Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8235619.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Underage_Sam, sam_fucking_an_omc, Dean_Walks_In, Genderplay, So_many
      emotions, Blow_Jobs
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-10-08 Words: 2938
****** honey-tempered brat ******
by bloodandcream
Summary
     Sam’s eyes were lined in black and it was marred down his cheeks in
     tear tracks, mouth open wide smeared with shiny hot pink lipstick.
     The other guy - beefcake - hair buzzed short and farmers tan, once he
     saw Dean he pulled away from Sam like he was scalded and that was,
     that - that was Sam’s fucked out asshole all lube shiny and -
Dean could blame what happens on a lot of things.
He’s tired from the long drive and the hunt. He just wants a hot shower because
there’s still grave-dirt under his nails and a little crusted blood in the hair
by his temple. He’s pissed off and unwilling to admit it because John decided
to head to a bar instead of going back to the motel.
It wasn’t a bad hunt, but they’d left Sam alone for almost a month this time.
Dean was worrying himself sick to rush home and check on his little brother.
Sam was seventeen, he could take care of himself, sure. Dean had been left
alone to take care of the both of them younger than that. At least now that he
was older, Dean was able to make sure Sam was left with enough money and to
call him on a schedule.
Dean was not fussing. He was just… tired and cranky.
So he pulled into the dusty gravel lot of the motel, grabbed his duffel from
the back and crossed the lot with long strides, jammed the key in the lock, and
froze.
As soon as the door was cracked open, the sound hit him. Porno track worthy
filth, two deep voices grunting, panting - one begging, christ. The bed
springing loudly, smacking against the wall. Two bodies that were, they were.
Jesus. Hyperaware and trained to focus on details Dean took in all the little
things in a blink.
The two of them were going at it doggy style on the bed to the left of the
door, turned away from Dean. Sam’s skinny body underneath a very large very
muscular one. Socks. Knee high pink and white striped socks. Sheets rumpled on
the floors, clothes strewn. The divots in the beefy guys back right above the
swell of his ass just driving into -
Everyone froze when Dean’s duffel full of weapons hit the ground with a loud,
clanking thud. Two faces whipped around and saw him.
Sam’s eyes were lined in black and it was marred down his cheeks in tear
tracks, mouth open wide smeared with shiny hot pink lipstick. The other guy -
beefcake - hair buzzed short and farmers tan, once he saw Dean he pulled away
from Sam like he was scalded and that was, that - that was Sam’s fucked out
asshole all lube shiny and -
Dean had his Taurus in his hand before he realized he’d pulled it out from the
back of his jeans, safety clicking off loud in the suddenly very quiet motel
room.
“Get the fuck out!”
“Dean!”
Beefcake stuttered and his erection wilted immediately - guy almost looked
ready to piss himself - tripping into his jeans and picking up his shirt as
Dean strode froward to grab him by the back of the neck and physically haul him
to the door. Salt line disturbed, little grains skittering across the carpet as
Dean shoved the guy out, dick not even fucking tucked in, before slamming the
door shut.
“Dean what the hell!”
Sam was kneeling on the bed, cock still hard and Dean reeled. Pulling a sheet
up around his waist as he stumbled upright Sam nearly fell on his face. It
wasn’t just make-up and socks, he had layered strings of bright plastic beads
tight around his neck and his wrists.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Dean didn’t mean to yell but his voice was
high and worried.
“What are you doing? You can’t just, you pulled a gun on him!”
“Who was that? Where did he pick you up? How old was that guy?”
Dean still had his gun in his hands and he felt a little wild but Sam was
puffing his chest out and stepping up to Dean with all the fury of teenage
indignation and his face whore messy.
“That was Brian, we go to school together!”
“That was not a kid, jesus, he was -“
“He’s on the football team-“
“You’re fucking a jock?”
“I like him, and you don’t get to judge me, god, how many times have I walked
in on you?”
Incredulous, Dean gaped at his little brother daring to sling this back at him.
“What, with girls, that doesn’t count!”
Sam threw one hand up dramatically, the other still balled in a dirty sheet
hanging around his waist. “It does too count! Just because they have vaginas
doesn’t mean I wanna see that.”
Dean pursed his lips and tried to say something, but he didn’t have anything.
Scowling when he realized the weight and the threat of the gun still in his
hand, Dean turned away from the filthy picture Sam made, flicked the safety on
and carefully set the gun on the wobbly table. Agitated, he made his way over
to the door and kicked the salt line back into an approximation of what it
should be, checked the locks on the door, and turned back to Sam.
His brother hadn’t even picked up his clothes or tried to do anything with
himself, didn’t swipe at the makeup on his face. Like he wasn’t doing anything
wrong. Hair all ruffled up from wandering hands and sweat, Sam could glare all
he like and try to look threatening but his boner was still pushing out against
the white sheet and those stupid socks were slipping down colt slim legs and
Dean just couldn’t.
“You are damn lucky that Dad didn’t come back with me.” Dean meant it to sound
threatening.
Sam just rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and why’s that? He stop off at a bar?”
God, how did he do that. How did he throw everything back at Dean like that.
