an agent of the random (riyku) wrote,
an agent of the random

fic: That Book by Nabokov

Title: That Book by Nabokov
Genre: Sam/Dean
Rated: nc-17
Word Count: 2400
Notes: written for the smpc. Title snagged from The Police. Warning for underage. Huge, massive thanks to flawlessglitch. She's pure golden sunshine, you guys. You have no idea. Thanks also to ashtraythief for understanding my small crisis of conscience and giving me time to go with plan C instead.

Summary: On Sam's fourteenth birthday, Dean stops touching him.

The day Sam turns fourteen, Dean gives him a cupcake and a slug from his bottle of whiskey. The cupcake has a candle in it and the bottle is from Dean's secret stash that he keeps in the bottom of his duffle, wrapped up real careful with an old bleach-stained t-shirt so it doesn't clank. One swig turns into two, doubles into four although Dean admits that the last one doesn't count so much, what with Sam sorta choking on it and all, most of it wasted, dribbled down his chin and wiped off on the back of his hand.

"Are you trying to get me drunk?" Sam asks, sloppy loose grin on his face and he looks like a complete dweeb right now, pink-cheeked, all teeth and brightly glazed eyes.

"I'm trying to stunt your growth," Dean shoots back, but he's smiling too, clear and honest. A backward, self-destructive sort of pride spreads warm across Dean's chest. If the kid keeps it up, he might be tall enough to look Dean in the eye within a couple of years. He doesn't know how he feels about that, watching his little brother turn into a stretched out willowy thing with long legs and wiry arms, skinny hips and a neck that goes on for about a mile. At least he still outweighs Sam by a good clip, which is a decent enough consolation prize. For now, anyway.

Sam giggles, plucks small drips of candlewax from his cupcake with his thumbnail and flicks them at Dean, smirking through crumbs of chocolate cake. Dean retaliates, drags his finger through the icing but Sam, slick as oil, snatches his wrist.

It's gotta be the whiskey, (or at least that's what Dean will tell himself later that night, when he's sprawled in bed with the memory of it stuck on repeat, his dick aching in his hand and his chest feeling like it's about to cave in). Sam wouldn't do something like this otherwise. He never would take Dean's finger into his mouth, curl his tongue around it, suck and lick at it until the sticky sweetness is gone and all that's left is Dean's bare skin, the ridges of his fingerprint.

"Sammy," Dean whispers, his throat filled with broken glass. He slides his finger in deeper, crooks it the tiniest amount, feels the vibration of Sam's small, happy hum.

Before Dean's slip up can tell the truth, before it can mean something, Sam stumbles away, heels scuffing on grimy linoleum until his back hits the counter.

"Get your own cupcake," Sam says, and crosses his ankles, arches his back and shapes his body into a long, sleek line.

Dean's frozen, staring at his brother and there's nothing weird about that. Looking at Sam is Dean's default, his fucking factory setting, even with this specific sort of mayhem going on inside of his head.

They're in Colorado, way the fuck up there in a place where summer is slow to show up and doesn't stick around for long, but Dean's sweating anyway, a prickle of it on his lower back and under his arms, palms cold and clammy.

Sam finishes his cupcake, wipes at the corners of his mouth in a way that's nearly delicate, licks at his own fingers this time and Dean almost chokes on his tongue. Sam's spit is still damp on his finger and Dean knows what it's like in there, how slick and how hot, wants to do it again so he can learn it even better.

Moving slowly, like either or both of them might be a feral animal about to bolt, Dean draws his penknife out of his pocket.

"Where do you wanna do it?" Dean asks, taking his voice out for a test drive. He hadn't been sure it would even start up.

Sam's still grinning at him in a very big way, glances around the crummy kitchen and picks the doorway next to the wheezing old refrigerator. He puts his spine up against the trim, stands up straight and tall and Dean steps in front of him.

Before Dean can say it, Sam says it for him. "Heels on the ground. No cheating."

"Yeah, no cheating," Dean repeats, distracted, incredibly aware of the fact that he has Sam boxed in, so close their toes are touching. He can smell the liquor on his kid brother's breath, feel the bony ridge of Sam's shoulder beneath his hand and the heat of his skin bleeding through his thin t-shirt.

