First of all: All of you are wonderful.
Favoriters, followers, especially reviewers...thank you, you're amazing.
This chapter is late, because there were other projects I was working on, then a delay in editing, then I had to do some serious work on the chapter.
But it's up now!
And it's rather long (longer than the norm, at any rate), so be prepared to spend some time with it.
The interior of the base was dark, where there was still glass in the windows, because the panes were blackened by smoke and the grime that had accumulated over the course of about thirty-three years. Where they'd been broken or were just missing, beams of mid-morning sunlight fell through in jagged patterns and illuminated the rubble that covered the cement floor. With his boots and the bottoms of his jeans already black with ash and dirt, Sam carefully picked his way through it, sweeping the beam of a flashlight over it where there wasn't any sunlight. He prayed he didn't break an ankle, because then Dean would have to carry him out.
Dean was leading the way through the darkened hallways, wielding a flashlight whose beam was marginally dimmer than Sam's. He moved slowly over the drifts of concrete chunks and ash and other burned stuff that, hopefully, weren't the remains of people. He hadn't spoken to Sam once since kicking in a door held shut by a padlock that had been more rust than metal, and the fact that it was completely silent outside the crunch of their boots was making Sam twitch a little. He didn't understand why he hurt, inside, or why he had a sudden, desperate need to hear Dean's voice. He just wanted him to talk, and he had been telling himself that it was because of some instinctual desire for human contact. But that explanation was wearing thinner and thinner as time went on.
He was...troubled (yeah, that was a good word for what he was feeling) by everything that was going on with him. He was angry at himself for remembering what it was like to be held by Dean, back when their sizes had been proportionate to their ages. He knew better than that, had done better for two whole years.
He never should have agreed to come with Dean. Being so close to him was dredging up old, unhealthy feelings, making him doubt what he knew had been the right thing to do.
Dean nudged open one of a pair of double doors with a metallic creak, shining his flashlight into the near-total darkness of what looked like it had once been a mess hall. It glinted off blackened tin trays and overturned chairs, their legs twisted from heat that was long gone. As Sam came up behind him, he muttered over his shoulder, "Smell that?"
Sam sniffed. For a second, all he could smell was ash, stale, musty air...and Dean's cologne, which he did his best to shut out. But then he picked up another scent, a fainter, more chemical one.
"Ozone," he said, with no enthusiasm at all. "Great."
"Yep." Dean nodded, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag on his shoulder. He dug into it, pulling out a sawed-off and shoving the stock at Sam before grabbing one for himself. "We've got ghosts."
"Like the demon wasn't enough," Sam muttered, taking the gun and holding it down by his side, his fingers automatically sliding into the correct positions. He didn't want to admit it to himself, but some part of him was desperately thrilled by the amiable tone in Dean's voice, and the fact that he didn't seem to be mad at him anymore. "Ever feel like God hates you?"
"God doesn't exist," Dean said matter-of-factly, kicking through a particularly large pile of concrete fragments and scattering them loudly across the floor of the mess hall. Sam winced, hoping that nothing too nasty had been alerted to their presence by that. "But I figure I must have pissed someone off."
He stepped into the room, his flashlight beam cutting a very thin line through the darkness, and Sam followed close behind. Something scurried away, off on the opposite side of the cavernous room. Probably a rat, but, nevertheless, Sam raised the barrel of his shotgun a little. He was glad for the decision when rubber - like the soles of a pair of sneakers - whispered against the concrete nearby.
"Did you hear that?" he asked Dean, keeping his voice low. Dropping his voice a couple octaves, he'd learned early on, was actually more effective than whispering when you didn't want to be heard. There were no hisses to carry.
"Hear what?" Dean stepped back a little, sweeping the beam of his flashlight in a wide circle. Near one of the corners of the mess hall, it sounded like a chunk of concrete bounced across the floor.
"I think there's someone else in here." Sam thumbed back the hammer on his gun.
