Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1183306.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Dean/OMC
  Additional Tags:
      Wincest_-_Freeform, Weecest, Sibling_Incest, just_in_case_you_weren't
      aware, also_there's, Anal_Play, Anal_Fingering, Rimming, Frottage, lube
      is_your_friend, Solo, Masturbation_in_Shower, so_many_orgasms, holy_shit
      teenage_boys
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-02-13 Words: 8422
****** Show Me How to Burn Like You ******
by karmascars
Summary
     (Dean is 17, and Sam is almost 13.) Sam comes home early from soccer
     and discovers several things, not the least of which is that he likes
     to touch...
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Dean has been seventeen for three whole months now, and Sam's about to turn
lucky number thirteen. He can feel his birthday approaching like a thundering
stampede: still a ways off, but it rumbles through the ground and up Sam's legs
as he walks.
The afternoon is still young. Sam scuffs his way through grass that for once
isn't yet tinted gold by the sunset. He's surprised the soccer coach let them
out of practice so early, but the guy sounded worse than those people on the
cough drop commercials. And what boy in his right mind would question an early
release when the day looks like this?
Sam pulls the scents of spring in deeply, and smiles.
As he rounds the corner, he begins to see little bits of bright yellow peeking
through gaps between tree branches and other houses. It's the most vivid color
on their street -- on any of the streets Sam has traveled here -- and the first
time he saw it, Dean made a crack about living in the sun. "Conspicuous," John
agreed gruffly, "but disarming. No one'll expect you two boys in there without
--" And he coughed and looked away. Even Sam understood what that meant -
- though he was still too young to look as suddenly murderous as Dean did.
That night when their father left, Dean scrounged up a striped apron from
somewhere and cooked something with hot dogs and noodles that Sam found
delicious. His brother's face was set the whole time with the look of someone
determined to be pleased with what he had.
The house is bright, Sam reasons as he approaches, but it's very comfortably
domestic. White trim, kept shiny and neat by the owner, limns the yellow and
trains it somewhat. The manicured lawn is the right color green, there are
actual flowerbeds lining the porch, and right now they are a riot of color and
bees.
Sam grins at a hornet as he passes up the stairs. Dean says they got this place
for a song, and he said it in a way that made Sam think it wasn't such a good
thing after all, but how could something so pretty and so like home be anything
bad?
Usually, he'll go up to the back door. Dean, though, has the habit of ambushing
his brother with various obstacles: things laid across the door, haphazard
piles of things on the floor, and even himself in a kitchen table chair
stretched right where Sam needs to walk. It doesn't help that Sam is growing
like a weed, rapidly approaching the size of a small giraffe with all the
finesse that entails. Toeing off his ratty sneakers, Sam gently places his gear
bag on the painted boards beside them. The front door whispers open, the knob
not making even a click beneath his hand.
Silence, and the vague smell of cornstarch, greets him. He pads on sock-clad
feet toward the kitchen, stomach rumbling. Now that he's in the cool stillness
of inside, Sam can tell that he's actually been sweating, damp curls of hair
sticking to his neck. His uniform feels tacky. He can't wait for a shower.
There's no one in the kitchen, and Sam can't hear anything from any of the
other rooms. Dean must be out, he reasons. After all, Sam himself isn't due
back for nearly an hour. There are all sorts of things a boy like Dean could
get up to with that kind of time.
Sam raids the cabinets stealthily, even though he knows he doesn't need to take
such care. It pleases him that he can be so completely silent. He finds a
lonely piece of fruit leather, and grimaces. He's not all that fond of peach.
The tip of his tongue has just barely touched it when the front door bangs
open, and Sam can hear Dean laughing. Not just chuckling, or giggling like he's
done something stupid -- no, this is a wild sound that Sam's never heard his
brother make, and the pure enjoyment in that laugh has something fond and warm
coalescing in the pit of Sam's stomach. He smiles, the only way he knows to let
that feeling escape.
Dean doesn't call out for him, which Sam doesn't expect anyway, and the older
boy is loud enough for a whole herd of Deans dumping their boots by the door,
bumping into the wall. Sam pads back through the dining and common rooms,
hearing Dean plop so hard on the couch that the springs groan. He's clutching
the fruit leather and rehearsing possibilities for The Best Way to Ask Dean
About Groceries, with a brief thought that at least it's easier than asking
Dad...
All that flees his mind when he steps around the couch and sees Dean is...
involved.
Hips, and hands, that's really all he can see. Quiet moans he couldn't hear
before now fill his ears, and Sam is frozen, planted, eyes glued to the space
where his brother sprawls in the vee of someone's legs. Hairy legs, in khaki
shorts. And those are not a girl's hands on Dean's back, tearing his shirt up
over his head. Dean makes a noise that Sam has never heard before, one that
jabs him hot and sharp, and the voice that joins him eagerly is muffled, but
clearly male.
Sam is confused. Not by the idea of homosexuality; he's a smart kid, he knows
that some people like to be with their own gender. He just thought he knew his
brother better. Dean's no homophobe, but he always makes sure people know he's
"into chicks, dude, no offense".
Dean's hips undulate down and his partner chokes out a low "Fuck, Dean --"
"Yeah," Sam's brother growls. Sam feels tight all over, prickly, his eyes going
dry from staring. He's clutching that piece of fruit leather as though it can
save him from it all.
The boy below Dean gets more and more vocal, but for some reason Sam's ears can
only focus on the softer noises, slick slip of lips and tongue, Dean's little
grunts, every panted breath he takes. Sam feels like he's matching him,
breathing far too loudly, his heartbeat racing out of control.
