Those Who Forget the Past - Chapter 1 of Hit Me Baby One More Time
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: m/m, Dean/Sam
rating: NC-17
Season 8: Right after LARP and the Real Girl
~3,000 words
Warnings: drug use, leather pants, bootleg music, bad priorities
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Dean and Sam are still laughing as they open the doors and slide into the front seat of the Impala. Dean starts the car with one hand and pulls the wig off his head with the other. He holds it out the window as they drive away and it flutters like a blond flag in the wind. His victory yell startles some stragglers from the Moons army as they pull out of the dirt parking lot.
“Excellent job, man!” yells one of Charlie’s regulars. Dean slows down to high-five him with the wig.
Sam laughs as he pushes a tape into the deck. “Bad Moon Rising” fills the car and the winds tugs at Dean’s sleeve as his left hand drums on the door along to the music. They sing together, enjoying the road, the wind, and the victory. When Dean recognizes the opening notes of “We Gotta Get Out of This Place,” he smacks Sam on the chest with the back of his hand. “Oh man, I didn’t know this one was still hanging around.
Sam shakes his head. “I can’t believe it still plays. It’s gotta be ten years old.”
Dean rolls his eyes up and to the right as he sings along, searching for the memory. He holds out his hand and Sam slaps the tape box into his palm. The names and artists scrawled on the paper liner in Dean’s cramped handwriting are faded and smeared from years of sun and rain but he doesn’t need to read it to know every song on it. Dean has always measured his life in miles and music and memories from deep deep inside Dean’s are unspooling along with the tape. “Twelve years, my fine young warrior. We made this twelve years ago.” He interrupts himself to serenade Sam, pointing at him with his most sincere expression. “Girl, there’s a better place for me and yooooou,” he sings. He reaches over and spreads his hand across the back of Sam’s head, shaking it back and forth to the beat of the music. Sam’s head feels different with the hair all slicked back and the ponytail feels sleek and thick where it ripples down the back of Dean’s hand. Sam swats his hand away.
“Don’t you like my singing, Sammy?” Dean fake pouts as he slowly pulls his hand out of Sam’s hair, finger tips dragging just a bit against the soft skin at the nape of Sam’s neck. Sam’s skin twitches and he reaches up to pull the band out of his hair. Dean quickly stops him with a hand to Sam’s arm. Not sure why he does it, he just wants Sam to keep the ponytail just a little longer. At Sam’s questioning gaze in the mirror, he shrugs. “It looks good, nice to see your face for a change.”
Sam tries for bitch face number three, the one that says you’re annoying but you’re still my brother, but Dean can tell Sam’s feeling too good for even that. The most he can produce is a derisive snort, but leaves the pony tail in. Dean keeps his arm stretched out across the seat back as “Somebody to Love” starts to play.
“My senior year,” Sam says thoughtfully. “When dad left us. Right before graduation.”
“Yep,” Dean agrees, realizing as he does that he has been flicking Sam’s ponytail back and forth, sliding it between his fingers and yanking at it gently. Dean risks a quick glance at Sam. Sam doesn’t seem to mind. His eyes are half-closed and he slumps in the seat, long legs spread wide, one knee against the door, one just touching the gear shift. The brown leather pants stretch tight across his strong legs and Dean co uld swear he sees the soft bulge of his little brother’s cock just starting to push down the inside of his left thigh. Not that he’s looking. Dean yanks his gaze away and concentrates on the road. He doesn’t move his hand away from Sam’s neck though. Feels like he should, maybe, move, but Sam’s not complaining. As a matter of fact he looks damn relaxed. And fuck it, they just met a fairy, stopped the bad guy, and helped Charlie keep her spot as ruler of Moondoor.
“God. Remember that old hippy’s apartment?” Sam slinks a little further down the seat, legs spreading wide, his knee bumping companionably against Dean’s. “I’ll never forget that moldy basement smell.”
Dean moves his hand from Sam’s neck to his knee, because why not? It’s just more comfortable. And if his fingers scratch a little at the seam running down the inside of Sam’s leg, and if his thumb makes little circles on the leather, so what? It feels nice and Dean’s a tactile person. Not a lot of soft, pretty things in Purgatory. Besides, by the way Sam’s head is tipped back, eyes half-closed, it doesn’t look like he has any complaints. So the voices in Dean’s head can just shut the fuck up. Who asked them anyway?
