sonofabiscuit77 (sonofabiscuit77) wrote,

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SPN Fic: Your Pretty Face Is Going to Hell, Chapter 1 of 4

Title: Your Pretty Face Is Going to Hell
Other location: This fic is also available at the AO3: here
Rating: Hard R
Genre: Wincest (Sam/Dean) Pre-series fic.
Word count: 32k
Pairings: Sam/Dean, Dean/OMC, Dean/OFC, Sam/OMC
Warnings: Underage sexual situations (Sam is 16), angstiness
Summary: While the Winchesters are living in a small-town trailer park, sixteen year old Sam accidentally spies on his brother with an older man. The discovery triggers feelings in Sam that lead him and Dean down a path which will change their lives forever.

Author’s Note: Written for violetknights for the spn_j2_xmas gift exchange. You said you liked first-time wincest with a long slow build so I hope this delivers on that! You also said you liked H/C so I included some bonus injured!Dean. There’s a few extra kinks/tropes in here too that I hope you won’t mind: Jealous!Sam, Mixed-up-teen!Sam, Caretaker-big-brother!Dean, the boys playing sports, and lots of awkward teenage fumbling.

Title stolen from Iggy Pop & The Stooges, there is an interesting fan video to go with the song here. Many thanks to my beta, gategirl7 for your grammar help and suggestions, it was really helpful and much appreciated, I changed a few things after you cast your eyes over it, so any mistakes left are most certainly my fault ;-)

Chapter One

Soccer practice ends early on Tuesday; Coach Wharf dismisses them with a disgusted look on his face, a dark slant to his eyes that reminds Sam disconcertingly of his father.

The locker room is quiet, subdued afterwards, just a couple of the guys talking about the rager up at Bryant Park last Friday, about Kelly Ryder apparently going down on James Davies in front of the entire basketball team, how she gives blowjobs for ten bucks.

Sam closes his eyes and ears to it, concentrates on tying the laces on his thrift store sneakers, the canvas damp and stiff from the rain, chafing under his fingertips.

“Hey, Sam, you need a ride home?”

He tilts his head back, blinks. Ali Deels is standing over him, freshly showered, his freckled face pink, dark red hair wet and plastered to his forehead, car keys dangling from one finger.

“Or maybe we could, like, head back to my place, work on our Chem project for class?” he adds.

Sam pushes his hair out his eyes, avoiding Ali’s hopeful smile. “Uh, no thanks, man. I’m getting a ride with Dean.”

“But he has practice, doesn’t he?” Ali says. It’s a rhetorical question, Ali knows Dean has practice. Ali knows Dean’s schedule almost as well as Sam does.

Undeterred by Sam’s silence, Ali takes a seat next to him on the bench; body angled towards Sam, eyes boring into the side of Sam’s bent face. Sam tamps down on the urge to scoot away from him. They’re not in private now; Ali shouldn’t be sitting this close, not where all the other guys can see them. It’s simple self-preservation.

“C’mon, Sam. We can work for a couple of hours, then I’ll give you a ride back to your place. Dean’ll be cool with that.” He nudges Sam with his elbow, leans in close enough for Sam to feel his hot breath against the side of his face.

He flinches, images from a couple of nights ago skittering through his mind: Ali’s eyelashes fluttering closed against his freckled cheeks, his small ink stained fingers jerking in and out of Sam’s fly, his thin uncut dick chafing against Sam’s palm.

He swallows, jerks to his feet. “No, uh, sorry, man. I can’t tonight. Dean’s expecting me.” He gives a bullshit what can you do shrug.

Ali’s expression falls, but he swallows, gets over it. “Oh, okay, okay, Sam. You’ll still be in early to work on the project, though? Right, man?” He smiles hopefully, eyes going round and beguiling like a cartoon strip, dark freckles against his pink skin.

“Uh, yeah, sure. I’ll be there.”

Football practice hasn’t finished, the team still running through various plays on the field; parents, boosters, cheerleaders and various hangers-on ranged across the brand-new bleachers, watching with the kind of deranged reverence only small-town football seems to inspire. Sam rolls his eyes inwardly, feeling contemptuous and superior as he watches Paul Ferguson, the head booster guy, stride up to Coach McCarthy to remonstrate with him over some fucked-up play; seriously, does the guy have nothing better to do with his time? Sam takes his usual seat on the eighth row and looks for his brother on the field, finally spotting him in his number 33 jersey standing in the running back position.

They’d originally come to this town for a hunt – promising athletes being cut down in their prime, last year’s star quarterback and the swim team star three years before, potential winning seasons crumbling like dust without them. There’d been enough talk for locals to start telling tales of “a curse” which alerted Dad. He’d suggested that Sam and Dean go undercover, get themselves involved with the high school’s sports programs. For once, Sam was happy to fall in line with his father’s orders; he liked organized sports and he’d always wanted to play high school soccer, to be part of some team activity that had nothing to do with hunting; having Dad’s blessing this time around was just an added bonus. Dean was less enthusiastic; he’d finished high school the year before, and at twenty, considered himself way too old to go back. But Dad insisted, so of course Dean obeyed, lying about his age and getting himself accepted on the football team despite never even playing the game at high school level before to Sam’s knowledge.