"Ahh, shit," the stranger hisses, then "Let me --" and one of his hands slides
out of sight. Dean lifts himself up, suddenly his pants are sagging lower on
his slim hips and Sam can see the dip of his brother's butt just there above
the waistband. Another zipper sound, louder, and when Dean's hips crash back
down both boys groan, the stranger's voice rising, rising as one of Dean's
hands joins his between them.
Sam is weaving on his feet, a feeling like waves of sunstroke rippling through
his body. He stares in wonder as Dean's strokes shorten, quicken, slaps and
moans coming faster. His brother's buttocks tighten and give three short
shoves, and then the unmistakeable sound of Dean coming hard clenches up every
muscle Sam has.
He stumbles backward, shaking, something fire and pleasure and light coursing
beneath his skin.
"Sammy?" comes Dean's voice, bald disbelief. Sam tears his eyes back from
whatever they'd focused on, seeing two heads poking over the back of the couch.
One, a boy with tousled blond hair, looks more amused than anything. Dean looks
shocked, horrified, but mostly just sad.
With as much dignity as he can muster, Sam squares his shoulders and says,
"Could you keep it down? I'm trying to read."
"Sure you were," says the stranger, eying him with a smirk. Sam feels his face
go red. Now that he knows it's there, he can feel the wet spot in his shorts.
It's mortifying. Dean looks like he feels the same way.
Then the guy turns to Dean and says, "Or maybe he pissed himself. Is he even
old enough to get a boner?"
Sam gapes, his eyes prickling, but he whirls and flees before the tears can
fall. He can hear Dean exploding behind him, "What the fuck, douchebag?" and
the blond saying, "What, man? It's funny!" He makes sure to slam the bathroom
door.
His shower is warm, but bleak. He washes himself til all of his skin is rosy
and a little sore, and the water is running lukewarm. The door slammed ages
ago; Sam wonders if Dean left with his friend, so they could find a more
private couch. Maybe a bed.
That warm feeling surges back, more noticeable in the waning heat of the water.
Still a bit unsteady, Sam bites his lip and thinks of the noises Dean made, the
way his back and thigh muscles pulled as he moved. His temperature spikes, a
rush of sweat issuing from his pores that's instantly swept away as Sam stands
there, panting beneath the spray. His hands are still moving over his skin,
even though the pilfered motel soap has long since slivered itself down the
drain.
There have been changes that Sam has noticed in his body, in himself, as he
draws nearer to his birthday. He's grown a few inches, he feels taller and
stronger than ever, but it's something more than that. Something that's been
brewing, low in his gut, that early morning wiggling and hot surprises just
can't satisfy.
Sam glances down the planes of his body and eyes his cock, stiff and red,
jutting out at an abrupt angle. He's felt brushes against it that were like
whip-cracks and rain all at the same time, and he's ground it into his mattress
on those mornings when it's so hard and unbearable, but Sam has never ventured
to do what he's doing now. When his pruned-up fingers wrap around that hardness
and tug, his gasp echoes sharp before it's lost amid the water.
Oh. Oh. No wonder Dean does this so often. Sam moves his hand faster, tugging
harder, figuring out what feels best. He can feel his own heartbeat there,
pulsing in the huge vein on the underside, pushing through the tunnel he's made
of his grip. His hips stutter, push him through quicker. The water moves over
him, makes his movements slick, and it's okay that it's cold now because Sam is
on fire.
Knees shaking, heart pounding, he jerks forward and catches himself against the
cool tile, hand working furiously. Still a little awkward, but something big is
building, he can feel it. It's a precipice looming, and Sam's going to run
right off the edge. He adjusts his fingers, bites his lip. His imagination just
wants to play what he saw on repeat, plus a few other stolen images -- all of
his brother. Sam knows it's wrong, but he's not convinced as to why, and even
if he's developed an inkling he surely doesn't care right now.
His thumb swipes over the head of his cock, fingers over a spot of nerves just
below it. Dean's voice echoes in his memory, his groan of release, and Sam
can't help his own cry when orgasm overtakes him. Paroxysms of pleasure so
intense he might be crying force the boy to his knees in the cold spray,
shaking and smiling so wide he gets water in his mouth.
That felt fantastic. He can't wait to do it again.
When Sam gets out, he's still smiling. He finds a shirt, a pair of shorts, and
stumbles down to the kitchen all wet-haired and gangly. He's hoping like hell
that he missed something in the cupboards, rice or anything, because now after
all that activity his stomach is trying desperately to become one with his
spine.
The kitchen isn't empty. It draws him up short as he tries to reconcile Dean
sitting at the kitchen table with his earlier assumption that Dean had left.
And his brother's just sitting there, facing him. Sam settles for a head-cock
of confusion, the lassitude from his shower diluting the adrenaline.
Dean looks contrite. Oh, wait, he's not gonna try to --
"What you saw --" the older boy begins, then stops to clear his throat. A tinge
of color brings the freckles out across his cheekbones, and Sam fights the urge
to roll his eyes.
His brother tries again. "You know how, most guys like girls, well... some guys
also sometimes, uh --"
This time Sam does roll his eyes. "I know guys can like other guys, Dean." He
means it to be scathing, I'm twelve, not an idiot, but the words come out too
softly. Dean looks pained.
