Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13139091.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Teen_Angst, New_Year's_Resolutions, First_Time, Feminization, Sam_In
      Panties, Masturbation, Dirty_Talk, Dirty_Thoughts, Pining, Jealousy, Anal
      Fingering, Sibling_Incest, Possessive_Behavior
  Collections:
      spn_j2_xmas_2017
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-12-25 Words: 6024
****** Full Is Not Heavy As Empty ******
by Exaggerated_Specificity
Summary
     Sixteen-year-old Sam Winchester seems hell-bent on spending his
     entire winter break sulking and feeding his inner freak until he
     comes across a list of New Year's Resolutions he wrote the year
     prior. This was a new year and he was a new Sam. He needed a new
     list.
      
     Fic_Playlist_on_Spotify
      
     Sam's_Resolutions_(image)
      
     Tumblr_Post
Notes
     For the 2017 SPN_J2_Secret_Santa.
     I incorporated soy_em's love of weecest, first time, possessive/
     jealous boys, hurt/comfort (emotional in this case!), NC17, lingerie,
     and light feminization into this angsty little holiday tale. The
     title is from a Fiona Apple song.
     I hope you enjoy it, babe!
     Massive thanks to M, J, and Tal for their stellar cheerleading, proof
     reading and inspiration!
It was snowing again or maybe it just hadn’t stopped. The sky had been locked
in a seemingly permanent grey scowl all week and the temperature never quite
managed to nudge up above freezing. Whatever, it wasn’t like the snowfall was
affecting Sam’s plans, and the dismal weather had the subtle effect of making
him feel marginally less shitty for mostly just staying in bed for the third
day in a row. While he’d still managed to venture out into the icy cold Ohio
mornings to freeze his nuts off with Dean on their daily run, he had been
utterly useless otherwise, wasting his winter break under a thick, heavy
blanket of depression.
Sam rolls over onto his belly with a soft huff and nuzzles his face into the
pillow that smells only of his own stale sweat. He and Dean hadn’t needed to
share a bed or even a room in this house and he missed their mingled scent. He
lets a pathetic little sigh escape his lips and curls in around the malignant
lump of self-loathing that’s been incubating in his belly. He considers getting
up, only to think better of it as his thoughts drift back to Dean, as they so
often did.
He’d tolerated the frigid, foggy morning to spend a few scant pre-dawn moments
with his brother, the distance Sam felt growing between them seemed less vast
during the quiet daily ritual. The familiarity of their matched pace, their
alternating plumes of breath, that burn of exertion in Sam’s lungs making him
feel a little more alive than he would as the day wore on.
After their run, Sam had curled up under the scratchy wool utility blanket on
the couch until Dean emerged from the bathroom, zipped up into his grease-
stained, navy-blue coveralls. Sam watched in stoic silence as Dean pulled on
fresh socks and laced up his work boots. Dad was up in Maine on a job and Dean
was still saving for a car of his own. So, for now, it was a twenty-minute hike
from their cracker-box of a house on East Pike, across the bridge that spanned
I-70, and over to Zanesville Oil and Tire where Dean had been working in the
month or so since they put down temporary roots in this town.
“Please try and clean up in here a little today. Okay, Sammy?” Dean had asked
as he pulled on his gloves and coat. “Dad went to all the trouble of getting us
that damn tree, least you could do is help keep the place clean.”
Sam couldn’t hide the way his brow furrowed if he tried. The grumpiness that
crept into Dean’s voice when he was bossing Sam around made him sound too much
like Dad. Besides, Sam didn’t see how the stupid Christmas tree and cleaning up
were correlated in any way. It wasn’t like Dean ever lifted a finger. He was a
bigger slob than Sam was even on his best day.
“At least give that fuckin’ thing some more water. If it keeps shedding needles
like that it’s gonna be bare before New Year’s.”
Sam shrugged, he was sick of picking the sharp little green-brown spines out of
his socks.
“Yeah, okay,” he replied, not committing to anything specific.
After Dean had stomped out into the cold, Sam seriously considered not only
watering their little five-foot Douglas fir but also trying to clean up the
needles, if the ancient vacuum he’d spotted in the hall closet even worked.
