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Sinful Desire
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2006-06-15
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Flagstaff

Summary:

Ninth in the Things My Brother Taught Me series. Warnings: Wincest, strong language, RED FLAG LEVEL WARNING underage sex (seriously, if this is your squick, just pass this story by all together), some really spicy tacos and more of "those talks" from dad.

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: Flagstaff
Author: Hellskitten
Email: [email protected]
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: S/D
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Wincest, strong language, RED FLAG LEVEL WARNING underage sex (seriously, if this is your squick, just pass this story by all together), some really spicy tacos and more of “those talks” from dad.
Spoilers: Some but this is mostly AU. This is the next section of my series and picks up right after the story entitled “Guardian”. All can be found at my LJ in Memories in reading order.
Disclaimer: The boys and all their angst-ridden hotness belong to the WB—for now.
Soundtrack: “Angel” by Massive Attack.
Note: The structure of this story is slightly experimental. Rather than just doing another few “scenes” for my longer work, I wanted this story to feel more like an “episode”. Therefore, it’s long and moves in a different, slower way than a story with three scenes would. The next few sections of my series will “feel” like this one, just so ya’ll know what’s coming.

***

In his dream, Sam was lying naked in the sun.

Soft white sand supported his body and he sifted through it with his fingers, feeling tiny bits of sea shells and pebbles beneath the surface. Waves met the shore somewhere near him, but his eyes were closed so he couldn’t see the ocean. The scent of it was strong in the air—salt, green, life and water. Sam took a deep breath and licked his lips, tasting the salt there, as well. The flavor reminded him of the silky skin on Dean’s belly and he remembered so clearly the last time he’d tasted it.

In his dream, Sam was instantly aroused. His skin tingled and his cock awakened under the sunlight. He reached for it with his other hand, lifting it and stroking it to its full swollen length with his fingers. He moaned because it felt so good and he rubbed a little harder. His own hand felt silky like that coveted belly skin that he could still taste on his tongue. He could feel the golden hairs under Dean’s navel tickling his nose. Sam’s breathing became shallow and his mouth got wet. Rubbing and rubbing, the pleasure gathered in his loins. He felt the moisture and heat of his cock and then the orgasm exploded inside him, outside him, making him struggle for breath in the sea-salty air.

And then he was being cradled in strong arms he could feel but not see, held gently, caressed, his face softly kissed by hot lips that felt like satin left in that burning sun.

Sam rose to consciousness inside a kiss that seemed to wash over his entire body. Dean was holding him tight, petting him everywhere, greedily devouring his tongue and lips. Sam moaned into the kiss and held his brother back, arms wrapping, hands stroking, thighs pressing close. Lazily they tasted each other’s warm morning mouths, tongues flickering against one another in that wet space. Sam could feel the last shimmers of his orgasm and knew he’d hosed his brother down pretty good, but he didn’t care. Dean didn’t care, either. In fact, Dean probably enjoyed it.

Finally stopping for air, the boys relaxed in a tangle of sleep-warm limbs. Sam traced the line of golden hairs down his brother’s taut belly until his fingers found the sticky wetness, still heated from the close press of their bodies. He touched it, played in it, gathered some of the seed onto the pads of his fingers and brought them up to Dean’s voluptuous mouth. His fingers were welcomed instantly, licked, sucked, cleaned, tickled by Dean’s tongue. In the quiet motel room, cozy under three layers of blankets, John Winchester’s sons smiled at each other.

“’Morning,” Dean purred, still licking Sam’s fingers. “That must have been some dream, man. Do you remember it?”

Sam shook his head, the details of his sweet dream fading fast. “Not really . . . something about a beach. I just remember coming really hard.”

“You were on a beach and there was nothing evil chasing you along the shore?”

He breathed a laugh. “No, for once.”

“Amazing,” Dean said grinning. “The prophet of doom finally had a good dream.”

“It is amazing. Maybe I’m relaxed or something equally foreign.” Sam watched his brother’s lips cup and slide over his fingertips and a little tickle of arousal warmed his insides. It must have shown on his face because Dean grinned with his eyes.

