Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8091823.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Oral_Fixation, Sam_is_12, dubcon_in_that_sam_is_a_pushy_brat_who_doesn't
      listen_to_his_brother, sam's_magician_phase, First_Time_Blow_Jobs,
      Extremely_Underage, Attempt_at_Humor, toppy!Sam
  Collections:
      SPN_Kink_Bingo
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-09-20 Words: 5941
****** excellent source of potassium ******
by IndridGrey
Summary
     Dean was 16, frustrated, hormonal, and a masochist. Sam was 12, too
     smart for his own good, and just wanted a magic kit and to cheer up
     his big brother.
     Somehow, all of this culminated in the first and oddest blowjob of
     Dean's life.
Notes
     Title is from the Bananas skit by WKUK, which always makes me smile
See the end of the work for more notes
Dirt splashed up from how forcibly Dean had yanked the weed out.  Sam
glanced over, having been hit with the spray, but turned back to his corner of
the flower bed when Dean ignored him.  Dean may or may not be taking his
frustration out on Mrs. Marks’ landscaping.  He loved his dad, he really did,
but the man had yanked him up, like a weed, from Robin and the dance and Sonny
and finally feeling like he could do okay in school, so he could babysit.  Dean
adored Sam—the kid was basically his life—but it was still annoying that he’d
finally had his own life and he couldn’t have it AND Sammy.
For the first time, Dean was having fleeting thoughts of calling CPS.  Fleeting
because there was no guarantee that they’d be kept together and because he
couldn't do that to their dad.  They’d just have to wait until Dean was 18 and
he could be Sam's guardian and go to tech school or get an apprenticeship,
become a mechanic, and support them.  Maybe Sonny would help them out.
Shit, if absolutely nothing else, Dean had learned how to mostly get by with
odd jobs, like weeding elderly neighbors’ gardens.  Yet again, Dad hadn’t left
quite enough cash for how long he was actually gone.  Dean’s next couple weeds
got ripped up with way more vitriol than they deserved.
He was glaring at a tiny centipede’s panicked slither to new cover when a
sharp, pained gasp came from a few feet away.  Dean was on Sam in a split
second, checking him over for what could have caused that noise.  Sam was
biting his lip harder than usual and looking down at where he was cradling one
hand in the other.  Dean followed his gaze and sighed.  Of course.
“How many times I gotta tell you to stop before your blisters pop?”
“You don’t stop.”
“I’m also not a crybaby.”
“I’m not a crybaby, jerk!”  The miserable expression was replaced with
indignation and Dean would be grinning if he were in a better mood.
“I’ll tell Mrs. Marks we’re going home.  Dust off, put the weeds in the bags,
and wait here.  I’ll be right back.”
A few minutes later, Dean reemerged from the house with a large Tupperware
container bulging full of casserole and turkey.  Sam perked up when he saw it
and practically skipped the short walk to their momentary home, grocery bags
full of weeds swinging noisily at his sides, competing with the incessant
cicadas.  It didn't escape Dean's notice how Sam’s index finger was being
spared from supporting the handles.  He wasn’t entirely sure they had an actual
normal band aid.  They had an extensive collection of gauze and fabric bandages
and butterfly adhesives, but most of their injuries weren’t much helped by
normal people first aid kits.
Dean unlocked their door and relocked it behind them.  Sam dutifully darted off
to check the salt lines in the rest of the house and Dean glanced over the ones
there in the living-room-slash-kitchen before putting the food in the fridge. 
He pulled the ice cube tray out of the freezer and twisted.  One cube missed
the hardwater-stained glass, but four made it in, which Dean figured was good
enough.  He returned the tray and filled the glass with tap water.
He found Sam on Dean’s bottom bunk in their room with a medical supply box and
clean hands in his lap.  Dean sat next to him and traded the water for the
box.  Sam gulped loudly and Dean discovered that they had five whole normal
band aids.  Small mercies.  He took Sam’s hand and Sam frowned when Dean picked
up the tweezers.
“Do you have to—ack!”
Dean smiled a little.  He was tired and frustrated, but teasing and taking care
of Sammy were things he could do in his sleep.  “Thought you weren’t a
crybaby?  You got any splinters?”
