Sam/Dean. NC-17. ~3000 words. Underage.
He’s got Dean, who’s a handful of needs barely met, a lot of wants never asked for, who’s push come to shove.
It’s late. Inside the car, the air is heavy, thick, tinged a soft bluish-grey. Through the windshield, the world is quiet. The lazy sun sinks slowly beneath the horizon, endless miles of open road and sloping, summer-browned hills.
He sprawls in the front beside Dean, enough space with the seat pushed all the way back for his knees to fall wide, his arms draped over worn, butter-soft leather. There’s no pounding music, no whoosh of traffic, no looming need to hurry the fuck up and get gone to wherever they’re going. Dad’s holed up in their half of a crummy duplex with a dozen worm-eaten books, a dinged-up brass statue and enough stubborn to satisfy a whole herd of donkeys. They’re not moving on anytime soon.
Strewn out on the seat between them there’s half a bag of weed, some rolling papers, and Dean’s Zippo. When Sam slammed into rebellion at sixteen, he thought Dean would slip right back out of it just to spite him, giving more than just lip service to the yessir, nosir that makes up a good portion of their father’s affection.
When it’s about a job, Dean listens. No questions asked. John Winchester says jump, Dean doesn’t bother to ask how high, just leaps over anything and everything that comes flying his way. This isn’t about the job. This is about him and Dean and the end of summer creeping up behind them. The beginning of another school year, of living in some rented, pre-furnished-with-cast-offs apartment, of days and weeks of stony silences and volcanic eruptions between him and Dad punctuated by Dean’s strained efforts to mollify them both.
During the long stretch from the beginning of September to the end of June, Dad comes down like a brick wall between them without ever meaning to. Sam doesn’t think he sees how in-tune his boys are when it’s not a choice of which life to lead. Sam know he doesn’t see the day coming when Sam’s going to make that choice for the last time.
“Thinkin’ so damn hard’s not a good idea, Sammy,” Dean says. “Ruins the mood.”
“There’s a mood?”
“Sure there is. We like to call it mellow.” Dean tilts his head, looks at Sam out of the corners of his eyes. “You’re leakin’ teenage frustration all over it.”
“You’re doin’ it so loud you’re making my head hurt. Quit it.”
Sam gives up with a sigh and gestures for the joint Dean’s been hogging for the past five minutes. Before he hands it over, Dean takes another draw, long and slow, languorous with half-closed eyes and a satisfied noise plucked straight from a porno.
“Do that on your own time,” Sam mutters. He holds the joint pinched between thumb and forefinger, eying the damp spot of saliva soaked into the end. Sam’s never seen Dean light up with anybody else, but he bets Dean wouldn’t bother to tuck his lips in to keep it dry regardless. Just the way Dean is. “You slobber.”
“Don’t have to share.”
“Nope.” Sam tips his head back on a long inhale and holds it against the urge to cough. A little bit of equipment would go a long way to making this easier on him, but toting drug paraphernalia around from state to state right under Dad’s nose isn’t on the list of Crazy Ideas That Just Might Work.
It’s just plain crazy.
Sam exhales, blinking away the tears stinging his eyes. Smudges have the same effect on him, minus the pleasant bits. Standing too close to a burning corpse is out of the question.
Dean gives him a speculative look. Sam bristles. “Not my fault my lungs are sensitive.”
“Wanna try something?” The edge on concern on Dean’s face doesn’t match the sly look in his eyes, or the tap of his finger on the steering wheel. It’s the one nervous habit he doesn’t know he has.
Warily, Sam asks, “What?”
“You gonna freak out?”
“Are you going to give me a reason?”
The atmosphere in the car changes, as if they’ve shifted out of line with the rest of the world. Just two steps to the side, one back. Sam’s heartbeat gradually syncs to the new rhythm, fast-fast-slow, feels it in the push of blood through his body.
Dean scoots closer, free hand sliding along the back of the seat, his shoulder, settling on his neck, palm pressed warm and wide, a little damp against his skin. Fingers span from his back to the thumb tucked under his jaw, bringing his head up.
