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justinedelargeAuthor: ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif){kind=small}
justinedelarge
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing(s): Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warning: Wincest (Sam is a few months shy of legal age)
Word Count: 3100
Disclaimer: I own nothing except my original characters and plot. Just for fun.
Summary: Sam is having trouble with Dean's rule. Then John and Bobby come back, and things go to hell.
The next three days were different. Sam was responsive as always, and they did all the incredible “everything but” things they’d been doing, taking full advantage of having the house to themselves, but increasingly, Dean could feel something building beneath Sam’s skin.
It didn’t help that Dean couldn’t stop talking about how much he wanted to fuck Sam. He wasn’t doing it deliberately, to be cruel. He just couldn’t stop thinking about it. Picturing it. Wanting it so bad he could taste it. Couldn’t keep his slicked-up fingers out of Sam’s ass, working him just like he wanted to fuck him, sliding in slow, taking forever to pull out, back in again until Sam was shaking, then picking up the pace, fucking him faster, eyes squeezed shut, pretending it was his cock, making Sam come on just his hand, whispering, “Gonna fuck you like this, baby boy, can’t wait to feel you come on my cock like this, gonna feel so good…” Couldn’t stop licking him open, burying his tongue in Sam’s ass, tongue-fucking him like it was the best thing ever (and it was Christ it fucking was).
He couldn’t let himself fuck his baby brother in the ass before he turned seventeen. He'd had it drilled into his head his whole life that seventeen was a turning point for hunters. Not sixteen. Not eighteen. Seventeen. All the lore known to hunters was clear on this rite of passage, and more than clear on how important that was. But he couldn’t stop trying to get as close to the experience as possible.
He didn’t even realize he was doing it. Or what it was doing to Sam.
~
It came to a head the day John and Bobby were supposed to come home.
They’d been sparring for 20 minutes. Dean kept pinning Sam, growing filthy/sweet nothings in his ear. Instead of making him shiver and breathe faster, spreading his legs for Dean, or rolling on top and rubbing against his thigh, needy and shameless, Sam just threw Dean over more roughly, gripped his wrists more firmly, put him in increasingly hard joint locks.
Instead of getting turned on, Sam was getting mad.
Sam tried to be patient. He really did. But he didn’t like rules that made no sense. And this one made no sense to him.
After the third time of Dean getting the upper hand and purring, “Come on, baby boy, I know you want it…” into Sam’s ear, Sam let out a frustrated hiss and trapped Dean in a submission hold from which he could not escape, and had to tap out.
“Nice move, Sammy.” Dean stood up and held his hand out to Sam to pull him up.
Sam took it grudgingly, but when Dean went to close the distance between them and pull Sam in for a lingering kiss, he was met with a surprising opposing force, in the form of Sam’s hand pressed against his chest, arm straight. Holding Dean away.
“Just… stop.”
“What’s up?” Dean stayed calm, despite the fact that his heart was pounding in his chest, and not for pleasant reasons. The feel of Sam pushing him away scared him.
“Not in the mood.”
Dean gave Sam his best smile, guaranteed to melt panties and drop zippers on anyone in a three-mile radius. “You’re always in the mood, Sammy.”
Sam turned away, mumbling something under his breath.
“What?” Dean moved around Sam’s side and stood in front of him, preventing him from leaving.
Sam stuck his jaw out and said in a louder voice, “Not in the mood for you cockteasing me. Is what I said.”
Dean blinked. “That’s what you think I’m doing?”
“Don’t care what you think you’re doing. It’s what you ARE doing. Being a fucking cocktease.” Sam’s face was red from exertion and from the anger and frustration that had been building under the surface for days.
Dean should have been calmer. But he had inherited his father’s temper, although to a lesser degree. He snapped, “Don’t blame me because you can’t handle following rules.”
Sam’s veneer of control cracked. “I only have trouble following stupid rules.”
Dean took a step closer. That word triggered things in Dean. “You calling me stupid?”
“I’m calling your rules stupid.”
