Disclaimer: I don't own anything pertaining to Supernatural or Foo Fighters excerpts. This is just for fun.
Everlong - Chapter I
Hello. I've waited here for you. Everlong.
Tonight I throw myself into,
And out of the red, out of her head she sang.
Come down and waste away with me. Down with me,
Slow how you wanted it to be,
I'm over my head, out of her head she sang.
It had all begun when Sam turned sixteen. As if out of nowhere, he had grown almost a foot in height, and was threatening to dwarf his twenty-year-old brother Dean. Dean commented unkindly that Sam was growing like a weed, all tall and spindly, but there were more to the comments than typical brotherly banter. Dean chose not to focus on the little wheedling thoughts in the back of his mind, however, deciding to brush over them with constant digs at Sam's appearance, particularly his haircut and his height. A year had passed since then, and those thoughts had remained and exacerbated themselves.
Sam wasn't a naturally brash person. He was placid and sweet, kind, with a love of animals and a gift for happiness. This fact often astonished his older brother, who was naturally more pessimistic and cautious of letting people see the soft side of him. Sam wore his young heart on his sleeve, and was hard to anger, but easily hurt as a result. More often than not Dean had upset Sam by going too far with an insult about Sam's uncontrollable hair, or comparing him to a praying mantis, or some other unpleasant, spindly insect. Sam's face would be a picture of hurt, before he'd storm off to his bedroom, slamming the door in a fine show of adolescent angst.
Dean always regretted getting to that point. Sometimes he just didn't know when to stop, even though he loved his brother more than anything. It was just so easy to take out his daily frustrations and worries on the one person he saw the most. Their father was rarely around, usually disappearing off on some job or other, sometimes taking Dean, but mostly leaving him at home with his still too-young brother. Sam had been taken on a job only twice; once involving a particularly vicious poltergeist who had fed off Sam's teenage energy and left him sick and weak for days, and another incident involving the violent spirit of a paedophile who had unnerved Sammy terribly, focusing its efforts on touching the boy, at one point pinning him to the floor. Dean shuddered to remember the look of abject horror on Sammy's face. That was the point where John had decided that Sam was still too young to go on hunts, no matter how well-trained the boy was. His open heart and changeable emotions made him a prime target for evil. This had been three years ago, when Sam was still only fourteen. Sam had been devastated, understandably so. He hated being left out of the little club that was Dean and Dad, being treated like a child. In his teenage state, he didn't realise that this was for his own protection, and because he was loved, not because he was an embarrassment.
It was a depressingly hot day in the middle of summer. Dean was sweltering, sitting in the living room of the rented house that their father had left them in only several days ago. He was itching to go outside, just to attempt to get some fresh air on his face, but he knew the consequences of what could happen if he left Sammy alone, and what would happen if their father found out. He glanced to the other side of the sofa, his gaze falling on the lanky, miserable-looking teenager that lay slumped on it like a dead bumblebee.
"Cheer up, Sammy," said Dean, not unkindly. "You look like someone took a dump in your cereal."
"We didn't have any cereal this morning," said Sam, pedantically. "We had stale bagels and bad coffee."
Dean rolled his large, doe-like eyes. As much as he loved his little brother, these constant angst-ridden outbursts were irritating. He sighed heavily and turned back to the TV, where they were watching some kind of moronic cartoon where little animals took turns in beating the shit out of each other. Sammy's legs were fidgeting relentlessly, jerking like he was having electric shock treatment. Dean stared at them, not quite irritated, but restless nonetheless. A lone curl had fallen into Sam's hazel eyes, and Dean felt an automatic compulsion to reach over and brush it away off his forehead, and just stare at him. His hand jerked involuntarily as he caught himself, blinking with shock at his own near-action. Dean swallowed, his eyes lingering on his brother, who slowly turned and looked back at him, one eyebrow raised. Neither of them said anything. Dean's face was as startled as if someone had jumped out at him, and Sam just looked confused. The moment passed, and they both went back to watching cartoons, a heavy and deeply uncomfortable silence settling over them. They were both acutely sensitive to the beads of sweat settling on their foreheads, lips and on the back of their necks. Their breathing was measured and deliberate.
