![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Part 2
Back to Part One
Headers in the Master Post.
~~~~~
As it turns out, Sam doesn't see Dean until Friday morning when he drags in from the neighboring farm where he's been helping out with a mare birthing its first colt. He looks as tired as Sam's ever seen him, but there's a peacefulness to his face Sam hasn't seen in a while, either.
Sam and Uncle Bobby are in the middle of getting breakfast, and Sam's heart stutters once at the smile Dean gives him. He hadn't thought he'd get to see that smile again; had been torn between elation and fear at getting to put off the anticipated confrontation when he got home and Uncle Bobby told him Dean was gone for at least a day or two. It warms him clear through when Dean's eyes linger just a moment longer than they need to as he sits down at the table.
"Well?" Uncle Bobby's already pulling out another set of silverware.
"Twins," Dean tells him, nodding his thanks when Sam hands him a cup of coffee. "Prettiest little filly you ever seen, and a colt with enough attitude for the both of 'em."
Uncle Bobby nods. "And the mare?"
"She's fine. It was touch and go for a while; the colt was breach, and we weren't sure we were gonna be able to get him turned around without breaking her pelvis."
"But you did?" Sam's busy dishing up potatoes and eggs — stupid hens weren't going to keep him from the eggs forever, hah — and pauses to spoon oatmeal into two bowls. He hates the stuff, but Dean and Uncle Bobby both love it, and it'd be too much of a stretch to 'forget' it two days in the same week. Besides, Dean looks like he hasn't eaten in at least two days, which is probably pretty likely. He and Mr. Thompson both get pretty single-minded when it comes to delivering baby anythings.
"Don't forget the sugar," Dean says, reaching for the oatmeal. There's another look Sam can't quite interpret, and his fingers linger, taking the bowls. Dean's warmer than the bowls but Sam shivers anyway, goose bumps breaking out all over his arms. "And hey, Sammy?"
Sam's just turned away to get the bowl of brown sugar, so he glances back over his shoulder. "Yeah?"
"Happy birthday." The smile that comes with the words makes it hard for Sam to breathe for a minute.
"Th-thanks." He grabs the sugar, and the pitcher of milk on the counter, and heads for the table.
Uncle Bobby's giving both of them an odd look. "You boys okay?"
Dean nods, in the process of grabbing the sugar from Sam's hands. "Yep. Just wasn't sure I was gonna get home in time to wish Sam a happy birthday."
"Mmm." Uncle Bobby eyes Sam again over his coffee cup, but turns his attention to his breakfast and the things that need done around the house and farm. "I finished up the planting yesterday. Thompson sent his two youngest boys over to help out in your place. You an' Sammy still gonna do the vegetable garden this weekend?"
"Yes, Sir," both boys say at the same time. Sam smiles down into his potatoes and eggs, feeling light-hearted for the first time in days. Dean doesn't hate him, isn't mad at him, isn't leaving him. "It's Sam's birthday," Dean continues, and Sam looks up.
"It is," Uncle Bobby says evenly, spooning up oatmeal.
"Movie night." Dean raises an eyebrow at Sam. "If you still want to go?"
"Citizen Kane opened yesterday," Sam breathes. "And I think it's playing in town."
"Gonna take that as a yes, then." Dean's smirking now. "Hopefully there'll be some kind of horror film playing with it. Uncle Bobby, you gonna go with us?"
Bobby looks from Sam to Dean, and back again. "You're not going to the dance at the school, then?"
Sam swallows. "Uh."
Dean frowns. "School dance?"
"I saw Mister Summers at the general store yesterday; he said something or other 'bout Becky bein' excited you were goin' to the dance with her?"
Sam flushes; the flush turns into a tight knot of panic when Dean looks at him, some of the happy dimming in his eyes. "No! No, I said I didn't know if I was going," he says, the words tumbling out. "She said she'd save me a dance if I did, but I talked to her before I remembered it was gonna be my birthday today. I don't—."
"You boys could go to the pictures tomorrow, after you do the garden," Bobby says, not unkindly, but Sam shakes his head.
"I never said I was taking her. Or going. I said maybe. It's my birthday, I want…I want to go to the movies." I want to go to the movies with Dean.
"Then we're goin' to the movies." That odd gleam is back in Dean's eyes and a little of Sam's panic recedes, though the adrenaline pumping through him has pretty much killed his appetite. "Uncle Bobby? You goin'?"
Bobby shakes his head. "You know how I feel 'bout these new-fangled picture shows. Too loud; it's kind of like being stuck inside the tool shed when there's a hail storm." Sam snorts and pokes at his plate while Dean snickers. Uncle Bobby rounds on them both. "Just wait 'til the two of you ain't so young and pretty. It's gonna happen one-a these days, you'll wake up and be old."
"You're not old, Uncle Bobby." Sam kind of feels obliged to say it, but he also kind of believes it. Uncle Bobby looks the same as he looked when they first came to live with him, like he just doesn't age, except for his hair, which is more silvery than it used to be.
"Kid, there are days I feel downright ancient. And them talking picture shows you boys like so much are just one of the things makin' me feel that way." Bobby slurps down the rest of his coffee and pushes back from the table. "What time you reckon you'll be leavin' for the show?"
Dean looks at Sam. "You wanna play hooky today? We could go to Rapid City, instead. Leave after we finish up chores."
It's tempting. Sam almost says yes, just to see if the light in Dean's eyes gets any brighter. But then he remembers the Shakespeare essay he has to turn in, and the fact that Dean's likely not had much sleep, if any, in the last 48 hours.
"Can't," he says finally, pushing back from the table. "Got stuff I gotta do at school. Papers due." He makes a face. "We've been reading Shakespeare's stuff, and had to write essays about three of his plays."
"Sounds like a party," Dean says, scraping his spoon around the bowl his oatmeal was in. "Guess I can wash up the dishes this mornin'. Bein' it's your birthday, and all."
"You should get some sleep." Sam busies himself with making some cheese and tomato sandwiches and finding a small tin to put the leftover fried potatoes in. He can take those with his sandwiches, too. Seems like more and more often he's searching out things to take in his lunch pail, since he's always hungry. Always. "Don't want to end up sleeping through the movies."
"I'll sleep later." Dean bops Sam on the head as he walks past him.
"Hey!" Sam scowls. "What's with you and hitting me on the head all the time?"
"Be glad it's not a birthday spanking." Dean bops him again, and for just a second, Sam thinks he feels a warm caress instead. "You're not too old or too big, is he, Uncle Bobby?"
"Never too old or big for a spankin'," Uncle Bobby returns, laughing outright at the look on Sam's face. "Could take both-a ya over my knee, if I needed to."
Sam looks at Dean and they both laugh. Dean's taller than Uncle Bobby, and thanks to the phenomenal growth spurt earlier in the spring, Sam's nearly as tall as his brother.
"I think I ought to, just to reinforce that whole 'respect your elders'," Bobby grumbles, heading toward the mudroom. "Dean, you get some sleep after you do the dishes. If you boys want to make the haul to Rapid City, you go right ahead. Just be sure you fill the truck up before you leave. It's close on to empty."
"Yes, Sir." Dean leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, and it's all Sam can do not to close his eyes, remembering the last time he and Dean were in the kitchen together. He was standing right where Dean is now, dick out, jerking off. He swallows and turns to find the bag he carries his lunch in.
Warmth immediately behind him makes him freeze in place, and he has to force himself to breathe when Dean's hands land on his shoulders. Dean's voice is low and gravelly, and almost right in his ear. "Sure you gotta go to school today?"
"I ,uh." It takes two tries before Sam has enough spit in his mouth to actually answer. "I gotta turn my essay in. But, um." He wants to lean back against Dean. Wants to feel Dean warm and solid against him, and for a minute he sways with indecision. "Mr. Dryer didn't say we had to, uh, turn 'em in in class. I could just. We could stop at the school and I could run it in." Those large, warm hands squeeze his shoulders lightly and Sam quivers. "But you need to sleep, Dean."
"I can sleep in the truck. You could drive us. Sammy." Dean's closer, now, leaning into Sam, and Sam's heart pounds in his chest, in his ears, everywhere. "Sammy, I. What the hell am I doing? What's happening? You're my brother," he adds, low and rough. "But I want—."
The tone of Dean's voice, the want and ache Sam hears there — that matches his own — makes Sam decide to take a chance. He turns slowly; Dean shifts his hands but doesn't move them, and God help him, Dean's so close. So close, and all Sam wants is him. Nothing else.
"I want it too," he whispers. "Dean. Please. I—"
"Shh. Shh, baby." Dean closes the remaining space between them, breath hot against Sam's mouth. His hands are warm against Sam's shoulders, and then cupping Sam's face, thumbs caressing Sam's cheeks. Sam slides his eyes shut just before Dean's mouth brushes his, so softly it's more a tease than a taste. Another brush, longer, and Dean sighs raggedly. "Oh, God, Sammy. God."
He presses his mouth to Sam's, lips warm and parted, tongue sliding gently against Sam's mouth, along the seam between his lips. Gently urging, asking, wanting; Sam moans and opens for him, clutches at Dean when their tongues slide against each other. It's slick and hot, and Dean's tasting him, exploring him, tongue darting everywhere until Sam's lightheaded with the sensations.
Dean pulls back — but not away — way too soon, and not soon enough. Sam's sure his lungs are going to explode, he needs to breathe so badly, but he wants this kiss to never, ever end. Dean doesn't move away though, just leans his forehead against Sam's, his breath almost too much against Sam's hypersensitive lips.
"I don't know…what I'm doing," Dean says, the words scarcely more than a whisper. "This is so wrong, Sam. We shouldn't do this."
Sam's heart pounds harder, faster, and he's sure Dean hears it. Feels it. "Doesn't feel wrong, to me. It feels perfect. I want it," he says. "I want—you."
"It's wrong," Dean says again. His voice is hoarse; rough with emotion, but he doesn't move away. Just closes his eyes. Sam reaches up to stroke his fingers over Dean's face, along his cheekbones.
"I don't care. I don't care, Dean." He's done talking, done worrying. Whatever God says in that great big book of his, he also talks about love. Sam's read the whole thing, cover to cover, more than once. God has bigger things to worry about than who he, Samuel Winchester, loves, and it's no one else's business.
"God help me, but I don't either. I should, but." Dean shifts and leans in so his mouth is brushing against Sam's again. "Wanted this…always, I think."