Maybe he’d even surprise Dean by doing the dishes. But now, back in bed, after
dozing away the rest of the morning, Sam was feeling decidedly less motivated.
He thinks of Dean off at his job on the other side of the interstate where he
probably spent just as much time flirting with the owner’s daughter, Sadie
Dubonette, as he did changing oil and fixing flats.
Sam sighs as he stretches out like a cat on the tiny mattress, letting his hips
drag along the dingy sheets to make the lace cupping his dick and balls bite in
just enough for his breath to catch in his throat. He imagines pretty, doe-eyed
Sadie getting on her knees for his brother, just like Sam wanted to. He spreads
his thighs and arches his back, the panties he suspects belong to her digging
deep between his ass cheeks.
He grunts into the sheets and lets it happen, pleasure and shame washing over
him in equal measure, rutting against the mattress as he imagines being the one
getting to take care of Dean’s mid-day hard on.
Another day, another pretty pair from Dean’s panty stash to defile. He’d have
had his way with the entire collection more than once over before winter break
was through.
                                      ~~~
Sam used to hate the label ‘freak’ more than just about anything else. He just
wanted to be a normal, unassuming kid. Not the kind that traveled cross-country
killing monsters. Certainly not the kind that had been having filthy thoughts
about his big brother since he was old enough to pitch a tent in his Underoos.
Then, near the end of the summer, Sam found it. Dean’s panty stash.
Before the panties, Sam had done his best to keep those feelings about Dean
tucked in close to his heart where they’d never see the light of day. But
finding out that Dean was a trophy keeper, just like one of the serial killers
Sam liked to whittle away hours reading about in the library, had made Sam feel
a little more confident in embracing his otherness.
It was just a silly, everyday accident that led to this revelation. Dean’s
duffle bag wasn’t real army issue like Dad’s. It was a cheaply-made Sears
clearance bin special that had just gotten threadbare over the years. The
bottom of the rotten thing gave way one night while they were loading up the
Impala, spilling all of Dean’s worldly possessions out onto the damp parking
lot as they were loading up to leave town.
Sam had to help Dean clean up the explosion of clothes, toiletries, and skin
mags that resulted but Dean just shooed him away in an angry huff. Sam hadn’t
missed the panic that flared across his brother’s face as he hurried to shove
the mess back into the tattered remnants of his bag. And he hadn’t missed
seeing Dean cram a fist full of pink satin, black lace and white cotton
underthings into his back pocket.
The next night, in their new motel, when Dean was in the shower and Dad was
snoring on the couch, Sam dug around in Dean’s replacement duffle and found the
collection concealed under the bag’s bottom panel. Sam spread all nine pairs
out on the dingy motel coverlet to inspect and discovered that each was as
different and unique as Sam presumed their respective owners had been.
Sam would have believed that one, maybe two, pairs had been accidentally left
behind after a night of passion or given to Dean as a keepsake but nine pairs?
Nine pairs meant Dean was snatching them up, secreting them away, and playing
dumb when his dates tried to find them in the morning. The jealousy and desire
that flared like hellfire in Sam’s chest as he let his hand trail over them was
exhilarating and more than just a little erotic.
After hiding them away again, Sam couldn’t stop thinking about them. How they
felt under his hands. What they smelled like. He started to wonder what they’d
feel like if he put them on. What it would feel like to have Dean peel them off
of him again.
He only took one pair at first. They were soft white cotton with faded little
pink and blue butterflies printed all over. There was a tiny bit of string
trailing from the front where a sweet little bow had probably once been
stitched but it had fallen off sometime before they ended up in Sam’s
possession.
He snuck them on under his PJ pants that same night. Once Dean was asleep next
to him in their shared motel bed, Sam had slipped a hand down the front of his
pants and had prodded at that bit of string with his finger. He wondered if the
bow had been pink or blue. He wished it were still there to decorate the spot
where his stiffy threatened to pop through the fabric, to help hide the wet
smudge of precome spreading there.
