A simple touch (to make you feel good) - Sam/Dean - R (Weecest)
Title: A simple touch (to make you feel good)
Author: benitle
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating:: R
Summary: Sam has growing pains, Dean helps him deal.
Word count: ca. 1,200 words
Warning, Spoilers: Underage Wincest (Sam is 13), no spoilers
Notes: Many thanks to rebekahfair for the superb beta. ♥ Written for the prompt: Sam's getting taller, and growing pains are, well a pain. Dean gives poor Sammy a massage one night and something else starts to grow as does Dean's interest. Points for Dean teaching Sammy that endorphins are a lovely painkiller.
Comments and concrit very much appreciated. No copyright infringement intended. Please enjoy!
Dean wakes when the bed dips next to him. The old mattress makes a creaking sound that's nearly lost beneath the rustling of sheets and comforter. There's more rustling and then Sammy's icy feet rub against his, sending shivers down his spine, just like he had anticipated. It's out of habit when Dean's arms come around Sammy's tiny frame, pulling him closer against his chest.
Dad's been trying real hard to break Sammy's nightly routine of crawling into Dean's bed, especially now that they're renting an apartment with separate rooms for Sam and Dean, but Dad's not here, won't return for another few days. Besides, Dean doesn't mind - not even with the icy feet.
He sighs, tired and content. He doesn't open his eyes, intent on going back to sleep right away. He nearly succeeds.
There's a hiccupping sound. And there's trembling. In his sleep-fogged mind it takes Dean a moment to realize that Sam is crying, face pressed into the crook of his neck. He feels the wetness of Sam's tears, the shaking of Sammy's shoulders. That's all it takes for Dean to become wide-awake within seconds, all disorientation and drowsiness gone instantly. He blinks the alarm clock into focus, reading that it says 03:42 AM.
He rubs a hand up and down Sammy's back, slow and soothing, and asks, "What's going on, squirt?"
Sam whimpers miserably and presses closer against Dean. "Hurts…"
Dean remembers what the doctor told them about growing pains: they're normal at Sam's age, many 13-year-olds have to go through the same thing, some worse than others. And that there are only few things they can do to help. Dean turns his head and kisses the side of Sammy's face as best as he can with the awkward angle. He keeps drawing circles against Sam's back when he gets an idea.
"D'you want me to rub your legs a little?" he asks, the silhouette of Sammy's head nodding in the darkness of the room.
The pain in Sam's legs is always the worst; bad enough to startle him awake at night. Massages have proven to remedy the ache in the past, so Dean's more than willing to give them another shot. Besides, anything that'll give him a reason to put his hands on Sammy is a valid argument in Dean's mind.
He sits up next to Sam and shoves the covers back. It's not too cold in the room, so if he shivers, the temperature is not to blame. The light coming through the blinds is too dim to see the fine features of Sammy's face. Instead, all Dean can do is rely on the sounds. Sam's breathing has slowed down to the point where his hiccups become more and more infrequent until they finally die down entirely.
Dean takes Sammy's foot in both of his hands and kneads his thumbs against the soft flesh in tiny circles, gently at first then with more pressure. He moves from the ball of the foot, over the middle, to the heel, and back up all the way to the toes. Grabbing the other foot, he repeats the procedure, movements slow and firm.
He's just about to massage Sammy's ankles when Sammy whines, "My thighs, Dean! Those aren't my thighs. They're my feet!"
"Wait, I thought these were your thighs, monkey-boy," Dean teases and tickles the soles of Sam's feet. Sammy giggles, soft and carefree, and it's a damn good thing to hear. Dean keeps tickling him until Sam laughs loud and hard, squirms underneath his hands.
He strokes his hands over Sam's ankles and calves next, sliding them beneath the fabric of Sam's pajama bottoms, humming softly to himself. The skin is incredibly soft, dusted with fine hairs as Dean's fingers glide over it; lazy and without any hurry. There are no sounds from Sam and if he's fallen back asleep, that's fine with Dean too. When he grabs Sam's thighs, pushing and pulling until he's seated in the V between Sammy's legs, he hears it. A soft sound, not quite a gasp, not quite a moan. Despite the poor light, Dean sees the glimmer in Sam's eyes, this time not from unshed tears.
"Dean," Sam squeaks, soft and a little unsure.
But Dean doesn't answer, instead he goes back to massaging Sammy's thighs, rubbing with firm pressure, knowing exactly what will make Sam feel good. Sam's gasps become louder, more desperate with each circle of Dean's fingers. When Dean sees the tenting in Sammy's pants, he remembers another remedy he read about to release the pain. Endorphins.
