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goshen-applecrumbledore · 2 years

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Fic: He talked like you (timestamp)

sam/dean, 5k. tw: underage, recreational drugs, recreational f-slur. sam/OMC + wincest pining

This is a timestamp from Human hands, a fic in which Sam mentions that his first time was with a friend of Dean's when Dean was in high school.

I wrote to get it out of my head, then realized I don't want to actually post it, but it seemed like a waste to not post it anywhere, so I'm posting it here, even though it's way too long to be a tumblr fic.

Sam took the joint Eric offered him and Eric gave him an approving look, a wordless 'attaboy.' Sam was not immune to 'attaboy.' He had, in fact, made the worst decisions of his life in the wake of that specific brand of older-boy peer pressure, via Dean.

Read below, also in a gdoc here.

The RV was, in John's defense, close to a national park. In John's not-defense, it wasn't parked in the quiet, verdant paradise of the park, it was parked at the curb across from a self-storage compound and down the street from an industrial laundromat.

The RV had two rooms, three if you counted the bathroom. They found it for sale in the classifieds, and John didn't buy it so much as traded a stolen car for it. It hadn't been a great six months, financially.

Sam was laying on the sagging tweed sofa-seat with a makeshift heat pack, a tube sock filled with rice, tied with an elastic band at one end and microwaved until hot. For the past week, his back had been aching worse than any of his growing pains thus far, it felt like he was going to split in two down his spine and across his shoulders, and it didn't help whether he curled or arched or how he lay. The heat helped a little. The heat was also awful, because it was late August and it had been scorching all week, hot well into the night, and he was sweating into the couch.

It was after ten and Dean was still out. That wasn't too weird, those days; Dean had made friends in this little town the way he hadn't in others, and he was never home. That wasn't the case a few years ago, and Sam felt pathetic about how badly he wanted to go back to how things used to be.

Three years ago, Dean seemed a million years older than him, he was a teenager with all the exciting bells and whistles that came with that. Back then, Dean didn't mind hanging out with him. If he went to the creek with kids from his class, Sam would go with him, and if he didn't, Dean was home by seven and they'd have dinner together and watch a movie or play cards.

Then, overnight it seemed, Dean was sixteen and then seventeen, and all he wanted to do was drink and smoke and chase girls. Those were things it was lame to bring your little brother along for, so he didn't. So, Sam was left alone, now old enough to make his own dinner, and he had an infinite amount of time to think about this weird creature in the place where his big brother used to be.

Now Sam was thirteen-and-a-half, and the whole thing wasn't so much of a mystery. He knew what sex was. He knew that his brother, despite his endless heart, could be kind of an asshole. The confusion melted away into awkwardness and a misplaced sense of betrayal.

It also left something else in its wake, that only came out while he was trying to sleep, or when he was laying on the couch with a heat pack. A horrible, Dean-centric feeling that made it torture to be alone with his thoughts. He didn't know what to call it, only that it was like jealousy but different.

Well. He was pretty sure he knew what to call it, but he didn't want to.

He unstuck his back from the couch again. It was down at the far end of the trailer, boxed in on both ends like a booth. If he stuck his leg out, he could touch the table, and the sticky vinyl booth that surrounded it. If he stuck his leg out the other way, he hit the small, ancient TV they bungee-strapped to the narrow ledge under the window. The floor was covered in dirty clothes (both of theirs) and beer cans (Dean's). Everything stunk in the heat.

He heard voices first, one of which was unmistakably Dean's, talking and guffawing down the street outside. Sam groaned preemptively—he hated when Dean brought people back to whatever shithole they were living in. Dean milked the whole 'our dad's never home, no one tells us what to do' bit to its fullest extent, and Sam always wondered whether he genuinely didn't notice the flicker of pity on his friends' or girls' faces when they looked around and saw the mess and the poverty, or if he was just pretending not to see.

The whole trailer rocked as they climbed in, the screen door squealing protest. Dean, as always, surreptitiously scuffed his sneaker through the salt line at the threshold to scatter it beyond detection.

Sam smelled the beer on him instantly. He regretted not pretending to be asleep in the bedroom.

Dean stopped in the doorway to pry his shoes off as his eyes found Sam on the couch.

"Sup, dork. You're up late."

Dean's omnipresent denim jacket was gone in the summer heat and his arms were sunburnt to a salmony pink past the sleeves of his faded black tee. His nose was also burnt, and freckled beyond belief. His hair had gone nearly blond with the sun over the past few months. His lips were dry.

