Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/303326.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Collections:
      spn_j2_xmas_exchange_2011
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-12-26 Words: 8270
****** Fit A Skeleton Inside My Skin ******
by oddishly
Summary
     Sam is just confused. It's not an excuse Dean gets to use on himself.
Notes
     Written for orbiting-saturn! and including porn and angst and pre-
     series boys, as per her request.
John has left them alone for the week, maybe longer. Probably longer. Left
before Sam got home from school this afternoon and won't be back before he's
dealt with the rash of shtrigas mottling up West Virginia, and the only unusual
part is that he didn't stick around long enough to give Sam his usual checklist
of reasons to be there when he gets back. Run an extra half mile in the
mornings, don't stay up reading all night, clean your goddamn gun after you're
done with it. Do what your brother tells you to. Dean isn't sure why he bothers
with that last one. The only thing Sam does under order is what Dean tells him
to.
He gives Sam as long as it takes to make himself a sandwich, burning the bacon
almost black because no matter what Dean tries, his brother's still a weirdo,
and then he says, "Dad'll be back for Christmas. Should give you some time to
work on your left." He waits. "Sam. Up and at 'em, dude."
"I heard you," Sam mumbles. He finishes his mouthful. "Fine, whatever. We can
fight. If you really want me to show you up again."
Well, that's a lie for starters. "I really want Dad to get off my back about
teaching you to fight with a disadvantage. You're cramping my style, Sammy. Got
better places to be than looking after your ass all the time."
"You know that two black eyes aren't going to get that Clara girl to sleep with
you."
"Yeah, well, let's start with one and see how far you get with that with your
good arm behind your back." Clara's pretty well acquainted with the backseat of
the Impala already, actually, but Sam doesn't need to know that. Dean gives the
back door a yank. "Come outside when you're done with that."
Mr and Mrs Rightful Owner kept chickens last time they were here. There's a
lean-to shed outside with a dozen nest boxes and a lot of leftover straw all
matted together, and a big tub of feed in a corner with the lid half off.
There's not much left, and two small birds are doing their bit for what is.
Dean spends a moment thinking about staying somewhere with real chickens, eggs
for breakfast every day and he could probably convince Sam to do all the
cooking, too. No way to do it in a squat but maybe one of Dad's buddies keeps
them.
"I'm not fighting you in here," says Sam from behind him, and fuck if Dean
doesn't jump half out of his skin. He scowls at Sam, who looks unforgivably
pleased to have scared him, and follows him outside.
He assesses his belt against Sam's and decides his own is too new. "Belt off,"
he says.
"Is this really necessary?"
"You want to get this over with or not?" Dean takes the belt and starts looping
it around Sam's right arm, just tight enough that even when Sam isn’t standing
frozen, like say right now, he's not going to be slipping free any time soon.
Then he pulls Sam's arm behind his back, fitting the ends of the belt through
the hoop on the other side of his body and buckling it on the tightest hole.
Sam's jeans are old, barely long enough even when they're falling down his
hips, and the hoops are fraying. "Don't fight against it too hard."
"Fine." Sam turns his back to head for a patch of long grass down the path.
Fucking hell, it's like he's trying to get himself hit.
"Hey, Sam?" Dean says, and gets his fist in Sam's sternum before he's finished
turning, making full use of his momentum against him. Sam stumbles back. "Pay
attention."
"Fuck you, I am," Sam snaps. He keeps walking back but at least he's facing
Dean this time, keeping his gaze on Dean's face. It's a long time since they
shared an excuse to watch each other in daylight.
"Doesn't look like it." Dean feints in on the left, gets him somewhere high
enough on his bound arm that it sends him in a backwards half-spin, fucking Sam
still isn't protecting himself even with a blindingly obvious disadvantage.
"Looks like you're too busy listening to me instead of watching where I'm going
to get you next."
"Wrong," says Sam, and dodges out of Dean's reach before pitching back in,
slamming his fist into Dean's waist hard enough and tight enough that Dean
feels it reverberate through. Sam follows it up by bringing his elbow down hard
on his collarbone and an awkward punch against his side that still gets Dean
bent in two.
Sam doesn't do a goddamn thing about it. He hesitates for a fraction of a
second instead of following up with a fist to knock Dean's head back or a knee
in his groin. Dean doesn't bother standing, just hurls himself forwards and
into Sam's middle, sending them flying backwards and to the ground. "Pay the
fuck attention," he growls, and cuts himself off the moment he gets his head up
enough to catch Sam's expression. Eyes screwed shut in pain and mouth wide, and
now Dean notices that his whole body is thrown and arching beneath him.
Dean scrambles off. "Sam," he says. "Sammy." He crawls up to kneel at Sam's
head, gets his hands on Sam's face and smoothes along the pain lines. Fuck,
fuck, they barely even got started, what's happened –
Sam takes a noisy breath and opens his eyes. "I'm okay," he says, the most
blatant lie Dean's heard him tell since they were kids. He fists his free hand
and tosses it Dean's way; it glances off Dean's jaw. Dean catches his arm and
looks all the way down the arch of his hips, all the way back up.