Sam pouted a “no” and hissed when Dean rubbed the exposed raw skin with an
alcohol napkin.  Dean wrapped the band aid firmly around Sam’s joint and
brought it up to kiss.  Sam was way too old for booboo kisses, but Dean wasn’t,
dammit.
The huffed protest was cut short by a tiny pained grunt.  What now?  Dean
clicked his tongue at the newly split lip.  He’d told the kid a million times
if he’d told him once—
Dean leaned forward on autopilot and licked the blood away and pressed another
soft booboo kiss to Sam’s broken skin.  Sam’s mouth opened on a gasp and Dean’s
new muscle memories took over and a heartbeat later he was pressing closer and
into chapped lips and licking into Sam’s shockingly cold mouth.
The ice clinking as the glass thumped onto the carpet snapped Dean out of it
and he jerked back, stuttering out apologies to his wide-eyed little (Christ,
little, what the fuck was wrong with him) brother.  His heart was going a mile
a minute and something awful was swelling in his chest.  What the fuck did he
just do to Sammy?
“It’s okay, Dean.”
Dean wiped away the smudge of dirt he’d left on Sam’s cheek (when had his hands
gotten there?) with the alcohol napkin and avoided Sam’s eyes.  “It’s really,
really not, Sam.  I shouldn’t have done that.”
“It’s okay, Dean.  It didn’t hurt that much, I swear, I was just surprised.”
He kind of wanted to cry.  “Jesus.  Of course you were surprised!  And
something like that shouldn’t hurt at all, I shouldn’t hur—”  Sam’s band aid
skipped across Dean’s cheek as Sam grabbed his face to hold him in place a
split second before he smashed their mouth back together.  Dean pushed him
away.  “Why are you trying to headbutt me?”
Sam was blushing now, contrite but determined.  “You’ve been all sad and angry
and stuff since we found you again.  Kissing’s supposed to cheer people up,
right?  Cuz it feels good?”
Dean just stared at him for a second.  Honestly, this kid.  “Well, it feels
good when the other person isn’t trying to headbutt you with razor sharp
chapped lips, and when your lip isn’t hurting to begin with.  Seriously, Sammy,
you need to stop biting them, or at least use chapstick or lotion or
something.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I’m serious.  Nobody’s going to want to kiss you, you keep it up.”
“You did,” Sam shot back defiantly.  Dean was not looking forward to the
impending teenage years.
The grip tightened on his face and Dean had a reserved seat in Hell because Sam
was broadcasting his intent from a mile away and Dean did nothing to hinder
him.  This time, Sam came in urgent but softer, chapped lips tickling more than
scratching.  Sam closed his eyes and opened his mouth, and Dean followed suit. 
Most of the chill from the ice water was gone, but Sam’s tongue was still cool
against Dean’s.  Fingers twitched on Dean’s cheek before Sam laved back and
Dean shuddered and felt like the scum of the earth.
Sam made another press and pulled away, searching Dean’s face.  “Better?”
“Worst kiss I ever had.  You're like a llama, chapped lips are going to be the
least of your worries.”
Sam shoved him lightly.  “Liar.”  And then he leaned forward to duck his head
under Dean’s chin and hug him.  “I don’t want you to be sad or whatever.  If I
can help, you gotta let me know, okay?  No matter what.”
Dean wrapped Sam up in his arms and nuzzled him a little.  That something awful
in his chest had imploded and now it felt like a pit, something he couldn’t let
Sam get dragged into.  He shouldn't even be allowing himself the hug, he didn’t
deserve it.
“Thanks, Sammy.”
 
===============================================================================
 
Summer was at its height, so those food-coloring-and-sugar-water tube things
were for sale a dollar a dozen.  Dean, a model of originality, thought they’d
be a good distraction to keep Sam from biting his own mouth off, but they just
ended up causing a wannabe baby Glasgow smile.
