Further North

Sam/Dean. NC-17. ~2700 words.
Dean plays it out in his head, from that week almost thirteen years ago through all the time between to now.

Dean figures out he’s fucked in the head three weeks before his nineteenth birthday.

Seven years later, so does Sam.


“Dean, you can’t-”

“Would you just let me go take a freakin’ shower, huh? Sam?” On the doorjamb, Dean’s knuckles are white. He breathes slowly, deliberately, like the Nazi nurse with the button nose made him practice before she’d given back his jeans. “You keep me standing here any longer and I will pass out.”

Sam’s face closes down, click-snap of a cheap motel lock Dean could get through with a sideways glance. But even that’s too much of an effort when he’s getting what he wanted anyway: a moment of peace to wash hospital stench off his skin.

“Ten minutes,” Sam says, and stares holes in Gil Grissom’s pixelated forehead as Dean shuts the door.

It only takes five for Dean to feel woozy, six for him to drop to his knees in the tepid dribble, and seven to realise it’s not the job that’s going to kill him. But the water feels good, clean, sluices warm and gentle over bruised and torn flesh. Pain melds with the dull throb of his pulse, steady, unbroken.

He doesn’t know Sam’s there until the curtain’s swiped back, rusty metal hooks screeching on the rusty metal bar, cold air sweeping in to shorten his breath. Water spills over the tub’s edge, creeps into the grimy tile grout. Sam’s hands are hot, searing through skin and muscle to brand his bones.

Even on their knees, Sam’s got a few inches on him.

“Sam.” Almost a warning.

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam says. He slams the shower off, cranks up the taps and jams the old rubber stopper into the drain. “Shut up and let me do this for you.”

It’s been a long, long time since Dean had a choice.


Maybe, it happened like this.

Summer of ’96, Dean in the sweltering kitchen, Sam roving the tiny one-bedroom in barefeet and boxers. The television on, barely heard over the cicadas. Windows propped open, screen door flung wide, held at the end of its creaking chain by a chunk of cinderblock. Sheets still in a tangled mess on the foldout couch where Dean sleeps because Dad won’t be back for a week and Sam would just as well stretch out on his belly to watch primetime.

And at night, when Sam’s sleeping, Dean likes to have room to spread while he jerks off to whatever crap porn he can get his hands on.

He can get girls, easy. He learned pretty early in life that there’s always somebody willing, somebody looking for the same thing he is, or close enough that it doesn’t make much difference. Blowjobs, handjobs, the occasional quick fuck–he’s not what he’d call promiscuous, not by a long shot, but he’s never really thought about it beyond the fact that he’s obviously not getting laid enough since his hand, some spit and a girl getting it from both ends does it for him in about six minutes flat.

Same porno, different night, he’s watching the girl blow a guy. Lots of noise, wet noise, lots of cuts to somebody else’s fingers in her cunt. Skip to her mouth, the pink of her tongue slipping out to lick at her fingers like she licks at the guy’s dick, then those fingers sliding down, cupping his balls, straying just a little deeper into the shadows between his legs and Dean wants to see more than that, wants to see her slim fingers sink inside him.

A few minutes later, after he can see straight and his come’s cooling in the crumpled tissue still clutched in his hand, he watches it again.

Different porno, different night, same deal. His hand’s glued to his dick and his eyes to the guy’s balls, feeling the jolt in his gut every time they slap the chick’s ass. The whole scene’s done from behind, so he’s got a clear view of her pussy stretched wide, knows the guy’s got a thumb in her ass and wishes they’d cut to it more often. Later, when she’s spread out on the guy’s lap, and all he can see is the slope of her back, the high, round cheeks of her ass leading him straight to the cock shoved up the tight clutch of her hole, he’s done for.

So maybe, ten years down the road, after Dad’s gone missing and Sam’s riding shotgun for the first time in a long time, that’s why the idea of dropping to his knees for his brother’s cock finishes him off in three.


Maybe it isn’t.

Further north, six months later, where the showers are long and steaming to fend off the icy fingers of winter creeping into the basement apartment of some old veteran’s house, Dean works himself up to it.

In the bathroom, with a handy excuse, the pipes clunking and water spattering the chipped enamel, he braces his shoulder against the outside of the tub and shoves a hand between his legs. His ass is high, sensitive and slippery with his own spit. He’s hot enough for it, thought about it so fucking much, it’s nothing but good when he opens himself up, lets one finger go deep as he can take it.

He pushes harder, rocks back into it, doesn’t feel the twisty electric shock in his veins until his finger slips free. In again, back out, faster, and his toes curl, the muscles in his calves, his thighs, so tense they’re aching.

