Fic: Thankful (Dean/Sam)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 3,400
Warnings: PWP, abuse of pie
Notes: This was actually a Thanksgiving fic that I started last year and didn't finish in time. It ended up being more of a quickie than I'd planned, but I'm not waiting a whole 'nother year to post it. Happy Thanksgiving y'all! (and Happy Thursday to my non-USians!)
Summary: "Franken-pie," Sam explains, a hint of that bubbly enthusiasm Dean remembers from those years sneaking in the backs of movie theatres, "One slice of every kind they had - blueberry, cherry, banana cream, pecan, chocolate and pumpkin."
Dean's not bitter about holidays; some of them are good, some them suck, that's the way it goes. Thanksgiving is one of the ones that sucks, or at least it does if you’re a hunter. It's not that he's hasn't got things to be thankful for, it's just that it's a lot harder to enjoy those things when practically every restaurant, bar and shop is closed and the ones that are open are staffed by people who are either missing a day with their family and blame him by association or who don't have anyone to be with and are hostile because of the reminder. Either way, they do a shitty job and are miserable to be around, so most of the time Thanksgiving means microwave pizza for Dean, which just isn't something he can get excited about no matter what day it is.
All of this is just one of those facts of life you have to deal with when you do what Dean does - the price of being a hero and all that, and he figures giving up a couple of Norman Rockwell holidays is a fair trade off for getting to love what he does and help people every other day of the year.
When Sam was a kid, Dean would try to do something special just so Sammy wouldn't feel left out when he had to go back to school and talk about what he did over break. Most of the time it was something stupid like hanging out all night at the arcade, or sneaking into a local movie theater and seeing how many of the movies they could watch in a day. It was fun, and sometimes Dean thinks about doing stuff like that again, but they're too old to pull most of it off anymore so he just resigns himself to the fact that at least there will be beer.
He shut off the shower and starts toweling off about the time he hears the motel room door open. Sam yells a greeting through the door and Dean can hear the rustle of plastic bags as his little brother brings in dinner. They'd decided to just stock up on takeout for tomorrow since the motel they're staying in has a fridge and a microwave and the diner down the street is the kind that Dean has embarrassing dreams about, so by the time Dean's got a pair of jeans pulled on, Sam's got their little table littered with enough food cartons to last them for days.
Dean grabs them both a beer out of the case in the fridge and starts popping the lids on all the styrofoam boxes to see his options. When Sam comes back in, he’s carrying a white cake box in one hand and kicks the door shut behind him. He's grinning and it's fucking infectious, so Dean just has to ask, "What's in the box, Sammy?"
Those tilt-tipped eyes are sparkling at him as Sam crosses the room and sets the box down on the last clear spot on the table with a flourish.
"Present," Sam says simply, as if he's not grinning like an idiot and practically begging Dean with his eyes to open it.
"Pretty sure Thanksgiving's not one of those gift holidays, Sam," Dean teases, even though his fingers itch with curiosity now.
Sam grins and shifts so his hip is leaning against the table. "It is when Dean Winchester is your brother."
"Well that's really specific. Bet it's a pain in the ass to put on calendars."
"Will you just shut up and open the stupid box?" Sam snaps finally, giving him the big eye roll that Dad had always insisted Sammy would grow out of one day.
Dean grins - getting on Sammy's nerves just really never gets old - and flips open the top of the box.
"Pie."
And yes, pie. A whole pie; six good sized pieces with little white dividers between each mismatched slice, staring up at him like his own personal box full of heaven.
"Franken-pie," Sam explains, a hint of that bubbly enthusiasm Dean remembers from those years sneaking in the backs of movie theatres, "One slice of every kind they had - blueberry, cherry, banana cream, pecan, chocolate and pumpkin." He looks from the box to Dean and back, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet like the chubby ten year old Dean's always forgetting he's not anymore.
Dean's too stunned to react with anything but absolute honesty. "That is the sexiest thing I have ever seen."
"Now, that's just insulting." Sam crosses his arms over his chest, but his smile is indulgent and no little bit self-satisfied. If it means pie, Sammy can be as smug as he wants.
