Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/345112.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-02-22 Words: 13311
****** oh my next girl (she'll be nothing like my ex girl) ******
by oddishly
Summary
     It's amazing what you can get away with when people think you're a
     girl and your brother is your boyfriend.
Notes
     for ordinaryink.
It's child's play, and it goes like this.
John finds them a town. This week it's some place on the east coast. He
gestures at but doesn't introduce his boys to the ex-teacher who lives next
door, then leaves to take care of something more interesting.
Next day in the store, Dean nods at the same ex-teacher and shrugs an arm
around his pretty, demure girlfriend, pulling her out from where she's hiding
behind him. She lands cat eyes and dimples on the teacher, because if Dean's
got his arm around a girl who has dimples then it doesn't matter that Dean
himself looks like the guy who'll talk your niece into the backseat of his car.
When Sam bites on his lower lip and lets a blush slip onto his cheeks, the
teacher doesn't suspect a thing. He smiles down at him and steps aside so they
can walk by, and then Sam leans all the way up into Dean's hold and murmurs,
"No cameras," in his ear. He pulls back.
Dean tugs him in again. He skates his hand down Sam's side until his fingers
land on the waistband of his skirt, dips his thumb underneath and presses into
the skin until Sam gives in. He tips back as Dean leans down to press a long,
close-mouthed kiss underneath his jaw, the thumb on his hip angling him
somewhere specific, and finds himself staring directly over Dean's head at a
pinprick amber light in the corner.
"All right," he says into Dean's hair. "One camera." Sam bats the hand away
from his hip. The whole point is that he's a nice girl.
Dean waggles his eyebrows and Sam spares a warm, impatient moment to roll his
eyes before letting Dean wheel them around to find something innocuous to buy.
His hand is resting in the crook of Sam's neck, a lock of Sam's hair twined
around thumb and forefinger. Sam thinks about driving an elbow sideways under
cover of Dean's own body; neither of them cares if the mom in the middle of the
milk aisle thinks they make an attractive couple and Dean's not actually being
funny.
He doesn't, though. It's still Dean. And it's kind of funny, if you think about
it.
                                      ---
"Let's get ice cream," says Dean on their way back from the store.
Sam brightens. It's a nice day, and he could see if they have blueberry. And
fudge. Then he could mix them together. "Okay," he says, thinking about what
else he might try. Dean's going to have the apple pie kind with sprinkles
regardless of whatever else is there, and then he's going to do his best to
steal half of Sam's. That's okay. Sam's got moves. He can take Dean.
Big surprise -- ten minutes later, Sam is doing his absolute best to keep his
ice cream away from Dean's tongue. "Did I buy that for you or did I not buy
that for you," Dean demands, standing right between Sam's legs to keep him
against a wall while he grapples for the cone.
"You did not," Sam snaps. Look, this is hisice cream. "We stole it."
"Keep your fucking voice down."
Sam opens his mouth again to hiss it in Dean's ear, but it becomes a moot point
anyway when the truck driver reappears. He doesn't look so happy. "Damn," Sam
mutters, and lets go of the cone.
"You – "
Sam yanks Dean's head towards him with both hands in his hair. Dean sighs, put-
upon, but drops his hands to Sam's waist and presses his face into his neck.
It's surprising how little you need to do with your brother if you want people
to believe that you're a girl and he's your boyfriend. Sam puts about 95% of it
down to people employing selective observational skills, but sometimes that
makes him nervous -- all it takes is one person to notice they're not doing
anything more than a bit of awkward petting, and they're toast.
That one person could be the ice cream truck driver. Sam pulls Dean closer to
him, tries to press himself right up and into the wall, and lets one hand slip
down to cup the back of Dean's neck. Everything short of actually kissing Dean.
And now he's got to scrub that image out of his head. He shuts his eyes.
Dean mutters his name but Sam ignores him. He's enjoying the last of the taste
of the blueberry-fudge in his mouth, and it's warm in the sunshine and they
haven't been caught and his brother is here. It's all good.
                                      ---
It was supposed to be a joke. Then it was a do-over on the joke, because their
first attempt produced such successful results that neither of them laughed.
Then it was because they were hungry, and because John hadn't been home in a
while and Dean had fucked the boss's daughter until he was all the way out of a
job, and when you're desperate, putting on a skirt to rob a bank doesn't seem
so crazy after all.
Tonight they're just bored. Actually, Dean's bored, and Sam wants to go to the
bar with him, so it's not like it's some big hardship to dress up again: same
swishy skirt and flowery top as he was wearing in the store, silk scarf knotted
around his neck and as much black on his eyes as he can manage before half
blinding himself with the pencil. He swears and drops it, squeezing his eye
shut and jamming his palm over the top.
"All right, Sammy?" asks Dean from the hallway.
"Fuck off." Sam takes his hand away. Tries opening his eye, and regrets it
immediately. He squints at Dean. "Why's it always me who has to be the girl,
anyway?"
Dean smirks. Sam sighs. "Don't answer that."
He tips his face into the light and lets Dean open his eye for him, holding his
eyelid up with a finger to stop him from blinking. He holds his breath while
Dean angles his head from one side to the other, fingers careful on his jaw,
and tries not to flinch when Dean lets out a triumphant breath and wets the tip
of his finger, picking out a tiny chunk of pencil.
Sam sits on the edge of the bath and lets Dean redo all his makeup for him,
checks in the mirror in case he missed Dean drawing a penis on his face or
anything, and very carefully doesn't do anything to the almost-perfect lines
around his eyes. He wiggles his ass on the way out the door. Dean laughs.
The bar Dean picks out is the sort of place Sam didn't realise he knew about.
Local band playing up onstage, low-level lighting, sofas and the odd beanbag in
place of bar stools. Dean gets Sam in with an arm slung around his neck and
fake IDs and a nod for the bouncer, and abandons him in a corner while he heads
to get drinks. Sam watches him flirt with the girl on his side of the bar,
followed by the bartender, then realises there's a guy a couple of people away
from Dean that's frowning all the way across the room at him. Sam sits up a bit
straighter and toys with the band in his hair, silently praying that Dean
doesn't turn around in that moment and catch him at it. He slouches right back
down when the guy looks away, and congratulates himself on avoiding twenty
offers from Dean to braid his hair for him next time they go out.
Dean drops down in the sofa next to him with a beer in one hand and a tall
glass of something blue for Sam. "They don't do any pink drinks," he says,
patting Sam's knee in commiseration. "Sorry."
He leaves his hand where it is on Sam's leg. "Thanks anyway," Sam tells him.
The bar guy is still staring when Dean comes back with two more drinks, putting
an edge on the night that Sam doesn't like. He tugs at the bottom of his skirt,
checks that every button is still done up of his top. The guy is making him
nervous for reasons he can't decide on, because it's not like they're in the
middle of a job. There are no consequences to getting found out here.
He looks at Dean. Dean’s got his eyes fixed on a pool game that either of them
could win one-handed, and probably will, in an hour, and he isn't touching Sam
anymore. He's on the other side of the sofa, a good couple of feet between
them.
It's a really long way away.
"Dean," Sam says quietly. The dude at the bar looks like he's half a drink away
from barging over. Sam shuffles up some. "Hey."
Dean starts, and turns to follow Sam's line of sight under guise of looking at
the clock above the bar. Then he looks at Sam. "All right," he says. He pats
the bit of sofa next to him, and when Sam's shuffled up some more, hooks his
arms around him and hauls him astride his lap, face to face. "Hey, baby."
Sam considers punching him. "Baby?"
"Mmm." Dean's grinning at him. He drops his hands to Sam's hips, pulls him in
closer. "Did you miss me all the way over there?"
Sam snorts, and decides he doesn't care that a good half of the other patrons
are staring. Whatever. It’s a bar. They’ll get over it. He winds his arms
around Dean's neck, settling himself a bit lower and letting Dean push the
skirt up so he can straddle his legs comfortably. "So much," he says. "Baby."
"It's called getting into character," Dean informs him. He's holding on to Sam
but not really doing anything else, looking at Sam the way he always does when
Sam's all dressed up like this: warm and extra-affectionate. One day Sam's
going to call him on that.
