Sam/Dean. NC-17. ~4800 words. Mentions of prior John/Sam and John/Dean. Semi-sequel to No More Room in Hell, Boys.
It’d be easy to punch his brother right in his saucy mouth.
Dean likes the routine of settling into a new place. He’s got a clear idea of what needs to be done, when and where and how he should go about it. Tidily ticking items off the list in his head helps ground him. There’s a certain kind of safety in claiming space as their own, making sure it suits their needs while remaining expendable.
Duffels in the bedroom, never entirely unpacked. Clothes are to be kept within a certain range or they’ll be left behind in a hurry. Weapons and ammo in strategic locations, out of sight as much as possible but never out of reach. Grooves carved into all sills, because a damage deposit is no good to a dead man, and filled with salt that’s to be checked morning, noon and night. Extra checks performed when a door or window’s been opened.
One first aid kit in the bathroom and one in the kitchen, always in a corner on the floor, levels three and four respectively for high-risk injuries. The smallest kit, barely the size of Dean’s palm and the red cross nearly scratched clean off, goes tucked under the sink. There’s still a handful of violently green Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle band-aids hidden away in it, though the glue’s probably long since dried up. Dean’s cycled in fresh supplies for years and hasn’t quite remembered to throw those out yet.
Groceries are last. They keep a small supply of non-perishables in the trunk of the car, always a delicate balance between food, weapons and how readily available are replacements for either. Two to three days worth of food goes in the house, which with three men, one of them a teen who doesn’t have the good sense to know when to quit growing, isn’t a modest amount.
With Dad already headed a couple towns over to check out some suspicious drownings, prepping the small house takes ages longer than it should. Sam’s been nothing but a sullen inky-black presence since their tires touched Wakefield’s main drag.
The rustle of plastic bags brings Sam skulking around the corner. If all else fails, Dean can always count on Sam’s stomach to bring him at least partway round.
“What’re you making for dinner?” Sam asks, voice a little rough since several hundred miles back he’d been loud enough to startle the most jaded of crows from swaying power lines.
“Be lucky if I feed you table scraps, the way you’ve been getting on,” Dean says. He shoves a hand in the open box of Corn Pops he’s been munching on and tosses a couple in his mouth. The sugary-sweet syrup they’re coated in melts on his tongue.
Sam mutters, “You didn’t ask for any help.”
“Shouldn’t have to,” Dean counters. He flicks a bit of cereal at Sam’s head. “You want to make yourself useful, put that stuff over there in the fridge.”
Giving the tiny, ominously-rattling thing a sour look, Sam grabs up a couple bags and starts shoving food haphazardly onto the listing shelves.
It’s been a little over two months since the hunt for the harpy’s nest, by Dean’s count. Without a calendar tacked on the wall with Sam’s school schedule scribbled on it in tight, blocky printing, the days tend to bleed one into the next for him. The ugly tension brewing in the air’s subsided slightly with Dad gone for awhile, but it’s still there, thick on every breath.
Since Sammy mangled his very first word it’s been Dean’s job to keep the peace. He doesn’t have a clue how he’s supposed to play referee when there’s no real fight.
“Dad’ll be back tomorrow night,” Dean says, watching for the hard set of Sam’s bony shoulders to soften. It doesn’t, and Sam barely grunts out an acknowledgement. “C’mon, Sammy,” he tries instead, “I know this place ain’t so great but there’s nothing you’re missing back there.”
Sam starts gathering up the white plastic bags scattered around the kitchen and balling them up to shove under the sink to use later for garbage. “Nope,” he says, in that way where he disagrees with the whole world through inflection alone, “not a thing.”
Picking up the box of cereal, Dean stuffs the lining down and closes the top. “Didn’t think you bothered making friends in Hetteron.”
“Nope,” Sam repeats. He’s got the fridge door wide open, staring at the contents as if he can’t remember what he just put in there.
“Aw, Sammy.” Teasing is the best way he knows how to get anything out of Sam, and even if his heart’s not in it, he’s not sure what else he’s supposed to do with that look on Sam’s face. “Don’t tell me you finally found a girl.”