"Stop it, you little shit. What the fuck did you do?"
Sam chews on his lip. He stops moving. "My hand," he says. "I think – "
Dean pulls Sam upright so he can take a look, then swears and yanks the belt
away. Sam's hand is bloody and grit, fingers folded protectively over the palm,
and when he uncurls them, a shard of bottle glass rolls out and into the grass.
There's blood soaking out of the cut and down his wrist. Sam flinches when Dean
flattens his hand out some more. "Yeah, you really look okay."
Sam keeps his palm open but brushes the tips of his fingers against Dean's,
which Dean allows only because Sam is quite obviously fighting back tears. Sam
almost makes it sound convincing when he says, "Not your fault, Dean."
"Shut up, Sam." He pulls Sam back to the house, fingers tight around his
forearm. This is more prolonged contact than Dean's allowed himself in weeks.
Longer.
Neither of them says anything until Dean's got Sam's hand under the icy water,
holding him down so he can't pull away from the stinging; blood and grit
dirtying up the tiny kitchen sink. "One stitch," Dean says now he can see
properly. He peers closer. "Or two. It's not as bad as it looked out there."
"Told you," says Sam. He presses into Dean, knee-thigh-hip. Dean lets him stay
there until he turns the water off, and then he pulls a chair out from the
table and gestures him towards it.
There are needles, thread and antiseptic under the sink, and bandages and
painkillers. Dean lays them out on the table and hops up next to them, turning
Sam's hand up on his knee and spending as long as he's willing to allow himself
just looking down at him. Sometimes he misses getting to do that all the time.
It's not like he ever had to limit how much he loved Sam when Sam was small.
"You might want to. Chew on the belt, or something," he says abruptly. "Though
it's not going to taste any good."
Sam's hand slips fractionally from Dean's knee to the inside of his thigh.
"I'll survive," he says without looking at Dean.
-
Sam doesn't say a word as Dean drives him into school the next day. He stares
out of the passenger window the whole five miles, body angled away from Dean
and head tipped against the glass, and leaves his hand cradled palm-up on his
knee. What Dean really wants is to pick it up and lay it against his cheek,
because his skin is cold and there is no fucking way that cut burns any less
than a brand, and because Sam gets to have whatever he wants when his brother's
put half a broken bottle through him. "You didn't have to come to school," he
says instead. "I don't care if you don't want to."
Sam says, "I care," and picks up his bag.
Dean takes his foot off the pedal with an effort. "Whatever. Don't fuck your
hand up even more. You've still got to practice, Dad's gonna want to see." He
hesitates. "Uh – not today, though. Get one of your dork friends to take notes
for you."
Sam doesn't answer. He swings the door open wide enough that he can slam it
shut once he's out, and sticks his head back through the window to tell Dean,
"I'll get the bus home, you don't need to come out here." He straightens up,
slinging his bag over his shoulder and quick-marching away from the car. Well.
All right, then.
No surprises here, but Dean's not getting any better at turning off all the
things he wants to do to his brother, and he's not getting anything from the
knowledge that flat out maiming Sam hasn't guilted him out of wanting to fuck
him. He spends the morning cleaning up the house before giving the car a quick
look over – maybe it's the other way around – and decides at lunch to save his
dad a job and go buy some Christmas food for the three of them. And beer, he
thinks.
He slopes around the store picking up whatever looks good, adds four boxes of
honey nut cornflakes to the cart because Sam hates the stuff, and looks up to
find himself in the middle of the diaper aisle. Looks like Christmas is a
popular time of year to buy diapers because half the shelves are empty, so Dean
does his bit to fill them by emptying the cart of most of the crap he's just
put into it. He adds two boxes of cereal to the shelf because he's not so fond
of honey nut either and it's not like they're rolling in money, and takes the
rest up to the checkout.
He goes to Clara's till completely by accident. He realises as he's counting
out his cash that the only reason he's not putting any effort into flirting
with her is because he's too busy thinking about Sam promising to give him two
black eyes, and without stopping to think, blurts, "You want to come to my
place when your shift's done?" Apparently he's gone and turned into Sam now,
smooth talker that he is.
Clara looks taken aback but she smiles at him anyway. "I get an hour for
lunch," she tells him. "I'll come and find you outside."
Sam isn't getting back from school for another couple hours at least. That's
just about perfect in Dean's book, because right now he's got Clara in his lap
in the kitchen and he'd quite like to keep her there for a while. Doesn't
bother pulling his jeans off, just shoves them down to his knees and rips the
foil open with his teeth, and now she's sinking down on his cock. Up and all
the way down again, so wet, her hair short and falling into her eyes the same
way Sam's does, Dean's not fucking perfect, and her body is straight and firm
under his hands. She's got the same determined look on her face that Dean
noticed her for first, her lip caught between her teeth. He can feel her
squeezing around his cock then relaxing again as she comes up and it's fucking
awesome: fuck, Dean does not want this to stop.
He shuts his eyes and lets his head fall back over the edge of the chair. This
is exactly what he needs; can forget all about his absent father, all of the
ways he's messed up his brother, the milk that's right now spoiling in the back
of the car. There's a girl moaning in his ear and that's enough because it has
to be.