Dean quickly tears through the other sacks on the table, rooting through until he finds a little packet of plastic silverware shoved down inside one of the bags. He waves the utensils triumphantly at his brother and snatches up the box of delicious goodness, carrying it over to settle himself on one of the beds in front of the TV.
"Dude, what about dinner?" Sam asks, all nagging wife - Dean doesn't give a shit who bottoms and how often, Sammy's totally the girl.
"Pie!" he says, waving his hand at the selection in front of him, because honestly, some things shouldn't need to be explained. Now, which slice to start with...
"You are the worst grown up ever," Sam sighs, searching through the styrofoam jungle until he finds whatever he's looking for, probably a salad or some shit. Sam has really skewed priorities. "At least use a plate, don't want your mouth germs all over the pie."
"You're awful persnickety for a guy who had his tongue in my ass this morning."
"Why do I put up with you?"
"Cause I'm an awesome lay. Also, you're my brother, no choice."
Sam stares at him as Dean decides that, in keeping with the holiday, he'll start with the pumpkin. "That may be the single most perverse sentence ever spoken."
"Gawd!" Dean groans, plastic fork still partway in his mouth but hardly detracting from the caramelized ecstasy sweeping over his tongue, "I love you!"
"You’re welcome," Sam smiles smugly, digging into his takeout container of rabbit-food.
"I was talking to the pie."
***
Four hours and, well, more beers than Sam cares to count later, he's laid back on the 'sex bed', the one that's covered in the stiff mess of come they've left there over the last couple of days - they really can't afford to have maids poking around their stuff - with the comforter pulled up of course so there's no chance of anything getting on his clothes.
Dean is staring contemplatively into the half-empty pastry box with a woeful expression and pie crust crumbs clinging to his bottom lip. Maybe it wasn't such a great idea to do something nice for his brother.
"You're supposed to save some of that for tomorrow you know," Sam chimes in lazily, sinking a little further into the pillow and trying to figure out which one of the ninja's battling it out on the TV is the bad guy.
"12:14, Sammy. It is tomorrow."
"My mistake,” he says around a yawn, “Happy Thanksgiving."
"Yeah, you too, baby boy."
Just like always, it slams Sam like a kick to the gut. It's stupid and he shouldn't let it get to him the way it does, but he can't for the life of him figure out a way not to get achingly hard whenever Dean calls him that; a conditioned response so deep in his psyche it'll never come clean. It doesn't help that Dean always says it in that voice, all deep and shot rough like silk over raw nerves because he knows 100% what that does to Sam and he's never been above using it to his advantage.
Sam's too busy sucking down a breath of air that's suddenly turned mountain-thin to notice his brother moving until the mattress dips beside him. Dean's up on his knees on the bed, pastry box in one hand with the other dipped inside and a feral grin on his face. When his fingers draw free, they're covered sticky and dark with filling that could be the blueberry or the cherry, hard to tell in the blue-white glow of the television.
Sam really intends to do something or say something or react somehow, but then he doesn't. Instead he just lays there and lets those messy fingers slide down over the jut of his cheekbone, painting it in sweet juice that hits his nostrils with the tang of cherry. It only lingers there for a moment, thick and distinct on his skin, before Dean's tongue is retracing the same path, lapping up the filling with broad, thorough licks.
Dean lets out a satisfied moan and licks his lips, leaning in to breathe right against Sam's ear, "Lose the clothes, Sammy."
It takes an awkward bit of shuffling and one very close incident with the pie and his elbow that Sam thought for a second was going to get his brother to call the whole thing off, before Sam's finally naked and sprawled out on the come-stiff sheets. With the look Dean's got locked on him, Sam seriously can't bring himself to mind the mess.
Dean lays the box down on the bed next to him and straddles Sam's hips, which is a whole world full of yes, thank you very much. The slick trails of sugary fruit juice Dean traces over his chest tingle in the cool air, pulling his skin tight, nipples peaked, before his brother follows the tracks with his mouth.
