Part One | Part Three
He'd been just starting high school, still a stupid kid who didn't have a fucking idea what was going on in his life, except that he started to feel funny, get butterflies rumbling in his stomach, sometimes when he looked at Dean.
In the interest of the best policy he could come up with at the time—classic Winchester avoidance—he pushed it down and refused to acknowledge it, even though he was old enough to know what it was.
He spent a lot of time that summer trying not to look at Dean, trying not to react when Dean got close. Trying not to think about how hard and muscled Dean's body was when it slammed into him while they were sparring.
And, because he needed something to distract himself, for some reason it seemed like a good idea at the time to wait for John and Dean to go out, and then he opened the closet door and stared at himself in the full-length mirror.
He hadn't gotten quite as tall as Dean yet, which meant he could pretty much see himself entirely in the mirror—okay so his head was a little cut off—but the point was, he could see his worn, frayed jeans, his oldest pair.
Could feel the stinging heaviness of his bladder as he stood there.
He knew it was wrong. He knew that what he was about to do couldn't be passed off as childish rebellion, couldn't be explained away.
Still, though. He'd taken a deep breath, braced his legs a little further apart, and worked as hard as he could at relaxing muscles he was used to keeping taut at times like this.
The first spurt of it caught him by surprise. It was strange, really, since he'd intended to do it, but in the mirror he watched the uneven spot bleed through the material of his jeans, and he felt his body clench up, stopping the flow.
But that's not what he wanted to happen. He wanted to feel it, like when he'd been six years old and could still claim an accident; he wanted it to run down his legs in rivulets that stained and seeped through his jeans. He wanted to pour the contents of his entire bladder out into his clothes, as if that could somehow keep him from thinking about Dean, like the way he'd looked that morning as they battled each other, standing with the sunlight filtering through his hair and turning the sweat dripping onto Dean's lower lip golden.
And ahh, but that had gotten to him, had turned his knees soft and loose, had helped him to relax again and let a little bit more out. The second pulse of it into his underwear, soaking through to visibility on the outside of his jeans, didn't so much catch him by surprise as cause him to catch his breath.
And then Dean walked in.
"Sam?" he'd said, and he'd cased the room—Sam knew it, he could feel it and he knew Dean always did that first—before he came round the closet door and stared at Sam.
Sam's jeans were cooling wet against his body, and there was blatant evidence of his piss halfway down one thigh. Dean stared at him for a long second, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing, and then he stalked forward and grabbed Sam, one hand gripping his shoulder and the other Sam's chin.
"Are you hurt, Sam? Or sick?"
Sam could barely move his head in the bruising hold, but he shook it as little as he could.
"You--" Dean stopped, lifted one hand away to flail it helplessly in the air. "What are you doing?"
"I should think it would be obvious," Sam said archly, trying for a strain of self-confidence he didn't feel. Maybe he could play it off, maybe—
"You know what, Sam, no. I can see what you're doing—I've got eyes—but I've got fuck all of an idea why you'd want to." Dean let go of Sam. He stepped back a pace, eyes flicking down to Sam's dampened crotch, and Sam felt his own eyes go to Dean's.
He didn't know why. Maybe it was because the flush on Dean's face implied something more than anger at Sam for doing something so—so wrong.
And suddenly he didn't know why he'd done it. It was childish, stupid. It was reckless. It made no fucking sense. Why would anyone in their right mind stand in front of a mirror and watch themselves piss their clothes?
Nevertheless, his eyes found Dean's groin, flickered away, then back and caught. Dean was turned on. Sam knew by now what that looked like—Dean was four years older, and he wasn't really shy around Sam.
Dean had turned away, then back, scrubbed his hand down his face, still red, and finally let his gaze land back on Sam, heavy and pointed, almost like a blade against Sam's skin.
"I don't have any fucking idea what you're doing or why," Dean had growled out, "but you better not let Dad find out."
And yet, despite the disapproval, it was Dean who took the jeans and underwear out behind the motel and burned them, while Sam shivered in a cold shower, trying to wash away the remnants of what could only be termed a mistake.
Yet it clung to him. It clung like cobwebs in his brain, and the smell stung his nose still, and all he could think of, as he stood there and tried to soap it all away, was how beautiful Dean had looked when he was angry. Or maybe it was the sight of his arousal that had made him so beautiful.
Sam put his face in his hands and felt his cheeks burning with shame.
Sam's bladder throbs as Dean drives the Impala towards whatever motel he can find, and Sam remembers how badly he'd felt, how much he'd wanted to take it back.
