Title: Most Things Happen Somewhere Else
Word count: 3400
Notes: written for this prompt over at spn_masquerade. Warning for underage. Many thanks to the original prompter. A special little thank you to homo_pink who was kind enough to say exactly the right thing to me at exactly the right time. Probably wouldn't have written this otherwise. Probably wouldn't have even started it.
Summary: A storm is ripping across the plains the night that the guy shows up.
A storm is ripping across the plains the night that the guy shows up. Claps of thunder that rattle Dean's teeth in his head, and the power goes out the second that Dean hits the button for Mountain Dew on the vending machine, buck-fifty down the toilet and now Sammy's gonna be sulking for the rest of the night. Alright, so maybe Dean's projecting, but he really wanted that Mountain Dew, and the water from the sink in their room looks like it has rust floating in it, so whatever.
Headlights strobe across the parking lot, followed by the groan of a suspension on its last legs as it slams into a pothole and nearly bounces into a spot. A piece of crap, some ancient, tiny Ford that hasn't been cared for right, hasn't been cared for at all. The driver's door creaks open and a guy gets out, towers over the roof of the car and Dean wonders how he ever managed to fit himself in there in the first place. The motherfucker is tall, built like a mountain.
One last pathetic punch to the vending machine and Dean gives up, turns to head back to his room. The guy is heading his way, backpack on his shoulder, head bowed and his dark hair covering up his face so Dean can't get a good look at him.
"How's it going?" Dean says as he starts to slip past him, bare feet slapping on damp concrete. He doesn't make eye contact. He's grown up in a series of cheap rooms, knows the ins and outs of motel etiquette.
The guy stops, doesn't even jump when a sky-shattering blast of thunder sounds like it happens right over their heads.
Dean's gotten real tall real quick, gives him hope that he might catch up to his dad one day even if he's got a way to go yet. He's puny next to this guy, six inches shorter at least, barefooted and defenseless. The only weapons he's got are his fists and an inclination to fight dirty. Most of the time that's enough. Dean has a hunch that this time it won't be if it comes to it.
"Hey, Dean?" the guy says, quickly follows it up with, "John Winchester's boy?"
"Yeah," Dean says, cautious. In his experience, opinions of his father only go one of two ways. "How do you know my dad?"
"We've crossed paths before. It's been a while. Here." The guy glances over his shoulder and pulls something out of his back pocket, like a shaving kit only in miniature. "Whistle if the manager comes out." He crouches down in front of the vending machine, tongue running over his bottom lip as he slides two slim rods into the lock. There's a click and then another, and the door to the machine pops open. Another glance over his shoulder and the guy grabs two Mountain Dews and hands them to Dean, slips a couple of cokes for himself into his backpack.
"See ya around, Dean." A hard slap on Dean's shoulder and goddamn his hands are huge.
As the guy walks toward the office, Dean calls after him. "Hey, thanks. What's your name, anyway?"
He turns and starts to walk backward. There's a pause, like he's thinking about whether or not to lie. "It's Sam. Sam Hagar."
"Yeah," Sam interrupts, sharp slice of a smile in the dark, "like the."
"My brother's named Sam," Dean says, and Sam—the other Sam—ducks out from under the hood of his trunk.
"You don't say." He slams the trunk closed, but not before Dean gets an eyeful. Machete, a sawed off, a box of ammo, a half-finished bottle of whiskey. A hunter.
In the daylight, Dean can see Sam's scuffed up knuckles, the healing split in his mouth, a bruise on the angular upswing of his jaw, and that's only the stuff on the outside. The shuttered look in his slanted eyes says there's a lot more that's not visible.
"How'd you start?" Dean asks. If there's one thing that he knows, it's that hunters like to talk, trade war-stories, go one better than the guy on the barstool next to him.
"Born and bred," Sam says.
"Like me and my brother."
"Something like that." He squints at Dean, a hard glare that makes Dean's skin run hot and cold all at once. "Listen, there's something ugly going down two towns over. You be careful."
"Is that why you're here?"
Sam gives this sort of half-shrug, something his brother does so often that Dean immediately reads it for what it is. Sam doesn't want to lie to him, but he's also not gonna tell him the truth.
