Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/516613.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Underage_Sex, Weechesters, Christmas, Masturbation, Voyeurism,
      Exhibitionism
  Stats:
      Published: 2008-12-08 Words: 6183
****** Without Packages, Boxes, or Bags ******
by Edwardina
Summary
     Sam's growing out of Christmas.
Notes
     Dean is 16, Sam is 12; if you are uncomfortable with teen sexuality
     please take care here. The title is from How the Grinch Stole
     Christmas! Thanks to my guardian angel for reading over it for me.
The Christmas tree, Dean soon realized, was a consolation prize.
For Sam's sake, he pretended not to see their dad padding around with his brow
furrowed in concentration, gathering his things together. Sam was as aware of
what all that stuff meant as he was, but just then he was so wrapped up in the
tree that he didn't seem to notice Dad outside of the times he paused to
demand, grinning, "Dad, remember when I made this?"
The Winchesters took little with them every time they moved. They had little to
begin with, and every time they left town, they only took what they could fit
in the car with them, which wasn't much. However, one constant possession that
mysteriously popped up now and then, no matter where they were, was a cruddy
cardboard box full of even cruddier Christmas ornaments. Dean had no idea where
the box disappeared to from January to November, but even if it took some
prompting, Dad tended produce it from somewhere eventually.
"Hey, Dean," Sam said cheerily above the drone of the weather report. "Wanna
hang your reindeer?"
Dean's reindeer was an ornament he'd made in second grade or something, along
with all the other kids in his class. It was just a cartoon figure of a
reindeer Dean had dutifully scribbled in brown with a fat-tipped Crayola marker
until he'd gotten sick of it and festively given the reindeer green and red
stripes the rest of the way.
Instead of its own face, the reindeer boasted Dean's, cut out from a crappy
black and white Xerox copy of his school picture and pasted on crookedly. He
was missing a front tooth, which he'd lost his very first day in the class,
scuffling with some kid who tried to push him off the monkeybars. He'd been the
first in the class to get his name written down on the "I'm Telling the Truth!
I Lost A Tooth!" poster with a smiling molar wearing a bowtie also smiling
gaptoothedly. (Fucked up.) The whole class had respected him after that double
feature. Not that it had mattered. By January, they'd moved on to Nebraska, and
the only reason he remembered any of it, really, was because of this damn
ornament. The whole shebang was encased in plastic that was scuffed at this
point, and it hung from a loop of ancient, unraveling green yarn in Sammy's
skinny fingers.
"Uh, nah," coughed Dean. He was getting up there in years -- seventeen next
month -- but he definitely wasn't beyond getting embarrassed by the ornaments
with his name on them. If he'd known that reindeer would be immortalized as an
ornament and that he'd see it every freakin' year, he would've tried to do a
better job. "'S okay. You hang it."
"'Kay," said Sam. Dean watched him pick out a place on their tree (kind of
sorry, and probably the last one left at a Gas Mart, but at least they always
got real ones by default) and hang it lovingly, then smiled in spite of
himself.
"Gimmie a different one to hang," he suggested.
Sam rooted around in the box, burrowing through a clumsily-made construction
paper garland that had been out of commission ever since Dean could remember,
retarded-looking felt Santas with googly eyes, snowmen made out of wooden
bobbins and pipe cleaners, and a bunch of other stuff they'd gotten at Goodwill
or had been forced to make in various schools over the years. Dean briefly
watched their dad pulling on a pair of thick, jarringly red woolen socks, his
eyes glued to the TV, then grinned as Sam gave him another cheesy school
ornament.
"Didn't this used to be a Cheerio tree?" he asked. It was basically decrepit;
most of the ancient glued-on Cheerios had crumbled off the paper shape, and the
ones that hadn't yet were threatening to. The back of it said SAM W. in tall,
importantly sharp letters.
"I got hungry," joked Sam.
"This -- this is a work of art. It should go right in front," Dean teased back,
and hooked it haphazardly over a sticky-feeling branch.
