sonofabiscuit77 (sonofabiscuit77) wrote,

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SPN Fic: World's Forgotten Boys, Chapter 3/? (Sam/Dean, R)

Fic title World's Forgotten Boys
Chapter 3/?
Pairing: Sam/Dean, other future pairings
Rating: R
Word Count: 8k approx for this chapter
Summary: Season 1 AU. Ross Christopher Winchester knows three things to be true: that his father, John, is a hero, that he's going to be the best hunter in the goddamn world, and that his two older brothers are in love with each other. A re-telling of Season 1 where The Winchester Boys mean Dean and Sam and Ross, where John is still missing, where Mary and Jess are still crispy-fried, and where Dean and Sam are still obsessed with one another...
Previous chapters: Chapter 1

Whoa, so I feel like I am seriously cooking on gas with this story, I don't think I've ever managed to bang out so much so quickly... Thanks to everyone who commented on previous parts, and I hope you're all still enjoying!

World's Forgotten Boys

Chapter 3

It’s been three months since Sam joined them, and Dad is still missing. They celebrated both his own and Ross’s birthdays with no call from Dad, not even a freaking text message. Nothing. And, sure, it’s hardly the first time Dad has forgotten one of their birthdays, but to forget both of them? Usually, he manages at least one, hell; maybe he’ll show for Sammy’s birthday. In four month’s time.

He calls Dad’s cell from a gas station in Iowa, just to let his familiar deep rumble wash over him, Call my son, Dean… says Dad’s disembodied voice, and Dean feels a stab of panic and resentment at the authority in it, as if he’d be able to fix anything when Dad’s still missing, when everything’s so overwhelmingly fucked up.

Sam and Ross are bickering when he gets back to the car. He grits his teeth, tosses bags of popcorn at their heads, hoping the distraction of snacks will shut them the hell up, except Ross picks up one bag with a confused look, asking, “Uh, Dean, what the fuck is this?”

“What does it look like?”

“It looks like fuckin’ popcorn. But dude, popcorn? That’s for movies and shit.”

Dean twists around in the front seat, bores holes into Ross’s skull.

“You want somethin’ else, you go on in there and buy it. That’s what they had, so that’s what I bought. Now, shut the fuck up!”

Ross does, glares balefully at him in the driver’s mirror, but at least he’s quiet. In the shotgun seat, Sam looks amused, crunching on his popcorn, staring out the passenger side window with a half-smile flickering at the corner of his mouth.

“So, what happened between you and that chick?” Dean asks fifty miles later. “You gonna spill?”

“Huh?” says Sam. “What chick?”

“God, the hot preacher’s daughter obviously,” groans Ross from the backseat. “Jesus, sometimes I can’t fuckin’ believe you ever got laid. And I can’t believe she was hot for you. Not when I was standing right there!”

“She was hot for me? I was just being friendly. She’d been through a lot.”

“Fuck,” says Ross. “Just – are you sure we’re fuckin’ related? Because, dude.”

Sam rolls his eyes and ignores him, continues his epic staring contest with the dull Iowan scenery. Dean glances at him, there’s an ache somewhere in the pit of his stomach, the memory of the way that girl looked at Sam, her smiles and fake woe-is-me hair flicking that kinda made him want to leave her to the mercies of the hookman she conjured up with her daddy issues. He knows he’s being bitter and petty, but shit, she was all over Sammy like a goddamn rash, and seriously, uptight hypocritical chicks like that are about the last thing they need.

“Where next?” asks Ross, shifting on the backseat so he’s half sprawled out, head pooled on one of Sam’s hoodies, legs bent awkwardly into the far footwell.

“Sam? What we got?” Dean prompts.

“Mysterious death in Oklahoma?” says Sam. “Construction worker. Police have no leads.”

“Alright then. Okla-fucking-homa,” says Dean.

Dean kinda wants to kill the realtor chick after she mistakes him and Sam for a couple, because, man, awkward… He just gives silent thanks that Ross wasn’t there to witness it. He’s been feeling Ross’s eyes on him and Sam ever since Palo Alto, and whilst he’s sure their youngest brother doesn’t know about them, (they were always careful and Dad definitely didn’t know, and if Ross did, there was no way he wouldn’t have spilt), there’s a tingling feeling of doubt lodged at the back of his mind that maybe, just maybe, Ross isn’t as ignorant as Dean hopes he is.

He pushes the thought away, watches Ross on the other side of the yard, making time with one of the neighbors’ teenage daughters, who, in a tiny miniskirt and tube top despite the shitty weather, might as well have jailbait stamped on her forehead. He raises an eyebrow when Ross catches him looking, Ross smirks back at him, using Dean’s own look, fucking smartass. Sam calls it karmic justice – his own fault – bitching away in his superior Sammy fashion: you know he gets the attitude from you, Dean; he gets all of that shit from you. Dean doesn’t care; in fact, he likes to see the similarities between them when he looks at Ross, the gestures and speech patterns that Ross has modeled on him. Sam and Ross look so alike that no one ever mistakes them for anything other than brothers, (to their joint annoyance), but people have never done that with Dean, he always looked too different.

