Work Text:
You’re too young, Dean wants to say. I’m not rejecting you. I’m just saying not yet.
The words don’t come, so he just holds Sam down with the warm, protective weight of his body until Sam falls asleep, listless, his small hand wrapped around the amulet tucked inside Dean’s shirt.
--
In the morning, Sam squirms under Dean, teenage limbs wrapping and squeezing. "Please," he says. "Dean, please."
"I'll give you anything," Dean says. "But not that."
"Sound like fucking Meatloaf," Sam mutters, pushing him off and heading to the bathroom.
--
Dad can't understand what's wrong with the two of them. He makes them spar, watching as Sam hits out with everything he has. Dean blocks him every single time, his face pinched with something undefinable.
--
Two weeks later, Dean finds Sam in the washroom of a diner, his wrists pinned above his head in a trucker's meaty hand as his little brother writhes and begs, humping the man's leg. Thick lips roam Sam's arched neck, mouth leaving bite marks on the tender skin.
Later, Dean's knuckles are bruised and bloody. But you should see the other guy.
--
"I wanted you to see," Sam says later, stretched out in the back seat of the Impala.
"I know." Dean doesn't look up from his book. Vonnegut is difficult but comforting, welcoming in a way that his little brother is not.
"I'll keep doing it," Sam warns around a yawn. Dean doesn't look in the rearview mirror to see how Sam's limbs stretch with the movement, how his mouth is open wide in invitation.
"You can try," Dean says mildly, turning the page. His knuckles throb, a sweet reminder.