"Hey, The Grinch comes on tonight on CBS," said Sam animatedly. "You wanna
watch it?"
"Man. It really is Christmas," Dean mused, grabbing at one of those freaky
google-eyed Santas and hanging it without any artistic sense up near the top of
the tree.
"Duh. It's been December for like two weeks already. So d'you wanna watch it?
The Grinch?"
"Yeah, all right," said Dean. He didn't really, but wasn't like he had anything
else to do. Plus, he kind of took comfort in the fact that Sam could still get
into Christmas crap.
Forget the holiday specials and endless commercials and scoping out lights on
big houses through the car window on cold nights. Sam was basically the only
thing that made Christmas into anything resembling Christmas for Dean, and in
spite of a few Christmasses that had been sucky (there had been a couple where
Dad was gone, one when they'd all been sick and sat around in a winter
wonderland of used Kleenex watching football and eating mugfuls of Campbell's
chicken noodle soup, and several spent entirely in the car), Sam could still
get in the spirit like he had when he was really little and didn't know better
than to get all excited about every holiday. He was growing up pretty fast
these days, and at an age where he could act really mature or like a snot-nosed
brat depending on his mood. Although spaghetti-thin, he still had a babyishness
in his features, curl in his too-long hair, and a pipsqueakiness about him that
made Dean long to noogie him.
"Me and Dean are gonna watch The Grinch tonight, Dad," Sam said over his
shoulder. "You wanna watch it with us?"
Dean hesitated for a split second before hooking a plastic R2-D2 ornament from
McDonald's or wherever onto the tree. He was pretty sure their dad hadn't ever
actually watched a Christmas special with them. Not really. He'd been in the
same room as Christmas specials, but he always had something more important to
think about or take care of, and Dean had been his placeholder. He was pretty
sure Sam asking him to watch with them was not only pointless but passive-
aggressive.
There was a long moment of relative silence that stretched out beneath a cheery
holiday Pizza Hut commercial and the noise of their dad tying up his boots.
"Can't tonight, Sammy," he said, then, not looking at either of them. "I got a
lot of ground to cover."
Dean could hear the annoyance in Sam's voice. "You're leaving?"
"Bobby called," said Dad, gruff and absolute. "There's a job up in Minnesota."
Sam's response was to crouch down at the box and throw the ornament he was
holding, an angel with yarn hair and pink circles painted on its cheeks, back
into it disgustedly.
"You gonna run into snow up north?" Dean asked. "Hey, Sammy, look alive. Gimmie
somethin' to hang."
 
 
Dad was barely out the door -- had only been gone fifteen minutes -- when Sam
rounded on him, big-eyed and earnest, sitting up shock-straight on the couch
right in the middle of his show.
"Hey - wanna go do stuff? Like, jerk off?"
Dude.
Dean picked his head up off the dented back of their second-hand couch and
stared at him, body lifting up into a painful awareness of Sam's proximity and
body heat. Behind them, the Christmas tree -- well, it didn't really glitter,
but it was a pleasantly colorful tangle, all those crappy old ornaments as much
family as Bobby and Pastor Jim. In front of them were their plastic dinner
plates, orangey smears of macaroni and cheese still visible, in a stack next to
their propped-up feet there on the crate they were using for a coffee table.
The TV set, the kind that was so old that everything on the screen looked green
and there was a massive gold antenna crowning the whole shebang, lost reception
and rolled every thirty seconds.
"Dude," Dean laughed, kind of helplessly, and tilted his head towards the TV.
"What about The Grinch?"
"But Dad's gone," said Sam in a whisper, as if Dad wasn't actually.
"He's only been gone for a few minutes, Sammy," said Dean. He was vaguely
trying to keep a grip on the reality of the situation, brain not yet willing to
believe Sam actually wanted to screw around even though his body was already
responding to the idea.
Sam sighed, a hard little annoyed puff of breath, then slumped back and let his
head roll onto Dean's shoulder.
