dragonspell: (Happy Sam)
dragonspell ([personal profile] dragonspell) wrote2010-12-11 09:38 pm

Fic: SPN (Sam/Dean): Autumn Leaves | NC-17 | 4630 words

Title: Autumn Leaves
Author: [livejournal.com profile] dragonspell
Artist: [livejournal.com profile] smallworld_inc
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Pre-series. Sam's 17.
Summary: In the weak light of early morning, the autumn leaves are starting to paint the woods in reds and golds and a burning orange. On some level or another, Dean knows that it’s beautiful; he does. He's just got to find Sam first.
Word Count: 4630
Disclaimer: Never happened, no affiliation.
A/N: This fic is based on an amazing piece of art by [livejournal.com profile] smallworld_inc. When she asked me if I'd like to collaborate again with her, on a porny picture, there was only one word that went through my head: "YES!" Then she sent me the picture and my only thought changed to "Oh my God..." No, seriously. I very nearly cried at not only this gorgeous picture but also the fact that this incredibly talented artist wanted me of all people to write a fic for it. I feel so incredibly honored.

Check out [livejournal.com profile] smallworld_inc's amazing, amazing art over at her journal here.

There are times when Dean thinks that he could happily kill his father. It doesn’t happen often but sometimes… “SAM?” he yells, trying again, his voice echoing through the early morning quiet of the woods. He glances around from side to side and sees nothing but thick trees staring back at him. “Damn it…” he hisses, trudging on deeper into the forest, continuing with the same pattern that he's been at for hours now.

In the weak light of just after dawn, the autumn leaves are starting to paint the woods in reds and golds and a burning orange. On some level or another, Dean knows that it’s beautiful; he does. It’s just at the moment, he’s in no mood to appreciate it, hasn’t been since before dawn. He’s a mile and a half deep, far away from the little cabin where they’re all supposed to be staying. Where they all actually would be if only Dad hadn’t come home. If only Sam hadn’t opened his big mouth.

The cabin’s not much to look at. The roof leaks in the back corner of the living room and a couple of the windows make Dean glad that they’re not planning on staying through the winter because he’s already chopped enough firewood and he doesn’t want to think about what it would take to stave off the chill of a Minnesota winter. But it’s better than some of the other places that they’ve stayed in. An old bucket in the corner, regularly dumped during a storm, and a couple of heavy wool blankets thrown over the windows and the place was practically a five star hotel as far as Dean was concerned. Sam disagreed but, then again, Sam always disagreed.

For all of his usual contrariness, though, Sam had been happy enough with the arrangements…just as long as Dean came and picked him up after school so no school bus wandered anywhere near the place and Sam could pretend that he lived in town somewhere. So far, none of the kids that Sam had been talking to had pressed for more and that was just fine for everybody involved. The situation might not have been ideal, but, it had been…tolerable.

Then again, for the past two months that they’ve been living here, their father’s been pretty much MIA. He’s been up north and to the east, hunting by himself for a bit because this is Sam’s final year in school and he’s being stubborn and they can’t leave him alone. It’s just been little hunts, anyway, nothing too severe. A haunting here, a crazed wolf there. Nothing Dad hasn’t been able to handle on his own. Mostly it’s just been a waiting game because the last two hunts have been only on certain nights of the year.

Dean’s got a job down at the local mechanics’ and, provided his father calls home every now and then, Dean’s fine with the arrangement, too. This way, everyone’s happy. Well. Content at least. There’s no real such thing as happy when you’re just barely managing to keep a lid on a whole damn powder keg but, like Sam, Dean can find it tolerable with a little healthy dose of denial.

He can’t be mad at Sam for pulling off that lid, either. Sam deserves better than this. He’s a good kid and he deserves to have a home, a life, hell, friends. He deserves a chance to go to Homecoming and not feel like a fish out of water. He deserves to have that graphing calculator that he needs for Calculus and he deserves to have more than just the knowledge that they’re moving again. That less than seven weeks in Minnesota and they’re moving again, heading to Florida.

