Little brothers can be the devil.
With their pink sweetheart pouts and their knobby knocked knees and their spicy oil scents like dirty gym underwear that you’ll long to clench and yank down and tuck into your back pocket, after, for a later on memory. (Maybe you’ll touch it, finger the cheap material and busted elastic, and think animal thoughts of love. Of a raggedy andy boy you would—and will—die for. And you’ll remember with a heart both fond and wicked the night he lost his littlest rose to you in the backseat of a car that’ll someday be yours.)
Little brothers can be dangerous.
When they start using up too much space with their new bones and take to spreading their babyteen thighs constantly, constantly, even when they know it makes you so hard your eyes water. When their bare skinny toes rub your dick under the table and you almost bust it right there, your father reading the paper beside you. (When dad says, “Hurry up, get packed. And wipe your mouth, Sam. Milk mouths are for five year olds," while Sammy nods, yes sirs, wipes it gone with his tongue. He didn’t have milk that morning. He had you.)
Little brothers can be deadly.
Fifteen-year-old Sam Winchester is not a flower.
Though there are parts of him, places on his sapling body sure to be tender as a seed or sweet as sugar nectar, he himself is not. He browns, but doesn't wilt. He sways, but doesn't unroot.
He is stemmy, sometimes thorny, and his cheeks are a posy of roses—but Sam Winchester's no flower. That boy might look like a petal but his teeth bite like a Venus.
Every time I see your face, I get all wet between my legs. Every time you pass me by, I heave a sigh of pain.
If you pluck him just right, he’ll hum. If you overwet him, he’ll thrash.
He’s in the GT Literature Study class at school, likes Alice in Chains loud in his headphones, and under baggy jeans that used to be Dean's, he’s got the mile-long legs of a stripper, smooth as satin and smattered in bruises.
Sam Winchester’s heart is as big as his brain is as big as his cock, and he can siphon gas or shoot a man between the eyes before anyone can ask, “Is that Sam?” Sam's just got a really huge heart. And he can take dick like only the priciest truckstop girlfriend but twice as good.
Dean Winchester, of course, at nineteen years old, has the biggest, ugliest crush in the world.
“He loves me, he loves me not,” Dean says, quiet in his mouth one morning before school. He's being weak again, that ache in his chest he gets when he thinks about the way Sam's shy kisses have gone to slut. How Dean taught him how.
Sam’s still asleep and Dean is counting his centipede eyelashes.
He loses track and has to start all over. Dean never minds starting over. This young face is a ballad that Robert Plant himself would struggle to find good enough words for, and Dean is so stupid for it.
Sam wakes before Dean can finish his count and he yawns deepthroat big, stretches yesterday's skin off in one long and quivering muscle, feline grace and child charm, and he notices Dean hunched over him close, intimate and weird. Sam grins, because Dean's mouth can lie and lie but his eyes always tell the truth about Sam.
“Let’s fuck,” Sam says, still a little sleepy, parts of him deliciously awake. Dean sees the little ooze of wet dampening the thin sheet draped over his narrow hips and decides Sam's going to be late to class again.
When their old man goes out to hunt evil, sometimes he leaves his two sons behind to become it. And they don't let him down.
“I wanted a dog. You remember that?”
There’s a little pile of fingernail shreds decorating the bedside table as Sam speaks, as he chews and tears at each of his long, branchy fingers in bored distraction.
He’s wearing an old school tee loose at the neck, Go Firebirds! hanging off one underweight shoulder. Nothing on underneath, Dean's little skank. The hem touches the tops of his thighs and the way he’s sitting has his brother hypnotized, ears rushing with heat for the way Sam pretends not to notice Dean's starved staring.
“Yeah?” Dean says, only 3/4 there. Nobody makes his cock drool like John Winchester's youngest does.
“Can’t have no damn mutt, son. Move around too much,” Sam says, pitched low, his steeltoe dad voice. “Would only ruin the car’s upholstery.”
He snorts, maybe thinking of new stab marks and old blood smears. Crispy cigarette burns eaten through tired leather. Boy stains Dad'll never know about.
“Still want one, y’know?” Sam’s naked toes flex in the pilled comforter and Dean’s mouth floods. His little brother has porn feet. "Deeeean."
