John Winchester getting a little curious one quiet night in a shitty motel, and decides to look through seventeen-year-old Dean's duffel bag.
He finds what is to be expected, clothes, guns, cigarettes and lots of condoms and magazines, but there, at the bottom of the bag is a small, black digital camera.
It turns on with a quick click, and the small screen lights up. He scrolls through the pixilated photos. Fields, roadside stops, lots of angles of the Impala, but then...
Sam.
Not just one or two innocent photos of the kid, but an endless stream of blurry pictures from all angles, with Sam wearing progressively less and less clothes until John reached a photo of his youngest son, nude and on his knees with a cock pressed against his cheek, staring up at the camera with those big doe eyes.
And in those eyes, John found an answer to what he'd been thinking.
Yes, dad. I want this.
Despite his better judgement, John scrolled to the next photo. It was a video, but the screen was completely black. The small speaker vibrated next to his finger.
"Fuck, Dean- please-"
"Shut up, Sammy, you'll wake up dad. Be quiet for me, okay?"
"D-de, please i'm close-"
John shut off the camera.
He placed it back where he found it, and went to bed praying he'd wake up to find it was just a dream.
Weirdcest where Dean tries to convince one of his hookups to let Sam watch, and when she asks how long they’ve been together, Dean’s eyebrows scrunch up and he pulls his “wtf” face and says: “we’re just brothers. Why the fuck are people always asking if we’re together.” The girl is like “well, maybe they’re asking since you’re trying to score a threesome with him?” To which Dean rolls his eyes and is like “it’s not a threesome, he’s just *watching.* Ugh, you could have just said you’re a prude” and walks away all annoyed.
You think Sammy was hard when having his arm in the sling, mixture of pain and embarrassment from being injured visibly? You think Dean was hard seeing Sammy vulnerable like this?
Dean often thought about other men who wanted to hurt Sam. The college guys who wouldn't think twice about drugging him. The lonely guys who'd spot him at the mall. The men who'd rape him, torture him, or sell him into sexual slavery.
The men who'd approach from behind, a big hand pressing a soaked cloth over his mouth and nose. They would put his pliant body in the trunk. They would bind his wrists with plastic zip-ties, then his ankles. Press a wide strip of silver tape firmly over his mouth.
Dean hated imagining Sam in that kind of danger, but it made his dick so fucking hard.
He loved thinking about the things he'd do to protect him. After the killing, he would save Sam by opening the trunk.
Sam would be tied up, eyes wet. He'd look so small, so vulnerable - so pretty. Prettier than any girl. And he'd be so scared. But Sam's face would flood with relief at the sight of his big brother.
I'm convinced that in the pilot episode, when Dean and Sam reunite after four years and Dean pins Sam down, he would've raped him if Jessica hadn't walked in.
That’s not the first time Dean pinned Sam down, his hand on Sam’s neck while the other brutally trapped Sam’s hand against his chest, with clear rape intent in his eyes
sam turns twelve in flagstaff, arizona, in a motel so sun-bleached and tired-looking it seems less built than abandoned halfway through becoming dust.
john is gone before dawn. hunt two towns over. maybe three. dean stopped asking for details years ago because details imply return times and return times imply promises and john has never been particularly careful with promises.
still.
he leaves dean forty bucks and a loaded gun and says, “keep the door locked.”
sam is still asleep when he goes.
dean watches the impala disappear through the curtains and gets that familiar ugly feeling in his stomach. the one that always comes after john leaves. not fear exactly. more like the sense that the whole world has tilted slightly wrong and now dean has to spend the next however-many-hours holding it upright with his bare hands.
behind him, sam mumbles sleepily into the pillow, “dean?”
“yeah?”
“you’re standing weird again.”
dean looks down at himself. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
sam opens one eye. squints at him. “like a divorcee.”
“i’m sixteen, asshole.”
“still.”
then he falls immediately back asleep, because twelve-year-old sam is still somehow both the bitchiest and most exhausted person alive.
dean grins despite himself.
later, when sam is awake for real, they walk to a grocery store six blocks away because dean’s trying to stretch forty dollars into three days. sam trails beside him in one of dean’s old flannels, sleeves swallowing his hands.
“what do you want for your birthday?” dean asks.
sam shrugs.
“c’mon, man. you gotta want something.”
another shrug. more stubborn this time.
dean stops walking. “sam.”
sam keeps his eyes on the sidewalk.
and there it is. that thing dean has started noticing lately. the way sam folds inward whenever anyone asks what he wants. like wanting itself is embarrassing. dangerous, even.
john’s voice lives in both of them by then. waste of money. don’t be soft. quit whining. learn to go without.
sam kicks at a pebble. mutters, “it’s stupid.”
