They developed a routine after a while: Dean would give him a ride to school, then head off to the yard, to work, always there to pick him up after school got out in his beloved Chevy Impala, the distinctive growl of the engine greeting Sam every afternoon as he tripped down the white stone steps of Chilcott Academy. He didn’t know how Dean managed it, how he always managed to be there when Little Stevie liked to have him around all the time, but Dean was always there, and when he asked, Dean just shrugged, said, “Whatever, he owes me some goddamn favors, don’t you fuckin’ worry none ‘bout that.”
Dean would drive him back to the yard; let him hang out in Little Stevie’s backroom or at the boxing club. Afterwards, they’d head home, have dinner before Dean went out again, usually till late, doing Little Stevie’s bidding. No matter how late Dean came home, Sam was always still awake, incapable of sleeping even now without Dean in bed beside him. Dean felt guilty, didn’t like leaving Sam every night for so long, but the house was safe, everyone knew who lived there, and all the other guys were around them. So Sam would read to pass the time, anxiously darting a look at the clock if it got to 2am and Dean still wasn’t back.
One memorable night Sam was surprised by Dean getting back early, not even 10pm when he heard the door slam shut, the sound of his brother swearing and stumbling around the kitchen, glass shattering.
He came down the stairs, pushing his hair out of his face, to see Dean standing half naked in the middle of the kitchen, his blood-soaked shirt pressed up against a jagged looking wound, high up on his left shoulder.
Sam gasped out loud, feeling tears spring to his eyes as Dean spun around, eyes going wide and panicked when he spotted Sam.
“It ain’t – it’s worse than it look, man,” Dean stammered quickly. “I’m still standin’, Sam, I’m okay. You should see the other motherfucker cause he sure ain’t, made damn fuckin’ sure of that, bitch grazed me is all.”
Sam shook his head, tears blurring. “You should be in the hospital,” he said.
Dean shrugged painfully, dropped into a chair, “C’mon, you know better than that, that shit ain’t gonna happen. Poh-lice motherfuckers will be all over our asses if I do that. You know that.”
Sam blinked at him and felt something harden inside him, an undiscovered tough streak suddenly waking up, like that moment in The Godfather when Michael Corleone stands outside the hospital with Enzo the Baker, ready to do anything to protect his father, his family.
“A-ight, let me look,” he ordered.
Slowly, Dean dropped his hand, the blood-stained shirt, revealing the seeping gash.
“Can you fix it?” he asked, biting his lip and fixing Sam with a desperate sort of a look. “I, uh, I got the first-aid kit, but, I don’t think I can do it on my own, man.”
Sam nodded thoughtfully, looking closely at the wound, where the bullet had grazed his brother’s skin. He’d done first aid at school and at Riverside Court. It had been kinda necessary, vicious fights were a daily occurrence and he’d seen Dean being stitched up by the supervisors plenty of times; he knew what to do. He could do this. He could feel it with a stark sort of clarity, he could do this, do anything for Dean.
He raised his eyes, meeting Dean’s watery gaze and nodded again, “Yeah. I can do this.”
Dean smiled in relief, patting his arm clumsily, “Good boy.”
He sterilized the needle carefully, letting Dean finish off the bottle of whiskey as he threaded it with the suture thread. He got Dean to sit directly under the bright bare bulb and got to work cleaning the cut first, using the iodine in the kit, feeling Dean tremble and wince with pain under his fingers.
His stitches weren’t great, kinda clumsy, but they’d hold and he’d done it, he’d patched up his brother, he’d really done it. Fourteen fucking years old.
Dean staggered away into the bathroom when he was done, drunk and swaying. He braced his hands on the sink and stared at himself in the mirror, his white pale face and sweat drenched hair.
“Shit, that looks – that looks awesome, man,” he whispered incredulously, catching Sam’s eye in the mirror as he came close. “You – you’re fuckin’ incredible, Sammy.” He leaned down, placed a kiss on Sam’s cheek. “Amazing,” he whispered.
Sam wanted to stay home the next day, make sure Dean was alright, but Dean wouldn’t hear of it, insisted he’d be fine.
“S’only a flesh wound,” he shrugged. Sam rolled his eyes and Dean grinned cheerfully, crying out: “Get to school!” in that obnoxious voice that was a (bad) impression of Mrs. Binder, one of the old supervisors at Riverside Court.
So he went to school. He had to take the bus there and back so it was later than normal by the time he got home. To his annoyance, when he did finally get back Dean wasn’t alone. Beano, one of Little Stevie’s guys, was standing in front of the refrigerator and helping himself to the remains of the lasagna Dean had cooked two days ago.
“Sup, short-round,” he greeted him. Sam glared at him and Beano snorted into his mouthful of food. “Man, this shit good, yo!” he cried, spitting cheese and pasta all over the place as he talked, “Yo’ brother make this? Or you?”
“Dean made it,” Sam said shortly.
Beano snorted again, another spray of marinara sauce and Sam wrinkled his nose. He heard the ceiling creak above him and immediately turned around to head upstairs – to Dean’s – no, their room. Dean was sitting up in bed where Sam had left him, bare-chested with the dressing he’d applied still perfectly in place, and Little Stevie was perching on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping precariously under his substantial weight, one of his hands resting on the outline of Dean’s thigh through the thin sheet.
Sam bit back on the rise of bile to his throat, the resentment and anger at Little Stevie being here – in this room – in their room – invading their private, special place, so close – too fucking close – to Dean. He could tell by the way that Dean was sitting that Dean wasn’t happy about it either, could see it in the quick look Dean gave him when he came in, the warning in his eyes. Sam kept his mouth closed, greeted Little Stevie cheerily, that fake, shy charm he could put on.
“You look after our boy, Sammy,” he wheezed as he got slowly to his feet, rolls of fat shifting. He leaned down, puffing out a long breath, meaty fingers cupping Dean’s face with the kind of soft reverence that was really out of place in a 300-pound murderer and crime boss. Dean smiled up at him, that soft-eyed, demure look of his that Sam recognized as completely fake.