Even that small touch seemed weighty and exciting. Dean couldn't remember the
last time he'd felt Sam up against him like that. Well, actually, he could -
- it had just been forever. The last time they'd done anything was when the
school year had started up, right when they'd settled in this apartment, and
Sam had crept over into Dean's tiny old twin bed after lights out to mutter
with him about their new school and wound up falling asleep there with him. For
the longest time, Dean thought he could smell Sam's hair on his pillowcase. It
had taken days for the smell to disappear and for him to get over it and chuck
it into the wash.
Slowly, Dean moved his hand over and tucked it around Sammy's knee, feeling the
inseam of his jeans under his fingertips as he gave Sam a ginger, almost
reluctant squeeze, full of want.
They didn't jerk off together when Dad was around. Most of the time they
couldn't get away with it anyway, and when they probably could, a good deal of
the time Dean just didn't let himself start thinking about it at all. Even
though Sam didn't seem to harbor any guilt or hesitations, it wasn't his job to
worry about stuff like that. It was Dean's. It wasn't that Dean felt guilty; he
didn't buy into all that Catholic guilt crap. There wasn't anything wrong with
letting Sam see him jerk off, he didn't think. It wasn't wrong to encourage
him, let him know it was all right to do it. Who else was going to watch out
for him and answer all his questions about the birds and the bees and stuff?
It's just that he wasn't about to let Dad catch them at it, and he wasn't about
to let Sam get a real idea of what a freak he was for always wanting to do it,
either.
The Grinch had gone to commercial and then come back on again by the time Dean
surfaced a little from only being able to think about Sam asleep next to him,
their body heat mingled into one thick glow, one smell.
"So, you wanna?" he asked slowly, heat pushing into his face.
"D'you wanna?" Sam returned, looking up at him with a suspicious squint to his
eyes.
"Yeah."
With fingers impossibly skinny, Sam reached up and grabbed at Dean's bicep, his
chin moving against the t-shirt covering Dean's shoulder as he spoke. "Just -
- I wanna show you somethin'."
"Yeah? What's that?" asked Dean fondly. "You get another A-plus?"
"C'mon."
Even with the tangible feeling that Dad might've forgotten something and could
come clomping back through the door at any moment, Dean could've gotten off
right then and there -- just whipped it out, sitting on couch with The Grinch
on and the song about seasick crocodiles blaring right in front of his face -
- but he willingly pushed himself up off the couch and followed Sammy to their
room a mere few steps away.
Like most of their bedrooms, it was barely lived in, the only real sign of life
the dirty clothes hanging over the side of their plastic hamper and the comic
book Sam was re-reading laying on the floor between their beds. Their beds (two
old twin mattresses propped up in ancient frames) and the clap-trap dresser out
of which they lived were crammed into the room like sardines in a can.
Deodorant and all that kind of stuff sat on the 80s dresser, a clear line
between all Dean's hair stuff on the right and Sam's lone SportStick and comb
on the left. The walls and ceiling were a stark white, and that kind of
material that was all lumpy like cottage cheese, sort of unfriendly. Still, it
felt way bigger than the back seat of the car, having his own bed was always
awesome, and it already felt as much like home as anywhere else ever had.
It was already dark outside, and their room was dark, too. The overhead light
had burned out a week ago and no one had made time to buy new light bulbs yet.
It was always like that. But light was cutting in through the doorway, leaving
a lengthy yellow rectangle striped across the room and the corners steeped in
shadow, so it was just light enough to see his way, see what Sam was doing.
Dean watched Sam immediately drop himself onto Dean's bed and attack his own
fly, bypassing the ancient brown and red striped sweater he was wearing, which
had probably come from some thrift store and smelled kind of like someone's
grandma's closet.
"Do I got the good mattress this time or somethin'?" asked Dean, but he didn't
really care. All he could think was that his sheets and pillow were gonna smell
like Sam -- this babyish smell of soft skin and hair that hadn't been ground
away by the ugly side of puberty yet -- and it was making him feel eager,
predatory. "Dude, get rid of the sweater."
