Fic: Winchester Rule #34 (Dean/Sam)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17 - Wordcount: 4,000
Warning: PWP, underage (Sam is 17), first time, viginity fic, fingering, rimming
Notes: Written as a gift fic for silverfoxflower for the spn_j2_xmas. I started out writing one of the prompts but it ran away with me and didn’t really fit anymore, so I decided just to throw together some of the likes and hopefully create something fun! Anyway, silverfoxflower, I hope you like it!
Summary - Theoretically Sam gets his sexual education at a series of middle and high schools crisscrossing the United States. How it actually goes is a little something like this.
Theoretically Sam gets his sexual education at a series of middle and high schools crisscrossing the United States like a spider web from awkward and disaffected health class teachers and slightly gawky girls under bleachers and in broom closets. But then again, theoretically, Sam's just an ordinary teenager with a dad who moves him around a lot for his job as a travelling salesman/mechanic/whatever the story is this week and an older brother who makes trouble and chases tail.
How it actually goes is Dean's tongue down Sam's throat three days after he turns fourteen and Dean's hand on Sam's cock before he’s old enough to drive. How it goes is Dean and Sam alone in too many dreary motel rooms with too many hormones and too little to do besides mess around with each other. How it goes is a week during Sam's junior year of high school when he hardly makes it four hours at a stretch without coming.
How it goes is a little something like this.
They have this rule: one hour after dad leaves. If he's going to change his mind or remember he left something in the room or suddenly get an emergency call and turn the car around without warning, it'll happen within the first hour and for all the stupid risks they taken over the years, that's one neither of them wants to chance. Sam honestly can't even fathom what their father would do if he ever walked in on the two of them, his brain just won't even allow for the possibility. Sam likes it that way.
Still, that one hour is consistently one of the worst of Sam's life. He keeps expecting to grow out of this phase that he slammed into headfirst at thirteen - this phase where he feels climb-the-walls crazy for it, starved for a little touch when he probably has more sex than the whole Middlebury High football team combined. It's frustrating, and about ten times worse because Dean totally knows and totally loves it.
That's why he's sitting over there on the other bed, flipping through the channels as if he's seriously bored when Sam can freaking see the hard-on tenting his sweats. Because Dean likes for Sam to be the one to make the first move. Because, Sam suspects, Dean just likes to torture him.
Academically, Sam is aware that Dean's hot for him. His brother has been party to every single one of Sam's 'firsts' from kisses right on up through bondage, has introduced Sam to literally everything he knows about his body and how to make it feel good, and he sees the way Dean looks at him, burning with intent, he's just never really going to understand why.
Sam's not as scrawny as he used to be, graduated up from slightly pudgy small-fry to lanky and gangly, but it's still nothing like Dean. Dean's got a body while Sam's still stuck looking like a kid that got stretched in a taffy-puller and there's nothing about it that he can understand Dean getting worked up over when he's got girls who could be in magazines throwing themselves at him all the time.
Still, Dean looks when Sam pulls his t-shirt off over his head, trying for smooth and probably failing miserably. He can feel his hair sticking up in weird cowlicks and tries to smooth it down with his hands, most likely ruining the effect altogether.
Dean rakes his eyes over Sam's exposed chest, sandpaper and silk, licks his lips, doesn't do a goddamn thing. Jerk.
Sam has to do it this way though, by Dean's rules - and there are plenty of them - or just pack it in altogether. He doesn't know what Dean would do if he just said screw it and pretended to watch whatever Dean's settled the TV on; he's never made it any farther into that plan than thinking about it. One day his libido is going to level out and he is so going to make Dean pay.
For now he undoes the belt holding up his hand-me-down jeans, tries not to blush too bad when his dick slaps hard and already wet against his stomach, knees up onto the bed next to his brother. Dean's trying to play it cool - forever and always - but his eyes get stuck there between Sam’s legs where he still feels sensitive and strange.
The bare hang of his balls gets him a lifted eyebrow, not quite enough to distract from the catch in Dean's breath. There's a dark spot forming on Dean's sweats where the smooth curve of his cockhead strains obviously against it.
"Wasn't really what I meant when I said you needed a haircut," Dean says and maybe it'd sound smart-ass if it didn't come out so husky.
The backs of his fingers tickle-itch against the fine dusting of hair on the inside of Sam's thighs. Sam's cock leaps, stomach muscles bunching to hold back the urge to just grab Dean's hand and rub off against it, take anything he can get. Fingertips skirt around the freshly-shaved skin, tip-toe up the line where Sam's thigh meets his hip and back down again.
"All of it?" his brother asks, not waiting for an answer before he's pushing further between Sam's legs, kneading at that sensitive middle space before forcing their way up into the crack of his ass. He feels around with the same expertise and attention to detail he uses honing a knife or packing bullets, lovingly careful and maddeningly slow.
