No, he’d said, the first time Sammy had tried to kiss him, sixteen and half-drunk and stupidly beautiful, even though he’d wanted so badly to say yes.
It had been no the second time, too, and the thirdfourthfifth; it had been no in a Greyhound parking lot in Iowa and no a year and a half later in Sam’s tiny sophomore dorm, the one and only time Dean had stopped to see his little brother at Stanford, because Sammy was just a kid who didn’t know what in the hell he wanted. (If he had, Dean was sure, if he’d had the first fucking clue, he would have wanted something better than him).
So no, he’d said, he’d always said, but when he’d woken earlier to find Sammy crawling into bed with him, both of them beaten half to hell, he’d—he’d been exhausted and hurting, and instead of no he’d just tangled a hand in his brother’s tee and pulled him in.
He hadn’t known what it was going to do to him; he hadn’t, here in this rundown cabin with nothing but a wood stove in one corner and an old double mattress in the loft above, where he was lying now sweat-slick and open, cock throbbing, leaking, ass wet from Sammy’s shyly eager mouth and from the lube the kid was slicking into him, three long fingers working deep.
He’d come once already, wet and creamy across his brother’s tongue, Sammy pinning his hips to the mattress as he’d swallowed him down, throat working, eyes open, and Dean utterly unable to look away.
He hadn’t known what it was going to do to him. He hadn’t.
‘… still good?’ Sam whispered now, watching him with that sweet, worried little furrow between his eyes, like he wasn’t sure, like he couldn’t see, and Dean nodded, once, not trusting his voice, not certain he could speak, hips rocking up as his brother’s fingers twisted inside of him. Sam’s other hand was stroking calloused and warm up his leg, over his hip, along the taut, jumping muscles of his stomach, and Dean didn’t—he’d been fucked before, for fun and for money, but Christ on a crutch no one else had ever looked at him like this; no one else had ever touched him like this while they’d opened him up, idle and possessive and familiar, like they knew him, like they loved him, and it was cracking something open in his chest that he wasn’t certain he could afford to break.
Sammy crooked his fingers just a little, pressing up, pressing in, and Dean felt his legs jerk on a wash of pricker-sharp heat and want that went shuddering up his spine. He tipped his head back a little, panting, hands scrabbling helplessly against the too-thin sheets as the kid scrubbed his fingertips back and forth, back and forth, and he couldn’t quite swallow the whine building in his throat. Too much, too good, Christ, fuck, please—
‘I love you,’ Sam said, sounding as broken and pleading as Dean felt. He was riding his little brother’s hand now, couldn’t stop it, wasn’t trying, head thrashing on the thin pillow, once, twice. ‘I love you and you’re . . . you're mine, Dean; you're—no one else gets to see you like this, not anymore; I want—’ His voice cracked like he was still a kid, and that shouldn’t have made this hotter, Christ, shouldn’t—‘Dean, please, I need—’
He reached for his brother, blindly, had half a heartbeat to feel empty, hole clenching, as the kid tugged his fingers free, and then Sammy was on top of him, all long bones and lean muscle and hot bare skin, thighs sliding against his, hips pressed in tight, mouth warm and wet and hungry. Dean crooked a knee around one of his narrow hips to keep him tucked in close as he kissed him (don’t leave don’t leave don’t leave me), got his hands up to twist tight and possessive in his messy hair, and Dad would have put a bullet in him for this, would have salted and burned him and not bothered to bury the bones, but it didn’t matter; it didn’t fucking matter, because Dad was dead, Dad had left him, and Dean—Dean wanted this, wanted to have something to remember, whenever Sammy decided to leave him, too.
Sam looked down at him, bangs half-hiding his eyes, hot breath puffing unsteady and damp against Dean’s mouth. ‘Let me?’ he whispered, raw-voiced, desperate, and after one unsteady heartbeat Dean jerked his head in another quick, dizzy nod, spread his legs a little wider. The head of Sam’s cock was nudging hot against his ass, slick and thick and bare; he could feel himself flushing, chest and throat and face, could feel sweat breaking out in the crease of his elbows, the hollows of his knees, and then his little brother was pushing inside, was working him all the way open with slow insistent thrusts, and it took Dean a handful of heartbeats to realize that the low, hungry moan in his ears was his own.