dragonspell (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dragonspell) wrote2011-06-20 04:17 pm
dragonspell) wrote2011-06-20 04:17 pm
Flash Photography | Sam/Dean | NC-17 | 5000 words
Title: Flash Photography
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dragonspell
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Pre-series so Sam is underage. Bit of a PWP.
Summary: Dean buys a camera for Sam.
Word Count: 5000
A/N: This was supposed to be just a quick little, lighthearted roll in the hay. JFC.
The streets were laid out like a maze, all interlocking at odd times with a multitude of angles and dead ends but Dad had somehow managed to follow the homemade signs to a little blue house and fill its even smaller driveway with the Impala. White balloons were waving in a soft breeze, bobbing against the bright yellow sign that had “Garage Sale” marked on it in big, black letters.
While Dad made small talk with the guy who owned the place, Dean had meandered through the cheap foldout tables, touching the trinkets and old clothes with his fingertips before finding the box of electronics full of tangled power cords and assorted junk, a sticker advertising “Your Choice $1” on the side. A battered 35 mm camera was sitting on top, thrown in as an afterthought, and Dean stared at it for a moment before picking it up. He turned the small, flat camera over, checking the case and peering through the lens, looking for cracks. He couldn’t find any obvious flaws but Dean didn’t know jack about cameras other than the usual point and shoot. On the other hand, it was only a dollar. The camera might come in handy if it worked.
He bought it while his dad haggled down the price of a box of old books and Sammy sulked in the car.
Dean kind of missed the days when Sam would get excited for garage sales. Sam used to jump out of the car almost before Dad even had a chance to park and rush to start digging through the boxes knowing that he only had a select amount of time before Dad moved on. If he was lucky, he’d find a Matchbox car or maybe a set of army guys and, if he was really lucky, Dad would buy it for him.
When they were younger, garage sales were about the only way to get new toys. Christmas and birthdays were for clothes and weapons as far as Dad was concerned. Why bother wasting money on toys when there already were some in the Impala and any extras were just bound to get left behind anyway?
That was before Sam had ‘outgrown’ the concept of toys. Now he just crossed his arms and refused to move from the backseat while Dad and Dean climbed out and made nice with the locals.
Dean climbed into the backseat with his new prize while Sam glared at him for invading his domain. When they weren’t riding with someone, Sam claimed the entire backseat for himself and he guarded it like a troll under a bridge: you had to give the right answers and bring him gifts if you wanted by. “Hey Champ,” Dean said, sliding across the vinyl towards Sam. “Got something for you.” He dropped the camera onto Sam’s crossed arms and Sam stared down at it.
“What’s that?” he mumbled sullenly and Dean rolled eyes.
“It’s a camera, Sam. What do you think it is?”
Sam glared at him and if Dean were a weaker man, he might have been dead, withered into a tiny little ball. “I know it’s a camera, what’s it doing here?”
“Sitting on your ungrateful bitch-ass lap,” Dean answered. He slid closer, his hand riding the ridge of the back of the seat until it was just inches from Sam’s head, his fingers reaching out to graze the tip of Sam’s hair. Dad kept saying that Sam needed a haircut but Dean didn’t think so. Even though he often teased Sam about it, Dean liked Sam’s longer hair; it helped with Sam’s baby face.
Sam tilted his head to the side, moving away from Dean’s fingers and Dean sighed. Sam had been about as friendly as a cactus lately. “Look,” he said, trying to talk Sam into being happy for once in his miserable teenage life, “maybe at the next gas station we can buy some film for it and…” Sam was staring out the window now, ignoring him. “Yeah, whatever, Sammy.” Taking Sam’s silence as his answer, Dean scooped up the camera and slid backward toward the door. He’d just throw it in his duffle and maybe Dad could use the flash or something sometime.
Sam’s hand slipped over Dean’s, his long skinny fingers wrapping around Dean’s wrist and startling Dean into dropping the camera back onto Sam’s chest. “Thanks,” Sam muttered. He snatched the camera up before Dean could take it back but dangled it between his legs like he didn’t care if it fell while he kept staring out the window.
Dean counted it as a win. “You’re welcome,” he said and backed out of the car to give Sam back his space. Sam’s bitchiness was nothing new. Ever since his teenage hormones had kicked in, Dean could regularly count on periods of sullen moodiness but, for the past few days, Sam had been even worse than usual. Two days ago, Dad had come back and pulled them out of the house that they’d been living in for the past few months. Dean could understand how Sam felt: he’d had a nice job back in Ohio and the house they’d been renting had been decent for once. He’d been sad to see them go, too. The only difference was that Dean hadn’t pretended that it was going to last forever. He’d known that they’d never get that luxury.
Dean leaned against the front of the Impala and pulled out the sucker that he’d charmed off the bank teller earlier when Dad had stopped by to cash a check. Grape wasn’t his favorite but she’d only had one cherry and Dean had given that one to Sam. He popped it into his mouth, rolling it to the side like it was a cigarette and he was James Dean. Suckers could still be cool.
Dad was still talking to the old man but he’d managed to get the books down to half price.
A week later and Dad was gone again, hunting with Caleb while Dean stayed with Sam, shacked up in a long stay motel room that smelled like old coffee and dust. Dean dropped onto the busted-in couch beside Sam, his shirt sticking on the rough plaid upholstery, and kicked his boots up on the rickety table in front of him while Sam kept glaring at the TV. The screen fuzzed and George Clooney’s face disappeared for a moment behind the static. Just because the room said it came with cable didn’t mean that you could actually watch it.
Dean frowned and popped the cap on his beer. Even with the static, he was pretty sure that this was a repeat—it had been years since Clooney had been on this show which meant that it was a Saturday and Sam was sitting inside watching reruns of E. R. “You should go outside or something,” Dean said and Sam grunted. “Or at least flip to a different channel, man.” There had to be a game on or a movie—something.
The TV clicked off but Sam didn’t move, still staring at the black screen. Oh. It was like that, was it? Dean took a swig of his beer and set it on the floor, not trusting the table to hold it. “You still got that camera?”