"Well, yeah, obviously..." Dean stepped back again, until they were almost touching. "The ghosts and the de - " He stopped abruptly when Sam, almost imperceptibly, stiffened. "Oh. Gee. I'm sorry," he said, voice heavy with sarcasm. "Am I too close, Sammy?"
"Dean, please don't call me that," Sam muttered, moving away until he felt comfortable again. The nickname still shot him through with memories of hips bucking against his, hot, wet kisses trailing down the back of his neck, his brother laying him down and stroking his hair soothingly while he came down from an orgasm so intense he was surprised his lanky teenage body had been able to contain it...but it just didn't inspire the same furious anger that it usually had these past couple of days. Maybe because he was so tired. At any rate, he was a little grateful for the lack of rage, because this wasn't really a good place to fight with Dean.
"I'll call you whatever the hell I want, we're gonna be done with each other in a few hours." Dean stomped away from him, but his voice didn't sound nearly as raw and angry as it had at the library, when he'd been telling Sam that he obviously made him sick. "You're gonna have to get over this phobia of me; it's just not working."
"'S not a phobia," Sam murmured.
"Then what is it, huh?" Dean spread his arms wide in a "do tell" gesture. Suddenly, he dropped them again and just shook his head. "You know what? I don't care. I just wanna find Dad and finish this case, and I'm pretty sure you want the same thing." He scrubbed a hand through his hair, and Sam was sure that his dark-blonde brush cut would be full of black streaks the next time they came across a light source. "Look. We need to work together, and, before, we were actually pretty damn good at it. We can do that again, like you've been wanting. So." He crossed his arms over his chest, his flashlight illuminating a metal dog tag that had melted into the vinyl surface of one of the tables. "I'm going to put everything I feel towards you aside, okay? You're not my brother, you're not my lover..." Sam flinched a little, but Dean ignored him. "...you're just my partner. And I would really appreciate it if you would do the same."
How the hell am I supposed to pretend you're just my partner when I had your cock in my mouth and up my ass before I was even fourteen?! demanded a furious voice in Sam's head - probably stemming from the part of him that had been fueling most of his outbursts. He automatically agreed with it, felt the words on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them and crushed that voice. Dean was actually making an effort, offering him a chance at civility, neutrality - safety. He couldn't lash out at him (and certain parts of him, parts of him that had lain dormant under mental lock and key until recently, didn't want to). He knew it was a pretty fine line he was walking; he couldn't afford to touch, feel, or remember, and he couldn't afford to hit, hate, or insult, either. But it was only for a few more hours.
"I can do that, don't worry," he said quietly, swinging his flashlight around to search for whatever had made the noises he'd heard. "And...I'm sorry. For how I've been treating you. You didn't...it was unprofessional."
"I probably deserved most of it," Dean said flippantly, gracefully accepting his brother's weak, jumbled apology. "Now that we've stood here arguing like a couple of sitting ducks for about five minutes...where'd you hear that first sound?"
Mid-February, 1989
"You're warm now, right?" Dean asked quietly, Sam nestled against him, breathing so evenly that he might as well have been asleep. "I mean...I can let go of you?"
Sam, face buried contentedly in the hollow between his shoulder and his neck, automatically tightened his grip on his older brother's shirt. He didn't understand why Dean sounded so uncomfortable; before things had started changing for the worse, holding Sam had seemed to be one of his favorite things to do. Especially when he was as stressed out as he seemed to be, lately.
"No," he said, firmly. His voice was muffled; he raised his head, looking Dean in the eye as he demanded, "How come you want to? 'M not done yet." He rested his chin on Dean's shoulder, eyes hooding sleepily as he let most of his frustration and anger drain away. He was too small to sustain things like that for long, especially after he'd basically gotten what he'd wanted. "Dean...you still didn't say why you didn't wanna touch me. Said you learned something - what'd you learn?"
Dean sighed, head drooping a little. "I'm not sure I should - "
"Dean!" Sam unclenched one fist and smacked his brother's chest with his open palm. It could barely even qualify as hitting; it was really more of a pat. But Dean flinched a little anyway. "Tell me."