Before Sam could answer ("It's a free trailer"), a pale hand shoved Dean from behind and he pitched forward, cackling and swinging his fist blindly backwards.

Dean's friend Eric ducked his head to get through the door behind him. "Move your ass."

Eric looked insane. He was half a head taller than Dean and built like a scarecrow, all angles, a sharp nose and hollow cheeks. His hair was a messy stack of black, and Sam had never seen him not wear black, which, along with his twiggy legs, made him look like a crow. But Eric's skinny looked cool and punk, where Sam felt like his own skinny was gawky and childish and weird.

He was nice, as far as Dean's friends went. He acknowledged Sam's existence on several occasions, which was more than he could say about most of them.

Dean swatted at Eric as he pulled his boots off. When Eric straightened up, he looked at him and gave him a big, wolfish grin.

"Hey, Sam."

Not dork or nerd or bitch or Sammy, just Sam. Sam suppressed a little shiver and shuffled up on the couch.

"Hey."

Eric had a grocery store bag swinging from his wrist. As Dean slid into the table-booth, Eric took a six-pack from the bag, twisted a wet PBR out of the plastic rings and tossed it to him. He got out a second one and paused, then looked at Sam, then Dean, then back.

"Absolutely fucking not," Dean said, cracking his beer noisily. "Put 'em in the fridge, they taste like ass warm."

Eric gave Sam an 'oh well' look before putting the remaining beers in the fridge.

Sam was just grateful he didn't laugh at the sheer thought of giving Sam a beer. Dean mothered him and brothered him and managed to be the worst of both worlds: he cared about Sam's health and safety with an oppressive, smothering intensity, while also being kind of a bully. He knew Dean loved him, but whether he liked him was up in the air, because Dean loved him on autopilot. Dean loved his brother and tolerated Sam.

He knew, on some level, that this was a tragic thing for a thirteen-year-old to be aware of. At the start of the school year, two towns ago, a teacher told him, "You're incredibly self-aware for your age." He hadn't taken it as a compliment. His classmates didn't seem particularly self-aware, and they were way happier than him.

Dean had a talent of spreading out to fill all available space—something he did both literally and figuratively, taking up all the air in a room—and managed to sit on one side of the table-booth and also have his thigh on the other side, so Eric headed for the couch.

Sam hurriedly tucked up his feet to make space as Eric flopped down next to him. He was bigger close up. He smelled like beer and sweat and pond and/or river scum; they'd been outside, in the woods they habitually wasted time at. Sam stared at Eric's sharp, witchy profile.

Being in the same eye-line as Dean made him look startlingly masculine, his features being very much the opposite of Dean's long lashes, big doe eyes and lush mouth. Dean, despite his very best efforts to come across as gruff and hardened, was sunny and shiny and pretty even when he was half dead. Eric looked like he hadn't slept in a week, and when he did sleep, he slept in a coffin full of nails.

Maybe because he was so un-Dean, Sam found him kind of attractive. Was desperate to find him kind of attractive.

Eric's eyes flicked to his and caught him looking. Sam wanted to throw himself off a cliff.

Dean pointed at Sam's heat pack laying over his stomach.

"You got cramps, Samantha?"

Sam whipped the heat pack at him. He missed, but it almost hit his beer. The way Dean fumbled to save the can told him it was far from his first.

Sam said, "Fuck you, my back feels like it's splitting in two."

Dean snorted and drank his beer. "Sucks to suck."

Dean didn't see it this way, but he shaped himself to fit situations. He read what people wanted from him and, perfectly fluid, he became that thing. He was a crass, slick cool guy around his friends, the perfect foil to his dorky little brother. He was a drill sergeant around their dad, like his only purpose in life was honing Sam into something faster, stronger, safer. And he was almost sweet when they were alone, when he asked Sam about his day and remembered his teachers' names and talked about movies and comic books like they were actually friends. If they were alone, he might have offered to microwave the heat bag again, or let him have a beer to get his mind off it.

It was annoying, but the many facets of Dean meant that there was a secret, special Dean that was just for him, that nobody else got to know. It was the best Dean, too.

Anyways, Sam didn't blame him for being two-faced. If anything, he was jealous. It was a survival mechanism, and they both did it—you pretended to know about things like daycare and grandparents and soccer practice firsthand and not just from TV. If you only wore plain black or white t-shirts, no one would know you only had two of them and not a closetful. Your scars were from playing around outside. You were 'outdoorsy.' Your dad was outdoorsy, too.

"So you're in Michelle's room," Eric said to Dean, picking up the thread of an earlier conversation. He moved his knees apart in an affected sprawl and his thigh touched Sam's foot. Sam had a hard time thinking about anything else.