Sam liked popsicles, though, and their A/C was shit, so Dean sprung for honest-
to-God 100% fruit juice frozen on a stick.  It was simultaneously one of the
best and worst ideas he’d had to date, because Sam was ecstatic, but it turns
out that Sam’s method of eating frozen things off of sticks was a little more
involved than Dean had anticipated.  He sucked the end rid of juice, cheeks
hollowing until the ice was white, and only then would eat that section.  It
took an average of six sections to finish a popsicle.  The worst was when the
last section somehow remained intact, because then Sam would try to deepthroat
the stick.  Even if it were falling apart, though, Sam would cup his hand under
it and if part of it fell, he ended up licking it off of himself.  And either
way, then the punk would be sucking the bare, stained wood off and on for a
good half hour while business resumed as usual.
As far as lip biting alternatives go, it was decent.  Dean’s libido was a
different matter altogether.  He was so on-edge after a couple weeks that it
was almost a relief when their dad showed up and whisked them back on the
road.  Popsicles didn’t keep so well in the cooler.
But then the lip biting got worse again, and now when Dean caught and chastised
him, Sam would switch to biting his nails, which was just unsanitary.  Dean got
him beef jerky, but Sam said it was too salty.  Dean got him gum, but Sam
chewed a stick to death in under five minutes.  Dean got him chapstick, but it
somehow got past Dean on laundry day and melted.  Twice.  Dean got him a
pacifier, only mostly a joke, but Sam hurled it back at him.  A week later all
of Dean's underwear were replaced by adult diapers.  Honestly, Dean had been
impressed by that.  Didn’t stop him from kicking Sam’s ass, though.
Dean was at his wit’s end, exasperated, especially since Dad didn’t see a
problem.  But Dean couldn’t stand it.  Sam hurting even a little was already a
problem, but then add the tongue peeking out to soothe swollen red lips, bright
teeth tearing at nimble fingers…  Dean missed making out and knew what Sam’s
tongue felt like on his own and he needed. Sam. to. stop.
Then Sam read about “peanut butter andbanana sandwiches, Dean!” in one of the
library books he'd eloped with.  Bananas kept better than popsicles, didn’t
have any of the problems of Dean’s other attempts, almost every gas station had
them, and Sam loved them.
Dean was pretty sure someone or something had it out for him, and only a smidge
of guilt echoed in the pit in his chest when he double-dog dared Sam to try to
eat an entire banana in one bite.  Sam had glared, then eyed the banana he’d
just peeled.
“What do I get if I do?”
“What?”
“Like a bet," Sam explained, "What do I get if I can do it?”  He was trying to
test the waters, which meant he already had something in mind.
“What do you want?”
Sam looked back up at him, hazel eyes laser-focused.  “A magic kit.  A real
one, not buzzers and rubber chickens.”
Dean was gobsmacked speechless for a second.  Then he burst out laughing, much
to Sam’s displeasure.  “You are such a huge nerd!  I cannot believe we’re
related.”
“Eff you.”
Dean put on his pearl-clutching impression but he was pretty sure he was
smiling too wide for it to be effective.  “Sammy, language, please!”
“Shut up.  Do we have a deal?”  He aimed the banana at Dean like a knife.
Dean’s throat clicked with his swallow.  He absolutely shouldn’t—“You’re on.”
Sam huffed in triumph and went back to assessing the banana, brainstorming a
battle plan.  Apparently he didn’t come up with anything because he just went
for it, crammed it in, and promptly gagged.  He coughed half of it into his
hand and turned a wet glare up to Dean, who shrugged with fake nonchalance.
“Tough luck, lil bro.”  Dean’s voice only cracked a tiny bit, but Sam heard and
interpreted it as stifled laughter and glared harder.
“No way!  I should get more than one chance!  I can do it, I just need
practice!”
“Knock yourself out, dude.  Just don’t waste good food because you slobbered
all over it.”
Sam popped the other half of banana in his mouth and chewed pointedly.  Dean
had to be a masochist, there was no other explanation—a horny, destined-for-
Downstairs, King of Pervs masochist.
Twenty bananas met a furious, saliva-drenched end over the next three weeks. 