“I’ll never forget his vinyl collection.” Dean says. “It was a thing of beauty.”
“Hmm,” Sam comments, shifting a little in the seat so his back is angled between the door and the seat and his leg pushes even harder into Dean’s. “And all those bootlegged Zeppelin tapes.”
Dean moans. “Oh man, those…the guy had Gonzaga ’68. It’s…” Words fail Dean as he remembers the treasure trove tucked into cracked pleather cassette holder. “It was awesome. I can’t believe you remember that.”
Sam snorts, “Dude, I thought you were going to take them to bed and make sweet, sweet love to them. How could I forget? That look on your face,” he laughed. Dean looks over and is temporarily blinded by the full Sam Winchester special. Even through the red and white war paint still faintly visible on his skin, Sam smiles like the sun coming out, all dimples, white teeth, and laugh lines around his eyes. The first time baby Sammy had smiled at him, Dean had felt like his heart was being squeezed, and the surge of possessive love had knocked the breath out of his lungs. Nearly 30 years later, Sam can still make him feel that way. Some of what he was feeling must show in his face, because Sam’s smile gentles, and his eyes soften. That’s Sam’s look for Dean only. He’d never seen it directed at anyone else. One Dean hadn’t seen in almost two years. His hand tightens convulsively on Sam’s knee.
“Yeah, Sammy.” He looks back at the road, feeling Sam’s eyes still on him. He doesn’t move his hand. Clearing his suddenly dry throat, Dean tilts his head back and forth until his neck cracks and groans appreciatively.
“You’re so easy,” Sam comments.
“It’s the little things, son.” He plucks at Sam’s pants. “Like these. Where did you get them? Where do they have gigantor-sized leather pants anyway?”
Sam shrugs, still looking at Dean, leg jittering up and down under Dean’s hand. Dean relaxes his grip a bit, letting the leather slide across his palm with the movement of Sam’s leg. Didn’t Sam have something else to look at? Dean checks out the window. Trees, road, nothing they haven’t seen a million times before. But still. “They’re soft,” Sam says.
The trees? Dean thinks for a second. Oh. Pants. “Oh, yeah, they are.” And warm Dean thinks as he deliberately does not notice the way he is rubbing up and down Sam’s thigh. “You, uh, like them?”
From the corner of his eye, Dean sees Sam’s tongue push out quickly, just brushing against his bottom lip. White teeth press into the lip as Sam runs his fingers through his hair, pulling it away from his face, and huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, I like them.” Sam doesn’t add not as much as you do and Dean doesn’t hear it, but it hangs there just the same.
Aiming for nonchalance and, he suspects, missing it by mile, Dean pulls his hand away from where it rests suspiciously high on Sam’s thigh. Huh. Whaddya know. Dean didn’t remember moving. Now that he’s paying attention, he was actually leaning a little into Sam’s space, resting a bit of his weight on Sam’s leg. Oh well, Sam hadn’t complained. About any of it. And he keeps looking at Dean. Dean drums both hands on the wheel as the drum solo from Karn Evil #9 peaked. “Oh yeah! Remember this one?”
“I remember being stoned out of our minds by this point.”
Dean turned slowly to Sam, mouth hanging open, and points at him. “You’re right! We found hippy dude’s stash. I’d forgotten that part.”
“I didn’t.” Sam moves again, knee pressing into Dean’s thigh. Fuck, Sam was wiggly tonight. Dean should say something. And he will. Soon. If it happens again. “I remember that night really well.”
The skin on the back of Dean’s neck shivers at the way Sam sounds. He sounds like he was half on his way to stoned right now. As Emerson, Lake, and Palmer urged him to see the show in a rousing crescendo, Dean almost gasps out loud as a memory smashes its way out of the things-we-don’t-think-about (except when we do) box buried in the deepest part of his brain and smacks him across the back of the head. Oh, fuck. That night. Dean is pretty impressed that he manages to keep from yanking the steering wheel. A quick dart of eyes over to Sam who’s hooded glance tells Dean that Sam sure does remember that night damn well. Dean struggles to hold back a groan. As the shivering cymbals of Bad Company slithers out of the speakers, Dean keeps his eyes on the road, his hands to himself, and remembers. Christ.