"Well..." He hesitated, and Sam felt his heart practically throbbing against his own. He waited, matching his breaths to Dean's, until he let out a frustrated, exasperated groan and nuzzled into his dark hair. Sam shivered in sudden, gratified pleasure. "...the kids in my class. They've been talking about stuff I never heard before, stuff I didn't even know." His voice was quiet, regretful, and his breath was a little shaky as it puffed against Sam's scalp. "Like...what guys and girls do together, when they're trying to make babies, or...y'know, just, uh. Trying to have fun." (Years in the future, when a sixteen-year-old Dean used the word "fucking" every other sentence, Sam would think back on this conversation and find it unbearably hilarious.) "And what all that stuff is called, and...and why people who're related shouldn't do it 'cause it's - 'cause it's wrong."
He squeezed him tight, shaking a little, and Sam reached around to pat his back. Dean seemed to melt under his clumsy touch, sighing deeply into his hair. Still confused, but aware that his brother was so upset he wasn't even angry, just broken, Sam whispered, "Dean...I'on't get it."
"Sammy - all this stuff they've been talking about - " His voice hitched a little. "It's stuff we've been doing."
"Like what?" Sam asked quietly, even as Dean pulled his head away from his and loosened his grip a little.
"Like..." He was looking off into the distance, again, his arms wrapped limply around Sam. "The kissing. We shouldn't do that - normal brothers don't do that."
"Dean - " His heart hurt, like a little hairline fracture had appeared in it when Dean said they couldn't kiss anymore. He wanted to say something that he just knew would be exactly right, would make his big brother love him again just like he used to, but Dean cut him off.
"And sleeping together - that's bad, too, that's, like, the worst," he was saying now, sounding like he was on the verge of tears, afraid and hurting and maybe even hating himself, just a little bit. Looking back on it, Sam wasn't sure if he'd been emotionally mature enough for his heart to break, but it'd sure felt like it. It had hurt more than anything he'd ever encountered before, seeing Dean like this. He was always so perfectly strong, stronger even than Dad, because he never Sam's side except when he absolutely had to, and he never changed, to slur his words and yell about things Sam had been told, over and over, weren't real. "I hold you too much, too. It's not okay for me to have you on my lap all the time, or to cuddle with you as much as I do. All this touching...it's not right. Not okay." He shook his head miserably, taking one hand off Sam to rub at his face, leaving a red mark Sam wanted to kiss away.
"Dean - it is, too, okay!" He pressed himself against Dean's chest, looking for warmth because he was getting cold again and reassuring him by reaching up to stroke the small, bristly hairs at the base of his neck. He wasn't really sure what he was doing; it was, honestly, more of an instinct-driven thing than anything else. But it seemed to be working. He could sense the comfort he was giving, as he burrowed deeper into his brother, his protector, his best friend's embrace, burying his face in his T-shirt and breathing in the sweet, musky scent that was entirely Dean. "Dean..."
"I told you you wouldn't understand," Dean said softly. Sam felt a hand on his hair, petting, gently working out all the tangles and snags. "You're just a little kid. You don't get it."
"I..." It was true; he didn't. He didn't understand why it was wrong. All he understood was that Dean was in pain and wasn't willing to do anything they both loved any longer, and it fell to him to fix it. He suspected he was the only one who could. "Dean - "
"I shouldn't touch you like I do." Dean cut him off, and Sam wondered if he even knew he had. He seemed lost now, barely even paying attention to what was around him; just needing to get rid of the information that had been lying in his mind for months now, all but poisoning him. His hand slipped off Sam's head. "And I shouldn't let you touch me like that. Put your hands down between my legs, jerk me off..." He hesitated before repeating himself in a voice that was barely even a whisper. "Normal brothers don't do that."
"Dean." Sam pulled back a little, away from the simple comfort of feeling his brother's voice vibrate in his chest, against his ear and jawbone. Without thinking about it, he put his small hands on either side of Dean's face, making him actually look at him, make eye contact. Sitting in his lap, he tried to look as serious as possible. "This is normal, for us."