“Hey,” says Sam, nudging him with his shoulder. “We done here? Cause I think Littlest Bro is about to get the shit kicked out of him. Jailbait over there happens to be the local sheriff’s daughter.” He cocks his head in the direction of an extremely pissed looking, middle-aged guy in a rain slicker who’s watching Ross’s progress with Jailbait Girl a little too closely for Dean’s liking. “Seriously, how did you two manage before me?”

Dean curses under his breath, strides across the yard towards Ross.

“Hey, Stud-u-like. We’re leavin’! Stat!”

Ross doesn’t protest, waves and grins at the chick on his way out. She giggles, waves back at him. Sam rolls his eyes and goes to body-check Ross which Ross dodges easily, snapping out: “Just cause you’re keepin’ it locked up like fuckin’ Fort Knox, Sammy, don’t go saltin’ my game.”

“We were stopping you from getting the shit kicked outta you,” says Dean.

“We’re supposed to be low profile, asshat,” adds Sam.

Ross snorts again, but this time it’s definitely false bravado, cause he’s wearing that little boy, smacked down look. He’s unusually silent on the ride back to the motel, sulking and staring out the window in an eerie impression of Sam at his most emo.

It’s at times like these that Dean remembers that Ross is only twenty-one; he’s really just still a kid, in so many ways. Unlike Sam, Ross has never been apart from him or Dad, he’s never been left on his own and he’s never clamored, as Sam used to do, for his own space, hell, he never even wanted his own room, (which was just as well, because there was no way he’d ever have gotten one). When Dean thinks of his youngest brother, he pictures a little kid with tousled black hair, running after him and Sammy, screaming: “Wait! Deeeeeeeen! Saaaaammmeeee! Deeeeeen! Wait for meeeee!”; Or, he thinks of the time he took him bowling for his eighth birthday, Ross pulling at his arm and jabbering the whole time: “Sammy’s not coming, is he? This is just me and you, right, Dean, right, Dean? Just me and you? No Sammy?”

Ross longed for his and Dad's approval like Sam used to long for his good grades. He bought into the hunting lifestyle, into the entire fucking Winchester credo, completely and utterly. There was never any doubt for Ross, no doubt that what they were doing was the right thing, no niggling suspicion at the back of his mind that maybe Dad didn’t love him like he loved Dad, that maybe he wasn’t worthy of it. Ross believed Dad was a hero who could never do anything wrong, and he adored him.

And Dad adored Ross; there was never any doubt there. Ross was Dad’s favorite. Maybe it was because of that missing time, those missing years when Ross was lost, or maybe it was because Ross wasn’t Mary’s child, that when Dad looked at his youngest son, he would never see his murdered wife’s eyes or her nose or her freckles staring back up at him. Or maybe it was just because Ross never fucked anything up like Dean or answered back like Sam.

He never begrudged Ross Dad’s affection. Not even when Ross would crawl into Dad’s lap and Dad would wrap his arms around him, squeezing him and crooning, “My boy, my boy,” into Ross’s soft, dark hair. It made something twinge in Dean’s chest to watch them, but he loved his brother and was grateful for the way Ross could get to Dad like that, curbing his drinking and making him a softer more malleable version of the Dad Dean was used to, the four of them almost like a real family.

He sometimes wondered how Sam felt about Dad and Ross’s relationship, but Sammy never seemed to care, Sammy was self-sufficient and distant, burying himself in books whenever he could get away with it. Ever since he’d found out about hunting, Sam had been like that: keeping Dad at a distance, his big eyes rounded in suspicion every time Dad told them they were on the move again. When Dad did try with him, asking him about school, about homework, Sam would give one-word answers, speaking to Dad as if he were a stranger. It hurt Dean to see that, to see the distance between Sammy and Dad because he knew that it hurt Dad, and he loved his father so much.

Ross gets over his little snit pretty quickly. He’s not like Sam in that respect, he doesn’t brood for long, easily cheered up with fights and food, explosions and beer, and thank God, cause dealing with two Sammys right about now…

“Can I just say that that was lame?” Ross states, giving his opinion on the entire hunt with this pissy look on his face that makes him resemble Sam more than ever, seriously, sometimes it’s downright creepy. “Fuck, man, it’s not like we accomplished anything?”

“We saved that family,” points out Sam. Okay, so obviously it’s Sam’s turn to be the reasonable brother today.

“Yeah, but it’s not like they’re gonna stop building shit here, is it? Someone’s always gonna to do that, and that lame-ass fuckin’ Native American curse is always gonna get them. Don’t you just think -” Ross breaks off, looks thoughtful for a second, scrunching up his nose and squinting at them.


“Nothin’. S’just, sometimes don’t you just wonder if it’s fuckin’ worth it? Not, like, what we do and shit. But sometimes – with some hunts? Half the people we save – they don’t even fuckin’ say thanks.”

“Oh God, not you as well,” groans Dean. “I expect that shit from Sam, dude, not from you.”

“Hey!” protests Sam.

Dean rolls his eyes and unlocks the car. “Jesus. Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

They’re in a bar somewhere outside of Athens, Iowa, and Dean and Ross have got two college students hanging onto their every word as Ross describes their father’s vineyard and their extensive, highly profitable, family wine-making business up in Northern Cali.

