Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/272929.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Wincest_-_Freeform, Shotgunning, First_Time, Humor, Adolescent_Sexuality,
      Pre-Series
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-11-05 Words: 5322
****** Lit ******
by philomel
Summary
     One toke over the line.
     Sam is 14.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
It started with Terry Schuler.
He had pot, got it from his brother, and was being a complete tool waving the
Ziploc baggy around in Sam's face. Sam had time enough to tell him to cut it
out and put it away, and Terry had time enough to toss it into Sam's locker
before Mrs. Martinez walked by.
Terry was going to come get it at the end of the day, or his brother would kill
him. Sam was going to kill him too, wanted him to get it right now. Or at least
after homeroom. Terry was too nervous, thought Mrs. Martinez was on to them.
Sam didn't know how this became a them, when he'd been an unwilling accomplice
from the get-go. But he figured it out fast when he stopped at his locker
between gym and Chem. and found his locker door open with Dean's stupid arm
slung possessively over it.
Sam scowled and stomped up to Dean and managed to say his name before Dean cut
him off with a look that said you want to stop talkingnow, Sammy.
"Gave you the wrong lunch," Dean said, matter of fact. "Came here to switch
'em." He paused, pulled Sam close to him by his collar while simultaneously
pulling something out of Sam's locker. "Found this." He practically rubbed
Sam's nose in it, as if Sam didn't know what it was anyway. It smelled skunky
close up, even through the plastic.
Sam stammered. "Dean. It's not what— Terry—"
"Bryan's little brother? That little douche sold this to you?" Dean shook Sam's
collar.
"He didn't sell it. Was an accident. Come on, Dean, it's not like you never—"
Sam cut himself off. Little brother rule no. 1 had just been violated: do as
Dean says, not as he does.
Dean got right up in Sam's face, which required getting up on his tiptoes at
this point, because Sam had already outgrown him — an advantage that seemed
less advantageous when Dean's gaze threatened to put the fear of God into him.
Dean stared him down, or up, long enough for Sam's eyes to water with the
effort of not blinking, because he'd be damned if he was going to let Dean get
away with accusing him of shit he didn't even do. Then Dean let go of Sam's
collar, shoved him out of the way with a forearm to his chest and walked off,
stuffing the baggy of pot into the back of his jeans.
Terry was not pleased.
The truth seemed like trouble — it often was. So Sam feigned innocence, said he
didn't know where it was. "Mrs. Martinez. Do you think she saw...?"
Terry took the bait so easily, Sam almost felt guilty. Almost. "Oh shit," Terry
said, and ran off toward the buses, too paranoid to think of how it was Sam's
locker, not his. Probably paranoid too about what his brother would do to him
when he got home.
Sam was a little worried about the same.
On the walk home, after math club, Sam thought up the different scenarios. It
was only five blocks, but he took each one slowly, biding his time. Dad was
away, again, so Dean couldn't tell on him, probably wouldn't anyway, just to
keep from troubling him. Dean was always extra careful about not troubling Dad,
like Dad was a freakin' delicate silk flower or something. What trouble was Sam
anyway? He always did his homework after school, and didn't have anywhere to go
besides a few extracurriculars and soccer — which was over now. So grounding
him was pretty much futile. There might be yelling and finger pointing and
slamming doors: a whole endless symphony of cabinet doors and the refrigerator
door and bedroom doors and the bathroom door and screen door. There might be
more physical fighting. But Dean didn't throw punches easily, not at Sam.
Sam never got to explain himself, and he deserved that much. But Dean rarely
gave him a word edgewise anymore. And if he didn't — Sam could feel it boiling
his blood already — Sam might push him, make him shut up with his fists if that
was the only way. But what if he didn't have to shut him up? That was the worst
punishment of all. Dean not yammering at the mouth seemed like a blessing
except for the times when it wasn't, when it was Dean's eyes boring holes into
him, hard and unrelenting. Or Dean not looking at him at all, disappointment
hidden beneath the thin veil of calm over his face. Sam didn't think that
should stop him from having his say. But it did; it always did.