“I made you come at least six times last night, dude,” he said, shifting and stretching his arms over his head. “What’s with the mad horny?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said chuckling. He rolled onto his back and stretched his legs, working out the kinks in his muscles from his long, uninterrupted sleep. Glancing at the window, he tried to guess what time it was by the color of the light filtering through the cheap curtains. As he was doing this, Dean was reaching for his watch on the night table.

“Damn,” his older brother said. “It’s 2:30. We almost slept all day.”

“Well see, that’s must be it,” Sam said.

“What?”

“You made me come plenty for yesterday but we’re already behind schedule today.” He smirked playfully and Dean gave him a wink.

“Man, I’m starving.” Dean stretched his neck then sat up, slipping his watch onto his wrist. “Get dressed, let’s go eat.” He threw the covers back and stood up, taking one more long, deep stretch before heading for his bag.

Sam watched his brother move, noting the sexy cut of the muscles in his back and legs. Dean was almost perfectly built. He was the perfect height, the perfect weight and perfectly proportioned. Not too muscular, not to lean. Everything in its most alluring place. Sam frowned a little, then sat up in bed.

“How come you got to be so beautiful?” he said.

Dean snorted as he dug in his bag for some clean clothes. “We’re gonna have this conversation again?”

“Well, dude,” Sam said matter-of-factly. “It’s disgusting.”

Finding a clean t-shirt, Dean tugged it over his head and went back into his bag for some shorts. “Well, you got that big brain, Sammy. And there isn’t one god-damned thing that isn’t beautiful on you, either. If you wanna talk disgusting, let’s talk about you, kiddo.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Whatever. I might have a big brain but I can’t put together sophisticated electronic equipment out of crap layin’ around in my car—now, can I?” He got out of bed and headed for the bathroom, but he saw Dean flip him a good-natured middle finger.

After relieving himself, Sam brushed his teeth, slightly dismayed by his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His hair was a disheveled wreck, sticking up every which way. He ran his fingers through it but it was hopelessly bent and a little oily from sleeping on it for almost fifteen hours straight. Dean came into the small room and went to the toilet, but he couldn’t resist taking a quick shot at his little brother.

“You look like you slept in a dumpster.”

“Tough. I don’t wanna take a shower.” He spat into the sink, then rinsed his mouth, running some water through his hair with his fingers.

“I don’t either,” Dean said and they looked at each other. “I’m kinda diggin’ the way I smell right now.” He punctuated his remark with a quick wink.

After he dried his face with a towel, Sam turned around and leaned against the sink, brazenly watching his brother empty his bladder. He licked his lips and took in a deep breath, tasting the acrid salty scent in his mouth. It reminded him of sea water for some reason and that made his cock tingle. Dean eyed him, shaking his head.

“Look at you. Is this a new kink, Sammy.”

“Dude, it’s probably my oldest one. I used to listen at the bathroom door when you were in there and just try to imagine what everything looked like. You standing there holding your dick, the way your fingers would look, how you would shake off the last drops. It was very effective.” He grinned. “Gave me wood every time.”

Dean was genuinely amused. “When was this?”

“God, I was probably ten or eleven,” Sam said. “Right around when I first discovered . . .” He lifted his eyebrows, offering his brother a cue.

Dean picked it right up and they spoke together, imitating their father’s most fatherly tone.

The Joys of Masturbation.”

They laughed and Dean finished his business. He leaned into Sam’s naked hip as he washed his hands in the sink.

“I was totally fascinated with you,” Sam said, returning the lean, challenging, almost shoving.

“I remember.” Dean pushed his weight back, accepting the challenge, and reached for the same towel Sam had used. He dried his hands, still pushing and then he quickly checked his reflection. “Damn,” he said. “You’re right, I’m fuckin’ gorgeous.” He bore down and shoved just hard enough to win and pushed his brother off the sink.