He opens his eyes when Clara's breathy noises cut off. "You gonna make me do
all the work?" she asks him, and leans down to kiss him quick. "Because I don't
need you here for that." She pulls off enough that just the very tip of his
dick is inside her, takes one of his hands from her waist and places it very
deliberately on her breast.
Dean grins at her. He is so, so close to coming, and his legs aren't going to
hold. "All right," he says, and gets his arm all the way around her, staggering
to his feet. His cock slips out as he lowers her onto the dining table so he
kisses her instead, doing his best to kick his jeans off but leaving his shirt
on. There is a very good chance the table only has this one fuck left in it,
but that's okay because they definitely don't have enough time to go again.
Dean pushes his first two fingers inside her as he climbs up, and bites down on
his tongue until he's sure he's not going to call her by his brother's name.
She's got her head turned to the side, her hair swept into her eyes, and Dean's
aware he's being a complete dick to her but that doesn't mean he has to rub it
in her face. He brushes her hair aside, leaning down to kiss her as he pushes
back inside.
He's got a rhythm going and his mouth on her collarbone when the door opens.
Dean wrenches his head up, catching Clara's eyes wide and horrified as he turns
to see Sam in the doorway with the grocery bags in his hand. His gaze falls a
long way down Dean's body, a mix of feelings painted across his face that Dean
doesn't need to decipher, and Dean can't look away. "Sammy – "
The door swings shut behind him. Dean spends a second staring after, drags his
gaze back to Clara, and almost laughs when she gives him a rueful look and
wriggles pointedly.
His attention is almost, almost back on her when she comes, and not even
remotely when he follows.
He finds Sam in the living room after he's dropped Clara back at work. Just
ambles into the room like it's no big deal, making a thing of re-tucking his t-
shirt into his jeans. "Sorry, Sam," he says. "Hell of a day to cut school. Hope
you enjoyed the show."
"Hope you sanitised the kitchen," Sam replies in the same voice. He's sitting
with his back to the sofa, knees drawn up. Dean desperately wants to know if
he's hard, if the book he's reading is pressing into his dick or if he's
holding it up and away from a big wet patch on his jeans. Wants to know how
long he stayed and listened on the other side of the door or if he stumbled up
the stairs and told himself to stick his head under a pillow and didn't.
He smirks. "I've got to eat in there too." Pauses. "How's your – "
"It's okay," says Sam. "Thanks."
Sam isn't going to move until Dean does, which means Dean isn't going to get
eyes on his crotch no matter how long he waits. He walks just close enough to
pick up all the grocery bags strewn around Sam's body, forces himself to keep
his eyes where they should be even when Sam shifts, and leaves the room again.
Wondering, all the same.
-
Sam's just confused. It's not an excuse Dean gets to use on himself. There's no
reason Sam should know any better than to confuse how much he loves his brother
with wanting to fuck him: for fuck's sake, he's just a kid. An overgrown,
messed up kid.
Even if he is about to leave Dean behind in the middle of an early-morning run,
what the fuck. Dean scowls at the back of his head, and makes it uglier when
Sam looks back over his shoulder to grin at him.
"Having trouble keeping up?" He shouts it like he thinks he's hitting the
horizon. (He's not.) "Want me to slow down? Because whatever man, can't be more
embarrassing than your little brother beating you. Your injured little
brother." Sam waves his bandaged hand in the air, grinning bright as you like,
and there is absolutely piss-all Dean can do to stop himself grinning back.
"Keep running, bitch," he replies, speeding up just enough that shouting isn't
necessary, "or I'll give you a real injury."
Sam makes a terrified face, just for Dean's benefit. He's dripping with sweat,
t-shirt sticking to his chest while he's not windmilling his arms to distract
Dean, and Dean could have told him that this is just as much of a distraction.
Probably wouldn't, but whatever.
Then Sam sets off again. "Last one back cooks breakfast for both of us," he
hollers over his shoulder, neatly beating Dean to it. Great fucking minds.
-
Dean has six missed calls from Sam and is over an hour late by the time he
rocks up outside of the school at the end of the day. He'd put more money on
being shouted at than sulked all over, but eh, even Dean gets it wrong
sometimes. "Sorry, dude," he interjects into Sam's little cloud of petulance.
"Too busy earning our dinner."
Sam glares at him. "Ever heard of a phone call? I could be home already."
Dean shrugs a whatever. "How's your hand doing? Can you move it all right?"
"I can move it fine, it's just a cut." He looks up when Dean doesn't reply.
"Wait, you're not – it's pouring down, Dean."
"Is it?" Dean makes a big show of acting surprised. Sam is dripping all over
the seat and the wipers are this close to breaking off. "I guess it's lucky
you're only ever gonna get hit in the sunshine. Very considerate of the bad
guys not to inconvenience you." He pauses. "Oh, wait."
"We can fight any other time – "
"Think I'm busy then. But I'll let you fight with both hands, okay, Sammy?"
