rivers_bend

Title: Flashback
Rating: Teen (discussions of sex and language)
Words: ~1300
Spoilers: explicit for 3:15
Enticements/Warnings: contains brotherly banter and teasing about sex when Sam's 16, and could easily be read as pre-slash.
A/N: At least two people on my f'list asked if something like this fic was going to come out of 3:15. Not sure if this was what they had in mind, but this is the bunny that bit.
Summary: Dean's deal is about to come due, but that doesn't stop Sam from having a flashback to the last time he saw one of those [spoiler redacted].



"Pack it up, Sammy, we need to hit the road."

"Can't we have a shower first or something?" They were both covered in dirt and grime from burying Doc Benton.

"Bela knows where we are, she lifted the receipt out of my pocket."

"What the hell did you have the receipt—hell, why did you have ANYTHING in your pocket when you went to see that bitch?"

"I didn't—I just—Oh, shut up, Sam."

"I'm only say—"

"I said shut it." Raking his eyes around the room, Dean wrenched open the door and started carting bags out to the car.

When Sam came out and put his own duffel in, Dean grabbed a plain brown bag and herded Sam back inside. "I checked," Sam said. "We got everything."

Instead of answering, Dean shoved a brightly-colored, shiny box into his arms and said, "Blow."

Sam looked at the box. "You're kidding, right?"

"Hurry. Lips to latex, there, Sammy."

The sight of his brother leering with a French-Maid's-costume wearing sex doll hanging out of his mouth made Sam go a little funny in the head. While he was opening his box, he asked, "Where did you get them?" He knew they couldn't be the same ones, he knew it, Dean surely wouldn't have kept them, Sam would have seen them in the trunk or somewhere…

Dean paused long enough to say, "Syracuse. Haven't you got the box open yet? I knew you weren't a fast mover, but it's a doll, Sam. You don't have to woo her."

"What are we—Dean, I don't get it. What are we doing with them?" Last time he and Dean had blow-up dolls had started with nearly getting arrested for shoplifting and ended with getting caught by dad. Somehow throwing Bela and Dean's impending doom into the mix instead wasn't reassuring. Sam felt the edge of panic in his voice was completely justified.

"I figure she's either coming or sending someone to kill us. We put these under the covers, it looks like we're still here, it buys us some time."

"I don’t know, Dean, how long is it going to buy us? Really?"

"This from the guy who wanted to buy time by turning me into a freaking monster. Just blow it up, will you?"

So Sam did.

Once they were on the road, Sam couldn't stop thinking about that tacky XXX shop in St. Louis, and the shame and that twisted feeling in his gut that—"Dean?" he finally asked, "Do you remember…"

Dean looked at him, that look that asked if Sam was on drugs or just stupid.

"What ever happened to those?"

"I don't know," Dean said, but he gripped the wheel tighter and looked fiercely at the road in a way Sam was sure Dean thought was casual, but which telegraphed a lie like a siren.

"Good thing that security guard had a limp and you didn't bother locking the Impala, or that all coulda ended up different." They'd gone into the store on a whim, at least as far as Sam knew, though it was suddenly occurring to him that maybe Dean had planned it all the time.

Dean just grunted and gave Sam a half-smile.

Sam was sixteen, and okay, maybe a little shy with girls, but he was never going to be Dean in that department, no matter what. Dean was overly concerned about the fact that Sammy still hadn't gotten laid. He'd dragged Sam into the store and started holding up toys, trying to embarrass him. Sam'd played right into his hands, blushing, scuffing his feet and trying to get him to leave. Then Dean had found the blow-up dolls. Sam figured Dean would tease him with them and move on, but next thing he knew, Dean was shoving one of the boxes up under Sam's shirt and grabbing up another one and tucking it under his arm. Sam was still trying to put the thing back when Dean grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him out of the store.

Dean was a lot of things, but subtle wasn't really one of them, and they hadn't taken five steps down the street before some skinny, tattooed dude in a rent-a-cop uniform was shouting and lurching after them.

For all they didn't always acquire things by strictly legal means, Sam had never done anything quite like this before and he was shitting himself. Dean, on the other hand, had laughed right out loud and dragged Sam around the corner, down an alley, and thrown him at the car, which they'd left parked on a side street. He spent the ride home ignoring Sam's protests and grinning so wide he made Sam's cheeks ache in sympathy.

Dad was off on a hunt somewhere, so they had the house to themselves. Dinner was a six pack of beer and a bowl of cereal, one hard-boiled egg and three pieces of toast between them, because that's all they had in the house. By the time they collapsed in their beds, Sam was on his way to drunk. Not there, and probably not even far enough along to excuse agreeing to Dean's scheme, but the buzz under his skin, whether from alcohol, hormones, adrenalin, or all three, wouldn't be ignored. Somehow, when Dean blew up one of the dolls, held it out and made it press up against Sam's chest, when he squeaked in that ridiculous falsetto, "Oooh, Sammy, what a stud you are. Fuck me, Sammy. Fuck me, please," and with grinding thrusts of his hips pressed the tacky doll's 'love hole' against Sam's far-too-easily-interested cock, Sam had grabbed the doll and threw it on the bed, climbing on top and humping it. It was a joke, he was trying to make Dean laugh, but his dick didn't get the message, and somehow when Dean started blowing up the second doll, pushing the game further, Sam had undone his fly and pushed his dick into the waiting hole.

It wasn't good, or anything like it; the first time he'd jacked off when he had no idea what he was doing felt better, but there was Dean on the other bed less than three feet away, smirking and talking dirty at his own doll, and it was friction and he was sixteen and he had been about to come anyway when Dad bellowed from the doorway, "What the HELL do you boys think you're doing?"

Dean, thank god, was still fully dressed, and he distracted Dad long enough with silver-tongued excuses for Sam to roll off the thing and tuck himself back in, though that been pretty damn uncomfortable. Sam just sat and took it while Dad ranted about responsibility and appropriate behavior, far too embarrassed to mention specifics of what he'd seen, until finally the man went away and slammed his bedroom door.

Utterly shame-faced but still hard, Sam went to the bathroom and jerked off furiously into the toilet. When he came back, the dolls were gone. Dean chuckled, clapped him on the shoulder, and said, "Well, we almost got you laid, Sammy. Better luck next time."

Sam didn’t speak to his brother for two whole days. That was a whole other lifetime.

Now, Dean was telling him what he'd discovered about Bela. Her parents, the deal she must have made… Sam wondered if he should feel more pity for her. A month ago, he might have. He almost said, I wouldn't wish what we're going through on my worst enemy, because he felt like that was something the Sam Winchester who'd let his big brother talk him into humping a blow-up doll might say, but he didn't. He just watched as Dean took out his phone and called the bitch.