“How you feelin’?” Sam asked after they’d gone.
Dean shrugged, pulled a face, “Fine. He said I don’t have to come back for a week, left me that.” He nodded towards the dresser, the thick roll of bills.
Sam picked it up and started to count. “Christ, Dean, there’s, like, $10,000 here. He left you all this?”
Dean glanced up at him, a small muscle twitching at the edge of his mouth, ignoring the question. “Take it, man, do whatever you want with it. It yours.”
Sam knew exactly what he wanted to do with the money. He’d been figuring out, reading up, researching and exploring… he had some investments in mind, knew that he could double, triple the money, if he could only figure out how to get it into the bank without attracting any unwanted attention. Bank accounts and investments were not done on the Westside; this was strictly a cash-only neighborhood. Sam knew from Dean that most of Little Stevie’s money lived in the safe in his home and in his office, at the yard. It was the world they operated in; they distrusted banks, and as for online investing or online banking, forget it, most of Little Stevie’s guys, including Little Stevie himself, had never even touched a computer.
But he and Dean were gonna break of out this world, unlike the guys around them, the kids they grew up with, he and Dean had a future. They were gonna get the fuck out of this piece of shit neighborhood, get an apartment downtown, by the Harbor, a loft, he thought, the word, the concept completely foreign to him, but the word enough to inspire daydreams.
Dean had three different fake ID’s, three different social security numbers. One of Little Stevie’s associates, some old Latino guy called Stretch had fixed them all up for him. Stretch was one of Little Stevie’s closest associates, so-called cause he’d done a stretch with him up at Jessup years earlier, and what he didn’t know about fraud wasn’t worth knowing. It was easy for Sam to come along to Little Stevie’s backroom on Friday night, at a time he knew both Little Stevie and Dean would be out together, Dean driving the big boss – the king – around in his favorite SUV, like he did every week, making the tour of his clubs and his corners.
“I need a bank account,” Sam explained to Stretch, “for Dean, in his name. Well, probably two accounts, at least, maybe more. We don’t wanna attract the wrong sorta attention. But I gotta have access to it.”
The old guy watched him closely, sucking on his thin cigarette, “A-ight, and what I get for doin’ this shit fo’ you, kid?”
Sam regarded him steadily, then took a breath and said, “You get for us to owe you a favor – me an’ Dean. If this work out – then me and Dean, we’re gonna be rich, real fuckin’ rich, and I know you wanna piece of that action.”
“A-ight, say I’m in, what do I say to the big guy?”
Sam shrugged, “We’ll let him in when the time’s right.”
Once the money was in the bank, it was easy; Sam had the codes and passwords to move the money – the $10,000 Dean had given him. Only six months later, he was opening up his laptop screen, showing Dean the row of digits in their bank accounts.
“This is what we have now, what I made with the ten thousand you gave me,” he told Dean, watching his brother’s mouth fall open, turning to stare at him with shock and amazement.
“Jesus Christ, man, this for fuckin’ real?”
Sam smiled so hard his facial muscles ached as he nodded at Dean, “Yeah, yeah, Dean, and we can make more. What you get, we put it in here and I can, man, I can fuckin’ double it, triple it. For us, Dean, me an’ you.”
Dean nodded, gulping as his eyes locked on Sam’s, “You’re fuckin’ incredible, Sam.” He pulled him into his arms and Sam sighed happily, pressing his mouth up against Dean’s pulse, layering kisses along his jaw line and throat. He tipped his head back and stared up into Dean’s eyes.
“I ain’t nothin’ without you. You made this in the first place, you do everything for me, you take care of me. I gotta return the favor, I’m gonna step up, we’re gonna be partners, Dean.”
He kept his promise to Stretch, Dean took him along to Little Stevie only a couple of weeks later, desperate to boast to the fat guy about what his little brother could do, how much more money he could make him.
Little Stevie regarded the two of them shrewdly. “A-ight, I want Sammy here, every Friday night, he and Stretch workin’ the accounts. Don’t want no other motherfucker involved. Just us four at the table. Y’all feel me?”
Dean exchanged a quick look with Sam, then they both nodded, in synch, Stretch looking up from his place at the table with his own cool, assessing nod.
“Good,” said Little Stevie slowly, “this change things, yo. If Sammy can make us money like this, real fuckin’ money, then maybe I gotta think ‘bout movin’ the business into more legitimate terri-tory. We gotta meditate on this, Deano.”
Sam gained over 25 pounds and barely grew an inch in the six months after he turned fifteen. He’d always been a chubby kid and their diets had always been pretty shitty, even by Riverside Court standards. Dean tried his best, but the only meals he knew how to cook were bacon and sausage, fried chicken, pancakes and waffles and heavy pasta dishes one of the adult supervisors at Riverside Court had taught him as part of a mandatory Food Education course he’d taken before being granted guardianship of Sam.
After Dean started working most nights, Sam would sit up at the kitchen table and study, munching anxiously on chips and cookies and huge sodas as he waited for Dean to get back, unable to get to bed until he’d heard Dean’s key in the lock. Dean would often come back with bags of take-out; fried chicken and burgers, fries and Chinese food, and Sam would help him finish it, unable to stop himself, the greasy food sitting heavy and unwanted in his gut when he finally went to bed.
Dean could afford to eat like that because Dean trained so often, still fought most weekends at the club, he worked out diligently while Sam was at school; he went for runs around the block, sometimes going as far as the Harbor where the rich folk lived. Sam would watch him strip off after a run and feel a surge of lust and envy deep in his gut, he wanted so much to look as good as Dean, to be worthy of him, but he wasn’t, he was short and pale and pudgy, so he hid his embarrassing, chubby body, under extra large T-shirts and basketball shirts that Dean bought him. And Dean didn’t seem to notice the extra weight, still pulled him into his arms, into his lap, placing kisses over his plump cheeks and soft dimpled shoulders, ground his dick up against his ass and sunk his fingers into his fleshy belly when they lay together in bed. It was a relief that Dean still loved him, that Dean didn’t care how he looked, Dean loved him because he was Sam, because he was “my Sammy, my brother”, or so Dean would whisper into his ear.