How guilty he'd been for weeks afterward, too chastened by Dean's reaction, and even Dean had seemed a little different after that, like he didn't know how to handle Sam.
Sam stares out the window into nothingness; it's too dark to see anything. It had taken him a long time to get over that feeling, but eventually the urge to do it again—and again—had overwhelmed him. But Dean had been particularly inventive with things he wanted from Sam back then—Sam did a lot of Dean's chores, cleaned a lot of weapons, made a lot of beds and fetched a lot of coffee on foot to buy Dean's silence.
Sitting next to Dean now, on the bench seat, Sam wonders if Dean remembers that incident. If he still has a slightly reserved way of looking at him that comes from thinking his brother is a freak.
But Sam's been a freak all along, and Dean once said, Well, I'm a freak too. I'm right there with you... All the way.
It should have been heartening. Instead it just makes Sam's heart throb hard once in time with the pulse of his insistent bladder.
He drops his head against the window with a resounding thunk and tries not to think about how hot it gets him to be this full and this close to Dean.
ix. vanishing acts
When Sam was very small, in fact little enough that both he and Dean fit in the same bathtub, John went out for some reason or another and Dean put Sam in the tub for his night-time bath, just like he always did.
"Dean!" Sam'd cried, waving his plump little arms. "Want!"
Dean had sighed, then stripped out of his clothes and got into the tub with Sam. "C'mon, Sammy, you don't really need--"
"Wash," Sam had demanded, and Dean looked at him, then grabbed up the wash cloth and rubbed some motel soap onto it, then started sliding it over Sam's skin.
"Dean," Sam had said contentedly, and he leaned back, letting Dean take care of him just like he always did, and then Dean was soaping up his little belly, and Sam'd realised something.
He was like, three years old, and as soon as the thought occurred to him, he gave into it.
When Dean dropped the wash cloth back into the water, Sammy sat up and threw his fat little arms around Dean's neck, burying his face in Dean's shoulder.
"Love you," he'd whispered, but he didn't tell Dean he'd peed into the water. After all, once out of his body, it was gone.
At least, Sam reflects, when you're three, you do sort of think that if you pee in the bathtub it just automatically disappears.
Sometimes Sam would really like to know what caused it. Whether that was normal, whether the things he did even as a young child were depraved, or just the side-effect of childhood and ignorance.
And he thinks maybe Dean would know, if Sam had the courage to ask. To say: Dean, when you were little, did you ever pee in the bathtub?
But he's too afraid of Dean's answer to actually find out.
x. first kisses
Dean's so incredibly beautiful. Sam's known it for so long, like it's been carved directly into his bones, like he can, if he closes his eyes, feel Dean's beauty like a physical weight on his skin.
And he's known forever that the way he feels around Dean isn't normal, or right. More like screwed every possible way.
What guy gets a boner watching his brother sleep? Sam sits up more in his bed, balanced on his elbow on his side, and watches Dean, the way the moonlight silvers Dean's lips, a pretty metallic highlight to something already almost inhumanly beautiful.
It makes his dick so fucking stiff in his boxer briefs, and he wants to reach down beneath the fabric and touch heated, hard flesh, but he doesn't dare.
He's only sixteen years old, for Christ's sake. He's never really touched anyone the way that he wants to touch Dean.
Whatever the fuck possesses him, he'll never know, but he slips out of bed, pads over to Dean's, breaks up the moonlight with his shadow spilling over Dean, and then he goes to his knees by the bed.
He's taller than Dean, now. Tall enough that he can still lean forward and touch Dean's forehead, brush a finger across his hair, without even having to get on the bed.
God, he's so ashamed of himself. He's so wrapped up in Dean, in every single thing Dean likes or does—God, even Dean farting makes Sam kinda crazy with want—that he's never been able to kiss anyone.
Mary Rose in the ninth grade had cornered him once, by his locker, and she'd been so pretty and he'd been so tempted, but then he caught sight of her lower lip, such a similar shape to Dean's, and he just—he couldn't.
So he'd kind of brushed past her, almost frantic, and run home to Dean, to his homework while Dean cleaned his gun, obsessively and with incredible concentration like always, and tried not to think about kissing Dean.
How could any sixteen-year-old be so lame as to never have even kissed anyone? Sam puts his hand flat on the bed, still feeling stupid and young, and what the hell, Dean's asleep. It's not like he'll ever know.
Sam's lips come down over Dean's with the type of clumsiness he should have expected. Dean's lips—holy fucking Christ—they feel so fucking soft, yet firm enough that there's substance to press against.
Sam tries, but he's not sure what to do, and his eyes are open like the inexperienced idiot he is, and then he catches sight of the moonlight reflecting off of Dean's eyes in a pretty, ethereal sparkle.
