PLEASE NOTE!
This is an unauthorized translation of the beautiful work of AIGRET, originally in Chinese. One day I stumble into it and got captured immediately. And then I thought to myself, this is such a great work that many more people must read this!
However, since I'm not a native English speaker myself, please forgive me if there are any tipos or grammatical errors or anything. It's entirely my fault, nothing to do with the original author.
If you like this translation ,please be feel free to comment and let me know, and I'll try to translate more works of AIGRET in the future.
If you're interested in any other wonderful fics written by AIGRET, you can find them on or I'm reaching out to her on the latter website for authorization of my translation but up to this moment there's no response. So also to AIGRET, if you see this, pleeeease say yes.
Again my apologies for any potential errors, and without further ado, enjoy!:)
Dean stomped his feet, then stomped again, all hair raised like a cat that had just been rolling about in the snow, trying to shake the cold off. It was 2 a.m., Palo Alto at the end of October was cold enough, and the fact that neither tramps wrapped in newspapers nor stray cats rummaging in the trashcan were willing to stay around made him feel like the little match girl in Danish fairy tale that had just got kicked out of home.
He held tight on to a bundle of imaginary matches and stared eagerly at the apartment window within reaching distance, in which two hours ago the lights were still on: yellow and round, bright and warm and stable lights, unlike pathetic little bulbs in cheap motels which were cold like the shower water after Sam used it up.
When the shower head ran out of hot water, Dean shouted and yelled and made a big fuss in the bathroom in protest of Sam's shameless behaviour until it was finally impossible for Sam to continue doing his homework. His brother broke the tip of his writing pencil, twice, before shoving the chairs aside with a loud bang and storming into the bathroom.
There was still a damp towel on Sam's shoulders and at the tip of his brown hair water was dripping and trickling down. His busting into the steaming bath wrapped in cold air all over felt for all the world like the destructive hurricane that hit the three little pig's grass house. Suddenly frozen all over, Dean stomped barefoot again and grumbled: "Fuck, you son of a bitch, shut the damn door now!"
What Dean meant was quite simple. First, Sam gets out. Then, kindly and politely Sam closes the bathroom door behind him for his brother. The end.
But Sam obviously didn't understand it that way. That brilliant, top-student brain of his skipped right over the first step and moved directly onto the next. He slammed the door shut with a noise which to Dean's ears sounded like the big bad wolf catching the unlucky little piggy. Sam shoved him against the bathroom wall, on which ceramic tiles were so icy they made him hiss.
The water on his skin had gradually cooled off, and Dean found himself trapped between his younger brother and the wall. To the front Sam's young body was radiating youthful heat, to the back the ceramic was ice-cold that one's tongue might stick to it if one dares to take a lick. It doesn't take a genius to figure out which one to choose.
Still Dean grabbed a handful of Sam's hair tightly and moaned "no" in confusion when his Ivy League brother fucked into his ass most fiercely. That hard, hot thing thrusted in every direction like a bumper car that had just obtained its license to drive around in Dean's body. Sam took an interest in exploring every inch inside his big brother's ass, hands gripping tight on Dean's waist and muttered: "No what, Dean?"
No. It's wrong. This is wrong, Dean thought mistily. Incest is wrong. From kissing, jerking off, blow jobs, all the way along to shoving your dick up your brother's ass. This isn't a moral landslide, this is a moral fucking avalanche.
"Not enough, "for some reason what came out of Dean's mouth was completely different, "Tiger, deeper, harder, oh yeah, fuck!"
He must had been a little too carried away, for even though he hadn't been drinking Dean felt like he was over the clouds, light-headed and dizzy with warmth. "Fuck me, fuck me, Sammy—"
Obediently Sam withdrew a bit, and the lubricant that had been stirred into foam was obscenely stretched out, like sticky cheese between slices of hot pizza. A long string of liquid flowed out from his suddenly relaxed entrance, and Dean didn't know if it was semen, lubricant, or something else secreted within his hole. Before he had the chance to complain Sam fucked in once again, hip bones bumping into up top of his thighs loudly.
"You like this don't you?" the younger Winchester blurted out, also infected by Dean's reckless passion: "Like being fucked by me? Like me—" With a groan the head of his cock hit Dean's prostate and Dean let out a cry, even his pubis had become sensitive and swollen, "—So deep into you, fill you so full you can even taste me."
