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runedgirlTitle: Five Times Dean Winchester Almost Kissed His Brother
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG13
Warning: Wincest, unreasonable amounts of love
Summary: It takes something pretty momentous to make Dean cross that line he drew for himself a long long time ago
Beta Thanks to the fabulous-even-when-she's-sick K, who inspired this foray into the 'Five Times' tradition.
I
“You’re twelve years old, Sammy, I can’t.”
Sam tangles his fingers in the pilled-and-threadbare motel quilts as Dean tucks them snug under his chin, pouting as he peers up at his older brother through too-long bangs. “Then I won’t be able to sleep,” he threatens, stretching long and awkward and knobby kneed under the blankets. Already he’s nearly as tall as Dean, whippet thin and always tripping over his feet that have grown even faster than the rest of him. In the dim green-tinted light from the neon outside the motel window he still looks like a little boy, though, gold-brown eyes wide as he implores his brother. “Please, Dean? Just so I won’t dream?”
Dean sighs, rubs his brother’s bony shoulders as he pulls the blankets over them, smooths a hand down Sam’s chest to feel for the reassuring trip-thud. The rhythm speeds up under his hand, knocking against his fingertips, and Dean pulls away.
“Sleep, Sammy. I’m right here.”
Sam huffs, rolls to his side away from his brother as Dean climbs into the other twin bed and pulls his own quilts up to counter the December chill. He lies awake for a long time, waiting for Sam’s nightmares to begin.
II
On Sam’s eighteenth birthday, John and Dean are in North Dakota chasing down something dangerous enough to require two extra days of hunting and not dangerous enough to require Sam’s help when he’s only three months from graduation. John tells him this as though he cares -- about Sam’s education, about Sam’s future, about what Sam wants, but Sam already knows the caring only extends to how well he falls in behind John’s definition of important. Sam’s definition of important was transcribed a month ago onto pages of typed essays, half bullshit and half the most real he’s ever been, mailed off to the addresses the guidance counselor at school handed to him with an unfamiliar smile of encouragement. Sam’s other definition of important, the only one he’s ever had, isn’t there when he lays the salt lines at the windows and beneath the door and closes his eyes.
By the time Dean eases his boot’s leaded press on the Impala’s gas pedal in front of the rented house where they left Sam, it’s way past midnight – which means he’s failed. Dean drops to his knees beside his brother’s bed and tortures himself in silent penance for disappointing the one he cares for most in the world.
“Sorry, Sammy,” he mouths, and Sam shifts in his sleep as if orienting to Dean’s words, rolling to his back and kicking the sheets half off in restless dreaming. The price for his failure is looking until the need burns acid-hot in his belly, something Dean doesn’t allow himself to do, an indulgence that brings more pain than pleasure. He slides his gaze over his brother’s bared shoulder, the bones that he remembers knobby and half-formed under his fingers long since engulfed in muscle and firm tanned flesh, broad and powerful and capable. Sam is all grown up, and if Dean hadn’t known it from the way his little brother towers over him when they fight – the only time they’re that close – he’d know it now by the calendar’s confirmation, the world’s acknowledgement that Sam is old enough.
Old enough to decide what he wants, old enough to tuck himself in and deal with his own nightmares. Old enough to leave Dean behind. Sam doesn’t know his brother has already read the carefully composed essays he slid into his calculus textbook while he worked on them, the ones that talk about how Sam is gonna change the world. Without salt guns and silver bullets and wooden stakes. Without Dean.
Sam mumbles, tosses, always dreams too real, fighting something lying in wait even when he sleeps, and rolls to his side. Dean’s eyes pause on the smooth planes of Sam’s bare chest, the dark blush of softened nipples, shadow of ribs. He shuffles closer on his knees, so close he can feel the puff of Sam’s breath against his face as he leans in, smell the familiar scent of baby shampoo and ivory soap and Sam, and he drinks it up, letting it make his eyes water with the goodness of it, trying to breathe his brother in so deeply he’ll always be there. Even when he’s not.
Sam licks his lips in his sleep, the bow of his mouth darkening to a deep pink, moist and glossy and pulling Dean like he’s magnetized. He grips the sheets to steady himself as he leans down, mouth ghosting across his brother’s, so close he can feel his skin tingle. He doesn’t speak until he’s moved away and placed the small hastily-wrapped package next to Sam’s bed.