"I could help you out. Keep track of your six," Dean offers. Fact is, he's getting itchy here. His father's been gone a week and Dean doesn't expect to see him for at least another.
Sam chuckles. "And run the chance of pissing off John Winchester? I might have a death wish, but it doesn't swing that way." He pushes a hand through his hair, but it just falls right back in his face anyway. "Just watch out for your brother."
It's been a lifetime of hearing this, and Dean's reaction is hardwired into him. "Yes, sir."
Sam unlocks a room two doors down from his and says, "And don't call me sir."
Pockets full of feloniously acquired candy and those ranch flavored sunflower seeds Sammy likes so much, Dean opens the door to his hotel room to find Sam sitting across the table from his brother. In unison, their heads snap up at the same precise angle. Some hugely protective thing wakes up in Dean, rolls to its feet and cracks its knuckles.
"Sam's been correcting my pronunciation," his brother says, grinning brighter than sunshine, and Dean's drive to do violence sputters, stalls. "And he taught me this memory trick. Like a…a."
"A mnemonic device," Sam finishes for him.
"And now there are two of you," Dean says, throws himself on his bed and pulls out his whet stone and his very favorite switchblade and starts to sharpen it, throwing glances at Sam's hunched shoulders, the long slope of his neck. Thinking about things he really shouldn't be thinking about, like whether Sam's hair would be coarse or soft like a girl's, what it might be like to feel the rasp of Sam's stubble on his skin.
"Can I?" Sam asks, sinking down next to Dean on the bed. His elbow brushes Dean's side and their knees knock together and this isn't really helping. At all. "Here, like this," he goes on, and Dean's not paying a lot of attention, what with Sam's hand wrapped around his wrist like it is, his breath hot on Dean's neck.
An hour later Sam leaves with a redundant warning to keep an eye on his brother. Sammy's still trying to translate Ovid or whatever, and Dean hides himself behind the locked bathroom door, hand rough and tight around his dick, two fingers stuffed into his mouth, self-destructively wishing they belonged to someone else.
There's more to Sam than Latin pronunciation and the right way to sharpen a switchblade. He's got an encyclopedia shoved into his head, a better way to do everything. Scars and secrets and more scars, a real smile under the fake one and every once in a while Dean will catch Sam staring at him, head cocked sideways and his tongue curled around his canine tooth, looking at him like Dean is some unlikely miracle.
He shows Dean how to carve pentagrams into bullets and tells him it'll be useful one day. Hands him a book of old archaic magic and tells him not to lose it. Drinks whiskey straight from the bottle like it's Evian until his hands stop shaking and his tongue starts to get loose. Gets down on his knees and prays to angels no one's ever read about in the bible, says the they're the ones with their boots on the ground, and if you pray then don't pray to god or you'll be wasting your breath.
There are rituals, blood magic and burnt candles in a circle of dirt and ash on Sam's floor, the eternal Do Not Disturb sign on the handle and it's been twelve hours since the maid left fresh towels outside his door, so Dean picks the lock, a paper clip and a bobby pin borrowed from the night manager, just like Sam's so recently taught him.
The room is dark, sickly sweet with liquor and the smell of melted wax and Sam's on the floor, backed up against the bed, legs splayed crooked like a busted marionette. Dean's eyes adjust and now he can see the gash on Sam's forearm, the paleness of his face.
"I'm trying to get back to you," Sam says, breathing out a liquor store as Dean cleans him up, wraps gauze around his arm.
"I'm right here," Dean tells him. Sam's blood is under his fingernails and Dean thinks, fuck it, fuck it, skirting the edges of his own personal freak out.
"No," Sam insists, "it happens somewhere else." He blinks at Dean, smile so wide it's borderline maniacal, one hand sloppy on the side of Dean's face, fingers curled around his ear and it sounds like the ocean in his head.
Dean kisses him. Pushes in and closes his eyes and somehow manages to hit only the corner of Sam's mouth, feels the scratch of another man's stubble against his lips for the very first time, starts to sit back and can't. Sam has ahold of the back of his neck and he's angling in, kissing him back, his tongue slick and soft inside of Dean's mouth, sloppy from too much whiskey and too much spit and wrong on so many levels that Dean can't wrap his head around it, but it's good. Devastatingly good.