Sam’s gaze slides sideways, slow and considering. It’s easy enough to tell that’s not it at all but Dean’s not ready to give up this stab at normalcy yet. The things that happened between them and their father don’t need to become any more real by giving them voice in the clear light of day.
If Dean were the wishing sort, he’d ask the first star of every night to take back what he made Sam tell him all those weeks ago.
“I get it, though,” Dean ploughs on. “I’d be pretty ticked over a cockblock like that, too.”
“No,” Sam says, “you wouldn’t.”
Relief that Sam’s decided to play along eases the anxious clench of Dean’s insides. “Guess you’re right there.” He grins. “Best thing about new towns, Sammy. New girls.”
Sam finally closes the fridge door, one last puff of cool air skidding over Dean’s bare toes. He leans back against the wall beside it, arms crossed over his chest. Beneath his thin tee, muscles just beginning to gain real definition bunch. “What’s it matter? It’s not like you actually care about any of them.”
“Not like any of ‘em care about me.” Dean thunks the box back onto the counter and mirrors Sam’s pose, more than ready to rehash this old, comfortable argument. “You think what’s her name was daydreaming about wedding dresses when I had a hand up her skirt? Not likely, kiddo.”
“How d’you know? Did you ask her?”
Dean let out a sharp snort. “Hell no. I was horny, not stupid.” The moment of silence that he expected Sam to fill with some cutting insult about what a pig he was passed them by. “Look, Sam,” he said, toning it down. “I got you and Dad. That’s family enough for me.”
The look in Sam’s eyes then is far older than it has any right to be. He fixes Dean with a calm stare, the short hairs on the back of Dean’s neck prickling with warning long before he opens his mouth.
Sam says, “Some things shouldn’t be kept in the family,” and all the careful hopes of dodged bullets hit the floor at Dean’s feet like so many spent shells.
Dean’s throat clicks, his arms fallen loose at his sides. “Sammy-”
“Don’t,” Sam says, “don’t call me that right now. I just- Why?”
Maybe not all Dean’s hopes are ready to be crushed underfoot. Sam hasn’t actually confirmed anything damning yet, and given an inch of wiggle room, Dean’ll try for two.
“It happened,” Dean says, and it doesn’t matter if in his head he’s not talking about the path Sam picked out in those dark woods. “You deal, you move on. We always move on.”
More silence then, and Sam’s steady stare.
Frustrated, Dean shakes his head. “Take out the hamburger meat. I’ll make that weird meatloaf thing you like.”
Stretching an arm out, Sam opens the fridge, picks up the tray still wrapped up tight as a mummy in a plain bag. Eyes on Dean’s face, he crosses the bare space where a kitchen table used to be from the marks in the cheap linoleum, and comes to a stop with barely a foot between them.
The meat is heavy and cold in Dean’s hands. He says, “Thanks,” and Sam nods, retreats back into the growing gloom of the living room until Dean calls him an hour or so later for dinner.
By their usual agreement, Sam washes the dishes after while Dean settles on the couch, beer in one hand and remote in the other. The basic cable package that’d come with the house doesn’t have much to offer but Dean considers them lucky enough to have it.
Idly, he channel surfs, pausing on evening news shows every now and then with an ear out for their brand of trouble. Mostly, he listens to the steady slosh, clink, clunk coming from the kitchen.
Since that night, when Sam was hiding out at the library, Dean very carefully hasn’t thought about what he did. There were always more important things, to him: clean the guns, get Sammy off to school, check bandages, stock food, manage the meagre cash flow. Gnawing like a dog with a bone on things that are done and gone and can’t be changed isn’t how Dean wants to live his life. In this house, Sam does enough brooding for them all.
Dean’s head snaps up at the creak of floorboards in the hall. When Sam appears in the narrow doorway, Dean heaves himself up off the sunken couch, tosses the remote into Sam’s hands with a grin.
“Gonna grab a shower,” he tells Sam, breezing as easily by as the small space allows. “Then I’m gonna start in on those newspapers, if you feel like hauling your own weight and helping.”
“Do them now,” Sam says, startling Dean to a halt just outside the room they’ll be sharing as long as they’re in town.