Sam slides a hand into Dean’s hair, keeping his eyes down as Dean sneaks a look
at the bar. He tugs lightly on the ends of Dean's hair, wrinkles his nose
because they're out of shampoo and now he's got greasy fingers, then drops his
head to nuzzle briefly under Dean's ear. He has to fight not to jump when Dean
digs his fingers into his hips. "I'm just doing what you said."
"You're no good at this stuff. Isn't it about time you had a girlfriend? Got
some practice?" Dean turns his face in to Sam's neck and opens his mouth,
presses his tongue flat and wet to the skin. To anyone else it would look like
a kiss. It's really gross.
"I hate you so much right now. Urgh, Dean." Sam squirms. "I've had girlfriends.
Never licked their necks, though."
"Live and learn, Sammy." Dean shows every sign of not stopping with the licking
so Sam works a hand under his shirt and tickles his stomach, doing his best to
make it look like a caress, or something. Dean removes his tongue pretty quick,
grabbing Sam's arm and dragging it out from his shirt. He wraps his fingers in
Sam's, palms pressed awkwardly together.
Sam leaves his free hand on the back of Dean's neck like Dean's left his
halfway up Sam's thigh. "That guy still there?"
Dean takes a look. "Nope."
"You couldn't have said that before?" Sam flicks Dean's neck and tries to draw
back. "Guess he got bored."
Dean slides his hand a fraction higher up the inside of Sam's leg. "Someone had
to," he says, and doesn't let Sam go anywhere. Because he's a jerk. Sam tries
not to blaze up in embarrassment and fails.
"Fuck off," he says. "I'm sixteen. It's a physiological reaction to
stimulation."
"Don't remember stimulating anything, but okay, Sammy," Dean tells him,
smirking. "You want to go a bit longer? Find out how much your skirt will cover
up?"
Sam tips his forehead onto Dean's shoulder. "I hate you," he mutters, cursing
his dick and willing it down. He lets go of Dean's neck and grabs for his hand
before it gets any further up his leg. "And you're not funny."
"You love me. I'm hilarious. And fucking hot."
"That doesn't – I don't care how hot you are. Think you are."
"Hey, I'm giving you an out if you want it," Dean says. He drums his fingers
against Sam's leg and plucks at the nylon. "You think Dad's ever got dressed up
like this?" He pauses. "I do. Floofy skirt and stockings, the whole shebang."
Sam spends a delicate moment picturing it, then sits all the way up. Dean grins
at him. "Better?"
"No," Sam mutters, but he's kind of lying. He climbs out of Dean's lap and
settles back into the sofa, mostly sure that that could have gotten a whole lot
more embarrassing if the universe or Dean had wanted it to. His skirt's gotten
all rucked up around him, so he untwists it as best he can and wonders if he
can salvage any of his ladylike demeanour. "I want a drink," he says, just to
say something. He doesn't really care.
"Aww, Sammy," says Dean. He tilts until, just like that, his lips are on Sam's
cheek, at the very edge of his mouth. "You want an umbrella in that?" he asks
without pulling away.
Sam tries not to react. "No," he says evenly.
Dean, bane of Sam's existence, fucking laughs.
                                      ---
Two nights later and three towns over and zero banks robbed, whichever way you
look at it, it's going to be kind of galling when they get arrested for all
John's weapons in the trunk. There's a roadblock up ahead, cops stopping and
searching cars at random. "Fucking fantastic," Dean mutters. Sam agrees. There
are fields on either side of the road but nowhere for them to escape to unless
they leave the car behind. Sam doesn't think Dean's going to want to do that.
Sam doesn't want to do that. Particularly not in a skirt.
He tries to settle back in his seat. "If this was Delaware," he says, "we
wouldn't really have anything to complain about."
In Delaware they spent the first night in the car because they couldn't afford
a room, and the second night at a strip club because suddenly they had the
money to do that. Sam could pretty much take or leave the strippers, but the
third night they went back with Sam dressed like a girl. That was more fun.
Then they went back to the car for the rest of the night, because after a while
it was just kinda weird for both of them.
"If this was Delaware and we got arrested, I'd still be complaining," Dean
replies. He's gripping the steering wheel pretty tight. "Like I will if we get
arrested now. Can you see anywhere I can turn off? Or around? Why are they
searching cars, anyway?"
"Yeah, but that time we did something worth getting arrested for." Like trick
johns into the car then rob them blind. Neither Sam nor Dean enjoyed doing
that.
"Suggestions welcome any time right now, Sam."
Sam thinks. Very, very quickly. He shoots Dean a look. "We could – "
Dean's jaw tightens but he puts the blinker on without waiting for Sam to
finish. Sam does his best to wriggle out of the skirt and back into his pants,
and yanks a hoodie on as the car comes to a stop behind the bushes. He tilts
his head sideways when he feels Dean's finger pluck the headband out of his
hair. When he's done, he flattens himself into the seatback. A moment later and
Dean is sitting astride his lap.
Dean sits strangely, like he's trying not to squash Sam too much. Sam hooks his
fingers into Dean's elbows, trying to get him to relax all the way – hisses it
in his ear when he doesn't move – and loses all his breath anyway when Dean
turns his head just so, looking Sam straight in the eye so that their noses
brush.
Sam's lips part. He tugs again, this time with one of his hands flat in the
middle of Dean's back. "Come on, Dean," he whispers. "This has to be good."
"Yeah," says Dean eventually. Sam doesn't know what the problem is, but he
doesn't have time to find out, either. There's someone walking towards them
from the roadblock, the beam of their flashlight bouncing off the dash with
every step closer.
Sam waits until Dean is sitting right, knees pressed into the seat on either
side of Sam’s thighs, letting Sam take all his weight. Then he takes a deep
breath and fits one hand between them, low on Dean's stomach, the other
pressing down against the back of Dean's head so their foreheads are pushed
together.
Dean's mouth is so close that Sam can feel his breath play across his own lips.
They don't let it get this far, normally. There's only so far you can go with
your brother before it gets weird.
No, later on Sam is going to think about how weird it is; right now he can
smell beer and tomato sauce on Dean's breath, and that's pretty much normal.
"Stop wriggling," Dean whispers. Sam doesn't know why they're whispering, it
just seems the thing to do under the circumstances. He shifts minutely, breath
fluttering stupidly out of him. Feels Dean's whole body hitch.
"Do it right, then," he whispers back. "Just pretend I'm a girl. Really a
girl."
Dean tightens his fingers around Sam's in his lap. "Always do."
Sam kinda wants to make a thing out of that, but then someone raps on the
window from the outside and they both jump. Hard. Sometimes it's difficult to
keep your mind on the real reason you're all but mouth-to-mouth with your
brother. Whatever. Sam puts it to the back of his mind as Dean says, "Yeah?"
"You – Christ, Jack, it's just kids." The voice sounds exasperated.
Sam slaps a layer of Dean into his voice. "Not really," he says. Dean groans
louder than necessary and tips his head against Sam's shoulder.
The passenger door opens. A woman who looks about their dad's age sticks her
head inside the car, her expression good and irritated. "Aside from the
obvious," she says, "what do you two think you're doing out here?"
Sam smirks. "Well," he starts, and startles when Dean gets a hand over his
mouth.
"I'm real sorry," he says over Sam's grumbling. Dean's good at this part. Sam
opens his mouth a bit under his hand. "His dad doesn't like – well – " Dean
gestures between them, giving the woman an awkward smile. "We just wanted a bit
of privacy."
"Privacy," she repeats.
"Yeah," says Dean. He makes it sound helpless, embarrassed. Sam thinks about
how many times Dean forgets to lock the bathroom door when he's jerking off and
wants to laugh. Instead he tightens his grip in Dean's left hand and blows out
a little on the palm of his right. Just a bit. Dean squeezes his fingers.
"Jesus Christ," the woman says again. "Well – look, you can't stay here." Her
fingers aren't twitching for her radio, though. Or any kinds of forms. She
sounds like she's trying to be understanding rather than just pissed off and
tired. "There are plenty other places you can go for that. You'll get
yourselves killed on this road."
"Sorry, ma'am," Dean says at once. "Can we go? I'll take him home now."
"Of course you will," she says. "Go on, then."
Sam stares at him once they're back on the road.
"What," Dean says.