He got home faster than he'd meant to, lost in his thoughts and still
miscalculating the extra distance his newly-long legs could cover. He slowed
down at the porch steps, but not to buy himself more time before the hammer
fell.
He could smell it through the screen door. Unmistakable.
From the flickering light of the television, Sam could see the shape of Dean,
slumped against the couch cushions like they were swallowing him. The light
caught the smoke, tendrils curling away from Dean like ghost fingers, like
something from a cartoon. Which is what he was watching. Scooby Doo. Sam
spotted a flash of solid orange that was Daphne's hair, and an expression
flashed across Dean's face. An expression that Sam had seen before, when he'd
walked in on Dean watching motel room porn. That, Sam thought, was not a look
you were meant to see on your brother's face. Never the less, Sam inched
closer.
Still, he didn’t think he should be walking in on this. And he certainly wasn’t
making excuses for avoiding Dean and whatever punishment he was going to dole
out. But maybe later would be better than sooner. Let Dean cool off some more.
He weighed his options. Turn around and go... well, where was he supposed to
go? The library was clear across town, not within walking distance. He could
stay on the porch and do his homework, but there were too many trees around the
house blocking the light. You'll strain your eyes, Dean's voice piped up in the
back of his head. Maybe he could sneak past Dean. That seemed like the best
option.
Sam geared himself up for some stealthy sneaking, drew in a deep breath and
eased the screen door open.
Clearly, he'd forgotten to factor in its squeaky hinges.
The whine from the screen door cut through the blare of the television, stopped
Dean's laughter dead in its tracks and stopped Sam too. He stood with the pads
of his fingers pushing against the flimsy metal grid, watching it bow out from
his hand. He wanted to bang his head against it, but thought it would probably
give and tear away from the door if he did.
"Sammy," Dean said. But it wasn't the tone Sam expected. Not annoyed or
admonishing, not precluding a now you're in for it or a single, curt directive
of ROOM. Instead, Dean sounded happy. Check that, he sounded blissed the fuck
out, like Sam had just handed him a whole fresh-baked pie with a pint of ice
cream. Possibly on the stomach of a naked girl.
Dean was already baked.
"Do you see this shit?" Dean waved a hand between Sam and the television, like
he was introducing them to each other. "That? That is totally you."
Sam held onto the lever of the screen door until it snicked shut behind him,
and walked gingerly into the living room. He glanced between Dean's pointing
finger and the screen. "What?"
Dean pointed more emphatically.
Sam scrunched up his nose. "Screw you. I am not Shaggy."
"Dude, if you grew that little pussy patch of fuzz on your chin. I mean, if you
could—"
The laughter started low, rumbling up Dean's shoulders until they were shaking,
hunched up toward his ears. And then? And then he was giggling. Dean Fucking
Winchester was giggling, and Sam suddenly wondered if he was hallucinating from
a contact high. Because that. Did not. Happen.
Sam stood and watched, gaping. Then grinning. Maybe he wasn't off the hook
completely, but this definitely offered him a stay of execution. Besides, Dean
giggling like a loon was the best thing he'd seen since, well... maybe even
better than the time Marjorie Juranski flashed her tits. Almost as good as the
time he'd walked in on his—
"Brother, come on, little brother." Dean patted the shabby cushion beside him,
kicking up dust, motes swirling through the blue TV light.
"I— I should do my homework." Sam shifted his backpack, fingers gripping into
the padding of the strap.
"Come on, Sammy." Dean urged him in a purr-growl that sent warmth spreading
outward from low in his gut. "Would you do it for a Scooby Snack?"
Sam huffed and stalked over toward Dean, kicking at his legs where they were
propped on the coffee table. "Such an asshole," he said, shimmying past him and
flopping onto the couch, the springs creaking as he settled in.
Dean beamed at him, overwide grin and overbright teeth contrasting with the
hazy, half-masts of his eyes. Sam palmed Dean's face and pushed hard, turning
him away. Dean's eyes lit up, focusing on the TV again.
