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Sinful Desire
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2006-06-15
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Wake Up Older

Summary:

Fifth in the Things My Brother Taught Me series. Warnings: Wincest, teen sex, huge amounts of angst, strong language, flying objects and more misdirected blame.

Notes:

Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at Sinful-Desire.org. To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on Sinful Desire collection profile.

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Title: Wake Up Older (Part One)
Author: Hellskitten
Email: [email protected]
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: S/D
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Wincest, teen sex, huge amounts of angst, strong language, flying objects and more misdirected blame.
Spoilers: Some from the episodes “Home” and “Asylum”, but this is mostly AU. This continues immediately from my story series “Things My Brother Taught Me”, “Wednesday’s Child”, “The Wind Cries Mary” and “In Vino Veritas”. It won’t make much sense without them and you can find them in the Memories section of my LJ.
Disclaimer: The boys and all their angst-ridden hotness belong to the WB.
Notes: This story had a lot to tell but I didn’t want to put up a single 35 page story—so it’s in two pieces. But at least I won’t cliffhang y’all too badly.
Soundtrack: “Am I Evil” by Metallica.

***

“Try it again,” Dean said. He stretched his neck, tried to clear his head and then leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

Sam sat across from him on the opposite unmade bed and he scowled. “I don’t think it works like this. I think it’s a stress-related connection thing or something.”

“Stress? We weren’t under stress when it happened last night.”

“Well, no . . .” Sam grinned playfully. “But I had your dick in my mouth, Dean. We were definitely, er, connected.”

“So . . . you’re saying you think we can only be telepathic when we’re touching each other?”

Sam shrugged. “It sure as shit ain’t workin’ now.”

“Just try it again.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam sighed and the7 locked eyes with his brother.

They stared at each other and Dean concentrated, but nothing was happening. He couldn’t hear Sam’s voice in his head like he did the night before. Granted, it was only that one sentence, but still. It had been right there. Clear as a bell. He knew they could do it again if they just practiced.

This activity was also serving the purpose of keeping both their minds off the fact that their father had said he’d meet them in 36 hours—and that had been 35 hours and 47 minutes ago. They were blatantly avoiding watching the door and intentionally not looking at the time, but they were also very much aware of both.

“Try this,” Dean said, reaching forward with his palms turned up, fingers extended.

Sam placed his own long fingers on top of his brother’s, then they locked eyes again. They stared and stared, both frowning in concentration—nothing.

Dean sighed, frustrated. He really wanted this to work. It would be an amazing advantage in hunting and he knew they had to figure it out. If it happened once, it would happen again. Suddenly, he had a thought and he dropped onto his knees in front of Sam, pulling him close for a soft kiss. Their lips touched and Sam frowned, drawing back a little.

“Wait, Dean—you want to do this NOW? What if . . .” Sam glanced at the door warily.

“I’m just thinking maybe . . . it’s this kind of touching we need to be doing in order for the mind reading thing to work.”

Sam acquiesced because it made sense and then he kissed Dean’s lips with gentle veneration. They stayed there for a moment, lips pressed, noses brushing, kissing lightly like whispers.

“Are you trying to say something to me?” Dean murmured.

“Um . . .” Sam kissed him again, softly licking his bottom lip. “I kinda . . . can’t concentrate . . .”

Dean understood that. As soon as their lips touched, his body had gone into that automatic launch mode and all his senses became polarized to Sam’s touch. He went hot with craving and his mind had basically gone blank. Sighing again, he slouched down on the floor. “Shit.”

Sam shook his head. “Let’s just try it later. I’m too distracted right now, anyway.” He stood up and paced the length of their room twice, his long legs making short work of the journey. Scratching his fingers through his soft, floppy hair, he frowned at his watch. “Maybe we should call him.”

Dean looked at his cell phone on the night table between the beds but he did not pick it up. “He’s not late yet,” he said, checking his own watch. “In fact, he’s still got four minutes.”

“I’m sure he wasn’t being that precise about the time,” Sam said, pacing the floor again. “In fact, if I had to offer a premonition about it, I’d say he wasn’t coming at all.”

Dean frowned at his brother. “Why would you think that? He said he was coming. He’ll be here.”

“Dean, Dad is playing games with us. He’s putting us through some kind of . . . test. I don’t know why, and I don’t really care—but it pisses me ALL the way off and I want him to quit it.”

“That’s nuts,” Dean barked. “Dad would never do anything like that to us! What the hell would he have to test us about, Sam? He knows everything we’re capable of because he TAUGHT us.”

Sam turned on him, his eyes fierce and sparkling. “He knows everything you’re capable of, Dean! He doesn’t know shit about me anymore.”