“Open your mouth.”
“What’re you doing?”
“Teaching you a new trick.” A little nudge tips his face forward. “Doin’ it with a joint sucks. S’only way to go, right here.”
This close, Sam can pick out the tiny flecks of brown in Dean’s green, green eyes. As he watches, they grow, turn from specks to spots to fallen leaves in summer grass.
Quickly, Sam blinks them away. “Where’d-”
“You want this hit or not, Sammy?”
“Yeah.” Beneath Dean’s hand, Sam’s skin heats. He clears his throat and repeats himself, this time without the rusty croak.
“So open your mouth.”
Dean’s fingers edge into the hair at the nape of his neck. His lips part a fraction, his eyes on Dean’s on his mouth. Around him, the car feels too tiny, suffocating.
“Breathe in when I breathe out,” Dean says. Waits for Sam’s, “Okay.”
Tilting his head to the side, Dean brings the joint to his lips and takes a long, long draw. Holds it, a smile in his heavy-lidded eyes. He closes the distance between them, touches their lips together and exhales.
Smoke floods into Sam’s mouth, sharp and bitter. He forgets to breathe, the smoke just slithering over his tongue, curling restlessly about his mouth until it finds escape, slinking past his lips to touch Dean’s again and rift away.
Finding the ruin of his voice, Sam says, “Try again.”
Dean says sure with the shrug of one shoulder, why not with another slow hit. Sam licks his lips, nerves sparking, shivering when Dean’s press warm and dry against them, catch and drag as his head tilts, fitting their mouths tightly together.
This time, Sam breathes in, drags the smoke from Dean’s lungs into his own and holds it there, counting off the seconds until a nod tells him to let go.
A rush of chemical-heavy blood slams through him as soon as Dean pulls back and he catches the reflection of himself in Dean’s blown pupils. A thin ring of green edges the black, bright and breakable like a lime Lifesaver sucked down to almost nothing.
“Holy shit,” Sam says, closing his eyes to savour it, soaking in the smell of sweat and leather and pot. The high mellows fast, leaving behind a tight, tingling memory and the need to have it back.
Dean’s hand is still on his neck, thumb curved over his throat. “You want another?”
“Oh man, dumb question.”
Dean sizes up the joint, cocky smile settling comfortably with the lazy tilt of his head. Time crawls as he leans forward. Sam’s lips part in anticipation. He counts off the heartbeats between the first brush of warm smoke and Dean’s mouth pressed to his.
It hits hard and fast, dizzying, overwhelming. He doesn’t have a chance to come down before he hears Dean inhale again and put damp lips back on his, press harder, push smoke into his lungs. Feeding it to him.
He breaks away on a hard gust of breath, gulping in fresher air as fast as he can.
Dean rubs a hand over his mouth, eying what’s left of the joint before stuffing it down an old Pepsi bottle. He never saves the roaches. “Feelin’ good there, Sammy?”
All Sam can manage is a nod. It feels like he could just melt into the seat, go straight through it to the other side and fall in a boneless heap on the ground staring up at the dusty undercarriage of the Impala.
A crinkle of thin paper brings Sam back. His head lolls to the side on the seatback, the dashboard swirling out of focus as his gaze slides over to land on Dean’s fingers deftly rolling another joint.
“No fair you can still do that.” To Dean’s arched eyebrow, he explains, “Not drop it or something. You’re high as me.”
“Just as,” Dean agrees, Zippo snapped open and flame burning bright. He motions Sam closer. “C’mon, we’ll go again.”
“Way too toasted.”
Dean snorts, tiny licks of smoke curling in the air between them. “Not even close. C’mere.”
Sam thinks about heaving himself up from his sideways slant and decides against it, instead letting himself topple over the rest of the way so his head’s pillowed on Dean’s thigh. He grins at the upside down look Dean gives him.
“Can’t do it from down there.”
“Sure you can,” Sam says. To prove it, he levers himself back up on his elbows, head tipped back, throat stretched long. He can already feel the hum of a fresh hit in his blood. “C’mon.”