"Oh, shit, right, so, okay." Dean finished his slurp of beer. "Okay, so, she invites me up, I forget what she said, something about showing me some picture of her at some gymnastics competition, I dunno."

"And her parents are gone."

"And her parents are gone," Dean confirmed, "and she's all over me, like, we're on the bed instantly, and she's on top of me."

Sam stared at the TV, which he'd forgotten was on. He wished it was something even halfway absorbing, but it was a nature documentary about prairie dogs and they didn't have a remote, and getting up would have drawn attention to himself, which was at odds with his main goal of sinking into the floor and disappearing completely.

"And she's like," Dean went on, pausing for another cartoonishly lewd slurp of beer, "soaking wet, I never felt anything like it, Jesus. Her gray panties were black, I could smell it."

Sam couldn't help it, he made a choked-off, upset-disgusted noise.

"God, shut up, Dean."

"It's a free trailer, prude! Go someplace else! Eric wants to hear it, right, man?"

Eric looked, if not interested, amused. He didn't seem as drunk as Dean. "Sure."

"See? Close your ears, Sammy."

And so Sam watched prairie dogs teach their young how to hunt while his brother described, in excruciating detail, going down on and then fucking some poor girl he wasn't going to call again.

At some point, Sam very carefully put a couch pillow over his lap. He didn't think either of them noticed.

Dean was nearly slurring his words by the end of his story, that final beer pushing him from stinking drunk to nearly blackout, and that was when Eric pulled out a joint. Eric was kind of a bad friend, Sam thought.

Dean said, "Hell yeah," clearly having other ideas about that. "That's what I love about you, man."

Eric smiled. "I'm always holding?"

"You're always holding."

It was none of Sam's business whether Dean got high, and frankly, he preferred it to when Dean was drunk. It made him spacey and laughy and sweet, boneless and moving slow.

Eric lit the joint as Sam watched, prairie dogs forgotten. Eric had a sharp jaw and a nice mouth. He was allowed look, it was the only movement in the room other than Dean trying to shake the last drops of beer out of his can and into his open mouth, and that made it the safer choice.

He watched Eric inhale and hold it and then let smoke pour out of his lips. Sam always liked the smell of weed, earthy and musty and sweet. Maybe it was some Pavlovian knowledge that smelling it meant Dean was in a good mood.

Again, Eric looked at him and hesitated with the joint.

"Dude," Dean barked. "You're so fucking weird, give it."

He made a grabby motion with his hand. Eric leaned over and gave it to him, but not before he rolled his eyes at Sam, like a private joke between them: this fucking guy, right?

Sam's whole body flushed. Not getting the joint was secondary.

Sam watched Dean smoke, too. His chest got tight. Like watching a horror movie and yelling at the TV, Watch out! Don't go in there! Don't stare at your brother's mouth!

He wished he was still ten. He didn't do any of this when he was ten, didn't have to constantly slap himself on the wrist and police his eyes and hands and deal with his stomach rolling over things he wished he didn't understand.

Dean's eyes met his. Sometimes they did, when Sam was watching him, but he never called him out on it. It was the one thing he never made fun of, no 'like what you see' or 'take a picture it'll last longer.' Sam wondered—dangerously, dangerously—what that meant.

Dean passed the joint back to Eric and they did one more rotation. Then Dean put his head down on the table.

"Fuck, man, I'm tanked."

Eric laughed at him, all teeth. "Pussy."

"I gotta— sorry, dude, I'm gonna call it, I'm fucking wiped." He struggled out of the table-booth, looking about as bad as he sounded, stumbling and mealy-mouthed, but Sam had learned to appreciate the way Dean's sheen wore off. It helped. "You good to get home?"

"Always am."

Eric didn't move to get up. Sam noticed this, but Dean didn't seem to. He headed for their dark bedroom door, waving aimlessly back at them.

"We on for Thursday?"

Eric said, "You know it."

"Cool. Later."

Dean all but fell over the threshold into the bedroom, just barely kicking the door shut behind him before he went face down on the bed. The door didn't close all the way. Dean's feet disappeared from view as he scooted up the bed.

"He's a fuckin' character," Eric said, in a completely unreadable tone. Sam stared at the doorway.

"Uh-huh."

Eric laughed. "What, you don't get along? You seem alright."

"I dunno. It's weird."

"'Cause you live in an RV?"

"Kind of."