Back in Ohio, Sam had been going through another one of his phases. He’d been taking journalism in school—one of those blow off classes where it didn’t matter if you maybe needed to skip it at the end of the day—and the kids had chosen him as one of their photographers. Said he was good at capturing the moment on film. Sam had even brought home a few pictures for Dean to look at—shots of girls giggling over lunch or a too-skinny kid going for a lay up on the court. Dean had done the requisite teasing for Sam being such a geek but even he’d had to admit that Sam seemed to have a knack for it and he’d told Sam as much. Sam had positively glowed, whispering a soft, shy, “Thanks,” in return before changing the subject.
They didn’t have journalism at Sam’s new school. He was registered for shop, instead.
Sam was still ignoring him. “Thought we bought some film for it,” Dean said, trying again. Sam shot upward, leaving Dean alone on the couch and Dean grabbed his wrist. “Hey.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sam muttered, jerking away. Dean had about ten seconds before Sam walked away and locked himself in the bedroom: the countdown had already started and Dean could see it in the set of Sam’s shoulders.
“Sure it does,” he said, taking a hold of Sam’s hand again, reminding Sam that Dean was there. “I thought you liked taking pictures.”
“I liked being a part of something,” Sam snapped. He pulled himself free again and Dean let him go. He was unsure where he could go with that. Dean could try and be everything for the kid but there was just no way he could be a classroom full of kids and he knew it. Still kind of stung, though. “And…” Sam’s voice lost its harshness as he turned to look at Dean for the first time since Dean had sat down next to him. “…I liked having someone who liked them.”
Dean seized the tiny thread of a lifeline that Sam had thrown him. “Well, I liked them.”
The hard, stubborn jut of Sam’s shoulders sagged. “You did?” he asked and Dean couldn’t decide if Sam had actually forgotten or if he was just looking for reassurance.
“Yeah,” Dean said. “I told you I did. They were good, Sam.”
Sam stared at Dean for awhile longer before heading off for parts unknown. Dean sighed, thumping his head back against the couch wondering what he’d done wrong this time. He stared at the blank TV but it didn’t have any answers for him.
The moves never got any easier. If anything, they were getting harder. When they only stayed a few days at a place, it was no big deal—nobody had anytime to put down roots or anything—but on the longer stays… Sam grew roots fast. He’d get too attached to a place, desperately hoping that if he just wanted it bad enough then maybe Dad would let them stay. That maybe the job would let them stay.
When Sam had been little, it hadn’t been as bad. Dean had been able to be everything that Sam needed—big brother, surrogate parent, and best friend all rolled into one. That had changed when Sam had hit puberty. It was like Dean wasn’t enough anymore—that Sam needed more.
Dean didn’t understand it. Never would. Sam and Dad and the Impala were all Dean needed. They were constants—they wouldn’t leave him behind like the rest of the world did. Dean wished that Sam felt the same because Sam was searching for something that he’d never find. It wasn’t fair but that was how life operated for them: they got screwed and they dealt with it. The more Sam kept reaching, the more he’d find that out and Dean didn’t want that to happen.
He wanted to protect Sam from all of that.
A light flashed on Dean’s left, followed by a mechanical whirling and Dean swung his head around to see Sam standing just inside the living room, with the camera in front of his face. Dean blinked and the camera flashed again as Sam took another picture. “What, you don’t have anything more interesting to take pictures of than me?” Dean asked even as a small kernel of warmth bloomed inside of him for Sam getting out the camera at all.
“I want to take pictures of you,” Sam replied and snapped another picture as Dean rolled his eyes.
“You mean you don’t see enough of me? I’m touched, Sammy.” He screwed up his face as Sam took another shot, crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue and Sam yanked the camera away.
“Do you want me to take pictures or not?” he snapped.
Dean let his face fall back into its normal configuration. “Yeah, sure, Sammy,” he said, sensing that, somehow, this—letting Sam take pictures of him—was important. He cleared his throat. “Did you, uh, did you want me to pose or anything?” Dean had no idea what would look good on film but he’d seen some magazines ads and he thought that maybe he could strike one of those.
Sam shook his head. “Just…” He moved closer, the camera clicking and whirling again. Sam didn’t finish the instruction and Dean didn’t ask him to, instead taking his cues from how Sam circled around him. It was strange to be at the focus on Sam’s attention—like the entire world was imploding in on itself like a burnt out star, narrowing down to just this moment, just them, just Dean. It was addicting and Dean sucked it up like a black hole, starving for the chance to just be the center of Sam’s world again—even if it was on the other side of a camera.
Dean leaned forward, setting his hands on his knees as he glanced up at Sam, and Sam leaned back, taking another picture. A small smile crossed Dean’s face and he stood up: he could make this more interesting for Sam. Sam followed him, on point as leaned against the wall, tilting his head back and slanting Sam a look that had Sam’s camera flashing again.
“Can you…” Sam never finished that sentence either, just reaching out and pushing Dean where he wanted him like Dean was a living, breathing mannequin. He tilted Dean’s face away and at an angle before backing up and taking another picture. Dean held the position for a few moments after the flash left his eyes, waiting for Sam to move him again.
Sam came out from behind his camera, his eyes darting from Dean to the end of the room that was doubling as their kitchen. When Dean raised his eyebrows and nodded at the possible change of scenery, Sam shrugged and bit his lip. “Whatever you want.”
Dean settled in one of the wobbly dinette chairs, threading his arm over and through the loop metal pipe that served as its back and pressing against the cracked red vinyl of the seat. Sam made a small, indecipherable noise and clicked a few times, coming around to kneel in front of Dean for the last one. Responding to the position, Dean leaned back against the small round table, putting an elbow on it as he let his legs fall open the way that they wanted to.