They solved the case over a month ago: the disgruntled and downright petty spirit of a neighboring high-school coach exacting revenge on his major rival by literally scaring their best athletes to death. Dad was already halfway out the door by the time they salted and burned the baseball glove belonging to the dead coach, on his way to a new hunt in Nebraska – a coven of warlocks tracked down by Caleb - so Sam and Dean were forced to stick around in this dead-end town, still attending the high school and still playing sports. It seemed pointless to quit the teams at the time, Sam didn’t want to, and Dean – well, he wasn’t sure why Dean had stuck with football, but it probably had a lot to do with the cheerleaders, with the girls flocking around him at every opportunity, wanting in his pants, not that Dean needed football to help him get laid, but this new level of popularity was something that neither of them had ever experienced before and Dean was making the most of it.

Sam watches the offence run through a play. Dean’s the main feature: taking the quarterback’s snapped pass with easy grace, darting past the defense to make a clear twenty yards before he’s tackled by a massive beefy line-backer. Dean’s good, getting a couple of high fives from his teammates as Coach McCarthy blows the whistle to call them into a huddle. In some ways, Sam isn’t surprised by how good Dean is. His brother’s a natural athlete, quick, ruthless, in great shape, able to think on his feet and take orders, and, of course, he has plenty of experience with teamwork.

He keeps his eyes on Dean as the players leave the field. He’s carrying his helmet in one hand, talking to one of the other guys – the quarterback – Carl something; Dean says he’s a good guy, for a jock, Sam’s not so sure.

He gets to his feet, trudges down the bleachers, waiting at the bottom for Dean to notice him. It doesn’t take long; his brother’s always had this radar for him, the one that can pick out Sam in a crowd from fifty paces. Dean catches his eye and cocks his head, raises his eyebrows and Sam nods, getting it. Wait outside in the parking lot for me, I won’t be long.

Dean’s motorcycle is parked out by the faculty building. Sam leans against the pillion as he waits for his brother. It’s warmer round this side of the school, the faint sun just starting to set, casting long, eerie shadows over the few cars left in the faculty lot. Sam runs one hand over the scratched faded leather of the bike’s seat. The motorcycle’s a new thing for them, though the machine itself is not new, not at all. Dean won it in a poker game in the first few days they were living here. The losing guy was happy to toss the keys over instead of real money - which should’ve been a warning - but Dean claimed not be worried, drunk and cocky and bragging to Sam about just how freaking awesome he’d been, how he’d taken those losers to pieces, how they hadn’t stood a damn chance.

Dean worked on the bike whenever he got the chance, Sam helping him out in between trips to the library, research for the hunt and homework ‘cause it wasn’t like there was anything else to do in this dead-end town. Dean got it working perfectly, (just as well considering Dad had taken the car with him when he’d left to join Caleb), and it’s currently their only mode of transport, the only way of getting to school, ‘cause there’s no freaking way Sam’s trekking the two miles out to the bus stop every day.

Dean doesn’t take long, comes walking around the side of the building, duffle slung over one shoulder, shadow long and jagged, whistling something that sounds unsurprisingly like Black Sabbath.

“Hey,” Dean greets him. “Good practice?”

“Alright,” Sam shrugs. “You?”

“Man, fuckin’ awesome. You see me make that play?”

“No, must’ve missed that,” Sam lies.

Dean’s face falls slightly, but he disguises it with a shrug. “Well, I was awesome – just so you know.”

“Of course you were, Dean,” Sam says, using his newly discovered patronizing-Dean tone of voice. It’s deeply satisfying.

“You bet I fuckin’ was, sarcastic little bitch. Number one running back now.”

“Wow, that’s just, like, so cooool.”

Dean rolls his eyes, shoves him, and Sam sniggers, amused with himself. Dean tosses him one of the helmets, tells him to fix the chinstrap right. It’s what he says every single freaking time they ride the motorcycle together, Dean’s so predictable like that. Sam climbs onto the pillion, wraps his arms tightly around his brother, presses his face into the broad leather curve of Dean’s shoulders. He jumps when Dean kick-starts the machine, the rumble and growl vibrating through every pore of his body as Dean roars out of the school gates.

“Hold on!” Dean shouts as they finally clear the main town limits and cruise out onto the quiet back country road that leads towards the trailer park where they’re currently staying. Sam shifts closer, tightening his grip around his brother’s waist as Dean opens the throttle, the needle dancing past 50 – 60 – 70 – 80 mph as they tear down the leaf-streaked road. He ducks down further behind his brother’s solid compact body, using Dean as a wind-break, as a solid centrifugal force. He can feel Dean’s heart thump under his spread fingers, feel the warmth of Dean’s body through their jammed up bodies, feel the rumble and vibration of the bike’s engine through his ass and thighs.