Dean lives for that snotty voice. He looks up, filmy, blood all lust buzzed and spiking, sees Sam smiling at him so gently. Sam reaches over and pets the side of Dean’s head, pup fond, lets his palm rest beneath an ear. “Will you be that?” he says into the other one, more mouth than sound. "Be my bitch."
Sam climbs into Dean’s warm lap and straddles him, hugs him snug. Dog licks a hot line from the lock of Dean’s jaw to the gloss of his lips, and boy wonder's tenth grade butt rubs the thick of Dean’s cock. Dean sighs a tormented death gasp sound. Because Dean is Sam’s, wholly—but Sam is only Dean’s if Sam says so.
Dean says nothing. No need. Dean has been everything Sam's needed and anything Sam's wanted since the day the fussy pink bundle came home from the hospital.
Sam sinks himself on Dean’s blind teenager dick and smiles happily, nothing but kitten sounds and tiger teeth. He punches his hips and clings to Dean’s shoulders and his bitsy little legs tremble adorably when he starts to come. He opens blurred eyes, laughs, says "down, boy," like a tickle of baby's-breath just beginning to bloom.
You act like you're fourteen years old. Everything you say is so obnoxious, funny, true and mean. I want to be your blowjob queen.
Sam's a honeydripper and he always has been.
Dean’s known it forever, way before they were two white trash kids having sex on the regular. Dean’s the one who washed his patterned kiddie underwear clean.
It happened frequently enough for Dean to notice, usually when Sam was deepdreaming. Little thing would wake up embarrassed, tacky all the way to his crescent moon bellybutton. God. How it made Dean see stars, though.
But that was then. Sam’s wet has a scent now. It has a flavor too.
“This one right here,” Sam says in a high whine, puberty pushing through fast. He's pressing his thumb into the faint little freckle stamped on Dean’s plumpy bottom lip. Sam’s kind of obsessed with it, Dean knows. “Want it on me forever.”
Yes, Dean thinks, agreeing. He wants that too. Wants that worse than Sam does.
"Right now," Sam says and guides Dean's face down to where his dick's all girl wet.
Sam's balanced on the edge of the motel sink, the cheap ceramic of it digging into the precious porcelain of his body, his cute little ass. Dean angles him in an arch as best as he can, holds him up by the sharp hang of his hips, and presses Sam's skull against the rust-fog mirror behind him. Small boy bodies can have grown up cocks. Dean only kisses it at first. Tiny watering-can presses of mouth, saying hi, hello, it's just me again. When he bathes it, he doesn’t stop until Sam is strawberried in the face and chest, going “please, Dean, please” in sorry little breaths he can hardly get out, his eyes closed fitfully.
"Shh," says Dean, unclear, full and stuffed with Sam. Today's brake change day. Dad won't be outside forever. But Dean isn't cruel. He never could be, to the thing he nurtured in his arms before he nurtured between his legs.
“Oh!” Sam says, surprised when Dean finally fucks his mouth down all the way, always so surprised. Like Dean isn't a sure thing. Like Dean isn't completely cockwhipped. Like Dean doesn't get off the hardest when he's tasting all the silkiest corners on Sammy's blossoming body.
Sam has no business being so large for his age there, but Dean secretly rouses at the sight of his wispy little brother lugging that beast around in his pants all day, uncomfortable all the time from the weight of it. He gushes warm and runny into Dean’s mouth early on, as expected, and Dean downs it like a brokenhearted barstooler's last swallow. Dean's stomach is a well of Sam's most physical love.
By the time Sam's wrung dry he's crying a little, a drizzle of dew drops on his cheeks, and Dean looks like the happy recipient of an 8-man bukkake. His chin is dripping creamy, soaked in love.
"Pretty," Sam says, and touches Dean's mouth again, now even fatter and ruby red close to the surface. The door to room 213 creaks open and dad's tools clatter onto the wobbly-legged table. His wobbly-legged sons do a silent cleanup.
Honey is so sweet when it's right from the source.
Dean used to wash Sam’s hair with tear-free baby shampoo.
It wasn’t Johnson’s or anything, too expensive. Could buy bulk ammo with the money saved, dad said. What’s good enough was good enough. Sam never cried, at least.
There were lather mohawks and beards of bubbles and if you ask Sam today he'll say that bathtime smelled like chamomile and big brother, that it was one of his earliest scent memories. He took it really hard the night dad said he was too old to be having Dean mother him. Just doesn't seem right anymore, boys. Hasn't for awhile. No more tears.