Dean nodded, muddled, his senses were long gone with Sam slotting in and out, his mind lost in thoughts. Is this fucking really his little brother who felt guilty watching porn? The sweet little boy who blushed when Dean caught him with another girl? He seemed to have grown up before Dean knew it, into something of a familiar stranger. Man. Not a boy with big puppy eyes.
But Sammy like this was so damn hot it made his knees crumble and he was having a hard time supporting himself vertical.
"You want it, " Sam continued to murmur and whisper like the snake tempting Eve, "Dean, you want it? My scrotum can go in there too, bet your sweet little ass can take 'em all up, and I'll be inside you, completely and inseparable."
It must have been the word inseparable that hit Dean's fragile nerves, right in the centre. Part of within his heart was screaming that it was absolutely impossible, that it was already a frigging miracle that his brother's freakishly large dick could fit in and in no way could he have the space for some more. But another part of him had already surrendered and his thighs opened straight for his brother.
Inseparable. Bet his little brother would come up with more words like that. Interwoven. Intertwined. Blood is thicker than water and everything. His brother's a freaking genius, the kinky kind that managed to get straight As in their crappy hunting life between one motel and another.
He guessed the difference between himself and his brother was that by now Dean had completely lost the ability to think straight. Surrendering to his brother, spine twitching as his whimpers came out in pieces: "Come on, Sammy, come on, fill me so full that I can feel you."
The rest of Dean's words stuck in his throat. He rarely swore in bed as he treated the chicks he picked up with a timid tenderness of a boy scout. He was dying to say fuck me hard enough that I wouldn't be able to get out of bed the next day, that I would remember that feeling for the rest of the week. But instead he blushed, his moist green eyes as shiny as his lips.
However there was no need for him to say anything out loud. Sam's fingers fumbled down to his hole, taking hold of his tightening ass cheeks and pulled him open. Dean shuddered at the somewhat frightening sensation of his muscles threatening to be torn and gripped tight onto Sam's arms unconsciously.
Four of Sam's fingers pushed inside and squeezed next to his cock and god he's so full. It wasn't that of a kick but Dean felt no pain nevertheless, only a sensation of swelling-to-the-end-of-time swaying and floating, like a tiny balloon sliding deep inside Dean's body, to his stomach, to his heart, to his throat.
"You're amazing, Dean, " Sam panted his compliment as he entered Dean carefully, his scrotum squeezing aside and open the sliding slippery meat, "look, I'm all inside you now."
The excitement in Sam's voice overwhelmed Dean completely, his chest was puffed by a sense of pride of an elder brother. Little Sammy used to looked up to him like that all the time in worship and expectancy, for he was the only one that could load a shotgun, for he could get into pubs with fake IDs, for he bought each of them a steaming hot slice of cherry pie with change he won at pool, for he secretly set a whole trunk of fireworks with him on Independence Day.
But those looks started to fade away. Sam was growing up and tall, becoming someone Dean couldn't recognize at great speed. Underneath his thick brown fringe those light hazel eyes were always looking at somewhere else quietly. Dean knew what Sam wanted. To be at school instead of on the roads. Stanford. Apple-pie life. House with white pointy fences. Two dogs and a welcoming neighbour. But those were things Dean couldn't give him. He'd done anything he knew and could trying to make Sam happy, but the hunting and parenting tricks he had learned lost all their magic here. His hands were empty and even his pockets had nothing in them. So when Dean found that letter of admission from Stanford at the bottom of Sam's backpack, wordlessly and downcast he slipped it back as if he had done something wrong.
But on that same day, drunk for the first time in his life, Sam told him thickly: "I want you."
Dean's head heated up alarmingly that he didn't even say "no" to Sam's drunkenly kiss, because this was something he could give Sam. He would rip his own heart out to put it in Sam's pocket if he could, even though it was crappy, rough, cheap, not comparable to others (especially those highly-educated girls, those were college chicks, right?) let alone Stanford, and entirely beneath what Sam deserved to have which was a life ten thousand times brighter and more successful than the one they led.
But right now and in this very moment, he and Sam, all they had were each other. Sam's dick filled him up so full that it almost felt like there was a tiny beating heart inside him, linking them together inseparable like a cord. Dizzy and light-headed he began seeing stars, tiny souls with wings floating in sight.