Heat is pooling steadily in Sam’s balls, soaking outward over his hips and settling low in his belly, the throb of his dick an exposed epicenter of warmth trapped against the curve of Dean’s thigh. It’s not fair that Dean can do this to him, turn him upside down and inside out, flip it all right-ways again with a little rock of his hips and the wet burn of his tongue on sensitive skin.
From the outside, they must look insane; two grown guys getting dirty with pie by the light of a kung-fu movie and it’s going to be all kinds of sticky and gross later and Sam just seriously doesn’t give a fuck.
Slowly, Dean eases lower. Messy fingers traipsing across the flat plain of Sam’s stomach, lingering at the curve of his navel until Dean’s lips get around to meeting them there. Even if they live a thousand years, Sam’s never going to get over his brother’s mouth. It’s one of Dean’s finer attributes - among a collection of truly exceptional qualities - so damn much talent packed into so little acreage. How it can be rough and demanding or soft and enveloping by turns, unpredictable and addictive as it licks electric promises into his pebbled skin.
He becomes aware that he’s groaning about the time Dean’s giving his bellybutton a world-class tongue-fucking, mainly because his brother huffs a low laugh and nips at him, really laying it on thick. As a general rule, Sam tries not to stroke Dean’s ego any more than completely necessary but right now it just doesn’t matter. All that matters is getting Dean’s goddamn fantastic fucking mouth on Sam’s dick before he explodes.
Instead, what he gets are Dean’s fingers, gooey with another scoop of pie filling, feathering tacky-slick around the base, teasing just far enough up the length to make Sam’s breath catch in anticipation only to pant it back out a few seconds later when Dean switches direction.
“So, Sam,” he mumbles, lips going dark with syrupy fruit as he just barely touches the shaft with each syllable, “What are you thankful for this year?”
The restraint not to murder his brother is the first thing that pops to mind. Still, that’s not particularly likely to get his dick sucked any faster, and with the contented hums Dean’s making as he licks liquid sugar off of Sam’s dick like a lollipop, that’s something that needs to happen in the very near future, so what is goes with is, “An awesome big brother,” and a hand fisted pointedly in Dean’s hair.
Another laugh rumbles out of Dean, this time snugged up against the vein on the underside of Sam’s cock so that the next moan skips and splutters out of him. He tugs harder on Dean’s hair, trying to urge him up those last couple of inches to where it would really count. And Dean goes, just not with his mouth. It’s fingers that Sam gets dancing over the flushed, tender head of his dick, snail trails of cherry almost black in the low light.
“You know what I’m thankful for?” Dean says, smearing the little bundle of nerves under the head wet with his licked lips. Every time he breathes the hot-cold-hot of it catches on the mix of precome and pie filling painted all over the crown, sending shivers up and down Sam’s spine in repeating, torturous patterns.
He doesn’t have the coherency to actually respond to the question, but Dean doesn’t wait long for one anyway. “I’m thankful,” and at last, blessedly, his tongue snakes out to cut a wide swath through the mess on Sam’s skin, “to finally get to find out what flavor goes,” lick, “best,” lick, “with Sammy.”
With that Dean takes him in, sudden, shocking heat and suction. Sam’s muscles lock up with the onslaught of bliss, hips pumping up of their own accord. Dean takes it for a minute, a few tantalizing strokes before he’s pulling off again.
Clutching at Dean’s head doesn’t get him anything but a sharp bite on the wrist in retaliation. At least Dean’s still got his hand working, slow pumps that coax more fluid out of the slit. His other hand is rustling around in the pastry box again, reappearing coated in something thicker this time.
“Oh, you can’t be serious,” Sam moans even though he knows it’s pointless. Of course Dean’s serious. Who else would have a pie fetish?
Dean doesn’t bother to answer, smearing a glob of the new filling - creamier, almost silky; this really shouldn’t be allowed to feel good - over Sam’s cockhead and almost immediately lapping it away with little kitten licks. He lets out a satisfied moan as he takes Sam into his mouth again to suck him clean and itty-bitty fireworks go off behind Sam’s eyelids.
The next sample is much lighter and a glance down makes Sam suspect it’s just meringue off of the chocolate cream, which is cheating and also awesome. Anything the leads to more sucking. After that it’s thicker again and Sam stops trying to keep up- as if he gives an actual shit about the flavors he’s being decorated with.