Dean's awake, but he doesn't push Sam away in disgust. He doesn't punch him or throw up or do any of the things Sam thinks he might—wishes he might—but angles his head a little on the pillow, just enough to separate their lips.
Into the silvered darkness, he whispers, "Did you really think this could go any other way?"
Sam's not even sure what Dean's asking; he's suddenly reminded of that summer and pissing himself, and wants to ask, quite abruptly, whether Dean thinks he's gross or somehow mentally deformed, but then Dean is turning his chin a little.
"Just you and me," he murmurs, and then he takes Sam's lips again, and teaches him how to kiss.
It involves a lot of tongue and spit and the soft swell of lips being bitten and sucked on, and Sam finally gets to do everything he's wanted for so long, to run his tongue along Dean's lips, to push inside and flatten it against Dean's teeth, and Dean is—well, Sam can't say Dean is the best kisser he's ever kissed, not yet, because it's only his first.
But it's sort of wild and dramatic, the kind that fills Sam's entire body up with fireworks, all of them popping and exploding and making his whole body fire and tingle, and he knows, somehow instinctively, that most first kisses aren't this good. That he's damn fucking lucky.
But he's kissing his brother, and when that registers, he pulls back a little, stares at rosy, plumpened lips, still wet with Sam's saliva. Maybe kissing one's brother is what makes it so good. Maybe it's the mere fact that they shouldn't.
He can feel his dick in his underwear, feels harder than it's ever been, and then Dean's hand is suddenly huge and heavy on the side of his face.
"Don't think about it so much, Sammy," he says, and some combination of the words plus his tone combined with the look of him, sends Sam reeling right over, coming untouched into his underwear, sticky and gross.
And maybe it's the darkness surrounding them, pressing on silky like a lover, that makes Dean say, so open,
"You're fucking beautiful when you come, Sammy."
And yeah, that's only one of the things he's never told anyone about.
It's an almost physical, painful, twisted-up ache in his chest not to be able to tell Dean everything.
xi. the internet is for porn
The internet is an amazing thing. Sam figured that out for the first time when John took Dean on a hunt and left Sam alone with the laptop—telling him to research.
Sam researched all right; he looked up porn. He poked around until he found what he was looking for—a website all about, well, pissing. Oneself and others. He was sort of relieved when he found it; he wasn't the only freak on the planet, then. So yeah, the internet is an amazing thing: you can find just about anything on there. And, Sam discovered, there was porn for just about any subject he could think of.
Looking at the pictures, sampling the videos on various websites, Sam came to the conclusion that he—felt odd. His stomach was all fluttery and his pants felt kinda tight and all in all it was just—odd.
He closed the tabs, cleared the internet history, and sat, staring, the laptop screen in front of him glimmering merrily in the darkening room. He knew he had work to do, and he knew that if it wasn't done by the time John and Dean got back that there was going to yet another raging argument, but he couldn't stop thinking about it. It hadn't really occurred to him before that the whole—thing—was something more than just, well, a thing.
Sam closed the browser and reopened it. He clicked around, trying to keep his mind on the research at hand, but he just kept feeling that low warm throb that suggested something—but he wasn't sure what.
He resolved to question Dean, much much later, when they were crushed into the same damn bed again because this motel didn't have cots and the room had two queen beds—and the only person who'd fit in a bed with John was Sam, and no fucking way was Sam going to try sleeping in the same bed as his father. It just wasn't happening—he could visualise the argument already.
His Google-fu seemed to be on the fritz, and he could only figure it had something to do with the preoccupation of his brain, but dammit, he had to find something of use before they got back. He couldn't fail Dean. No matter how much he hated it, he had to be a part of the team, because being a part of this team meant helping to keep Dean safe, and there was nothing on earth more important to Sam than that.
Of course, there would come a time when that feeling of obligation would shift and change, but Sam didn't know it yet.
Sam recollects that day sometimes, and it's always funny to him to picture the look on Dean's face when he asked about what he'd been feeling—of course, Dean never lets him forget it, though. Privately, Sam knows that's just as it should be—he's still carrying around blackmail material on Dean from when they were kids.
"God, Dean, hold still." Sam pushes Dean's hips back down against the mattress, flattening one arm across his lower belly, which causes Dean to hiss in a breath at the sensation.
"Do you have any idea how badly I have to piss right now?" Dean asks, a petulance to his tone.
"Dean, do you remember last week? When I held it for twenty-four hours? I think I know." Sam lets his weight fall more onto his arm, pressing even more heavily against Dean. He's rewarded with a curse and Dean's thighs tensing inside the legs of his tight jeans. Sam grins.