"Don't, don't move." Dean pled. He had this strong sense of fear like walking on to the edge of a misty cliff after getting plastered. If Sam moved, he was gonna die, or climax, or die in climax. The most humiliating way of dying on earth, the kind that would still make it to gossip columns in tabloids twenty years later.
"I won't." Sam muttered in answer and began to seek a kiss on the lips, his warm wet puppy-like tongue fell all over his cheeks and lips as he continued to mumble incoherently: "I love you, Dean, I love you."
For some reason his sounded both wronged and afraid.
Dean stood there for another while and finally collapsed onto the stairs when his legs went numb. The street before dawn seemed to be filled by damp cold air that gave him shivers. He thought of Sam, together they could turn a cold shower in a motel into a sweaty one, with white and transparent and semi-transparent liquids flowing into the sewer together like mixed-up paints on a palette.
He still hadn't made up his mind about whether to go knocking. He knew Sam was behind that door, lying in the comfort of his bed and probably with his beautiful girlfriend sleeping right next to him. Warmly and comfortably and safely.
C'mon, he's not that kind of a nuisance or spoilsport, the kind that drags people's asses out of their beds in the middle of the night.
It wasn't supposed to be the middle of the night. Actually it was just in the evening when Dean parked his Impala beside the road, when the sky was burning red with sunset. But he hesitated and faltered and wavered and just couldn't talk himself into ringing that doorbell, and two nearly arrests from the police Sam's enthusiastic neighbors called who mistaken him as a thief and one pick-up from a drunkard who had mistaken him as a pimp were not exactly helping.
The black eye the drunkard ended up with was the pure result of anger.
Fine. He admitted that he was afraid. That Dean Winchester who feared nothing and no one cringed for the first time, as if his little brother would charge out and bite him or something.
This was now his fourth beer mixed with God-knows-how-many whiskey down in an effort to overcome this out-of-nowhere cowardice, and Dean felt like a rubber ball that would spin around and round and round if anyone just give him a slight poke. Or maybe no need of a poke, for as he was crouching still the whole world was already spinning in front of his eyes.
He saw colourful stars flying about above his head, flapping their little wings. Dazzled and blurred he tried to make them stop, until one of the stars opened its mouth and started talking.
Dean, it asked, why don't you go inside?
I dunno, Dean answered, there aren't any Christmas trees or roasted turkeys or bunny girls lining up to welcome me inside!
Because you're afraid, that tiny voice started dissecting, right through Dean's chest and to his heart. You're afraid that he won't welcome you, afraid that he'll tell you to fuck off and get lost, isn't it?
Bullshit, said Dean, I'm his fucking big brother, this little brat of a bitch wouldn't dare.
But the fact remained that, indeed, he was afraid. He lost count of how many harsh words and curses he threw at Sam the day he departed, but as far as he could remember any passersby would have thought World War III broke out in the room as the Winchesters had a big fight that could turn the world upside-down. He didn't apologize, neither of them would, they just climbed into two single beds side-by-side as usual, as if nothing happened.
The next morning Dean woke up and found Sam's bed already empty. The goodbye he thought would end up in fierce arguments or tears or both couldn't have been any quieter, so quiet it didn't even woke Dean up from his nightmare, but unmistakably it was a break-off most clean.
He lied to me. Dean sniffed and complained to that little voice most angrily. He said he wanted me, but all he did was slipping away from me and dad!
He also wanted a normal life, the little star told him, sparkling debris began to float and drift in mid air. These two were not in conflict. Nobody deserves to be on the road all the time hunting and risking their lives. Nobody deserves to be tied up with you.
Dean stared at his own shadow, it drew a long dark shape on the ground and cast itself all the way to his brother's doorstep. He couldn't go knocking on that door, for he wasn't the little match girl or Santa Clause and his bags weren't filled with matches or presents. They were filled with the brothers' heavy past, with rock salt and gasoline and exorcising charms, in short, a life with no roof above heads and no promise of seeing the sun rise again next morning. They were filled with everything Sam wanted to run away from.
Sam had already succeeded. Dean had snuck into Stanford and saw Sam's name on the scholarship bulletin board. With his hair shorter and his fringe above his brows, he looked young and handsome and graceful, quite an ambitious lawyer with a bright life ahead of him. All he ever wanted was for Sammy to be happy, and right now Sam couldn't be any happier. How could Dean drag him back into this family business and incest crap?