Sam stumbled a little, laughed then went out to find himself some clean clothes. The contents of his duffle looked like the fallout of a fabric bomb and he had no choice but to upend it and dump everything out on the bed. Not everything was dirty, it was all just hurriedly packed and wrinkled. He sifted through the his underwear and found a clean pair, then he grabbed some jeans and a soft, worn sweatshirt with the Stanford logo on it.

Dean wrapped his arms around Sam’s waist as he passed behind him, parking his chin on his brother’s shoulder. “Maybe we should get some provisions,” he said. “So we don’t have to go out so much until we hear from Dad.”

Sam nodded. “Good idea. That way I can tie you to the bed and not have to worry about going out for food.”

Dean let go so Sam could get dressed and he sat down on the bed amid his brother’s scattered clothing. “You’re interested in bondage games? Since when?”

Sam shook his head. “No, I’m not really. I was just kidding. It wouldn’t be any fun if you couldn’t use your hands. But, you would look painfully hot all strapped down and naked.”

“I agree,” Dean smirked. Something in the fray on the bed caught his eyes and he reached for it, plucking out a small plastic bottle with an orange cap. Dean squinted at the label then his eyebrows shot up.

“KY Warming Gel?” he teased.

Sam nodded once but had nothing more to offer. The product seemed self explanatory. He pulled on his shorts and jeans then tugged the sweatshirt over his head, once again running his fingers through his messy hair. Dean was still looking at him.

“What?”

“Does this stuff work?” his brother said, twisting off the orange cap.

“Gets you slippery,” Sam said.

“Since when do you have trouble getting slippery, Sammy?”

He grinned. “I don’t. But that stuff has a little something extra.”

Dean touched his finger to the rim of the small bottle and poured out a drop of the clear liquid. He frowned at it curiously. “It doesn’t feel warm.”

“It needs friction. Go like this.” Sam rubbed his fingertips against the pad of his thumb and Dean followed suit. After a moment, the older Winchester grinned.

“Oooh. I bet that’s feels veerrry nice.”

“It does. I’ll lube you up when we get back. Come on, I’m hungry.” He sat down momentarily to get his shoes on and then Sam headed for the door. He grabbed the knob, opened the door and turned around just in time to see Dean touch his oily fingers to his bottom lip. “It probably doesn’t taste very good,” Sam warned.

Dean pursed his lips together, then touched his fingers to them again, putting a bit more of the warming gel on them. He stood and walked over to Sam in the doorway, leaning in close for a kiss.

“It needs friction,” Dean purred. “Smooch me?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Tch. Like you need to ask.” He pressed his lips to Dean’s nice and firm, kissing and pulling back, sliding back and forth a little and nipping just a bit. The gel had a flat plastic taste but it did indeed work its magic on their sensitive lips.

“Mmm,” Dean moaned into the kiss. “We are so playing with this when we get back.”

Wiggling his eyebrows, Sam turned toward the door and they stepped outside into the warm afternoon.

The sun was too bright after being in their room for so many hours. Both boys reached for their sunglasses as they made their way to the sidewalk. Sam looked down the street toward the corner.

“We passed a Mexican restaurant down there, didn’t we?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “I think it was called Juanito’s or something.”

“You don’t miss much, do you?”

Dean’s eyebrows twitched. “Occupational hazard. It’s close, let’s walk.” He nodded in the direction of the corner and the boys started walking.

Sam glanced around them at the neighborhood, taking cautious note of the alleys and side streets. “Do you think we’re okay out in the open like this?”

“Like my car is so inconspicuous,” Dean said. “Dude, if the guardian wants us, it’ll find us no matter.”

“I just wish we knew what it wanted.”

“Yeah.” Dean perched his shades on his lightly freckled nose. “Do you remember that Mexican place in Flagstaff?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” Sam smiled. “Their food was awesome. We ate there like four times a week.”

“You and Dad loved those fire breathin’ tacos.”

Chuckling, Sam nudged his brother’s arm. “Used to piss you off so bad that I could eat those and you couldn’t.”

Dean shook his head. “There you were, freakin’ ten years old, and you’d down those hot chilies like they were candy.”