Sam glares harder, eyes somewhere else than Dean's face. Dean thinks, miserable
as fuck about it, that Sam is hurt.
"Or not, if you want the practice. Dad'll be back in a couple days, so …"
"All right, I'll do it," Sam says. "Both hands. You're really generous, Dean."
Dean watches the lone muscle twitching in Sam's jaw so that he doesn't have to
watch the fist clenching dangerously high on his spread legs. "Attaboy," he
says.
-
Sam doesn't bother taking his bags inside once they get back to the house. He
gets out of the car and rips layers over his head until he's standing in just
his jeans and a t-shirt, wet through already and clinging to all the parts of
his body that Dean cannot look at, goddamn it. He backs up around the chicken
shed, both hands up, and this time doesn't wait for Dean to throw the first
punch, just tightens his fist and sets his jaw. And then –
Christ, Dean is going to be waking up with the mother of all headaches
tomorrow, pain blossoming in his jaw. He tests it out, rocking it side to side
and prodding his tongue against his cut lip on the inside, then drops the keys
to the Impala in the grass and lunges straight at Sam. He gets his fist under
his ribs, then again. Sam reels sideways but recovers quick enough to retaliate
with an elbow that lands half an inch below Dean's solar plexus.
It's raining so hard that it's difficult to stay upright on the wet grass and
it's pissing Dean off to have to try. Sam's too close for Dean to get in a good
hit, he's using Dean as a balance at the same time as jabbing knuckles into his
armpit, his neck. John taught them both to fight and to fight good, they both
know about Sam's left and Dean's knee and a mutual reluctance to hurt each
other that always, perversely, turns things nasty, and watching out for Sam's
hand isn't working out for Dean the way it should be. They're getting further
away from the house and into the abruptly longer grass, and Dean can't keep his
attention on Sam's fists when his mouth is wet and sneering. So he ducks under
Sam's reach and lunges right at him, a little more sophisticated than the last
time and with hopefully fewer broken bottles lying around, but still
essentially designed to get Sam on his back. "You know," he says loudly as Sam
tries to scramble out from under him, "it's nice we can do this, and still be
friends."
"Fuck you," Sam snarls, bucking against Dean's weight. His face is flushed a
brilliant red and his skin hot where Dean is holding him down, slick with the
rain. "We're not friends."
"Oh, I'm hurt. What are we, then, Sammy?"
Sam's too busy fighting him off to answer. Dean shrugs as best he can, a not
entirely unexpected urge to burst out laughing working its way up through his
body in waves. It's probably got something to do with the way he finds himself
flipped over, flat on his back with Sam straddling his thighs. Sam catches his
expression and narrows his eyes.
"Something funny?" He tightens his hands around Dean's wrists and pushes them
harder into the ground. Dean really fucking hopes his stitches haven't torn.
Too late now.
"No," he says honestly, and then it gets a whole lot less funny again when Sam
quirks his head a bit, oddly gratified in a way Dean doesn't think relates to
their reversed positions.
"I thought I was imagining it," Sam tells him. Or himself. Dean frowns. Sam is
fighting a smile so hard that his face is contorting as if in pain.
Sam rocks back, ever so slightly.
Dean gets himself free and upright in an instant. "What the fuck, Sam?" He's so
fucking hard, can hardly think for it, and all he wants is to get right back on
his back in the mud and let Sam ride his dick. Sam's on the ground still but
sitting up, palm pressed against his dick. Just like Dean wants to.
"I know you want to," Sam tells him, squinting up through the rain. He grinds
down a bit more and Dean watches his mouth drop open. Pink tongue flicking out
to taste the rain. "I know you do, Dean, come on, please – "
"You're sixteen," Dean says. "You're my brother, Sammy, you're just a kid – "
This would be so much easier to remember if he was less turned on, if Sam
wasn't half a second away from pulling his dick out of his jeans and jerking
off right there in the open for Dean, because Dean hasn't had any practice at
looking away from this and he can't.
"I don't care," says Sam. He lies back a way, propped up on his elbow to unzip
his jeans, peeling the wet denim down his legs. "I don't give a shit, I don't
care you're my brother, please, Dean, please. This, I, it hurts. Why won't you
help, I want you to."
"You already know how to jerk off. Don't need my help doing it."
"Fuckin' do," Sam says at once. He slips his fingers inside his boxers and Dean
can't help it; rocks forward a step and has to swallow back every anticipatory
moan he's ever wanted to let go from under his covers. Sam's expression is
pleading, frantic, and Dean's never been any good at saying no to him.
"Sam," he tries again, last-ditch attempt. He can give in now and all the
torture of the last few months won't be there anymore. Sam will be happy and
Dean will just be another guy who fucked his baby brother.
Oh god.
Dean plucks the keys out of the grass as he runs, and doesn't stop running
until he's fifty goddamn miles along the road.
-
The trouble with running is that once you start your legs going, you got two
choices left to you: turn around, or don't stop going. Dean doesn't have
anything like the luxury of a choice.
It's still raining when he gets back to the house, and the wind's picked up
with a storm on the way. He's sticky in his jeans, damage is good and done
there, and there is a reason Dean has never let them get into this position.