Dean pursed his lips. “Stupid rules. Huh. Really.”
Sam threw his hands out at his side, shoulders raised, in the challenging gesture he made when he got really mad. “Yeah, Dean. Stupid rules. Like that I’m too young for this body part to go into that body part. It’s ridiculous. Like, I’ve noticed, I’m not too young to have your dick halfway down my throat, or your mouth all over me, you know? You’ve made it pretty clear I’m not too young to take your fingers up my ass. Huge yes to your fucking tongue up there. Not too young for you to talk about how good you’re gonna fuck me. Won’t fucking shut up about that. But I am too young for an actual cock in my ass.”
Dean blew up. The words… they just came spilling out of his mouth. He could almost see them glowing in the air like fire as they escaped his mouth, impossible to pull back. “Jesus, Sammy. Are you that fucking desperate for it?”
Sam just stood there, fingers curled into hard white stone at his sides, breathing rapidly through his nose in sharp dragon snorts, like he did when he was so angry, he couldn’t even risk letting his mouth open a crack for fear words he’d regret would pour out.
And it was in that moment that Sam and Dean heard the creaking suspension and rustling of gravel as Bobby’s truck rolled up to the front of the house.
Sam spun on his heel and thumped into the house, pelting up the stairs and into the shower.
Dean washed his face and hands in the sink in the garage, drying them on a shop towel, and went inside to greet John and Bobby.
Not a soul noticed the dirty-white van that slowed way down as it passed the gravel road leading to Bobby’s house.
~
The recon mission had not started off well. “Little bastard gave us wrong information. Nest wasn’t where he said it was,” Bobby announced, heading to the liquor cabinet to pour two double shots of bourbon. He handed one to John.
“We tracked them all over town. Finally got a good lead though. Hunted them down.” John tossed back half the contents of the tumbler in one swallow.
When Sam finished with his shower, Bobby and John were bent over the kitchen table with Dean, showing him the map they’d drawn and all the intel they’d gathered over their several days of surveillance.
“You find ‘em?” Sam spoke from the kitchen hallway. His hair was still wet. He would not look at Dean.
Bobby was the only adult who noticed this. Dean pretended not to notice. John simply didn’t.
“Yep.”
“What’s the plan?” Sam was curiously calm.
“We’ll go over all of that after dinner.”
Sam volunteered to cook. He wouldn’t let Dean get near him, not even when John and Bobby were up to their elbows in Bobby’s truck, replacing some squeaky belt or other.
As Dean’s hot temper faded, he began to see even more of how stupid he’d been. Of course Sam was mad. Not about the rule, because waiting until sixteen was just the right thing to do, and Dean was damned if he wasn’t going to do SOME part of this right.
No, Sam was mad because Dean had been cockteasing him. He knew how bad Sam wanted Dean like that. And here he’d been just talking it up. Couldn’t keep his fingers out of Sam’s ass. His tongue. And oh Christ, the things he’d been saying. As Sam cut potatoes into wedges, Dean built a new fire, remembering the things he’d been saying over the past few days.
Poor Sammy.
Dean slipped into the kitchen.
“Fuck off. “ Sam spoke with his back turned.
“Sammy, I—“
“Fuck. Off.” Sam tucked the potato wedges around the raw chicken, sprinkled everything with the red-topped can of garlic salt and shoved the pan into the hot oven roughly.
“Sam. Come on. I just—“
Sam shot Dean a look that withered his words in his throat.
He washed his hands and wiped them on a towel, then grabbed his heavy wool coat and headed outside. “Back in an hour.”
Sam paced around the salvage yard. Bobby and John replaced the squeaky belt. And Dean sat in front of the fire, thinking.
Dinner was a muted affair. John had finally noticed the distinctive whiff of teenage angst rolling off Sam in waves.
“Dean.” Dean looked up, mouth full of roast chicken. “Spill.”
Dean’s eyes went wide.
“Your brother seems pissed off. What happened?”
Dean swallowed. His mouth opened and closed on empty air.