"Oh, Sammy, looks like you got yourself caught in a net. With Daphne. Mmmm,
lucky you." Dean slunk lower in his seat, legs spreading obscenely.
"She's a cartoon, Dean."
"With legs that go up to here." Dean struck a line in the air above their
heads. "Kinda like you. Only in tights. So, yeah, exactly like you."
Sam shoved at Dean's shoulder. "Eat me."
Dean shoved back. "Eat yourself." Then he collapsed, giggling again, the side
of his face pressed into the back of the couch.
"Cartoon-perving freak." Sam shoved at him lightly again, but was smiling. He
really kind of liked Dean like this.
"Shut up, Shag," Dean mumbled into the cushions.
"If I'm Shaggy, you're Scooby."
Dean whipped his head around quickly, and Sam jumped back a little on instinct.
"Shit," Dean said. He sat up. "Shit, it's going to waste." From a chipped
saucer on the coffee table, he plucked the short stump of the joint. He turned
it around, examining the dark tip, and sighed. "Ah, good, it went out." He
tucked the joint into the corner of his mouth and flicked open his Zippo. "That
Schuler douche got some good shit," he said quietly, almost musing to himself,
the joint bobbing on his lips as he talked. "Hate to let it burn away."
Sam watched Dean inhale, his back curving as he took it shallowly into his
lungs and held his breath. When he exhaled, the thin smoke moved up, over his
face, hanging like an apparition above his head. When Sam looked back down,
Dean's hand was in his face, offering him the joint. Sam eyed the thing like it
was going to jump up and bite him. "You're kidding."
"Come on, my fingers are getting singed here."
Sam appraised Dean. Now, sunk back into the couch, he sat sprawled out, all
easy and loose, legs and arms as lax as the well-worn cotton of his jeans and
t-shirt. He didn't appear to be testing Sam. But Sam knew better than to trust
appearances. He closed his mouth tight and shook his head, only realizing a
second too late that he probably looked like a toddler refusing his strained
carrots.
"Fine." Dean jerked his hand back and sucked hard. The paper stuck to his lips,
and he peeled it off carefully to not tear it. His voice strained on the
inhale, he added, "You're such a little priss."
Sam kicked him in the ankle, and Dean kicked back, reflexively. Sam frowned.
"You're the one who was about to have my hide when you found that shit in my
locker. But now it's okay?"
Dean exhaled slowly, eyes shifting steadily toward Sam until their gazes
locked. Somehow, he managed to look more sober than he had when Sam had first
come home. "That was different." He blinked and returned his attention to the
television. Typical, that he would consider that non-answer explanation enough.
Sam pushed for more.
"Why?"
Looking down at the orange tip of the joint in his hand, Dean let out an
exasperated breath. "Because." He drew another long-ass breath and Sam cut him
off.
"Because why?"
"Because, Shaggy, it's different when you do it behind my back. This." He held
the joint in front of Sam's face, then pulled it back toward his mouth. "Is in
front of my back." He paused, considering. "In my front. This is in front of
me."
"Yeah, Scoob, way to use your nose there."
Lighting quick, Dean switched hands and cuffed Sam lightly around the ear, then
hooked his arm around his neck, scrubbing his knuckles into Sam's head. Sam
scrambled, squeezing Dean's thigh hard and digging his nails in. Dean cussed
and clenched tighter, drawing Sam's face into his armpit. Sam pawed at Dean's
forearm and hooked his leg over Dean's calf to try to gain leverage. But for
all of Sam's newfound height, Dean still surpassed him in strength. The bastard
even had the audacity to carry on smoking while he held on to Sam, as if
suppressing over six feet of flailing teenager was no great endeavor.
The pressure on Sam's neck lightened, and he emerged to find the offering
thrust into his face again. The smoke tickled his nose.
"Suppose we all deserve some R&R now and again," Dean said, calmly picking up
where they'd left off. "Rather do it where I can watch out for you."
Sam punched halfheartedly at Dean's stomach. "I'm almost 15. I can watch out
for myself." He let his knuckles rest there.
