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and-not-where-we-choose · 21 days ago

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thinking today about john winchester's sons.

thinking about the call john gets in the depths of winter, december '93, how he packs sam and dean – ages ten-and-a-half and fourteen (actually fourteen-and-a-half, too, but fourteen-and-a-half is too old to still be counting half-years, dean insists) – into the impala and books it north to windom, minnesota.

there's a fresh-dug grave and a tag from the cemetery listing the deceased as katherine a. milligan. she must've been young, dean figures. no stone assigned in the plot yet, just a mound of dirt waiting to settle back down over a chemical-laced corpse.

thinking about the doctored paperwork listing john winchester as a co-owner of wreck-a-mended autobody shop in lawrence, kansas; solid, tax-paying, home-owning father of two, and the only surviving parent of adam henry milligan. thinking of john passing a squirmy, squirrely toddler to dean and saying, "I need to talk to these people a minute more, dean; take your brothers outside."

brother-zzzzz.

thinking about john taking – not exactly a hiatus from hunting, but something closer to it than he's been in nearly a decade. it was one thing to move around with a toddler when sam and dean were both small, but they're in school now, and he can't leave adam alone all day while the older boys are gone. thinking about john who tries to keep his hunts local-ish, but who's gone nearly every weekend, and still pulls dean out of school if a tip or a lead really warrants it.

thinking about john compensating for static living during the school year by making the entire summer an endless series of hunts. thinking about john leaving all three boys at shirlee's sunnyside villa mobile home park with $1,200 in cash and a stack of partially-used phonecards in case of emergency.

thinking about sam and dean figuring out how to affix a bastardized safety-seat to the back of dean's bike and oversized panniers on sam's.

thinking about dean walking home from a late-night c-store run (they're out of funyuns and pineapple fanta) with one sleepy tweenager spider-monkey'd on his back, and a fully-asleep toddler who didn't wake up once on the walk there or back in his arms, the plastic bag of junk food dangling over his shoulder from sam's limp fingers.

thinking about adam playing with his toy cars and horses and army men in a little nest of sam's hoodie underneath the library desk where sam's got every book in the collection that mentions primordial entities spread out for his perusal.

thinking about dean coming to the door of their trailer barefoot, stripped down in the sticky heat to his once-white hanes undershirt and a cut off pair of jeans, shotgun in one hand and a toddler balanced on his hip. adam has his chubby little fingers twisted in the amulet's cord, and sam's standing half a step behind dean with a pistol pointed at the intruder and his fingers in the center-back beltloop of dean's shorts.

thinking about sam and dean in their own little binary-stars-in-orbit world, and adam's just living in it. how no matter what, it's always going to be samanddean, and adam. two entities, not three. a line drawn and no way to cross over it.

oh, it's not to say that they're mean to him (not any meaner than they are to one another, anyways), or that he's not their little brother. he's little, and he's john's son, so he is – by default – their little brother. sam draws antipossession symbols on the bottoms of adam's sneakers, and dean hunts the local pawn shops for a silver bracelet small enough to fit on adam's little wrist. he's their responsibility, but he's not theirs. he doesn't belong to them the way they belong to each other. no such thing as a three-sided coin.

thinking about the sons of mary campbell, and how just like their mama, they'd do anything for their soulmate. any goddamned despicable demonic familicidal thing, no matter what it cost.

even if that means sending their little brother to hell.