Sam's fingers are kind of sore, clenched tight around his thigh now that Dean's
hand isn't available. He tells himself to let go, look out his own window.
"Nothing," he says once he's managed that. He drums his fingers on his knee.
"It's not like we haven't done that before, Dean. Last time it was your idea."
Dean doesn't reply. Sam waits until they're twenty minutes from their house and
then he says, "It worked, come on. We've still got all our guns and no
handcuffs." He waves both hands at the windshield before he realises what he's
doing and drops them again, trying not to blush. Be fucking dorkier, Dean is
supposed to say here. There's a dull sort of sulk working its way into Sam's
chest that he doesn't really know what to do with.
"Making out," Dean says, "is not a fucking getaway plan." His voice sounds
strained. Sam debates the merits of teasing him out of his funk, decides he
doesn't want to deal with it, and leans his head against the window. Watches
Dean's hands clench white around the steering wheel the whole way back.
                                      ---
Dean's mood persists all week, but outside of the making out in the car thing,
Sam puts it down to the two days without electricity and having no food that
isn’t past the expiration date and no sign of John. He goes without lunch every
day at school for the week, which just about writes off the sixth and seventh
period but does mean he finds another twenty in his jacket for Dean. There's
only so many books Sam can read before he just wants to hang out with his
brother.
On Sunday, Dean takes the money and leaves the house without a word. He comes
back with bread, lunchmeat, five apples and five oranges, a jumbo bag of chips
and some of those protein bars, and a big Tupperware lunchbox. Sam stays silent
while Dean puts two lunches together and sticks them in the fridge next to a
multipack of yoghurt. "Nice try, Sammy," he says on his way out of the room.
John calls when Sam's already in bed: he's going to be out of the state another
week, they doing okay? Dean, you making sure your brother takes his nose out of
his book every once in a while? Doing my job for me?
Sam stares at Dean. Dean stares back. "Yeah, Dad," he says. "We're good." He
doesn't mention anything about not having food, or the electricity getting cut
off, or fake making out with Sam three days running last week.
Dean's mood is gone when he ends the call. He tosses the phone to the side and
gives Sam fuck-all warning before hurling himself on top of him on the bed,
sitting on his stomach and pinning his arms down with a hand on each wrist. Sam
yelps, trying to buck Dean off, but Dean just smirks down at him. "Gotcha."
"Very impressive," Sam grumbles. He clenches his fists like that's going to
make Dean let go, and wrinkles his nose when Dean leans down and bites his ear.
"Ow, Dean."
Dean waggles his eyebrows at him. He gives it another minute before climbing
off, apparently making sure Sam's clear on who's won this round. Whatever. Sam
waits for Dean to flop down beside him on top of the covers, then digs his
elbow into Dean's side.
Dean ignores him. "Little bit of bank robbery looks pretty good right now,
don't you think, Sammy?"
Sam snorts and decides not to ask if making out is still out now that bank
robbery's back in. God. As if their life wasn't screwed up enough already.
"Tomorrow's good," he says instead.
                                      ---
Tomorrow isn't good. Tomorrow is a disaster.
They decide that times aren't desperate enough yet to rob another bank, and
drive to the other side of the state because they’re about to earn all that gas
money back and it’ll be worth it. They end up at the dodgy end of town; on
purpose, because that's where it's okay for a cocksure dude in a leather jacket
and his girlfriend to sit down at a poker table. Not that anyone's more
amenable to being robbed at this end of town, but that isn't normally a barrier
to Sam and Dean walking away rich. Well, briefly rich.
It's not working today. Sam's got no idea what's up with Dean, why he keeps
dropping cues to slip his arm around Sam or what the fuck is happening when
Dean almost knocks him to the floor before catching him, but he's very clear on
what's so distracting about Dean. He's wearing a shirt that's too small for him
and the cuffs keep riding up over his wrists, the hem untucked from his pants
at the back, and Sam can't focus on anything that isn't all these hints of skin
that keep appearing in front of him.
This isn't a good place to drop cover. Dean is sitting with a group of men at a
smoky table, just the kind of scene you see in movies and which no one expects
to really exist. Sam and Dean have worked this scene so many times now that Sam
has almost, almost, lost count, but not quite. And the stuff that's going wrong
should not be going wrong. Sam is next to certain that one of the guys at the
table has realised Sam isn't really a girl, and that's making it basically
impossible to pick their pockets because he just won't look away.
He's so busy not looking at the guy who's figuring him out that Sam misses it
when Dean sends half his chips flying off the table. This is something he does
a lot, convincing the other players that he's butter-fingered while he uses his
other hand to rob them. This time when Sam looks up at the clatter, the look on
Dean's face makes it really very clear that it wasn't planned.
"Thanks, baby," Dean tells Sam when he drops to his knees to gather the chips.
His voice is overloud. Sam wants to brush the back of his hand against Dean's
ankle to try and calm him down but he thinks it might do more harm than good.
He presses a kiss to Dean's cheek when he stands up instead, and tries not to
look too surprised when Dean pulls him down into his lap. He grabs Dean's thigh
to stop himself from sliding off, and blinks around the table.
They've been doing this for years, now. They should have left the warehouse
over an hour ago with a lot of money. Instead Sam realises that at least one
other guy is staring at him a little too hard, and not in the same smirking way
that the first one is.
Any minute now, Sam is going to have to explain why he felt the need to dress
up so convincingly in girls' clothes. They're way, way overdue to leave.
At the end of the round, he puts his hand on Dean's arm and turns his face in a
little.
"You okay?" Dean says.
"Tired," Sam replies. Then he remembers it's the middle of the day and says,
"Bored, I mean, I'm bored."
They're talking quietly, of course, but they're nervous and getting things
wrong and who knows, maybe every single man at the table has an ear turned
towards this conversation. That wouldn't be unusual. They attract a lot of
attention like this, Dean bright and sure of himself, Sam pretty and adoring.
It's half the point. Sam likes getting to adore Dean in public without anyone
raising their eyebrows or sneering, and it's kind of fun, playing this risk.
Sam gets that that's just adrenaline, but this is just theirs. They don't have
to share this adrenaline with their dad or anyone else.
Dean says, "Okay," and lets go of Sam's wrist. "We can go, if you want."
When Sam slips out of Dean's lap, the man at his left, an old guy without much
hair left and apparently not much in the way of sense either, stops him from
getting past with a hand on his hip. "Hello, sweetheart."
Sam swallows. He tries to smile, hoping the colour heating his face looks like
timidity. He doesn't say anything.
"Don't be shy," says the man, curling his fingers around Sam's hip. "What's
your name?"
Sam looks at Dean. Dean gives him an encouraging look, or tries to, because it
comes over more anxious. Sam doesn't know if anyone else can tell that, though.
He turns back to the man. "Sam," he says, barely louder than a whisper. Only
lie when it's absolutely unavoidable.
"I'm Roberts. It's nice to meet you, Sam." The man squeezes his fingers, kinda
hard. He picks up Sam's hand and pulls it in, smiling up. He puts a wet kiss on
the back of it. Sam tries to look charmed. He feels Dean put a hand on his hip,
ever the smitten boyfriend, and relaxes a little.
Roberts doesn't let go of his hand, though. He rubs his fingertips over Sam's
palm. Still smiling.
"Sir?" Dean says when it starts getting uncomfortable again. "You think she
could have her hand back? Sammy's pretty shy." It's off, the way he says it,
doesn't sound like Dean nor like his gambling persona, and it's not the way to
talk to a roomful of gambling men. Sam wants him and Dean to leave right now,
forget the money, but the man doesn't seem any more inclined to let him go. The
smile has dropped from his face.
"Your girl here has interesting hands," he says to Dean. "Good, strong hands.
Bet she's good with them. Aren't you, Sam?"
Most of the rest of the men laugh. Dean smirks. "You could say that." He sounds
furious. Sam hopes it doesn't show.
Roberts twists Sam's hand over so it's palm-up. "Interesting calluses," he
says. Sam's heart sinks. This is not just some senseless old guy. "Where'd you
get these, darling?"
He waits. So does the rest of the room, all of them wanting a pleasing answer.
"She –"
"Quiet," says Roberts. Dean shuts up. "I want her to tell me."