Sam hadn’t meant to make such a mess of them and he spent the next day
terrified Dean would notice they were missing before he’d had time to wash and
sneak them back into their hiding spot. Once Sam did put them back, he was even
more terrified that Dean would notice they’d been bathroom sink washed and air
dried. If Dean had noticed, he hadn’t accused Sam of anything. Weeks went by
and he never mentioned it.
The next pair was even better, pink and satiny. Sam buried his face in the
panties sweet softness and swore they smelled like Dean. Like Dean smelled down
there. It was possible they’d just taken on his scent from being in close
proximity to his dirty laundry, but Sam preferred to imagine Dean slipping them
on, cheeks as pink as the fabric, to model them for his lady love. He pictured
how they’d look riding up a little, Dean’s big dick too-snug in their silky
embrace. Sam sucked his own come from the crotch that night just in case it
hadn’t been his imagination.
There were eleven pairs in Dean’s collection now and Sam had used every single
one to make-believe at being his brother’s fuck toy.
So much for not being a ‘freak.’
                                      ~~~
Now, Sadie’s thong was hidden away under Sam’s Salvation Army sweatpants, the
Christmas tree was watered, the needles had been vacuumed, dishes were piled in
the sink for Sam to wash later and the living room was even sort of half-
tidied. This was effort. This was good.
After rubbing his dick raw on the maroon lace thong for the third time since
Dean left for work, the guilt Sam had been avoiding all week finally caught up
to him. And, it wasn’t just the normal ‘fingering your asshole with Lubriderm
while wearing your brother’s girlfriend’s panties’ sort of guilt. He had to get
up and do something productive or he was going to walk out to I-70 and fling
himself off the overpass.
In the middle of clearing the mess off their wobbly, Formica-topped coffee
table, Sam came across his old composition book, buried under an empty pizza
box and a stack of research he’d done for Dad’s latest case. Sam sank back into
the couch and flipped through pages of notes and doodles from the previous
school year. Near the end, he came across a list of New Year’s resolutions he’d
written. It was so pathetic that Sam wanted to puke.
He remembered writing them with such strength of conviction at the time and he
yet he hadn’t accomplished a single thing on the list. For fuck’s sake, look at
him now, dehydrated from beating off in a pair of stolen panties all day and he
couldn’t even manage to do the dishes without being scolded by his big brother
first. Jesus, talk about flinging yourself off an overpass.
He digs through the junk on the table and finds a black ballpoint pen with the
Creno’s Pizza logo printed on the side. After testing it for ink on the
composition book’s cover, he scratches through the title at the top of the page
that says, “RESOLUTIONS FOR 1997” and writes “RESOLUTIONS FOR 1998” above it in
larger, angrier letters, going over them in triplicate to emphasize the
sentiment.
This was a new year and he was a new Sam. He needed a new list. He skims
through it again, considering what needed changing, biting at his bottom lip
and clicking the pen as he thinks.
He reads the first bullet point out loud, “GET STRONGER,” and nods in
agreement. Yeah, good. Being more useful to Dad might help pull him out of this
rut.
The sub-bullets underneath it read: RUN 3 MILES A DAY, LIFT WEIGHTS (BOOKS,
BRICKS?), TARGET PRACTICE (HANDGUN, SHOTGUN), and SPAR WITH DEAN. Sam draws a
line through “3 MILES A DAY” and replaces it with “5 MILES A DAY.” He scribbles
through the “SPAR WITH DEAN” bullet completely. Yeah, spar with Dean and cream
his fucking shorts in about 30 seconds flat. No thanks. He writes “CROSSBOW”
alongside the other weaponry listed next to “TARGET PRACTICE” and keeps going
down the list.
Number 2: GET SMARTER. Sure. Why not? The sub-bullets for this resolution are:
GET MORE SLEEP, STUDY FOR AP CALC AND PHYSICS, STUDY FOR SATS AND ACTS, TALK TO
BOBBY FOR BOOKS (RITA LUCARELLI DEMONOLOGY, ARS ALMADEL, ARS NOTORIA,
BINSFELD’S CLASSIFICATION OF DEMONS…), and PRACTICE LATIN with two exclamation
points.