“It’s just a taste bud thing,” Sam said. “Some people like hot stuff, some people don’t. Doesn’t make you a wimp or anything.” He grinned sidelong at his brother who cocked an eyebrow back. “Okay, maybe it does.”

“Shut up.” Dean shoved his shoulder and Sam laughed.

His chest felt warm from the memory of that time in the Winchester family history. It had been a rare, quiet few months they’d spent in Arizona after their father succeeded with a local exorcism. The procedure had taken a lot out of him and he wanted some down time, so John leased a furnished apartment and moved himself and his boys in. Sam remembered that being the first time in his life they were a real, normal family.

“I liked Flagstaff,” he said softly as they kept walking.

“Yeah,” Dean replied. “Me, too.”


***

The Winchesters had become regular patrons of Rosa’s Taco Shack both because the food was wonderful and because it was cheap. One cold afternoon on their way home from the local sporting goods store, they stopped by Rosa’s and got take-out. As they unpacked the overstuffed cardboard box on the kitchen table, Sammy got hold of a small container of John’s favorite hot sauce.

He popped the tiny plastic lid and stuck his nose into the cup, but instantly he winced and shook his head. “Ew! How come you like this stuff, Daddy? Smells gross!”

John reached into the box and found one of the beef tacos they’d ordered. He unwrapped it and reached for the hot sauce Sammy was holding. “Here,” he said, pouring a small drop on one end of the taco. “Try it.” He rolled the tortilla up and held it out for his son to bite.

“It’s gonna burn your mouth, Sammy,” Dean said protectively from across the table.

John winked at his oldest. “You never know. Let him try it.”

Sammy took a big bite of the soft taco and stood next to his dad’s chair chewing with great concentration. John reached for one of the sodas on the table and held it at the ready just in case. He and Dean both watched Sammy until he swallowed what was in his mouth.

“It tastes kinda . . . sweet,” ten-year-old Sam Winchester declared. “I mean, it burns a little, but it’s not that bad. I like it.”

Dean had frowned in a way that made Sam flinch. He didn’t understand why his brother would be bothered by him liking his father’s hot sauce.

“You’re saying that doesn’t hurt?” Dean demanded.

“A little but it’s not that bad,” Sam repeated, then he looked their father. “Can I try some more?”

“Of course.” John opened the taco in his hand and poured more of the hot sauce on top of it, then he set it on the table in front of Sammy’s chair. “Go for it.”

Sammy climbed into the chair and tucked into the taco with gusto. He remembered each bite getting hotter and hotter in his mouth but it still never got to the point of real discomfort. The flavor was amazing, bright and sharp and sweet and he loved it. He also loved that quick glint of admiration in his father’s eyes. It made Sammy feel all puffed up with pride.

Later that night, they’d all been sitting in the living room watching some sitcom on their rented television. Dean was on the long couch sitting Indian-style with one of his beloved spy novels in his lap and Sammy was on the floor in front of him, his back reclined against the couch. John scrutinized the local newspaper in a chair beside them.

Sammy put his head back on the cushion and it landed right in the V of Dean’s folded legs. He looked at his big brother upside down. It took a minute but Dean finally returned his inquisitive stare.

“Are you mad at me?” Sammy said in a voice just soft enough for his brother to hear.

Dean’s brow crinkled. “No. Why?”

“I dunno. You’re bein’ all quiet.”

“I’m reading.”

“I know.”

They stared at each other for a long time and then finally Dean’s fingers slipped into Sammy’s hair, all gentleness and soothing. Sammy sighed and couldn’t keep his eyes from closing, even though he didn’t want them to. He didn’t want Dean to know how much he loved it when he touched Sammy’s hair. Sure, he’d been doing it forever, but lately . . . it started to feel different. Lately, when Dean pet him like a puppy, his whole body went limp from the force of a pleasure like none he’d ever known. It made him feel dizzy and hot and a little like he had to pee. It made him feel like he was melting.