Dean bends over Sam, one of his hands next to Sam's head, the other merely lying on Sam's bulge, feeling the heat. He presses their mouths together in a fierce kiss. Making out with Sammy is always messy. Because Sam being Sam means that he wants to be perfect at it. Little overachiever, always wants to be the best. Licking, sucking, biting, pulling, soothing, wants to do everything - at once. It still feels a little weird doing this with Sammy, his brother. But still, he just can't quit Sam.
Dean starts to feel the heat pool in his own belly, feels his cock taking an interest, so he pulls back again, earning him a whine. When he lies back though, holding out his hand and whispers, "C'mere," Sam's protests seem to be forgotten.
It's a little funny how quickly Sam's on top of him, squirming and wriggling, how eager he seems to be. They kiss again, desperate and messy but the last thing on Dean's mind is to complain.
Sam only breaks their kiss to ask, "Can I?" and Dean knows exactly what he means.
With a smirk, he moves one of his legs between Sammy's and says, "Yeah."
The of course not said out loud. Immediately Sam starts grinding against Dean's thigh, needy and desperate, rubbing his hard dick against Dean's leg. Sam buries his face in the crook of Dean's neck, panting wetly against the sensitive skin. When Dean's hands grab his tiny butt, pulling him down harder, Sam groans loudly, humping Dean with even more desperation.
It doesn't take more than that for Sam to come. Dean knows that at this age, the wind blowing the right way is enough. They haven't done much more than this - kissing, rubbing, humping, stroking - and Dean's in no hurry. They have all the time in the world to explore each other and take this further. For now he's glad for Sam's hand rubbing him through his shorts, not much needed until he comes.
They just lie there in silence for a while, their harsh breathing the only sounds in the room. Sam slips out of his pants and makes a face before he wipes himself clean with the fabric. Dean laughs softly and does the same before he reaches for the sheets to cover them. Then Sam wriggles until he's tucked carefully against Dean's side.
Dean sighs contently, drawing an invisible pattern against Sam's back. "How're the legs?"
Sam yawns, probably almost half-asleep again. "Better."
"Knew it would make you feel better. Read about it in a book," Dean explains. "Endorphins help the pain."
Sam giggles. "A book, eh?"
Dean ruffles through Sam's hair but for once, Sammy's not complaining.
Author: benitle
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating:: R
Summary: Sam has growing pains, Dean helps him deal.
Word count: ca. 1,200 words
Warning, Spoilers: Underage Wincest (Sam is 13), no spoilers
Notes: Many thanks to rebekahfair for the superb beta. ♥ Written for the prompt: Sam's getting taller, and growing pains are, well a pain. Dean gives poor Sammy a massage one night and something else starts to grow as does Dean's interest. Points for Dean teaching Sammy that endorphins are a lovely painkiller.
Comments and concrit very much appreciated. No copyright infringement intended. Please enjoy!
Dean wakes when the bed dips next to him. The old mattress makes a creaking sound that's nearly lost beneath the rustling of sheets and comforter. There's more rustling and then Sammy's icy feet rub against his, sending shivers down his spine, just like he had anticipated. It's out of habit when Dean's arms come around Sammy's tiny frame, pulling him closer against his chest.
Dad's been trying real hard to break Sammy's nightly routine of crawling into Dean's bed, especially now that they're renting an apartment with separate rooms for Sam and Dean, but Dad's not here, won't return for another few days. Besides, Dean doesn't mind - not even with the icy feet.
He sighs, tired and content. He doesn't open his eyes, intent on going back to sleep right away. He nearly succeeds.
There's a hiccupping sound. And there's trembling. In his sleep-fogged mind it takes Dean a moment to realize that Sam is crying, face pressed into the crook of his neck. He feels the wetness of Sam's tears, the shaking of Sammy's shoulders. That's all it takes for Dean to become wide-awake within seconds, all disorientation and drowsiness gone instantly. He blinks the alarm clock into focus, reading that it says 03:42 AM.
He rubs a hand up and down Sammy's back, slow and soothing, and asks, "What's going on, squirt?"
Sam whimpers miserably and presses closer against Dean. "Hurts…"
Dean remembers what the doctor told them about growing pains: they're normal at Sam's age, many 13-year-olds have to go through the same thing, some worse than others. And that there are only few things they can do to help. Dean turns his head and kisses the side of Sammy's face as best as he can with the awkward angle. He keeps drawing circles against Sam's back when he gets an idea.