It had been cold for May. Maybe it was the cement walls in the basement. Maybe it was the constant rain. Or maybe it was just an excuse for the blanket. But Dean remembers it being cold. Whatever the reason, they’d ended up pressed against each other, under the itchy wool blanket in sweat pants and t-shirts, propped up against the arm of a ratty futon way too small for two six-foot tall bodies. Seventeen and twenty-one and Sam was pressed between the wall and Dean.
They’d found the stash tucked in one of the endless cracked vinyl cassette cases. A shared looked and they had a game plan for the night. The creation of mixed-tapes could wait until tomorrow. One and a half joints later, Bad Company’s Live in Japan hissed through the speakers, and Sam and Dean were feeling no pain. The background noise of the audience and the rise and fall of cheers, clapping, and music mixed with the rain against the casement windows. Sam was a furnace against his side, and his beer was within reach. Dean could have stayed there forever.
He took a long inhale, held it, and offered the joint to Sam. Sam had slipped down, his head on a level with Dean’s chest. He batted weakly at the joint like his arm weight a hundred pounds. Dean laughed, sympathizing with him, little puffs of smoke escaping with each chuckle. His own legs were feeling a little heavy themselves.
“Dean,” Sam whined. “S’not funny.”
“Yeah it is.”
“Yeah it is,”Sam agreed, bursting into laughter. Dean could feel it shaking Sam’s body where they touched. He laughed as Sam’s head landed heavily on his chest and rolled back and forth as if it was too much for Sam’s neck to control. “But I want more. Gimme.” Not lifting his head off Dean’s chest, he looked up, batting his eyelashes. “Pleeeese?” he smiled.
Dean took another drag. The smoke burned in his mouth. His chest ached with the need to exhale or in response to Sam’s smile or both. Before his better judgment could rise up and spoil the fun, Dean reached his left arm around Sam and tangled his fingers in his little brother’s hair. He held his right hand carefully away from their bodies. Yanking back on the strands that were as soft as he’d known they would be, he tilted Sam’s head back. Sam’s jaw dropped open. “Inhale,” Dean ordered as he leaned down and sealed his mouth to Sam’s. With a shuddering gasp, Sam did, quickly reaching up to wrap his arm around Dean’s neck, holding him in place. Sam rolled onto his side, fitting himself more closely to Dean’s mouth. His left leg slid over Dean, slotting their thighs together with an almost audible click. The invisible audience went wild and cheers filled the tiny space.
Dean wrenched Sam’s head back, as they both gasped for air. Sam’s eyes were all dark pupil ringed with gold. Dean knew his must look the same. “Fuck.” His chest heaved. The pot made him feel slow and heavy, pushing against Sam. Neither one of them let go, pulling back only far enough to breathe, the air under the blanket warn and thick against their skin.
“Dean,” Sam whispered, eyes flicking back and forth between Dean’s eyes and his mouth. Tongue reaching out to wet dry, dry pink lips.
The heat from the smoldering joint reached Dean’s finger. “Fuck,” he said again with a hiss. He shook his arm, starting to throw the roach on the ground. Sam’s hand on his arm stopped him.
Sam slid his hand down Dean’s arm and guided it back up to Dean’s mouth. “Again,” he ordered, staring into Dean’s eyes.
Carefully Dean put the burning stub to his mouth and pulled the smoke into his lungs. Without looking away from Sam, he reached down and dropped the end into one of the empty beer bottles on the floor. Smoke escaping on a groan, he pushed up and surged over Sam, one hand in his hair, the other pulling Sam’s jaw open. He felt Sam’s legs spread and open, welcoming him into the cradle of his hips, and his tongue chased the smoke into Sam’s mouth.
They kissed slow and easy, the smoke drifting into the air between them. Sam’s body rocked against Dean’s, gently but relentlessly, and Dean could feel him hard against his own length. He was burning up, burned from the friction of his sweatpants against his dick, the scratch of the wool against his back where Sammy had pushed his t-shirt up, and the hot brand of Sam’s hands on his skin.