“So you two are, like, brothers?” One of them asks, he thinks her name’s Tanya, or maybe Michelle, or perhaps the other one’s Michelle. “Cause you don’t look much alike.”

Dean glances towards the corner of the room where Sam took up residence as soon as they arrived. He’s got the laptop open in front of him and has been nursing the same beer the entire time they’ve been there; he’s also got that unhappy crease between his eyebrows that Dean has come to dread. He’d give a lot to see it not be there, to see Sam smile and laugh and be genuinely happy… Well, it ain’t gonna happen tonight.

“So, are you in town for tonight, or leaving tomorrow?” The other girl asks.

“Well, that depends,” says Ross with that dimpled smirk of his, big brown eyes wide and twinkling, fuck, seriously, his Littlest Bro has got some moves on him. “We’re kinda flexible,” he adds. “Right, Deano?”

“Right,” Dean says, widening his own smile and exchanging a quick look with Ross, as he nods in agreement.

They’re both hot. Maybe a bit young for his tastes, but Dean’s not that picky; hell, he’ll screw anything hot and between 18 and 45, in fact some of the best nights of his life were in the company of women who’d long gotten past the “right” side of forty, and right now, at this moment, he needs to get laid. It’s been three months, his longest dry patch ever since he lost his virginity, and twin that with the permanently distracting presence of Sam, and you get a raging case of blue balls. Yeah, he needs to get laid bad.

“Are we gettin’ out of here?”

“Jesus – God! Sam?”

Sam’s leaning over them, looking pissed-off, hand clamped down on Dean’s shoulder, a bit harder than necessary.

“Cause we’ve got an early one tomorrow.”

Dean bites back a retort and shrugs off Sam’s hand. Ross is trying vainly to signal FUCK OFF to Sam using just his eyebrows, but Sam isn’t biting. Dean put up with his cock-blocking a hell of a lot better in the days when he knew it would lead to possessive incestuous sex – now, it’s just annoying

"Dude, we’re kinda busy here,” he says.

The girls meanwhile are eying Sam greedily, which makes Dean like them all the more, but he knows Sam, and there’s no way he’s going to be up for anything those kinda looks are hoping for.

“Now, you and you,” one of them – definitely Michelle – points between Sam and Ross, “you look like brothers. You are, aren’t you?”

“Oh yeah, this is Sam, our other brother,” says Ross, trying (and mostly failing) to hide the sneer threatening to knock the good-times smile off his face.

“Wow, your parents must’ve had great genes,” says the other girl, Tanya, a slight breathless note to her voice. Dean gives her an approving smile – she’s definitely his favorite – and she’s kinda right, they’re made of good genes.


The pressure from Sam’s hand on his shoulder gets harder, and Dean grits his teeth. He can hear Ross talking to the girls, voice all casual and dismissive: “You don’t wanna worry about Sam, he’s a Christian Scientist and he’s taken a vow of celibacy. It’s tragic really, he doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t fuck. Turned out kinda useful for us though - me and Deano do all the wine-tasting shit and he's our designated.”

Ross pulls a hilarious what-can-you-do face while Sam scowls and turns deliberately away from them, grabbing onto Dean’s jacket and tugging him away from the girls.

“Look, are we going or not? Cause if you two are gonna stay, then I want the car keys, Dean.”

“Oh! You’re not leaving, are you?” Tanya asks. She slips off her barstool, soft, naked thigh brushing against Dean’s leg. Man, he’s going to fucking kill Sam if he fucks this up for him. “C’mon, stay a while. It’s so early!”

“Dean,” says Sam.

Dean fakes a smile at the girl. “Just give me a minute, sweetheart.”

She nods, eyes narrowing as he walks Sam from the bar.

“Seriously, dude! What is your problem?” he hisses when they get outside.

Sam bristles, pulls his arm out of Dean’s grasp. “My problem? What about you and Ross – spinning those poor girls some bullshit stories about bein’ fuckin’ vineyard owners?”

“You overheard us?”

“Why? Are you ashamed? Cause you should be! I would be!”

Dean shakes his head in disbelief. “On the scale of shit to be ashamed of, I think making up some bullshit tale about growing grapes ranks pretty damn low.” He raises his eyes, boring into Sam. “Considering some of the shit we’ve done.”

Sam blanches, but it doesn’t stop him, not much can stop Sammy when he’s got something to say.

“That’s so not the point!”

“What is the point? What are you trying to say?”

Sam hesitates for a second, and Dean thinks of all those moments, all those hours of not saying anything, of repressing every damn thing, of keeping everything so locked up and feeling the words, the moments hanging between them all the damn time, like the ghost of the dead girl on the ceiling, the one that’s been riding on Sam’s shoulder, by his side, this entire time, the one that’s been haunting him, the one that just won’t fucking quit. And he’s been giving Sam space, giving him room to grieve… God, he doesn’t know what he’s been giving him, but whatever it is, it’s not working, not for him, and definitely not for Sammy.

Sam’s mouth moves, no sound coming out. He looks lost. He looks awful, he looks like shit, and Dean’s losing. In this battle – whatever – he’s having with Sam, with his grief, he’s losing.

“I just wish…”

What? What do you want, Sam?”

