Chapter 4 Breaking the Rules
Sorry if I am changing the title from Breaking the Rules, to Breaking all the rules or vice versa..titles are NOT my strong point. I may not be even doing it, but just in case, thought I would throw it out there.
I don't own any of the characters that I am writing about. I would like to rent them for a few days if I am given the chance, but that would not be written about.
WINCEST WARNING. If you are this far into the story and don't realize it is Wincest, you are kind of an idiot.
So now the rules are firmly established in the hurricane alley that Dean's brain has quickly become and all the steps have been taken.
Four weeks later outside Kennaway, Ontario, in the wonderful country of Canada, and Dean has managed to hold onto to the rules by the grip of his fingernails on the side of a cliff. He is doing his best. For some reason, Sam is not making this easier on him.
The thought reverberates through Dean's head and he shakes it off, feeling sick in the pit of his stomach. Like it's Sam's fault that Dean can't even look at his own brother without lust rising up so fiercely and quickly that he will mount a full scale assault before 3 seconds of eye contact has passed between them.
Dean knows it is his own sickness that causes him to be hyper aware of every move Sam makes. It has nothing to do with Sam purposely making himself alluring to his own brother. Dean is not right in the head, and being in love with his little brother should be bad enough, without him also blaming the fucking kid for it.
So Dean drives towards their destination, and doesn't try to stop himself from noticing Sam's hand and the way it is sitting on his own thigh, flexing and unflexing like he is squeezing an imaginary ball. He is doing it out of the corner of his eye, no chance at eye contact, so no breaking of a rule.
They check into yet another motel and enter the room, routine still fully intact. Dean throws his duffel on the bed nearest the door, and sits on the edge of the bed, looking around the room, grateful for a change to look at anything but Sam.
The room is unfortunately decorated in RCMP paraphernalia and Dean can't help but snort when he looks around. Cops are of course not his favorite thing, even goofy dressed ones perched on top of horses.
He feels, but doesn't witness Sam sit on the bed closest to the bathroom but out of the corner of his eye he realizes Sam is bouncing up and down a little on it, testing it out, and his throat scorches dry like someone just poured hot sand down it.
"Nice bed, Dean," Sam says and continues bouncing. Dean swallows hard and nods reflexively.
Sam stops bouncing just as quickly as he started and Dean hears him huff out a breath.
"Gonna get changed," Sam announces and Dean's face suddenly feels warm. This is part of the problem. For some damn reason, Sam has been undressing in front of him constantly for the last few weeks. Dean tries to remember back through the murky memories of before he saw Sam, and he swears that Sam used to go into the bathroom to change constantly.
Dean tries to keep his eyes fixed on the ridiculous Mountie wall paper, but when he hears the zip of Sam's jeans, his eyes jump over to Sam's side of the room like Dean doesn't control them in his own damn head anymore.
Sam is inching his jeans off his hips slowly and Dean's mind begins to play sexy stripper music before he can stop it. He is trying to force himself to look away but as the jeans drop lower, Dean feels saliva pooling in his too hot mouth and he swallows it down hard.
Sam's jeans are now down at his knees and Dean is still staring, but he isn't sure anymore if it counts because he isn't looking at Sam's face. The bulge in Sam's shorts is tantalizing in a way that Dean's brain can't even interpret, he vaguely senses that his imagination is trying to see under those rather tight fitting shorts, but can't manage to do so.
Suddenly, Sam stops and mutters, "No, those are still clean," and pulls his jeans back up slowly and Dean watches the promise land that is the bulge in Sam's boxers disappear from his line of sight. He lets out a breath he wasn't aware he had been holding and looks away again. Finally. He waits for the fuzziness that immediately covered his brain when he heard that tell tale ziiippppp to dissipate, but it seems to be taking longer to go away than usual.
The corner of his eye catches Sam unbuttoning his plaid shirt and throwing it on his bed, and Dean's inner monologue starts in with 'oh what fresh hell is this' and when Sam lifts the edges of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, Dean can't stop staring even if someone poured poison into his eyes at that exact moment.
Sam has this habit, and he has probably done it most of his life, but now that Dean is obsessive about watching him as much as possible it has become noticeable.
