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Part 3
Back to Part Two
Headers in the Master Post.
~~~~~
September 1941
Long days aren't long enough to do everything, though they make good headway on the list of projects and chores Uncle Bobby's been keeping since last summer.
Summer winds down slowly, reports of the growing war coming in more and more frequently on the radio, in cinema newsreels, and in newspapers. Everywhere Sam looks there are signs of a country edging toward greater involvement in the war effort, as the government buys up any and all surplus crops, and begins exhorting Americans to conserve and sacrifice.
Sam cans with a vengeance, pulling Dean and even Uncle Bobby into the hot kitchen — it has to be over ninety degrees inside — and sets them to work peeling and cutting and pouring. Deep inside he feels a quiver of something, not exactly panic, but a sense of foreboding. Something's going to happen, something he'll have no control over.
Fine. He'll bury himself in the things he does have control over.
It's getting cooler as the summer draws to a close, and Sam and Dean both know their nights sleeping in the barn, with almost complete privacy, are nearly at an end—at least until next summer. School starts in a few more days, after the Labor day weekend, and then Sam will be busy with schoolwork and regular chores while Dean and Bobby start bringing in the final harvest.
Saturday night is theirs, completely. Uncle Bobby's off to Spearfish for the weekend, gone to visit a buddy he was in the service with back in the Great War (though privately Sam thinks the war going on now is probably a damn sight greater, unfortunately).
Supper over and dishes done, evening chores finished, the boys sit on the front stoop and watch the sun setting, spreading golds and pinks and mauves over the rugged landscape. Sam nudges Dean's shoulder with his own.
"You wanna call it a night?"
Dean nudges back, corners of his mouth twitching. "Kinda early for sleeping, ain't it?"
Sam grins. "Did I say anything about sleeping?"
The fake seriousness of Dean's expression makes it hard for Sam not to laugh. "No…but I can't imagine what else you'd want to call it a night for, Sammy."
"Think about it a minute, I'm sure you'll figure it out." Sam leans into Dean and nuzzles at the spot beneath his ear that always makes him shiver.
"You know we're gonna have to be a lot more careful after tonight." Dean turns his head toward Sam, and the nuzzling becomes light kisses, more teases and wisps of caresses than anything tangible. Sam makes a noise in his throat, frustration and agreement rising up.
"I know. And I hate that. Hate that we can't just—that we have to watch ourselves."
Dean shrugs; Sam feels his muscles shift and move. "It is what it is. If we want it, well. We knew it wasn't gonna be easy."
"World's not ready for us," Sam says quietly.
"World ain't ever gonna be ready for brothers doin' what we're doing, Sam."
"What if we went somewhere…where no one knows we're brothers?" The low tremor of panic threads through Sam again and he squashes it down impatiently. "I mean, a city—there's gotta be, somewhere, we can—"
"Live together like a couple of queers?" Dean's voice has an odd quality to it, and Sam draws back to meet his eyes. "Sam—I. I don't know…if I could. I'm a farmer, not some city boy. And what about Uncle Bobby? We just gonna up and leave him?"
"I don't—no. I mean. No, I don't want to leave him. Or here. I don't know what—what to do. What we could do." Frustration slides hot and prickly all through him, and Sam kicks at the weathered boards making up the steps they're sitting on, his good mood of a few minutes ago gone.
"Look." Dean pushes away, settling himself in front of Sam. Backlit by the setting sun, he's shadows and blood-red, and it sends a chill creeping through Sam. "You got three years of high school left before any of this is anything more than just talk, anyway. And Sammy—you're young. Just a kid. You might meet some girl at school, or," Dean grimaces, like just thinking it is distasteful, which Sam finds kind of hypocritical, "another guy. Someone else. This, this isn't—"
"Shut. Up." Sam surges to his feet, puts himself right up in Dean's face. "Don't even say that. Don't. I don't—I don't want anyone else. Never, ever."
"You say that now, but you're fifteen, Sam. You don't know what you want for forever."
"How do you know? How can you even say that?" Sam pushes at Dean, shoves him backward. "You're not me, you don't know how I feel."
"I know, 'cos I've been there," Dean says, the words low and rough. "You got all this—all this shit, hormones and crap, and it's all new—"
"Oh, my god." Sam stares at Dean, not sure if he wants to laugh, or punch him. "You're not seriously saying what it sounds like you're saying, are you? You think this is all just—that I'm just horny?"
"I—yeah. Guess I am." Sam can't read Dean's expression; it's hard enough to see his face through the bloody shadows falling all around them, but trying to figure out what he's really saying without words—Sam can't do it.
He draws his arm back and drives his fist into Dean's face before he's even really aware he's going to do it. The impact sends fire and ice racing up his arm, sends Dean staggering back briefly before he's on Sam, tackling him down to the ground, fists flying.
They've wrestled and tussled together for years. Sometimes it was for play, sometimes not, but Sam doesn't ever remember the intensity he's feeling right now, like he has to hurt Dean; has to somehow make him feel — make him know — the way Dean's hurting him.
Dean gets in a couple good right hooks, making Sam's jaw ache from the blows. They're more evenly matched than they've ever been, Sam actually a little taller than Dean now, if still beanpole-thin. Sam nails Dean again, fist to his cheek. Blood smears across Dean's face where the skin splits with the force of the punch. He grunts and grabs at Sam, pulling and twisting until he has Sam pinned back against his chest.
"Sam—Sammy, stop, stop it—"
Sam struggles harder, needing to get away from Dean and wanting to tear into him again.
"Sam. Sam, stop, dammit." Dean's voice is low, soothing, and so close. Sam gives another pull, but it's half-hearted at best, and he knows it. "Shhh. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—I don't want you to think I don't… want this. Want you. Nothin's further from the truth."
Dean guides them slowly backwards, tugging Sam gently with him, still held tight to his chest. Sam pulls in a great, gasping breath when Dean shifts and loosens his arms. He doesn't let go, just loosens them up; keeps Sam close against him.
"Why won't you believe me?" Sam asks, trying to keep the whine out of his voice. "About what I feel—how it's not going to change?"
Dean heaves a sigh and settles them back down on the stoop. Sitting this way is nice, with Dean behind and just above him, a warm, solid weight against Sam's back. He catches himself leaning back and doesn't know whether to pull away or relax into the almost-embrace.
"It's not that I don't believe you, Sammy. Just. Everything changes, sometimes whether we mean for it to, or not." He rubs his cheek against Sam's hair and that's it. Sam relaxes back into Dean. "Remember you used to want to be president? And for a little while, you wanted to be a cowboy? And then you wanted to be a veterinarian?"
Sam nods. "Yeah. So?"
"So—what made you want one, and then the other?"
"I don't know. Different things, learning stuff, growing—"
"Growing up," Dean finishes for him, the words quiet in the night. "And when you grow up some more, and you might wish you—you might regret this. Might regret you didn't try to meet someone else."
Just the thought makes Sam ache, way down deep inside, and he shivers with the cold that brings. "I don't think so," he says slowly. He twists just enough to see Dean's face in profile, the lines and planes shadowy in the falling night. "Do—do you regret it? This—us?"
"Sometimes." Dean says the word so softly that Sam's not sure he heard him, at first. Then it's like an icy fist has clenched around him, freezing him and catching his breath in his chest so he can't breathe out or pull more air in. "I never wanted…want to hurt you. And I'm so scared I'm gonna, Sammy."
"You won't hurt me," Sam says, trying to blink away the sting in his eyes. "You can't. You're mine, Dean, and I’m yours, and there's nothing hurting there."
"You say that, but I'm—I should know better. I do know better. And if I was stronger, if I tried harder—"
Sam stops the words with a kiss, turning in Dean's arms until he's kneeling on his step, pressing in close. Even like this he's taller, leaning down to take Dean's mouth, hands cupping Dean's face, thumbs rubbing over Dean's cheekbones.
Sam loves kissing Dean. Loves the taste of his mouth, the silken slickness of the insides of his cheeks, and the way his tongue teases and slides over Sam's. The bitterness of after-dinner coffee, flavored heavily with sugar, lingers in Dean's mouth and Sam licks it out a bit at a time, until all he tastes is Dean. His knees ache from kneeling on the hard, cold stone, but he doesn't want to stop; doesn't want to upset this fragile truce. He aches at the idea of Dean regretting this thing they share and wishes he knew how to tell him that it doesn't matter what changes might or might not happen; he belongs with Dean…they belong with each other…forever.
"Let's go to bed," Dean whispers, the words disappearing into their kiss. "Forget about maybes and what-ifs, and just—have now."
"Yeah." Sam breathes the word onto Dean's lips, then trails little kisses along Dean's jaw. "Okay."
The trip inside and upstairs is full of kisses, full of touches that fire Sam's blood and leave him panting and shivering. Dean's aggressive, biting and sucking hard at every inch of skin he uncovers, and all Sam can do is hang on, head whirling from the intensity.
"Love looking at you," Dean mutters, undoing Sam's belt and pants. He licks the thin trail of hair from Sam's navel down to his dick, then noses through the curls surrounding it. "Smelling you. Tasting you." He licks at Sam's dick, tongues the big vein throbbing along the underside, and then that spot just under the head that makes Sam arch and shudder while his fingers clutch at the bedding.
