Pairing/Characters: wincest (Dean/Sam)
Word Count: ~1000
Warnings: language, incest
Notes: I wrote this because I am in a really, really, bad mood and I thought it might cheer me up. Alas, it did not, but I'm posting it anyway because I do what I want, goddammit. Anyway, it's set pre-series, the summer before Sam goes to Stanford.
See, it’s funny, because you, you tan, and Dean…well, he freckles. It’s funny because he doesn’t like the red splash against his chin, it pisses him off. You don’t have freckles. Your dad doesn’t either. This makes you think that your mom must’ve. You think Dean is like your mother in other ways; in his green eyes, and when your father seems to have none, his kindness.
Dean is brilliant, and shining, and hardened by the world enough that nothing much fazes him. Which is why it’s funny that he doesn’t like the freckles.
You’re eighteen and you want to go college and you think your brother’s the most beautiful person in the entire world. Dean’s twenty-two and Dad said it was a good idea to get a GED so he did, and he’s mad because you’re all in southern Virginia on a hunt and the sun’s painted a brilliant spray of scarlet over his nose.
It’s permanently hot and you can’t help but stare at the trace of sweat curving Dean’s upper lip, glistening over the sharp bow of it. You’re both getting supplies out of an old shed when you turn and push Dean against the wall. You’re kissing your brother and it’s like Heaven for the brief instant that he kisses you back, but then he’s pushing you away and it’s not so good. No, Sammy, he says, and he just keeps saying it over and over until you shout stop it, and then he turns and walks away. You try not to let your gaze fall on the curve of his back but you can’t help it.
You’re eighteen and you’re bigger and broader than your brother and everyone says you’re the smart one. Dean’s twenty-two and he’s almost half a foot shorter than you and he’s smarter than you’ll ever be. If you were really the smart one you wouldn’t have fallen in love with your brother.
But you’re not the smart one, you never have been, and Dean is perfect, so perfect. You learn a lot that summer, the summer before you leave, the summer before you go off to college and pretend to be a real boy, the summer before you learn that you never can be one. You learn how to kill a black dog, and how to shoot the new rifle your father bought, and exactly how much you love Dean. The skin paints your skin a magnificent shade of golden-brown. (You didn’t stay in southern Virginia for longer than average, but you just kept going south. It’s hot and bright, always, and everyone smells of sweat.) Dean freckles, like he always does, and his face seems to get harder that summer. The lines become strong, somehow. He’s losing his innocence, maybe, if he had any left to lose. You don’t. Or maybe you do, because part of you doesn’t think that loving Dean is really so wrong at all.
You wake up to sun-streaked mornings from dreams of Dean, dreams where you bury your nose in his sun-burnt neck, feeling the soft rub of his stubble, kissing over his cheeks. You heart swells with so much love that you think it’ll burst, but you need to have it so you can hold it there when you go away to school. You’ll be studying out of books and Dean’ll be learning all he needs to know from the road. You’ll miss that; the long car rides, and Dean. You’ll miss Dean so much it hurts, but that was never in question.
You won’t miss your father, you won’t miss the way he treats you. The way he treats Dean. The way his eyes glaze over when he looks at either of you, like he’s seeing your mother in your place and he just needs to fight to get to her. Dean doesn’t do that, Dean looks at you like you matter, because to him you do.
Neither of you bring up the kiss behind the shed so you don’t talk about it. Dean looks at you sometimes and you think he’s remembering it from the shape of the shadow on his brow. You want to reach out and kiss him again in those moments, hold him tight to your chest and breathe in his scent. You can’t, of course. You don’t.
But you let your body brush against his when the space is too tight between you, let you hands linger a little too long when you check him over after a hunt. You have to feel him because you’re going to be going away soon, and you need to memorize him.
Your father doesn’t notice because he’s too busy looking past you into the eyes of the monster that killed your mother. You wish Dean could see this, see how blind John is to him, but at the same time you’re glad he doesn’t. If he did, he wouldn’t be Dean, beautiful, wonderful, Dean, who believes the best of the people he loves even when they don’t deserve it.
He believes the best of you. He believes you can get out of this life, this destiny, make something, anything, for yourself. If Dean didn’t think you could do it you’re pretty sure you couldn’t.
You wish you could give back to Dean what he’s given to you, show him just a tiny taste of the nurture and teaching and protection, the love he’s given you. But you can’t, of course. Sam Winchester, completely fucked up, and you love Dean in the wrong way that doesn’t count.
You are eighteen, a kid, and your brother’s barely older than you, really. You’re two boys against the world, or at least you like to think of yourselves as such. It’s laughable really; like you’ve got any chance against the world. You love your brother and he loves you and it’s summer and you’re leaving soon and God, how did you ever think you could be alright without Dean? It’s summer and the sun is high in the sky and it paints blue-purple shadows across Dean’s face, and you have never wanted to kiss your brother more than you do that summer. You have never loved him more.