Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4449.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time, Pre-Series, Anal_Sex, Fingerfucking, Hand_Jobs, Sibling
      Incest
  Stats:
      Published: 2009-04-26 Words: 4712
****** hardcore (what exactly do you do for an encore?) ******
by MontanaHarper
Summary
     Dean propped his beer against his thigh and held out a hand toward
     Sam, grinning. "So how about you hand over the remote and let me
     enjoy my recuperation, bitch?"
Notes
     Title taken from the song "This Is Hardcore" by Pulp.
     I started this ages ago (over a year and a half, in fact), but I was
     inspired by
     [[info]]
merihn's [[info]]comment_fic prompt: SPN, Sam/Dean, accidentally watching porn
together. (first time fic for bonus points!) to finish the last thousand or so
words.
Thanks to [[info]]cathexys and [[info]]treewishes for taking a look at an
incomplete draft. I cannot possibly thank [[info]]casspeach enough. She betas,
cheerleads, holds my hand, and just is basically my lifeline when I'm writing.
The only warning Sam had was the rattle of key in lock, and so his heart was
pounding when the front door finally opened to reveal Dean, who looked a little
worse for the wear. Sam slid the remote under his thigh and tried to look
engrossed in the textbook covering his lap, but he could tell by the way Dean's
eyes narrowed that he'd failed at casual. His face already felt hot, but the
heat intensified as Dean kicked the door shut behind him and dropped his duffel
on the floor, staring at Sam the whole time, and Sam was pretty sure he was
busted.
"You look like shit," Sam said, trying to derail the awkward conversation
before it even got started. "Where's Dad?"
"Got a call from Caleb about a ghost in Bend, so he dropped me off. Figures he
can make it there before nightfall." Dean's gaze traveled around the room and
Sam's stomach knotted. He was so totally screwed.
He just nodded, though, and pretended to turn his attention back to his
homework, determinedly not looking anywhere near the television and VCR. Not
looking at Dean, either, which was the really hard part. Behind him there was
the sound of the refrigerator opening and closing, the cap being popped off a
bottle of beer, Dean's boots hitting the floor one by one, and then Dean
propped one hip against the back of the couch and said, "Where's the remote? I
wanna watch TV."
"Kinda busy here," Sam said, barely glancing up, ignoring the way the position
put Dean's crotch exactly at his eye level. "I have a test first thing tomorrow
morning." Dean was still looking like he was waiting for the remote. Maybe if
Sam started an argument, he could get Dean to forget about the television.
"Anyway, why are you here instead of headed to Bend with Dad? I don't exactly
need a babysitter."
Dean didn't take the bait. "Nah, I know that. Actually, I kind of fucked up my
shoulder. Won't be much use on a hunt, not for a couple days at least."
Sam's head snapped up and he looked around at Dean, who didn't meet his eyes.
"Shit. Are you okay?" Any other time, he would've been up and off the couch,
needing to check on Dean for himself. Now, though, there was no way in hell he
could even move his book until Dean left the room and he could get his jeans
fastened again.
"I'm fine, Samantha," Dean said, rolling his eyes. "Just dislocated it is all.
Dad popped it back in." He pivoted and swung his legs over the back of the
couch, leaning on what Sam assumed was his good arm and landing on his ass
right next to Sam, feet up on the coffee table. It was cool in that way that
only Dean could pull off, and it made Sam kind of hate him sometimes. When it
wasn't making Sam hard. Or maybe especially when it was making him hard; he
wasn't sure.
Dean propped his beer against his thigh and held out a hand toward Sam,
grinning. "So how about you hand over the remote and let me enjoy my
recuperation, bitch?"
Sam adjusted his textbook. "Should you even be drinking? I mean, you took
something for the pain, right?" Now that he was closer, he could see that
Dean's pupils were blown wide and his relaxed smile was maybe a little too
relaxed. "Dean?"
"If you were really worried about me," Dean said, shifting like he was going to
lever himself up off the couch, "you'd give me the remote instead of making me
stand up again to turn on the TV."