"I shouldn't have brought him back here, I thought --" One hand comes up to
scratch at the back of his neck, and Dean looks away. Sam doesn't know what to
say, other than a hurried "It's okay, Dean, seriously" to try and stem the tide
of miscommunicated good intentions. He's hungry.
Dean eyes him like he might a tricky piece of the Impala -- or a gun. He looks
like he wants to ask all sorts of questions, and with a sick snap in his belly
Sam remembers what happened. He'd gotten so caught up in the shower that he'd
forgotten all about his shame. He can feel his cheeks spread crimson, but says
lightly, "So. What were you planning to do about food? It's a third-world
country in here and I'm starving."
His brother looks taken aback, but he recovers quickly. He always does.
"There's half a pizza in the fridge," he replies, just as lightly. When he gets
up to grab the meaty goodness and dump it on a microwavable plate, Sam finds
his eyes drawn to his brother's slim hips.
He's old enough to know there's something not quite right about all of this. As
he watches Dean punch buttons on the shiny white machine, he ponders what to do
about it. What it'd even be possible for him to do about it – they're brothers,
after all, and there's no way that Dean --
Like a scene from a movie, Dean turns around and sees him staring. For a split
second, he looks so caught-out and beautiful in the waning afternoon light that
Sam is stricken.
"F-forget the pizza," he manages, and bolts for the bedroom.
His brother catches him halfway down the hall, pinning him gently by wrist and
hip. "Easy, tiger," the young man chuckles when Sam fights him, still holding
his little brother so easily. Sam hates it, has always hated being smaller, but
right now he especially just needs to get away from Dean. "Let me go --" he
grunts, and mid-mocking-laugh Dean shifts across his front.
Now, no one's laughing.
"Sammy?" Dean says carefully. Sam stares fixedly at some point over his
brother's right ear and hopes that the world will end, something, anything to
distract from the slowly swelling interloper making a home against Dean's
thigh. His hard, muscular -- that thigh muscle flexes, an involuntary twitch,
and just as helplessly Sam's hips jerk forward. Oh, god, that's good. Sam
slumps a little in Dean's arms, hips thrusting slow and sharp, wanton and
irrhythmic. He knows this is wrong, he's embarrassed by his utter lack of
control, but the shame and warning signals are getting buried beneath the solid
warmth of Dean pressing against him.
"Sammy, Sammy -- stop," Dean says desperately, hands planted on Sam's
shoulders, pushing away from him and the wall, into his own space. Sam follows
a little, can't help it, his brother's heat drawing him in -- Dean holds him
off with one hand to his chest, green eyes wide. "You know this is not what I
meant, right?"
Sam pouts. "'m not stupid, Dean." I just want stupid things. "You chased after
me," he points out sullenly.
"Yeah, but kid, I didn't -- " The pressure is gone from his chest. Dean draws
in on himself. There's the hand on the neck again, classic tell: he's
uncomfortable.
Sam swallows and starts edging toward the room before Dean's next words can
strike him. They do anyway: "I don't --"
"Yeah," Sam interrupts thickly, turning away. To his horror, his throat is
closing up in the way that means he'll soon be crying. Goddamnit, be a man
already, he screams at himself. Aloud he manages to croak, "I got that,
thanks."
Dean doesn't stop him when he moves into the bedroom they decided should be
his, and closes the door. Sam thinks he hears a weak, "I didn't mean --" before
his brother shuffles off; to give me space, Sam thinks viciously, swiping at
his face. I would have needed space long before this, if I ever had any hope of
being normal.
Because he knows what this is. He's attracted to his older brother -- very much
so, if the afternoon's events are anything to judge by. Sam knows the ugly word
that defines this wrongness, and he whispers it aloud to himself in the still
of his room. Incest. It rolls off his tongue, all snake syllables and sin. Sam
feels a little sick.
For all that he understands why it's wrong, he doesn't. Not really. There are
always people on TV, and on city street corners, talking so earnestly about
everyone being free to love who they will, regardless of circumstance. Sam
knows that's not how the world works, but he doesn't understand why that idea
doesn't appeal to a wider audience. Don't people want to be happy? If you're a
woman and you love a woman, then be with her. If you're a man and you love your
own brother -- Sam knows it should be as simple as just two men, but somehow he
knows that two of the same flesh and blood should never come together like
that.
He wonders how he knows that. Was it the library books he'd read? They'd seemed
so dry and scholarly in their dissent. They laid out the law, and various
beliefs, but never said anything explicit, Sam's sure. No one's ever told him
so, not even Dad when he made them start sleeping in separate beds. John just
said they were too old to wake up tangled together; what he should have said
was, this can turn into something illegal and immoral and you'll never recover.
Because as Sam sinks into the confusion, loneliness, and regret of it all, he
realizes that he never will.
Maybe, if Dean at least felt the same way...
Sam curls on his side in his bed, hunger forgotten, and tries not to feel
anything at all.
He stays like that til well after the shadows have lengthened across his floor,
swapping sunlight for tungsten street lights like torches across the lawn.
There have been no door slams, nor blaring music, but Sam thinks he smells
something cooking. Ultimately, his stomach overrides his stupor, and he decides
he'll risk interacting with Dean for a chance at some sustenance.
The dining table is laid out, surprising Sam as he passes it. They usually just
eat in the kitchen off paper plates, but Dean found real dishes and silverware
somewhere. Sam wasn't aware his brother even knew how to make a place setting.
He finds himself smiling at the tableau.