Moments like this were becoming alarmingly common. Since Sammy had started to bloom into a young man rather than a boy, Dean kept finding himself being swept away with a look, a movement, a phrase, and shortly after it happened, a vile nausea would sweep over him. Part of him deeply resented this change in Sam. He'd gone from an aggravating child who Dean had loved deeply, to an awkwardly elegant young man, with a soft, almost puppyish beauty. He wasn't a boy anymore, although he'd never truly been a normal child. There had always been a very adult gravity about Sam; the kind of gravity that a person only achieves through a hard upbringing and a strong sense of right and wrong.
However, Dean was almost convinced that it wasn't just him falling into the traps of the beauty of youth. Although these moments were invariably awkward and unsettling, Sam never looked at him with disgust, or jumped away with horror. He'd just stare back, those wide green eyes unblinking, serene as a Buddha. Perhaps that in itself was more unnerving than if Sam had jumped away from Dean, shaking with revulsion and ran screaming out of the room.
It was the dreams that bothered Dean most. They were frequent, and unbearably graphic; so much so that sometimes when he woke up it took him several moments to differentiate the dream world from reality. More than once he'd slowly turned, like in a horror movie, towards his brother to be simultaneously relieved and disappointed that Sam was in his own bed, still in his pyjamas, breathing softly. Dean lived in constant fear that one day he'd say something incriminating in his sleep, but so far if it had happened, Sam gave no inclination that he was bothered by it.
"Is there any soda in the kitchen?" Sam asked. His voice was drowsy. The hot weather and the lack of things to do were making him sleepy.
"Naw," said Dean. "We ran out two days ago. Just get a glass of water or something."
Sam stretched, his wiry bodily slender and elegant, before pushing himself up from the sofa with something of an effort. He yawned, and Dean laughed.
"All this doing-nothing tiring you out, Sammy?"
Sam threw him a sardonic smile. "Nah, the excitement's just about killing me."
Dean snorted and turned back to the TV, deliberately ignoring the way that a shaft of light had caught Sam's face. He was like an angel. Radiant. Dean felt that old feeling of nausea curl in his belly like a snake. This was wrong and he knew it was.
Dean listened to the shuffling of Sam in the kitchen, punctured by the occasional slam of a cupboard door, and then his exasperated mutterings.
"Dean, there's nothing here, man," he cried. More shuffling. "There, like, some mouldy old bagels and some old-ass cereal. We don't even have any milk!"
Dean groaned inwardly. He knew what was coming next.
"How much money do you have? Can we go to a store or something? I'm starving here."
Dean turned sharply and glared at Sam. "That amazes me, considering the ton of food you get through every single day. Sometimes I swear you're just hiding it all. Like, one day I'll look under your bed and there'll just be a pile of mouldy old food."
Sam shook his head, making his curls jump in a way that was very charming. "You can't talk," he grinned. Then as an after-thought he added, "Fatty."
Dean jumped up, his expression mock-angry. "Fatty?" He pulled up his faded Metallica t-shirt to expose a set of rock-hard abdominal muscles. "This look like fat to you?" Sam laughed. Dean prodded Sam's stomach. "Look who's talkin'! Goddamn puppy fat!" In truth, Sam's stomach was as toned as Dean's, but Sam laughed and gave Dean a playful shove.
Dean laughed in return, pulling his brother into a headlock. Sam may have been tall, but he was still no match for his brother's strength. The boys wrestled each other, laughing, until Sam managed to trip them both over with his long legs. They lay sprawled on the living room floor, laughing, and staring at each other.
The laughter eventually passed, leaving just two beautiful boys sprawled all over each other, breathing hard from the fight and staring at each other stupidly. Dean noticed that Sam's eyes had little flecks of gold in them. Sam noticed that Dean had a spattering of freckles across his nose. The moment was so tense that they swore they could hear the other's heartbeat. Dean opened his mouth as if to say something, and Sam tilted his head curiously, a small smile playing across his lips.
"I think we should go to the store then," he said, before roughly untangling himself from Sam's limbs and striding to another part of the house to fetch his wallet and car keys.
Sam lay there blinking, his heart going at roughly the same speed as a mouse's, and blood rushing south in a way that both scared and thrilled him. Shakily he got to his feet, brushing his hair out of his face with a slightly trembling hand. He could still feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins, making everything slightly dream-like in its quality. He swayed a little on the spot, his head full of freckles and green eyes and testosterone. All that play-fight had done was highlight the horrible and captivating thoughts that he'd been experiencing for some time.