Sam surges forward, his blood burning through him. It's awkward; he doesn't know how to kiss and he nicks Dean's lip with his teeth until Dean holds him still and gentles the kiss, tongue lapping at Sam's mouth, slicking over teeth, tongue, the inside of Sam's cheeks.
Outside, Uncle Bobby hollers, "—get away, dog!" and Sam and Dean jump apart. Sam feels like anyone could look at him and tell what he's been doing. He's mussed and hot, achy in a way he's never felt before. Dean looks flushed, and his eyes are so dark, the pupils dilated so wide there's almost no green visible.
"We, uh." Dean clears his throat. "I need to wash up—I got birthin' blood all over, I expect. And probably some other stuff."
Sam grimaces. "Way to ruin the mood, jerk."
Dean flashes him a grin. It's a little strained around the edges, but mostly natural, mostly Dean, and something inside Sam loosens, relaxes. "I think it was ruined a minute ago, and it wasn't by me. Brat."
"You sure you're gonna be okay without sleeping?"
"I caught a couple naps at Thompson's, and like I said, I can sleep while you drive. You know the way there without me directing, don't you?"
Sam gives in to the urge to stick his tongue out. "You're the one always gets us lost, not me."
"I'm positive you have me confused with someone else." Dean laughs and dodges the washrag Sam tosses at him. "Go get whatever you need to get for school. I'm gonna do the dishes up real quick—"
"I'll do the dishes, Dean. Go on and bring some water in, and I'll start it heating so you can wash."
"You're a prince among men, Sammy."
Sam nods. "And don't you forget it."
The minute Dean bangs out of the house, yelling for Uncle Bobby and rattling the water pail, Sam leans back against the sink and closes his eyes. Oh, God. Dean kissed him.
Dean. Kissed. Him.
Dean feels the same as Sam. It's amazing, in a completely mind-bending way, because Sam was positive Dean would, at the very least, think he was a freak and sick in the head. He never, ever imagined Dean might return the feelings.
His stomach tightens with…pleasure? Anticipation? Sam isn't sure what it is, but it's not a bad feeling, just—new. New and good, and it's the best birthday present he could've received, ever. Nice as the new pants and book from Uncle Bobby are, they can't compare with this. Not even close.
Sam hums while he finishes clearing off the table, and while Dean brings the water in, pouring it into the big pot on that's always on the stove for just this purpose. He keeps humming while he washes up the dishes, setting them into the drainer on the counter so they'll dry. The sandwiches he made earlier will still work for lunch, but Sam makes a couple more, because he's not sure he or Dean have ever eaten less than two apiece. There's still some cookies left from the last time the Reverend's wife stopped by, so Sam wraps those up, along with some apples. He adds the bowl of leftover fried potatoes, figuring one of them will eat them and finds himself thinking about soda pop and popcorn at the theater.
And dinner out somewhere, maybe the diner that's across the street from the theater! Sam tries to remember if he's ever eaten out in a restaurant, beyond the time he and Uncle Bobby drove all the way to Sioux Falls, to get some special-made parts for…something. It was a while ago; couple years or more. Dean stayed back at home because someone needed to tend to the livestock, but Sam went because Uncle Bobby needed someone to help him with the driving.
Upstairs, Dean's singing off-key, making up his own song to the tune of "Oh, Susannah". Sam shakes his head and gathers up the schoolwork he needs to turn in, then takes the jar out of the cupboard where they keep the egg and milk money. There's a lot of change in the jar, and some folded bills. Sam fishes out three dollar bills, and another couple of dollars in change, squashing down the rising guilt at the almost obscene amount of money. He tells himself it's his birthday, he helps milk the cows every day, and he's the one who fights with the damn chickens for the eggs.
It still feels strange to know he's taking extra money just so they maybe can eat at a diner, or the Woolworth's lunch counter (if it's open), plus go to the movies.
He shoves the money into his pocket and tells himself it's not a date. He's going to the movies with his brother, for his birthday. It's not a date.
But it sure feels like it.
~~~~~
They end up not leaving until after lunch, because Dean falls asleep in the middle of changing his clothes, and Sam doesn't have the heart to wake him up.
Instead, he sits on the edge of Dean's bed for a while, and watches him sleep. The sun shining through the curtains paints Dean in rich, deep shades of gold and red, and highlights his freckles. There's a cluster of them on one earlobe and Sam has to sit on his hands to keep from reaching out to touch.
There's no shortage of things to do, whether Sam goes to school or doesn't, so he busies himself around the house doing the chores that often get shunted aside because they're not important to the daily running of the farm: sweeping the kitchen floor, and the mudroom floor. Running a duster over the furniture in the front room. Hanging another load of wash out on the clothesline, though squinting up at the sky makes him wonder if it's worth it, or if he should just hang them on the rack down in the basement, because to his not unpracticed eye, it looks like it might rain later on.
Basic busywork done, Sam puts the clean dishes away and wipes down the countertop and the table, then goes out to lay some more feed down for the chickens, and check on the feed bags for the horses.
Uncle Bobby comes in while Sam's pitching some hay into feedboxes, and frowns. "I thought you boys would be long gone by now."
"Dean fell asleep," Sam says, stopping to give the horses each a couple nubs of carrot. "Figured I'd get some chores done ahead of time. We'll go after lunch. I made sandwiches, but they'll keep for tomorrow, if you want something else?"
Uncle Bobby shakes his head. "Sandwiches are fine. Heat up some soup to go with them, though."
Sam nods. "What're you going to have for dinner? You sure you don't want to go with us?"
"I'm sure, Sam." Uncle Bobby pushes his cap up a little, blue eyes twinkling under the brim. "And for dinner, I reckon I can figure something out. I cooked for myself a good many years before you got big enough to reach the stove."
Sam snorts, but manages not to say anything. He'd learned to cook out of self defense, because while Uncle Bobby could do beans and beef — sometimes with tomato sauce and seasonings, sometimes without — and eggs and potatoes, anything else either came from a can or was eaten raw out of the garden. As soon as Sam could reach the stove without needing a stepstool, he cajoled the Reverend's wife into teaching him the basics, and from there he just experimented and supplemented until he could actually make decent, varied meals.
Except meatloaf. He's never been able to make a decent meatloaf, and can't figure out why, since he follows the recipe to a T.
He taught himself how to can two summers ago — and suffered through a whole month of Dean teasing him about how he'd make somebody a good wife someday, until the day he made Dean help him — and he still can't make the stupid meatloaf turn out. It really bothers him.
~~~~~
By the time Sam and Dean stop to drop off Sam's paper at school and get gas at the station in town, it's after 3:00p.m.
"We have plenty of time to get to Rapid City and have dinner," Dean says, when Sam stares out the window anxiously. "Relax, Sammy. We're not going to miss the movie."
"You're sure?"
"It doesn't take that long to get there." Dean keeps looking at Sam, turning his head just a little and staring, and there's a tension in the air Sam's never felt before. It's thick and heavy, and his stomach tightens a little, anticipation and uncertainty twisting around inside him, making him think about the kiss in the kitchen, and all the other things he wants but doesn't know how or what to ask for. "Sammy? You okay?"
The words are out before Sam can even think about what he's asking. "Have you ever—gone all the way, before? Um, I mean—"
Dean makes a little choking sound and his hands jerk on the steering wheel, making the truck skitter sideways briefly. Sam braces against the door and wonders what he was thinking, asking. He pretty much knows the answer anyway — his brother isn't very subtle, and there's been a few times he's stayed out really late, or not come back until the sun was coming up and it was time for chores. But Sam feels like he needs to know.
They're slowing down, and Dean guides the truck off the road and under the shelter of a couple of small trees before cutting the engine.
"Not sure I should be driving for this," Dean says in answer to the look Sam shoots him. "And, uh—yeah. I have."
Sam breathes out, not quite a sigh, but not entirely silent either. "Who?" He asks quietly. Dean gives a soft snort of laughter.
"I don't kiss and tell, Sammy." The words are said lightly, but the look on Dean's face is all seriousness. He shifts around until he's facing Sam, and just like that, that awful, wonderful, incredible tension is back, thrumming hotly all through Sam. "Why d'you want to know?"
"You know why," Sam says, trying to ignore the pang of jealousy he has no right to. "This morning—it. It wasn't just that one time, was it? 'Cause I want…more."
Dean's quiet for a long time, just looking at Sam like he's trying to memorize him. When he finally shakes his head, he has a look on his face Sam can't decipher; it's one he's never seen before.
"No," Dean says, reaching out to touch Sam's face gently, thumb rubbing over Sam's mouth. "Not just the one time. I want more, too."
This kiss is soft at first; Dean's mouth light and gentle against Sam's, his tongue teasing over Sam's lips before pressing in, asking Sam to open for him. The slick slide of Dean's mouth on his, of Dean's tongue tasting him, teasing at his tongue, makes Sam shivery and hot and he leans in closer, hands coming up to rest on Dean's shoulders.
Dean kisses Sam until he's breathless and aching, his dick hard inside his pants. Sam breaks the kiss long enough to drag in a couple of deep breaths before diving back in, Dean's mouth hot and wet and intoxicating.
He shudders when Dean slides one hand down over his chest, fingers catching and rubbing over his nipples — painfully hard beneath his shirt — before moving lower. When Dean cups him through his pants Sam groans and arches, pulling away from Dean to pant, "Dean, God, please—"
Dean rubs him, fingers outlining, stroking; presses hot kisses to Sam's throat and jaw, nipping here and there. Each touch, each kiss makes Sam whimper and twist, trying to get closer.
When Dean's hand closes over his dick, hot skin against hot skin, Sam whines, a needy sound that makes Dean smile against his mouth.
"Feel good?"
Sam can't manage anything as complicated as words; he nods and bites at Dean's mouth, fingers gripping Dean's shirt, desperate for something to anchor himself to.
It doesn't take long for Sam to come; he's wound so tight and tense he's kind of surprised it takes the minute or two it does. It's nothing at all like when he jerks off, either. This is like heat coiling and curling through him, and then it slams into him, whitehot pleasure low in his stomach that spreads outward until all he can do is hang on to Dean and ride it out, hips jerking helplessly as he spurts over Dean's hand.
He's still trying to catch his breath when Dean brings his hand up to his mouth and licks at it, sucking on his fingers. Sam groans when Dean gives him a smile that seems to heat up the air around them.