He forced his eyes open and Dean was looking at him, a tiny smile pulling his perfect lips. Those lips formed silent words and Sammy read them. Like that? He smiled and nodded, feeling Dean’s warm hand cupping his head against the cushion, slow fingers sifting through his hair, tingling, tingling everywhere. Those lips formed more words and Sammy felt them in his chest like a vibration. Me, too.

They looked at each other floating on the current of that secret for what seemed like ages. The sweet suspension was suddenly broken by their father’s voice.

“Have you got a headache, Sammy?”

His heart started beating wildly at his dad’s unexpectedly harsh tone and he was also confused by the question. “No,” he said, looking at John with slightly narrowed eyes.

John gave Dean a stern stare. “Then why are you doing that?”

Dean blinked, frowned. “I don’t know. Feels good. His hair’s really soft.”

John took a deep breath and for a long intense moment, he held his oldest son’s gaze. And then he simply shook his head one time.

Dean withdrew his hand obediently then looked down at his book, but that frown persisted.

Sammy’s eyes questioned his father, but John was once again engrossed in his newspaper. Sighing with the disappointment of losing that delicious sensation, Sammy turned his attention back to the television. However, his awareness of Dean’s proximity remained acute as did his awareness that something was going on he didn’t quite get. He hated that. What was so bad about Dean playing with his hair—especially when it felt so good?

To make matters worse, right before they all went to bed that night, John called Dean into his room for a private conversation. Sam remembered being so angry about the secrecy that he’d actually crept up to the door and listened through it—something he’d never been bold enough to do before. The building was old and the walls and doors thin as cardboard. He’d heard the entire conversation as though he were in the room with them.

“Kiddo, I’m sorry about earlier. When I told you to stop touching your brother’s hair.”

Silence from Dean.

“It’s just that . . . you boys are getting older and you need to be careful . . .” Their father had sighed, seeming unable to say what he meant. He started again after a halting pause. “You two are very close and I probably should have stopped you from bunking together a few years ago, but I didn’t. So here we are. I just don’t want Sammy to . . . respond to your affection inappropriately.”

Another silence from Dean and then, “what do you mean?”

An exasperated sigh from Dad. “Dean, you’re fourteen years old. You know exactly what I mean. You boys are touching each other constantly—you always have. I can’t keep him out of your bed at night. It concerns me.”

“We’re just sleeping.”

“I know you are, son. And I hope that’s always the case. I don’t want to take that comfort away from either of you, not to mention the fact that you both get a good night’s rest that way. It’s just that . . . now . . . you need to be more aware of . . . his reactions to all the touching you guys do. Just be careful that it doesn’t go somewhere . . . wrong. He’ll follow your lead like always. So be a good big brother, okay?”

“I am,” Dean defended.

“I know, I know.” Their father’s tone softened considerably and Sammy could picture him holding onto Dean’s shoulders as he spoke. “Listen, you know what I’m trying to say. Sammy is very sensual and responsive. And you boys are both . . .” Another long halting hesitation and then John continued in a slightly squeezed voice. “You’re both masturbating now and I need you to make sure that private stuff stays private.”

“Dad,” Dean had said in a hushed, shocked voice.

John laughed a little. “Hey, the walls are damned thin here. Sammy’s right next to me and you’re just down the hall. Believe me, I don’t miss much of the panting and squeaking bed springs.”

Dean groaned and it had a muffled sound like he might have his hands over his mouth.

“Come on, now,” John said affectionately. “Boys gotta do what boys gotta do, it’s no big deal. I’m just saying . . . don’t do that together. Keep that to yourselves in your own rooms. Okay?”

After one more stretch of silence, Dean finally said okay. Sammy took that as his cue to silently scurry around the corner into his room and act like he’d been in bed that whole time. He jumped in, pulled the covers over him and turned on his side away from the door. From there, he listened as his brother and dad said good night and Dean went off to his room, closing his door with a soft snick. A moment later, Sammy’s father was sitting on his bed.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said quietly. “You asleep?” That large, warm hand rested gently on the back of his head.

Sammy turned to him, making his eyes half-mast as though he’d been right on the edge of slumber. “Uh uh.”