Did it ever occur to you, suddenly that tiny voice began to allure him, that you too could have a normal life?
No way. Dean rolled his eyes, the lack of blood circulation in his numb legs was already giving him shivers from his toes and all the way up. He stood up and put his hands into the pockets of his oversized leather jacket, considering going inside the Impala for a bit of warmth.
I'm not Sammy, he's smarter than me, stronger than me, and all I'm up for in this life is hunting.
But I messed it up, Dean thought to himself again. Otherwise he wouldn't be loitering around Sam's doorstep for hours like a stalker, wondering whether or not to ask for his help.
Imagine it, imagination alone won't cost you anything, that voice continued. Don't you like it? A house with white pointy fences, a lawn that dogs can play fetch on, a whole wall of shelves filled with records and books, disco balls and a freaking big Jacuzzi, never again to fear that hot water might run out—
I also want my own kitchen, a bedroom with posters of Daisy Duke up on every piece of naked wall— Dean got carried along with its thoughts. He stopped in a halt, frightened by his own vivid imagination.
No. No way. He refused adamantly. That life you pictured is good, it's normal, too normal, and I'm allergic to normal life. Don't tell me next that I'm gonna get a job, get married, have two kids, work nine to five, become fat and bald, and work my way through sex life using Viagra. I'll only carry on hunting and picking up hot chicks not-stop, and die in the hands of vampires or werewolves or something like that before the age of forty.
Or you could walk into that door, it said. Tell Sam that dad's got a lead on mom's killer, that after this case it would be done, once and for all. Imagine it, you could even be together again. Sam could to go back to his study at Stanford, and you could get a real job, car mechanic, waiter, anything. You'll wake up in the same bed every morning and go to sleep on the same bed again every night, you'll mow the lawn on weekends and invite your neighbors to barbecue parties. Never again will there be fear of not being able to explain who you are to everyone, never again will there be fear of police and monsters, and finally being able to sleep without a shotgun in hand.
You're still young and there's still every possibility ahead... Don't give me that empty talk again, Dean muttered as he was being ticked off by the owner of the pub he tried to sneak into pretending he wasn't underage. Aren't you gonna give me the talk of bees and birds too?
But for the first time in his life, Dean genuinely had a faint sense of hope about this kind of future. Perhaps this can be the last hunt after all? Perhaps he and Sam could be together again like before? He raised his hand, his finger lingered on the doorbell.
Fuck. A gust of cold wind sent another shiver into his body. Dean's now sober. No, he wouldn't wanna open this door with his arms wide open for a warm and welcoming hug and see that ice-cold bitch face of Sam's, perhaps with his girl in his arms. No. He's not yet ready to be given a cold shoulder.
And at this god-damn-it crucial moment, his hand trembled, and the doorbell tooted like a toy car horn.
Before Dean's legs decided which way to run, the door flung open and he stared a sleepy Sam right in the eyes. Now his chances of running away are gone completely.
"Dean?"
He heard Sam ask in surprise.
Oh shit. He's done for. He screwed up. Now the best way out of this is to use your genius brain and come up with a brilliant excuse, like happened to pass through Stanford and suddenly wanted to come in for a beer or something—
To his surprise Sam grabbed his hand and dragged Dean into the room. He thought he might as well fell into a cloud of warm mist that wrapped him all over. The room was just as warm and comfortable and quiet as he had imagined.
"How long have you been standing outside?" Sam asked with a slight tone of reproach, "Why didn't you give me a call?"
Dean's voice got stuck in his throat, he was too dizzy to utter anything. A dim yellow night light flickered behind Sam, which gave him a furry iridescent halo around his cheeks. He looked remarkably like a tiny sun, glowing steadily and firmly.
Somehow, inexplicably, a night many years ago sprung to mind. Dressed in a suit and tie, Dean was eagerly looking forward to his first ball when dad's hunting finished, the Impala waiting for him. The man who looked after him at the correctional institution promised him that he could stay for the ball and stay here for as long as he likes, if that was what Dean wanted.
Dean hesitated. At last he pushed the windows open and looked down from the windowsill.
He saw dad's Impala parked downstairs, and there was Sam, sitting in the car with a toy plane in hand. His little brother's little face tilted up and looked at him.
He saw Sam there waiting for him, and that was a hundred times stronger than any words. He no longer shivered or felt cold, he just watched Sam, and ran towards him.