Their dad just shook his head in mild amusement when Sam told him about the
bet, which was both a relief and a reminder that Dean was seriously fucked up
and shouldn’t be feeling a hot rush of arousal every time he witnessed Sam’s
attempts.
On banana 23, Sam finally made some kind of connection (swallowing pain meds,
swords, who knew?) and started tilting his head back.  Dean’s stomach swooped
each time he watched Sam’s underdeveloped Adam’s apple bobbing, trying to fight
his gag reflex.  Suggestions based on the porn he’d watched were always on the
tip of his tongue, so he was careful to make sure the only thing that passed
his lips was bland taunts.
On a completely separate note, Dean’s masturbation had taken on a distinct
franticness.  Totally unrelated.  Unlike him and Sam.
 
===============================================================================
 
Dean double-checked the salt lines, the locks, the alarm clock, the knife under
his pillow, the shotgun propped against the nightstand, the sleeping Sammy
tucked into the bed farther from the door, and then sat on his own bed.  He
settled against the headboard, glanced at the Lump O’ Sam on the other bed one
more time, and turned the TV on.
This motel, Dean had been immensely pleased to discover, had the good stuff. 
He’d have to mute it, which was a shame, but people moving was still better
than skin mags.  The channel was on the tail end of one movie, which gave Dean
time to lightly pet himself chubby over the course of the credits, commercials,
and the clichéd exposition of the next movie.  By the time the couple from next
door seduced the main character, Dean was in a warm, easy buzz of arousal that
he hadn’t managed since the double-dog dare.
The neighbor—a brunette, just Dean’s luck—dropped to her knees and Dean hadn’t
really noticed before but the guy’s dick was actually rather pale and smooth
and now all he could think about the chick was that her eyes were all wrong and
her mouth was too red.
He spit out a frustrated “goddamn bananas” past clenched teeth and did his best
to focus on the blonde sucking face with the guy.  Then, of course, the point
of view changed to the brunette staring straight at the camera while slurping.
Apparently guilt-free jerking off was a thing of the past for Dean Winchester.
He cast a reflexive glance around the room as he reached for the remote, then
froze and did a horrified double take.  Sam’s eyes were reflecting the light
from the TV, alert and focused on him.  Dean scrabbled for words and watched
Sam shift and redirect his stare to the deepthroating neighbor.  A tinny noise
reverberated hard in the pit in Dean’s chest as Sam watched, and then dimmed to
a tentative hum when Sam turned his face back to Dean, still seemingly
nonchalant.  If Sam didn’t know how fucked up this situation was, then Dean
could play it off.
“Is that why you’re always staring at me when I eat things?”  Something about
the way Sam said it reminded Dean of when they’d finally talked about what Dad
really did.  Which suggested that Sam was being rhetorical.  Which meant that
Sam absolutely had an idea of how fucked up this situation was and Dean was so
incredibly fucking fucked.
All the air in Dean’s lungs whooshed out and his inhale was ragged.  “Jesus
Christ, Sam.  I need you to turn around, go to sleep, and forget this ever
happened, okay?”
That was the wrong thing to say because now Sam was half up, propped on his
hands with locked elbows, and his face was scrunched in indignant confusion. 
“What?  Why?  I’m not gonna tell Dad.”
Nice to know, but not exactly an improvement on the core problem.  “That’s not
the—this is a private thing, Sam, you weren’t supposed to see!”
“Then you shouldn’t have done it, like, five feet away from me, jerkface.”
“You were supposed to be asleep!”
“Am I supposed to be asleep when I eat bananas, too?”  Sam shouted back,
rhetorical again and weirdly triumphant.
Dean groaned and ground the heels of his hands against his eyes in an effort to
banish the new image of feeding a sleeping Sam his cum.  His depravity had no
limits.  If he’d known this would happen, he’d have stayed at Sonny's and
directed his hormones at a less spectacularly fucked up outlet.  He groaned
again and pushed hard enough that bright circles flashed in the dark behind his
lids.  He might end up calling CPS on himself at this rate.
“You didn’t keep it private and I saw, so I can look, right?”