Because right now he's standing outside the door to the living room and trying
really hard not to see Sam smearing his eyes furiously with the back of his
wrist, and that's Dean's fault. He stays right where he is, wondering how many
times you're allowed to make your brother cry without meaning to before you get
recruited to hell on principle.
He clears his throat, thinking really very fast to try and work out what to
say, but Sam jerks his head around before he lands on anything. "Oh," he says.
"I didn't know if you were going to come back or not."
"Thought you were the smart one, Sammy."
"Don't," Sam says. His voice has gone all scratchy. "Don't, you don't get to –
make out like I'm the one who freaked. You're that person. Not me."
"You're the one who said it. We're not friends. We're brothers. Big fucking
difference."
Sam gets up from the couch to stare at Dean. Dean stares right back at him,
eyes lifted to his, so angry with himself for getting them here that he can
barely see through it and torturously glad to have let it happen anyway. "I
know," Sam says at last. "I remember."
Dean stays where he is for a long time after Sam's gone up to bed.
-
Dean wakes up to a call from John to say he'll be gone another few days at
least, which is unsurprising but still gets him back for Christmas. Dean's got
enough faith for himself and Sam to get their dad home, but nevertheless makes
damn sure John believes it too before ending the call and sticking his head
around Sam's door and telling him. Sam pushes himself up the bed, rubs what
looks like ten hours of lying awake out of his eyes, and only then looks at
Dean and says, "Okay."
Dean stops at the gas station halfway between home and school, because the
quiet is coiling in his stomach and that's probably not healthy, and because he
had to wrap Sam's hand again before they left and he's having trouble focusing
on the road instead of Sam's phantom fingers.
He hangs back once he's inside, deeply conflicted between chips or candy or
both. Regular or oversized. Sex with your brother or –
The cashier blinks when he drops his mountain of sugar down in front of her.
"Breakfast of champions," he says, propping his elbow on the counter and
grinning at her. Just to prove he can.
"Yeah?" she says, and then the door clacks again and Sam walks up to Dean's
side. He stands too close and doesn't look at Dean.
Dean hands the girl a twenty and doesn't wait for the change.
-
If there are any evil things around for Dean to hunt and kill, he can't find
them.
Fine. He takes his gun and unloads round after round into the trees at the edge
of the property instead. It doesn't give him any grand insights or make him
feel any better, but he hadn't really expected it to anyway.
-
He's standing in the kitchen getting orange peel stuck under his fingernails
when Sam gets home from school. This would probably be a good time to sit him
down and make him promise to go get a girlfriend, a boyfriend, someone who
isn't Dean, but Dean is so tired, and Sam hasn't moved. "Hey," he says instead,
not bothering to sound awkward.
Sam is standing like his skin is cracking. Same flare for the dramatic as ever,
he says, "Dean," like it means something. Dean continues peeling his orange.
"Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"I don't think we should fight anymore."
"Okay, Sam."
Sam gets closer. Dean isn't looking at him, he's looking at the counter, but he
hears it when the door closes because Sam isn't holding it open anymore, and
when he drops his schoolbag on the table, and when he's standing too close
behind Dean for Dean not to hear him trying to breathe normally.
Sam lays a hand in the small of his back. Palm and all his fingers pressing
into him through his shirt, off-center, wrist tipped a little to the side so he
can push his hand in flat.
Dean puts down the orange. "Okay, Sam," he says again, and turns around where
he's standing and doesn't give Sam a moment to reconsider. He keeps his eyes
wide open and presses his mouth to his brother's.
They last against the countertop just as long as it takes Dean to notice Sam
moaning. It's breathy and broken up, Dean doesn't think Sam even realises he's
doing it – thinks he's just holding Dean in place with hands in his hair and
his body pushed right up against him.
Sam draws back enough to mumble, "Dean," against his lips. Well, fuck that,
Dean knows his own name and he doesn't know that noise in Sam's voice, and he
isn't ready to stop learning it yet. Dean gets his hands on Sam's chest and
wraps his fingers in his hoodie, presses their lips back together and shoves
him backwards until Sam's ass hits the table, too high up for Dean's purposes
but a good point of reference for a chair that he can push Sam into. Sam goes
down without a fuss and yes, he's moaning into Dean's mouth again. It’s fucking
intoxicating.
Dean pulls his mouth away so he can eye the way Sam is sitting. The skinny
little chair won't hold two mostly-grown men, which is a damn shame because
Dean thinks an excellent way to drag more noise out of Sam would be to straddle
his legs and ride him, but whatever, Dean can adapt.
"Where are you going?" Sam asks when Dean steps a little way back from the open
vee of his legs. Dean smiles at him, fitting his hand under Sam's jaw so he can
angle him into another kiss.
"Nowhere," he says into Sam's mouth, and then he's dropping to his knees, one
hand sliding around the back of Sam's neck to keep him close, the other pushing
his knees apart so he's got all the space he wants to kneel in. Dean wants a
lot of space. He gets his other hand on Sam's leg and pushes them apart
further, gets Sam sprawling wide with his head hanging back, gets his mouth on
Sam's dick through his cotton pants and presses the flat of his tongue down
hard.