Dean’s happy with the location choice (the birds have already started migrating, why not them?) but he also understands Sam’s position too. And, faced with the decision of either keeping warm or keeping Sam happy, Dean would have happily frozen to death.

But that’s not Dean’s choice to make. Never has been, never will be. All he can do is just pick up the damn pieces. That would be why he’s out here in the crisp autumn morning, searching for Sam, a kid who doesn’t want to be found, and Dad is back at the cabin, probably passed out drunk by now. Sam had taken off soon after Dad had shown back up again, yelling, “I hate you!” as he’d evaded Dad’s grip and slammed out the front door to disappear into the woods. The man hadn’t even been home for an hour.

Dean doesn’t know why they can’t stay another week. One more week wouldn’t make a difference in the grand scheme of things but it would make sure that Sam could go to the Homecoming dance with that girl from his math class, the one that Sam swears up and down is just a friend but “Dean, a promise is a promise and she doesn’t want to go alone.” All Dean really knows is that Dad put his foot down just because Sam was baulking. Sam doesn’t help when it comes to things like that. He hasn’t caught on yet that Dad doesn’t deal well with outright defiance. Or, more truthfully, maybe he has and he just doesn’t care.

“Damn it, Sammy, answer me!” The leaves crunch beneath Dean’s boots as he moves eastward, climbing up the hill in front of him. Who knows, maybe he’ll be able to see more from the top, maybe he’ll find Sam. He slips a little in the loose dirt and catches himself on a tree, hand scraping over the bark as he swears. He’s been out here searching long enough that he’s outlasted the darkness. Sam had taken off before dawn and now here it is with the sun already starting to rise, the light peaking through the trees.

Dean hates it when Sam does this. He can understand Sam’s need to just get out of the house sometimes but he doesn’t like it when Sam hides from him. It makes him think of very bad things. Lots of things like to hide in the woods. Lots of evil, nasty things. And Dean knows that Sam doesn’t even have a pocketknife on him; he’d left it right beside the alarm clock. “Sam!

“Here,” a voice says quietly to the left and Dean reels his head around to find Sam, sitting on a pile of fallen leaves, looking just as calm as you please. His back is pressed against a tree whose gnarled roots pop out of the ground and tangle through the dirt, just barely keeping it from going over the edge that Sam’s sitting by. Sam’s got his face turned to the side, staring out over the cliff and being framed by the sunlight that’s starting to coat the valley below, cutting through the early morning fog. He doesn’t even look dirty which is next to impossible. Dean rubs at the small smudge of dirt on his face.

“Jesus, Sam,” Dean says, heading up the incline to where Sam’s sitting. “Don’t scare me like that.”

Sam drops his eyes from staring out over the hills and balls his fists in the leaves. “It wasn’t my fault,” he replies sullenly, almost automatically, and Dean’s not going to argue with it. Some of it is Sam’s fault but that doesn’t really matter and it takes two to tango anyway. Sam’s a damn good dancer but he was only following Dad’s lead.

Dean stops beside Sam, leaning against the tree as well, his shoulder pressing against the hard bark. “Sure,” he agrees easily, letting the argument drop before it even got started. “Lots of things in these woods, though.”

Sam snorts and tosses an orange leaf, watching it float harmlessly back down to the ground. “I think I can handle the squirrels, Dean.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Dean says, shrugging. “I hear that they’re vicious when they’re rabid. And I’m pretty sure that they’re plotting something.” It’s a dodge and not what Dean wants to say at all but it’s the best way to handle this situation. The lecture that he wants to give Sam about all the things that like to hide in the woods would get them nowhere. Dean’s learned that if nothing else from the past few years of watching his father try to handle Sam. A lecture just forces Sam into digging in his heels even more because Sam resents being told to do anything that he doesn’t want to do. Dad can’t bend, though, but Dean can. Dean’s flexible like that. That’s why it’s Dean’s job to do this. Always has been, always will be.