“I wish you wouldn’t sleep with these random women. I hate it! I always hated it. And I know I have no right to hate it, but I just. I hate it.”

Dean’s speechless for a moment; he doesn’t know what to say. Sam shrugs, a painful jerk of his shoulders. He looks so miserable, so beaten down, and Dean can feel that lockbox around his heart tighten.

“Okay,” he says softly. “If it means that much to you, then… I won’t. I won’t do that anymore.”

Sam chokes out a laugh, bitter and so, so, not funny. “That’s not fair to you.”

“I’ll survive.”

Sam shakes his head, his eyes are glittering, the light from the bar transforming them into cats eyes, slits in his strong, beloved face. Dean watches him, feeling hopeless, an overwhelming sense of this-is-never-going-to-be-okay; he knows with a growing sense of inevitability that a year, five years, ten fucking years from now, this is going to be how it is. This thing between him and Sam, he’s never gonna get over it.

He slides his pack of cigarettes out his pocket, if things are going to be this tense, then he needs some sort of relief, he needs a fucking cigarette. He lights up with a quick snap of his lighter, inhaling greedily.

Sam pulls a face at him, says, “You’re so gross.”

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, whatever.”

“Dean, look you don’t have to. I mean, I get it. I do. These random hook-ups -”

“Can we not talk about this?” Dean interrupts. He turns his face away from Sam, grateful for the cigarette in his fingers, the something to do with his hands. “I’m gonna finish this. Then I’m gonna go on inside and tell Ross that we’re headin’ off. Here.” He reaches into his pocket for the car keys, tosses them over to Sam who fumbles the catch, taken by surprise. “You can wait in the car.”

He doesn’t give Sam a chance to respond, but takes off, striding quickly across the parking lot and back towards the bar. He slots the cigarette into his mouth and shoulders the heavy doors open. The music seems louder than earlier, as if the place has shifted into another gear, voices, clinks of glass, pinball machines, even the goddamn pool table, everything’s gotten louder, brasher.

He catches Ross’s eye through the crowd of people at the bar and waves at him to come over.

“Where the fuck you been?” snaps Ross.

Dean ignores the question, he looks over Ross’s shoulder, towards the two girls at the bar where Ross has just left them, they’re still hot and he still wants to fuck them, either of them, except… he’s not going to. Not this time, cause Sam’s outside and Sam needs him.

“We’re headin’ off. You’ll be okay to take a cab? We’re at the Dewdrop, remember.”

“You’re fuckin’ leaving me here?” Ross’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Oh, no fuckin’ way, Dean.”

Dean rolls his eyes, drops his cigarette butt to the floor. He grinds it out with his boot heel and digs into his pocket for his wallet.

“Here, you need any more cash?”

Ross hisses through his teeth, his eyes still flashing anger. He grabs Dean’s wallet from his hand and fishes out a few crumpled 20’s, pushing the wallet back at Dean with a snarl.

“Go have fun with Sam.”

Dean’s stunned for a second, shocked by the viciousness in his little brother’s voice. He watches him push back through the crowd towards the girls, he throws his arms around them as he approaches, leather-clad arms encircling their thin, smooth shoulders, twisting his head to throw a dark look back at Dean. Dean glares back at him, he’s pissed off, the way Ross just took the money from his fucking wallet, as if it was his due, the fucking entitlement in the way he curled the bills into his fingers. Money that he earned, money that he won, because Ross… Ross has never earned a fucking penny in his goddamn life; Ross has always had father or big brother to give him everything he ever needed. Ross is a spoon-fed, ungrateful, little shit.

Dean curls his lip, and shoulders his way back through the crowd until he’s outside. He stands on the porch and lights another cigarette, puffing away angrily as he clomps back across the lot.

“Was he –“ Sam starts as he gets in the car.

“Don’t say a fuckin’ word!”

“Jesus, fine. Whatever,” snits Sam, rolling his eyes.

Dean growls and pushes the keys into the ignition. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel, momentarily comforted by the feel of his baby under his hands. His cigarette is balanced between his first two fingers, smoke curling upwards and filling the claustrophobic space; any moment now, Sam is going to bitch at him and get him to throw it out the window, he can almost hear the words already, feel the irritable weary tone of voice Sam will use stabbing at him between the shoulder blades. He hisses out a sigh and cranks down the driver’s side window.

“Dean?” prompts Sam, sounding confused. “What’re we waiting for?”

Dean ignores him, throws the half-smoked butt out the window. Nothing, they’re waiting for nothing. Ross will go home with one of those girls, or maybe both of those girls, and he’ll have sex. He’ll fuck them all night long, and maybe they’ll suck him as well, and he’ll get back in the morning all satiated and satisfied with that stupid, gummy look on his face that Dean has seen a hundred times before… And Dean will have to just put up with a crappy shower and his right hand. Again.

“Hey,” says Sam softly.

Dean tenses, fumbles at the keys still stuck in the ignition.

“Hey,” Sam repeats. He lays his palm on Dean’s knee and squeezes.

Dean jumps, he actually fucking jumps. Normally, it would be embarrassing, and he’d be embarrassed for himself, but Sam is touching him: Sam is sliding his hand up Dean’s leg, slow and soft and smooth, and Dean’s getting hard, his dick is responding and his breath feels like it’s trapped in his lungs, like his throat is closing up. He feels Sam shift closer, edging along the bench seat.