The groan that wants to spill out nearly chokes him when Dean prods at his hole, finding it just slick and open enough for a finger to slide in easy. Holding back that shiver that rocks up Sam’s spine at the smoothness of it is another matter entirely.
Sometimes he wonders if this is the kind of thing he'd be into if he and Dean had grown up like everybody else, if he'd still feel this weird, confusing need to having something up in him or if he's just trained himself that way, like how he can go straight from deep sleep to ready to fight without warning because that's one of those skills they just need to survive. Times like now he figures that the answer doesn't matter very much because he and Dean didn't grow up like everybody else and Dean's fingers inside him are only challenged by his brother's tongue for the crown of 'best thing Sam's ever felt'.
Yet, anyway.
"Damn." Dean sounds like he just ran a mile and swallowed some thumbtacks for a chaser. His finger sort of stirs against Sam’s insides, drawing concentric circles on the tender flesh as he slides it out to the very tip, pushes back in again with two. There's just a hint of a burn from where Sam's body has started to tighten back up again since his shower earlier but it disappears when Dean crooks against that spot that makes Sam forget how to see for a second.
"You promised." It ends up coming out more of a little-kid-whine than he was hoping. That's all Dean's fault though for leaning in to suck one of Sam's nipples into his mouth right as Sam was saying it. That shit is dirty pool.
Something that might be agreement gets mumbled against Sam's skin, not letting up with the slow fuck of Dean’s fingers. At the same time he's maneuvering Sam to straddle his lap, covering his pebbled skin in soft licks and bites. It's a positive direction to be moving, but Sam's not going to let himself get distracted this time. Not much anyway.
Dean has some weird idea that he needs to protect Sam from himself or Dean or something - as if at some point Sam's going to realize that wanting to climb his brother like a tree is just a phase he's going through because that makes all kinds of sense. But Sam's been seventeen for just over two weeks - of course this would be the one time in his life Dean decides to care about things being legal, nevermind the against-the-law-in-all-50-states incest thing - and he is finally going to have sex just like Dean's been swearing they will for six months even if he has to knock Dean out, tie him to the bed and ride him to do it. It's happening. Today.
A third finger flirts at the rim, just mapping out where the other two are taking him apart by inches. He's not really wet enough to take another but that's rectified pretty fast when Dean spits onto the fingers of his other hand and snakes them around to paint messily over Sam's hole, one slipping in enough to stuff some more of the saliva inside. He tugs a little with the fingertip on his way out, holding Sam open to the air just long enough to make his heart skip a beat at how filthy it feels.
As soon as he's released, that third finger is slotting in all the way to the knuckle. Sam grinds down onto them helplessly.
"Dean," he gasps into his brother's shoulder, "You said. You said you would."
It’d probably help if he could actively avoid reminding Dean of the fact that he used to have to tie Sam’s shoelaces for him and stuff, but his big boy words don’t seem to be coming out right. That’s one of any number of things that Dean’s hands on him seem to do to Sam that he’s actively not thinking about ever.
Dean's free hand traces over the bumps of Sam's spine, up until he's cupping Sam's head to breathe against his temple. "Dunno Sammy, wouldn't wanna do it if you're not into it. You sure you really want it? Want my cock up that tight. little. ass?" He punctuates the words with hard, mind-bending thrusts of his fingers, rough enough that Sam wonders if he can get a bruise between his cheeks but loves it all the same.
And it's the most ridiculous question in the world because Sam has begged - literally, physically on his knees, begged - for Dean to fuck him. There's probably not a human being on the planet that wants to have sex more than Sam does. Hell, his dick is starting to make a little puddle on Dean’s abs. Yes, he fucking well wants this.
He growls something to that general effect too, though it might lose a little eloquence between all of the gasped stops and the sudden moans that steal whole sections of the diatribe. Dean seems to get it anyway, since he laughs all low and pleased, big-brother sadistic.
"Yeah? You want me to punch your v-card, kiddo?"
He rubs over Sam's sweet spot at the same time, negating the whole question because like hell Sam can answer. Doesn't seem to matter anyway since just a second later he's saying, "Prove it. Show me how bad you want it."
In a way, Sam hates that he responds like this - that anybody, especially Dean, ordering him around gets him hot. It needles at the part of him that, despite everything else, is just Dean's little brother, and that part of him is always going to rise to the challenge. At the same time, he can't really pretend he doesn't get off on it too.
Going with the slow rhythm Dean has set up, Sam grinds down onto his brother's fingers, clenching and flexing in turn to feel Dean's breath stutter. Without warning, Dean stops moving his hand, just holds it still for Sam to fuck back onto. Shivers run up Sam's spine as he twists his hips, rolling and wiggling until he gets himself into the right position to have Dean hitting him exactly how he wants. It makes his stomach feel hollowed out and hot, head gone fuzzy with the feverish rush through his veins.
Since Dean's not stopping him, Sam picks up the pace, taking his brother's fingers and losing them again quick and steady. Every couple of downstrokes he pauses, rubbing himself against Dean's knuckles to feel the fat, hard stretch.
