hellfirecondo: (The Devil Inside)
[personal profile] hellfirecondo
You Can't Lie to Me
Sam/Dean. Sam/Jess (referenced). | weecest. incest. underage (unspecified). frottage. language. explicit. power dynamics (not D/s). | NC-17. | 2940 words. | set preseries/season 1. | It's so far beyond jealousy, a knife-stab of sensation through Dean's spine, that he loses his breath for a moment.



When Dean finds out about Jess, when he sneaks into Sam's apartment expecting to find his little brother but finds his little brother plus a super hot chick, Dean's first reaction isn't even jealousy. It's so far beyond that, a knife-stab of sensation through his spine, that he loses his breath for a moment.

See, the thing is, Sammy is Dean's. He doesn't get to do this. He doesn't get to just leave, and hook up with some girl! He tries to be cool, play it off like a man hustling pool pretends to be drunk and insensate and not aware that he might lose hundreds of dollars.

But his breathing won't settle. His mind reels away, again and again, from the idea of those long, tanned legs curved around his brother's back as they twine in bed, her golden skin flashing in the moonlight as Sam moves.

So it's remarkable that he and Sam manage to have a conversation that seems like, at least hopefully to Sam, it's fraught only with the undercurrents of keeping Jessica in the dark about what their dad does and why him being missing so long is a really, really fucking bad thing.

For Dean, though, it's fraught with so much more: the memory of Sammy's curls against his face, tendrils of hair sweat-sticky and catching on Dean's cheeks. Back in those days, things seemed simpler. They weren't, of course. Their dad was a nasty monster hunter, and he had all kinds of tricks and games and training for them. That wasn't the worst of it though. Things weren't simple because from the moment Dean was old enough to understand hard-on, he was thinking Sam.

He held himself in check for a long time, usually by practising the endurance training John had put them both through. Dean always thought it was unfair that Sam had to work just as hard as Dean when he was so much younger, more vulnerable. Dean will never admit that he was even younger than Sam when the training started—he never wanted it for Sam, and when he was pre-puberty, he didn't really understand why.

It wasn't until his first wet dream, when he woke up with the shape of Sam's name on his lips, that he realised just why everything seemed so goddamn difficult.

How do you ever explain, even to yourself, that you can catch just a glimpse of sun-stained shoulder, a curl of dark hair, a sliver of warm-touched limber leg and just like that, you're hard and upright as a fucking fossilized tree?

When Dean took the SATs, and he got to the vocabulary part where one set of words :: another set of words, he always thought of him and Sam that way: Dean : depraved :: Sam : innocent.

No, things could not have been any less simple. What made everything worse, was… was this:

:::


"Dean," Sam almost-whined. He was still all awestruck limbs and hard, bony angles; still starstruck eyes and mop of messy dark hair. He was a hard candy in Dean's mouth, a sliver in his thumb, a rock in his shoe. He was cherry pies melting in the sun, and cotton candy wreathing Dean's lips. He was everything, and he didn't even know it yet.

"Shut up, 'm sleepin'," Dean mumbled back, trying to force his heart rate back under control. The moment Sammy'd climbed onto the bed, his knees barely even depressing the mattress—scrawny little boy-weight still in place despite the new lengths to his bones, the new supple-strength of his skin—Dean had been wide awake and his body had been taut like an elastic band about to snap. The heat of his brother was like sunstroke, like the burn after too many hours outdoors without sunscreen, but that, Dean thought, was probably because Dean was so aware of it.

It wasn't really a surprise when Sam was his sun; wasn't a surprise at all that he'd get burned.

"You are not," Sam said. "I heard your breathing change the minute I walked in here."

Goddamn Dad for teaching the kid fucking everything. It was a damn inconvenience that Sam, moreso even than Dean, had learned every lesson so well he could recite them backwards. He knew what to look for, to listen for; he could probably sense the sweat dampening under Dean's arms and the kick-ratchet to his pulse.

"Well, dimwad, I'm trying to sleep, anyway. Whaddya want?"

"It hurts, Dean," Sam said, and just like that Dean didn't want to sleep anymore. He rolled over, even in the bracket of Sam's thighs, and grabbed Sammy's upper arms and pulled him down so he could see Sam's eyes in the dark.

"What? Did the rifle kickback too hard? Did Dad push you too long running? What hurts, Sam?" Dean asked urgently. Sam's eyes were bright, but not with physical pain; his skin was heated like the sun was beaming through from beneath; but his breathing was measured except for a slight hiccup in the rhythm here and there. Sam didn't seem to be in pain.