“Happy birthday, Sammy.”
III
The night Sam finally tells John (and Dean, who acts surprised) that he’s going to Stanford, Dean realizes for the first time that his own defense mechanisms are a lot better than he’d realized. The last five months, he’s known that Sam is going, preparing himself for the inevitable. But when Sam lays it out in words, his face red with anger and his fists clenched in frustration, Dean feels the punch to his gut and realizes he never got his guard up at all.
“You walk out that door, you don’t come back, you hear me?” John gives it back, face as red and fists as clenched, and if there’s hesitation or second thoughts behind the ultimatum, Dean can’t find any evidence of them no matter how hard he looks. As soon as John’s truck roars away, Sam’s hauling out his duffle and backpack, shoving everything he owns into one or the other, and Dean’s gut twists a little more knowing that they’ll fit.
“You’re really going.” He says it because it’s running through his head, not leaving room for anything else, pounding at his consciousness relentlessly as he struggles to believe it.
Sam whirls, rage spilling off him in such tangible waves Dean’s sure he can actually see it, steps back when Sam turns on him, bumps right up against the door their Dad just slammed. “You wanna give me an order too, Dean?” he yells, and his fists slam against the door, one on each side of Dean’s head as Sam leans in, the wood rattling and creaking in protest. “Tell me that if I do this, you’ll write me off, never speak to me? Tell me I’m a selfish fucking bastard who only cares about myself? Tell me to stay gone?”
Sam’s towering over him, his face contorted with a terrible mix of anger and grief and panic, and Dean knows the same is mirrored in his own when their eyes meet. “No, Sam – Sammy – no, never,” he manages, trying desperately to push the feelings down, keep his voice calm while he’s flying apart inside.
“Dean.” Sam says, softening, and his voice is as broken as Dean feels. Sam’s right hand on the wall drops down to Dean’s face, cups his cheek, slides clumsily to the curve of his jaw. Sam’s thumb brushes against the corner of his brother’s mouth, and Dean can feel Sam’s fingers tremble. They’re standing so close their foreheads bump, and Sam’s lips press to his own thumb, awkward and hesitant as he says his brother’s name again, shaking as he backs up and moves away, and Dean realizes there’s nothing else to say.
IV
Sam’s been back six months, but Dean hasn’t seen much of him, not the Sammy he knew. Six months of watching Sam’s guilt and pain tear him up and pull him apart, Dean an impotent witness to his brother’s suffering. He might have pulled Sam from the flames again, but he knows he hasn’t saved him.
Most of the time Sam won’t join him when Dean tries to blunt it all temporarily, every bottle of beer and shot of tequila and push of hot wet pussy against his hips forcing the memories he doesn’t want deeper, until they’re just a dull ache instead of the constant throb he’s used to. But Sam’s got his vulnerabilities, and Dean’s desperate enough after six months to exploit them.
“A concert, Dean?” Sam asks incredulously, even as his brother’s tugging his arm and herding him into the old converted factory building that now serves as a concert hall. “Why? Is there a hunt here?”
Dean huffs, slaps him on the back, fixes him with an exasperated grin. “C’mon Sam, the distraction will do ya good,” he insists, shoving the ticket into Sam’s hand. “Not everything is about work.”
Sam rolls his eyes, but he lets Dean lead him inside, and Dean just hopes the band doesn’t suck too bad. The crowd around them is wearing too much black for Dean’s taste and some of the guys have eyes lined in the same shade, but the air is heavy with weed and the bar’s well stocked and the darkness makes it all blur anyway once the music starts. They’re on the second floor balcony, Dean leaning over the rail that hits him just above his waist, perfect view of the teeming mass of kids and college students and twenty-somethings swaying and bouncing to the heavy bass, and the band on stage they raise their fists for. Sam’s standing behind him, matching Dean drink for drink for a change, and Dean knows his brother’s drunk when Sam sinks into him, chest pressed against Dean’s back, chin digging into his shoulder.
“Good,” Sam slurs in his brother’s ear, his breath hot and beer-scented. “’M good.”
Dean shoves him back with one hip, trying to dislodge him, but Sam’s a heavy weight against him, flops right back down on him with a contented sigh, his long arms snaking around his brother loosely. “You good, Dean?” he asks, and the way he says his brother’s name makes goosebumps stand up along Dean’s neck.