“Hilarious,” Sam says in that dry tone that he’s been perfecting ever since he turned thirteen. It’s a tone that sets Dad’s teeth on edge but makes Dean smile—that practiced combination of wry sarcasm and disrespect that reminds Dean of himself.

“Hey, I thought so,” Dean shoots back, kicking Sam’s leg lightly with his heavy boot. Sam’s lucky that it’s been awhile since it last rained; Dean’s boot’s only got a light dusting of dirt instead of the hard cake of mud that it could have. “I’m the funniest guy I know.”

Sam grins down at his lap and Dean feels a vague sense of pride for dragging the smile out of Sam. “Then you must not know anybody.” He catches Dean’s foot so that Dean can’t kick him again, holding it at the heel.

“Know you,” Dean says and shakes Sam’s hand off so that he can slide down and sit beside Sam, staring out across the cliff, too. Just like the trees around them, it’s kind of pretty, too. In a very breath-taking kind of way. The drop’s a long way down, a sheer straight-away with nothing but rocks and trees and fog a few hundred feet down to catch you if you fall. “And I’m definitely funnier than you.”

“Funny-looking,” Sam automatically replies, his grin spreading. Dean elbows him, digging into Sam’s striped shirt.

“See, now I’m the one who taught you that. Where would you be without me?” Dean pulls his eyes away from the cliff and smiles over at Sam who’s staring at him with the biggest damn brown eyes Dean’s ever seen. Bambi eyes, Dad calls them. It’s also a look that’s all too familiar and Dean’s chest tightens because it’s been way too long since he’s caught that look on Sam’s face. Dean’s been missing it—the one that says that Dean hung the damn moon but, even if he didn’t, he might as well have. Sam used to look at him that way a lot. Now, though, Dean’s been feeling like he’s been failing. He just hasn’t known how.

“Nowhere,” Sam says honestly and then he’s kissing Dean. No warning, no signal, just a quick sudden mood change like the kind that Sam’s been full of lately. Dean blinks and freezes in shock, mind stalling because of how fast the whole situation changed, moving from cheering Sam up one minute to having to fend him off the next.

This kissing thing, it isn’t a new development. But it always seems to catch Dean by surprise, every damn time.

Dean’s known for awhile that Sam’s been harboring some less than brotherly feelings for him. And he just thought that Sam would grow out of it. That he was just confused or something and, if Dean just ignored it, everything would sort itself out and the little infatuation or whatever it was go away. It’s been two years now, though. Dean’s starting to realize that nothing is quite going like he thought it would.

Not at all.

Every time Sam’s kissed him before, though—quick, stolen presses of his lips with his eyes full of challenge—Dean’s pushed him away. It isn’t right, after all. He doesn’t care what Sam wants or why he wants it, it isn’t right. Dean is willing to give Sam just about anything but not that, damn it, because he doesn’t need to be fucking Sam up any more than he already has. It’s just…

…That it’s getting harder and harder to push Sam away each time. God help him, but it is. Dean’s been facing some uncomfortable truths about himself and he knows that he’s not exactly normal.

Sam grabs a hold of Dean’s hair, holding him still, and the kid’s really getting good at this. Dean feels himself start to salute Sam’s skills, his pants getting real damn tight, and he knows that if he’s going to make a choice, he’d better do it quick. His little brother’s kissing the ever living daylights out of him and Dean needs to do something about that.

…He’s just so tired of pushing Sam away.

So he doesn’t.

Sam grunts in surprise when, instead of shoving Sam like he normally does, Dean actually leans into the kiss, going with it. Fuck it. They are already all screwed to Hell anyway, aren’t they? They’ve been that way for years, no matter what they did. And if Sam wants this, needs this, then damn it, he can have it. Their lives are full of enough denial and lies as it is.

Sam sways, lightheaded from a little bit of kissing because he’s only seventeen and he’s got no experience at things like this. Dean thinks that he can remedy that. He’d been thinking of just kissing Sam back—giving the kid what he wants—but the more he thinks about it, the more that he knows that he’s not going to be able to stop. Sam feels too good against him and Dean’s starting to realize what he suspects Sam’s known all along: the kissing thing’s more than mutual.