He'd always adored his older brother - hero-worshipped him even- but there was something unnerving and horrible about the way those thoughts had changed in the last few years. He knew that it wasn't normal to think about Dean when jacking-off in the shower, or fantasise about him when he was dozing off to sleep. He knew it was wrong to study his brother's exquisite face when he was sleeping, and count the thick eyelashes that framed Dean's large, expressive eyes. It was all wrong. And yet, for all their wrongness, Dean's every smile, touch and word was like gold-dust to him; invariably precious and wonderful, filling him with a joy that was both incredible and petrifying.
He could hear Dean's heavy footsteps lumbering down the hall, and tugged at the crotch of his jeans, hoping to hide the effect his brother had had on him. He flushed with shame, desperately willing his erection to just go away.
"You ready?" said Dean, his tone non-committal, indifferent. He was jingling the keys for the Impala in his hand.
Is he nervous? Sam thought. He brushed away those thoughts almost instantly. Nah, nah. Just my stupid imagination. With a distinct feeling of melancholy, Sam nodded assent and trudged out to the car, head down and eyes on the floor.
Dean raised an eyebrow. He didn't understand Sam sometimes; one minute he could be laughing and play-fighting with him, then the next he was dour and withdrawn. Dean's head was still swimming from yet another awkward, breathtaking moment with his brother. It was the fact that it was with his impressionable, underage brother that it made it as confusing and terrible as it was.
Maybe I freaked him out, Dean thought, and the same melancholy that had settled on Sam settled on Dean too.
The drive to the store was uneventful and sedate. Dean was blaring Led Zeppelin IV, singing along to When the Levee Breaks. His singing voice was terrible, but the enthusiasm with which he sang the words made it tolerable. Sam couldn't suppress a smile at his brother's profile, grinning and animated, trying and failing to imitate Robert Plant's falsetto. It was a wholly adorable sight. Sam didn't sing along, choosing to just tap his fingers in time with the music on the dashboard.
In the store they stocked up on various junk food, and cherry soda, which Sam loved. Dean picked up a bottle of cheap whiskey for himself, using an ID that claimed he was one Syd Barrett. He'd given the cashier – a hard-bitten, indifferent, middle-aged woman – his best winning smile, and she'd come over all giggly, like a schoolgirl. She'd barely glanced at the ID, even though Dean was legal. He had a baby-face, which was both a blessing and a curse.
The trip back to the house was also uneventful. Dean sang, Sam watched subtly out of the corner of his eye. The windows were rolled down, making Sam's hair take on a life of its own. Dean laughed to see it, and Sam blushed and said nothing. Sam hung his arm out of the passenger window, enjoying the way the wind dried up his sweat, feeling refreshed. It had been nice just to get out of the house and stretch his legs. The cherry soda was just a bonus.
Back indoors, Dean checked the house over, .45 in one hand, holy water in the other, before announcing that everything seemed fine, and settling him back on to the sofa. He'd been sitting down so much over the last few days that he'd created what he referred to as his own "ass-groove" in the cushions. He signed with contentment as he made himself comfortable.
"That's your fat ass making that groove, you know," teased Sam, who was in the process of inhaling a packet of Twinkies. He had his long legs draped over Dean's, unconsciously. "I bet it'll be there forever, you'll have wrecked the sofa so bad."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "I'd take that more seriously if you didn't have crumbs all over your face, piglet."
Sam laughed and Dean smiled. It was moments like this that he loved, draped over each other comfortably, teasing and joshing, completely at ease with one another.
Time dragged on. Dean stared at the clock, startled that the day was almost gone. They'd been watching TV shows for hours, even though they were almost all repeats. The sun had gone down, and the two brothers sat in darkness, apart from the bright glow of the television. As a precaution, Dean topped up the rock salt that he'd poured all around the house, knowing full-well that night was the most dangerous time of day for people like himself and Sammy. However, the house seemed secure, and they'd had no problems to speak of yet, and Dean felt quietly confident.
He pottered into the kitchen, leaving Sam watching The Goonies, got himself a glass tumbler, and then filled it liberally with the cheap whiskey. He didn't even care if it was bad; he felt he deserved it. The stress of living with your younger brother, as well as harbouring romantic inclinations towards him was trouble enough without adding the supernatural into it. He got out a second tumbler and went back to the living room, his heart glowing at the sight of Sammy sprawled out on the sofa, playing idly with a lock of dark hair, his gaze fixed on the TV.