They stared at each other silently for a long, breathless moment, both boys processing the bald truth that now hung in the still air between them. Finally, Dean looked away, slumping back against the bed he’d slept in the night before. He glanced over at his cell, but again he left it where it lay.

“Then I guess I don’t know shit about you, either,” he said quietly. “I mean . . . the little brother that left us when he turned eighteen was someone I trusted with my life.” He brought his wounded gaze back to Sam. “But this little brother in the room with me now shot me three times in the chest the first chance he got.”

Bravely, Sam held that challenging gaze. “That wasn’t me, Dean. You know better.”

“Ellicott’s spirit didn’t possess you, Sam. He just ramped up the rage that was already IN you. You weren’t somebody ELSE, you were a bigger, louder version of yourself! And you shot your fucking brother at point blank range!” Dean was on his feet then and he charged right up to Sam, staring hard into his glinting green eyes. “You didn’t even fucking hesitate.”

Sam was breathing in shallow pants and his face became of mask of tragic remorse. His eyes filled with sudden tears and he looked imploringly at Dean, shaking his head and trying to speak.

“Do you hate me, Sam?” Dean whispered through his teeth. “Do you really, honestly hate me?”

“You can’t be asking me that.” Sam brought his hands to his face and then he did start to cry. Or perhaps weep better described what he did.

Dean fought with himself not to take his brother in his arms and get on with the big forgiveness scene. He absolutely could not stand seeing Sam cry—never could. He wanted to forgive him—wanted it more than anything—but he knew there had to be a more solid understanding between them first. He knew they had to get it all out before they could call this train wreck cleared. Dean swallowed and opened his mouth to speak—

--and that was when the door opened.

The hinges creaked softly, the mid day sunlight reached into the room and in the center of that bright rectangle stood John Winchester. He cradled a fully stuffed grocery bag in one arm and a large bundle of keys dangled from his other hand. For a moment, the three of them just stood there, three sets of moss green eyes exchanging glances full of disbelief, suspicion, reprieve and the unconditional love of human beings connected by blood.

John’s eyes rested on those of his oldest for a moment and then he turned to Sam’s tear streaked face. “Huh,” he said. “Looks like I’m just in time.” He walked into the room and closed the door behind him, turning to set the grocery bag down on a table near the window. He put the keys next to the sack, then he turned to his bewildered sons again.

“Dad?” Dean said, unable to believe his own eyes. “It’s really you, right?”

“As real as it gets,” John said. He crossed the room and put his hands on Dean’s trembling shoulders, looking at him closely. His eyes twinkled with a smile. “Are you making your brother cry?”

Dean swallowed. “It’s kind of . . . the opposite.” And then he pulled his father to him in a tight, nearly desperate embrace. John hugged him back for a long time, both of them holding tighter by the second. When he broke the embrace, John kissed Dean’s forehead. By then, they were both tearing up.

“Damn, it’s good to see you, Dad.”

“You, too, kid.” He stood back and looked his oldest up and down. “All in one piece, too.”

“So far.” Dean tried to smile and then he watched his father turn to Sam.

The two men regarded each other with tentative caution. It had been almost five years since they’d laid eyes on one another and their last meeting had been anything but friendly. Sam’s eyes were streaming tears but Dean guessed he didn’t even know he was still crying. He just kept looking at his father with an expression that changed every second. Sam’s feelings flickered on his troubled young face like scenes in a movie—anger, relief, distrust, sorrow, love, defiance, weariness, contrition. John watched all of this, his own eyes tracking each change of heart.

“Sammy?” he said softly, his voice weak with an uncertainty Dean had never witnessed in him before. “It’s really good to see you, son.” He paused, swallowed and then said, “are you all right?”

Sam’s bitter laughter exploded into the room like shattering glass. “All right?! Are you fucking kidding me, Dad?!” He shook his head, wiped angrily at his wet cheeks and then he started that pacing thing again. Once his rant began, it didn’t wind down for two full minutes.

“You just fucking DISappear with no word for months on end, you’re driving Dean nuts—and all you give us are these cryptic little messages, texts, stupid clues left behind like M&Ms in the forest—and we just follow you like the mindless little puppy dogs we are!” He shot a harsh glance at Dean after that remark and Dean flinched from it, looking away.

“I see, I’m driving Dean nuts, am I?” John said softly.

Sam ignored him and ranted on.

“I had a life, Dad! I was doing great! I had—” His voice caught on fresh tears and then he blundered through them. “I had the best girlfriend. You would have loved her.” He wiped his face again but to no avail—more tears poured out right after, as though a dam had broken inside him. Dean figured that’s exactly what this was. “And she had to die because of all this . . . this . . . LUNACY! She didn’t deserve that! She didn’t even KNOW about it! And then, THIS one!” He glared at Dean again and Dean met the challenge, eyes set dark and steely.