It really didn't take all that long for the little petal to start nursing from Dean in other, much more unique ways; closed lids, parted mouth. And Dean Winchester will always do his best to nourish.
Sam likes it when they use baby oil. He doesn't say why but Dean knows. Of course he knows. Sam and his brother share the same unique kind of cancer.
He gets lovesick sometimes.
Usually when Sammy’s too busy with homework or extra credit reports to think about Dean’s horny nudging. The history of occultism is important, Dean.
Always when Dean’s screwed up again and gone on a fuck binge because banging your little brother is one thing, but knowing full well that you've been making love since the very first time is shattering.
Sam always sees Dean’s Maybelline mouth, too impolitely pink to be anything but what it is.
I didn't fuck her in the ass, Dean can say, has said, because what they do together is special, doesn't Sam know that?, but it never does any good. Sam can be frigid. Starchy and assholish and sourfaced cold. Won't let Dean near his palest parts, a weed waned away from the sun that adores it. He loves me not.
Or—when dad’s too near and too around and too dad.
Sam doesn't ail from the heart. Sam ails in the head.
You're probably shy and introspective; that's not part of my objective. I just want your fresh, young jimmy – jamming, slamming, ramming in me.
It’s been almost two weeks. Thirteen days of morning drills and weapon training and zero peeks of privacy for any significant amount of time.
Sam’s losing it little by little, going mad-minded with not getting the kisses he needs in the places he deserves. Sneaky slips of tongue when Dad goes for a piss are only going to hold him over for so long, appease his wrong placed hunger. Sam is a growing boy. Growing boys have needs and they need to be watered regularly.
"Please, Sammy," Dean says, pained from within, having to tear himself off that sweet mouth like disconnecting skin. "Not much longer, I bet. You know he can't stand being idle."
"I hate this," Sam says, pained from without, his big boy cock tenting his pajamas grotesquely. The car rumbles outside, back again, and Sam doesn't bother adjusting himself. "Why can’t we just run away? Tell him we don’t give a fuck what he—"
Dean throws a pillow on Sam's lap to smother out his body's pleading just as a key turns into the lock. Sam, red-lipped and teary with angry disbelief, looks away betrayed.
Dean knows it’s getting bad when Sam starts scouring their sources, scoping out hunts for their father to go on, like bait for their own beast.
“Sam, stop,” Dean says, ripping the Daily Picayune out of dangerously determined hands. “Just stop. You can’t—we can’t, is this really that impor—Dad could get hurt.”
“Dad won’t get hurt. Dad’s dad,” Sam says, on auto, by reflex, because they live in a world where a broken pinky is the equivalent of a paper cut, where it’s not severe until it’s arterial, but his voice is hollowed and shot small. They both know what Dean almost said. Even if only one of them knows he didn’t mean it by half.
Sam lets Dean have the paper, then, and he stops trying to call Bobby every two hours, sniffing for trouble in the wind. He leaves the kitchenette and goes to sit in front of the broken TV. Sam Winchester drops his head back and blinks at the mold shapes on the ceiling.
Everything is important when you’re fifteen and in love.
Somewhere on the planet there’s a harmless looking plant that exists in the thick lush of nature's spread legs. The rainforest, Dean's heard. Deftly blends with its surroundings, cloaked. The little hurter’s got stinging, hair-like needles said to invoke an agony not like anything else, and yet nobody takes it seriously thanks to its bland façade. Not until they're right up close and the venom's already at work. It has a real funny name too, something to smile a silly smile about.
Often when Dean picks Sam up after school he'll see him with his head down, pointy chin to his bony chest, soft hair in his softer face, books curled close to his belly, and Dean can almost swear he smells fresh, hot rain while none of the other kids even know to be scared.
Your face reminds me of a flower, kind of like you're underwater. Hair's too long and in your eyes, your lips a perfect "suck me" size.
It's on the 19th day that Sam's tactics change. A pair of periwinkle panties almost cripples Dean.
Sam starts off by refusing to take a lap around the complex. Sam is petulant, Dad is pissed. Dean keeps stirring the oatmeal, keeps frying the bacon slices, and hopes this blows over on its own. He doesn’t wander too far, though, in case this argument is the One. Dean can’t shake the feeling that eventually there’ll be a One.
“I’ve had it up to fucking here with you, Sam—" dad starts.