He sinks a hand into Sam’s shirt, using it to pull Sam away from the edge of the cliff and to safer ground. Sam gladly follows, getting up onto his knees to crawl along on the cold dirt through the leaves with Dean because he doesn’t want to risk breaking the kiss. Now that he’s finally getting what he wants, the kid doesn’t want to go anywhere. Dean only gets them away from the cliff and then he’s pushing Sam down, the leaves crunching around them as he lies down too. They’ve got some time to make up for.

Sam whimpers and arches upward, his hands combing through Dean’s hair a little too quickly, fueled by desperation and inexperience. Dean can understand that. He’s feeling the same damn thing, not the inexperience but definitely the desperation. It’s making him rough and sloppy like he hasn’t been in years and he’s just barely keeping himself from trying to eat Sam alive; his hands are trembling. It’s like that now that he’s given in, there’s nothing that he can do to hold himself back, and he’s so incredibly full of all these pent-up, messed-up desires that he’d been repressing for two years. Fuck.

They’re so damn dead if anyone catches them. It’s a damn good thing that they’re so far back in the woods that no one’s going to know. Nobody comes out this far and Dad…well. Dean saw just how much liquid cash was sitting in the backseat of the Impala. Dad’s not going anywhere until late this afternoon at the earliest. That’s a bridge that they’re not going to have to cross until later.

Later, which is a time that Dean isn’t thinking of at the moment.

Sam’s big hands—big, huge paws; kid’s going to be a giant if his hands are any kind of gauge—stroke down Dean’s neck, holding him roughly, nearly strangling him as they tangle in the cord of his pendant, before they’re moving over Dean’s chest and down Dean’s stomach, exploring, familiarizing. They make a bid for Dean’s belt and that’s where Dean stops them. Stops himself, too. “Whoa there, Tiger,” he whispers because if Sam goes any farther at the moment, Dean’s liable to lose it. And that would be a shitty thing to do to Sam who Dean knows hasn’t even gotten to second base yet. It’s up to Dean to show Sam just how good that this can be—to blow Sam’s mind.

So he takes a deep breath to calm himself down. They’ve got time. They’ve got nothing but time. “How about you just let me?” he suggests, grabbing a hold of Sam’s wrist and hauling it back over his head, pressing it down into the leaves above Sam. Sam swallows and stares at Dean, like he’s unsure that any of this is even happening and Dean smiles reassuringly. “I’ll make you feel real good, Sammy,” he says quietly and Sam shudders and nods.

Coaxing Sam into just lying back, Dean moves closer, one hand cupping the back of Sam’s head as he kisses Sam the way that he hasn’t allowed himself to do before. Sam’s lips part beneath Dean’s and Dean takes Sam up on the invitation, slipping his tongue just inside to tease Sam’s. Sam gasps, his mouth opening wider and Dean feels a tug on his shirt as Sam’s right hand rises to fist in the fabric.

Dean pulls back and trails a hand down Sam’s rapidly rising and falling chest. “Close your eyes,” he says. “Just let me.” Sam obeys and Dean kisses the corner of his mouth in reward as he reaches for the hemline of Sam’s shirt. He drags it up, real slow, watching Sam’s white teeth sink into his bottom lip, harder and harder the higher that his shirt goes. Sam’s starting to arch up off the ground when Dean finally places a hand against his lean belly, fingers gently teasing.

“God, Dean—” Sam chokes himself off and his eyes flutter open to stare up at Dean. His hazel eyes have darkened to a green and Dean grins as he leans over.

“Close your eyes, Sammy,” Dean reminds him and then kisses him again, his tongue swirling inside of Sam’s mouth. He plays with Sam’s tongue, touching it lightly and runs over the line of Sam’s teeth before he’s coming back up for air and staring down at Sam’s face.

Sam’s face is slack, just gone as he does as Dean asks and lets himself go. Dean finds himself studying the quick flicker of Sam’s eyelashes and how bruised and inviting Sam’s lips look. He licks his own and comes down for another quick kiss—one that has Sam arching up underneath him—before he slides his hand down Sam’s stomach and into his too-loose jeans.

