Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11780898.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Established_Relationship, Experimentation, Anal_Fingering, Masturbation,
      Pre-Series
  Series:
      Part 15 of zmediaoutlet
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-08-12 Words: 3168
****** theory & application ******
by deadlybride
Summary
     Sam's always been curious, and he likes to get things right.
Notes
     in response to some of my tags on a gifset, three different anons
     asked for variations on: teenage Sam actually doing research and
     teaching Dean some things about his body. This can be considered a
     group fill.
See the end of the work for more notes
Sam spent a very careful hour on the computer at the library, the one that was
turned away from the information desk so that Mrs. Lowenstein couldn’t see what
he was looking up. It’s not—not like it was bad, anyway. It’s just anatomical
diagrams. The illustrated Encyclopedia Britannica at school had some of the
same pictures—it’s just that they’d been marked up by all the kids who had the
same thought Sam had, and people had colored in the boobs and scribbled in
sharpie over the penis and written Steve Carmichael is a fag!in the—the rectal
area, and, well, that wasn’t exactly helpful.
“Earth to Sammy,” Dean says.
Sam bites his lip. Dean raises his eyebrows, propped on his elbows on the
crappy mattress. In the slatted light from the afternoon leaking in behind the
blinds he’s all golden-pale, still in his jeans, his feet bare and planted on
the bed. “Sorry,” Sam says, too late, and clears his throat.
“It’s your show, dude,” Dean says, in that voice he uses when he’s trying to be
all reasonable and adult. It doesn’t sound right out of his mouth. Sam clenches
his fists in his jeans, because that’s also the voice Dean uses when he’s
trying to— “No big deal,” Dean continues, and yeah. Like he’s trying to give
Sam an out.
“Did you do what I told you?” Sam says. He maybe sounds a little annoyed, but
come on. Like they haven’t been over that a hundred times.
Dean blinks at him. “Yeah.” He licks his lips, shifts his hips, and then puts
on a grin, one of those big shiny flirting with waitresses ones, like Sam’s
gonna give him a slice of pie for free or something. “Kinda hungry now, but
you’re gonna make it worth my while, right?”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Right,” he says, with a huff, but he leans over and kisses
Dean anyway, propped up all awkward over his torso. Dean makes a surprised
noise into his mouth, but he’s still smiling, though a little smaller now. More
real. Sam’s still shorter than him, feels like he’s always gonna be, but it
doesn’t matter like this. Dean kisses him back, soft little smoochy kisses with
his head tipped back on his shoulders, and Sam’s been almost-hard all day but
now he’s all the way there, just from this. Dean’s familiar smell, his soft
lips. How he always lets Sam call the shots, and Sam didn’t like that at first
but he gets why, now.
“Take off your pants,” Sam says. He was kind of aiming for sounding sexy but it
just comes out like a whisper, instead. He pulls back an inch or two and Dean
blinks at him, hazy, shakes his head.
“You do it?” Dean says, and Sam licks his lips, leans in and kisses Dean again,
nods. Okay, yeah. Maybe that’s better. He scoots back on the bed and Dean
relaxes back onto his elbows, watches him heavy-lidded in the golden light, and
Sam turns away from that, watches his hands as he tugs down’s Dean’s zipper,
curls his fingers in against that soft warm skin and drags both jeans and his
boxers down all at once. Dean lifts his hips, helpfully, and Sam pulls the
whole warm bundle down and off his feet, tosses it blindly off to the side,
and—oh, there. Dean. He hit six feet when he turned eighteen last year and now
that he’s not going to school anymore he spends a lot of time doing PT,
running, taking random shifts at the garage, and he—he looks good. Bigger than
Sam, which is annoying when they wrestle, but still so familiar, from his
freckles to the plump pink of his dick. His ears are going pink to match, now,
and he pulls up one knee, almost like he’s trying to be modest. Not like it’s
anything Sam hasn’t seen. “Your show, Sammy,” he says, almost strained, and
something goes all weird and warm in Sam’s belly. Dean’s his annoying big
brother, in every way, but like this—Sam’s in charge.