There was a beat where Sam stopped, fly down, the white elastic band of his
underwear visible, and looked up at him uncertainly.
"You wanna get naked?" he asked, and it sounded so -- like, fuckin' perverted
like that, even though he'd heard Sam say naked before and seen him that way
about a thousand times, especially when he was little. He wasn't that little
now, though, and naked meant something so obviously different.
"I'm not jerkin' it with that thing rubbin' my arm the whole time," said Dean,
dimly aware that it was all just sort of an excuse. Usually, he and Sam were in
whatever they slept in by the time they wrestled or whispered or jibed their
way into jerking off together, like sweatpants or boxers. He always pushed his
boxers down to his knees and let Sam see his dick, let him watch him jerk it,
but Sam just usually pushed his hand down into his underwear, not needing quite
the amount of room Dean did, and not being as damn shameless as Dean about it.
"You can leave your underoos on."
After a brief struggle that made his ribs swell over his chest and his thin
stomach sink in low, Sam got the bulky sweater and the polo he'd been wearing
underneath it over his head, and Dean reached out to help him tug it off his
arms. Static snapped between them, and as Sam worked his jeans down, Dean's t-
shirt and dismal gray thermal quickly followed. Dean hardly paid attention to
what he was doing; his senses were narrowing in on Sam, who'd already popped a
boner in his tighty-whiteys and whose winter-pale chest was flushing over with
goosebumps, big time. He could see 'em.
"Scoot," said Dean, and Sam scooted, peeling off a sock from one big foot as
Dean crowded him on the twin mattress. Another sock followed, and was tossed in
a grimy little ball across the room. Dean was still in his jeans.
"'S cold," Sam whuffled, and it was like a thousand other times in the back
seat of the car or in backwoods cabins that didn't have heat. Dean moved
automatically to where his blankets were wadded up at the end of the mattress
and tugged them up to cover Sam.
"Wuss," he said, and listened to the responsive, "Shut up," as he and Sam
burrowed down together. The muscles of their arms -- Sam's so stringy against
his -- were fighting for the same space, and Dean could feel the ravage of
gooseflesh on Sam's skin, feel his warmth even though he professed to be cold.
This close, Dean could smell his hair and skin and breath, could tell they'd
eaten the same dinner and that they used the same shampoo and soap. Sam still
smelled sweet, like he'd smelled when he was little.
It wasn't that it was really unusual to feel Sam all butted up against him like
this, because they'd shared beds all their lives, but Dean still felt alive to
every sensation. The pressures were different when they did this. He could feel
the weight of Sam's gaze on him already, expectant.
"You're lucky I didn't already jerk it today," Dean teased, the buckle of his
belt clinking under the blanket as his fingers pulled it apart. "You're gonna
get t'see a nice, big load."
"Gross," muttered Sam, as if he disapproved. Dean could feel the corner of
Sam's mouth, warm and just a bit wet, moving against the muscle of his
shoulder.
"Yeah, whatever," he said broadly, and picked up his hips as he shoved his
pants down. "You love it."
"Shut up," Sam repeated, but without oomph. On his other side, his right arm
moved, and Dean could tell he was giving himself an absent-minded grip through
his briefs; his left arm remained still against Dean's, the fingers of his left
hand curled there against the edge of boxers on Dean's bared thigh.
Momentarily, Dean squeezed his eyes shut, sealing away the light pouring in
from the living room and making their doorway a vivid rectangle that burned
through the darkness even on his eyelids. Dad was slipping farther and farther
back in his mind; he heard something from The Grinch echoing in the little
front room, but it didn't stick at all over the noise of his own heartbeat
getting clumsy in his chest. He pulled up his knees apart, into a comfortable,
loose V, one of them resting lightly on Sam's, and pushed the blanket down a
bit.
"C'n you see?" he asked Sam, tilting his head vaguely towards his little
brother and feeling their hair brush together on the pillow. Then he felt Sam
nod, heard the soft rustle of it.