“Nothing.” Sam’s voice was low, seemingly calm. He chewed on a potato wedge.
“Dean?”
“Nothing. Just… cabin fever. You know? No big deal. We’re good. Right, Sammy?”
Sam fixed Dean with a level gaze. “Yeah. We’re good.”
Out of everyone at the dinner table, only John believed him entirely.
~
Dean cleared the dishes and he and Sam washed and dried them, putting on a show of brotherly solidarity.
Sam still wouldn’t talk to Dean. Standing over the sink, he looked so angry and miserable that Dean’s heart hurt.
It really came to a head after dinner.
John began laying out the plan of attack, how they would leave first thing in the morning, what Bobby would do, what John wanted Dean to do.
“What about me?” Sam stood at the table, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.
John looked up at Sam in surprise. “You’re not coming.”
“Why does Dean get to go and not me?”
If Dean could have pulled it off in time, he would have faked a seizure. Thrown a flash bomb. Stood up and declared he was really a woman. Anything to derail his father from saying what he knew he was about to say. Not that. Not right then.
“Because you’re too young.”
Sam closed his eyes, and when he opened them, Dean was actually frightened of what he saw in them.
“I can help.”
“That’s not the point. You’re too young, and that’s that.”
Sam put his hands on the table. “So you’re saying that I could help. You aren’t questioning my abilities. You just won’t let me.”
John looked around at Bobby and Dean, looking for allies. “Jesus, Sam, when did you turn into a little lawyer?” Sam’s mouth twitched at the word “little.”
Bobby met John’s gaze. “He does have a point. He’s strong enough. Damn well fast enough. Faster than Dean. Hell, he’s as good a shot as you are.”
John’s mouth hardened. “I don’t care. I’m damn well not taking my sixteen-year-old kid on a hunt.”
Sam’s breathing sped up. “So… like, when, exactly, would you take me on a hunt?”
“Not before you’re seventeen, Sam. You know that.”
Dean didn’t say a word. But he knew Sam was yelling at him too.
“Samuel Joshua Winchester, you watch your language with me.” John’s face was ruddy, his eyes sharp and furious.
“What, I’m too young to curse too? You want me to go put on a diaper? Get a picture book?” Sam’s face was bright red.
John got right up in Sam’s face. Nothing could get John madder faster than Sam. “If you’re going to act like a baby and throw a temper tantrum, then yeah. Maybe you do need a diaper.”
Sam stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him with a loud crack.
John yelled after him, “Great job on proving my whole point, Sam.”
~
Bobby found Sam later, slumped over in the back of a broken-down school bus in the back of the salvage yard. He brought him his coat, forgotten on the hook in the entry way, and draped it around his shivering body. “It’s not fair, Sam. And I’m sorry.” Sam fell against Bobby’s chest, his own heaving as he struggled not to cry. “It’s gonna be ok.” Bobby stroked Sam’s hair. “It’s hard. I don’t envy you, being your age. But time passes. Trust me.” Bobby glanced up at his own weathered face in the window, illuminated by moonlight, saw the lines carved into his face and the grey in his beard. “It passes real quick.”
~
Dean had been talking John’s ear off the whole time Sam was sulking in the bus. He made up a story about how he and Sam had gotten into a fight and that Dean had called him a big baby and he was still mad at Dean, and that’s why he got so upset. He stood up for Sam being ready to come along, broke out his best arguments, talking up Sam’s abilities. He knew most of why Sam picked that fight was his fault, and wanted to make it up to him. By the time Bobby brought Sam back inside and mixed him up a Singer Special to warm him up, Dean had talked John into taking Sam on the hunt and giving him a chance.
Sam sat hunched over the kitchen table, cold and miserable. He drank his hot buttered bourbon and cider quickly, not tasting it. Dean rapidly explained everything— “So you can come, Sammy. We worked it all out.”— and John pulled up a chair across from Sam as he finished,
Sam blinked his reddened eyes and said in a quiet voice, “You were right. You’re all right.” He took a last sip of his cider and pushed it away. “I’m too young. I’ll stay behind.”