The minutes started to blend together until Dean was unsure how long they’d spent taking pictures—moving around the room through the kitchen and the living area to the beds in the corner. Dean sat on the edge, his hands gripping the green bedspread and Sam moved closer, his camera still flashing. He knelt in front of Dean, Dean’s legs spread on either side of Sam’s shoulders and something about the position combined with what they were doing stirred an uneasiness inside of Dean but he pushed it away, not wanting to think about it. The camera clicked and whirled one last time before whining as it rewound the film back to the beginning—end of the line. “Out of film,” Sam said quietly, holding the camera to the side as he caught Dean’s eyes and held them. There was something about the look that caught Dean up, bringing back the unfamiliar feeling of before but he couldn’t seem to manage to push it away this time—not with Sam staring at him like that.
Dean shifted on the bed, his hips rolling a bit to ease the pressure that was mounting inside of him. “We can get more,” he said, looking away. He couldn’t maintain eye contact with Sam and still deny the inappropriate feelings that were creeping into his thoughts. Some part of Dean liked Sam down on his knees in front of Dean—some part that was all twisted up in the normal feelings he had for Sam. Sick, a voice chastised him. Sick, sick, sick. He’s your little brother.
Sam’s fingers ghosted over Dean’s jean-clad thigh, skimming along the top, and Dean jumped, his breath catching in his throat as something sharp and sudden twisted in his gut. Sam’s nostrils flared, like a wolf scenting the air and he moved closer, slipping deeper into the V of Dean’s parted legs. His hand brushed against Dean’s leg again before leaping away—hungry for something but unsure if it would be allowed.
The camera’s back sprung open and a shiver worked its way down Dean’s spine. Sam was going to continue. Nausea churned inside of Dean but that spark of interest that he’d been trying to deny was stronger, burning it away piece by piece. The rational part of him, the sane part, wanted him to walk away, to make a joke and pretend this never even happened. Move! it screamed but it was drowned out by another, larger part—a part that whispered that this was okay. That this was acceptable and that Dean should put Sam’s hands back on him and let them explore however they liked. That part of him made sure that Dean stayed right where he was, wanting to see what Sam did next, wanting to see if this would make Sam happy.
A second cartridge of film slipped inside the camera, its predecessor discarded on the table as Sam closed the back of the camera again. “Next one,” Sam said and his fingers grazed over Dean’s T-shirt before flicking at the sides of his plaid overshirt—asking in not so many words. Dean did as Sam wanted without a second thought, sitting forward to pull off his shirt and toss it to the side. After another moment, he pulled his T-shirt off as well.
Sitting half-naked on the bed with Sam between his legs, Dean waited for Sam’s next move. He couldn’t breathe, torn between what he wanted and what was considered ‘right’ and if he made the wrong move, he might just bring this whole thing crashing down around him.
Sam bit his lip, holding it between his teeth and worrying it like it was the only thing keeping him still on the ground. Dean’s dick jumped in his pants and Dean rolled his hips again, instinctively trying to grind.
The camera clicked and flashed, catching Dean in mid-motion and Dean flicked his eyes back to Sam. Was that how he wanted to play it?
Dean licked his lips and held himself taut as he stared down Sam’s camera lens, blinking away the flash as Sam took picture after picture. The time between each of Sam’s shots was shorter than before, like Sam couldn’t help himself, like he didn’t have the control to hold off. Running on instinct, Dean’s hands rose to touch his own chest, his fingers sliding over the bumps and planes, teasing like he’d seen pornstars do countless times before as Sam’s camera tried to capture every motion. Dean’s cock was straining against his jeans, so hard it was edging near painful in the cramped space, but he didn’t dare touch it. He’d come if he did and then this game of riding the fence between need and morality would be over.
It was Sam’s choked back little whimper that did Dean in. High and soft and desperate, Sam cut it off before he even fully voiced it but it was followed by a small wiggle that gave him away. Giving up, knowing that he was crossing a line and not caring, Dean moaned. “Yeah, Sammy…” Sam gasped, the hand that wasn’t holding the camera flying to his crotch to give it a quick squeeze and Dean was done. He slid on the bed, moving closer and pushing his groin against Sam’s chest, his hips rocking in slow, deliberate circles. His eyes fluttered closed from the pleasure; it was too much work to keep them open. He didn’t care anymore. He couldn’t.
Sam started to pant and Dean fumbled for his belt, quickly pulling the leather strap free of the buckle even with his eyes closed. Sam’s camera kept snapping pictures but Dean was barely paying it any mind anymore—too wrapped up in the feel of having Sam between his legs, of having Sam’s eyes on him, of having Sam’s trembling hand tentatively gripping Dean’s thigh and growing bolder with each passing second. It was enough to make Dean lose his mind if he let it.
As his belt came free, Dean dropped himself back against the bed, his head digging into the mattress, fighting for semblance control even while his toes curled. He flicked open the top button of his pants plunged his hand inside, pushing down the zipper with his arm as he shamelessly grabbed himself. There wasn’t any room to work in the tight confines of his jeans and so Dean freed himself, pushing down his open fly and his underwear.
Sam whined, high and needy, and the camera echoed him, snapping shot after shot until it hit the end of the film again. It thumped onto the couch beside Dean and then Dean’s lap was full of a squirming and desperate teenager. Sam’s knees dug in to the thin matress on either side of Dean’s hips and Sam’s hands slipped over Dean’s chest and shoulders and neck before tangling in his hair, the fingers gripping and pulling hard, yanking Dean’s head up for a kiss. Sam’s tongue stabbed into Dean’s mouth, passion overriding Sam’s common sense and Dean bucked beneath Sam, grinding himself against Sam’s ass as Sam’s hips rolled, riding him. Sam shoved a hand between them, rubbing at his dick.
God, Dean thought, what were they doing? It was washed away in the flood of sensations pulsing through his body and he knew that there was no way that he could ever stop now—not with Sam wanton and willing on top of him. Dean’s hands roamed down Sam’s back, trying to touch everywhere—his shoulders, his back, his ass—before settling for just hanging on.