Warily, Dean asks, “You helping?”
“Yeah.” The overhead light in the living room blazes to life. Instead of turning off the television, Sam just lowers the sound and drags the heap of papers to the centre, pushing the shabby coffee table aside. “Not much point in showering before.”
Warning bells ringing, Dean ducks into the kitchen for a couple markers, pens and some loose leaf paper out of Sam’s backpack in the hall. When he comes back, Sam’s already flipping slowly through the pages, scanning headlines and sometimes articles.
Dean settles down a couple feet away. Wordlessly, Sam slides half the stack over, sticking the pen Dean hands him in return between the clench of his teeth.
“Let me know if you find anything,” Dean says.
Sam makes a low noise of agreement, gaze still on the smudged newsprint.
Between the low murmur of the television and the crinkle of pages, the few words they exchange as the night ticks by, those hopes Dean left for dead on the kitchen floor come creeping back, settling in snug next to his heart with the prick of tiny little claws.
Later, full night long since set in, Dean says, “Think I’ll grab that shower now,” and again, Sam nods, already cleaning up the mess of clippings and trash.
Fifteen minutes after that, when Dean steps out of the bathroom in shorts and a ratty tee, all the lights are off, the doors and windows are locked, and Sam’s stretched out facedown in his bed, covers pulled up tight around his ears.
Sam’s muffled, “G’night,” only winds the knot of Dean’s guts up tighter.
Morning dawns bright and too early. The sunlight pouring in through the open blinds assaults Dean. Coupled with the seductive smell of freshly brewed coffee, he doesn’t stand a chance.
He throws the blankets back and kicks them into a heap at the foot of his bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes with his fingertips. It takes a few seconds to register the shadow stretching across the threadbare carpet, and after that, even longer for the blur in the doorway to resolve itself into the casual slouch of Sam against the jamb.
“Morning, Dean,” Sam says. He shifts the mug swiped from a diner two states back from one hand to the other. “Sleep good?”
There’s something wrong. Dean can tell now, in the timbre of Sam’s voice, in the way he holds himself, and if it weren’t just past the fucking crack of dawn maybe Dean would’ve keyed on it quicker. He’s not at his best in the morning, especially during downtime, and-
Sam smiles, a crooked slant of his mouth.
-they both know it.
“What’re you playing at, Sammy?”
“I’m not playing at anything.” Sam comes into the room bold as the sun, sets his mug very precisely on the squat table that serves as a nightstand between their beds, and sits down on the edge of Dean’s. “I’ve been up for a couple hours now.”
The blood flowing through Dean’s veins picks up speed, brings a warm, uncomfortable rush of heat with it. He doesn’t like the sound of this, it’s got too much of a confessional’s air about it.
“I asked you why, but I think I figured it out for myself.”
“Good.” Dean sits up straighter, ready to kick Sam off the bed if that’s what it takes to get his feet on the ground. “You got it all figured out, then you drop it. Right now, Sammy.”
Sam gives him a sideways look. “I asked you not to call me that.”
“Too bad, we don’t always get what we want. Get out of the way, Sam.”
Sam’s hand, when it splays warm and startlingly wide over the centre of Dean’s chest, is so wholly unexpected that Dean goes so far as to sink back under the firm pressure before he realises Sam’s intent.
“You got what you wanted, though, didn’t you,” Sam says.
Denial always comes easiest. Dean opens his mouth, says, “I don’t-” and Sam’s hand twists roughly into a fist, cotton that’d been washed one too many times to take the strain ripping quickly.
“Don’t lie to me, Dean,” Sam snaps. “You’re shit at lying to me.”
“Used to believe in the tooth fairy.”
“Only because it meant you gave me money.”
Dean closes his eyes, breathes out slowly. “Figures.” When he opens them again, Sam’s watching. “So tell me what you think is going on here, Sam. All of it. Lay it on me since you’re so goddamn smart.”
Sam’s hand smoothes out again, the span from tip of thumb to tip of forefinger spreading far enough to cover the sharp jut of Dean’s collarbones. “I think you had to go and prove me right,” he says, and Dean’s eyes slip shut again because somehow Sam knows. “Show him what a good son you’d be, if only given the chance.”