#deanandsam #adam milligan

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and-not-where-we-choose · 26 days ago

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this is somehow a 3.4k word drabble that was supposed to be a 'john and dean started fucking some time after sam left because john couldn't figure out how to save dean from the bottle send post.' i just got on my adhd meds that are toxic af and i'm feeling VERY weird and wearing earplugs bc there's a siren blasting outside and i ain't rereading or editing this good luck.

sam is gone and john's dealing with it and dean drinks himself half to death because he never learned to cope on his own. he always had dad + sam to look after and suddenly dad is distancing himself and reevaluating everything after his youngest ditched the family and there's a hole in dean's chest and head that thoughts of keeping sammy safe used to occupy and now it's just a gnawing maw of despair he fills with liquor.

he's confused and hurting and sleeps around like never before. john, once he comes to and realizes his oldest son isn't there, has to fish him out of dives on more than one occasion. they start hunting back to back. dean tries going solo (like he's been for about two years now) and john puts a hard stop to that. they hunt together.

motel clerks don't even ask, they just assume and give them the keys to a single king suite to avoid awkward question, incidentally making the whole thing even more awkward when the first time it happens john comes back to swap rooms. it happens again. dean awkwardly jokes, making a point to address john as dad in conversation. once it starts it just never stops, and dean backslides to heavy drinking again.

john drinks with him a few times, then he stops. he's learning to deal and cope with things in absence of sam and with dean's withdrawn emotional support. probably starts feeling guilty as dean's been there for him since he was a 5 year old child and john lets him hit these newer and newer lows.

john tries to put a stop to it. he tries to keep him in the place they call home for that day--week--month. he tries drinking with him to keep an eye. goes to the bar with him. dislocates the jaw of some piece of shit he overheard harassing dean for being cocksuckingly pretty.

dean's a mess. suddenly it hits him his dad isn't relying on him for emotional support and is sticking by his side more like an equal than the man in charge. instead of feeling relieved/elevated/happy/accepted, it fucks dean up more. he's been groomed and parentified into the role of a caretaker, and he messed it up, and now dad's taking it away from him.

the feelings are getting confused, and the haze of mind-altering substancing isn't helping. who is this man? is that his dad? he'd still occasionally bark at dean and then say sorry all of a sudden, does he think dean's gonna leave him too?

the family dynamic switches too fast for dean to keep track. they're father and son they're commanding officer and his soldier they're hunter and hunter they're hunting partners they're drinking buddies are they friends? holy shit is this what having a friend is like? they're family they got mistaken for a couple yet again they're playing a law enforcement officer and subordinate they're investigating a haunting in an underground queer space they get mistaken for a couple the clerk at the motel gives them a disgusting look when dean pointedly calls dad 'dad' john drags dean off a girl in a bar because he got an urgent SOS message dean is feeling like he wants to fuck again to feel good to make someone feel good to make himself feel alive they run into a pair of hunters and dean sees them kissing in the campfire light at night he's so lonely he doesn't wanna touch anyone he wants someone to comfort him he gets drunk dad holds him dad can't leave him please dad touch him drunk dean kisses him he cries he's so confused he's scared he hits the bottom of the bottle again john leaves john comes back the map on the front seat of the car shows he was visiting palo alto without dean he's a disappointment of a son despite being the one that stayed he's inconsolable dad won't hug him anymore he won't even touch him won't look at him please can you just hold me? it's unfair i love you i loved him and he left me and you're gonna leave me because i messed up i'm a mess and you hate me i know you do you can't lie to me.

john will have his oldest son his soldier falling apart at the seams and the only thing that comes back to mind is he was a bit younger than dean and more of a fool and just as lonely shellshocked and scared and in constant fight or flight mode in vietnam and the only thing that helped was a quick tumble with a comrade in the combat zone. there were no barracks there were no trenches it was just heat and cloying soupy air you wear and mud and fear and death everywhere but when you have your brother in arms' hand down your pants it all disappears for a minute.

what's the worst that can happen? dean is splitting away from him and his own self already; what's the worst thing that can happen if john fucks him into the bed? the first time this thought pops in john's mind he gets a hot spell, a full-body flush then turns cold with dread again. he doesn't want to think about it but he always knew dean was heart-stoppingly pretty; he knew it, men with a certain inclination to destroying pretty things knew it, bars trucks gas stations big cities motels, john has always needed to be vigilant, painfully aware somewhere deep in his head it's not just monsters dean should be wary of. sam was growing out of the risk of potential human predator and dean has always been growing into it.