"I know you can, Sammy. But it's better when I can watch your back too. We can
watch each other's backs. Watch each other's backs in front of our backs."
Sam could feel the ripples of laughter against his loose fist, each rapid,
shuddering wave of it. He couldn't help laughing too.
"You're a moron," he said, nudging Dean's stomach again.
"You're a buzz kill," Dean said, flicking the back of Sam's ear. He swiveled
the joint in his fingers, and held the pinched tip toward Sam. "Come on."
"I." Sam licked his lips. "Really?"
"Fuck it," Dean whispered, and once again took the joint away and inhaled
deeply, embers flaring and eating up the white paper until the ash almost hit
Dean's lips.
Sam thought he'd missed his last opportunity when Dean suddenly grabbed his jaw
and drew Sam's face toward him. His mouth opened into a tiny O of shock. But he
barely had a moment to catch his breath before Dean caught up with him, mouth
pressing down onto Sam's, open too, and full of sharp smoke. It filled Sam,
washing over his teeth and tongue and sliding down his throat. He began to
cough.
Dean pulled off, their lips sticking together for a second. "Easy, Sam, easy."
Dean smoothed the flat of his hand in big circles around Sam's back. Sam's eyes
watered, but he blinked the tears away and swallowed hard, chasing the teasing
smoke with his own saliva. "Okay now?" Dean asked.
Sam's back tingled where Dean was still rubbing it. He arched back into the
touch, not wanting it to stop. He nodded.
"Wanna try again?" Dean's voice was lower, too quiet, too much deeper in
register. Sam became aware of the way his leg still twined with Dean's, the way
his hand was now gripping Dean's shirt, tugging the material low on his belly.
His other hand, crushed between them, flexed weakly, fingers curled back on his
own chest. He didn't meet Dean's eyes but nodded again, waiting.
Sam felt Dean's stomach muscles cave, heard the hiss of breath. Then Dean's
hand was on his face again, cradling his jaw. Sam closed his eyes and felt
Dean's lips, tentative, lining up with his, guiding them open. Then smoke,
stealing itself inside. But this time Sam was ready for it, and he sucked it
in, coaxed it out of Dean's mouth, tongue tip curling up as if to scoop the
very last tendril of smoke as it passed between them. His tongue caught on
Dean's lip as he drew away, his head falling back. Dean's palm was there
instantly, holding the back of his head. Sam opened his eyes to the ceiling,
watched it swim in blue-black shadow and electric blue light. It looked cold
and distant, but Dean's breath on his neck was warm and right there. It was
damp against the dry of Sam's throat, where he trapped the smoke as long as he
could until it came stuttering out.
But then it was stoppered. Dean's lips closed over Sam's again, cutting off the
smoke then snatching it out of him. His lips moved, a gentle pull and release,
persuading Sam to open wider. So he did, chasing the current of touch, the tiny
shock of it, the thin buzz that uncoiled itself up through his skull and down
into his belly, fingers, toes. He felt warm and wired. From the weed and from
the touching. From Dean. Dean touching him. Kissing him.
It was a kiss now. Sam had opened himself to it without thinking, without
having time to think. What was there to think about? Dean was watching out for
him. It was okay. There wasn't anything to explain.
Smoke snaked out of the corners of their mouths, snuffed out on the wetness of
their lips. What remained escaped through Dean's nostrils, and Sam chuckled
into Dean as it tickled his cheek and upper lip. Dean nipped at Sam, teeth a
light tease, tickling his upper lip even more. Sam nipped back, licked after
it, following the line up Dean's philtrum, imagining he could taste the smoke.
His teeth grazed the tip of Dean's nose. He imagined scraping freckles into his
mouth, and licked his lips, licked Dean's lips, back inside.
The inside of Dean's mouth seemed to fit Sam perfectly. Everything fit
perfectly: where they lined up, chests dovetailing, where they linked limbs.
The dip of Dean's sternum made a perfect place for Sam to rest his forearm when
he slid his hand up Dean's chest and tucked his fingers under Dean's collar.
The dip in Sam's spine made a perfect niche for the heel of Dean's hand when he
slid it down Sam's back, pulling him closer.