Sam scrapes his hair back from his forehead. “Grab the vaseline,” he says, and
Dean kind of laughs, says, jeez, under his breath, but even as he twists and
grabs the little tub off the bedside table Sam can see he’s getting harder. Sam
puts his hands around Dean’s ankles and pushes, and Dean obligingly scoots his
feet further up the bed, plants them flat with his knees bent up high, and Sam
settles crosslegged on the mattress—close enough to touch, if he wants to.
Sweat’s already breaking out in his pits, on his back under his t-shirt, and he
pushes his hair out of his eyes again. Dean’s clean, freshly showered just
before Sam came home from school, and he still isn’t too hairy. Sam can
see—everything.
“The internet said that—probably two or three fingers is plenty,” Sam says, and
nods at the tub. “You’re gonna want to get a bunch of that, though, warm it
up.”
Dean bites his lips between his teeth. He scoops out a big gob, makes a face at
the texture. “The people on the internet talk about how grody this is?” Dean
says, but he rubs his fingers together, dutifully, and Sam swallows at how
shiny they already are. He thinks about turning the lamp on, but—no, like this,
the glowy diffuse light, this is good.
“You’re supposed to rub it in slow,” Sam says.
Dean doesn’t make him say where. He reaches down, past his dick where’s it’s
laying half-hard against his thigh, but the angle’s awkward. He has to shift
up, gets his shoulders against the headboard and gathers his balls up out of
the way with his left hand, and Sam can see the gleaming trail he leaves when
he rubs three fingers over his hole. He jumps, like he startled himself.
“Too cold?” Sam says. He doesn’t see how it possibly could be—but, no, Dean
shakes his head, licks his lips. He rubs in slow, dragging pulls, and Sam can
see the soft furl going just a little pink under the pressure. He sucks in a
breath. “Spread your legs a little wider,” he says, and Dean blinks at him but
does it, just because Sam asked, he shifts his feet and pulls his knees wide
apart, and Sam can see the tendon in his thigh pulling taut but oh, that makes
the view better. “How does it feel?”
Dean shrugs. “Good enough, I guess.” His voice is all quiet. He flattens his
fingers and presses, hard enough that his nails go white for a second, and that
makes his mouth part. “Not as good as jerking off,” he says, a little bit of a
tease, and Sam rolls his eyes.
“It’s supposed to feel better, if you’d get your butt in gear,” Sam says, and
Dean snorts at the pun. Sam rubs his sweaty palms on his knees, wonders if
Dean’s relaxed enough now. “Try pressing with a finger.”
He thinks Dean probably fingered girls, before. This isn’t like that. Dean
closes his eyes and Sam almost asks him to keep them open, but—he watches Dean
circle around his hole with his middle finger, watches the careful press as he
tries to get in, but he’s so tight it’s a struggle. Sam tried this on himself,
in the shower a few weeks ago, and it felt kinda weird, kinda good, but he gave
up before he went too far. Dean won’t. Sam knows that. He puts a hand on Dean’s
knee, leans in a little closer, and the tip of Dean’s finger slides in, and
then immediately out again. Dean makes a little ah sound, his eyes popping
open.
“Try again?” Sam says. Dean licks his lips again and they’re shiny-pink, almost
as shiny as he is below, and this time when he pushes his finger slides a
little easier, and without Sam prompting he pushes it deeper, twists his wrist
and gets it in almost to the second knuckle. He lets out a grunt and Sam
realizes he’s gripping Dean’s knee so hard that the flesh is going white. He
lets go, and says, “Good?”
Dean shrugs again. “Not bad,” he says, voice strained. His dick’s a little
softer.
Sam slides his hand down the side of Dean’s thigh, scoots closer so his knees
are brushing Dean’s bare shins. “I was reading today, at the library.” Dean
rolls his eyes. “The prostate’s just a few inches inside,” Sam continues,
ignoring that. “On the same side where your dick and everything is. So, there
was a diagram, comparing sex with a girl to sex with a guy.”
“What kinda websites are you going to at school?” Dean says, frowning, and it’s
Sam’s turn to roll his eyes.
“Pull your finger out and then push it in again,” Sam says, and Dean does,
slowly, his finger gleaming, and when Sam raises his eyebrows he does it again,
starts pumping it in a steady slow rhythm. “That’s like—like fucking, right?”
