Summary: Post-EP406 (Yellow Fever), something finally breaks through the shell of numbness that’s been surrounding Sam. Dean sees his chance and grabs it.
Warnings: wincest, graphic m/m sex, mild spoilers for S4 esp. EP406.
Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one. Please to not be suing.
Author Notes: Thanks Shaleen for the quick beta. For Katarina and Vincent – I know your fics are still due darlings, consider this one an appetizer? ;) Some references - Janet Leigh played Marion, the girl in the famous shower scene from Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho. I guess Norman Bates needs no introduction :)
Word Count: 2130
Sam is toweling his hair dry in the bathroom mirror when it happens.
It comes back to him in a sharp vivid flashback of the day before when they’d visited the lumber mill. He can practically hear the wood shavings crunching under his boots and feel the hair on the back of his neck tingle with tension. His nose still twitches from the tiny particles of sawdust thickly coating the factory’s trapped dank air.
By the time he gets himself into a pair of boxers and a threadbare but good enough to sleep in t-shirt, his face is bright red with all the effort of holding it inside. He bites his lip hard and quietly makes his way out to the room and his queen-sized bed. Once there he flops down on his stomach, too hot to get under the covers yet, and quickly muffles his mouth with a bunch of still sore knuckles.
Too bad the rest of his body is a dead giveaway, convulsing shamelessly to the tune of his barely suppressed laughter.
Dean doesn’t take his eyes off the TV screen. Instead he starts flipping through channels with furious vehemence, not once turning to look at or even acknowledge Sam’s presence beside him. And that just makes Sam laugh harder.
At last Dean sighs, an expression of his daylong exasperation because really, this is starting to get kinda old.
Sam giggles, no really, he giggles. “You screamed like a little girl, Dean.”
“Yeah, you would know.”
“Shoulda seen your face.”
Dean rolls his eyes and turns to look at Sam who’s still cackling away but softly in that signature start-stop-start manner of his. He’s missed this so much – this pure screwy-eyed amusement in his little brother’s face – so uncomplicated and innocent like he used to be a hundred years ago.
Okay, so maybe Dean could play along just a little bit longer.
“Laugh it up, dick-wad. Now you know what your face looks like twenty four seven.”
“Does not!” Sam scoffs and hurls his pillow at Dean with gusto, and who hurls it back just the same.
They play catch a couple more rounds before finally settling down, Sam still shaking his head and grinning, Dean turning back to the Three Stooges rerun and studying his brother from a corner of an eye.
Sam turns over onto his back, struggles clumsily to get under the covers and settle in for the night. He fingers the frayed edges of his blanket absently and watches TV with droopy eyes. A tiny smile continues to linger though, curling the corners of his lips and giving Dean another glimpse at those irresistible dimples.
He hasn’t seen Sam this relaxed in… well, feels like ever. He’d been living on tenterhooks from the day Dean’s last year began to the moment it ended. And now even though Dean is back, he sometimes wonders where the Sam he once knew went. The little brother he raised, the lover he held in his arms every night after Dad died, just didn’t seem here anymore. Dean misses that Sam a lot.
That is, until this moment.
“Thank you, for taking care of me when… you know.”
Sam turns to him then, eyes twinkling in the dim television light. “You were so cute, no trouble at all.”
“Cute??” Dean feigns outrage before hiking his eyebrows. “Like… George Clooney cute? Or that opera singer guy Josh Groper you crush on cute?”
Sam snorts. “He’s not an opera singer and no, I meant Janet Leigh in the Psycho shower cute, only she’s like twelve years old.”
The high-pitched giggling starts again.
“Right, that’s it!”
Dean launches himself out of his bed and onto Sam knocking the breath right out of him.
“I’mma make you scream like a girl, you little punk.”
Sam Winchester is extremely ticklish, a miniscule fact that Dean’s known forever. Was a time it was the only way he could distract Sam, be it from hunger or a scraped knee or a missing Dad, later a drunk Dad, a yelling Dad, more missing Dad… Dean had known exactly how to get Sammy squealing and tussling and acting like the kid he was supposed to be under five seconds flat.
Course that was before Sam left for Stanford, and before life got even more complex than it was, as did their relationship. Before touching between the brothers took on a whole new meaning and life of its own.
So why he’d resorted to this long-forgotten childhood ritual, Dean isn’t quite sure himself. All he knows is he can’t stop touching Sam, digging his fingers into Sam’s quivering ribs, stealing casual strokes under his pale-skinned arms and across his sensitive navel. All he wants is for Sam to never stop looking and sounding the way he does right now.
Playful. Laughing. Free.
The brothers howl and curse and roughhouse and tumble over and into each other, and someone does end up shrieking like a girl but there’s no way to tell exactly who. Dean’s flannel gets ripped and he’s breathless and so is Sam, yet no one knows or cares who’s winning.
“Ow! Quit jerking around, Dean!”
“Okay, alright! Time out.”
When they finally stop to catch their breaths, Dean is on top again straddling Sam’s hips, holding his wrists down on both sides of his head. And Dean’s face is lowered, poised dangerously close to Sam’s. Another inch, and Dean could be kissing those wheezing lips, the way he hasn’t since he died.
Sam isn’t laughing anymore.
“Sammy…” His voice is a whisper, hoarse and rough and it doesn’t sound anything like Dean.
But Sam is already nodding his head, desperately, not struggling to get away anymore. “Okay.”
What? Dean frowns, hopes, wants to be sure and again he gets the same response.
That’s all he needs. He closes the distance before Sam changes his mind, captures the offered lips with his just as a loud audience breaks out in applause on the television set behind.
