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You were 14 years old. Maybe 15, but you don’t quite remember. Dad was never home, and you spent your summers wrapped up around your older brother because he was the only person you ever loved.
One night dad came home from a hunt somewhere in Montana. His arms were torn up and blood was dripping down his face, but the first thing he said to you was grab me a few beers, Sammy.
The lines on his face made him look old. You know the faces haunted your father. The faces of ones he couldn’t save, the ones of children that were no longer children, but demons, the face of your mother being burned to the ceiling of the home they bought together; they all tortured and mutilated his soul as he slept. But if it hurt that much, then why did he insist on living this way? Alcohol only solved so many problems.
You found out at the age of twelve that you couldn’t rely on your father for anything. Dean was the one that kept you sane. When you were 16 years old you smoked pot with your older brother for the first time. You remember studying the features on his face; his eyes seaweed green and dilated, lips swollen red from continuously biting at them, and freckles across the bridge of his nose. You remember how beautiful your brother was at that moment, and how you felt guilty for not noticing earlier just how damn pretty he was.
You never forgot how pretty he was after that. He drove you to and from school every day in the Impala, smacking your ass every morning to make sure you woke up on time. He asked you questions about the books you were reading, and somehow he had read all of them before you. He hustled pool and sometimes came home in the middle of the night smelling like cigarettes and sex, his hair askew and determination on his face, as if no matter what happened, he wouldn’t ever cry in front of you.
At the age of 17 you found out what Dean did those nights he came home so late. And you realized just how much you hated your father for making Dean raise you and feed you on his own without any help. You wish someone had been there for Dean while he grew up. You remember screaming at your older brother. His green eyes freezing solid, jaw set, and his emotions unreadable.
“Oh right, because if it were with women you wouldn’t care, is that how it is? Poor little Sammy a homophobe? How the fuck else are you supposed to eat?”
You didn’t know what to say to that. You wanted to cry. You wanted to punch your older brother in the face and then possibly stab your father with a wooden stake. But most of all you just wanted to be the one to take care of Dean, for a change.
It was the middle of July, and your hair was stuck to your forehead from the inevitable humidity and sweat that comes with it. You remember at that very moment you started laughing. You were laughing at how horrible and fucked up your life was. Your brother was being fucking by men for money, and thought the only thing you had a problem with was the fact that he was gay. “I’m not homophobic, man. You’re unbelievable, you know that? And you know I would rather starve than force you to get fucked for cash”.
Dean smiled at you. It was the saddest smile you had ever seen in your entire life. The smile of a broken man. He looked you in the eye, desperation and shame screaming in self loathe. And you think that this was the moment you fell in love with your brother.
Dean got you drunk and stoned on your 18th birthday. You split a joint and a twelve pack of beer, sat on the hood of the Impala and watched the stars with your older brother. The weed made you brave, and the beer made you stupid. The stars were so close you could touch them, the sky see through yet solid, and the moon almost nonexistent. You could see the smoke blow out of your mouth, a solid stream of gray meeting the black night sky. Dean winked at you as he took a drag, slowly blowing perfect rings into your face, and you laughed and pushed him away from you.
You watched in absolute shock as your brother pushed you back and grabbed your hair. “You’ll never learn, will you?” Dean breathed into your mouth, smoke and beer on his tongue. He started biting your bottom lip, moaning as you kissed him back. You remember thinking that you and Dean were inevitable no matter what, with the life the two of you lived. You were born to love your older brother, you think, as Dean starts grinding against your thigh and pulls your hair harder. “Fuck, Dean”. You can’t stop moaning, your cock hard and your hands on your brothers shirt, ripping it up to feel his bare skin against yours. He pulls away from your mouth, and you’re gasping; breathless and hard and impatient and you want to know just why the fuck clothes were ever invented because you want nothing more than to rub your bare chest against your brothers, grind down against his hip and have him bite at your throat while you moan his name into his ear, begging for more.
Dean is looking you in the eye as he strips you out of your jeans, and starts shaking his head, “This is so fucked up”. At that, you can’t help but snort. Instead of saying anything back, you simply shoved your hand into your brother’s pants and grabbed his cock, stroking it slowly. You bit his ear, and moaned. “Our whole lives are fucked up. I want to be fucked up, and I want you to be fucked up with me. And if that includes fucking in the middle of the night and smoking joints, then so be it”. And at that, your older brother dropped to his knees and went down on you. His mouth, hot and wet, slowly taking your entire length. He moaned, the vibrations sending shivers down your spine and you didn’t know how long you could last. “Dean, I- oh, fuck Dean please, don’t fucking stop-” You were cut off by sensation, your older brother’s mouth still wrapped tightly around your cock as you came down his throat, and he swallowed all of you down.
Dean zipped your jeans back up, got up off his knees and faced you, slowly leaning in and sharing the taste of your own come with his tongue.
On the drive back home you found out your older brother came in his pants while going down on you, his cheeks flaming red and his eyes still dilated. You threw your head back and laughed, “That is so fucking hot”
Years later you find yourself on the road with your brother, sharing motel rooms and fucking in the come stained sheets that haven’t been replaced since ’96. And you realize you only have a year left before your brother is going to be taken away from you, to suffer an eternal damnation in hell for making a deal to save your life simply because he wasn’t able to be alive without you.
You loved your brother more than anything. And watching him shake and shudder, blood gushing out of his stomach, screaming your name in terror and pain, the only scream you can hear is your own.
Hell is inevitable. You just wish you could have been the one to go first.