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Their Very Own Brand of Normal

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Sam looked like he was about to die from embarrassment even though neither of them had said a word in the twenty minutes since Dad had left, promising to be back in a couple of days. Dean's baby brother had been acting weird for almost a week, not that Dean could really blame him. More than anything he was surprised Sammy had managed to go a whole week without spontaneously combusting with the need to talk about what had happened with the ghoul.


Despite himself, Dean had to swallow back the taste of bile that rose in his throat at the idea of that thing touching Sammy. His Sammy. With Dean's own fucking hands! Or at least they had looked like his hands, Sam had thought they were his hands, and Dean wasn't exactly sure if that made it better or worse.


Dean had known since basically forever that he and Sammy were more than brothers, and by the time he was old enough to get his first hard on from the feel of Sam's body curled up close to his in the night, he'd known how deep that really ran. Finding out, years later that Sammy felt the same way was a blessing and a plague that Dean had carried around with him every day since.


He'd known that he had to be careful, couldn't let things go too far, but he also knew that there was absolutely no way he could stop once he'd had a taste - not as long as Sam wanted it. Dean just hadn't counted on how bad Sammy would want it; that instead of just fucking away the thoughts - for a minute or two at least - in some warm, available body like Dean had all this time, Sam wanted the real thing, the never-come-back-from-this, full-on-incest thing. It had been Dean's own personal hell to turn Sam away, say no to the only thing he'd ever really wanted for himself, but he'd done it for Sammy's sake.


Then that night, that hunt, when that mother fucking ghoul had gotten a rage-on for Winchester blood. It had gotten a nice big bite out of Dean's shoulder - it was just now healed enough to use properly - and a whole truckload of the crap floating around in his head to boot and had decided to go after the biggest weak spot he and his Dad had. Sammy.


The thing had gotten the drop on them, managed to steal Dean's keys when he was still recovering from the bite and left them stranded across town while it raced after the youngest Winchester. The locator spell had taken way too long to do and Dean's mind had run through every torture he'd ever heard of, trying not to imagine Sam's scream, envision his brother looking up into a mockery of Dean's own eyes as he bled out. Dean was pretty sure he'd broken several major laws of physics to get his hotwired fucking Volvo to the spot where the magic said Sam was.


He'd seen his car, his so-called baby, at the end of the rocky path and for once didn't care at all about what the terrain might have done to her - she wasn't the baby he was worried about. The windows had been too fogged to see and he had just decided to fuck stealth all to hell because he wasn't risking one more second of Sam with that thing as he ran up to the Impala and flung the door open and for almost half a heartbeat the world stopped spinning.


There was his Sammy, straddling him, naked, in the front seat. His little brother's head was thrown back, shaggy hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, thick cock leaving stains of precome on his own stomach. He looked blissed out and debauched and perfect as Dean's dick - what looked like Dean's dick - slid into him and in the space of that single firing of his synapses Dean's stomach rolled, his cock - the one not inside the only place he'd ever wanted to be - turned to steel, and he wanted to die. Because that thing was taking what should have been his.


No kill had ever felt as good.


After that, there hadn't been the time or the energy or the privacy to try and work things out, to talk about them - even though Dean would have happily cut off his left nut rather than to have to have that conversation - and things just kind of sat there. Until now.


Now Sam was sitting at the desk on the other side of the living room of the week, pretending to do homework although he hadn't done anything but stare at the same page all this time, blushing right up to his ears.


Dean knew that Sam had been a virgin, still was, as far as Dean was concerned, but moreover, that Sammy had been saving that particular rite of passage especially for his older brother and now he felt like he'd lost something. Fucked up, twisted, whatever - there was no question in Dean's mind about what he had to do, what they both wanted and needed. He just had to do it.


Ignoring the fluttering in his stomach - because he was tough enough to take out monsters on a weekly basis and he could sure as hell seduce a 15 year old without fumbling around like one, damnit! - Dean crossed the room in slow, deliberate strides so there was no goddamn way Sammy missed it. Those messy brown curls stayed slumped over his history book, despite the fact that Dean's obvious erection was straining against his jeans all of three inches from Sam's cheek. God, it would be so easy to just lean in that extra little bit and feel the heat of Sammy's skin soak through the denim... But no, this had to be different than that, had to be more than just getting off. This had to be good.


So instead, Dean leaned over his little brother, palm smack in the middle of the page Sam was supposedly reading, and said right into his ear, smooth and even,


"C'mon."