At Sam's squawk of protest—which hadn't even come out as an actual word, much
to Sam's embarrassment—Dean stopped, and then the narrow-eyed look was back.
"I'm starting to think," Dean said slowly, sounding like it was just now
occurring to him, "that maybe you don't want me to see what you were watching."
There was a beat as Sam sat there, trying to figure out how to respond to that,
and then Dean smiled one of his wide, ‘gotcha!' smiles, knocked back the last
swallow of his beer, and said, "It's not like it's some big secret you were
spanking the monkey when I got home, dude. Share the porn, already."
And that was just great; all Sam needed was to get stuck watching porn with his
brother. The brother he was watching porn to avoid thinking about, because if
there was one thing the Winchester family did well it was be totally fucked-up.
"You really don't want to see it," Sam said.
The couch dipped beside him as Dean went to stand for real this time, his left
arm held protectively across his chest. "Dean, Jesus!" Sam reached out and
tugged on Dean's shirttail, pulling him back. "Fine, just. Don't blame me if,
you know, it grosses you out or something." Fishing the remote out from under
his leg, he turned on the television and then started the tape playing.
He couldn't watch the screen, and he didn't want to see the expression on
Dean's face when Dean realized he was watching gay porn, so Sam let his head
fall back against the cushions and stared at the ceiling. The really pathetic
part was that he didn't even have to look to know what was going on; he'd
watched the tape enough times over the weekend that he knew just by the sounds.
Despite his embarrassment, and Dean's presence, and, well, despite everything,
his dick was reminding him that this was the incredibly hot scene with the wet,
sloppy blowjobs. He could feel his face heat up, and he wasn't sure if it was
from shame or from being so turned on that he was just about willing to hump
his chem textbook if it meant he'd get off.
At the first huff of laughter from Dean, Sam's jaw clenched. Laughter was
better than anger or disgust, at least.
"Jeez, Sammy, you had me worried," Dean said, and it was probably Sam's
imagination, but he sounded a little breathless. "I thought it was going to be,
like, horses or torture or...or little kids or something, the way you were
acting all afraid to let me to see it."
"What?!" He stared at Dean, who was looking back perfectly calmly, like he
hadn't just said he'd seriously thought Sam might be into kiddy porn.
Dean gave a one-shouldered shrug. "You were so sure I was going to freak, and I
couldn't think of anything else fucked up enough."
And Sam couldn't say what he wanted to, which was that he thought it was plenty
fucked up to watch gay porn and think about your brother, to fantasize about
fucking him and sucking him, so he just said, "It's gay porn, Dean."
"Yeah, I got that, Einstein. The extra dicks and lack of pussy clued me in,
thanks." Then the bastard just settled in and started watching in earnest, and
Sam looked away again, deciding that maybe Dean getting into the gay porn was
worse than him being grossed out by it. Dean, apparently oblivious to Sam's
discomfort, said, "Where'd you get this, anyway? They got a new section at
Blockbuster I should know about?"
Sam steadfastly ignored the flashes of movement he could see out of the corner
of his eye. He told himself he didn't want to know what Dean was doing. "You
know the adult store down on Third? They've got video rentals."
"Seriously, Sammy?" Dean almost sounded impressed. "You just walked in, took a
spin through the butt-pirate aisle, and came home with this?"
"Jesus, could you be more offensive?" Sam said, shocked into turning his head
and looking at Dean, which he realized was a mistake even as he was doing it.
Dean had slouched down and was pressing the heel of his hand against his fly,
his lower lip between his teeth, and when he caught Sam looking, he flicked
open the button of his jeans and started tugging the zipper down.
Sam looked away, trying to catch his breath. Trying not to let on that Dean was
getting to him.
"Probably," Dean answered, like it had actually been a question, and Sam could
hear the smile in his voice. "If I tried." He was silent for a few seconds, and
then he said, "Oh, hey! That's easier than it looks, if you know the trick."