Sam scoffs, hairline brows, says, “You can’t just push me in whatever direction you want. I’m not a windup doll, John."
“Dad,” Dean says, quick, jumping in the middle while there still is a middle. Fuck. Dean shoots Sam a we’re talking about this later glare and hustles dad out the door before someone can say or do something they’ll really regret.
They practice chokeholds and work through incantations and don't go back into the house until breakfast has gone cold. Until Sam is locked in the bathroom doing whatever it is tender dandelions do while they're alone.
“God,” Sam says around noon, kicking the particle board stand the fuckass television is on, folding his scarecrow arms. “This place is a shithole. Every place is a shithole.”
Dad's balancing salt rounds on a little metal tray in front of him and he stops pouring and packing, starts tensing and gritting, and he says, “Well if someone wasn’t too above real work—“
“I’m fifteen,” Sam says, stiffening right up, not looking at dad, but not not-looking either. “I have school to think about.”
Dad snorts in a way a dad never should and mutters something about Dean when Dean was Sam’s age, plus something more scathing under his breath as he picks the plastic casings back up again.
“Ya know, someday—" Sam begins, but stops when he sees what heartache must look like all over Dean's face. Someday never feels too far away, not anymore. Sam smiles at Dean instead, then, soft and hot and lover like, a secret almost out loud.
“Sam, why don’t you help your brother with—“
“He’s got it.”
“I’d only be in his way—“
"Oh my god. Fine."
Peevish sigh. Door slam. Sneaker stomps. Bye, Sam.
Dad rubs his eyes, takes a swig from his half empty can. Says, partly to Dean but mostly to himself, to his beer, to Mary, maybe, “Kid’s gonna kill me before the hunt does, I fuckin' swear, drives me goddamned crazy.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, holding in a dizzy sigh. That kid drives him crazy too.
By suppertime dad’s stopped bothering with the cutesy watered down shit. His baby's driven him to go crawling into the arms of a six-pack, some blade sharpening, and a bottle of Four Roses he’s not just sipping from, courtesy of a diner dolly who had a thing for hot dads. Sam had retched when he heard that, overly obnoxious.
John Winchester doesn’t smoke a lot but he’ll have one or two when he’s stressed, snarled around the edges. He’s gone through half a pack of Camels today alone and at this point, Dean’s about ready to run an IV drip for the guy. It’d be a shit of a lot quicker. Dad’s pores are boozy and his words lost their acidity two hours ago, and Sam’s still kicking his legs in the air, dirty Vans with untied shoelaces swinging back and forth carelessly, on his tummy reading a book on Victorian executions.
Every time I see your face I think of things unpure, unchaste. I want to fuck you like a dog. I'll take you home and make you like it.
“Okay,” Sam says, at right about eight o’clock, when dad starts pig snoring. Comatose with curtain eyelids. “We can now.”
Dean’s changing out the batteries on all the flashlights, one eye on the purple-green pixel people on channel 12. Couple of double As, some double Ds. Dumbly, Dean grins. Just like titty sizes. “Mm?”
“Look, it’s all clear.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, thinking about boobs. The boobs of the news anchor lady, all the boobs he’s had cupped in his palms, Sam’s little nothing-tits.
“Huh?” Zipper feeling a little snug, gloved a hair too tight.
“You’re not even listening.”
“’m listenin’,” Dean nods, shifting his left thigh to win him a little more room for his swimmy sex thoughts. He’s really not listening. Not until Sam says—
“Will you hurry up and get over here so you can fuck me before he wakes up?”
The clank of the last flashlight’s weighted canister isn’t just loud when it hits the old floorboards below, it’s cacophonous, and it's a sound that's got altogether nothing on Dean’s heartbeat going heavy-metal loud in his ears, throbbing his head like a fist that'll come.
“Sam!” Dean says, sharp as thorns when he's most terrified, his eyelashes probably touching his eyebrows. “What the fuck.”
Shaky inside and out, Dean glances over at Dad—doing a quick check in his head on exit strategies, everything he's ever been taught about escaping, of survival, how to get out quick with Sam in his arms—but Sammy just blows him a wet looking kiss, scooches further down where he’s propped on the bed they’ve been sharing but not using, not the way they would if Dad were gone.
Sam’s bitch scrawny legs fall open like a dare. Dad sounds like a lawnmower.