“Yeah Sam, ‘m good.” The crowd presses in around them, jostling Sam, and Dean freezes stiff at the sensation of his brother’s hips pushing against his ass as Sam laughs and holds tighter. “Dude, get off,” he complains, but Sam laughs that off too, and Dean’s too pleasantly drunk to try any harder. Besides, there’s nowhere else to go.
Sweet smoke curls around him from behind as Sam exhales forcefully, and Dean half turns to see that yeah, Sam’s got a joint, from where he doesn’t know, doesn’t really care, seems like a good idea and this crowd is really a helluva lot better than Dean gave them credit for. Sam takes another hit and blows smoke into his brother’s ear, and Dean shivers, reaches up for the joint, but Sam yanks it away.
“Share Sam, dammit,” he growls over the music, but Sam just laughs again, almost a giggle as he inhales around a smirk, then holds the joint out of Dean’s reach, teasing. Dean cranes his head back enough to meet his brother’s eyes, sparkling with mischief and drug-dilated, and can’t help but smile at the way Sam looks so easy now, loose and lost in the moment.
“Open your mouth,” Sam says as he leans forward over Dean’s shoulder, his voice straining to be heard over the guitars, but there’s no way Dean could have missed that anyway. His lips fall open more in surprise than acquiescence as he twists to meet Sam’s gaze, but Sam takes it as permission as he takes another hit then leans in to exhale, his mouth almost closing over his brother’s.
Dean coughs, caught off guard by the look on his brother’s face as much as by the smoke down his throat, turning back towards the stage and gripping the rail hard. Sam laughs at him, sucking on the joint again, two hits in a row and then he curls forward into Dean more tightly, lean body molded warm and solid to his brother’s sweat-damp back. The lights are strobed now, the packed factory floor pulsating with the vibration of the bass and the heavy beat of the drum in time with the flash of light and darkness, and Sam’s moving to the music, hips swaying back and forth sinuous and insistent. Unexpected friction, and Dean can feel the press of Sam’s dick, hard enough to brush against his ass, send ribbons of heat rushing through his belly. The arm still wrapped around Dean’s waist pulls tighter, Sam’s hand splayed against his stomach, and Dean can feel the muscles there flutter against his will, nervous and eager.
Sam mouths the words against his throat as Dean stiffens against him, holds him there like he’s a weightless thing, unable – unwilling – to move away. “Take it, Dean,” he says, a deep whisper, and Dean lets his head fall back onto his brother’s shoulder as Sam presses the joint to his lips and presses his cock to his ass. Dean sucks in a deep hungry breath, feels the heat flare as the last of the joint flames out, then the hot wet taste of fire as Sam leans in across his shoulder, as Sam’s tongue licks the burn from the corner of his mouth. Dean shudders, ducks his head and grips the railing hard white-knuckled, pulls away from Sam just as the house lights come up and the music dies down.
When he wakes the next morning, Dean realizes with a start that Sam didn’t have nightmares.
V
It’s day 364 when Sam finally figures it all out, but it takes almost 24 hours after that to pull together everything he needs to break the deal, and Dean’s halfway down the road and most of the way to hell when the final words come tumbling frantic from Sam’s mouth, the last ones torn out in sobs as he sees his brother fall to his knees in the dirt and thinks ohgod I’m too late. Sam’s yanking him to his feet with both hands fisted in Dean’s shirt, yelling at him to come the fuck back, when Dean opens his eyes and realizes he’s still in Kansas.
“Sam?”
“Jesus, ohgod, thankgod,” Sam babbles, hauling Dean to his feet, tears in his eyes, and Dean feels the most amazing sensation flood through him as he stares at his little brother in awe.
“You did it, Sammy.” His hands are in Sam’s shirts now, clenching just as desperately, and he’s grinning like a maniac, can’t help it, it’s like his chest’s aching so much he feels like it’s gonna burst, can’t hold it in. “Jesus Sammy, I could almost kiss you,” he laughs, relief and pure joy bubbling over as they stand clutching each other on the dirt road.
“I almost lost you, Dean,” Sam says, his expression going serious as he pulls his brother even closer. “I don’t think almost cuts it anymore.”
