hellfirecondo: (Sam AVSC smile)
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Part One.

Part Two | Part Three





i. youth

Sam wets the bed. Well, okay, so Sam did that when he was a little kid, but the point still stands. Sam wet the bed, a lot, and it usually fell to Dean to take him to the toilet at night and then, if he had an accident, to change his sheets.

And who knows, maybe that's why. Maybe that's the reason that when Sam was six, he walked into the tiny bathroom connected to their motel room and stood on the edge of the tub, looking into the mirror, and deliberately peed into his sweatpants. It felt so naughty, and wrong, and he knew he was going to catch hell for it when Dean came back from the vending machines, but somehow, the way it felt, warm and running down his legs, caught all the rest of that worry into a net like a dreamcatcher and it couldn't touch him.

Actually, in the end he balled up the sweatpants and stuffed them into the back of the closet, and when they moved on from that motel, Dad did ask what happened to Sam's extra pair, and he shrugged, making his eyes as wide as they could, and pretended he had no idea.

Dad just accelerated the Impala, and Dean poked Sam in the belly, like he knew that Sam was telling a lie—and he probably did, Dean could always tell—but Dean didn't have any idea what the lie was, so Sam was safe.

Although, technically that's getting ahead in the story.

Sam was two, and it was Dean's job to demonstrate things like pissing into the toilet, but Sam was little, and even with the step-stool John bought, he couldn't reach. That led to... interesting things. Namely: Dean picking Sam up, and holding him against himself—and Dean was so strong, even at six—until Sam could reach.

But that did funny things to Sammy's insides. Like worms wiggling around in his belly, as he tried to pee, as Dean complained.

"You're heavy, Sammy, hurry up."

But Sam couldn't make it come out, even though he needed to go so desperately. And since John had already decreed that diapers were to be no more, this meant that when Dean finally gave up, and pulled up Sam's little cotton shorts and then the little fuzzy pants, Sam had to pee so badly he couldn't stand it.

Dean sighed, patted Sam on the bottom and then wandered off to watch T.V. And Sam... well, Sam walked into the other room and stood in front of Dean.

"I'm sorry," he said, feeling the tears start as the dam broke and it all flowed out of him, down his legs and onto the floor. Dean gave an undignified shriek and jumped up.

"Jeez, Sammy! I just took you to potty!"

Maybe it started then. Maybe it was just a matter of time. Or maybe it came from somewhere else, some place deep inside, but Sam knows, thinking back, that something started then.

ii. February 2006

Sam stands in the little motel bathroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror, his cock heavy in his hand and his bladder equally heavy. Dean's gone out for dinner, and he's gonna be at least fifteen minutes, which gives Sam time—just enough, probably.

He steps into the the shower stall, turns to face the wall, and tips his head back, letting it all loose. He jerks his cock slowly at first, fingers rolling across the slit to break up the stream, and then he rubs the thin liquid of his own piss into his skin as his cock throbs from both how good it feels and how full Sam is. It's kinda like coming, this release after so long; Sam pisses against the back wall of the shower and then, when the stream slows, his cock stiffens up even more, pointing towards his belly, and Sam jacks it faster, the only lube his acrid-scented piss, and bites down on his lip hard as he comes, white streaking up and out, hitting his belly and chest, some of it even spattering against the wall.

He's never told Dean about this. Never could figure out a way to explain it. He flips on the shower faucets and rinses away the evidence, trying not to think about how much better his orgasms are whenever he's either just pissed himself, or just before, when his bladder's so full he almost can't come.

And sometimes, in Dean's bed, lying on his back with his knees bent, Dean between them, tongue on his dick, Sam wonders what Dean would do if that were the time he lost it, pissed before he came, what Dean would do if it caught him on the lips, settled onto his tongue.

And, Christ, but those thoughts make Sam so hard he figures he could probably chop wood with his dick; he ruthlessly always pushes them away and holds his secret close, because there's no way to say, Gee, Dean, I'd like to piss in your mouth.

Sam gets out of the shower, his curls damp at the back of his neck, and dries off using Dean's towel, and the door opens in the other room. Sam gives another cursory rub with the towel then walks, naked, out into the other room, greets Dean with a quick kiss crooked on his lips, and grabs for the food.