“yeah? well, i’m stupid too. tell me anyway.”
sam hesitates so long dean thinks he’s not gonna answer at all.
then, very quietly:
“cake mix.”
dean blinks. “cake mix?”
“those little boxed birthday cakes.” sam’s ears are pink now. “the funfetti ones.”
and jesus christ.
dean has to look away for a second because there’s something so unbearably little-brother about that answer. something that cracks him open straight down the middle.
“dude,” he says softly. “that’s easy.”
sam brightens immediately, trying not to show it. “yeah?”
“yeah.”
they buy the cake mix. and canned frosting. and plastic rainbow candles shaped like stars. dean even lets sam pick soda instead of generic motel orange juice.
the cashier wishes sam happy birthday when she sees the candles.
sam smiles shyly and says thank you like he’s not used to adults speaking kindly to him for no reason.
dean hates everybody a little after that.
back at the motel, they realize halfway through making the cake that they do not actually own a cake pan.
sam bursts into helpless laughter first. loud, startled laughter, the kind that almost never gets out of him anymore. dean stares at him for a second, genuinely caught off guard by it.
“what?”
“nothing,” dean says quickly. too quickly.
sam narrows his eyes. “you’re doing the face.”
“what face?”
“the weird fond one.”
“shut up.”
they end up baking the cake batter in a frying pan on the motel hot plate. it comes out vaguely concave and a little burned around the edges.
perfect.
sam sits cross-legged on the bed eating directly from the pan while dean watches bad cable television with the sound low.
there’s frosting on sam’s mouth.
without thinking, dean reaches over and wipes it away with his thumb.
and then something happens.
just a pause. a tiny horrible pause where sam goes still beneath dean’s hand.
dean feels it too.
the warmth of sam’s skin. the softness of his face. the way sam looks at him after, eyes dark and unreadable for one strange stretched second.
then sam ducks his head fast.
“you got frosting too,” he mumbles.
dean pulls his hand back like he touched a live wire.
“yeah, well.”
outside, a train howls somewhere far off in the desert dark.
inside, sam leans sleep-heavy against dean’s shoulder by the end of the movie without asking first.
dean lets him.
of course he does.
sam is twelve years old today. all coltish limbs and enormous hands he hasn’t grown into yet. too smart. too sensitive. carrying loneliness around inside him like an extra organ.
dean looks down at the top of his head and thinks, with sudden terrifying certainty:
A list of my favourite Supernatural fics. List will be updated as I discover more. Various top/bottom/vers dynamics and various warnings, but mostly explicit ratings.
WINCEST
Pine Sweat by applecrumbledore
Worthless Cartography by applecrumbledore
The gold room by hathfrozen
Hungry and hollow by hathfrozen
Dead unfinished selves by hathfrozen
Last Day on Earth by candle_beck
Manhattan for Beads by candle_beck
Gutless by saltandbyrne
Grit to Build a Pearl Around by saltandbyrne
For Too Long by hellhoundsprey
Love me dead by kermiethefrog
Six on a Meathook by homo_pink
Blowjob Queen by homo_pink
Letters from a Half-Finished Boy by homo_pink
Other Brothers by homo_pink
To Cure My Lonesome Blood (orphaned)
I know his blood by hiljainen
Doll boy, doll heart by valleyofmidnight
According to the General Public by breakdancingonthemoon
Growing pains by apex_predator
It's called freefall by holyfreaks
I've Got a Hand for You by Edwardina
Cracked: Love Frozen Over by soulless_puppy
Cut and (Bleed) Dry by autoschediastic
JOHNDEAN (some include samdean)
Matryoshka Dolls by applecrumbledore
Burning through the bloodline by lovetincture
What do we call what we have but love? By vintagedean
Giving it up by wttlpwrites
We don't talk about it by apex_predator
Careful what you wish for by apex_predator
Jaws of poison by apex_predator
Love is by chinablue
Snuff by chinablue
I don't mean to suggest that I loved you the best by chinablue
The line was quiet when Dean accepted the call; almost he thought it hadn’t connected properly. A silent stretch of nothingness and then he heard it, the very shallow breathing of his little brother; low and unsteady and fuck. He’d missed him. It was a visceral tug below his ribcage, a swift rearranging of his insides. Not entirely unpleasant, a dip and shiver and swoop within him.
“Hey.” He said because it was apparent Sam wasn’t going to be the one to initiate the conversation despite being desperate to call in the first place.
“Hey.” Soft-voiced, breathy and sweet and Dean’s chest expanded on an abrupt breath, warmth sudden in his lungs, tightening his lower belly. A flare of something more. He frowned at that.