It was important that Sam see; that was how they did this, why they ever
started. That was part of what made it feel so good. The heady knowledge that
Sam was watching him -- watching him hold himself, jerk himself and make
himself feel good, and most of all, watching him shoot his wad -- always made
it feel so much bigger, so much better than when he was spankin' it all by
himself. Maybe Dean was just a fuckin' show-off, like Sam always complained
whenever they were doing target practice, but letting Sam see -- showing him
his cock, showing the way he jerked it and the way he could blow these
spattery, thick loads --
Just the idea that he was showing Sam was making him get stiff in his boxer-
briefs like it jabbed a reflex in his belly.
"You watchin'?" he persisted.
"Yeah," Sam whispered.
Sam was watching. It pushed through Dean's body, tangible arousal that was
strong and sludgy and hot and made him feel like he was the Hulk, or something,
just bulging with veins and muscle and this powerful force inside him. He dug
his fingers into the y-front of his boxer briefs till his whole fist was shoved
in and wrapping around his dick. He fisted it for Sam, squeezed it for Sam,
exhaled harshly just knowing Sam was watching him do it.
Against his shoulder, he could feel Sam's warm breaths, feel his chin just sort
of smudged in against his muscle; he knew from experience that Sam was
mimicking his movements. He didn't know whether Sam did that on purpose after a
lifetime of following him around or what, but it always built heat between them
heavily, like they were encouraging each other without saying a word.
Each bump of Dean's knuckles -- which were huge, anyway, over-popped and busted
several times -- was visible through the stretched cotton of his boxers, and
looking down his chest, Dean could see that his knob was obvious, too,
especially if he really pressed it up against his underwear, lifted it up
against the material for Sam to see. He was getting bigger and bigger in his
own grip, and swelling from chubby to stiff, fucking stiff, and feeling like he
was gonna bust out of his boxers.
When he yanked his hand out of them again and pumped his hips up, thumbs
hitching into the waistband at each hip, Sam's punched little exhale was
audible in his ear and heat surged anew into Dean's face. They both watched him
wrangle his boxers off his hips, his cock trapped under the elastic waistband
for a too-long second and getting pressed down -- tenting them out massively -
- before finally popping out and slapping back heavily against his belly, free.
A shiver rushed over Dean's skin. He was next to totally naked; the muscles in
his bare ass and thighs flexed as he let himself back down onto the body heat-
warmed sheets, leaving his boxers at his knees.
He sucked in a breath, hearing the ancient TV set brassily drone, "Then he slid
down the chimney -- a rather tight pinch, but if Santa could do it, then so
could the Grinch," as he grabbed at his cock right there, out in the open,
naked in a new way to the air.
Dean's arm flexed against Sam's, and Dean could feel him breathing, so warm,
almost wet-feeling in the dry air, right there on his shoulder. It was all he
could even think about even as he worked his fist in deliberate pumps -- Sam's
breath. The fact that Sam was watching him. It'd been so long that he'd somehow
lost the muscle memory of how fucking hot it made him just to know Sam was
looking at his dick. Usually he thought about chicks, about fucking around with
his girlfriend back in Ohio. Lacey. Her tits, the purple bra he'd kneaded them
through, the way she'd gasped, "Oh -- Dean --" every time he did something she
liked. He had it all locked away in his spank bank and it never failed, but
right then, he couldn't even call it up in his brain. He didn't even think
about it, actually. Sam was breathing on his arm. Each little huff made Dean
think that Sam had his hand down in his briefs and was following his rhythm,
jerking himself like Dean was, right there next to him, just muffled -- just
covered by the blankets and layers of clothes.
Dean was fuckin' bare. Bare like he wasn't when he'd done Lacey -- then, he'd
been wrapped in rubber -- but bare like he was when he showed himself to Sam.
This felt better. This felt better. Sam was watching him.
"You doin' it too?" Dean asked, his voice tearing out gruff and low. Demanding,
like their dad's.