"Wanna—can I, I wanna touch you." Sam's not sure he can even really make a coherent sentence until it's out, and then the words are there, hanging between them. Dean takes one of Sam's hands and presses it to his crotch, to the solid heat behind his fly.
"Always, Sammy," he says, voice low and rough. Sam squeezes him gently through the material and it's Dean's turn to groan. "God, yeah, like that."
Sam's hands shake when he reaches for the buttons on Dean's pants, fumbling them through the buttonholes like Dean did with him. Then it's easy to slip his fingers into the opening of Dean's underwear, finding hard heat that's nothing like touching himself. Dean's bigger, thicker, the skin smooth and stretched. He strokes downward, cups Dean's balls, fingers teasing through the crisp hair there. When Dean moans he strokes back up, fingers learning the curve and width.
"Oh, God," Sam manages, dizzy with wanting to make Dean feel the way he did. He rubs his thumb over the tip of Dean's dick, slippery fluid slicking the way. "'M I doing this right?"
Dean grunts and rocks his hips forward. "Yeah—oh, yeah." He drags Sam closer, licks at his mouth, nuzzles at Sam's jaw. "Feels good, so good, Sammy." Another kiss to Sam's throat, brief suction that Sam wants more of. He tips his head back, inviting, and Dean mumbles, "God, wanna bite—mark you up."
Sam wants that, too; wants something to say he's Dean's, only Dean's, but the tiny bit of his brain that's not completely overheated and melted with all this incredible stuff happening shouts that would be a Very Bad Idea — how would he explain hickeys on his throat?
Instead he strokes Dean faster, shifting to get his hand further into Dean's underwear, drawing his dick out to make it easier. There's so much slick at the tip, pearls of liquid welling up with each stroke, and Sam watches, fascinated, as Dean's dick swells in his hand, growing harder.
Dean thrusts upward into Sam's strokes and growls when he comes, thick ropes of white spattering on Sam's hand and wrist. He slumps back against the seat of the truck breathing hard and fast, rough gasps for air that make Sam feel smug. He raises his hand to his mouth like Dean did, swiping his tongue over the sticky, cooling mess. It tastes nothing like his own spunk, a little more bitter, a little saltier. Dean groans low in his throat and Sam looks up to see his brother staring at him with dark, hungry eyes.
"What?"
"You're gonna kill me, man." Dean tugs Sam's hand out of his mouth and licks over the fingers Sam just cleaned off. Dean's tongue feels weird and so good, and Sam wants to crawl onto Dean's lap and do it all over again. When Dean lets go of his hand Sam squashes down the urge to do just that; instead he sets to fastening his pants and straightening his shirt, acutely conscious of Dean doing the same thing right beside him.
"We gonna be late now?" Sam can't resist the urge to tease a little, trying to find some small pocket of normal, since everything's tilted sideways now. Dean starts the truck and gets them back on the road, then cuffs Sam gently on the side of his head.
"No, we're not. We even still have time to get some dinner beforehand, if you're starving."
"Because you ever pass up a chance to eat," Sam scoffs, rubbing at his head.
"I'm not the one who's turning into a giant, Sammy."
"Yeah, you're just a little bitty thing." Sam ducks the swat this time and sticks his tongue out. "Hah. Be nice or I won't help you muck out the stalls again."
"You be nice, or I won't get you a piece of cake for dessert." Dean laughs at the face Sam makes, and pokes him in the leg. "Brat."
Sam swats at his hand. "Jerk."
But he feels warm inside, body still a-buzz from kissing and touching, and holy cow, Dean jerked him off. Sam wishes he could slide over and snuggle up to Dean, but he knows that's not a good idea, not out on the road like this. He doesn't need anyone to tell him what they're doing is dangerous — not even including the part where they're brothers.
Sam's heard the words before: homosexual. Queer. Faggot. He's never thought of himself in terms of them, and certainly never thought of Dean that way. But maybe…maybe he needs to. For himself, anyway. Dean might like girls, but for Sam there's never been anyone but Dean. Never will be anyone but Dean.
~~~~~
They have dinner at Jerry's Diner, right around the corner from the movie theater. The waitress coos over Sam when Dean tells her, "it's my little brother's fifteenth birthday today", and brings him a piece of double-chocolate cake with coconut in the frosting. Sam shares the cake with Dean and tries really hard not to think about licking the frosting off his lips.
From the smirk Dean gives him, he doesn't do a very good job of it.
They stand in line to get their tickets, and Sam feels kind of sorry for the girl in the ticket booth; she looks young, and kind of sad, and it makes him wonder what made her have to go and get a job. Why she's not safe at home, with a mom and dad (or an uncle, or whoever) taking care of her. She also looks frazzled by the time they get up to the counter, and no wonder; there are a lot of people out at the theater tonight.
"It's Friday," Dean says. "Plus, new movie. Double-feature, even."
Sam doesn't remember what Dean said the second movie's titled, but from the excitement on Dean's face it must be a horror movie.
"Let's sit up in the balcony," Sam whispers, when they're standing in line for popcorn. The popper is working overtime in the little cart, filling the lobby of the theater with the rich scent of hot corn and butter and salt. Dean nods, looking around, his attention only half on what Sam's saying.
It's always very neat to watch people in places like this, and especially here in the city, where people dress up fancier than they do back at home. There are a lot of guys dressed in their fancy suits, and ladies wearing fur coats and smart-looking hats. Some of them are very pretty, and some of them are pretty scary. Sam's not really sure why anyone would want to wear something dead like that, but he's always been creeped out over Mr. Thompson's deer heads-and-antler collection, too.
"Don't forget we need to get coca-colas." Dean's digging in his pocket for money for the popcorn, so Sam nods and walks over to the man with the cart full of small bottles to get two of them.
Sam loves the soda pop. He doesn't get to have it very often, and he loves the way the bubbles make his mouth tingle, and the sweet, kind of syrupy flavor. They might have to get another one during the intermission.
Even the balcony is filling up by the time they have their popcorn and climb the stairs. Dean grabs two seats at the top, to the right of the entryway, and all Sam can think about as he's sitting down is it's shadowy and almost dark, even with the lights still on, and he wants to kiss Dean so bad he can almost taste it. Wants to see if he can taste the chocolate cake, or the salt from the popcorn. He settles into his seat and hopes no one sits down right beside them, because if it's just the two of them in this little row, he can pretend they're all alone here at the movies. Just like on a date.
They're hardly settled, Dean jostling Sam as he sits, when the lights dim then go out.
The first thing showing are the news reels about what's happening over in Europe. Sam likes these. Okay, not the content, but it's nice to see the news stuff instead of just hearing it over the radio. He wonders, not for the first time, what it would be like to have a television, though it's not like anyone he knows has one. As far as he knows, no one in Wall, or the surrounding area, has one. No one has time, as Uncle Bobby likes to say, to waste on talking pictures you can hardly see anyway.
The news reels are informative and depressing, and really kind of sad, too. Sam doesn't understand how anyone could treat another person the way the Nazis are treating the Jews. It makes him uncomfortable to watch the troop movements, and the equipment that rolls through cities and towns as Hitler's Third Reich takes over.
"I hate shit like this," Dean whispers into his ear. Sam nods and sinks a little lower in his seat, wishing they would end and the movies would start. He sighs when Dean shifts a little, settling closely enough Sam feels Dean's body heat; feels his arm rubbing against Sam's.
The news reels are segueing into the credits and beginning for the first movie — something about vampires, but Sam's having trouble concentrating on anything as pointless as a movie title, because Dean's right there, warm and big and so close Sam feels a little dizzy again. He looks at the screen, trying to focus, and thinks about his coca-cola and the bag of popcorn sitting on the floor in between their seats when Dean shifts again and warmth covers his hand and twines between his fingers.
Dean's hand. Dean's holding his hand.
Sam's stomach flip-flops, and his breath catches like he just got sucker-punched. Dean squeezes his hand gently, and it's all over for Sam. There's a movie onscreen, and Citizen Kane hasn't even happened yet, and Sam's pretty sure he's not going to remember a thing about anything he saw tonight; not going to remember a thing, period, beyond Dean's hand warm and strong against his.
He's just caught his breath when Dean's mouth brushes his ear, soft whisper Sam barely registers at first.
"Okay, Sammy?"
It takes him a minute — and Dean moving back incrementally — to answer with a nod, and low, rough, "Yeah." He's not sure he could be any more okay, and still be breathing. Or conscious.
And he's definitely not going to remember anything about either of the movies.
~~~~~
Sam doesn't remember the drive home; instead he wakes up to Dean stroking his bangs back from his face, fingers gentle, careful, touching him almost reverently. He has his head pillowed on Dean's thigh, and really, this is the most perfect place to sleep. He doesn't want to move.
"C'mon, sleepyhead. Need to get you up to bed. It's late; gonna be time to get up and do chores pretty soon."
"Don't wanna," Sam whines, caught between sleep and awake, warm and fuzzy.
"I know. But I can't carry you upstairs, Sammy. C'mon."
It's a huge effort to sit up, and an even bigger effort to force himself to move away from Dean's warmth. It's cold outside; spring in South Dakota is seldom warm and this year it's been cooler than usual. Sam shivers and leans into Dean as they stumble up the porch steps and into the house, both trying to be quiet because Uncle Bobby gets grumpy when he's woken up.
"Sleep with me?" Sam whispers at the top of the stairs. "It's cold."
Dean nods and disappears inside his room. Sam cleans his teeth and gets his pajamas on, then slides under the covers. They're cold against his bare toes and he wishes he'd left his socks on.
He's almost asleep again when the mattress dips, squeaking a little as Dean settles beside Sam, sliding one arm over Sam's waist so they're spooned together. Sam sighs and snuggles back against Dean, laughing softly when he sets his cold feet against Dean's and Dean hisses in response.
"Getcha for that," Dean murmurs, his lips warm against Sam's neck.
"Mmm." Sam slips his fingers between Dean's, holding Dean's hand close against him. "Remind me to be scared in the morning." He turns his head a little, whispers, "This—this is real, right? I'm not gonna wake up in the morning and it's all been a dream?"
"Not a dream." Dean shifts a little closer, pressing tight against Sam. "It's real. I promise."
"Good." Sam closes his eyes, already so close to sleep. He's warm and safe, and feels so loved he thinks he might burst with it. "Love you," he whispers, barely any sound to the words. Words he's said before, and always meant, but means so much more and so differently, now.