Dean bustles in from the kitchen in that striped apron, a steaming dish clasped
between two cheery apple potholders. He's smiling, humming something vaguely
familiar. When he spots Sam, the smile falters a bit, but it also gains in
warmth. "Go ahead, sit," he says, placing the dish. "Just gotta grab one more
thing."
Sam slides into the place closest to him, peering into the kitchen. He can't
see the stove from there, but he can hear Dean clanking equipment and humming
again. Whatever he's placed on the table smells delicious.
When Dean comes back in he's lost the apron, his hair a little rucked up on one
side. Sam's fingers itch to smooth it down, but that would just make this whole
thing worse. He settles for sticking his tongue out at Dean for no apparent
reason.
One dark eyebrow arches upward, but Dean doesn't make a quip. It would have
been something like What's gotten into you anyway, and that would have just
killed the conversation all over again. As it is, the lack of Dean's sarcasm
there leaves a hole that the brothers fill badly with silence, and fidgeting.
Sam's eyes drop to his napkin. Is the whole dinner going to be this awkward? Is
the rest of his life?
A clank of crockery draws his eyes up again just as Dean ladles something meaty
and steaming on to his plate. Sam's mouth waters. "Where did you get all this?"
he marvels, reaching to serve himself.
"I, uh, I found a deep freezer in the garage," his brother says, focusing more
intently on his meat than is strictly necessary. "Rifles 'n shit, too. I think
old dude was a game hunter." He slurps a mouthful noisily. "This was labeled as
last season's deer."
Sam takes a bite of his own, smiling at the gamey taste. "Reminds me of
Mississippi," he says around the food. He hopes Dean will remember -- years ago
they killed some deer while on a job, collateral damage, but John insisted on
having a fellow hunter process the carcasses for a share of the meat. The first
night they ate it, Dean fried up some of the ground portion, and both he and
John insisted to Sam that it was beef. He'd been there the whole time, he knew
it was deer and he liked it -- but he played along just because his family
cared so much.
Across the table, Dean smiles. "'s better 'n beef, anyhow," he says, and Sam
returns the smile. Maybe not so awkward after all.
There are no leftovers, of course, not from a meal like that between two
growing boys. Dean cooked, so Sam cleans up, running the water hot enough to
sting his hands as he washes pots and plates. He finishes and dries freshly
pruned fingers with an already-damp towel, then casts about looking for Dean.
His eyes catch the oven clock -- holy crap, it's after midnight. He was in his
room for much longer than he thought. Long enough for deep-frozen chunks of
meat to thaw and become a meal.
Dean appears in the doorway. "I was gonna head to bed," he says lazily, "but if
you wanna watch a movie or somethin', go for it."
With a start, Sam realizes today was Friday. No school tomorrow. Well then, why
not? He wonders at first why Dean isn't joining him, they could watch one of
those old cowboy movies he likes -- but then Sam remembers that Dean's got
reasons to be tired. His smile might be a little tight as he says, "I think I
might. Uh, sleep well."
He's the first to turn away, and he makes it all the way in to the house's DVD
collection before he hears Dean's door close.
Nicholas Cage solves things, and then Sam is staring at a blue screen and
wondering when the movie ended. His mouth tastes like stale dinner. Brush, then
bed, he tells himself, the thought sticking in sludge between formation and
understanding. Zombified, Sam pads down the hall. He passes Dean's room and
notices the door's ajar, breathing deeply the scent on the air emanating from
the crack.
A sound leaves the room with that air, and Sam chokes.
This isn't a moan, or a sigh. This is the most melancholy noise of pleasure Sam
has ever heard, a sob so steeped in sex it makes his bones ache. He edges
closer, needing to see more badly than he's ever needed to breathe.
When his eyes adjust, all his nerves alight, and he can't help the small
whimper that forces its way from his throat. Dean...
His brother is planted face first on the bed, on his knees, his bare ass stuck
straight up in the air. Sam has a perfect view of the three thick fingers
sliding in and out of Dean's dark little hole, movement below suggesting a
frantic pace to the hand on his cock. His noises are muffled, because Dean
knows Sam is still awake out there, but they're not muffled enough to keep from
affecting Sam where he stands paralyzed and overwhelmed with sensation. His
whole body is a riot.
Dean whines, bucking back between his hands, and Sam is flying across that room
before he knows he's moved. He doesn't have a plan, just launches himself on to
the bed, ignoring Dean's shout and abortive scramble. He's got the element of
surprise, and he uses it to grab the hand Dean's got stuck up inside and shove
it in deeper, following the motion with his own hips. "Sammy!" Dean cries, all
heat and scandal, but Sam just drapes his skinny frame over his brother and
shoves again. "Dean," he moans, feeling his fingers slide sticky over his
brother's, feeling where those disappear into Dean's lube-slick, clenching
hole. Dean is still struggling, but he's losing the battle, Sam can tell by the
way little sounds of pleasure intersperse his protests.
"Sam, you gotta, unh, get off me, man, we can't --- hnn, we can't do this-oh,
fuck, Sammy --" Dean is pleading, but Sam can't stop touching him.
"You want this," he says, so matter-of-factly, sounding so much older with his
husk of a voice. "I want this. Why's it gotta be complicated?"
In a feat of strength and willpower, Dean wrenches his hand away and flips on
to his back, scooting up the bed til his back hits the headboard. He's staring
at Sam like he's never seen him before. Sam stares right back, drinking in the
full-body flush, the blown pupils in darkened green eyes. Hair mussed,
shoulders shaking finely. Sam has never known want like this. It's beginning to
consume him.