“Dammit, Sammy.” A little of the adrenaline was wearing off from finding Sam
getting pounded all dolled up like a hooker, and the weariness was creeping
back. The feeling of being dirty. The shame of leaving Sam behind. Dean sat on
the edge of the clean bed that still had its comforter tucked in.
“What’s wrong?” Sam sounded a little softer, a little less hostile. Sitting
across the narrow space between the beds, he leaned forward to catch Dean’s
wandering gaze and there was so much concern in those young eyes Dean had to
scrub a hand over his face.
“Did you use protection?”
It’s Dean’s way of saying he worries.
“Of course I did. Look, I… this isn’t my first time.”
Dean couldn’t of stopped the hitch in his breath if he tried, but he really
didn’t. Sam’s brow wrinkled, pink smeared lips pouting.
“You, what?”
Bunching the sheet over his lap, Sam shifted and Dean noticed that his nails
were painted a soft peach orange.
“I’m gay, Dean. I mean I think I am. Girls are, I don’t know. Is this going to
be a problem?” His voice was hard again, on the offensive.
“No, of course it’s not.”
“Then what’s the matter?”
Dean looked at the mottled smoke staining on the yellowed wallpaper over Sam’s
shoulder because he couldn’t look his brother in the eye. He thought about
their babysitter, when Dean was twelve, and he went along with it because she
was nice and she fed Sam as much as he wanted and she was warm and safe for
weeks when their father wasn’t there so Dean thought maybe he should. And he
thought about his math teacher in the first school they stayed more than a
month at when he was fourteen and the guy was a total creep but Dean let it
happen and he couldn’t say why. And he thought about the few times guys were
stupid enough to try and approach him in bars when his dad wasn’t looking - or
wasn’t there - bloodied knuckles in back alleys and he stole their money too
because he could.
Dean stared at the wall and he tried to shrug nonchalantly. “He could of hurt
you.” And it’s more of a confession of guilt because Dean wouldn’t have been
here to stop it.
“Dean.”
Sam dropped to his knees and shuffled over closer and Dean almost flinched away
but there were those big puppy eyes staring at him and crowding him in.
“Hey, I’m fine, look I know the guy, and I can take care of myself, you know
that, come on.”
“You don’t get it Sam, I’m not trying to, to treat you like you’re stupid or
anything, but if he did anything, if I wasn’t here-“
“I’m sorry.”
That wasn’t expected.
Sam’s still a stupid distraction with his smudged makeup and bare chest.
Closer, Dean can see the circle marks of a mouth across Sam’s shoulders and
neck, indents of teeth and the shine of spit or sweat.
“What did you let him do, your makeup is all fucked up, looks like a toddler
did it.”
Sam swatted his hand away but there was amusement curling in the corner of his
lips. “I know what kind of porn you watch, come on. My makeup looked good an
hour ago.”
“Oh, dude.” And for the first time Dean really thinks - and feels a twinge of
guilt - for the kind of porn he doesn’t hide from Sam. It’s standard fare, the
cheap stuff easy to come by, but yeah it’s a little rough. “I don’t actually do
that, to girls, you know. I treat ‘em right. Don’t, don’t let guys treat you
like that.”
Sam’s right there, nudging his narrow shoulders between Dean’s knees, and it’s
easy to rub a thumb against the charcoal track of tear streaked mascara, try to
swipe it off. Amazingly enough, Sam lets himself be subjected to it.
Quietly, shyly, Sam asks, “But what if I like it?”
And Dean isn’t too sure what to say to that. “Huh?”
“Oh my god, how are you so bad at talking about this, you flaunt it in front of
me all the time. I just, it feels like getting outside of my head and I like
it. You know, a little rough.”
“Baby, I would never treat you like that.”
Dean’s almost horrified when it comes out. He meant to say something like ‘you
can’t let them treat you like that’, or ‘you’re better than that’, or ‘why
Sammy’, because really, why.
Blinking, all deer-in-the-headlights wide and wondering, Sam stares. “How would
you treat me?”
There’s a long streak of innocent pink from one corner of Sam’s lip up his
cheek halfway, Dean tries to rub it off and ends up smearing it. Sam’s mouth is
open, questioning, offering, Dean’s not sure. His thumb strays, lingers down
the soft soft skin of his brother’s cheek and finds the curve of his mouth. The
warmth of it.
Sam’s near come up on eye level with Dean by now and it’s been so strange to
admit to himself. Still whipcord thin, all lean wiry strength, Dean marvels at
what his brother is becoming and he tries very hard to keep it to himself.
Below him now, looking up at him, like Sam used to, always used to in every
way, Sam closes his lips around Dean’s thumb.
It’s barely a whisper, but Sam lets go of the sheet around his waist and it
slips over his thighs and bares him. Cock hard, bouncing up against his
stomach, Sam presses his tongue against the pad of Dean’s thumb and something
liquid hot drips down his spine. Jesus, Dean is hard too.
Pulling off of his thumb, Sam pushes up on his knees to get closer, places his
bird-bone hands on Dean’s face and holds him. Dean’s heart is racing like a
hunt’s coming down to the wire, one more foot of dirt to go before they’re
safe, every shadow a threat and muscles burning with the acid of it, heart
pounding with the effort of it, breath short in chill air.