And then Sam kisses him.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG13
Warning: Wincest, unreasonable amounts of love
Summary: It takes something pretty momentous to make Dean cross that line he drew for himself a long long time ago
Beta Thanks to the fabulous-even-when-she's-sick K, who inspired this foray into the 'Five Times' tradition.
I
“You’re twelve years old, Sammy, I can’t.”
Sam tangles his fingers in the pilled-and-threadbare motel quilts as Dean tucks them snug under his chin, pouting as he peers up at his older brother through too-long bangs. “Then I won’t be able to sleep,” he threatens, stretching long and awkward and knobby kneed under the blankets. Already he’s nearly as tall as Dean, whippet thin and always tripping over his feet that have grown even faster than the rest of him. In the dim green-tinted light from the neon outside the motel window he still looks like a little boy, though, gold-brown eyes wide as he implores his brother. “Please, Dean? Just so I won’t dream?”
Dean sighs, rubs his brother’s bony shoulders as he pulls the blankets over them, smooths a hand down Sam’s chest to feel for the reassuring trip-thud. The rhythm speeds up under his hand, knocking against his fingertips, and Dean pulls away.
“Sleep, Sammy. I’m right here.”
Sam huffs, rolls to his side away from his brother as Dean climbs into the other twin bed and pulls his own quilts up to counter the December chill. He lies awake for a long time, waiting for Sam’s nightmares to begin.
II
On Sam’s eighteenth birthday, John and Dean are in North Dakota chasing down something dangerous enough to require two extra days of hunting and not dangerous enough to require Sam’s help when he’s only three months from graduation. John tells him this as though he cares -- about Sam’s education, about Sam’s future, about what Sam wants, but Sam already knows the caring only extends to how well he falls in behind John’s definition of important. Sam’s definition of important was transcribed a month ago onto pages of typed essays, half bullshit and half the most real he’s ever been, mailed off to the addresses the guidance counselor at school handed to him with an unfamiliar smile of encouragement. Sam’s other definition of important, the only one he’s ever had, isn’t there when he lays the salt lines at the windows and beneath the door and closes his eyes.
By the time Dean eases his boot’s leaded press on the Impala’s gas pedal in front of the rented house where they left Sam, it’s way past midnight – which means he’s failed. Dean drops to his knees beside his brother’s bed and tortures himself in silent penance for disappointing the one he cares for most in the world.
“Sorry, Sammy,” he mouths, and Sam shifts in his sleep as if orienting to Dean’s words, rolling to his back and kicking the sheets half off in restless dreaming. The price for his failure is looking until the need burns acid-hot in his belly, something Dean doesn’t allow himself to do, an indulgence that brings more pain than pleasure. He slides his gaze over his brother’s bared shoulder, the bones that he remembers knobby and half-formed under his fingers long since engulfed in muscle and firm tanned flesh, broad and powerful and capable. Sam is all grown up, and if Dean hadn’t known it from the way his little brother towers over him when they fight – the only time they’re that close – he’d know it now by the calendar’s confirmation, the world’s acknowledgement that Sam is old enough.
Old enough to decide what he wants, old enough to tuck himself in and deal with his own nightmares. Old enough to leave Dean behind. Sam doesn’t know his brother has already read the carefully composed essays he slid into his calculus textbook while he worked on them, the ones that talk about how Sam is gonna change the world. Without salt guns and silver bullets and wooden stakes. Without Dean.
Sam mumbles, tosses, always dreams too real, fighting something lying in wait even when he sleeps, and rolls to his side. Dean’s eyes pause on the smooth planes of Sam’s bare chest, the dark blush of softened nipples, shadow of ribs. He shuffles closer on his knees, so close he can feel the puff of Sam’s breath against his face as he leans in, smell the familiar scent of baby shampoo and ivory soap and Sam, and he drinks it up, letting it make his eyes water with the goodness of it, trying to breathe his brother in so deeply he’ll always be there. Even when he’s not.
Sam licks his lips in his sleep, the bow of his mouth darkening to a deep pink, moist and glossy and pulling Dean like he’s magnetized. He grips the sheets to steady himself as he leans down, mouth ghosting across his brother’s, so close he can feel his skin tingle. He doesn’t speak until he’s moved away and placed the small hastily-wrapped package next to Sam’s bed.