"Fuck." Sam scrabbles for something of Dean to hold on to, caught between the
curve of his neck and his hair, so Dean presses his face down further, just to
make it difficult. He can't breathe but that doesn't matter, pushes his face
against Sam's cock and mouths at it, his hands on Sam's thighs to keep them
spread wide. Sam doesn't let up with the noise so Dean just keeps nuzzling at
him, sucking on the wet that's leaking through.
He comes up when he runs out of oxygen. He has no clue what he's doing but
there is no fucking way Sam isn't enjoying this, so whatever he's doing, it's
probably good. He fumbles at the button of his own jeans, drags the zipper
down. "This the first time you've had a mouth on your dick, Sammy?"
"I – no. Detroit. Someone at a party." Sam's voice is rough. "We were drunk."
"Oh yeah?" Dean takes a moment to appreciate the image; Sam all loose-limbed
and lazy, dimpling excessively like he always does when he's drunk, head thrown
back and eyes closed while – "Was she pretty?"
Sam hesitates, and Dean doesn't want to wait. He looks back down at Sam's dick
swelling up under his pants and the big dark patch where Dean's mouth just was.
He wants to touch it, so he runs his fingers lightly over the bulge.
"I want to see," Dean decides. He gets his fingers in the waistband of Sam's
pants, undoes the button with the other hand, and drags them halfway down his
thighs to get at his dick. It's straining up through his underwear so Dean
gives it a good rub, rolling his palm over him and dropping his other hand to
his own crotch. He presses down a couple times, that's some real good pressure
there, and on a whim gets his head back down in Sam's lap. Bumps Sam's dick
with the bridge of his nose and drags it all the way along the line of it, and
can't get his mouth around the tip because just like every other item of
clothing Sam owns, his briefs are too tight. They're wet and salty and syrup-
slick and that's not what Dean wants right now. He lifts his head and
continues, "Was he?"
Sam's eyes go wide. "Yeah," he says, brilliant red like what he's doing right
now doesn't count as sex with a guy. (Dean's good but even he knows he's not
transcendent.)
Then Sam's lips curve up some and his voice changes. "He looked like you."
Mother of fuck. Dean's gonna take that out and process it at a time he isn't
nose to dick with Sam. For now he manages, "Oh yeah?" and peels Sam's briefs
down over his cock, gives his balls a squeeze and tucks the elastic right under
them. He narrows his eyes at Sam. "I'm better." He bats the leaking head
against his mouth to get his lips nice and wet, then smirks up and swallows his
dick down, sinks as deep as he can go before he gags and comes back off.
Sam gets his fingers back in Dean's hair. "Keep going. Dean, keep going.
Please. Put it back."
Jesus fuck. Dean's going to need to hear that again. "Put what back, Sammy?"
"Your mouth," Sam says quickly. He takes his free hand off the table and picks
up Dean's hand from his own knee, lifts it up to his own mouth and sucks, licks
all around them like he's trying to get up the taste of the bitter orange pith
from under Dean's nails. Then he lets go and pushes his own fingers into Dean's
mouth, stretching them apart. Dean opens his mouth in a daze. "Put your mouth
back," Sam begs.
Dean is fucking not going to blow his load before his teenager brother, god
damn it, but Christ, what a soundtrack. He squeezes the base of his cock to
make sure, gives Sam a quick lick, and takes the head back into his mouth. Sam
moans so loud so quick, little spots of precome all over Dean's tongue. He
reaches up as he sucks, painfully uncoordinated but getting the bottom two
buttons on Sam's shirt undone anyway, done before Sam's legs start shaking and
his mouth gets going again and everything becomes a fuckload more distracting.
He still can't get all the way down, too much of Sam to get in his mouth at
once, but he gets a rhythm going with his hand at the base where he can't reach
and no one seems to have any complaints. Dean jams his palm down against his
own cock.
Sam pulls him off. "I," he manages, then gives up. He drops off the chair and
into Dean's lap, pants spooling around his ankles, sitting right the fuck on
top of Dean's cock. He rocks where he is, face flushed and eyes bright on Dean.
Dean moans some version of Sam, Sam, fuck while he moves, his dick trapped
between Sam's ass cheeks and enjoying the weight just fine. "Okay?" Sam
breathes.
Dean wrenches his voice into action. "Okay, Sammy," he says. Sam's dick is
jutting up fat and leaking copiously, and when Dean gets his hand between them
and his fingers wrapped around him, tight and sure, Sam doesn't try to last. He
drops his head to Dean's shoulder, head turned just enough to the side that he
can bite into the crook of Dean's neck as he comes, clenching his ass on Dean's
dick. Boy's gonna be the fucking death of him, and it's going to happen while
Dean's still covered in his come. A great long line of it spattered all the way
up to his nipple.
