for anon, who kindly asked 4ever ago: something like blowjob queen like dean being sammy's whenever , but sam only being deans when sam wants. dean totally gone for sam and sam toying with him, making dean almost cry with lust, sam almost lolita like with his young boy thighs and sweetheart pink lips. give me needy weecest or give me death. im begging for it, for your writing. dirty, wrong, lustful weecest. where sam turns dean inside out just with his kid breath and doe eyes. please
(here’s mean little lolita!sammy ruining dean just for funsies ♡ )
Sam gets the tiny wink of his bellybutton pierced at the devil’s tail of summer’s end.
It lasts only for a while, until Sam grows bored of it.
Sam’s outgrowing things constantly the year he turns thirteen -- band shirts that Dad wore before Dean, the backseat of their sleek black mobile home, a life spent stifled between a drunk and a delinquent -- and eventually it’ll be Dean’s turn to sit on that sorrowful little list.
Sam won’t always need him around. Worse, Sam won’t always want him close.
But for now he pulls up the thready hem of a Poison ’93 World Tour tee that used to sit at Dean’s belt buckle, now sawed off to almost crop top obscenity, and nudges Dean to look.
Dean doesn’t just look, of course. He stares. And aches.
It’s a tiny silver loop through the tippy top, not even one of those dangle charms, or the big diamond bars the girlies in Dad’s titmags wear. Dean thinks it might be a small earring hoop actually. It’s delightfully fucking skanky and Dean falls hard for it.
Mouth cottony, Dean looks away. “Old man’s gonna kill you,” he says, and presses his hipbones to the kitchen sink counter, badly in need of privacy.
Sam rolls his eyes like a b-movie teen queen and clicks his teeth. Says something that sounds erringly like not if I kill him first, but he’s sloped off to the other room now, fled into the arms of one of his summer reading list novels.
Dad never ends up noticing. He’s too tired, too busy, too boozy most heat-swelter days. His youngest son’s tight, tan, girl smooth tummy isn’t something he spends an awful lot of time fretting over.
Not like his oldest son does. It sucks being in love with your little brother.
August feels like death row.
Compressing, archaic, and the notion that something real bad is waiting around the turn.
Dixie Inn is a gas-mart town, said and done. They’ve got two scrappy hair salons, a spicy seafood restaurant with a mostly dead-gamed arcade off to the side, and a head count the size of the high school Dean attended three states ago. Clothes stick to bones and the water’s sometimes foggy brown if run too long.
Dad says they won’t be there but a breath, but he pays eight weeks rent anyway. Shitholes go for $88/month and a carton of Newports that year.
The neighbor next to them lets her tear-stained curtains billow in the open window, lets her records scratch and skip, mournful oldies. Sometimes Sam says he thinks he hears her crying at night. Dean thinks Sam just likes listening to people in pain.
They fit in around town. The red-eyed haggard man who rolls up with a couple of dirty-nailed kids trailing behind him like beer cans on a bumper.
John and his liquor-tar breath, the engine oil hands. Sam’s greasy mess of windblown hair; thin, half grown, mosquito bit legs. The cheap tobacco mouth on Dean – set to sneer. Not to mention Dean’s downright inbred urges.
Yeah, the Winchesters are a couple hundred times nastier. Grimier, too recluse.
Most of their civil cues come from barfights or old black and whites.
One of Sam’s counselors tried to tell John his boys were socially stunted, but that was two handfuls of no name towns ago and she doesn’t exist to them anymore. She didn’t really exist then either. Dean slips further and further into misplaced lust the longer they go without steady, non-blood related companionship. He was probably born sick.
All day long, crooners are carrying over the stale soupy air.
Bobby Vinton is lonely, Patsy Cline is crazy, and Skeeter Davis reckons herself a clown. Dean feels a stupid mix of all three. Because Sam knows.
Or Sam thinks he knows, at least. And that’s only half as bad as really knowing.
He does things to Dean. Mean things.
...pulls shiny red chocolate-centered suckers out of his mouth and slips them between Dean’s lips midsentence.
...hide’n’seek humps Dean’s pillow, Dean only finding out when he’s turning in, face crammed into the sharp scent of Sam’s most secret smells.
...leaves bathroom graffiti when he knows it’s Dean’s turn next. Shaving cream hearts in the mildew sink, a kiss-print smudged in the mirror steam, the word DIRTY spelled out with strands of his own soggy hair on the tile in the tub.
Dean’s little brother is as cold and as cruel and as beautiful as a king should be.
But it could be worse. At least Sam only thinks that Dean wants to fuck him.