"Everything," Sam whispered, and closed the last few inches between their faces. It probably shocked them both when his lips, baby-boy licked lollipop soft, brushed like a secret over Dean's. Dean first realisation was that, somewhere along the line, the simmering pout of his brother's mouth had changed. He hadn't noticed. He was only noticing now because Sam's lips, once child-sticky on his cheeks and chin when they played as little boys, were warm and soft like the best motel sheets, when Dad was flush from a hunt and the credit cards were new and they could stay anywhere they liked.

It didn't last, to Dean's regret and extreme shame. He felt like there was a spotlight on him in the dark after Sam raised his head again. His kid brother… did he even know what he'd just done? Dean was so not going to find out. He was not going down this path; it led straight to handbaskets and pitchforks and he hadn't spent years carefully not looking at Sammy too long to fuck it up now.

"Dude," Dean managed. He shifted on the bed, but Sam's weight was strangely heavier than Dean remembered—he was growing, Dean thought on a gasp. His little brother's limbs were like a doll's on too-tight string, and Dean remembered how much that hurt, the growth spurts that ached and burned in the joints.

Dean was aching and burning for a whole different reason now. Sam slid his knees down the bed, until he was lying flush against Dean, every single bit of them touching. His teeth lit up the dark when he smiled, the little bitch, because that smile was fucking smug like Dad after he'd outwitted them on some test.

"It doesn't hurt anymore, Dean," Sam murmured, and then, everything spiralled away from Dean, fingers grasping for a ribbon of control and just missing as Sam ground his enthusiastic young cock against Dean's erection.

Because yeah, Dean, sick fuck that he was, had been hard from the moment Sam's breath had been close enough to touch.

"What," Dean ground through teeth clenched by arousal, "are you doing?"

"I knew you were hard as soon as I said your name, Dean. Your body can't lie to me. Hell, maybe your body can lie to other people or monsters, but not to me."

Sam was too smart for his own good, and twice as too smart for his age. Little bitch. But Dean knew he didn't really mean it, even in his own mind; his body had given up the ghost of control and was hitching up to meet Sam's pistoning hips, his cock searching for the friction that, despite every girl Dean had ever fucked, it only wanted from Sam. His little brother, for Chrissake. There was definitely something wrong with him.

But just maybe there was something wrong with Sam, too. Maybe whatever it was that was wrong between them had sharp edges that, when smoothed against each other, fit together. Maybe it was right, after all, that Dean wanted Sam, if Sam wanted Dean also.

So Dean grabbed hold tighter of Sammy's biceps and lunged upward with his hips, driving them both up off the bed with the arch of his back, his superior strength taking over what Sam had begun.

He let go, then, wrapped his arms tight around Sam's back like ropes to bind them together forever, and fucked his cock against Sam's until his little brother was panting, body shaking like the vibration of a tuning fork, till Sammy was rutting back with all the finesse of an untrained virgin, which Dean supposed he was.

It went on like that for awhile, Dean's boxers glued to his dick with precome and Sammy's jeans a hard edge that drove Dean's dick wild. Drove his mind right out of his ears, too.

When he came, when he spurted forcefully enough to soak them both, he thought Sam's body couldn't lie to him either, as his baby brother came and came along with him, like a joyride in the Impala, just the two of them, alone—and together.

:::


Now Dean pulls Sam along with only the force of his concern for Dad, his brother following him outside like a toy on a string and the fucked up thing is, Dean's not the one holding the string, even if Sam doesn't know it. No, though, Dean's pretty sure Sam knows exactly everything and that he's just behind Dean on their way down the stairs because he wants to be.

Sam is, he is… well, Dean's body could never lie to Sam, and even if Sam doesn't remember that, doesn't remember that one glorified moment in their lives where, if nothing else, Dean found Sam, then it doesn't matter, because Dean? He remembers. He knows that split-second of time where hearts break, and his did. It wasn't when Sam left for Stanford, either. It was literally in the moment Sam kissed him for the first time. Yeah, Dean was a goner with a fatal wound.

So Dean knows that Sam knows that he's jealous. Dean is hyper-aware of every single step Sam takes, of the way his clothes sound on his lanky body, still filling out; Dean swears he can hear Sam moisten his lips before he speaks.

"What's this about, Dean?" A pause, then Sam says, "What's it really about, and don't try to dissemble, because you know I'll pick it apart until I find the truth."

Goddamn him, really. He whirls around and slams Sam up against a wall, pinning him there with his forearm braced against Sam's throat. Sam swallows and just the feel of his Adam's apple swelling against Dean's arm makes him hard as fuck.

"Jessica?" Dean says, but it's not really a question, because the question is too embarrassing to ask, and too much of a chick-flick moment: How could you leave me for her? I thought you wanted us. I thought you'd be mine forever.

"Dean," Sam says, and it's knives in his mouth. Sam doesn't sound like Sammy anymore. He doesn't sound like the lover Dean had in his formative years, the one that got away and all that. He sounds like an adult with a regular girlfriend, an apartment, and a college education in the making.

