sasquatchandleatherjacket:

It’s November, 1999, and they’re in what has to be the smallest of small towns in the Adirondacks of New York. It’s a quiet place, not a mall or movie theater or other classic teenage hangout for miles in all directions. It had the potential to be a real drag, but the cabin they’re staying in is nicer than any interstate motel, and has a really nice view. And they’re alone, on their own without dad, for months.

They’ve been here since September, when John had tracked a trio of werewolves to the woods just outside of town; the cabin had been the only place to stay nearby, and it’s plenty affordable during the months between the Summer tourists and the Winter ones.

Sam had matriculated into the local junior/senior high school (a town like this doesn’t have enough students, or buildings, to separate the two) and when a lead popped up downstate near Albany, Dean convinced John to leave them behind and let Sam get though midterms and Thanksgiving break before moving on. He left them with the cabin paid up through November, an old beat up pick up truck, and a promise to be back before it snows.

There’s a lake, Long Lake, right outside their cabin. Right outside everything, really, most of the town was built up along its expansive banks. Sam and Dean had spent late Summer evenings lounging at the end of a fishing pier with their feet dangling in the cool water before the autumn chill crept down from the mountains. Long Lake was beautiful and calm, but deeper than it looked, and a little dangerous, or so the locals warned. Sam had smiled at that and thought about big brothers and fitting analogies.

Dean works odd jobs here and there for food and spending money; a few resorts peppered the surrounding valley and they all seemed to need a handyman for repairs and small projects during the slow seasons. He spends his week nights home with Sam, drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon and sucking down Marlboro’s, and his weekend nights out, doing things that make Sam’s skin crawl when he stumbles home loose and happy at dawn. Sam’s in the tenth grade, they read Ibsen and the teacher talks about finding yourself and Sam’s skin feels too tight and his muscles restless.

The remoteness of the town makes it really good for a few things. Hunting, for one. The real kind that the locals get up too even when it wasn’t strictly in season. Fishing, too, in the warmer months before the water ices over. And stargazing. The light pollution in town was minimal, and damn near non-existent once you got a half hour’s drive past the town line. That was something Sam and Dean had done a lot of when they were kids. Dean figured out early that it was a good way to keep Sam occupied when there was no library around or the motel television was on the fritz, even when Sam got smart enough to know that all the star names and constellations that Dean had taught him about had been bullshit.

There’s a story on the six o’clock news about a meteor shower, one for the record books, apparently, and it’s a school night but Sam knows Dean’ll let him ditch tomorrow if they stay out all night. A little before midnight they pack up the truck and start driving northeast towards the mountains. Dean pulls off the road after about thirty miles at a place where the shoulder is flat and wide. He leaves the key in the ignition for the radio to play, soft and scratchy in the background. There are two moldy old woolen blankets tucked behind the driver’s seat and Dean spreads one out in the truck bed for them to lay on, Sam pulls the other up over their legs once they’re settled.

They lie there for maybe an hour, maybe two, watching. The meteors are more than abundant, as promised, one every couple of seconds. Some are just thin little streaks high in the sky, others thick and bright yellow that burst like fireworks nearer the horizon, each breathtaking in their own way. It’s quiet save for the low hum of the classic rock station and lazy chirp of crickets.

Sam feels the warmth from Dean’s body bleed into him under the blanket, cozyis the word that comes to mind as his eyelids start to grow heavy. Sam sits up, stretches and pulls his duffel bag onto his lap to retrieve a thermos filled with coffee. Dean sits up as well, fishes a cigarette out of the pack in his front pocket and tucks it in between his teeth. Sam pours the coffee, tries not to notice the way Dean’s eyes drift shut or the soft pucker of his lips when he inhales. He takes a sip and passes it to Dean, who accepts it with a smoke ringed thanks.

It not something that ever appealed to Sam, smoking. At least not until he saw Dean do it. Saw how his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks and his chest expands with the deepness of his breath. Saw the way his pink lips moisten and cradle the tip. Dean makes it look enticing. Lurid. Wanton.

“Can I try?” Sam asks, barely a whisper.

Dean looks at him surprised, hesitant, and Sam’s heart drops in anticipation of the shake of Dean’s head and the “no” he’s sure is coming. But instead Dean shrugs little and turns to sit cross-legged facing Sam.