Sam rocked against Dean hard and then convulsed, his body shuddering as he panted into Dean’s mouth, the moment proving to be too much for his teenage hormones. He tried to pull away for more air but Dean chased his mouth, unwilling to let it slip away, and Sam gave up after only a moment, sagging against Dean’s chest. With Sam’s body warm and heavy on top of him, Dean rocked against him, his dick dragging over the rough denim of Sam’s jeans and making Dean shiver.
“Dean…” Sam panted and Dean came, his dick spasming and spilling everywhere—Dean’s bare chest, his jeans, Sam’s ass. Dean choked back a moan, biting his lip, as he continued to rub against Sam until the aftershocks started to set in.
Spent, Dean slumped against the bed, feeling as if every bone in his body had turned to jelly. On top of him, Sam was still gasping in his ear, sucking in huge gulps of air and still shuddering now and then. A pleasant, sated hum buzzed through Dean’s body but it was slowly chased away by the dawning realization of what they had just done. “Oh God…” Dean whispered. “Oh God…” Panic started to set in. He’d just gotten off with his baby brother—what kind of freak was he?
Sam’s lips sealed over Dean’s again, cutting him off in mid-horror and Dean kissed back automatically, running on instinct as his more rational mind ran in useless circles, caught in a loop of ‘Sam,’ ‘fucked,’ and ‘brother.’ “Shhh, Dean,” Sam said, breaking away. “Shhh…” His hands stroked through Dean’s hair and Dean stared sightlessly over his shoulder.
“Sam—”
“Don’t,” Sam begged, burying his face in Dean’s neck. “Don’t, please…”
Dean swallowed thickly, not knowing what to say, what to do. He rubbed his hand over Sam’s back in the familiar soothing motion that he’d been using on Sam for years. Sam his brother. The brother that he’d just fucked.
Sam shuddered. “I wanted it…” he said and Dean closed his eyes, trying to block out the world and what he’d just done.
“You don’t know what you want.” God, just how much had he fucked them up? There was no going back after this. None.
Sam reared up and pinned Dean’s shoulders to the mattress. “I do,” Sam said and then kissed him again.
And Dean, God help him, didn’t protest. He didn’t even feel bad about it—not that revulsion that society said that you were supposed to have, not disgust—just a twinge of guilt that was worryingly weak. Maybe he’d been fucked up like this forever and he just hadn’t known it. He didn’t have it in him to push Sam away and, with the lack of a fight, Sam’s hands slid possessively over Dean’s sides, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks.
Maybe they’d both been fucked up like this forever. Tainted the moment that they were born. They’d never been given a fair shot before—it made sense that they wouldn’t have been given one on this either.
No going back.
Dean wrapped his arms around Sam’s back and held him close. He was never going to let him go now. There was a part of Dean—some sick, twisted part—that was happy with this new development and it was too large to ignore. Maybe now Dean would be enough, it whispered. Maybe now Sam would stop looking elsewhere.
Dean kissed Sam again—so easy to just give into it, to just accept it—and Sam followed his lead, already picking up new tricks because Sam had always been a fast learner like that.
When they broke for air, Dean rested his forehead against Sam’s. “Need to buy you some more film,” he said. Sam’s smile was more than worth it.
“Only if you’ll pose again,” he said and Dean was nodding as soon as the words were out of Sam’s mouth.
“I’d like that,” he replied and, God help him, he would. He really, really would.
Dean remembered the week that followed and he didn’t need pictures to remind him—though there were plenty of those: pictures of Dean stripped down and moving into whatever position Sam wanted, pictures with Dean’s mouth wrapped around Sam’s cock, and, when Dean turned the camera back on Sam, there were pictures of Sam panting and sweaty, with come cooling on his stomach. Neither Sam nor Dean had the guts to head to the local pharmacy with the photo lab to develop them but the little rolls of film sat incriminatingly in Sam’s duffle and Dean didn’t need the pictures themselves to know what they showed.
They fucked like rabbits for that entire week, Sam calling in sick to school because Sam was inexhaustible and Dean couldn’t get enough. Dean had tried to put his foot down on Monday and send Sam to class but Sam just climbed into his lap and quietly begged to stay. Dean couldn’t say no to that.
It lasted until Dad arrived on their doorstep again. The day after he came back, he found Sam’s camera sitting on the kitchen counter where Sam and Dean had left it when they’d scrambled away from each other after hearing the rumble of the Impala. He picked it up, looking at it curiously before quirking an eyebrow at Dean.
Driven to answer by habit despite the fear clogging his throat, Dean croaked, “It’s Sam’s.” He knew that it would sound better—be more plausible—than claiming that it was his or even that he’d found it somewhere.
Dad half smiled and turned to where Sam was trying hard to pretend that neither of them existed at the moment, homework from his missed week of school spread out in front of him. “You been taking pictures, Sammy?”
Sam didn’t answer him, his pencil moving against his notebook as he solved a math problem. “Sam,” Dean said and Sam finally flicked his eyes up.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, his voice flat, and the almost smile dropped from Dad’s face at the sullen rudeness.
“Well don’t waste too much money on film,” Dad growled, dropping the camera back on the counter and heading to his own corner of the room, leaving Dean standing awkwardly between them.
When they left the next day, heading towards Arkansas, the camera didn’t come with them. It stayed right where Dad had dropped it as neither he nor Sam wanted to pick it up again. With Dad around, even just looking at the camera made him feel sick—even as lust flickered inside of him. Dean didn’t quite know Sam’s reason for not wanting the camera anymore beyond Sam saying that he didn’t need it.
Dean kind of agreed with that. The memories inside his head were burned there forever and he didn’t need a few photographs to remind him. A look from Sam could bring them all flooding back anyway, leaving Dean hard and aching and hoping like hell nobody else could tell.
What Dean noticed, though, was that, somehow, he and Sam seemed closer than ever and Dean would have been lying if he would have said that he didn’t like that. It was if some wall that that had been between them had been torn down. And, despite Sam’s typical attitude around Dad, he seemed almost…happier.
They’d always been all tangled up together, closer than normal siblings but Dean didn’t think that he’d have it any other way. ‘Right’ or ‘wrong’ didn’t matter when he had Sam. Maybe that was a sign of how fucked up he was but Dean didn’t know and he sure as hell didn’t care to think about it.