“You’re gonna start on me now?”

“You’re worse than HIM!” Sam yelled. “I was free, Dean! I was OUT. And you came to Stanford and forced me back into this insane life. You gave me no fucking choice! If you hadn’t come to me and infected me with all this godforsaken evil, Jessica would still be alive!!”

Dean bolted across the room so quickly, he even surprised himself. He grabbed Sam by the shirt and pulled him forward, growling in his face.

“Don’t you DARE blame that on me! This thing has been after our family for as long as we’ve been alive and YOU KNOW IT! I did not infect you, asshole. Our stalker had just been laying low!”

“How do you know it wouldn’t have stayed low, Dean?! How do you know it wouldn’t have let me go because I stepped away from this fucking crusade?! If it wanted to kill Jessica, why did it wait until YOU were with me?!! It had YEARS!!”

They stared at each other, huffing angry breath in the other’s face. Dean found, the longer those searing questions lingered in the air, the more he hated their potential answers. He felt his resolve weakening and he also felt the intensity of their father’s gaze upon them.

“You and I can do this later, Sam,” he hissed through his teeth. “Right now . . . you should talk to your father. In case you’ve forgotten, you abandoned him four and a half years ago. An apology is in order. Make it!” He shoved his brother backward into the dresser and the mirror rattled slightly from the impact.

Sam glared at him, eyes blazing hate and then that same mirror behind him shattered in its frame. He jumped and turned around to see what had happened. For a breathless moment, all three of them stared at the broken glass, blinking in surprise.

“I didn’t push you that hard,” Dean said.

“It wasn’t you,” John said and both boys looked at him. John was looking at Sam. “It was you, Sammy.”

Still panting from the fight, Sam shook his head and looked back at the broken mirror. “I . . . did that?”

“Mm.” John walked over to the table where he’d left the grocery bag and reached into it. Out came a fresh bottle of Jameson’s Irish Whisky and three neatly stacked shot glasses. Each glass had some sort of image on it but the boys couldn’t see them from across the room. John went to the end of the bed Dean had slept in and regarded his oldest with stern affection. “Dean, your brother doesn’t need to apologize to me unless he wants to. That isn’t your call. Is that clear?” He waited for a response.

Frowning in frustration, Dean nodded once. “I just want—“

John held up his hand. “I know what you want, son. I want it, too.” He nodded to the two beds. “That said, park it. Both of you—facing each other. We’ve got a ton of air to clear.”

Dean hesitated but only for a second. Instinct moved his feet forward and he sat down on the bed, just like he’d been told. John stood watching Sam, who remained where he was by the dresser. They stared at each other again.

“Sam,” John said, his voice barely audible. “Please. We’ve gotta fix this.”

Sighing, Sam went to the opposite bed and sat down wearily. He sniffed and wiped at his wet face with his hands, then wiped his hands on his jeans. John reached into his shirt pocket and took out a neatly folded linen handkerchief. He held it out for Sam who scowled at it for a minute before he accepted it.

John turned to the night table and lined up the shot glasses on it, then he broke the seal on the Jameson’s. When he started pouring, Dean interrupted.

“Sam shouldn’t have any—he’s on antibiotics. And he had morphine less than 24 hours ago.”

John looked at his youngest. “You’re wounded?”

Sam nodded once, blew his nose into his dad’s handkerchief.

“His belly,” Dean said.

John filled the glasses anyway, then put the bottle down next to them. He handed Dean a shot glass that bore the logo of a Las Vegas casino called Crazy Horse, then he gave another glass to Sam.

“Will you let me take a look?” he said, bending over in front of his youngest son.

Sam tipped backward and lifted his shirt up to the place where his stitches were. John peered at them closely.

“Mermaid bite?”

“Yeah.” Sam’s voice was thick from congestion. It made him sound like a little boy and that sound made Dean want to scream until his ears went numb. His insides were a hot ball of churning emotions, all conflicting and all so volatile they seemed to want to melt his ribcage. But the one emotion that kept rising to the top of that morass was an overwhelming feeling of relief. Dad was there. He was alive. Their family was together again. Looking up, he watched as John inspected Sam’s stitches, taking particular note of the affectionate way his hand rested against his boy’s exposed injured belly.

“That’s a good one, young man,” John said, straightening up. “Must’ve hurt like a herd o’ angry bitches.”

“Only until I got that shot.” Sam’s eyes darted to Dean’s, then away again.

“Well, if you made it through that, a little whisky ain’t gonna kill ya.” John picked up the last glass and stood between his sons, holding it up for a toast. “To your mother.”

Solemnly, they all drank.