other men can think it and john can't? monsters can think it and john can't? he can think it. what's the worst that's gonna happen? if dean seems to want his reassurance so much but won't accept it in any other form john can translate it into something dean understands better. always a ladies man always down for pleasure and release with no strings attached.

dean's still deep in thought carrying a single key up to the motel door that they both know is gonna be a single king. he's not expecting it when john shoves him into the door once it closes behind them, full body weight against dean, holding him by the lapels of his own leather jacket dean's been borrowing since he was still in school.

the spur of confidence john felt dies. goes out like a candle on a terrace at a strong gust of wind, but john still has his son against the door. he's taller. he leans down, kisses dean's temple. it's scratchy, sides of his hair freshly trimmed, feels tingly and weirdly good against john's lips, so he does it again, kisses his temple.

dean'd call him, confused, dad? and john's go center of his face, kiss him on the forehead, move down to place a quick peck at his nose, under his eye, his cheek. dean should be getting this by now, and oh yeah, he does, turns his face up, starts shaking, meets his lips in a clumsy kiss.

john would kiss him on the neck when he'd feel the tension in dean's body come to a peak. he's just stone frozen; so tense it's a wonder he isn't snapping in half. john can go back to the clerk and demand another room, leave dean to this one, get his own space. he sleeps on the floor instead, painfully aware dean doesn't get a wink despite the comfort of the bed in their suite.

dean sleeps through the day when john's driving. john keeps watching him, looking for his family's traits in that face, or mary's, mary's old man, mary's mom they called dean after. who calls their son after his grandmother? john didn't doubt mary's choice when she made it but now he's thinking their whole family is cursed and mary was cursing dean to a fate like this when she named him. the face that makes men want to push dean down to his knees and have their way with him.

john's not a monster, but does acknowledging what he sees in dean make him one? or does that make him someone who doesn't shy away from the truth? is he making things up? is dean just your average handsome looking guy? why is john thinking of him as the victim in his head? he taught dean better than that. he taught him to be the caretaker in the family. mary picked dean's name and john picked his place — all of this is on john.

he gets absolutely wasted, shoves dean away when dean shows up to take him back to their room from the bar. they fight, john splits dean's lip against his teeth. he never hit his kids outside melee training and that doesn't count as hitting; this doesn't count, either, but he feels so fucking guilty for it, pushes dean against the wall to keep him in place, grabs his face and turns it this way and that under the lamplight above to assess the damage. teeth in place, just a split lip.

a tip of dean's tongue darts out to clean up the blood. there's more on his chin and john wipes it with his thumb, looking over dean's face. he's wide-eyed and his eyes are pale green and john can't get a read on his son at all.

what do you want from me? what do you want me to do? just tell me, just fuckin' tell me 'cause i can't keep guessing.

dean won't say a word but there's fear in his eyes; he's afraid to answer that question.

john'd say, i'm your dad. i wasn't much of one before but i am, now

'is this because you're afraid to lose me too?'

that's the only sincere thing dean could ask. and yes, yes it is, they lost sammy but he's still family and dean's the only family john has that's sticking by him. what a mess of a man, what a mess of things john's made.

'do you even like me?'

how can dean ask that? is there even a question? but the fear of the truth in both his and dean's head is clear on his son's face -- of course he doubts it. of course he doubts his place. john raised him as the perfect hunter, so does john like dean the hunter? does he even like him as a person?

john realizes he's still holding dean's jaw in his fingers, his hand so big against dean's delicate face the mere size difference is obscene. he lets go, reluctantly, watching as the white bloodless marks from his fingerprints fill up with red. 'that's gonna bruise.'

dean's eyes dart down. 'i like that.'

words that go straight to john's dick. he lets out the most pathetic, suffered sound he's heard in is entire life. 'i'm not gonna do it, dean. i can't do it.'

dean's brows do this pathetic routine of a sad puppy face.

