Ficlet: [untitled drunken weecest thingy], R
And another one!
Dean decides his baby brother is old enough to have a beer. He didn't know it would hit him so hard. Prompted here by heard_the_owl, destroyer of morals worlds.
Warning: Sam is fourteen in this fic and while there is no actual sex, it's -- yeah. The cest is pretty explicitly wee.
As far as Dean remembers, he only agreed to one beer. How that translated to two beers of Sam's own and half one of Dean's, he can't recall. Probably, the fact that he'd been on his sixth before Sam even showed up has something to do with his memory loss. Probably, too, it has something to do with why he hasn't shoved Sam off yet, even though Sam's long-fingered hand is sweating through the flannel of Dean's shirt in the middle of his chest; even though Sam's soft, pink mouth is rubbing at the bolt of Dean's jaw.
"Sam," Dean says, and it's almost a whine, but Sam's wise to him, apparently, hand flexing on Dean's chest and lips parting over the jut of his jawbone, the touch zinging through him in little shivers. Shit.
"Sam," Dean repeats.
He could move him, easy. That's the thing about it: Sam's skinny and coltish and fourteen, and Dean could pick him up in the crook of one arm, set him on the floor and safely out of reach of Dean's traitorous dick, which, when drunk, doesn't seem to know what's fair game and what's his kid brother. He could put Sam up like a bag of groceries if he wanted to, and Dean doesn't know what to think about the way he isn't doing exactly that -- the way he's just letting Sam muffle giggles in the crook of his neck, letting him tease along the tensed-up line of his jaw.
"Dean," Sam's mumbling, and his hands are moving, now, drifting down the front of Dean's shirt in a sloppy, earnest stumble, fingers-heel-palm. "Dean, feel awesome, man -- 's like Lord of the Flies or somethin', want --"
Whatever Sam wants is lost in the wet slide of his mouth down the tendon straining under the sweat on Dean's throat, and Jesus Christ, this is getting out of control.
"Jesus Christ, Sam," Dean says, and his voice is strident not with disgust, but with fear. He knows it, in that split second of want that pulses through him as Sam's tongue curls against his skin -- imagining how Sam would look on his knees, Dean's fingers in all that tumble of hair; Sam's mouth stretched wide around the girth of his dick -- but Sam -- Sam can't ever know it. Pretty imperative, this, says Dean's drunk mind, and he thinks his sober one would agree. Sam's giving him the frustrated face, all pout and eyebrows, as Dean pries him loose like a limpet, but God, another minute of Sam's hands on his skin and Dean wouldn't be responsible for his actions. Another hot minute, and Sam's, his kid brother's innocence would be dead as everything else Dean's ever hunted, ever touched.
Something like a tic in his stomach says it's inevitable, an inexorable slide, but his head overpowers it sufficiently to say: not today, at any rate. Not today. Not Sam.
Dean's hand looks huge on Sam's jaw as he cups it, chucks it, pushing Sam gently away and off. "C'mon, kiddo," he says, and stands. His cock is heavy against the zipper of his jeans, but he can ignore that, like a good soldier. Sam'd better ignore it, too, if he knows what's good for him. "You've had enough. Bed time."
He scoops Sam up under an arm like a sack of potatoes. Sam kicks his legs and protests. "Dean," he says. The outline of his stiff little prick is riding the muscle of Dean's thigh, hard and clear, and Dean swallows pointedly, thinks about dry-rot and the sea.
"Enough," he says, firm. "Not doin' this, Sammy."
Not now, anyway. Not yet.
Dean decides his baby brother is old enough to have a beer. He didn't know it would hit him so hard. Prompted here by heard_the_owl, destroyer of morals worlds.
Warning: Sam is fourteen in this fic and while there is no actual sex, it's -- yeah. The cest is pretty explicitly wee.
As far as Dean remembers, he only agreed to one beer. How that translated to two beers of Sam's own and half one of Dean's, he can't recall. Probably, the fact that he'd been on his sixth before Sam even showed up has something to do with his memory loss. Probably, too, it has something to do with why he hasn't shoved Sam off yet, even though Sam's long-fingered hand is sweating through the flannel of Dean's shirt in the middle of his chest; even though Sam's soft, pink mouth is rubbing at the bolt of Dean's jaw.
"Sam," Dean says, and it's almost a whine, but Sam's wise to him, apparently, hand flexing on Dean's chest and lips parting over the jut of his jawbone, the touch zinging through him in little shivers. Shit.
"Sam," Dean repeats.
He could move him, easy. That's the thing about it: Sam's skinny and coltish and fourteen, and Dean could pick him up in the crook of one arm, set him on the floor and safely out of reach of Dean's traitorous dick, which, when drunk, doesn't seem to know what's fair game and what's his kid brother. He could put Sam up like a bag of groceries if he wanted to, and Dean doesn't know what to think about the way he isn't doing exactly that -- the way he's just letting Sam muffle giggles in the crook of his neck, letting him tease along the tensed-up line of his jaw.
"Dean," Sam's mumbling, and his hands are moving, now, drifting down the front of Dean's shirt in a sloppy, earnest stumble, fingers-heel-palm. "Dean, feel awesome, man -- 's like Lord of the Flies or somethin', want --"
Whatever Sam wants is lost in the wet slide of his mouth down the tendon straining under the sweat on Dean's throat, and Jesus Christ, this is getting out of control.
"Jesus Christ, Sam," Dean says, and his voice is strident not with disgust, but with fear. He knows it, in that split second of want that pulses through him as Sam's tongue curls against his skin -- imagining how Sam would look on his knees, Dean's fingers in all that tumble of hair; Sam's mouth stretched wide around the girth of his dick -- but Sam -- Sam can't ever know it. Pretty imperative, this, says Dean's drunk mind, and he thinks his sober one would agree. Sam's giving him the frustrated face, all pout and eyebrows, as Dean pries him loose like a limpet, but God, another minute of Sam's hands on his skin and Dean wouldn't be responsible for his actions. Another hot minute, and Sam's, his kid brother's innocence would be dead as everything else Dean's ever hunted, ever touched.
Something like a tic in his stomach says it's inevitable, an inexorable slide, but his head overpowers it sufficiently to say: not today, at any rate. Not today. Not Sam.
Dean's hand looks huge on Sam's jaw as he cups it, chucks it, pushing Sam gently away and off. "C'mon, kiddo," he says, and stands. His cock is heavy against the zipper of his jeans, but he can ignore that, like a good soldier. Sam'd better ignore it, too, if he knows what's good for him. "You've had enough. Bed time."
He scoops Sam up under an arm like a sack of potatoes. Sam kicks his legs and protests. "Dean," he says. The outline of his stiff little prick is riding the muscle of Dean's thigh, hard and clear, and Dean swallows pointedly, thinks about dry-rot and the sea.
"Enough," he says, firm. "Not doin' this, Sammy."
Not now, anyway. Not yet.