Dean felt the delicious heat of the whisky burn through his belly immediately. It tasted wonderful—so smooth and a little oily. He didn’t think he’d ever had such a nice drink. Before he could ask for another shot, his father was pouring it—in fact, he refilled all their glasses—and then he sat down beside Dean on the bed.

“Good stitching,” he said to his oldest with a little twinkle in his eye. “Maybe you should have been a doctor. In another life.”

Dean smirked humorlessly. “Yeah, but then you’d have a doctor and a lawyer for sons. How could you live with the shame?”

John smiled, looked over at Sam again. “I heard about your LSATs. Well done.”

Sam rubbed his forehead roughly. “I SO cannot talk about any of that. I’ll start yelling again and my fucking head’ll explode.”

“We have to talk about it, Sam,” their father said. “These things have been festering long enough. It’s gone toxic now.”

“Yeah, okay, fine, but right now,” Sam interjected. “I want to talk about that mirror. Why are you so sure I did that? I’ve never done anything like that before. The most I’ve ever done is slam or open doors.”

“That’s not quite the truth,” John said. “Don’t you remember all those books flying at me when you were in high school? The liquor bottles that would suddenly shatter just as I reached for them?”

Dean frowned, turning to his father. “You told me that was residual spirit activity. Angry crap left over from the hunts.”

“Well, it was,” John said. “Angry crap from your brother’s subconscious. He didn’t even know he was doing it—just like now.” He glanced at the broken mirror pensively. “I’ll have to leave Earl some cash for that. Hope it wasn’t an antique.”

“You threw books at Dad?” Dean said, looking for any reason to get angry all over again. He’d never wanted to kick Sam’s ass so badly in his entire life, even though he knew it was only a temporary flash of rage.

“I didn’t know!” Sam snarled back defensively.

Holding up his hand, John got between them before they started fighting again. “Mostly, they were books he wanted me to read,” he explained. “Books that had some relevance to something we’d fought about. Things he hoped would help him explain his point of view because . . . all we ever did was yell at each other, not communicate. Kinda like what I’m seeing here. But you two were never like this.”

Again, John and his youngest exchanged a glance.

“I don’t remember throwing things at you,” Sam muttered.

Nodding slowly, John tipped his glass to his lips and drained the shot. “You wouldn’t. But I do. You threw books at me about alcoholism and grief recovery. Anger management.” He laughed a bit sadly. “Once you threw a cookbook at me after I burned dinner a few nights in a row. But you especially liked that big heavy one about ancient Greece. That one would always hit the wall and then land on the floor open to a chapter about The Sacred Band of Thebes.”

Dean’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “What was that about?”

John and Sam stared hard at each other but nothing was said. At least nothing Dean could hear. He hated feeling shut out like that but he knew if he said anything, they would both think he was being a baby. Finally, John took a deep breath and reached for the bottle again. Dean drank the shot in his hand, John poured him another, then he offered it to Sam.

For a moment, Dean thought his brother would refuse judging by his bitter expression. But then Sam drank the shot he was holding and let his father refill his glass.

“The Sacred Band of Thebes was a Greek military battalion composed entirely of male . . . lovers,” John said.

Dean felt his breath stop in his chest and he stared at his father with wide, shocked eyes. He tensed all over and suddenly he was that fifteen-year-old boy sitting in some random diner taking a sharp smack from his father for something he refused to give up—no matter how hard John tried to convince him it was wrong. John had been so fierce, so frightened and so angry then. This couldn’t be the same man speaking to them now.

John glanced at Sam, then at Dean and then he went on. “They believed that a soldier who was in a loving bond with another soldier would gladly die in battle rather than shame his lover by exhibiting cowardice. In other words, they would die to glorify and protect their lover. If the bond was strong enough.” He looked down at his glass and Dean’s eye was drawn to a long scrape healing on his father’s left hand. The only other thing on that large, strong hand was his wedding ring.

“The Greek armies remain to this day one of the most successful fighting forces in human history,” John explained further. He looked at Dean and spoke in a soft voice. “By throwing that particular book at me, your brother was trying to make me understand that . . . your sexual relationship with each other was a natural, instinctive response to what I was putting you through with all the combat training. He was trying to enlighten me, Dean—and to get me off your back about it all.”

Dean stared at his father in disbelief. “Are you SURE you’re my dad?”

John laughed and gave his son’s knee a solid squeeze. “I’m sure. Don’t worry, I haven’t been possessed or anything. I’ve just been . . . re-examining things lately.” Again, he looked across at Sam. “I’ve been thinking a lot about you, son.”

Sam’s eyes, red-rimmed from crying, clouded over with uneasy doubt. “In what way?”

