleasure at the cool slickness. More of it, and Sam curls his hand, his ring finger stretching Dean now as well. He can feel the tightness then, takes his time.
“Fuck, that looks so good. So hot. You like it, Dean?”
“I want to be in you. Wanna fuck you so bad. Can’t believe I get to.”
“Yeah? You ready for me already? Don’t wanna hurt you, baby.”
“No, it’s not. No pain. Not this time. Maybe someday, huh? Maybe I’ll tie you down sometime, stretch your ass around a big plug, cane your thighs and chest, slap that pretty face until you cry. Would you like that?”
Sam laughs, disbelief and excitement making him lightheaded. “Okay. But not now. Dean, listen to me, I want this to feel good, I want to give you what you’ve never had. Will you let me?”
“Yeah. Whatever, yeah.”
Sam’s fingers move with ease now, glide in and out of his brother’s body and when he twists them and pulls them out, Dean stays open for a moment, gaping and pink. He shifts between Dean’s legs, puts his hands on his hips and pulls him back gently, and even though he seems eager, says he wants it, Sam can feel tension in him instantly, sees the fear when Dean’s hands clench in the sheets.
“Hey, shh, it’s ok,” he murmurs, leaning over Dean’s back, peppering kisses along his shoulders, sliding his hands down Dean’s arms until their fingers meet, twine together, and only when Dean’s painful grip there relaxes does he rock his hips forward, glides his cock through the wet. He does it again, dragging slick along Dean’s balls. Arches up and pushes down so his thick head nudges and catches Dean’s hole before it falls away. Does it again, and this time Dean’s back bows and Sam goes in, just a little.
He wants to slam down, to take his brother in one hard movement; instead, he pauses, and his core shakes with the effort, but he waits. A few heartbeats and Dean moves, tentatively circles his hips, finds the right angle, sinks back. Sam goes in easily, but the second ring of muscle gives Dean pause. He whines. Sam makes a noise, soft encouragement, something just to remind Dean that he’s here, he’s patient. It’s then that Dean pulls his face up from the mattress, turns as much as he can and rolls his eyes, peers back at Sam.
“Baby,” Sam whispers again, and Dean’s lashes flutter, don’t close, and his weight shifts, and in a long, hot slide, he takes Sam inside him.
There’s a hiss, curse words, gasps. Hips stutter and grind, and then Dean moves under him, fucks himself, knees splayed wide, one palm against the wall for leverage, back arched almost impossibly, and soft cries and pleasure-filled grunts come from his open mouth.
With every smack of ass against his hips, ecstasy rips through Sam, and it takes every ounce of control he has not to hold his brother down and fuck him.
“Goddamn, Dean. Fuck yourself. God, my cock looks good with you on it. Love being inside you. You like fucking your little brother, huh?”
“Gotta tell me, baby. Tell me what you want. Won’t always get to. Gonna have my cock in your mouth sometimes, won’t be able to make any noise then. Suck your cock, too. Sixty-nine in the back of the car. After a hunt, sweat and blood and salt, fucking each other’s mouths. You want that?”
Dean doesn’t, can’t answer, but his body writhes, shudders, his ass clenches around Sam’s cock.
“Yeah, you do. You want me to fuck you, huh, Dean? Gotta say so.”
Dean growls, pushes himself up onto his hands, throws his head back and Sam grabs his shoulders, ratchets Dean against him, slows his movements until they’re just undulations, until Sam’s as deep as he can go.
“Yes!” Dean finally manages, nearly a scream. He moans, babbles, “Please, Sammy. Fuck me.”
Then he groans, empty, when Sam pulls away from him. But it’s only for a moment; Sam spills more lube over himself, wipes his hands off, grabs Dean. He makes a startled noise when Sam flips him, pushes him down onto his back. He tries to reach for him, but Sam holds him down, one hand to his chest as the other guides his cock back into Dean’s ass.
It’s a completely different sensation. Sam knew it would be, was glad Dean had wanted to start on his knees. This is so much closer, so much deeper, the arc of his cock he knows will rub inside of his brother in a way he’s positive Dean’s never experienced. His first thrust proves it. Dean’s eyes go wide and his body moves like a wave. His thick, dark cock gushes clear precum, wets his belly. Sam leans in and kisses him, and then fucks him, curled over his body protectively.
“Mine, Dean. You’re mine, my brother, lover. Wanna fill you up so there’s no room for anything else. Just my cock, my tongue, fingers, my words. Love. I can’t make it better, but I can make you mine. Mark you, kiss you, come in you. Do you want that?”
“Yeah. Yes, Sammy. God. Please.”
“Will you come for me? Can you do it without touching? I want to see that, would love it so much. So hot, Dean. Come for me, baby?”
Dean’s eyes close and for a moment Sam thinks he’s made a mistake, that he’s pushed him too far. Made him remember too much, has tried to take back, claim too much. But he feels Dean’s hand on his wrist, lets his brother drag it up to his face, nuzzle into it. Dean’s tongue flicks out, swipes across the palm, then, fuck, so hot, he sucks the thumb into his mouth and Sam can’t hold back. Dean’s knees lift and his legs fall open, wide, and Sam wraps his arm around one for purchase and fucks into him, brutally, fast. His tongue comes out, slips and rolls around Sam’s thumb and Sam curls his fingers, digs into Dean’s neck, his promise not to hurt him broken, just a little. Dean winces but his cock jumps, his mouth sucks, eyes open and on Sam’s. His arms are above his head as he pushes against the wall, onto Sam, and when he comes Sam does too, feels it ripped from him as if Dean has found a thread somehow and yanked.
Blackness, stars, an almost perfect void, and he falls forever for a few seconds. Comes to, blinks, gasps, and Dean drags him down, pulls Sam’s face against his neck. Sam’s cock slips out and he feels the hot splash of his own come over his thigh, feels Dean’s slide between their bellies, and then he hears Dean sob, his teeth chatter, feels his skin prickle and bump.
“Hey, hey, Dean, c’mon. You okay? Baby, what is it? You hurt?” Sam asks as he pulls on Dean so they roll together to their sides.
“N-no, ah, god,” Dean mumbles, hiccups. “Just. Good. Fuck.”
“Okay, yeah, it was good, it’s perfect. You’re perfect.”
Dean shivers, shakes his head, laughs, the sound broken as his teeth click.
“Yeah, you are.”
Dean doesn’t deny him again, just buries his head against Sam’s chest until he calms down, until the trembling stops and the little hysterical fits of laughter fade. When they can breathe again they shift apart, but not far. On his back, Dean looks for patterns in the ceiling. Sam rests on his side and watches him, one hand curled around his older brother’s bicep.
“Sam,” Dean says after a while.
“What you said. Making it so there’s no room. For all that. Might not work, Sammy. There’s a lot in here. Not a lot of time left.”
“I know. I mean, I believe you, and we’ll find a way to keep you outta Hell. But, let’s try, with us? Do you want to?”