'i love you too much to do that. i can't do that, you can't ask me to. it's--it's not like that. we're not like that.'

but he sees it. he sees it in that pair of queer hunters they met months ago; in that gay bar dean insisted on going in alone for the job but he was so messed up in the head john didn't let him; he sees it. he was never much of a father, but he can still be here for dean, he can, it won't even be hard, it's right there, the feeling's right there, the image of bending dean over and slicking him up and thrusting into him is right here on his mind. dean would make the prettiest noises, he'd feel so fucking good, he'd be perfect, god he'd be just perfect around a cock, under john's weight, on top of him, it's like he was born for it, made by heaven to be desired n coveted and messed in the head just right to want it too.

john hits the wall behind dean, hits it right by his head, making dean jerk and turn away, eyes squeezed in anticipation of a punch.

'i won't do it, dean. i can't do it. jesus, you can't even say it and you want me to do it?'

'so if i'll say you'll--' dean cuts himself off, breath stuttering, still not even looking at john. 'i just gotta say it?' sounds like some stupid say the word and it's yours bullshit tv cults are peddling. john runs a hand down his face, like trying to wipe off the apprehension.

'i don't know, dean, i don't know if i can give it if i don't what is it you want from me.'

the staff door from the bar slams open, rusty hinges an offensive sound in the dead of night, a bartender that's been slinging john drinks this whole night takes two huge garbage bags and throws them into the metal bin on their left. he briefly looks and dean and john and shakes his head, going, 'dude,' incredulous, before disappearing back inside.

john looks back at dean, preparing to let go, hoping the spell is broken.

dean looks at him like the spell's taken even stronger, another outsider taking them the wrong way. like wishful thinking spoken into the cosmos so it comes true. more of that tv nutjobs shit.

dean's face is set, features hard, eyes so bright and wet and watching. 'i want.' he breathes, licking his lips. inhale, exhale, a second, two, five, half a minute. it's stupidly long that they stay in silence, john's back to holding dean by his own jacket, too big on dean's shoulders. 'i wanna make you feel good.' tension in dean's body, like he's bracing for impact. 'i want me to feel good. i wanna feel good together.'

john's nodding. john's nodding before dean can even finish the sentence. he's nodding because he gets that, because it doesn't sound like the worst sin in existence if it's about feeling good. you love someone and you want them to feel good. he can make dean feel good. he can feel good with dean around him, with john's dick buried deep inside, he knows it'll feel good.

he's not even that drunk when they get back to the motel. it still takes a little time, john's not twenty like dean and the whiskey isn't the best cure for this, but he hasn't been this hard in a decade when things get going. dean swallows him down his throat like a pro; makes john so fucking mad, makes him so mad he shoves deeper, grabs dean by his hair in a way he knows will hurt a bit. won't hurt him much, but to make a point, because where the fuck did his ladies man son learn to take cock so well?

in a week's time dean's completely blocked sammy out of his mind. if sam knew what dad and him were doing, he'd probably kill them both. jesus, he'd kill them both and maybe then take himself out. sammy always wanted the normal so if he ever knew about the dean and john family normal, he'd wanna end it all.

it's weird, knowing what keeps dean tethered, what gives his mind a sharp focus, what keeps his hand from straying towards a drink is the exact same thing that would mess sam up fierce.

dean's ass hurts from taking it up so often. he buys a bunch of gay magazines and spills them on the front seat as they're leaving town, and john looks at him with a raised brow and that blank expression that's not exactly positive thinking but not that deep that it'll unsettle dean. he can read it easy -- dad's thinking, what the actual fuck are you doing now, so dean replies, 'sorry, did you know my ass hurts? thought i'd read up on this shit from the professionals.'

john doesn't say a word after that. dean finds a good article that actually answers most of his questions and thinks, should he shove this one magazine in dad's lap, or should he take care of things himself? go back to bearing responsibility or sharing it?