"Dean—don't tease—"
"Not gonna tease for long." Another long, slow lick from the tip of Sam's dick downward, until Dean's mouthing at the base and then down further, licking and sucking at Sam's balls. His fingers slide around, rubbing at Sam's thighs, at the crease between body and leg, and at the tender place behind Sam's balls. "I know you love it, Sammy. When I tease."
"Love it better when you get on with it." That's not strictly true, but it's also not fair that Sam feels like he's about to wiggle out of his skin, and Dean looks so cool, so composed. Well, except for where he's so hard his dick is arcing up away from his body. That's how Sam knows Dean isn't unaffected by this.
He lets out a long, shuddering breath when Dean takes him into his mouth — finally — and sucks him down. He loses himself in the wet heat of Dean's mouth, in the way it feels so good, like nothing else ever has.
Dean makes the most incredible noises when he's going down on Sam, and it's the noises that get to him almost as much as the sensations. Wet, messy, loud suction, and swallows, and the little grunts and moans Dean makes low in his throat, like he can't get enough of Sam's dick; like he can't get it deep enough or fast enough, or long enough. Sam reaches down and rubs his fingers through Dean's hair, thinking of how much he likes it when he does this to Dean and Dean tugs and pulls on his. Wishes Dean's hair was longer, so he could tug and pull. He bucks upward when Dean rubs a finger over the skin behind his balls, then rubs further, pressing lightly against the little opening there. One more little push just barely breaches him, but it sets Sam's head to spinning wildly and he comes with a hoarse shout, body shaking with each pulse.
He's still trying to catch his breath when Dean kneels up over him and jerks himself hard and fast, hand blurring slightly in the dim light. Dean comes in thick, warm spurts across Sam's belly and ribs, grunting with each one. He growls low in his throat when Sam pulls him down to lick and suck at his mouth, holding him close for kiss after kiss, while sweat and spunk cool and smear between them.
Sam snuggles down in the circle of Dean's arms while he dozes, and thinks about Dean's finger, where Dean touched him. He shifts until he can touch himself there, pulling one leg up awkwardly and stroking until he finds the place where it gives to his touch. His…asshole. He rubs once, pressing in just enough to feel the muscle give way, and shivers at the jolt it sends through him. Shivers again, thinking of Dean putting his fingers there — or putting his fingers into Dean. Or—more? Sam glances over at Dean and wonders if this is how guys do it. He knows how a guy and girl do, that's pretty obvious just from living on a farm all his life. But, doing that with Dean? Dean's body heavy on his, like when they're kissing, covering and holding him down. Or when he presses Dean down into bed and ruts against him, bodies sliding together in rhythm.
"Sam?" Dean's awake, looking at him curiously, and Sam wonders if Dean saw him…fingering…himself.
Sam feels the blush even before he opens his mouth. "Can, uh—how do guys, um. I mean, if I, if we…how do you go all the way, without a girl?"
Dean blinks for a minute, then a slow smile curves his mouth up. "You askin' how do two guys fuck?"
The blush intensifies — it's not that he doesn't ever cuss or hasn't ever heard Dean cuss, but not usually that word…and definitely never after doing what they just did, and with Sam thinking what he's been thinking. Sam nods. "Yeah. Um. How?"
Considering Sam's face feels hot enough to fry an egg, it's bizarre and kind of reassuring when a faint blush appears on Dean's face. "Um. One guy sticks his dick in the other guy's ass."
"His…in the…" Sam mouths the words, thinking how tight it felt when he pushed just the tip of his finger in, and trying to picture a dick fitting there. He shakes his head, certain it couldn't possibly work. "You sure?"
Dean nods, and brings Sam's hand up to his mouth, sucking two fingers in. He swirls his tongue around them, over and over, until Sam's dizzy from it. When he lets go of Sam's fingers, it makes a slick, sucking sound that reverberates inside him.
There isn't enough air in the room, and the chill of the evening? Completely gone.
"Right here," Dean whispers, guiding Sam's hand down and back. Dean pulls his leg up, like Sam did earlier, and Sam shifts so he can reach better. "Just push—easy. Not too hard or fast." Dean swallows roughly when Sam rubs his slick fingers over the small opening, and he hisses when Sam breaches him. "Yeah, yeah—like that. Like—like you did to yourself, a little while ago."
Sam jerks in surprise and his fingers slide in another fraction of an inch, making Dean wriggle beneath him. "God."
"Okay?" Sam's torn between this is ridiculous and oh, God, so hot, and feeling Dean move because of how Sam's touching him…well. So hot is pretty much winning out. "Dean?"
"Yeah. More, Sammy. Push in further—wait. Wait a sec. Pull out."
"What's wrong?"
"We need something more than spit." Dean rolls off the bed, grimacing at the sticky mess covering both of them. "Hang on a second." He's across the room and out the door, and distantly Sam hears him rummaging around in the medicine cupboard in the bathroom.
Sam flops onto his back and strokes his dick idly, not quite hard, but definitely getting there. He thinks about the tight heat of Dean's body and his strokes take on a little more purpose, and he wonders what Dean's getting, what's going to work better than spit. Wonders if he could taste Dean there, the way he's licked and kissed and tasted him everywhere else. He thinks the idea should probably disgust him, but Sam's long gone past the idea of being disgusted at anything to do with his brother.
"Hey, Sammy—catch."
Sam looks up just in time to not get brained when Dean tosses the small tin toward him; he turns it over and pops the top off. "Vaseline?"
"It's slick; it'll work a sight better than spit, I reckon."
It works pretty well for keeping lips and hands smooth and easing chapping, so why not? Sam shrugs and scoops a bit out with his fingers, then spreads it over two, getting them slick and slippery. When he looks back at Dean, his brother is on his back, legs spread and up, an invitation if Sam's ever seen one. He bites his lip and scoots forward, settling himself against Dean.
"Ready?"
Dean nods. "Just—like I said, go slow."
Sam leans in to kiss Dean, tongue sliding into Dean's mouth as he pushes his fingers forward. The Vaseline works a lot better than spit, actually, because Dean's body opens for him, muscle stretching and welcoming him in. Sam swallows Dean's groan when he moves his fingers, working them slowly in and out, taking his time. Dean is so hot, so tight, he can hardly stand the pressure against his fingers. Trying to imagine if he puts his dick there, actually fucks Dean, makes Sam flush from head to toe. He draws back to watch Dean, sees the sweat gleaming on Dean's chest and forehead, and the slick moisture at the tip of his dick.
"Can I—can I fuck you?"
The words are out before Sam's finished thinking them, and he flushes again. Fingers are one thing, but this—
"Yes. God, Sammy, yes." Dean hooks one arm around Sam's neck and draws him back down, nuzzling Sam's throat. "Want you to. Want you to fuck me, want me to fuck you, want all of it."
Sam quivers at the words; at the thought of Dean pushing his fingers inside, feeling the heat of Sam's body tight around his, like Sam's feeling Dean's. He wiggles his fingers, pushing deeper, and Dean bucks like a horse being branded, breath hissing through his teeth.
"Holy shit, do that again!"
So Sam presses in and up, searching purposefully for that place that got such a reaction from Dean. He rubs and pushes against the smooth (hot, so hot) walls, trembling all over as Dean groans and whines and arches his back, trying to drive Sam's fingers harder against that spot. Sam adds more Vaseline and another finger, and Dean jerks beneath him, dick swelling and pulsing as he comes all over his belly.
"Oh, my God." Dean practically whimpers the words, each one coming on an exhale of breath. Sam twists his fingers, thinking of the clench of Dean's body around them as he came, and slides them out.
"Wanna—can I—?"
Dean nods, face relaxed and soft. He shifts and draws his legs further up, settling them over Sam's shoulders when he moves into place.
"Lotta that stuff, Sammy."
"Y-yeah." Sam's stomach is tight with anticipation, with need, with not a little fear. Fingers are one thing, but his dick's a lot bigger than his fingers, and he doesn't want to hurt Dean. But oh, God, it felt so good, having his fingers inside—he can only imagine what it's going to feel like to push his dick in there.
Dean stares up at him when he pushes against the small opening, and Sam wishes they'd turned on one of the lamps so he could see better. Dean's eyes are dark, pupils wide and dilated, and he looks hungry. Hungry and ready, and Sam wants him so bad it's an ache all the way through him. He thrusts forward slowly, listening to Dean's breathing shift and catch as he does.
"Okay?"
"Keep going," Dean says, the words slurred and soft. "Feels—weird. But good. I—"
Sam doesn't know what Dean might've said just then, but the words end in a gasp when Sam shifts a little too fast and sinks the rest of the way inside.
For a minute, he can't do anything. Just stays there, holding still, feeling Dean under him, around him, so so tight around his dick. And he aches with the need to move, thrust, shove himself in and out and get some friction, but he's still listening to Dean, to the wheezing gasps he's making, and the faint quiver of his muscles.
"Dean—"
"Just move, Sam. Just—fuck me. Do it." Dean settles his hands on Sam's waist, and that's all the encouragement Sam needs. He's going to explode if he doesn't move, and he'll probably explode as soon as he does move, because he's never felt anything like this, ever.