“What’re you drinking?” He asked, sitting back in the hard-backed chair; the scattered, messy collection of case files and other documents forgotten on the dingy motel table in front of him. It could hardly be considered a dining table, it barely seated one comfortably. But it was just big enough to hold his case notes.
“Beer. I shouldn’t be, though. I have a test tomorrow. Or today.” Sam trailed off and Dean could hear the shifting of fabric. Blanket and pillow, and then Sam was sighing. “I can’t stop thinking about you, Dean. It’s doing my head in.”
“Yeah?” What else was he supposed to say? I’ve been thinking about you, too, Sammy. Ever since you left it’s not been the same. You shouldn’t have left. You shouldn’t have left me.
Sam made some pitiful little sound in the back of his throat, high-pitched and wavering and it struck Dean low. Made his breath come quicker. A strange response but when Sam spoke, he lost the ability to breathe altogether.
“I wish you were here with me now. Lying beside me. With me. You’d keep me warm, wouldn’t you, De?”
He swallowed. It stuck on the way down, noisy. He was certain Sam would have heard it. Clocked his apprehension. But Sam was too far gone, wasted on cheap beer and mumbling down the line still, heated words, not shy or filtered. And Dean felt a flicker of something through his body. Warm-edged. A little like fondness, and too much like arousal.
“If you were here I’d make sure you were looked after,” a long inhale. A shifting sound. Then Sam stifled a small noise that might’ve been a giggle. “I’d suck you off.” Bold words and an even bolder follow up. “I’d swallow, too. And let you do whatever you wanted to me after.”
Dean’s stomach tightened, a pulse of unbidden desire, hot and stifling. And suddenly the motel room was too hot. His armpits prickling with sweat. He shifted in the chair, warning with a low-pitched voice, “Sam. You’re drunk.”
But you’re not, his mind supplied. Stone-cold sober and getting hot under the collar from hearing your little brother’s naughty words.
It was more than that though. More than the breathy words. More than the implication that Sam must have thought about this type of thing sober for him to have the balls to bring it up drunk.
It was the shivery little breaths from the other end of the line that made Dean’s cock ache; hard and flushed full and he could resist no longer. He scooted his arse forward a little on the chair, his knees falling apart. Popping open the button of his jeans and dragging down the zipper with a muted hiss, he drew in a steadying breath.
The relief, when his erection was freed from the confining denim, was a rush through his lower belly. Heat and the flare and snare of sudden desire.
“De?”
“Yeah, Sammy?” Rough-edged. Like he’d swallowed a handful of jagged rocks. He swallowed, fingers loosely wrapped around the heated length of his erection. Not moving. A display of self-restraint. A hesitancy even. His eyes drifted over the contents of the table; satanic symbols and red-marked letters. The case he’d been diligently working for the past month hardly mattered right now.
“I want you inside me.”
And shit. Dean’s whole body tightened with those words, warm and slightly slurred. Poor boy was desperate and hot for his big brother, and Dean couldn’t bear the idea of shutting this down. Whatever the hell this was. Phone sex. With his brother. And fuck, but he was hard as fucking granite.
“Yeah?” It was all he could manage. A roughened word spoken just a touch too deep. Could have been taken for disgust, but Sam was too far gone and knew Dean far too well to mistake it for anything but the raw lust it was.
“Mmhm, I’m so horny for you! I want you to open me up and fuck me nice and hard.”
“Fuck, Sammy.”
“That’s the idea.”
Dean tightened his grip on himself, tugging at the tip, a twist of his hand. And yeah, fuck yeah, the idea of fingering his little brother open; of having Sammy writhing on his fingers, coming undone, coming apart in the most beautiful way imaginable because of Dean’s touch, and then being taken by him. Knees pressed to his shoulders, belly folded over, thighs trembling, held taut, the bitten red lips and swallowed gasps, and...
“Fuck. I want that.”
Nevermind the fact he’d never slept with a guy before. He wasn’t naive about how it worked. Hell, he’d watched porn before. He knew. But, shit. He’d never thought about it with Sam before.
“I’d be so good for you, De. I’d let you go as deep as you wanted and you could fill me up. I wouldn’t mind.”
Dean’s hand jerked faster, pre-come dampening the head of his shaft, moist and warm and he used his palm to smear it down the length of it. Spreading his knees wider until one of them knocked against the table leg.
Sam was breathing heavily, biting back his sounds and Dean had the belated realisation that Sam was jacking off as well. His body went hot. A searing cascade of pleasure. Of wrongness. Yet the moral debate rattling around in the back of his skull only heightened the pleasure, gave it a razor sharp edge. And Dean groaned, low in his throat, a sound he couldn’t have smothered or swallowed down even if he’d tried.