"I've got a surprise for you," Sam murmurs, and slowly, so slowly, he moves his arm, using that hand to trail through the slight trail of hair until he's got his thumb against Dean's zipper. "And I know you'll love it. And then this won't seem like such a bad thing."
"Well, fucking get on with it, then," Dean says, still sounding more like a child denied a cookie than as rough as he probably wishes he did. Sam thinks back to last week, how badly he'd had to piss, how much he'd drunk; the thoughts bring him even closer to an already perilous edge. He's not gonna come in his pants. He's gonna fucking come on Dean when the time is right, dammit.
Sam lowers Dean's zipper in increments, separating the teeth one by one, until Dean's jeans are open and the ruby red head of his cock is just visible. Dean lets out a strangled sigh, and widens his legs; Sam allows it, parting the flaps of his jeans and reaching inside to take out Dean's cock.
Dean's hard, but not overly so; the need to piss must be warring with the need to come, and Sam knows just how difficult it's going to be for Dean to let go—it's never easy to piss when hard. Sam plays his fingers along the length of Dean's cock, teasing, sometimes just the edges of his nails against sensitive skin.
"Christ, whaddya doing, Sammy? 's making me crazy. I gotta—when are you gonna let me—?"
Sam ducks his head down, buries his nose into the thatch of sweaty curls at the base of Dean's dick, inhales the scent of Dean's sweat and the musk of his cock before sticking his tongue out, placing it against the very base, and beginning to slide it up Dean's shaft. When he gets to the crown, he pauses; then slowly wiggles his tongue against Dean's slit until it's inside the tiniest bit, holds it in place as Dean makes some unidentifiable noise and bucks his hips again.
Even though Sam is surprised at Dean's coherence, his brother manages to grit out,
"I can't—Sammy, I swear to God, I can't hold it much longer and I'm gonna—"
Sam removes his tongue for a second, meets Dean's eyes over the rich red column of his dick. "Go on," he says. "Do it."
And then he urges his tongue back inside Dean's slit. It takes a minute, Sam licking in and around the area, before the piss starts to dribble out, and Sam lets it flutter warm and liquid against his tongue, sometimes breaking the flow by filling up the little hole with his tongue again, and then Dean makes another, almost aborted noise and his body clearly gives up the ghost.
Sam continues to lick up, down and around Dean's cock as he pisses, a brilliant golden arc, and still, the flat of his tongue across the slit every once in awhile, interfering even as Dean groans at the relief of it.
It coats Sam's chin, thin trickles running down; it catches in his eyelashes as Dean's body goes lax underneath Sam; it's bitter-salt on the roof of Sam's mouth as he continues to drag his tongue against the skin of Dean's cock. He traces the vein, he flicks the tip of his tongue to the slightly widened slit, and Dean pisses himself dry with Sam still laving at his dick.
When Dean's done, Sam stuffs the tip of his tongue back into Dean's piss slit and holds it there, still tasting the warm liquid, and begins fucking it in and out until Dean stiffens beneath him, fisting the sheets, and comes in a creamy splash against Sam's chin.
"My turn," Sam says, and shoves Dean, so that his brother moves over and makes room for Sam to lie down. He licks at his chin and can taste the salty and bitter mix of Dean's piss and come, the flavour similar to Dean's blood. It should probably bother him that he's tasted just about every bodily fluid of Dean's, but there's not really a lot of room left in his mind for feeling bad about things that happened long ago and can't any longer be changed.
Dean doesn't move for a long moment, and Sam kicks at his shin with the heel of his foot. "Seriously, Dean, I gotta piss too, and you don't get to come and that's it. Otherwise I'm going to start thinking you're becoming an old man."
"I'm only twenty-eight, Christ," Dean mumbles. "I can even get it up again."
But when the next thing out of Dean is a snore, Sam throws a pillow at him. "It would serve you right if I pissed on you while you were asleep," Sam grumbles, but he climbs out of bed. And then stares at his brother. "Jesus, fuck, really?"
Dean huffs a little and turns his head on the pillow, still lying in a wet puddle. Sam knows his eyes are probably anime-wide. Then he throws a shoe at Dean, which gets his brother's attention. His laughing attention.
"Oh, you dick," Sam shouts, and throws himself down on top of Dean. They're both laughing now, Dean's hand on Sam's cock through the thick denim of his jeans, and Sam tries to hold on, but Dean runs the edge of his fingernail down the line of Sam's hard dick and Sam cries out, body tensing, and comes against the inside of his underwear. He whaps Dean with the back of his hand and says, mock irritation—well, mostly—, "You are such a dick, for crying out loud. I didn't wanna come in my pants again like a kid."
