Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/423784.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Weechesters, Underage_Sex, Dry_Humping
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-06-05 Words: 2621
****** Fine Art of Seduction ******
by orphan_account
Summary
     And he’s definitely a perv, oh yeah. Sam is thirteen. Scrawny, short,
     all limbs. Awkward at all times, even when he’s trying not to be.
     Especially when he’s trying not to be, but it still takes Dean nearly
     two weeks to finally figure out what’s happening.
     (spnkink-meme req fill: "Sam wants Dean, but isn't sure if Dean wants
     him too. He starts testing Dean by enticing him, until one day Dean
     snaps and tackles Sam to the bed / pushes Sam up against the wall /
     where ever this is going to happen, and dry-humps Sam until he creams
     his jeans.")
Notes
     Warnings: Underage (13/17), incest
Dean thinks he’s imagining it at first, and the idea that this – this – this
obsession he has with his little brother is manifesting itself in entirely new
levels of depravity makes his stomach flip, his skin crawl. It’s bad enough
that he watches the kid’s every move like some pervy predator, bad enough that
the temptation to imagine had been too great and he’d eventually given in to
thoughts of gangly limbs and floppy hair, innocent trusting doe eyes instead of
big breasts and short skirts.
The thought that his mind has now betrayed him completely and is sexualizing
even the words that roll off Sam’s tongue, the way he walks, the casual
brotherly touching – yeah, holy shit he’s ready to jump off a bridge. Because
if this is where his mind is progressing, just how long until he decides it’s
OK to actually act on those thoughts?
And it’s not OK – not at all. And he’s definitely a perv, oh yeah. Sam is 13.
Scrawny, short, all limbs. Awkward at all times, even when he’s trying not to
be. Especially when he’s trying not to be, but it still takes Dean nearly two
weeks to finally figure out what’s happening. Two weeks of alternately wanting
to throw up every time Sam turns him on when he shouldn’t and double taking as
Sam reaches unimaginable levels of gangly teen stupidity.
He mulls it over one night, a beer he maybe shouldn’t have swiped from the
fridge cool in his grasp. Sam has fallen asleep already – in Dean’s bed, of
course – and Dad is gone for the week so he can’t even slip out to weasel his
way into a bar, leaving Sam all alone. So he’s got way too much silent alone
time on his hands and it’s up to no good in his head.
He’d almost like to think it’s just his imagination taking that final leap off
the deep end, but Sam has slowly been getting more and more bold (and, as a
result, running into more doors and tripping over more shoe laces) and
tonight’s little show has pretty much sealed the deal. Sam had known when Dean
was going to be back from his shift at work, three hours after Sam got home
from school – just like every Wednesday for the past three months. That was
three hours to do whatever he wanted in complete privacy.
Naturally, because life hated Dean just a little bit, Sam had been jerking off
with the bathroom door cracked open right as Dean had come home. Jerking off,
door cracked, little half pants and the slick sound of skin stroking over skin,
all barely held back. Dean had left him to it, didn’t mention it, but Sam had
practically tripped down the stairs ten minutes later.
When Dean retreated to their room after dinner and dishes and a half dozen
chores he’d bugged Sam about two days ago his little brother was already
asleep, face buried in Dean’s pillow. The corner of a magazine peeked out of
the duffel by Dean’s bed and he’d pulled it out, the cover of ‘Busty Asian
Beauties – Ultra Hot Summer Edition!’ glossy in the light of the lamp Sam had
left on – Miss July’s centerfold decidedly stickier than Dean remembered it as
he flipped through the pages.
Dean keeps his skin mags under the bed, which Sam would have known because
that’s where the little fucker would have found it.
Not that he wouldn’t put it past himself to see things that weren’t there, but
13 years in a hunter family with zero privacy and Sammy is god damned
meticulous about hiding anything he doesn’t want known. The kid breaks bones
that Dean and Dad don’t learn about for days. He breaks into churches on a
semi-frequent basis. He knows how to not get caught.
So it all makes a little more sense now, the lingering touches when for so long
touching had been weird and taboo and girly. The ‘please oh please, Dean’s and
puppy dog eyes when Sam already knows Dean won’t tell him no. Claiming half of
Dean’s wardrobe as his own when Sam’s own clothes are cleaner and newer and not
covered in engine grease, not frayed at the edges, not four sizes too big.
So yeah, he’s definitely still a pervy freak in his own head, but he speaks
‘Sammy’ like a native tongue and at least now he can find solace in being a
sane pervert. Sam has been trying to seduce him – with all the charm and
subtlety of a mentally handicapped ox, in hindsight – and, by some strange,
sick twist of fate where Dean already wanted to jump his baby brother’s bones,
it has worked surprisingly well.