Author:
dragonspellFandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Pre-series so Sam is underage. Bit of a PWP.
Summary: Dean buys a camera for Sam.
Word Count: 5000
A/N: This was supposed to be just a quick little, lighthearted roll in the hay. JFC.
The streets were laid out like a maze, all interlocking at odd times with a multitude of angles and dead ends but Dad had somehow managed to follow the homemade signs to a little blue house and fill its even smaller driveway with the Impala. White balloons were waving in a soft breeze, bobbing against the bright yellow sign that had “Garage Sale” marked on it in big, black letters.
While Dad made small talk with the guy who owned the place, Dean had meandered through the cheap foldout tables, touching the trinkets and old clothes with his fingertips before finding the box of electronics full of tangled power cords and assorted junk, a sticker advertising “Your Choice $1” on the side. A battered 35 mm camera was sitting on top, thrown in as an afterthought, and Dean stared at it for a moment before picking it up. He turned the small, flat camera over, checking the case and peering through the lens, looking for cracks. He couldn’t find any obvious flaws but Dean didn’t know jack about cameras other than the usual point and shoot. On the other hand, it was only a dollar. The camera might come in handy if it worked.
He bought it while his dad haggled down the price of a box of old books and Sammy sulked in the car.
Dean kind of missed the days when Sam would get excited for garage sales. Sam used to jump out of the car almost before Dad even had a chance to park and rush to start digging through the boxes knowing that he only had a select amount of time before Dad moved on. If he was lucky, he’d find a Matchbox car or maybe a set of army guys and, if he was really lucky, Dad would buy it for him.
When they were younger, garage sales were about the only way to get new toys. Christmas and birthdays were for clothes and weapons as far as Dad was concerned. Why bother wasting money on toys when there already were some in the Impala and any extras were just bound to get left behind anyway?
That was before Sam had ‘outgrown’ the concept of toys. Now he just crossed his arms and refused to move from the backseat while Dad and Dean climbed out and made nice with the locals.
Dean climbed into the backseat with his new prize while Sam glared at him for invading his domain. When they weren’t riding with someone, Sam claimed the entire backseat for himself and he guarded it like a troll under a bridge: you had to give the right answers and bring him gifts if you wanted by. “Hey Champ,” Dean said, sliding across the vinyl towards Sam. “Got something for you.” He dropped the camera onto Sam’s crossed arms and Sam stared down at it.
“What’s that?” he mumbled sullenly and Dean rolled eyes.
“It’s a camera, Sam. What do you think it is?”
Sam glared at him and if Dean were a weaker man, he might have been dead, withered into a tiny little ball. “I know it’s a camera, what’s it doing here?”
“Sitting on your ungrateful bitch-ass lap,” Dean answered. He slid closer, his hand riding the ridge of the back of the seat until it was just inches from Sam’s head, his fingers reaching out to graze the tip of Sam’s hair. Dad kept saying that Sam needed a haircut but Dean didn’t think so. Even though he often teased Sam about it, Dean liked Sam’s longer hair; it helped with Sam’s baby face.
Sam tilted his head to the side, moving away from Dean’s fingers and Dean sighed. Sam had been about as friendly as a cactus lately. “Look,” he said, trying to talk Sam into being happy for once in his miserable teenage life, “maybe at the next gas station we can buy some film for it and…” Sam was staring out the window now, ignoring him. “Yeah, whatever, Sammy.” Taking Sam’s silence as his answer, Dean scooped up the camera and slid backward toward the door. He’d just throw it in his duffle and maybe Dad could use the flash or something sometime.
Sam’s hand slipped over Dean’s, his long skinny fingers wrapping around Dean’s wrist and startling Dean into dropping the camera back onto Sam’s chest. “Thanks,” Sam muttered. He snatched the camera up before Dean could take it back but dangled it between his legs like he didn’t care if it fell while he kept staring out the window.
Dean counted it as a win. “You’re welcome,” he said and backed out of the car to give Sam back his space. Sam’s bitchiness was nothing new. Ever since his teenage hormones had kicked in, Dean could regularly count on periods of sullen moodiness but, for the past few days, Sam had been even worse than usual. Two days ago, Dad had come back and pulled them out of the house that they’d been living in for the past few months. Dean could understand how Sam felt: he’d had a nice job back in Ohio and the house they’d been renting had been decent for once. He’d been sad to see them go, too. The only difference was that Dean hadn’t pretended that it was going to last forever. He’d known that they’d never get that luxury.
Dean leaned against the front of the Impala and pulled out the sucker that he’d charmed off the bank teller earlier when Dad had stopped by to cash a check. Grape wasn’t his favorite but she’d only had one cherry and Dean had given that one to Sam. He popped it into his mouth, rolling it to the side like it was a cigarette and he was James Dean. Suckers could still be cool.
Dad was still talking to the old man but he’d managed to get the books down to half price.
A week later and Dad was gone again, hunting with Caleb while Dean stayed with Sam, shacked up in a long stay motel room that smelled like old coffee and dust. Dean dropped onto the busted-in couch beside Sam, his shirt sticking on the rough plaid upholstery, and kicked his boots up on the rickety table in front of him while Sam kept glaring at the TV. The screen fuzzed and George Clooney’s face disappeared for a moment behind the static. Just because the room said it came with cable didn’t mean that you could actually watch it.
Dean frowned and popped the cap on his beer. Even with the static, he was pretty sure that this was a repeat—it had been years since Clooney had been on this show which meant that it was a Saturday and Sam was sitting inside watching reruns of E. R. “You should go outside or something,” Dean said and Sam grunted. “Or at least flip to a different channel, man.” There had to be a game on or a movie—something.
The TV clicked off but Sam didn’t move, still staring at the black screen. Oh. It was like that, was it? Dean took a swig of his beer and set it on the floor, not trusting the table to hold it. “You still got that camera?”