"You'll always be my kid brother, Sammy," Dean says, and then slides his hand up Sam's jeans, over the bulge, to his belly, bare above his waistband. "You gonna do it, or not?" he asks, and Sam grins, his most wicked and enticing grin, and starts pissing.
It floods his jeans and soaks through, and Dean moves his hand again, right over the head of Sam's dick, and Sam sighs in relief, tosses his head back and just enjoys the sensation of the hot liquid as it smothers his jeans and Dean's hand.
Dean laughs, bright and thrilled, and Sam can't help the spasm it sends through him, even though he's already come and won't be able to do so again for at least a few minutes.
"Still think I'm a dick?" Dean asks, and Sam is forced to concede the point.
xiii. let's do it like they do on the Discovery Channel
It was Madison who figured it out first, the only person to do so at the time—at least so far as Sam knew. And even then, it was an accident; she was riding Sam, her body's smooth inner walls cradling Sam's dick, and then she got rough—he didn't know why at the time—and thrust down against him as hard as she could, sending shockwaves of pleasure through the nerves in his cock and spreading throughout his body.
"Oh, oh," she moaned, and her head fell back, exposing a long stretch of the lily-white skin of her neck. "Oh, Sam," she went on, and her body clenched around him, wracked with her orgasm, and Sam grabbed tight to her hips and shoved up hard, burying himself inside of her as far as he could—so tight, and she made an animal-like sound that Sam discounted—and he felt the sweat drying on his skin even as more sprang into existence as she rode him.
The flood of liquid that covered his dick and belly and wet down his pubic hair was a surprise, though. He opened his eyes again and met hers, and she looked almost shocked, but not quite.
"I never thought that could happen," she said, and Sam drove into her again.
"Did you just piss on me?" he asked, as he kept up the rhythm as best he could, even though his entire body was clamouring for release at just the thought of it.
"No," she laughed, her long dark hair swinging back into her face, clothing his chest and sticking to the perspiration there. "I came." And then, even though her eyes were mostly obscured by long strands of hair, he could see the gears turn in her mind.
"It—" he started, and then his body took over and took his mind with it. When he could breathe again, come thick and sticky inside of her, he pushed the curtain of hair out of her face. "It wouldn't've been a bad thing if you had," he said, trying to sound nonchalant. "I wouldn't've held it against you."
"Oh, Sam," she said smoothly, and flattened against him to kiss his lips, her breasts squashed against his chest. Into his mouth, she whispered, "would you like it if I had?"
He couldn't find words, so he kissed her fiercely, crushing their mouths together in a way he usually tried to gentle whenever he made out with women—they weren't playthings to be used carelessly, at least in his own personal opinion. When she broke away again, she was laughing.
"As if I haven't slept with people with worse kinks than that," she said. "Like Kurt, for instance."
"I don't—" Sam protested, but she just kissed him again.
"I don't mind," she said, her lips curving against his. "Do you want me to piss on you?"
Sam had said no, of course, because he was still hiding in that particular—water—closet, if you will. And then, later, when he held the gun against her heart, her tears fell and Sam couldn't help but wonder what he'd done.
He hadn't been thinking clearly at the time, of course, or he would've known what he knows now, which is that just liking a particular kink and having someone find out about it doesn't mean you wind up killing them to keep your secret.
He hadn't killed her for that reason, and he's sure of that now. But sometimes he still thinks about her, that pretty laugh, that pretty smile, and wonders if he wasn't, at the time, still glad somewhere that he didn't have to worry she'd tell Dean.
xiv. old habits die hard
Sam wets the bed. Yeah, so that's how the story began, but Sam's seventeen years old and lying back on a motel bed, hand covering the half-hardness of his dick through his jeans, trying not to think about what Dean and his father will do if they come back and find him missing.
He'd snuck out a couple of times and practised hustling pool, even though he hated doing it, just so he could get a room of his own while they were off hunting some revenant or something. So that he could do this: what he's doing now, sprawled on top of the hideous comforter that looks like it's either covered with nauseated ducks or really puke-green coloured paisley swirls—and frankly, the bedcovering is so ugly he's pretty sure he's doing the motel a favour. Or at the very least, that he'll enjoy dirtying it up, since it can only get better, really. There's no way it can look worse.
He strokes his cock through the denim fabric, idly because he doesn't want to be hitting the twelve o' clock marker or anything, but if he's gonna do this, he's gonna enjoy it. As best he can.
