Sam/Dean. R. ~1200. Gunplay.
The gun–Dean’s gun–rests against Dean’s cheek, its reflection flashing in his eyes as the sun dips low.

Sam stands at the edge of a wasteland, hemmed in on three sides by somebody’s pathetic stab at growing suburbia where ragged scrub brush barely eked out an existence. Beyond the dirt-dry pool, tiles baked yellow and cracked under the sun like old bone, and the rusty red skeleton of the chain link fence, stretches nothing.

The screen door behind him creaks open, bangs shut on rattling hinges. He doesn’t need to look back to see which one of them came out to talk him down this time. He closes his eyes, pictures the ruin of the abandoned house: Scuffed, ragged linoleum leading to sludge-grey carpet, scarred boots set wide between sloppy piles of smudged newspaper and bottles still wet at the mouth with dregs and spit. Their father’s wide, thick-veined hand clutching the fresh Johnnie Walker Dean had driven thirty miles in the scorching heat to buy.

Sam says, “What’re you gonna tell me?”

Dean’s heavy boots crush the dead grass to a fine brown dust that disappears into the ground. Swallowed up like everything else. “What d’you wanna hear?”

Marionette on the string of Dean’s voice, Sam raises the gun warm in his grip, mother-of-pearl handle smooth against the rough calluses on his palm, sights down the barrel and squeezes the trigger. The third of seven cans jammed into the fence explodes in a mess of torn aluminium.

“How about you lie to me?” Sam aims again, feels the satisfying punch of force straight up his arm and into his shoulder as another can is ripped open. Its shiny metal insides glint in the sun. “How about you tell me how much you need me. That one always works.”

Dean steps straight into his line of fire just as he’s about to squeeze down again. He sucks in a quick, hissing breath, teeth clenched, and drops the muzzle from Dean’s heart.


“You stink like puke.”

Dean runs a hand over his head, the sharp gel spikes of his hair going soft and fuzzy. His smile is as broken and bent as the corpse of a swing set jumbled in one corner of the yard. “Yeah, s’what happens. He doesn’t mean to, Sam.”

“‘Course not. Nobody ever means to get falling down drunk at ten in the morning.”

It’s not fair of him to say. Sam knows that. The stories they all could tell are far worse than simple nightmares that fade come morning light. He hates how selfish he can’t help but be, wanting something more than this. More than just family.

“Don’t be such a fuckin’ punk. You know it ain’t easy-”

Dean doesn’t flinch when Sam grabs his chin, forces him to stretch his neck out long and vulnerable. July-green eyes track the shift of the gun, go heavy and deep forest dark as the sight lightly traces the raw gash marring his throat. Any deeper, any higher, they’d have buried him.

Sam closes his eyes, lets out a slow breath. Draws in another and draws Dean in closer, his hand slipping down until it’s pressed tight to the bob of Dean’s throat. Their mouths almost touch; Dean’s warm breaths are fast and shallow, expectant. The gun–Dean’s gun–rests against Dean’s cheek, its reflection flashing in his eyes as the sun dips low.

“D’you want to do it for real this time?” Sam asks. Dean’s lips tremble on aborted words, so close, so soft and Sam wants. He’s never really learned how to deal with the consequences of the life they lead, always on the road just ahead of retribution. “We could, right here. Doesn’t matter.”

“Sam-” Dean starts, old protests that they’ve broken through time and time again, but Sam kills the words with a quick shove, hard enough that Dean stumbles on the cracked cement by the pool. Another shove, and another, another until his back hits the sagging fence. He earns himself one more rip in his battered shirt as he jerks out of Sam’s reach.

“What the fuck’s the matter with you?” Dean snaps, flushing with anger and heat.

The truth of it is, Sam doesn’t really know. Maybe he’s lashing out, like the guidance counsellor from two states back said. It’s what teenagers do. Trying to carve out a piece of the world for himself, find somewhere where he’ll fit, click into place. It’s not so surprising that in Dean’s flesh he expects to find it.

Creak-bang-rattle again, heavy footsteps to the edge of the grass. Dean flinches from the weight of John’s shadow like he didn’t from the gun at Sam’s side or the touch of Sam’s mouth.

“Inside,” John says. Dean glances from him to Sam to the white-knuckled grip Sam has on his forearm, hesitant. “Let your brother go inside, Sam.”

Dean says, “Dad-”

“Inside, boy. Now.”

Sam tightens his hold on Dean’s arm, says, “No.”

“S’okay,” Dean says. “Dad, c’mon, really.” In Sam’s grip, his arm trembles lightly. Fight or flight. “I’ll take care of Sammy.”

The rage that’d propelled John up from his chair, out of his drunken stupor, fades to leave a shattered man swaying in John’s place, one that’s long since forgotten he still has family to lose.

With a last, brittle-edged look at Dean, John shakes his head and vanishes back into the gloom.

Sam lets his hand slide down until his fingers are wrapped tight around Dean’s wrist, pulse fluttering against his fingertips. It’s quick, uneven, like Dean’s choppy breaths.

“You got something in your system you gotta work out?” Dean asks.

Sam looks at the shattered cans, the angry red line the gun’s sight drew down Dean’s cheek. Their whole lives are shaped by violence and Sam wishes he hated it as much as he thinks he should.

Twisting free, Dean puts a hand over Sam’s grip on the gun, fingers slotting together. It’s a swift kick to the ribs when Dean doesn’t try to take it away but lifts it instead, bringing the muzzle up beneath his chin with Sam’s finger still on the trigger.

Sam pushes harder, sees metal bite into flesh as Dean’s head is forced back, throat bobbing on a hasty swallow before his lips part. Sweat beads at Dean’s temples, glistening in the harsh sun.

All the blood pounding through Sam’s veins rushes south in a dizzying thrill. Dean’s not close enough to feel the hard swell of Sam’s cock but his mouth trembles on a shaky breath like he can.

“Waitin’ for me to say please?”

The gun slides up, away, grip digging into the vulnerable softness beneath Dean’s ear. Dean’s eyes slip shut, giving Sam all the permission he’s ever needed to take what he wants.

Closing what little distance remains between them, Sam digs the muzzle into the base of Dean’s skull, feels Dean press more tightly against him in one long line of heat. Hands grab onto Sam’s hips for balance, slide towards the small of his back to fist in his thin, damp tee. Dean’s cock is thick against Sam’s thigh.

Sam says, “He can see you now. What you’re really like.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Dean’s tongue swipes wet and pink over his dry lips.

Sam takes Dean’s mouth for his own. Bites at it, licks inside, tastes the sharp, bitter tang of the things they shouldn’t do.

He’s seventeen years old. He knows the recoil of a gun as it punches the life out of a body, the tacky, cloying smell of fresh blood on his hands, the feel of his brother’s sharp angles fit snug against the jagged edges of own. They slot together, nothing right in Sam’s life until it’s wrong like this.

And all these things their father taught him.


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