Hearing his own words from the very beginning of the school year, Dean closed his eyes and bit his lip. He held Sam close again, his movements so gentle it was almost as if he thought his baby brother had spontaneously turned into glass. Sam let go of his face, tucking his arms down in between their chests and snuggling closer in a search for warmth.
"You don't get it," Dean said softly, starting to rock them back and forth. The soothing, familiar motion made Sam yawn against him, under a wave of sudden sleepiness. "And you don't really care, either, do you?"
Sam shook his head, face pressed into his shoulder, because he really didn't. He just wanted his brother back, wanted things to be exactly like they had before. How they should be.
"Okay." Dean took a shaky breath, and buried his face in Sam's hair again. He was relaxing, his breathing more even now, the rocking soothing instead of nervous. "Okay...this is okay. We can do this." His voice sharpened suddenly. "I don't even give a damn what anybody else thinks anymore. This is...this can't be wrong." He hugged Sam tighter, making him squirm suddenly and let out an involuntary sound of pleasure and gratitude. This was what he had needed for months, and finally getting it felt even better than he'd thought it would. "You're too perfect. It can't be wrong."
"I love you." Sam cooed it into Dean's T-shirt, nestling deeper into his tight, warm hug, and he'd never meant it more. Their dad was gone again, he'd been abandoned and he didn't understand what was going on, but he had Dean.
"I know," Dean murmured. "I know, Sammy." He fell silent for a moment, before saying, "C'mon, let's go to bed. I'm beat."
Mid-September, 2005
Sam forcibly shook himself out of the memory as he and Dean left the mess hall behind, not having been able to find whatever it was that had been making those noises. He couldn't afford to slip into a flashback here, where they might be attacked at any moment - and especially not...that sort of flashback. He felt like biting his tongue, digging his fingernails into his palms, giving himself just a little bit of pain to focus on so he could drag his mind out of the bad place it had apparently crawled into the second he felt Dean's hands on him again.
But part of him felt just as confused and lonely as he had when he was five years old and begging attention from his brother.
He never actually hurt me. The voice bubbled up out of the very back of Sam's mind, quiet but impossible to ignore and unmistakably his own. He was so gentle with me, he never did anything I didn't like, he always asked before trying anything...he loved me. I loved him, I liked it - why does this horrify me so much?
As soon as the question crossed his mind, every muscle in his body tightened in sudden, violent memory. His face stung like he'd been slapped, and he sucked in a desperate breath between gritted teeth, almost dropping his flashlight. His father's voice, just as furious and shocked and blatantly disgusted as it had been over two years ago, thundered through his skull and tore all the doubt apart like tissue paper.
It's sick, Sam, most twisted thing I've ever seen in my entire career as a hunter - you're brothers. He has the same mother you do, the same father, and you let him climb on top of you and - and - look at this, I can't even say it. This is - it's inhuman, is what it is. I'd pump you both full of rock salt and silver if I didn't know for a fact you two are full-blooded humans.
A snarl, just a sound of pure, animal rage.
But, hey. I could be wrong. After all, you're acting like a couple of animals. A couple of monsters.
"Sam? You okay?" Dean glanced at him over his shoulder. Sam leaned against the wall of the corridor they were in and rubbed a hand over his face, not really caring that he was probably leaving ashy streaks around his eyes. That little flash of memory had been so completely different from the last thing he'd been remembering, so raw and powerful and practically serrated, that it had all but left him shaking. Not to mention totally scoured. The soft spot he'd been, somehow, harboring for Dean and the relationship he used to have with him - gone. His guilt over shoving him and yelling at him and basically treating him terribly - gone. That vague whisper of reassurance that, maybe, what they'd been doing hadn't been so wrong after all - gone. Gone, gone, gone. Leaving him feeling so empty he was surprised he could still detect his heart beating...but the ache was still there, in his chest. Worse than ever before, actually.