The fact that Sam’s first thought after reading this resolution is a Homer
Simpson voice saying: “can’t sleep… masturbating” tells him he should leave
this part of the list completely intact. Sam didn’t really need to study to get
good grades, but he could do so much better if he focused more on applying
himself. He could drink that guidance counselor Kool-Aid.
The next bullet is: GET A DATE. Sam shakes his head and sighs. The “FIX SKIN”
sub-bullet has a frowny face doodled next to it followed by “STOP PICKING YOUR
ZITS” underlined for emphasis. His skin wasn’t looking that bad these days, not
that it mattered. He didn’t want to date anyone. The rest of the list would be
heartbreaking if it wasn’t so embarrassing. SAVE FOR HAIRCUT. SAVE FOR COOL
CLOTHES. PRACTICE KISSING (?). DON’T JERK OFF SO MUCH. STOP BEING A FUCKING
PERVERT.
Yeah. Right. He’d failed on those last two in spades this year.
He scrawls a huge “X” across the entire “GET A DATE” section and crisscrosses
over it again and again until the ink-saturated paper threatens to rip.
“GET HAPPIER,” he says, reading the final bullet aloud. The laugh that escapes
afterward is unexpected and hurts his throat a little for how harsh it is.
Fifteen-year-old Sam had thought he’d be happier if he could just: BE A BETTER
PERSON, GO TO CHURCH (?), STOP FIGHTING WITH DAD and, most obviously of course,
STOP THINKING ABOUT DEAN LIKE THAT.
Sam gets up and chucks the open comp book onto the pile of crap still littering
the coffee table. The page curls in over itself a little, heavy with fresh ink
and tattered from the violence of his angry pen strokes.
If there’s one consistent thread, it’s that his entire fucking life would be
better if he wasn’t like this. If he wasn’t a sick fuck. His throat burns with
the threat of tears. He balls his fists up and pushes them into his eye
sockets, taking deep breaths as he fights angry tears.
The sound of Dean’s key in the door and his heavy boots stomping off the snow
on the cracked concrete stoop is such a shock that Sam’s heart feels like it
stops completely for a startlingly long moment before it jolts back into action
and tries to rabbit-kick out of his ribcage.
He didn’t realize it was so late. He hadn’t showered. He still wearing Sadie’s
thong and his asshole was still throbbing from his probing fingers, greased up
deep with dollar-store lotion.
Dean comes in from the snowy twilight with a rush of sudden cold, his breath
fogging around his pink-tinged cheeks and ears like a halo. He doesn’t even
notice Sam standing there between the couch and coffee table, locked in place
like a deer on the highway staring down the Impala’s high-beams. He shuts the
door behind him, breathing hard from the cold and exertion as he bends down to
untie his slush and mud caked boots.
Despite the cold, the room is tiny, and Sam can smell the sweat and grease on
Dean’s exertion-heated skin, the sourness of his tired breaths. Sam’s fucked up
Pavlovian response to his brother’s presence, his smell, is to chub up in the
too-snug front of Sadie’s panties, his mouth flooding with saliva. He gulps it
down loudly, just in time for Dean to look up at him.
“Heya, Sam,” Dean huffs, licking those bright-pink, pillow soft lips of his.
“You okay?”
Sam isn’t exactly a hard book to read.
Dean looks around with a slight sheen of concern on his face that fades into a
tired smile as he sees Sam had done what he asked.
“Thanks for cleaning up in here, dude.”
Dean’s eyes make their way back to the coffee table between them, settling on
the open composition book and Sam’s angry scribbles. He reaches out to pick it
up nonchalantly, his gloved thumb smoothing out the curled page as his bright
green eyes skim the words.
“Workin’ on some New Year’s Resolutions, Sammy?” Dean asks, glancing up at Sam
quizzically.
The idea of having to wrestle a notebook out of Dean’s hands that’s a few
choice words away from admitting his most shameful secret in a game of childish
keep-away makes Sam’s stomach swoop. It’s enough to finally yank him out of his
momentary paralysis.
“Fuck you, give it!” His voice cracks pitifully as he tries to swipe the
notebook out of Dean’s hand.