Sam was practically straddling Dean's thigh. It felt good, solid despite the
precarious position. He bore down on Dean in a sinuous roll of hips, his knee
daring up further, right between Dean's legs.
Dean groaned into Sam's mouth. Sam could feel the heat and weight on his knee,
and rolled down again, felt Dean roll up into him too, mimicking.
Pulling back, Dean glanced down. The nub of the joint poked out between his
thumb and forefinger. He pinched it out, tossed it onto the coffee table. Sam
watched as Dean's hand trailed down the top of Sam's thigh. Then Dean's hand
fell to his own crotch, kneading at the bulging denim, the back of his hand
grazing Sam's knee. He let go and brushed his palm up Sam's leg again, curving
up his thigh, to his hip, fingertips bumping over the hem of Sam's back pocket.
"This is okay?" he said, stroking up and down Sam's leg.
Heat flared in Sam every time Dean's thumb passed over his upper thigh, digging
into the muscle, inching closer to the inside. Sam bit his lip, raised his
daze-drowsy lids and looked into Dean's eyes. "Okay," he whispered.
Dean hesitated. His tongue pushed against the inside of his bottom lip,
emphasizing the pornographic swell of it. Sam 's breath hitched at the sight.
He leaned into Dean and took the lip between his teeth, worrying it, then
laving it corner to corner. Dean was panting by the time he kissed back. He
moved slow against Sam's sharp urgency. It was a maddening tease, a measured
buildup of pressure, with his tongue dragging along the insides of Sam's mouth
— teeth, cheeks and palate — but avoiding Sam’s tongue. Sam was grinding down
into Dean's leg now, needy, not getting enough. Then Dean's tongue slip-curled
around his just as his hand sneak-slid over the side of Sam's thigh and his
thumb pressed a firm line up the seam of Sam's fly and circled the head of his
cock through the thick denim. Pleasure jolted straight up the inside of Sam,
and he felt a fat bead of precome escape. His cheeks burned, knowing Dean could
feel the wetness seeping through.
Between his lips and thumb, Dean was finding a rhythm. But Sam wasn't about to
come in his pants. He let go of Dean's collar and spread his hand over Dean’s
crotch.
The heat seared into the sensitive skin of Sam's palm, hotter than where Dean
was pressed into his knee. He cupped his hand loosely, then squeezed. Dean
arched immediately into him, groaned so loud the vibrations shockwaved into
Sam's mouth, where Dean began kissing him more forcefully.
"Sammy," he muttered against Sam's lips, after drawing a shaky breath. "Sammy."
Can I? Sam wanted ask. Will you? But it seemed too hard to stop. The thought of
not touching, for even a second, not tasting far outweighed the risk of being
told no. It didn't seem likely Dean would ever tell him no.
Blindly, Sam's thumb teased out the zipper of Dean's jeans. He tugged
carefully, prying away from Dean's trapped cock. Then he remembered the button,
flicked it through the hole, letting the flaps fall open. Sam's fingertips
curled against Dean's waist, seeking elastic. He found only skin. Warm, sweat-
dampened skin and feathery hairs. No underwear. He lowered his hand slowly,
breath catching as he settled over the hot, thick length of Dean's cock. His
fingertips traced over the head, slippery, down the silky skin threaded with
veins, twitching under his touch. He tipped his hand and tentatively slipped
his fingers past the vee of Dean's zipper, gathering the soft weight of his
sac. With the pad of his middle finger, Sam traced the seam, up to the base of
his cock, where he wrapped his hand around him and pulled.
Wetness trickled over his fingers as he swiveled his fist over the head. He
could smell Dean now, over the sweet pungency of the lingering pot. Musk cut
through with sweat. That smell of sex that Dean brought home with him late at
night. But this time purely Dean, untainted by flowery perfumes or fruity hair
products or booze. Dean. Not one bed over, rustling the sheets, but right here,
beneath Sam, around him, right up against him. Possessiveness surged up Sam's
spine and he gripped Dean tight and jacked him harder.