“God,” he groaned, pulling his mouth away. He’d wanted this for so long. They’d been dancing around it for the last two years. His mouth was a desert even Sam’s tongue couldn’t wet. Dean’s arm groped blindly off the edge of the futon, reaching for the half-finished beer. Levering his chest up to drink ground his hips against Sam’s.
Sam grabbed Dean’s ass with both hands and pulled him even tighter against him, thrusting up. “Shit. Yeah. Dean.”
Falling down onto one elbow, Dean gulped down the beer, swirling the liquid around his mouth, anxious to get back to kissing his brother. He whined as Sam’s hand left off exploring his body. Sam just grabbed the bottle from Dean and finished off the beer, tossing it away somewhere into the room. Dean heard it hit and roll on the linoleum as Sam grabbed his head and pulled him back into Sam’s mouth where he belonged.
God, it was heaven. Sam writhing under him, legs spreading to lock around Dean’s, little gasps escaping his mouth between kisses. Sam thrust hard against him, lifting Dean up a bit with each sharp movement. Damn, the kids was strong. “Jesus fuck,” Dean yelled as one combo move involving a thrust up, a yank down with the arms Sam had locked down across Dean’s ass and back, and some kind of shimmy, almost had him coming in his pants. “Yeah, fuck. Just like that. Just like that,” he panted into Sam’s neck. “You feel so good, Sammy. So hard for me. Just for me. So big.”
“Dean!” Sam yelled. “Jesus, just -“ he thrusts were getting erratic against Dean, his hands slipped under Dean’s shirt and down his pants, skittering for purchase against the sweat-slick skin.
Dean groaned as Sam licked up his throat, his huge hands kneading at Dean’s ass, pushing and pulling him exactly where Sam needed. He bit at the skin on Sam’s shoulder, licked up to nip at Sam’s earlobe. “Yeah, baby boy. Fucking hell, your hands are so big. Love to feel them on me. Love the way you move me.”
Sam inhaled with a stuttering gasp, and Dean felt Sam pulsing against his own aching erection. In the half-second of silence before Sam came yelling a string of blasphemy and profanity that impressed Dean, Dean heard a screeching whiney sound that rang the alarm bells in his mind.
“Oh god. Oh no,” he exclaimed as his brain put an image to the sound. Even as his hips continued to thrust into the warm, wet heat covering Sam, even as Sam gasped and recovered from his orgasm, Dean was starting to roll off the futon.
Dean rolled onto the floor, taking the blanket with him. Sam opened his eyes as the weight lifted off him and the cold air hit the huge wet mess on his pants. “Dean!” he yelled, voice wrecked and shaky, breath still uneven. “What the fuck?”
Still on his stomach, Dean swatted at the tape deck that was screeching and spilling out thin black tape onto the rollers. “The tape! It’s caught!” He hit the stop button and lurched to his knees, gently opening the door of the cassette player.
Sam threw his arm across his eyes. “Unbelievable,” he huffed.
“It’s Live In Japan! I don’t know to get another copy. Do you?” Dean painstakingly started to unwind the loose tape off the tape heads.
Sam gave a huge exhale. Dean listened to him breathe as he gently and slowly started to rewind the tape with the end of a pencil. Dean’s dick was not onboard with the loss of friction and throbbed its displeasure. Dean swore as he heard Sam start to sit up. “Sam. No, wait, Sammy. It will just be a second.”
Sam’s legs came into view as he slid to the end of the futon and swung his legs off the end. He ran his fingers through his hair, tugged at the soggy crotch of his sweatpants with a grimace. “I’m going to change. Take a shower maybe.” He swayed as he stood. Dean reached out with his free hand to steady him. “Sam?” He looked up anxiously at his really really tall little brother.
Sam reached down, hand sliding through Dean’s short hair, hand curving down to caress his cheek. “It’s okay, Dean,” he said. He straightened up. “I’m just gonna -“ he gestured towards the small bathroom and bedroom across the apartment.
By the time he had come back into the room, Dean had gotten the tape rewound, and the moment had passed. After a semi-awkward attempt at talking, Sam had claimed exhaustion and headed off the small bedroom he was using. Dean slid under the wool blanket that still smelled like him and Sam and smoke, and tried to sleep. That was the first time he had jerked off to the memory of the sound and feel of Sam coming underneath him. It was far from the last.