John hesitated for a long time before he answered. His eyes focused on his youngest boy with fervent concentration. The expression reminded Dean of how they looked a few moments ago when they were trying to communicate telepathically. He wondered if his father was saying something to Sam—something he didn’t want Dean to know. Jealous anger welled up in him so swiftly, it almost burned. He looked down at his glass then drank its contents, hoping to assuage his brimming emotions.

“I’ve been thinking about lots of things, Sam,” John Winchester said. “Mostly . . . I’ve been remembering things about you as a boy. Things I didn’t really pay attention to when you were growing up. I don’t know if I was just distracted or if I just didn’t want to see . . . but . . . you have always been a pretty powerful psychic. Because I didn’t see it, I never knew to help you—to get you some instruction on how to hone those abilities.”

Sam frowned, sniffed, blew his nose again. “How do you know about them now? You and I haven’t spoken in almost five years.”

“Missouri told me. And your brother. When you were at Stanford, you’d talk to him all the time and he would tell me vague details of your conversations—blessedly leaving out things I didn’t need to know.” He cocked an eyebrow at Dean. “It was enough to get the picture.”

Dean suddenly felt cold inside and he swallowed hard. “Missouri,” he said. “You were there, weren’t you? In Lawrence.”

John only nodded.

“Why didn’t you come? We needed you, Dad!”

“No, you didn’t. You were fine. And . . . besides, I didn’t need to go back there. You boys did. All of that . . . was between Mary and her children. It had a different purpose for me . . . but I didn’t need to be present at the house.”

“What purpose did it have for you?” Dean asked, his voice stilted and quiet. He felt like his skin was on too tight.

John sighed and averted his eyes. “Please . . . let me get into that another time. Okay?”

It wasn’t the least bit okay, but Dean accepted it. Like he always did. He was starting to understand why that particular characteristic of his drove Sam straight up the wall.

John looked back at Sam. “Are you getting visions every day?”

“No,” he said. “Sometimes I don’t get any for weeks.” He shook his head and breathed a tired laugh. “I don’t feel very psychic. I just have bad dreams. A lot.”

“You always did,” John said softly. “Don’t you remember?”

Sam nodded. “They never came true before, though.”

“Not that you knew of. You used to dream about things and you’d tell me . . . at the time, it seemed so random and far-fetched. But what you were getting was like . . . feeds from a source you didn’t know you were connected to. You were dreaming about people you’d never met and places you’d never been. When you would tell me about those dreams, I just assumed you were venting kid fears in your sleep. It never occurred to me that you were seeing events that hadn’t happened yet—things that were changeable.” He paused to empty his glass then he stared into it for a long, quiet moment. “The thing I remember most is that the nightmares just . . . went away if you were sleeping with Dean.”

The boys looked at each other but it hurt too much to hold the gaze. Both of them looked down again as their father went on.

“I remember the first time I realized that, in fact,” he said. “Do you?”

Again, they looked at each other but found it too difficult to keep the connection. That quick look revealed everything, though. Both of John Winchester’s sons remembered that event with the utmost clarity. Almost as if it were happening all over again.


***St. Charles, Missouri was humid and dank. At least that’s how it felt to Sam. The air just hung where it was, stagnant, and it hurt his lungs to breathe it. It seemed to take twice the effort to move that sludgy oxygen in and out.

Dad had brought the boys with him on a hunt for what he believed to be a chupacabra. Six children, four dogs and nine cats had gone missing in St. Charles and the only evidence left behind had been some bloody bones that were chewed beyond recognition by a land bound creature with several rows of teeth. The bite range was too small for a werebeast of any kind, so John Winchester placed his bets on a chupacabra. The creature wasn’t easy to find, but they’d been getting close. Sam had been able to practice his skills with the shotgun, something he would never admit to enjoying. That would mess up his whole bitter, rebellious fifteen-year-old routine—just when he was really getting it down.

He lay on his back next to his dad in that big, lumpy motel bed, listening to both his dad and brother sleeping. Dean was on his side so he wasn’t snoring, but Dad was on his back and sawing logs to beat the band. But that wasn’t why Sam was still awake at 2:30 in the morning. He was awake because it was the only safe place to be—the nightmares couldn’t get him if he didn’t go into their realm. And since he couldn’t seek refuge in Dean’s arms, he was stuck.

He looked over at his brother sleeping soundly only a few feet away. Damn, he was gorgeous. So gorgeous that sometimes it made Sam sick to his stomach. In certain light, Dean was a sculpture of an erotic angel.