Dean lets out a loud whoop and Sam echoes it; he throws back his head and screams out loud, he can’t help himself, crazy with exhilaration and the sheer euphoria of tearing down the country road. They’re going so fast it feels as if they’re about to take off, like that awesome moment in ET when the children fly on their bicycles past the moon.

They fly past the entrance to the trailer park, but Dean doesn’t turn in, just speeds up even more, miles eaten up under them. They finally come to a halt at a crossroads, the land around them deserted and open for miles, no trees here, maybe fifteen, twenty miles from where they should be. Dean swerves the bike around in a 180 degree turn, wheels kicking up dust and grit. Sam blinks and adjusts his hold on Dean’s jacket, not realizing until now that he’s been holding onto Dean so hard that his fingers have cramped up.

Dean turns and pushes up the visor on his helmet. “Alright, Sam?” The words are partly muffled, but Sam can read the question in Dean’s expression.

He nods, flexes his fingers, makes fists in the fabric of Dean’s jacket. Dean nods back at him, pushes down his visor and takes off again, taking them back the way they came, this time making the turn into the trailer park.

“Man, that was – that was freakin’ awesome! Don’t tell me that wasn’t awesome!” Dean exclaims as he pulls up outside their trailer.

Sam makes a face, tries to stop the grin from flittering over his mouth. “I guess it was kinda okay.”

Dean kills the engine and reaches behind to slap Sam’s thigh, letting out another whoop. Sam smiles to himself, this is his favorite version of Dean: open and expansive and drunk on the sheer exhilaration of the moment.

“Whoa, you been enjoying yourself back there, huh, Sammy?”

Dean cackles and turns his head to peer back at Sam, amusement in his eyes.

“Huh – whu?” Sam blinks, confused.

Dean raises one eyebrow and wiggles his ass backwards against Sam’s crotch – and – ohhhh – shit ¬– he gets it now. He really gets it now.

He’s hard, he’s sporting some serious wood, and he had no fucking idea. He’s been so caught up in the ride, he hasn’t even noticed.

He freezes, blushes furiously as he feels Dean’s amused and knowing gaze track over him.

“Dude, don’t sweat it,” Dean says, like Sam popping wood when he’s pressed up against his brother’s ass is totally no big deal. He grabs Sam’s wrist and yanks his hand forward, around his body, planting it over the front of Dean’s own pants and the – Holy fucking shit! - unmistakable erection he’s also sporting, thick and hard and obvious through his tight jeans. “See - happens to all of us,” Dean says matter-of-factly.

Sam jerks his hand away from his brother’s – Jesus - his brother’s fly like he’s been scalded.

“Jesus Christ, Dean! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He slides off the bike, clumsily tripping over the kick stand as he turns his back on his brother, fingers fumbling with the strap of his helmet, face burning red.

“Sam, c’mon, man, it’s alright, nothing to get embarrassed about,” Dean says, sounding conciliatory, like he can see how freaking mortified Sam really is. Sam jumps when Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze. “Dude, ain’t nothin’ I ain’t seen before, right? I’ve heard you jerk off a million fuckin’ times – and you’ve heard me jerk off – “

“Dean! Please! Just – shut the fuck up!” Sam cries.

He tosses the helmet to the ground and slams into the trailer, making straight for the bathroom and crashing the flimsy door behind him.

He takes a seat on the closed toilet lid and waits for Dean to follow. Dean will probably try and talk to him, or annoy him, or tease him, it’s what Dean does, and this time around, he’s most definitely given his brother plenty of ammunition.

He places his hand over his fly and prays for his erection to go away, tries to think of something incredibly unsexy – Dad sex perhaps, Dad flirting with that female police officer back in Maryland. He shudders, remembering, ‘cause yeah, gross, but it’s making no difference to his dick, the stupid thing still stubbornly hard and throbbing in his pants.

The front door bangs open and he flinches, hears the sound of Dean’s voice and another guy – Mason – the trailer park manager.

“What? It’s broken again?” Dean snaps, sounding incredulous and pissed.

“Yeah, she’s been whinin’ all fuckin’ day ‘bout not bein’ able to go to the john. I thought you said you fixed it. Where’s your father? It’s his damn job to deal with this shit,” Mason says in that horrible nasal whine that Sam has come to seriously fucking loathe.

He hears his brother hesitate, then say quickly: “My Dad ain’t here right now.”

Fucking typical, Dean lying for Dad. And of course Dad’s not here right now, he’s never here. He’s been gone for three… four weeks now? Sam’s kinda lost count.

“It was fixed yesterday,” Dean continues, sounding pissed. “Me and my brother fixed it.”

“Well you did a crappy job, kid, ‘cause it sure ain’t workin’ now. Bitch hasn’t stopped fuckin’ bothering me all fuckin’ day.”