A string of curses was startled out of Dean at the quick, excited, in a
different place voice.  He gaped at Sam, now standing at the foot of Dean’s
bed, backlit by the women making out as the guy fucked one of them, and
mysteriously now donning a hoodie he hadn’t gone to bed in.
“What?  When did you—”
It seemed Sam just needed something that wasn’t a ‘no,’ because he crawled up
the bed and flopped down when his head was aligned with Dean’s hip.  He stared
up at Dean's mortified face like a puppy aiming for a bellyrub.
“Sam, go back to your own bed, and go, to, sleep.”
“No way!  You have to let me see, it’s the rules.”
Dean balked.  “What the hell are you talking about?  There’s no rules—” escaped
his mouth before he caught on.
“So there’s no rule that I can’t look!” Sam chirped.  Dean could not believe he
walked into a semantics trap laid by a 12-year-old.
Said boy had propped his chin up on Dean’s thigh and was reaching for Dean’s
cock—which, why hadn’t Dean already put it away for Christ’s—ooh shit.
His breath caught on a groan when sweat-tacky fingers curled over the head of
his dick and squeezed slightly.  He’d never been touched by someone else when
he was hard and even that weirdo move felt amazing.
“S’posed to look with your eyes, not your hands, Samantha,” creaked out of
Dean’s mouth as just one more unbelievable thing happening right then that felt
completely out of Dean’s control.  Sam ignored him.
“Mine’s going to get like this, right?  Bigger, I mean.”
Eight fingers were curled around his shaft, now, and one thumb was tapping and
rubbing his slit, spreading precum.  Dean was sort of frozen, staring wide-eyed
up at the ceiling in denial about…everything.
A hand slid off and he allowed himself to relax slightly, thinking Sam’s
curiosity was mercifully waning.  Instead, the fingers brushed over Dean’s
balls, causing a literal knee-jerk reaction that hit Sam right in the stomach. 
Dean snapped to look down at his baby brother, who was curled in a fetal
position, shit.
“Ow.  What was that for?”  Sam huffed out mildly, easing the brief swell of
panic at the thought that Sam could be hurt, that Dean could have hurt him.
“That was for being a brat.  Now stop touchin’ me and go to bed already!”  Dean
finally gathered his wits (way too fucking late, so much damage already done,
Christ, one day Sam was going to remember this and realize what a fuck up his
brother is—) and swatted Sam’s hands away.
“I wasn’t done!”  Sam smacked a hand down on the pillow now covering Dean’s lap
and Dean absolutely did not hiss when the coarse fabric grated against his
dick.  He smacked the back of Sam’s head in return, earning a scowl.  Familiar
territory.  Sam flopped onto his back again with a pout firmly in place.  “I
can’t believe how lame you’re being.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, bitch.  Bed.  Now.”
Sam groaned, sat up, and froze when he saw the TV screen.  “Oh.”
For fuck’s sake.  Dean grabbed the remote from where he’d dropped it and the
room went from illuminated by the women making out while riding the guy at
either end to pitch dark.  A moment later, Sam was clambering clumsily over
Dean, twice almost connecting a sharp knee to barely-shielded junk, and Dean
put a hand on Sam’s waist to help steady him.  He knew it was coming but still
winced when Sam turned on the bedside lamp.
Sam settled, straddling Dean’s thigh and that...that was possibly worse than
before.
“Were we supposed to kiss before?  That’s what people on TV are always doing. 
Is that why you’re being weird, cuz I skipped kissing?”
“I’m not the one being weird here, Sam.”
“Are too!  We can start over, okay?  Kiss me.”
Dean stared.  His little brother was basically in his lap, holding so still
that it was obvious that he wanted to squirm, eyes bright and eager, leaning
forward and up, all the better to kiss.
“No.”
Sam’s hands flung up in exasperation before he settled them high up Dean’s
thigh, fingertips poking out of the cuffs and burning into skin that had never
seen the light of day.  Dean dragged his wary gaze up to Sam’s, which prompted
Sam to scoot forward more.  Dean sucked in a quick, bracing breath.