So goddamn beautiful...
He couldn't shake the thought this time. Sammy really was beautiful, all gangling limbs, coltish grace and strange eyes. He handed the glass to Sam, who looked up at him with a slightly perplexed expression that made Dean inwardly melt.
"What's that for?"
Dean rolled his eyes. "Man, I thought you were meant to be the smart one. It's a glass, you oaf. For drinking from."
Sam patted the bottle of cherry soda next to him. "But I've got this," he said.
Dean shook his head, exasperated. "It's for the whiskey, genius."
"Oh!" Sam's face was a picture of surprise. "But I'm underage!"
"...And? God, Sammy, if I had an older brother offering me free booze I wouldn't be asking dumb questions. You game or what?"
Sam grinned sheepishly and took the glass off Dean, before holding it out for him to pour some whiskey in.
"Don't bolt it all at once, ok?" Dean warned. "I don't wanna have to be holding your hair back when you're puking your guts out from drinking too fast." Sam nodded, guileless as a child. "Just thought it'd be good to kick back for once, y' know?"
"Don't tell Dad I drank, will you?" said Sam, suddenly looking younger than his seventeen years.
"Don't tell that that I got you drunk!" Dean laughed.
The night went by in a cosy, whiskey-coloured haze. Sam laughed more, his beautiful young head thrown back in abandon. Dean watched him and glowed. Sam curled his legs round his brothers, the pair of them entwined in the sofa in a way that should have felt weird but didn't. Dean rested his cheek on Sam's dark head. They breathed together. Sam could smell Dean's aftershave, and sweat. He shut his eyes, taking it in. His breath smelt of whiskey.
They hadn't sat like this in a long time, not since they were children together. Dean draped an arm casually around Sam's shoulders, and Sam felt his stomach do a flip.
I'm looking too deeply into this, he told himself. I need to control this. It's fucked up.
He kept his eyes concentrated on the TV, not daring to move his head, enjoying the heavy feeling of Dean's weight rested on it. Sam took a long slurp from his third glass of whiskey. He felt fuzzy and warm, and strangely happy. He gave a contented sigh.
"You ok, Sammy?" Dean's voice was low, slightly slurred. He'd had more to drink than Sam.
"I'm good," said Sam. He turned his head upwards towards Dean, making his brother move his head to look down at him. "Kinda fuzzy though." He smiled winsomely. "But in a nice way."
Dean stared at Sam, taking in every aspect of his face. The high cheekbones, the smiling, sweet mouth, those autumnal eyes.
Against his will, he could feel himself getting hard. As ever, this was followed by a sick feeling, but Sammy was so unbearably beautiful at this moment, so gentle. He wanted to reach out, to pull his brother's alarmingly lovely face towards his, to taste him, to pry him apart, to make him his. It was a thought as vile as it was breathtaking. Sam continued to fix him with a disturbingly adult stare, that little smile still playing on his lips. Dean breathed out, then in, feeling his stomach fill with writhing butterflies. He sighed. His head spun. Maybe he'd had too much whiskey, or maybe it was just the serotonin storming through his brain. He couldn't tell.
This is my brother. This is my brother. This is Sammy.
Sam was still looking at him, the smile gone now, his lips slightly parted. Dean shifted slightly, not wanting him to see the growing hardness he was harbouring.
Then, to Dean's utter shock, Sam moved slightly, and kissed Dean, once, on the forehead. Dean blinked, not knowing what to do or say. Sam was studying his reaction, his eyes narrowed, his expression fast becoming one of regret. You just didn't kiss your brother, in any capacity.
"Sorry," said Sam, scooting to the other end of the couch, away from Dean's searching eyes.
"Sammy, what for?" Dean said. It came out as barely a whisper.
Sam looked him straight in the face, looking as hurt and scared as a wounded animal. "For that, I'm sorry." His bottom lip trembled, and he buried his face in his hands. "It's just so fucked up."
Dean was momentarily disorientated from seeing his little brother in such pain. He moved over to Sam, and wrapped his arms around the boy. Sam was just so full of feelings and thoughts, so young and yet so old. Dean would've held him forever if he'd thought it would help.
"What's fucked up?" Dean said, his voice low and soft.
"I can't tell you," cried Sam. "You'll hate me. You'll never speak to me again."