Dean sighs then says through gritted teeth: “I guess I’ll take another look then.”

“Yeah, you do that. Just get the fuckin’ thing fixed else I’ll be wanting your rent in cash. Backdated.”

Mason leaves, and the door slams shut, Dean muttering, “Asshole,” to the empty room.

Sam stays quiet; listens to his brother stomp around, gather up his tools, then crash out of the trailer, still bitching under his breath. Not that Sam can blame him, the two of them worked on that fucking toilet for two hours last night after dinner, and it was working when they left.

These maintenance tasks are part of the deal that Dad arranged with the trailer park owner to get them rent-free accommodation for however many months they were going to be here. Of course, Dad’s barely been here since they rolled into this shitty town, so it’s Sam and Dean who’ve been stuck with the really crappy jobs that the daily guy can’t be bothered to handle: namely blocked pipes and backed-up toilets and emptying trash.

Sam sighs and lets his head fall back against the thin trailer wall, elbows against the toilet tank. He glances down at his crotch; happily, memories of last night’s toilet fixing marathon seem to have finally deflated his stupid cock. He zips up his pants and gets up off the toilet.

He hates the trailer; he hates it even more than he hates the usual desperate motel rooms and two room houses they live in. With a motel room, it’s always temporary; the very nature of a motel room is temporary. But this place, there’s something about this place - about the entire trailer park - that is depressingly permanent, something that gets under your skin and lodges there, something that brands you and marks you out as one of life’s eternal losers, something miserable and suffocating and unrelenting. They may be hunters, they may be fighting a war that is supposed to be above and beyond normal everyday struggles of paying bills and making rent and being able to hold your head up at school, but Sam knows that even after they move on from this place, (because unlike a lot of the poor assholes who live here, they will move on), there’s going to be some part of him that will never be able to completely shake it off.


On Thursday evening, Sam does his homework at Ali’s farm. The two of them work through a problem set, sitting close together at Ali’s desk in his big attic room, the sounds of Ali’s father and the farm hands working in the barn next door filtering up through Ali’s permanently cranked-open window. Ali’s room is sparse, no rugs or carpet on the smooth wood floors, barely any furniture except for Ali’s enormous bed, chest of drawers, old carved armoire and two overflowing bookcases. There are no posters on the wall, but his cork board is covered with articles about last year’s soccer team’s winning season, a color coded copy of his class schedule, a frayed and discolored Longhorns pennant and several Polaroids of Ali and his deceased dog, Jack.

For the last twenty minutes their legs have been pressed together, Ali’s thigh a solid block of denimed heat against Sam’s. It’s making Sam jittery, self-aware in a way that he hates, overly conscious of every muscle in his body.

Ali puts down his pen, and Sam stills, on edge and waiting for something. He flinches, almost jumps when Ali’s hand lands on his thigh, though he was expecting it, he knew it was coming. The air around them feels still, tight and muffled, like they’re in their own private vacuum.

He hears Ali lick his lips, say, “Sam,” in a quiet, hesitant voice.

Sam says nothing, breathes in and out, doesn’t flinch but keeps dreadfully still as Ali’s hand edges up his thigh, higher and higher, his cock beginning to swell in his jeans with each inch. Ali hesitates again, swallows audibly, and Sam’s leg jerks, an involuntary spasm.

“No, don’t,” he says, though he doesn’t actually move, doesn’t get up from the desk or push Ali away.

“I’m not gay, Sam,” Ali says abruptly.

It’s so unexpected, such a non-sequitur that Sam has the crazy urge to laugh out loud, ‘cause, seriously – what? He’s not – he hasn’t even thought of that, of sexuality and labels and saying shit out loud. Is that what Ali thinks this is? What they’ve been doing?

“I. Um, no, I know,” he says.

“This is something guys do together,” Ali protests, “it’s normal.”

Sam thinks about telling Dean what he and his “geek friend” have been doing in between homework and class projects and mini chess tournaments. He knows exactly what his brother’s reaction would be, and it wouldn’t be that’s normal.

“I read it somewhere,” Ali adds.

Sam believes him. Ali’s exactly the sort of boy to have read up on what normal adolescent boy behavior should be and then try to emulate it, or at least try to track his own behavior alongside it, like a social studies experiment.

He says nothing, and they both go quiet again. Ali’s hand is still on Sam’s thigh and Sam’s cock is still half-hard. He thinks about saying no, stopping things right now. He thinks about it as Ali makes his move, hand creeping up Sam’s leg, fingers brushing against Sam’s fly, his hard dick blatantly obvious and tenting his jeans. He’s still thinking about telling Ali to stop a minute later when Ali’s got Sam’s cock out and is jacking it with awkward but effective jerks of his wrist.