The word sounds awkward, but Dean flushes a little darker. “So, with a girl,
when you screw her, you want to try to get a good angle toward her belly,
because that’s where her good spot is.” Sam puts two fingers lightly on Dean’s
taint—or, perineum, he knows now. He meets Dean’s eyes, increases the pressure
a little against the warm slippery skin. “If someone was screwing you they’d
want to hit the same spot.”
Dean’s ears and cheeks and throat are all dark red, now, and Sam knows he’s
blushing, too, from how hot his face is. “Someone,” Dean says, almost like
teasing, but his voice is all down-low, and Sam says, “Two fingers?” and Dean
nods, drags his finger out and puts two up against his hole, and with Sam
watching he screws them in against the sudden give of it, has to push hard and
gets them in with a visible effort.
“Hang on,” Sam says, and scrambles for the open vaseline tub, forgotten on the
sheets beside them. He scoops out a thick gobby fingerful and reaches down
between them, smears it over the hot tight skin, and—oh, this is—Dean pulls his
fingers out a few inches and Sam slides the goop along them, over the stretched
ring, and—and he hadn’t even really meant to touch Dean here, was just going to
let him figure out if he liked it for himself, but Dean groans, twists his
fingers around with Sam still touching them and sinks them in all the way, so
that Sam’s touching him while he feels the skin stretch all tight. Oh, god.
"Sammy," Dean says, kind of thick and weird, and Sam rubs his thumb up against
where Dean's fingers are disappearing inside himself, fascinated. "Sammy," Dean
says, more insistently, and when Sam looks up Dean's watching him hot-eyed and
intent, like he gets when he's sucking Sam's dick, or when they're jerking off
together and they're pressed so close it's like Sam can feel Dean's heart
beating under his own ribs. He slides his thumb up the slick perineum to where
Dean's balls are pulled up tight out of the way and Dean shudders, and he says,
"C'mere, Sam, get up here," and Sam scrambles up onto his knees and leans in
and kisses Dean, propped up on one hand while his other stays buried down where
everything's so hot and slick and moving. Dean knocks his mouth open, licks
against his lower lip, but the kiss is shallow, the two of them breathing
against each other more than anything else.
"Good?" Sam says, and Dean says, "Shut up," breathy, and Sam kisses him for
real after that, sloppy and, okay, he still feels half like he doesn't know
what he's doing, but that's okay, when it's them. They're figuring it out
together, that's what Dean said—what he's always said, since that first time.
Sam pulls back to breathe and looks down between them, and Dean's nearly all
the way hard again, his dick laying up against his belly. God, Sam wants—oh, so
much, he wants all kinds of stuff, but for now he pushes up higher so he can
see Dean's face and he says, "I read, if you—if you just drag your fingers,
like rub them up against the inside, then—"
Dean's hips flex and he tips his head back, his eyes scrunching closed. "Like
how," he says, and he's really—punching his fingers in and out, and oh shit
that looks so hot. Sam backs up on his knees, sets his palms on the backs of
Dean's thighs to push them out just that extra inch. He's not getting it right
but maybe that doesn't matter, with how hot and flushed he is all over. His
nipples are pulled tight, his mouth bitten all the way to red, and Sam thinks
for a weird bright second that he's going to be the cause of this, that he is
the cause of it, that Dean's doing it for him, so he can see, so that they can
learn together because Sam wanted to, because he whispered in Dean's ear one
night when Dad was two hundred miles away have you ever, do you ever think
about, I want to try, and Sam's own dick lurches in his jeans and for a second
he thinks he's going to cream his briefs even without touching, but then Dean
groans out loud and says, "Ah—ah, Sammy, I can't, I can't," and yanks his
fingers out, snaps his hand up to his dick and starts jerking himself, hard and
fast. He shudders, thumbs over the head where he's all leaky, and Sam knows
he's going to come soon, fast, but Sam wants more than that. Dean's still
holding his balls all high so Sam's still got the perfect view where Dean's now
an almost-sore red, worked over and tender looking, and he doesn't let himself
overthink, he spits onto two fingers and pushes them together and twists and
shoves in, and Dean's hips flinch up, fuck him up into his own grip.