Dean’s being kind of a bastard about the whole thing, tentative little licks each time leading up to harder suckles, dipping down just far enough to give Sam a reminder of how good it is to be buried all the way in Dean’s throat and then pulling back to make him ache with it. His brother’s got him pretty well pinned by his hips by now, one hand pumping around the base of his dick while the other splays over his chest. Sam’s own are twisted in the filthy sheets, desperate to hang on when he’s rapidly coming unraveled.
“Dean,” he groans over the squeak of the tiny, hard kisses Dean is ringing around the ridge like he plans to tattoo Sam with miniature hickeys. Dean follows the curve of it up with his tongue, tickling around the slit before he gives in and starts lapping, almost demurely, at the wealth of precome Sam’s leaking.
Eyelashes flutter over big, innocent eyes despite the fact that Dean’s still rasping long, slow licks around the head and that Dean has never once in his entire life been innocent of anything. “Yes, Sam?”
“I swear to God, if you leave me hanging, you son of- ngh!” Sam’s bitter diatribe tapers off into random consonants as Dean, without warning, swallows him whole. It’s so unfair that Dean can play him like this. Not that Sam’s exactly in a mood to complain.
There’s nothing but tight, sweet heat around him, clutching as Dean makes his throat work around Sam’s girth. That’s heaven, right there, that hot space inside of Dean that never seems to want to let him go. Particularly when Dean starts to bob his head, tossing some friction onto the pile that’s about to crush Sam under its weight. That deep, gritty pressure coils tight, tighter, so close his body’s clenching up and he’s right at the precipice of being so turned on it actually hurts.
And then Dean pulls off again, the slick pop ringing through Sam’s body like a struck gong.
“I hate you.”
“So impatient, Sammy,” Dean tsks. He’s still got his boxers on, but his dick is poking up through the front like he’s been jacking it while Sam’s been otherwise occupied; thick and red, glistening as the light from the TV catches on it when he leans forward and dips his fingers into the pie box again. “You gotta have whipped cream on top or what’s the point?”
True to his word, Dean produces fingers coated with a large dollop of whipped cream, the pristine white of it only matched by the full array of Dean’s teeth bared on a positively devious grin. Sam hates and loves the expression with a passion. It almost always means something terrible is about to happen and he’s going to end up loving it anyway.
The first touch of the whipped cream makes him hiss, too cool on flesh that’s just been for a sauna in Dean’s throat. It gets dragged from the head all the way down the length of the shaft, racing stripes of it down the seam of his balls and then over his hole. Sam has an entire breath’s worth of time to think ‘no, he wouldn’t’ before Dean shoots him the danger grin again and Sam’s entire being narrows down to the feel of his brother’s mouth closing around him, swallow-swallow-swallow, and his middle finger sinking into Sam’s ass all the way to the knuckle to nail Sam’s prostate.
One time, Sam saw an electrical transformer blow when a flock of pixies they were hunting decided to hide inside of it, smoke and sparks everywhere in a blinding rush. This orgasm feels a lot like that.
He knows he whimpers when Dean finally pulls off, his cock flopping soft and oversensitive against his thigh. The wet heat of Dean’s tongue on his sac is still nice, though, and the gentle shift of his finger inside isn’t entirely unwelcome either. Sam’s just going to put off thinking about the clean up until his brain grows back.
He’s not particularly surprised when Dean’s palm smacks against the inside of his thigh a minute later, sticky-wet with rapidly cooling come, as his brother sprawls out at Sam’s side; Dean can act offended all he wants when Sam talks about his blow job lips, Sam’s never known anybody who gets off on giving head quite as much as Dean.
“So what’s the verdict?” Sam asks, voice muzzy with endorphins and the sleep that keeps trying to drag him under.
Dean’s head lolls to the side just as lazily, swollen mouth curved on a slow grin. His hand travels a leisurely path up Sam’s thigh to cup between his legs where he’s still twitchy and sensitive and his voice is full of smoke and sex when he answers, “We’re going to need a lot more pie, kiddo.”