And really, that was okay because he loved Dean for the same reasons, because he was his Dean, his brother, the other half of himself. But he also wanted Dean, desired him above anything or anyone else. When he looked at Dean, when he got to watch him shower, get unchanged, his mouth would water, arousal tightening up his balls and making his dick hard. Dean was so beautiful, so desirable, everyone wanted him; Sam could see it in all their faces, the admiration and lust from the girls who watched him fight, who flocked around him, from Little Stevie, always standing just that little bit too close, always touching him somewhere: proprietarial hand on his shoulder, his arm, eyes running over him greedily when he spoke.
It made Sam angry to see it, jealousy burning up in his gut, but he knew he couldn’t say anything; Little Stevie was their benefactor, Dean’s boss. Anyway, he should just be grateful that he had Dean at all, that Dean even wanted to touch him.
“I was thinkin’,” Dean said one morning, as they ate breakfast together, before Sam left for school. “We should get some equipment in the basement, like. I know Greg wants to get rid of some of the old punch bags, the runnin’ machine? Whatcha think? We could fix it up down there, our own home gym. Completely private, man, space for us to work out together.”
Sam glanced across at him, surprised; Dean was watching him closely, eyes wide and genuine, that usual mixture of fondness and concern in his face.
“I know you don’t wanna join the club, Sam, or work out there, but I think you should learn to fight. I’ll feel better if I knew you could handle yourself.”
Sam swallowed and nodded, feeling overwhelmed. “I, um, I dunno, Dean,” he mumbled, not daring to meet his brother’s eyes again. He felt acutely self-conscious, feeling Dean’s gaze on him, as if for the first time ever, seeing under the huge t-shirt and sweats, assessing him, seeing all the extra shameful flesh.
“Sam, look at me,” Dean said softly. Sam gulped and raised his eyes to his brother’s face. “You gotta know, man, I don’t give a shit how you look, that shit ain’t important to me, so I ain’t sayin’ it cause I think you’re ugly or no kinda bullshit like that, cause you ain’t – you’re my brother. But I think, maybe it’s time you started workin’ out, exercisin’ regular, and I know it’s kinda my fault for not watchin’ what you eat and not sayin’ nothin’, but you’ve gotten kinda big, man, and we, shit, we oughta do somethin’.”
Sam felt the tears well up behind his eyes, shame and embarrassment; he ducked his head, trying to hide his face behind his stupid hair, watching the tears drip onto the newspaper in front of him.
“Sam, no, don’t, man, please don’t cry,” Dean said and he sounded hurt, upset. Sam heard the sound of the chair scraping back and he lifted his head, seeing Dean watching him with eyes so full of love and concern that he just wanted to cry harder, hating himself for upsetting Dean like this.
“C’mere,” Dean said quietly, “c’mere, I want you, please, Sam.” He patted his knees and Sam felt a rush of relief, as he slid out of his own chair and stumbled over to Dean’s.
He sank into Dean’s lap, straddling him, so aware of his own ugly, fat body pressed against Dean’s gorgeous, hard one. He felt Dean’s hand slide down his back, fingers burrowing under the hem of his extra-large t-shirt and he flinched, so self-conscious of everything underneath, of himself. He felt Dean squeeze his waist, strong fingers sinking into the pudgy flesh.
“You know, I don’t mind, fact is I kinda like it,” Dean was murmuring into his ear, against the side of his face, “cause it’s you, you know, all you, makes no difference to me if you get as big as Little Stevie, I’ll still want you, don’t never think that. But it ain’t healthy, baby, and I want you to be healthy. And I gotta know that you can handle yourself when I ain’t around. Ya feel me?” He tilted his head back, eyes meeting Sam’s, everything in his gaze that was love and trust and honesty. Sam nodded, feeling the tears continue to spill down his cheeks, unabated and pathetic. Dean smiled at him and reached up with his hand to thumb away the tears. “So we set up the gym, yo? At home, and I teach you how to fight. And, we’ll be more careful with the groceries, eat better? Okay? You promise me that you gonna try to look after yourself better? Okay, man?”
Sam lost weight quickly, it helped that he finally started to grow up instead of out, shot up three inches in one semester until all his jeans were too short on him, looking comical and exposing strips of ankle. He was relieved, thinking finally that he was gonna be as tall as his big brother. In fact, shortly after Sam turned sixteen, he was nearly topping six foot. His body became more proportional, less round and pudgy, his metabolism speeding up as he grew and exercised regularly, the weight that had dogged him for so many years finally melting away over the next couple of years until when he was seventeen, he was as tall as Dean and okay, not as built or as toned, and in his own eyes, nowhere near as beautiful, but still, not that far off.
He’d agreed to join the club at last, and although he didn’t compete like Dean did, much preferred watching Dean competing than ever getting involved himself, but he wasn’t self-conscious about working out anymore, was happy to strip off his shirt and take his turn in the ring for some practice fights. And it was nice to see the girls who always hung around the place noticing him, after all those years of passing unnoticed, of hiding in the corner with his books, people dismissing him as “Dean’s nerd brother,” they were finally seeing him, and not just seeing him, but admiring him and talking about him.
One morning, when Dean stepped up behind him to get to the sink, he noticed that he was actually taller than Dean, bigger than his big brother. Dean regarded them both soberly in the mirror as Sam grinned euphorically.
“Man, no fuckin’ way,” said Dean with disbelief, “shit, you’re taller than me.” He looked Sam over, eyes lingering as they ran over his naked torso, a glint of wonder and admiration in his expression that Sam had always craved, the kind of admiration that wasn’t love or concern or fondness or affection, but pure, hard lust, like the sensation that buzzed over him when he watched Dean work out.
“Motherfucker, Sam, so fuckin’ hot.”