It's not the only secret he's keeping, so what the hell?

iii. old ghosts

"C'mon," Dean said, and even though he sounded exasperated, Sammy knew that Dean was never truly angry at him. He followed Dean, his feet slapping against the tile floor, leaving a streak of wet in his wake until he stood in front of the bathtub and Dean was efficiently stripping him out of his soaked clothes.

Dean patted his belly, still round with baby fat, and then picked him up and dumped him in the tub. He turned on the water, made sure it wasn't too hot, and began to wash Sam, long passes with a cloth to clean away the last of the pee that stained his skin.

But even after Dean had lifted him out of the tub again and dried him with a fluffy clean towel, Sammy couldn't help but feel like it was still there, like a ghost blanketing him.

"Dean," he said, tugging on his big brother's t-shirt with one hand. "Dean."

"Whatsamatter, Sammy?" Dean asked absently, then turned, knelt down on one knee to look him straight in the eyes. "It's okay, Sam. I know you didn't do it on purpose."

"Want diapers," Sam replied, and Dean gave a deep, passionate sigh.

"I bet, and it would be a good deal easier for everyone, but you know what Daddy says. Not anymore."

Dean was still wiping the floor—linoleum designed to look like wood—when Dad came back, still trying to erase the evidence of Sam's mistake, but he dropped the sponge when Dad came in, and stood up.

"We should get him a potty. Sir." Dean was barely looking up at John through the fringe of his eyelashes.

"He has to learn sometime, Dean," John said wearily, and avoided the spot on the floor. "Did you spank him? I told you, when he does that, you need to spank him to remind him it's unacceptable."

"He can't reach, daddy," Dean replied, bringing out the big guns. "And it's gotta go somewhere."

"Then teach him how to do it sitting down for now," John answered, and walked over, collapsed into an armchair and rubbed his forehead. "Enough of this, Dean. You could've figured all of that out for yourself."

"Daddy," Sammy said, and crawled over the floor, even the damp patches, to place himself right in front of John's chair. "Up."

John picked up his foot and crossed it over his other leg. "Not now," he said. "And you should be in bed."

Maybe it was partly that, too—that his own father never offered comfort when Sam wanted it—that led to future events.

Maybe Sam will never really know.

iv. new ghosts

He keeps things from Jessica, too. The fact that he learned to hunt supernatural monsters from the time he was nine years old. Or that he kissed his sleeping older brother on the mouth when he was sixteen, just old enough to finally work out that those urges weren't going away and maybe if he just did something about it he could stop it.

He keeps from her that Dean woke up in the middle of the sloppiest kiss probably in the history of forever, took charge of it, and schooled Sam in kissing in such a way that when Jess complimented him on his technique, there was no way he could attribute all of the credit to Dean.

It's a secret that he likes to piss in front of a mirror, or that he does it in the shower when she's at class.

And it's a secret that he keeps seeing her die in his dreams, over and over, crisping away to ash on the ceiling while he watches impotently.

In the scheme of things, one stupid little sexual kink that no-one knows about doesn't seem like it will ever make any difference. He's fucked up enough as it is.

v. fortitude

Sam didn't ask about the salt at the doors and windows until he was five. Dean, in his infinite wisdom, said it was because it kept the heat in. Sammy, already too smart to be swayed by that, pointed out that it was the middle of summer. Dean, in retaliation, suggested building a fort.

"Look, Sammy, so we turn this chair over--" and Dean pushed it over, narrowly missing Sam's little ankles which were stretched out on the floor—"and then we can take the sheet from the bed and pull it over the chair, tie it to the bedpost, and ha! Instant fort."

Sammy may have been too smart to be fooled by Dean's explanation, but he was still too young not to be redirected by the idea of playing beneath a fort.

"Can I be the princess?" he asked, poking Dean in the back of the ankle. "I wanna be rescued by the knight."

Dean looked torn for a moment, face twisted like he couldn't decide what to do. "Sam--" he began, than stopped. He grabbed Sam's ankles and swung him up into the air, making Sam shriek—and God help them if the people in the neighbouring rooms heard—and settled him upside down on his shoulder.

