Title: Fraternal Order
Fandom: Supernatural, a vague Season Two AU.
Rating: FR-18 (M)
Warning(s): Language; sexual situations, including thoughts of incest.
Distribution: Please ask first. Please do not screencap this story, save it to hard drives, exchange with others, or translate into other languages without written consent.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, lyrics, etc. are the property of their respective owners. Snippets of dialogue may be incorporated from the original canonical episode(s) and belong to their respective authors/creators. The original characters and plot are the property of the author(s). The author(s) is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended, nor should any be inferred. No profit is being made.
Summary: Sam is living, breathing porn. Why didn't Dean realize this sooner?
Dean sighed and rolled fitfully about the double bed which belonged to him for the next three days. He really needed to look into investing in some quality sheets, because this motel shit just wasn't cutting it. Sure, he and Sam needed to be frugal, but cheap was something else entirely, and these sheets were so wrong even Wal-Mart wouldn't carry them.
How could a piece of fabric be so thin and yet all scratchy? It was gross.
He tried not to think about what else might be on the sheets, or pressing up against them from the mattress. Visions of bedbugs danced in his head. For a brief moment, he considered going out to the Impala to grab the black light before deciding that there were some things he simply wasn't meant to know.
He sighed again and angrily glared up at the ceiling, as if expecting it to answer whatever burning question his mind was debating yet keeping from him. He promptly gave thanks he didn't receive one, because if ceilings could talk, it would probably be because someone was trapped up against it and burning alive. Mom. Jess.
He forced himself not to think about Jess. It was harder than he realized; much harder than it should have been. After all, he had only met her once, briefly, and the contact barely qualified as superficial. He hadn't spent four years of life with her as he had with his mother.
Dean frowned and thought about that; he had four years with Mary, and Sam four years with Jess before the demon came for them. That was fucked up.
Also fucked up was that Jess's death haunted Dean in a way Mary's never had. Perhaps it was because he had been so young when Mary died, or perhaps it was because he thought it sad that Jess would never finish school or get married or have kids. With Sam.
Or perhaps it was because she had been incredibly hot.
No. It was because of Sam. It was because of the look in Sam's eyes whenever the subject of the demon or of Stanford arose. Sam rarely referred to Jess by name any more, preferring instead to refer to his college years as my time in Palo Alto, and Dean had quickly learned not to challenge that description. Not that he was scared of his brother per se, but Sam could, on occasion, be damn scary. Enough so that Dean didn't want it aimed at him if he could help it.
He hated seeing that emptiness in Sam's face, like something wounded and forever broken, as if his brother was Humpty Dumpty or some shit, and Dean could never put him back together again. He didn't know what to do, how to help Sam, if helping him was even possible. He figured that was why he didn't try too hard to comfort his brother, not that Dean was really any good at the comfort thing.
So when Sam had a nightmare or a flashback or saw a girl who looked like Jess, Dean just clapped him hard on the shoulder and told him he needed to get over it.
He knew it was stupid and lame and probably very hurtful, but he didn't know what else to say. It had been easier when they were kids, when his brother had wanted nothing more than to hold his hand, and when a quick kiss on the cheek fixed Sam's frequent scraped knees better than Neosporin ever could.
But that wasn't who they were anymore. There were no kisses, no hand-holding, and hugs only when one of their lives had just about been snuffed out, and those embraces were more about desperation and fear than love or comfort.
He ceased his restless movements and looked across the narrow expanse between the beds. His eyes long adjusted to the dark, Dean was able to focus on Sam's face and was pleased and relieved to see his brother sleeping deeply. His brow wasn't furrowed, his lips weren't pursed, tears weren't leaking from his eyes.
Sam only ever cried in his sleep, when his barriers were unconsciously relaxed and the emotions could slip by unchecked. Dean envied that; he cried all the time.
Well, not all the time, but a hell of a lot more often than Sam. Sam hadn't even cried over Jess, and Dean thought that was a big fucking problem right there, but Sam had always been like that. He took every feeling but anger, every hurt, every slight, and stomped them all down deep inside himself where he could ruminate upon them from a distance, dissecting and exploring them without actually having to experience them. Sam really needed to watch Oprah.
Dean wasn't overly emotional and he wasn't big into Moments - because talking about that shit was gay - but there were times when he was so overwhelmed with feeling, tears were his only recourse. He hated that he cried, he really did, but it helped, and he felt better afterwards, and if anyone ever said anything to him about it, he'd clock them and move on. That was just how he rolled.
Dean Winchester, Badass.
He might have been the perfect soldier, but Sam was the spitting image of John when it came to grief: pushing everything and everyone else away, channeling the anger into fight, focusing that destructiveness on destroying shit that needed killing.
Dean could understand it, though he didn't like it. He had tried, but it just wasn't in him to do, unless Sam was the one who had been hurt, and then Dean would force down everything to take care of his brother. Most of the time, however, he liked having fun; he liked talking to people; he liked getting laid.