Sam sits up and drops his hand to Dean's chest. He dabs at the mess, smearing
it into his fingertips and in little circles into Dean's skin. He's still
moving kinda absently on Dean's cock, tiny jerks that Dean's going to call him
on as soon as Sam stops staring. His mouth is hanging open and Dean wants him
to give him his fingers to suck again, but then Sam looks up and smiles a bit
and puts his own fingers to Dean's mouth instead, and that's even better. He
licks all around them, sucking Sam's come into his mouth.
"Good?" Sam asks. Dean hmms a yes and lets it turn into a moan when Sam looks
pleased and starts rocking harder. Then he frowns. "Hey, I think – sit down,"
he says, climbing off Dean for long enough that Dean has to get off his knees
and onto his ass, or face up to getting himself off without any more help from
Sam. He stretches his legs out without bothering to say anything and tugs Sam
down to sit exactly where he was before.
Sam slicks up his fingers again and watches happily while Dean licks at them.
"Will you – suck my cock again?" he asks, flushing.
Dean nods, stuck between staring at Sam's pink cheeks or down at his own hand
playing with Sam's cock, cupping and squeezing him gently. Sam wriggles down a
bit. "And," he says, pulling his fingers away again and sounding a little bit
breathless, "can I fuck you? Or, or, your mouth? Or," his blush deepens, "will
you fuck me?"
Fuck. Dean is so close to coming, precome slicking up Sam's ass. "Did you do
that to your little friend in Detroit?" Sam shakes his head. "Then you'd better
stop moving," Dean tells him hoarsely, but Sam obviously doesn't hear him right
because he grinds down hard on his dick, leans forward and kisses him until
Dean throws his head back against the table leg and comes.
When he opens his eyes, Sam has drawn back, perched halfway down Dean's thighs
instead of on his dick. He's watching Dean all soft-eyed, soft-mouthed, Dean's
come a gloopy mess on his ass. Dean smiles at him, making no effort to push him
off. He wants to see Sam blush again. "So you want to fuck me, huh?"
Sam blushes again. "I guess."
His dick is swollen in his fingers. Dean wraps his hand around Sam's, fingers
pressed in, and drags his hand up gently. "You guess?"
"Yeah." Sam bites his lip. He keeps his gaze on their hands, jerking him off
together. "I want to. I want to do it on the table."
Fucking fuck. Dean tries not to think too hard, and gets his other hand on Sam
as well. Then he changes his mind, and curls his fingers around the back of
Sam's neck, dragging him so he's bent awkwardly forward. Dean presses a kiss to
his mouth. "Table's fucking uncomfortable," he says, and kisses him again.
"Floor's not great either." Another kiss. "My ass is kinda cold, dude."
Sam says, "Oh."
Dean stills their hands. "We'll start with my bed," he says, "and move up from
there."
-
Dean's bed is the only double in the house. That's why they're going to start
there. He hauls Sam out of the kitchen, both still half-dressed because that
part can happen later, and feels all the air blaze out of his lungs when Sam
slips his hand under Dean's shirt at the back, pressing his fingers against the
bare skin as they stumble through rooms. He shoves Sam against the wall when
they get to his room and presses a kiss to his lips. He mouths all the way
along Sam's jaw, fingers working diligently at his shirt. Sam already has
Dean's most of the way off, and when the last button is done he doesn't bother
waiting for Dean to get finished before pushing him down on the bed. He yanks
his own shirt over his head and tosses it into a corner. "I want to suck you
first," he tells Dean.
"Suck my what, Sammy?"
"Your, your dick," says Sam, and crawls up on the bed after him.
Dean lies on his back where Sam puts him, arms wide and legs wide and doing his
absolute fucking best not to jerk up. Sam's mouth, Jesus Christ, that is Sam's
mouth and it's on Dean's cock and fuck.
He grins when Sam pulls off and gives him a look like he knows what he's
thinking, and chokes on his tongue when Sam sits back a bit more and says in a
voice that's trying to keep steady, "I don't know what we need."
"Lube," Dean manages. "In my bag."
Sam turns himself around so he's hanging sideways off the bed, his dick
pressing into Dean's thigh while he searches. He puts one hand on Dean's dick,
rubbing him absently. "I've got it," he says, then, "and there's, uh. Condoms?"
Dean shuts his eyes. "Leave them," he mumbles, and pretends not to feel it when
Sam shudders all through his body.
Sam pulls himself back onto the bed and beams at Dean, clutching the lube in
his hand.
"Will you do it?" Sam asks, almost shy. "I don't want to – I want to watch."
Dean nods and takes the lube. "What do you want to see, Sammy?" he asks,
popping the cap and drizzling it onto his fingers.
"I – "
"On my back? On my knees? Want me to go fast or – "
"One at a time," says Sam. He shuffles up so he's kneeling between Dean's legs,
gets one hand on each of his ankles and pushes his feet up and apart. "Like
this."
Dean nods again. He takes hold of his cock, jacking the shaft with his thumb
pressed into the vein. "Sam – I need a pillow – " Sam grabs the pillow and goes
to slide it under his hips. "No, under my head."
Sam does as he's told, and kisses Dean's mouth once he's done.