“What the H, Dean?”  And there was a really good reason for why this needed to
not happen: Sam couldn’t even swear properly yet.  “Now you’re not even gonna
kiss me?!”  He bounced in frustration and, yeah, this was definitely a worse
position.  Dean closed his eyes for a moment, trying and failing to shut out
the unwelcome feedback from his cock.  When he reopened them, Sam’s pout had
evolved into puppy eyes, and that, as they say, was basically that.  The soft
“why not?” was the redundant nail in the coffin.
“Sammy…” Dean sighed, leaned forward, and placed a chaste peck on his baby
brother’s mouth.  “There.  Will you go to bed now?”
The answer came in the form of hands clapping onto Dean’s face and pulling him
forward into a considerably less chaste kiss.  The hands slid to cup his jaw as
Sam tried to lick into his mouth, and it took Dean a beat to figure out what
Sam had just smeared onto him and holy shit there was precum on his face now. 
Maybe—maybe this was all a dream and he would wake up to wet underwear that he
would feel guilty and mortified about for the rest of his life.  Except Sam’s
tongue was licking his now, and it was cooler than it should be again, only
this time from minty toothpaste.  Dean was pretty sure dreams weren’t that into
details.
Sam pulled back and huffed out “you’re s’posed to kiss back,” and Dean broke
out of the drone of denial.  He mirrored Sam’s hold on his face and stared down
the bright gaze.  Sam fidgeted under the scrutiny, and looked a little miffed,
but besides that he seemed fine.  And he was a fuckin’ smart kid.  Dean was
about 90% sure that Sam knew exactly what he was doing and why he shouldn’t be
doing it, and that he was just exercising his faux-naïve acting skills.  He
might still be too young to really grasp the significance of all these things,
but he had also already figured out how Dean felt before climbing onto the bed.
“Sammy, I need you to listen to me for a minute.”  Sam rolled his eyes but
shifted back into place on Dean’s thigh in acquiescence.  “I will buy you a
magic kit, okay?”  Immediate perking up.  “You don’t have to finish the dare;
it’s an A-plus for effort.  So you don’t need to do anything else.  I don’t
want you to feel like you have to do anything, and if I, or anyone else, ever
makes you uncomfortable, you gotta say something and maybe throw a punch.  I
need to know you understand that.”
“I get it, Dean, jeez!” came the exasperated retort.  Not exactly reassuring. 
“I’m not uncomfortable.  I just…,” Sam broke eye contact then looked back at
Dean from under his lashes.  “I’m trying to make you happy.  And kissing and…”
the gaze turned to the pillow in Dean’s lap “other things feel nice, and
they’re supposed to be fun, right?  And I’m pretty sure you wanna do those
things with me, and I’m not uncomfortable and you’re not making me do
anythin’.  I’d like to see you try, jerk, cuz I really will punch you!”  All
the bravado was in place, but Sam’s cheeks were definitely rosy as he leaned
forward again.  “So just shut up and kiss me back already.  You’re making it
weird.”
“I’m making it weird?  You are such a brat, I swear.”
“You’re not shutting up.”
Dean pushed Sam’s face away slightly.  “Keep your tongue in your mouth this
time, punk.”
Sam smacked his arm away.  “What?  But that’s how people on TV do it!  That’s
how you did it!”
“Yeah, well, we’re gonna do it different this time.”
“Do it, then," Sam challenged.
“Just remember that this is the one time you can punch me and I won’t punch
back.”
Sam grinned mischievously, so Dean planted one on him before he carried out any
bright ideas.  Dean kept it slow and dry for a minute, pressing deeper and
pulling Sam closer.  He broke away with a gasp when a pajama-clad knee brushed
his junk.
It hadn’t been intentional, if the dazed look Sam was giving him was any
indication.  “You were right, Dean.”
“About what?”
“Feels a lot better when my mouth doesn’t hurt,” Sam whispered and then sat up
higher on his knees and leaned forward to press open lips to Dean’s, painfully
sweet.
And this was so, so bad, because Dean was goddamn melting under his baby
brother.  The kisses were a little too wet, even without tongue, and Sammy’s
hair was so fucking soft, and that pit in Dean’s chest was yawning desire.  The
little noise that Sam made when Dean licked his lips further apart echoed in
the greedy chasm and Dean should stop now, absolutely this instant, before it
got any worse. 