He props his head up next to Dean's, arms looped around his brother's shoulders for his cheek to rest on, putting his mouth right on level with Dean's ear. It takes work to keep his noises soft, breathy, like it's so good he can barely make a sound which is actually mostly true. More than that, though, he knows Dean goes nuts for it - nothing winds his brother up faster than hearing how good he makes Sam feel.
The hard, damp jut of Dean's cock brushes against the inside of Sam's thigh with every motion, tapping at the tender, naked skin of his balls like a perfect kind of torment. Thick fingers tighten on the back of Sam's head, start to squirm around in him, just tickling at his insides, a telegraph code of how hard this is nailing Dean too.
It feeds in on itself, Sam getting off on knowing he's making Dean crazy and Dean rubbing around in him and whispering filth that makes Sam's guts go liquid. By the time he's pushing down on Dean's fingers hard enough to hear a fleshy smack with each thrust Sam's so on fire with it that he doesn't even care that Dean managed to worm his way out of fucking him again, he just wants to come before the ache in his balls makes him scream.
Which is, of course, when Dean stops.
A strangled noise creaks out of Sam's throat at the bereft flutter of muscle where he suddenly finds himself empty. His body's all worked up but his brain has fallen behind, unable to make heads or tails of what's happening until Dean has already got him flipped over onto his back.
Dean mumbles something Sam can't hear over the pound of his pulse and then he's shoving Sam's legs apart, his head down between them to get his mouth where his fingers just were thirty seconds ago. The buzz in Sam's blood surges into a full electric current, sputtery crackles kicking up sparks.
He makes a grab at his own knees in a useless attempt at getting himself to stop shaking. It gives Dean a free hand to hold Sam open with so he can really get up in there, his tongue sliding in smooth and almost gratingly easy after the weird, sweet pressure of fingers.
As good as Dean's mouth feels - and it feels freaking fantastic no matter where Dean puts it to work - Sam kind of doubts that's the reason that this turns his crank as much as it does. What does it is the way Dean loves it, obviously and unabashedly.
Any time Sam had thought about this before Dean showed him what it was all about, Sam had kind of figured 'eating' was just a turn of phrase, like how there's no real blowing involved in a good blow job. But obviously nobody ever told Dean that because the way he goes at Sam is like he honestly intends to devour him, like there’s a four-course dinner shoved up there, like Sam's the best thing he's ever tasted and he's starving for more; all moans and slurps, pulling Sam in so tight that his lips will be puffy afterward.
Sam's balls are drawn up so close to his body it feels like a legitimate source of danger but every time he tries to get a hand anywhere south of his belly button, Dean knocks it away. He might actually start to cry if Dean doesn't let him come soon.
Then he's got a couple of Dean's fingers to ride again, Dean tongue stabbing between them in short, wet pushes and all Sam can do with his hands is twist them up in the sheets. There's a crazy burn coiled up tight in his belly, knotting like tangled thread under Dean's puppet-master touch. Lightning-bug flashes spiral out from it, dance along Sam's nerves in places that have fuck-all to do with his dick or his ass. How anybody has ever gotten Dean into their bed and let him walk away afterward is so far beyond Sam he doesn’t even have words for it.
"You really want it don't you?" Dean breathes, snugged up under the heft of Sam's balls. He sounds awestruck, incredulous, and for about four seconds, Sam legitimately goes insane.
"Yes!" he spits because it's either that or curl into fetal position and scream from how unfair it is that he still hasn't blown his load. "Yes, I've wanted your fucking cock in my fucking ass for two fucking years, Dean, now man the fuck up and fucking fuck me already, ok?"
He's pawing at the back of Dean's head, his shoulders and chest when his brother starts to sit up, just needing something to keep him grounded or he's going to fly off the handle, just lose his freaking mind here. And Dean, despite all of his 'for your own good' bullshit, the one thing Sam's always been able to count on him to do is 'take care of Sammy'.
"Ok, ok," Dean shushes, face pressed into Sam's neck. His hands trace over Sam's sides, steady motions that are probably supposed to soothe him and bring him down but that's just not happening. His skin feels raw, every inch of him overloaded and desperate for more.
All of the air in Sam's lungs squeezes out like toothpaste from a tube as Dean lays down over him. He must have pushed his sweats down because when the head of his dick slips against Sam's sac it leaves a wet trail of precome behind. Then at long freaking last it's nudging up against Sam's hole, skidding off aimlessly without Dean's hand to guide it.
It’s stupid for Sam to be shaking. He wants this, so bad it’s the only thing he can think about sometimes, strung tight from the holding pattern he’s been caught in for years. But still he’s trembling, junkie-shivers from the adrenaline, chest clenching like a fist.
His calf slides over the curve of Dean's ass when he hitches his legs up around his brother's hips, trying in vain to get them aligned right for this to - finally finally finally - happen.