It’d be easy to punch his brother right in his saucy mouth, so easy. But Dean’s arm won’t move, his fingers won’t clench tight.
When Sam speaks again, his breath is warm on Dean’s face. “I think you found a new way to prove how much you love your family.”
Dean fights back the shudder that threatens to explode up his spine. There’s a small tremble he can’t hold back and Sam notices, slides a hand up further in response to cup the side of Dean’s neck.
“What do you want here, Sam?” Dean asks, wilfully ignoring the rasp in his voice to hold his ground. “Exactly what are you trying to prove?”
“Nothing you already haven’t,” Sam says, and leans in to kiss him.
Dean shoves Sam back hard before it becomes more than the simple brush of their lips. He scrambles back, away, off the bed and putting five feet between them while Sam’s still getting to his feet.
“Don’t,” Dean tells him, retreating from the intent bright in Sam’s eyes, hands raised in pathetic defence of it. “We don’t- Just-”
Sam stays by the bed, waiting for Dean to find the words. He’s still waiting when Dean bangs the bathroom door shut between them and fumbles the lock. Listening for the sound of Sam footsteps to withdraw, Dean braces his palms on the cheap bathroom counter bows his head so he doesn’t have to look at himself in the mirror.
The quiet of the house after a shower convinces him Sam did the smart thing and ran for it. They both sorely need the space and there’s not much time left before Dad’ll be back.
Still, he towels off slowly, straining for the barest creak of floorboards. After a full minute of his hand hesitating on the dented knob, he yanks the door open and marches determinedly to the kitchen, showing blank, uncaring walls that he’s not afraid.
Sam’s in the kitchen, hip fetched up against the counter and a box with the lid torn back in one hand.
“Pancakes,” he says, when Dean hovers at the threshold. He plunks the box down hard enough to drive out a puff of mix.
“No.” Sam’s gaze drops a few inches to Dean’s bare chest, lingers a moment before going further. The way his eyes follow the low rise of the jeans Dean had hauled on feels like the gentlest touch. “You are.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Dean aims for casual. “Sound awful sure of yourself there, Sammy.”
“Yeah,” Sam says. “I am.”
Sam shoves away from the counter. Any other time, Dean wouldn’t back down. He wouldn’t take those two steps back, clearing the way for Sam to breeze on by, wouldn’t feel an anxious itch spread beneath his skin.
Wouldn’t go to the stove, box of pancake mix in hand, and do nothing but listen to the quiet shuffle of Sam in the bedroom.
Morning creeps into afternoon. It’s a game of chicken now, both of them waiting for the other to crack and leave the suffocating apprehension of the house behind. They dance in and out of one another’s space, a few words here, a glance that goes on too long there.
Dean drives himself slowly insane trying to figure out what’s going on in that fucked-up head of Sam’s. It serves as a suitable enough alternative to poking at the mess in his own.
The sun floods brightly into the living room, washing out the already shoddy television picture. It illuminates every crack, smudge and flaw. There’s an old burn in the carpet, only half-hidden beneath the chair shoved in the corner that neither of them will sit in because of the cracked spring.
Dean feels brittle in the light. A whole life spent in the darkness most people don’t know exists has made him too much a part of it. For the first time he wonders what else the black has helped to hide.
“Dad’ll be home tonight,” Sam says, crossing the hall.
The local news is doing a midday spot on a children’s carnival in the next town over. Dean looks at all the colours and thinks how much Sam would’ve wanted to go a couple years ago.
“He doesn’t need to know.”
“What do you think is going to happen here, Sam?” Dean demands, using one last burst of anger to get the words out and himself to his feet. “You think one more fucking blowjob is going to fix anything?”
Sam snaps, “I don’t want to fix it.”
“You can’t seriously be standing there trying to tell me you want this.”
“What if I am?” The dogged determination that lets Sam find a pattern when Dean’s long since given up in favour of easier marks eats up the distance left between them. “What if that’s exactly what I’m telling you?”