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 3,400
Warnings: PWP, abuse of pie
Notes: This was actually a Thanksgiving fic that I started last year and didn't finish in time. It ended up being more of a quickie than I'd planned, but I'm not waiting a whole 'nother year to post it. Happy Thanksgiving y'all! (and Happy Thursday to my non-USians!)
Summary: "Franken-pie," Sam explains, a hint of that bubbly enthusiasm Dean remembers from those years sneaking in the backs of movie theatres, "One slice of every kind they had - blueberry, cherry, banana cream, pecan, chocolate and pumpkin."
Dean's not bitter about holidays; some of them are good, some them suck, that's the way it goes. Thanksgiving is one of the ones that sucks, or at least it does if you’re a hunter. It's not that he's hasn't got things to be thankful for, it's just that it's a lot harder to enjoy those things when practically every restaurant, bar and shop is closed and the ones that are open are staffed by people who are either missing a day with their family and blame him by association or who don't have anyone to be with and are hostile because of the reminder. Either way, they do a shitty job and are miserable to be around, so most of the time Thanksgiving means microwave pizza for Dean, which just isn't something he can get excited about no matter what day it is.
All of this is just one of those facts of life you have to deal with when you do what Dean does - the price of being a hero and all that, and he figures giving up a couple of Norman Rockwell holidays is a fair trade off for getting to love what he does and help people every other day of the year.
When Sam was a kid, Dean would try to do something special just so Sammy wouldn't feel left out when he had to go back to school and talk about what he did over break. Most of the time it was something stupid like hanging out all night at the arcade, or sneaking into a local movie theater and seeing how many of the movies they could watch in a day. It was fun, and sometimes Dean thinks about doing stuff like that again, but they're too old to pull most of it off anymore so he just resigns himself to the fact that at least there will be beer.
He shut off the shower and starts toweling off about the time he hears the motel room door open. Sam yells a greeting through the door and Dean can hear the rustle of plastic bags as his little brother brings in dinner. They'd decided to just stock up on takeout for tomorrow since the motel they're staying in has a fridge and a microwave and the diner down the street is the kind that Dean has embarrassing dreams about, so by the time Dean's got a pair of jeans pulled on, Sam's got their little table littered with enough food cartons to last them for days.
Dean grabs them both a beer out of the case in the fridge and starts popping the lids on all the styrofoam boxes to see his options. When Sam comes back in, he’s carrying a white cake box in one hand and kicks the door shut behind him. He's grinning and it's fucking infectious, so Dean just has to ask, "What's in the box, Sammy?"
Those tilt-tipped eyes are sparkling at him as Sam crosses the room and sets the box down on the last clear spot on the table with a flourish.
"Present," Sam says simply, as if he's not grinning like an idiot and practically begging Dean with his eyes to open it.
"Pretty sure Thanksgiving's not one of those gift holidays, Sam," Dean teases, even though his fingers itch with curiosity now.
Sam grins and shifts so his hip is leaning against the table. "It is when Dean Winchester is your brother."
"Well that's really specific. Bet it's a pain in the ass to put on calendars."
"Will you just shut up and open the stupid box?" Sam snaps finally, giving him the big eye roll that Dad had always insisted Sammy would grow out of one day.
Dean grins - getting on Sammy's nerves just really never gets old - and flips open the top of the box.
"Pie."
And yes, pie. A whole pie; six good sized pieces with little white dividers between each mismatched slice, staring up at him like his own personal box full of heaven.
"Franken-pie," Sam explains, a hint of that bubbly enthusiasm Dean remembers from those years sneaking in the backs of movie theatres, "One slice of every kind they had - blueberry, cherry, banana cream, pecan, chocolate and pumpkin." He looks from the box to Dean and back, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet like the chubby ten year old Dean's always forgetting he's not anymore.
Dean's too stunned to react with anything but absolute honesty. "That is the sexiest thing I have ever seen."
"Now, that's just insulting." Sam crosses his arms over his chest, but his smile is indulgent and no little bit self-satisfied. If it means pie, Sammy can be as smug as he wants.