Dean halts with his face hovering just above Sam’s, flushed and terrified and completely desperate looking. Sweat glistens at his eyebrows, the little dip above his upper lip. His eyes seem huge, great green depths swallowing up Sam’s attention, feeding on it the way Dean will never admit - though Sam knows it anyway - he always has.
He breathes, “Sammy,” thumb tracing Sam’s jaw before slipping away, down, and then he’s-
He’s-
He-
Oh!
A single strained note escapes from Sam before Dean is smashing their mouths together, inhaling the unidentifiable noises that he can’t hold back.
With Dean sucking on his tongue it’s less overwhelming, a familiar distraction from the stinging, alien shove of Dean’s dick forcing him open. He can’t breathe around it, no room for his lungs to expand with all of that thick, hot weight taking up space inside of him. The sizzle of it is radiating out along his nerves, dialing up the heat in his body until it feels like he’ll incinerate at a touch. Somewhere between his ass and his brain, though, the message gets confused so that by the time Dean is pressed up against him the waves of sensation throbbing out through him are starting to make him feel good.
Really good.
So good that Dean’s first tentative thrust has Sam clinging onto him like he’s the only thing keeping Sam alive. A slow slide out turns him rigid, gasping around the strange, gritty friction he’s helpless to stop. The next push and his whole body is giving a livewire jerk, helpless sound wrenched free when Dean’s cockhead won’t stop pushing at him there, right there.
That’s the moment Sam forgets how he lived without this for so long.
Dean’s mouth smears kisses into Sam’s cheek, down his neck, fueling the bonfire crackling low in his belly. There’s too much going on inside of him to keep it all down, screwed-up, delicious thrills ever time Dean’s cock punches deep into him, rasping over things that don’t get nearly enough action to account for how sensitive they are.
All the noise seems to be working wonders for Dean, his lip starting to curl in that way that says he’s about to blow it right down Sam’s throat. Except it’s not his throat this time and damn that makes his dick leak, just thinking about Dean painting him wet that way, how it’s going to be stuffed up in there and then slowly leak out, drip all over him until Dean decides he needs to get back in again.
Shit, Sam’s going to come soon, too soon, and he wants it so bad he can practically taste it.
“C’mon,” Dean says, so turned on Sam can see it in the black wells of his eyes. Then he’s got a hand on Sam’s cock, off-balance enough that it messes up the rhythm for a second until Sam works out how to roll up into it and help out.
Sam’s mouth hangs open uselessly, unable to do anything about it when Dean’s sweat-salty lips skim against it. Dean’s tongue doesn’t seem too put off by that going by the way it rubs itself on the roof of Sam’s mouth anyway, slicks down to trace out the curves of his teeth.
Wrapped up in the flood of sensation vibrating out of his pores, Sam’s not keeping very good track of what his body is up to unchaperoned, so he misses the exact second he clamps down curiously around Dean and instead gets hit with the reverb like a crowbar to the face. A grunt jolts out of him, not the sexiest sound in the world but it’s a little less embarrassing than the noise Dean makes.
The thrusts into him stutter, fist sliding up and down his cock squeezing just the right side of too tight while the heel of Dean’s thumb digs in against his slit and all at once, that’s all Sam can take.
Most people will never know this, but there are these frequencies where supernatural things can be heard. Generally it comes across as fuzz on a radio or phone line, gone before anyone notices, too far out of the human range of hearing to make an impression anyway. As Dean crushes Sam into the mattress and pounds the orgasm out of him in short choppy bursts, Sam’s pretty sure he can actually pick up on those things. It sounds a lot like angels singing.
Dean doesn’t stop, his rhythm turning manic as Sam’s synapses fry in the barren wasteland of his skull, all of the operational parts of his brain draining away to spurt out in sticky ropes over his stomach. The grip on Sam’s ass goes tight, blunt points of pain washed out by the fact that literally everything everywhere in the world feels good right now. A high, sweet gasp drags out of Dean like somebody hitched a tow truck to it and there’s a sting on Sam’s scalp that he’s pretty sure means that Dean just bit his hair which is weird but at this point just sort of funny because Sam’s too high on sex to care.
He lets himself float for a long while after that. He’s waited seventeen years for this - ok, fine, some of those probably don’t count since he didn’t have a sex drive, but still - he’s earned the right to bask.
Because it almost always is, he’s not entirely shocked that it’s Dean who drags him back out of it.
“Happy now?” he gripes, but the smile is obvious under the roughed-up scratch of his voice. He sounds just as doped up and giddy as Sam feels.
Not up to actually forming words, Sam mumbles something that should approximate a response. It must work because Dean laughs, the little bit of motion enough to pull his softening dick free, making them both groan.
Carefully Dean rolls off of him, keeping one arm out for Sam to slide under and snuggle up against Dean’s side.
Winchester Rule #34 - it’s not a chick flick moment if you don’t verbally acknowledge it.