They both groan when Sam thrusts, the movement slow, uncertain, then increasing as Sam gains confidence. Dean's tight and hot, and slick inside, and Sam wants to bury himself in there and never come out. Wants to feel this, feel Dean like this, all the time.
Under him, Dean's rocking upward to meet his thrusts, body flexing and moving, grasping at Sam's. They're slick with sweat now, even in the cool room, and it stings Sam's eyes when it drips into them.
He doesn't care. Nothing matters, nothing exists, but this. But them. He leans down and kisses Dean, sloppy and awkward, but it's perfect—this is perfect.
"So good," he pants into Dean's mouth. "Never—felt—nothing like it."
"Wanna do you," Dean gasps, biting at Sam's lower lip. "Later, tomorrow, whenever. Wanna feel it—"
"God, yes. Uh—"
Dean's clenching down around him, squeezing him, and Sam thinks he's gone cross-eyed, the pleasure hits so strong. He pushes up for better leverage and shoves himself in and out, heat coiling heavily at the base of his spine and then shooting upward and out, sparking all through him like cloud-to-ground lightning during a summer thunderstorm.
Dean cries out under him when Sam comes, body tightening down like he can keep Sam in him forever. Each spasm echoes all through Sam until he's drained, nothing left but aftershocks and trembling arms, and he folds himself down against Dean shakily.
"You okay?" Dean's voice is like whiskey and honey, slow and thick and smooth, and it slides over Sam, comforting and easing.
"Mmm. Think my brain leaked out my ears, though." Sam rests his ear against Dean's chest and listens to the thump-thump-thump of his heart.
"Probably through your dick, actually." He runs a gentle hand through Sam's hair, a tangled, sweaty mess, and kisses him softly. "You're too heavy to use me for a mattress, Sammy."
Sam groans, mostly playing but kind of seriously, because—moving? Not really want he wants to do. Dean solves the problem for him by tipping him over then settling close beside him, hand smoothing and sweeping over Sam's chest.
"Did you—" Sam swallows and tries not to blush. "Was it good?"
Dean laughs, low and rough, and bumps his pelvis against Sam's hip. "Yeah. It felt good. Weird…but good." He nuzzles at Sam's jaw, and blows a raspberry there. "You popped my cherry, Sammy."
"Geez, man." Sam pushes at him, blushing again, but yeah—he kind of did, didn't he? And, well. "Mine, too."
That gets another laugh, and Sam pinches him lightly in retaliation. He doesn't think Dean's lying about it feeling good, but he doesn't think he's telling the whole truth, either, because he's pretty sure Dean didn't come. But how do you ask something like that? Sam frowns in the near-dark and tries to find the words.
"How come, uh. You didn't—you didn't come?" Well, straight-forward is always best, or so Uncle Bobby likes to say. And oh, Sam really doesn't want to think about their uncle right now. Geez.
Dean shrugs against him, and stills his hand, splaying it out over Sam's heart. "Came before, when you were fingering me. Liked that a lot." He rubs his thumb over Sam's nipple, callous catching and sending a little zing of sensation through Sam's body. "Still felt good—I'd do it again."
Sam's dick gives a half-hearted twitch at those words, and he curls over onto his side, facing Dean. He wishes he could say what he's thinking, that being inside Dean like that made him feel closer then he'd ever felt yet, like they were really two halves joined into one whole. But stuff like that will just make Dean laugh, and probably tease him, so Sam keeps his thoughts to himself, instead saying, "good. 'Cause I want to do it again."
"Not tonight, I hope." Dean sounds nervous, but when Sam looks closely his brother's eyes are twinkling with amusement—and love.
"No—" Sam stops to yawn, wincing when his jaw pops. "Sleep, now."
"Good plan." Dean slides an arm over Sam and kisses him. "Sleep tight, Sammy."
"Mmm." He's already halfway there, unable to make his mouth move any more. He hears Dean snort, and feels lips brushing warm kisses over his forehead, whispers of words hidden within.
"Love you, Sammy. So much."
~~~~~
November, 1941
Fall is gasping it's last, dying breath. The sun is rising later and later in the mornings, and the grass crunches underneath Sam's boots when he walks to school in the morning. The trees that haven't dropped their leaves yet don't have much color left any more; it's all dull, dead browns fluttering in the cool wind.
All around them the country is gearing up for war. Every day it seems the newspapers and radio stations are full of propaganda exhorting Americans to join the armed forces, to serve their country with pride and honor. Uncle Bobby says it's a lot like the days of the Great War, when every able bodied man was called to service.
Sam's too young to join, even if he wanted to — which he doesn't. And it's not that he's a pacifist, because he's not, particularly. But there's so much going on over in Europe, and in Russia, and Asia that it makes Sam feel insignificant and small. Like he wouldn't even count for anything if he did enlist, because what's one person against all that?
So far, Dean doesn't seem to want enlist either, though Sam catches him reading the "Uncle Sam Wants YOU" posters in town, with a calculating look in his eye.
Nights after Uncle Bobby goes to bed are spent down in front of the fire, trading caresses and kisses, and Sam wants to ask Dean if he's thinking about enlisting, but he's afraid to. Afraid to ask, afraid to know. The feeling that started over the summer, that something-is-going-to-happen feeling that leaves his skin crawling, is back with a vengeance, and Sam clings to Dean every chance he gets.
Armistice Day is observed in town at the church, with a pot-luck luncheon and speeches from the men who served in the Great War. This year it seems ominous, listening to those men talking about troop movements and the loss of comrades, and twice Sam looks up to catch Dean staring at him, face unreadable. It gives Sam chills, and he finds himself at the back of the church basement where everyone's gathered, trying to get as far away from Dean, from the veterans, from everything, as he possibly can.
Becky Summers and Betsy Richardson are wiping dishes down in the kitchen; Sam leans against the far wall and listens to the low murmur of their gossip, intermingled with giggles. He remembers Dean's words, what if he wanted someone else, a girl, and came to regret what they were doing. In spite of Dean's assurances that Sam can't possibly know what he wants for forever, even the thought of kissing someone — a girl someone, at that — who isn't Dean just leaves him uninterested.
He's mulling that over when a soft voice says, "…one of us, Sam?"
"Huh?" Well, he's never pretended to be articulate when startled out of his thoughts. He smiles awkwardly and tries again. "I didn't, um. I didn't hear what you said?"
Betsy giggles and looks over at Becky, and geez. When did they come out of the kitchen? Then she leans in closer, small hand reaching out to tap at the buttons on his shirt. "I asked which one of us do you think is prettier?"
Oh, Lord. Kill him now and just be done with it. Sam glances between the girls, and a little of his panic must show because Becky gives him a gentle smile. "You don't have to say if you don't want to. We're just being silly."
Sam swallows. "I just—" What would Dean say in a situation like this? For that matter, where is Dean? He's always come in to save the day before. Sam looks around and spots his brother, and is taken aback to see Dean glaring at him, eyes hot and dark. "I don't know how I'd choose," he finishes weakly. "You're both awfully pretty."
Betsy pouts, but Becky gives him a smile. "You're very sweet, Sam Winchester." She leans up on tiptoes and kisses his cheek, before whispering in his ear, "I'll save a dance for you, always."
He's stuttering and stammering, trying to figure out how he should respond to that, when Dean pops up beside him like a damn jack-in-the-box, scowl twisting his mouth. "We need to go," he says curtly. "Uncle Bobby's heading out to Spearfish, and if we don't wanna walk home, we need to leave with him."
"I—okay." Dean's gone again before he has the words out, and Sam wonders what did he do? He feels completely lost right now. "I'll, um. I'll see you tomorrow at school, Becky. Betsy." He nods a goodbye to them and heads for the door wishing life, brothers, and girls all came with instructions the way things like refrigerators did. It would make life a lot simpler, really.
~~~~~
Dean's not in the cab of the truck; he's sitting in the bed, fingers of one hand tight around the rim, staring off into the distance. Sam's steps falter for a moment and then Uncle Bobby leans out the window and calls, "get in the truck, Boy. Daylight's a-wastin'."
"When'd you decide to go up to Spearfish?" Sam pulls the door shut and settles himself on the seat as Bobby puts the truck in gear. Idly he wonders if Uncle Bobby's found someone up there to court, maybe his Army buddy has a sister, because he's never been one to go much and here lately he's gone every month for at least a day or two.
"Just decided," Bobby says, glancing aside at Sam. "Seems a fitting day for it, don't you think?"
"Yes, Sir," Sam mumbles. He looks out the window at the passing landscape and tries to imagine Uncle Bobby courting, then decides that's just too weird a thought. "You be back tonight?"
Bobby shakes his head. "I reckon not. Probably not tomorrow, either, unless it's late. You and Dean make sure you do your chores and don't burn the place down, y'hear?"
"We will. Won't. I mean—" Sam shakes his head and wonders if he's been cursed, or something. Words are usually his friends, but definitely not today.