It'd taken a long time for him to get to this point: able to say, hey I like this, and maybe I should just try it once more to see what happens.
To hustle enough money at pool—and fuck Dean, Sam was just as adept at it, even though he kept that fact hidden from his brother—to pay for the anonymous motel room in the run-down place down the road from the one where he was 'officially' staying with his father and brother. Because this motel room put that one to shame, yet another reason Sam isn't about to feel guilty about what he's going to do.
"Okay, Sam, get on with it," he coaches himself, because he knows he doesn't have much time. John will start and all-out search if Sam isn't back by the time they are, and while he knows that they've planned to be gone all day and into the night—researching at hospitals and grave-digging after that—Sam still doesn't want to take any excessive chances.
So he lets his eyes fall closed and leans his head back on the pillow, draws his hand away from his dick and up to his belly, which is rounded with how badly he needs to piss. He rubs his belly, soothing circles at first, then strokes it up and down, fingers scratching through the trail of hair leading into his jeans.
"You can do this, you want to, go on," he coaxes himself, even though Dean would mock if he could see Sam talking to himself. Worse than that, though, is what Dean would do if he caught Sam doing this again—after all, Dean had figured it was some kind of prank or something last time, but Sam knows his brother, and he knows Dean's clogged up the laptop with porn sites. Dean's got a lot of appetites of his own, and surely he must have stumbled upon this kink one way or another at some point, which means that now, with Sam seventeen years old, if Dean catches him he's bound to know what's really going on this time.
That thought more than anything else spurs him to relax, which oughtn't work, but it does; he imagines all of his muscles are liquid and loose—which reminds him of how full of liquid his bladder is, and his thighs fall open a little, his toes uncurl, and he can feel it building in his belly, sweeping up the line of his cock and then overflowing.
The piss overwhelms his clothes, turning them into sopping heavy fabric in seconds, streams down his hips and onto the bedspread, even puddles up over his distended belly and pools in his navel.
It's like an unstoppable force once it gets going, and Sam can't do anything but revel in the feel of it as it breaks him down into atoms of nothing but pleasure. He breathes heavy and languid, allowing the feel of it to swamp him—okay, that was a bad pun, but Sam can't quite think clearly—and then, slowly, it reverts to a trickle, then a droplet or two, then nothing but his body, drained by the experience.
He has almost no energy, but he reaches down and, with difficulty, unzips the saturated fabric—which is starting to cool now even as the heat of his piss is still steaming in the air-conditioned room—and tugs his cock out, makes a fist and fucks into it, feeling the piss smear onto his palm and dribble in between his fingers as he jerks fast and hard, and the whole thing is like going over a waterfall, and he comes with Dean's name on his lips, even though he knows Dean would be disgusted if he knew about this.
When he's finally finished, all he wants is a nap, but he knows he doesn't have the luxury, so he forces himself to get up and strip out of his wet clothes, then shower away the evidence—even though he kind of likes the smell and would like to keep it on him to remind him—and then dresses in the clean clothes from his duffle, before stuffing his wet things into a plastic bag. He doesn't bother with the bedspread; he signed in as Horatio Leonard and he paid in cash, so he's leaving the key card on the night table and not coming back.
He walks down to the laundromat in the late-afternoon heat, and it makes the clothes, even tied in the plastic garbage bag, smell more pungent than ever. But all that does is make his dick twitch in his jeans—and he's forgotten to bring an extra pair of underwear, like an idiot, so his cock and balls are chafing against the inner seam as his dick hardens up from the scent memory.
By the time he gets there, it's almost five in the afternoon and he's tired even though he's in excellent shape, because he's walked a couple of miles already and has another three or so to go before he gets back to the other motel. He knows he looks shifty as he begins putting the things in the washer—there's only an old man and an old woman to see, but still—and he stuffs the quarters into the slot and punches the buttons for the heavy-duty cycle before settling in to wait.
By the time the laundry's dry enough to take out and bring home, it's almost seven p.m. and Sam knows that he really has to haul ass now. He fumbles his now clean clothes back into his duffle and walks out into the hazy heat of evening as the sun starts its descent from the sky.
The walk back to the other motel is actually kind of peaceful, even though the seam of his jeans is starting to rub his balls kind of raw; his duffle doesn't feel all that heavy and his orgasm has left behind a pleasant all-over glow that doesn't seem to want to dissipate. He figures he probably still looks kind of shifty as he fishes the key card out of his pocket, but before he slides it into the slot, he listens at the door.
It's true the Winchesters can be very quiet when they want to be, especially if they're trying to lie low due to a case, but Sam is a Winchester too and he's trained to pick up on the slightest sound and identify it, and when he doesn't hear anything for a few moments, he slides the key card in until it beeps green and then slips inside.