"I," starts Sam, no idea where he's going with it but fairly sure that
inventing a farm back home isn't going to cut it. Then he feels Dean stand up
next to him, and the room goes quieter still.
Dean pulls Sam's hand out of the old man's grasp, gun in hand and pointing down
at him. Roberts doesn't react except to let go of Sam. "I think we're gonna be
going now," Dean says. "Gentlemen."
He pulls Sam out of the door with an arm around his shoulders and his gun
trained on the table.
Halfway home, Pennsylvania pines zipping by, Sam gets it together enough to
say, "Sorry."
Dean turns to look at him, slowing the car right down. He shrugs. "Not your
fault, Sammy." Then he smiles. "Darling."
He doesn't really have the tone of voice down right and he's too obviously
telling himself to sit relaxed to really feel it, but Sam goes with it. "Fuck
you," he says. "He might have asked you the same thing."
"Don't think he'd have called me darling when he did, though," Dean replies,
grinning.
The rest of the journey isn't so tense. That's good. Sam leans his head against
the window, thinking about sleeping, then pushes back and lies down with his
head on Dean's thigh instead. Not thinking about sleeping.
Sam counts out a minute of silence – no smart remarks, no nothing – before Dean
puts his hand on Sam's hair and leaves it there.
Sam shuts his eyes.
                                      ---
It's way past time that Dean wore Sam's girl clothes to go out.
Dean shrugs when Sam mentions it. "Okay."
He totally fucking smirks when Sam frowns at him. "Aw," he says. "Did you think
I was going to tell you no?"
"No," Sam snaps, and then reconsiders. "Well. Yeah."
"I'm very secure in my masculinity," Dean tells him. "You should try it."
"My masculinity's fine," says Sam. It's true, he got over being embarrassed
about wearing girls' clothes ages back.
He glares at Dean anyway. "Why's it always me, then?"
"Thought you liked it, Sammy."
Whatever. So maybe it took Sam a couple months to decide if he liked dressing
up for more than just reasons of associating it with Dean and adrenaline, but
then he got over that, too. "No," he says, but there’s no bite to it. Dean
holds his hand out for the skirt, fingers impatient.
It's not like Sam's never thought about how Dean would look if he was the one
dressing up, but this is – different. Sam lasts as long as it takes Dean to
button up his top before dropping his book to the floor by his bed and sitting
up. He leans back against the headboard, legs crossed.
Dean throws a look at him. "Do I stare at you while you're putting your skirt
on?"
Sam snorts. "Yes," he says.
Dean ignores him. "Out, Sam."
Now he's shy. Sam rolls off the bed and shuts the door behind him. Reads his
book carefully and doesn't remember a word.
                                      ---
In the bar, different than last time, Sam cannot take his eyes off his brother.
Dean wears the outfit like a gun, different skirt because he's too big for
Sam's floaty skirt thing; different top for the hell of it. It's not the one he
put on while Sam was still in the bedroom. Sam wonders how many he tried on.
This one is bright red. "It really sets off your eyes," Sam tells him.
"Why do you think I'm wearing it, dude?"
It's the easiest thing in the world to get them inside, Dean stunning and fully
aware of it. He's wearing his army boots instead of the ballet pumps Sam
squashes his feet into, and for some reason that's got every man and half the
women in the place staring at his legs. Sam glares around the room and gets so
close to Dean that he might as well be hugging him. Dean doesn't seem to mind.
It's easier for him to keep an eye on Sam when he's close enough to trip over.
At least, that's what Sam assumes.
"Get me a Bud." Dean has to kink his head to the side to whisper it in Sam's
ear. Sam can still get away with speaking as a girl, if he's quiet. Dean's
voice is deeper. It wouldn't work. Sam likes hearing it, though.
Dean's wearing a wig, and it’s long and dark and at least two hairs of it land
in Sam's beer. He wrinkles his nose and drags Dean to a booth in the corner.
The bar is a dive by necessity, and Sam isn't convinced they're not going to
get thrown out anyway. He doesn't know what they'll do if that happens. Dean
will probably use it as an excuse to put his jeans back on.
Sam glances sideways. Dean doesn't look too traumatised by everyone who's
staring at him. He's toying with the amulet Sam gave him, pulling it from one
side of the string to the other. Sam stares at his mouth while he’s still
distracted. The red is smudged. Sam thinks he's probably trying to remember not
to chew it off his lips. He's doing way better at it than Sam ever does.
Any second now, one of those guys at the door is going to saunter up and ask
Dean to come outside with them. Staring them down isn't doing anything, neither
is watching Dean tap his fingers on the rim of his glass. Sam sets his jaw and
presses his arm into Dean's side.
"Jealous?"
Dean says it out of nowhere, doesn't even lower his voice or try to disguise
it. If anyone overhears, they will think it was Sam who spoke. Dean nods at the
guys at the door.
"What do you think?" Sam asks.
Dean takes a gulp of his drink and sets the glass down on the table again. He
looks at Sam. "Then do something about it."
Sam doesn't know what the hell he means by that, but it's wildly unfair that
Dean's called every single one of the shots until now, including now. He
reaches sideways and slips his hand around the back of Dean's neck, drags him
closer and doesn't stop, doesn't even hesitate. He presses his mouth to Dean's
in a single, silent kiss. If Dean doesn't like it, he should have thought of
that when he started giving ambiguous orders.
Dean's lips part against his.
Sam pulls right back. Dean stays where he is, neck tilted into Sam's hand in
such a way as to make Sam think he really doesn't want him to move.
So Sam leans in and kisses him again. This time he slips his other hand down
and around to the small of Dean's back to pull him in closer still, then drops
that same hand down to Dean's thigh. Dean's body is crooked into his, his hands
resting, one on the sofa and the other in his lap. Sam doesn't know what to do
with that, why Dean isn’t all over him, but now Dean's opening his mouth again,
tongue rough at the edge of Sam's, and it's a little bit less careful than
before.
Sam slips his hand higher on Dean's leg, and pulls back again but no further
than last time. "Did you shave your legs?"
Dean looks like he's about to rattle out of himself. He takes a visible breath.
"Do you like it?" Sam asks before he can answer. Dean blinks.
"I guess," he says. "It's different, is all. Don't do half a job."
Oh. Sam hesitates, then puts his hand back. "It's – it feels nice."
Dean nods. He's not looking so patient anymore, so Sam leans back in. He
continues moving his hand up Dean's leg, just smoothing it over the nylon,
curling his fingers in and running it inside Dean's thigh. It's a weird
combination of hot – god, so hot – and normal, kissing someone that might be a
girl and feeling how smooth her legs are. Remembering every moment that it's
his brother. Sam wonders if that's why Dean didn't want him in the room
earlier. Because he wanted to shave his legs. Maybe he wanted to surprise Sam.
Someone's lips are really wet. Sam doesn't know which of them it is, and he
doesn't care, because this is really, really good. Then one of them moans, and
that's definitely Dean, voice too low for it to be Sam himself and fuck Sam
needs to get his hands on Dean right now, before he explodes. Anywhere on him,
cupping his ear or the curve of his jaw or his elbow or flat against his
stomach, pressed chest to chest. He squeezes his fingers around Dean's leg and
inches it higher still, until the skirt cuts too far into his wrist to let him
go further. Somewhere in the back of his brain he is very clear that this isn't
fake making out anymore, this isn't just for the guys at the door. This is for
him and Dean.
                                      ---
Dean walks in on Sam in the bath next morning. Sam jumps and drops his razor.
"Would it kill you knock?"
Dean doesn't answer. He stands in the doorway and looks.
“Shut the door,” Sam says. "You're letting in all the cold."
That was supposed to be a hint for Dean to get out and leave Sam to his bath.
Instead, he stands aside so the door can swing shut, and leans back against it.
Sam would really like not to have to pretend he's been jerking off. But.
Dean pushes off from the door. He turns his attention to Sam's knees halfway
down the bath, rolling up his shirt sleeve and walking forward. "What are you –
" Sam starts, and then Dean drops to his knees next to Sam and plunges his hand
into the water. "Dean!"
"Sam!" Dean parrots back. He feels around in the water – Sam widens his eyes
and draws his knees all the way up – then pulls his arm out with a grimace,
razor in hand.
"What are you doing?"