Sam responded with a noise of his own; rasping and trembly and so fucking vulnerable that Dean felt something inside of him shift. Come undone. A displacement of some inner morality. A discarding of it.
And he couldn’t quite quell his own words, roughened by desire, by the utter perverseness of what they were doing. “That’s it, sweetheart, you like the thought of me breeding your tight little arse? Making you come while I fill you all the way up?”
Sam moaned, deep and sweet and Dean could hear the click of wet skin on skin. The telltale signs that Sammy was just as far gone as Dean was. His arousal dripping at the thought of taking his big brother’s cock in his arse, being fucked hard by it.
Would he beg Dean for more? Or would it be too much for him to handle? He might cry. Dean found he rather liked that idea. A sweat-dampened, wet-lashed Sammy sniffling underneath him, his pink-tipped cock hard and flushed as Dean drove mercilessly into him.
And fuck, he was close, held on the very edge of climax, driven to the precipice just by the soft sounds down the line and his own perverted thoughts.
“I’m close, Dean,” shaky-voiced. Dean heard the shift of bed springs, the hitched breath Sam let out, and then Sam was breathing down the line, “Make me come. I wanna come for you.”
And what else was Dean supposed to do? His own arousal was kicking hard, exhausted from the tease of his too-loose fist, wet with pre-come and flushed an angry red when he glanced down at his open flies and the slick mess over his hand.
He gave into both of their needs. Recklessly barreling into unknown territory. Knowing full well there was no going back once he stepped over that particular line.
“Yeah? Want me to fuck you nice and hard? Pound your arse until you can’t hold back anymore. Until you want to scream? Wanna scream for me, Sammy?”
“Y-yeah. Wanna let you hear how good you’re making me feel.”
“You touching yourself?” He didn’t really need to ask, he could hear well enough the stifled moans, the wet slip and click of Sam jerking off to his voice and his words. But he asked it anyway, some small part of him needing the outright confirmation.
“Mmh, yeah. So close. T-tell me I’m -” Sam trailed off, voice gone shy and soft. But with a belly full of liquid courage and the building crescendo of an impending orgasm, he forged ahead before Dean could prompt him. “Tell me I’m a good boy?”
Fuck. Dean’s cock twitched, an achy throb of arousal that made his thighs quiver. He gripped the base hard to quell the sudden rise of his own orgasm. Spurred on by Sam’s breathy voice, the tentative request, the way Dean’s body had reacted with a violent rush of heat and need.
Sammy wanted to be called a good boy? Dean could definitely do that.
“You want to come, Sammy? Want to come for me and be a good boy?”
A drawn-out moan from Sam, high in his throat and broken with a deep-seated pleasure that had everything to do with the way Dean had pitched his voice low; a growl of grit and gravel. Warm and rough and just the right side of gentle that it had an immediate effect on Sam.
Dean listened, phone held so tightly to his ear that it hurt, as Sam came undone. A quivering thing on the other end of the line, soft boy, sweet baby brother, coming in a rush at the praise and the gruff tone and Dean felt an implicit sense of power. A control he never knew existed; raw and compelling and powerfully addictive.
He came with a grunt, taken by surprise by the vehemency of his climax. A roaring rush in his ears, drowning out Sam’s panting breaths, lifting his head dizzily, a gossamer kind of lift and swoop and drop. He was left breathless, hand still wrapped around his softening shaft, phone still clamped against the shell of his ear, chest still twined up with the heady sense of power.
Silence, save for their mutual breathing, ragged at first, then softer.
“You okay?” Dean ventured into speech first, almost afraid of Sam’s response.
But it came on a huffed breath, a laugh, the breath of one anyway. “Yeah. I think I might actually be able to sleep now.”
“Good.” And it was good. Dean sat up straighter in his chair, shaking off the cooling slick of come from his hand, frowning at the mess he’d made in his jeans. Now that the sweep of pleasure had passed his head was returning to stark reality.
He swallowed hard, glancing over his research, the white-washed walls, the humming orange overhead light, the latched motel door. He was miles away from Stanford. Miles away from Sam, who was sleepy and contented after coming, mumbling something about his test that Dean didn’t quite catch.
And it wasn’t a sense of regret that fell upon him once Sam had hung up, the line static and barren, it wasn’t guilt or disgust that made him shove all the research into his duffel bag, that made him swipe up the keys to the impala and head for the door. For Stanford.
For Sammy.
It was a devouring, unremitting, implacable need. Bone-deep. Embedded into the very marrow of his bones.
He started the engine with a twist of the key in the ignition, a roar and rumble underneath him. And he was pulling out of the parking lot with a rev.
He never should have let Sam leave for Stanford. He was determined to make things right. Even if that meant stealing Sam away. Locking him up. Keeping him all to himself.
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