It's frigid within the room from the a/c, but Sam doesn't shiver because his body is still overheated from the intensity of his climax and the warmth of the evening, even though the cool air does make the sweat covering his skin prickle.
He takes another shower, rinsing himself even better because he swears he can still smell the piss on his skin; he washes his hair thoroughly—he doesn't wash it that often because there usually isn't time—and then when he gets out, he slums it in sweatpants, throwing himself down in front of the television and surfing for anything interesting that might be on.
There's some show about whether a paranormal story is fact or fiction, and while Sam waits for his family to come back, he identifies every false story and every true experience, mostly from his own knowledge of the supernatural.
He falls asleep on the couch with the television on, and as he's dozing, he knows just how good it was to do what he'd done—and he refuses to feel guilty, even though he's sure come the next time he sees his father or Dean—especially Dean—the guilt will come raging back.
xv. leave it in the rearview mirror
Sam always remembered the moments with Dean best, like when he was about five years old and sick with the flu. Dean had been right at his bedside for the entire week he'd been sick, bringing him comic books he'd stolen off store shelves and canned soup he'd conned out of the little old lady down the road.
He'd never complained, not even once, when he smoothed the lukewarm washcloths across Sam's forehead to try and lower his fever. John had been gone for days, hadn't even called to check in, but somehow Dean managed to take care of them both, even though he was still young enough that they both knew he couldn't be caught out as the only person looking after Sam.
And then Sam had worsened, sick to the point that he couldn't get out of bed at all, shivering and achy and almost delirious—Sam knows that his memories of that time, those last couple days before he started to heal, were hazy at best.
But he'd been lying in bed one night, long past midnight because the infomercials Dean had been watching had finally switched over to the coloured bars, and he had been so hot his pajamas were sticking to him with sweat and beneath the blankets felt like an oven. Dean had come over to the bed, his Sam-instinct so acute that he'd known almost before Sam had that Sam was awake.
Sam had been sore all over and feeling sorry for himself that Dean was on the floor in front of the television instead of curled up in bed with him, but as soon as Dean realised he was awake he'd crawled under the covers—"God, you're like a furnace, Sammy"—and patted Sam's little round belly. He'd still been young enough back then that John hadn't expected him to train with Dean yet, to burn away the baby fat that had actually clung to his bones until he was almost thirteen.
Sam had snuggled up to Dean, because in his fevered state he was so hot that even the warmth of Dean's body had felt cool against his flushed and burning skin. Dean had wrapped his arms around Sam and rested his chin on the top of Sam's head, and Sammy dozed for awhile, still trembling in Dean's arms, and then he'd woken up again, suddenly, as if he'd heard a noise that had startled him awake.
After a few moments of querying his body, he'd realised he had to pee, but he was too sick and too weak to even contemplate getting out of bed, so he'd feebly pushed at Dean's chest until those green eyes, reflecting the light of the television, had focused on him.
"Whatsamatter, Sammy?" Dean'd asked, stroking sweaty hair out of Sam's eyes and off his forehead. Sam had wriggled, uncomfortable and his little lips hot, and burrowed up against Dean, barely conscious. He was aware of Dean holding him, and knew that if he didn't get up something would happen, but the fever had been rising and every urge other than the one to seek comfort had been subsumed by the sickness in his veins, up to the point that he still—even to this day—had only the palest shadow of memory of what had happened next.
Dean had scooped him into his arms—and had Sam been more astute he would've questioned, even at five, why Dean was so strong (but he didn't know about monsters yet, of course)—and carried him into the bathroom. He'd efficiently stripped him out of his pyjamas and plonked him in the empty bathtub, and the cool porcelain had felt like heaven against his feverish skin.
Dean had sat down next to the tub and petted Sam's hair, waiting for something—but Sam's head was lolled against the side of the tub, face pressed to Dean's forearm, and he was barely even aware of the trickle at first, followed by the stream as it arced up over his little belly and swirled down the drain.
Dean had never—not in all the years they'd grown up together—mentioned that experience again, but something about it had pierced the fog of Sam's illness and snagged in his memory forever.
He knows, now, if he thinks about it, that Dean had been making it as easy on him as possible—he never could've even sat the toilet, he was so out-of-it, and Dean, always quick to uncover the solution needed in any situation, had figured out that Sam could pee into the bathtub without hurting anything, and then, businesslike as usual, had taken care of the problem without ever once drawing attention to the fact that Sam had essentially peed himself.