"D'you want me to rub your legs a little?" he asks, the silhouette of Sammy's head nodding in the darkness of the room.
The pain in Sam's legs is always the worst; bad enough to startle him awake at night. Massages have proven to remedy the ache in the past, so Dean's more than willing to give them another shot. Besides, anything that'll give him a reason to put his hands on Sammy is a valid argument in Dean's mind.
He sits up next to Sam and shoves the covers back. It's not too cold in the room, so if he shivers, the temperature is not to blame. The light coming through the blinds is too dim to see the fine features of Sammy's face. Instead, all Dean can do is rely on the sounds. Sam's breathing has slowed down to the point where his hiccups become more and more infrequent until they finally die down entirely.
Dean takes Sammy's foot in both of his hands and kneads his thumbs against the soft flesh in tiny circles, gently at first then with more pressure. He moves from the ball of the foot, over the middle, to the heel, and back up all the way to the toes. Grabbing the other foot, he repeats the procedure, movements slow and firm.
He's just about to massage Sammy's ankles when Sammy whines, "My thighs, Dean! Those aren't my thighs. They're my feet!"
"Wait, I thought these were your thighs, monkey-boy," Dean teases and tickles the soles of Sam's feet. Sammy giggles, soft and carefree, and it's a damn good thing to hear. Dean keeps tickling him until Sam laughs loud and hard, squirms underneath his hands.
He strokes his hands over Sam's ankles and calves next, sliding them beneath the fabric of Sam's pajama bottoms, humming softly to himself. The skin is incredibly soft, dusted with fine hairs as Dean's fingers glide over it; lazy and without any hurry. There are no sounds from Sam and if he's fallen back asleep, that's fine with Dean too. When he grabs Sam's thighs, pushing and pulling until he's seated in the V between Sammy's legs, he hears it. A soft sound, not quite a gasp, not quite a moan. Despite the poor light, Dean sees the glimmer in Sam's eyes, this time not from unshed tears.
"Dean," Sam squeaks, soft and a little unsure.
But Dean doesn't answer, instead he goes back to massaging Sammy's thighs, rubbing with firm pressure, knowing exactly what will make Sam feel good. Sam's gasps become louder, more desperate with each circle of Dean's fingers. When Dean sees the tenting in Sammy's pants, he remembers another remedy he read about to release the pain. Endorphins.
Dean bends over Sam, one of his hands next to Sam's head, the other merely lying on Sam's bulge, feeling the heat. He presses their mouths together in a fierce kiss. Making out with Sammy is always messy. Because Sam being Sam means that he wants to be perfect at it. Little overachiever, always wants to be the best. Licking, sucking, biting, pulling, soothing, wants to do everything - at once. It still feels a little weird doing this with Sammy, his brother. But still, he just can't quit Sam.
Dean starts to feel the heat pool in his own belly, feels his cock taking an interest, so he pulls back again, earning him a whine. When he lies back though, holding out his hand and whispers, "C'mere," Sam's protests seem to be forgotten.
It's a little funny how quickly Sam's on top of him, squirming and wriggling, how eager he seems to be. They kiss again, desperate and messy but the last thing on Dean's mind is to complain.
Sam only breaks their kiss to ask, "Can I?" and Dean knows exactly what he means.
With a smirk, he moves one of his legs between Sammy's and says, "Yeah."
The of course not said out loud. Immediately Sam starts grinding against Dean's thigh, needy and desperate, rubbing his hard dick against Dean's leg. Sam buries his face in the crook of Dean's neck, panting wetly against the sensitive skin. When Dean's hands grab his tiny butt, pulling him down harder, Sam groans loudly, humping Dean with even more desperation.
It doesn't take more than that for Sam to come. Dean knows that at this age, the wind blowing the right way is enough. They haven't done much more than this - kissing, rubbing, humping, stroking - and Dean's in no hurry. They have all the time in the world to explore each other and take this further. For now he's glad for Sam's hand rubbing him through his shorts, not much needed until he comes.
They just lie there in silence for a while, their harsh breathing the only sounds in the room. Sam slips out of his pants and makes a face before he wipes himself clean with the fabric. Dean laughs softly and does the same before he reaches for the sheets to cover them. Then Sam wriggles until he's tucked carefully against Dean's side.
Dean sighs contently, drawing an invisible pattern against Sam's back. "How're the legs?"
Sam yawns, probably almost half-asleep again. "Better."
"Knew it would make you feel better. Read about it in a book," Dean explains. "Endorphins help the pain."
Sam giggles. "A book, eh?"
Dean ruffles through Sam's hair but for once, Sammy's not complaining.