“Happy birthday, Sammy.”
III
The night Sam finally tells John (and Dean, who acts surprised) that he’s going to Stanford, Dean realizes for the first time that his own defense mechanisms are a lot better than he’d realized. The last five months, he’s known that Sam is going, preparing himself for the inevitable. But when Sam lays it out in words, his face red with anger and his fists clenched in frustration, Dean feels the punch to his gut and realizes he never got his guard up at all.
“You walk out that door, you don’t come back, you hear me?” John gives it back, face as red and fists as clenched, and if there’s hesitation or second thoughts behind the ultimatum, Dean can’t find any evidence of them no matter how hard he looks. As soon as John’s truck roars away, Sam’s hauling out his duffle and backpack, shoving everything he owns into one or the other, and Dean’s gut twists a little more knowing that they’ll fit.
“You’re really going.” He says it because it’s running through his head, not leaving room for anything else, pounding at his consciousness relentlessly as he struggles to believe it.
Sam whirls, rage spilling off him in such tangible waves Dean’s sure he can actually see it, steps back when Sam turns on him, bumps right up against the door their Dad just slammed. “You wanna give me an order too, Dean?” he yells, and his fists slam against the door, one on each side of Dean’s head as Sam leans in, the wood rattling and creaking in protest. “Tell me that if I do this, you’ll write me off, never speak to me? Tell me I’m a selfish fucking bastard who only cares about myself? Tell me to stay gone?”
Sam’s towering over him, his face contorted with a terrible mix of anger and grief and panic, and Dean knows the same is mirrored in his own when their eyes meet. “No, Sam – Sammy – no, never,” he manages, trying desperately to push the feelings down, keep his voice calm while he’s flying apart inside.
“Dean.” Sam says, softening, and his voice is as broken as Dean feels. Sam’s right hand on the wall drops down to Dean’s face, cups his cheek, slides clumsily to the curve of his jaw. Sam’s thumb brushes against the corner of his brother’s mouth, and Dean can feel Sam’s fingers tremble. They’re standing so close their foreheads bump, and Sam’s lips press to his own thumb, awkward and hesitant as he says his brother’s name again, shaking as he backs up and moves away, and Dean realizes there’s nothing else to say.
IV
Sam’s been back six months, but Dean hasn’t seen much of him, not the Sammy he knew. Six months of watching Sam’s guilt and pain tear him up and pull him apart, Dean an impotent witness to his brother’s suffering. He might have pulled Sam from the flames again, but he knows he hasn’t saved him.
Most of the time Sam won’t join him when Dean tries to blunt it all temporarily, every bottle of beer and shot of tequila and push of hot wet pussy against his hips forcing the memories he doesn’t want deeper, until they’re just a dull ache instead of the constant throb he’s used to. But Sam’s got his vulnerabilities, and Dean’s desperate enough after six months to exploit them.
“A concert, Dean?” Sam asks incredulously, even as his brother’s tugging his arm and herding him into the old converted factory building that now serves as a concert hall. “Why? Is there a hunt here?”
Dean huffs, slaps him on the back, fixes him with an exasperated grin. “C’mon Sam, the distraction will do ya good,” he insists, shoving the ticket into Sam’s hand. “Not everything is about work.”
Sam rolls his eyes, but he lets Dean lead him inside, and Dean just hopes the band doesn’t suck too bad. The crowd around them is wearing too much black for Dean’s taste and some of the guys have eyes lined in the same shade, but the air is heavy with weed and the bar’s well stocked and the darkness makes it all blur anyway once the music starts. They’re on the second floor balcony, Dean leaning over the rail that hits him just above his waist, perfect view of the teeming mass of kids and college students and twenty-somethings swaying and bouncing to the heavy bass, and the band on stage they raise their fists for. Sam’s standing behind him, matching Dean drink for drink for a change, and Dean knows his brother’s drunk when Sam sinks into him, chest pressed against Dean’s back, chin digging into his shoulder.
“Good,” Sam slurs in his brother’s ear, his breath hot and beer-scented. “’M good.”
Dean shoves him back with one hip, trying to dislodge him, but Sam’s a heavy weight against him, flops right back down on him with a contented sigh, his long arms snaking around his brother loosely. “You good, Dean?” he asks, and the way he says his brother’s name makes goosebumps stand up along Dean’s neck.
