Hello, second attempt at writing something SPN-related. I swear, I get inspiration from the strangest things. Prompt was: "I fell in love with your sin." (Thank you, Anberlin.) I liked the idea, and I would love to keep writing for the fandom in general - but I always feel as though my ideas would never be done justice by my own hand, even if they are decent. So, we'll just see how that goes.
Standard disclaimer. I own nothing.
-o-
The first time Dean touched him, it was more than a little awkward. More than a little rushed, even when they had the time to take it slow – it was well past midnight, their father was out on a hunt. They were sitting in the floor, Sam trying to make out something on that tiny black and white television, and Dean watching Sam. He wasn't sure he'd noticed yet, because if he had, he would have said something already.
And made this all a little bit easier. Maybe.
When Sam was quiet like this, locked off in his own little world, the older Winchester found himself thinking. About whether John had taken enough care in preparing for his hunt. That cute waitress at the diner down the street where they'd eaten dinner that night.
About the way Sam sprawled across the floor had his t-shirt riding up just enough to show a line of tanned skin just above the band of his jeans.
Mostly about that. Damn.
It wasn't like he hadn't thought about it before – they spent too much time together for him not to. And while it would have been just as easy (maybe even a little easier, a part of him thought) to find his way back to the diner and into that cute little waitress's panties .. he couldn't find the motivation to move from his brother's side.
Not when Sam shifted and his shirt rode up a little bit more. The kid was still skinny .. skinny as hell, really, but he'd grown so much in the past couple of years that Dean figured his body hadn't quite had enough time to catch up. His legs were too long, his hips too sharp, and it wasn't until those legs were wrapped tight around his waist, until those sharp hip bones were digging into his own that he thought he might have actually been able to hurt him.
He dipped his head, pressed a kiss to his shoulder, the shell of his ear. "Y'okay, Sammy?"
The younger growled something obscene against his brother's throat, arching up into the weight of the other's body pressing him down, legs winding just a little tighter. "I'm not a girl, Dean .. you're not gonna break me."
And he hadn't, to his credit – but Dean was damned if he hadn't tried. The only marks left to bear testament to how hard and often he did try were the bruises painted across his hips, sometimes around his thighs, conformed to the shape of his older brother's fingers. Sometimes, the imprint of teeth on the curve of a shoulder or the back of his neck. Dean always thought there was a certain aesthetic quality to the way his skin darkened so easily beneath his embrace – though he would never say as much – and if he went out of his way to make those marks a little more prominent, he would never admit it.
When Sam left for Stanford, he took some of those bruises with him. They stayed a little longer this time around – and he might have wondered if it was because they were probably going to be the last ones if he'd taken the time to slow down and think about it. As it were, a couple of weeks passed in which he would wake up every morning before dawn, catch sight of those dark shadows over the protrusion of bone and wonder if he'd made the right decision.
Two years, and he never stopped wondering, even when Jess was curled up next to him in their bed. Even with the taste of her on the back of his tongue as he fell asleep, he thought of his brother and the moments spent wrapped in the deepest sin, engulfed by the type of heat that could only ever come from being owned by someone else.
He never forgot, and when Dean came to find him, it was almost a little too easy to follow him through the door with barely a backwards glance. His mind remembered, just as easily as his body, the sensation of being pressed down into the hard leather of the Impala's backseat, almost too cold when met with the heat of his back. His body remembered, with vivid, aching clarity what it was to be spread beneath him – the tingling at the base of his spine singing praise to the stinging press of teeth to a collarbone, the growl beginning deep in his brother's throat deeper than it used to be, something sharper, a little more feral. His tongue remembered the taste of his skin, darkly spiced and always with the bitter tinge of gunpowder that never faded no matter how often he showered. His fingertips remembered every dip and hollow between ribs and along the line of his spine, which subtle touches brought a faint shiver and which brought that deep, rich groan –
And with long legs wrapped tight around that narrow waist, bony hips digging into those just as defined, it was almost as though those lost years melted away – and Sam was seventeen all over again. Opening to his brother for the first time, and finding himself addicted to the sweet taste of sin on the tip of his tongue.
To fall in love with an act, an idea that branded the both of them as something wretched in the eyes of God –
It came as second nature. And Sam couldn't bring himself to care that it was the wrong thing to be devoted to.