"Do you know why this is wrong?" Dean asks. Not like Sam's a little kid, but
like he's somebody Dean knows and trusts to be intelligent. Like an equal.
Sam's chest swells a little. "Yeah," he answers in defiance. "But I think
they're stupid reasons."
A little hitch of a laugh barks out of Dean. "Yeah. But you know it's to
protect you, right?"
"From what? From feeling good?" Sam presses obstinately, inching forward. His
brother flinches minutely but doesn't move. "Don't you always say you should do
what feels right?"
"But this isn't right," Dean says. Sam can't read his tone. He hears
resignation, acceptance, a spiral down through those words that makes him
inexorably sad to hear -- but they sound more like an empty protest than
anything else.
Hope springs eternal. Sam inches closer.
Dean's tacky fingers pick at the bedspread. He's no longer looking at his
little brother. He's getting angry, darkness piling on to his face, shadows in
his eyes. Sam's not sure what's going on in that head of his, but has a pretty
good idea. He's validated when Dean speaks.
"I musta done something really wrong to you," he says, so low the words sink
into the ground.
Even though he knew it was coming, Sam still stares in disbelief. "You --"
Dean holds up a hand, cutting him off. "Why else would you think this is okay?"
He's thoroughly entrenched in it now, self-loathing and so convinced of his
villainy. Sam almost wants to laugh. "Dean," he says, but his tone is too
light. Dean's glare snaps up and pins him in glittering green.
"You think this is fucking funny?" he rages, and it's made all the scarier when
he doesn't get loud. He looks pissed, but he sounds helpless, and Sam doesn't
like that at all. Dean keeps going. "You're just a kid, you don't get it -- I
might've ruined you --"
"I'm not fucking ruined, Dean!" Sam shouts, and in the space of Dean's shock at
that filthy curse falling from his innocent little brother's lips, he moves
forward until only a foot remains between them. "You don't get to tell me," he
continues at a more conversational volume, "that just because I'm young, I
don't know what I want."
"You don't, you... can't," Dean protests weakly, his body curving in on itself,
trying to put more space between them. There's nowhere for him to go.
Sam leans in. "I do, and I can." His breath gusts back at him, exhaled from
Dean's lips.
His brother hauls in a lungful, then another, short on air. He looks so
fearful, but Sam's not scared at all. "It's okay, Dean," he says, and his voice
is steady.
"But you -- I can't -- you're my brother, Sam, Christ," Dean whispers. "I'm
supposed to protect you. This can't --"
"Shh," Sam whispers, and kisses him.
As first kisses go, it's nothing special. Damp lips catch dry ones and hold
them tight, pressing nerve endings together in the space of a caught breath. To
Sam, though, it's all fireworks, light expanding and filling all the spaces
within him. When the kiss breaks and he grins at Dean, he feels like that light
is shining from his eyes. His whole body feels weightless.
Dean just looks stunned. He licks his lips, probably on instinct. Sam leans in
again, wanting to taste.
His brother holds him back. "Sammy," comes the smallest whisper ever to fall
from those lips, "are you absolutely fucking sure?"
"Yes," he says simply, because he is, and his body is singing with desire to
pile atop Dean and sink into him forever. He wants to learn his big brother's
body until he knows Dean better than the young man knows himself, until he can
get Dean off with a flick of his finger --
His gut tightens, and he clutches himself around the middle. Suddenly, he's
aching. "God, yes," he moans, "Dean --"
"Fuck, Sammy," Dean mutters, reaching for him, "c'mere --"
Their second kiss is primal, a clashing of mouths, teeth and tongues caught up
in a grunt and a sigh. Dean presses Sam backward til he's flat on the bed and
ranges over him, lithe and toned from the life they lead. Sam feels coltish
beside such easy beauty, awkward beneath his brother like this, but those
thoughts are chased away by the slick slide of Dean's tongue fucking into his
mouth. He moans down Dean's throat and tries his best to reciprocate, but more
and more he just feels like he's drowning. Eventually Dean pulls off on one
elbow, chuckling and wiping his mouth.
"Sorry," Sam mutters, glancing away.
Dean's fingers catch his chin and force him back to where Dean is smiling,
indulgent and not at all judgmental. "It takes practice, trust me," he says.
Sam's eyes track to his brother's plump lips, now kiss-reddened, and Dean
chuckles again, lower and full of heat. "Yeah, Sammy, that's the idea."
This time when they kiss, Sam tries to focus on technique -- but then Dean is
running a hand through his hair, cupping his jaw, and he just groans and gives
in. Kisses in the movies never looked like they felt like he's feeling right
now, and Sam wonders why Hollywood lied. This is better. This is Heaven -- Dean
is ambrosia against his tongue.
Heavy, naked hips descend upon his, Dean grunts into their kiss, and Sam gasps
when a hard line of heat presses against him through his shorts. They break for
air, but Sam's still gasping, rutting harder and harder up against Dean. Dean
shoves an arm around underneath his brother's back and hauls him in so close
that his own heartbeat could be Sam's, slamming out of both their chests. Sam
has never felt so close to taking flight. He whines, babbling, "God, yes,
Deannn... want you, want you so fu--" he chokes on the swear, caught up "--
n bad, Dean --"
Suddenly, all of it stops. Dean pulls off of him so abruptly it's a shock,
moving to the edge of the bed. Sam can hear him muttering, "This is fucking
wrong..." and he sits up, reaching out to graze Dean's bare shoulder.
