He stood there, frightened beyond reason, hands shaking. He was still a kid, voice still high and sweet.

Dean's eyes were dark, fixated on his victim. A spark had lit within his soul, a black spark, eating at every bit of light his youth had left him with.

"Dean...?" Sam asks quietly, so quietly Dean almost doesn't hear him.

Dean's head is quick to snap towards Sam's soft voice.

"Sam." Dean affirms.

"What- uhm, what just happened?" Sam's playing with his own fingers, twiddling them and cracking joints and Dean takes notice, a slight rush running through him. He knows he scared Sam.

"Nothing." And Dean is suddenly mere inches away from Sam, breath shaking the kid's eyelashes. Sam keeps his gaze down, looking at the dirt.

"Nothing.. nothing," Dean keeps repeating it, surely only trying to convince himself now.

in which repressed feelings come to the surface and years of pining come to a close... sort of.

inspired by the fireworks scene from dean's heaven in 5x16

sam x dean 

- weecest, first kiss, fluff with a lil hint of angst for spice 

words: 1334

read it on archive! 

***

There’s a spark in Sammy’s eyes, and Dean’s not sure he’s ever seen anything quite like it. He’s happy. Really, truly happy, and God, it makes Dean’s chest ache. What he wouldn’t give to see Sam like this all the time. Is this what life would’ve been like had they been raised like real kids? 

They weren’t, though. They weren’t raised like normal kids. Hell, there wasn’t a damn thing about their lives that came even close to normal. Whatever the fuck normal meant anyway. 

Sam pressed his back against the wall of the gymnasium, feeling more stupid than he had in a long, long time. 

He, Sam Winchester, getting a fun, normal high school experience? He should have known he doesn’t get to do things like this. 

He’d taken a lot of care, getting ready–checked his appearance twice in the mirror before he left, adjusting his thrifted dress shirt until it fell just right…but he shouldn’t have even come. Homecoming was for normal kids, with normal lives, and as much as Sam wanted to be just like them, he wasn’t. He was just the weird drifter, who’d floated into town a week ago and couldn’t fit in with the rest of the school. 

The fourth slow song of the evening comes on, the lights dimming slightly as everyone on the dance floor shyly pairs up to sway to the music. 

Sam doesn’t bother looking around this time, not like the other three times where he let his heart race in futile hope, thinking maybe someone would ask him to dance. But no one did, and he should have known they wouldn’t. 

Turning for the door to head home and wallow in self-pity, Sam hesitates when he sees an all too familiar figure hovering nervously by the entrance. 

It was Dean, wearing ripped jeans and what Sam thinks is one of dad’s old dress shirts, untucked, with a pair of muddy combat boots. He looks incredibly uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot and scanning the crowd. When he and Sam lock eyes, he heads for Sam’s direction. 

“De?” Sam gapes, “What are you doing here?” 

Dean offers Sam a crooked smile, and Sam’s heart melts just a little. “You thought I was gonna miss out on your first high school dance? No way, Sammy.” 

“It’s lame,” Sam shrugs, staring down at the floor. “No one wants to dance with me, let’s just go home.” Sam heads for the door, but Dean wraps an arm around his waist, tugging him in close.

“I want to dance with you,” Dean admits, his voice low in Sam’s ear. “Sammy, may I have this dance?” 

Sam swallows, turning pink up to his ears. “Uh,” He looked around nervously. no one was paying them any attention, too lost in their own world. “O-Okay,” he stammers.

Dean wraps Sam up in his arms, and they begin a slow shuffle, a little off-beat but still more perfect than Sam could have ever imagined. Dean smelled like shampoo and gun powder, and Sam felt safe and cared for in his arms. 

“Thank you,” Sam murmurs into Dean’s neck. 

In response, Dean just barely, barely presses his lips into Sam’s hair. 

But it happened, Sam felt it, a rush of warmth all the way down to his toes. 

When Sam was a baby, John would get pissed because he wouldn’t sleep in the bassinet he bought from a garage sale for a little more than five bucks; no, little Sammy with his cherub cheeks and big eyes would only fall asleep in his big brother’s arms. John’s were too brutish, too rough...too lacking of gentleness and that quality that could only be described as utterly Mary. So, Dean hardly ever let go of his brother and when he did, those green eyes hardly blinked because even though he was a child himself, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad would happen if his eyelids so much as fluttered closed for a second while supposed to be focused on Sammy.

