inactive

kissed with the sunrise… a storm in the distance. this wild girl from the sea.

Sam’s a shameless flirt. A casual flirt. An ankle twisted over beat-up sneakers, white teeth pinking his lip, promise pretty eyes flirt.

And Dean hates every second those eyes are on anything but him. He’s not supposed to have him, not allowed to lay hands on him in public, but his teeth ache sugar-rot sore with the need to leave some evidence of what they do in the dark. He wants to paint with his mouth across the taut, clean canvas of young skin. Sam’s got a slim neck that would look good in bruises.

And Sam knows it. He wears his jeans too tight and threadbare at the knees, hooded sweatshirts too big and slouchy at the shoulders. His bare collarbones play peekaboo with Dean all day.

His brother is 15 going on 25. He is cream-silk smooth and virgin pink, cut straight through with sharp, slut-cherry red.

He is the stubborn boy who keeps his messy hair too long, insists his name is Sam—not champ, not kiddo, not sport. But when he’s pressed sin-heavy in Dean’s lap, he’s always Sammy.

Sammy with eyes older than he is. Sammy with parted spit-shine lips. Sammy who likes his legs in the air.

“D’you think you’d even fit?” he whispers in that sweetheart voice he saves for when they’re alone in the dark. He pushes back into Dean’s fingers nudged into the crack of his ass, hopeful as he asks, “Could you make it fit?”

Sammy who drops kisses soft and damp on his neck like raindrops, leaves Dean helpless and adrift in the flood.

Now that Dean is old enough—old enough to know better—dad suggests they split up in the summer, when Sam’s out of school; he’ll go northeast and Dean can go southwest and they’ll meet in the middle. He doesn’t even have to ask Sam which way he wants to go, because he’s already shotgun in the Impala with his little bare feet up on the dash.

They pay for double rooms, but it’s a waste; Sammy always ends up in Dean’s bed.

He’s there in the afternoon, in just his underwear with headphones over his ears and Dean’s Walkman in his palm, waiting with just enough space between his thighs for Dean to strip him bare with the sun still in the sky. He’s there at night, with his hole slicked and one finger tight, and Dean’s hair is still dripping from his shower but he feels twice as filthy as he did before. He’s there in the morning, wearing just one of Dean’s hoodies that he’s practically swimming in, his long, skinny limbs braced like bars on either side of Dean’s body as he rocks against him. The sticky, stretched-open rim of his hole catches on the tip of Dean’s cock over and over, and Dean just holds on with both hands around Sam’s stomach like he’s a lifeline.

“Tell me you love me,” he says, twists around so his knees are spread on the bed and his hands are on Dean’s chest as he finally takes Dean inside with a long, wide-mouthed exhale that empties his lungs and curls his shoulders forward like Dean’s filling him so full there’s not even room for air.

Dean grabs him by the neck and drags him down low enough—low as Dean has sunk now—that he can cut his mouth open on the sharpness of those collarbones, bleed heartbeat bruises onto them.

“I love you, too,” he murmurs, riding him with rolls of his hips like a wave, pressing kisses to the sweat-damp hair at Dean’s temple.

sam winchester, season 9a