It's a ritual that's fourteen years old. It's taken place in hotel rooms and cheap pay by the week apartments, backwoods cabins and abandoned houses, and one memorable time in a truck stop bathroom. Dean makes a line in the wood, carves Sam's initials next to it, a boxy S and a sloppy crooked W, and this year it's easy enough to draw the number fourteen. All straight lines. He does it for himself as much as he does it for Sam, likes the idea that there's something permanent in this strange, gypsy life of theirs, that years from now someone might scratch away a layer of paint and find Sam there, seven years old and four feet tall.

"Baby brother's getting so big," Dean says, and that's part of the tradition too, although it's fair to say that Sam's probably too old for it by now, probably too old for any of it.

"Not big enough," Sam mutters. His hands find Dean's hips and Dean startles, digs a little deeper into the horizontal line of the four. He buries his face in the crook of Dean's neck with a content, tired sigh.

Sam's hair is silky against Dean's jaw and his skin is warm and Dean's an itchy trigger finger away from giving up, from putting a name to the churning thing that's happening in his guts. His particular inclination, such a pretty word for a not-so-pretty thing. Sam burrows in as Dean finishes, mouth soft on the side of Dean's neck and there's still time to put a stop to this, pick Sam up, dust him off and set him on the straight and narrow, but Dean's tongue is becoming unreliable again.

The knife clatters to the floor and before Dean can bend down to pick it up, Sam opens his mouth on Dean's neck, flattens his tongue on his skin and doesn't move, just keeps it there like he's not sure what to do next. And Dean, whose entire life is devoted to keeping Sam safe and unharmed, swallows back the taste of his treacherous, selfish heart and allows it to go on much, much longer than it should.

"Go to bed, Sam," Dean says with a few careful steps back. Outside of arm's reach. That should be safe enough. "Get cleaned up first. If Dad comes home and smells you, I'll be in a load of trouble."

"It'll be two more days at least. It's cyclic—" Sam starts.

Dean's hands shake and his head feels sideways and the most fucked up thing about all of it is that he wants Sam to kiss him again, or maybe he wants to be the one to do it this time, make sure it gets done right. "Just go to bed."


On the surface, Sam doesn't act any differently. He does the things he's always done, and says the things he's always said. Dean's the one who's pulled back the curtain, let the harsh sunshine in and can't figure out how to shut them again.

Sam stomps out of bed most mornings, shorts clinging to his hips by the skin of their teeth, pouty lipped and stretching like some big, sinuous cat, standing next to him and waiting for Dean to ruffle his hair or snap his waistband.

He leaves the bathroom door open when he takes a leak, barges in on Dean when Dean's in the shower and in need of some serious alone time. He talks endlessly around his toothbrush while Dean fists his dick, clenches his jaw and tries not to moan, only a thin sheet of cheap plastic between them and somehow that makes it better beyond belief.

Sam sprawls in chairs, knees spread carelessly wide, he throws his legs across Dean's lap because they're so goddamn long and he's still not sure what to do with them.

Dean begins screwing up, small stupid mistakes like aiming a mile wide during target practice because Sam's shirt clings to his back just right or his hands move on the grip of his gun in a certain way.

Sam boxes him into diner booths and forces him into the corner because outside of arm's reach isn't always possible. He steals Dean's food and sticks out his tongue and doesn't say anything when Dean stops sharing a bed with him, starts living off of catnaps in the Impala. He doesn't say anything, but Dean can tell he's thinking it.


It's Nebraska, flat line of nothing on the horizon and Dean's on the front porch. Inside, Sam's fresh out of the shower, hair dripping on his shoulders, skin turning summertime dark, skinny ribs on display and there's only so much Dean can put up with. This thing can only stretch so far.

The screen door bangs open and Dean sinks down into the cheap box store chair, lets his eyes slip closed. Sam touches his knee and Dean doesn't jump clear out of his skin, but it's a close thing.

"Don't think I haven't noticed," Sam says, and Dean doesn't know why Sam's decided that now is the best time to start with this particular show and dance, although it might have something to do with the reality that they're ten miles away from the closest streetlight and Dean doesn't have a car. No means of escape.