Behind Dean’s boyhood glaze loomed the shadow of doubt and grownup reason ingrained in him by a father so focused on revenge he couldn’t see that his fist was beating its way through his eldest son’s skull. This voice whispered thoughts into his baby ears that Sam would be picked apart by vultures or washed away by an invisible river or mowed down by a speeding car despite being miles from the nearest busy road, and it spooked him so badly that he refused to let his eyes wander from the now-toddling, chubby-cheeked tot.

The nights were the hardest. John would try to pry his sleeping son from the child’s desperate and pleading big brother so he could sleep off the deprivation of rest that was undoubtedly causing this...paranoia. But Dean wouldn’t dare shut his eyes, too petrified of the sandman coming to drown him in the hourglass and allow some boogeyman to catch him off guard, and instead snuck back to little Sammy’s crib once the warden had tried to seal the kid’s fate to watch over him better than any damned angel figurine made of cheap porcelain could.

Eventually, Dean had to fall asleep. The first time it happened, the trio was in the car heading somewhere—even John didn’t quite know—and Dean passed out, slumped against Sam’s car seat and hand still in his lap. The dark and unhealthily purple shadows under the boy’s eyes made him look so much older than his sweet age of six, and John felt relieved when he looked into the back seat in his rear view mirror and saw that nature had done what he had failed to do: tape the torn pages back into Dean’s calendar. If only the sandy blond’s well-deserved nap didn’t end in a piercing scream four hours later that made John swerve, narrowly avoiding hitting a small shrub. The first thing the boy did was start crying followed by him desperately trying to wake up Sam to make sure his mistake didn’t cost the baby his life.

The circles under Dean’s eyes only deepened in hue and in intensity, the exhaustion crescendoing as the years dragged on. Had John cared enough to take his kid to the doctor, he’d probably have been diagnosed with an insomnia of sorts—but all the gruff widower cared about were the callouses roughening his palms and the wide, open, and dangerous road ahead of him. He tried everything: a small dose of Benadryl with their grub, some knockoff NyQuil in his 99¢ gas station apple juice, and hell, he even considered giving the kid a small whack upside the head once or twice to force him to pass out. What worked ended up causing Dean emotional agony as soon as he woke up and started screaming for his little brother, and what didn’t work almost seemed like it was for the best.

Dean’s devotion to his baby brother’s safety maimed him. It cheated him, lied to him, and almost killed him on several occasions. But no matter how much he suffered at the hands of a cruel system of checks and balances trying to steal the infant he dragged from the inferno from his scrawny arms, he can’t find it in him to care. Not when he sees just how happy the kid grew up to be on the good days and how strong he became when things could be better.

He sleeps now, whiskey being his sleep aid and the Die Hard movies his lullaby, but he wakes up every time he hears his not-so-little brother scream his name in his sleep, a desperate cry echoing from inside his nightmares. Instinct tells him to place a hand on his chiselled, heaving chest until his breathing evens out and sing some boyish variation of a Seger song to turn his bad dreams good again, so that’s what he does. For the rest of the night, his duty is to watch over Sammy and protect him from a new evil: the ones inside their minds.

And when he inevitably falls asleep next to his brother atop the comforter, hand still on his chest? Dean’s dreams are good then, because he knows that there’s strength in numbers and that with Sammy by his side, nothing is impossible. Even though he gives his big brother the best bitch face he can muster every time they wake up almost drooling on each other, Sam is grateful for Dean and his canine-like devotion to him. Though he couldn’t possibly know how many exhausted tears were shed and soaked up by the fabric of his baby onesies when he was young, he can understand that in order to make Dean happy, he has to take care of himself. That’s all Dean has ever wanted.

'if i die, what would you do?'

dean, who's cleaning the guns, sitting on a chair at the kitchen table, stops what he's doing and looks up. sam is on the bed they share, playing with the knife dad gave him a few towns ago.

'you won't die sammy, the hell are you talking about?'

sam rolls his eyes, put the knife on the bedside table and sit crosslegs on the mastress. then he adds: 'yeah but what if i do? what would you do?'

sam stares into his eyes, into his soul and dean answers: 'i'll bring you back.'

'how?'

'i don't know. i'll find a way.'

'and if you can't?'