Sam growled and spun them around, slamming Dean up against the sink with his new-found muscles, bending his head and latching onto Dean’s tongue, sucking it into his mouth as they kissed desperately, that barely restrained need that buzzed under Sam’s skin rising up, forcing him to this: riding Dean down to the ground, pouncing on him, swallowing his cock in one huge mouthful. He felt Dean writhe and moan beneath him, his hands tangled in Sam’s hair, meaningless words and phrases falling from his lips. He came with a cry and Sam swallowed it all down, choking and spluttering as he raised his head, passing the back of his hand over his mouth, his brother’s come smeared over his lips.
“Jesus Christ,” groaned Dean. “Man, you tryin’ to kill me?”
Sam smiled and leaned down, licked into Dean’s mouth, taking him in another bruising kiss, “Now you taste like me,” he murmured. Dean smiled lazily and made a move to get up. Sam put his hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down, shaking his head and smirking, “Nuh-uh, not yet, big brother. First I wanna come all over your pretty face, all over your gorgeous body, wanna cover you in my jizz. You down with that?” He hiked up his eyebrows, watching Dean’s Adam Apple as it bobbed up and down, swallowing convulsively, red flush rising up his chest.
“I'm down with that,” Dean whispered.
“Good boy,” said Sam.
Sam had often wondered about him and Dean, tried to research, to understand just what exactly had gone wrong in their genetic make-up, in their brains, in their upbringing to make them what they were to each other. He couldn’t honestly remember a time in his life when he didn’t want Dean, when he didn’t desire him. His first orgasms, the first time he’d gotten hard, he’d been thinking of his big brother, Dean taught him how to jerk off, Dean was there the first time he did jerk off. And now, at the age of seventeen, Dean was still the only person he’d ever kissed, the only person he thought about when he got hard.
He’d read lots of psychology books over the years, had taken college courses in Abnormal Psychology, had even studied cases of sibling incest, had read every fictional book or seen every movie he could get his hands on that dealt with the subject, but none of them explained him and Dean. The love he felt for Dean was easy to explain: Dean had always been there for him, his protector, his parent, the one, the only constant in his entire life, everything that was good in his life, all the love and affection and security that most kids got from two parents, friends and family members, he got from his brother, so of course he loved Dean. But it didn’t explain the sexual attraction, the desire that burned beneath his skin when he looked at Dean, when he watched him, and it definitely didn’t explain why Dean reciprocated, why Dean felt that way towards him.
He’d never been attracted to girls and had only occasionally felt any attraction towards other guys, and then only when there was something about them - a certain mannerism, way of speaking, green eyes or coffee-colored freckles - just a small something that recalled his brother. Dean had filled up every single space in his heart, his brain, his body, his soul until there was no room for anything else, or anyone else.
He knew that this was weird, that this was wrong, that if people knew about him and Dean and the reality of their relationship they’d think that Dean had been abusing him for all those years, using him for his own perverted pleasure. Already, many of the people who’d known them: other kids in the homes, at Riverside Court, Miss Jeanette, Dean’s crew, found their relationship uncomfortable and unsettling, not that any of them ever dared say anything out loud, but Sam knew that they spoke about it.
Occasionally, Dean would freak out, would talk about how people saw him as an abuser, a pedophile, but it was ludicrous to Sam, Dean had never abused him, had never forced him, the mere idea was totally absurd. He was the one who usually instigated anything between them, who rolled over in the middle of the night and crowded up against Dean, burrowing into him and reaching greedily for his cock, his mouth hungry on Dean’s skin. After Dean’s freak-outs, he’d start dating someone, usually one of the girls from Little Stevie’s clubs, one of the dancers, take them out for a couple of nights – more for show than anything else – sometimes he’d fuck them, always telling Sam about it afterwards as if he was making a confession.
Sometimes he wondered if things would’ve been different if their father had lived. He didn’t remember much about Dad, and got the impression when Dean did talk about him that their life had been weird, even then, he could remember that they’d moved around a lot, lived in motel rooms and rental places instead of a proper house and Dad hadn’t had a proper job like normal dads. When Sam thought about it, he imagined that their dad had been something like a stickup guy, some sort of criminal, someone who operated outside the law, after all, they’d been always moving around and he’d been killed by a police officer. Dean never spoke about that – about what Dad used to do to for a living – he just got all quiet and sad and shook his head, saying, “That shit don’t matter no more, Sam. What we got now – you and me – that’s all that matters.”
So, perhaps, even if Dad hadn’t died, things would’ve still been the same, he and Dean would still love each other the way they do, and that thought, it was comforting. He couldn’t imagine a life where Dean wasn’t everything to him, where he wasn’t everything to Dean; it just was, he thought, they just were.
Sam went on a date for the first time when he was seventeen. One of the students in his Macroeconomics study group, a kid called Joseph, asked him out after class one day. He was four years older than Sam, in his final year of college, while Sam was still technically not yet college age, but then Sam was a genius and was already in his final year of undergraduate study with a place at Law School waiting for him when he graduated.
“I’m, uh, I’m goin’ out tomorrow night,” he told Dean over dinner.
“Yeah? For real? Where?” asked Dean through a mouthful of mac and cheese.
“On a date,” he said slowly, bracing himself for Dean’s reaction.
Dean looked up at him and grinned, “Sammy, man, you sly dog. Who the lucky chick? One of those hot librarian types, yo? With glasses and a fuckin’ bun in her hair.”
“Uh, no, it’s a guy, Dean. His name’s Joseph.”
Dean’s smile wavered slightly, getting fixed and distrustful as he looked at Sam. “Huh. A guy?”
“Yeah, Dean, a guy. Why you lookin’ at me like that?”
Dean shrugged, not meeting Sam’s eye, “Shit, man, jus’ didn’t know you swung that way is all.”
“What?” Sam snorted, “All those times I sucked your cock or you got me off don’t count none?”
Dean looked up at him, eyes widening in confusion, “Well, no, they don’t count. You and me – it, uh,” he hesitated, blushed, “it’s different.”