"I know what you mean, Sam." Uncle Bobby turns into their driveway and Sam winces on Dean's behalf when they hit a particularly deep rut in the dirt. The minute they come to a stop Dean's vaulting out of the truck bed and disappearing into the house, only a wave in Bobby's direction. Bobby frowns and looks at Sam. "See if you can't cheer your brother up, hmm? I don't know what's gotten into him, but he's been scowling at everyone and everything like the world's his enemy."
"Yes, Sir," Sam says again, and reaches for the handle to let himself out. He's not sure but what it might be better just to go to Spearfish with Uncle Bobby. "Have a good trip."
"Will do." Uncle Bobby smiles. "Don't burn the house down."
Sam returns the smile. "We won't. I promise."
Sam stands on the stoop watching Uncle Bobby drive off until the only thing left is a cloud of dust, and the fading grumble of the engine as the gears shift. When he can't put off going inside any longer, Sam squares his shoulders and pushes the door open, wishing he at least knew what'd put Dean in a bad mood to start with.
He's completely unprepared to be grabbed and shoved up against the wall beside the door, and Sam's head thumps painfully against the boards. "Dean—what?"
"I know I said you should find someone else, but I didn't think you'd fucking flirt with someone with me in same damn room." Dean hisses the last word and shoves Sam again, handfuls of Sam's shirts clenched in his fists.
"I didn't—ow!—I wasn't flirting with anybody—" His head bangs against the wall again, and Sam tastes blood when he bites his tongue. Dean shakes him again, eyes flashing green fire at him just before he leans in and takes Sam's mouth in a kiss Sam feels down to his toes, hot and possessive, like Dean's determined to leave his mark on Sam.
"I saw you," Dean mutters against Sam's mouth, teeth nipping at his lower lip, tongue flicking out ease the sting. "All shy smiles and blushes, with those girls—"
It hits Sam then that Dean's jealous. He saw Sam talking with — more like ambushed by! — Becky and Betsy, and assumed he was flirting, and wow. Dean's jealous.
Sam relaxes back against the wall, warm all over in a way that has nothing to do with Dean pressed against him, nothing to do with hot, wet kisses and bites like Dean's trying to devour him. Dean's jealous because he thought Sam was flirting with someone else.
"I wasn't," Sam murmurs into Dean's mouth, then stops trying to speak with words and lets his body talk for him. He cups Dean's face with his hands and guides, gentles the kiss slowly until Dean relaxes against him. They trade slow, easy kisses until they both need to breathe, then it's quick gasps for air and back to kissing, the slick, wet sounds filling the air around them. Sam whispers, "I wasn't", and "I wouldn't", and "I love you" into the kisses; traces the words on Dean's lips with his tongue.
Dean licks "I'm sorry" and "need you" into Sam's mouth, and for just an instant Sam thinks he tastes salt in the kiss, but when Dean pulls back his face is dry, eyes dark and hungry but not wet. He stares at Sam for a long, long moment, then starts, "I don't—"
"Shh." Sam pulls him back in for another kiss, reaching up to push Dean's flannel over-shirt off. "Doesn't matter."
"I wanted…I got no right, getting mad, Sammy." His fingers are working at the buttons on Sam's shirt, lips still saying 'sorry'.
"You have every right." Sam rubs Dean through his pants, fingers tracing the growing bulge there, and leans closer to nip at Dean's ear. "Every right." His chest is tight with all the emotions swelling inside him, and Sam has to stop and just press his face to Dean's neck and breathe in the warm, clean scent of him. "Would you—I want—"
"Sammy." Dean breathes out his name and turns his head for another kiss. "You sure?"
Sam nods. He's been sure since the first time he fucked Dean, but Dean—Dean wasn't sure. Wasn't sure about taking his brother's virginity, about crossing that last line. Not that he'd said as much to Sam, but Sam isn't stupid and Dean's not as subtle as he likes to think he is. "I am. Please?"
"God, I want to—" There's indecision written plainly over Dean's face; love, lust, and need warring with concern and uncertainty.
"I want you to. So bad." Sam takes Dean's hand and slides it around behind him, so it rests on the swell of his butt. "Want you to fuck me." He kisses Dean again, nips at his mouth, along his jaw, up to his ear. "Love me. Please."
He's never sure, later, when thinking over the moment, if it's the 'fuck me' or the 'love me' that gets to Dean more, but one minute they're standing there by the front door and the next they're stumbling upstairs, barely keeping each other from tripping as they try to undress and touch and navigate the steps all at the same time.
Sam finishes stripping while Dean fumbles around in the dresser drawer for the tin of Vaseline. By the time he's naked and on the bed, Dean's standing beside him, stroking his dick to full hardness.
"C'mon," Sam says, wriggling toward the center of the bed. He holds one hand out to Dean, but Dean just stands there for a minute longer, eyes skimming Sam's body up and down until Sam shifts nervously. "Dean?"
Dean blushes then, which should look funny from a guy who's standing there, dick in hand, but Sam likes it. It makes him think Dean's as nervous about this as he is—because he is nervous, no lie there. He's had Dean's fingers inside him a bunch of times now, but Dean's dick is a lot bigger. Wider, thicker, longer, and Sam's not scared, he wants this so bad he can taste it, but yeah.
Dean mumbles something Sam can't make out, then kneels on the bed and kisses Sam. Sam's pretty sure if he couldn't have anything but Dean's kisses for the rest of his life, that'd be enough. Just hours of Dean's mouth against his, slick and sweet, tongue teasing naughty suggestions without ever saying a word, lips warm and firm, guiding and promising. He squirms under Dean and gasps when Dean's fingers find that spot, when they press slow and slick inside him. It makes a dull ache spread through him and Sam shifts, rocks down against the pressure until Dean's fingers are fully inside him, twisting and turning, stretching him open. There's more pressure when Dean adds a third finger, and Sam whimpers, just once, the sound disappearing into Dean's mouth. Then those fingers find that place inside him that makes him see stars when Dean rubs and pushes against it. He keeps rubbing, massaging it, until Sam's rocking his hips up and up, begging with little whines and grunts.
"Please, god, Dean, please—" Sam thinks he's going to die if Dean doesn't stop teasing and fuck him.
"Shh, yeah, I got you, hang on." The tin of Vaseline skitters out of Dean's hands, and it's then Sam realizes just how nervous Dean is. He stretches his arm out and snags it from the edge of the bed and scoops a generous dollop out, then reaches up for Dean, watching him intently.
Dean shakes when Sam strokes the slick stuff over his dick, but then he's moving in between Sam's legs, pushing them up and open, the blunt head of his dick hardsoft against Sam's body. Dean takes a deep breath and pushes, breaching Sam, and—oh.
Oh.
Distantly, Sam's aware he's making noise, but he doesn't care. Can't focus on anything beyond the pressure and burn as his body stretches, opening to accommodate Dean's. It hurts, but it doesn't, pain sliding into pleasure and back again until Sam's dizzy with it, with the feelings swirling around him.
He hears Dean say, "Sammy, Jesus—" and then Dean shifts, dick pushing deeper inside him until there's no where left to go. Dean's seated fully inside, and Sam's throbbing around him, body sizzling with sensation.
He clears his throat and rocks his hips up, body tightening around Dean's. It's enough to shock Dean into moving, slow thrusts that gain speed and rhythm until Dean's fucking into him fluidly, muttering, "feels so fucking good, God, Sam." Lips touch his neck, his jaw, and Dean's still mumbling, words that make the heat inside Sam flare up hotter, brighter, until he's in danger of burning right up. "Want you so bad, wanted this, love the way you're tight and hot, don't ever want to stop—"
Sam turns his head and catches Dean's mouth with his; he has to, has to stop the words or he'll incinerate on the spot.
Dean slides a hand in between them and wraps it around Sam's dick. He's gone partially soft, the shock of penetration and god, so much to sort out and feel, but it only takes a few strokes to get hard again, a few more for moisture to begin slicking the head, easing the burn of friction as Dean jerks him off in time with his thrusts.
Those thrusts get faster and uneven, stuttering and jerking as Dean loses his rhythm. Sam pushes Dean's hand away and jacks himself hard and fast, panting into Dean's mouth. The pleasure coalesces into something burning hot that streaks through him, and he groans as he comes, striping his chest and stomach with thick spurts of white.
Dean growls when Sam comes and thrusts a few more times before shoving deep inside and holding there. Sam feels Dean's dick swell and throb, feels the pulses of wet heat as Dean comes.
It's over in a rush, Sam relaxing boneless back onto the bed and Dean slumping against him. Sam turns his head to nuzzle, tasting the salt on Dean's skin from sweating. He licks at the spot just under Dean's jaw, body still buzzing with pleasure and contentment.
"Gonna eat me?" The words are slurred, thick with drowsiness, and Sam smiles.
"Maybe. Whatcha gonna do about it?"
"Mmm. Not a damn thing." Dean shifts, and Sam grabs at him; wants to keep him inside for forever.
"No—not yet?"
"Gonna happen pretty quick anyway. Can't stay in if 'm not hard." Dean gives Sam a long, serious look, and then presses a kiss to the side of Sam's face before saying, "thank you."
Sam doesn't even bother asking Dean what he means. He nods and snuggles closer, wishing he could think of something to say that wouldn't sound as inane as 'you're welcome'. Because really, the pleasure was his.