The spit on his fingers dries too quickly. Edgy, eager need spins him around, sets him to ransacking the shoddy cupboard under the sink for something slick. Shampoo, medicated lotions, nothing he’s sure he wants to shove up his ass before his gaze hooks on a tiny pot of generic petroleum jelly. No name, just ingredients and an expiration date on the aged metal lid, and that’s good enough.

Two fingers the second time and he feels the stretch and burn, the way it melts into a slick glide. His face is hot, nerves jittering as he grabs onto the counter, twists around and reaches back, uses gravity to help fuck himself down on his fingers.

It’s a slow, molasses-sweet build, nothing at all like the sudden rush of pleasure from jerking off until it hits him, really, really hits him that he’s going to come without so much as a fingertip on his dick.

Unbelievable, but that’s his come spilled across the tiles, sinking into the cracks, smeared on the cupboard. Fingers still buried deep, he can count the beats of his heart in the pulse squeezing tight around them.

He manages to clean up with a bit of toilet paper and drag himself into the shower, a little wobbly on heavy legs, by the time Sam barges in.

“Hey, squirt,” Dean says, but Sam talks right over it, dropping his sweats to take a piss, “Waitin’ forever, Dean, gotta go.”

Dean tugs the mildewed curtain between them and props a hand on the wall, head stuck under the spray. “Can’t hold it for freakin’ ten minutes?”

“Nope.” Sam yanks at the curtain, says, with his hands in the water, “Gimme some soap.”

That could be it. Dean missed his chance to set up personal boundaries because Sam stomped all over them as soon as he got started. Sam didn’t even bother to try. Sam, with his smart mouth and twelve years of looking at Dean from too close by.


When Sam leaves in Indiana, it isn’t for California and Dad.

The words come out of his mouth but Dean’s spent a lifetime looking for things that nobody thinks are really there. So when Sam comes back, when Sam always comes back, even if Dean’s got to go get him first, Dean’s still looking.

He finds it between Wisconsin and Connecticut on the stained, threadbare carpet of a smalltown, name-doesn’t-matter motel, when Sam’s in the shower and Dean’s got nothing to do but screw around with the laptop.

The computer is password protected, which Dean didn’t notice before because Sam’s always the one to boot up. He tries people, places, birthdays, fingers hesitating before entering the day of Jessica’s death, the knot forming in his stomach unravelling fast when that’s rejected too.

“Why d’you got a password on this thing, Sammy?”

A towel hitched around his hips, steam billowing out behind him, Sam doesn’t blink. “So you can’t mess it up.” He drops the towel, hauls on boxers and jeans before wandering over. “Here.”

One hand cupped over the other and few quick keystrokes, all on the number pad, Sam signs on. Dean ignores Sam’s slanted grin because he saw it anyway, has watched those long fingers pull more out of that computer than he’s ever typed in his life.


Three weeks later, he’s curled up on a pitted bedspread with the laptop and half a year’s newspaper clippings, he figures it out. He looks up to find Sam looking back, knows it’s written clear across his face in the stark blank ink staining his hands.

Sam knows he knows and doesn’t say anything. Just watches him, too long, until Dean has to look away.


October 31, 2005. One fifty-three am. Dean flat on his back in Sam’s apartment with his heart in his throat. The first time he’d seen Sam in years.

Fast-forward two months, same scene, but the backdrop’s a graveyard with old trees and scraggly grass and a freshly burned corpse. Sam, wide-eyed, speechless; Dean sucking back bile, blood and snot smeared on his face by Sam’s big-knuckled fist.

You what, Sam should say. What the fuck or Jesus Christ, Dean, because that’s what Sam always says.

What Sam says, though, is nothing. What Sam does is stand up, stare down at Dean, and walk away. Only as far as the car, just the car. Opens the door, gets in and waits. Doesn’t keep walking, doesn’t snake the keys and drive away.

He hands over a wad of damp takeout napkins when Dean slumps into the front seat. It’s more of an apology than Dean figures he deserves, because how do you say I’m sorry I punched you in the face for falling in love with me.

When Sam figures it out, Dean wants to know, just so he can say I’m almost sorry you’re my brother, but not really.


So Sam doesn’t really leave, even when he does, because he always comes back. And then one day, he’s not talking about leaving any more.

Dean plays it out in his head, from that week almost thirteen years ago through all the time between to now. Things are the same as they always were, except for the moments they’re not, when Dean can see Sam knowing. It’s something tangible against his skin, the weight in Sam’s eyes and in his breath.