Sam drops his hand to Dean's crotch, mouths along his jaw, says, "Missed you. So much."
It doesn't make any sense, sounds like Sam is talking to someone else, but Dean's just gonna ride it out, let Sam pull him around so that his back is pressed snug to Sam's chest, Sam's dick a hot bulge against his skin, and Dean's jeans are open and Sam's hand is down his pants, tugging on his cock with that little twist on the upstroke, exactly the way Dean likes it. Dean comes fast, embarrassingly fast, creams his shorts and shoots spunk up Sam's wrist and Sam's laugh is dark but not mean, more like amazed.
Sam hauls Dean up, weaves some on his feet like he's the one who just got off. His dick presses at the front of his pants and Dean falls to the bed then falls against him, forehead on Sam's stomach, fingers fumbling on his belt until he gets it loose, gets Sam's jeans down and Sam's dick in his hand. Long and thick and hard as hell and Dean licks his lips, hesitates.
"Oh god, it's your first time." Sam's strange slanted eyes are wide, swimming across Dean's face. "So fucking hot, Dean. Your mouth," Sam says, breathy and amped up. He traces Dean's lips, pries his thumb between them.
Dean makes a noise, his face on fire, opens up and takes Sam's cock in. It's bitter, tastes a little like sweat, feels huge in his mouth, heavy and pulsing on his tongue and Dean gags every time he tries to go deeper. Spit and precome make a mess of his mouth, start to drip down his chin.
"Open up, relax. Goddamn you feel good." Sam's pawing at the back of Dean's head, running his fingers through his hair, petting him.
Dean can hardly catch his breath and Sam's starting to fuck into his mouth with tiny thrusts. Dean latches onto Sam's hips, fingers in the shape of claws and feels how much Sam is holding back, reining himself in, opens his jaw so wide and flattens his tongue, suckles at the head of Sam's cock and tries to go deep again but Sam's already pulling out, dick wet and shiny with Dean's spit. He bends at the waist, curves his body all around Dean like a question mark and comes with Dean's hand around his dick, jacking him all stilted and irregular, flinching when a hot stream of Sam's come lands on his lips and chin.
Sam falls on the opposite bed, post-sex haze getting the better of him, or maybe it's the drunk finally catching up. He sprawls with his spent dick resting in the cut of his hip, face hidden in the crook of his elbow. "I'm sorry," he says, muffled.
"I'm not," Dean says simply. He's already thinking about next time, how he'll do better.
"You're what. Fifteen?" He sounds like something inside of him is cracking. Not quite broken but getting there.
"Yeah," Dean says, and he's not angry. Doesn't actually have a label for the shit that's going on inside of his head right now. "And last summer I killed a werewolf. Shot him right through the heart and you know what happens when you do that?"
"Well, I didn't look away. Not once. Fifteen doesn't mean anything."
Dean's careful to avoid the spellwork in the middle of the room, locks the door on his way out. Sammy's asleep in their room, a lump under the covers and a tuft of hair sticking out. Dean washes his face in the sink, brushes his teeth twice with rusty water and still thinks he tastes jizz in his mouth, wishes he'd stolen Sam's bottle of whiskey while he was at it.
Only three minutes since he collapsed into his bed and Sammy thumps across the room, crawls in and fits his body beside Dean's. Dean rolls on his side, flings an arm around his brother's skinny waist. They're too old for this shit except in all the ways that they're really not. And sometimes, most times, he loves this kid so much it hurts.
Sam disappears for two days. On the third he comes back, screeches his piece of crap car to a stop in the parking lot and paces the pavement, arms open wide toward the sky. Swamp muck is falling in clumps from the treads of his boots, little muddy crosses all over the place and Sam's muttering, talking to someone only he can see.
Dean would think he's drunk except his hands are shaking. His gaze falls on Dean with such frantic clarity that Dean realizes that this is probably the first time he's ever seen him stone cold sober. It's terrifying, how quickly Sam has wrapped around his heart, as if there's always been a space for him there, a groove for him to slot into.