Dean was taken aback. "Sam, I could never hate you." He smiled and said, "Well, unless you crashed the Impala or burnt my cds." His attempt at lightening the situation failed, as Sam turned and looked at him, his face a picture of abject fear and torment... and something else that Dean couldn't quite place.
"No, you don't get it. It's fucked up, all of this. Maybe it's because we're always together, and there's no girls about, or maybe it's because I'm a pervert." He spat the last word, before letting several fat tears drop from his reddening eyes.
Dean felt his heart quicken. Surely not. Surely Sam wasn't experiencing the same feelings he was. Maybe it was something else. His mind raced ahead of him and spun.
"What is it, Sammy?" he said, fixing his gaze on the younger boy's. "It's ok, you can say it. I won't hate you. If it's this bad... then I'll help all I can, ok?"
Sam stared into Dean's face, each freckle like a personal insult, his green eyes bright, even in the jumpy light of the television. There were no words. He couldn't say it.
He didn't think. He just acted. In one swift movement, he pulled Dean's face to his and kissed him, hard. This was no boyish kiss. Dean's eyes were wide open when Sam let go, his mouth agog. Sam looked as shocked as if someone had just shot him. He went to apologise, to protest, to say anything that would stop Dean punching him flat in the mouth, but he was cut off by Dean pulling him back, bruising his lips with a kiss that made his stomach drop, that made every neurone in his body fire. All the blood disappeared from his head, and instantly his groin pulsed with need, while his heart pulsed with shock.
Dean groaned into the kiss, his heart flipping as Sam opened his mouth and returned it, tongues joining in a strange dance that they'd never expected to have felt so astonishing. Kissing girls had never been like this. He felt as if someone was squeezing his heart tight in a fist. His breathing came as if he'd been running.
Sam and Dean broke apart, gazing stupidly at each other, before both bursting into a stupid grin.
"Did you...?" Sam ventured.
"Always," said Dean. He ran a hand down Sam's tanned face, marvelling at the softness of his skin and the shine of his dark hair. "You're perfect, Sammy."
"I thought you'd hate me," said Sam, quietly, eyes flicking quickly downwards.
Dean smiled. "Never, Sammy. I could never hate you. I love you." He bent his head to Sam's neck, and kissed the soft skin there. Sam groaned, his lips slightly open.
"Dean..." he moaned.
"If you wanna stop..." said Dean, between kisses. "We can stop. It's ok."
"I want this," panted Sam. "I've wanted this for too long"
Dean stopped abruptly, eliciting a small whine from the back of Sam's throat. "Sam," he said. "Are you sure about this? I mean, we're fucking brothers. This isn't right, you know it's not." He sighed, and moved away from Sam, who looked crestfallen. He fixed Sam with a hard look. "I love you. There, I said it. I love you, and not just in a brotherly way. I love you in the other way too. I want to be with you. I wanna do things to you... but it's sick. You're underage, and it's incest." Tears beaded his eyes. "What if people found out? What if Dad found out?" He choked back a sob. "What if we did this and regretted it? This has already changed things. If we... if we slept together, what would happen?"
Sam brushed a tear from Dean's cheek. "We both want this, you know. It's not hurting anyone... Besides, we've never really been normal, Dean. We never will be either. Maybe... maybe this has happened because we're different." He looked Dean in the eye. "But I know that I want this, and I want you. I love you, Dean. I'm not just some stupid teenager with a crush. Please. If we regret this, then it's our own doing. No one would ever have to know." He smiled. "Besides, if we love eachother so much... then surely we'd be able to get past it?"
Dean snorted. "You don't get it. I want to sleep with you, Sammy. God, I wanna fuck my own brother. There's nothing, nothing more fucked up than that!"
"I get it, I do!" cried Sam, putting his hands up. "I know it's fucked up, I know it's wrong, but if you feel the same way as I do then maybe there's a reason for it?"
"Yeah," said Dean, sarcastically. "It means that Dad messed up big-time. I guess there is such a thing as too much love."
Dean opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced by Sam's mouth on his. He gasped, then felt himself melt into the kiss. Sam was suddenly the only thing he could feel, and think about, and smell, and taste. He buried his hands in Sam's hair, on fire at the feel of Sam's tongue in his mouth. He could feel himself getting hard again, and pulled Sam on top of him. He could feel Sam's hardness through his dirty jeans, and groaned again, blood thumping painfully in his groin.