Dean's quiet for what feels like forever, and then the words come, warm puffs of air that raise goose bumps.
"Love you, Sammy."
~~~~~
Spring gives way almost overnight to summer.
Warm (hot, actually, but given how much Sam hates being cold he tries not to complain about the heat) days spent outside tending the garden and riding the horses. Going swimming with Dean, and friends from church and school at the lake outside town. Catching up on chores around the house and barn — repairs to the roof, hanging new doors, nailing shutters back on, re-fencing the chicken coop.
There are at least a dozen things always need doing at any given time, and Sam finds himself daydreaming about Dean and this great, new thing between them, through every one of them.
If the days are long and busy, the nights…well, the nights are slow and sweet, and theirs.
Summer nights have always been for sleeping out in the barn, up in the hayloft, to catch the cooling breezes sliding through.
Now they're for exploring. Touching each other, learning bodies already familiar from years of baths and swimming, and stripping down after hours of hard labor. Now they're for kisses, slick and hot and endless, Sam learning how if he kisses Dean's throat and nuzzles under his jaw, Dean will moan for him. Dean learning that Sam likes to bite and be bitten.
Sam likes to watch Dean stretch out, body strong and lean, muscles rippling beneath smooth, freckled skin. They lay quilts down on the hay, and strip down to their smalls, and Dean's beautiful. So much bare skin, and Sam has to touch it. All of it. He runs his hands down Dean's arms, fingers combing through the fine, crisp hair in the shadows beneath then, then across Dean's chest, pausing to pull and rub at the flat nubs of his nipples.
Dean likes to have his nipples played with, pulled and pinched and sucked. Sam loves the way they harden against his tongue, tiny hard-soft points that beg for kisses and licks, with Dean writhing and gasping over each touch.
Sam explores his brother's body with his mouth, his hands, with his own long limbs, body covering Dean's as they rock together, sweat slick between them
It feels so good, so right, that Sam's not sure how he made it fifteen years without.
Dean touches Sam, looks at Sam, with so much love written plain on his face that it takes Sam's breath away. It makes him forget about the days he feels awkward and gawky, too tall too fast, always tripping over his feet, or anything lying in his path. Dean will kneel over Sam, knees settled to either side of his torso, and skim his fingertips down the long lines of Sam's body, raising goose bumps with each touch. Dean's hands, his fingers, are calloused from years of hard work, holding an axe or a pushing a plow; from holding a rifle, or a shovel. But touching Sam, they feel incredible, roughsmooth pads gliding over his skin until he's nothing but a mass of sensation and need.
Many nights they'll curl close to each other, face-to-face, scarcely room for a breath between them. Those are the nights they kiss until their lips are swollen, tender, hot to the touch. Sam loves it when Dean threads his fingers through his hair, holding Sam's head still while he licks around the inside of Sam's mouth. No other touches, just Dean's mouth, fiery against his own.
They spend hours kissing, until Sam's desperate for release; until Dean's panting and whimpering into Sam's mouth. It only takes Sam reaching between them, fingertips skimming over the smooth skin of Dean's belly and ruffling the fine hair trailing from his navel, wrapping around Dean's dick and tugging a few times before he spills between them. The heavy, rich scent covers them, blankets Sam, and he thrusts forward against Dean's belly until he comes, his slick mingling with Dean's, hot, thick and sticky.
"I want to taste you," Sam says one night. His head's on Dean's chest, listening to Dean's heart still pounding loud and fast. He's been thinking about this for days; maybe longer than that. Thinks of how Dean feels in his hand, and what it might feel like to put his mouth on Dean's dick and feel the heat and hardness of it against his tongue.
He knows men and women do it; he's heard the stories whispered in the boy's locker room, and at the lake.
"You've tasted me plenty," is all Dean says. His eyes are closed, his lips turned up in a half-smile.
"That's not what I mean." Sam turns his head, shifting his whole body, and Dean twitches beneath him. "I mean—I want to taste you." He kisses the flat planes of Dean's stomach, tongue tracing the muscle definition, licking around Dean's navel. Dean's breath hitches, catches, and he brings one warm hand down to rest on Sam's shoulder. Sam kisses downward, shifting onto his hands and knees so he can angle better. The hair around Dean's dick is darker than on his head; it's coarser, heavy curls lying close to his body and trapping the heady scent of musk and sweat and Dean. He hovers there, breathing in that scent, then looks over at Dean. "I want—can I—?"
"God, Sam." Dean's voice is hoarse, thick with need. He makes a rough noise low in his throat and pushes gently at Sam's shoulder. "Please. Yes. Please."
Dean's dick juts up from his body, dark red with the flush of blood, gleaming slickly at the tip. Sam dips his head and licks over it, tasting salt and bitter, and heat. Dean groans and shudders beneath him, hips working like he wants to thrust upward. Sam laughs low and licks again, down the hard length until he's at the base, then back up again, tongue following the large vein throbbing there on the underside.
"Sammy—Jesus God, please—" Dean's voice is layered with heat and need, thick with want. He winds his fingers through Sam's hair and tugs, pushes, like he's not sure what he should do.
Sam's never heard him sound like this, never, including all they've done so far, seen his brother react this way. Never felt him tremble beneath him, body tense and ready.
He swallows roughly and glances up at Dean; freezes for a moment at the heat he sees in Dean's eyes.
"Do it. Sammy, please, do it."
The words are hardly a whisper, but they're raw and needy, and Sam doesn't even think. Just lowers his head, fitting his mouth down over Dean's dick.
Heat throbs against his tongue, the hot velvety skin gliding, shifting, moving—no, it's him who's moving, lowering himself, drawing Dean inside him.
He gags once, when Dean pushes up, hips twitching, and Dean hisses when Sam's teeth catch on delicate skin.
"Careful," is all Dean says, but the word is partially swallowed by the moan Dean makes when Sam licks all over the tender skin in apology.
He finds a rhythm, slowly, and uses his hand on the length of Dean's shaft he can't take in.
Sam's never felt as powerful — and humble — as he feels right now, with Dean writhing beneath him, hips moving in stuttered, jerky thrusts and hands grasping at Sam's hair, at the quilt beneath them, at anything. He's never tasted anything as wonderful as the hot, slick slide of Dean's dick in his mouth, bitter salt leaking with each stroke of Sam's tongue over the head. He pulls off once to lap at the smooth skin, to tease his tongue over and against the tiny slit at the top.
Dean growls like it hurts, and manages something that sounds like, "stop teasing—" before Sam slides his mouth down over again.
He knows Dean's getting close when the fingers in his hair tighten, and Dean's balls draw up close to his body. Sam cups Dean's sac in one hand and tries to relax, tries to take Dean as far down his throat as he can. He swallows roughly, gagging when Dean thrusts upward, shooting thick and hot into his mouth.
It's not the same as licking Dean's belly or fingers clean after he comes, or tasting himself on Dean's fingers. This is more, and it's pulse after pulse, and Sam can't swallow fast enough. He tries, pulls back and swallows over and over, the thick, bittersalt taste coating his tongue and filling his throat. He knows he's making a mess; knows, and doesn't care.
Dean's gasping for breath beneath him, and Sam feels something like a hysterical giggle bubbling up inside him, because oh, God. He just has his brother's dick in his mouth. He shudders with the effort of pushing it back and leans in to lick Dean clean while he jerks himself off. It's only going to take a couple of strokes; he's so ready, needs release right now, before he explodes from it.
Dean's hand pushes his away; takes over and works Sam to orgasm. He trembles in his brother's embrace as he comes, crying out softly. Dean kisses Sam, steals the sound and licks the taste of his own orgasm out of Sam's mouth.
Later, after they've slept twined together for a while, and as night-black sky is giving way slowly to pre-dawn light, Dean wakes Sam up by kissing down his body and taking his soft cock into his mouth, licking and sucking Sam to full erection.
"I can't decide which is better," Sam says later, drowsy and sated, safe within the circle of Dean's arms.
"Hmm?"
"Sucking you off, or having—having your mouth on me." Sam thinks it's kind of funny, after all they've done, he still blushes, saying some of the words.
Dean's quiet for a minute, though Sam feels the hitch in his breathing — probably trying not to laugh — then says, "yeah. It's…that's a hard one."
Just hearing Dean say 'hard' makes Sam dick twitch, though he's pretty sure he's not going to get it up again any time real soon, teenage hormones notwithstanding.
"You suck," Sam says, instead. "Jerk."
This time, Dean doesn't even try not to laugh, and Sam feels the twitches and shifts as Dean's snorts bleed into his own skin. "Brat. And yeah, I do, as a matter of fact."
Sam pinches Dean, and Dean responds by tickling him, and it turns into a wrestling match before subsiding into soft kisses and softer touches, and then into holding each other again, both watching the sky lighten slowly.
Sam's sleepy, but trying to stay awake, because it's going to be time to get up and get busy, soon. Lot of chores to do, garden to work, all sorts of things. Plus, it would really be a whole lot of not fun if they fall back asleep like this — naked, lying together — and Uncle Bobby comes into the barn to wake them up.
His stomach growls, too, reminding him that supper was a long time ago, and while it might've been fun and exciting to swallow down a part of Dean, that didn't really qualify as food. He pushes at Dean's shoulder. "You should go get us something to eat."
Dean nips at the hand pushing at him. "You should get up and wash up, and go make us breakfast."
"You're the older brother, here. Aren't you supposed to be taking care of me?"
It's the wrong thing to say, and Sam knows it the instant the words are out of his mouth. Dean might say he doesn't care if this thing between them is wrong, but Sam knows better. He doesn't care, but he knows Dean worries about taking advantage of him, worries about not taking care of Sam the way he thinks he should.
Beside him, under him, Dean stiffens and it's only a matter of seconds before he's rolling away from Sam, taking his warmth with him.
"Might as well get up," Dean says, the words clipped and short. "Got a lot to do today."
"Dean—" Sam scrambles up, grabbing for his clothes. "I didn't—I—"
"Shut it." Dean growls the words, muffled from where he's shrugging into his t-shirt. "I'll get started on the milking. Don't forget to look for eggs."
He's gone down the ladder before Sam finishes dressing; before he's able to get his brain working well enough to say what he wants to say: I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I love you so much, I wouldn't hurt you on purpose…but I always seem to hurt you anyway.
