Title: small crime
Author: alakewood
Warnings: Wincest.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1270
Summary: Pre-series. Dean learns of Sam's more-than-brotherly-affection feelings for him.
Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing.
oxoxo
The calloused fingers of Dean's right hand raked through Sam's filthy, shaggy hair, nails grazing scalp as they traveled behind the back of his skull and down the nape of his neck, Sam's head cradled in folded arms perched atop his knees where he sat on the stairs outside some random building on a side-street in some inconsequential town in Mississippi.
"Christ, Sammy, what's going on?" Dean dropped to a crouch at Sam's feet, chin tilted low, his eyes wide and staring up, trying to catch Sam's evasive gaze.
Sam vigorously shook his head, attempted to shrug away from under Dean's hand. "Nothing, Dean. It's nothing." He finally lifted his eyes to meet his brother's, stretched sweat-sticky limbs and stood, put distance between himself and Dean.
Tension hung as heavy as the humidity in the air between them, went unnoticed by the eldest Winchester brother as many things with Sam in those years did. He stood, belt buckle jingling where the fly of his jeans flapped open, pants pulled on but not fastened in his haste to follow Sam out the door of their apartment. "Come on, Sam." His hands, dangling loosely at his sides, turned palms-up in a gesture of helplessness. "What?"
Sam stalked away from his brother, further away from the apartment, and out of the dingy halo of pink-orange light cast by the streetlamp into the darkness.
"Sammy!"
"Just leave it alone, Dean," Sam called back without stopping.
But now his interest was piqued, Sam on the defensive and backing down, and Dean just couldn't let it go. So Dean started after him, ignoring the waitress from the diner waiting for him in his and Sam's shared bedroom, zipping and buttoning the fly of his jeans as he jogged barefoot down the cracked sidewalk.
They made it two blocks for Sam whirled around to face Dean, nostrils flaring with annoyance, one large hand moving up to push damp hair out of his eyes. "Just- Don't, Dean. Just go back to the apartment." He dropped the hand to chest height and held it, palm-out, towards Dean. "Go."
"Sammy," Dean tried again, pleading. "Sam. Seriously. What's up?" He edged closer to his brother, invaded personal space – not that they'd ever been familiar with the concept. His shadowed eyes searched Sam's, caught the neon light from the window of a pawn shop and reflected it. "Come on," he said quietly. "You can tell me."
Dean was close – too close. Sam could feel the head radiating from Dean's bare skin, faintly smell the cheap soap they used as the sheen of sweat he'd built up evaporated in the breeze. Just too close, too intimate. He touched trembling fingers to Dean's chest, palm pressing against Dean's sternum and pushing gently away. "It's nothing; not important," he whispered, voice rough, husky.
Sam made to move, but Dean's fingers were suddenly clamped around Sam's wrist and Sam found himself spun around and shoved into the brick wall of the pawn shop. "Goddammit, Sam. It's obviously something."
Sam struggled against Dean's hold, managed to turn around but not escape, found himself trapped between his brother and the bricks. He dropped his head back against the wall, felt as much as heard the hollow thud as his skull, cushioned by his hair, connected with the brick. His breathing was labored, hitched in his chest, his head lolling to the side before he looked at Dean again. "You," he said, voice unchanged from moments ago. "It's you."
Dean's forehead creased as he stared at Sam. "Me. You've got a problem with me?" Not angry, just questioning.
Sam pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, bit it, felt his teeth scraping the flesh as he released it – tried to focus more on that feeling than on Dean's body pressed so close to his. He unconsciously glanced at his brother, eyes flitting down to where their bodies nearly touched, then away.
Dean's gaze followed, lingered, and Sam could swear his brother stopped breathing in that fraction of a second when he noticed the way Sam's body was reacting to his proximity. "S-sammy?"
Sam turned his face away in embarrassment, squeezed his eyes closed, attempted to will his body to listen to his mind, not his subconscious. Attempted and failed. "I'm sorry."
Dean still hadn't moved, out of shock or confusion, Sam didn't know. A car drove by, headlights briefly illuminating Dean's blank expression, the rumble of its engine filling the silence between them.
"Say something," Sam finally ground out, banging his head back against the brick wall. "Do something. Hit me if you have to."
"Sam," Dean breathed, offense in his tone. He raised a hand to Sam's face, shaking fingers trailing along his jaw, thumb slipping over the curve of his chin and grasping, forcing Sam to look at him.
He stared his brother down for a long moment before shaking his head in disbelief. There was no way – no way in Hell - that Dean was cool with any of this.
Dean angled his head, dark lashes shielding his eyes as he leaned in, breath warm and moist against Sam's mouth, then tentative lips pressed, chapped and chaste, to Sam's.
For his part, Sam sagged against the wall behind him, knees nearly buckling as everything he knew spun out of control. One hand went to the wrist of the hand Dean still held his chin with, while the other sought for fabric to clutch but only found expanses of overheated skin. His breath left him in a half-moan, half-sigh, his fingertips pressing into muscle and pulling Dean closer.
Dean reacted to the sound Sam made by opening his mouth and slipping his tongue along the seam of Sam's lips, seeking entrance, and Sam opened beneath him, tongue hesitantly sliding against Dean's. He pressed Sam bodily against the wall, pressed a thigh between Sam's, plundered his brother's mouth, Sam's name a sigh, a plea, on his lips when they parted for breath.
"Are you- are you sure?"
Dean nodded, dropping his hand from Sam's chin and gripping the front of Sam's thin, sweat-damp t-shirt. "Yeah. Come on. I'm sure Tara or Sarah, or whatever her name is – I'm sure she's gone by now."
That gave Sam pause. "If..." He couldn't quite finish the question: If you're interested in me, why were you with her?
But Dean seemed to know what he was asking regardless. "I didn't think you'd..." He shrugged. "Never thought you'd feel the same way."
"Thought I was a freak for feeling like this," Sam admitted.
"You're still a freak," Dean told him, laughing as he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Sam's mouth. "But not for how you feel. Now, come on. Before Dad gets home."
Sam watched as Dean started back down the sidewalk, still in somewhat of a daze.
"Come on, Sammy. Get a move on."
"Coming!" Sam called out to Dean, who'd already made it half a block.
"I bet you are," Dean called back, grin evident in his voice, before he glanced back at Sam and took off at a sprint towards the apartment.
So that was how it was going to be. In the humidity of the night, Sam felt the tension, the invisible weight that dragged him down, slip away and he gave chase to his brother, quick on his feet in a way he hadn't felt in a while.
Free. And it felt damn good.