Dean cups the back of his skull, keeps his head in place and bends down. At the last moment, Dean stops, takes a draw and holds it for only a second before pushing it into Sam’s chest. The corner of Dean’s bottom lip is dry, chapped, scraping roughly against his as their mouths slide, meet, part.
Sam loses count of how many times Dean shotguns him. One blends with the dizzying thrill of two, two with three and more, one after the other. His entire body is lead weight, barely held up by Dean’s hand behind his head. When that slides away, he drops down heavily, elbow jammed into the steering wheel and cheek scraped by the buckle on Dean’s battered belt.
“What’d you stop for?” Sam asks, tongue thick, clumsy. He flexes his fingers, feels skin and tendon stretch.
Sam drags his gaze up from the glint of sunlight on his nails, follows the light blond hairs trekking up Dean’s arm to the rumple of a thin cotton shirt and then Dean’s face. Dips of shadow and slashes of sunset hide it from him.
His eyes fall back down, tumbling over Dean’s chest. He twists awkwardly on the seat, nose and mouth dragging along denim as he turns, hot breath shunted back in his face when he presses close to Dean’s groin.
Dean drags in a shuddering breath. “Sammy, don’t. Don’t you.”
Sam ignores him. His mouth feels hot, wet, swollen. His heart kicks at his ribs, bucks and thrashes against bone like an animal caged. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing except that he’s doing it.
His head hits the seat with a dull thump. A flash of Dean in the corner of his eye before the door slams shut. The crunch of shoulder gravel and Dean’s muttered curses.
Sam presses his face into the seat, feels the warmth of Dean seeped into it, the slick of sweat under his lips. Open-mouthed, he breathes it in, closes his eyes and tries to think about what he almost did.
Shame creeps in, slow and sneaky. Jabs at him with pointy gremlin fingers, grins viciously with gleaming Cheshire Cat teeth. He rolls his eyes up to watch Dean upside down through the window and the chattering like the sound of a file on metal tapers off, stops entirely. His conscience, buried under a roiling grey fog, yawns and scratches at its belly, smacks its lips and rolls over.
Sam reaches for the handle, fingers grasping at empty air as the door creaks open.
“C’mere,” Dean says.
“Pushy,” Sam complains, but clambers up on his knees to crawl out, one hand groping for something to steady himself and finding Dean’s sturdy leather belt. He hooks the fingers of both hands in it and hauls himself into the world, swaying in the last heady burst of sunset before the sky begins to dim.
“You got no idea what you’re doing,” Dean tells him.
Dean crowds him against the car, pins him between sun-warmed metal and body heat. “Not a fuckin’ clue.”
Sam shakes his head, feels laughter bubble up in his throat but the noise that falls free isn’t even close. He’s not even a little with it, his brain up there somewhere scooting amongst the puffball clouds, but he doesn’t care. He’s got lighter fluid for blood and the taste of Dean’s mouth in his. He’s got Dean staring him down as if it’ll change either one of their minds.
He’s got Dean, who’s a handful of needs barely met, a lot of wants never asked for, who’s push come to shove. Who’s something Sam doesn’t have the words to describe.
Dean shuffles forward, aligns their bodies. Sam’s head falls back, the light blue dome above him darkening, stars peeking out from between clouds thin like warm breaths in winter. He can feel the flow of blood beneath Dean’s skin, count his heartbeats, measure the rhythmic expand-contract of his lungs.
“Are you gonna,” he says, trailing off, afraid to ruin whatever is turning Dean’s eyes dark like that with meaningless details. “Are you?”
Dean’s answer comes first in the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, bone and blood-thick flesh grinding against him in a way that makes his own cock jerk and something not entirely good twist through his gut. Then, “Want me to?”
Once his head clears and they’re on their way back to face Dad, Sam knows he’s going to regret it. They both will. But it’s hard to think that far ahead, or even think at all.