"I'm fine," he muttered, feeling a sudden flash of irritation at Dean for his concern. He pushed off the wall, feeling like he was eighteen again for just a second, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and the leather jacket that had just barely become Dean's. Hunching his shoulders inward and bowing his head under the horrifying force of his father's anger.
"You sure?"
"Yes." Sam just wanted to be through with this, because it - well, it hurt, and he didn't know why.
"'Cause you can head back to the car if you're not feeling good. I can finish up here."
He heard the challenge underlying Dean's words easily enough. If he left now, he'd be sending a pretty clear message: he couldn't handle this anymore. Either he just wasn't strong enough, or wasn't brave enough, or couldn't put whatever grudge he was holding on the back burner for so much as a few hours.
"I told you, I'm fine," he said quietly. Dean's hand twitched, down by his side, and Sam had a sudden, vivid image of Dean cupping the side of his jaw when he was fifteen, after he'd hit his head during a hunt, examining his face and eyes with genuine concern for signs of a concussion. That didn't happen this time. He didn't touch him, wouldn't touch him; and Sam could almost believe he was happy for that as Dean turned away and started walking again. He understood, without a shadow of a doubt in his mind, that it was good for them to keep their distance from each other. It was healthy. His dad's voice still echoed around the inside of his head.
I hated the bastard, but...he was right about this, Sam thought, closing his eyes briefly. That outburst of his...it was what I need to - to really understand. To get out and do the right thing and build a life I'm not afraid to tell anyone about for fear of them being horrified or repulsed or - or motivated to...get me away from it.
Even the voice inside his head was shaky and uncertain. He was a wreck; this whole thing was practically tearing him to pieces.
And he had started thinking of his father in the past tense. That was, doubtless, going to screw him up sooner or later.
"Hey!" Dean's sudden, rough shout startled Sam out of his thoughts. He blinked, automatically raising both his flashlight and his salt-filled shotgun and following his brother's lead on where to aim. Rubber-soled sneakers scuffed against the floor, scattering rubble and suddenly making the heavy silence of the base shockingly loud. It obviously wasn't either of them - they weren't moving, and, besides, they never wore sneakers. Their sturdy boots could stop a nail from going through the sole, crush broken glass harmlessly, cave in the skull of any monster they managed to wrestle to the ground, and hold up under a wave of acidic blood or venom. Sneakers couldn't.
The beam of Dean's flashlight swept forward, picking out a fairly-tall, well-built figure ducking around the corner up ahead, where the corridor met another and made a "T" shape. In the second that he saw him for, Sam got an impression of frayed blue jeans, a green T-shirt, and thick, dark hair shining amber in the light. He got only the briefest glimpse of the side of his face, the curve of an eye socket and the edge of a cheekbone, but what he did see triggered a sudden jolt of recognition in him. But he wasn't quite sure why. Not at first.
Dean took off, running after the guy with a curse. He only stumbled once, moving with a grace Sam wouldn't have expected form him if he hadn't spent so much time in physical contact with him. He followed, yelling, "Human! Don't shoot!" because he knew how Dean tended to think in situations like this.
"Yeah, I know - " Dean kicked through a pile of ash, sending a gritty black cloud straight into Sam's eyes and mouth. "Great. He probably thinks we're crazy now..." Raising his voice, he yelled, "Federal marshals! Stay where you are!"
Rounding the corner with Sam right behind him (more out of instinct than a conscious decision), shotgun just barely pointing down at the floor, he suddenly stopped dead.
"Okay...what the hell?"
There wasn't any sign of the guy they'd seen, which Dean proved when he methodically swept the beam of his flashlight around. There weren't any doorways nearby he could have ducked into, no other hallways he could have run down without them seeing. Dean lowered his gun fully, and cocked his head. Glancing at Sam, he uncertainly asked, "Ghost?"
Sam considered ignoring him, but the words were already in his mouth, and, besides. He didn't want to risk setting him off again when they'd just barely reached such a functional peace.
"I don't think so," he replied, tone carefully neutral. "The temperature didn't drop, and the smell of ozone didn't get stronger. But I definitely don't think he was human."