"Yeah," whispered Sam, his voice lighter and just barely there, the word all
wet and warm like a kiss on Dean's skin, like a lick.
"God."
It came out without his permission, just in the shape of his exhale, but it
tinged Dean's skin with a self-conscious heat anyway. Fingers tightening, thumb
becoming a rigid, stroking, pulling force in his grip, he doubled his pace
automatically, the fingers of his other hand splaying over his own bare
hipbone, reminding him of how startlingly naked he was. There next to him, Sam
inhaled sharply. He was following along.
And every tiny molecule of cold in their crappy little apartment disappeared
instantly, because Dean flushed over so hot he filled the room with heat,
burned under the blanket tented over his knees, sweated against Sam as his eyes
fell heavily shut.
"'M gonna," he gasped out weakly, the pit of his belly going tense the instant
the words were out. More harshly, he demanded, "You watchin'? You watchin' me?"
"Uh-huh," Sam's voice seemed to form, this sloppy muddle that grabbed deep and
dragged it out of Dean, made his balls jerk and the head of his cock throb with
blood and the whole thing pulse in his grip as he shot out a load of jizz. It
landed hot on his skin, thick. Dizzily, half unable to focus and half seeing it
in the gory, glistening detail of memory and repeated experience, Dean opened
his eyes and lifted his head, watching himself come, each hard sputter hitting
him up the belly in shiny strings. His brain practically burned in his skull as
he remembered, furiously pumping himself, that Sam was seeing each wad pulse
out that slit in his knob and shine on his skin, drip and slide thickly.
It felt like he'd fucking come for an hour by the time it left his body and
he'd stopped creaming his own stomach, and God, he'd shot off even more than he
thought he would. It was everywhere, and it was sliding into his belly-button
as he panted, and --
Sam could see it all.
"Jeez," erupted out of Dean's chest. He wasn't entirely sure whether he was
impressed with himself or embarrassed for losing it that quick and that much.
His chest pumped hard for air, harder than usual, as he surged with the
adrenaline of blowing it like that for Sam. In front of Sam.
On his shoulder, Sam's breath was rattling, each breath he was slowly pressing
out seeming to shake as if from the cold, and now that his belly was wet with
come and he could hear over his own breaths and heartbeat, Dean was suddenly
perfectly attuned to him.
"Sammy?" he whispered, and in response, Sam bit down on his lower lip; Dean
could feel it right against his skin, Sam's lip and teeth. After a moment, he
realized that Sam's arm was still moving. That he was still going. Still
jerking it.
Blood pumped with a strangeness through Dean's veins, still hot and beating in
the pit of his stomach in a slow but sweet pounds, but prickling his sweaty-
feeling skin all of a sudden too. He hadn't really thought about it till just
now, but Sam had always seemed done whenever he was -- that he was still going,
and was trying so hard not to make a noise that his lungs were shaking was...
different.
"C'mon, Sammy," he found himself urging, reaching over to touch Sam's hair
before he could realize that it was kind of weird to do so. It was so warm and
silky under his fingers that it almost hurt, in some bone-aching way, and Sam
grunted in his throat, squeaky and harsh, like Dean had kicked him in the gut.
"Yeah, c'mon, buddy," he repeated, intensely spurred on by the response.
"'M -- gonna, 'm gonna," Sam sobbed under his breath. Dean's own words back in
his ear made him dizzy, made a dull flush of arousal crawl up his spine and his
cock twitch pathetically, still mostly hard.
"Do it," he muttered voicelessly. "I'm watchin' you."
A whimper at his shoulder, so close to his ear, and a jerk of Sam's body next
to his told Dean exactly when it happened a split second later, and there was
an eerie silence as Sam's chest rigidly held in his breath and he went still.
Dean breathed through the caught, obvious moment, fingers curling in Sam's hair
to hold a gentle fistful of it.
After a few heavy seconds, Sam forcibly jerked his face out of Dean's shoulder
and gasped over at the wall he was crammed up against. Dean's hand wound up
clutching at his cheek, which felt little and hot and soft under his too-big
hand, and he heard the breath, heard and felt Sam catch it and hold it again.