Dean flinches, too hard this time not to hurt Sam's feelings. "What?" he
queries, stung.
"You're too young, Sam," comes the gruff reply, and that's just insulting.
Sam scrabbles his way out of the bed and plants himself in front of Dean,
brazenly grabbing Dean's hand and fitting it to his own cloth-bound erection.
The heat and pressure is heavenly, but he forces himself to focus, to say, "Do
I feel too young to you?"
And the way Dean's lips quirk up, like he's thinking yeah, but you'll grow, is
Sam's last straw.
"I'll show you too young," he snaps, and rushes his brother, throwing them both
on the bed. Dean, by merit of his musculature, manages to keep his back off the
covers by a good few inches, but Sam is insistent, pinning his brother with
desperate dead weight. The minute he feels Dean's abs give, he attaches his
lips to his brother's neck, and sucks.
Dean arches beneath him, swearing, hands caught between clutching and pushing
away. Sam sweeps his lips down to where he can suckle on the gentle rise of
Dean's collarbone, one hand pawing at the side of Dean's head. He flits over
bare skin, kissing, licking wide stripes just to hear Dean swear some more.
When he captures a nipple between lips and gentle teeth, Dean makes an animal
noise and shudders beneath him. Hardness fills the space between his legs. Sam
suckles, finding the other tight bud with his fingertips. He hears, "You better
be damn sure about this," growled from somewhere all around him as hands worm
lower, kneading his sides beneath his shirt, his hips, and when Dean's clever
fingers work open Sam's zipper Sam just sighs against his skin.
His brother's hand on him is a flash fire, reducing Sam to cinders in the space
of a breath. He's spontaneously combusting beneath that dextrous touch on his
cock, gentle but sure on stiffness that twitches desperately with every touch.
Dean's working him into a frenzy, his hips darting down for more, more, and he
can't even focus on what his mouth is doing. He breathes noises against Dean's
chest, high and helpless, riding his brother for all he's worth.
Orgasm takes him captive, leaves him choking out, "F-ffuck, Deannnn..." He
shakes, pulse after reedy pulse squirting between them, all over Dean's cock,
slicking their slide. Sam can't breathe. Dean clutches him, eyes rolling back,
"Oh -- shit, Sammy --" he moans, rocking up harder. His exhale is more whine
than carbon dioxide, and Sam's getting hard again.
He's caught between too much and ooh, more when Dean's grip becomes a vise on
his hips and grinds him down, soaking fabric and a painful zipper squishing
oddly against his overly sensitive dick. Sam squirms, trying for equilibrium,
but the movement only serves to send a throb through Dean's cock that Sam can
feel.
Need to feel more, now -- "Pants off," he urges, wriggling. Dean throws him to
the side in one arm, shucks off his pants, shirt too, and pulls him back on top
before Sam can register what's happening. He's a little in awe of his big
brother then, a daze that intensifies when Dean snags his mouth in a filthy
kiss.
His hips shift, and oh, Dean is huge and right there, riding up the crack of
his butt and touching some interesting things back there. Sam has to catch
himself with hands planted, hovering over Dean, feeling the heave of his
brother's chest, the fill of his cock. A shaking hand smooths over his hair,
tracing his cheek and jaw lines like Dean needs to memorize them. They are
linked, fitted together so well that Sam has no idea why anyone would think
this isn't just meant to be.
Dean starts to roll his hips, slow and almost somber, looking Sam dead in the
eyes like he wants to impress some wisdom. But it can't stay that way, not with
Sam's cock trapped between their bellies, sliding hot through his own mess,
with Dean's thick shaft skimming places on Sam that the boy hadn't even dreamed
of stimulating. One sharp thrust, the head of Dean's cock digs in just there,
and Sam throws his head back and howls.
He breathes like a racehorse when his head comes back down, more heat between
them than he'd ever thought possible. "Do it," he whispers on impulse, and Dean
looks torn, terrified and filled with a longing so fierce it adds to the
terror. "Don't tell me that," he says, and he sounds wrecked. Sam clenches his
cheeks together around Dean's cock and feels him shiver. "Why not?"
Dean's eyes flicker everywhere but his. "Just don't."
Knowing he may never get another chance, Sam presses: "Why?"
It's his big brother in every sense looking back at him when Dean answers.
"Because you really are too young."
Dean kisses him before he can protest, a long, slow, sweet pressure that has
Sam sighing and sinking in. He has a sour feeling that Dean's right, that it's
one of those things he'll never budge on. He just can't bring himself to care
when Dean kisses him like this.
Lips leave his and travel across his face gracelessly until they're hot breath
and a promise in his ear. "Too young for that," Dean muses, his tongue flicking
along the shell of Sam's ear. The boy rocks his hips back slowly,
unconsciously, a slow burn along his core. "How about you get on your hands and
knees for me?" his brother purrs, and it takes Sam several seconds to process
this.
When he does, he sits bolt upright, nearly ignoring the rod up his back. Dean
looks startled; Sam can only guess what expression is on his face. "What?" the
older boy asks.
Sam narrows his eyes, but says nothing as he climbs off of Dean carefully and
moves to crouch beside him on the bed. When he turns to meet Dean's eyes, he
hopes what he's not saying is clear: You know I trust you. Please don't hurt
me.