“You want me to get my hands on you, get you off?” Dean’s hand feels clumsy but he palms Sam’s crotch anyway, hopes it’ll be the shock they both need to stop this. “You want to be a fag for your brother, Sammy?”
Sam’s mouth goes slack on a sharp breath. His fingers clench rhythmically at his sides and he’s hard, so thick, beneath Dean’s touch.
“I want to fuck you,” Sam says, like it’s nothing at all and Dean sucks in a hissing breath, snatches his hand away but Sam catches his wrist, drags it back. Rubs himself against the awkward bunch of Dean’s knuckles. “I want to know what your dick feels like in my hand, what you’d look like.”
Sam’s other hand comes up to grip the back of Dean’s neck, strong and sure, to keep him from jerking away again. “Why him and not me, Dean? Why?”
Dean swallows tightly. There’s even less space between them now, the back of Sam’s wrist pressed up against his cock. He doesn’t know the answer Sam wants.
“Tell me why he can have it and I can’t,” Sam presses.
There’s no good reason. Not even any half-assed ones. Dean shakes off the hold Sam’s got on his hand and goes for Sam’s jeans, jerking at buttons and zip until Sam takes over, leaving them clinging precariously to Sam’s bony hips. Sam’s shirt, pulled up and off; Dean’s next, and then everything crashes to a halt, Sam’s breaths harsh in Dean’s face and Dean’s white-knuckled grip on Sam’s hands at his waist.
“Don’t you fucking dare try to tell me we can’t,” Sam snarls.
Dean lets go and steps back, scrubs a hand over his mouth. “Sit down,” he says. “On the floor, back against the couch.”
Sam does, elbow hooked on the seat cushion, silent as Dean undoes his jeans the rest of the way, tugs them and his shorts down. The carpet is rough against Dean’s bare ass as he settles between Sam’s legs.
“If you want to so bad,” Dean says, drawing his knees up and letting them fall as wide as they can with his clothes still bunched around them.
The differences are quick to make themselves known. Instead of coarse hair and the ridges of old scars against his back there’s smooth, unmarked skin. Sam’s hands are harder on the inside of his thighs, chin sharper against the slope of his shoulder as Sam leans forward to look at him. The first touch gentler, the first stroke slower, the first sound moaned into Dean’s ear more reverent.
“Haven’t got all day,” Dean says, meant lightly but too true to manage.
“For once, let me do what I want.”
Dean searches for somewhere to let his hands rest that isn’t his brother, finds nothing that feels as comfortable as letting them fall loosely on Sam’s thighs. “Be easier if this wasn’t it.”
“Lean back,” Sam orders, the loose circle of his fingers tightening the moment Dean does. His breath hitches at the same time as Dean’s hips, and he drags the fingers of his other hand across the head. “Are you always this wet?”
A flush burns its way up Dean’s neck. “You always got such a mouth on you?”
“You tell me,” Sam counters. He presses soft, open-mouthed kisses to the side of Dean’s neck, barely a hint of tongue as he absently tastes skin because most of his attention is on playing with the head of Dean’s dick, smearing it shiny in the sunlight with precome.
“If I thought you were gonna be a fucking tease about it, I- Christ.” The juncture of Dean’s neck and shoulder throbs beneath Sam’s teeth. Pain mixes crazily with the sudden hard drag of Sam’s hand down his dick and it feels good, so good that Dean presses back into it, moans when Sam bites him again on the back of the neck.
“Not teasing,” Sam says, words slurred a little by the drag of his mouth over Dean’s skin. “Just really want to watch you.” He starts jerking Dean off slowly, long, lazy tugs that Dean can’t help but follow. It’s better than it should be.
“Here, gimme your hand,” Dean says, reaching clumsily. Sam’s skin is salty, his palm soft, a few gun calluses barely beginning to form at the base of his fingers. Dean licks it wet, going on long after the taste has faded because Sam’s squirming behind him, thrusting against the small of his back.
When Dean lets go, Sam fists his cock again, good and hard this time. No more fooling around though there’s nothing practiced about how Sam’s touching him. The physical pleasure’s more than enough to get Dean there, the feel of Sam grinding against him just as hot as the hand on his dick, but it’s how badly Sam wants it to happen that does it. Sam wants to watch and Dean’s going to fucking show him.