Suddenly, it was almost a competition of who could get their clothes off faster. Sam pulled off Dean's Metallica t-shirt, revealing his beautiful, fair-skinned body, toned and bright in the light of the television set. Dean unzipped Sam's trousers, before pulling them off in one fluid motion. Sam looked up at him with bright, hungry eyes. Dean couldn't help but let his gaze drop to the surprisingly large bulge in his brother's underwear. Sam pulled off his t-shirt, revealing his beautiful, tanned form.
"Fuck, Sammy... so fucking beautiful..." Dean pulled Sam into another kiss, passionate and hard. He reached into Sam's boxers, running his fingers over the sensitive head. Sam bucked against him, gasping into Dean's mouth. Dean ran his fingers down Sam's shaft, softly at first, then harder, causing Sam to moan in the back of his throat.
"Like that?" Dean teased. Sam's assent was a hard kiss, before leaning in to Dean's neck, sucking on the soft, pale skin there. Dean felt his cock harden further. It was aching now, a strange sort of pleasure. He felt Sam fumbling for his groin, dragging his nails down Dean's torso. Finally, Sam slipped his hand into Dean's underwear and pulled out his cock. Dean gaped at his brother as he pushed him back onto the sofa, running his tongue down his body. He nipped at Dean's nipples, before licking down to his inner thigh. Dean could've sobbed with desire, until suddenly Sam took Dean's cock in his mouth, all the way to the root.
"Oh my God, Sammy..." Dean gasped, as Sam's tongue encircled his throbbing dick. He had no idea where Sam had learnt how to do that, but it was incredible. He buried his hands in Sam's hair, thrusting unconsciously into Sam's mouth. The sight of Sam on his knees, sucking his cock, was almost too much for Dean. He could feel his orgasm building, like lightening and sugar shooting up his spine. He didn't want to finish yet, and pushed Sam away. Sam looked at him with confusion.
"Didn't you like it?"
Dean chuckled under his breath. "You're amazing," he said. "But I don't wanna be done so fast." He kissed Sam on his eyelashes, before moving to his neck. "Wanna fuck you so bad." Sam groaned at the words.
"Then fuck me," Sam hissed.
Dean smirked at him. "One minute, baby." He stood up, and walked to his room, leaving Sam panting in the living room, before returning with a small tube of lubricant. Sam's eyes widened. He knew now how big Dean was, and suddenly felt a twinge of nervousness among his desire.
"It's ok, baby," whispered Dean. "I ain't gonna hurt you. Gonna make you feel incredible." He squeezed some lube into his palm, rubbing most of it on his fingers, and the rest on Sam's ass. Sam gasped at such an intimate touch. "It's ok," whispered Dean. "It'll feel good."
"I know," said Sam. "Just never done this before... not with a girl or anything."
Dean paused, looking at Sam with love that Sam felt all his nervousness disappear. "It's your first time?" Dean asked. Sam nodded, looking bashful. Dean slipped his hands between Sam's legs and all the embarrassment on Sam's face was replaced by a look of pleasure. Dean slowly moved one finger inside Sam, whose eyes went wide before his mouth dropped open and inhaled sharply. Dean hushed him, and moved his finger slowly in and out. Sam yelped with pleasure as Dean hit his perineum. Dean grinned, and added a second finger.
It hurt slightly, but the pleasure was too much for Sam to even notice that much. All he could do was focus on Dean's fingers, Dean's beautiful golden head, and the unbelievable waves of pleasure that were ripping up his cock and spine. Dean inserted a third finger, and Sam cried out. It was like nothing he'd ever felt. Not even touching himself had ever felt this good, not even when he'd gasped in the shower, imagining that it was Dean jerking him off, not himself.
"Please, Dean, please," Sam whined, clawing at Dean's torso.
"Want me to fuck you, little brother?"
Sam couldn't even speak, just nodding and moaning underneath his brother's touch. Dean grinned, and kissed Sam once, hard, and bit his bottom lip. "S' gonna be so good, Sammy, gonna make you come." Sam sobbed with need, nonsense-words spilling from his mouth, coupled with his brother's name.
Dean arranged himself between his brother's legs, pulling them wide apart. He rubbed lube onto his cock, and into Sam's ass. He leant down, kissing Sam's chest. "I love you," he said. "I'm gonna make this good for you."
Sam's heart hammered in his chest as he watched his brother move over him, preparing to enter him. He tried not to tense his body, focusing instead on Dean's angelic face. He was literally the loveliest thing he'd ever seen.