He doesn’t stop it, and he comes into Ali’s hand, Ali’s small ink-stained fingers squeezed tight around his cock. Ali turns away from him, opens a drawer in his desk and fumbles out a box of Kleenex. His eyes are shiny, face flushed, lips half-parted as he avoids Sam’s gaze, turning to stare down at his page of quadratic equations like they’re the most fascinating things he’s ever seen.

Sam returns the favor for Ali because it’s only polite, only fair to reciprocate, because Ali’s supposed to be his best friend and because Ali is one of the only people at school who talks to him. And because, secretly, there’s a very real part of him that enjoys it, likes to see with his own eyes the pleasure that he’s giving, that likes the slim, silky feel of Ali’s cock in his hand and that likes to imagine the stunned and horrorstruck look on his big brother’s face if he ever knew what little Sammy was up to.


Ali gives him a ride back to the trailer park, drops him outside the entrance and leaves with a cheerful wave, awkwardness and embarrassment already forgotten. Sam raises his hand to wave back, watching the taillights disappear over the ridge, noise of the engine fading into nothingness.

He thrusts his hands into his pockets and turns into the park. Most of the trailers are still lit up, flickering lights from TV screens and muffled sounds of talk shows and repeats of football games filtering through thin metal walls as he trudges up the lane to their trailer. A few people have their doors open, some sitting outside, smoking or drinking, a group of four or five guys are outside Bill Marmby’s trailer, drinking beers, smoking and conversing in low gruff tones. They look up as Sam passes by, narrowed suspicious cut to their eyes, and Sam’s breath catches, for a moment imagining that they can see inside his head, read his mind, and know what he was doing only an hour early. But they barely notice him, just another passerby – that kid who empties the trash or fixes the broken toilet – just him, no one important. They go back to their conversation, their raspy nicotine-soaked voices reminding him with a wrench of Dad and his hunting buddies – Bobby or Pastor Jim - talking strategy and lore and good vs. evil until late in the night while he and Dean are supposed to be asleep.

The lights in the Winchester trailer are real low, and there’s no sound of the TV. For a moment, Sam thinks that Dean’s still out, remembering that he’d told Dean he’d be back later than this, it’s scarcely nine thirty after all, then he hears a gasp of breath, a moaned out guttural curse – and of course, he’s so freaking dumb – his brother’s got company, his brother’s making the most of his absence.

He pauses by the front steps, rolls his eyes – for his own benefit, there’s no one else to see him. So what the fuck is he supposed to do now? Wait outside? Here? Gatecrash Dean’s little party? It wouldn’t be the first time he’s walked in on Dean with one of his conquests. And it wouldn’t be the first time he’s listened to his brother having sex, hearing Dean orgasm is a regular occurrence in Sam’s life. But Dean would just bitch if he were to break things up now, call him a fucking cock-block for the rest of the night, and probably a lot of tomorrow, and sure, it’s kinda funny, but he hates Dean being pissed with him.

There’s another moan, louder this time, deeper, almost gravelly, and if Sam’s not mistaken that sounds like –

He tiptoes carefully onto the metal steps, one hand splayed against the door for balance. He cranes his head up and to the left, peers through the narrow, dirty window by the door. Dean’s on the couch, and he’s not alone. He’s on the bottom – naked to the waist – and the person on top of him – the person –

It’s a guy.

Sam freezes, heart skipping a beat, mouth falling open in shock.

Jesus Christ, that’s a – a guy. Dean’s making out with a dude.

The air evaporates from his lungs and Sam just stares, gapes, watches the guy lean down and take Dean’s mouth in a kiss, watches Dean’s arm with his familiar leather bracelets encircle the guy, cup his ass, his hand with the familiar silver ring snag in the guy’s frayed denim pockets, and pull him down firmly, force him in closer.

Holy shit.

Sam steps off the porch and backs away. His heart is beating, adrenaline fast, like they’re on a hunt, except of course there is no hunt, just Dean and some guy dry humping on the couch.

He hesitates outside the front of the trailer, not sure which way to go now, what to do. He stares down at the ground, the mushy gritty earth, disturbed and lumpy from the rain and the tracks of the motorcycle. If he smoked then this would be a good time to have a cigarette, to calm himself down and waste time. Dean smokes sometimes, though never when Dad’s around, too much of a good little solider –

Shit, Dad. What the hell would Dad say if he knew about Dean’s sudden taste in guys?

So, does Dean have a taste for guys? Evidence right now points to a big fat fucking yes. But is this guy the first? It’s not like Sam can tell anything from what he’s just glimpsed, not like he could tell who the guy is or if he knows Dean or if this is a one off like all of Dean’s other one-night-stands, or if – shit – if Sam knows him too? Maybe he’s in school with them, maybe he’s on the team with Dean?

Sam worries his lip, fingers clenching into fists in his pockets. He turns to look back at the trailer. Fuck, he needs to know who this guy is; he needs to know what’s going on with his brother. He has to know.