Part Four
Headers in the Master Post.
September 1941
Long days aren't long enough to do everything, though they make good headway on the list of projects and chores Uncle Bobby's been keeping since last summer.
Summer winds down slowly, reports of the growing war coming in more and more frequently on the radio, in cinema newsreels, and in newspapers. Everywhere Sam looks there are signs of a country edging toward greater involvement in the war effort, as the government buys up any and all surplus crops, and begins exhorting Americans to conserve and sacrifice.
Sam cans with a vengeance, pulling Dean and even Uncle Bobby into the hot kitchen — it has to be over ninety degrees inside — and sets them to work peeling and cutting and pouring. Deep inside he feels a quiver of something, not exactly panic, but a sense of foreboding. Something's going to happen, something he'll have no control over.
Fine. He'll bury himself in the things he does have control over.
It's getting cooler as the summer draws to a close, and Sam and Dean both know their nights sleeping in the barn, with almost complete privacy, are nearly at an end—at least until next summer. School starts in a few more days, after the Labor day weekend, and then Sam will be busy with schoolwork and regular chores while Dean and Bobby start bringing in the final harvest.
Saturday night is theirs, completely. Uncle Bobby's off to Spearfish for the weekend, gone to visit a buddy he was in the service with back in the Great War (though privately Sam thinks the war going on now is probably a damn sight greater, unfortunately).
Supper over and dishes done, evening chores finished, the boys sit on the front stoop and watch the sun setting, spreading golds and pinks and mauves over the rugged landscape. Sam nudges Dean's shoulder with his own.
"You wanna call it a night?"
Dean nudges back, corners of his mouth twitching. "Kinda early for sleeping, ain't it?"
Sam grins. "Did I say anything about sleeping?"
The fake seriousness of Dean's expression makes it hard for Sam not to laugh. "No…but I can't imagine what else you'd want to call it a night for, Sammy."
"Think about it a minute, I'm sure you'll figure it out." Sam leans into Dean and nuzzles at the spot beneath his ear that always makes him shiver.
"You know we're gonna have to be a lot more careful after tonight." Dean turns his head toward Sam, and the nuzzling becomes light kisses, more teases and wisps of caresses than anything tangible. Sam makes a noise in his throat, frustration and agreement rising up.
"I know. And I hate that. Hate that we can't just—that we have to watch ourselves."
Dean shrugs; Sam feels his muscles shift and move. "It is what it is. If we want it, well. We knew it wasn't gonna be easy."
"World's not ready for us," Sam says quietly.
"World ain't ever gonna be ready for brothers doin' what we're doing, Sam."
"What if we went somewhere…where no one knows we're brothers?" The low tremor of panic threads through Sam again and he squashes it down impatiently. "I mean, a city—there's gotta be, somewhere, we can—"
"Live together like a couple of queers?" Dean's voice has an odd quality to it, and Sam draws back to meet his eyes. "Sam—I. I don't know…if I could. I'm a farmer, not some city boy. And what about Uncle Bobby? We just gonna up and leave him?"
"I don't—no. I mean. No, I don't want to leave him. Or here. I don't know what—what to do. What we could do." Frustration slides hot and prickly all through him, and Sam kicks at the weathered boards making up the steps they're sitting on, his good mood of a few minutes ago gone.
"Look." Dean pushes away, settling himself in front of Sam. Backlit by the setting sun, he's shadows and blood-red, and it sends a chill creeping through Sam. "You got three years of high school left before any of this is anything more than just talk, anyway. And Sammy—you're young. Just a kid. You might meet some girl at school, or," Dean grimaces, like just thinking it is distasteful, which Sam finds kind of hypocritical, "another guy. Someone else. This, this isn't—"
"Shut. Up." Sam surges to his feet, puts himself right up in Dean's face. "Don't even say that. Don't. I don't—I don't want anyone else. Never, ever."
"You say that now, but you're fifteen, Sam. You don't know what you want for forever."
"How do you know? How can you even say that?" Sam pushes at Dean, shoves him backward. "You're not me, you don't know how I feel."
"I know, 'cos I've been there," Dean says, the words low and rough. "You got all this—all this shit, hormones and crap, and it's all new—"
"Oh, my god." Sam stares at Dean, not sure if he wants to laugh, or punch him. "You're not seriously saying what it sounds like you're saying, are you? You think this is all just—that I'm just horny?"
"I—yeah. Guess I am." Sam can't read Dean's expression; it's hard enough to see his face through the bloody shadows falling all around them, but trying to figure out what he's really saying without words—Sam can't do it.
He draws his arm back and drives his fist into Dean's face before he's even really aware he's going to do it. The impact sends fire and ice racing up his arm, sends Dean staggering back briefly before he's on Sam, tackling him down to the ground, fists flying.
They've wrestled and tussled together for years. Sometimes it was for play, sometimes not, but Sam doesn't ever remember the intensity he's feeling right now, like he has to hurt Dean; has to somehow make him feel — make him know — the way Dean's hurting him.
Dean gets in a couple good right hooks, making Sam's jaw ache from the blows. They're more evenly matched than they've ever been, Sam actually a little taller than Dean now, if still beanpole-thin. Sam nails Dean again, fist to his cheek. Blood smears across Dean's face where the skin splits with the force of the punch. He grunts and grabs at Sam, pulling and twisting until he has Sam pinned back against his chest.
"Sam—Sammy, stop, stop it—"
Sam struggles harder, needing to get away from Dean and wanting to tear into him again.
"Sam. Sam, stop, dammit." Dean's voice is low, soothing, and so close. Sam gives another pull, but it's half-hearted at best, and he knows it. "Shhh. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—I don't want you to think I don't… want this. Want you. Nothin's further from the truth."
Dean guides them slowly backwards, tugging Sam gently with him, still held tight to his chest. Sam pulls in a great, gasping breath when Dean shifts and loosens his arms. He doesn't let go, just loosens them up; keeps Sam close against him.
"Why won't you believe me?" Sam asks, trying to keep the whine out of his voice. "About what I feel—how it's not going to change?"
Dean heaves a sigh and settles them back down on the stoop. Sitting this way is nice, with Dean behind and just above him, a warm, solid weight against Sam's back. He catches himself leaning back and doesn't know whether to pull away or relax into the almost-embrace.
"It's not that I don't believe you, Sammy. Just. Everything changes, sometimes whether we mean for it to, or not." He rubs his cheek against Sam's hair and that's it. Sam relaxes back into Dean. "Remember you used to want to be president? And for a little while, you wanted to be a cowboy? And then you wanted to be a veterinarian?"
Sam nods. "Yeah. So?"
"So—what made you want one, and then the other?"
"I don't know. Different things, learning stuff, growing—"
"Growing up," Dean finishes for him, the words quiet in the night. "And when you grow up some more, and you might wish you—you might regret this. Might regret you didn't try to meet someone else."
Just the thought makes Sam ache, way down deep inside, and he shivers with the cold that brings. "I don't think so," he says slowly. He twists just enough to see Dean's face in profile, the lines and planes shadowy in the falling night. "Do—do you regret it? This—us?"
"Sometimes." Dean says the word so softly that Sam's not sure he heard him, at first. Then it's like an icy fist has clenched around him, freezing him and catching his breath in his chest so he can't breathe out or pull more air in. "I never wanted…want to hurt you. And I'm so scared I'm gonna, Sammy."
"You won't hurt me," Sam says, trying to blink away the sting in his eyes. "You can't. You're mine, Dean, and I’m yours, and there's nothing hurting there."
"You say that, but I'm—I should know better. I do know better. And if I was stronger, if I tried harder—"
Sam stops the words with a kiss, turning in Dean's arms until he's kneeling on his step, pressing in close. Even like this he's taller, leaning down to take Dean's mouth, hands cupping Dean's face, thumbs rubbing over Dean's cheekbones.
Sam loves kissing Dean. Loves the taste of his mouth, the silken slickness of the insides of his cheeks, and the way his tongue teases and slides over Sam's. The bitterness of after-dinner coffee, flavored heavily with sugar, lingers in Dean's mouth and Sam licks it out a bit at a time, until all he tastes is Dean. His knees ache from kneeling on the hard, cold stone, but he doesn't want to stop; doesn't want to upset this fragile truce. He aches at the idea of Dean regretting this thing they share and wishes he knew how to tell him that it doesn't matter what changes might or might not happen; he belongs with Dean…they belong with each other…forever.
"Let's go to bed," Dean whispers, the words disappearing into their kiss. "Forget about maybes and what-ifs, and just—have now."
"Yeah." Sam breathes the word onto Dean's lips, then trails little kisses along Dean's jaw. "Okay."
The trip inside and upstairs is full of kisses, full of touches that fire Sam's blood and leave him panting and shivering. Dean's aggressive, biting and sucking hard at every inch of skin he uncovers, and all Sam can do is hang on, head whirling from the intensity.
"Love looking at you," Dean mutters, undoing Sam's belt and pants. He licks the thin trail of hair from Sam's navel down to his dick, then noses through the curls surrounding it. "Smelling you. Tasting you." He licks at Sam's dick, tongues the big vein throbbing along the underside, and then that spot just under the head that makes Sam arch and shudder while his fingers clutch at the bedding.