All of Sam’s clothes are hand-me-downs and the kid’s been growing like a weed so he’s outgrown even Dean’s. It’s Dad’s pants that Sam’s wearing and it’s entirely too easy for Dean to slip underneath them because Sam’s hips are skinny and he’s always liked his clothes loose anyway.

Sam’s underwear is damp when Dean pushes a hand inside of that, too, hot and sticky because Sam’s apparently been leaking non-stop since they started this. Sam whimpers and bucks upward into Dean’s hand, desperate for Dean to touch him as his hand flutters down to his own hips, like he’s resisting the urge to just shove Dean where he wants him. Dean’s got to admit, despite his best intentions, he’s not doing so well himself. He’s all but hyperventilating and he’s a step away from grinding against Sam’s hip like a horny teenager needing to get off.

Sam’s panting, but he’s holding still, just letting Dean do as he wants and that’s as hot as fuck. Dean loves the trust, loves that Sam—ornery, stubborn Sam—is letting him do this. “I got you,” Dean says. “Yeah, I got you…” His hand wraps around Sam’s hard cock and Sam gasps, breath starting to come in soft little pants. “That feels good, doesn’t it, Sammy?” He doesn’t even know what he’s saying at the moment, he’s just babbling, words coming out of his mouth because, God, he’s got his hand down his little brother’s jeans and he can’t think of anything hotter. His brain is short-circuiting. It’s sick and it’s wrong but Dean doesn’t feel the slightest bit of guilt. His hand is moving on its own, short hard pulls on Sam’s cock. “Yeah, I know it feels good. I know it feels good….” It feels like he’s touching his own cock but, for some reason, it’s even better. Just because it’s Sam’s. Just because he knows that it’s him that’s making Sam voice those quiet little whimpers.

He presses his lips to Sam’s, just needing something to do with his mouth and it’s either kiss Sam or keep babbling. Kissing Sam is the better option because feels better than the meaningless words. Sam breathes harshly through his nose and kisses back, his tongue moving against Dean’s. He’s no longer just lying back and taking it but moving his hips in time with Dean’s hand, humping it, because he probably just can’t help himself anymore. Dean’s supposed to be the older and the wiser one, the guy with the experience, but he just gives up and brushes his dick up against Sam’s thigh, moaning quietly at the wonderful friction. His pants are entirely too tight—they’re painful—but he’ll worry about that in a little while. Right now he’s got Sam writhing underneath him, looking like the hottest thing that Dean’s ever seen.

Sam gasps into Dean’s mouth, his hips rising clear of the ground, his heels digging into the leaves and then he’s coming, pulsing into Dean’s hand and soaking his underwear. Dean whimpers and jerks his head away to lick at the side of Sam’s neck and, when Sam drops back down to the ground, spent, he pulls his hand out and wipes it on Sam’s jeans.

Sam lies there, blissed out and panting and looking like the star of Dean’s jerk-off fantasies from now until forever and Dean doesn’t even bother to think. There’s no room for things like dignity or patience right now. He buries his face in Sam’s neck, breathing in deep as he grinds himself against Sam’s hip until his entire world is going black and he’s coming in his jeans. Sam’s face burned into his memory, his scent, the feel of his body breathing hard underneath Dean.

With one last grind, the aftershocks zipping through his nerves, Dean pulls away, wincing at the slowly cooling jizz now staining his underwear. He knows that he should be feeling guilty right about now—that if he was normal, he’d be feeling guilty—but he also knows that he can’t. He can’t regret it. He can regret not thinking enough to pull himself out of his pants before he creamed them but he can’t regret what just happened.

They’re so fucked up. He lets himself collapse into a heap beside Sam, the leaves being the only thing between them and the dirt, and matches Sam’s breathing as they both stare up at the leaf-covered sky, listening to the quiet of the forest and their own harsh pants.