He creeps around the side of the trailer; the back is in shadow, hidden, not visible to any nosy neighbors or to the people inside. He treads softly, taking care not to make a noise. The ground here is even softer underfoot and he thinks with disgust of the shitty pipe-work common to every trailer in this craphole of a park, all the pipes Dean and he have been forced to unblock and dismantle over the past few weeks, the clogs of human and animal hair, the food and other shit they’ve had to remove. He’s reached a good spot, this window giving an even better view of the couch than the one at the front. He presses one hand against the cold dusty wall, bracing himself, and he peers inside.

The guy is still on top of Dean, his head bowed, face hidden. His body is bigger than Dean’s, the shoulders and arms that Sam can make out are thicker, more muscular than his brother’s, his skin slightly more tan, his hair short and dark. One of his hands is cupping the side of Dean’s face, his fingers splayed out over Dean’s cheek and temple, thumb resting against Dean’s slightly parted lips. His other hand is caught in the waistband of Dean’s jeans, the rocking jerking movement of his arm wholly familiar to Sam. One of Dean’s arms is tossed over his head, draped over the arm of the couch in a languid decadent sort of a sprawl that reminds Sam with a wrench of Dean watching TV, the way Dean can take over a couch or a chair and own it completely. Dean’s other arm is curled lazily around the guy, resting over the small of his back, tips of his fingers disappearing under the guy’s flannel shirt.

Sam swallows and moves his attention to Dean’s face. His brother’s eyes are half-closed, his expression serene and blissful, mouth shaped around the guy’s thumb. There’s a kind of intimacy in it that makes Sam feel funny, his chest clench up and stomach feel tight and unhappy. Dean’s face is flushed, and Sam can hear him moaning, murmuring something too low to make out. Dean arches his hips up, ass momentarily leaving the couch cushions, groaning loudly, desperately, and Sam realizes with a lurch of panic that he’s about to watch his brother come.

He yanks his gaze away, feeling like he’s been scalded. Behind him, his brother is coming, spurting into some unknown dude’s hand, letting that same dude lean down and kiss him, intimate and private and just – just nothing like the big brother Sam knows so well.

He stands in silence, heart beating wildly, stomach churning queasily. He wonders if Dean’s going to jerk the guy off now, if once Dean’s gotten his, he’s going to return the favor, just like Sam did only an hour earlier in Ali’s bedroom. The thought makes him want to laugh out loud, a dirty crazy little snigger building up in his chest – he and Dean both exchanging hand-jobs with guys on the same freaking night. Well, at least they’re still in synch. Dad would be proud.

He has no idea exactly how much time has passed. It feels like years, but it’s probably only minutes, probably only one or two minutes at most, barely even five minutes since he waved goodbye to Ali. He realizes distantly that he’s shivering, goose-flesh on his arms, despite the prickly heat in his gut and the churning in his belly. He swallows again and decides that it’s probably okay to look now; Dean and the guy must have finished - finished whatever it was they were doing.

He turns around and peers through the window once more. Dean and the guy are standing up, fully dressed thank God, though Dean’s shirt has a few buttons undone, his hair mussed and cheeks pink and expression satisfied. He looks – hell – he looks like he does just after he’s gotten some action: smug and satisfied and all’s right with the world. The other guy has his back to Sam and is shrugging on a navy hunting vest over his flannel shirt. He says something to Dean, the words muffled and low, and Dean chuckles, that curl to his mouth that means he’s a little embarrassed. He bows his head and takes a step towards the guy, puts his hands on his shoulders. He leans in, presses his lips to the guy’s, the guy’s hands coming out to cradle Dean’s face, hands in Dean’s hair as they kiss.

Sam’s pulse hammers, and he can’t look away - unable to look away from the sight of his brother making out with a dude, just a couple of feet from where he’s standing. And Sam can see it – can practically see the line of drool on their lips as they break apart, the plush pink sheen of Dean’s mouth. The guy keeps one hand on Dean’s cheek; tenderly cradling his face like it’s something precious. Dean’s eyes are wide and locked on the guy’s face, curiously naked and open and intimate in a way Sam isn’t used to seeing on his brother. This isn’t just a one night stand, Dean knows this guy, this isn’t the first time they’ve done this.

The thought makes him feel hot, his throat tight and painful, like he’s about to cry. He clenches his fingers into fists and watches Dean back away from the guy, saying something – and Sam can actually make out the words now, Dean’s voice suddenly clear once more: “Gotta go, man, my brother will be back soon…”

The guy nods and turns around –

Holy fucking shit.

He grabs onto the edge of the window – momentarily losing his footing – his heart skips a beat and he steadies himself once more, and he stares

It’s Paul Ferguson.

Paul Ferguson who looks about forty fucking years old, Paul Ferguson who must be the richest guy in town, Paul Ferguson who is most definitely married to a woman.

Paul Ferguson was just making out with Sam’s brother.

Sam gapes in disbelief; he watches Paul Ferguson take the couple of steps towards the door, one hand on the handle, his eyes drinking in Dean, boring into him like he’s trying to memorize every inch of him. And then he’s gone, shutting the door quickly behind him.