Rolling onto his own side, Sam contented himself with analyzing every contour of his brother’s sleeping face. A thin wedge of light from a streetlamp outside the bathroom striped across Dean’s cheek, illuminating the golden stubble there. Those lips . . . dark pink, plump and pouting, gently parted to let his breath move in and out. Sam could picture those lips wrapped tightly around his cock, Dean’s beautiful, round green eyes half-mast with lust, watching his face as he sucked and swallowed . . . nice and slow. It never took him long to get Sam off, even though the younger Winchester tried with all his might to keep it together. It all just felt too damned good. And LOOKED too unbelievably hot. Sometimes just the visual stimulation of Dean’s lips touching his cock sent Sam right over the edge.

He sighed and licked his lips, squirming slightly as his erection went from tense to throbbing. He pushed it into the mattress and almost whimpered from how sensitive it was. Dad had been making a concerted effort to keep the boys apart—most especially not allowing them to be alone together. He wouldn’t even let them both sit in the back seat of the car at the same time. The day before, when they’d both got up to use the bathroom at a truck stop, John had objected. Even though Sam’s bladder was about to burst, his father made him wait until Dean came back to the table.

Their father’s strict efforts were an annoying obstacle, but hardly a complete success. The man did have to sleep, after all.

When John would nod off and start really snoring, Sam would slip out the front door of their motel room with the car keys and go climb into the back seat. Dean would follow shortly and they would lock themselves in for a nice long make-out session in the darkness of the parking lot. They’d done this six times since they’d been on that particular hunt and in two weeks, their dad was none the wiser.

Still, they were way under par to their usual frequency and that was causing them both physical and mental distress. The boys took every opportunity to merely brush against each other, stealing kisses and quick caresses where they could. All of that was torture, of course, because they couldn’t close the deal, but the clandestine nature of it made it incredibly exciting. But there was another, more disturbing side effect to all that forced celibacy.

The longer Dad kept them apart, the worse Sam’s nightmares became.

Sam sighed and stared across those few feet of distance between the beds, drinking in all the tiny details of Dean’s perfect face. He became transfixed by his brother’s dense honey blond lashes as they lay softly against his smooth, lightly freckled cheeks. And then those lashes fluttered and Dean was looking at him.

They smiled at each other in the quiet room and Sam’s heart started to race.

Dean licked those scrumptious lips and then he whispered, very softly. “Go to sleep.”

Sam shook his head once. “Can’t,” he whispered back. “You go back to sleep so I can watch you.”

In that narrow wedge of light from the bathroom window, Sam saw Dean’s cheeks color.

“How can that be interesting?” he whispered.

“You have no idea.”

Laughing silently, Dean rolled onto his back. He turned his head to look at his brother. “You’re pretty, too, dumbass.”

Sam shrugged dismissively and kept on enjoying the view.

For a few long minutes they just stared, green eyes pouring over the other’s body with blatant intent. Sam nodded to the thin sheet covering Dean’s body from the waist down.

“Move that,” he mouthed.

Dean’s lips tilted and he turned the sheet back, exposing his legs. He wore only an old pair of boxers that were ultra soft and paper thin from many washings. That strip of light danced across the golden hairs on his naked belly and Sam swallowed, his mouth suddenly flooded with saliva. He loved those sparkling, silky hairs. He ached to wet them with his tongue and pull at them with his front teeth. Dean saw the direction of his brother’s gaze and he brought his fingers to that sweet spot right below his navel. With just his fingernails, he tickled those hairs, tugging at them, stroking them, flirting with them until Sam almost groaned out loud.

He looked in Dean’s eyes miserably. “Knock it off, asshole,” he hissed. “You’re killing me.”

“You said you wanted to see,” Dean teased, whispering in the cloying darkness.

Sam sighed. “I hate you.”

Dean smirked. “You do not.” He’d been wearing his hazel-blond hair long in the front and it tumbled into his eyes when he shook his head. “You worship me. You want to marry me. You want to have my babies.”

Sam couldn’t help but laugh, even though he knew it would cause a dangerous vibration in the mattress. Luckily, their father kept on snoring. He whispered across the room again.

“You are SOOO stuck-up.”

Dean preened, running his fingers through his long bangs. “Wouldn’t YOU be? LOOK at me!” And then he grinned brightly making Sam laugh again.

“Get the keys,” Dean whispered, glancing warily at their sleeping father.

Sam nodded, shifting and sitting up very slowly. He put one foot on the floor and glanced over his shoulder at his father. At that slight movement, John’s snoring stopped and he turned over onto his side, facing the very door the boys would escape through. After a moment, his breathing evened out again but there was no snoring—yet. Much too dangerous for a flight attempt. Sam rolled his eyes and sighed. “Great,” he mouthed to his brother.

“Shit,” Dean mimed, biting his lip. The older boy looked around the room, clearly formulating some sort of plan. When an idea hit him, his lovely face lit up like a sunny morning. “Sammy . . . fake a nightmare. A super bad one,” he whispered.