He vows not to act on his revelation and goes to sleep in the unoccupied bed
that smells like fresh cut grass and clean sweat and a barely-teenaged little
brother. He is comforted neither by his new found knowledge nor by his
resolution, but, guiltily, by the smell of the sheets around him.
In the morning he starts to seriously consider dropping out of school early and
getting the heck out of dodge while his dignity and Sam’s innocence (ha!) are
still intact, because fuck. Just fuck. Sam is making breakfast and wearing –
drowning in – Dean’s oldest, holiest pair of jeans. They’re falling off Sam’s
hips, held up by the press of flesh against counter while Sam scrambles eggs
and plates bacon and Dean is pretty sure there’s a hole right where thigh meets
crotch that he wishes he could stop thinking about.
Does Sam think he’s being subtle? Or is he trying for a reaction, Dean wonders.
It’s too hard to guess. He’s seen Sam around girls when he actually is trying
for subtle and it’s not much better, so Dean just grunts in greeting, steals a
piece of bacon and pantses Sam on the way past instead.
The squawk of indignation would almost be enough to quash Dean’s early morning
ill-intentions if Sam had been wearing anything underneath. Dean schools his
features, snacks on his bacon, and tries for a grin that he’s sure comes out as
a leer.
“You should thank me, dude,” he says, sagely, amid Sam’s garbled claims of
‘nothing else was clean’ and ‘first thing grabbed’. “Better here than someone
at school.”
Sam flicks off the burner, scoops the jeans back to his waist and stomps out of
the room, Dean calling after him. “Maybe you should steal some underwear, too,
to replace your pretty pink panties, Samantha,” he crows right before the
bedroom door slams.
Dean tries valiantly to hide the deep, calming breaths he takes as Sam slips
into the Impala next to him fifteen minutes later. He’s still wearing the
jeans, held up now with one of Sam’s own belts, but the elastic of a pair of
Dean’s boxers peeks out the top. He drops Sam off at school – Dean is skipping
to cover an extra shift at the grocery store – and ignores the wanton look of
forlorn yearning Sam sends him before one of his still too-big-for-his-body
feet catches on the door and he tumbles face first. He hits the grass instead
of the curb and Dean figures he’s earned a laugh at his brother’s expense.
But there is really only so much Dean can take before he breaks. It’s a long
day of ‘paper or plastic’ and ‘do you want cash back’ and fuck but Sam is sexy
in the kitchen when Dean gets in, fixing a bowl of cereal and humming to
himself. He’s traded Dean’s clothes for his own, a pair of cargo shorts and a
short-sleeve button down, and it occurs to Dean that at this moment Sam isn’t
trying to seduce him at all. He doesn’t even know Dean’s home, fifteen minutes
early.
It’s 100% all natural Sammy there in front of him, back facing the doorway, and
he knows there’s really nothing he can do to stop this. Not when this – Sam
being Sam, for God’s sake, making cereal for dinner – this is what really
drives Dean crazy. Sends shivers down his spine, flares warm in his belly. Sam
doesn’t need to try; All Sam has to do is exist.
And really, Dean can’t deny his brother anything for long, least ways when it’s
something Dean wants just as bad. He’s probably bound for Hell anyways, may as
well make the most of what he’s got while he’s still top-side.
Sam jumps when Dean presses up behind him, frames the lean line of Sam’s body
with his own, wraps an arm snug around Sam’s waist. The spoon that was in Sam’s
hand clatters to the counter, milk slopping over the sides of the bowl Sam has
nearly knocked over in his surprise.
“Hey there, sweetheart,” Dean growls against Sam’s ear, and he feels more than
hears his baby brother whimper. “What’s for dinner?”
“Dean!” Sam squeaks out, his voice breaking, body tense and shuddery; Dean
watches as Sam’s hand starts to shake, but there’s no hint of resistance. Not a
bit.
“Me?” he teases, pushes his hips softly into the swell of Sam’s ass, grinds him
into the counter. He’s so hard – feels like he’s had a constant boner for weeks
now.
Sam’s response is another high-pitched noise that may have been an attempt at
words, but it just comes out unintelligible, shocked. His head whips around,
hair brushing across Dean’s chin, his cheek, his lips as Sam turns, and Dean
gives into temptation, nudges right behind Sam’s ear, mouths at the sensitive
skin and feels Sam tense in his arms. He thinks for a moment maybe he’s gone
too far until Sam keens, arches, pushes back like a floodgate’s been broken.
“Dean,” he says again, voice wavering; Dean nips at the flesh beneath his lips,
smiles against Sam’s neck at the jump-start-shiver he gets in return.
“You said that already,” he hums against Sam’s skin, rocks forward and lets his
eyes fall closed at the sweet relief of friction he never thought he’d let
himself have. Thoughts of wrong, bad, dangerous flit to the surface of his mind
and he shoves them back, stops thinking and just feels because Sam fits against
him just right, feels more natural in his arms and pressed against his chest,
his thighs, his dick than any girl ever has.