“Hey, look at me.”

Dean turns his head. Sam’s eyes are dark; they’re so dark Dean can’t see the color of his irises, just the lights of the parking lot, of the bar’s tacky neon sign. Sam’s whole face is in shadow, like a black and white shadowed photograph, the long line of his throat, grey and beige and reflected orange glow, he looks beautiful and eerie, and so fucking desirable that Dean can’t breathe.

Sam smiles, he looks embarrassed himself, his aw-shucks smile that works so well on gullible civilians, but this is the real deal, this is the real Sammy.

“Hey. I wanna. Uh, I wanna, Dean.”

He swallows; Dean tracks the movement of Sam’s throat, that gorgeous, soft ripple; God, he wants to put his mouth on that spot more than he ever remembers wanting anything in his life.

“Oh Jesus, Sammy,” he moans, and then Sam is moving, pressing him back until he’s flat against the driver’s door, window still half-cranked down, Sam’s mouth fucking attacking him, biting and licking and sucking at his face, at his jaw, at his throat, his neck… and Dean is trembling, coming apart underneath him, blood thumping, breathing gone to shit, and the only thing he can hear in his head is yes, yes

Sam raises his head for a moment, his hair’s a mess, a tangled, black mess, his eyes are animal slits and his mouth is one big flash of brilliant teeth. Dean fists his hands into Sam’s hair and tugs, crashing their mouths back together until his tongue finally is finally in Sam’s mouth and Sam’s lips are finally sucking desperately on his tongue and Sam’s tongue is finally in Dean’s mouth, swooping and mapping and licking finally over his teeth.

“God, Dean, God, Dean.”

Sam’s moaning, the words swallowed as he gasps for breath, scrambling their mouths apart and fisting his fingers into Dean’s jacket, into Dad’s jacket.

“Off, Dean, get it off!”

It’s a struggle in the confined space, elbows and arms catching, but this is not the first time he and Sam have done this in the Impala. Sam pulls impatiently at his jacket again and Dean can’t help the snort of laughter escaping as he wriggles out of it, pouncing back on Sam and pinning him to the seat, or as much of him he can get down onto the seat. Sam’s hands slide under Dean’s waistband, tug his t-shirt out of his jeans, smoothe up his back, stretching the thin cotton fabric as he pulls him closer. The steering wheel is somewhere around Dean’s hip, digging into his hip bone, but he’s barely aware of it, only caring that this is Sam beneath him, squirming and panting and fumbling at the zipper of Dean’s fly.

Dean gasps out loud when Sam’s fingers slide into his boxers and grab at his cock, and then Sam is jerking him, jacking off him, wrist twisted fiercely, breathing ragged and hot against the side of Dean’s face.

“Sammy, wait, wait,” he pants, fumbling at Sam’s fly with his own hands, “let me do you, wait a second.”

Sam stops for a moment, squeezes Dean’s cock in his huge fist, Dean shudders at the sensation, fingers barely managing to work as he struggles with Sam’s button fly. He doesn’t bother getting Sam’s pants all the way down, just jamming his hand in there and fisting Sam’s cock, the waistband of Sam’s boxers catching around his wrist. Sam moans loudly and lets his head fall all the way back, eyes rolling back in his head.

Dean grins and places a kiss on the edge of his throat. “Open your eyes,” he tells him. Sam does, and Dean almost wants to come at the look in his brother’s eyes, cause he’s forgotten this: he’s forgotten how intense it is, how overpowering, how a messy jerk-off session with Sam where they barely even get their coats off can be as hot as a threesome with the hottest, blondest and bustiest bunny girls.

Dean…” Sam moans, and Dean bites his own lip, feeling himself shudder to his climax, Sam gripping and clutching at him hopelessly as he trembles beneath him. They come within seconds of each other, so desperate and wrung out. He collapses on top of Sam, heart thumping like he’s just finished a five mile run, hand caught between their bodies, still half in Sam’s pants, covered in Sam’s thick, stringy come.

“Guh, dude, we need a shower,” he says at last.

Sam smiles tentatively, wriggles beneath him. “Yeah.”

Dean smiles back at him, feeling shy and embarrassed, though he shouldn’t be, it’s not like this is new to them, this is pretty damn tame compared to some of the things they used to do… But it feels different now, as if they’ve past something, or should that be passed something?

Whatever, it’s too much to expect him to think properly now, not after that, the best orgasm he’s had in fucking months.

He wriggles stiffly off Sam, cranks the driver’s door open and spills out into the parking lot. He wipes his hand off on his t-shirt, making a piss-poor attempt to straighten his clothes, hearing the leather seat creak behind him as Sam does the same. He stares out across the lot and allows himself to smile: a big, dumb, blissed-out smile, an I-can’t-believe-that-just-happened smile, and, goddamn it, he feels good. For the first time in fucking months, that horrible, itchy feeling has disappeared, that heavy weight of knowing everything is fucked up and that he can’t do anything about it – it’s vanished. Oh, he knows it will be back, but for now… he’s gonna just savor the moment.