Part Three
Headers in the Master Post.
As it turns out, Sam doesn't see Dean until Friday morning when he drags in from the neighboring farm where he's been helping out with a mare birthing its first colt. He looks as tired as Sam's ever seen him, but there's a peacefulness to his face Sam hasn't seen in a while, either.
Sam and Uncle Bobby are in the middle of getting breakfast, and Sam's heart stutters once at the smile Dean gives him. He hadn't thought he'd get to see that smile again; had been torn between elation and fear at getting to put off the anticipated confrontation when he got home and Uncle Bobby told him Dean was gone for at least a day or two. It warms him clear through when Dean's eyes linger just a moment longer than they need to as he sits down at the table.
"Well?" Uncle Bobby's already pulling out another set of silverware.
"Twins," Dean tells him, nodding his thanks when Sam hands him a cup of coffee. "Prettiest little filly you ever seen, and a colt with enough attitude for the both of 'em."
Uncle Bobby nods. "And the mare?"
"She's fine. It was touch and go for a while; the colt was breach, and we weren't sure we were gonna be able to get him turned around without breaking her pelvis."
"But you did?" Sam's busy dishing up potatoes and eggs — stupid hens weren't going to keep him from the eggs forever, hah — and pauses to spoon oatmeal into two bowls. He hates the stuff, but Dean and Uncle Bobby both love it, and it'd be too much of a stretch to 'forget' it two days in the same week. Besides, Dean looks like he hasn't eaten in at least two days, which is probably pretty likely. He and Mr. Thompson both get pretty single-minded when it comes to delivering baby anythings.
"Don't forget the sugar," Dean says, reaching for the oatmeal. There's another look Sam can't quite interpret, and his fingers linger, taking the bowls. Dean's warmer than the bowls but Sam shivers anyway, goose bumps breaking out all over his arms. "And hey, Sammy?"
Sam's just turned away to get the bowl of brown sugar, so he glances back over his shoulder. "Yeah?"
"Happy birthday." The smile that comes with the words makes it hard for Sam to breathe for a minute.
"Th-thanks." He grabs the sugar, and the pitcher of milk on the counter, and heads for the table.
Uncle Bobby's giving both of them an odd look. "You boys okay?"
Dean nods, in the process of grabbing the sugar from Sam's hands. "Yep. Just wasn't sure I was gonna get home in time to wish Sam a happy birthday."
"Mmm." Uncle Bobby eyes Sam again over his coffee cup, but turns his attention to his breakfast and the things that need done around the house and farm. "I finished up the planting yesterday. Thompson sent his two youngest boys over to help out in your place. You an' Sammy still gonna do the vegetable garden this weekend?"
"Yes, Sir," both boys say at the same time. Sam smiles down into his potatoes and eggs, feeling light-hearted for the first time in days. Dean doesn't hate him, isn't mad at him, isn't leaving him. "It's Sam's birthday," Dean continues, and Sam looks up.
"It is," Uncle Bobby says evenly, spooning up oatmeal.
"Movie night." Dean raises an eyebrow at Sam. "If you still want to go?"
"Citizen Kane opened yesterday," Sam breathes. "And I think it's playing in town."
"Gonna take that as a yes, then." Dean's smirking now. "Hopefully there'll be some kind of horror film playing with it. Uncle Bobby, you gonna go with us?"
Bobby looks from Sam to Dean, and back again. "You're not going to the dance at the school, then?"
Sam swallows. "Uh."
Dean frowns. "School dance?"
"I saw Mister Summers at the general store yesterday; he said something or other 'bout Becky bein' excited you were goin' to the dance with her?"
Sam flushes; the flush turns into a tight knot of panic when Dean looks at him, some of the happy dimming in his eyes. "No! No, I said I didn't know if I was going," he says, the words tumbling out. "She said she'd save me a dance if I did, but I talked to her before I remembered it was gonna be my birthday today. I don't—."
"You boys could go to the pictures tomorrow, after you do the garden," Bobby says, not unkindly, but Sam shakes his head.
"I never said I was taking her. Or going. I said maybe. It's my birthday, I want…I want to go to the movies." I want to go to the movies with Dean.
"Then we're goin' to the movies." That odd gleam is back in Dean's eyes and a little of Sam's panic recedes, though the adrenaline pumping through him has pretty much killed his appetite. "Uncle Bobby? You goin'?"
Bobby shakes his head. "You know how I feel 'bout these new-fangled picture shows. Too loud; it's kind of like being stuck inside the tool shed when there's a hail storm." Sam snorts and pokes at his plate while Dean snickers. Uncle Bobby rounds on them both. "Just wait 'til the two of you ain't so young and pretty. It's gonna happen one-a these days, you'll wake up and be old."
"You're not old, Uncle Bobby." Sam kind of feels obliged to say it, but he also kind of believes it. Uncle Bobby looks the same as he looked when they first came to live with him, like he just doesn't age, except for his hair, which is more silvery than it used to be.
"Kid, there are days I feel downright ancient. And them talking picture shows you boys like so much are just one of the things makin' me feel that way." Bobby slurps down the rest of his coffee and pushes back from the table. "What time you reckon you'll be leavin' for the show?"
Dean looks at Sam. "You wanna play hooky today? We could go to Rapid City, instead. Leave after we finish up chores."
It's tempting. Sam almost says yes, just to see if the light in Dean's eyes gets any brighter. But then he remembers the Shakespeare essay he has to turn in, and the fact that Dean's likely not had much sleep, if any, in the last 48 hours.
"Can't," he says finally, pushing back from the table. "Got stuff I gotta do at school. Papers due." He makes a face. "We've been reading Shakespeare's stuff, and had to write essays about three of his plays."
"Sounds like a party," Dean says, scraping his spoon around the bowl his oatmeal was in. "Guess I can wash up the dishes this mornin'. Bein' it's your birthday, and all."
"You should get some sleep." Sam busies himself with making some cheese and tomato sandwiches and finding a small tin to put the leftover fried potatoes in. He can take those with his sandwiches, too. Seems like more and more often he's searching out things to take in his lunch pail, since he's always hungry. Always. "Don't want to end up sleeping through the movies."
"I'll sleep later." Dean bops Sam on the head as he walks past him.
"Hey!" Sam scowls. "What's with you and hitting me on the head all the time?"
"Be glad it's not a birthday spanking." Dean bops him again, and for just a second, Sam thinks he feels a warm caress instead. "You're not too old or too big, is he, Uncle Bobby?"
"Never too old or big for a spankin'," Uncle Bobby returns, laughing outright at the look on Sam's face. "Could take both-a ya over my knee, if I needed to."
Sam looks at Dean and they both laugh. Dean's taller than Uncle Bobby, and thanks to the phenomenal growth spurt earlier in the spring, Sam's nearly as tall as his brother.
"I think I ought to, just to reinforce that whole 'respect your elders'," Bobby grumbles, heading toward the mudroom. "Dean, you get some sleep after you do the dishes. If you boys want to make the haul to Rapid City, you go right ahead. Just be sure you fill the truck up before you leave. It's close on to empty."
"Yes, Sir." Dean leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, and it's all Sam can do not to close his eyes, remembering the last time he and Dean were in the kitchen together. He was standing right where Dean is now, dick out, jerking off. He swallows and turns to find the bag he carries his lunch in.
Warmth immediately behind him makes him freeze in place, and he has to force himself to breathe when Dean's hands land on his shoulders. Dean's voice is low and gravelly, and almost right in his ear. "Sure you gotta go to school today?"
"I ,uh." It takes two tries before Sam has enough spit in his mouth to actually answer. "I gotta turn my essay in. But, um." He wants to lean back against Dean. Wants to feel Dean warm and solid against him, and for a minute he sways with indecision. "Mr. Dryer didn't say we had to, uh, turn 'em in in class. I could just. We could stop at the school and I could run it in." Those large, warm hands squeeze his shoulders lightly and Sam quivers. "But you need to sleep, Dean."
"I can sleep in the truck. You could drive us. Sammy." Dean's closer, now, leaning into Sam, and Sam's heart pounds in his chest, in his ears, everywhere. "Sammy, I. What the hell am I doing? What's happening? You're my brother," he adds, low and rough. "But I want—."
The tone of Dean's voice, the want and ache Sam hears there — that matches his own — makes Sam decide to take a chance. He turns slowly; Dean shifts his hands but doesn't move them, and God help him, Dean's so close. So close, and all Sam wants is him. Nothing else.
"I want it too," he whispers. "Dean. Please. I—"
"Shh. Shh, baby." Dean closes the remaining space between them, breath hot against Sam's mouth. His hands are warm against Sam's shoulders, and then cupping Sam's face, thumbs caressing Sam's cheeks. Sam slides his eyes shut just before Dean's mouth brushes his, so softly it's more a tease than a taste. Another brush, longer, and Dean sighs raggedly. "Oh, God, Sammy. God."
He presses his mouth to Sam's, lips warm and parted, tongue sliding gently against Sam's mouth, along the seam between his lips. Gently urging, asking, wanting; Sam moans and opens for him, clutches at Dean when their tongues slide against each other. It's slick and hot, and Dean's tasting him, exploring him, tongue darting everywhere until Sam's lightheaded with the sensations.
Dean pulls back — but not away — way too soon, and not soon enough. Sam's sure his lungs are going to explode, he needs to breathe so badly, but he wants this kiss to never, ever end. Dean doesn't move away though, just leans his forehead against Sam's, his breath almost too much against Sam's hypersensitive lips.
"I don't know…what I'm doing," Dean says, the words scarcely more than a whisper. "This is so wrong, Sam. We shouldn't do this."
Sam's heart pounds harder, faster, and he's sure Dean hears it. Feels it. "Doesn't feel wrong, to me. It feels perfect. I want it," he says. "I want—you."
"It's wrong," Dean says again. His voice is hoarse; rough with emotion, but he doesn't move away. Just closes his eyes. Sam reaches up to stroke his fingers over Dean's face, along his cheekbones.
"I don't care. I don't care, Dean." He's done talking, done worrying. Whatever God says in that great big book of his, he also talks about love. Sam's read the whole thing, cover to cover, more than once. God has bigger things to worry about than who he, Samuel Winchester, loves, and it's no one else's business.
"God help me, but I don't either. I should, but." Dean shifts and leans in so his mouth is brushing against Sam's again. "Wanted this…always, I think."