“What the fuck were you thinking, man? You can’t just—“ Dean chokes, breaking on a gasp when he thinks about what could’ve happened, what Dad would’ve done, how bad it— He bends forward and tremblingly rests his head in the safe groove of Sam’s small neck, grassblade thin, boy-sweat smell.
“It’s not a big deal, Dean,” Sam says, softly thunking his head on the ground Dean yanked him down onto. “I wouldn’t have done it if I wasn't, you know, 110% positive he was out of his head.” It’s gentle and whisper-calm and Dean knows when Sam is babying him. He doesn’t mind it this time.
“You don’t know that, though,” he hisses, mouth floating too near Sam’s throat. “He could’ve—“
“He wasn’t gonna wake up, jeez. He's still not. Made sure he was conked. I know what I’m doing, okay? Alright? When y’all went out this morning, I got into his stash and it was real simp—“
Dean’s anguished eyes fly open. “You roofied Dad?”
"I didn't roofie him," Sam huffs, all indignant teen eyerolls. "Was just a couple drops of a homemade oil and the right string of words."
Dean groans. He isn't sure which is worse. Sam magicked Dad.
He tries scrambling up and off his favorite little bag of bones, mindfucked, but Sam gathers him up close, says shhh, shhh just like he did that first time in the back of the car in Hammondville, Alabama and he grinds his crotch into Dean’s stomach, wraps black widow knees around his brother's shaky hips. Dean is easy prey.
Dean is the cement that cracks with the push-through of the faintest flower.
It’s hard to say no to a lovesong face.
It’s even harder when it’s the first song you’ve ever known.
“Just – just kiss me a little,” Sam says, once he’s creature-crawled back up onto the bed, pulled Dean up with him using nothing but a coo and a dimple.
Dad’s not five feet away pulling z’s and pillow-drooling on the other twin, but Sam is here and waiting and topless. He’s waiting for Dean’s mouth and Dean’s hands and Dean’s heart, and Dean’s dick hasn’t learned the discipline it takes to deny something so filthy pure.
Dean lost his virginity in his little brother’s ass. There’s no refusing this kind of love.
He's horny but hushed, fearfully frantic, and he's searching for morals through the eyes of a monster.
"I'm not gonna fuck you, though," Dean says, fifteen minutes before he does.
The thrill of being with Sammy like this never goes away. Each sigh, each shudder, the soft tumble of hair when something’s so good that Sam’s little tulip head lashes left and right, up and down, sign of the cross.
Dean knows all of Sam’s flavors by heart and soul. Back of his neck, under his hair, where Dean likes to leave blood bites no one else will find. Behind his knees, below his thighs, where Dean has spent hours pressing lips that Sam begs for like a brat. Between his cheeks, inside his body, where he’s pink like a pussy and greedy for tongue.
Sam is panting and shaky and Dean’s only made it down to his ribs.
He’s got a hand clutched into his brother’s short hair and he’s making distracting little whore noises, these incredible sounds that make Dean jerk and rub against the seam of the bed, dog-rutting into the edge of it like Sam’s faithful Fido.
Dean’s got a thumb skirting the smooth flat of the coin-button on Sam’s pants, snicking it through the hole, tugging wretchedly at the miserable little material when Sam, dear Sam, has something of a second thought.
“Dean, wait. I should.”
But Dean is very nearly mating the bed, frenchkissing Sam’s thinboy belly, in lust, in heat, in so far over his head that Dad being in the same room is hardly on his radar. There’s no room for wait. By the time he's got Sam's jeans down to his ankles, Sam is up on both bony elbows and holding his sap-sweet breath. "Um," he says.
Dean has to close his eyes and cup his balls and when he says Sammy like he's in real pain, there's nobody else on the planet but them.
The panties are lacy sheer and bruise-blue and they've got pretty little hearts dotting the curve and spill of Sam's soaking wet dick.
Everything you ever wanted, everything you ever thought of is everything I'll do to you. I'll fuck you till your dick is blue.
Dean is ravenous. The little scrap of fabric is a game changer. Sam is always beautiful, but in cute little girl things, he’s all of Dean’s sleaziest fap bank fodder laid out into a hundred and thirty pounds of awkward scrawny boy.
“Why?” Dean says, when really he means how, grabbing two hot handfuls of Sam, spreading him wide, fingering the secret material digging into the crack of his ass. “When?”
“I just wanted to,” Sam sighs, pitchy, little lashes fluttering for Dean’s touch. “To do something, for – for you.”