Reflexively, Dean takes a small step back and swings the arm holding the
notebook swiftly out of Sam’s desperate reach. He smirks at Sam, but it withers
as he sees the frantic rage on Sam’s face. He shrugs off his coat and dumps it
over the back of the couch, shedding one glove and switching Sam’s comp book
into the newly bare hand to shed the other one.
“It’s private. Give it back!” Sam spits, even more shrilly, making more of an
effort this time as he practically lunges over the back of the couch.
The movement makes the lacy thong wedge firmly between his butt cheeks, the
lace scraping over his raw asshole. He bites back a grunt and he heaves over
onto the back of the couch clumsily, his lanky arm somehow managing to whack
the notebook out of Dean’s hand, sending it skidding onto the floor under their
tiny two-seat kitchen table.
“Jesus, Sam. Calm down.” Dean says, looking shocked and a little hurt at Sam’s
frantic display. “Sorry, I just think it’s cute, okay?”
“Patronizing dick,” Sam growls as his throat tightens.
“I’ll spar with you, is that what you want? That’s what it said. Get stronger,
right?”
Dean looked sincere. He could have just as easily dove under the table and
grabbed the notebook again. He have bolted to the bathroom with it and slammed
the door, making sure Sam could hear him giggle loudly as he read it. Instead,
he was trying to help.
It results in Sam feeling even worse.
“Goddamn it, Dean! I said it’s private!”
Sam knows he’s overreacting but right now all he wants is to dig a fucking hole
with his bare hands in the frozen back yard and bury the notebook along with
all the fucked-up feelings he has for his big brother.
He scrambles around the couch and snatches it from underneath the wobbly
kitchenette, shoving past Dean into the hallway.
He hears Dean call after him, but his heartbeat is pounding so hard in his ears
that he barely hears it. He slams the bedroom door and falls back against it.
He clutches the notebook to his chest and shuts his eyes as hot tears stream
down his cheeks.
Dean doesn’t try to pound down the door. He doesn’t even knock or call for him
again.
Eventually, he hears Dean take a long piss with the bathroom door wide open
before going into his own room across the narrow hall from Sam’s, shutting the
door quietly.
Sam bangs his head back against the hollow wood laminate, every nerve in his
body bristling, crying out for some kind of release. That throbbing darkness in
his belly feels like it was going to eat him alive.
After long minutes basking in the fading adrenaline of being almost caught, Sam
finally unfurls and opens his eyes. He rips the page of resolutions out of the
comp book and crumples it in his hand, dropping the notebook onto the
threadbare carpet.
It would be better for Dean to hate him for the truth than to keep going like
this. Sam knew he was pushing Dean away with all his brooding teenage bullshit.
He takes a deep breath, blinking away the tears still clinging to his lashes
before he goes out into the hall, silently making one new resolution for
himself: confess.
He steps up to Dean’s door, his breath shaky as he knocks. It’s a feeble sound,
so soft that he isn’t sure if Dean can even hear it. He pauses, squeezes the
wad of paper that’s growing damp in his fist.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?” Dean’s voice sounds rough and tired, tinged with pain. Just like Dad’s
always did after a long hunt.
Dean doesn’t look up at Sam as he enters the room. He’s sitting in black boxer-
briefs and a white undershirt on the corner of his unmade bed, like he stripped
down to get ready for a shower and just ran out of steam on his way to the
bathroom. He’s leaning forward, rubbing at the back of his neck with his big,
engine-grease smudged hand.
“Here, let me,” Sam says feebly, reaching toward his brother before hesitating.
“I mean, if you want…”
“Yeah,” Dean grunts. “Yeah, that’d be great, Sam. I’m sore as shit.” He pulls
his hand away, rolling his head back onto his shoulders to give his neck a slow
stretch, side to side. His eyes are closed and his freckles stand out like a
constellation against the skin of his nose that’s been kissed pink by the cold.
He’s so breathtakingly beautiful that it takes Sam a moment to collect himself
and knee up onto the bed behind him.
“Here,” Sam says, shoving the wadded-up page of New Year’s resolutions into his
brother’s hand. “Sorry about before. You can read it. I was just… It’s lame.