“Uh-huh,” he nodded slowly, hint of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “A-ight, Dean, you believe what you want. I know what gets me hot.”
Dean didn’t say anything for the rest of the meal, leaving the table in silence to go upstairs and get changed while Sam did the dishes.
“You need me to drive you?” he asked, not looking at Sam as he pulled on his jacket.
“Naw, man, I got my own ride, you know that,” he answered.
Dean nodded and left, still without looking at him.
He felt weird as he got out his own car the following night – one of the SUV’s that had previously belonged to Little Stevie. He drove downtown to the Inner Harbor, the restaurant Joseph had chosen, with an uncomfortable weight in his belly, feeling like he was making some huge mistake.
The restaurant was nothing like he was used to, very civilized and expensive, with waiters who called them gentlemen, serving the sort of food that had never made it to Riverside Court. Joseph asked him lots of questions, about his childhood, about his family, about why he had a burnt patch on the side of his head, and he listened closely to every word, eyes wide and incredulous as Sam told him about Riverside Court, about life in their neighborhood.
“Dude, it’s just – I never had any idea,” he said admiringly, “but, seriously, you can’t tell, without you telling me, it’s not immediately obvious that that’s what you come from.”
Sam didn’t know whether to feel flattered or offended by the remark. The guy was trying to be complimentary, but there was so much of him that was rooted in the Westside, and Dean – Dean was the Westside, as Little Stevie’s number two, he was practically running it now, and Sam could never deny or hide that part of himself, though he did hide it, changing his voice, his accent everyday as soon as he drove past Charles Street.
“So, is it – is it just like the stories you read in the newspapers? Is it dangerous living there?”
Sam shrugged, thinking about all the times Dean had come home with blood on his clothes, the gun Dean always carried tucked into the inner pocket of his leather jacket, the rolls of dirty greasy bills and pounds of product that passed through Little Stevie’s backroom under his own watchful eye. A couple of weeks ago, he and Dean had attended the funeral of Doobie, a kid who’d driven for Dean, one of Dean’s crew. Dean had been there when he’d been killed, had come home that night with blood under his nails, his eyes blank and red as he finished off the fifth of Beam at the kitchen table. A shoot-out over on 8th, he’d told Sam eventually, he’d been lucky, had gotten two of their guys, but Doobie’s luck had run out.
“Stupid-ass motherfucker never fuckin’ knew when to duck, always hadta wear that dumb fuckin’ hat, I done told him, man, ya gonna ‘tract attention, and he did, man, he did… Damnit, Sam, he, like, seventeen years old, he's your age. I jus’ kept thinkin’, as he was bleedin’ out, fuckin’ blood all over my hands, kept thinkin’ you the same age as Sammy, you dumb motherfucker… Shit, man.”
He dropped his head into his hands and Sam leaned in, resting his cheek against the bow of Dean’s shoulder blades, curling one arm around Dean’s neck, pulling him in close.
“That ain’t never gonna be me, Dean,” he whispered, “cause me and you, we’re gonna get outta this place, we’re gonna make good, get one of those huge-ass apartments downtown, one of them fuckin’ loft apartments they’re advertisin’, down by the fuckin’ harbor. That’ll be us, man. Me and you.”
Dean didn’t say anything, his breath hitching as he twisted in Sam’s embrace, pulling him in painfully tight, pressing their mouths together, taking Sam’s in a brutal kiss. They fucked right there, on the kitchen floor, the greasy, dirty kitchen floor, Dean pounding into him, hard and fast and ruthless, the two of them on their knees in the dirt and dust, Dean’s hand on his cock.
Afterwards, he slumped back against Dean, asshole throbbing, dick chafing from Dean’s rough fingers. He felt the words as Dean spoke, whispering them into his skin, “Never leave me, promise me, that ain’t never gonna be you.”
“Never,” he said, voice so true and sure, turning to take in his brother’s face, the too-close blur of his features, “never, Dean. Me and you, always.”
They went to Doobie’s funeral, two of only three white guys there, and the other had been one of Doobie’s old middle school teachers. He stood by Dean’s side in their suits; the two of them flanked by Dean’s other crew members. Little Stevie on the front row, two chairs to take his weight, Doobie’s mama beside him, wailing into her hands, her cries getting wild and pitiful when they lowered the coffin into the grave.
He turned back to Joseph, who was watching him with blatant interest, eyes wide. Joseph would never get all that, would just write Dean off as a criminal, a murderer, a guy who sent teenage boys to their deaths, but that was the Game, and people like Joseph didn’t get that if you lived in their world, you played the Game or you curled up and died.
“It’s like being two different people,” he said slowly, “at home, it’s different, I talk differently and act differently – I pretty much have to, you know, and out here,” he shrugged, raising his hand to take in his surroundings, “at school, whatever, I’m someone else.”
“Like Bruce Wayne and Batman?”
Sam smiled at him, “Well, not that cool, and I don’t have a freaky obsession with bats, but if I started talking in school like I do at home, well, I wouldn’t ever have passed the fucking admissions, whatever my test scores were. But whatever, honestly, if you talk right, you act right, say the right shit, then that’s all it takes.”
“Well, I think, you’re just – you’re incredible, you know,” the guy said, blushing slightly, “you’re like an inspiration, dude. And you know, you’re so fuckin’ smart, I couldn’t believe it when you said you were only seventeen.”
They went for a walk afterwards, Sam taking surreptitious glances at the guy’s profile in the white light, trying to figure out if what he was feeling was genuine attraction or if it was just the effect of the evening – his first real date – good food and wine, God, he'd barely drunk wine before, and real conversation with someone who wasn’t Dean. He’d had so few friends over the years, always been too smart and too white for the kids at Riverside Court and at his old high school, he’d never fitted in liked Dean had managed to do. And then afterwards, at Chilcott, he still hadn’t fitted in, the whole place so alien to him, surrounded and intimidated by all these super-smart kids with money that didn’t come from organized crime.