Awkwardly, Sam’s hands fumble beneath Dean’s shirt, press unsteadily against his lower back. Sweat gathers, muscles flex. Dean keeps watching, waiting for an answer, as if the desperate throb of Sam’s cock flush against his isn’t answer enough.
Sam gets as far as please before the grip on his arm tightens. Dean jerks him forward into the first thrust, grinds him back against the car on the second. A sound like a moan, high and wispy, echoes between them, spilled involuntarily from Sam’s open mouth.
“Make noise,” Dean hisses, straight into Sam’s ear. “You make some noise for me, Sammy, you want it.”
More stars appear in tiny pinprick flashes of light that Sam isn’t sure are real or not. They waver and flare brighter, pulse with heat as Dean’s teeth scrape his throat. He feels thin and insubstantial as the clouds, barely held together in the places where Dean doesn’t burn into him. Like everything could push and push and shove at him, go right through him, except Dean.
“You are so fuckin’ high. And hot, Sammy, fuck,” and the hand on his arm, the one on his waist, skim down, bump over his clothes to grab onto his ass, jerk him closer, hard. “Should see it, wish you could.”
The possibility of regret crumbles out from under Sam’s fingers, words spoken in Dean’s thick voice burrowing deep through the dusty cracks. It doesn’t sound like Dean will regret anything. Doesn’t feel like Sam will, either.
“Oh, god,” Sam groans. Dean mistakes it for encouragement and breathes more into Sam’s mouth, not quite kissing him, lacking the lungful of smoke for an excuse.
“C’mon, do it. Fuckin’ cream yourself, gonna be so good, wanna see-”
Every muscle in Sam’s body snaps taut, vibrating, singing with tension. It’s not enough, he’s not quite there then he is, gasping and choking on nothing but air as heat spirals outward, burns all the way out to the tips of his fingers and toes. More heat spills inside his jeans and Dean tries to press even closer, moaning about how he can feel it, just knows Sam shot a nice, big load for him, how he’s going to do the same.
When he does, deepening the bruises already pressed into Sam’s skin, grunting hard, bitten-off curses into Sam’s hair, Sam can feel it too. And right then his fingers start to itch with the urge to open up Dean’s jeans, grind naked, come-slick cock against cock.
“Not here,” Dean pants. His hands run up Sam’s sides, down again. “Too open, don’t wanna- somebody’ll see.”
Irritated, Sam tears at Dean’s belt. “Don’t. Really fuckin’ don’t.”
For one dizzying moment, Sam thinks he’s going to get away with it. Right here on the side of the road, he’s going to rip through his brother’s clothes, take a good, long look and then they’ll be plastered together all over again, come sticky and cool between them before the rush of fresh heat.
His knees buckle. He’d be eating dirt except Dean is still pressed close, holding him up.
“Sammy,” Dean says, whispers. “Sammy, hang on. Can’t do it here.”
Dean’s eyes slide shut, his throat bobbing as he swallows. “Fuck.” He shakes his head but his cock swells with new blood, throbbing with each pulse of it against Sam’s. “When you come down, alright? You still want it then, or we’ll just, fuck, call it a fluke. Blame the fucking drugs.”
Sam won’t have the guts to ask for it once his system’s clean. He’ll want it, though. He’s so fucking sure he’ll want it, die wanting it, and won’t be able to ask for it because how the hell’s he supposed to tell Dean what he wants. How he wants it fast and maybe a little hard. Wants it nothing like the hesitant, awkward fumbling it always is when there’s a warm, soft girl pressed up against him.
Jerking his chin at the Impala, Dean says, “In. We’ll grab a motel for a couple hours.”
Despite the brutal shot of lust punching through his veins, Sam grins. “Cheap sex motel?”
Dean’s gaze skips to the sliver of light on the horizon, the rutted, grey stretch of road leading to it and back. There’s meaning in the gesture that Sam’s too high, too turned on to dissect. Later, he’ll make up a new meaning for it, one that’ll fit like they fit together, hard edges bumping, scraping, not quite right and still so far from completely wrong.