The he just straightened up and walked back toward their bedroom, hoping Sam would follow. Waiting for the squeal of the chair scraping back might not have been the hardest thing Dean ever had to do, but damn if he knew what topped it.


Sammy looked like he was walking to face the firing squad as he stopped short in the bedroom door. Dean just waited, looking placid, forcing all his mental energy toward willing Sam to take that last step and tacitly agree to this; God, he really wished he was some kind of psychic or something right now. But maybe he was, or Sam was, or possibly the cosmos just decided it was Dean Winchester's lucky day - about damn time! - because Sam took that little step like it might be his last.


It was worse than being shot - and Dean would know - when Sam flinched at the soft touch Dean laid against his cheek, but he wouldn't let himself back down. Fire was pulsing in his veins as Dean leaned in - not down anymore - to touch his lips to Sam's.


His brother's lips were baby soft and supple under his own, the younger boy not responding yet, but not pulling away either. Dean didn't quite manage to catch the pleading moan that built up in his throat and he was suddenly glad since the sound seemed to snap Sam out of whatever shock his was in and make him get with the program.


This was better, so much better, than Dean had even imagined; Sammy's mouth, warm and sweet, opening up for him, tongue meeting his carefully like Sam thought this might all come apart if he made the wrong move. Dean just tangled his hand up in Sam's hair like he'd been dying to for about six years and pressed a little deeper.


That sound! God that soft little whimpering sound rising up out of Sammy's throat was going to do Dean in all by itself and he just swallowed it down, begging for more with his own noises and the roll-slide of his tongue.


Sam's fingers were working at his back, sliding under his shirt and pressing warm lines that seemed to brand Dean's skin and leave him tingling in their wake. Dean pulled back just a little, just enough that he could whisper against Sam's lips as his brother tried to recapture the kiss,


"I love you."


And this SO wasn't how Dean was, how he had been with anybody ever, but then nobody else had ever been Sammy. He needed more, needed all of that skin on his, that perfect body that he saw in his dreams laid out, spread for him.


He tugged a little on Sam's shirts - why did the kid wear so damn many layers? - and baby bro got the picture real fast. The blur of fabric landed somewhere on the other side of the room as Sam almost succeeded in breaking Dean's nose, swooping back in to reclaim his mouth. After a couple dozen apologies in the span of ten seconds, Dean reassured Sam he was fine, sliding his own shirt off too and pulling his little brother's bare chest up against his.


Sam moaned, arching his head back at the feel of skin on skin and Dean focused his attention on the almost healed bruise on Sammy's neck where that thing had had its mouth on him. He was just going to pretend he didn't know what Sam was talking about if he ever brought up the possessive growl that Dean let out then.


The elder Winchester set about leaving a few marks of his own; the soft skin under Sam's ear, just below his Adam's apple, a matching set on his collar bone and one just above the left nipple. The last sucked bruise had Sam trembling like he was going to shake apart any second and Dean decided it was probably better to continue this on a more horizontal locale.


Sam just flopped out on the bed in a boneless sprawl at his prompting, apparently content to let Dean do whatever he wanted with him. Shit, that was hot.


His little brother's way too big hands wove into Dean's short hair as he picked up right where he left off, sucking Sam's nipple into his mouth and making him arch up off the bed with a groan. He'd never really thought about Sammy being noisy in the sack, but there was absolutely no part of him that had any kind of problem with the discovery. Maybe when Dad got back that would be something to think about, but for now he was perfectly content to see just how loud he could make his little brother go.


By the time he'd worked both nipples red - sensitive and close enough to raw that for days every touch there would have Sam moaning - and left one sharp nip on the trail of hair below Sam's belly button - ok, so he couldn't exactly do gentle, Sammy was so not complaining - Dean was positive he could have hammered nails with his cock.


He stripped Sam's pants off with Olympic-level speed, not giving himself a chance to savor it because if they didn't move this along, like now, he was going to fucking cream his pants like a kid just from seeing and hearing and feeling Sam.


But, yeah, he had to appreciate the view for just a second. Sammy all spread out on the bed, hands twisted white-knuckled in the sheets, covered in a fine sheen of sweat. And his cock. Somebody out there would have written fucking poetry about how goddamn pretty and just... just perfect Sam's cock was all flushed and hard, curving up to his belly and dripping at the slit. Yeah, definitely poetry worthy, except that Dean didn't plan on letting anybody else, poetic or otherwise, ever get to see all of this goodness.