Sam wasn't sure if he should believe what Dean was implying—that Dean had
enough personal experience with cocksucking to know how to deep-throat—but he'd
never been very good at not letting his curiosity get the better of him. "Oh,
really?" he said, trying to sound casual, keeping his attention focused on the
television, where a kind of generic-looking dark-haired guy was swallowing the
improbable length of a hot blond's dick like it was easy. "And what's the
trick?"
Dean sounded honestly regretful as he said, "I dunno, Sammy, I'm not sure
you're big enough to know something like that."
It was more than Sam could take. Since Dean got home, he'd done nothing but
push Sam, trying for God knows what kind of reaction—probably terminal
embarrassment. Well, if Dean wanted a reaction, he was going to get one. Sam
shoved the book off his lap and pushed the front of his briefs down a little
further, until the elastic slipped behind his balls and held. He was still
hard, hadn't stopped being hard since before Dean walked in the door, and he
wasn't sure he wanted to think about what that meant. The only thing he was
sure of was that if they were playing some kind of game of gay chicken, he
wasn't going to lose.
"I dunno, Dean," he echoed Dean's words back at him, "I think I'm plenty big
enough. What do you think?" He knew that wasn't the way his brother had meant
it, but he figured it was about time someone turned the tables on Dean, took
his words and twisted them around until they dripped with innuendo and made him
blush for a change.
And Sam managed it with only a little bit bravado thrown in, because he'd seen
enough porn by now to know that he didn't need to feel insecure about the size
of his dick. Still, he could feel his face flushing, and he tried hard not to
think about the fact that it was Dean he was jerking off in front of; if he let
himself dwell on it, he was going to come right away, and that would just be
embarrassing. He stroked himself slowly, watching Dean out of the corner of his
eye, his attention caught by the lazy motion of Dean's hand, the slick tease of
Dean's dick barely revealed on each downstroke.
Dean let out a surprised-sounding laugh. "No, Sasquatch, I don't think you have
anything to worry about," he said.
Then he reached over, knuckles brushing against Sam's thigh, and wrapped his
fingers around the remote. Sam's breath caught, his hand automatically
tightening on the base of his dick. Dean skimmed through the few minutes of
"plot" before the next sex scene, then dropped the remote on the coffee table.
When he settled back, his shoulder ended up pressed lightly against Sam's, and
when he started jerking himself off again every shift of muscle rippled through
Sam's body, too.
Sam spread his legs wider, pushing his hips up and fucking into his fist,
letting his denim-covered thigh press against Dean's, and Dean didn't move
away. Sam closed his eyes and focused on going slow, on banking the lick of
fire that was trailing down his spine until it faded to a low heat. There were
hot spots making him tingle everywhere Dean's body touched his, even through
Dean's long sleeves and Sam's jeans; Sam couldn't imagine what it would feel
like if they were actually skin to skin.
"Maybe," he said, voice low enough that Dean could pretend not to have heard if
he wanted, "maybe you could show me that trick."
Dean's rhythm faltered, but Sam refused to open his eyes, clinging to one last
shred of plausible deniability. Finally, Dean said, "If you're not old enough
to say it, you're not old enough to do it."
Sam thought that had to be the absolute stupidest sentence ever uttered.
He took a deep breath and looked directly at Dean, who was smirking like he'd
already won, like Sam had blinked. Well, Sam had news for him. There was no way
he was going to miss this opportunity just because he was embarrassed. He'd
been thinking about this, about Dean, pretty much since he'd figured out what
his dick was for. And hell, if Dean was going to make him ask for it anyway,
make him put into words what had so far only been a stream of hi-def images
that dominated both his dreams and his jerk-off sessions? Well then, he was
going to ask for the grand prize.
"I want to fuck you," he said, and it came out steady and deeper than usual,
and it wiped the grin right off Dean's face. Dean's eyes closed for a second,
and his knuckles whitened around his dick, and Sam kind of thought that had to
be really painful but Dean didn't even seem to notice.
