Dean only gets a brief, uninterested glance at the library—the usual dusty stacks, the smell of book glue, the row of Apple computers—before his new roommate is pushing him roughly back against a rack of books, sinking to his knees, hands working feverishly at the buckle of Dean’s belt. There’s a mouth blowing wet heat through the denim cupping Dean’s crotch, then the hiss of a zipper and then lips nipping gently at his dick through the fabric of his briefs.
So much for ‘touring the facility’, Dean thinks.
“This okay?” his roommate asks eagerly and Dean looks down at that young, earnest face, dimpled and smiling, brown bangs like a sheepdog and says, “Sure, Sam.”
Sam grins impossibly wider, then he’s lifting Dean’s dick out of Dean’s jeans to cup it gently in his hands, palm rasping along the shaft, and Dean closes his eyes and lets it happen.
Sam. Sammy. Sam. The name gets Dean every time. It’s not so bad when the Sam in question couldn’t possibly be his Sam: wrong age, different race, opposite gender. There was a Sam at one of the many elementary schools and a Sammie with a big rack at the last high school and a Samuel the janitor in the previous institution but none of them close enough to be his Sam.
“I want to suck you,” Sam murmurs from the floor and he’s the right age, yes he is, and Dean should say no. What kind of sick fuck thinks about his dead baby brother when a stranger asks to suck him off?
But Samuel Singer doesn’t look anything like Dad, like the fading picture of Mom, with his pretty, tilted eyes and his cat’s smile and Dean nods his head and says “Yes.”
Wet heat on the head of his cock, Dean looks down at Sam, swaddled in another giant hoodie like the one he wore yesterday when they first met. He watches his dick disappear inside Sam’s stretched, pink mouth. Sam’s looking up at him, eyes wide and shiny, watching Dean as Dean is watching Sam. He’s young, too young for Dean. Even performing an act both obscene and sublime, Sam looks innocent.
“It’s good,” Dean says and Sam’s eyes brighten at the praise. He bows his shaggy head and sucks Dean deeper into his mouth, humming deep in his throat and Dean feels the tip of his dick bump the back of Sam’s throat. He closes his eyes. It feels good, so good. Dean thinks about all the times he’s been on his knees, cold concrete making his kneecaps ache, the stink of some stranger’s junk. Hunger twisting his belly even as he swallows down a slimy load, twenty dollars shoved into the pocket of too tight, too short denim.
Dean opens his eyes as his mind skitters away from the memories. Sam’s gaze is still fixed on Dean, but his eyelids are heavy and his cheeks pink with pleasure.
“You like this?” Dean asks, just to be sure, and Sam’s cheeks get even pinker. He hums an “uh-huh” around the shaft of Dean’s dick and Dean shivers, hips lifting.
“Suck me, Sammy,” Dean whispers and Sam groans and renews his attentions, pulling Dean deep into his throat.
He’s rougher than Dean thought he would be, this sweet-faced young kid. One of Sam’s overgrown hands is gripping Dean’s ass, hauling him close on each stroke, making him fuck Sam’s mouth. The other is curled around the base of Dean’s cock. That big hand is chasing Sam’s mouth as he moves up and down, Sam sucking so hard it’s almost painful, tender scrape of teeth at the tip.
Dean reaches down, fingers fumbling through the tangles of Sam’s hair, sliding down to cup the back of Sam’s head, to rub slowly at the sweat-slick skin of Sam’s neck. There’s a series of bumps under Dean’s fingertips at the intersection of Sam’s neck and his collarbone. Scar tissue, precise and small, bringing the image of a firetruck ladder, or a railroad track to Dean's mind. Toys beneath the tree, that last and final Christmas.
Sam’s rhythm stutters as Dean’s fingers drift over those tiny lines, then he sucks harder, faster. Dean lets his hand drift back up to Sam’s hair. It’s coarse, thick, a bit dampened with sweat. Not baby-fine and silky beneath Dean’s hand. Scent of half-grown boy rising up to tease Dean’s nose with who Sam isn’t. When Dean closes his eyes at night, he can still smell Johnson’s shampoo and baby powder. His own body cradling the smaller frame of his baby brother, mom’s hand drifting over both their heads, the last time he felt like he was safe, like he belonged.
Letting go, Dean pumps his hips, fucks deep into Sam’s mouth, half-listening to the murmurs of approval as Sam takes everything he has, gobbling his cock like he’s been hungry for a lifetime. Dean’s hands on Sam’s head, his dick in his mouth, is the closest feeling he’s had to home since he was four years old.
Coming, he’s coming, and Dean wants to bend down, to press his face to Sam’s hair, but he slams his head back against the books instead, white dots dancing behind his closed eyes. The pleasure washes the sadness out as it always does, leaving Dean drifting blank and quiet, everything he’s ever lost seeming far away and unimportant.
“Hey. Hey.” Sam’s hand is on his face, a pat that’s too gentle to be called a slap. “You okay?”