Sam surges forward, his blood burning through him. It's awkward; he doesn't know how to kiss and he nicks Dean's lip with his teeth until Dean holds him still and gentles the kiss, tongue lapping at Sam's mouth, slicking over teeth, tongue, the inside of Sam's cheeks.
Outside, Uncle Bobby hollers, "—get away, dog!" and Sam and Dean jump apart. Sam feels like anyone could look at him and tell what he's been doing. He's mussed and hot, achy in a way he's never felt before. Dean looks flushed, and his eyes are so dark, the pupils dilated so wide there's almost no green visible.
"We, uh." Dean clears his throat. "I need to wash up—I got birthin' blood all over, I expect. And probably some other stuff."
Sam grimaces. "Way to ruin the mood, jerk."
Dean flashes him a grin. It's a little strained around the edges, but mostly natural, mostly Dean, and something inside Sam loosens, relaxes. "I think it was ruined a minute ago, and it wasn't by me. Brat."
"You sure you're gonna be okay without sleeping?"
"I caught a couple naps at Thompson's, and like I said, I can sleep while you drive. You know the way there without me directing, don't you?"
Sam gives in to the urge to stick his tongue out. "You're the one always gets us lost, not me."
"I'm positive you have me confused with someone else." Dean laughs and dodges the washrag Sam tosses at him. "Go get whatever you need to get for school. I'm gonna do the dishes up real quick—"
"I'll do the dishes, Dean. Go on and bring some water in, and I'll start it heating so you can wash."
"You're a prince among men, Sammy."
Sam nods. "And don't you forget it."
The minute Dean bangs out of the house, yelling for Uncle Bobby and rattling the water pail, Sam leans back against the sink and closes his eyes. Oh, God. Dean kissed him.
Dean. Kissed. Him.
Dean feels the same as Sam. It's amazing, in a completely mind-bending way, because Sam was positive Dean would, at the very least, think he was a freak and sick in the head. He never, ever imagined Dean might return the feelings.
His stomach tightens with…pleasure? Anticipation? Sam isn't sure what it is, but it's not a bad feeling, just—new. New and good, and it's the best birthday present he could've received, ever. Nice as the new pants and book from Uncle Bobby are, they can't compare with this. Not even close.
Sam hums while he finishes clearing off the table, and while Dean brings the water in, pouring it into the big pot on that's always on the stove for just this purpose. He keeps humming while he washes up the dishes, setting them into the drainer on the counter so they'll dry. The sandwiches he made earlier will still work for lunch, but Sam makes a couple more, because he's not sure he or Dean have ever eaten less than two apiece. There's still some cookies left from the last time the Reverend's wife stopped by, so Sam wraps those up, along with some apples. He adds the bowl of leftover fried potatoes, figuring one of them will eat them and finds himself thinking about soda pop and popcorn at the theater.
And dinner out somewhere, maybe the diner that's across the street from the theater! Sam tries to remember if he's ever eaten out in a restaurant, beyond the time he and Uncle Bobby drove all the way to Sioux Falls, to get some special-made parts for…something. It was a while ago; couple years or more. Dean stayed back at home because someone needed to tend to the livestock, but Sam went because Uncle Bobby needed someone to help him with the driving.
Upstairs, Dean's singing off-key, making up his own song to the tune of "Oh, Susannah". Sam shakes his head and gathers up the schoolwork he needs to turn in, then takes the jar out of the cupboard where they keep the egg and milk money. There's a lot of change in the jar, and some folded bills. Sam fishes out three dollar bills, and another couple of dollars in change, squashing down the rising guilt at the almost obscene amount of money. He tells himself it's his birthday, he helps milk the cows every day, and he's the one who fights with the damn chickens for the eggs.
It still feels strange to know he's taking extra money just so they maybe can eat at a diner, or the Woolworth's lunch counter (if it's open), plus go to the movies.
He shoves the money into his pocket and tells himself it's not a date. He's going to the movies with his brother, for his birthday. It's not a date.
But it sure feels like it.
They end up not leaving until after lunch, because Dean falls asleep in the middle of changing his clothes, and Sam doesn't have the heart to wake him up.
Instead, he sits on the edge of Dean's bed for a while, and watches him sleep. The sun shining through the curtains paints Dean in rich, deep shades of gold and red, and highlights his freckles. There's a cluster of them on one earlobe and Sam has to sit on his hands to keep from reaching out to touch.
There's no shortage of things to do, whether Sam goes to school or doesn't, so he busies himself around the house doing the chores that often get shunted aside because they're not important to the daily running of the farm: sweeping the kitchen floor, and the mudroom floor. Running a duster over the furniture in the front room. Hanging another load of wash out on the clothesline, though squinting up at the sky makes him wonder if it's worth it, or if he should just hang them on the rack down in the basement, because to his not unpracticed eye, it looks like it might rain later on.
Basic busywork done, Sam puts the clean dishes away and wipes down the countertop and the table, then goes out to lay some more feed down for the chickens, and check on the feed bags for the horses.
Uncle Bobby comes in while Sam's pitching some hay into feedboxes, and frowns. "I thought you boys would be long gone by now."
"Dean fell asleep," Sam says, stopping to give the horses each a couple nubs of carrot. "Figured I'd get some chores done ahead of time. We'll go after lunch. I made sandwiches, but they'll keep for tomorrow, if you want something else?"
Uncle Bobby shakes his head. "Sandwiches are fine. Heat up some soup to go with them, though."
Sam nods. "What're you going to have for dinner? You sure you don't want to go with us?"
"I'm sure, Sam." Uncle Bobby pushes his cap up a little, blue eyes twinkling under the brim. "And for dinner, I reckon I can figure something out. I cooked for myself a good many years before you got big enough to reach the stove."
Sam snorts, but manages not to say anything. He'd learned to cook out of self defense, because while Uncle Bobby could do beans and beef — sometimes with tomato sauce and seasonings, sometimes without — and eggs and potatoes, anything else either came from a can or was eaten raw out of the garden. As soon as Sam could reach the stove without needing a stepstool, he cajoled the Reverend's wife into teaching him the basics, and from there he just experimented and supplemented until he could actually make decent, varied meals.
Except meatloaf. He's never been able to make a decent meatloaf, and can't figure out why, since he follows the recipe to a T.
He taught himself how to can two summers ago — and suffered through a whole month of Dean teasing him about how he'd make somebody a good wife someday, until the day he made Dean help him — and he still can't make the stupid meatloaf turn out. It really bothers him.
By the time Sam and Dean stop to drop off Sam's paper at school and get gas at the station in town, it's after 3:00p.m.
"We have plenty of time to get to Rapid City and have dinner," Dean says, when Sam stares out the window anxiously. "Relax, Sammy. We're not going to miss the movie."
"You're sure?"
"It doesn't take that long to get there." Dean keeps looking at Sam, turning his head just a little and staring, and there's a tension in the air Sam's never felt before. It's thick and heavy, and his stomach tightens a little, anticipation and uncertainty twisting around inside him, making him think about the kiss in the kitchen, and all the other things he wants but doesn't know how or what to ask for. "Sammy? You okay?"
The words are out before Sam can even think about what he's asking. "Have you ever—gone all the way, before? Um, I mean—"
Dean makes a little choking sound and his hands jerk on the steering wheel, making the truck skitter sideways briefly. Sam braces against the door and wonders what he was thinking, asking. He pretty much knows the answer anyway — his brother isn't very subtle, and there's been a few times he's stayed out really late, or not come back until the sun was coming up and it was time for chores. But Sam feels like he needs to know.
They're slowing down, and Dean guides the truck off the road and under the shelter of a couple of small trees before cutting the engine.
"Not sure I should be driving for this," Dean says in answer to the look Sam shoots him. "And, uh—yeah. I have."
Sam breathes out, not quite a sigh, but not entirely silent either. "Who?" He asks quietly. Dean gives a soft snort of laughter.
"I don't kiss and tell, Sammy." The words are said lightly, but the look on Dean's face is all seriousness. He shifts around until he's facing Sam, and just like that, that awful, wonderful, incredible tension is back, thrumming hotly all through Sam. "Why d'you want to know?"
"You know why," Sam says, trying to ignore the pang of jealousy he has no right to. "This morning—it. It wasn't just that one time, was it? 'Cause I want…more."
Dean's quiet for a long time, just looking at Sam like he's trying to memorize him. When he finally shakes his head, he has a look on his face Sam can't decipher; it's one he's never seen before.
"No," Dean says, reaching out to touch Sam's face gently, thumb rubbing over Sam's mouth. "Not just the one time. I want more, too."
This kiss is soft at first; Dean's mouth light and gentle against Sam's, his tongue teasing over Sam's lips before pressing in, asking Sam to open for him. The slick slide of Dean's mouth on his, of Dean's tongue tasting him, teasing at his tongue, makes Sam shivery and hot and he leans in closer, hands coming up to rest on Dean's shoulders.
Dean kisses Sam until he's breathless and aching, his dick hard inside his pants. Sam breaks the kiss long enough to drag in a couple of deep breaths before diving back in, Dean's mouth hot and wet and intoxicating.
He shudders when Dean slides one hand down over his chest, fingers catching and rubbing over his nipples — painfully hard beneath his shirt — before moving lower. When Dean cups him through his pants Sam groans and arches, pulling away from Dean to pant, "Dean, God, please—"
Dean rubs him, fingers outlining, stroking; presses hot kisses to Sam's throat and jaw, nipping here and there. Each touch, each kiss makes Sam whimper and twist, trying to get closer.
When Dean's hand closes over his dick, hot skin against hot skin, Sam whines, a needy sound that makes Dean smile against his mouth.
"Feel good?"
Sam can't manage anything as complicated as words; he nods and bites at Dean's mouth, fingers gripping Dean's shirt, desperate for something to anchor himself to.
It doesn't take long for Sam to come; he's wound so tight and tense he's kind of surprised it takes the minute or two it does. It's nothing at all like when he jerks off, either. This is like heat coiling and curling through him, and then it slams into him, whitehot pleasure low in his stomach that spreads outward until all he can do is hang on to Dean and ride it out, hips jerking helplessly as he spurts over Dean's hand.
He's still trying to catch his breath when Dean brings his hand up to his mouth and licks at it, sucking on his fingers. Sam groans when Dean gives him a smile that seems to heat up the air around them.