Pairing: m/m, Dean/Sam
rating: NC-17
Season 8: Right after LARP and the Real Girl
~3,000 words
Warnings: drug use, leather pants, bootleg music, bad priorities
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Dean and Sam are still laughing as they open the doors and slide into the front seat of the Impala. Dean starts the car with one hand and pulls the wig off his head with the other. He holds it out the window as they drive away and it flutters like a blond flag in the wind. His victory yell startles some stragglers from the Moons army as they pull out of the dirt parking lot.
“Excellent job, man!” yells one of Charlie’s regulars. Dean slows down to high-five him with the wig.
Sam laughs as he pushes a tape into the deck. “Bad Moon Rising” fills the car and the winds tugs at Dean’s sleeve as his left hand drums on the door along to the music. They sing together, enjoying the road, the wind, and the victory. When Dean recognizes the opening notes of “We Gotta Get Out of This Place,” he smacks Sam on the chest with the back of his hand. “Oh man, I didn’t know this one was still hanging around.
Sam shakes his head. “I can’t believe it still plays. It’s gotta be ten years old.”
Dean rolls his eyes up and to the right as he sings along, searching for the memory. He holds out his hand and Sam slaps the tape box into his palm. The names and artists scrawled on the paper liner in Dean’s cramped handwriting are faded and smeared from years of sun and rain but he doesn’t need to read it to know every song on it. Dean has always measured his life in miles and music and memories from deep deep inside Dean’s are unspooling along with the tape. “Twelve years, my fine young warrior. We made this twelve years ago.” He interrupts himself to serenade Sam, pointing at him with his most sincere expression. “Girl, there’s a better place for me and yooooou,” he sings. He reaches over and spreads his hand across the back of Sam’s head, shaking it back and forth to the beat of the music. Sam’s head feels different with the hair all slicked back and the ponytail feels sleek and thick where it ripples down the back of Dean’s hand. Sam swats his hand away.
“Don’t you like my singing, Sammy?” Dean fake pouts as he slowly pulls his hand out of Sam’s hair, finger tips dragging just a bit against the soft skin at the nape of Sam’s neck. Sam’s skin twitches and he reaches up to pull the band out of his hair. Dean quickly stops him with a hand to Sam’s arm. Not sure why he does it, he just wants Sam to keep the ponytail just a little longer. At Sam’s questioning gaze in the mirror, he shrugs. “It looks good, nice to see your face for a change.”
Sam tries for bitch face number three, the one that says you’re annoying but you’re still my brother, but Dean can tell Sam’s feeling too good for even that. The most he can produce is a derisive snort, but leaves the pony tail in. Dean keeps his arm stretched out across the seat back as “Somebody to Love” starts to play.
“My senior year,” Sam says thoughtfully. “When dad left us. Right before graduation.”
“Yep,” Dean agrees, realizing as he does that he has been flicking Sam’s ponytail back and forth, sliding it between his fingers and yanking at it gently. Dean risks a quick glance at Sam. Sam doesn’t seem to mind. His eyes are half-closed and he slumps in the seat, long legs spread wide, one knee against the door, one just touching the gear shift. The brown leather pants stretch tight across his strong legs and Dean co uld swear he sees the soft bulge of his little brother’s cock just starting to push down the inside of his left thigh. Not that he’s looking. Dean yanks his gaze away and concentrates on the road. He doesn’t move his hand away from Sam’s neck though. Feels like he should, maybe, move, but Sam’s not complaining. As a matter of fact he looks damn relaxed. And fuck it, they just met a fairy, stopped the bad guy, and helped Charlie keep her spot as ruler of Moondoor.
“God. Remember that old hippy’s apartment?” Sam slinks a little further down the seat, legs spreading wide, his knee bumping companionably against Dean’s. “I’ll never forget that moldy basement smell.”
Dean moves his hand from Sam’s neck to his knee, because why not? It’s just more comfortable. And if his fingers scratch a little at the seam running down the inside of Sam’s leg, and if his thumb makes little circles on the leather, so what? It feels nice and Dean’s a tactile person. Not a lot of soft, pretty things in Purgatory. Besides, by the way Sam’s head is tipped back, eyes half-closed, it doesn’t look like he has any complaints. So the voices in Dean’s head can just shut the fuck up. Who asked them anyway?
