(for @exaggeratedspecificity, with love âĄ)
 Sammy makes girl sounds.
High, fluttery things that can go from giggle to gurgle and never lose their sweet.
When heâs harmed, when heâs napping, when heâs being held open by a cock four years and four months older than him.
Dean Winchester discovers each of these tender little brother secrets very early on: toddler-sniffing at the kiddie park, child-whining in a backseat sleep, preteen-moaning one trailer park summer when theyâre left alone too long.
Sammy wears tiny ponytails.
Simple, stringy messes held back by little rubberbands. Thereâs only just enough to pull through but after three struggles he gets it all scooped up.
The first night he tries this, he gets his face fucked.
âWhat, uh,â Dean says when he sees him, choky like Sam is something pretty.
Samâs still in his school clothes, his yard sale shoes, but Dean looks at him like heâs already on his back and spread wet around a couple of trigger-fingers.Â
From his upside down world, Sam can see Deanâs bare toes curling in the motel carpet, watches a baby roach skitter back into the wall. Samâs head is hanging off the side of the bed and Deanâs riding his mouth like heâll marry it.
Samâs nose runs and his eyes sting and his shiny soft hair stays nicely in place.
âIâm sorry, Iâm sorry,â Dean says, jerky hipped and gone still, emptying against Samâs pink tonsils. Sam breathes deep. Cock smell. âSammy.â
It sounds like âbabyâ. It feels like he could be Deanâs babygirl.
Silky, vulgar, wet-blood colors that catch his devilâs eye and make âem cloudy.
He likes princess panties and thieved cherry chapstick. Whore red is his favorite.
Dean zones out watching fuzzy Aerosmith videos, getting lazily hard over Liv and Alicia. Sam is watching too. Lipstick pouting, long long locks. He touches the flippy ends of his girlish hair and thinks maybe he just wonât cut it ever again.
Sammy has jealous tendencies.
He knows his brother looks like a truckstop boy, that his hands look like they know how to finger a girl good.
It doesnât matter if theyâre big rig drivers or sophomore sweethearts â Dadâs lifework has been in making sure his boys know how to take out things bigger than them, how to do it clean.Â
Sam likes red stuff, but he loves Dean more. He never leaves behind a mess when heâs done.
Sammy says fucked up shit.
He talks about death and psychosis and deformed babies.Â
Deanâs inside him when he asks, âWhat if I was your sister instead?â His eyes are open and his mouth is trembling and heâs only twelve years old but he knows more about anatomy than high school Health class instructors. âWhat would you do?â
âSam,â Dean says, like a warning. But he doesnât stop fucking him.
âWould â would you still love me?â
Deanâs hips jerk rough and Samâs ankles bounce against his summer-spotted shoulders.Â
Sam slides up the tiny twin bed, slides his arms around Deanâs sweaty pink neck, and he says, âSay it. Tell me.â
Dean tries to smother him out with a teenager kiss, tonguefucks him wide and sloppy the way Sam likes, like brother-boyfriends. But it doesnât stop Sam from saying, after, panting all funny, âWhat if you didnât pull out in time?â
An overwhelmed face flees into Samâs neck and Sam can feel Deanâs silent sigh, feel the quick misstep of breath-wet air when Sam whispers like a small town scandal, âWhat if you made me pregnant, Dean?â
Dean yanks his cock out, holds it away, and for a moment Samâs savagely hurt.Â
Itâs better, though, when heâs flipped to his kid knees and his prom-date red lace thong is shoved to the side and Deanâs in him again, rocking deep, holding his ass and turning him out. Sam decides that this is making love.
He licks heart shapes into the skin of his own wrist and thinks of child brides.Â
They wonât make a baby but he still smiles little girl soft when Dean wets his red insides and makes sure nothing trickles out.
Sammy is a rose and thorn boy. Dean cuts his heart on him every time.