Dean looks at him. He turns the razor around so it's right way up in his hand.
"Stretch your legs out."
Sam hesitates. Dean swallows, Sam hears it, and reaches out to flick Sam's knee
with a finger. "C'mon."
Sam stretches his legs out until he's got both feet pressed flat at the other
end of the bath. Dean picks the left one up and rests it on the ledge,
squeezing his fingers around it so Sam knows not to let it drop. Then he
reaches for the shaving cream at Sam's side.
Sam tells himself to let out his breath. He takes another one and holds it.
Dean squirts shaving cream into his hand and squishes it around between his
palms to warm it. He doesn't look at Sam when he rises up on his knees and
takes Sam’s leg in both hands, smoothing the lather into the skin, ankle to
knee. Sam grips his other leg under the water. Hard.
Dean looks up once he's done. Sam thinks it takes him an inordinately long time
and wants him to keep going. The water is just, just deep enough. "This is what
you were doing," says Dean quietly. "Isn't it?"
Sam tries to say yes, fails, and nods instead.
Dean sets the razor to his leg and pulls it the whole way up, over the knee and
a little way up the inside of his thigh. He has to go over the top half twice
more to get all the hair. Sam stares at the glossy skin it leaves behind.
"Huh," he says.
"Weird, isn't it?" Dean swishes the blade around in the water and sets it to
Sam's leg again, immediately to the left of the long clean strip he just made.
"Kinda like you're naked."
"I am naked," Sam tells him.
Dean uses the razor to flick water in his face. "I know, dickwad."
"Watch where you're waving that, would you?"
Dean rolls his eyes. "Your dick's all the way down there," he says.
Sam's dick isn't all the way down anywhere, but Dean doesn't need to know that.
They both hold their breath as Dean drags another line up his leg. Then another
one.
"Gotta do it slow," Dean says. "Don't want to cut yourself." He's made it all
the way around Sam's shin, and the angle's getting complicated. Sam moves his
foot to rest on the faucet, giving Dean a bit more room to work in as he goes
up the underside.
"Should have told me before," Sam says. He clutches hold of the tub on both
sides and lifts his right leg out of the water until the cuts dotted over it
start welling up again. "I made a mess of that one. Think I went too slow
rather than too quick, though." He lets his leg down in the water again.
Dean rolls his eyes. "Thought you knew how to shave by now." He reaches out to
press the pad of his thumb against the cut still exposed on Sam’s knee, wiping
the blood away. Then he runs his thumb a little way down the inside of Sam's
thigh. "Long legs, Sammy. What do you need such long legs for?"
Sam stops fighting it. He drops his head back and moans. His dick is standing
up in the water, precome dewing at the tip, and the leg he's still holding out
of the water is shaking.
He wrenches his head up when he feels Dean drop a kiss to his knee, then tilt
his face to rest his cheek against it, turned away from Sam.
"Dean," Sam breathes, nearly begs it. He wants Dean to look at him, to let go
of the razor and put his hands on him. "Please – " He shuts his eyes.
Dean lifts his head and coughs. Sam opens his eyes. He's staring at Sam's dick,
lip caught between his teeth, still holding onto Sam's opposite leg. Sam
decides someone will have to cut that leg off before he moves it.
Dean lets go before it comes to that. He reaches down to the water and touches
Sam's dick. Just one sweep of his thumb across the tip, then curls all his
fingers around the head and tugs.
"Fuck," says Sam.
Dean flicks a look at him. His hair is kind of long at the moment and it's all
in his eyes, but Sam knows Dean's faces really fucking well. This one says he's
stuck dead center between wanting to tuck him up in bed and wanting to fuck him
through it. Sam waits for him to reach a decision, gripping so tight to the
sides of the tub that his fingers hurt, and thinks about how every other person
in the world doesn't know what it's like to be loved like this.
"Okay," says Dean, more to himself than to Sam. He stands up – Sam does his
best not to whine and makes a face when it happens anyway – but then wastes
absolutely no time unbuttoning his jeans.
Sam stares. Dean is wearing pink satin panties, bulging and full. He was
probably wearing them last night, Sam thinks. If he'd got his hand any further
up Dean's skirt, he would have felt Dean wearing them.
Dean steps over the edge of the tub and sinks down over Sam's legs. The water
slops everywhere but Sam does not give a shit right now, Dean is in the bath
with him and there's water soaking up his shirt and he's wearing satin panties.
"Dean," Sam says, because it's the only way he can get his mouth to close.
"Dean." He's heavy on Sam's legs, one foot under his thigh and the other
awkwardly flat between Sam's other leg and the side of the tub, because it's
kinda really small for the both of them in there. Sam tries to rock up.
"Stay still," says Dean. He presses the heel of one hand down on top of the
panties and doesn't tell Sam off when he immediately puts his own hand on top
of Dean’s. Dean wraps the fingers of his other hand around Sam's dick again. He
slides his fist all the way down and back up again, eyes fixed on Sam's, and
Sam comes just like that.
"Don't laugh at me," is the first thing he says when he's got his tongue back
under control.
"Wasn't going to," says Dean. Any other time Sam would laugh at that outright,
but Dean's voice is rough and stilted in a way that means he's a bit
preoccupied right now.
Sam thinks. He pushes at Dean's other hand, the one between his own hand and
Dean's dick, then puts his own hand back. He watches himself squeeze Dean
through the material, enjoying the way it changes the sound of Dean's
breathing, and crooks his fingers tighter to make it better. Dean's feet have
to be cramping so bad in this position but you wouldn't know it to listen to
him, curse words dropping out of his mouth all mixed up with Sam and Sammy and
pet names that Sam's trying not to bask in. Dean is bucking into Sam's hand,
and when Sam gets it together enough to look up, Dean’s face doesn't have any
of the unease he's been wearing the past couple of weeks. Just that conflict of
pleasure and impatience that Sam knows well enough himself.
He gets Dean all the way there in the bathtub and feels really, really good
about it. Well, until he can't not notice the globs of come in the water
anymore. Then they get out, because that's pretty gross, but Sam keeps hold of
Dean's hand way longer than necessary.
Dean doesn't seem to mind.
                                      ---
They go on another heist a couple days later, Sam in his girl stuff, Dean his
boyfriend. They make it all of seven minutes in the first bar they pick,
situated in a town a few hours' drive away from where they currently call home,
don't even make it inside the next bar, and finally last a whole drink each in
a bar teaming with new graduates. They're all so drunk that hustling money out
of them feels like cheating, which is pretty much how the owner puts it when he
throws them out the door.
Sam turns to Dean with a sigh. "You want to try somewhere else?"
Dean grins at him. Sam feels all his organs lurch. "Nah," Dean says.
Ten minutes later, Sam is back in jeans and a number of shirts, all of it
Dean's, and Dean has squirmed his way into Sam's girl clothes. The shoes are a
problem, Dean's feet are still two sizes bigger than Sam's, but as long as no
one spots Sam's red ballet pumps under Dean's jeans, they're good. Dean is
wearing his army boots same as before, and he's retrieved the wig from the car.
He looks so good, bright-eyed and all his attention focused on knotting Sam's
scarf around his neck. Instead of Sam's nice top, Dean is wearing one of his
own shirts knotted at the waist. Sam can't look away.
He blinks when Dean nudges his shoulder. "Earth to Sammy."
"Uh –" Sam coughs. "Is this. Are you sure about this?"
"Aren't you?" Dean is the picture of unconcern.
"They're not stupid, man."
Dean undoes another button at the top of his shirt, and rolls his lips between
his teeth. His mouth is all red when he grins at Sam. "You think?" he asks.
The bouncer takes one look at Dean and waves them both through without a
moment's hesitation. Sam glances at Dean, expecting and not disappointed to be
met with a told you so expression.
Then a door opens behind the bar, and Sam gets one look at the owner of the bar
before he finds himself shoved sideways into a corner. Dean catches hold of his
arm when he stumbles, hefting him upright before he can fall over, and only
lets go when he's got Sam with his back pressed to the wall.
Dean turns them around a bit until his body hides Sam better. It's a dark
corner, shadows and an ornate column hiding them from view of the bar. There's
a big, noisy party in the middle of the room, and a pile of jackets on the
seats closest to where Sam and Dean are standing.