No. No, he’s not. He’s a ghost. Dean’s spent most of his life stuffing himself into the ill-fitting shell of white trash survivalist. He knows how to suck dick for rent money, to dodge out on the motel bills, to clean and load a shotgun, to shoplift without suspicion.
What he doesn’t know is how to let go of everything his dad has taught him to be. How to believe in a constant home and a full belly, no need to hide or hoard food. How to smile in the Sears portrait studio next to John Winchester’s new, pretty, blonde, replacement wife Kate and their perfect, new, replacement baby. How to start over from when he was four, before he lost his mom and his brother, and fake an interest in college or a career.
Like all the desperate, painful years between had never happened.
“I can…” Dean fumbles at the drawstring of Sam’s oversized track pants. He’s a little ashamed of himself, but not enough to stop. And he pays his debts.
“You don’t have to,” Sam says, mouth swollen and color still hectic in his cheeks.
“I want to,” Dean says and he does. Thank God Sam isn’t his brother, couldn’t be. Sam looks delicious leaning back against the stacks, swimming in his baggy clothes, only his thin neck and wrists giving any indication of the shape of the body beneath the clothes.
Dean gets on his knees.
And Dean thinks this might be the first time. The first time he’s gotten on his knees for a guy willingly, without any money between them. It’s hard to remember sometimes, hunger making him dull-witted, Dad fucking off to who knows where and Dean scrambling for cash to keep himself fed. Later, it was older women, the rich moms of kids from school, thighs wrapped around his neck and pussy in his face. And then girls his own age--sweet and shy or sad and trashy--chipped candy-colored polish on their toes.
As Dean works Sam’s pants off his hips, fingers slipping on the satiny material, a puff of scent slips from Sam’s skin and right into Dean’s brain. Dean slides a finger down the cut of Sam’s hip, white baby powder lingering sweetly on Sam’s skin. With a silent question set into his face, Dean slides his eyes up to where Sam is watching him.
“I sweat. A lot,” Sam says, tugging fretfully at the zipper on his hoodie. He’s dressed for winter in July, layers of fabric between himself and the raw, painful world. It’s easy enough for Dean to understand.
There’s a row of tiny, pink ridges starting at the top of Sam’s thigh and Dean knows what he’s seeing. He’s seen it before. He’s back in Rhonda Hurley’s bedroom, that girl with the wounded, doe eyes surrounded by dark, winged liner. She’s on her back and he’s got his face pressed to the velvet skin of her inner thigh. She smells like Love’s Baby Soft and there are four small, healed slashes on the back of her knee.
“Just leave it alone, Dean,” Sam says as Dean runs a finger along those precise, raised lines. And Dean does because he understands. Sometimes it’s easier to wear your scars on the outside. Sam shouldn’t have a reason, but he’s here just as Dean’s here, hoping to be healed, fixed. Made into whatever they’re supposed to be, so they can live in the ‘real’ world.
So they can just be normal.
He shouldn’t have a reason, but Dean’s seen the collection of pictures Sam keeps proudly displayed on his side of the room, pictures of Sam with his father, the one Sam says insists on being called ‘Bobby,’ not ‘Dad.’ Pictures of Sam holding trophies, Sam dressed in grass-stained soccer clothes, Sam in a middle school mortarboard cap, gripping a graduation certificate. In each one, Bobby wears a tight, grim expression in contrast to Sam’s sunny smile. He's leaning in, loving hand on Sam’s shoulder, but his eyes are far away, like Sam’s holding him hostage.
Dean wonders if there’s an inch of unblemished skin under Sam’s many layers.
Instead of an apology, Dean draws Sam deep into his mouth. He’s good at this, good at sucking dick, and Sam’s cock fills his mouth, long and thick and blood-hot. Sam smells like sour-yeast and baby powder and it’s good, it’s sending Dean spiraling under a throb of lazy pleasure. That innocent smell that Dean associates with family and peace transmuted, different but still familiar. The scent of Sam making everything new again.
He’s an eager boy and Sam pumps his hips fervently, teeth digging into his own bottom lip, soft growls issuing from his throat. Sam rests his hands on Dean’s shoulders then stifles a shout as he comes, as noisy as Dean was quiet.
“Oh God,” Sam groans.
It’s the simplest thing in the world for Dean to rise to his feet and wrap his arms around Sam, letting Sam brace his wobbly legs, his hand fisted at the back of Dean’s shirt. They’re mouth to mouth, breathing in each other’s breath, and then Sam presses his lips in a clumsy kiss to Dean’s mouth.
In Dean’s mouth is the taste of Sam’s spit and Dean’s own come, sharp and tangy. Dean feels a bit sick to his stomach, even as he slips his tongue in Sam’s mouth and lets Sam suck on his tongue, sharing pieces of themselves in each slip-slide of their mouths.
Even so it feels warm and safe and right.
It feels the closest yet to coming home.