"Listen, Sammy," he said, his 'explanation-voice' in full-force, "no, you can't be the princess, because you're a boy. And while I, naturally, would be the knight, I have no-one to rescue. So instead..." Dean trailed off.

"Put me down!" Sam shouted, and Dean smacked his bottom as hard as he dared. Sam knew that no matter what their daddy said, Dean hated to spank him. "I'll scream," Sammy threatened, and Dean quickly dumped him onto one of the beds. Sammy clambered off and trotted back over to Dean.

"Keep it down, brat," Dean said. "If we get reported to the desk and Dad finds out, we're both toast."

"I like toast," Sammy replied with all of his five-year-old logic. "I mean it, Dean, I wanna play in the fort. I wanna be the princess!"

"All right, fine. So you've been imprisoned by the evil fire-breathing troll, and--"

"Dean? What if a fire-breathing troll gets me while I'm sleeping?"

"Jesus Christ, Sam. That's not gonna happen. I'm the knight, remember? I'll protect you."

"Dean?"

"What?"

"I don't wanna be the princess any more. I wanna be... ooh, can I be your horsie?"

"Sam, so help me, just get in the fort and stay there, and I'll come and rescue--"

"Is the fort burning down?"

"You and—wait, what?"

"If I'm a horsie I wouldn't need to be rescued unless the fort was burning down."

"Sam. You are not a horsie. And actually, none of this makes any sense anyway, because traditionally forts are where the army dudes hang out."

"Does that mean I'm in the army?"

Dean sighed, obviously exasperated. "You know what, Sam, just crawl around in there till you get bored. I'm gonna watch T.V."

Sam looked at the fort for a long second, unable to make up his mind. Then he looked back at Dean.

"I wanna watch T.V. too," he announced. "But the chair's upside down."

"Oh for heaven's--" Dean got up, and was walking over to right the chair, when the door opened and John walked in, carrying two grocery bags and a slender paper bag.

"Daddy!" Sam cried, dropping to his hands and knees and crawling across the floor to John's feet, looking way, way up into his father's face. "I'm a horsie!"

Somehow the look John gave him wasn't particularly encouraging. He tried another tactic, just as if he were one of the army guys in the fort Dean had built for him.

"Daddy? Why do you spill all that salt?"

"Because salt is protection, Sam," John said, even though he sounded about as exasperated as Dean. "It's a pure substance and it protects against anything that might want to harm you."

"Like bad people with guns?"

"Yes, like that." John turned his attention to Dean. "Have you been letting him watch grown-up movies again?"

"Not when I'm awake," Dean lied instantly, and Sam turned to him, lip curled.

"Dean--"

"Shut up, shitface," Dean said, and John put the bags down.

"God," he said, rubbing his forehead, "I go out for two hours and I come back and my sons are uncivilised savages. Pick up that chair, Dean, and put the sheet back on the bed, 'cause you're gonna want it when you're sleeping. And Sam, for Christ's sake, you can walk. Act like it."

Sam climbed to his feet and walked over to Dean, standing just behind him and stuffing his thumb into his mouth. Sometimes his daddy could be mean. And whenever he brought home paper bags like that, he got meaner. He sucked at his thumb, working it around in his mouth.

"Take your goddamn thumb out of your mouth," John raged, and Sam dropped his hand to his side. He stared at his father for a long moment.

Then he peed his pants.

Whenever Sam thinks back to that day, he almost wants to laugh at the expression that had been on his father's face. He might, still, if it weren't for the fact that John had undressed him, spanked him with his belt, and then put him back into diapers for two weeks. His little rebellion had embarrassing consequences, but it had been nice, just for once, to see his father look like he didn't know what to do, even if it hadn't lasted.

Somehow, Sam still doesn't think he's learned that lesson.

He wonders, too, at times, what Dean had thought of that whole debacle. He hadn't interceded to keep Sam from getting the belt, though he had soothed him later by smoothing ointment into the reddened, painful area.

vi. fifth of vodka

After Sam's fifth coke, Dean raises an eyebrow and looks meaningfully at the empty cup. "You after winning some kind of contest, or something, Sammy?"

"Nah," Sam replies, attempting nonchalance. "Just really thirsty today. It's fucking hot out, Dean."