Whatever.” Sam lets his words trail off as he lays his hands across the span of
Dean’s broad shoulders and starts working at the tense cords of muscle through
the thin t-shirt.
He hears the crinkle of paper as Dean begins to unfold the wadded-up list and
braces for whatever comes next, be it mocking or disgust. Instead, the sound
stops and Dean hisses a little as Sam’s thumbs dig into a particularly tense
spot next to his shoulder blade.
“Sorry,” Sam offers.
“Nah, feels good. Keep – fuck – yeah, right there. Don’t stop.”
Sam shudders for those words, the half-pained, half-blissed out tone of them.
He tucks them away for easy retrieval later as Dean sags back into his expert
hands. He’d worked more knots out of John’s neck than he could count.
“I was the only mechanic there today, what with the holidays and the snow. Mr.
Dubonette sent Sadie home before lunch and it was just me and him until four.
Fucking sucked, man.”
“Sorry,” Sam says softly as he digs his elbow into the meat of Dean’s back.
Dean groans loudly, a deep, sensual sound that makes Sam’s asshole clench. He
smiles to himself and keeps working, settling into the natural calm between
them, his outburst earlier seeming faded and far off, like a distant memory.
The list lays in Dean’s lap still mostly crumpled and forgotten.
By the time he finished giving Dean’s neck, shoulders and lower back the best
he had, Sam was barely thinking about his motivation for coming into Dean’s
room in the first place.
“Sammy, what did you mean by: stop thinking about Dean like that?”
Sam’s hands stiffen where they’re folded over Dean’s right shoulder, his mouth
opening for an explanation or an excuse, something, but nothing comes.
He hears the paper again, the sound of Dean’s hands smoothing it out.
Sam sits back on his haunches, letting his hands slide down Dean’s back before
settling in his lap. He sits quietly and waits for the other shoe to drop.
“You know you can talk to me, Sam. About anything at all. This stuff is – I
mean I never took the SATs or whatever but, the rest of this stuff… I can help.
Let me help, okay?”
Sam laughs, shaking his head and burying his face in his hands. Fuck, he was
stupid.
“Don’t say things like that, Dean,” he says into his palms. “Don’t pretend you
understand.”
The tears are back, soaking his lashes as he presses his fingertips against his
eyelids, trying to stop the flood.
“So, help me understand, Sam. I can’t give you what you need if you don’t tell
me what you want.”
Dean turns to face him on the bed even as Sam tries to curl into a ball and
disappear.
Dean’s hands are rough, and they smell like the inside of an engine but they’re
the exact kind of warm and reassuring Sam is starving for as they grip his
forearms, pull his hands away from his face, and tug him into an uncomfortable,
seated embrace. He hugs Dean back, tucking his face into the side of his
brother’s neck to breathe in the motor oil and sweat.
He doesn’t know what to do, what to say, or where he could even begin to help
Dean understand what he’s feeling in a way that wouldn’t make things worse.
They stay like that, in silence, for a long time, Sam quietly leaking tears and
Dean just holding him close.
Then, everything changes.
“Show me, Sammy.”
Sam feels the words as much as he hears them. Their chests are pressed together
and Dean’s voice rumbles through him as his wide palm rubs slow circles across
the dip of Sam’s lower back.
“It’s okay. I know you have them on.”
For a moment, Sam isn’t sure he didn’t just imagine it or hear him wrong but
then the tips of Dean’s fingers find their way under the hem of Sam’s t-shirt
and begin to trace along the elastic waistband of his sweats.
He clings to Dean, hands balling up in the thin material of Dean’s shirt as his
fingers slip lower, under the waistband, to skirt over the lace trim of the
panties.
Caught, reeling, Sam’s heart races.
“Dean, I – ” he stutters as he pulls away, eyes frantically searching Dean’s
face as he tries to find the words. Anything. To explain. Confess.
“I thought you’d like these ones.” Dean smiles. “Now, show me.”
Sam sinks back to his elbows and looks down at his crotch, the bunchy, too-big
grey sweats obscuring what was hiding beneath.