Back in Ohio, Sam had been going through another one of his phases. He’d been taking journalism in school—one of those blow off classes where it didn’t matter if you maybe needed to skip it at the end of the day—and the kids had chosen him as one of their photographers. Said he was good at capturing the moment on film. Sam had even brought home a few pictures for Dean to look at—shots of girls giggling over lunch or a too-skinny kid going for a lay up on the court. Dean had done the requisite teasing for Sam being such a geek but even he’d had to admit that Sam seemed to have a knack for it and he’d told Sam as much. Sam had positively glowed, whispering a soft, shy, “Thanks,” in return before changing the subject.
They didn’t have journalism at Sam’s new school. He was registered for shop, instead.
Sam was still ignoring him. “Thought we bought some film for it,” Dean said, trying again. Sam shot upward, leaving Dean alone on the couch and Dean grabbed his wrist. “Hey.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sam muttered, jerking away. Dean had about ten seconds before Sam walked away and locked himself in the bedroom: the countdown had already started and Dean could see it in the set of Sam’s shoulders.
“Sure it does,” he said, taking a hold of Sam’s hand again, reminding Sam that Dean was there. “I thought you liked taking pictures.”
“I liked being a part of something,” Sam snapped. He pulled himself free again and Dean let him go. He was unsure where he could go with that. Dean could try and be everything for the kid but there was just no way he could be a classroom full of kids and he knew it. Still kind of stung, though. “And…” Sam’s voice lost its harshness as he turned to look at Dean for the first time since Dean had sat down next to him. “…I liked having someone who liked them.”
Dean seized the tiny thread of a lifeline that Sam had thrown him. “Well, I liked them.”
The hard, stubborn jut of Sam’s shoulders sagged. “You did?” he asked and Dean couldn’t decide if Sam had actually forgotten or if he was just looking for reassurance.
“Yeah,” Dean said. “I told you I did. They were good, Sam.”
Sam stared at Dean for awhile longer before heading off for parts unknown. Dean sighed, thumping his head back against the couch wondering what he’d done wrong this time. He stared at the blank TV but it didn’t have any answers for him.
The moves never got any easier. If anything, they were getting harder. When they only stayed a few days at a place, it was no big deal—nobody had anytime to put down roots or anything—but on the longer stays… Sam grew roots fast. He’d get too attached to a place, desperately hoping that if he just wanted it bad enough then maybe Dad would let them stay. That maybe the job would let them stay.
When Sam had been little, it hadn’t been as bad. Dean had been able to be everything that Sam needed—big brother, surrogate parent, and best friend all rolled into one. That had changed when Sam had hit puberty. It was like Dean wasn’t enough anymore—that Sam needed more.
Dean didn’t understand it. Never would. Sam and Dad and the Impala were all Dean needed. They were constants—they wouldn’t leave him behind like the rest of the world did. Dean wished that Sam felt the same because Sam was searching for something that he’d never find. It wasn’t fair but that was how life operated for them: they got screwed and they dealt with it. The more Sam kept reaching, the more he’d find that out and Dean didn’t want that to happen.
He wanted to protect Sam from all of that.
A light flashed on Dean’s left, followed by a mechanical whirling and Dean swung his head around to see Sam standing just inside the living room, with the camera in front of his face. Dean blinked and the camera flashed again as Sam took another picture. “What, you don’t have anything more interesting to take pictures of than me?” Dean asked even as a small kernel of warmth bloomed inside of him for Sam getting out the camera at all.
“I want to take pictures of you,” Sam replied and snapped another picture as Dean rolled his eyes.
“You mean you don’t see enough of me? I’m touched, Sammy.” He screwed up his face as Sam took another shot, crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue and Sam yanked the camera away.
“Do you want me to take pictures or not?” he snapped.
Dean let his face fall back into its normal configuration. “Yeah, sure, Sammy,” he said, sensing that, somehow, this—letting Sam take pictures of him—was important. He cleared his throat. “Did you, uh, did you want me to pose or anything?” Dean had no idea what would look good on film but he’d seen some magazines ads and he thought that maybe he could strike one of those.
Sam shook his head. “Just…” He moved closer, the camera clicking and whirling again. Sam didn’t finish the instruction and Dean didn’t ask him to, instead taking his cues from how Sam circled around him. It was strange to be at the focus on Sam’s attention—like the entire world was imploding in on itself like a burnt out star, narrowing down to just this moment, just them, just Dean. It was addicting and Dean sucked it up like a black hole, starving for the chance to just be the center of Sam’s world again—even if it was on the other side of a camera.
Dean leaned forward, setting his hands on his knees as he glanced up at Sam, and Sam leaned back, taking another picture. A small smile crossed Dean’s face and he stood up: he could make this more interesting for Sam. Sam followed him, on point as leaned against the wall, tilting his head back and slanting Sam a look that had Sam’s camera flashing again.
“Can you…” Sam never finished that sentence either, just reaching out and pushing Dean where he wanted him like Dean was a living, breathing mannequin. He tilted Dean’s face away and at an angle before backing up and taking another picture. Dean held the position for a few moments after the flash left his eyes, waiting for Sam to move him again.
Sam came out from behind his camera, his eyes darting from Dean to the end of the room that was doubling as their kitchen. When Dean raised his eyebrows and nodded at the possible change of scenery, Sam shrugged and bit his lip. “Whatever you want.”
Dean settled in one of the wobbly dinette chairs, threading his arm over and through the loop metal pipe that served as its back and pressing against the cracked red vinyl of the seat. Sam made a small, indecipherable noise and clicked a few times, coming around to kneel in front of Dean for the last one. Responding to the position, Dean leaned back against the small round table, putting an elbow on it as he let his legs fall open the way that they wanted to.