dean can't make up his mind. it's way too weird, giving dad a manual on how to fuck him properly. john already fucks him properly -- dean sees fucking stars with a dick rearranging his guts.

he leaves that magazine on the bedside table when going out scouting for a job and when he comes back, he thinks it's angled a bit different, not how he left it. makes a weird feeling spread in his stomach. it's a porn mag -- maybe dad just looked at the pics -- at the pics of other men -- twinks more delicate than dean, what the fuck -- wait, what the fuck, are you fucking jealous -- cut it out, it's your dad -- yeah, it's not like dad would swap you for some ass off the street, that kinda bond has to run deeper than that, it's not like there's an endless supply of sons as there is of twinks--

that last car of dean's train of thought makes him puke. he heaves violently, not even making it to the bathroom, folded in two on the floor hugging a paper trash can and expecting, any minute now, to see blood there after the next bout of spasms.

john finds him on the floor like that, panicked immediately -- are you hurt, are you poisoned, did you see what did it -- did you have too much -- and dean cries to him. he cries about sammy, and never letting anyone touch sammy, and he can see it in john's face that he's breaking his heart and he tries to explain he isn't thinking the worst of john because he knows better than that, but if any of them ever touch sammy's he's gonna take both himself and john out. he's gonna do it, he'll do it, don't ever fucking doubt that, anyone touches sam, they're gonna pay.

it's an intense two and a half years together, and dean's face would wash into a stranger, into mary, into his son, into a lover, a stranger john fell for, his son he defiled. it's insanity split for two--dean's just as set on catching the yellow-eyed demon, and letting dean go solo feels like missing not a limb but a whole side is gone with in an explosion with fragmentation digging into his skin.

when sam's room burns down with his girlfriend gone in the fire, john pulls up in the impala with dean in the passenger seat, and they stay there awhile, silently thinking which one has to face sam. john's too worried about his son to remember the relationship, and dean is so sickly puppy-loving missing sam that the grief of sam seeing them and telling right away -- of the guilt because sam called it, he called dean and john for what they are years ago -- the fear he's gonna turn them down, turn dean down, that he missed a chance at ever mending the relationship with his baby brother -- it's all so strong it makes him violently ill in the car. he has to stumble out, attracting attention from sam's friends and then sam himself.

sam sees dad and runs to hug him, crying, babbling about jess on the ceiling and sorry he doubted you, and dean thinks he's gonna pass out there. dean thinks he's gonna pass out. some of sam's friends approach him to physically support him, a stranger's hand on dean's shoulder, and all dean can see is sam untangling himself from dad's hug and looking at dean like he sprouted a second head. dean, what's wrong?

jesus, would you step away from him -- you shouldn't -- always been such a smart kid, sam'll know the second he touches them -- he's already touched dad and he looks so concerned, as if it isn't his girlfriend that just burned up -- god, dean is SO SELFISH, piece of shit, piece of shit, this isn't about you, get it together --

he comes to with sam hugging him, starts talking nonsense, he's sorry, dean's so sorry, and sam has no idea it's not his college girlfriend dean's apologizing for.

#and john #fanfic

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and-not-where-we-choose · 29 days ago

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thinking abt sam drunk calling dean while he’s at stanford and it starts out normal enough, with them exchanging their how are you’s and how have you been’s. dean’s so excited to talk to sam that despite how foolish it makes him feel, he can’t bring himself to shutup.

as he rambles on he almost doesn’t catch it, but he’s so attuned to every little noise sam makes, even miles away, that’s it’s impossible for him not to. at first he thinks he was hearing shit, but then sam’s voice starts to get breathy, hitching in a way dean’s all too familiar with, and he knows.

it makes dean’s dick twitch in his jeans with pure, unadulterated want when he hears that soft lilt, a hummed little sigh that means sammy’s finally relaxing, thinks dean doesn’t know his dirty little secret, and he almost wants to say something.

hell, he’d drive over there right now at the drop of a hat and finish sam off himself if he’d just ask, and it’s kinda killing him that he won’t. however, there’s a bigger part of him that can’t bring himself to acknowledge it in the first place, not when sam won’t.

so, he continues telling sam about his most recent hunt, and if his voice dips a little lower, gets a bit more growly just to hear the way sam gasps for it, voice breathy, high, and little brother whiny, then that’s his business and his business alone.