'i'll join you.'

sam gets up, and walk slowly toward dean, and dean can't help himself but think about the way sam walk, with so much grace and power, like a pretator, yet so young, and he shivers. sam's standing right in front of him, so close that he can feels sam's breath on his face.

sam sits on his lap, arms around his neck, and dean put his hands on his waist.

'the two of us against the world, right? whatever happens?'

'whatever happens, sammy.'

John was away for the next few days for a hunting trip- a bunch of people were spontaneously combusting. Dean wanted to go with him, but Sammy doesn't like fire, or people dying in one, so he convinced dad to let him stay this time, Sam needed him. Dad left telling him to enjoy the spare bed while he could, cause it would be his after he comes back, - now that Sam and him were both too old and too big for sharing, John and Dean take turns sleeping on the floor - but Dean just smiled. He never stopped sharing a bed with his little brother, even if their dad doesn't know about it.

The bed has just the right amount of space for them to lay on their sides, facing each other -sometimes for almost a hour - without saying anything. Sammy is growing up so fast, his long legs curl with Dean's and their tip toes now touch, but Dean remembers the time his little brother were you know, little. When they were both just kids and these kind of moments didn't had the same meaning they have now. Until the day they had.

Dean remembers the days when Sam's touches started causing more than affection, but also desire inside Dean; when the way Sam looked at him caused his heart to beat so much faster; when every time they slept together, Sam's smell, his warmth, his presence, would make Dean want to touch him and kiss him. He remembers the guilt, the sick feeling of wrongness, but mostly he remembers the fear. Fear of losing his baby brother, and he hated himself so much for not being good enough, for not being the brother his Sammy needed. For being so fucked  up he wanted more than Sam could ever give him. But now, he smiles as he remembers how wrong he was. Sammy was always smarter than him.

Sam was 15, but already so focused and so mature, so grown up it still breaks Dean's heart. Of course he knew about everything Dean was feeling - Sammy was always the only one to really know Dean, even when he was just a boy. When Dean tried to push him away, Sammy always forced harder. In those countless road trips with them on the backseat of the impala, Sam would always hide his face in between Dean's neck and shoulder and place little kisses on his skin, gentle enough for Dean to pretend they were just the touch of his breath if he wanted to. But he didn't. At night, Sam would always press himself closer to Dean, and Dean knew he could feel his inevitable boner, but Sammy didn't cared. Sometimes, Dean would look at Sam and caught him staring with something like fire inside his eyes. Dean would look away, but he still could feel Sam's stare.

Dean thought he was going crazy for a long time. His heart ached so hard he could literally feel it break. He loved his baby brother, his whole life and reason to be alive, he wanted to take care of him and protect him, but he also wanted him. He wanted him so fucking much it was almost unbearable.  

At Sam's sixteen birthday, John called to say the hunt he thought it was just a simple vengeful spirit turned out to be more complicated and it would take a few more days. Sam hadn't looked disappointed. Instead, when Dean gave him a hug and asked what he wanted to do for his birthday, he just said

"Will you give me what I really want, Dean?"

Dean couldn't have said no even he wanted to. That night, when they shared the bed naked for the first time, when Sam kissed him, he felt the taste of his little brother and devoured it. He kissed every inch of his baby brother's body, eager to make him feel so so good, to make him moan with pleasure - the sound instantly become Dean's favorite song - and shiver with his touch. He stopped only once, but when Sammy begged Dean to fuck him, saying he wanted, needed everything he was not in control of himself anymore, Sam was. He still is and will always be.

That night, almost two years ago, when Dean fucked Sammy for the first time It was also the first time in Dean's life that nothing felt wrong.

It was everything their souls ever wanted.

"Hey" Sam's soft and sleepy voice pushed Dean out of his wander "What are you thinking about?"

Another car drives by and the light shows Dean a little smile forming in the corner of Sam's lips. He leans in and kisses his smile before the room in completely in the dark again. Sam's little pleased sound makes Dean's heart grows twice its size.

It's always like this, ever since the day Sammy was born. Dean is completely lost for his baby brother, even the smallest of things leave him smitten. Dean's life is held by a thread and Sam is the one holding the scissor that can cut it, but Dean trusts him to never do it, even though he would gladly die for his little brother. There's never been a day in his life where Sam wasn't the most important thing. Sam is his flesh and blood, his oxygen and strength and before he fully accepted his true feelings, it was like he was living in half. Now, Sam fills his whole body with his love, his touches and kisses. Dean knows now there was nothing he could have done to stop this from happening, but still, he knows it was their choice to let it happen.