"Aw, hell, Sammy." Dean's voice was rough and breathy, and for a second Sam
thought Dean was actually pissed at him. Then Dean arched up, lifting his hips
and working his jeans and boxers down and off one-handed, and Sam's mouth went
dry. He'd wanted this for so long, but he'd never even let himself hope that
Dean might want it too.
That thought was still circling around in his head when Dean settled himself
down, straddling Sam's lap, his left elbow tucked tight to his side, and Sam
caught sight of his blown pupils again. It was the hardest fucking thing Sam
had done in his life, but he put his hand in the middle of Dean's chest and
held him off; he needed Dean like he needed oxygen, but not if it meant Dean
was going to hate him tomorrow. Not if Dean was only doing this because he was
high and not thinking straight.
For just an instant there was something on Dean's face, in his eyes, that Sam
couldn't quite identify, and then it shifted, became a familiar, cocky
expression and Dean said, "You pussying out?"
Sam shook his head, ready to grab the front of Dean's shirt and haul him back
if he tried to move away. "What'd you take for your shoulder? Percocet?"
This time he recognized Dean's reaction immediately: annoyance. Dean rolled his
eyes, then shifted his hips, his dick sliding up against Sam's, trailing wet
heat and making Sam's breath hitch. "Nothing," Dean said. Before Sam could pull
himself together enough to argue, Dean continued, "Dad gave me morphine before
he popped the shoulder back in, but it wore off a long time ago. That beer I
had fuzzed the pain a little, but no way am I impaired or whatever else you're
thinking."
Then Dean's good hand was between them, wrapped around both their dicks and
stroking, and it felt even better than Sam had imagined it would. He arched up
into Dean's grip, settling his hands on Dean's thighs and letting his head fall
back against the cushions.
"I've got you, Sammy," Dean said softly. "I'll take care of you." And it was
exactly like every other time Dean was there for him, except for how it wasn't.
Because this time it meant Dean's hand stripping Sam's dick, his thigh muscles
flexing under Sam's hands, and his mouth pressing against Sam's neck, and none
of that was like anything else Sam had ever felt before.
It was good. Too good, maybe, because Sam was really close to coming, heat
pooling at the base of his spine and lapping at his balls. He wasn't going to
be able to hold out much longer, not with Dean right there, the embodiment of
every twisted fantasy he'd ever had. "Wait," he said, and, "Don't. Not yet."
"It's okay. We got plenty of time to go again." Dean's hand slowed, but didn't
stop. His breath ghosted warm and damp over Sam's skin as he said, "C'mon, come
for me, Sam."
Sam did, hips pumping helplessly as he thrust up into Dean's fist.
When he opened his eyes again, Dean was looking at him kind of like Sam had
just aced a midterm or maybe taken down a ghost on his own—pleased and proud
and something else Sam couldn't quite place. The expression was gone in an
instant, though, replaced by an evil grin as Dean wiped his hand on Sam's
stomach under his sweatshirt, and the only thing that kept Sam from shoving
Dean off his lap was a hyper-awareness of Dean's injured shoulder.
"Fucker," he said instead, tugging his shirts off over his head and using them
to mop the mess off his stomach. He kind of hoped now that he'd left finger
bruises on Dean's thighs when he'd come.
Dean's grin just got wider. "I thought you wanted to be the fucker, dude, but
if you've changed your mind—"
"Shut up. Just." Sam pulled Dean closer and made him shut up, kissing him until
they were both breathless, until Dean was grinding against him, hips working in
short little jerks, and Sam was hard again.
Dean was the one who eventually pulled back, palm flat against Sam's bare chest
and holding him off when Sam tried to follow. Dean's face was flushed, his eyes
dark, and Sam would've been happy to keep making out for another hour or six,
but when Dean licked kiss-swollen lips and said, "You got any slick?" Sam kind
of stopped breathing for a second.
"Yeah." He fumbled between the seat cushion and the arm of the couch, coming up
with the bottle of lube he'd bought when he rented the first movie.
"Such a fucking Boy Scout," Dean said against his mouth, nipping at his bottom
lip. "You know what you're doing?"