Sam wished the weirdest thing about his life was that he lived in an ancient RV with his brother and, only occasionally, his dad. He wished it was the weirdest thing about his relationship with Dean. It wasn't either.

"You don't like it when we talk about chicks," Eric said, so matter-of-fact. Sam wanted to fold back into the couch and have it eat him whole.

"I dunno," Sam said again, feeling stupid and young.

Eric just shrugged. He looked at the joint in his hand but didn't light it again.

"Yeah. I mean, I guess it's gross, it's your brother. I wouldn't wanna hear about my brother getting laid. That's nasty."

Sam spent a few luxurious seconds imagining what it would be like to have sex be a thing that was so far disconnected from your brother to the point of being gross. It was a beautiful concept.

"But," Eric started up, and Sam tensed, "not to like, philosophize at you or whatever, but you better learn to talk about girls."

He looked right at him, with his dark eyes. Hawkish features. Sam wanted to shrink away, but there was no couch left to shrink away into. Was he talking about what he thought he was talking about?

"Oh." Not sure what else to say.

Eric rubbed the back of his neck and slurped at his beer.

"I'm just saying, dudes notice if you don't talk about girls. I know it's with your bro, but I noticed, and you're like— you're, what, fifteen?"

Sam recalled a deeply morbid, deeply awkward conversation Dean had with him about a year ago, the thesis of which was 'don't trust a guy who asks how old you are.' Dean was talking about strangers and truckers and hunters when he said it, older guys with a syrupy smile and a glint in their eye, but now, hearing it from Eric, it just made Sam's heart ratchet up. Triple time. He was stupid.

"Yeah," he lied. Stupid.

"Right, yeah, fifteen, so. That's too late to not be talking about pussy, you know? If you liked pussy. Like, if you were into that." Another drink. "And I'm not saying you're not, I'm just. You know."

It was awkward, both waiting for the other to go first. Sam picked a scab on his knee; a sharp rock, sliding down an embankment a week ago. He could be brave.

"Can you tell?" he asked quietly.

It felt like falling out of a plane. Eric sighed like he'd been holding his breath, waiting for it.

"Yeah. Like, big-time."

Sam wiped his palms on his shorts. How could anyone know if he didn't know? Did the kids at school know? Did Dad?

"Shit."

"Sorry. Just giving you a heads up."

"Does Dean know?"

"About… you? Uh. I dunno. He never said anything to me. The guy's not, uh… he doesn't pay attention."

That pause before you, that questioning intonation. Sam's heart was fully gone, taking off for the horizon.

"Does he know about you?" he asked.

He winced, expecting a shout or a fist in his face. You didn't ask a guy that, you didn't suggest it, you didn't even suggest suggesting it.

But, Eric seemed nice. Eric was helping him out. Sam had no idea how to do any of this.

Eric looked at him for a while, moving his jaw back and forth.

"Nah. I'm not stupid." Eric looked down at the joint, rolled it in his fingers, then got out his lighter. "S'not just me, though, your bro's a fag magnet. He doesn't know it, but. Ain't a guy we hang with who doesn't wanna stick it to him at least a little bit. We don't say, but."

That made Sam sick to think of: the lies, the however-many guys that Dean thought were his friends, but they just wanted to— wanted—

Was he one of them? Was he a guy like that? He was lying to Dean the same way. He wanted to throw up.

"Oh," he said again.

Eric squinted at him. "Don't tell him I said that."

"I won't! Jeez."

But he would have, if he thought they were staying for longer than another month. Dean would be furious and grossed out and, worse, he'd know Sam was talking about him behind his back. He'd wonder why him and Eric were talking about liking guys.

Sam realized all of a sudden that this was the first time he'd ever talked about liking guys, maybe even to himself. His head was pounding.

Eric brought the joint to his lips. The sweet, herbsy smell filled the trailer again and Sam just watched. Eric looked blissed out. He looked good.

"But," Eric added, extending a finger in the air like he was making some important point, "for a straight dude, he sure gets handsy when he's drunk."

This was, officially, either the best or worst conversation Sam ever had. His mind was racing, horribly remembering that he already knew that about Dean, his noogies and shoulder squeezes and an arm thrown around his neck when he got home late and loose. He hadn't thought of it as handsy. It made a sick jealousy crawl up the back of his throat to think that anyone else got to be on the receiving end of it.

God, he had to figure out how to tell Eric to go home, it was too much.

Just then, Eric's knuckles bumped against his arm. He jumped. Eric was holding the joint out to him.

Sam froze. A thousand thoughts all at once: stupid, Dean's gonna know, this is weird, you don't know him, he's cute, he's so cute, he's Dean's friend, he's so much like Dean, grow up, it's fine, what good is being smart if you're still so fucking stupid?