“C’mere,” he says, and Sam scoots closer, not quite realizing what’s going to happen next. Dean takes another long drag from the cigarette and holds it, leans forward to bring his face close to Sam’s until he’s just inches away. Sam’s unconscious intake of breath seems to be exactly what Dean wanted; he cups his hands around their mouths, slides in until their lips are almost touching, and breathes out, the hot smoke tickling over Sam’s lips and into his mouth.

Sam forgets to breathe for a few seconds, then inhales all at once, taking the smoke into his lungs, his chest tightening around the urge to cough. He closes his eyes and swears he feels the universe shift, feels every second of his life, of existence, converge down to this moment, to the burn in his chest and the warmth of Dean’s breath on his face and The Rolling Stones, tinny and barely audible over the rush of blood in his ears. Just a fraction of a second and it’s over, Dean backs away and Sam breathes the smoke back out in one long shaky exhale, opening his eyes to a world that’s fundamentally changed from what it was before he closed them.

Dean’s looking back up at the sky, feigning some renewed interest in the meteor storm, but Sam can see through his overly controlled breathing and stiff posture and he wonders (hopes) if the world has changed for Dean, too. Maybe it’s the flood of nicotine to his system, maybe it’s the way Dean’s lips glisten just so in the starlight, maybe it’s Mick Jagger singing about those wild, wild horses, but Sam’s emboldened. He sits up a bit taller til his mouth is level with Dean’s ear.

“More,” he says, breathy and urgent, “can I have more?”

Dean shoots him a stern look, a warning, but Sam’s never been one to back down, and he’s sure whatever the consequences are to ignoring Dean’s admonishment will be worth it.

“C’mon Dean,” he almost begs, whines in the bratty little brother voice he still hasn’t grown out of. He turns bodily to face Dean, straddling his legs so that his thighs rest over Dean’s bent knees.

Dean stiffens for a moment, then forces himself to relax, his eyes lock onto Sam’s and neither of them can look away as Dean brings the cigarette back to his lips and breathes in. Sam leans closer, so close the red glow of ash almost burns his cheek but he stops just short of making any contact. Dean tilts his head, considering, and lifts his hand to slowly take Sam’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. He doesn’t grip, but guides, tilting Sam’s chin up and angling his head just slightly to the other side, and then closes the distance between them, sealing his mouth around Sam’s parted lips.

Sam’s ready this time, sucks in greedily the flavor of tar and stale coffee and spit, breathing in and savoring all that Dean is giving him He holds it for as long as he can and when he breathes it back out Dean inhales in sync with Sam’s exhale. They continue like that, breathing in tandem until eventually the smoke dissipates, their mouths still together but passing nothing but breath back and forth.

But Sam wants more than breath. His tongue darts out, tentative, seeking, until it finds Dean’s, and just like that, they’re kissing. It’s light at first, just gentle little flicks and soft parted lips, but it’s everything. Everything Sam never admitted to wanting until right now.

Sam pulls himself forward, one arm around Dean’s waist, to deepen the kiss. Part of him waits for Dean to panic, to push back and put an end to it and deny deny deny, but he doesn’t, just threads his hand up into Sam’s hair and holds him tight, hauls him closer until Sam’s sitting on Dean’s lap, til they’re rutting together, pressed tight up against the constricting denim fabric of their jeans. It’s uncomfortable, hell maybe even a little painful but Sam couldn’t stop if he tried, couldn’t leave the tight confines of his brother’s arms or the wet heat of his mouth for anything in the world. Sam comes, just like that, rough and sticky and embarrassingly fast, into the worn out waistband of his boxers.

“God, Sammy. Sammy,” Dean says absently, awestruck. He watches, rapt, as Sam comes down from his orgasm and goes boneless and weak in his arms. He supports Sam, holds him close, still, with one arm and tucks his other hand down the front of his jeans, fumbling to undo the buttons and get his hand around himself. Sam locks his arms around Dean’s neck, dazed and floaty with his forehead slipping against Dean’s, watching the deep purple head of Dean’s cock disappear into his fist.

They share another cigarette, after, lying on their backs again. Sam doesn’t think he likes smoking very much, not for its own sake, anyway, but pressing the little wet filter between his lips, licking the taste of Dean’s mouth off of it before inhaling, feeling Dean’s fingers brush against his as they pass it back and forth? Fuck nicotine, those are the things he’s already shamelessly, eternally addicted to.

No matter how many years pass, how many firsts and lasts and highs and lows they go through together; no matter how bad it gets, (and god, does it get bad) or how good it becomes again, the smell of cigarette smoke in cold air, or the muffled sound of Wild Horses playing from another room, will always bring Sam back to this night. Nothing can ever make him regret it.