He walked upstairs to their bedroom. John went up for a moment, motioning for Dean to stay behind. When John came down, he simply said, “He’s not coming.”
~
Later, when everyone else headed to bed, Dean slipped into bed next to Sam. Sam was in his full flannels, turned away from Dean. He put his arm around Sam’s waist.
Sam let him.
Dean exhaled a shuddery breath, desperately relieved at the moment of closeness again. He nuzzled Sam’s neck, ghosting his lips over the tiny hairs the way Sam loved it. He pressed himself closer.
Sam’s body tensed. “If I’m too young to do everything, I’m too young to do anything.”
And he wouldn’t say anything else. Or let Dean touch him any more than that.
“Sam. Come on. You don’t mean it.”
By way of answer, Sam got up, taking his pillow, and walked to the door.
“Sam.” Dean whispered.
“Going to sleep on the couch. Stay here, Dean.”
Dean lasted all of an hour, unable to sleep. He snuck downstairs.
Sam was curled up on the couch, the blanket and comforter from the chest wrapped around him, shivering hard in the cold of the drafty living room, fire dead in the fireplace.
“Sammy,” Dean murmured. “Come to bed. Come on.”
Sam didn’t move.
“Please. Come back to bed.”
Sam allowed himself to be brought back to bed, and let Dean hold him until he stopped shivering, but that was all he would allow.
~
In the morning, Sam watched them pack, sullen and unhappy, and load up the truck. “We’ll call you once we’ve cleared the nest. Money’s in the coffee can.” Sam would barely meet anyone’s eyes.
“Be back real soon, Sam. Ok?” Dean tried to pour everything he wanted to say but couldn’t into his expression, his hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“Come back safe, ok?” Sam whispered.
“You know it.” Dean gave Sam his best cocky smile, and headed down the steps to the truck, where John and Bobby were waiting.
Bobby gave Sam a tip of his ball cap, John waved, and Dean just stared out the back window at Sam standing in the doorway until the truck rounded the corner and he couldn’t see him anymore.
They made it 50 miles when the new fan belt snapped.
It took them a couple of hours to get a tow back to Bobby’s, John and Bobby bickering the entire time, Dean wishing he had been able to stay home too.
When they got back to the house, the front door was open.
The kitchen was a shambles. Overturned furniture, broken kitchen table. Blood on the floor.
“Sam?” Dean called out. No answer. Dean started shaking uncontrollably.
Bobby picked up something from the kitchen counter. Held it up.
It was an unmarked VHS tape.
John’s face was ashen as Bobby slipped the tape into the machine.
A grainy image of static, then a wavering handheld shot of the steps leading up to Bobby’s front door. The back of someone. Hands reaching out, jimmying the lock, pushing the door open. The figure slipping into the front door, followed by a second and a third.
Sam’s back. Sam turning, yelling, exploding in a frenzy of limbs. Cursing from unfamiliar voices. “Strong motherfucker. Quick. Get him.” Sam falling under two men. Getting up again, sending them flying. The third coming for Sam, recoiling with a punch to his throat. “Good for you, Sammy,” Dean whispered. The camera lowered to the floor on its side, the fourth man joining in. Sam finally succumbing, unable to take four at once.
Dean had to turn away at the sight of the four men over Sam. Kicking and punching.
A hand, wrapped in Sam’s hair, pulling his bloodied face up, showing it to the camera. Another face entering the shot. Black, stringy hair. Sharp watery-blue eyes. “Betcha didn't see that coming.” His voice was tobacco-rough, with a distinct Alabama drawl.
“Dad. Who is that?”
John answered in a whisper. “That’s Earle Spivey. Head of the nest. The father of the one we got ahold of.”
Earle Spivey slapped a pale hand on Sam’s face. Hard. Unconscious, he didn’t react.
“Got your boy, Johnny.” Earle’s face was twisted, gleeful. “Gonna hurt him.”
Master post with chapter links