“Yeah Sam, ‘m good.” The crowd presses in around them, jostling Sam, and Dean freezes stiff at the sensation of his brother’s hips pushing against his ass as Sam laughs and holds tighter. “Dude, get off,” he complains, but Sam laughs that off too, and Dean’s too pleasantly drunk to try any harder. Besides, there’s nowhere else to go.
Sweet smoke curls around him from behind as Sam exhales forcefully, and Dean half turns to see that yeah, Sam’s got a joint, from where he doesn’t know, doesn’t really care, seems like a good idea and this crowd is really a helluva lot better than Dean gave them credit for. Sam takes another hit and blows smoke into his brother’s ear, and Dean shivers, reaches up for the joint, but Sam yanks it away.
“Share Sam, dammit,” he growls over the music, but Sam just laughs again, almost a giggle as he inhales around a smirk, then holds the joint out of Dean’s reach, teasing. Dean cranes his head back enough to meet his brother’s eyes, sparkling with mischief and drug-dilated, and can’t help but smile at the way Sam looks so easy now, loose and lost in the moment.
“Open your mouth,” Sam says as he leans forward over Dean’s shoulder, his voice straining to be heard over the guitars, but there’s no way Dean could have missed that anyway. His lips fall open more in surprise than acquiescence as he twists to meet Sam’s gaze, but Sam takes it as permission as he takes another hit then leans in to exhale, his mouth almost closing over his brother’s.
Dean coughs, caught off guard by the look on his brother’s face as much as by the smoke down his throat, turning back towards the stage and gripping the rail hard. Sam laughs at him, sucking on the joint again, two hits in a row and then he curls forward into Dean more tightly, lean body molded warm and solid to his brother’s sweat-damp back. The lights are strobed now, the packed factory floor pulsating with the vibration of the bass and the heavy beat of the drum in time with the flash of light and darkness, and Sam’s moving to the music, hips swaying back and forth sinuous and insistent. Unexpected friction, and Dean can feel the press of Sam’s dick, hard enough to brush against his ass, send ribbons of heat rushing through his belly. The arm still wrapped around Dean’s waist pulls tighter, Sam’s hand splayed against his stomach, and Dean can feel the muscles there flutter against his will, nervous and eager.
Sam mouths the words against his throat as Dean stiffens against him, holds him there like he’s a weightless thing, unable – unwilling – to move away. “Take it, Dean,” he says, a deep whisper, and Dean lets his head fall back onto his brother’s shoulder as Sam presses the joint to his lips and presses his cock to his ass. Dean sucks in a deep hungry breath, feels the heat flare as the last of the joint flames out, then the hot wet taste of fire as Sam leans in across his shoulder, as Sam’s tongue licks the burn from the corner of his mouth. Dean shudders, ducks his head and grips the railing hard white-knuckled, pulls away from Sam just as the house lights come up and the music dies down.
When he wakes the next morning, Dean realizes with a start that Sam didn’t have nightmares.
V
It’s day 364 when Sam finally figures it all out, but it takes almost 24 hours after that to pull together everything he needs to break the deal, and Dean’s halfway down the road and most of the way to hell when the final words come tumbling frantic from Sam’s mouth, the last ones torn out in sobs as he sees his brother fall to his knees in the dirt and thinks ohgod I’m too late. Sam’s yanking him to his feet with both hands fisted in Dean’s shirt, yelling at him to come the fuck back, when Dean opens his eyes and realizes he’s still in Kansas.
“Sam?”
“Jesus, ohgod, thankgod,” Sam babbles, hauling Dean to his feet, tears in his eyes, and Dean feels the most amazing sensation flood through him as he stares at his little brother in awe.
“You did it, Sammy.” His hands are in Sam’s shirts now, clenching just as desperately, and he’s grinning like a maniac, can’t help it, it’s like his chest’s aching so much he feels like it’s gonna burst, can’t hold it in. “Jesus Sammy, I could almost kiss you,” he laughs, relief and pure joy bubbling over as they stand clutching each other on the dirt road.
“I almost lost you, Dean,” Sam says, his expression going serious as he pulls his brother even closer. “I don’t think almost cuts it anymore.”
And then Sam kisses him.