"Hey, 's okay. Make all the noise you want," Dean told him casually. "I do."
After an odd pause, Sam seemed to be able to take the advice and blew out a
winded huff, and Dean let his face go, still thrumming in an unrecognizable way
as Sam panted. He'd never heard Sam come like that; he didn't even really know
if Sam ever came, since the point had always kind of been that he didn't shoot
off like Dean did. The point was that he got to see Dean come. Dean couldn't
blame him for wanting to see it -- he was too young to blow a wad like that,
even if he was anything at all like Dean and had been touching himself for
years. Dean would've wanted to know what it was like, too, if he'd been Sam's
age and had the golden opportunity to interrogate someone about it, watch them
do it.
"So -- is it just me, or did you totally nut in your underoos just now?" Dean
asked, a teasing slant to his voice even though he was seriously curious.
"Shut up," Sam moaned automatically, his face turning toward Dean's again. He
was probably wrinkling his nose or scowling in annoyance, but all Dean really
saw were the fans of his eyelashes and the deep flush down his neck.
"So you did, huh?"
After a silence, Sam nodded, then breathed out a sigh. "'S what I wanted to
show you... but yours is..."
Dean's heart forgot to beat for a second. Sam wanted to show him this? "What?"
"I dunno. I forgot it's all, like... thick. Mine's not like that." The sheepish
note in Sam's voice was obvious; Dean could always hear it when Sam wasn't
happy.
"Yeah, well, that's just 'cause you're not in high school yet," Dean said
reassuringly, relaxing and scratching at his stomach. Everything was starting
to feel kind of sticky and gummy and it was fading, cooler than the temperature
of his skin, the shine of it dull. "It'll get thicker when you're older."
There was another quiet pause. Then Sam asked, "Can I feel yours?"
"What -- my jizz? Uh. Yeah, okay. It's already dryin' up, though..."
It was weird -- the way Dean's pulse hammered in his chest and neck and wrists.
It wasn't like that was any more of a gross abomination than jerking off in the
same bed together was, he didn't think, but it still made him feel funny in
some way as Sam reached over and rubbed skinny fingertips on his bare stomach.
Kind of nervous and excited at the same time. And the feel of Sam's fingers
sliding, slimy, through a glob of his jizz, spreading it over his skin, made an
automatic jerk of arousal reverberate through his stomach, muscles tugging it
low even as Sam touched it. Against his hip, his dick strained through another
sensitive twitch. If he hadn't just blown his wad, Dean vaguely realized, he'd
be hard just from Sam touching his come.
"Well?" he asked, after Sam made a small dissatisfied noise.
"'S a lot thicker'n mine," he muttered.
"Let's see yours."
"Oh, uh..."
It took a few seconds, but before Dean could prod him any further, Sam lurched
into awkward movement and pushed the blanket down to his knees, the light of
the front room catching his arm. Dean pushed himself up onto his elbows, an
intensity in his chest pulling him to rapt attention. Outside of porn, which
he'd only ever seen an awful-quality video tape of once at a friend's house,
he'd never seen another guy's jizz -- definitely not live and in-person,
anyway.
Apprehensively, Sam shoved down his briefs -- which did seem a little damp at
the hip -- like he was ripping off a band-aid, quick like a snap. To Dean's
surprise, it was automatically obvious, jizz wetter and thicker on Sam's skin
than he'd expected, glistening and pearly on the cotton of his briefs and
catching in the light. His dick was the same intense baby-pink his mouth was,
and the whole thing was shining wet, and he had a light trail of pubes that
hadn't made it to his belly-button yet. A soupy dribble of jizz slid, even as
Dean was eying him, down Sam's thigh, dripping off his briefs. It wasn't as
white or globby as Dean's, but it looked like there was just as much of it.
"Dude. That's pretty thick," said Dean dryly.