But those are all things Sam's not. God-fucking-no, Sam is none of those things, Sam is Dean's, even if he doesn't fit into that shape in Dean's life anymore.

"Sammy," Dean replies evenly, his voice perfectly steady. But it's a lie and they both know it, and Sam's not afraid anymore, apparently, of feelings.

"Can't lie to me, Dean," Sam says, as serene and comfortable with Dean compressing his throat as if he were sitting on a beach somewhere drinking a Pina Colada (which is totally the type of girly fucking thing Sam would drink). "You sound cool like a drink of ice water, but your heart is pounding right through your chest, isn't that right? Your body doesn't lie to me." And then Sam surges forward, strong enough to break out of Dean's grip and shove him up against the opposite wall, but instead of pinning him violently the way Dean did to him, Sam pins him in the worst way possible: like needles through a butterfly's wings, Sam kisses him.

This is so different from when they were teenagers that Dean can't breathe. It's so goddamn dirtybadwrong, but not because Sam's his brother, but because suddenly, for the first time ever, Dean doesn't have control, or all the answers, or well, anything. He's lost in a maelstrom of Sam's mouth and teeth and tongue, buffeted against the tide of a body that's larger than his, taller than his, and stronger than his.

And goddamn but that pitches Dean right off into the deepest part of that ocean of wrongness, because when he was the taller one, the stronger one, it was up to him what they did, and he led the way because he knew more, had more experience.

Sam doesn't need him anymore. It's this kiss that drives that home like a stake to his heart. This is the answer to the question that is Jessica, and when Sam breaks the kiss and leans back, a quirk on his lips, Dean ducks his head down. Sam put him in his place, all right.

Even so, his dick's throbbing fit to burst every blood vessel in it and he wants Sam's lips back, the smooth-rough-smooth slide of them, the rasp of stubble against his cheek and chin. But no. Sam's kiss is an answer, not a promise; it's an ending, not a beginning, and Dean has to understand that. Has to accept that.

Even more than when he said goodbye to Sam before he left for Stanford, Dean knows that this is Sam's way of telling Dean he needs to let Sam go. That he can't have him anymore.

Dean gulps and Sam steps back, giving him space. They don't speak about it again, just go through the motions—or at least, Dean does—of tracking the case, trying to find Dad.

Dean hates every second of that time with Sam, something he didn't think was possible. He hates it because he knows Sam's going back: back to her, back to a law interview, back to a regular life that doesn't include sneaking kisses in the back of the Impala when she's parked and Dad's snoring in the front seat; or aborted grabs for each others' junk while in ratty motel rooms; or Sam learning to shave Dean before he ever learned—or needed—to shave himself.

He hates himself, too, because when Sam kissed him that first time so long ago, Dean had thought it was a promise. He'd thought it was the start of something that wouldn't, couldn't, end; now Sam is sitting in the passenger seat with a flashlight and Dad's journal and some kind of candy between his lips and that's something that Dean can never have again.

When Dean leaves Sam at his apartment, he figures it's over. He figures that there's never any going back for him, so he'll hunt till he gets killed on one, because Sammy killed him first in every way that matters.

He doesn't expect the frantic, anguished phone call. He doesn't know he's going to pick Sam up until he's there, not because he wouldn't, but because he was already driving back on instinct and got there before his mind even connected the dots.

That first night, in the somnolent darkness, Sam's breathing a hitch in every beat of Dean's heart, he's lying there, stone-cold stiff on the bed and wide awake, and then all of a sudden, Sam's there, his knees on the bed, his eyes shining in the streetlight glow from a crack in the shabby curtains, and boyfuck, does he depress the mattress now.

There are tears on Dean's lips when Sam touches their mouths together. Tears falling like a soft rain on his face when Sam says, "Your body is the only part of you that doesn't lie, Dean," and kisses him like something feral and starving, like something they'd hunt in the woods, only Dean would never do that, because this is Sam.. Samsamsam.

All too quickly the tears dry and leave sticky tracks of salt on Dean's face and he's not even sure anymore who was crying, him or Sam. There are frantic kisses in the dark and fumbling with each other's belt buckles and zippers and then the hot, burning slide of two dicks jacking together with too much friction and not enough smoothness.

Finally, when Sam's breath exhales on a rush that bathes Dean's face in damp warmth that will only ever make him think of his brother, when his brother's cock, so thick and huge now, jerks and spatters him with come, Sam says,

"So, Jessica."

It doesn't make any sense, not really, but Sam's lying on top of him, only keeping from crushing Dean by bracing himself on his elbows, and Dean really gets it.

Sam's body could never lie to Dean, either. He's his. Sam has always been his.

And he always will be.

END.

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