How the fuck did he know?
The heated, knowing look in Dean’s eyes is mind-blowing. Life changing. Sam’s
wildest fantasy come to life.
“What? You think you’re the only pervert in this family, Sammy?”
Dean smirks as his hands dig into the sweats bunched at Sam’s hips. He tugs,
grinning like a fucking wolf when they slide half way to Sam’s knees, exposing
the pretty lace clinging to Sam’s half-hard dick.
Dean just stares for a long time, his fingers twitching where they were tucked
in against the bare skin of Sam’s thighs.
“Fucking perfect,” Dean finally says before slowly sliding off the foot of the
bed and pulling Sam’s sweats the rest of the way down. He pulls off his own
shirt and crawls back onto the bed, up between Sam’s legs, up and up until
they’re face to face, slotted together like lovers.
Sam can barely breathe, barely move, his legs falling open to accommodate
Dean’s hips, his hands settling shakily on Dean’s biceps.
“This what you wanted?” Dean asks, pushing Sam’s shaggy bangs back away from
his forehead as their eyes meet.
All Sam can do is nod, his mouth open and his bottom lip trembling.
It had to be a dream. Had to.
Dean’s hips rock against him and Sam can feel that he’s hard too, rock hard.
The thick line of Dean’s erection nudges at Sam’s balls in their lacy pouch. He
whimpers, squeezing Dean’s hips between his thighs.
Then Dean’s kissing him. His tongue licking in gently over Sam’s own, his lips
buttery and soft. It’s slow, it’s perfect, and it’s all Sam can do to keep his
eyes from rolling back up into his head in total ecstasy.
Dean pulls away and looks down at him again, licking baby-brother spit off his
lips.
“It’s okay,” Dean says, sounding as breathless as Sam feels. “Come on, kiss me
back.”
This time Sam sucks on Dean’s tongue when it slides into his mouth, he rocks up
into the firm press of Dean’s hard on and groans into his mouth. Dean smells
like a long hard day of work and Sam feels so small underneath him, so lithe
and delicate, the lace panties clinging desperately to the curve of his dick.
Dean kisses him deeper, folding down over him perfectly and it’s everything Sam
could have wanted and more.
Sam ruts up into him, chasing the friction, and before he even realizes what’s
happening he’s gasping and whimpering into Dean’s mouth, his balls seizing up,
his load spilling out in a messy flood over his tensed lower belly.
“Fuck,” Dean says with a chuckle. “Already made a mess for me.”
He’s watching Sam with nothing but love in his eyes as he pushes up, looking
down between them at the come that had spattered all over Sam’s belly from
under the waistband of the thong.
Sam’s face heats up and the temptation to hide it in his hands rushes back but,
before he can manage, Dean is sitting back on his haunches and is pushing Sam’s
t-shirt up and out of the way, his eyes on the come pooling beneath Sam’s belly
button.
Dean takes his cock out, reaching into his underwear for it with his right hand
as he shoves the waistband under his balls with the other. He strokes it a few
times, eyes locked on Sam’s messy stomach. The tip is purple and wet and it’s a
goddamn handful even in Dean’s big, calloused fist.
Sam wants to whimper at the sight of it but focuses on taking off his shirt
instead. As he wriggles free, Dean folds down over him again, keeping space
between them so he doesn’t end up covered in Sam’s load.
He smiles down at Sam before he drags his hand through the cooling mess,
slicking his cock with it.
It’s the hottest thing Sam has ever seen in his entire fucking life. Sam starts
trying to shove the panties down fruitlessly as Dean slowly jacks his come
covered dick.
“Keep ‘em on,” he grunts, letting go of his erection and slipping his hand
between them. He wiggles two come-smeared fingers under the lace and rubs them
over Sam’s asshole, groaning as they slide deeper into the softened, slippery
opening than he probably intended.
“God, Sam,” he huffs. A prayer, practically a whisper. “Are you wet for me? Wet
for your big brother? Fuck, get your hand on me, please.”
He pushes in deeper as Sam gets his clumsy fingers wrapped around Dean’s dick.