Sam's thoughts on that experience now, of course, are very different than they were when he was a child. Mostly because peeing himself by this point has taken on a significance it didn't have—not the same one, anyway—when he was a little kid.
When he'd been finished, Dean had turned the water on, lukewarm mixture, and rubbed his belly down with a cloth, cleaning away the piss and sweat from the fever. When that was done, Dean emptied the bathtub again and rinsed while Sam still sprawled against the side of it, and they'd remained there for hours, Dean never telling Sam he was stiff from sitting on the tile, and Sam practically asleep against Dean's chest.
Every so often, Dean ran the lukewarm water again and wiped Sam down with it, and by the time the sun had started to rise and spill through the little window, Sam's fever was down. Dean had lifted him out of the tub and carried him back into the other room, placing him on the only clean bed—Dean's bed—and lying down beside him, laying a sheet over him to cover his nakedness without putting him in anything too heavy that might make him sweat again.
So Dean probably doesn't even recollect it, but Sam does, and he hasn't said anything to Dean, either. Because what if Dean does remember? What if Dean thinks back on it, and then to when Sam was in high school—well, Sam figures it could go one of two ways: either Dean will think it's his fault that Sam is so damaged, or Dean will be disgusted by what it says about Sam.
Sam rolls over in bed and clutches the extra pillow to his chest, imagining it's Dean in his arms, even though he left Dean in a bar hours ago, chatting up some girl and probably expecting to get lucky.
With Dean's charm—and his luck, ironically enough—he probably would get lucky, which would lead to the same conclusion: Sam in bed, alone, thinking about Dean and thinking about their first kiss, the sloppy way it had burned his lips for weeks afterward, or their last kiss, the way it had preceded the biggest argument he'd ever had with Dean.
It's only been a little over a week since Jess died, and Sam's lying in what is essentially a puddle of misery in his bed, wishing Dean were there with him, wishing that Dean hadn't picked him up from Stanford and not even tried to resume the relationship they'd had before Sam had left.
God, the thought of Dean in that bar sours Sam's stomach to the point where he's actually nauseous. He flips over in bed, taking the pillow with him, and faces the door, wishing Dean would walk through it—alone—and come over to Sam's bed, settle himself on Sam's mattress like he always used to do when he wanted to be irritating, and crowd Sam up against the other side of the bed. Sam would welcome it, even if he fell off the bed like he had when they were teenagers and rough-housing and Dean always won.
Sam hopes that this time won't be the time that Dean brings the girl back to the motel room and pretends that Sam is asleep while he bangs her, but he doesn't really hold out much hope for that, because Dean is vulgar and crass and all the more likely to do something like that.
Christ. Sam buries his face in the pillow underneath his head, inhaling the scent of cheap detergent and feeling the way the cheap cotton abrades his face as he cries, because Dean's not here to mock him for it, or to mock him because he's realised Sam is crying over Dean and not Jess, and that's just fucked up anyway.
Up until Dean had come to pick him up, Sam hadn't even thought about how much he still wanted Dean; he'd been content with Jessica, deeply in love and happy enough that he should've known—with his family and the courses his life always took—that it was all going to end in tragedy.
And now he's alone in the room, the asthmatic wheeze of the air conditioner filling his ears with an annoying hiss, hanging on to a pillow like it might somehow magically become either Jess, who he knows is gone forever, or Dean, who he's pretty sure is not going to kiss him again. The tears drip into the fabric under his cheek and Sam tries not to hate the fact that he really has no-one to blame but himself for the fact that Dean doesn't want him any more.
If he hadn't crapped all over their relationship and run away from his family, Dean might be in here, kissing Sam, reaching into his underwear, using all of his charm and talent and expertise to make Sam feel like the only person in the world who mattered to him.
Sam isn't asleep when he hears the door open and close, and then he listens to Dean brush his teeth, take a piss—and that does funny things to Sam's dick—and come into the main room, fluff up his own pillows and slide in between the sheets with a sharp rustle that makes Sam ache with want.
"Goodnight, Sammy," Dean whispers, and Sam knows that Dean's only saying it because Dean has never—not even once—gone to sleep without saying goodnight to Sam. Sam knows this like he knows his own name, like he knows that his girlfriend is dead, like he knows that listening to Dean piss will inevitably make him hard.
He even knows that Dean probably used to say it every night when Sam was gone, light-years away in Palo Alto.
Sam deserves the loneliness he feels, he knows that now. As soon as Dean's breathing evens out and deepens, Sam begins stroking his own cock to the memory of Dean in the bathroom.
And he knows that he's a freak, and he embraces it, because if he's a freak—well, then Jess was too good for him anyway, and Dean would be better off without him.