(for @exaggeratedspecificity, with love ♡)
High, fluttery things that can go from giggle to gurgle and never lose their sweet.
When he’s harmed, when he’s napping, when he’s 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 they’re left alone too long.
Sammy wears tiny ponytails.
Simple, stringy messes held back by little rubberbands. There’s 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.
“What, uh,” Dean says when he sees him, choky like Sam is something pretty.
Sam’s still in his school clothes, his yard sale shoes, but Dean looks at him like he’s already on his back and spread wet around a couple of trigger-fingers.
From his upside down world, Sam can see Dean’s bare toes curling in the motel carpet, watches a baby roach skitter back into the wall. Sam’s head is hanging off the side of the bed and Dean’s riding his mouth like he’ll marry it.
Sam’s nose runs and his eyes sting and his shiny soft hair stays nicely in place.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Dean says, jerky hipped and gone still, emptying against Sam’s pink tonsils. Sam breathes deep. Cock smell. “Sammy.”
It sounds like ‘baby’. It feels like he could be Dean’s babygirl.
Silky, vulgar, wet-blood colors that catch his devil’s eye and make ‘em 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 won’t 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 doesn’t matter if they’re big rig drivers or sophomore sweethearts – Dad’s lifework has been in making sure his boys know how to take out things bigger than them, how to do it clean.
Sam likes red stuff, but he loves Dean more. He never leaves behind a mess when he’s done.
Sammy says fucked up shit.
He talks about death and psychosis and deformed babies.
Dean’s inside him when he asks, “What if I was your sister instead?” His eyes are open and his mouth is trembling and he’s only twelve years old but he knows more about anatomy than high school Health class instructors. “What would you do?”
“Sam,” Dean says, like a warning. But he doesn’t stop fucking him.
“Would – would you still love me?”
Dean’s hips jerk rough and Sam’s ankles bounce against his summer-spotted shoulders.
Sam slides up the tiny twin bed, slides his arms around Dean’s sweaty pink neck, and he says, “Say it. Tell me.”
Dean tries to smother him out with a teenager kiss, tonguefucks him wide and sloppy the way Sam likes, like brother-boyfriends. But it doesn’t stop Sam from saying, after, panting all funny, “What if you didn’t pull out in time?”
An overwhelmed face flees into Sam’s neck and Sam can feel Dean’s silent sigh, feel the quick misstep of breath-wet air when Sam whispers like a small town scandal, “What if you made me pregnant, Dean?”
Dean yanks his cock out, holds it away, and for a moment Sam’s savagely hurt.
It’s better, though, when he’s flipped to his kid knees and his prom-date red lace thong is shoved to the side and Dean’s 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.
They won’t 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.