Couple more lazy jacks and Dean works his first finger inside, crooking and
twisting it to feel the stretch. Sam's lips are parted and his face flushed
like he's the one getting fucked, it's fucking adorable and also really, really
hot. Dean adds another finger before he probably should, wanting to see what it
does to Sam too badly to wait. The burn is aching and perfect.
Sam shuffles closer. His eyes stay fixed on Dean's fingers and Dean wants to
tell him that he can touch if he wants, can feel Dean's hole stretch and give
to take his fingers, maybe fit a finger in with Dean's two. Wants to feel Sam's
big fingers work him and fuck him before his cock, and he feels kinda weird
that Sam hasn't touched him yet. He stabs in a little harder and grunts when he
hits his prostate.
"Can I – " says Sam.
"Yeah," says Dean, and, "fuck, Sammy, fuck," when Sam gets his finger all the
way in.
"God," says Sam. "Dean. God, you feel – you're so tight, does it, does it
hurt?" He pulls out a fraction and thrusts it back in again. "So tight, and
you're – I'm – "
"Your dick's gonna be in there," Dean says. He clenches his ass, knowing Sam
can feel it, and drags his own fingers out. Sam swallows and replaces them with
two more of his own, crooks them up inside. "You think you're going to, oh
fuck, you're going to fit? Think you're going to get all of it inside my hole?
You're big, Sammy, you're all thick and hard and I – "
"Fuck –"
"Come on, baby," Dean says, and spreads his legs wide.
When Sam starts pushing in, Dean feels it all the way through his body. Sam's
cock is big and blunt and not a bit of what Dean is used to, and they're both
slick with lube but Dean can still feel everything inside him stretching to
accommodate the intrusion. He forces himself to relax, tuning in to all Sam's
bitten-back whimpers and moans and curses and thinking that's for me.
"Fuck," Sam whispers. "Dean, are you. Are you." He's all the way in, Dean
realises, and thrusting incrementally.
"Move," Dean tells him. "I'm fine, Sammy, I just. Move, I won't break, I'll
tell you if I don't like it – please – " He wants Sam to fuck him like he means
it and like he's never going to stop, wants Sam to be frantic with need and
right now he's being a gentleman. Dean doesn't want a gentleman. Dean wants a
good fucking. "Give me your cock," he says. "Fuck me up."
Sam grins. "So fucking bossy," he says, hair in his eyes and sweat on his lip
and balls-fucking-deep in Dean's ass. He draws back and slams in, finally going
at it like he was born to. Pounding into Dean, hands braced on either side of
his face so that all Dean can see is him. His dick hits Dean exactly where he
needs it and he catches breath after noisy breath.
"So good," Sam tells him. He's making a fuckload of noise. "So tight, you're so
good. Oh, god, Dean. Wrap – wrap your legs around me, I want to kiss you. I,
Dean – "
This is it. Sam's dick in his ass and his voice in his ear, nothing on his cock
because Sam has his wrists held tight above his head, nothing on his skin bar
dirt and sweat and come. Dean is hard as he's ever been and whining because he
cannot fucking stop himself from doing it.
Sam's thrusts are getting more and more erratic, words falling out of his mouth
with abandon. "Trying so hard to be a dick," he says, "you gotta stop it, you
gotta stop being a dick to me. You think I don't know what you're doing but I
do, you're my brother – "
"Shut up, Sam," Dean gasps. He twists, desperately trying to buck up and
against Sam's body, fighting for something on his dick.
"Won't." Sam shuts his eyes, denying everything, Dean's stupid fucking brother,
but he releases one of Dean's hands at the same time. Reaches down at once and
wraps his fingers around Dean's cock to jack it, and Dean doesn't last thirty
goddamn seconds before he's arching off the bed into Sam's body and coming with
his brother right behind.
If Dean were a better man he'd pull himself off Sam's dick and leave him to
fend for himself for the next however long until John came back. But he's not,
so he watches Sam come down from his high and doesn't make one move to go, not
to leave the house or room or bed.
Instead he leans up to lick a smear of something wet from Sam's cheekbone,
which somehow turns into a kiss, long and wet and sloppy, the sort of kiss Dean
usually hates. "I really like your mouth a lot, Sammy," Dean says when it's
over.
Sam grins. He looks so proud of himself, and leans down to give Dean another
kiss. "Thanks," he says against his lips. "I hadn't noticed."
"Facetious brat," Dean replies, painfully tender even to his own ear, and sets
about teaching him a lesson.
-
Dean wakes up next morning when the rain starts. Sam is facing away from him,
fast asleep and curled into a ball under the covers. Dean rubs his back until
he relaxes, tipping onto his back in the middle of the bed, and then Dean gets
up and heads for the bathroom.
The bite on his neck is red and bruising, proving his worth like a stamp on
silver. Dean angles his head down to eye it better. His little brother gave him
that.
The door clicks open and Sam sticks his head through the gap. His face lights
up when his gaze falls on Dean in the mirror. "Hey," he says, and comes all the
way inside.
Dean turns around so he can say a real good morning, so he can't see his own
reflection. He doesn't want to see Sam giving that look to the monster wearing
Dean's face, and it's easier to kiss him hello than explain.
-
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