After a few moments, Sam sighs and turns his head. “That…” He trails off and licks his lips before giving up on whatever he was about to say. Instead, he holds up a hand. “Did you need me to…?”

Dean snorts and reaches out to grab Sam’s wrist, dragging it down to his crotch and holding it against the sticky, oversensitized mess. “Got it covered, Sammy…” he admits, a note of ruefulness in his voice. He still can’t believe that he just dry-humped his way to orgasm like he was sixteen all over again.

“Oh,” Sam says, quiet and surprised. His fingers move against Dean’s crotch, stroking exploringly over the slight bulge of Dean’s spent dick. “That’s…”

Dean hisses and pushes Sam away as a sharp aftershock stabs through him. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s pathetic.”

Sam swallows and presses his fingertips to Dean’s stomach. “I was going to say hot.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, turning his head to nuzzle at Sam’s hair. He’s dirty and exhausted and a mess, but he’s feeling hot right now, just because Sam said so. He is pathetic...

“Yeah,” Sam mutters and then with a flick of his wrist, he's unzipping Dean’s jeans and pushing inside. Dean tries to jerk away but Sam’s a little too quick, slipping inside of his underwear and swiping a finger along Dean’s cock which jerks painfully.

“Jesus, Sam!” Dean snaps but Sam doesn’t seem to take it personally. Ignoring Dean’s discomfort, he brings his finger up to his mouth and Dean catches sight of a bit of white before it disappears between Sam’s lips. Dean’s breath sticks in his throat. “Jesus, Sam…”

Sam sucks on his finger, his eyes on Dean and Dean just stares helplessly back. When Sam pulls the finger back out, clean and wet, Dean rolls over onto his knees, looming over Sam whose eyes go wide. Then Dean’s opening up the fly of Sam’s jeans to return the favor. He doesn’t just use his hand, though, because he’s got to one up Sam: he’s the older, the wiser. He buries his face in Sam’s crotch, listening to Sam’s sharp hiss of surprise as he pulls Sam’s underwear down and gives his soft dick a long lick.

Sam whines like he’s in pain and hauls Dean’s head up and away, forcing him up to kiss him. “Fuck, Dean…” he whispers right before Dean’s tasting himself in Sam’s mouth. Sam’s hands cup his head and hold him still, too, until Sam’s gotten his fill.

When they break apart, Dean grins. “Where would you be without me?” he asks.

Sam stares at him in shock before he huffs a laugh. “Nowhere,” he admits, smiling back at Dean.

“Yeah. Me, too.” Dean pushes himself up off the ground and carefully zips up his fly before doing his best to dust himself off, swiping at the dirt and the leaves that are now seemingly embedded in his jeans. He grimaces at the slight pull of his underwear on his cock but figures that he’ll just have to live with it until they make it back to the cabin to change. The good news is that he’s the one who does the laundry at least. He’s not going to have to explain to Dad why their pants are not only dirty on the outside (a quick fight will do that) but also on the inside as well. That would be awkward.

Beside him, Sam’s doing the same, brushing at his pants and the back of his striped shirt. Dean waits for him and, together, they start to walk back to the cabin. Sam bites his lip and shyly stares down at the ground and Dean swallows hard as his heart skips a beat. With the sun coming in through the trees, Sam’s looking like an angel. Dean leans over and steals a quick kiss, turning Sam’s game around on him and it’s completely worth it for how Sam’s face lights up all over again.

Dean doesn’t have a clue how they’re going to be able to hide this from Dad. Sam’s brighter than a Christmas tree at the moment, looking like one of those ritzy ones that you find in the high-end department stores. But that’s a thought for later. Much, much later. Because right now, Sam’s fumbling for Dean’s hand and God help him but Dean’s letting him have it, at least for a little while. They walk through the forest of reds and golds and bronzed oranges and it’s one of the prettiest things that Dean’s ever seen but, for all their bright vivid colors, the leaves have nothing on the sight of Sam, right beside Dean.

Go see more incredibly gorgeous artwork at [livejournal.com profile] smallworld_inc

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