Sam gets his fingers in Dean's shirt and pulls him in closer. He's trying
really hard not to giggle. He peers around the column at the bar, trying to
calm himself down, but the guy is still there, elbow propped on the bar top,
and for some reason that just makes Sam want to laugh harder. He turns to face
Dean again.
Dean frowns. He leans in until his mouth is just brushing Sam's ear. "They
catch us," he says, "we're in some pretty deep shit, Sammy."
He pulls back. Sam nods frantically.
Dean rolls his eyes and lifts his hand to cover Sam's mouth. He's wearing an
expression that Sam doesn't think they're ever going to grow out of, quick and
exasperated and just for Sam. It's the same look that Dean's going to be
wearing ten years in the future when they've fallen out over something, and
Sam's gone and done something stupid and Dean has to come rescue him and even
though they're not speaking, he's still going to be wearing that look.
Sam forces himself to relax. Dean takes his hand away. "Sorry," Sam whispers.
"Yeah, yeah," says Dean.
The bar is really busy. Sam thinks that maybe they should be working their way
around it, him and his gorgeous, mute girlfriend, but he doesn't really want to
anymore.
Dean puts his hand back on Sam's mouth, different than before. Half pressed to
Sam's chin, two fingers just covering his mouth. He presses down on Sam's lips
with his fingertips, gaze intent.
Sam can't look away. He kind of wants to laugh again but then, it's not really
like that at all, just something that's building up and getting ready to burst
out of his chest. His hands have dropped without him realising it; one further
down Dean's shirt, somewhere around Dean's solar plexus, the other gripping
Dean's arm so tight that Dean can't not feel it.
Dean's mouth curves unexpectedly and Sam feels everything lurch inside him
again. He parts his lips and sucks the very tip of Dean's little finger inside.
Doesn't do anything else, just watches for a change in Dean's expression. Sam
loosens all his fingers, trying to relax, and takes his hand from Dean's shirt.
He brings it up to Dean's other arm, holding on loosely.
Dean's eyelids flutter. He's got this look on his face that Sam can't decipher,
definitely not in the dark, and not when Dean is leaving his hand right where
it is on Sam's mouth.
"Sammy," Dean says, like he wants Sam to hear this. But then he seems to run
out of words.
Sam opens his mouth some more and sucks another one of Dean's fingers in.
"Shit," Dean breathes. He pulls his fingers away and crowds in closer, getting
hold of Sam's chin and tilting his head and pressing a brief, rough kiss to
Sam's mouth. Sam stutters a breath. "Shit," Dean says again.
He pulls away and pries Sam's hands off his body. Sam complies, letting Dean
move him around until he's pressed up against the wall again, arms held
straight at his sides. He chews on his lip, wanting Dean to be done and kissing
him again.
Dean doesn't kiss him again. Instead he tips forward and says, "Stay there,
Sammy." He sinks to his knees.
Sam gapes. "What are you –" The bar is getting busier, noisier; their corner is
dark but anyone who left their jacket with the pile on the sofa could want it
back any second. They could come over right now and see Sam clutching at the
wall with Dean on his knees in front of him.
"What did I say?" Dean says, looking up at Sam. He pushes Sam's hips back
against the wall. "Stay there."
Dean doesn't wait for Sam to reply. He goes straight for Sam's jeans, pops the
button and pulls the zip down and gets his hand inside. Sam gasps, helpless not
to rock into Dean's hand, so turned on he doesn't know how to deal with it.
Dean cups his fingers around Sam's dick, doesn't really have the room to move
but squeezes instead. Then he takes his hand off and gets his fingertips under
the waistband of Sam's boxers. He drags them down, shoving Sam's jeans down
with it, and ducks forward to take Sam's dick into his mouth.
Sam's knees buckle. "Dean," he gasps, holding himself up against the wall. Dean
hmms around him, hands back on Sam's hips. He sinks forward, sucking as he goes
down. Sam takes one hand off the wall and lifts it to his mouth, bites hard on
a knuckle.
Dean's wig is stopping Sam from seeing the look on his face. And he wants to
know what Dean's mouth looks like around his dick. He wants to see how wide
Dean's lips have to stretch, whether his eyes are open, if he looks like he's
done this before or if it's completely improvised. Sam can't see. He's just
going on how good it feels. So, so good.
Dean reaches up and yanks the wig off. He doesn't stop sucking, and when Sam
curls his fingers around the back of Dean's head without realising he's about
to, Dean hums again and sucks harder.
Sam makes it all the way up until he feels Dean's hand on his balls. It's too
much; Sam tightens his hold on Dean's hair and comes right as he says Dean's
name to warn him. He knocks his head back against the wall, eyes clenched shut,
mouth wide open, and tries his hardest just to stay on his feet. Dean keeps his
mouth on him all the way through it.
Dean is still on his knees when Sam gets another look at him. He's got a bit of
Sam's come on his cheek and the shirt has come untied, and there's so much
going on in his expression that Sam has to force himself not to coward out of
meeting it.
Dean has a hand between his own legs, jammed against his crotch through the
skirt. Sam's skirt. Sam lets out a shaky breath at that thought. He bites his
lip and slides his hand down and around to the nape of Dean's neck, pulling him
forwards so his head is resting against Sam's thigh. "Come on," he whispers,
then thinks Dean probably won't hear it over the noise of the rest of the bar.
He says it again a bit louder. "Come on, Dean."
Sam feels it when Dean gives in. He angles his head, squinting in the dark and
wishing he could see better when Dean's fingers tighten around himself, then
when Dean snakes his hand up under the skirt. Sam's own jeans are still halfway
down his legs, boxers on top, his dick still hanging out where anyone could
see. He pulls his boxers up one-handed but leaves his jeans. Dean's skin is
smooth but he's got his mouth open against Sam's thigh and Sam likes the feel
of it a lot. The spot of come is still there on Dean's cheek. Sam decides to
lick it off, in a minute, when Dean's got off. Maybe Sam could suck Dean next.
Sam would really, really like to suck Dean next.
Dean is breathing heavy enough that Sam can hear as well as feel him. That's
when the noise from the big party in the middle of the bar starts getting
louder, voices more distinct, and Sam looks up to see at least three people
down their drinks at once. The mood has changed, people making noise about
moving on somewhere different. The owner of the bar is standing in the middle
of the group.
"Dean," Sam says urgently. He clenches his fingers in Dean's hair and tugs.
Dean looks up sharply. "We gotta –"
Dean scrambles to his feet, stopping halfway up to get the wig back on while
Sam tries to sort out his jeans. He overbalances in his hurry and tips forward.
Dean grabs for his arm to keep him on his feet, throws a look over his shoulder
at the door – too many people in the way, Sam thinks – and turns around when he
apparently reaches the same conclusion. Sam grabs him and pulls him down to a
crouch behind the sofa. They press up against the back, knees bumping. Sam
reaches out to pull the skirt down for Dean. He leaves his hand on Dean's knee
when he's done.
It might have worked if one of the women leaving hadn't put her bag on the arm
of the sofa while she put her coat on. The bag drops to the floor, and Sam
doesn't even have time to swear before she's peering down at them while she
looks for it.
"Christ," she exclaims when she sees them. Loudly. "What are you doing down
there?" She stares at them, bag forgotten until Dean grabs it and holds it up
for her to take.
Her eyes narrow. She snatches the bag out of Dean's hands and looks between the
two of them and the pile of coats. "What are you doing?" she asks again.
Dean opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it again in a hurry. Sam catches on
and hastens to answer. "Going," he says. He stands up, Dean with him. "Nothing,
we're not doing anything." Dean looks momentarily disbelieving, Sam would like
to see him do better on the spot, but he grabs Sam's wrist and starts edging
him toward the door. Sam gives the woman the best apologetic look he can muster
in a hurry and lets Dean drag him away.
He guesses when the woman doesn't shout after them that she's noticed that
their hands are empty, no illicit gains whatsoever on either of their person,
and they're so close to free and clear when the guy blocking their exit turns
out to be the owner. He turns around and Sam does his best not to react when he
realises, but apparently doesn't do a very good job of it. The guy frowns first
at Sam, then at Dean, then back at Sam. "How did you get in?" he says. Sam
doesn't think he really wants an answer. "How old – show me your ID, both of
you."
