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drive me to ruin.
Supernatural. Sam/Dean. NC-17. Warnings for incest, some language, and angst. Approx. 940 words. Part of the Pilot episode retold (with mild AU), because I just hadn't written enough shower porn lately. For [livejournal.com profile] la_folle_allure, who still loves me even if I just keep writing the same damned fic over and over. Title from Zeppelin.


He sits in a room scattered with salt and newspaper clippings and his phone feels too heavy in his hand, the memories too heavy in his chest.

He halfway dials Jess's number three times but gives up every one. He's sure she'd hear the lie, the truth, over the phone the same way he can hear a million laughs and fights echoing off the walls of a million rooms he's been in, just like this one. So he doesn't call. He plays her message again.

it's about ten-twenty and

The shower starts with the stutter and squeal of old pipes and Sam remember that, too. He remembers being covered in blood and dirt and arguing who would get the first shower, bitching about who used up the last of the soap. He remembers not caring once they were squeezed inside together, more intent on who got to come first, batting hands away and wrestling each other onto their knees, if there was room.

so come home soon, okay?

Sam snaps his phone shut and he remembers the first time he tried to call home. It took a week before he let it ring more than once, another three days before he could actually make himself say, hey, man, it's me. And then, after that, they didn't talk for six months.

A soft thump from the bathroom like a slipping bar of soap or bottle of shampoo, and a curse he thinks he can hear muffled by water and walls. The bathroom door doesn't shut right, never does in a place like this. It's a little crooked and stays open unless you're real careful with the lock, unless you've got something you really want to shut out.

The bathroom door doesn't hang right on its hinges. So Sam goes in.

There's a pattern to how Dean showers: arm, chest, arm, hair and then the rest. Sam remembers. There's a pattern to how the water trails off his brother's skin, how it sounds hitting the floor of the shower in a by-the-hour room, depending on how hard the spray is. Dean says he likes the open road and his freedom to do whatever, see whatever, likes never know what happens next, but really, he relies on ritual. Sam remembers that, too.

With soap in his eyes screwed shut tight, Dean says, Sammy? Sam, what are you—and stops when he feels Sam's hand on his dick.

A sharp intake of breath—Don't, he says, pleads, but hisses and arches into the rough touch of Sam's fingers anyway. Sammy, Sam, Dean says, desperate. Sam lifts his eyes to look at him. Dean swallows and says, You're gonna be gone in two days.

Sam tightens his grip and says, That's in two days.

Dean groans softly and pushes Sam back with a hand on his chest. He says, Wait, wait. and Sam's opens his mouth to argue. Because he wants this. Because Dean wants this. Fuck deadlines.

Dean doesn't tell him to stop. He stumbles to his knees instead, looks up at Sam from the ground with the water beating down onto his back and his hands braced on Sam's thighs. He whispers, Okay? but it really means, Please. Please let me.

And Sam sighs, grateful. He sounds so grateful. And he says, Fuck, yeah, and Dean smiles, brilliant, before bending his head.

Oh, god, Sam whispers, straining to keep still. His hips jerk and buck anyway. Dean remembers too: he takes it in stride, takes Sam deeper, and it's good. It's as good as he remembers. It's so much better than he remembers.

Dean pulls back off him, and Sam can almost hear him say it: You're the one who left.

He groans, Please. Dean, please, I want—and Dean smiles again and moves forward, his breath gusting hot over Sam's dick when he opens his mouth to tongue the slit, suck on the head.

Sam's fourteen again, pressed up against a dark, dirty, back alley wall with sweating palms and his brother on his knees. He's begging, whining, Dean, please, I want to—I wanna touch you, shit, shit, I'm gonna—

He tugs at Dean's hair and tries to get him off, but Dean laughs in a way that he can feel all the way to his bones.

One more swipe of his brother's tongue, one more thrust of Sam's hips, and he's eighteen again, fucking his brother's mouth one last time, coming down Dean's throat once more before he walks out the door.

Dean pulls off him panting, lips swollen and eyes wide and he looks so young: like eighteen, like twenty-two.

Jesus, Sammy, he says, and pushes himself up to his feet. He's still hard, cock blood-dark and curving up toward his stomach. Sammy, he says with his hand reaching for Sam, twisting his fingers in his brother's hair. Dean's eyes close and against Sam's lips he whispers, God. It sounds like dying.

God, I missed you.

He touches their mouths together, slides his tongue over Sam's lower lip, and Dean doesn't get it. Sam can tell. So he says, Stop. Dean, stop it. Don't.

He takes a step and his back meets the wall. Dean opens his eyes, blinks once. Sam shakes his head and says, I can't. Dean, I. I'm sorry. I can't.

He pushes past the shower curtain, and he's twenty again. Twenty years old and throwing Dean out of his dorm at two in the morning, saying, No, no, it's not normal, get out, just fucking go

He makes sure the bathroom door shuts behind him.

::

hey, it's me. it's about ten-twenty and...
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