all drowning men know the color of the sea
Supernatural
Sam/Dean
900 words
adult content: sexuality

You walk around all day with it, like a smell, something coiling from you, poisonous reek.

Up and down inside, using your spine as a ladder, from rotten belly to the tantrum thump in your chest. Crazy.

You imagine Sammy talking about it to someone – who, god who – and word getting back to John, at the end of the day. You can see it. He’d come home late, working against grief, pushing against it as if it were a heavy sludge under his tires. Or his avenging rage would compel him, and he’d be there already when you walk in the door, sitting silent in his chair, belt or fist or the hatred naked in his eyes waiting for you.

You spin yourself tight with fear. The scene goes blank, dissolves into violent color. You can’t imagine what comes after that. You walk around all day in jerks and stalls, as if someone were shoving you hard from behind. A part of you wants the day to be over. A part of you does want your father to be there waiting for you, to save you from yourself and from what you’ll keep doing. God. Do you really want that? Do you? Maybe, because whatever came after, it would be over, and not this sick waiting. Not thinking, not getting hard sitting in class thinking about it: coming home, the quiet house, all the lights off and the air grainy. The two of you, noiseless footsteps, trained to hide. Your whole lives. In your bed maybe this time, and Sam letting you. Touch. Have. Be.

Then the shame trips you, drops you back down, and you go soft; and the shame burns up your back, shoulders, crackles the skin on the back of your neck.

You’re just meat, just dumb meat that’s crawling along, craving. No better than the things you hate, the things you hunt. You’re not a man at all. Can never be, after this.

*

Sam, cheeks blanched and blotty under his hair, the bridge of his nose looking sunburned. Mouth slack, but all around his lips a bloodless corona. He’s squirming on the couch, sweep of ass, hips, legs, first to one side then the other. Batting at his dick with the palm of his hand, unsure what to do about it.

And you know all about that, you remember that helpless age; only Sammy is, was, never as helpless as he looks – there’s some kind of wild cleverness in him that you can’t know or understand. But you know what to do about it, and you’re urging him, silently, unvoiced. Sam – get up, go take care of it. I can’t sit here watching this, feeling this.

Instead, Sam turns to you, prick gripped under his thumb like he’s decided something. Crooked smile, the lowered eyes. Dean? That mask of unknowing.

Dean?

And you say what you always say. It’s cool, Sam. Here – let me.

You say yes.

*

Your kid brother’s little prick is stiff and small between your lips. The hand, the touch, sensitive fingertip to sheathed dick, would have been worse than this. This way, you can give Sam everything you have. This way, you don’t have to see his face.

You grip the crotch of Sam’s underwear between his thighs like a leash, afraid he’ll get up and run, afraid the gift won’t take. They’re stained and worn thin, and the stinging smell of Sam goes right down your throat, makes spit well up in your jaw.

That wet, half-formed smell, it makes you root like crazy, your nose into the shifting furrowed skin pulled tight over his nuts. Sam lifting knees, dusky salt smell of his hole, clutching anemone-like to the tip of your tongue.

Sloppy, all of it, your spit everywhere, down your chin, streaked under your eye. Sam quiet, watching the tv, the sliding image.

What he must think of you.

When Sam does come, it’s new, and quick, and like bitter saltwater when you press your mouth to Sam’s smooth thigh and allow it to spill out.

*

You’ve been riding the punishing thump of your heartbeat in your cock, in your throat, long riding the way your body wants to strangle you for this. You can’t do anything but ruffle his hair, get to your feet as well as you can, and get the hell out of there. You stand above him, willing yourself to move, watching him pant, twist his neck so he can see around you, to the action on the screen, as if nothing at all had happened.

You almost trip, over nothing, getting into the bathroom, back hard against it, cock wilting in your jeans. Your hand too tight around the looseness of it. Hurting yourself just this side of pleasure until you’re jutting, aggressive, martial red; your balls aching heavy and bruised. Sticky snap of precum and spit. You’re shaking the door, hearing it thump on its hinges, the doorknob rattle, and you bang your head back once against the door, hard, and you’re shooting your load. Again and again, filthy thick slip into the cup of your hand.

What they all must think of you.

*

It won’t happen again, you swear to yourself, then. And again, and again you swear, and again he asks you, and you say what you always say, and you wear the shame on your skin, like a smell, like it’s a part of you.

This entry was posted Monday, November 19th, 2007 at 8:02 pm and is filed under Supernatural, content:incest.sibling, content:sex.underage, genre:slash, pairing:Spn.Sam/Dean, rating:adult, timeline:Spn.past, wordcount:1-1000. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.