Sam frowned, confused. “Huh?”

“Thrash and groan, get all sweaty. Do it up good.”

Glancing over at their father again, Sam still didn’t get it. “You want me to wake him up?”

Dean nodded. “Be reeeeally pitiful. Trust me. Go for it.”

Sam wasn’t about to second guess his big brother—at least not at that point in his life. He laid back down on the bed and settled in as though he were sleeping, shifting slightly and turning onto his right side facing his father. He lay there for about five minutes until he heard John start to snore again and then he got on with histrionics.

Calling up a particularly horrible nightmare he’d had earlier in the week, Sam let his imagination run wild until he’d literally scared himself into a tizzy. Breaking into a sweat was no problem because the room was already boiling hot, but he had to draw on acting abilities he didn’t know he possessed in order to sell the pitiful groaning. He wiggled on the bed, thrashing just a little (he didn’t want to overkill it) and then he added a frightened little whimper for good measure. That was the sound that woke his father.

John sat up, still mostly asleep, and turned to his boy in the bed beside him. He frowned worriedly at Sam and then touched his son’s arm, firm and reassuring.

“Sammy? Sammy, wake up.”

Sam groaned and heaved ragged breaths for a few seconds before he sat bolt upright beside his father. Sweat ran down his face and stuck his hair to his forehead. He felt pretty certain he looked convincingly freaked.

John put an arm around him and gave him a little hug. “Are you all right, son?”

Nodding, Sam took shaky breaths. “I just . . . god! I can’t sleep, Dad.” He flopped back on the bed, all angst and frustration.

“Yeah, well . . . I’m not getting much shut-eye, either,” John said, gently. “Will you try a sleeping pill?”

Sam shook his head vehemently. “I hate those things,” he said. “They make me feel like barfing.”

Sighing, John scrubbed his hands over his face. That was when Dean piped up.

“Dad?”

“Hm.”

“He won’t have nightmares if he sleeps with me.”

John snorted and gave his oldest a look of mild disdain from across the dim room. “Do I look that stupid, Dean?”

“Dad,” Dean said, sitting up in his bed. “You’re right here—three feet away. What the hell are we gonna do? I just know that . . . he’ll sleep the night through if he’s next to me.”

John frowned, his paternal frustration growing. “And why is that, exactly? What do you do for him that makes the nightmares stop?”

Dean shrugged. “I dunno. Nothing. I just sleep next to him. For whatever reason, that makes them stop.” He looked at his father directly, holding his gaze with unflagging bravery. “Wouldn’t it be nice to actually get a full night’s sleep?”

“Dean, I may not be Father of the Year, but there is no way on this godforsaken earth I’m going to offer you and your brother an opportunity to . . .” he stopped, his brow wrinkling in annoyance because he couldn’t find the least objectionable phrase. “You know—touch each other. Or whatever the hell you do. It’s not gonna happen.” He looked down at Sam and sighed. “Try the pill—for me?”

“I don’t want to,” he said in a small voice, but with no defiance. That close to success, they both had to tread carefully.

“Dad,” Dean implored and that got him another grouchy stare from his father.

“Don’t push me, kid. I’m serious.”

“I’m just talking about sleeping,” Dean said. “I give you my word. We’ll just sleep.”

Dean’s father stared at him for a long moment and Sam could swear he heard the wheels turning in his father’s mind. The air was so still, it made Sam’s entire body tense. Finally, John Winchester let out a relenting sigh and shook his head wearily.

“All right,” he said. “But I swear to god, you two . . . one peep and Sam’s back with me. Deal?” He looked first at Dean.

“Deal.”

John turned to Sam who was already sitting up. “Sammy? You gonna behave yourself or are you gonna make me crazy?”

“I’ll be good.” He flashed a speedy smile that would later become another one of Sam’s signature expressions, then he hightailed it over to Dean’s bed. He crawled in under the thin sheet and Dean laid down next to him.

“I mean it,” John said. “One peep.” He stood up and headed for the bathroom, flipping on the light in there. He pulled the door closed but left it open a crack while he went in and relieved himself.

In that brief second of privacy, Sam nuzzled his brother’s neck and tasted the skin there with his tongue.

“Don’t,” Dean whispered, glancing uneasily at the cracked bathroom door.

Sighing in frustration, Sam said, “I can’t believe you promised him.”

“I didn’t promise. I said ‘I give you my word.’ That’s not the same as promising.”

Sam frowned at this logic and then he wriggled against Dean under the thin sheet. “and this is better how? We still can’t get each other off.”