“Do you like guys?” Sam asks, close enough that Dean can feel his breath.
“I don’t know,” is all that Dean can say. Because he’s spent most of his time
with girls, with women. It’s easy and it’s nice and it’s what he’s allowed to
have.
Sam seems to think that’s a good enough answer and Dean doesn’t know what he’s
answering to but then his little brother’s lips press against his so fucking
softly it wrenches a dying noise out of Dean’s chest. Whatever that means, Sam
presses closer, more surely, long spindly fingers spanned against Dean’s jaw
and Dean finds his hands curling around Sam’s ribs, warm and shivering with
breath. Sam is sweet and steady and he coaxes Dean’s mouth open.
It’s always easier for Sam, or it seems like it is, to give parts of himself
away. To share, to demand. Not just with Dean, but with everyone. Sam wants to
know everything and he finds ways to relate to people and he has something deep
and inexhaustible inside him that’s able to reach out to everyone else. Dean
can never seem to do that. He can touch on the surface, but underneath, there’s
this something. This big messy knot that’s only for his brother and he keeps it
close and he keeps it shoved down and he doesn’t know how to share this kind of
feeling with anyone because it’s just for Sam. All of it. All of him.
Sam kisses him with sighing.
Nimble hands pull Dean’s belt open before he realizes that Sam isn’t holding
his face up anymore. He could kiss his brother for an age and be happy, but Sam
moves down, sinks back onto his heels and Dean can see his toes curl in those
pink and white striped socks. The bones of his spine dig up through his skin
like a mountain range, he’s been growing so fast it’s like he can’t keep up
with himself, waist still narrow and small, the hair on his bare thighs light
and sparse.
Dean thinks that he should say something. His little brother is pulling his
cock out, mouth a swollen pink shine and eyes glassy. Little kitten licks over
the pre-come beading in the slit gather it all up. Throat shifting, adam’s
apple playing against the bright beads of a necklace made for young girls
playtime, Sam closes his lips around Dean’s cock and sinks down.
There’s no words for this. Hands slipping over the flushed skin of Sam’s
shoulders and fingers pushing into soft messy hair, Dean holds him with all the
care he’s always had, only this isn’t bath time or boo-boos. Dean’s still got
his leather jacket on - dad’s jacket - and his boots and his jeans, everything.
Sam in his socks, small bubble butt pushed out all pale and naked and Dean can
still see the shine of lube down his crack. There’s something off about that.
He feels so small. He feels like he doesn’t know a goddam thing. Like this is
wholly new and revelatory. Dean’s gotten blow jobs before. Even given a few.
Sex isn’t new.
This isn’t sex. And Dean doesn’t know how to do this. Sam takes care of him,
Sam puts his hands on Dean’s thighs and anchors him. Sam watches him and even
with his face still a mess there’s a steadiness in his gaze. Sam knows exactly
what he’s doing and what he wants.
Dean’s lost. He feels the slide of Sam’s tongue and the heat of his mouth on
high alert, thrumming through the corners of his body and lighting him up. It’s
overwhelming, because Sam wants to give him this. To share this with him. And
it’s like the last little piece slotting into place. It’s not like Dean hasn’t
heard Sam before. Caught him a few times. And maybe Dean sets himself up to get
caught by Sam. He’s told himself it’s harmless. That it would never lead to
anything.
Gasping when Sam grasps tight against the meat of Dean’s thighs and swallows
him to the base, Dean curls over his smaller body and whimpers. Doesn’t fuck
into his mouth, doesn’t do more than rock his hips just a little, just to feel
the stretch of Sam’s lips and watch the spit dripping out the corners. Sam goes
slow, slow. Heat pools in Dean’s gut with a gentle easy swell. Sam’s wet-suck
rhythm sounds in time with Dean’s choked grunting. It builds so slow he barely
notices, the tide coming in to wash away all of his carefully drawn lines in
the sand.
Dean’s on the crest and he sees the push of Sam’s shoulder blade working, body
rolling - he’s jacking himself off while he sucks Dean’s cock.
“Don’t, Sam just, wanna watch you…” Dean doesn’t have the words, “I wanna see,
I’m so close, Sam, let me…”
He doesn’t know what he’s asking for, but Sam stills his hand and quickens his
mouth. Shuddering down to his bones Dean cradles his brother’s face and comes
in his pink painted mouth and he’s lost.
Sam pants when he pulls back, breathing hot against Dean’s wet cock. There’s
white on his bottom lip, sucked off by a greedy tongue. Sam touches himself
again, jacks off and he’s still on his knees while he looks up at Dean.
Dean doesn’t do more than lean down to kiss Sam, brush his fingers against the
bony knob of Sam’s neck and watch. Eyes blinking rapidly and mouth wide, crease
deepening in his forehead, Sam jacks off and comes all over the dirt smeared
jeans Dean is still wearing, on his boots, on the cigarette-burn pocked carpet.
He’s the picture of ruined innocence how he’s made himself up and somehow he’s
the honey-tempered brat that Dean’s little brother has always been.
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