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17 - Wordcount: 4,000
Warning: PWP, underage (Sam is 17), first time, viginity fic, fingering, rimming
Notes: Written as a gift fic for silverfoxflower for the spn_j2_xmas. I started out writing one of the prompts but it ran away with me and didn’t really fit anymore, so I decided just to throw together some of the likes and hopefully create something fun! Anyway, silverfoxflower, I hope you like it!
Summary - Theoretically Sam gets his sexual education at a series of middle and high schools crisscrossing the United States. How it actually goes is a little something like this.
Theoretically Sam gets his sexual education at a series of middle and high schools crisscrossing the United States like a spider web from awkward and disaffected health class teachers and slightly gawky girls under bleachers and in broom closets. But then again, theoretically, Sam's just an ordinary teenager with a dad who moves him around a lot for his job as a travelling salesman/mechanic/whatever the story is this week and an older brother who makes trouble and chases tail.
How it actually goes is Dean's tongue down Sam's throat three days after he turns fourteen and Dean's hand on Sam's cock before he’s old enough to drive. How it goes is Dean and Sam alone in too many dreary motel rooms with too many hormones and too little to do besides mess around with each other. How it goes is a week during Sam's junior year of high school when he hardly makes it four hours at a stretch without coming.
How it goes is a little something like this.
They have this rule: one hour after dad leaves. If he's going to change his mind or remember he left something in the room or suddenly get an emergency call and turn the car around without warning, it'll happen within the first hour and for all the stupid risks they taken over the years, that's one neither of them wants to chance. Sam honestly can't even fathom what their father would do if he ever walked in on the two of them, his brain just won't even allow for the possibility. Sam likes it that way.
Still, that one hour is consistently one of the worst of Sam's life. He keeps expecting to grow out of this phase that he slammed into headfirst at thirteen - this phase where he feels climb-the-walls crazy for it, starved for a little touch when he probably has more sex than the whole Middlebury High football team combined. It's frustrating, and about ten times worse because Dean totally knows and totally loves it.
That's why he's sitting over there on the other bed, flipping through the channels as if he's seriously bored when Sam can freaking see the hard-on tenting his sweats. Because Dean likes for Sam to be the one to make the first move. Because, Sam suspects, Dean just likes to torture him.
Academically, Sam is aware that Dean's hot for him. His brother has been party to every single one of Sam's 'firsts' from kisses right on up through bondage, has introduced Sam to literally everything he knows about his body and how to make it feel good, and he sees the way Dean looks at him, burning with intent, he's just never really going to understand why.
Sam's not as scrawny as he used to be, graduated up from slightly pudgy small-fry to lanky and gangly, but it's still nothing like Dean. Dean's got a body while Sam's still stuck looking like a kid that got stretched in a taffy-puller and there's nothing about it that he can understand Dean getting worked up over when he's got girls who could be in magazines throwing themselves at him all the time.
Still, Dean looks when Sam pulls his t-shirt off over his head, trying for smooth and probably failing miserably. He can feel his hair sticking up in weird cowlicks and tries to smooth it down with his hands, most likely ruining the effect altogether.
Dean rakes his eyes over Sam's exposed chest, sandpaper and silk, licks his lips, doesn't do a goddamn thing. Jerk.
Sam has to do it this way though, by Dean's rules - and there are plenty of them - or just pack it in altogether. He doesn't know what Dean would do if he just said screw it and pretended to watch whatever Dean's settled the TV on; he's never made it any farther into that plan than thinking about it. One day his libido is going to level out and he is so going to make Dean pay.
For now he undoes the belt holding up his hand-me-down jeans, tries not to blush too bad when his dick slaps hard and already wet against his stomach, knees up onto the bed next to his brother. Dean's trying to play it cool - forever and always - but his eyes get stuck there between Sam’s legs where he still feels sensitive and strange.
The bare hang of his balls gets him a lifted eyebrow, not quite enough to distract from the catch in Dean's breath. There's a dark spot forming on Dean's sweats where the smooth curve of his cockhead strains obviously against it.
"Wasn't really what I meant when I said you needed a haircut," Dean says and maybe it'd sound smart-ass if it didn't come out so husky.
The backs of his fingers tickle-itch against the fine dusting of hair on the inside of Sam's thighs. Sam's cock leaps, stomach muscles bunching to hold back the urge to just grab Dean's hand and rub off against it, take anything he can get. Fingertips skirt around the freshly-shaved skin, tip-toe up the line where Sam's thigh meets his hip and back down again.
"All of it?" his brother asks, not waiting for an answer before he's pushing further between Sam's legs, kneading at that sensitive middle space before forcing their way up into the crack of his ass. He feels around with the same expertise and attention to detail he uses honing a knife or packing bullets, lovingly careful and maddeningly slow.