"Stop, Sam," Dean says. This might be new for Sam, but Dean's lived a lifetime of this and he's worn out.

Sam could be a mind reader, not too much of a stretch considering the crap that Dean's seen. Inconvenient as all hell but not entirely unheard of. "It's not just you. It's never been just you." He sounds raw, stripped of everything and it unlocks something inside of Dean, this primal drive to put him back together again.

"I'm fucked up," Dean admits, and all the air is sucked out of his lungs as Sam straddles his legs. The chair shifts underneath them, threatens to give out.

"Then we're fucked up the same." Sam's leaning close, breath warm on Dean's mouth.

"That doesn't make it any better." Dean grabs at Sam's waist, tells himself it's only to steady him, but goddamn it's been too long since he's touched his brother. Four weeks might as well have been forty years.

"Maybe not," Sam says, that tone in his voice that he uses when he's trying to convince Dean that he's cracked the case, identified the monster, and Dean's certain that this time the monster is him. "But at least there are two of us. At least we have company."

Sam goes lax under Dean's hold, leans against him and now Dean has the entire weight of his brother to deal with, his proximity, the smell of his skin and the smooth slope of his throat, and there are consequences to that. Unavoidable fucking consequences.

"I want it," Sam whispers. His hair is dripping on Dean's face, a squeaky clean boy saying such filthy things. "Why do you think I do half the stuff that I do?"

"You were drunk."

Sam shakes his head and their noses rub together. "You're wrong about that. I was hopeful."

A shock lights up in Dean's bloodstream like he's touched a bundle of live wires and he mindlessly tips forward, allows himself this one small thing. A split-second graze of his lips on the corner of Sam's mouth, so faint that he might be able to later convince Sam that it never happened, that it was all a mistake. A delusion. Whatever.

Sam clenches his thighs around Dean's and palms the back of his neck, doesn't let him get away with it and to be fair, Dean could fight harder than he is, could fight at all. Dean has the fleeting thought that if this whole hunting gig ever goes ass up Sam might make a damn fine lawyer. Sam kisses him like he's got it all planned out, edges closer and closer and tilts his head, pulls Dean's bottom lip into his mouth and slips his tongue inside and it's every bit as good as Dean feared it would be.

"That's it, Sammy. That's it," Dean breathes when they break, and Dean's not sure if he's trying to put an end to it all or egging his brother on, and now Sam's sliding from his lap and pushing Dean's legs wide, his little bird chest heaving, a hot pink flush on his cheeks and neck.

"One more thing. I gotta know…" Sam trails off, shoves Dean's shirt up and gets his pants open, licks his lips when he pulls Dean's dick out, hard and red and embarrassingly damp.

Sam suckles the tip, teasing and experimental. His eyelids flutter closed, but Dean can't look away. Sam's got Dean's dick in his mouth and his heart between his teeth and Dean's not gonna miss a second of it. Takes the one and only chance he might very well have to feel the flex of Sam's neck muscles as he works himself further and further down on Dean's cock.

It's clumsy, awkward, sloppy stringy spit all over the place and Dean's so gone, so lost. Sam shoves a hand down his own shorts, and the juddering movement of his shoulder against Dean's leg as he rubs himself off is enough to dismantle Dean. Without warning he's shooting hard into his kid brother's mouth, watching his come leak out of the corners of Sam's lips, his mind stubbornly stuck on the images of birthday candles and chocolate cupcakes.

Sam rests his forehead on Dean's thigh, spits between his knees. He paws at Dean's stomach, spreads his own spunk across Dean's skin.

"What is it? What do you wanna know?" Dean throws an arm over his eyes, needs a minute before he can look at Sam again.

Sam sounds hoarse, his voice cracked and fucked out. "I wanted to know if you were gonna start touching me again. I miss it more than anything."

Dean's hand is still on the back of Sam's head, fingers tangled in his damp mop of hair. "I don't know if I’m ever gonna stop."


Thanks for reading!

Tags: fic: sam/dean, rated: nc-17, smpc
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