“Just wanted to say good night,” John said, bending over to put a kiss on his youngest son’s forehead. He smelled like toothpaste and sunshine.

“Good night, Daddy.” Sammy gave a sleepy smile then he took a deep breath. “Are you mad at Dean?”

“Not at all,” John said gently. “Everything’s fine, Sammy. Now go to sleep.”

“Okay.” Sam had turned over on his side again but he still wasn’t entirely convinced everything was fine.

John crossed the room and flipped the light switch, but he left the door open just a crack. This was at Sammy’s request—an easier escape route in case the closet monster got ornery. When he’d mentioned that particular beastie to his dad the first time, John had given him that big heavy gun he called a ‘forty-five’. He taught Sammy how to use the imposing weapon and he’d even been pretty good at shooting it. Although he kept that gun under his pillow, he figured he’d be too frightened to use it in the event the closet monster made a move. Getting the heck out of the room was a much better plan.

He’d waited with his eyes open in the dark for almost half an hour until the rooms on either side of him were quiet. Dean was either asleep or reading and Dad was probably playing possum. Sam knew their father laid awake most nights keeping an eye on them and on the apartment. He trusted nothing, least of all the darkness. But eventually he would fall asleep, evidenced by his steady, even snoring. When he heard that sound, Sammy would slip out into the silent hallway and down to Dean’s bedroom where the boys would tangle around each other and sleep like the dead.

While he waited for the snoring, Sammy’s imagination began to travel. He thought of all sorts of things from the terrors in his father’s hunting stories to some silly commercial that made him laugh on television that night. But mostly he thought of Dean. Not that he hadn’t always done that. But lately when he thought of his big brother, Sammy thought about how he looked and how he smelled and how he moved. The sound of his voice and the little scratch in his laugh, his pretty smile. The way the hairs on his forearms were so blond, they looked like thread made of gold. One morning when Sammy woke up before him, he’d laid there pressed against Dean’s warm, sleeping body and counted the freckles on his nose. Seventeen to be exact.

He thought about lying in bed with Dean, pressed into his taller, stronger body under the blankets. He thought about the way Dean’s arms curled around him and how his fingers found the skin on his little brother’s back under his nightshirt. He thought about the way Dean’s jaw fit right into Sammy’s cheekbone when they slept face to face. How every breath he took when they slept together was filled with his brother’s heat and softness. Sammy loved the way Dean’s blond hair felt at the back of his neck. His fingers would curl and play in those hairs all night long sometimes.

The more Sammy thought, the more his body would tingle. He’d start to feel anxious and irritable and his penis would itch. He’d wiggle on his bed, shifting and squirming until he found what he needed—something soft but firm to rub that stiff, hot thing against. Usually the second pillow on his bed served this purpose, but sometimes he just rubbed against the mattress. He sucked his thumb while he did this because having something in his mouth made everything feel so much better. He’d rub and rub until his body felt like it was breaking apart with pleasure—all of which stemmed from that throbbing, leaking organ between his legs that seemed to have suddenly come alive in the last few months.

Sammy had never heard that word his father used in the conversation he had with Dean, but he put together what it meant. ‘Masturbating’ meant playing with yourself and that’s what he was doing when he rubbed against the bed. That’s what Dean was doing when Sammy heard him breathing hard in the next room. The way their dad made it sound was that this was something boys had to do, like they had no control over it. Sometimes Sammy felt exactly like that. Sometimes the pleasure of this act was so overwhelming that he couldn’t think of anything else but the next time he could feel it. And then sometimes, he didn’t think of it at all for days.

He wondered if it was the same for Dean. He also wondered if Dean did it the same way he did. Sammy was sure there were other ways to feel this pleasure, to create this incredible, shattering sensation. Being a curious and smart kid, he’d given this topic a lot of thought. There were mysteries about it that he needed to unravel.

For example, he was perplexed by all the fluid. There had to be a purpose for it beyond making a big sticky mess in the sheets. Sure, he knew all about the birds and the bees and the sperm and the egg and everything, but that still didn’t answer his questions about the liquids that squirted out of him before that blissful release. He knew its function had something to do with how slippery it was, but he hadn’t got to the bottom of that yet.