And there was a loaded question if ever Sam had heard one. Yeah, he knew the
mechanics of it, had done anatomical research at the library and then applied
the theory at home, working slick fingers inside himself in the shower and
jerking off with fingertips pressed to his prostate, stroked himself both
inside and out until he came hard enough that black and white spots danced in
his vision. He'd watched porn with guys doing girls and guys doing guys and
even a few with girl-on-girl, but he'd never done any of it with a partner. Not
that he'd ever tell Dean that, because admitting he was a virgin would just be
asking Dean to give him shit for the rest of his life.
He settled for a lie of omission. "With a guy? I've watched enough to have a
pretty good idea," he said, nodding toward the television, where a new pair of
guys were making out on a deck chair beside a pool, one straddling the other's
lap pretty much the same way Dean was straddling Sam's.
Dean turned his head, looked over his shoulder, and Sam felt the twitch of
Dean's dick alongside his own. "Yeah, well," Dean said, looking back at Sam,
"in real life it's not as easy as it is in pornos. You go in without any prep
or without enough slick? It hurts like a motherfucker." There was an edge to
Dean's voice said he was speaking from personal experience.
Sam clenched his teeth, biting back the urge to demand to know who hadn't been
careful enough with Dean. He knew better than to say anything, though; Dean got
pissed off any time Sam worried about him, or wanted to protect him the way he
protected Sam. It was a fight worth having, just not right now, not when it
would probably put the brakes on what might be his only chance to have Dean
like this.
"Here." Dean took the bottle from him, snapped the cap open and squeezed out a
generous amount of lube onto Sam's first two fingers. "It's not that different
from doing a girl. You know how you go down on 'em and finger-fuck 'em good
first, so they're all wet and ready for your dick?"
Sam swallowed and nodded, even though he really didn't know any of it first-
hand. He could picture Dean, though, face buried between some curvy blonde's
thighs, making her writhe and come with his fingers deep inside her, and the
sound that visual dragged out of him was embarrassingly close to a whimper.
He'd have to encourage Dean to bring girls home when Dad wasn't around, because
watching that would be a hell of a lot hotter than the crappy porn he'd been
renting.
If Dean noticed Sam's reaction, there was no indication of it. He took Sam's
wrist, guided his hand back, and continued, "Same idea, but when you're giving
it up the ass, you gotta work 'em open first. With some guys, you can get 'em
off the first time just doing that, before you even get your dick inside."
Sam pressed his fingers against Dean, who inhaled sharply. "Is this..." Sam
started, not really sure how he'd intended to end the sentence. ...all right?
maybe, or ...what you want?
"Slow, Sammy, okay?" Dean's voice had gone all low and breathy, and his eyes
were half-closed. "Gimme one finger."
It was pretty much a miracle that Sam didn't come again right then.
Instead, he bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper, and then pushed
with the tip of his middle finger, feeling resistance turn to slick, yielding
heat as he kept going. It was familiar—tight and smooth and hot, the swell of a
prostate just there when he curled his finger a little—but completely foreign,
too. Dean blew out a breath, eyes closed and body thrumming with tension, and
Sam froze.
"Yeah," Dean groaned, halfway between a plea and an order. "Just like that.
Fuck. Don't stop."
After that, Sam couldn't have stopped if he'd wanted to.
He slowly worked Dean open, following Dean's breathless instructions more
willingly than he'd ever done on a hunt: easy does it and more slick and gimme
another one. Twisting his wrist, Sam pushed a third finger inside and Dean
pushed back like even that wasn't enough, like he was really getting off on it.
"You think you could come like this, just from my fingers?" The words were out
before Sam could stop them, and a blush burned its way up his cheeks.
Dean either missed or ignored Sam's embarrassment; either way, Sam was
grateful.
"Keep doing what you're doing," Dean said, punctuating his words with a slow
roll of his hips that slid Sam's fingers deeper, "and I can pretty much
guarantee it. You gotta make up your mind, though, Sammy. You want your dick or
your fingers up my ass?"