Sam tugs his hands free and closes them around Dean’s head, pulling him closer and deeper into the kiss that’s urgent and frantic and freaking finally.
His eyelids drop and his tongue continues to seek God knows what inside Dean’s mouth for an eternity. He is consumed by the taste of Dean, his roaming hands, his big-brother scent clinging to every inch of his body pressing down into his own. He’s missed this, he’s missed Dean so much.
Sam doesn’t stop to analyze how in hell they got here, but he’s sure where he wants to go from this point on. It’s a struggle to wrench himself apart but he does it anyway.
The covers are twisted into a dismal knot around his legs and take a while to unravel and throw to the motel room floor, while Dean goes to grab a tube of KY out of Sam’s bag. On his way back, he tears the rest of his shirt off along with his jeans and shoes, and he is equally heartless with Sam’s clothes when he gets back onto the bed.
There’s a lot of panting amid a lot of silence and a part of Sam is stunned by how familiar and yet how new this feels – he can’t remember feeling this lightheaded, this needy in a long, long time.
“Janet Leigh,” Dean mutters as he lifts and places one of Sam’s legs onto his shoulder. “I’ll show you fucking Janet Leigh.”
“Chased by a poodle named Norman Bates.”
Sam gasps as the first finger breaches his entrance. Dean isn’t being rough, he could never be, but it’s been six months and it hurts like he’s the one been fucking re-hymenated. The second finger draws a bigger gasp and a tiny whimper of pain. It makes Dean pause but Sam quickly nods, wordlessly urging him to keep going. Dean bends down to lick at his lips again.
“Yeah… don’t stop.”
He plants his other foot on the bed and spreads it wider for leverage. Dean inserts a third slick finger and angles about until he hits the right spot. Sam throws his head back and lets loose a hearty moan that’s waited forever to be set free.
He’s glad Dean didn’t roll him over. This is what he wants – to look into his brother’s freckled sun-burnt face, grunting and sweating profusely as he impales Sam on his thick talented fingers first and later, soon, on his big fat cock.
He’s wanted this so bad, ever since Dean came back but he hadn’t the guts to ask. Hell had driven a giant wedge in the brothers’ relationship, warped as it may be. All his secrets, his guilt, his monster freak status (especially his monster freak status), his disdain for all his failures – it has all been simply too much.
The last forty-eight hours have proved to Sam and to his brother that he could take care of Dean after all. That he could be trusted, just a little bit, that he isn’t a complete disappointment, not yet.
A fourth finger nudging at his prostate pulls him back into the present.
“Ah! dude, hurry…”
And Dean obliges. He quickly slicks himself up, fisting his shaft with exaggerated enthusiasm that just makes Sam chuckle some more. Soon he’s ready and without further ceremony, pushes himself all the way in.
Sam gasps and Dean allows him a few seconds to adjust to the fullness inside, for which he is grateful. He keeps his eyes closed, his head tilted back in invitation for Dean to kiss and lave the slender column of his throat. And then Dean starts to move.
Sam takes himself in one hand, pulling and squeezing in tandem with Dean’s thrusts and soon one of Dean’s hands joins in, working a jelly-slick fist around the head driving Sam to the brink of insanity. His vision darkens around the edges but he still needs more.
“Dean, I’m not gonna break.”
“It’s okay. Please…”
The rhythm goes from slow and careful to fast and fierce, his heightened sense of urgency driving Sam towards a blissfully mounting completion. There’ll be time for soft and tender later, right now all Sam wants is to be fucked and fucked hard, so hard it blows his brains out. Knocks him out of his senses so he can’t think, just for the night.
It doesn’t last too long after that. Sam climaxes first, gasping violently as he creams his hand and Dean’s. His explosion leaves him trembling and spasming uncontrollably around the hard shaft in his ass. Dean pounds into him a few more times then growls as he comes, biting down on Sam’s neck to stifle his own carnal sounds. Of course he fails.
“Sam, fuck, God, Sammy…”
They stay conjoined for a while, too tired and boneless to be bothered by the stickiness between them. Eventually, Sam lets his leg slide down Dean’s shoulder and Dean pulls out with a soft groan. They fall automatically into their old patterns - Dean cleans them up, rises to get rid of the soiled coverlets and grab the clean ones off the other bed.
And Sam just stretches languorously, his contentment deep and starkly evident in the afterglow.
“Groban.” He mumbles, turning to his side away from Dean.
“His name’s Josh Groban, not Groper, you jerk.”
He can almost feel his big brother smirking as Dean gets back into bed, pulling the covers over them both.
“What’s with the delayed response time, man? You hit your head or somethin’?”
Sam bites his lip and waits.
“Ohhhh, that’s a good one.”
He giggles again and lets his brother envelop him from behind.
Dean curls up around Sam’s folded frame, buries his nose in the damp mop of hair on top of Sam’s head. It smells sweet and fresh like citrus and a hint of musk, just like the rest of his beautiful baby brother.
He tries again a couple minutes later but by this time Sam is truly out like a light, and Dean is only mildly disappointed. Part of him longs to tell Sam everything, everything he saw during those last moments of his ghostly infliction. But telling him would mean losing this Sam again, this at-ease and for once peacefully resting Sam, and who knows, maybe for good.
Dean sighs and watches Sam sleep, his chest rising and falling with comforting regularity. If playing the bumbling moron gets him this… keeps his brother’s eyes the champagne hazel he was born with instead of Azazel yellow then, hell, he’s happy to do it forever.
If only it were ever that easy.
*** END ***
A/N: Pls let me know what you think?