#deanandsam

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and-not-where-we-choose · 4 months ago

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daddy's blunt little instrument.

#dean #and john

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and-not-where-we-choose · 4 months ago

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and-not-where-we-choose · 5 months ago

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Now some of us are weak and some endure Some people live their life, with a violence that’s pure and clean But I saw a man cry once, down on his knees In the corner of a darkened cell, and his pain meant nothing to me But I was younger then young men never die When I walked out in the sun, I was strong, clear-minded and blind Now don’t say a prayer for anyone, it doesn’t do any good Please don’t ask me questions, it’d just be misunderstood And if you could step inside me you’d feel what hatred brings And if you saw with my eyes, you’d see what self-deception means I was younger once, and I created a lie And though my body was strong, I was self-diluted, confident, and blind Now show some pity, for the weak of will Because when we’re drinking, we can never be filled Show some understanding for a lonely fool Because when I’m drinking, I am out of control Well I was never young, nothing has transpired And when I look in the mirror, I feel dead, I feel cold, I am blind I am blind I am blind I am blind

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and-not-where-we-choose · 5 months ago

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It’s 7 in the morning, Dad left for work a hour ago. You are putting together a bed frame with your brother, you smoke a cigarette while he talks about how he’s gonna leave this place, how he’s gonna get out. Mourning doves sing outside, you will never be here again.

#deanandsam

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and-not-where-we-choose · 5 months ago

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heaven is a place

“Open up,” Sam says. They’re standing outside a warehouse in downtown LA, letting loose between jobs. Dean hates California, but Sammy kept going on about the god damn ‘healing powers’ of California sunshine and salty ocean air. It’ll make us feel good, he promised. If Dean’s being honest, more heat is the last thing he wants — give him temps so cold they make his bones ache, hunting the abominable snowman in Alaska or evil elves in the North fucking Pole, whatever. But it’s Sam. It’s Sam.

So here they are, ten to midnight with some shit they scored off one of Sam’s old classmates. Dean’s never done this one before but Sam has, something about college parties and getting lit. Sam sticks his tongue out, berry pink like the underside of something sweet and alive you’re not supposed to see, and it makes Dean think of pussy lips. Wet and slick. A pale purple circle with a smiley face stamped on it sits in the middle of all that pretty pink. Dean tilts his head up, just a little because he’s tall but his brother is taller, and licks the pill off Sam’s tongue.

The warehouse is a club called Heaven. Heaven is loud, hot, thick with sweaty bodies packed shoulder to shoulder and dancing to the DJ’s techno drone. Concrete pillars rise up to a ceiling lined with metal pipes that look liquid, T-1000’s mimetic polyalloy shapeshifting in the strobe light glow. Dean says as much, the words spilling out of him in a blur so he’s not even sure what he’s saying as he says it.

“You're such a nerd,” is what he gets in response. A little part of his brain wants to argue back that that’s his line, but Sam’s cool breath against his ear makes Dean shiver and forget.

The way the room is all lit up in reds and smokey shadows reminds Dean of the pit, of being on the rack with his insides exposed and boiling in the heat. Dean’s in his mechanic’s coveralls, navy blue and covered in grease stains, the ones with ‘Singer Salvage’ embroidered above the breast pocket in white cursive. He’s got the sleeves rolled, pant legs tucked into his boots, unbuttoned at the top to expose his collar bones. A look Sam called slutty with a psycho-hungry shine in his eyes, but the pain memory of being downstairs makes Dean’s skin crawl like he’s naked under the knife again. He grinds his teeth and whimpers into the ecstasy rush, and the sound is lost to grimy industrial beats blasting through the speakers. He grips Sam harder against him (for comfort, for release, does it matter?) and rolls his body up along his brother’s, like how you dip your finger in the last specks of sugar on a plate so you don’t miss any of the sweetness. Edge to edge, gotta get every last bit.