He took the joint and Eric gave him an approving look, a wordless attaboy. Sam was not immune to attaboy. He had, in fact, made the worst decisions of his life in the wake of that specific brand of older-boy peer pressure, via Dean.

He took a hit the way he'd seen them do it. It was scratchy and hot in his lungs, musty and grassy. He tried to exhale and instantly started coughing, his eyes streaming, hand blindly groping to give the joint back to Eric, who was laughing.

"This isn't your first time, is it?"

"No," Sam managed quickly, furiously wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "Dean and I smoke all the time."

He wished. If Dean denied it, Eric wouldn't know which of them was lying to sound cool.

Eric just shrugged and nodded. He was looking at the TV. The documentary about prairie dogs was over and now it was something about World War II, some monotonous narrator and black and white footage.

Why wasn't Eric leaving? Did he not have somewhere to go? They sure as hell couldn't fit him in the trailer. Was Dean supposed to wake up and rally?

Sam guessed he was starting to feel it. He felt gauzy and weird, hyper aware of the texture of the couch under his hands as he scratched his nails against it. He didn't know what he expected. It didn't feel like on TV, when people laughed at nothing and fell down.

"Does this thing pull out?" Eric asked, looking down at the couch and bouncing a little.

"No."

"Then where do you sleep?"

Beyond humiliating, every time this came up. Dean was better at talking around it than he was, most of his friends were nice enough not to ask.

When he didn't answer, Eric's eyes flicked past his head to the dark bedroom. It was obvious just looking through the wedge of open doorway that it was the size of a closet.

All Eric said, after a beat, was, "Weird."

The older they got, the weirder it would be that they shared a bed, and the more embarrassing it was that they were so poor they didn't have a choice.

The tiny, horrible, secret thought that Sam kept to himself, with such vicious fervor that he wasn't even sure if he really thought it, was that he was glad that his height and constant increase of that height meant it would be inhumane for him to ever sleep on the couch.

(About once a month, he woke up with Dean's hand somewhere on him—on his shoulder or arm or resting on his chest, his fingers loosely curled in sleep—and it gave him something that got him through the following three weeks.)

"Yeah," Sam agreed.

He hoped the primary takeaway was 'man, these guys are poor' and not the other thing. He didn't think many people's minds would go to the other thing.

His thoughts spooled out. He felt heavy and tired, nice, empty. He didn't know how long they sat there, he just stared at the TV without really watching it. They were showing tanks rolling through the European countryside and it was freaking him out a little but getting up to change the channel seemed impossible. The night had finally cooled off, but he still felt sweat roll down the back of his neck.

He realized at some point that Eric's knee was up against his. He didn't know how long it had been there or if he was the one to close the gap. So embarrassing if it was him. Eric's bony knee with his black jeans, his own, smaller and scuffed and bare below the hem of his blue basketball shorts.

He looked up. Eric was leaned back into the couch, the picture of relaxation, except he was looking at him. He didn't know how long he'd been looking at him.

"What?"

Eric smiled. Sam's stomach flipped over again.

"You, uh. You look like him."

Huh? "What?"

"Dean."

Sam scowled. He hunched in and stared at the TV. "I do not."

He wasn't an idiot. He was in second grade the first time a girl asked him to introduce her to Dean. No one ever asked Dean to introduce them to him.

Eric said, "Yeah, you do. Same eyes and shit." A pause. "He a heavy sleeper?"

Eric shifted on the couch and now their whole thighs were pressed together.

Sam forgot to lie. "Only when he's drunk."

Eric nodded. Sam was looking at him now and he couldn't look away, paralyzed. His whole body was thrumming, partially stoned and partially turned on, he'd been half hard since Dean's story about his date and then he started thinking about that, Dean taking off some girl's panties, Dean's face between her legs, Sam hadn't met the girl he was talking about but he'd seen others and they were gorgeous, tall college girls who might as well have been alien for all Sam wasn't even on the same planet at them. It was insane that Eric said he looked anything like Dean because he'd know if he looked like Dean, people would like him the way they liked Dean, they'd let him— Don't think about Dean, think about Eric, think about—

Eric leaned in. He put his knuckles against Sam's thigh.

"You always stare at me. Whenever I'm around."

He smelled his beer and smokes and he had such nice skin close up, pale and unmarred. His eyebrows were brownish, he dyed his hair. Sam swallowed.

"Yeah."

"Yeah. So." Eric was looking at his mouth. "I stare at you, too."