Both Sam and John could do with a nice long, luxurious fuck to unpack some of that baggage.
Dean would never admit it to Sam, because he wasn't a girl, but he missed those times, when things had been so much simpler, when Sam would crawl into his bed and Dean could chase the nightmares away just by slinging a sleepy arm over his brother. He missed Sam looking at him as if he had all the answers which, at the time, Dean had. He missed being his brother's hero.
He knew Sam loved him; he knew Sam would tell him so if Dean would just shut the fuck up and let him. That was dangerous territory to enter, however, because Dean loved Sam, a lot, and his feelings were no longer entirely fraternal.
He grimaced and sucked his lower lip into his mouth, trying to chase those thoughts away, because, seriously, what the fuck?
Sure, Sam was okay looking, in that cute geek way which seemed real popular now, thanks to emo fuckwits who sobbed about the unfairness of life in their shitty music.
Sam even had the hair going, that 'don't you want to pet my pretty locks and push my bangs off my face?' deal. And so, yeah, okay, Dean might have wanted to pet his brother's hair.
So what? It didn't change the fact that Sam was a giraffe, that his legs were longer than those of a Vegas showgirl, or that he used words which Dean was pretty sure weren't real.
Sam was fucking hot.
Dean groaned and turned on his side, his eyes never leaving Sam's face. This blew, and not in the fun way like that waitress in Vermont had blown him.
What the hell was wrong with him? How could he be lusting after Sam?
Dean wasn't a homophobe or anything, he just had never really considered guys as an option, and Sam was...a dude. Not that there was anything wrong with that; Dean had seen enough evil in the world to know that who someone fucked shouldn't be an issue, unless it was a demon or a hellhound or something. Which was pretty gross.
But, yeah, Sam was definitely a boy.
And your little brother, his conscience needled.
"Fuck off," he muttered.
Yeah, he probably should be worried that the fact Sam was his brother wasn't worrying him enough, but Dean really couldn't bring himself to care. If they ever got horizontal, it wasn't like they'd knock each other up and have little waterhead babies, so what was the problem? He liked a little freak with his sneak, and he guessed that incest should have been sounding big honking alarms on the Freak Meter, but it wasn't because it was Sam, and no one knew him like Sam did, knew everything about him and loved him anyway.
Besides, whose fucking business was it, other than theirs? They could never tell John, of course, because, hell, Sam could probably molest Dean while wearing a Care Bear suit and John would still blame his oldest son.
And why the fuck was the idea of Sam dressed up like Funshine Bear suddenly very appealing? Dean shrugged. As long as it wasn't Snuggle, bears were okay. Oh, except for were-bears. That shit was seriously messed up.
Christ, he was being random tonight. Must be from sleep-deprivation.
He knew he should just give up the ghost and force himself to give in to the exhaustion making his bones creak, but these quiet moments in which he could study Sam were the only ones afforded to him. It wasn't like he could ogle his brother in the car as they crossed the country hunting Evil. Sam's instincts were on par with Dean's own, and every time Dean turned to look at him, Sam was already waiting to meet his eyes with a challenging gaze.
Jesus, Sam was always wound so fucking tight.
Sam really needed to jack off.
"Goddamn it!" Dean hissed.
Now his mind was flooded with visions of Sam taking matters into his own hands. Big giant hands which were more like paws. Big enough to manipulate a dick which a rueful Dean had to concede was bigger than his own, and how unfair was that? He sighed again, deciding genetics sucked ass. Ah, well. So what if Sam's was bigger, really? More than a mouthful was...
Okay, this was getting ridiculous, and Dean was growing more pissed off and more horny with each passing second.
He turned and whispered an unheard apology to Sam before slowly sliding down the top sheet, gasping as the mechanically cooled air of the room settled over him, before fingering the waistband of his boxer-briefs which, regardless of what his brother claimed, were in no way gay. He eased them down until his cock poked free and slapped up against his stomach, tearing a quiet moan from his throat. He licked his lips, brought his hand up to his mouth, and spit into his palm.
Despite Jenna Jameson's professional opinion, saliva was not the best lube, but it did okay in a pinch. And this was definitely a pinch, because Dean felt if he didn't come damn soon, he'd get out of bed and dry hump Sam's leg.
Sam's long, lean, muscled leg. Oh yeah, that was it.
Sam in shorts. He definitely needed to wear them more often. And tank tops.
Where the hell had Sam gotten that body, anyway? He sure hadn't had it when he had left for Stanford; he had been gangly and that kind of skinny-scrawny which had Dean calling him manorexic throughout Sam's teen years.
