Sam is thirteen when he realizes he wants his big brother in all the wrong ways.
It’s an accident when he walks into the messy living room of their motel room after school and finds Dean spread across the couch, working that seventeen-year-old cock with his fist; pink bottom lip caught between pearly white teeth as he moans obscenely into the afternoon sun.
The sight and the noise and the way Dean moves ignites something inside Sam, makes his dick twitch, and he gasps a little in surprise.
That’s when Dean notices him. His mouth form a little o in surprise, before he tugs his jeans back up over his hips, roaring with laughter.
“You little pervert,” Dean says around a grin. “Next time, clear your throat or something before just walking in like that. Jesus Christ, Sammy.”
Sam blushes, and it only makes Dean laugh harder.
Sam looks at the curve in the front of Dean’s jeans. Sam knows he will fall asleep thinking about it.
Wondering what it would feel like beneath his fingertips.
Sam is sixteen when he presses himself to the bedroom door, his palm pressing against his hard cock through his jeans as he listens to Dean fucking some bubblegum blonde he picked up at the local bar. Sam only caught a glimpse of her before Dean steered her into their dad’s room: it has been vacant for two weeks now, because the shifter in Georgia had proved to be a tricky fucker.
Dean’s low grunts and filthy whispers through the door makes Sam stifle a whine in his throat, a pearl of sweat breaking through his temple as he wishes so intensely he would be the one in there, beneath Dean; taking everything Dean would give him.
Then, Dean makes a low, wonderful noise that makes Sam claw at the door.
He doesn’t mean to, but he can’t stop himself.
There’s a brief silence, murmured voices, and before Sam knows what’s going on, Dean hauls the door open.
Sam stares at them, like a deer caught in headlight. The room smells like pussy and sex, and Dean looks so beautiful: his chest is rosy, his mouth red. Sam hates himself.
“What the fuck?” the girl on the bed says, smudged lipstick staining her cheek as she stares disgustedly at Sam.
“I’m sorry,” Sam stammers, face hot with shame. “I wasn’t-“
“Wasn’t spying on us like some fucking creep?” the girl asks, while pulling on her dress. She picks up her stilettos and fumbles around the nightstand for her purse.
Dean hurries up to her. “Hey,” he says, and he’s using that voice. That soft, strange voice that Sam hates; Dean’s girl voice, the one that makes Sam think of a lynx that is trying very hard to pass for a housecat. “You don’t have to leave. He’s just a kid, he doesn’t matter. Come on, baby. Stay.”
Sam should leave, but he remains: frozen to the spot.
He’s just the kid that doesn’t matter.
Dean’s shoulders are freckled. Sam bets she hasn’t even noticed.
She scoffs, shoves Dean’s hand off her arm, and wordlessly pushes past Sam with a dirty glare thrown at him. The front door open and closes, and Sam is left alone with Dean, whose mouth is pressed into an unimpressed line.
“This,” Dean says coldly, “Just stopped being funny.”
Sam is eighteen when the letter from Stanford arrives.
He hides it under come stained sheets. He allows himself a week, before he tells Dean.
One more week of watching his beautiful big brother. Sam doesn’t know when the lust faded unwantedly into love and possessiveness, but somewhere along the way, it had.
There’s no part of Dean he doesn’t want, no note in his voice that Sam doesn’t know by heart; not a beat of Dean’s heart that Sam doesn’t wish he could feel against his own.
Sam knows Dean loves him.
Sam knows Dean loves him the way one should love one’s brother; fiercely and simply.
Sam just looks at the line of Dean’s sun-kissed throat and wants. And it doesn’t feel simple.
When the week is up, Sam steals a final glance of freckled shoulders beneath August sun.
Sam wants to kiss each freckle goodbye, but he can’t. Instead, he does what Dean asked, all those years ago -
He clears his throat. “Dean,” he says quietly. “I gotta tell you something.”
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