“I’ll never forget his vinyl collection.” Dean says. “It was a thing of beauty.”
“Hmm,” Sam comments, shifting a little in the seat so his back is angled between the door and the seat and his leg pushes even harder into Dean’s. “And all those bootlegged Zeppelin tapes.”
Dean moans. “Oh man, those…the guy had Gonzaga ’68. It’s…” Words fail Dean as he remembers the treasure trove tucked into cracked pleather cassette holder. “It was awesome. I can’t believe you remember that.”
Sam snorts, “Dude, I thought you were going to take them to bed and make sweet, sweet love to them. How could I forget? That look on your face,” he laughed. Dean looks over and is temporarily blinded by the full Sam Winchester special. Even through the red and white war paint still faintly visible on his skin, Sam smiles like the sun coming out, all dimples, white teeth, and laugh lines around his eyes. The first time baby Sammy had smiled at him, Dean had felt like his heart was being squeezed, and the surge of possessive love had knocked the breath out of his lungs. Nearly 30 years later, Sam can still make him feel that way. Some of what he was feeling must show in his face, because Sam’s smile gentles, and his eyes soften. That’s Sam’s look for Dean only. He’d never seen it directed at anyone else. One Dean hadn’t seen in almost two years. His hand tightens convulsively on Sam’s knee.
“Yeah, Sammy.” He looks back at the road, feeling Sam’s eyes still on him. He doesn’t move his hand. Clearing his suddenly dry throat, Dean tilts his head back and forth until his neck cracks and groans appreciatively.
“You’re so easy,” Sam comments.
“It’s the little things, son.” He plucks at Sam’s pants. “Like these. Where did you get them? Where do they have gigantor-sized leather pants anyway?”
Sam shrugs, still looking at Dean, leg jittering up and down under Dean’s hand. Dean relaxes his grip a bit, letting the leather slide across his palm with the movement of Sam’s leg. Didn’t Sam have something else to look at? Dean checks out the window. Trees, road, nothing they haven’t seen a million times before. But still. “They’re soft,” Sam says.
The trees? Dean thinks for a second. Oh. Pants. “Oh, yeah, they are.” And warm Dean thinks as he deliberately does not notice the way he is rubbing up and down Sam’s thigh. “You, uh, like them?”
From the corner of his eye, Dean sees Sam’s tongue push out quickly, just brushing against his bottom lip. White teeth press into the lip as Sam runs his fingers through his hair, pulling it away from his face, and huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, I like them.” Sam doesn’t add not as much as you do and Dean doesn’t hear it, but it hangs there just the same.
Aiming for nonchalance and, he suspects, missing it by mile, Dean pulls his hand away from where it rests suspiciously high on Sam’s thigh. Huh. Whaddya know. Dean didn’t remember moving. Now that he’s paying attention, he was actually leaning a little into Sam’s space, resting a bit of his weight on Sam’s leg. Oh well, Sam hadn’t complained. About any of it. And he keeps looking at Dean. Dean drums both hands on the wheel as the drum solo from Karn Evil #9 peaked. “Oh yeah! Remember this one?”
“I remember being stoned out of our minds by this point.”
Dean turned slowly to Sam, mouth hanging open, and points at him. “You’re right! We found hippy dude’s stash. I’d forgotten that part.”
“I didn’t.” Sam moves again, knee pressing into Dean’s thigh. Fuck, Sam was wiggly tonight. Dean should say something. And he will. Soon. If it happens again. “I remember that night really well.”
The skin on the back of Dean’s neck shivers at the way Sam sounds. He sounds like he was half on his way to stoned right now. As Emerson, Lake, and Palmer urged him to see the show in a rousing crescendo, Dean almost gasps out loud as a memory smashes its way out of the things-we-don’t-think-about (except when we do) box buried in the deepest part of his brain and smacks him across the back of the head. Oh, fuck. That night. Dean is pretty impressed that he manages to keep from yanking the steering wheel. A quick dart of eyes over to Sam who’s hooded glance tells Dean that Sam sure does remember that night damn well. Dean struggles to hold back a groan. As the shivering cymbals of Bad Company slithers out of the speakers, Dean keeps his eyes on the road, his hands to himself, and remembers. Christ.