“Hey,” Joseph said suddenly. Sam stopped and looked at him, saw him draw closer, raising his hand to Sam’s neck, pulling him down into a kiss. Sam closed his eyes and kissed him back. It was hard to rate whether it was good or not, different was the only word Sam could think of, different because it wasn’t how Dean kissed and he’d only ever kissed Dean before, was practically a virgin.
He was about to kiss Joseph again when he felt the guy being wrenched away from him. He snapped his eyes open just in time to see Dean dragging Joseph away and flooring him with one solid left hook to the jaw.
For a second, Sam was frozen in shock, then abruptly, he came back to life, glanced around him wildly: Dean’s crew – J-Boy, Beastie, Wallace, Grimes and Cracker were ringed around them, watching and cheering on Dean as he pounced on Joseph’s prostrate body, straddling him, hands locking around his throat, eyes wild, spittle flying from his lips as he screamed: “You get yo’ motherfuckin’ faggoty hands offa my brother, you dirty-ass cocksucker! You don’t getta touch him! Fuckin’ nobody get to touch him!”
Sam watched, frozen to the spot, chest rising and falling with panted breaths, eyes locked on the expression on his brother’s face, the unrestrained violence and ferocity Dean usually managed to hide from him. He felt the heat swell up in his gut, tight and hard and wanting, wanting Dean so much, this crazy, deranged version of his brother who was fucking killing this guy, who would seriously put him in the fucking ground just because – because he’d seen him kissing his little brother.
He could feel his cock now, hard as fucking steel in his boxers, pressing against the seam of his best jeans as Dean took a swing, prize-winning fist connecting wetly with Joseph’s nose and lips, blood smeared on Dean’s knuckles. J-Boy finally made a move, pulled on Dean’s arm, helping him to his feet as Dean staggered, chest heaving as his eyes met Sam’s, black and burning into Sam’s skull. Sam watched, gulping, still speechless as Dean fumbled in his jacket, pulled out a wad of bills, letting them scatter to the ground around Joseph’s body.
Dean gasped for breath, snarled out: “Deal with this! Leave him outside the fuckin’ ER; I don’t wanna hear nothin’ about it. Y’all feel me?”
His guys nodded, muttering cursory, “Yes boss.”
Dean nodded, barked out: “Sam! We leavin’!”
They walked to where Sam had left his car, Dean leaning over to snatch the keys from Sam’s hand.
“I’m drivin’,” he snapped out, and Sam swallowed, still not daring to speak. They got inside the car and Dean heaved out another long breath, clenched his fingers around the wheel. Slowly he turned, looked at Sam in the face, “Sorry, ‘bout your boy.”
“He ain’t my boy,” said Sam quietly. “Fuck, Dean, you know that.”
Dean’s mouth twisted up, “Guess I really screwed up.”
“You didn’t kill him, didja?”
“Hell, no, I ain’t that fuckin’ stupid.” He sighed heavily, “I just – fuck, man, seein’ you with that faggot, it just – it just broke me, yo. I can’t deal with seein’ you with some other dude. You’re mine, Sammy.”
“I feel you,” said Sam quietly, “when you go out, fuck those girls, it makes me so mad, Dean, like; I can’t fuckin’ bear it, neither. You get that now, right?”
Dean gave him an uncomfortable smile, “Yeah. I’m sorry. Never really thought ‘bout that, ‘bout you bein’ jealous.”
Sam took a breath then shifted along the bench seat, coming closer to Dean, he put out one hand, resting it gently on Dean’s cheek, he turned his face until they were looking at each other. “Let’s make a deal. No one else, okay? No-one else. Just you and me.”
Dean nodded, relief flooding his eyes, “Okay, okay, yeah, Sam, yeah.”
“Good,” he said with a smile, “now kiss me.”
When Sam was twenty, two important things happened to him: he graduated from Law School, and he and Dean killed Little Stevie.
They planned it all beforehand. It was the last step, they had the money, and Dean had the better crew – smarter guys who were all completely loyal to him, because afterwards, after they finished Little Stevie, there’d be fallout. There was always fallout when the king fell, but they would win, because they were smarter and they had more money.
Sam was in the backroom at the yard, the same regular Friday night appointment he’d had for six years. He counted the money as he’d always done, making mental calculations about where he was going to put it, which account, which investments they could move around this time. Little Stevie and Stretch sat across from him, watching carefully, eyes greedy as they took in the piles of dirty, crumpled green strewn across the desk, laptop between them as Sam checked their portfolio, trying to avoid looking at the clock, every nerve and muscle tense and expectant.
At 12am exactly, just as they’d planned, Dean came in.
Little Stevie looked up in surprise, “Dean, what you doin’ here? Everything okay, yo?”
Dean’s expression was blank, nothing showing in his face.
He turned to Stretch, said, “You can stay or you can go, but my advice is that you get the fuck outta here.”
Stretch looked at Dean, then turned his eyes onto Sam, Sam carefully kept his face blank, fingers still methodically counting out the stack of bills in front of him. Silently, he felt Stretch push out his chair, get to his feet, tread heavy as he left the room, door closing ominously behind him.
“Deano? What the fuck goin’ on? What you at, man?” asked Little Stevie.
“It time,” Dean said, no emotion in his voice, his face that same blank mask.
Little Stevie’s expression shifted, confusion etching into the fleshy rolls. “Deano? Sammy? What the fuck?”
There was no suspicion in his gaze, just bewilderment, an almost child-like bewilderment, Sam thought. Little Stevie trusted them, trusted Dean ever since he was sixteen years old, trusted Sam to make him more money than he deserved, and Sam had done that and now, it was their turn.
“You gotta answer,” said Dean flatly. “You gotta answer fo’ what you done to me.”
“I… no! What?” he protested. “Dean, no, I gave you everything, boy. I favored you ‘bove all others, you a white-boy and it ain’t matter none, not to me, you know that. You were like a son to me. You were the one, Dean.” He licked his lips, voice getting high and wheezy. “You know that.”
Dean shook his head, his expression hard, face unreadable and cold.