Dean himself did sit-ups and pushups to ensure his penchant for beer wouldn't give him a spare tire, but what the fuck was Sam doing to earn that build? Sure, he jogged on occasion and ate shit like wheatgrass and egg whites, which Dean doubted could keep a bird alive, but apparently it worked. Hell yeah, it worked.
He wrapped his fingers around his throbbing dick, wincing at the heat now pouring off him, shivering as a slight sheen of sweat broke out over his body. Only Sam ever got him this hot. Thank god little brother was still in the dark about that, because if Sam ever caught on, he'd find no limit of excuses to parade himself around in front of Dean.
Not necessarily because of any sexual interest - Sam would have just passed it off as brotherly envy; Look how hot I am, big bro! - but merely for a bit of fraternal torture.
Just being around Sam was torture enough.
The look Sam would get on his face as he read a book, no matter the subject, so hungry for knowledge, stoked an altogether different appetite in Dean. That calm precision and cool calculation Sam exhibited during a hunt. And god forbid Sam exited the bathroom in a towel. Once had been all Dean could stand, and he now found something do outside of the room when Sam was showering, preferably something involving alcohol or tits. Anything not to think about Sam leaning up against the slick tiles of the shower stall, rivulets of water dripping down his perfect body. Sam taking that big dick in his hand, pumping it ever so slowly at first, watching it get bigger and harder, ready to pound nails or his brother's ass.
Oh, yeah, that was it, Dean happily sighed.
Sam bending him over someplace naughty, like Missouri's kitchen table – fuck her spoon! Or – no, better yet – Sam could spank him with that spoon, getting his ass all nice and red and plump and ready to accept deliveries. Droplets of sweat dripping from Sam's fucked-up hair, falling into his eyes and making them sting, making him curse and shove himself inside more sharply than he had intended.
Shit. Had he just moaned?
He closed his eyes and counted ten Missouris.
He cracked open one eye upon completion and nothing seemed amiss. Sam was still peacefully asleep, his arm thrown over his face.
Fuck, those biceps. Dean just wanted to gnaw on them. He leaned up on one elbow, still pumping away at his aching cock, and grinned when Sam swatted at nothing before reaching down and scratching his nose.
His cute little nose. So precious was that nose, like a ski jump.
Dean just wanted to rub his nose against it. Or maybe his dick.
Did Sam suck dick?
Holy shit, had Sam ever sucked cock? Or fucked another dude?
Damn, why didn't he think to ask these questions before? Course, even if he had, Sam would never have admitted it, knowing his brother would use it for blackmail or more generalized torture. Which Dean so would have done.
He brought up his hand and gave it a good swipe with his tongue, then immediately thrust it south, back onto his dick, staring at Sam's sleeping form all the while.
Why hadn't he realized this before? Sam was perfect jack-off material. It was like having live-action porn just walking around in front of you all day long. All day, every day. A tall, hot guy with a big cock walking next to you all day and sleeping next to you at night. Who always told you he loved you and who wanted hugs when something scary happened.
And why had he resisted the hugs again? Dean gnashed his teeth. Stupid! Hugs led to blowjobs! Everyone knew that!
Then all he could see was Sam leaning over in the Impala, head in his brother's lap.
Dean grinned. Yeah, that was the stuff.
Sam would use his teeth to unzip Dean's jeans, because it just sounded awesome, and the visual was even better. And then Sammy would take one of those giant paws and cram it into Dean's pants and pull out the aching cock. Dean closed his eyes and imagined Sam licking his lips in anticipation, eyes glazed and wanton, tan skin flushed and dusky, lowering his face toward…
"Christ, Dean, are you almost done?"
Startled, Dean immediately fell on his back, closed his eyes, and released an unconvincing snore.
"Save it," Sam sighed. "I don't care if you want to jerk your junk, but unless you're going to come over here and help a brother out, stop moaning my name, would you?"
"The 'suck it, Sammy' gave you away, dumbass," he snickered.
"Ah, shit." Wait. "Sammy? Did you just say you want me to come over there and…?"
"Wow. You really are as slow as Missouri thought."
"Shut it, Sam."
"Suck it, Dean. Now."
"Don't boss me around."
"Fine. Then I won't bend you over the hood of your precious car and drive my big dick into your tight little ass."
Dean panted. "You don't know me."
"Sam?" Dean quietly asked.
"It's cool, Dean. I've wanted it for a long time, too."
"Yeah, it's incest. No, I don't care."
He sighed. "Dean, I love you more than anyone else the world, and have since I was a baby. I'd do anything for you. I'd die for you. And right now, what I really want is your dick in my mouth. So could you please, for the next two hours, stop trying to protect me and just get over here?"
Dean blinked. "Two hours?"
"Me love you long time."
"Dean, I don't have the patience to talk you into this, so either you walk over here, or I get out of this bed and drag you to the floor and have my wicked way with you. Which is going to be?"
"Yeah," Sam laughed as he threw off his sheets. "How did I know you were going to choose that option?"