The groan that wants to spill out nearly chokes him when Dean prods at his hole, finding it just slick and open enough for a finger to slide in easy. Holding back that shiver that rocks up Sam’s spine at the smoothness of it is another matter entirely.
Sometimes he wonders if this is the kind of thing he'd be into if he and Dean had grown up like everybody else, if he'd still feel this weird, confusing need to having something up in him or if he's just trained himself that way, like how he can go straight from deep sleep to ready to fight without warning because that's one of those skills they just need to survive. Times like now he figures that the answer doesn't matter very much because he and Dean didn't grow up like everybody else and Dean's fingers inside him are only challenged by his brother's tongue for the crown of 'best thing Sam's ever felt'.
Yet, anyway.
"Damn." Dean sounds like he just ran a mile and swallowed some thumbtacks for a chaser. His finger sort of stirs against Sam’s insides, drawing concentric circles on the tender flesh as he slides it out to the very tip, pushes back in again with two. There's just a hint of a burn from where Sam's body has started to tighten back up again since his shower earlier but it disappears when Dean crooks against that spot that makes Sam forget how to see for a second.
"You promised." It ends up coming out more of a little-kid-whine than he was hoping. That's all Dean's fault though for leaning in to suck one of Sam's nipples into his mouth right as Sam was saying it. That shit is dirty pool.
Something that might be agreement gets mumbled against Sam's skin, not letting up with the slow fuck of Dean’s fingers. At the same time he's maneuvering Sam to straddle his lap, covering his pebbled skin in soft licks and bites. It's a positive direction to be moving, but Sam's not going to let himself get distracted this time. Not much anyway.
Dean has some weird idea that he needs to protect Sam from himself or Dean or something - as if at some point Sam's going to realize that wanting to climb his brother like a tree is just a phase he's going through because that makes all kinds of sense. But Sam's been seventeen for just over two weeks - of course this would be the one time in his life Dean decides to care about things being legal, nevermind the against-the-law-in-all-50-states incest thing - and he is finally going to have sex just like Dean's been swearing they will for six months even if he has to knock Dean out, tie him to the bed and ride him to do it. It's happening. Today.
A third finger flirts at the rim, just mapping out where the other two are taking him apart by inches. He's not really wet enough to take another but that's rectified pretty fast when Dean spits onto the fingers of his other hand and snakes them around to paint messily over Sam's hole, one slipping in enough to stuff some more of the saliva inside. He tugs a little with the fingertip on his way out, holding Sam open to the air just long enough to make his heart skip a beat at how filthy it feels.
As soon as he's released, that third finger is slotting in all the way to the knuckle. Sam grinds down onto them helplessly.
"Dean," he gasps into his brother's shoulder, "You said. You said you would."
It’d probably help if he could actively avoid reminding Dean of the fact that he used to have to tie Sam’s shoelaces for him and stuff, but his big boy words don’t seem to be coming out right. That’s one of any number of things that Dean’s hands on him seem to do to Sam that he’s actively not thinking about ever.
Dean's free hand traces over the bumps of Sam's spine, up until he's cupping Sam's head to breathe against his temple. "Dunno Sammy, wouldn't wanna do it if you're not into it. You sure you really want it? Want my cock up that tight. little. ass?" He punctuates the words with hard, mind-bending thrusts of his fingers, rough enough that Sam wonders if he can get a bruise between his cheeks but loves it all the same.
And it's the most ridiculous question in the world because Sam has begged - literally, physically on his knees, begged - for Dean to fuck him. There's probably not a human being on the planet that wants to have sex more than Sam does. Hell, his dick is starting to make a little puddle on Dean’s abs. Yes, he fucking well wants this.
He growls something to that general effect too, though it might lose a little eloquence between all of the gasped stops and the sudden moans that steal whole sections of the diatribe. Dean seems to get it anyway, since he laughs all low and pleased, big-brother sadistic.
"Yeah? You want me to punch your v-card, kiddo?"
He rubs over Sam's sweet spot at the same time, negating the whole question because like hell Sam can answer. Doesn't seem to matter anyway since just a second later he's saying, "Prove it. Show me how bad you want it."
In a way, Sam hates that he responds like this - that anybody, especially Dean, ordering him around gets him hot. It needles at the part of him that, despite everything else, is just Dean's little brother, and that part of him is always going to rise to the challenge. At the same time, he can't really pretend he doesn't get off on it too.
Going with the slow rhythm Dean has set up, Sam grinds down onto his brother's fingers, clenching and flexing in turn to feel Dean's breath stutter. Without warning, Dean stops moving his hand, just holds it still for Sam to fuck back onto. Shivers run up Sam's spine as he twists his hips, rolling and wiggling until he gets himself into the right position to have Dean hitting him exactly how he wants. It makes his stomach feel hollowed out and hot, head gone fuzzy with the feverish rush through his veins.
Since Dean's not stopping him, Sam picks up the pace, taking his brother's fingers and losing them again quick and steady. Every couple of downstrokes he pauses, rubbing himself against Dean's knuckles to feel the fat, hard stretch.