"Oh my god," Sam says, out loud. He's—he's inside Dean, and it's so much more
open than he was when he tried it himself but it's still tight, too, so crazy-
warm and soft and sticky-wet, and he twists his fingers around, pushes right up
inside and against the inner wall just like he read about, crams in as deep as
he can with his knuckles denting into the soft muscle of Dean's ass and drags
in tight, back-and-forth motions, and when he looks up Dean's looking right
back at him, mouth open and heaving in shuddery breaths. Sam feels about as
crazy as Dean looks, right now, his own stomach and balls clenching in
sympathy. "Are you gonna?" Sam says, his voice all thin. "Are you—Dean, like
this?"
Dean doesn't say anything, doesn't look like he can. Sam keeps his fingers
right where they are and everything gets tighter, Dean's hips jumping, and he
drops his head back on his shoulder and then he's—coming, pulsing tight around
Sam's fingers in a way he's never felt before, shooting all wet and messy over
his belly and up to his chest, holy crap. Sam keeps up his massage even as
Dean's hand starts to slow down and Dean's hips flinch, his thighs jerking
closed all tight around Sam's sides, and he just keeps coming, all thick and
white, groaning out loud now with his head banged up against the headboard. Sam
keeps his fingers right where they are and fumbles open his own jeans left-
handed, awkward and scrambling, and he doesn't care if Dean makes fun of him
for being on a hair-trigger but he's going to blow his wad in like t-minus ten
seconds, and yeah, he shoves his briefs down and gets his hand around his dick
and jerks himself four, five times, and then he's coming—not as much as Dean,
not nearly as much, but it feels like it's coming from his freaking spine, and
tucked in close like he is he spatters all over Dean's own dick, over his hand,
and—and lower, over the perineum, and while Sam watches open-mouthed and
panting it starts to drip, gravity pulling it down. Sam pulls his fingers out,
lets the drip collect on the wet pads of them, and then—pushes it back in, not
really thinking about it.
"Sammy," Dean says.
Sam looks up. Dean's staring at him, flushed. The light's a little lower now,
maybe falling down into sunset, but there's still enough that Sam can see how
Dean's eyes are almost all dark. Dean reaches out and tugs at Sam's t-shirt and
Sam just drags his hands free and falls into him, all of his muscles gone kind
of rubbery at once. Dean pulls him close with sticky hands and kisses him, lazy
and soft. Sam sighs, and then drops his forehead down to Dean's shoulder. He's
sweating, but he's too comfortable to move.
"Was that okay?" he says, after a while.
Dean snorts. He stretches his legs out, a little, though he still keeps Sam
cradled between them. "It didn't suck," he says, against Sam's hair. Sam
pinches his side, and Dean smacks his butt in retaliation. "Yeah, yeah. Next
time I want better lube, though."
Sam smiles, tucked in against Dean's skin. "Next time," he agrees. Dean
stretches out, underneath him, and he rides the bumpy wave of it. His t-shirt's
getting totally ruined, probably, with what's all smeary between them, and he
pushes up and off of Dean, reluctantly, rolls onto his back and sighs happily
at the ceiling. Maybe he'll take a nap before they do something about dinner.
"Oh, no," Dean says, and then a pillow hits Sam in the face. He blinks, and
Dean's standing beside the bed, naked, the last reddish light from the sun
showing off his smeary belly, the soft hanging weight of his dick. Sam
swallows. "We're nasty, come on. Time to hit the showers."
Not waiting for a response, Dean walks off to the grimy little bathroom and Sam
watches his butt flex, the slight shine between his thighs as he moves. His
lower belly clenches, tight. The light clicks on and then the shower rushes on
after that, the water hitting the bathtub that's big enough for them both to
stand in together. Okay, clean-up, and maybe—something more. He licks his lips.
Dad's not going to be back for another week at least, and there was a lot more
stuff on that website Sam found. Way more than he ever really knew about, and
more than he thinks Dean ever has, too. He's willing to bet that Dean wouldn't
mind if Sam learned a little more.
 
End Notes
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