“It’s better because of this.” Dean pressed close, slipped one arm under the crook of Sam’s neck and the other around his torso. Their legs touched from the tops of their naked thighs all the way down to their ankles and Dean’s fingers threaded into Sam’s soft hair at the nape. This little touch triggered a response in Sam that made him sigh with pleasure and comfort. His head rested gently against his brother’s strong arm and he curled his fingers against Dean’s warm belly.

Quickly, while they still had the chance, they stole a deep, wet kiss, savoring the other’s familiar, quenching flavor. This made them both hard instantly and their cocks reached for each other between their flush bodies. A little wiggling to and fro and they found the right hitch. Everything was touching then . . . hips, chests, tummies, shoulders, cheeks, thighs, cocks-everything connected to its perfect puzzle-piece fit. They both sighed.

“Okay,” Sam breathed contentedly. “I get it.”

“Mm hmm,” Dean hummed in his ear, making all the hairs stand up along Sam’s spine. “Now just relax. He’ll fall asleep soon. You should sleep, too, if you can. I’m on nightmare patrol.”

Hearing that, Sam smiled and then he did relax. In fact, he felt so warm and safe curled up with Dean that he melted into an intense and utterly dreamless sleep that lasted well into the next day. He hadn’t realized just how exhausted he was from the constant onslaught of those dreadful nightmares.

When consciousness crept up on him, it was sluggish and reluctant. He felt drugged from his long, deep slumber. His body was so warm and comfortable that he didn’t bother to open his eyes. All he needed to know was that Dean was there with him, pressed close, sleeping safe and sound in an easy tangle of limbs.

He cuddled into his brother’s sleep-warm body and breathed in his scent as though he were smelling a bunch of fresh cut roses. Eyes still closed, Sam wet his lips and licked at the peach fuzz that dusted Dean’s earlobe, loving the way it tickled his tongue. Then he sucked it into his mouth very gently and nursed on it until he was shivering with primal pleasure. Dean stirred against him, his sleepy cock twitching to life against Sam’s already throbbing one. They pressed closer to each other as their erections lengthened and Sam moved his mouth to Dean’s.

They were both still mostly asleep so they snuggled languidly, barely moving. He felt Dean’s fingers tickling his belly as he reached down between their bodies and gathered both their hard cocks in his grasp. They were each leaking copiously by then and he smeared that slick liquid around both their quivering cock heads until he had enough lubricant for stroking.

Sam whimpered in ecstasy as those skillful, knowing fingers found all the most tingly spots to caress. He loved this delicious pleasure in particular-rubbing their cocks together until they squirted all over each other’s bellies. It was so raw and animalistic. Easily one of his favorite erotic pastimes. That and sucking Dean’s cock until he yelped like a puppy.

Their kiss wasn’t really a kiss at all-it was more of a slow, dreamlike feeding. Sam had Dean’s bottom lip nestled in between his own two and he drew on it over and over as though it would give him sustenance. He knew Dean loved this sucking sensation and so did he. Sam could feel his brother’s body heating up and tensing as his orgasm drew nearer and Sam followed right along behind him. The feeling kept building between them like a shared storm and that soft, lazy suckling went on right up to the edge when the climax took hold.

They both sucked in air and pressed tightly together. Dean moved his hand out of the way and they shifted slightly so they could press their cocks into the other’s hard, naked belly. Sam trembled as his cock pulsed and squirted hot semen again and again, soaking those golden hairs on Dean’s belly that he so very much adored. He gasped when he felt his brother’s fresh ejaculate spill against his own skin, oozing down into Sam’s pubic hair in warm, thick drips.

Once the initial spasms let up and there was nothing left but the residual shuddering tingles, the boys’ lips found one another again. They lapped and sucked, taking sensual little bites at each other’s blood-heated flesh until all their movements slowed to nothing. Bodies warm and sated, they drifted right back to sleep in each other arms, lips still gently pressed together as they breathed slow and even, sharing the air. Through all that sedated pleasure, they had never once opened their eyes.

Less than a minute later, Sam jolted awake when he suddenly remembered their current surroundings.

Blinking, he looked around the day lit motel room frantically and then his wide green eyes landed on his father. He stood at the foot of their bed dressed in his usual jeans and khaki shirt, arms crossed over his broad chest-watching them. Sam gasped, froze and looked at him for a few panicked seconds, and then John spoke.

“Forgot where you were, huh, son?”

Sam swallowed so hard his throat clicked in the silent room. He nodded. And then Dean flinched in his arms and woke up with a start. A very similar set of glances were exchanged between him and their father, and then the older brother sighed heavily.

“Shit.”

“Yeah,” John said, turning toward the bathroom. “That’s what I say.” He went inside and shut the door with a solid click. The next sound they heard was their father retching.


***