That couldn't be right. This couldn't be real. Weed didn't make you hallucinate, right, could he be making this up? Guys like Eric didn't like him, they smoked cigarettes and drove cars and liked girls or guys like Dean, not stupid little kids.

"Oh," he said, and regretted it. Not cool, not smooth, Eric was gonna change his mind from wherever the hell he'd put it in the first place. "Really?"

"Yeah. You're hot."

It's like he was talking about someone else. He reached out and brushed his hand through Sam's hair and Sam shuddered at the feel of it, he was so weird and sensitive, it was like a bomb going off in his head, warm heat and pleasure just from Eric's fingers in his hair.

Eric asked, "Can I kiss you?" and Sam thought that was pretty polite. No one had ever asked before. He couldn't think of a reason to say no.

He nodded, and Eric put his big hands on his face and kissed him, and kissed him, and kept kissing him until they started doing other stuff instead.

During it, Sam imagined Dean coming out of the bedroom and seeing them. He'd shout and beat the shit out of him but he'd see them, and he'd know that someone he liked, this friend, liked Sam enough to have sex with him. The fantasy tripped out of control; maybe Dean would push Eric aside and take over. Or join them. Whatever. Whatever it was, Dean would see him, and he'd know.

Dean didn't wake up. Eric left afterwards.

Sam crammed into the RV's tiny shower stall to wash under the lukewarm spray. His whole body felt hot and pounding, swollen and weird, sticky. He was still kind of stoned and his hands were clumsy. His heart wouldn't slow down. His only complete thought was: it was good to get it over with.

As the adrenaline dissipated, other thoughts came through. Dean would kill him if he found out. Eric asked him not to tell him, like Sam was that fucking stupid. He saw a future where Eric and Dean had some falling out and Eric threw it in Dean's face. Maybe it would come up that Sam lied about his age: Dean would say he's only thirteen and Eric would say he told me fifteen like that was any better at all, and then Eric would kill him if Dean hadn't already.

The whole thing had been… good. It felt good, anyways. He was so quick he hardly remembered parts of it and he was blisteringly awkward, clumsy and bumpy, but Eric didn't seem like he cared. No one had ever seen him naked before and, importantly, now he wasn't a virgin anymore. He got it over with. It could have been worse. One of his knees had a friction burn on it from the couch and he couldn't think of a good lie to tell Dean if he noticed.

He knew that Dean had been older than thirteen, his first time. Sam had no idea what to do with that information. Being proud of himself felt gross.

He crept into the bedroom, his heart thumping loud in his ears. He could see the shape of Dean on his side of the bed, shirtless in the heat and laying under only the thin top sheet.

Sam went around to his side of the bed and took his shorts off, kept boxers and t-shirt on; he worried he'd have marks from Eric's hands on his back, Dean had great night vision.

As soon as he got into bed, Dean turned his head to the side and mumbled, "Hey, baby," thick with sleep.

It was a term of endearment that only came out when Dean was very drunk, stoned, tired or hurt, usually appended into 'baby brother.' 'Baby brother' was bad enough, but left unattached the way it was then, it made Sam want to put his head in the oven.

Sam didn't respond. If he responded, he was baby. He couldn't let himself be baby.

Dean said, "Back still giving you trouble? I can get in there."

Dean gave him massages when the growing pains were bad, sitting on the couch with Sam's twiggy leg in his lap, absentmindedly working his calf with his strong hands as they watched TV. It was heaven.

"No." Sam's hands itched towards Dean in the dark. They stayed very firmly balled into fists. "Go to sleep."

Dean turned over. "Bossy."

Sam slid into bed next to him and stared up at the ceiling. Once Dean's breathing went slow and even with sleep, Sam turned his head and looked at him. His eyes traced the planes of his back and his big shoulders in the barely-there light from outside and he decided, once and for all, that there was something very, very wrong with him. The important thing was that Dean never found out.

#this was very much a 'wrote it for myself' thing but that always feels like a waste #no one will read 5k words on tumblr and that is fine #just go read the parent fic. I like it #wincest fic #weecest #roncillary

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goshen-applecrumbledore · 2 years

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Fic: 'Snooping and breaking things' timestamp (Sam POV)

I wrote Sam alone in their motel room while Dean was out in Snooping and breaking things. body swap, mentioned sam/dean, PWP, pining.

Wearing Dean's body was a nightmare for several reasons. The heartburn was bad and his aching joints were an annoying hassle, but the fact that Sam had wanted to be inside Dean's body in a very, very different way ever since he could remember was by far the hardest to deal with.