He props his head up next to Dean's, arms looped around his brother's shoulders for his cheek to rest on, putting his mouth right on level with Dean's ear. It takes work to keep his noises soft, breathy, like it's so good he can barely make a sound which is actually mostly true. More than that, though, he knows Dean goes nuts for it - nothing winds his brother up faster than hearing how good he makes Sam feel.
The hard, damp jut of Dean's cock brushes against the inside of Sam's thigh with every motion, tapping at the tender, naked skin of his balls like a perfect kind of torment. Thick fingers tighten on the back of Sam's head, start to squirm around in him, just tickling at his insides, a telegraph code of how hard this is nailing Dean too.
It feeds in on itself, Sam getting off on knowing he's making Dean crazy and Dean rubbing around in him and whispering filth that makes Sam's guts go liquid. By the time he's pushing down on Dean's fingers hard enough to hear a fleshy smack with each thrust Sam's so on fire with it that he doesn't even care that Dean managed to worm his way out of fucking him again, he just wants to come before the ache in his balls makes him scream.
Which is, of course, when Dean stops.
A strangled noise creaks out of Sam's throat at the bereft flutter of muscle where he suddenly finds himself empty. His body's all worked up but his brain has fallen behind, unable to make heads or tails of what's happening until Dean has already got him flipped over onto his back.
Dean mumbles something Sam can't hear over the pound of his pulse and then he's shoving Sam's legs apart, his head down between them to get his mouth where his fingers just were thirty seconds ago. The buzz in Sam's blood surges into a full electric current, sputtery crackles kicking up sparks.
He makes a grab at his own knees in a useless attempt at getting himself to stop shaking. It gives Dean a free hand to hold Sam open with so he can really get up in there, his tongue sliding in smooth and almost gratingly easy after the weird, sweet pressure of fingers.
As good as Dean's mouth feels - and it feels freaking fantastic no matter where Dean puts it to work - Sam kind of doubts that's the reason that this turns his crank as much as it does. What does it is the way Dean loves it, obviously and unabashedly.
Any time Sam had thought about this before Dean showed him what it was all about, Sam had kind of figured 'eating' was just a turn of phrase, like how there's no real blowing involved in a good blow job. But obviously nobody ever told Dean that because the way he goes at Sam is like he honestly intends to devour him, like there’s a four-course dinner shoved up there, like Sam's the best thing he's ever tasted and he's starving for more; all moans and slurps, pulling Sam in so tight that his lips will be puffy afterward.
Sam's balls are drawn up so close to his body it feels like a legitimate source of danger but every time he tries to get a hand anywhere south of his belly button, Dean knocks it away. He might actually start to cry if Dean doesn't let him come soon.
Then he's got a couple of Dean's fingers to ride again, Dean tongue stabbing between them in short, wet pushes and all Sam can do with his hands is twist them up in the sheets. There's a crazy burn coiled up tight in his belly, knotting like tangled thread under Dean's puppet-master touch. Lightning-bug flashes spiral out from it, dance along Sam's nerves in places that have fuck-all to do with his dick or his ass. How anybody has ever gotten Dean into their bed and let him walk away afterward is so far beyond Sam he doesn’t even have words for it.
"You really want it don't you?" Dean breathes, snugged up under the heft of Sam's balls. He sounds awestruck, incredulous, and for about four seconds, Sam legitimately goes insane.
"Yes!" he spits because it's either that or curl into fetal position and scream from how unfair it is that he still hasn't blown his load. "Yes, I've wanted your fucking cock in my fucking ass for two fucking years, Dean, now man the fuck up and fucking fuck me already, ok?"
He's pawing at the back of Dean's head, his shoulders and chest when his brother starts to sit up, just needing something to keep him grounded or he's going to fly off the handle, just lose his freaking mind here. And Dean, despite all of his 'for your own good' bullshit, the one thing Sam's always been able to count on him to do is 'take care of Sammy'.
"Ok, ok," Dean shushes, face pressed into Sam's neck. His hands trace over Sam's sides, steady motions that are probably supposed to soothe him and bring him down but that's just not happening. His skin feels raw, every inch of him overloaded and desperate for more.
All of the air in Sam's lungs squeezes out like toothpaste from a tube as Dean lays down over him. He must have pushed his sweats down because when the head of his dick slips against Sam's sac it leaves a wet trail of precome behind. Then at long freaking last it's nudging up against Sam's hole, skidding off aimlessly without Dean's hand to guide it.
It’s stupid for Sam to be shaking. He wants this, so bad it’s the only thing he can think about sometimes, strung tight from the holding pattern he’s been caught in for years. But still he’s trembling, junkie-shivers from the adrenaline, chest clenching like a fist.
His calf slides over the curve of Dean's ass when he hitches his legs up around his brother's hips, trying in vain to get them aligned right for this to - finally finally finally - happen.