"Wanna—can I, I wanna touch you." Sam's not sure he can even really make a coherent sentence until it's out, and then the words are there, hanging between them. Dean takes one of Sam's hands and presses it to his crotch, to the solid heat behind his fly.
"Always, Sammy," he says, voice low and rough. Sam squeezes him gently through the material and it's Dean's turn to groan. "God, yeah, like that."
Sam's hands shake when he reaches for the buttons on Dean's pants, fumbling them through the buttonholes like Dean did with him. Then it's easy to slip his fingers into the opening of Dean's underwear, finding hard heat that's nothing like touching himself. Dean's bigger, thicker, the skin smooth and stretched. He strokes downward, cups Dean's balls, fingers teasing through the crisp hair there. When Dean moans he strokes back up, fingers learning the curve and width.
"Oh, God," Sam manages, dizzy with wanting to make Dean feel the way he did. He rubs his thumb over the tip of Dean's dick, slippery fluid slicking the way. "'M I doing this right?"
Dean grunts and rocks his hips forward. "Yeah—oh, yeah." He drags Sam closer, licks at his mouth, nuzzles at Sam's jaw. "Feels good, so good, Sammy." Another kiss to Sam's throat, brief suction that Sam wants more of. He tips his head back, inviting, and Dean mumbles, "God, wanna bite—mark you up."
Sam wants that, too; wants something to say he's Dean's, only Dean's, but the tiny bit of his brain that's not completely overheated and melted with all this incredible stuff happening shouts that would be a Very Bad Idea — how would he explain hickeys on his throat?
Instead he strokes Dean faster, shifting to get his hand further into Dean's underwear, drawing his dick out to make it easier. There's so much slick at the tip, pearls of liquid welling up with each stroke, and Sam watches, fascinated, as Dean's dick swells in his hand, growing harder.
Dean thrusts upward into Sam's strokes and growls when he comes, thick ropes of white spattering on Sam's hand and wrist. He slumps back against the seat of the truck breathing hard and fast, rough gasps for air that make Sam feel smug. He raises his hand to his mouth like Dean did, swiping his tongue over the sticky, cooling mess. It tastes nothing like his own spunk, a little more bitter, a little saltier. Dean groans low in his throat and Sam looks up to see his brother staring at him with dark, hungry eyes.
"What?"
"You're gonna kill me, man." Dean tugs Sam's hand out of his mouth and licks over the fingers Sam just cleaned off. Dean's tongue feels weird and so good, and Sam wants to crawl onto Dean's lap and do it all over again. When Dean lets go of his hand Sam squashes down the urge to do just that; instead he sets to fastening his pants and straightening his shirt, acutely conscious of Dean doing the same thing right beside him.
"We gonna be late now?" Sam can't resist the urge to tease a little, trying to find some small pocket of normal, since everything's tilted sideways now. Dean starts the truck and gets them back on the road, then cuffs Sam gently on the side of his head.
"No, we're not. We even still have time to get some dinner beforehand, if you're starving."
"Because you ever pass up a chance to eat," Sam scoffs, rubbing at his head.
"I'm not the one who's turning into a giant, Sammy."
"Yeah, you're just a little bitty thing." Sam ducks the swat this time and sticks his tongue out. "Hah. Be nice or I won't help you muck out the stalls again."
"You be nice, or I won't get you a piece of cake for dessert." Dean laughs at the face Sam makes, and pokes him in the leg. "Brat."
Sam swats at his hand. "Jerk."
But he feels warm inside, body still a-buzz from kissing and touching, and holy cow, Dean jerked him off. Sam wishes he could slide over and snuggle up to Dean, but he knows that's not a good idea, not out on the road like this. He doesn't need anyone to tell him what they're doing is dangerous — not even including the part where they're brothers.
Sam's heard the words before: homosexual. Queer. Faggot. He's never thought of himself in terms of them, and certainly never thought of Dean that way. But maybe…maybe he needs to. For himself, anyway. Dean might like girls, but for Sam there's never been anyone but Dean. Never will be anyone but Dean.
They have dinner at Jerry's Diner, right around the corner from the movie theater. The waitress coos over Sam when Dean tells her, "it's my little brother's fifteenth birthday today", and brings him a piece of double-chocolate cake with coconut in the frosting. Sam shares the cake with Dean and tries really hard not to think about licking the frosting off his lips.
From the smirk Dean gives him, he doesn't do a very good job of it.
They stand in line to get their tickets, and Sam feels kind of sorry for the girl in the ticket booth; she looks young, and kind of sad, and it makes him wonder what made her have to go and get a job. Why she's not safe at home, with a mom and dad (or an uncle, or whoever) taking care of her. She also looks frazzled by the time they get up to the counter, and no wonder; there are a lot of people out at the theater tonight.
"It's Friday," Dean says. "Plus, new movie. Double-feature, even."
Sam doesn't remember what Dean said the second movie's titled, but from the excitement on Dean's face it must be a horror movie.
"Let's sit up in the balcony," Sam whispers, when they're standing in line for popcorn. The popper is working overtime in the little cart, filling the lobby of the theater with the rich scent of hot corn and butter and salt. Dean nods, looking around, his attention only half on what Sam's saying.
It's always very neat to watch people in places like this, and especially here in the city, where people dress up fancier than they do back at home. There are a lot of guys dressed in their fancy suits, and ladies wearing fur coats and smart-looking hats. Some of them are very pretty, and some of them are pretty scary. Sam's not really sure why anyone would want to wear something dead like that, but he's always been creeped out over Mr. Thompson's deer heads-and-antler collection, too.
"Don't forget we need to get coca-colas." Dean's digging in his pocket for money for the popcorn, so Sam nods and walks over to the man with the cart full of small bottles to get two of them.
Sam loves the soda pop. He doesn't get to have it very often, and he loves the way the bubbles make his mouth tingle, and the sweet, kind of syrupy flavor. They might have to get another one during the intermission.
Even the balcony is filling up by the time they have their popcorn and climb the stairs. Dean grabs two seats at the top, to the right of the entryway, and all Sam can think about as he's sitting down is it's shadowy and almost dark, even with the lights still on, and he wants to kiss Dean so bad he can almost taste it. Wants to see if he can taste the chocolate cake, or the salt from the popcorn. He settles into his seat and hopes no one sits down right beside them, because if it's just the two of them in this little row, he can pretend they're all alone here at the movies. Just like on a date.
They're hardly settled, Dean jostling Sam as he sits, when the lights dim then go out.
The first thing showing are the news reels about what's happening over in Europe. Sam likes these. Okay, not the content, but it's nice to see the news stuff instead of just hearing it over the radio. He wonders, not for the first time, what it would be like to have a television, though it's not like anyone he knows has one. As far as he knows, no one in Wall, or the surrounding area, has one. No one has time, as Uncle Bobby likes to say, to waste on talking pictures you can hardly see anyway.
The news reels are informative and depressing, and really kind of sad, too. Sam doesn't understand how anyone could treat another person the way the Nazis are treating the Jews. It makes him uncomfortable to watch the troop movements, and the equipment that rolls through cities and towns as Hitler's Third Reich takes over.
"I hate shit like this," Dean whispers into his ear. Sam nods and sinks a little lower in his seat, wishing they would end and the movies would start. He sighs when Dean shifts a little, settling closely enough Sam feels Dean's body heat; feels his arm rubbing against Sam's.
The news reels are segueing into the credits and beginning for the first movie — something about vampires, but Sam's having trouble concentrating on anything as pointless as a movie title, because Dean's right there, warm and big and so close Sam feels a little dizzy again. He looks at the screen, trying to focus, and thinks about his coca-cola and the bag of popcorn sitting on the floor in between their seats when Dean shifts again and warmth covers his hand and twines between his fingers.
Dean's hand. Dean's holding his hand.
Sam's stomach flip-flops, and his breath catches like he just got sucker-punched. Dean squeezes his hand gently, and it's all over for Sam. There's a movie onscreen, and Citizen Kane hasn't even happened yet, and Sam's pretty sure he's not going to remember a thing about anything he saw tonight; not going to remember a thing, period, beyond Dean's hand warm and strong against his.
He's just caught his breath when Dean's mouth brushes his ear, soft whisper Sam barely registers at first.
"Okay, Sammy?"
It takes him a minute — and Dean moving back incrementally — to answer with a nod, and low, rough, "Yeah." He's not sure he could be any more okay, and still be breathing. Or conscious.
And he's definitely not going to remember anything about either of the movies.
Sam doesn't remember the drive home; instead he wakes up to Dean stroking his bangs back from his face, fingers gentle, careful, touching him almost reverently. He has his head pillowed on Dean's thigh, and really, this is the most perfect place to sleep. He doesn't want to move.
"C'mon, sleepyhead. Need to get you up to bed. It's late; gonna be time to get up and do chores pretty soon."
"Don't wanna," Sam whines, caught between sleep and awake, warm and fuzzy.
"I know. But I can't carry you upstairs, Sammy. C'mon."
It's a huge effort to sit up, and an even bigger effort to force himself to move away from Dean's warmth. It's cold outside; spring in South Dakota is seldom warm and this year it's been cooler than usual. Sam shivers and leans into Dean as they stumble up the porch steps and into the house, both trying to be quiet because Uncle Bobby gets grumpy when he's woken up.
"Sleep with me?" Sam whispers at the top of the stairs. "It's cold."
Dean nods and disappears inside his room. Sam cleans his teeth and gets his pajamas on, then slides under the covers. They're cold against his bare toes and he wishes he'd left his socks on.
He's almost asleep again when the mattress dips, squeaking a little as Dean settles beside Sam, sliding one arm over Sam's waist so they're spooned together. Sam sighs and snuggles back against Dean, laughing softly when he sets his cold feet against Dean's and Dean hisses in response.
"Getcha for that," Dean murmurs, his lips warm against Sam's neck.
"Mmm." Sam slips his fingers between Dean's, holding Dean's hand close against him. "Remind me to be scared in the morning." He turns his head a little, whispers, "This—this is real, right? I'm not gonna wake up in the morning and it's all been a dream?"
"Not a dream." Dean shifts a little closer, pressing tight against Sam. "It's real. I promise."
"Good." Sam closes his eyes, already so close to sleep. He's warm and safe, and feels so loved he thinks he might burst with it. "Love you," he whispers, barely any sound to the words. Words he's said before, and always meant, but means so much more and so differently, now.