Sam was writhing and looking up at Dean like he just might die if his big brother didn't get back on the bed and fuck him blind and Dean had really never been able to deny Sam anyway, especially not when it was life or death. Time to ditch the pants.


Sam's thighs slid around his hips like he didn't plan on ever letting Dean get out of bed again and bucked his hips, hissing in pleasure at the electric friction of their hard lengths brushing together.


"Dean! PleasegodneeditDean!" Sam babbled.


Dean pressed two of his fingers softly against Sam's lips which immediately opened up and swallowed them whole like they were some essential part of Sam's mouth that had been missing all this time. Fuck! Not gonna come, not gonna come, not gonna come. When did Sam learn how to do that with his tongue?


When Dean finally couldn't take it anymore, he took his fingers back, ignoring the whine of protest from his brother, then pressed them both against Sam's pink little hole. Two was probably too much to start, given that Sam wasn't exactly experienced with this, but seriously Dean was just not going to make it much longer. He had always been proud of his not inconsiderable stamina, but with Sam under him it might as well have been his first fucking time all over, just ready and waiting to burst at the first chance.


Whether it was too much or not, Sam opened right up for his fingers - had he been practicing this? - hazel eyes rolling back in his head as he moaned sweet and deep. Dean just couldn't resist hearing that noise again - clearly Sam's sounds were going to become addictive - so he leaned over as he worked his fingers steadily in and out and just breathed against his brother's cock. It jumped like he'd gotten an electric shock and Sam's voice just broke into nothing on a fucked out whine. As much as Dean wanted to, he knew there was no damn way he could even touch Sammy's cock like this; the kid was gonna go off at the first brush of skin, and Dean fully intended to be inside him when that happened.


Sam was talking, garbling together strings of words Dean couldn't really catch beyond "Dean" and "fuck" and "now", which was all he really needed to hear.


He got a good palmful of spit, slicking it over his already dripping - and by now, fucking throbbing - cock, rubbing the rest against Sam's tight little pucker. Dean spared half a second to worry about this; what it meant, how wrong it might be, how scared he was of hurting, losing, Sam. Then, like he really was psychic, Sammy tightened his legs around Dean, eyes flicking between his big brother's cock, almost at his hole, and Dean's eyes which must be just as dark and fuck-blown as Sam's.


"Please," he whispers, and Dean is sliding in.


He gives Sam a few seconds to adjust, every instinct he has screaming at him to slam home and pump hard. Instead he feels Sam's muscles give and finally sheathes himself all the way and if kissing was better than he imagined then this is better by orders of magnitude. Coherent thought just ceases to exist, replaced by tighthotsweettoomuchmorenow. Then he starts to piston his hips and even that thought is gone and Dean's nothing at all but sensation, nerve endings and love.


The feel of Sam's body around him, gripping him, moaning under him, big hands scrabbling for purchase on his sweat-slick back - this is everything he ever has or ever will need, and it's going to be over in about three seconds because bodies aren't made to take this kind of pleasure.


Sam bucks up under him on the peak of the next thrust. Dean must have hit his prostate because now Sam's pumping liquid heat between their stomachs before Dean even got a chance to get a finger on his cock, but there'll be time for that next time. Now Sam's screaming Dean's name loud enough that everyone in the building will know who he is, and God, he loves it, could have come from it even if Sammy's body hadn't turned into a vice around him, ripping the orgasm from him and milking him for every last drop.


Dean doesn't have a choice but to flop down right on top of Sammy, probably crushing him, but his body wouldn't respond right now even if he had the necessary brain cells to tell it to move. Which he so doesn't. He's pretty sure his spine liquefied a while back and shot right out his dick with the rest of it. He can't say he's really missing it.


Sam's hand moves up to Dean's head, short nails scratching at Dean's scalp in a way that makes him shiver enough to almost slide out - if Sam didn't tighten up around him again, trying to hold his softening dick inside.


"You keep scratching like that, I'm gonna sleep right here on top of you, Sammy" Dean warns. The head scratch thing has always knocked him right out and Sam knows it. His little brother just hums a little contented sound and says,


"Good."


Still, Dean manages to slide about half his body off of Sam so the kid might have some shot at breathing. Sammy groans a little at the loss, but snuggles his head up close to Dean's and relaxes.


"I love you too, Dean," he whispers, picking back up with the sentiment Dean gave him, what seems like hours ago. It's all they've ever really needed.