Whenever Sam takes his shirt off, before putting a new one on, he slaps his biceps lightly with the opposite hand, like he is reassuring himself they are still bulging just the way he likes.
Dean lives to watch Sam slap those biceps. So he watches out of the corner of his eye and tries to ignore the thickness against the zipper of his own jeans while he waits for those slaps.
Sam absentmindedly strokes down his own chest for a second and Dean literally thinks someone must have set his own bed on fire, because he hears the "whoosh" in his ears and its like being caught right inside a blue flame. Dean is holding his breath again and biting his lip and when Sam finally slaps his biceps before picking up his fresh t-shirt to pull over his head, Dean can breathe again.
Sam looks over and Dean darts his eyes back to the wallpaper quickly, almost, but not completely sure that Sam couldn't have seen him staring.
"Dean, c'mon get changed so we can go eat, I'm starving."
Robotically Dean nods, and says, "Yeah Sam," and then reaches down to unzip his own bag. He pulls out a fresh shirt and his shave bag and stands up, glad the pressure in his crotch has abated enough that he doesn't have to hold his hands in front of the massive hard on watching Sam change shirts had given him.
As he walks into the bathroom, he feels Sam's eyes on him and they scorch a trail down the back of his neck, but Dean doesn't turn back. He just can't.
LATER
They are sitting in another crappy bar, after another so-so dinner, nursing beers and cracking jokes at each other. Dean is trying desperately to keep the rules in place, but again, he feels almost resentful of Sam. Dean is not breaking his rules, but its like Sam is constantly trying to make Dean break them.
Sam is kicking him under the table, although he always apologizes, and one of his legs has leaned against Dean's three times. Each time Dean sends him the warning , "Dude," Sam apologizes and moves it again, but within minutes its back. He is claiming to Dean that there isn't enough leg room and he needs more than Dean anyhow.
He has reached across the table exactly six times since they sat down two hours ago to hit Dean's wrist while telling him something and once he even grabbed Dean's hand for emphasis during a particularly funny, if not often told tale. Dean's hand is still tingling from the contact, and he keeps looking down at it, wondering if his skin is going to change because Sam touched him there.
The worst is the eye contact, because it is never ending, and Dean's heart has lodged up in his own throat so many fucking times as he looks at Sam, that he figures that is its new permanent place in his body. For some reason Sam is not accepting Dean's sly tricks when it comes to not looking at him, so everything he does is causing Dean's gaze to be on him. Whether it was talking so low that Dean had to look to try to make out the words from Sam's mouth to Sam telling a story that had him pointing eyes to eyes with Dean, he is literally stripping Dean of his rules quicker than a hungry redneck can strip a mule deer.
Dean drinks too much and for a weird change so does Sam and they stumble out of the smoky bar a few hours later. The bar is a short walk back to the hotel and the Canadian air is crisp but not too cold and Dean figures they will be back to the room in minutes.
Sam has been walking since he was one year old. Dean knows this because he was there. And the guy has the longest legs Dean has ever seen, so why Sam can't manage to stay balanced on this impossibly short walk back to the room is a complete mystery to Dean.
He keeps bumping into Dean and letting our snorted chuckles each time he does it. Dean doesn't say anything, or react or even look at Sam, but his whole core is shaking and zinging and firing like someone turned up the juice inside him.
Dean is proud of himself, he is kind of keeping it together, and then he feels Sam's arm drop around his shoulders, his hand grasping at the leather of Dean's jacket.
Dean freezes inside his own skin in a flash moment and he sorts it out in his head that before he saw Sam for the first time, this kind of thing was Ok and pushing Sam off him now would look worse than enduring the contact. So, he walks along steadfastly not looking at Sam, and eventually Sam removes his arm with a sigh, but he still bumps into Dean twice more before they reach the room.
They are finally safely back to the room and the TV is on low and the lights are off and they are lying on their separate beds and Dean is finally thinking that maybe he can get some sleep and escape his hell on earth for a few hours, unless another fucking dream gets to him first, when he hears Sam sigh loudly and say,
"Fuck you seriously cannot take a hint, Dean."
Thoughts are appreciated, if you got the time