"I was thinking..." Dean starts, pushing Sam's bangs away from his eyes "About how much I love you." He finishes, kissing Sam again.

“And why do you love me?”

The words come out of Dean's mouth like they've been just waiting for the right moment.

"I love you because you’re mine. I love you because you need love. I love you because when you look at me I feel like a hero. It was always like that. I love you because when I touch you, I feel more a man than any other man." He's looking right at Sam's eyes, and even in the dark he can still feel the intensity of his brother's young, wise, sad eyes.

After a moment, "I love you too." It's all Sam says.

“And why do you love me too?” Dean smiles with his voice, he knows Sam can feel it.

“I love you because when I touch you I make you feel more a man than any other man. I love you because nobody could ever accuse us of love. I love you because to understand our love they’d need to turn the world upside down. I love you because you could love somebody else yet still you love me. Just me.” Dean always thought Sam's voice was beautiful, but the words sound like the most beautiful thing Dean's ever heard.

"Just you, little brother. It'll always be just you." Dean says, and he knows this is the only thing that will never change in his life.

based on this little drabble of mine

words: 966

just some wincest fluff with a hint of angst. it isn’t very long, but hopefully it’s good enough cx also, this wasn’t beta read so don’t mind the errors it may or may not have (i did read it over, so it shouldn’t be too bad)

find it on archive!

It’s a night like any other. Quiet. Of course, there are crickets chirping and trees swaying in the wind, but aside from that the night is silent. And not just literally, but metaphorically, too. It’s been a while since the Winchesters had picked up on a case, and the down time resulting from the lack of a hunt is something Dean isn’t complaining about. Because of it, he’s had the time to formulate a plan, to iron out every wrinkle and to make sure it’ll all run smoothly.

It’s a night like any other, except for the two brothers huddled together in an ice-cold car with their father’s jacket wrapped haphazardly around them both. Sam and Dean Winchester, who have always been a bit more than just brothers. Sam, who is only months away from leaving his life behind and Dean, who is blind to that fact. Dean, who has other plans in mind.

The stench of vomit, sweat, and fever hung thickly in the air of the small hotel room; the fetor of it seeping into the carpet, the walls, and Dean’s clothing. The acidity from the vomit was so palpable, that Dean could taste it on his tongue and it took all of his strength—and the use of the iron stomach he had developed over the years—to prevent himself from also blowing chunks. The first couple of days that Sam was sick, the smell hadn’t been so bad, but a week had passed since Sam came down with a fever and the combination of his constant vomiting, his profuse sweating, and his sickness, made staying in the hotel room only that much more unbearable. Dean would open the lone window in the room just to let some fresh air in and let the reek out, but he would close it a few minutes afterwards for fear of making Sam even more ill.“C’mon Dad. Pick up,” Dean prayed into the phone. His voice was low and he was trying his best to be quiet. After the one hour vomiting episode Sam went through, he was finally asleep and Dean would be damned to wake him from the only sleep his little brother had gotten in a full week.“Dammit!” Dean hissed when his father’s phone went to voice mail for at least the one-hundredth time that week. The urge to chuck the phone into the nearest wall surfaced. Dean clutched the disposable cell phone tightly in his hand and he closed his eyes, trying to calm the rage boiling in his veins. What the hell did his father expect him to do? Sam was his responsibility since the day his father gave Sam to him and told him to run out of a burning house and he knew this—but whether Dean wanted to admit it or not, he was just a kid, taking care of another kid—another life.“No… answer?” Sam asked weakly, causing Dean’s eyes to open.Whatever snappy comment Dean had died on his tongue the moment he laid on his little brother. Dean could see Sam’s small chest rise and fall, his breathing labored and trembling. His eyes were half lidded and his eyes were glazed over. His eyelashes clumped together from the dried tears and his wild hair stuck to his forehead from the sweat. The pallor of Sam’s skin nearly made him glow in the dimly lit hotel room.“Afraid not,” Dean rose from his chair and made his way toward his brother. He seated himself on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling, Sammy?”The way Sam breathed in to answer him sounded like his lungs were shedding a layer of skin, causing a shuddering sound and having to hear that alone caused a pain in Dean’s own chest.