If they were anybody else, it wouldn’t work like this. Dean crossed a line and Sam stays firmly on the other side of it, still hot for chicks not dicks, still not willing to take a dip into just anybody and especially not his own gene pool.

But even if he knows, it doesn’t stop him from leaning into Dean when the headaches flare, or from offering the same when Dean’s been stupid and something’s taken out a chunk in payment. And even if Sam’s finally built some personal space, it’s less than it should be, because Dean knows every mark that’s been carved into his brother’s flesh, every mole that peppers Sam’s back like fairy hopscotch.

Dean knows that Sam’s uncut, like him, and that the thin trail of hair on Sam’s belly leads to dark, close-cropped curls.


Back to choking, stifling heat. Summer in the south and the air outside is murky with humidity, lousy with bugs. For once they’re lucky enough to land a room with a wheezing air conditioner that manages to take off the worst of the bright, grinding sunlight pouring through the thin curtains. In the night, they both stretch out on top of the covers, basking in the momentary relief. The streetlamp outside fizzes and buzzes, flickers fitfully. It drives Dean slowly insane.

“Think I’ll get luckier, Sammy?” Dean asks, and decides to take the creak of Sam’s bedsprings for curiosity. He flicks through the channels, eyes on the little cardboard popup displayed proudly beside the broken ice bucket. “Five star joint like this, you know they’re gonna have some top-notch skinflicks.”

“Tryin’ to sleep,” Sam mumbles.

“You do that.”

He surfs for about ten minutes more before giving up in half-hearted disgust. The room dips into darkness as his eyes adjust, bring everything back into dim outlines and shadows.

Weather like this makes him itchy, restless. Too many memories bob to the surface, tighten his skin and hitch his breath like he’s Pavlov’s dog dying for the next morsel he might never get.

Across the two foot chasm between their beds, Sam huffs and flops onto his back. Dean throws an arm over his eyes and instantly feels sweat start to gather on his skin, slick and salty. He licks his lip, scrapes it dry with his teeth, bites down a little just to make it tingle.

Sam’s breaths grow heavy, even. Too quick and too deliberate for Dean to buy it, but he takes the clue and stops shifting, rolls over one last time to stretch out on his stomach, hands jammed under his pillow.

The gun’s on the nightstand within easy reach. Right next to it, their cells. He sees the dull green display lit up on Sam’s before he notices Sam’s eyes are wide open, glittering, and fixed on him.

He lifts his head, opens his mouth, his What’s wrong? never clearing his lips. He doesn’t know why until Sam’s hand shifts, the dark shadow of it sweeping down his chest, his belly, pause and return, pause and down again. Lower and Dean’s breath catches, lower and Sam’s squeezes out in a quiet sound, shadow-hand wrapped around the thick curve of his dick.

Dean holds his breath, holds it so long his lungs ache, afraid one harsh noise will ruin everything. Sam doesn’t bother, letting out the sound Dean wants to make on the first slow stroke, echoing it on the second. He goes slow like the heat, starts to lift his hips with it until he’s fucking up into his own hand, legs spread wide, knees bent, bed creaking.

Dean whispers a curse to his pillow, curls his fingers over the edge of the mattress beneath it, dry-humping the sheets like he’s a teenager trying to figure out what his dick’s for all over again.

Sam watches him watching, waits for him reach that quivering edge and he’s sure he imagines Sam’s whispered, “Stop,” except Sam says it again, louder, harder.

Dean licks his lips again, heaves a breath that’s shunted back hot in his face by the pillow. His voice is a croak, “Why, you want me to save it for ya?”

It hangs leaden in the air, seconds dragging their feet as they pass sluggishly by. Dean hears them tick inside his head.

Sam exhales, soft and slow. “Gonna get off?”

Closing his eyes, afraid to see Sam’s face, Dean says, “Yeah,” and opens them again, afraid to miss it. “Yeah, Sammy.”

“Okay,” Sam says. Dean can tell from his voice that it isn’t, it really, really isn’t, but he’s not the one who started this tonight and he’s never tried to fool himself into thinking he’ll ignore the lies he wants to hear from Sam’s lips. “Okay,” Sam repeats, and this time it’s a groan, a low, ragged groan, because he’s back to tugging on his cock like he never stopped. “Do it.”


The next morning, Sam leaves the door open when he showers.

Like always.


One Response to “Further North”

  1. Pinkwood Says:

    I love this story so much. I come back to it time and time again. It’s so tortured and beautiful, and really believable, and I always love your dialogue. Wonderful :)

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