And that’s how they fade into the crowd, just two more bodies trying and failing to eat each other whole. They can do that here, in front of God and everybody. Dean can run his hands under the white wife beater wrapped tight around Sam’s chest, drag his nails over skin and feel Sam's stomach muscles clench and sigh underneath. He can pull Sammy close by his belt loops, hips against hips, and let his eyes roll back at the friction. No one cares here because no one knows.

Dean has spent years chasing the brutal thrill of dive bar whores and good girls looking for a nasty time. Cheap perfume and the sharp sting of a woman’s hair against his face, bending himself into a shape that never fit. Every room the wrong size without his gigantic brother in it. He looks at Sam’s face, shining blood red in the lights and just as hot, and he knows. He knows it like an exorcism incantation, like stripping a gun. Without thinking. Next to Sam is the only place he’s ever belonged.

All Dean’s atrophied little pieces are touch-starved and Hell-stained, and all he needs is for Sam to kiss them better.

It’s a filthy bright weight in Dean’s veins, like he’s made of ribbon, like the music is curling through him and around him and he’s curling around Sam. Everything’s in shades of faded cherry red but he’s candy-colored when he sticks his tongue into Sam’s mouth, neon love filling him up so good.

Dean thought if he could pile on enough good, maybe it’d cancel out the darkness he brought back from the pit, where all his nastiest parts were thrown on the rack and peeled back for examination. John toeing lines with Dean, Dean obliterating those lines with Sam, hooking at truck stops for cash and scraps. Watching people die because he couldn’t save them until he held the knife himself and watched people die because of him. The guilt, the guilt, the guilt.

But really, Dean’s not even trying that hard for redemption. How can he be when this is what he wants? No matter how many lives he saves, no matter how many times they stop the world from ending, no amount of good will ever be enough to absolve him of this incessant need to fuck his brother up the ass. It’s a poison under his skin that itches and itches but won’t let up.

And this thing’s always been rotten to the core, sour-soft and collapsing in the middle. Like hell can Dean say no, though. They’d have to do more than draw and quarter him to keep him away from Sammy.

Sammy, his baby, grinding against him in time to the dirty bass beat.

Sammy, his baby, unzipping Dean’s coveralls so they’re half undone and Sam can slip them off Dean’s shoulders, tying the sleeves around his waist and leaving his arms and chest bare. Sammy always needed to be close, to be touching, even as a kid. Skin to skin, all tangled up in each other in Baby’s backseat and crummy motel beds. Dean is covered in a slick sheen of sweat and Sam runs his hands through it, spreading the wetness around and squeezing Dean’s skin tight, reminding him that he’s here and he’s safe and he’s wanted under his brother’s calloused palms. Dean is vaguely aware of the burn mark on his shoulder, hand print shining shell pink against the rest of him, still so new Dean’s shocked each time he sees it. Sam slides his fingers over it, tracing the outline so gentle it makes Dean’s toes curl inside his boots.

He’s overheating from the X and the memories, rolling so fucking hard and it’s too much pain and pleasure mixed together, the wires all crossed and it’s making Dean short circuit. Sam reads Dean’s signs like they’re a book he knows by heart and leads him through the crowd, out the heavy doors and into the night, giving him what he needs when Dean can’t ask for it himself. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever felt anything so good as the dry Santa Ana winds blowing over his fever-hot skin, free from the stink of dancing bodies and too much synth.

Outside, Dean’s light like Kansas cottonwood fluff floating along the breeze with his eyes closed shut. He senses his balance is off, but in a secondhand way, like it’s not really his body that’s falling.