Dean was out with Katie wearing Sam's body like a meat-suit, but he couldn't think about that. Because he couldn't think about that, or the fact that Dean wasn't answering his phone, or the fact that Dean was thirty minutes late, Sam was sitting alone in their motel room in one of the uncomfortable dining chairs with his hands folded on the tabletop like a pious schoolboy. Folded where he could keep an eye on them. His thoughts were harder to keep in check.

He saw you naked. He said you have a big dick. He probably touched it.

Dean wouldn't. He told him not to, and maybe their boundaries were a few skips away from healthy, but Dean wouldn't.

He sounded like he liked it, though. He sounded impressed.

Sam groaned, alone, to himself. It was Dean's groan, so it didn't help.

You're reaching. You're making shit up. You're pathetic, he was just razzing you.

His hands moved at some point without his say-so, because he had the pads of his fingers against his lips. Against Dean's obscene mouth.

He pulled them away, burned. Then, with another glance at the door, he put them right back.

Don't. Stop. Do not.

Dean's lips were pillowy. He tried to remember if he'd ever felt Dean's mouth before, but nothing came to mind, and there was likely nothing beyond clapping a hand over his mouth to shut him up. Touching them so intentionally was new. Tracing them.

He put his fingers in his mouth.

Logically, he knew he should stop. Physically, Dean was sucking his fingers, and he didn't stop.

He let his-Dean's mouth pull at his fingers, sucking gently, the hot wet soft curl of his tongue. He always wondered. He was so stupid, and he always wondered. It was better than he thought. He finally knew what it would feel like, both to have Dean suck his fingers and to suck Dean's fingers, all at once.

It was easy to imagine. His, Sam's, fingers working into Dean's mouth, the way he'd take them, the give of his soft palate and his throat as he pushed them in. Dean pretended like he didn't know, but he did, he had to, Sam saw the way he looked at guys. No real gag reflex, which had to be practiced.

He tried not to think about Dean liking guys, most days. It was too close, it gave him hope he had no business having, because 'guys' didn't mean 'brother,' not by a mile. He wasn't stupid, he was just… broken. Only a little.

He was hard now, too. It was an insane sensation, getting hard with someone else's dick, familiar and still not. He took his fingers out of his mouth, pushed his chair out from the table and looked down at it, which only made him harder, because it was Dean's. He'd seen Dean's hard dick in his jeans more times than he knew what to do with, a life spent sitting next to Dean as he popped wood over a waitress' tits, the same at eighteen as he was at twenty-eight.

Sam wanted to touch it so bad he spread his hands back on the tabletop.

You're better than this, he thought, this does not define you, Dean does not define you, that rotting kernel inside you that makes you want to fuck your brother is only a kernel, insignificant, a speck. It's not important, it's not you. This fucked up thing is not you.

It felt like him, though. A lot. It had been an elephant in his mental room since he hit puberty, and he didn't always think about it, but it never went away. It skulked behind him, waiting for an opportunity—an unintentionally flirty comment from Dean, a caught look, and his brain went crazy wondering: did Dean know? Was it even remotely possible that the thing that was eating him alive was also eating Dean?

He didn't let himself entertain the thought. Dean wouldn't know a healthy boundary if it fucked him in the ass, but this particular beast was entirely Sam's own.

He ran his hand up his thigh, dangerously close. Dean was more sensitive than him, even the friction of his hard-on against denim was getting him there, Jesus, how did he live like this?

He couldn't help it, he slid his palm over it and hissed at the feeling.

It was big. Some of that had to be genes oh God don't think about that, don't, never mind, it was— it was good, thick and full under the push of his hand. He could play with it a little, that wasn't so bad. One stroke, two, the angle awkward through his jeans. He pressed his fingers against the head and made sparks of pleasure race up his spine, too sharp, knees opening wide. His mouth was dry. He kept petting it, rougher, each stroke making it harder to stop.

He thought about how often Dean did this alone, in the shower and in bed and any time he had five halfway private minutes. Sam had heard him enough to know, his reluctant grunts of pleasure and poorly-stifled breathing, the same he was hearing in his own ears, out of his own mouth.

His back was starting to sweat, hot and damp in the valley of his spine, in the tight black t-shirt that drove him crazy. He resigned himself about thirty seconds ago to the fact that he was going to come, he couldn't go back, but if he did it in his jeans, the odds of Dean finding out went up exponentially. He had to take it out. No choice, really. That's what he told himself.