Ross doesn’t really remember the first time he met his father, the first time it all made sense in his head that this guy – this big dark-haired guy with the deep voice who’d come by to see his mom sometimes – was his dad. If his life were a movie, then there’d be a scene to explain it all, a flashback with sappy Home Sweet Home type music playing in the background, and his Mom would be there, all fake and young and happy, leading him into a room by his little kid hand, Dad would be sitting on the couch, looking at him and smiling. This is your father, Ross, she would say, and Dad would take his hand, pull him up into his lap and say, Hey there, little guy. Except Dad never called him that in his entire life.

He has a photo of his mom, like the one Dean and Sam have of theirs; Dad gave it to him a long time ago, telling him to keep it safe as it was the only one he had. She looks happy in it, smiling at the camera, her dark hair like a wavy halo around her head. But, whatever, it’s a photo, so of course she’s gonna smile and look happy, it means nothing, it doesn’t explain anything.

The photo is the only memory he does have of her, he’s forgotten her now, she left him before he turned four after all, so it’s only natural that he doesn’t remember. And after she left, there were the foster homes, which he doesn’t really remember either, just vague memories of lots of kids and fights and a dog called Buster. The first real, true memory he has is of Dad: Dad in the front of the Impala, driving like a crazy person on that all-important, life-changing night when Dad snatched him from the foster home. He remembers the feel of Dad’s big, strong arms around him, the soft, humming sound of the car as he lay on the backseat covered in Dad’s huge, leather coat which smelt just like him.

“I’ve been looking for you for a long time,” Dad said to him, and he kissed Ross on the forehead, the bristly feel of his chin against Ross’s cheek a totally new sensation. “Now go to sleep, Ross, my boy, and when you wake up we’ll be far away, and you can meet your brothers.”

He was five years old on that night, nearly six, Sam was seven, and Dean was eleven. And it was just before Christmas, just before his birthday.

The girls are disappointed when he tells them that Dean’s gone, but they hide it well. In the end, Tanya leaves, but he’s not that bothered, he’s more interested in Michelle anyway, she’s got better tits. And Michelle doesn’t disappoint, takes him back to her dorm room, sniggering that her roommate is out of town when they stumble drunkenly into the room.

“And she hates me,” she hisses, giggling and falling onto one of the beds - the perfectly made one - she props herself up, tugs at the hem of his jacket. “This is her bed, we should fuck in it.”

And, hell, yeah, Ross can work with that.

He tries to shut off his brain as he fucks her, tries not to think about Dean and Sam, about Dean and Sam together, about Dean and Sam back at the hotel room all night, about how Dean chose Sam over him, about how Dean always chooses Sam over him.

She climbs into his lap and works herself up and down on his cock, those awesome tits jiggling in front of his face – it’s a great view. She tosses her long dark hair, neck arching backwards, throat glistening with sweat. She looks like she’s in a soft porno, or a hip-hop video, and she obviously knows it, but it’s hot, so he fucks her harder, hears her breath coming in quick spasms and pants. When he shoots, he cries out, grips her hips tight, wanting to leave marks, and she howls, actually freaking howls. It’s weird, but again, yeah, pretty fucking intense.

“That was awesome,” she says afterwards. “You should stick around, we could do that again.”

He shrugs, he guesses they could stick around, they’re not working a job right now, and if he asked, he’s sure Dean and Sam would be okay with it. Fuck it, why should he even have to ask? He should just hang around here, fuck her all night long, all day tomorrow, he’s sure Dean and Sam can amuse themselves, assholes.

She steals one of his cigarettes, and they smoke by the open window, cause they’re not supposed to smoke in the dorm rooms. “Though we all do it,” she tells him, “but you gotta keep the window open, else the fire alarms go off.” The window is opposite another dorm, and with the light on behind them, he thinks that everyone in that dorm can see the two of them, sitting there, smoking, both of them naked. The thought is arousing, a turn on, making his cock start to stir again, thinking of some geeky students sitting studying, noticing them, then jerking off. He should fuck her here next, right in front of this big open window, give them all a proper show.

“You’re not really a vineyard owner, are you?” she asks.

He thinks about lying again, but decides it’s not worth it, “Nah, s’just a story we use.”

“To get chicks?” she asks, looking amused. He nods, smirks at her. She tilts one eyebrow at him, “Seriously? You know you don’t need to do that. You’re hot. You and your brothers. You really don’t need to work that hard.”

Hell, she’s right, but it’s not about sealing the deal, cause, man, he always seals the deal. It’s something else, it’s the game, it’s the chase, it’s seeing how far they can spin some bullshit story before someone figures them out. And, whatever, it’s how they’ve always operated, how Dean’s always operated, how Dean taught him to do it, and he’s always followed Dean’s lead. Anyway, what are they supposed to tell them? The truth? That they hunt and kill monsters for a living? Hell, not even for a living, cause it’s not like they ever get fucking paid for it.

“So, what do you really do?” she asks.

He hesitates, then smirks at her, “If I told you that, then I’d have to kill you. And you are way too hot to die this young, baby.”

She snorts and elbows him, “You’re full of shit.” He laughs and she tosses the remains of her cigarette out the window. “Whatever, mystery man. You wanna go another round?”