He’s not ready for Sam’s quick scrabble up, caught in the middle of coming all over Sam’s hand like he is. He barely manages to get out a mangled, “What?” before his elbow skids painfully hot across the carpet.
Sam’s saying, “Up, up on your knees for me, Dean, c’mon,” between gulping breaths.
Dean would get there faster if Sam would quit shoving, his eagerness making them both clumsy. It isn’t until Sam’s got Dean’s jeans hauled completely off and his bare ass in the air, spread open by the palms of two rough hands that Dean’s brain sputters back online.
“Sammy, I don’t-”
“I know,” Sam whisper-hisses, then, “I know,” again, softer. His knees bump the insides of Dean’s calves as he shuffles forward, lays himself out in a long, hot line along Dean’s back. His dick is wedged snug between the cheeks of Dean’s ass, sticky wet. “Just this, okay?”
Not trusting his voice, Dean gives one jerky nod. The threadbare softness of Sam’s discarded shirt is close to his hand, so he grabs it up, fists it tight. The pressure of Sam’s cock just resting there against his hole makes him a little dizzy.
“I still wanna,” Sam says, hand sliding up to splay flat between Dean’s shoulders. His thrusts are fast, jerky, single-minded rush to orgasm. The hand clutching at Dean’s hip flexes restlessly, kneading into flesh. “Still want to fuck you, god, so bad, Dean, but I can’t- I gotta-”
“C’mon, then,” Dean interrupts. Between his legs, his cock’s still thick. He shivers as air touches the cooling smears of come clinging to it. “Gonna do it or just talk about it?”
Sam sags against him, arm looped beneath his stomach, forehead pressed to his shoulder. A couple more rapid, snapping thrusts and he shudders, stills. Dean can feel his dick pulse as warm liquid spills between them, trickles lazily down.
The sluggish slide of Sam’s hand up his thigh goes mostly unheeded, all his attention on the feeling of his brother’s come slicked all over his ass. Then Sam’s fingers are dragging through it, over his hole, blunt pressure of a thumb and Dean bucks, flashfire of panicked pleasure as it sinks into him, just a little.
“Not now,” Sam says, barely this side of breathless. “But god, soon. Bet you’re so fucking hot inside, I want,” and then he doesn’t say what he wants because his fingers are back, one after the other gliding over sensitive skin.
Dean rolls his forehead over the back of his arm and lets Sam touch him. He’s not sure what the tight, quivering clench of his guts means except everything’s fucked all to hell and back again.
“Gotta shower,” Dean says, twisting out from underneath Sam before it goes any further. He doesn’t need the phantom ache of his baby brother’s fingers up his ass to add to the restlessness already churning him up inside. “Stink like spunk.”
Sam thumps back against the couch, sunlight bright on his skin and in his eyes. His cock, peeking out from the haphazard bunch of his clothes, is shiny with come. He watches Dean stumble to his feet with blatant appreciation and a good chunk of self-satisfaction.
“Open up the windows,” Dean says. He leaves his clothes where they are, no sense in trying to hide anything now even if the need to hide what they’ve just done from the daylight burns. “Dad’ll-” his voice sticks; a few quick, awkward swallows clears it. “He’s back tonight.”
Sam heaves himself up without a word. Instinct tells Dean to make a break for it but something else keeps him pinned until it’s maybe too late.
When it comes, Sam’s kiss is slow, deeply defiant. He dares Dean to run away with the flick of his tongue, not a hand on Dean to hold him close though they’re touching from chest to hip.
It’s just a kiss. Nothing more than the slippery press of lips and tongue. It feels too much like other kisses Dean never should’ve wanted.
After Sam pulls back, he drags his thumb over the dampness left on Dean’s mouth. “So go shower.”
Later, with night closing in and the raw taste of his brother’s cock in his mouth, Sam’s harsh curses pouring like praise so sweetly over him, he wonders which hell is meant for the ones who love too much.
He already knows the price of admission.