The guy stares down Dean's body while they fumble for their fakes. His gaze
drifts to Sam's feet, and that's when his mouth drops. He double takes, staring
between Sam's ballet pumps and Dean's skirt and finally peering at their faces.
"You – " he says incredulously. There's something like disgust colouring his
features when he looks between them.
"Time to go," Dean snaps. He heaves Sam forwards and barges past both the owner
and the couple blocking the way out. The owner shouts for the bouncer but they
hurtle through without being either one of them tripping or getting grabbed,
and make it all the way back to the Impala without Sam losing his jeans or
Dean's wig flying off.
Dean starts driving before Sam even gets his door closed. They're wide-eyed and
panting, and Sam's jeans are still open and Dean's shirt is wrinkled and loose,
his wig askew. Sam leans sideways and pulls on the ends of it until it slips
off. Dean's skirt is all rucked up again but Sam leaves it and sits up again.
He coughs and zips up his jeans.
Dean gets them twenty minutes down the interstate before either of them says
anything. Sam has been trying to work out how to ask if Dean is still hard. The
skirt is so loose that Sam can't tell. Dean was pretty close back there in the
bar, close to coming right there in front of everyone – like Sam, in front of
everyone – but that was a while ago now.
Dean flicks a look sideways. "Close call," he says. Sam thinks he's trying for
casual.
"Yeah," says Sam, for want of anything better. He has no clue what he could say
that doesn't relate to the state of Dean's dick right now and would he like Sam
–
Sam clears his throat and looks out of the window.
Five minutes later, Dean looks at him again. Sam cannot do a thing to stop
himself, he glances at Dean's crotch to see if there's anything to see, yet.
Dean smirks.
"Sorry," says Sam quickly.
Dean puts the blinker on. "No you're not," he says, pulling off the road and
all the way up the bank at the side of it.
Sam is across the car and pushing Dean against the driver side door the minute
that the engine stops. He gets his mouth on Dean's and kisses him, open and wet
and hard as he can. "No," he says between kisses, not really paying attention.
"Not sorry."
"Brat," Dean mumbles. He's trying to rip the buttons open on Sam's shirt six at
a time, then one-handed when Sam gets too far away for Dean to kiss him. "Stop
moving."
"No," Sam says, tugging at the skirt. He finally gives up on getting it high
enough that he can see, and instead just flattens his palm down on Dean's dick,
curling his fingers when he finds him rock-hard.
"Sam," Dean groans. He stops fighting Sam's shirt and arches against him,
fingers tightening for a moment before he gets it together again. He eventually
gets it open enough that he can fit his hands inside, reaching up under Sam's
t-shirt and getting his hands on Sam's skin.
Sam keeps one hand grinding down on Dean but starts fumbling at the bottom of
the skirt with the other. It goes a bit wrong when Dean gets another idea,
pulling Sam forward and breaking the kiss to suck on his neck. It's distracting
as fuck and Sam can't do a thing that isn't moaning nonsense.
Dean digs his fingers into Sam's back, nails scraping, pulling Sam closer. Sam
hisses and crawls right the way forward so he's lying along Dean's body. Dean
bucks against him, their dicks pressed together through Sam's jeans and Dean's
skirt. It's awkward, the car is on a slope and they keep sliding down the
bench, and now they're not scrabbling at each other's clothes anymore Sam's
head is distracting him. He shuts his eyes against Dean's neck and grinds down.
Dean grazes a kiss against Sam's cheek, barely a touch because that's all the
angle will give him. "Sam," he says, kind of questioning. His hands stop roving
under Sam's shirt, fingers splayed across his back instead. "Sammy?"
Sam holds on tight enough that Dean can't shove him off.
"Sam," Dean says again. "What is it?"
Sam thinks. "It's just," he says, and rolls his eyes when Dean tenses. He
wiggles his hand between them and against Dean's crotch again and squeezes
Dean's cock. "Not that," he says, "stop assuming. I just."
"What? You know there are places we could do this that aren't the side of the
freeway." Dean tilts his head to speak against Sam's neck, breath warm. He
hesitates, then kisses the same spot.
Sam shuts his eyes. "That's – um, that's. Sort of the problem?"
"We weren't – I just blew you in the middle of the bar, did you forget
already?" Dean pauses. "Careful."
"No. Uh. The opposite."
Sam waits for Dean to get it. When he does, Dean sounds just as ready to laugh
as expected. "Sam," he says. "Sam, are you. We're making out on the road and
it's too vanilla?"
Oh god. Sam tries to sit up but Dean tightens his hold. Sam can feel his mouth
curving against his neck. "Sammy," Dean says, and scratches his nails down
Sam's back again. Sam squeezes his eyes tighter and wishes he hadn't said
anything. Dean says, "Sam, baby," just like when it was a joke, but it doesn't
sound like a joke anymore. "If you want me to fuck you on the hood so everyone
driving past can see you, I will."
There's a moment of absolute quiet.
Sam sits up. Dean stares at him with a look that suggests he's thinking about
being sick, hands limp where they fell out of Sam's shirt. Sam could ask Dean
to step in front of the traffic in this moment and he'd do it.
Sam thinks carefully. "No," he says. Dean's face goes whiter. "But," Sam
continues, "here. Or the backseat." He puts his hand on Dean's leg and catches
his eye. "If you want."
Dean still looks like he wants to throw up, shame and nerves and guilt all over
his face. Sam climbs off so that Dean can sit up, but he keeps his hand where
it is.
"Sam," Dean starts, but that's enough talk for Sam. It's just him and Dean at
home together, and this is what they both want. He looks at Dean’s hands
reaching towards him. Sam doesn’t think Dean even realises he’s doing it.
He crawls back into Dean's lap and sits down there, one leg on either side of
Dean's hips, intentionally close. "I want," he says, "you to fuck me like
this." He puts his hand carefully down to Dean's dick, gripping through the
cotton. "Here. Or if you really want to fuck me on the hood," he grips harder,
"that's okay, I just. Dean. I mean it. I want," he presses a kiss to Dean's
mouth, "you to fuck me. Now. In the car."
"Or on it," Dean says hoarsely. He's got his hands around Sam's wrists, holding
them tight. Sam's hand is still on Dean's cock.
"Or on it," Sam agrees. He pushes his hips down to Dean's deliberately, feeling
Dean shudder and his fingers tighten around his wrists. "If that's what you
want."
That's all it takes for Dean to snap out of his quiet little panic. He grins at
Sam and rocks up to meet him. "Next time," he says. "When it's not dark. No one
would be able to see if we did it now."
"Oh no," Sam says dryly, or tries to, but it ends up squashed into Dean's
mouth, so he moans instead. Dean gets his hands back on Sam's shirt, plucking
buttons out until they can shrug Sam all the way out of it in one very nearly
smooth move. Dean won't let Sam pull away, holds him down by first one hand
then the other as they kiss. Sam's shirt lands in a crumpled mess on the floor
while they work on Dean's. They're thrusting against each other, dicks bumping
together, and it is high time Sam got his brother out of that skirt. He lifts
himself up just enough that he can get his fingers under the hem and yank up,
figuring he can get it around Dean's waist even if not all the way off. Dean
seems to agree, obligingly lifting his ass off the bench for Sam to pull the
skirt up. He pulls Sam back down immediately once it's done and he's sitting in
his boxers.
"Not going anywhere, Dean," Sam mutters, kissing a line along Dean's jaw. "You
don't need to go all caveman."
"Thought you liked that, too."
This time he's actually kind of mostly right, but Sam isn't going to tell him
that. "Hmm," he says, and bites the smirk right out of Dean's mouth.
Not like the car is a bed or anything, but it's fucking perfect for this.
Dean's head is tipped back, legs splayed apart with Sam grinding down on his
cock, neither of them knocking against headrests or a gearstick. And because
Dean likes to be prepared, or at least likes Sam to think he is and hopes their
dad doesn't notice, there's lube under the seat. Sam snags it in his fingers
and settles back down on Dean, kisses him harder. He leaves the box of condoms
where it is.
Dean gropes to get Sam's jeans open. It takes an excessively long time to
manage it, even when Sam tries to help. "This is your fault," Dean tells him,
saying it against Sam's mouth. "Why'd you zip up?"