And for whatever reason, he had never felt comfortable asking Dean about it—even though he knew his brother probably had all that stuff figured out.

Instead, they’d just modified their routine to accommodate this new development. Rather than falling into bed together at the beginning of the night, they would retreat to their separate rooms to do what “boys gotta do” in private. This had come about naturally with no discussion. But always, much later in the night, Sammy would find himself nearly sleepwalking into Dean’s room, drawn like a magnet to his brother’s bed. He’d crawl under the warm blankets and Dean would open to him, cuddle him close and never wake up. They slept so deeply together that John had to shake them awake every morning.

Even though the boys had never discussed this new sexual ingredient, the topic was a silent third party between them. Over the last few weeks, Sammy had woken in Dean’s arms just before dawn and found both their bellies wet and sticky. He hadn’t said anything and neither had Dean, even though the moisture couldn’t be denied. And the scent of it . . . so sweet and ripe, like fresh peach juice. Those times when Sammy woke up, he’d been hot and out of breath but he hadn’t known why. Dean had been hot, too, but sleeping soundly.

That night very late, he found himself once again shuffling down the dark hallway, a moth to the flame of Dean’s bed. He slid silently under the blankets, they tangled, nuzzled, matched breath and then conked out, and Sammy still didn’t get any of his answers. At least not yet.


***

Juanito’s Mexican Restaurant turned out to be an excellent choice. It was long after the lunch rush so the place was almost empty, save for a few patrons lingering over corn chips and drinks. Sam and Dean sat at a table near the bar where Dean had immediately gravitated. He wanted to be near the tequila. The bar was small, but the shelves behind it held every imaginable brand of that liquor on earth. As soon as they were seated, he promptly ordered a double Patron Silver.

Sam had opted for a Corona Light and he smirked at his brother while he watched him savor a mouthful of the very expensive alcohol. His expression was decidedly pornographic.

“You need a towel, man?”

Dean swallowed and let out a reverent sigh. “Damn . . . I might. You gotta try this.” He slid the glass across and Sam took it, raising it to his nose for an investigative sniff.

A small sip was enough to explain why Dean liked it so much. The tequila was smooth as velvet and light as water. “Yum,” he said, handing the glass back. “But we can’t really afford that.”

“Sure we can,” Dean said. “We’re on vacation.”

“That doesn’t mean we have extra funds.”

“Sammy, I’ve got plenty of money to take care of both of us. Whatever you’ve got is extra. Just relax.”

Sam frowned at that information and for a second, he wasn’t sure he wanted to ask. But of course, he couldn’t resist. “What the hell do you mean? How do you have plenty of money? Have you taken up bank robbing?”

Dean stared at him for a moment but said nothing. Then he sipped his Patron again, sighing as the elixir slid down his throat.

“Dude,” Sam persisted.

“Remember when you said there were some things you needed to keep for yourself? Like, stuff about Jess?”

Sam didn’t like this turn in the conversation. It meant Dean was shutting down and that he’d get nowhere with any more questions. “Yeah,” he said reluctantly.

“Well, that goes for me, too. Just know that you and I are okay on funds. So, why don’t you get a shot? Live a little.”

Leaning forward, Sam licked his lips, lowered his chin, then looked up at his brother through his floppy chestnut bangs. He didn’t usually stoop to manipulation, but Dean’s secrecy was making him edgy. He threw in a slow blink for good measure and then smiled his cutest come hither smile.

“Park the puppy dog, dude,” Dean said. “It’s not gonna work with this.”

“Aw, come on,” Sam teased. “That always works.”

Dean smiled as he absently ran his fingertip around the rim of his glass. “It usually works, don’t be all stuck up. But I’m feeling like being mysterious today.”

Sam sighed. “Whatever.” He took a drink of his beer, glancing out the window at the cars parked on the street in front of the restaurant. SUVs, sedans, compacts, one beautiful gun metal gray Audi TT, but no Porsches of any color in sight.