The minutes started to blend together until Dean was unsure how long they’d spent taking pictures—moving around the room through the kitchen and the living area to the beds in the corner. Dean sat on the edge, his hands gripping the green bedspread and Sam moved closer, his camera still flashing. He knelt in front of Dean, Dean’s legs spread on either side of Sam’s shoulders and something about the position combined with what they were doing stirred an uneasiness inside of Dean but he pushed it away, not wanting to think about it. The camera clicked and whirled one last time before whining as it rewound the film back to the beginning—end of the line. “Out of film,” Sam said quietly, holding the camera to the side as he caught Dean’s eyes and held them. There was something about the look that caught Dean up, bringing back the unfamiliar feeling of before but he couldn’t seem to manage to push it away this time—not with Sam staring at him like that.
Dean shifted on the bed, his hips rolling a bit to ease the pressure that was mounting inside of him. “We can get more,” he said, looking away. He couldn’t maintain eye contact with Sam and still deny the inappropriate feelings that were creeping into his thoughts. Some part of Dean liked Sam down on his knees in front of Dean—some part that was all twisted up in the normal feelings he had for Sam. Sick, a voice chastised him. Sick, sick, sick. He’s your little brother.
Sam’s fingers ghosted over Dean’s jean-clad thigh, skimming along the top, and Dean jumped, his breath catching in his throat as something sharp and sudden twisted in his gut. Sam’s nostrils flared, like a wolf scenting the air and he moved closer, slipping deeper into the V of Dean’s parted legs. His hand brushed against Dean’s leg again before leaping away—hungry for something but unsure if it would be allowed.
The camera’s back sprung open and a shiver worked its way down Dean’s spine. Sam was going to continue. Nausea churned inside of Dean but that spark of interest that he’d been trying to deny was stronger, burning it away piece by piece. The rational part of him, the sane part, wanted him to walk away, to make a joke and pretend this never even happened. Move! it screamed but it was drowned out by another, larger part—a part that whispered that this was okay. That this was acceptable and that Dean should put Sam’s hands back on him and let them explore however they liked. That part of him made sure that Dean stayed right where he was, wanting to see what Sam did next, wanting to see if this would make Sam happy.
A second cartridge of film slipped inside the camera, its predecessor discarded on the table as Sam closed the back of the camera again. “Next one,” Sam said and his fingers grazed over Dean’s T-shirt before flicking at the sides of his plaid overshirt—asking in not so many words. Dean did as Sam wanted without a second thought, sitting forward to pull off his shirt and toss it to the side. After another moment, he pulled his T-shirt off as well.
Sitting half-naked on the bed with Sam between his legs, Dean waited for Sam’s next move. He couldn’t breathe, torn between what he wanted and what was considered ‘right’ and if he made the wrong move, he might just bring this whole thing crashing down around him.
Sam bit his lip, holding it between his teeth and worrying it like it was the only thing keeping him still on the ground. Dean’s dick jumped in his pants and Dean rolled his hips again, instinctively trying to grind.
The camera clicked and flashed, catching Dean in mid-motion and Dean flicked his eyes back to Sam. Was that how he wanted to play it?
Dean licked his lips and held himself taut as he stared down Sam’s camera lens, blinking away the flash as Sam took picture after picture. The time between each of Sam’s shots was shorter than before, like Sam couldn’t help himself, like he didn’t have the control to hold off. Running on instinct, Dean’s hands rose to touch his own chest, his fingers sliding over the bumps and planes, teasing like he’d seen pornstars do countless times before as Sam’s camera tried to capture every motion. Dean’s cock was straining against his jeans, so hard it was edging near painful in the cramped space, but he didn’t dare touch it. He’d come if he did and then this game of riding the fence between need and morality would be over.
It was Sam’s choked back little whimper that did Dean in. High and soft and desperate, Sam cut it off before he even fully voiced it but it was followed by a small wiggle that gave him away. Giving up, knowing that he was crossing a line and not caring, Dean moaned. “Yeah, Sammy…” Sam gasped, the hand that wasn’t holding the camera flying to his crotch to give it a quick squeeze and Dean was done. He slid on the bed, moving closer and pushing his groin against Sam’s chest, his hips rocking in slow, deliberate circles. His eyes fluttered closed from the pleasure; it was too much work to keep them open. He didn’t care anymore. He couldn’t.
Sam started to pant and Dean fumbled for his belt, quickly pulling the leather strap free of the buckle even with his eyes closed. Sam’s camera kept snapping pictures but Dean was barely paying it any mind anymore—too wrapped up in the feel of having Sam between his legs, of having Sam’s eyes on him, of having Sam’s trembling hand tentatively gripping Dean’s thigh and growing bolder with each passing second. It was enough to make Dean lose his mind if he let it.
As his belt came free, Dean dropped himself back against the bed, his head digging into the mattress, fighting for semblance control even while his toes curled. He flicked open the top button of his pants plunged his hand inside, pushing down the zipper with his arm as he shamelessly grabbed himself. There wasn’t any room to work in the tight confines of his jeans and so Dean freed himself, pushing down his open fly and his underwear.
Sam whined, high and needy, and the camera echoed him, snapping shot after shot until it hit the end of the film again. It thumped onto the couch beside Dean and then Dean’s lap was full of a squirming and desperate teenager. Sam’s knees dug in to the thin matress on either side of Dean’s hips and Sam’s hands slipped over Dean’s chest and shoulders and neck before tangling in his hair, the fingers gripping and pulling hard, yanking Dean’s head up for a kiss. Sam’s tongue stabbed into Dean’s mouth, passion overriding Sam’s common sense and Dean bucked beneath Sam, grinding himself against Sam’s ass as Sam’s hips rolled, riding him. Sam shoved a hand between them, rubbing at his dick.
God, Dean thought, what were they doing? It was washed away in the flood of sensations pulsing through his body and he knew that there was no way that he could ever stop now—not with Sam wanton and willing on top of him. Dean’s hands roamed down Sam’s back, trying to touch everywhere—his shoulders, his back, his ass—before settling for just hanging on.
Sam rocked against Dean hard and then convulsed, his body shuddering as he panted into Dean’s mouth, the moment proving to be too much for his teenage hormones. He tried to pull away for more air but Dean chased his mouth, unwilling to let it slip away, and Sam gave up after only a moment, sagging against Dean’s chest. With Sam’s body warm and heavy on top of him, Dean rocked against him, his dick dragging over the rough denim of Sam’s jeans and making Dean shiver.