"Shoulda shot him," Dean muttered. He started down the hall, keeping a wary eye out. "You don't think he was our demon, do you?"
"I thought they looked like black smoke."
"Maybe they can change." He shook his head. "I've never hunted one before; I don't really know a whole lot besides how to get rid of 'em. I was way too young to help the last time Dad went after one."
"Speaking of Dad," Sam started. Just saying the word while so close to Dean sent a prickle of savage warning down his spine.
"What about him? He's gotta be in here somewhere. We'll find him."
"Are we even sure he's...well...here, though?" Nudging a foot through a drift of ash and charred plaster, Sam's stomach turned a little at the sight of what looked a whole lot like a blackened ulna. "If he'd gotten to the point where he would have wanted to check out this base, he would've had to've interviewed Mrs. Moon, and she didn't - " He stopped suddenly, something clicking. "God, that's it. I knew he looked familiar."
"Who? Dad?" Dean gave him a skeptical look, his features cast into hollow shadow as he turned his face away from the beams of their flashlights. "Well, gee, Sam, I wonder why."
"No, no." He shook his head, tamping down a sudden flare of irritation at having to explain himself. "The guy we were after. It was Lucas."
Dean stopped, unintentionally aiming his flashlight at Sam so he had to squint to see his blank expression. "Who?"
"Lucas Moon." This time, he couldn't keep a thin note of impatience out of his voice. "Mrs. Moon's son. The guy who went missing. She had a picture of him in her house."
"Jesus. You're right." Dean looked down the hall, to the inky blackness at the end of it. "So...what? Is he..." He shrugged. "I don't know, possessed? Or something? Can demons possess humans?"
"Don't ask me." Sam ran a hand through his hair, and exhaled explosively. "What did Dad tell you about that one?"
"Not much. It beat him up pretty bad, remember? He didn't like to talk about it." After a moment's silence, Dean smiled at him, the expression warm and affectionate and with no sexual pressure at all in it. "Glad you recognized him; I never would've caught that, if I'd been alone. Knew there was a reason I brought you along." He moved towards the nearest doorway, gesturing for Sam to follow him. "It's real nice to be hunting with you again."
Despite himself, Sam smiled back, and it felt real. He felt the pulse of something returning - the guilt, the longing. It was like he was standing with his palms pressed to a thick wall, feeling the steady beat of the captive sea behind it but not affected by it, and now water was trickling over the top. His dad's voice was so faint now in his head that it barely affected him at all, and he wasn't sure if he should be terrified that his lifeline to normality had suddenly dissolved in his hands, or if he should be happy that one of the barriers was temporarily down.
A barrier to what?
He wasn't sure. Or maybe he was, and admitting it scared him too much. He didn't know what to allow himself to think, what to allow himself to feel, and that scared him, too, after practically an entire life of knowing exactly where he stood with his emotions. Loving his brother more than anything else in the world, hating him for damaging him and ruining his childhood.
He remembered being five years old, falling asleep safe in Dean's arms, hoping to God that things never changed again, and he just didn't know what to feel.
Mid-February, 1989
Dean always slept in his boxers and the T-shirt that he'd worn that day, just like Dad did. Sam found it comforting, a ritual he could count on, and a welcome reminder of his father when he was gone (which was frequently). He liked to nestle against Dean's shirt, breathe in all the smells of his day - the rain he'd walked home from school in, cigarette smoke from the interior of the gas station where he'd stopped to pick up milk, exhaust from the parking lot of the motel - and, underneath all of that, his brother's own, unmistakable scent. A clean, complicated, almost sweet smell, a variation of which formed some of his earliest memories. He didn't like having to deal with the boxers when he wanted to touch Dean, but that was his only real complaint. And it hadn't actually been a problem for several months now.
Tonight, though, was finally different. Dean, still holding onto Sam, scooted off of Dad's bed and stood up, carrying him over to their bed with a grunt of effort and gently laying him down in the midst of the rumpled covers. Sam sat with his legs crossed and his hands in his lap, and watched Dean strip off his boots, jeans, and the flannel button-down he was wearing open over a green T-shirt with a faded, unrecognizable logo on it. Dumping his clothes over by the bags that held, basically, their entire lives when Dad had taken the car, he scowled at Sam, but there wasn't any real anger in it.