"Dean—don't tease—"
"Not gonna tease for long." Another long, slow lick from the tip of Sam's dick downward, until Dean's mouthing at the base and then down further, licking and sucking at Sam's balls. His fingers slide around, rubbing at Sam's thighs, at the crease between body and leg, and at the tender place behind Sam's balls. "I know you love it, Sammy. When I tease."
"Love it better when you get on with it." That's not strictly true, but it's also not fair that Sam feels like he's about to wiggle out of his skin, and Dean looks so cool, so composed. Well, except for where he's so hard his dick is arcing up away from his body. That's how Sam knows Dean isn't unaffected by this.
He lets out a long, shuddering breath when Dean takes him into his mouth — finally — and sucks him down. He loses himself in the wet heat of Dean's mouth, in the way it feels so good, like nothing else ever has.
Dean makes the most incredible noises when he's going down on Sam, and it's the noises that get to him almost as much as the sensations. Wet, messy, loud suction, and swallows, and the little grunts and moans Dean makes low in his throat, like he can't get enough of Sam's dick; like he can't get it deep enough or fast enough, or long enough. Sam reaches down and rubs his fingers through Dean's hair, thinking of how much he likes it when he does this to Dean and Dean tugs and pulls on his. Wishes Dean's hair was longer, so he could tug and pull. He bucks upward when Dean rubs a finger over the skin behind his balls, then rubs further, pressing lightly against the little opening there. One more little push just barely breaches him, but it sets Sam's head to spinning wildly and he comes with a hoarse shout, body shaking with each pulse.
He's still trying to catch his breath when Dean kneels up over him and jerks himself hard and fast, hand blurring slightly in the dim light. Dean comes in thick, warm spurts across Sam's belly and ribs, grunting with each one. He growls low in his throat when Sam pulls him down to lick and suck at his mouth, holding him close for kiss after kiss, while sweat and spunk cool and smear between them.
Sam snuggles down in the circle of Dean's arms while he dozes, and thinks about Dean's finger, where Dean touched him. He shifts until he can touch himself there, pulling one leg up awkwardly and stroking until he finds the place where it gives to his touch. His…asshole. He rubs once, pressing in just enough to feel the muscle give way, and shivers at the jolt it sends through him. Shivers again, thinking of Dean putting his fingers there — or putting his fingers into Dean. Or—more? Sam glances over at Dean and wonders if this is how guys do it. He knows how a guy and girl do, that's pretty obvious just from living on a farm all his life. But, doing that with Dean? Dean's body heavy on his, like when they're kissing, covering and holding him down. Or when he presses Dean down into bed and ruts against him, bodies sliding together in rhythm.
"Sam?" Dean's awake, looking at him curiously, and Sam wonders if Dean saw him…fingering…himself.
Sam feels the blush even before he opens his mouth. "Can, uh—how do guys, um. I mean, if I, if we…how do you go all the way, without a girl?"
Dean blinks for a minute, then a slow smile curves his mouth up. "You askin' how do two guys fuck?"
The blush intensifies — it's not that he doesn't ever cuss or hasn't ever heard Dean cuss, but not usually that word…and definitely never after doing what they just did, and with Sam thinking what he's been thinking. Sam nods. "Yeah. Um. How?"
Considering Sam's face feels hot enough to fry an egg, it's bizarre and kind of reassuring when a faint blush appears on Dean's face. "Um. One guy sticks his dick in the other guy's ass."
"His…in the…" Sam mouths the words, thinking how tight it felt when he pushed just the tip of his finger in, and trying to picture a dick fitting there. He shakes his head, certain it couldn't possibly work. "You sure?"
Dean nods, and brings Sam's hand up to his mouth, sucking two fingers in. He swirls his tongue around them, over and over, until Sam's dizzy from it. When he lets go of Sam's fingers, it makes a slick, sucking sound that reverberates inside him.
There isn't enough air in the room, and the chill of the evening? Completely gone.
"Right here," Dean whispers, guiding Sam's hand down and back. Dean pulls his leg up, like Sam did earlier, and Sam shifts so he can reach better. "Just push—easy. Not too hard or fast." Dean swallows roughly when Sam rubs his slick fingers over the small opening, and he hisses when Sam breaches him. "Yeah, yeah—like that. Like—like you did to yourself, a little while ago."
Sam jerks in surprise and his fingers slide in another fraction of an inch, making Dean wriggle beneath him. "God."
"Okay?" Sam's torn between this is ridiculous and oh, God, so hot, and feeling Dean move because of how Sam's touching him…well. So hot is pretty much winning out. "Dean?"
"Yeah. More, Sammy. Push in further—wait. Wait a sec. Pull out."
"What's wrong?"
"We need something more than spit." Dean rolls off the bed, grimacing at the sticky mess covering both of them. "Hang on a second." He's across the room and out the door, and distantly Sam hears him rummaging around in the medicine cupboard in the bathroom.
Sam flops onto his back and strokes his dick idly, not quite hard, but definitely getting there. He thinks about the tight heat of Dean's body and his strokes take on a little more purpose, and he wonders what Dean's getting, what's going to work better than spit. Wonders if he could taste Dean there, the way he's licked and kissed and tasted him everywhere else. He thinks the idea should probably disgust him, but Sam's long gone past the idea of being disgusted at anything to do with his brother.
"Hey, Sammy—catch."
Sam looks up just in time to not get brained when Dean tosses the small tin toward him; he turns it over and pops the top off. "Vaseline?"
"It's slick; it'll work a sight better than spit, I reckon."
It works pretty well for keeping lips and hands smooth and easing chapping, so why not? Sam shrugs and scoops a bit out with his fingers, then spreads it over two, getting them slick and slippery. When he looks back at Dean, his brother is on his back, legs spread and up, an invitation if Sam's ever seen one. He bites his lip and scoots forward, settling himself against Dean.
"Ready?"
Dean nods. "Just—like I said, go slow."
Sam leans in to kiss Dean, tongue sliding into Dean's mouth as he pushes his fingers forward. The Vaseline works a lot better than spit, actually, because Dean's body opens for him, muscle stretching and welcoming him in. Sam swallows Dean's groan when he moves his fingers, working them slowly in and out, taking his time. Dean is so hot, so tight, he can hardly stand the pressure against his fingers. Trying to imagine if he puts his dick there, actually fucks Dean, makes Sam flush from head to toe. He draws back to watch Dean, sees the sweat gleaming on Dean's chest and forehead, and the slick moisture at the tip of his dick.
"Can I—can I fuck you?"
The words are out before Sam's finished thinking them, and he flushes again. Fingers are one thing, but this—
"Yes. God, Sammy, yes." Dean hooks one arm around Sam's neck and draws him back down, nuzzling Sam's throat. "Want you to. Want you to fuck me, want me to fuck you, want all of it."
Sam quivers at the words; at the thought of Dean pushing his fingers inside, feeling the heat of Sam's body tight around his, like Sam's feeling Dean's. He wiggles his fingers, pushing deeper, and Dean bucks like a horse being branded, breath hissing through his teeth.
"Holy shit, do that again!"
So Sam presses in and up, searching purposefully for that place that got such a reaction from Dean. He rubs and pushes against the smooth (hot, so hot) walls, trembling all over as Dean groans and whines and arches his back, trying to drive Sam's fingers harder against that spot. Sam adds more Vaseline and another finger, and Dean jerks beneath him, dick swelling and pulsing as he comes all over his belly.
"Oh, my God." Dean practically whimpers the words, each one coming on an exhale of breath. Sam twists his fingers, thinking of the clench of Dean's body around them as he came, and slides them out.
"Wanna—can I—?"
Dean nods, face relaxed and soft. He shifts and draws his legs further up, settling them over Sam's shoulders when he moves into place.
"Lotta that stuff, Sammy."
"Y-yeah." Sam's stomach is tight with anticipation, with need, with not a little fear. Fingers are one thing, but his dick's a lot bigger than his fingers, and he doesn't want to hurt Dean. But oh, God, it felt so good, having his fingers inside—he can only imagine what it's going to feel like to push his dick in there.
Dean stares up at him when he pushes against the small opening, and Sam wishes they'd turned on one of the lamps so he could see better. Dean's eyes are dark, pupils wide and dilated, and he looks hungry. Hungry and ready, and Sam wants him so bad it's an ache all the way through him. He thrusts forward slowly, listening to Dean's breathing shift and catch as he does.
"Okay?"
"Keep going," Dean says, the words slurred and soft. "Feels—weird. But good. I—"
Sam doesn't know what Dean might've said just then, but the words end in a gasp when Sam shifts a little too fast and sinks the rest of the way inside.
For a minute, he can't do anything. Just stays there, holding still, feeling Dean under him, around him, so so tight around his dick. And he aches with the need to move, thrust, shove himself in and out and get some friction, but he's still listening to Dean, to the wheezing gasps he's making, and the faint quiver of his muscles.
"Dean—"
"Just move, Sam. Just—fuck me. Do it." Dean settles his hands on Sam's waist, and that's all the encouragement Sam needs. He's going to explode if he doesn't move, and he'll probably explode as soon as he does move, because he's never felt anything like this, ever.