Sam struggles against him until Dean pulls back a few inches, and he thinks Sam
is going to bolt and God but he can’t stand that thought – but no. Sam just
twists, turns to face Dean and reaches out shivering hands to fist in Dean’s
sweaty work shirt, pull Dean back in to bracket Sam against the counter once
more, pull them flush. Sam’s pushing forward to rub against Dean, whole body
sliding and Dean doesn’t think his brother is even in control of his own
movement at this point.
Dean stops him, grabs hold of Sam by the hips – skinny, jutting out behind
fragile skin, muscle just beginning to fill his frame out – and Sam looks up at
him from under too-long lashes, wild bangs. He looks half-scared and needy, and
Dean is dying to take care of him, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to make it
that easy.
“Slow down there, cowboy,” he says, grins down at his baby brother, eyes
tracing barely parted lips and he wants to just reach down and steal the breath
right out of Sam’s mouth. So he does – the barest brush of lips that Sam leans
into as Dean pulls away. “Just a little cock tease, aren’t you? Think I’m just
gonna give it to you after putting me through all that?”
Sam looks confused for a moment, like he’s having trouble thinking about
anything other than here, now and Dean, until it hits him what Dean’s talking
about. Dean actually watches the flush rise in his little brother’s cheeks,
bets he’d feel the heat if he pressed their faces together.
“Dean,” there’s the cracking in his voice again, and Dean’s beyond caring that
it goes straight to his dick to hear his baby brother losing control of
himself. “I-”
“You what?” Dean hums, rocking his hips forward again, keeping Sam pinned to
the counter; he can feel his brother struggling to stay still under his hands,
muscles twitching beneath Dean’s fingers, and Dean slides up just half an inch
so his thumbs can brush over the pale strip of skin showing right over Sam’s
waistband.
“Dean!” Sam whines, and Dean can’t help it - he laughs, actually full on
laughs, can’t hold it back, head dropping to Sam’s shoulder, the juncture of
his neck, laughter turning to breathy huffs against Sam’s skin as his brother
shudders, moans.
“Don’t worry, baby,” Dean soothes. “Not gonna leave you hanging.”
His hips slide forward, hard dick slotting against Sam’s own through rough
fabric, against Sam’s thigh, moves his own thigh between Sam’s legs so he can
rut them against one another. He’s heard Sam at night, heard him in the shower
and in stolen moments. Heard him yesterday in the bathroom – knows Sam isn’t
going to last long, especially not with the heat of another body, with Dean.
There may be too much separating them for Dean to get off, but Sam’s thirteen,
innocent. Sam’s easy, and Dean already loves it.
Once, twice, three times, hips pushing forward, thigh sliding up, rubbing Sam’s
dick through his shorts, pressing against his balls, hands holding Sam firm and
still against the counter. Then Sam’s harsh breath turns desperate, turns to a
shuddering moan, little wet pants of “oh – oh - Dean.”
“Sammy,” Dean answers, lips pressing into Sam’s jaw and for a second Sam stops
breathing all together, goes rigid and tight under Dean’s body and Dean lets
Sam’s hips go so he can ride out the throes of his orgasm, grind down as he
pleases, press in tighter and slide his whole body up, up, down over Dean’s.
He’s still shivering from exertion when Dean pulls back, stands up straight to
look down at his little brother all ruined and grasping at the edge of the
counter. His hair is a sweaty mess and Dean reaches out to smooth it into place
like he’s done a hundred times before, drag his fingers through the damp,
unruly curls. He leans in and trails his lips over Sam’s cheek, laps at the
corner of his mouth just to watch Sam’s eyes flutter shut, feel the wisp of
exhaled sigh against his face.
Dean pulls back again and Sam’s eyes slide back open as Dean reaches behind
him, grabs the bowl of cereal and abandoned spoon. He’s still got the Eiffel
tower tenting his own pants, but he can wait for later, and he’s heading
towards the living room and the couch before Sam’s even registered what’s
happening. Sam’s reaction is totally worth it.
“Hey!” Sam yelps, affronted, like he’s already forgotten he just rubbed himself
off on Dean’s thigh, come still sticky and wet in his pants. Dean wonders if
Sam’s still wearing his boxers.
“Thanks for dinner, bitch,” Dean calls back, falling onto the couch with his
prize, smiling around a mouthful of cereal at the half-hearted ‘jerk’ he hears
muttered from behind him before Sam collapses at his feet a moment later,
entire box of cereal in his lap.
“If you get jizz on the box I’ll kick your ass.”
Sam tosses a marshmallow bit at Dean’s head before grabbing the remote and
relaxing into the space between Dean’s feet. Just another night in the
Winchester household, Dean thinks. At least the only monsters they have to face
tonight are on TV.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!