Dean was about two seconds from pulling away and sending Sam to bed for real,
honest, when Sam burst into a flurry of movement, and the next thing Dean knew
there were no pillows on the bed except the one between him and the headboard
and Sam was somehow tucked between Dean’s legs, his face a few inches from
Dean’s yet-again-exposed cock and closing in.
“Sam, what the fUUUUUUUUCK!”
Dean’s ears were ringing slightly from how hard his head hit the headboard, but
he could feel the little shit laugh before there was another drawn out lick
over the head of his cock.  Dean full-on convulsed with the pleasure that was
trying to fry his nerves and his knees drew up to bracket Sam in.
“S-Sam, what are y—oh, god—”
“Does it hurt?”  The last shred of Dean’s decency screamed at him to say ‘yes’
and end this, but then he caught glimpse of Sam’s smirk before there was a lick
across the underside of his head—rhetorical again, which begged the question of
how in the fuck Sammy knew about—
Shitshitshit it was a good thing Sam’s lips weren’t chapped because they would
have scraped over sensitive skin as Sam opened his mouth on Dean’s head and
then everything was hot and wet and “Jesus Christ.”
Sam paused, which was fine by Dean because his lungs were attempting a dramatic
impression of a knocked out Zuul.  He was pretty sure he was supposed to be
doing something, but he was wracked with bliss and holy shit, no wonder people
liked this.  Sam took in a little more, like he did when practicing with
bananas, and then he sucked, like he did when eating popsicles, and Dean was
fuckin' gone.
Dean flailed a little, trying to shove Sam’s head away, trying to give a
warning, but all that came out was a garbled yelp, and then Dean was coming in
his baby brother’s mouth.  And Sam.  Sam didn’t move away, just let out a
surprised noise at the first gush of cum and moved to compensate for Dean’s
writhing as the orgasm erupted through him for a few long seconds, and then
waited another couple seconds before relinquishing Dean’s dick.
It was official: Dean was the scum of the Earth.  This might be one of the most
fucked up things to have ever happened, and yet a dirty, thrilling high was
ringing through Dean.  He tried to ignore it because the only things he should
be feeling were horror and guilt—and yet.
“Sam?  Sam.  Are you okay?”  Dean’s voice was thready between gasps of breath.
Sam sat up on his heels, and that horror started showing its head, because his
face was scrunched up like he was confused, and he had a hand slapped over his
mouth.  Dean reached out to him and the guilt rose up when Sam flinched back.
“Fuck, Sammy, I’m so sorry—”
The confused expression intensified and Sam reached into his mouth.
“Go spit it out, brush your teeth again, I’m sor—whuuuh?”
What the hell?  Sam was pulling something white out from between his lips, and
Dean was pretty sure you couldn’t do that with cum.  Was—was that paper?  What
the fuck?  Dean was not anywhere near coherent enough for whatever was
happening.
“What.  What is that?  Are you okay?”
Good god, Sam had already pulled out a whole foot of the stuff out and he was
still going.  Shit, was Dean cursed somehow?  What the fuck was happening?
Sam finally peeked at him and something that sounded suspiciously like a giggle
accompanied the continuous pulling.  Dean flinched when the end of the paper
(it looked almost like a streamer) touched his naked thigh, damp with spit and
probably jizz.
Dean seriously didn’t have the brain capacity for this so soon after coming,
and he just gawked at Sam as the paper kept coming and kept coming and where
the fuck was it coming from and why wasn’t Sam freaking out?
It was a good fifteen seconds of constant pulling before the end came and Dean
was left with a lapful of soggy paper to gape at.
“What the fuck just happened?”  The question applied to the entire night, but
especially the last half-minute.
“Ta-da,” Sam offered in a wavering voice.  His eyes were bright with amusement
and he was trying not to smile.  Wait a fucking second.
“Was—Sam, was that a magic trick?”
Sam was outright grinning now.  “It’s called a mouth coil.”
Right.  Of course.