"It's gonna be a hot time tonight," Dean replies, throwing Sam a smug grin, like he's the funniest dude in the universe. Sam turns his head to look out the window, watching the scenery of the back roads fly by the Impala's sleek black sides, and every time they hit a bump, he can feel it jostle all of the water and soda inside of him. Sometimes, when Dean's trying to be amusing, it's best to pretend he hasn't heard. This time, though, even though he's got his perfected 'I'm not paying attention to you' posture going on, Dean keeps talking to the back of his head.

"You gonna need a pee break before we get to the motel?" Dean asks, and the Chevy suddenly swerves to the right, making Sam grab for the dashboard to steady himself. Deep down, in his aching, tight bladder, he can feel a pulse of pure urgency. It takes all of his willpower to keep from letting any of it out, and by the time the car is straight on the road again, Sam's got everything back under control.

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam says, and leans back against the seat, tilting his head toward the window as if he's going to nap.

"Are you thinking about something... naughty?" Dean says, and Sam opens his eyes, looks at Dean, then looks down, as if he needed to do that to know that his dick is hard and straining the fly of his jeans. Consequence of having to pee so achingly bad.

"Thinking about tonight," Sam says, injecting a note of sly, sexy darkness into his tone. "About how good you're gonna look on the bed with all the day's sweat still on you, making your skin glow."

Dean swallows with a click that's even audible to Sam, and Sam, deliberately not being shy, lets his gaze wander down to Dean's crotch, where his brother is sporting wood, now, too.

"Well, you did ask," Sam says into the accusatory silence, and Dean huffs out a breath.

"You don't think we could each at least shower first? 'Cause, damn, Sammy, you're right and it's hotter than Angelina Jolie out there."

"Dude, if you'd rather bang Angelina Jolie, at least drop me off somewhere on your way to Hollywood, all right?"

"Sammy, now don't be jealous. If you had tits it would be different."

"I always knew titties would come between us someday," Sam snarks back, and puts his head against the window again. There's no way he can sleep with his bladder this full, but Dean doesn't need to know that.

There's a lot of things Dean doesn't need to know.

Just before he deepens his breathing to feign sleep, he says, "Oh, and by the way, Dean, the next time we stop for gas I could go for some cold bottled water. This fucking heat is killing me."

He can't see Dean any longer, but he hears the slight chuff of laughter his brother makes seconds before his hand comes slapping down onto his thigh, jarring him enough that he almost lets go a little bit.

"I think you must have a hollow leg or something," Dean comments, "because I have no idea where you're putting all of that."

"That's usually about what I'm thinking about you when we go out to a bar," Sam replies without opening his eyes. "It's barely even a nuisance yet, Dean, just keep driving." Not at all the most difficult thing I've had to do not to piss the leather seats.

"I'd say, 'you're the boss, chief,' except it so ain't true," Dean says. "Goddamn roadkill," he swears after a moment, swerving again. "I think they're all dying in the middle of the road from heat exhaustion."

"I'm sleeping, Dean," Sam mumbles, even though he knows that's not likely to cause his brother to can it. Dean's too persistent and annoying for that.

"I can hear you thinking from over here," Dean shoots back, and Sam shifts in the seat, wishing that his bladder weren't so full about the same way he wishes that he could just tell Dean to pull over, strip, and piss all over him. Wash the sticky sweat of the day off of him with his piss. The thought makes his cock twitch feebly against the constraints of his jeans as his bladder throbs along with the pleasure in his dick.

"Someone has to do the thinking around here," Sam rejoins, and he can hear Dean scowling, even though his eyes are still shut. Dean loves to dish it out, but he's not as fond of having his own limitations handed to him on a silver platter.

Sam thinks it has something to do with John and the way they grew up, the way that Dean always wound up mothering Sam while John went out and left them alone; something to do with the way that John never quite let Dean know that he'd done a good job.

Then again, thinking back to how he peed himself as a child whenever he wanted to piss—heh—his father off, it's no wonder, maybe, that John didn't praise Dean.

Even though Dean had done the best he could. Even though probably no-one could have predicted that Sam would grow up and find himself thinking—more often than one might expect—that perhaps pissing himself as a child hadn't been such a bright idea.

The Impala jounces over another bump in the road, and Sam has to stifle a hiss as it jolts straight down into his bladder.