Dean's kisses were erratic now, quicker, cut off for short swallows of air. His
nails bit into the meat of Sam's back. The heel of his hand rubbed hard at
Sam's crotch. He sucked at Sam's tongue and Sam's cock jerked a half-beat
later, through two layers of clothing and into Dean's palm.
"Don't come yet, Sammy," Dean said, still sucking swift kisses at his lips.
"Hold on. Hold on for me."
Somehow, Dean always tripped the line between rough and graceful. Likewise
here, as he yanked brusquely at Sam's fly yet fluidly pulled him out without
the scraping of zipper teeth or the scratching of stiff fabric. Dean eased his
fingers into the slit of Sam's briefs and drew him through, pushing the damp
cotton down to the base of his cock. The brief lick of cool air on Sam’s
exposed skin was replaced instantly by Dean's engulfing grip — the span of his
hand almost wide enough to cover Sam, leaving just the protruding tip. Sam
could feel the calluses along Dean's palm, the one along his forefinger from
where he held knives when he sharpened them. If his grip was looser, Sam
imagined he would feel the uneven patch of skin between his second and third
fingers where he held his pencil the wrong way. This was the coarse terrain of
Dean's skin, different from his own, but not so very much.
They matched each other's strokes. Dean moved smoothly up and down Sam's
length, skin catching where it was dry, then sliding easy when he stroked his
thumb over the head and smeared precome down. Sam echoed him, dipping his thumb
into the slit of Dean's cock and dragging back down over the edge, sticky and
sleek. Dean stilled to tap-tap-tap his thumb under the head of Sam's cock. Sam
bucked, growled low in his throat, and repeated the move.
This game of Simon Says didn't have much staying power. Sam's balls were drawn
up tight, muscles tugged taut, stringing him like a tripwire. The heat spread
through him, pushing out in waves with each press-pull of Dean's hand. A slow
swipe of Dean's tongue, shallow in Sam's mouth, had him shaking. He tried his
best, but his hand was faltering on Dean, falling behind.
And then Dean shifted his hand, already low on Sam's back, reaching lower. Two
fingers snuck down the cleft of Sam's ass, through his jeans, then drove up,
pressing just behind his balls.
"Oh god, Dean, ohgodohgod."
It tore through him, fast and flaring release. Higher, hotter, flashes of red
behind his eyes. Then down, down, pooling, skin prickling with cooling sweat.
So good. So fucking good.
"Jesus, Sammy. Fuck." Dean was moaning, mouthing wet, open kisses under Sam's
jaw. He brought his hand up and drew his fingers down the arc of Sam's neck,
stripes of Sam's own come trailing after. The tacky sensation of it on his skin
was followed by the soft-raw wetness of Dean's tongue, retracing those stripes,
licking him clean. Sam writhed, cock spurting out one final drop.
He felt loose-limbed, but Dean clung to him like a vice.
"Please," Dean panted into Sam's neck. "Come on, please."
Sam regained his grip on Dean's cock, and jerked it as though it was his own —
in the shower, at a rest stop, before Dean came home from a date, no time to
spare. Just like that. He opened his eyes, not realizing they were still
squeezed tight, and stole a glance at Dean in his hand. The fat head shone, red
and wet, slicking Sam's fingers where they slipped over it — down, up, around
in a half-twist. It looked spongy, and Sam wondered how it would feel to press
his tongue into it, wanted to know Dean's taste now that he'd learned how Dean
felt to touch.
He bent slowly, back aching at the angle.
Dean's fingers threaded up under his hair — to pull him off or to urge him on,
Sam wasn't sure. He just let the weight of it lower him down the rest of the
way. Sam's nose bumped Dean's abdomen. He rested his cheek against it and
brought Dean's cock, still sliding in and out of his fist, to his mouth. He
swiped his tongue over the head, tasting his own fingers and Dean’s precome. He
slowed his hand and pressed the tip of his tongue into the slick flesh. Dean
shuddered, hard. His grip on Sam tightened. But Sam kept going, sucking Dean
into his mouth. He wrapped his lips up under the ridges of the glans,
overwhelmed by the fullness, the scent, the viscous liquid leaking onto his
tongue. His tongue flicked out for another taste, then Dean was tugging hard,
pulling him up and off. And Dean was coming.
