Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/583270.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Wincest_-_Freeform, Weecest, Blow_Jobs, Angsty_Schmoop, Underage
      Drinking, Underage_Character, Cuddling_&_Snuggling, Christmas, Community:
      homebrewbingo
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-12-05 Words: 1930
****** PBJ ******
by saltandbyrne
Summary
     Sam's got a broken arm, and Dean knows just the thing to cheer him
     up.
The clatter of a melamine plate against tenant-worn linoleum startles Dean from
his nap on the couch. They'd been in the hospital for 16 hours, and Dean had
stayed up for another six getting Sam settled and put to bed. He'd only managed
to snatch two hours of sleep himself before his dad had shook him back awake,
looking harrowed and distressingly sober.
 
He had a lead on yellow-eyes, and he had to leave immediately. Dean had just
Yessir'd him and gotten up to make the coffee, helping him pack the car and
sending him off with a tight wave. Dean knows his dad is doing the right thing,
that the only thing that can ever fill the hole in their family is vengeance.
But there are times, like right now, when it's freezing cold in their shitty
temp rental in North Platte, when Sam just broke his arm and it's two days
before Christmas, when it really fucking sucks.
 
Dean rubs the gunk out of his eyes and stands up into a long stretch, cracking
his neck and letting out a long sigh. He can feel the cold from the floor
seeping into his feet, creeping right past his threadbare socks. Dean had never
understood the old joke about getting stuck with socks and underwear for
Christmas. A pack of new, warm socks and some underwear that doesn't have holes
worn in it sounds fucking awesome right now. Or some slippers, those fleece-
lined ones like Bobby had.
 
Wiggling his cold toes, which weren't gonna get any warmer any time soon
because Santa was definitely passing the Winchesters by this year, Dean trudges
into the kitchen and leans against the door frame.
 
Sam's got a sweatshirt thrown over his scrawny shoulders, the awkward bulk of
his sling half-covered by the worn fleece lining. The small counter in front of
him has the makings of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, although the
frustrated look on Sam's face tells him his little brother hadn't gotten very
far.
 
Sam looks up at him, placing the plate back on the counter. “Sorry,” he
mumbles, trying to shrug and grimacing when he gets half-way through it.
“Didn't break, though.”
 
“You can throw that old melamine shit out the window and it'll still be in one
piece.” Dean walks over to the counter and slides the plate towards himself,
shaking his head as he reaches for the peanut butter.
 
“Why didn't you wake me up?” Dean asks, ruffling Sam's hair for good measure.
“Stupid.”
 
Sam sighs with all the world-weariness of a petulant 14-year-old, albeit one
with his arm in a cast. “Wanted you to sleep,” he answers, managing to shrug
his exasperation with just his voice.
 
Dean rolls his eyes and pulls out four slices of bread. Might as well make one
for himself if he's up.
 
“I'll sleep when I'm dead, right?” Dean chuckles and lays the four slices on
the plate. The peanut butter's still cold from the fridge, so Dean sticks a
knife into it and stirs.
 
“Where's Dad?” Sam says it quietly, the fingers of his free hand tapping
absently against the flecked formica countertop. Dean feels the peanut butter
catch as he tries to stir it a little faster.
 
“He, uh, he got a lead.” Dean can't bring himself to look Sam in the eyes, not
when he's standing there with that fucking cast on his arm. It hadn't even been
a hunt that'd done it, just a patch of ice and a spot of bad luck.
 
Sam nods, letting out a tight little laugh that's more bitter than sweet. “So
he left.” He doesn't have to add the “two days before Christmas when I just
broke my fucking arm” part for Dean to hear it.
 
Dean just lets his silence answer for him, happy that the peanut butter has
finally reached a spreadable consistency. At least he can do something. He
smears a thick glob onto all four slices, because Sam likes it better when
there's peanut butter on both sides. The jelly's the wrong kind – grape, Sam
always liked raspberry better – but it's better than nothing.
 
Risking a look at Sam and finding the expected bitchface, Dean makes a show of
cutting the crusts off until he can feel Sam relaxing. When he looks up again
Sam's smiling, rolling his eyes as Dean stuffs all eight crusts into his mouth
and chews them noisily.
 
“You don't have to cut the crusts off for me anymore, Dean.” There's a ghost of
a smile there and it makes Dean forget about how tired he is. He can make Sam
feel better.
 
“S'better that way, shut up,” Dean says, smacking his lips against the sticky
filling and cutting both sandwiches diagonally. He grabs both plates and stacks
them up his arm, one of the more useful skills his brief stint as a busboy had
lent him, and heads into the living room with two beers gripped between his
fingers. Not having Dad around did have its perks.
 
He pops the bottles and passes one to Sam as he settles on the couch, tucking
himself into the corner and letting his legs splay open. His cast is propped up
on the couch cushion, thick and white against the worn maroon upholstery. He
looks up at Dean through his bangs, that little crease in between his eyebrows
drawing together.
 