Dean quickly tears through the other sacks on the table, rooting through until he finds a little packet of plastic silverware shoved down inside one of the bags. He waves the utensils triumphantly at his brother and snatches up the box of delicious goodness, carrying it over to settle himself on one of the beds in front of the TV.
"Dude, what about dinner?" Sam asks, all nagging wife - Dean doesn't give a shit who bottoms and how often, Sammy's totally the girl.
"Pie!" he says, waving his hand at the selection in front of him, because honestly, some things shouldn't need to be explained. Now, which slice to start with...
"You are the worst grown up ever," Sam sighs, searching through the styrofoam jungle until he finds whatever he's looking for, probably a salad or some shit. Sam has really skewed priorities. "At least use a plate, don't want your mouth germs all over the pie."
"You're awful persnickety for a guy who had his tongue in my ass this morning."
"Why do I put up with you?"
"Cause I'm an awesome lay. Also, you're my brother, no choice."
Sam stares at him as Dean decides that, in keeping with the holiday, he'll start with the pumpkin. "That may be the single most perverse sentence ever spoken."
"Gawd!" Dean groans, plastic fork still partway in his mouth but hardly detracting from the caramelized ecstasy sweeping over his tongue, "I love you!"
"You’re welcome," Sam smiles smugly, digging into his takeout container of rabbit-food.
"I was talking to the pie."
***
Four hours and, well, more beers than Sam cares to count later, he's laid back on the 'sex bed', the one that's covered in the stiff mess of come they've left there over the last couple of days - they really can't afford to have maids poking around their stuff - with the comforter pulled up of course so there's no chance of anything getting on his clothes.
Dean is staring contemplatively into the half-empty pastry box with a woeful expression and pie crust crumbs clinging to his bottom lip. Maybe it wasn't such a great idea to do something nice for his brother.
"You're supposed to save some of that for tomorrow you know," Sam chimes in lazily, sinking a little further into the pillow and trying to figure out which one of the ninja's battling it out on the TV is the bad guy.
"12:14, Sammy. It is tomorrow."
"My mistake,” he says around a yawn, “Happy Thanksgiving."
"Yeah, you too, baby boy."
Just like always, it slams Sam like a kick to the gut. It's stupid and he shouldn't let it get to him the way it does, but he can't for the life of him figure out a way not to get achingly hard whenever Dean calls him that; a conditioned response so deep in his psyche it'll never come clean. It doesn't help that Dean always says it in that voice, all deep and shot rough like silk over raw nerves because he knows 100% what that does to Sam and he's never been above using it to his advantage.
Sam's too busy sucking down a breath of air that's suddenly turned mountain-thin to notice his brother moving until the mattress dips beside him. Dean's up on his knees on the bed, pastry box in one hand with the other dipped inside and a feral grin on his face. When his fingers draw free, they're covered sticky and dark with filling that could be the blueberry or the cherry, hard to tell in the blue-white glow of the television.
Sam really intends to do something or say something or react somehow, but then he doesn't. Instead he just lays there and lets those messy fingers slide down over the jut of his cheekbone, painting it in sweet juice that hits his nostrils with the tang of cherry. It only lingers there for a moment, thick and distinct on his skin, before Dean's tongue is retracing the same path, lapping up the filling with broad, thorough licks.
Dean lets out a satisfied moan and licks his lips, leaning in to breathe right against Sam's ear, "Lose the clothes, Sammy."
It takes an awkward bit of shuffling and one very close incident with the pie and his elbow that Sam thought for a second was going to get his brother to call the whole thing off, before Sam's finally naked and sprawled out on the come-stiff sheets. With the look Dean's got locked on him, Sam seriously can't bring himself to mind the mess.
Dean lays the box down on the bed next to him and straddles Sam's hips, which is a whole world full of yes, thank you very much. The slick trails of sugary fruit juice Dean traces over his chest tingle in the cool air, pulling his skin tight, nipples peaked, before his brother follows the tracks with his mouth.
