Brand New Day
o0kaymawn0o
"Dream,
Send me a sign,
Turn back the clock,
Give me some time,
I need to break out,
Make a new name,
Let's open our eyes,
It's a brand new day."
Summary:
Dean has a dream. It's about Sam. What does it mean for the two brothers? What does it mean for him? Why does he feel this way, and how can he stop? Can he even prevent it from happening? Why would he want to do such a thing to his sixteen year old brother? He's a mess of self-loathing and confusion. Sam's his brother, and a kid, no less. He should be in prison for what he's going to do. A tale of self-hate, alcoholism and abuse, with an eventual happy ending.
Notes:
This is a dark piece! This was also inspired by the song; Brand New Day, by Ryan Star. :)
Dream:
He's sleeping in his bed, peacefully—oblivious to the world around him. He's happy. He's free. He doesn't have to think about the world, or his worries. He controls what happens in his dream.
The corners of his mouth crease. He's dreaming about a club filled with women, dressed in all sorts of lewd clothing—only for his viewing pleasure.
Nothing could touch him in his dreams. He had nothing to fear. If anything tried to enter his dreams, he'd simply put up a wall.
No one trespassed in his dreams.
They were his, and his alone.
He didn't move as the door creaked open, a shadow manifesting against the moonlit wall. It looks frightened; unsure; scared, as if it didn't want to be there, but it's being forced to. It has no choice but to stand there in the doorway, looming and staring at the dream-bound body on the bed.
A hesitant foot steps forward—skin becoming clear. It's human. That much is clear. It didn't wish to be here. That is also clear.
Nervous energy coated the atmosphere. It fails to stir the man sleeping on the bed, unaware of the presence moving closer towards him.
It stands at the side of his bed—finally finding the courage to move closer, become more intimate. A shaky hand pulls the covers off his form, exposing his naked body completely, a proud member straining against a tanned navel, almost leaking—begging for attention.
The figures tongue peaks guiltily through its lips, ashamed.
It drops the covers from its hands, suddenly self-conscious.
There is no coming back from this now. It's here. It's been brought to this spot. It has to do this if it wants to stop thinking about what it might be like to hold the man's warm penis in its hand and lead it to a healthy orgasm.
To taste the essence from his glory, savor and swallow it.
To ride it, even, for hours upon end, never stopping for a break, as it would surely only get one chance.
Would the man stay unconscious for that long? Would he be able to reveal all his fantasies in one night? Would the man hate him if he woke up? Would he continue? Would he snap and abuse him? Would he never speak to him again?
Would he. . . Abandon him?
Its eyes shifted to the awake organ throbbing, its head knocking against the heated skin of the beautiful specimen snoozing soundlessly.
It must do this.
And it does.
Tentatively, it takes a whole of the heavy girth, stroking experimentally. It elicits a satisfied noise from the owner, urging its confidence. It's doing well. The vessel likes this! He's not kicking it away! He's not lashing out! He's lying there, in a world of his own, spreading his legs slightly to give it more room; more access.
The figure goes for it, increasing the pace of its strokes—making sure not to apply too much pressure. It didn't want to hurt the handsome man. It respects and adores this man. Never would it wish pain upon him, and it would hate to see as much as a wrinkle of distress on his gorgeous face.
It smiles shyly when the man's breathing picks up, his hips involuntarily bucking into the steady grip around his member, provoking an improved rhythm between them.
Slowly, it moves, settling in between the unmindful bodies legs. It sends an apologetic smile towards closed eyes—genuinely sorry for what it's about to do.
Apologies made, it dives down, takes ahold of the base to still the blood-filled penis before taking it into its mouth.
Previously asleep eyes crack open, disappointed that his dream was over. He feels a sensation between his legs—a sensation that he enjoys and knows all too well. He grins to himself, thinking that one of the ladies in the motel must have spotted him earlier and stalked him to his room, then waited for him to fall asleep.
While that thought is a bit creepy, he's more than happy for them to work his prize-winning dick. He lifts his head and frowns. She's still clothed, whoever the hell she is.
Without saying a word, the handsome man turns on the bedside lamp, ready to see how much game he really had, when he didn't even have to chat the girl up to get her to sleep with him.
What he sees confuses him. He can only really make out the head, since she clearly decided to pull the covers over her back. He mentally shrugs, enjoying the shortness of her hair, and the slender parts of her body.
She's good, whoever she is; working her mouth on his penis just the way he likes it. He bites back a moan after a particularly loud and spectacular suck.
She has skills, he'll give her that.
Curious now to see who the girl is, he grabs her hair and lifts her head up.
"What the fuck? Sam?" he questions, jumbled.
Stunning blue eyes stare back at him.
Eyes that belong to his sixteen year old brother.
Eyes that should never see him naked.
Eyes that held so much admiration for him.
Eyes that, at the same time, scared the shit out of him.
Sam wieps the pre-cum from his bottom lip, his expression guilty. He feels dirty; ashamed; unwanted and sorry. He never wanted this to happen. He wishes he could take it all back. He loves his big brother, but he shouldn't love him like this.
"Dean, I. . . I'm so. . ." the boy stutters, forcing back the urge to finish what he started—his mouth drooling for more of his brothers still hard member.
Dean's face displays shock, and that's all. There may be some fear in the mix. He wasn't disgusted, for some reason unknown to him. He should be. He should be revolted by such a thing. They were brothers and this is wrong in every sense of the word.
He did the only thing he could think of. He smacks his brother clean across the face.
Sam falls to the floor, not even bothering to try and support himself. He knows what he did is wrong. He knows that he'll never be forgiven for what he has done. He knows that Dean will abandon him for this act of vulgarity. He knows they can never come back from this.
Gingerly, Dean pulls the covers back over himself and points to the door. "Get the fuck out of my room, Sam. I won't tell you twice," he snaps, a feeling of guilt already washing over him for snapping at his brother.
Practically lifeless, Sam adheres to the command. He picks himself up off the floor and leaves the room, a river of tears ongoing down his crushed face.
Dean sits there, naked under the covers and remaining hard. He doesn't understand why he didn't go soft the second he realized his brother had been sucking his dick. He'll never understand. He still feels horrible for slapping the younger Winchester.
What more could he have done?
Beaten the shit out of him?
Made Sam fear him for all eternity?
He'd of done of that if it were any random guy pleasuring his cock—he wouldn't stand for it. He was not a homophobe by any means, but he would probably react that way in that type of situation, without even thinking.
Maybe that made him a bad person?
Maybe it-
Dean snapped awake, a large breath leaving him. He panted listlessly, trying to get some air back in his lungs. He felt rotten and cold. What the hell was that dream about? Why was Sam in it? Why couldn't he wake up earlier?
What the fuck was wrong with him?
Thanks for reading!