Dean positioned himself on Sam's ass, and began to ease himself slowly inside. He could see the shock in Sam's eyes, and kissed him gently, stroking his face. "Don't tense, baby. It'll feel good if you just let go." Sam exhaled slowly, before breathing in Dean, only Dean.
Dean slowly pushed himself inside Sam, feeling his brother's tightness. He groaned, amazed at the feeling of his brother. "Oh God, Sammy..." he whispered. Slowly, Sam became used to the feeling of Dean's cock. His fear faded, and his eyes rolled back into his head as Dean thrust in and out of him, crying out with pleasure every time Dean's cock brushed his perineum. Dean picked up one of Sam's legs and put it over his shoulder. The pleasure intensified, and Sam was unable to stay quiet. He screamed Dean's name, clawing desperately at his back and torso, one hand on his own dick, pumping vigorously as Dean watched him hungrily, growling in the back of his throat.
"Dean... Dean..." Sam sobbed, his eyes rolling into the back of his skull. His noises were becoming more high-pitched and urgent, and he pulled Dean's head to his, hissing over and over again how much he loved him, how amazing he felt inside him, how beautiful he was, and pleasedontstoppleasedontstop.
Dean could feel his orgasm building, but wanted Sam to be satisfied first. "Come for me, Sam," he growled. "Come hard for me, baby." He thrust harder into Sam, hitting that sensitive golden spot over and over again, until Sam was reduced to wild animal noises, too overcome with pleasure to even claw at Dean's fair skin. Dean felt his brother tighten around him as all his muscles tensed, and he knew he was about to come. Sam's eyes shot open, and the look he gave him hit Dean with all the beauty and terror of a gunshot. Sam's mouth dropped open, and he came violently all over his own stomach and chest. The vibrations rolling through Sam's body were too much for Dean. He cried out Sam's name, and came hard. The earth seemed to split wide open, and Dean's head was full of stars. He felt like he was about to black out from the intensity of the orgasm, but instead slumped forward into Sam's waiting arms. They lay like that for a while, panting hard until their breathing calmed to a slow rhythm.
Dean moved himself out of his brother, and Sam experienced a poignant sense of loss, as if he never wanted to be apart from Dean again. They lay together on the living room floor, naked, sweaty, sticky and exhausted, but so happy that it was almost unbearable.
They stared at each other as if they never want to look away. Dean reached out and ran a callused hand over Sam's defined jaw. Sam was transfixed by Dean's perfectly-formed lips, and felt tears well up in his eyes. Dean pulled his little brother close to him, holding and rocking him like he did when they were little and Sam had had a nightmare. To their surprise, it didn't feel wrong or dirty. It felt like a natural progression of a strange brotherly relationship taken to extreme lengths. No one would ever love them the way they loved one another. No one would ever experience what they had, before this moment, or after it.
Society be fucked, thought Dean, feeling passionately protective and in love with Sam. He's mine. He's all fucking mine and I'm his. We were never going to be normal anyway.
To Dean's surprise, Sam had fallen asleep almost instantly in his arms. He felt a surge of almost overwhelming love for the breathtaking figure he held, and felt his lower lip quiver. Never had he never felt this way for anyone. It had nothing to do with being gay or being straight; it was just love. It was weird, yes, and socially wrong, but Sam was right. It wasn't hurting anyone, and it wasn't as if they had to worry about one of them getting pregnant.
"I'll never love anyone like you, Sam," Dean said quietly to Sam's prone figure.
Against his will, Dean woke Sam up, handing the tired boy his clothes and ushering him up to bed. Sam didn't seem drunk, just exhausted, which was understandable, Dean thought with a smile. He felt his own eyelids become heavy, and fell into bed with his brother, who was out like a light straight away, but with a little smile on his face that made Dean feel like there was glitter in his blood. He draped a heavy arm over Sam's sleeping frame, before falling fast asleep, the sweet smell of whiskey on his breath, and musk on his body.
There were no words.
Breathe out, so I can breathe you in,
Hold you in, and now, I know you've always been.
Out of your head, out of my head I sing.
I'm hoping to make this about three or four chapters long, as I've realised that I really love writing Supernatural fiction, haha. It's so wrong, but a very fun pairing to play with. So any reviews and encouragement would be lovely. =) I'll hopefully have the next chapter up in a few days.