This was always a thing, this “who's gonna do it first” thing they'd been doing
for a while now. It was easier when it was just in bed, just at night when Dean
felt like he could get away with anything. It was different like this, the
ghost of their father's presence making both of them hold back even as he flew
down the highway towards a grudge that mattered more than anything.
 
Nothing mattered more than Sam, though, Dean knows that without hesitation, the
same way he knows that Sam feels shitty right now. And who wouldn't, when the
highlight of his past 48 hours was a crustless sandwich.
 
Handing Sam his plate, Dean holds his own against his chest and settles into
the space between Sam's legs. He slumps down until his head is leaning back
against Sam's chest, stretching his legs out and resting his plate on his
stomach. Sam balances his plate on the arm of the sofa and picks up a white
triangle of PBJ.
 
They eat in silence, just enjoying the warmth of each other's company. Dean
sets the plates down on the floor when they're done, sighing and rubbing a hand
over his full stomach. As far as nights without Dad went, this one was already
a vast improvement over dozens of others.
 
And it wasn't so bad, not really. Dean knows Sam thinks his life just sucks,
and frankly, most of the time it did. Dean can see the white expanse of Sam's
cast out of the corner of his eyes and thinks of the signatures that won't be
adorning it, because Sam can't seem to make friends wherever they settle.
 
But Sam doesn't need friends, not really. While Dean still tried to get Sam to
flirt with waitresses and practice his puppy eyes on the cheerleaders at
school, it had gotten a lot more half-hearted since they'd started fooling
around in earnest.
 
“Does it hurt, Sammy?” Dean rolls halfway onto his side, craning his neck back
to look up at Sam. His brother takes another swill of beer and shifts himself,
looking down at his cast. “Not so bad right now. Took a vicodin before I got
up.”
 
Slinking down until his neck is resting against the crook of Sam's thigh, Dean
turns himself until his stomach is pressing into the couch. Sam's worn-out
pajama bottoms are soft against his cheek, just like the sounds Sam makes as
Dean nuzzles his face against Sam's crotch.
 
“Know something else that'll make you feel even better,” Dean says, parting his
lips a little to trace up the half-hard line of Sam's cock through the
material. Sam lets out a soft gasp and says something that sounds like Dean's
name and “Oh.” Yeah, there were definitely perks to having Dad gone, Sam just
needed a little reminding sometimes.
 
Dean smiles and does it again, breathing out a hot, damp breath for good
measure as he mouths over the steadily-chubbing length of Sam's dick. There's a
darkening spot at the tip, soaking through the green plaid and getting a little
wetter as Dean closes his mouth over it and sucks.
 
Sam's life might not be easy, but he had a whole lot more going for him than
most 14-year-olds. Sam had been growing in starts and fits, still scrawny and
chicken-legged but stretching out so quickly Dean worried about feeding him
enough to keep up. But he'd really grown in the downstairs department, and
lately it was getting harder for Dean to fit all of it in his mouth. He tried
his best.
 
He doesn't want Sam moving any more than he needs to, so instead of pulling his
pants off the way he'd like to, Dean just looks up at him while he undoes the
buttons on his fly. Sam has the same wide-eyed, flushed face he always has,
like he can't quite believe what's happening in front of his eyes. Dean's not
sure if he always looked like that, or if it's just the novelty of seeing Dean
pull his cock out and spit on it, instead of just feeling it under a mass of
tangled bedsheets and moon-lit limbs.
 
Sam hasn't showered in a good three days, and Dean's not sure what's weirder;
that he can tell the difference between how many days it's been since Sam's
washed his nuts or that he doesn't really mind it. It's still Sam, musky-sweet
and salty against his tongue as Dean teases out another drop of precome before
he spreads it around with his lips.
 
Sam always gets wets like a girl when he's worked up, steady stream of clear
liquid beading up at the tip for Dean to taste. His lips are shiny with it as
he takes Sam as far down as he can manage, gagging a little when it hits the
back of his throat. Sam's free hand runs down his neck, tentatively curling his
fingers into the short hairs at the nape of Dean's neck.
 
That's my boy. Dean brings his hand over Sam's, pressing it down to give Sam
the go-ahead. Sam's not as rough as he could be, his natural reticence and the
painkillers holding him back and making him sluggish. Dean arches into every
press of his hand, hollowing his cheeks every time he draws back. Soon the only
sounds in the cramped living room are the wet rhythm of Dean's mouth and the
little puppy whines Sam lets out as he squirms his hips and digs his fingers
into Dean's neck.
 
Sam comes quickly, like he always does the first time around. If Dean has his
way, he'll get Sam off so many times he won't even remember that his arm's
broken before he passes out with a huge grin on his face. And there won't be
any socks or underwear under a tree when they wake up, but they'll both be hard
with the whole place to themselves. Dean's feet are still cold as he swallows,
but he feels warm as he tastes Sam, salty and familiar on his tongue, his head
cradled in Sam's lap. They don't have much, but they have a lot to give each
other.
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