“Whoa there, cowboy,” Sam laughs, and Dean slow blinks past the chemical bliss when he feels Sam’s hands on his shoulders, propping him up against a fence like a tire that’s about to tip over. The wire on his back makes him shiver in the heat.

“Why aren’t you as fucked up as me?” Dean slurs, cottonwood fluff in his mouth this time. He rolls his head back, and the fence rattles around him.

“I am. I’m just better at taking drugs than you,” Sam says, as if being a druggie is something to brag about. Dean’s about to say it but then Sam’s trailing his finger down the curve of his neck, throat pulled taut with his head thrown back like it is, and Dean’s brain blanks.

“Jerk,” is all he can choke out.

Sam pulls out a beat-up pack of cigarettes from his jeans, must’ve nicked them from somebody inside with his sticky witchy fingers, and sticks one in his mouth. “No, you’re the jerk, I’m the bitch,” Sam says around the cigarette. He pats his pockets and comes up empty, then gropes around Dean’s coveralls for his Zippo. Dean loves the familiarity of Sam touching him like this, casual, no thought, no barrier to entry where his brother is concerned. They’re all one piece, and Dean counts himself lucky. Everybody craves closeness like this, but few get it.

The flint click-pops a metallic burst in Dean’s ears, and Sam blows out a cloud of minty smoke. Dean takes a deep breath in, coming back to himself a little bit.

“Kools? Really?” Dean says when Sam pockets the green soft pack. Sam assures him that ‘it's a thing.’

“Menthols are good on ecstasy,” He says. Probably another druggie trick he learned at Stanford. Vick’s VapoRub was mentioned, but Dean said fuck no to putting that shit under his nose.

Sam hands the cigarette to Dean, but it takes him a few tries to grab it. His hand-eye coordination is shot. Sam leans on the fence facing Dean and holds it, filter-side first, to Dean’s mouth. Dean opens his lips to take a drag and lets his tongue lick the salty pad of Sam’s fingertip. The smoke and skin light Dean up from the inside and make his jaw ache from the pleasure of it all. Sam says he’s peaking. Once Dean has a firm grip on the cigarette, Sam flops over so his back rests on the fence. More rattling, and Dean spaces out on the sound for a minute before remembering he’s got smoke in his mouth. He puffs it out minty-cool and looks over at Sam, sharp-jawed with glitter on his cheeks that flickers sliver under the moonlight. His hair is getting long, fuckin’ hippie, it’s sticking up in a hundred directions with sweat and grease. Dean loves him more than he’s ever loved anything. He loves Sam so hard and so deep, it drips down to his mutilated core, and it’s almost enough to make him whole again.

He wants Sam to feel how he feels, a cunt hair away from perfection, so he reaches up with the hand that’s not holding the Kool and scratches Sam’s scalp, and he swears, it’s almost like he’s doing it to himself, the way his eyes roll back in his head at the soft feel of Sam’s mop tickling the insides of his fingers, where the skin is so rarely touched.

“I can feel that in my cock,” Sam moans, low like it pains him, but Dean keeps going ‘cause there’s good pain and there’s bad pain, and he knows this is the good kind.

Two years from now, it’ll be Sam’s turn to go to Hell. Dean will grieve and again he'll stuff himself into a mold that doesn’t match his shape, hoping that maybe this time, maybe this time he’ll shrink to match. And when Sam comes back with his own special brand of fucked in the head, Dean will do his best to protect him the way he always has, mind, body, and soul, only it won’t matter. Won’t even touch all the ways Lucifer messes Sam up during his extended stay in the pit.

But here, half-past four against a chain link fence with the California heat sticking warm to their skin, they share a cigarette. Sam rests his head on top of Dean’s and Dean curls his fingers through Sam’s. They’ll walk twenty minutes to Venice Beach and watch the sun rise over the Pacific, all baby blues and bright golden yellows coming over the horizon, edge of the world and no red in sight.

ao3

#deanandsam #fic rec #this is SO good

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