Dean's quiet for what feels like forever, and then the words come, warm puffs of air that raise goose bumps.
"Love you, Sammy."
Spring gives way almost overnight to summer.
Warm (hot, actually, but given how much Sam hates being cold he tries not to complain about the heat) days spent outside tending the garden and riding the horses. Going swimming with Dean, and friends from church and school at the lake outside town. Catching up on chores around the house and barn — repairs to the roof, hanging new doors, nailing shutters back on, re-fencing the chicken coop.
There are at least a dozen things always need doing at any given time, and Sam finds himself daydreaming about Dean and this great, new thing between them, through every one of them.
If the days are long and busy, the nights…well, the nights are slow and sweet, and theirs.
Summer nights have always been for sleeping out in the barn, up in the hayloft, to catch the cooling breezes sliding through.
Now they're for exploring. Touching each other, learning bodies already familiar from years of baths and swimming, and stripping down after hours of hard labor. Now they're for kisses, slick and hot and endless, Sam learning how if he kisses Dean's throat and nuzzles under his jaw, Dean will moan for him. Dean learning that Sam likes to bite and be bitten.
Sam likes to watch Dean stretch out, body strong and lean, muscles rippling beneath smooth, freckled skin. They lay quilts down on the hay, and strip down to their smalls, and Dean's beautiful. So much bare skin, and Sam has to touch it. All of it. He runs his hands down Dean's arms, fingers combing through the fine, crisp hair in the shadows beneath then, then across Dean's chest, pausing to pull and rub at the flat nubs of his nipples.
Dean likes to have his nipples played with, pulled and pinched and sucked. Sam loves the way they harden against his tongue, tiny hard-soft points that beg for kisses and licks, with Dean writhing and gasping over each touch.
Sam explores his brother's body with his mouth, his hands, with his own long limbs, body covering Dean's as they rock together, sweat slick between them
It feels so good, so right, that Sam's not sure how he made it fifteen years without.
Dean touches Sam, looks at Sam, with so much love written plain on his face that it takes Sam's breath away. It makes him forget about the days he feels awkward and gawky, too tall too fast, always tripping over his feet, or anything lying in his path. Dean will kneel over Sam, knees settled to either side of his torso, and skim his fingertips down the long lines of Sam's body, raising goose bumps with each touch. Dean's hands, his fingers, are calloused from years of hard work, holding an axe or a pushing a plow; from holding a rifle, or a shovel. But touching Sam, they feel incredible, roughsmooth pads gliding over his skin until he's nothing but a mass of sensation and need.
Many nights they'll curl close to each other, face-to-face, scarcely room for a breath between them. Those are the nights they kiss until their lips are swollen, tender, hot to the touch. Sam loves it when Dean threads his fingers through his hair, holding Sam's head still while he licks around the inside of Sam's mouth. No other touches, just Dean's mouth, fiery against his own.
They spend hours kissing, until Sam's desperate for release; until Dean's panting and whimpering into Sam's mouth. It only takes Sam reaching between them, fingertips skimming over the smooth skin of Dean's belly and ruffling the fine hair trailing from his navel, wrapping around Dean's dick and tugging a few times before he spills between them. The heavy, rich scent covers them, blankets Sam, and he thrusts forward against Dean's belly until he comes, his slick mingling with Dean's, hot, thick and sticky.
"I want to taste you," Sam says one night. His head's on Dean's chest, listening to Dean's heart still pounding loud and fast. He's been thinking about this for days; maybe longer than that. Thinks of how Dean feels in his hand, and what it might feel like to put his mouth on Dean's dick and feel the heat and hardness of it against his tongue.
He knows men and women do it; he's heard the stories whispered in the boy's locker room, and at the lake.
"You've tasted me plenty," is all Dean says. His eyes are closed, his lips turned up in a half-smile.
"That's not what I mean." Sam turns his head, shifting his whole body, and Dean twitches beneath him. "I mean—I want to taste you." He kisses the flat planes of Dean's stomach, tongue tracing the muscle definition, licking around Dean's navel. Dean's breath hitches, catches, and he brings one warm hand down to rest on Sam's shoulder. Sam kisses downward, shifting onto his hands and knees so he can angle better. The hair around Dean's dick is darker than on his head; it's coarser, heavy curls lying close to his body and trapping the heady scent of musk and sweat and Dean. He hovers there, breathing in that scent, then looks over at Dean. "I want—can I—?"
"God, Sam." Dean's voice is hoarse, thick with need. He makes a rough noise low in his throat and pushes gently at Sam's shoulder. "Please. Yes. Please."
Dean's dick juts up from his body, dark red with the flush of blood, gleaming slickly at the tip. Sam dips his head and licks over it, tasting salt and bitter, and heat. Dean groans and shudders beneath him, hips working like he wants to thrust upward. Sam laughs low and licks again, down the hard length until he's at the base, then back up again, tongue following the large vein throbbing there on the underside.
"Sammy—Jesus God, please—" Dean's voice is layered with heat and need, thick with want. He winds his fingers through Sam's hair and tugs, pushes, like he's not sure what he should do.
Sam's never heard him sound like this, never, including all they've done so far, seen his brother react this way. Never felt him tremble beneath him, body tense and ready.
He swallows roughly and glances up at Dean; freezes for a moment at the heat he sees in Dean's eyes.
"Do it. Sammy, please, do it."
The words are hardly a whisper, but they're raw and needy, and Sam doesn't even think. Just lowers his head, fitting his mouth down over Dean's dick.
Heat throbs against his tongue, the hot velvety skin gliding, shifting, moving—no, it's him who's moving, lowering himself, drawing Dean inside him.
He gags once, when Dean pushes up, hips twitching, and Dean hisses when Sam's teeth catch on delicate skin.
"Careful," is all Dean says, but the word is partially swallowed by the moan Dean makes when Sam licks all over the tender skin in apology.
He finds a rhythm, slowly, and uses his hand on the length of Dean's shaft he can't take in.
Sam's never felt as powerful — and humble — as he feels right now, with Dean writhing beneath him, hips moving in stuttered, jerky thrusts and hands grasping at Sam's hair, at the quilt beneath them, at anything. He's never tasted anything as wonderful as the hot, slick slide of Dean's dick in his mouth, bitter salt leaking with each stroke of Sam's tongue over the head. He pulls off once to lap at the smooth skin, to tease his tongue over and against the tiny slit at the top.
Dean growls like it hurts, and manages something that sounds like, "stop teasing—" before Sam slides his mouth down over again.
He knows Dean's getting close when the fingers in his hair tighten, and Dean's balls draw up close to his body. Sam cups Dean's sac in one hand and tries to relax, tries to take Dean as far down his throat as he can. He swallows roughly, gagging when Dean thrusts upward, shooting thick and hot into his mouth.
It's not the same as licking Dean's belly or fingers clean after he comes, or tasting himself on Dean's fingers. This is more, and it's pulse after pulse, and Sam can't swallow fast enough. He tries, pulls back and swallows over and over, the thick, bittersalt taste coating his tongue and filling his throat. He knows he's making a mess; knows, and doesn't care.
Dean's gasping for breath beneath him, and Sam feels something like a hysterical giggle bubbling up inside him, because oh, God. He just has his brother's dick in his mouth. He shudders with the effort of pushing it back and leans in to lick Dean clean while he jerks himself off. It's only going to take a couple of strokes; he's so ready, needs release right now, before he explodes from it.
Dean's hand pushes his away; takes over and works Sam to orgasm. He trembles in his brother's embrace as he comes, crying out softly. Dean kisses Sam, steals the sound and licks the taste of his own orgasm out of Sam's mouth.
Later, after they've slept twined together for a while, and as night-black sky is giving way slowly to pre-dawn light, Dean wakes Sam up by kissing down his body and taking his soft cock into his mouth, licking and sucking Sam to full erection.
"I can't decide which is better," Sam says later, drowsy and sated, safe within the circle of Dean's arms.
"Hmm?"
"Sucking you off, or having—having your mouth on me." Sam thinks it's kind of funny, after all they've done, he still blushes, saying some of the words.
Dean's quiet for a minute, though Sam feels the hitch in his breathing — probably trying not to laugh — then says, "yeah. It's…that's a hard one."
Just hearing Dean say 'hard' makes Sam dick twitch, though he's pretty sure he's not going to get it up again any time real soon, teenage hormones notwithstanding.
"You suck," Sam says, instead. "Jerk."
This time, Dean doesn't even try not to laugh, and Sam feels the twitches and shifts as Dean's snorts bleed into his own skin. "Brat. And yeah, I do, as a matter of fact."
Sam pinches Dean, and Dean responds by tickling him, and it turns into a wrestling match before subsiding into soft kisses and softer touches, and then into holding each other again, both watching the sky lighten slowly.
Sam's sleepy, but trying to stay awake, because it's going to be time to get up and get busy, soon. Lot of chores to do, garden to work, all sorts of things. Plus, it would really be a whole lot of not fun if they fall back asleep like this — naked, lying together — and Uncle Bobby comes into the barn to wake them up.
His stomach growls, too, reminding him that supper was a long time ago, and while it might've been fun and exciting to swallow down a part of Dean, that didn't really qualify as food. He pushes at Dean's shoulder. "You should go get us something to eat."
Dean nips at the hand pushing at him. "You should get up and wash up, and go make us breakfast."
"You're the older brother, here. Aren't you supposed to be taking care of me?"
It's the wrong thing to say, and Sam knows it the instant the words are out of his mouth. Dean might say he doesn't care if this thing between them is wrong, but Sam knows better. He doesn't care, but he knows Dean worries about taking advantage of him, worries about not taking care of Sam the way he thinks he should.
Beside him, under him, Dean stiffens and it's only a matter of seconds before he's rolling away from Sam, taking his warmth with him.
"Might as well get up," Dean says, the words clipped and short. "Got a lot to do today."
"Dean—" Sam scrambles up, grabbing for his clothes. "I didn't—I—"
"Shut it." Dean growls the words, muffled from where he's shrugging into his t-shirt. "I'll get started on the milking. Don't forget to look for eggs."
He's gone down the ladder before Sam finishes dressing; before he's able to get his brain working well enough to say what he wants to say: I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I love you so much, I wouldn't hurt you on purpose…but I always seem to hurt you anyway.
Part Three
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Can't wait 2 read the rest of the story...Sooo sweet! Love it!
no subject
no subject
Peachus
no subject