“Guardians don’t like crowds, Sammy,” Dean said quietly. “I think we’re good here. Lots of people around, lots of activity.”

“It could still be watching us.”

“I have no doubt it is, in some way. Maybe it’s got a crystal ball or something so it can see us and Dad at the same time. Who knows.”

“Now that’s comforting,” Sam muttered. He tipped his beer against his lips and drained the remaining half of it in three giant swallows, then he pushed the empty to the edge of the table.

Dean’s brow lifted in admiration. “More higher learning from Stanford?”

“As a matter of fact,” Sam affirmed. He caught their waiter’s eyes and nodded to the empty, holding up his index finger. The waiter nodded and went to the bar, returning momentarily with another Corona Light.

“Your order will be right along,” he said and the boys thanked him.

Sam sipped then set the cold bottle down, swirling the bubbling brew in his mouth before swallowing it. He tried not to think about how much it bothered him that Dean was withholding something and the more he thought about it, the crankier he got. And then he remembered something that had been rattling around in his head for days.

“Hey,” he said and Dean nodded in response. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“You remember that day you walked in on me beating off?”

“You gotta more specific, Sammy,” Dean joked. “I’ve walked in on you beating off about a thousand times.”

Sam chuckled and his cheeks heated up. “All right, I mean most recently.”

Dean swirled his tequila in the glass, then sipped it. Had Sam not been looking right at him that second, he wouldn’t have seen the brief cloud that crossed Dean’s beautiful face. It was gone just as quickly as it appeared.

“Of course I remember.”

Sam continued. “Later on, you went down on me and I asked if you remembered the first time you did that.”

That cloud flashed once more over Dean’s green eyes, but it vanished just like before. “Yeah,” he said then he finished his drink watching Sam’s face warily over the back of the glass.

Slightly unnerved by Dean’s stifled apprehension, Sam forged on. “You said you remembered but I didn’t.”

Dean set his empty glass down on the table with a solid clunk. “That’s right. I remember, you don’t.”

“Dude, that’s crap. I remember it like it happened an hour ago. Every freakin’ detail.”

Dean shook his head, lowering his voice to take it from the earshot of the other patrons. “I’m sorry, Sammy. No, you don’t. You couldn’t remember the first time I sucked you off because . . .”

Sam leaned in, whispering as well. “Because why?”

Dean took a deep breath and let it out in a huff. “Because you were asleep.”

Sam blinked, truly surprised. For an instant he thought his brother might be pulling his leg, but then he assessed the expression on Dean’s face. It was intense and exposed, a little too uncertain for Sam’s liking. He wasn’t used to Dean being vulnerable emotionally so he had no skills for handling it.

Taking a deep breath, Sam said, “I was?”

“Yeah.”

The youngest Winchester tried a smile. “You’re saying that my incredibly hot brother was sucking my dick before I remember him doing it—and I slept through it like a dork?”

Dean lowered his eyes but the hint of a smile on his lips told Sam he was lightening up.

“It didn’t last very long, dude. Like six seconds. You’re better off with the memory you’ve got.”

“Okay,” Sam said, shifting in his seat. “That may be, but I still wanna know.” He lowered his voice even more. “How old was I, Dean?”

Dean swallowed, picking at the edge of the paper napkin under his silverware. “It was in Flagstaff, Sammy,” he said in a husky whisper. “You were ten.”

Sam’s eyes widened but he couldn’t keep himself from smiling. “You’re fuckin’ kidding me.”

“I wish I was,” Dean said and it was clear that he meant it.

The waiter came out of the kitchen carrying a tray and a jack and he stopped by their table to serve them. Two large white ceramic plates loaded with steaming beans, rice and wet burritos were placed in front of them along with another round of drinks—both the beer and the expensive tequila.

“Oh, we didn’t order another round, yet,” Sam said.

The waiter smiled, folding his jack up and tucking the tray under his arm. “Compliments of the gentleman in the corner.” He nodded in the direction of the door and the boys turned.