Ross first lost his virginity when he was fourteen. She was a friend of Sam’s, a study-buddy of his, kinda geeky and shy. All Sammy’s friends were like that – like him – total chess club nerds, even the girls. But some of them were hot, weirdly hot, though what was even weirder was that they were always into Sam, though Sammy totally never seemed to pick up on it.

They were in Minnesota somewhere when it happened. He can’t remember the name of the town, though the high school where Sam went was called McKinley. Dad was away for a lot of that time, and Dean was working, real long shifts at an aerosol factory, assembly line shit that Dean hated, and Ross was stuck at the junior high, the building adjacent to Sam’s high school. After his school got out, half an hour before Sam’s, he would have to wait outside the high-school gates for him, cause Sam was the only one Dean permitted to have a key apart from himself.

“You come home together,” he told them the first morning he realized his shifts meant he wasn’t gonna be around when they got out of school. “Sammy, you make sure he’s with you, at all times, outside of school.” Sam nodded seriously; actually fucking agreeing for once, but then, Sammy totally got off on the times when he got to big-brother it all over Ross. “And Ross,” Dean bored his steely-Dad-impression look into him. “You damn well make sure you wait for him. Every night, after school. No goin’ off on your own. If you do, then I’m gonna tell Dad. Got it?” They both nodded, Ross scowling into his Cheerios and Sam trying not to smile.

So, he was stuck waiting for Sam after school. And Sam was so fucking slow. Probably on purpose, probably just cause he knew Ross was waiting. He’d come out, usually reading if he was on his own, or surrounded by his gang of nerdy friends if he wasn’t, taking about physics or chemistry or fucking math for fuck’s sake. And then, that was worse, cause it meant they couldn’t go straight home, but instead, they’d go to this nearby diner where you could get huge pieces of pie and glasses of milk for a dollar. That was okay, though the pie wasn’t really that good, pastry like fucking cardboard. But eating was better than listening to Sam and his friends. Occasionally, they’d talk about interesting shit, comic books or movies or TV shows and he’d pull off the headphones to Dean’s old battered Discman and join in.

This chick was called Lucy and she was really into math and Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which was cool by him, he fucking loved that show, unfortunately, she was also really into Sam, the poor deluded fool. She would smile whenever he spoke to her, blush when he complimented her on something (usually math-related). She was cute when she blushed, and she had a good body, with those sort of nipples that were always showing through sweaters, like she was permanently cold or permanently turned-on. Whatever, it was hot, made his dick get hard if he stared too long. He’d watch her from the corner of his eye, watch her watching Sam, like she couldn't help herself, her lip caught in her teeth, this pink flush on her cheeks, it was way obvious that she had it bad for him. It kinda made him wanna laugh, cause even though he didn’t know then about Dean and Sam, (and he's pretty sure that there was a DeanandSam back then), he already knew that Sam wasn’t gonna return her interest, that she was completely S.O.L.

His luck came one day when she called round the house, blushing and stammering on the doorstep when he answered, clutching her books to her chest and asking, “Uh, hi, Ross. Is, uh, Sam in?”

Sam wasn’t, he’d gone out with Dean to the movies. Ross can’t remember anymore why he hadn’t gone with them, though it was safe to assume that he and Sam had been fighting about something, that Dean had grounded him.

“But, he, uh, he said he’d be here,” she stammered, chewing on her lip.

Ross shrugged, said, “Sorry, he’s not. He went to the movies.”

“Oh,” she said, “oh, right.” She looked stricken, and it suddenly crossed Ross’s mind that she probably thought Sammy had gone on a date, that he was seeing someone else. The thought was so ludicrous that he almost laughed out loud, but in the end, he didn’t, just smiled sympathetically, and suggested that she come in and hang out anyway.

They got drunk, stealing Dean’s six-pack of PBR from the refrigerator. Being drunk made her looser, giggly, her face so pink she looked feverish. After two drinks each, they were making out on the couch, panting hotly into each other’s mouths.

“You’re cute,” she slurred drunkenly, “and you look like Sam.”

Ross pulled a face, pulled away from her, “Don’t say that.”

She looked stricken again, that sudden panicked look on her face, “Sorry. I – didn’t mean to upset you. But, it’s weird; sometimes you look so much alike. You could be twins. But you’re so different.”

“Sam’s an asshole,” he said bitterly. She gaped at him, “Look, he stood you up, didn’t he?” he said.

She looked confused for a second, then smiled self-consciously, “Yeah, I guess, he, uh, he did.”

“C’mere,” he said and pulled her down into the couch.

They fucked on the couch, it wasn’t the first time someone had fucked on this couch. He’d caught Dean and the check-out girl from the 7-11 two blocks away on it, a couple of weeks ago. Dean had been on top of her, his broad shoulders shiny with sweat, the light from the TV playing against the side of his face. Ross had knelt by the half-open door and watched him, watched how he did it, how the chick’s legs curled around Dean’s waist, how the muscles in Dean’s back had tensed as he thrust into her, how she leaned upwards into him, eagerly reaching for his mouth, her tongue painting over his lips.