"Ugh," Sam grunted, uselessly attempting to mop at himself with his wet briefs.
"Don't bother," Dean advised, and leaned over to grab at one of his abandoned
shirts on the floor between their beds. He handed it to Sam, and grunted as he
fetched the other for himself, "Here."
They wordlessly mopped themselves off, their bare knees and elbows hitting each
other's, and Dean suddenly realized that even though his own underwear was
clean and good to pull back up, Sam's was gonna have to come off, and -- then
he'd seriously be naked, and another strain of arousal made him heave a massive
sigh. At this rate, he was gonna get it up again before The Grinch was even
over.
"Dad's not turnin' back or he'd've walked in already," he murmured. "Let's lose
the shorts."
"Okay," Sam agreed, rather more readily than Dean thought he might.
Dean's boxers were kicked down to the floor; Sam's were peeled off over his
gigantor feet and thrown, and then Sam was tucking himself eagerly back down
under Dean's blanket and pulling it up over them both. A grunt of approval
found its way out of Dean's throat. The urge to wrap his arm around Sam and
pull him in closer flooded through him the second his head was down on the
pillow, but he did his best to stomp it dead.
"You sure you don't wanna go watch the rest of The Grinch?" he asked Sam
uncertainly. They'd piled themselves together in bed a hundred times before,
settled down and dozed off after whackin' it together, woken up having drooled
on each other before, but without clothes on and -- for some reason, having
seen Sam's jizz shining all over him like that -- it felt different.
"Nope. 'S too cold," Sam said, and shivered, pressing himself against Dean, so
naked it made Dean shudder right back. Neither of them were cold at all. The
pit of Sam's back was sweating, Dean found as he turned in toward Sam and
wrapped an arm around him in a supportive hug. "'N anyway," Sam said muzzily,
"I can still hear it."
"Yeah," Dean murmured, and momentarily tuned back in to listen as Sam's arm
draped, lanky, over his side.
"He puzzled and puzzled till his puzzler was sore," echoed into their bedroom.
"Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before! 'Maybe Christmas,' he
thought, 'doesn't come from a store. Maybe Christmas... perhaps... means a
little bit more!'"
Dean tuned out again; he could feel Sam's heart beating up against his and
briefly imagined Sam's heart growing -- growing -- breaking out of the frame
like the Grinch's. Or maybe it was his heart.
"What d'you want for Christmas, dude?" he asked Sam.
"Uhh, world peace," Sam drawled sleepily. "A million dollars... a puppy..."
"You're a real smartass about Christmas stuff," Dean said. The pit of his belly
was throbbing lowly, and he wasn't at all sleepy.
"Dean..." The tender, heavy way his name came out of Sam's mouth didn't help
matters in Dean's gut; it was one of the things Sam did that made him sound a
million years old instead of twelve. He was getting older, Dean realized
suddenly. Hell, he'd just shot off in his underwear there next to him. It still
smelled thick and hot and like spunk between the two of them. "I really don't
care about stuff like that anymore. I just want Dad to be here."
"Yeah. Me too," Dean said softly. His throat felt thick with pride all of a
sudden. He wondered exactly when this had happened to Sam. Not the I'm-so-
mature sighing stuff, but how long he'd been able to come like that. If it had
been anything like the first time he'd wrung out a load, biting down on his
breaths with someone snoring a couple of feet away. "Don't worry. He'll be
here."
Sam's sigh melted down his chest.
"How 'bout you? What do you want for Christmas?"
"...A car."
That earned him a huff of amusement. "Yeah, okay. Like that'll ever happen.
What else, besides a car?"
"'Course it could happen," Dean said, mock-offended. "Freakin' Scrooge McDuck."
He felt Sam's laugh rather than heard it, a shaking in his chest that didn't
make itself known any other way but which pressed the old amulet he'd worn for
a few years now between them tightly, and felt inexplicably warm.
"Uhh, I dunno. I can't think of anything," he murmured, and under the thick
blanket, gave Sam a squeeze around the middle. "I don't want anything else."
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