They both groan when Sam thrusts, the movement slow, uncertain, then increasing as Sam gains confidence. Dean's tight and hot, and slick inside, and Sam wants to bury himself in there and never come out. Wants to feel this, feel Dean like this, all the time.
Under him, Dean's rocking upward to meet his thrusts, body flexing and moving, grasping at Sam's. They're slick with sweat now, even in the cool room, and it stings Sam's eyes when it drips into them.
He doesn't care. Nothing matters, nothing exists, but this. But them. He leans down and kisses Dean, sloppy and awkward, but it's perfect—this is perfect.
"So good," he pants into Dean's mouth. "Never—felt—nothing like it."
"Wanna do you," Dean gasps, biting at Sam's lower lip. "Later, tomorrow, whenever. Wanna feel it—"
"God, yes. Uh—"
Dean's clenching down around him, squeezing him, and Sam thinks he's gone cross-eyed, the pleasure hits so strong. He pushes up for better leverage and shoves himself in and out, heat coiling heavily at the base of his spine and then shooting upward and out, sparking all through him like cloud-to-ground lightning during a summer thunderstorm.
Dean cries out under him when Sam comes, body tightening down like he can keep Sam in him forever. Each spasm echoes all through Sam until he's drained, nothing left but aftershocks and trembling arms, and he folds himself down against Dean shakily.
"You okay?" Dean's voice is like whiskey and honey, slow and thick and smooth, and it slides over Sam, comforting and easing.
"Mmm. Think my brain leaked out my ears, though." Sam rests his ear against Dean's chest and listens to the thump-thump-thump of his heart.
"Probably through your dick, actually." He runs a gentle hand through Sam's hair, a tangled, sweaty mess, and kisses him softly. "You're too heavy to use me for a mattress, Sammy."
Sam groans, mostly playing but kind of seriously, because—moving? Not really want he wants to do. Dean solves the problem for him by tipping him over then settling close beside him, hand smoothing and sweeping over Sam's chest.
"Did you—" Sam swallows and tries not to blush. "Was it good?"
Dean laughs, low and rough, and bumps his pelvis against Sam's hip. "Yeah. It felt good. Weird…but good." He nuzzles at Sam's jaw, and blows a raspberry there. "You popped my cherry, Sammy."
"Geez, man." Sam pushes at him, blushing again, but yeah—he kind of did, didn't he? And, well. "Mine, too."
That gets another laugh, and Sam pinches him lightly in retaliation. He doesn't think Dean's lying about it feeling good, but he doesn't think he's telling the whole truth, either, because he's pretty sure Dean didn't come. But how do you ask something like that? Sam frowns in the near-dark and tries to find the words.
"How come, uh. You didn't—you didn't come?" Well, straight-forward is always best, or so Uncle Bobby likes to say. And oh, Sam really doesn't want to think about their uncle right now. Geez.
Dean shrugs against him, and stills his hand, splaying it out over Sam's heart. "Came before, when you were fingering me. Liked that a lot." He rubs his thumb over Sam's nipple, callous catching and sending a little zing of sensation through Sam's body. "Still felt good—I'd do it again."
Sam's dick gives a half-hearted twitch at those words, and he curls over onto his side, facing Dean. He wishes he could say what he's thinking, that being inside Dean like that made him feel closer then he'd ever felt yet, like they were really two halves joined into one whole. But stuff like that will just make Dean laugh, and probably tease him, so Sam keeps his thoughts to himself, instead saying, "good. 'Cause I want to do it again."
"Not tonight, I hope." Dean sounds nervous, but when Sam looks closely his brother's eyes are twinkling with amusement—and love.
"No—" Sam stops to yawn, wincing when his jaw pops. "Sleep, now."
"Good plan." Dean slides an arm over Sam and kisses him. "Sleep tight, Sammy."
"Mmm." He's already halfway there, unable to make his mouth move any more. He hears Dean snort, and feels lips brushing warm kisses over his forehead, whispers of words hidden within.
"Love you, Sammy. So much."
November, 1941
Fall is gasping it's last, dying breath. The sun is rising later and later in the mornings, and the grass crunches underneath Sam's boots when he walks to school in the morning. The trees that haven't dropped their leaves yet don't have much color left any more; it's all dull, dead browns fluttering in the cool wind.
All around them the country is gearing up for war. Every day it seems the newspapers and radio stations are full of propaganda exhorting Americans to join the armed forces, to serve their country with pride and honor. Uncle Bobby says it's a lot like the days of the Great War, when every able bodied man was called to service.
Sam's too young to join, even if he wanted to — which he doesn't. And it's not that he's a pacifist, because he's not, particularly. But there's so much going on over in Europe, and in Russia, and Asia that it makes Sam feel insignificant and small. Like he wouldn't even count for anything if he did enlist, because what's one person against all that?
So far, Dean doesn't seem to want enlist either, though Sam catches him reading the "Uncle Sam Wants YOU" posters in town, with a calculating look in his eye.
Nights after Uncle Bobby goes to bed are spent down in front of the fire, trading caresses and kisses, and Sam wants to ask Dean if he's thinking about enlisting, but he's afraid to. Afraid to ask, afraid to know. The feeling that started over the summer, that something-is-going-to-happen feeling that leaves his skin crawling, is back with a vengeance, and Sam clings to Dean every chance he gets.
Armistice Day is observed in town at the church, with a pot-luck luncheon and speeches from the men who served in the Great War. This year it seems ominous, listening to those men talking about troop movements and the loss of comrades, and twice Sam looks up to catch Dean staring at him, face unreadable. It gives Sam chills, and he finds himself at the back of the church basement where everyone's gathered, trying to get as far away from Dean, from the veterans, from everything, as he possibly can.
Becky Summers and Betsy Richardson are wiping dishes down in the kitchen; Sam leans against the far wall and listens to the low murmur of their gossip, intermingled with giggles. He remembers Dean's words, what if he wanted someone else, a girl, and came to regret what they were doing. In spite of Dean's assurances that Sam can't possibly know what he wants for forever, even the thought of kissing someone — a girl someone, at that — who isn't Dean just leaves him uninterested.
He's mulling that over when a soft voice says, "…one of us, Sam?"
"Huh?" Well, he's never pretended to be articulate when startled out of his thoughts. He smiles awkwardly and tries again. "I didn't, um. I didn't hear what you said?"
Betsy giggles and looks over at Becky, and geez. When did they come out of the kitchen? Then she leans in closer, small hand reaching out to tap at the buttons on his shirt. "I asked which one of us do you think is prettier?"
Oh, Lord. Kill him now and just be done with it. Sam glances between the girls, and a little of his panic must show because Becky gives him a gentle smile. "You don't have to say if you don't want to. We're just being silly."
Sam swallows. "I just—" What would Dean say in a situation like this? For that matter, where is Dean? He's always come in to save the day before. Sam looks around and spots his brother, and is taken aback to see Dean glaring at him, eyes hot and dark. "I don't know how I'd choose," he finishes weakly. "You're both awfully pretty."
Betsy pouts, but Becky gives him a smile. "You're very sweet, Sam Winchester." She leans up on tiptoes and kisses his cheek, before whispering in his ear, "I'll save a dance for you, always."
He's stuttering and stammering, trying to figure out how he should respond to that, when Dean pops up beside him like a damn jack-in-the-box, scowl twisting his mouth. "We need to go," he says curtly. "Uncle Bobby's heading out to Spearfish, and if we don't wanna walk home, we need to leave with him."
"I—okay." Dean's gone again before he has the words out, and Sam wonders what did he do? He feels completely lost right now. "I'll, um. I'll see you tomorrow at school, Becky. Betsy." He nods a goodbye to them and heads for the door wishing life, brothers, and girls all came with instructions the way things like refrigerators did. It would make life a lot simpler, really.
Dean's not in the cab of the truck; he's sitting in the bed, fingers of one hand tight around the rim, staring off into the distance. Sam's steps falter for a moment and then Uncle Bobby leans out the window and calls, "get in the truck, Boy. Daylight's a-wastin'."
"When'd you decide to go up to Spearfish?" Sam pulls the door shut and settles himself on the seat as Bobby puts the truck in gear. Idly he wonders if Uncle Bobby's found someone up there to court, maybe his Army buddy has a sister, because he's never been one to go much and here lately he's gone every month for at least a day or two.
"Just decided," Bobby says, glancing aside at Sam. "Seems a fitting day for it, don't you think?"
"Yes, Sir," Sam mumbles. He looks out the window at the passing landscape and tries to imagine Uncle Bobby courting, then decides that's just too weird a thought. "You be back tonight?"
Bobby shakes his head. "I reckon not. Probably not tomorrow, either, unless it's late. You and Dean make sure you do your chores and don't burn the place down, y'hear?"
"We will. Won't. I mean—" Sam shakes his head and wonders if he's been cursed, or something. Words are usually his friends, but definitely not today.