Even though he's about full to bursting already, he's planning to drink at least one more bottle of water before they finally stop for the night. He's not sure why; the thing is, he's not going to be able to piss himself with Dean around, and there's no way Dean's gonna go out now that Sam oh-so-intelligently put thoughts of wild sex into his head.

"You know, Dean," Sam begins, trying to keep from grabbing at his cock.

"Thought you were sleeping," Dean remarks, as he turns on the speed, letting the Impala fairly take flight as she streaks down the road.

"Maybe you should go pick up a chick tonight."

"You on the rag, Sammy?" Dean fiddles with the tape deck, and Led Zeppelin blares out of the speakers. Great. And now Dean's cranky.

"You know I'm not," Sam says, even though the whole conversation is pretty damn ridiculous. "I just thought it might be nice to have, uh, someone to play with. Wanna see you plow some chick hard and deep while I fuck my cock into you, that's all."

"I don't think so," Dean says, and Sam can barely hear him over the music now. Music loud enough that the drumbeat is actually reverberating in his bladder, and that is a recipe for disaster. Although not, apparently, as much as the sudden cutting in and out from the tape player, the static, and what might be words. Fuck. E.V.P.

"Goddammit," Sam spits out just as Dean does. Dean pushes the button to stop the player, and Sam's eyes are wide open now, scouting around them, as Dean pulls the car off the road and slides her into park.

"This is fucked," Dean says, staring into the falling darkness. "We don't even know--"

"So we should find a motel around here and check it out," Sam says, trying to be reasonable even though he's about two seconds away from pissing himself, and it's not from fear, though Dean would probably never let him hear the end of it if he did. Because Dean would find it endlessly and hilariously funny if he thought Sam had wet himself out of fear of the supernatural.

"Ghostie, you think?" Dean asks, throwing open his car door and heading for the trunk. Sam gets out too, follows Dean.

"Or a demon," he says, not particularly encouraged by the idea of either. "I gotta take a leak, Dean, I'm just gonna..." he gestures over to the trees, trailing off.

"Don't get eaten," Dean says, and Sam gets the feeling he's only partially kidding.

"I'll take a sawed-off," Sam says, "but I bet I just wind up shooting my dick off."

"Oh, you know you have better aim than that," Dean says, grabbing for his own shotgun. Sam grins into the night.

"You know I do, baby," he says, and he knows that Dean will take it as his propensity to hit Dean's prostate during sex, and not, as Sam intended, a double entendre on how good he is at aiming his piss wherever he wants it to go. Like in his mouth.

He tries not to waver in his stride as he heads for the trees, the urge to piss so sharp in his body now that he's barely managing to keep from doing the pee-pee dance.

He finds a tree, and unzips, yanks out his cock and has just started pissing when he feels eyes on his back. And, shit, but that's not good. He's got his dick in one hand and the sawed-off in the other, but he's still caught, quite literally, with his pants down—not that he had a choice, since he'd've pissed his jeans if he'd tried to hunt when he was this full. He wants to whirl around and face whatever's coming, but he's not finished yet—he grits his teeth so hard they squeak together and manages to stem the flow. He tucks his dick back into his jeans, barely taking the time to zip up, and spins around, scanning the trees and grassy area beyond for anything preternatural or evil.

Dean walks out of the shadows and catches Sam's eye. "I don't feel any cold spots," he says, and Sam realises, with only partial relief—his bladder's still almost full—that the eyes he felt on his back were his brother's.

"I don't think we should go after whatever it is in the dark, in what's probably its hunting grounds, before we know what we're walking into," Sam says, trying not to grimace as his bladder protests being made to wait after all.

"Yeah, you're probably right," Dean says, and his voice sounds a little funny. "C'mon, Sammy, we'll find a motel."

Getting back into the Impala is an almost-agony of his bladder spasming, but that's part of it, part of what he likes, and he knows his cock is stiffening up again, but it's dark now, and even the streetlights painting stripes across their bodies don't really give enough light for long enough that Dean might notice. At least, Sam hopes not.

But as Dean starts searching for a motel, Sam is reminded of the first time he figured out that it was pleasure—arousal even—that he felt when his bladder was this full.

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