He knew that Dean kept condoms in the drawer of the coffee table, and she watched wide-eyed as he pulled one down over his cock. He glanced up, caught her staring, gave her a reassuring smile.

“You sure you really wanna do this?”

She gulped, then nodded, said, “Yeah, I, yeah, I do. Gotta do it sometime.”

“That’s what I think,” he said, and gave her one of his best and biggest smiles.

It wasn’t all that great, but he’d done it, he’d lost his virginity, and he was only fourteen, and she was sixteen, so, yeah, that was pretty fucking cool. She gave him a weird look when he finally pulled out of her, watching him with this strange unreadable expression that reminded him of Dean when he watched Sammy and Dad fighting.

“That’s so gross,” she muttered as he held the jizz-filled condom between his fingers.

He smirked at her, said, “Thought you wanted to be a doctor.”

She smiled suddenly, all kinda aw-shucks embarrassed, though, baby, it was waaay too late to be embarrassed now. “You know that about me?”

“Sure, I always remember shit you say. You’re kinda cute, too, you know.”

She laughed self-consciously. “Yeah, um, thanks. And, uh, thanks, for – uh – this.”

“Dude, you’re thankin’ me for havin’ sex with you? Trust me, it was my pleasure.” He grinned at her, lips smacking together in that lame, corny way he’d seen Dean use all the time on chicks, that never seemed to fail. And it was working now, making her blush all prettily, not just her face but her neck, her chest, those small titties of hers with the big nipples that looked nothing like the ones in the skin mags Dean lent him.

She seemed about to say something when the door suddenly jerked open, Dean and Sam’s voices drifting through, laughing together over something. He felt himself freeze, and he glanced at her, she seemed frozen too, eyes darting around and arms crossed over her chest, like she was trying to hide herself.

“Oh God, oh God. Who’s that? It’s not Sam, is it?”

“Probably,” he whispered. Any further conversation cut off by Dean banging the door open and the huge, embarrassing silence.

Dean broke the silence with a dirty chuckle, exclaiming, “Whoa, Ross, you dog!” Then, as his eyes reached Lucy, he grinned, wide and cheesy, “Hey there, sweetheart.”

“Lucy?” gasped Sam, gaping at them. “Ross – what the fuck?”

“Heh, I think they already got they covered,” snerked Dean, elbowing Sam in the ribs.

Lucy was scrabbling around for her clothes on the couch, face stained beet red and he felt kinda sorry for her. He did like her, and she was pretty cute, though the expression of disbelief and anger on Sam’s face was cuter, totally worth it. Dean dragged Sam out to the kitchen, muttering something about giving the lady some privacy.

He kissed her goodbye on the porch, though she acted like she was just putting up with it, just doing it out of some sort of warped politeness thing, shaking and unhappy looking, with that look that said something like, I can’t believe I just did that. Ross went back inside and Dean handed him one of his remaining PBR’s with a huge grin, saying, “I think you just earned that, littlest bro, though you’re totally not off the hook for the ones you stole.”

Sam shook his head at him and said, “I can’t believe you did that. She’s my friend.”

“C’mon, Sammy, chill out, dude. Our little brother is a man, now.”

Ross smirked at Sam, tilted his drink his way, “Unlike you.”

Sam scowled at him and pushed past Dean to clomp out the room. Dean watched him and shook his head.

“Hey, he’ll get over it. Don’t shit it. Now, tell me all about it.”

He thinks about that first time, about Lucy, Sam’s study-buddy, as he makes his way back to the motel. He could’ve stayed longer, but in the end, he snuck out when Michelle was sleeping. He doesn’t want to leave Sam and Dean on their own for too long, doesn’t want to give them that space, that opportunity for –

Well, he fucking knows what for.

He told Dean all about Lucy, all about what it felt like to fuck her, all proud and drunk and fourteen years old. He guesses that some people would probably find that weird, that they’d be all TMI-ish about it, but to him, it was normal, and just seeing Dean’s approving grin was enough for him. And it was awesome. He’d just fucked some chick, lost his virginity, and before Sammy, Sammy who was nearly two years older than him, and he’d done it with an older chick no less, a cute, older chick.

He doesn’t notice that he’s holding his breath as he unlocks their motel room door. He’s not sure what to expect. He’s so goddamn relieved when he sees them in separate beds, Dean in his and Sam in… wait a minute – it’s supposed to be Sammy’s turn for the couch, asshole. Oh well, he guesses he can’t blame Sam for thinking that he wasn’t gonna make it back tonight, normally he totally wouldn’t, he would’ve taken up Michelle’s invitation to hang around and bang each other’s brains out for the full 24 hours. But he’d snuck out, cause of them, cause of Dean and Sam, cause he had this stupid idea about getting in their way, like a little-brother sized cock-block. He feels another surge of bitterness and clenches his teeth as he slides onto the couch, glares at the huge-ass lump Sam makes in his bed.

“Hey, you wanna keep it down some?”

He jumps, glances towards Dean’s bed, Dean’s got his eyes open and is glaring at him.

“I can hear you angsting from here.”

“I don’t angst!” he hisses.

Dean chuckles, turns onto his side. “Whatever, go to sleep. And stop thinkin' so freakin' loudly!”

Next chapter
Tags: ross-verse, spn fic
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