“A son?” he spat, “I was the kid who sucked your old, wrinkled cock, let you fuckin’ touch me. Is that the kinda shit a son do fo’ his daddy?”
Sam flinched, his whole body freezing up, he glanced up wildly, eyes searching for Dean, wanting, needing to see the denial in his brother’s eyes, the lie.
“No,” he whispered, “that ain’t true. Dean? Tell me that ain’t true.”
Dean’s face folded up, lips trembling and eyes going watery as they met Sam’s, “I’m sorry, Sammy. It true,” he whispered.
Sam nodded, his insides twisting up, a cold, hard burn of something rising up his gut, true and blazing and terrifying. He got to his feet slowly, chair clattering, falling to the floor behind him. He slid out his gun from his waistband, rounded the table, his eyes locked on the top of Little Stevie’s head, on the intricate weave of his dreadlocks. He pressed the muzzle up against the size of his face.
“You’re a dead man,” he said calmly. “And you’re gonna pay. I’m gonna hurt you so fuckin’ much.”
He stared down at this guy, the rage burning inside him, cold and huge, bile at the back of his throat, at this guy – this monster – that had done that to his brother, that had touched his brother. He felt an inhuman wave of calm come over him, cold-blooded and merciless, he was gonna make him hurt: never mind his gun, that was too fucking quick, he needed to hurt him, put his hands around his neck, his own big hands that had touched Dean’s body so many times, that had skated over Dean’s skin, caressed him and loved every fucking inch of him, and this – this enormous, obese monster – had been there too, had touched Dean, had stained him. His Dean, his brother. No one… no one got to touch Dean.
“You’re a dead man,” he repeated, his voice breaking, cracking at the words, emotion hissing through the consonants. “You gonna hurt. No one touches him, no one, ‘cept me.”
He could feel the guy trembling through the muzzle of his gun, see his useless fat fingers flexing on the table, and he suddenly remembered that kid – Ryan – all those years ago, he and Dean together, carving his initials into his ass.
“Sam,” Dean said quietly, “we gotta stick to the plan, remember the plan.”
“Fuck the plan!” he snarled. “He’s gonna pay, Dean, he’s gonna hurt for what he did to you – he’s gonna feel pain! Let me hurt him.”
“Sammy!” Dean said, and this time it was an order, he met Sam’s eyes, “No, we do this my way. We do it together.”
“Dean,” pleaded Little Stevie, “Anything, yo’ can have anything you want. The money? The business, take it all. It’s yours, Dean. All yours.”
“You used me,” said Dean quietly, “you abused me.”
“I love you!” cried out Little Stevie, and he was crying now, fat, ugly tears rolling down his fat, ugly face, shaking, quivering mountains of flesh. “I would never hurt you, Dean, I love you.”
Dean’s mouth twisted up; he looked sickened, his entire face scrunching up and crumpling as the fat man kept blubbering, pleading and begging, that thin, wheezing voice, over and over again. Sam stared at his brother, lowered his gun and in one, two steps, he was beside Dean, raising his hands to cradle his brother’s face, staring directly into his eyes, his beloved, familiar face.
“Dean, baby, it’s okay. Together, okay? You and me.”
Dean nodded, eyelashes fluttering, eyes seeking Sam’s, mouths coming together, a quick, hard kiss. Sam pressed their foreheads together, sharing breaths.
“You ready?” he whispered.
He felt Dean’s nod, heard his quiet, “Yeah,” as they pulled apart.
Dean’s eyes were red, watery and locked on him. Sam smiled at him, raised his gun, Dean’s arm was around him, right hand over Sam’s own, fingers entwined as they held the gun in place, Sam’s favorite pearl-handled Colt.
They pulled the trigger together.
Six years later…
July, 17, 2009
Dean was lying on their enormous leather corner suite when Sam finally got back from the office, taking up as much room as he possibly could, an elegant, come-hither sprawl in his rumpled designer suit, barefoot, with open collar and no tie, shirt tails untucked.
“Hey,” Sam called out as he spotted him, tossing his briefcase aside.
Dean looked up and grunted, watching him as he dropped to the end of the couch. He pulled Dean’s bare feet into his lap and began to massage them, pressing his fingers hard into the arches of Dean’s soles. Dean groaned deliciously, sinking back into the soft leather, his eyes going heavy-lidded and lashes fluttering.
“Hmm, don’t stop,” he murmured.
Sam smiled to himself, bowing his head and kissing the tops of Dean’s feet, trailing kisses along the ridge of bone, over the soft, golden hairs.
“I think it went well today, dontcha think?” he asked. “You know, I reckon, if things go our way, we could clear four million on just that Towers Development. We got the fuckin’ administration completely tied into us, at our fuckin’ mercy.”
He smiled to himself and dragged his tongue over the delicate ankle bones, nosing under the hems of Dean’s dress pants.
Dean groaned out again and shifted, “Shut up ‘bout the fuckin’ business, man, jus’ keep doin’ that.”
Sam huffed out a laugh and dropped Dean’s foot to his lap, moving to tug off his suit jacket.
Dean opened his eyes and looked at him, propping himself up on one elbow, reaching to flick open the buttons on Sam’s Armani dress pants, fingers fumbling to free Sam’s erection until it was poking through his fly, blood-red, huge and really kinda obscene. Dean lifted his gaze to Sam’s face, licking his lips in that deliberate predatory way that had Sam swallowing tightly, breath catching in his throat.
“Totally fuckin’ knew all that talkin’ ‘bout money would turn you on,” Dean muttered, smirk playing across his mouth. “Such a kinky fucker, aintcha, Sammy?”
“You turn me on more,” Sam growled.
Dean’s smile widened, provocative and triumphant and pure evil, he bowed his head and spat into his hand, a little pool of foamy saliva in the creases of his palm. He glanced up again, catching Sam’s eyes once more, his own eyes darker, green almost disappeared, mouth a cool, plush smirk, he leaned in and dragged his newly slick fingers over the head of Sam’s cock.