"I know what you mean, Sam." Uncle Bobby turns into their driveway and Sam winces on Dean's behalf when they hit a particularly deep rut in the dirt. The minute they come to a stop Dean's vaulting out of the truck bed and disappearing into the house, only a wave in Bobby's direction. Bobby frowns and looks at Sam. "See if you can't cheer your brother up, hmm? I don't know what's gotten into him, but he's been scowling at everyone and everything like the world's his enemy."
"Yes, Sir," Sam says again, and reaches for the handle to let himself out. He's not sure but what it might be better just to go to Spearfish with Uncle Bobby. "Have a good trip."
"Will do." Uncle Bobby smiles. "Don't burn the house down."
Sam returns the smile. "We won't. I promise."
Sam stands on the stoop watching Uncle Bobby drive off until the only thing left is a cloud of dust, and the fading grumble of the engine as the gears shift. When he can't put off going inside any longer, Sam squares his shoulders and pushes the door open, wishing he at least knew what'd put Dean in a bad mood to start with.
He's completely unprepared to be grabbed and shoved up against the wall beside the door, and Sam's head thumps painfully against the boards. "Dean—what?"
"I know I said you should find someone else, but I didn't think you'd fucking flirt with someone with me in same damn room." Dean hisses the last word and shoves Sam again, handfuls of Sam's shirts clenched in his fists.
"I didn't—ow!—I wasn't flirting with anybody—" His head bangs against the wall again, and Sam tastes blood when he bites his tongue. Dean shakes him again, eyes flashing green fire at him just before he leans in and takes Sam's mouth in a kiss Sam feels down to his toes, hot and possessive, like Dean's determined to leave his mark on Sam.
"I saw you," Dean mutters against Sam's mouth, teeth nipping at his lower lip, tongue flicking out ease the sting. "All shy smiles and blushes, with those girls—"
It hits Sam then that Dean's jealous. He saw Sam talking with — more like ambushed by! — Becky and Betsy, and assumed he was flirting, and wow. Dean's jealous.
Sam relaxes back against the wall, warm all over in a way that has nothing to do with Dean pressed against him, nothing to do with hot, wet kisses and bites like Dean's trying to devour him. Dean's jealous because he thought Sam was flirting with someone else.
"I wasn't," Sam murmurs into Dean's mouth, then stops trying to speak with words and lets his body talk for him. He cups Dean's face with his hands and guides, gentles the kiss slowly until Dean relaxes against him. They trade slow, easy kisses until they both need to breathe, then it's quick gasps for air and back to kissing, the slick, wet sounds filling the air around them. Sam whispers, "I wasn't", and "I wouldn't", and "I love you" into the kisses; traces the words on Dean's lips with his tongue.
Dean licks "I'm sorry" and "need you" into Sam's mouth, and for just an instant Sam thinks he tastes salt in the kiss, but when Dean pulls back his face is dry, eyes dark and hungry but not wet. He stares at Sam for a long, long moment, then starts, "I don't—"
"Shh." Sam pulls him back in for another kiss, reaching up to push Dean's flannel over-shirt off. "Doesn't matter."
"I wanted…I got no right, getting mad, Sammy." His fingers are working at the buttons on Sam's shirt, lips still saying 'sorry'.
"You have every right." Sam rubs Dean through his pants, fingers tracing the growing bulge there, and leans closer to nip at Dean's ear. "Every right." His chest is tight with all the emotions swelling inside him, and Sam has to stop and just press his face to Dean's neck and breathe in the warm, clean scent of him. "Would you—I want—"
"Sammy." Dean breathes out his name and turns his head for another kiss. "You sure?"
Sam nods. He's been sure since the first time he fucked Dean, but Dean—Dean wasn't sure. Wasn't sure about taking his brother's virginity, about crossing that last line. Not that he'd said as much to Sam, but Sam isn't stupid and Dean's not as subtle as he likes to think he is. "I am. Please?"
"God, I want to—" There's indecision written plainly over Dean's face; love, lust, and need warring with concern and uncertainty.
"I want you to. So bad." Sam takes Dean's hand and slides it around behind him, so it rests on the swell of his butt. "Want you to fuck me." He kisses Dean again, nips at his mouth, along his jaw, up to his ear. "Love me. Please."
He's never sure, later, when thinking over the moment, if it's the 'fuck me' or the 'love me' that gets to Dean more, but one minute they're standing there by the front door and the next they're stumbling upstairs, barely keeping each other from tripping as they try to undress and touch and navigate the steps all at the same time.
Sam finishes stripping while Dean fumbles around in the dresser drawer for the tin of Vaseline. By the time he's naked and on the bed, Dean's standing beside him, stroking his dick to full hardness.
"C'mon," Sam says, wriggling toward the center of the bed. He holds one hand out to Dean, but Dean just stands there for a minute longer, eyes skimming Sam's body up and down until Sam shifts nervously. "Dean?"
Dean blushes then, which should look funny from a guy who's standing there, dick in hand, but Sam likes it. It makes him think Dean's as nervous about this as he is—because he is nervous, no lie there. He's had Dean's fingers inside him a bunch of times now, but Dean's dick is a lot bigger. Wider, thicker, longer, and Sam's not scared, he wants this so bad he can taste it, but yeah.
Dean mumbles something Sam can't make out, then kneels on the bed and kisses Sam. Sam's pretty sure if he couldn't have anything but Dean's kisses for the rest of his life, that'd be enough. Just hours of Dean's mouth against his, slick and sweet, tongue teasing naughty suggestions without ever saying a word, lips warm and firm, guiding and promising. He squirms under Dean and gasps when Dean's fingers find that spot, when they press slow and slick inside him. It makes a dull ache spread through him and Sam shifts, rocks down against the pressure until Dean's fingers are fully inside him, twisting and turning, stretching him open. There's more pressure when Dean adds a third finger, and Sam whimpers, just once, the sound disappearing into Dean's mouth. Then those fingers find that place inside him that makes him see stars when Dean rubs and pushes against it. He keeps rubbing, massaging it, until Sam's rocking his hips up and up, begging with little whines and grunts.
"Please, god, Dean, please—" Sam thinks he's going to die if Dean doesn't stop teasing and fuck him.
"Shh, yeah, I got you, hang on." The tin of Vaseline skitters out of Dean's hands, and it's then Sam realizes just how nervous Dean is. He stretches his arm out and snags it from the edge of the bed and scoops a generous dollop out, then reaches up for Dean, watching him intently.
Dean shakes when Sam strokes the slick stuff over his dick, but then he's moving in between Sam's legs, pushing them up and open, the blunt head of his dick hardsoft against Sam's body. Dean takes a deep breath and pushes, breaching Sam, and—oh.
Oh.
Distantly, Sam's aware he's making noise, but he doesn't care. Can't focus on anything beyond the pressure and burn as his body stretches, opening to accommodate Dean's. It hurts, but it doesn't, pain sliding into pleasure and back again until Sam's dizzy with it, with the feelings swirling around him.
He hears Dean say, "Sammy, Jesus—" and then Dean shifts, dick pushing deeper inside him until there's no where left to go. Dean's seated fully inside, and Sam's throbbing around him, body sizzling with sensation.
He clears his throat and rocks his hips up, body tightening around Dean's. It's enough to shock Dean into moving, slow thrusts that gain speed and rhythm until Dean's fucking into him fluidly, muttering, "feels so fucking good, God, Sam." Lips touch his neck, his jaw, and Dean's still mumbling, words that make the heat inside Sam flare up hotter, brighter, until he's in danger of burning right up. "Want you so bad, wanted this, love the way you're tight and hot, don't ever want to stop—"
Sam turns his head and catches Dean's mouth with his; he has to, has to stop the words or he'll incinerate on the spot.
Dean slides a hand in between them and wraps it around Sam's dick. He's gone partially soft, the shock of penetration and god, so much to sort out and feel, but it only takes a few strokes to get hard again, a few more for moisture to begin slicking the head, easing the burn of friction as Dean jerks him off in time with his thrusts.
Those thrusts get faster and uneven, stuttering and jerking as Dean loses his rhythm. Sam pushes Dean's hand away and jacks himself hard and fast, panting into Dean's mouth. The pleasure coalesces into something burning hot that streaks through him, and he groans as he comes, striping his chest and stomach with thick spurts of white.
Dean growls when Sam comes and thrusts a few more times before shoving deep inside and holding there. Sam feels Dean's dick swell and throb, feels the pulses of wet heat as Dean comes.
It's over in a rush, Sam relaxing boneless back onto the bed and Dean slumping against him. Sam turns his head to nuzzle, tasting the salt on Dean's skin from sweating. He licks at the spot just under Dean's jaw, body still buzzing with pleasure and contentment.
"Gonna eat me?" The words are slurred, thick with drowsiness, and Sam smiles.
"Maybe. Whatcha gonna do about it?"
"Mmm. Not a damn thing." Dean shifts, and Sam grabs at him; wants to keep him inside for forever.
"No—not yet?"
"Gonna happen pretty quick anyway. Can't stay in if 'm not hard." Dean gives Sam a long, serious look, and then presses a kiss to the side of Sam's face before saying, "thank you."
Sam doesn't even bother asking Dean what he means. He nods and snuggles closer, wishing he could think of something to say that wouldn't sound as inane as 'you're welcome'. Because really, the pleasure was his.
Part Four
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