Dean halts with his face hovering just above Sam’s, flushed and terrified and completely desperate looking. Sweat glistens at his eyebrows, the little dip above his upper lip. His eyes seem huge, great green depths swallowing up Sam’s attention, feeding on it the way Dean will never admit - though Sam knows it anyway - he always has.
He breathes, “Sammy,” thumb tracing Sam’s jaw before slipping away, down, and then he’s-
He’s-
He-
Oh!
A single strained note escapes from Sam before Dean is smashing their mouths together, inhaling the unidentifiable noises that he can’t hold back.
With Dean sucking on his tongue it’s less overwhelming, a familiar distraction from the stinging, alien shove of Dean’s dick forcing him open. He can’t breathe around it, no room for his lungs to expand with all of that thick, hot weight taking up space inside of him. The sizzle of it is radiating out along his nerves, dialing up the heat in his body until it feels like he’ll incinerate at a touch. Somewhere between his ass and his brain, though, the message gets confused so that by the time Dean is pressed up against him the waves of sensation throbbing out through him are starting to make him feel good.
Really good.
So good that Dean’s first tentative thrust has Sam clinging onto him like he’s the only thing keeping Sam alive. A slow slide out turns him rigid, gasping around the strange, gritty friction he’s helpless to stop. The next push and his whole body is giving a livewire jerk, helpless sound wrenched free when Dean’s cockhead won’t stop pushing at him there, right there.
That’s the moment Sam forgets how he lived without this for so long.
Dean’s mouth smears kisses into Sam’s cheek, down his neck, fueling the bonfire crackling low in his belly. There’s too much going on inside of him to keep it all down, screwed-up, delicious thrills ever time Dean’s cock punches deep into him, rasping over things that don’t get nearly enough action to account for how sensitive they are.
All the noise seems to be working wonders for Dean, his lip starting to curl in that way that says he’s about to blow it right down Sam’s throat. Except it’s not his throat this time and damn that makes his dick leak, just thinking about Dean painting him wet that way, how it’s going to be stuffed up in there and then slowly leak out, drip all over him until Dean decides he needs to get back in again.
Shit, Sam’s going to come soon, too soon, and he wants it so bad he can practically taste it.
“C’mon,” Dean says, so turned on Sam can see it in the black wells of his eyes. Then he’s got a hand on Sam’s cock, off-balance enough that it messes up the rhythm for a second until Sam works out how to roll up into it and help out.
Sam’s mouth hangs open uselessly, unable to do anything about it when Dean’s sweat-salty lips skim against it. Dean’s tongue doesn’t seem too put off by that going by the way it rubs itself on the roof of Sam’s mouth anyway, slicks down to trace out the curves of his teeth.
Wrapped up in the flood of sensation vibrating out of his pores, Sam’s not keeping very good track of what his body is up to unchaperoned, so he misses the exact second he clamps down curiously around Dean and instead gets hit with the reverb like a crowbar to the face. A grunt jolts out of him, not the sexiest sound in the world but it’s a little less embarrassing than the noise Dean makes.
The thrusts into him stutter, fist sliding up and down his cock squeezing just the right side of too tight while the heel of Dean’s thumb digs in against his slit and all at once, that’s all Sam can take.
Most people will never know this, but there are these frequencies where supernatural things can be heard. Generally it comes across as fuzz on a radio or phone line, gone before anyone notices, too far out of the human range of hearing to make an impression anyway. As Dean crushes Sam into the mattress and pounds the orgasm out of him in short choppy bursts, Sam’s pretty sure he can actually pick up on those things. It sounds a lot like angels singing.
Dean doesn’t stop, his rhythm turning manic as Sam’s synapses fry in the barren wasteland of his skull, all of the operational parts of his brain draining away to spurt out in sticky ropes over his stomach. The grip on Sam’s ass goes tight, blunt points of pain washed out by the fact that literally everything everywhere in the world feels good right now. A high, sweet gasp drags out of Dean like somebody hitched a tow truck to it and there’s a sting on Sam’s scalp that he’s pretty sure means that Dean just bit his hair which is weird but at this point just sort of funny because Sam’s too high on sex to care.
He lets himself float for a long while after that. He’s waited seventeen years for this - ok, fine, some of those probably don’t count since he didn’t have a sex drive, but still - he’s earned the right to bask.
Because it almost always is, he’s not entirely shocked that it’s Dean who drags him back out of it.
“Happy now?” he gripes, but the smile is obvious under the roughed-up scratch of his voice. He sounds just as doped up and giddy as Sam feels.
Not up to actually forming words, Sam mumbles something that should approximate a response. It must work because Dean laughs, the little bit of motion enough to pull his softening dick free, making them both groan.
Carefully Dean rolls off of him, keeping one arm out for Sam to slide under and snuggle up against Dean’s side.
Winchester Rule #34 - it’s not a chick flick moment if you don’t verbally acknowledge it.