“Dean…” Sam panted and Dean came, his dick spasming and spilling everywhere—Dean’s bare chest, his jeans, Sam’s ass. Dean choked back a moan, biting his lip, as he continued to rub against Sam until the aftershocks started to set in.
Spent, Dean slumped against the bed, feeling as if every bone in his body had turned to jelly. On top of him, Sam was still gasping in his ear, sucking in huge gulps of air and still shuddering now and then. A pleasant, sated hum buzzed through Dean’s body but it was slowly chased away by the dawning realization of what they had just done. “Oh God…” Dean whispered. “Oh God…” Panic started to set in. He’d just gotten off with his baby brother—what kind of freak was he?
Sam’s lips sealed over Dean’s again, cutting him off in mid-horror and Dean kissed back automatically, running on instinct as his more rational mind ran in useless circles, caught in a loop of ‘Sam,’ ‘fucked,’ and ‘brother.’ “Shhh, Dean,” Sam said, breaking away. “Shhh…” His hands stroked through Dean’s hair and Dean stared sightlessly over his shoulder.
“Sam—”
“Don’t,” Sam begged, burying his face in Dean’s neck. “Don’t, please…”
Dean swallowed thickly, not knowing what to say, what to do. He rubbed his hand over Sam’s back in the familiar soothing motion that he’d been using on Sam for years. Sam his brother. The brother that he’d just fucked.
Sam shuddered. “I wanted it…” he said and Dean closed his eyes, trying to block out the world and what he’d just done.
“You don’t know what you want.” God, just how much had he fucked them up? There was no going back after this. None.
Sam reared up and pinned Dean’s shoulders to the mattress. “I do,” Sam said and then kissed him again.
And Dean, God help him, didn’t protest. He didn’t even feel bad about it—not that revulsion that society said that you were supposed to have, not disgust—just a twinge of guilt that was worryingly weak. Maybe he’d been fucked up like this forever and he just hadn’t known it. He didn’t have it in him to push Sam away and, with the lack of a fight, Sam’s hands slid possessively over Dean’s sides, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks.
Maybe they’d both been fucked up like this forever. Tainted the moment that they were born. They’d never been given a fair shot before—it made sense that they wouldn’t have been given one on this either.
No going back.
Dean wrapped his arms around Sam’s back and held him close. He was never going to let him go now. There was a part of Dean—some sick, twisted part—that was happy with this new development and it was too large to ignore. Maybe now Dean would be enough, it whispered. Maybe now Sam would stop looking elsewhere.
Dean kissed Sam again—so easy to just give into it, to just accept it—and Sam followed his lead, already picking up new tricks because Sam had always been a fast learner like that.
When they broke for air, Dean rested his forehead against Sam’s. “Need to buy you some more film,” he said. Sam’s smile was more than worth it.
“Only if you’ll pose again,” he said and Dean was nodding as soon as the words were out of Sam’s mouth.
“I’d like that,” he replied and, God help him, he would. He really, really would.
Dean remembered the week that followed and he didn’t need pictures to remind him—though there were plenty of those: pictures of Dean stripped down and moving into whatever position Sam wanted, pictures with Dean’s mouth wrapped around Sam’s cock, and, when Dean turned the camera back on Sam, there were pictures of Sam panting and sweaty, with come cooling on his stomach. Neither Sam nor Dean had the guts to head to the local pharmacy with the photo lab to develop them but the little rolls of film sat incriminatingly in Sam’s duffle and Dean didn’t need the pictures themselves to know what they showed.
They fucked like rabbits for that entire week, Sam calling in sick to school because Sam was inexhaustible and Dean couldn’t get enough. Dean had tried to put his foot down on Monday and send Sam to class but Sam just climbed into his lap and quietly begged to stay. Dean couldn’t say no to that.
It lasted until Dad arrived on their doorstep again. The day after he came back, he found Sam’s camera sitting on the kitchen counter where Sam and Dean had left it when they’d scrambled away from each other after hearing the rumble of the Impala. He picked it up, looking at it curiously before quirking an eyebrow at Dean.
Driven to answer by habit despite the fear clogging his throat, Dean croaked, “It’s Sam’s.” He knew that it would sound better—be more plausible—than claiming that it was his or even that he’d found it somewhere.
Dad half smiled and turned to where Sam was trying hard to pretend that neither of them existed at the moment, homework from his missed week of school spread out in front of him. “You been taking pictures, Sammy?”
Sam didn’t answer him, his pencil moving against his notebook as he solved a math problem. “Sam,” Dean said and Sam finally flicked his eyes up.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, his voice flat, and the almost smile dropped from Dad’s face at the sullen rudeness.
“Well don’t waste too much money on film,” Dad growled, dropping the camera back on the counter and heading to his own corner of the room, leaving Dean standing awkwardly between them.
When they left the next day, heading towards Arkansas, the camera didn’t come with them. It stayed right where Dad had dropped it as neither he nor Sam wanted to pick it up again. With Dad around, even just looking at the camera made him feel sick—even as lust flickered inside of him. Dean didn’t quite know Sam’s reason for not wanting the camera anymore beyond Sam saying that he didn’t need it.
Dean kind of agreed with that. The memories inside his head were burned there forever and he didn’t need a few photographs to remind him. A look from Sam could bring them all flooding back anyway, leaving Dean hard and aching and hoping like hell nobody else could tell.
What Dean noticed, though, was that, somehow, he and Sam seemed closer than ever and Dean would have been lying if he would have said that he didn’t like that. It was if some wall that that had been between them had been torn down. And, despite Sam’s typical attitude around Dad, he seemed almost…happier.
They’d always been all tangled up together, closer than normal siblings but Dean didn’t think that he’d have it any other way. ‘Right’ or ‘wrong’ didn’t matter when he had Sam. Maybe that was a sign of how fucked up he was but Dean didn’t know and he sure as hell didn’t care to think about it.