Sam gasped out loud and let his head fall back, feeling Dean struggle into a sitting position, both of them fumbling to get closer, Dean’s palm still dragging, sticky and wet, up and down Sam’s shaft. He wrapped one arm around Dean, pulling him in closer, his big hand on the back of his brother’s neck, fingers sliding under his open collar, over the short hairs on the nape of his neck. He lowered his face until their mouths met and they started to kiss. He could feel Dean’s hand wrapping around his silk tie, pulling him closer, mouth not leaving Sam’s as they kissed and kissed, other hand getting reckless and loose on Sam’s cock as it continued its fast tugs up and down. He paused and flicked his thumb deftly over the slit and Sam shuddered, eyes snapping open, seeing his brother’s face so close, a fish-eyed lens view of flushed, pink skin and wet, soft lips.
“Wanna fuck you,” he murmured. “C’mon, Dean, baby, we got time.”
Dean drew back far enough so he could see Sam clearly, “Always got time for that.” He glanced down, gave Sam’s cock a soft, almost gentle squeeze, completely at odds with the filthy leer on his face.
Sam pulled away, tucking his cock back into his pants as he climbed off the couch to stand on the white, fur rug in the middle of the room. He wanted to take his time, a slowed-down, long-perfected strip tease, just the way Dean liked it. Dean sprawled back on the couch, shirt half-unbuttoned, hand rubbing lazily over the thick outline of his cock pressing against the tight cut of his dress pants in a way that was seriously indecent, his eyes running all over Sam’s body in hungry anticipation, his tongue slicking over his lips as he watched. He gave Dean a predatory smile and unknotted his tie all the way, material slipping through his fingers, fluttering to the floor in a purple silk trail; next, he flicked the buttons on his white dress shirt, sliding it smoothly off his broad shoulders and ultra-toned arms.
His gaze lingered over Dean, over the soft beads of sweat at his hairline, over his fingers gripping harder around his erection. He turned, bent to retrieve the all-purpose remote control lying on the coffee table and pressed a button. All around them, the blinds on the penthouse apartment’s full-length windows started to roll upwards, revealing the lit-up city sprawled out twenty floors beneath them.
“Bit of an atmosphere, huh, man? Nice,” Dean commented, “now quit teasin’ and get naked already.”
Sam huffed out an amused, smug sound and unbuckled his leather Gucci belt, slipping it out of the belt loops and letting it fall in an elegant coil to the floor. His pants were next, sliding down his long legs with a soft swoosh of expensive fabric to pool around his ankles, he stepped out of them, naked save for tight boxer briefs which were only serving to emphasize his prominent erection.
He heard Dean’s growl behind him as he turned his back to his brother and pushed down his boxers, as if Dean was the camera and he was the stripper putting on a show, holding back for the big reveal. Instead of turning around, giving Dean the big full frontal, he stalked away from him, away from the rug and the couch and his appreciative audience, and towards the full-length windows. It was too dark to see outside properly, into the dark grey sky and glittering stars, the lights in the apartment making it so he could only see his own reflection – his own naked body walking towards himself, the designer furniture and hardwood floors laid out behind him. He pressed his forehead to the cold glass to see outside, gaze swooping over the yellow-orange car headlights inching down the traffic-filled streets, the lit-up billboards and high-rise office blocks with every floor illuminated, the picture like a Budweiser advert.
He turned around to see Dean approaching him, in his full naked glory, hard, red cock, bobbing obscenely in front of him as he strolled towards Sam, that smooth rolling walk of his, his bow legs and strong, muscled thighs. He wetted his lips in appreciation and reached out to grab Dean’s wrist, pulling him close, spinning them around until he had Dean flush against him, his chest to Dean’s back, his palm over Dean’s rapidly beating heart, the two of them facing outside. He lowered his chin to Dean’s shoulder, staring over Dean and out the window, into the city of Baltimore below.
Dean lowered one hand, running it lovingly down Sam’s side, then pulling back to slap his ass, hard, the sound ringing out absurdly loud in the quiet apartment.
Sam’s eyebrows shot up in shock and Dean laughed, “Dude, your face!”
They fucked in front of the windows, Sam mesmerized by the sight of his big, red cock sliding into his brother’s tiny asshole. Dean was splayed across his lap, firm, strong thighs wrapped around Sam’s hips, hands braced on Sam’s shoulders, head thrust back, his body a gorgeous, golden curve, sweat shining like oil on his sculpted chest and back.
He watched Dean work himself up and down on his cock in the reflection in the windows, watched and saw how Dean took charge, how Dean rode him, had him completely in every thrust up and down, owned him utterly, body and soul. In all his life, Sam had never been with anyone else, he’d only ever had sex with one person, they had been doing this their entire lives and Sam never felt more himself than when he was inside Dean or Dean was inside him.
“I’m gonna give it to you,” he whispered, “all of it, I want it for you, baby, love you so fuckin’ much, fuck, Dean, fuck…”
Dean came with a cry, his face buried into Sam’s shoulder, mouth wet on Sam’s neck. He tilted his head back, meeting Sam’s eyes, “You’re such a fuckin’ tease, Sammy, wantin’ to give the whole fuckin’ city an eyeful.”
“We’re gonna own all of it,” he said quietly. “Me and you, it’ll all be ours, Dean.”
“I thought most of it was already ours,” said Dean, and Sam could hear the amusement in his voice, could hear the smile on his face.
“No, not all of it. Not enough, not yet,” he murmured. He turned his face into Dean’s neck, breathed in his scent, burying his nose into that gorgeous hollow of Dean’s throat. Dean shuddered against him, ass muscles clenching around Sam’s still hard cock, he could feel it twitch as he held them both still, every shiver and quiver of Dean’s body around him. “We gotta take this city first, all of it, then the rest of the East Coast –“
“Then the world,” Dean finished with a soft smile.
Sam huffed out a smile in turn, nuzzling against Dean’s shoulder, “Yeah, Dean, then the world.”