"What've you been eating, rocks?" he demanded. "I can barely pick you up anymore."
"You're lying," Sam accused, watching with something almost like anxiety as Dean padded back to the bed with bare feet. But he didn't tell him to scoot over and and then curl up on the very opposite side of the bed, like he usually did, lately. Instead, he flicked off the light and crawled up right next to Sam, pushing him down gently into a laying position and then pulling the covers up over them both, as he laid down with his chest against his back and one arm curled protectively around him.
"Yeah, I am," he said quietly, speaking into his hair. "You're still so tiny, Sammy. So fragile." He moved his hand down, gently tracing the lines of his chest and stomach, but froze on his lower belly, right above his crotch. Sam moved his feet slightly against the sheets, squeezing his eyes shut in disappointment. "I can...I can still pick you up just fine."
He sounded uncertain again, all of a sudden, frightened and guilty. Sam felt like there was a ball of ice in his stomach, but, before he could say anything, Dean's arm tightened around him. He held him close, nudging one leg over his, and murmured, "I missed this." He pressed a tender, tentative kiss to the nape of his neck, where his dark hair grew in soft and short. "Yeah, I missed this a lot."
Sam reached up, and pressed one hand against Dean's forearm, breathing deeply as he squeezed, holding him in place just in case he tried to move away. He nudged his hips backwards, snuggling closer and tucking his head down. He felt Dean press his chin to the top of it, just as close as Sam needed him to be and perfectly reassuring.
"Don't leave again, okay?" he asked quietly, a little flicker of fear that this wouldn't last worming its way into the fuzz of warmth and sleepiness and comfort that was clouding his brain. He didn't mean leaving literally, but emotionally, abandoning him again and leaving him miserable and confused and more alone than he could stand being. But he just wasn't quite sure how to put all of that into words, so he hoped Dean understood what he was trying to say. "Not ever again. Okay?"
"Okay. Yeah, never again." Dean's voice was gentle, loving. If anything about this was still bothering him, he must have shoved it to the very back of his mind. "You're my little brother, and I gotta take care of you. That comes before everything else, huh?" He patted his chest, even though it was awkward in the position they were in, the gesture simple and more than enough to make Sam completely let go of whatever stress and tension he was holding onto. He wiggled an arm under him, so he could hold him completely, and Sam made a soft, grateful cooing sound without even realizing it. "And I need you. You're, like, the best thing in my life." He paused, and, when he spoke again, it sounded like he was smiling, just a little. "But, if you tell anybody I said that, I'll rip you a new one."
"Wha's'at mean?" Sam asked sleepily, eyes closed and small body all tucked up into the curve that Dean's made. Dean's breathing was even against his hair as he considered it for a couple seconds.
"I don't really know," he admitted, finally. "There's this one kid at my school, a sixth grader, he says it all the time and I just thought it sounded tough. Forget about it." He sighed deeply, and shifted a little. "I love you, Sammy. I know I haven't been saying that like I should, but...I just want you to know it. I want to you feel it."
Sam squirmed in his arms until he loosened his grip, then rolled over to face him. Dean cupped the back of his head with one hand, stroking his hair, and Sam opened his eyes and laid his palm against the side of Dean's face. Then they were kissing, their mouths pressed together, so close Sam imagined he could feel every single one of Dean's pulse points, his older brother's lips moving oh-so-gently against his. Exploring, testing what was okay and what he wanted, feeling him out and getting familiar with him again after such a long time without touching or being touched. Sam opened his mouth and gasped, quietly, love and joy and relief mixing together in his chest and stomach as Dean planted kisses on his chin and lower lip, waiting for him to close his mouth. When he did, he kissed back, and he knew his movements were clumsy compared to Dean's, but, right then, he didn't care.