He went to the bed, standing for a moment in front of his own before going to Dean's. He sat back against the headboard and fumbled his belt and then jeans open with numb, nervous hands. He paused to push up his shirt and smooth a broad hand over his stomach, flat and hard with a bit of soft, just enough to make him want to dig his fingers in. Up higher, over his pecs to brush over a nipple and feel the amulet bump against his knuckles, which, when he was a kid, made him go nuts: knowing that Dean never took it off, which meant he wore it when he was with girls, a piece of Sam there to bear witness; he wondered if Dean told the truth if a girl asked about it, my brother gave it to me, and how soon before or after sex his name might be in Dean's mouth because of it.

Sam was more mature now, and he didn't think about that stuff so much, but he thought it then. Wallowed in it, even. It was a special occasion.

He slid his hand back between his (Dean's) legs, over his boxers, and all but melted back into the pillows. He was so hard and warm under his fingers, big, and he could smell him. Guilt grew and grew inside him but he didn't want to think about it, he couldn't, he was too far gone. He groaned and it sounded like Dean, it felt so good, he was so stupid. He cupped himself (Dean) through his boxers and tipped his head back.

"Fuck me," he said to himself, shame burning in the back of his throat. Then, worse—don't say it don't say it don't say it— "Sammy."

Fucking pervert. Pathetic.

He pulled his boxers down, eyes screwed shut like that was any better, and took him in his hand. The skin on skin was electric and better than he ever thought, terrifying and hot and perfect. He stroked himself and couldn't stop thinking about Dean doing it, and how he now knew exactly how he felt when he did, and he lasted all of ten seconds before he looked down and watched, and after that he was fucking gone. He was gone the second he said 'Sammy.'

He knew he had to get it over with, God only knew when Dean would get back and turn a bad situation worse.

He stared down at Dean's hand on Dean's dick, working it in his fist, thick and pretty, proportioned, a goddamn vision. He sunk into his fantasies the way he'd sink into Dean if he could, in some opposite universe where Dean let him, where Dean was just as messed up as him. Dean making the choked-back noises that were coming out of his own throat, Dean losing his mind over it, Dean babbling at him fuck shit yes yes just like that oh fuck, clawing at his back, his arms, going crazy with it.

Even better, the idea of getting Dean to finally shut up was erotic all on its own; fucking him so good and so hard he didn't have anything to say about it, couldn't say anything about it, bravado gone, annoying veneer stripped, just going to pieces on Sam's dick. It was the best thing in his godawful spank bank, fucking Dean stupid like that. Usually face down. Usually with a hand on the back of his head to keep him there.

He slid down the headboard and his head tipped back into the pillows, body going taut with pleasure, teeth clenching, so close his toes curled and he stopped being able to hold anything back, so, even worse, or a hell of a lot more dangerous, he thought about Dean fucking him.

It was humiliating and awful but he let the daydream sprawl in his mind as his hand sped up helplessly—Dean sweating and heaving above him, the ache of him inside him, smoothing his hair back and whispering in his ear, rock-salt rough, you feel so good Sammy you're doing so good I want you to come for me okay baby I want you to

The orgasm caught him off guard in the new body, the signs just different enough, and he watched with slack-jawed lust as Dean's dick spurted over his hand, over his shirt and fuck, Dean would notice, now he had to do laundry, or— he couldn't stop pumping it, it felt so good, all the way through his whole body until he was tingling with it, and way past what he thought was possible it still felt good and he was still jerking it, he couldn't stop, holy shit, what was wrong with Dean? What was wrong with him?

He was still hard and still leaking over the circle of his fingers, all of it slicked up and wet now, and he kept stroking it just because it could, because it made his face burn and his body twitch and it felt amazing, razor sharp but just short of wanting to stop and he kept jacking it and it felt like just-came and not-yet altogether, Dean was a fucking freak, if Sam could ever find a way to talk to him about this, he would, but there was nothing— nothing—

A sensation coursed through him that was less like coming than it was falling off a cliff and he let go of his dick in shock, overwhelmed, and only then did he realize he was coming again. It pulsed and dripped untouched against his leg, getting all over his boxers, a short sharp stab of unbearable pleasure that was over by the time he got his hand around it again.

He collapsed down to the bed, boneless and panting and hot all over, thinking vaguely of laundry and Katie and trying to keep the guilt of it all from killing him. What Dean didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

He'd get up just as soon as he could move. He raised a numb hand to his (Dean's) mouth and touched it again, and dreamed.

(read the full fic here)

#not sure whether this should be an additional chapter on AO3 but!! here it is #wincest fic #wincest #roncillary

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