It had been cold for May. Maybe it was the cement walls in the basement. Maybe it was the constant rain. Or maybe it was just an excuse for the blanket. But Dean remembers it being cold. Whatever the reason, they’d ended up pressed against each other, under the itchy wool blanket in sweat pants and t-shirts, propped up against the arm of a ratty futon way too small for two six-foot tall bodies. Seventeen and twenty-one and Sam was pressed between the wall and Dean.
They’d found the stash tucked in one of the endless cracked vinyl cassette cases. A shared looked and they had a game plan for the night. The creation of mixed-tapes could wait until tomorrow. One and a half joints later, Bad Company’s Live in Japan hissed through the speakers, and Sam and Dean were feeling no pain. The background noise of the audience and the rise and fall of cheers, clapping, and music mixed with the rain against the casement windows. Sam was a furnace against his side, and his beer was within reach. Dean could have stayed there forever.
He took a long inhale, held it, and offered the joint to Sam. Sam had slipped down, his head on a level with Dean’s chest. He batted weakly at the joint like his arm weight a hundred pounds. Dean laughed, sympathizing with him, little puffs of smoke escaping with each chuckle. His own legs were feeling a little heavy themselves.
“Dean,” Sam whined. “S’not funny.”
“Yeah it is.”
“Yeah it is,”Sam agreed, bursting into laughter. Dean could feel it shaking Sam’s body where they touched. He laughed as Sam’s head landed heavily on his chest and rolled back and forth as if it was too much for Sam’s neck to control. “But I want more. Gimme.” Not lifting his head off Dean’s chest, he looked up, batting his eyelashes. “Pleeeese?” he smiled.
Dean took another drag. The smoke burned in his mouth. His chest ached with the need to exhale or in response to Sam’s smile or both. Before his better judgment could rise up and spoil the fun, Dean reached his left arm around Sam and tangled his fingers in his little brother’s hair. He held his right hand carefully away from their bodies. Yanking back on the strands that were as soft as he’d known they would be, he tilted Sam’s head back. Sam’s jaw dropped open. “Inhale,” Dean ordered as he leaned down and sealed his mouth to Sam’s. With a shuddering gasp, Sam did, quickly reaching up to wrap his arm around Dean’s neck, holding him in place. Sam rolled onto his side, fitting himself more closely to Dean’s mouth. His left leg slid over Dean, slotting their thighs together with an almost audible click. The invisible audience went wild and cheers filled the tiny space.
Dean wrenched Sam’s head back, as they both gasped for air. Sam’s eyes were all dark pupil ringed with gold. Dean knew his must look the same. “Fuck.” His chest heaved. The pot made him feel slow and heavy, pushing against Sam. Neither one of them let go, pulling back only far enough to breathe, the air under the blanket warn and thick against their skin.
“Dean,” Sam whispered, eyes flicking back and forth between Dean’s eyes and his mouth. Tongue reaching out to wet dry, dry pink lips.
The heat from the smoldering joint reached Dean’s finger. “Fuck,” he said again with a hiss. He shook his arm, starting to throw the roach on the ground. Sam’s hand on his arm stopped him.
Sam slid his hand down Dean’s arm and guided it back up to Dean’s mouth. “Again,” he ordered, staring into Dean’s eyes.
Carefully Dean put the burning stub to his mouth and pulled the smoke into his lungs. Without looking away from Sam, he reached down and dropped the end into one of the empty beer bottles on the floor. Smoke escaping on a groan, he pushed up and surged over Sam, one hand in his hair, the other pulling Sam’s jaw open. He felt Sam’s legs spread and open, welcoming him into the cradle of his hips, and his tongue chased the smoke into Sam’s mouth.
They kissed slow and easy, the smoke drifting into the air between them. Sam’s body rocked against Dean’s, gently but relentlessly, and Dean could feel him hard against his own length. He was burning up, burned from the friction of his sweatpants against his dick, the scratch of the wool against his back where Sammy had pushed his t-shirt up, and the hot brand of Sam’s hands on his skin.