He wants it inside him, pressing in, impossibly huge. He wants it to split him
in fucking half.
“Fuck me. Dean, please. Please. I want it.” He squeezes and yanks at Dean’s
dick desperately, like he can get it up inside him with sheer force of will.
“Show me that wet pussy first, baby,” Dean purrs, licking at Sam’s lips before
pushing up off of him and pulling those thick fingers out of his loosened hole.
It takes a little coaxing, but Sam gets on his knees, pressing his chest into
the mattress and looking back over his shoulder at Dean as he reaches back and
tugs the thong aside.
Sam’s hand is shaking as Dean knees up close, his eyes locked reverently where
Sam is so very pink and wet and open.
“God,” he groans. “So pretty.”
Sam’s blushing head to toe.
Dean clears his throat and spits, hitting Sam’s asshole dead center. He
massages it in with the head of his dick.
Sam has to shut his eyes, it feels like he’s about to come apart at the seams.
As much as he wants this, has wanted it for as long as he can remember, Dean
seeing him like this is the most terrifying thing he can imagine.
He can hear Dean mouthing at his own fingers, wetting them sloppily. Then, the
thick heat of his prick is gone and his rough but wet fingers corkscrew back
inside, as deep as they can go in one aching slide. Sam grunts, clawing at the
mattress as he trembles from head to toe, trying to breathe, trying to make his
body yield.
“So little still, Sam. So fucking tight.”
Dean scissors his fingers to make more room and in the process presses against
Sam’s prostate. It’s so good his vision goes fuzzy at the edges and he whines,
high and drawn out into the pillow. The silky lace of the thong slips out of
his grip, snapping back over the curve of his ass cheek to bite into the rim of
his asshole.
He yelps and his back arches hard, his hole clenching up tight around his
brother’s fingers.
Dean catches his thumb in the lace and pulls it back some, still letting it
tickle at the edge of where he’s stretching Sam open.
“You like it rubbing you there?”
Sam nods breathlessly into the pillow and pushes back onto Dean’s fingers.
“Should load this pussy up, wad these pretty panties into a ball and shove them
up inside you. Let the lace scrape you up in there too. Little fuckin’ thief.”
Dean slips his fingers out and tugs the thong back hard, letting go to make it
snap like a rubber band over Sam’s puffy hole.
Sam cries out and reaches between his legs, snatching up his cock and balls
into his desperate, sweaty hand, squeezing hard so he doesn’t come again.
Dean slides the thick, hot head of his dick over Sam’s asshole, making the lace
slippery-wet with his precome. He holds it there, rocking his hips, like he’s
going to fuck the lace right up into him.
“You’re not nearly as sneaky as you think you are, baby.”
Then Dean is gone, the pressure and heat of his throbbing dick rutting against
Sam’s swollen hole, the threat of pain and dominance and the promise of a deep,
hard fucking – Sam’s first – evaporates. It send irrational jolt of panic
through Sam and he crumples down onto the mattress and turns to look for his
brother.
“Dean?” His voice sounds so young, so broken. He’s gripped by the idea of Dean
being suddenly disgusted by Sam and leaving. “Dean!”
“Sorry, Sammy. Had to get – ” Dean’s there, completely naked now, with the
bottle of Astroglide that lived in the medicine cabinet in his hand. When he
sees Sam, his face falls, softening immediately, and he crosses to the bed
quickly, scooping Sam up and kissing him with all the passion and fire he had
before. It takes Sam’s breath away, dissolves his fears, and leaves his heart
pounding for an entirely different reason.
Dean’s hands smooth over Sam’s cheeks as he pulls away, breathless too. He
traces Sam’s bottom lip with his calloused thumb and then kisses him sweetly, a
glassy, tender look in his eyes.
“Sam, if this is too much. We can just…”
“No, Dean. Please. I need this, I need you!”
Dean doesn’t mind Sam’s desperation, the way his tears melt into their kisses.
He devours Sam like he’s a starving man, and finally takes off the panties.
                                      ~~~
“Always been mine. Haven’t you, Sammy? Never belonged to anyone else.”
“Never needed anybody else, Dean.”
 
 
                                        
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