Heat is pooling steadily in Sam’s balls, soaking outward over his hips and settling low in his belly, the throb of his dick an exposed epicenter of warmth trapped against the curve of Dean’s thigh. It’s not fair that Dean can do this to him, turn him upside down and inside out, flip it all right-ways again with a little rock of his hips and the wet burn of his tongue on sensitive skin.
From the outside, they must look insane; two grown guys getting dirty with pie by the light of a kung-fu movie and it’s going to be all kinds of sticky and gross later and Sam just seriously doesn’t give a fuck.
Slowly, Dean eases lower. Messy fingers traipsing across the flat plain of Sam’s stomach, lingering at the curve of his navel until Dean’s lips get around to meeting them there. Even if they live a thousand years, Sam’s never going to get over his brother’s mouth. It’s one of Dean’s finer attributes - among a collection of truly exceptional qualities - so damn much talent packed into so little acreage. How it can be rough and demanding or soft and enveloping by turns, unpredictable and addictive as it licks electric promises into his pebbled skin.
He becomes aware that he’s groaning about the time Dean’s giving his bellybutton a world-class tongue-fucking, mainly because his brother huffs a low laugh and nips at him, really laying it on thick. As a general rule, Sam tries not to stroke Dean’s ego any more than completely necessary but right now it just doesn’t matter. All that matters is getting Dean’s goddamn fantastic fucking mouth on Sam’s dick before he explodes.
Instead, what he gets are Dean’s fingers, gooey with another scoop of pie filling, feathering tacky-slick around the base, teasing just far enough up the length to make Sam’s breath catch in anticipation only to pant it back out a few seconds later when Dean switches direction.
“So, Sam,” he mumbles, lips going dark with syrupy fruit as he just barely touches the shaft with each syllable, “What are you thankful for this year?”
The restraint not to murder his brother is the first thing that pops to mind. Still, that’s not particularly likely to get his dick sucked any faster, and with the contented hums Dean’s making as he licks liquid sugar off of Sam’s dick like a lollipop, that’s something that needs to happen in the very near future, so what is goes with is, “An awesome big brother,” and a hand fisted pointedly in Dean’s hair.
Another laugh rumbles out of Dean, this time snugged up against the vein on the underside of Sam’s cock so that the next moan skips and splutters out of him. He tugs harder on Dean’s hair, trying to urge him up those last couple of inches to where it would really count. And Dean goes, just not with his mouth. It’s fingers that Sam gets dancing over the flushed, tender head of his dick, snail trails of cherry almost black in the low light.
“You know what I’m thankful for?” Dean says, smearing the little bundle of nerves under the head wet with his licked lips. Every time he breathes the hot-cold-hot of it catches on the mix of precome and pie filling painted all over the crown, sending shivers up and down Sam’s spine in repeating, torturous patterns.
He doesn’t have the coherency to actually respond to the question, but Dean doesn’t wait long for one anyway. “I’m thankful,” and at last, blessedly, his tongue snakes out to cut a wide swath through the mess on Sam’s skin, “to finally get to find out what flavor goes,” lick, “best,” lick, “with Sammy.”
With that Dean takes him in, sudden, shocking heat and suction. Sam’s muscles lock up with the onslaught of bliss, hips pumping up of their own accord. Dean takes it for a minute, a few tantalizing strokes before he’s pulling off again.
Clutching at Dean’s head doesn’t get him anything but a sharp bite on the wrist in retaliation. At least Dean’s still got his hand working, slow pumps that coax more fluid out of the slit. His other hand is rustling around in the pastry box again, reappearing coated in something thicker this time.
“Oh, you can’t be serious,” Sam moans even though he knows it’s pointless. Of course Dean’s serious. Who else would have a pie fetish?
Dean doesn’t bother to answer, smearing a glob of the new filling - creamier, almost silky; this really shouldn’t be allowed to feel good - over Sam’s cockhead and almost immediately lapping it away with little kitten licks. He lets out a satisfied moan as he takes Sam into his mouth again to suck him clean and itty-bitty fireworks go off behind Sam’s eyelids.
The next sample is much lighter and a glance down makes Sam suspect it’s just meringue off of the chocolate cream, which is cheating and also awesome. Anything the leads to more sucking. After that it’s thicker again and Sam stops trying to keep up- as if he gives an actual shit about the flavors he’s being decorated with.