“God,” he groaned, pulling his mouth away. He’d wanted this for so long. They’d been dancing around it for the last two years. His mouth was a desert even Sam’s tongue couldn’t wet. Dean’s arm groped blindly off the edge of the futon, reaching for the half-finished beer. Levering his chest up to drink ground his hips against Sam’s.
Sam grabbed Dean’s ass with both hands and pulled him even tighter against him, thrusting up. “Shit. Yeah. Dean.”
Falling down onto one elbow, Dean gulped down the beer, swirling the liquid around his mouth, anxious to get back to kissing his brother. He whined as Sam’s hand left off exploring his body. Sam just grabbed the bottle from Dean and finished off the beer, tossing it away somewhere into the room. Dean heard it hit and roll on the linoleum as Sam grabbed his head and pulled him back into Sam’s mouth where he belonged.
God, it was heaven. Sam writhing under him, legs spreading to lock around Dean’s, little gasps escaping his mouth between kisses. Sam thrust hard against him, lifting Dean up a bit with each sharp movement. Damn, the kids was strong. “Jesus fuck,” Dean yelled as one combo move involving a thrust up, a yank down with the arms Sam had locked down across Dean’s ass and back, and some kind of shimmy, almost had him coming in his pants. “Yeah, fuck. Just like that. Just like that,” he panted into Sam’s neck. “You feel so good, Sammy. So hard for me. Just for me. So big.”
“Dean!” Sam yelled. “Jesus, just -“ he thrusts were getting erratic against Dean, his hands slipped under Dean’s shirt and down his pants, skittering for purchase against the sweat-slick skin.
Dean groaned as Sam licked up his throat, his huge hands kneading at Dean’s ass, pushing and pulling him exactly where Sam needed. He bit at the skin on Sam’s shoulder, licked up to nip at Sam’s earlobe. “Yeah, baby boy. Fucking hell, your hands are so big. Love to feel them on me. Love the way you move me.”
Sam inhaled with a stuttering gasp, and Dean felt Sam pulsing against his own aching erection. In the half-second of silence before Sam came yelling a string of blasphemy and profanity that impressed Dean, Dean heard a screeching whiney sound that rang the alarm bells in his mind.
“Oh god. Oh no,” he exclaimed as his brain put an image to the sound. Even as his hips continued to thrust into the warm, wet heat covering Sam, even as Sam gasped and recovered from his orgasm, Dean was starting to roll off the futon.
Dean rolled onto the floor, taking the blanket with him. Sam opened his eyes as the weight lifted off him and the cold air hit the huge wet mess on his pants. “Dean!” he yelled, voice wrecked and shaky, breath still uneven. “What the fuck?”
Still on his stomach, Dean swatted at the tape deck that was screeching and spilling out thin black tape onto the rollers. “The tape! It’s caught!” He hit the stop button and lurched to his knees, gently opening the door of the cassette player.
Sam threw his arm across his eyes. “Unbelievable,” he huffed.
“It’s Live In Japan! I don’t know to get another copy. Do you?” Dean painstakingly started to unwind the loose tape off the tape heads.
Sam gave a huge exhale. Dean listened to him breathe as he gently and slowly started to rewind the tape with the end of a pencil. Dean’s dick was not onboard with the loss of friction and throbbed its displeasure. Dean swore as he heard Sam start to sit up. “Sam. No, wait, Sammy. It will just be a second.”
Sam’s legs came into view as he slid to the end of the futon and swung his legs off the end. He ran his fingers through his hair, tugged at the soggy crotch of his sweatpants with a grimace. “I’m going to change. Take a shower maybe.” He swayed as he stood. Dean reached out with his free hand to steady him. “Sam?” He looked up anxiously at his really really tall little brother.
Sam reached down, hand sliding through Dean’s short hair, hand curving down to caress his cheek. “It’s okay, Dean,” he said. He straightened up. “I’m just gonna -“ he gestured towards the small bathroom and bedroom across the apartment.
By the time he had come back into the room, Dean had gotten the tape rewound, and the moment had passed. After a semi-awkward attempt at talking, Sam had claimed exhaustion and headed off the small bedroom he was using. Dean slid under the wool blanket that still smelled like him and Sam and smoke, and tried to sleep. That was the first time he had jerked off to the memory of the sound and feel of Sam coming underneath him. It was far from the last.