Sam flinched as the hot come pulsed out of Dean, shooting up onto Sam's chin
and neck. He opened his mouth, and felt it hit his bottom lip, dripping slow,
tongue darting fast enough for him to catch it and swallow it down.
Dean kneaded Sam's neck, moaning his name. Sam fisted Dean lightly, ringing the
last of it out of him but wanting more. A short arc of come spluttered onto
Dean's t-shirt, droplets clinging to the light brown hairs below his navel. Sam
let Dean go and rubbed his fingers into the mess on Dean's belly, smearing it
around, lifting his hand to watch strings of it connect them, thinning as he
drew away.
He looked at his hand, mouth watering. Then Dean grabbed him by the wrist and
brought Sam's hand to his lips. Sam watched, slack-jawed, as Dean kissed each
of his fingertips, then grazed his teeth along each tender pad, then sucked his
fingers, one by one, into his mouth, down to the very last knuckle. Finishing
with Sam's pinky, he doubled back, this time sucking delicately at the thin
webbing between each finger. Dean's pink lips glistened with spit and come,
catching the light of the TV.
The TV. The national news was on now, and Sam's stomach rumbled, suddenly
hungry now that he knew what time it was.
Dean laughed into Sam's hand. "That's my boy. Either thinking with your dick or
thinking with your stomach."
Sam shoved his hand into Dean's face, then wiped it down Dean’s shirt. "Well,
there is a third option. But if you started using that head now, you'd be out a
perfectly good hat rack."
Dean scowled, but Sam knew it was fake. "Hey, we all know you're the brains and
I’m the face. Don't hate me because I'm beautiful." He smacked Sam lightly on
the cheek, then nudged him with a forearm. "Now, get off."
Untangling himself, Sam rose cautiously, trying not to trip over Dean's legs or
fall backwards onto the coffee table. He stood at the end of the couch,
watching Dean tuck himself away and fasten his pants. "Dean?"
Dean looked up, gaze lingering over Sam's still undone fly, cock still hanging
out through the flap. Self-consciously, Sam pushed his hand down into his
underwear, adjusted himself so that he was covered back up. "Yeah?" Dean asked,
quiet.
Sam rubbed his hand on his belly. "Are you gonna tell Dad?"
Dean's eyes shot wide. "About—?"
Sam gestured toward the coffee table. "About the weed."
"Oh." Dean smirked. "Yeah, short bus. 'Cause I want my ass whupped." He got up
and edged around the table, ruffling Sam's hair. "Damn, kid, you really are
Shaggy." He ruffled Sam's hair again. Sam gave him an elbow to the ribs for it.
"Got better moves than him though," Sam said, triumphing at Dean's wince of
pain.
"I'll say." Dean waggled his eyebrows lewdly. "You should thank Terry."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'm totally going to thank Terry for hooking me up
with my brother." He cringed, a little too late.
Dean blushed and chewed his lip. He ducked his head, sweeping up the Ziploc
baggy, his lighter and the roach into one hand. He turned and headed toward the
kitchen. "You could thank Bryan too."
Sam grabbed a pillow from the couch and threw it at Dean. It bounced off the
back of his head.
"Go take a shower," Dean yelled. From the kitchen, Sam could hear the sticky
squeak of the refrigerator door opening. "I'll heat up some pork and beans."
Sam zipped up his fly, letting his belt hang undone. He started walking toward
the back rooms, then paused. "No Scooby Snacks?"
He heard the rattle of a spoon against tin. Dean didn't stop as he answered,
"Maybe later. But only if you're very, very good."
Sam wasn't sure if he really heard the leer in Dean's voice or simply imagined
it, a byproduct of his lingering buzz. But he hoped so. This thing, whatever
just happened. He really hoped it didn't start and end with Terry Schuler and
his wayward bag of pot.
End Notes
     Beta: zelda-zee.
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