Yes, Sam wanted to say, and both and everything, Dean, I want everything, but
even with his brain short-circuited by the unexpected reality of Dean half-
naked in his lap, dick hard and leaking as he fucked himself open on Sam's
fingers, Sam knew those were the kinds of things he wasn't allowed to say. He
swallowed and tried to pull together a coherent response, but his reaction
hadn't gone unnoticed this time, and now Dean was giving him a slow, filthy
smile.
"Or maybe you're angling for more," Dean said, and Sam's heart skipped a beat
at the thought that he'd given himself away. Then Dean continued, "Maybe
thinking it's not so far from three fingers to four, and from four to a good
old-fashioned fist-fuck," and that wasn't at all what Sam had been thinking,
wasn't anything that he'd ever thought.
Now he wasn't going to be able to stop thinking it.
He wanted to be pissed off at Dean for doing that to him, for upping the stakes
that way, because it wasn't like Sam didn't already spend far too much time on
dirty, fucked-up fantasies involving his brother. He couldn't, though—not even
when the beginnings of a smug grin told him Dean knew he'd won this
round—because Dean was right here with him, touching and being touched, face
flushed with exertion and want; they were in this together, and that part felt
so right it hurt.
Dean shrugged his good shoulder, smug look replaced by something closer to
affection. "Okay, maybe not," he said, giving another one of those hip-rolls
like he thought Sam needed a reminder. "So what's it going to be, Sammy? What
do you want?"
"You." It was true and it came out of Sam's mouth with no hesitation but also
with no thought. "On my dick," he added, like that was what he'd meant all
along, and Dean didn't call him on it, just leaned in and sucked on his lower
lip and kissed him breathless.
"You got any condoms in that Boy Scout stash of yours?" At Sam's head-shake,
Dean fished his wallet out of the tangled pile of his jeans.
Sam's grip on Dean's thigh tightened as Dean rolled the condom on him with a
teasingly light touch, their foreheads together and their faces so close that
all Sam could see of Dean's expression was the dark smudge of lowered lashes
and the glossy cherry-red of kiss-swollen lips. He gave one last twisting
thrust, watched those lips part in a surprised gasp, and he suddenly couldn't
wait to see how Dean would look with Sam fucking him, making him come.
"C'mon, please," he said, not above begging now as he slid his fingers free and
wrapped them, still shiny-slick from the lube, around Dean's dick. One stroke,
two—rough and too needy but he didn't care, because: "Wanna be inside you now,
Dean; wanna feel you on my dick."
Dean shuddered, panted out a soft 'fuck' against Sam's cheek and shifted
forward in Sam's lap. For a second it was awkward, the angles all wrong and
both of them trying to adjust, Dean wincing as Sam bumped his injured arm, but
then Dean settled against him, lowered himself slow and easy and perfect onto
Sam's dick, and Sam thought he might just die from how good it was. And when
Dean started to move—rolling his hips in counterpoint to Sam's thrusts, riding
Sam's dick like he'd been doing it forever—it got even better, and Sam let it
wash over him, all the aching need he'd buried for so long, the need to touch
and taste and claim Dean, to mark him as Sam's and Sam's alone.
Sam pressed kisses along Dean's jaw, sucked bruises into the tender skin of his
neck, and he let Dean mark him in return, with his voice and his eyes and the
weight of his dick in Sam's hand. And when Dean finally lost that perfect
rhythm, when his head tipped back and the long column of his neck was bared and
vulnerable, when he shook and trembled and striped Sam's hand and chest with
his come, he was the most beautiful, most perfect thing Sam had ever seen.
At that moment, there was nothing else Sam wanted in the world. Just this, now
and always, him and Dean and no one else, because Dean was everything.
It was that thought that finally brought him up short, and he pushed it away,
buried it back where it'd come from, because he'd broken a lot of rules in his
life—had no illusions about the fact that he'd break a lot more in the name of
the family business—but that was one line he wasn't willing to cross. It was
one thing to fuck your brother, to lick the sweat from his skin and feel him
clench hot and tight around your dick as he came.
It was something else entirely to fall in love with him.
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