Sam listens to the crunch of gravel, the squelch of the soft earth as Paul Ferguson walks away, and he wonders distractedly where he’s parked his car. He’s got an expensive ride, one of those huge-ass SUV’s that cost upwards of $50 – 60k, with one of those douchey personalized license plates. However you look at it, it’s pretty noticeable. Surely the guy can’t have parked it anywhere near the trailer park.

The Winchesters may not have been in town very long, but Sam knows the town’s history better than most of its residents, partly due to the research he and Dean did for the hunt and partly due to Ali taking his role as town ambassador very seriously. Sam knows that Paul Ferguson, scion of the wealthy Ferguson family, is a big deal: Chief Booster for the high school football team, former mayor, grandson of the town founder, Paul Ferguson is the big cheese in these parts. The Ferguson family owns a chain of food stores (Ferguson Foods), a couple of family oriented restaurants, (Ferguson’s), a huge-ass car dealership (Ferguson Motors), and even a strip club (La Piñata – the only business not to bear the Ferguson name). His money pays for the football program; it bought the new field and the new bleachers and brought in the current coaching staff from a rival town. Paul Ferguson’s wedding to former Miss Oklahoma, Julie Grayson, five years ago is still spoken of by town residents like Ali’s parents in awed respectful tones. Paul Ferguson is a local celebrity, and now it seems he is also Sam’s brother’s lover.

What is Dean thinking? What is Dean doing? This isn’t some one-night hookup, this isn’t some high school fuck, this is Dean having an affair with a married man – a man - who happens to be the most powerful guy in town.

This is a betrayal. Dean’s betrayed them, betrayed their family, Dean’s betrayed him.

He feels like he’s been punched in the gut, like someone’s reached inside his stomach – inside his chest – and rummaged around, yanked and squeezed at his intestines, taken his heart in a death-grip.

His eyes are burning; he doesn’t think he’s blinked since he saw Paul Ferguson’s face. He forces himself to blink, his hands still so tightly curled into fists that his wrists are cramping, his fingers aching with the effort. Slowly he unclenches them, rests one hand against the cold dusty wall of the trailer. He gets to his tiptoes again and peers through the window once more.

Dean’s lying on the couch, slouching in his usual position, beer resting between his thighs, remote in his hand, attention completely riveted on the college football game showing on the TV. This is how he’s presenting himself in time for Sam’s arrival. This is the fake show he’s going to put on for Sam, and if Sam were to ask him, then he’ll make up some bullshit about going out for a beer with the guys, about coming back here and watching the game for the rest of the evening, about getting a burger on his way back and if Sam’s still hungry then there’s some take-out pizza from the other night in the refrigerator. He’ll lie there on the couch, nonchalant and cool, and he’ll fucking lie to Sam’s face, he’ll protect that fucking pervert.

Sam stares at him long enough for his eyes to glaze over and his head to start aching, the edgy pounding of a tension headache behind his eyes, his whole body feeling wrung out and used worse than one of Dad’s grueling PT sessions.

Finally, he forces himself to look away, and slowly, he steps away from the trailer.

He pads softly, carefully away from the trailer, sliding his body between a couple of the empty trailers, mud and dust scraping against his – Dean’s – jacket, probably leaving marks and stains, not that anyone will notice or care, not in his family.

Dean’s never lied to him before. Dad’s the one who lies to him, but Dean – Dean’s always been straight with him, the only person in his sucky life that he can rely on.

Except that’s not true anymore. How many times has Dean been with Paul Ferguson before now? How many lies has Dean told him to keep his dirty little secret?

He doesn’t want to go back in there. He doesn’t want to be in the same room where Dean just fucked around with Paul Ferguson. It’s disgusting – sordid – and it’s – it’s so beneath them, beneath Dean. Dean’s better than that.

He should tell Dad. It would serve Dean right if Dad found out. Dad would put an end to it. Dad would fucking kill Paul Ferguson, Dad wouldn’t give a shit that he’s the most powerful guy in town. Dad would put him in the fucking ground for messing around with his boy. And the fucker would deserve it. He would deserve everything coming to him, being exposed for the filthy pervert he is – fucking around with a high school student half his age – it would end him. And Dean would know that it wasn’t acceptable, that he couldn’t just – he couldn’t go around doing that sort of shit. He’s a Winchester for fuck’s sake.

He should call Dad right now.

The thought fills him with purpose. He heads towards the phone booth by the entrance. Thankfully, it’s not busy, and he has enough quarters in his pocket to get through to Dad’s cell.

He wrenches the door to the booth open, wrinkling his nose at the customary smell of piss and beer. He lifts the receiver and slots in the quarters, punching in Dad’s cell phone number. It rings five times, and he’s about to give up, hang up, ‘cause what kinda message can he leave? He can’t explain everything – what he’s feeling right now, what he’s just seen – in a fucking phone message.