"This isn't going to make any sense," Sam says, closing in on Dean, hands like grappling hooks in Dean's upper arms. "There's no time. Fuck."
He begins muttering again, talking to people who aren't there and Dean takes a step and then another, gradually herding Sam toward his room. It's like leading a feral dog away from a dangerous four-lane highway.
Inside of Sam's room, the sigil has been exchanged for another one. Blood and ash all over the place and Dean hopes that Sam's paid the rent on this joint for the month. The whole fucking year.
"This isn't going to make any sense," Sam repeats. He strips his shirts off and tosses them into a corner, washes his hands in the sink and throws water on his face. There's a new cut on his other arm, another on his chest below a deep black tattoo. Both of them look to be a couple of days old, red around the edges.
"You already covered that, brother," Dean says and gets a sharp look from Sam.
"Yeah. Brother," Sam says, and crosses the room, wraps Dean in his arms and holds on tightly, surrounds him, kisses Dean's neck, his temple, the fucking tip of his nose. "I'm such a selfish bastard."
Sam stumbles backward, steps out of his pants then pulls Dean's shirt over his head. Miles and miles of tan skin and tight muscle made bare and Dean doesn't know what to do with it, can't figure out anything. Sam's so huge and perfect, a goddamn sculpture in warm flesh and Dean stands in front of him, feeling bird-chested and small, too pretty and too soft.
"You are so beautiful," Sam says, like he can read Dean's mind. No lies this time. No shrugs. "You have no idea." He slips his fingers into Dean's waistband and pulls him toward the unmade bed, throws the blankets and sheets onto the floor and ruins his spellwork. Dean has an idea that it didn't work anyway.
"I don't expect you to understand this," Sam tells him as he shoves Dean's pants down and off, and he sounds more lucid than he ever has. "But I'm not gonna let you go. Not ever. I've never been able to."
"Okay," Dean says, all tied up in the feel of Sam's hands on his skin, skimming down his ribs, wrapping around his dick. Pulling him down.
"Don't know if it'll ever line up again. Or if it does—" Sam cuts off to kiss him, wraps his legs around Dean's skinny waist and slides their dicks together. "I wasn't your first," Sam whispers in Dean's ear.
"Yeah, you are," Dean says, and rolls his hips against Sam, feels his cock slip in between the cheeks of Sam's ass and kinda loses it for a second, white-hot sparks all over his skin.
Sam brings him back with a kiss, reaches around on the floor and finds a bottle of cheap hotel lotion. "Start with one. Go slow. It's been a while." He holds his legs up to his chest, puts himself on display for Dean and now it's Dean's turn to shake, sink a finger into the tightness of Sam's ass, feel it as Sam opens up for him, breathes through the stretch, starts to writhe, asks for another.
Dean's not gonna last long. He's almost there when he pushes in, inch by excruciatingly slow inch, glued to Sam's face the entire time, the way it smoothes out and the way his eyes lose that lunatic glint and melt into something softer, more content. As Dean bottoms out, Sam sighs, wraps his arms and legs all around Dean and rocks up to meet him and Dean's barely holding on, completely dismantled, wants to take his time and draw out every single sensation and at the same time he wants to finish now so he can do it all over again from the start.
"Do I—" Dean starts, so close now, thighs trembling and his heart in his throat and he thinks that Sam maybe came a second ago, damp heat between their bodies and he's bearing down harder than before, trying to suck Dean in deeper.
"Stay inside. Wanna feel it," Sam says and Dean comes so hard his toes curl, bites down on Sam's shoulder and grinds Sam's skin between his teeth, but Sam doesn't seem to mind, only holds on tighter.
Dean's face is still buried in Sam's neck, dick still buried in Sam's ass, Sam's come growing sticky between their bodies. He works on breathing, trying to make sense out of nonsense, all those things Sam said before.
"Your brother," Sam says, and his voice sounds different now. Reverent somehow. "One day he's gonna try and tell you that he doesn't need you. It'll be a lie. He's always going to need you. And you're always gonna need him. Don't forget that, okay?"