Dean’s eyes and dick water.
“I thought if I looked like— if you liked it enough,“ he says, as the tip of Dean’s long middle finger dips into Sam just barely, then curls to sink in a little deeper. Sam goes taut at the root. The panties bunch and shift with the stretch when Dean knuckles them to the side. "Then maybe.”
Dean breathes in the lavender scent of Sam’s soft hair, sucks on his neck a little. Distantly, Dad grumbles in his sleep, coughs wetly for a second or two, and then falls back into his restful doze.
“Maybe you wouldn’t need anyone else.” Sam’s little breaths are weak, but his nerves are floating out.
Dean stops. He slides strong hands up Sam’s still-dainty back and waits there, rubbing softly. “I—What is that supposed to mean? Sam?” Dean already doesn’t need anyone else, just this, always this one.
Sam’s eyes were closed, but now they squeeze. A baby-muscled arm flings across his face to cover them, shocked by his own embarrassment.
“Just.. why do you have to go out — now that we. Why can't it just be us?” And as Dean is still crumbling openly, grieved by the thought that he’s hurt Sam in some way, in this specific way, the idea that, to Sam, he’s been unfaithful, Sam says, “You’re supposed to be my—“
“Your what?” Dean says, holding his littlest love like he's made of glass.
“My Dean,” Sam says, just before his whole face goes to a fine tremble.
He drops his weight onto Sam, all of it, because he knows his little brother can take it, Sam is so strong, even when he's sniffling, and Dean says, in slivered shards, “I am your Dean.”
On the bed, with the blanket around his shoulders like a cape, Sam holds Dean’s wrists down onto the 80’s floral mattress and moves his slight body in tender little shapes.
He works his darling thighs with the strength Dad put in them and he tucks down to drag his flat babygirl chest against Dean's in a move that nobody had to teach him. That's just Dean's perfect little brother. He fucks their tongues together softly, and Dean stares up at Sam in awe, stealing air when he can.
“I don’t even want them looking at you,” Sam whines, like it hurts.
He’s still got the panties on, yanked aside like a wedding night to make room for Dean’s fat cock pushed up into him, and the material itself doesn’t register against Dean's skin – at least not when he’s so overcome with near humiliating emotion just by looking at Sam – but just the knowing that it’s there is what kills him. Sam is the only.
“They’ve never deserved you,” Sam tells him, riding him good. He presses a honey kiss to the peak of Dean’s cheekbone. “None of them have. They don’t know how special you are. How smart and stupid-funny and kind. God, you’re so kind, Dean. And they just see your pretty face.”
"Sam," he says, like penance.
Dean's hips jerk up in hitching little fucks like maybe he can slide in further, just — more, so deep that he'll touch Sam's heart.
It's a brainless thought but Sam lets go of Dean's forearms and leans forward to angle his shoulders in and down. Dean mouths hotly at the flushed flesh of his collarbone while the boy who won a National Peace Essay contest last semester reaches back and holds himself open, slut-wide, with hands that Dean's been bandaging his whole life.
"Sam." Like prayer.
Dean's dick flexes crudely in Sam's ass, heavy swollen and pulsing wet. His hands grip mean in Sam's hair and he brings him in for the kind of kiss that high school kids just don't know how to do. Not like this. Nobody has ever loved their brother like Dean loves Sam loves Dean.
When Dean's eyes drip salt, someone lightly licks away the evidence and absorbs it like rainwater.
In the black of the room, Sam droops over him, sated and full, and he blisters Dean's neck with suck marks Dean’ll have to lie about in the morning.
Dad won’t know that Dean didn’t go out. He won’t know that Dean thinks of Sam in the way John thought of Mary. He won’t know that the best fuck of Dean’s life has always been, will always be, right beside him. Not a shadow, but a shine of sun.
"You and me," Dean says, making heart-promises when he spills warm into Sam, gasping hard into Sam's dropped open sloppy mouth.
Sam Winchester is not daisy pure, and he's not a cherry blossom boy. He isn't an orchid or a poppy or a bundle of marigolds. The thing about Sam, though, the thing that nobody will ever understand, is that he would press himself into a book for Dean. Dry out and lay forever, if he asked.
“He loves you,” Sam says, when Dean is asleep and adrift and away. Dean counts lashes, but Sam stays up tallying breaths and scars.
Little brothers are forever.