Sam flinches at Dad’s voice, gruff and barked-out. He licks his lips, says, “Dad?”

“Sammy? Everything okay?”

“Uh, yeah, yeah. I’m fine, Dad.”

“Good, that’s good. What about your brother? Where’s Dean?”

Sam hesitates, ‘cause Dean – Dean is not okay, Dean’s – Dean’s seriously fucked up and this is why he’s calling Dad right now, to tell him, to let him know what’s going on with Dean, make him come back and sort things out. But Dad will be livid, Dad will punish Dean. He’ll tell Dean how disappointed he is in him, and Dean will get that look on his face – that heartbroken, damaged look – and Sam can’t stand seeing that look on his brother’s face, he can’t stand seeing Dean in pain.

He can’t do it. He can’t tattle on Dean.

What Dean’s doing is wrong, and there’s part of Sam that fucking – fucking hates his brother right now, that can’t bear thinking about him – but getting Dad involved, turning Dad against Dean –

He can’t do that to his brother.

“He’s, uh, he’s fine too, Dad. He’s just at home, watching TV.”

There’s a noise at the other end of the phone line, a muffled sound as Dad says something, covering the receiver with his hand so Sam can’t hear his exact words. When Dad gets back on the line, when he speaks again, he sounds distracted, vaguely annoyed in that way he always seems to be when speaking to either of them on the phone.

“Well, that’s good, Sammy. Look – I gotta go – Caleb thinks he might have something -”

“Oh right, okay, Dad – when do you think –“

But the rest of his question is cut off, dial tone buzzing in Sam’s ear. Dad’s hung up.

Sam bites his lip, stares murderously at the phone, and slams it back down onto the hook, clink of metal harsh and resonating.

What a fucking waste of time and money – tomorrow’s lunch money gone, wasted. And it was his own fault, chickening out when it came to the crunch.

Pussy, he says to himself, lifting his lip into a sneer, catching his reflection in the glass pane of the booth. You’re a fucking pussy.

He slams out the booth, starts to walk back towards their trailer.

He pushes the door open, hinge creaking, flimsy metal scraping against the warped linoleum floor, ugly piece of crap trailer.

Dean looks up from the TV as Sam forces the door shut behind him, eyebrows raised and expression welcoming. “Hey, man. You have a good time?”

Sam shrugs, doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t feel like talking, he’s not even sure he can talk. He can’t look at Dean, can’t meet his eyes, remembering the look in his face when Paul Ferguson cupped his cheek, kissed him on the lips, jerked him off –

His stomach shudders, acid and bile burning acrid at the back of his throat.

“Sammy?” Dean prompts, sounding concerned. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, Dean! Christ’s sake, just leave me alone!” he snarls.

He stomps across the floor, slams the bedroom door behind him, Dean’s wide-eyed incredulous expression burned against his retinas. He sinks to the edge of the bed, drops his head into his hands. His chest is heaving, stupid hot tears burning at the back of his eye sockets. Christ, he’s pathetic, what a great impression of an emo-teen. Any minute now Dean’s gonna come in here and shout at him, mock him.

He braces himself, waiting for Dean to come in, for Dean to give him shirt for acting like such a prissy emo bitch, or for Dean to sit down and try and talk to him, try and figure out what’s crawled up Sammy’s ass this time. But Dean doesn’t come, and Sam’s not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

He gets into bed because it’s late and because he can’t concentrate on anything else, not on homework, not on reading, not even on listening to Dean’s old walkman. He strips down to his undershirt and boxers and crawls under the covers, his gut churning and chest feeling tight every time he hears a noise from the other room – Dean getting up to go to the bathroom, couch cushions creaking as Dean sits again, puffy sound of the refrigerator opening and closing as Dean fetches himself another beer, background TV noise as Dean channel surfs.

He falls asleep at some point, tumbling into a thick heavy sleep filled with disturbing dreams and memories of that time three years ago when Dean was clawed up by the harpy, when he spent almost four months recovering, one of the few times Sam was truly scared for his brother’s life.

He wakes up feeling thick-headed and fuzzy, his heart still thumping and adrenalin pumping from the dream, from the memory of how it felt to hold Dean on his lap in the backseat of the car while Dad broke land speed records to get them to the nearest ER. He blinks, cracks his eyes open; the light’s beginning to filter through the dirty window, the long thin strip where the grubby fake-velvet curtains don’t meet properly. He glances to his left, sees Dean bundled up in the covers beside him, lying on his front, cheek smushed up against the pillow, lips parted and eyelashes fluttering, black spidery curtains against his cheeks.

Sam swallows; looking at Dean like this – vulnerable and still and quiet – makes his chest hurt, makes him feel uncomfortable and twitchy. He slides out of bed, pulls on his clothes and shoes and tiptoes out the trailer, carefully closing the door behind him.

Next Chapter
Tags: pretty face, spn fic
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