Dean’s being kind of a bastard about the whole thing, tentative little licks each time leading up to harder suckles, dipping down just far enough to give Sam a reminder of how good it is to be buried all the way in Dean’s throat and then pulling back to make him ache with it. His brother’s got him pretty well pinned by his hips by now, one hand pumping around the base of his dick while the other splays over his chest. Sam’s own are twisted in the filthy sheets, desperate to hang on when he’s rapidly coming unraveled.
“Dean,” he groans over the squeak of the tiny, hard kisses Dean is ringing around the ridge like he plans to tattoo Sam with miniature hickeys. Dean follows the curve of it up with his tongue, tickling around the slit before he gives in and starts lapping, almost demurely, at the wealth of precome Sam’s leaking.
Eyelashes flutter over big, innocent eyes despite the fact that Dean’s still rasping long, slow licks around the head and that Dean has never once in his entire life been innocent of anything. “Yes, Sam?”
“I swear to God, if you leave me hanging, you son of- ngh!” Sam’s bitter diatribe tapers off into random consonants as Dean, without warning, swallows him whole. It’s so unfair that Dean can play him like this. Not that Sam’s exactly in a mood to complain.
There’s nothing but tight, sweet heat around him, clutching as Dean makes his throat work around Sam’s girth. That’s heaven, right there, that hot space inside of Dean that never seems to want to let him go. Particularly when Dean starts to bob his head, tossing some friction onto the pile that’s about to crush Sam under its weight. That deep, gritty pressure coils tight, tighter, so close his body’s clenching up and he’s right at the precipice of being so turned on it actually hurts.
And then Dean pulls off again, the slick pop ringing through Sam’s body like a struck gong.
“I hate you.”
“So impatient, Sammy,” Dean tsks. He’s still got his boxers on, but his dick is poking up through the front like he’s been jacking it while Sam’s been otherwise occupied; thick and red, glistening as the light from the TV catches on it when he leans forward and dips his fingers into the pie box again. “You gotta have whipped cream on top or what’s the point?”
True to his word, Dean produces fingers coated with a large dollop of whipped cream, the pristine white of it only matched by the full array of Dean’s teeth bared on a positively devious grin. Sam hates and loves the expression with a passion. It almost always means something terrible is about to happen and he’s going to end up loving it anyway.
The first touch of the whipped cream makes him hiss, too cool on flesh that’s just been for a sauna in Dean’s throat. It gets dragged from the head all the way down the length of the shaft, racing stripes of it down the seam of his balls and then over his hole. Sam has an entire breath’s worth of time to think ‘no, he wouldn’t’ before Dean shoots him the danger grin again and Sam’s entire being narrows down to the feel of his brother’s mouth closing around him, swallow-swallow-swallow, and his middle finger sinking into Sam’s ass all the way to the knuckle to nail Sam’s prostate.
One time, Sam saw an electrical transformer blow when a flock of pixies they were hunting decided to hide inside of it, smoke and sparks everywhere in a blinding rush. This orgasm feels a lot like that.
He knows he whimpers when Dean finally pulls off, his cock flopping soft and oversensitive against his thigh. The wet heat of Dean’s tongue on his sac is still nice, though, and the gentle shift of his finger inside isn’t entirely unwelcome either. Sam’s just going to put off thinking about the clean up until his brain grows back.
He’s not particularly surprised when Dean’s palm smacks against the inside of his thigh a minute later, sticky-wet with rapidly cooling come, as his brother sprawls out at Sam’s side; Dean can act offended all he wants when Sam talks about his blow job lips, Sam’s never known anybody who gets off on giving head quite as much as Dean.
“So what’s the verdict?” Sam asks, voice muzzy with endorphins and the sleep that keeps trying to drag him under.
Dean’s head lolls to the side just as lazily, swollen mouth curved on a slow grin. His hand travels a leisurely path up Sam’s thigh to cup between his legs where he’s still twitchy and sensitive and his voice is full of smoke and sex when he answers, “We’re going to need a lot more pie, kiddo.”