When Dean tugged his oversized T-shirt up around his hips and anxiously whispered, "Is this okay, Sammy? Can I do this?" he nodded rapidly, let out a breathless, excited, "Uh-huh," and completely surrendered. Feather-light touches, coming from hands that were already getting callused from sparring and working, traced the shape of his belly, the insides of his thighs, and the ridges of his hips, getting steadily closer to the area between his legs. He was laying on his back, Dean crouched over him and touching him with only his fingertips. He whimpered with sudden need, lifting his hips a little as his brother started to stroke, rubbing from the base of him all the way up to his head with his thumb, holding him cupped in the palm of his hand as he stiffened. Den let him buck into his hand as he worked him out to his full length (which wasn't much - he was only five) with movements of his fingers, and Sam closed his eyes and bit his lip, the waves of pleasure coming from where he was being touched entirely welcome. They'd rarely done this, even before Dean stopped touching him for so long, because he could coax him into an erection, stroke him and pump his shaft with one fist and plant kisses on his head or around the base, but he couldn't give him release. Dean speculated that Sam was too young to "come," as he called it. Sam honestly didn't care. It felt good just the way it was.
Dean's hand was warm around him, as he worked gently up and down, stabilizing him with his other hand firmly gripping his shoulder. He was murmuring encouragement and assurances, voice full of affection, and every single one of his movements was soft and soothing. Almost like he was just trying to calm him down, get rid of the fear and hurt of the past few months, instead of giving him as much pleasure as he could handle. Sam panted, hips still rocking, and decided he didn't mind. It'd been a long day, he was exhausted, this was really just a way to reaffirm their relationship, and...oh.
He cried out a little, unable to help himself, as it suddenly started feeling really, really good. Even better than normal. It felt like he was getting close to reaching something, cresting, as the waves of pleasure got more and more intense and crashed over him closer and closer together. Dean sped up his movements like he sensed he needed to, and Sam gasped, digging his fingertips into the mattress and thrusting up as hard as he could.
"D-De - " he started shakily, screwing his eyes shut as tight as they would go.
"You're fine, Sammy, just fine," Dean soothed, squeezing his shoulder and rubbing his thumb briefly over his head. "Hold on."
Sam cried out again, much louder this time, as what felt a whole lot like an explosion of pure, amazing sensation happened down between his legs and spread swiftly outwards. His bare toes curled, and he pressed his head back into the pillow he was resting on as he peaked. Dean held onto him tightly, hands warm and strong, and he was grateful for that, because this felt so powerful he thought it might carry him off if he wasn't anchored here. Something hot and sticky flowed out of him, or had flowed, and he hoped, desperately, that he hadn't wet himself. He wasn't sure he'd be able to look Dean in the eye if that was what had happened.
Coming down, feeling detached and contented and wholly satisfied, Sam raised his head, his tiny chest heaving as he took deep breaths. Even in the dim light, he could see just a little bit of pearly-white fluid, puddled on his stomach and his penis and Dean's hand. It looked familiar; he'd seen something like it on his own hands after touching Dean. His eyes widened slightly.
Oh.
"Well, hey...look at that." Dean leaned forward to kiss his forehead, letting go of him. "Guess you're growing up."
He scooped him up, and carried him into the bathroom, to clean him up with a thin motel washcloth drenched in hot water. Being carried back to the bed, his arms wrapped around Dean's neck and his legs around his waist, Sam's eyelids drooped. He was all but asleep when Dean laid him down and then pressed himself against him, holding him close and snuggling with him under the covers. The feel of his arms around him was enough to send him off, feeling safe and loved.
Dad wouldn't come back for a week. Holed up in the motel room, Sam would be confused and terrified, but only for a few minutes at a time, before Dean noticed. He would kiss him, gently, and hug him, or hold him on his lap until he wasn't afraid anymore.
"It's okay, Sammy, I got you," he murmured, as Sam trembled against his chest. "You don't have to be scared. I'm here - I'm never gonna let anything hurt you, okay? I'm gonna take care of you. No matter what."