Dean tilted until he was lying awkwardly on his side against the headboard with
Sam still between his legs.  His dismayed humming quickly escalated into
hysterical giggling.  What the fuck.  His 12-year-old baby brother just gave
him his first blow job in order to perform a magic trick.  Oh, god, it was part
of Sam’s ‘do things that feel good/are fun in order to cheer Dean up’ efforts,
wasn’t it?  This was, like, the most sinful thing ever with the purest
motivation ever and Dean didn’t know what to do with it, especially since he
just felt warm (hysteria aside).
“Dean?  Are you okay?”  Sam was watching Dean’s shaking with a look of concern.
The laughter died down, but Dean couldn’t stop grinning.  Sam huffed in
annoyance when Dean reached over and ruffled his hair.
“I am golden, baby brother.”
“Not a baby,” Sam protested with a pout.
That was all it took to sober Dean up again.  Babies don’t know about
blowjobs.  Sam shouldn’t know about blowjobs.
“Where did you learn that?”
“The mouth coil?  Library book.  Or did you mean that?”  Sam glanced down at
Dean’s flaccid cock.  Dean nodded.  Sam rolled his eyes.  “While you off being
stupid and lost, I was bored and found Uncle Bobby’s secret movies and
magazines.”
Dean groaned.  It definitely could have been worse.  At least this meant he
didn’t have to kill anyone for bad-touching his brother.  He curled inward
slightly to better look at Sam.  His cheeks were a little flushed and he seemed
content with everything that had happened.  Definitely could be worse.  Dean
just had to decide whether to take Sam’s lead or to do enough freaking out for
the both of them.  Right now, though, he was exhausted from the orgasm and
massive amount of stress he’d just experienced.
“You and me are having a very long, very boring conversation about sex and
consent tomorrow, mister.”
“You and I,” came the automatic reply.  Then Sam registered what had actually
been said.  “Wait, what?”
“Tomorrow.  Right now, throw that gross-ass coil thing away, go brush your
teeth, and actually go to bed.”
Sam glared at him for a second before he grabbed one end of the mouth coil and
purposefully dragged it across Dean’s naked cock and thighs as much as he
could.  The smirk gave away that he was doing it specifically because the coil
was damp and cold and fucking gross, so Dean didn’t feel guilty for smacking
him and shoving him off the bed.
The brat popped up a couple minutes later right back at the end of Dean’s bed. 
This time (finally) Dean was safely hidden away in his boxer briefs.  Sam had
shed the hoodie (had the coil been in the pocket before Sam palmed it into his
mouth?) and was biting his lip, looking shy despite having just blown someone.
“Stop biting.  Whaddya want?”
“Can I sleep with you?”
Hadn’t he already?  Or did oral not count?  He’d have to look into that.  Sam
was supposed to be too big for sharing a bed.  Dean patted the space next to
him and Sam rushed to gather the pillows off the floor and wiggle in under the
covers before Dean changed his mind.  Dean turned off the bedside lamp and
settled down.
Something occurred to him.  “Sam. Did…did you swallow before you put the coil
in?”
“Um…yeah?”
Oh, motherfuck, his cum was in his brother.  His brother was going to digest
him, maybe use things from him to build Sam-parts —no, no, this was not the
time for more hysteria.  This was the time for sleep and Not Thinking.  Dean
drew in a couple of calming breaths.
“Are you mad?”  Sam sounded uncertain for the first time that night.
Dean moved closer and pulled Sam into a hug.  “I’m a lot of things right now,
but mad isn’t one of them, okay?  Just go to sleep and we’ll talk tomorrow.”
Hair tickled Dean’s chin as Sam nuzzled into laying on him and Dean petted over
the soft mane a couple times before putting his arm around Sam’s shoulders.  He
yawned and closed his eyes and was on the verge of sleep in seconds.
Tomorrow should be interesting.
End Notes
     Y'all have no idea how tickled I was when that "magic in bed/is this
     your card" meme popped up--I wasn't alone in that line of thinking
     LOL Back in like June when I was trying to figure out what trick to
     use in this fic my friend was just like "ummmm but why???"
     VINDICATION!!
     Comments and kudos make my day and concrit is welcome!!~
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