A hand slides reverently down his side, warm and callused. "This is gonna feel
good, Sammy, promise," Dean says. He sounds hoarse, and Sam wonders what's
going to happen. He likes Dean's hands, both of them on his back now, sliding
to caress his butt, to -- huh? He whips his head around, trying to see. "Dean,
what're you --"
"Shush," Dean admonishes between Sam's spread cheeks, a puff of air in a most
sensitive place. On the verge of hyperventilating, Sam holds his breath. Oh
god, oh god, oh JESUS FUCK
Wet, warm, probing muscle right where Sam never knew he needed it most,
spreading shockwaves out through his body that wrack him, invade him, crawl
into his throat and emerge as the most wanton cries he's ever heard out of
anyone. Dean pulls back after what feels like an eternity with a throaty "Damn,
you're sensitive."
"Was that your tongue?" Sam asks shrilly, even though he knows that it was, of
course it was. His whole body is tense, finely strung with pleasure, and his
only fully conscious thought is the fierce desire for Dean to put it back. He
tells his brother so, impatiently.
Chuckling, Dean does.
This time, he slides it inside, thick and alive. Sam lets out a noise and
shifts back, fucking himself on Dean's tongue. When Dean groans, Sam can feel
it up through what feels like a minefield of nerves, ohhh god. He loses himself
to the floods of pleasure rushing him, yowling and clutching the sheets. He's
out of his mind and Dean's sending him there, hands massaging, pulling, tongue
fucking Sam so deep he can feel it in his dick. "Oh, Dean," the boy moans,
rocking back, spearing himself and Dean, the bastard, wriggles his tongue.
Sam comes for days, shaking and clenching like he can draw that sweet stab in
further. He can feel Dean panting frantically behind him, into him, the slap of
flesh on flesh where he's fisting his cock. Still shaking, vision halfway lost
between the gray-out world of orgasm and their own, he rolls on his back and
sits upright sloppily, grabbing at Dean's hand.
His brother lets out a disgruntled noise. "Whatcha doin', Sammy?"
"Dean," Sam says, a little muzzily. He stares at his hand on Dean's, at the
purpling head of his dick. There was a reason, something he wanted -- he's
floating after all of that, and his thoughts refuse to order themselves. To
give himself time, he moves his hand, slowly massaging both their fingers
around Dean's length.
Dean shifts on his heels and groans. "God, Sam, are you trying to kill me?"
"No," Sam says softly, still moving his hand. He's remembered. "Dean, put these
back where you had them." He strokes Dean's fingers, still slightly coated with
lube.
His brother's expression is stuck somewhere between a smirk and stunned
disbelief. "You wanna... you wanna watch me?"
"I want you to, uh, get off feeling as good as I did," Sam says, stumbling a
bit over the lingo. He cracks a grin to cover. "When you were doing that, it
looked like you were having a hell of a time."
"Heh." Dean shifts on the bed. "Well, you don't have to tell me twice. Get the
lube off the nightstand, would ya?"
Sam moves as quickly as he can on limbs made of soldered spaghetti, too-long
arms and legs tangling over themselves as he snags the tube. He ends up
throwing it at Dean, only for it to smack his hip because he's already turned
around. The young man snorts, and snatches it up. "Get comfortable, Sammy," he
says with a leer, snapping the tube open.
In all his thirteen years, Sam has never watched anything so intently. Not his
father's lessons on guns, not a monster in his sights, nothing. The lube falls
in slow motion, it seems, on to the wrinkled skin around Dean's hole. He hisses
on contact -- cold, Sam realizes -- but hummed contentedly when two of his
fingers began to massage it in.
"The trick with this," Dean says in a teaching sort of voice, "is to get your
lube where you need it. A lot of people start by putting it on their fingers,
but those aren't the part that'll hurt like a bitch if you don't use enough.
See?" And he presents himself to Sam.
The boy stares, fascinated. Dean has spread his legs and tilted his hips so his
hole is exposed, shiny and wet with lube, pucker flexing lazily. Sam moves
abortively forward before he realizes, and then he's glad for the darkness to
hide his flush.
Dean chuckles. "It's okay, Sammy."
Startled, Sam sucks in a breath. "I can... can I touch?"
"Mm hm," Dean hums. The air whistles out of Sam's lungs as he extends his hand,
inching closer, reminded of the fresco in Italy where God gives Adam life in
much the same way.
The skin is slick and warm to the touch, and Dean wriggles a little, making a
happy little noise of surprise when Sam's fingertips slide. It's an odd
sensation, the folds of flesh, gaping and clenching in response to his touch.
Sam finds himself fascinated, and doesn't even mean to press in -- the very tip
of his finger breaches Dean, who mewls. "Ah -- Ssam," he says shakily.
"Is it okay?" Sam doesn't know why he's whispering. Dean's body is reacting,
rim fluttering around his finger. His only instinct is to push in deeper, but
he is scared to death of crossing some line and having all of this taken away.
Everything moves a little when Dean nods. "Go for it," he says, his own whisper
all husk and anticipation. Sam wriggles his finger a bit, and listens to the
changes in Dean's breathing pattern as he works it deeper.
Despite what he saw earlier, the channel is almost impossibly tight around him.
Sam's still-somewhat-slender finger feels thicker than a plank of wood. He
ceases an inch or so in; Dean peers back over his shoulder.
"It's tight," Sam says stupidly, staring at the place where his finger
disappears into his brother's body. Dean hums. "Keep going. You'll -- ah! -
- you'll feel a kind of a nnn tug --" There it is, a pull on his fingertip,
urging him deeper. Sam slides in further, until the resistance lessens. "There,
keep going," Dean says, "Just --" And he's there, one finger buried to the hilt
in his brother's heat. Sam stares.