"Momentary stupidity," Sam replies. He gives up on his own jeans, leaving Dean
to it and sticking his hand down Dean's boxers instead. "Won't happen again."
He tips forward and licks a slow stripe up Dean's neck.
"You lick everyone you make out with?" Dean's voice is all sorts of breathy.
Sam wonders if he could get away with sitting back and just smiling at Dean. He
nuzzles behind Dean's ear instead.
"Someone told me they were into it, don't remember who."
"Wow," says Dean. "Freak." He slants his head back.
Sam sits back and just smiles at him.
Dean rolls his eyes. "Look at you, getting all sentimental." He gets his hands
on Sam's hips and urges him up to his knees, and drags Sam's jeans down with
his shorts and off his legs. "Come back, that was good, Sam."
They're all but naked, Sam in just his t-shirt, Dean's shirt open and the skirt
hauled up. Sam swallows a sudden bundle of nerves in his throat and puts the
lube in Dean's hand. "You should – will you – "
"Yeah, Sam," Dean breathes, and doesn't look for a condom. He opens the cap and
squirts a generous helping onto his fingers while Sam watches. He slicks up
both hands and takes Sam's dick back into his left, jerking him slowly, and
coaxes him back up to his knees again. Sam has a suspicion Dean's more nervous
than he is, confirmed when Dean says, "Just – tell me if it hurts, yeah?"
"Okay," says Sam. He bites on the inside of his lip when he feels Dean press
his first finger in, a little unnerved by the sensation but not wanting to
freak Dean out.
Dean stops when his finger is all the way in and pulls on Sam's dick. "You
okay?"
"Yeah," says Sam. "Keep going."
Dean adds another but keeps his fist moving on Sam. "Feels real good," he says.
"On your fingers?"
"Yeah. Nothing there that shouldn't be."
"Wow. Gross, Dean." Sam shifts, kind of wanting Dean to get on with it,
appreciating the time he's taking all the same. "Um – "
This is pretty much the least hot thing they've done since it looked like it
might get this far, but Dean doesn't look like he's thinking the same. He's
biting on his lip so hard it might break, expression intent. He's breathing
pretty hard. Sam wants to kiss him. So he does.
He pulls back mid-kiss, when Dean crooks his fingers a little differently. "Oh
– "
"Huh," says Dean, and does it again. Sam jerks, his back bowing away, a moan
spilling over his lips. Dean presses harder. Works in a third finger and does
it again.
"So hot," Dean tells him roughly. "God. Sam. Wish you could see. I'll let you
do this next time, so you can." Sam's trying not to actually tremble with how
good this feels but Dean's voice isn't helping. He works himself up to sink
down on Dean's fingers, knees shaky and dropping him further than he intended.
Dean says his name.
Sam lifts up, takes a breath, and lowers himself down again, trying to get used
to the feeling.
"Can – can I –" Dean stutters. His hand has gone still on Sam's dick.
Sam nods. "Okay."
Dean pulls his fingers out slowly. Sam waits for him to slick up his cock,
hands braced on Dean's shoulders.
The first press of Dean's cock kind of hurts a lot. Sam bites hard on his lip
as he sinks down, not really caring that Dean's going to see. It's not like
he's going to rip Sam off him.
"Doing good, Sammy," Dean tells him. He's fisting Sam's dick again, nothing
fancy, just trying to distract Sam from the hurt. "Fuck. So good."
Sam swallows once he's all the way down. Licks his lips, not sure if he likes
it yet. He wants to see what expression Dean is wearing but looking up suddenly
feels like the hardest thing in the world.
"Sam," Dean says.
Sam tells himself to look up. Dean is watching him closely, holding himself
still. He's got one of Sam's hands in his. Sam hadn't even noticed.
"Is this okay?" Sam asks. He winces at the way his voice scrapes. "Is it –
right?"
Dean looks sort of thrown. "Yeah," he says. "Fuck. It's really good. Fucking
amazing. You – " Dean goes red. "Feel so good on my cock, Sammy. Feel you all
around me."
Sam realises he's hanging on to every word. Dean can apparently tell. His
cheeks flush deeper but he keeps on. "Thought about this. You and me. It's
really – "
"Here?" Sam interrupts. He rocks forward an incremental amount.
"Sometimes," says Dean. "Or at the house. Or in a bar."
Sam takes another breath and lifts himself up, sinks down. Dean swallows.
"Thought you'd be the one in the skirt, though. You don't know what you look
like wearing that."
"Got some idea," Sam mutters, going down again. "You're really hot in it too."
Dean groans. "God – Sam – "
Sam grits his teeth and tries to get a rhythm going. He shifts forward on his
knees and fucks down again, and, fuck, that's, fuck –
"Yeah," Dean says, sounding pleased. And really turned on. He puts his hands
back on Sam's hips and lifts him up, then pulls him all the way down again. Sam
moans louder and grips his dick. Dean keeps them going, lifting Sam almost
completely off his dick and slamming him back down, fucking up and into him.
Sam tries to keep his eyes on Dean's, mouth hanging open as Dean hits his
prostate on every stroke.
"Talk, Sammy," Dean pants. He thrusts up harder. "You like this?"
"Fuck yeah," Sam mumbles. He grabs Dean's arm and wraps his fingers around it,
coming up again. Dean's cock slips free and Sam uses the distraction to kiss
him, sinks down on him again and fucking mewls when he hits bottom. "Like it a
lot," he manages. "Ah – Dean – "
"Come on," Dean says, "fuck – Sam, Christ, Sam – "
"Yeah," Sam groans. His legs are burning but it's so fucking good, and Dean's
mouth is opening up under his and he doesn't want this to end. He's alternating
between clenching the base of his cock and jerking it frantically, so close, so
close.
"Gonna come," Dean blurts, "come on, Sam, come on – now – "
Sam swears and comes, clenching hard on Dean. He can hear himself moaning
Dean's name, forehead pressed into Dean's neck, and is distantly aware when
Dean follows. He leaves his head down and concentrates on breathing, clutching
Dean through it.
"Fuck," says Dean a minute later. Sam lifts his head to meet his eye,
immediately distracted by the lines of come streaking Dean's chest. Dean says
it again. "Fuck, Sam."
"Good fuck, Sam?"
Dean beams at him. Sam grins back and shrugs. There's something blazing hot and
savage inside his chest that he doesn't know what to do with, but he's pretty
sure that's okay. That they're both gonna be okay.
"Fucking awesome fuck, Sam," Dean tells him. He surges up to kiss Sam chastely.
"And you didn't get come on the seats either."
"I didn't," Sam agrees. He lifts himself carefully off Dean's dick. "Where's
yours going to end up, huh?"
Dean grabs his shirt off the floor. He balls it up in his hand and looks at
Sam, hesitates. "Lie down," he says gently.
Dean drives home in the skirt and nothing else. It's a good look for him.
                                      ---
Just because they fucked their way onto the same page doesn't meant their food
situation is getting any less dire. John's going to be back in a few days but
that's too long for them to go without again. Even though Sam isn't really
inclined to get out of bed to eat, or Dean to let him. They're just not going
to be able to do their thing for a while with John around.
They eventually get it together enough for Sam to find his skirt crumpled in
the front seat of the car. He shrugs and wriggles into it, just about manages
to stay upright when Dean blows him against the car door, and tells Dean to
pull over halfway down the interstate.
Dean doesn't fuck him on the hood but it's a near thing, and in the end it
doesn't take more than an hour than it should have for them to get to the store
they've decided on. Definitely no cameras anywhere around or inside it, but
Sam's going to go in first and check before Dean comes in too.
Dean's messing around with the tape player when Sam gets out of the car. He
walks around to Dean's side, leaning on the window ledge to watch Dean fiddle.
Dean looks up at Sam when he's finished whatever it is he's doing. Sam honestly
has no idea, but Dean is happy again. He grins at Sam and looks him up and
down. "Morning, hot stuff."
"Afternoon," Sam says. "It's like, 2 o'clock. Objectify me accurately."
"Oh, believe me I will."
Sam turns to look at the store.
"All right?" Dean asks.
Sam looks at him. You exist, he thinks.
"Yeah," he says. Leans through the window and steals a kiss.
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