Dean shifts around him, chuckling somewhat breathlessly. "Like what you see?"
Some kind of noise comes out of Sam as a reply, his wonder evident. He
experiments a little, sliding in and out a fraction, feeling the clench and
pull of muscle and skin around him. Dean's breath hitches when he presses
especially deep.
"You can, uh, add another one if you -- yeow!" Sam's eyes go wide, slick finger
frozen in midair. Dean looks around at him ruefully. "Shoulda mentioned, never
pull out that fast. Kinda hurts."
Sam's heart drops to his toes. "Shit, I'm sorry!" He can feel his face
crumpling.
"Hey, it's okay," his brother soothes. "Just add more lube and get back in
there, maybe add your middle finger, too. There's something I think you'll be
able to reach."
Sam does as he's told, drizzling the chilly substance and rubbing it with two
fingertips. He pours a good amount up his fingers, too, eying the little pucker
doubtfully. He did see Dean use three... and Dean's fingers are bigger...
"Lose something back there?" Dean says, and Sam jumps a little. "N- no, sorry,"
he rushes, and circles his fingers once around the rim before pushing them both
inside.
This time he just moves all the way in, a long steady slide that Dean tracks
with a groan torn from his very soul. When Sam bottoms out, the entire tunnel
is seizing around him, and Dean is panting, "Okay, now feel around, there. Just
under your fingertips, you -- ah -- may want to --" He hisses. "Don't curl your
finger, just search that soft part for a small bundle of -- oh sweet Jesus fuck
in heaven, Sammy," he cries when Sam finds the little nub of his prostate. Sam
rubs over it, and Dean practically sobs, "Get in there, move, do that and
move," and when Sam does his brother thrusts back against him, jutting his hips
to strike that spot against Sam's fingers. "Oh, fuck that's good."
Sam gets the idea to add a third, but he needs more lube, and Dean is moving on
him with a purpose. He settles for nudging in the third quickly on a stroke
while he dumps on a whole mess of the sticky stuff -- Dean keens, feeling the
thickness, the mass of Sam's fingers dragging heavier over the spot that makes
him scream.
The pinky finger slides in without too much resistance, and now Sam can move
more freely. He fucks Dean hard with a strength trained into him by their
militant father, nailing him with wet squelches and brutal swipes over the
prostate that have Dean writhing. "Touch me, Sammy, fuckin' touch me," he's
begging, voice ripped apart, hands fumbling. Sam reaches around and bats those
flailing hands away.
"Mine," he says ruthlessly, grinding down on Dean's prostate, stripping his
cock from root to head with the slide of excess lube. "Fuck yes," Dean shouts,
and his cock swells impossibly hard in Sam's hand. He grunts, high and loose,
with each pulse of his spunk, painting the sheets beneath him. Sam twists his
inserted fingers, mere breaths over the prostate, until Dean is shaking,
pulling away.
He makes it on to his side, and smiles back at Sam hazily. "That was great," he
slurs.
Sam gives him a crooked smile back. "You're a good teacher."
"Y'want some help with that?" Dean waves his hand in a vaguely lewd gesture.
Startled, Sam looks in the direction indicated. His flushed erection takes him
completely by surprise. "Oh!" He regards it for a moment, then looks at his
filthy lube-soaked hand. "No, I got it."
He grasps his cock and hisses in through his teeth at the slick, dirty slide.
He knows Dean's shifting for a better view and somehow that just makes him
hotter. Nngh escapes his clenched teeth, his fist closing tighter and tighter,
his eyes falling shut so he can pretend it's Dean's body wrapped around him,
those bowed legs sprawling wide. Flush and freckles and green iris swallowed by
black pupil, Dean is beautiful, and -- a hand joins his, and Sam's eyes fly
open. Dean is inches away, lips parted and shiny.
Sam sucks in a breath, and comes. His eyes are wide, filled with nothing but
Dean.
The world seems far too still after he stops shaking, the only sound or
movement their heaving breaths in the semi-dark. A whole lot of nothing whirls
around in Sam's head. He's satiated beyond belief, so happy he could burst with
it while at the same time, so very tired. The corners of Dean's lips twitch,
curling up, and Sam ducks his head to grin, and then they're laughing and
kissing, sighing and simply gazing.
It's more romcom than Sam knows Dean would ever admit to, and he knows they
both love it.
By some unspoken agreement, the brothers collect one another in a tangle of
arms and find their way horizontal. They smile at one another, sleepy and
secret. You're amazing, Sam thinks very loudly, but doesn't manage to say it
aloud before he falls toward unconsciousness, couched in all the mess.
The morning, when Sam finally notices it, is well on its way to noon. He awakes
disoriented and completely unsure before his head clears enough to notice that
a) he's in his own room, b) he's free of lube and jizz, he's got pajamas on,
and c) he can hear Dad's and Dean's voices coming from a kitchen that smells
suspiciously like bacon.
He takes a long, deep breath, exhaling on a smile as last night comes flooding
back. Dean... Dean's hands... his... ooh. Sam shudders a little, wondering what
all that cock would feel like in his mouth. Or... in him. Sam licks his lips.
He's seen porn, he knows it's just like fingers only bigger. Oh, god. He would
be so full.
Stirrings of heat begin to stiffen his cock, and Sam gives in to the urge,
shoving a hand down the front of his drawstring pants. He grasps himself and
remembers Dean.
Breakfast with Dad can wait a few minutes.
 
FIN
 
 
End Notes
     Thanks for reading!
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