fic: The Cherry on Top
Title: The Cherry on Top
Genre: Sam/Dean
Word count: 1800
Rating: nc-17
Notes: written for the smpc. warnings for underage. the other day i watched this *cough* film *cough* with someone who looked a bit like a twinky 14 year old Sam being toppy as fuck, and subsequently got this bee in my bonnet about a twinky 14 year old Sam being, well, toppy as fuck. a million, billion thank you's to cherie_morte for reading this through at 4am. dear god.
Summary: um. Alright. Sam is fourteen years old and toppy as hell. (in other words, there is no plot to summarize. there's hardly even a scenario.)
The girl puts an extra swing in her hips, widens her cherry-red lipgloss smile. She hugs her schoolbooks a little closer to her push-up bra, then falters as she realizes Dean's smirk is aimed above her head.
Dean's smiles haven't been for girls for a while now. It's fair to say that the real ones never were. This one is only for his brother, who's taking the stairs down two at a time, shrugging to keep his backpack hooked around one of his bony shoulders and the stretched-out neck of his t-shirt from falling off of the other.
Sam grins at him and it's like he's punched Dean in the chest, pushed all the air out his lungs. There's nothing new about this. Dean's strange, violent little brother, who can field strip an M-4 assault rifle faster than any boot camp vet, knows how to cheat at dice and cards and can throw a knife with preternatural accuracy, yet still doesn't fully understand the kinda damage he inflicts whenever he reaches under Dean's shirt at night and curls his slender fingers against Dean's stomach.
"How about a milkshake?" Dean says, snags Sam's backpack, and throws it in the backseat while Sam skids his fingers along the side of Dean's neck. Dean circles fast around the car, puts himself out of Sam's reach before he gives in and drags Sam somewhere dark, pushes him under the bleachers and fucks him up for a little while.
"That one place?" Sam asks, already licking his lips, shaking his head so his hair flies out of his eyes.
"Yeah, that place," Dean tells him. He has a pocket full of change because he never walks past a vending machine without checking. He digs it out and hands it to Sam to occupy him, making sure he keeps his hands to himself.
Sam's a vampire like that, has an obsessive need to put things in order, part of what will make him such a good hunter once he grows into it. He sets to it, arranging and rearranging until all the quarters are facing the same way and everything's in order of denomination, counts and then recounts. He's a vampire in other ways too, with a mouthful of sharp teeth and a bottomless desire to use them.
The ice cream place is a bunch of blue-painted plywood boards haphazardly nailed together and tall, wispy grass growing all along the base of it. A few picnic tables with faded umbrellas lend legitimacy to the whole thing. Leaning up against the front is a handwritten chalkboard that lists what they have today, ice cream and creamsicles and nuttybuddys.
"You're a creamsicle," Sam says, low and quiet, criminally close to Dean's ear and drenched with innuendo.
An elbow to Sam's ribs only holds him off for a second. "Don't know what's gotten into you," Dean says. He's going for irritable but it comes out choked.
The expression on Sam's face is wide-eyed innocence as he creeps closer again. "You've gotten into me. Or have you forgotten, old man? Am I gonna have to start putting post-it notes all over the place?"
And alright, okay, Dean sorta stepped right into that one with both feet.
Sam gets his milkshake, extra chocolate and extra whipped cream, and they retreat to a picnic table, Dean settling on top of it and Sam sitting on the bench, his shoulder against Dean's knee.
"Why didn't you get anything?" Sam asks, as he sucks whipped cream off of the top, pointy pink tongue curling out to lap at it,,and Dean goes from zero to a respectable forty-five his jeans. Not quite a sixy, but getting close.
"Didn't want one," Dean says. That he only had quarters and dimes enough for one is implied.
Sam hums, fits his mouth around the straw and sucks. His cheekbones are already blooming sunburn-pink. He's staring up at Dean through his lashes, doesn't look away as he feeds Dean his cherry.
~*~*~*~
Sam is long arms and legs, sharp skinny elbows and soft thighs covered in peach fuzz. Ladder-rung ribs that Dean likes to walk his fingers up, then his tongue. He's thrashing, restless cold toes in the middle of the night and warm, damp, loose-lipped kisses in the morning. Dean is wrapped around Sam's pinky finger as tightly as Sam is wrapped around his heart.
"Dad's not here," Sam says once he trudges through the door to their place, jittery with sugar.
"Nope," Dean says, and shoves out of his boots. He leaves them in front of the door, something their father would never allow. A small sin to balance out the bigger ones that only he and Sam know about. "He hauled ass outta here with Caleb this morning."
There's not much in the house. Cereal and bread, some honey in the cabinet that is slowly crystallizing, but Dean remembers reading somewhere that honey never goes sour. He makes Sam some toast to soak up the ice cream, douses it with honey, then sits on the counter to watch Sam eat it.
"Are you trying to fatten me up?" Sam says, crunching through one piece in three big bites.
"I'm trying to make you sweet," Dean answers, fixated on the delicate hinge of Sam's wrist, wondering if there's anything about this kid that he might not find completely fascinating.
"You're like the witch in Hansel and Gretel," Sam starts. He launches into an explanation of narrative structure in fairy tales, something about the hero's journey. Motherfucking geek-boy.
Dean can't follow the thread of it. I'll eat you up, I'll eat you up. It's a looping litany in his head until eventually, inevitably, the preposition changes. I'll eat you out.
"Anyway," Sam's saying, "do you think that they were fucking?"
That brings Dean back into it very quickly. "What?" he spits.
"Hansel and Gretel." Sam's mouth is shiny with honey, crumbs clinging to the corners. "I think they were totally fucking, and if they weren't, then that was a missed opportunity."
"Not everyone's like us," Dean says. Something breaks loose in his chest and it feels so fucking good to say it out loud, let it fill the bright, sunny room.
Sam maneuvers between his legs, bossy hands drawing them tighter around his middle. "Poor fuckers," he says and pushes up onto his toes, kisses Dean deep and dirty, his sticky, honey tongue prying Dean's lips apart and licking inside. "Am I sweet enough now?"
"Yeah, you are."
"Good," Sam says, and pulls Dean down, grabs handfuls of Dean's ass and squeezes, "because I have some lollipops stashed somewhere around here, was really hoping I wouldn't have to pull them out before you'd let me fuck you."
The empty house is theirs, but Sam guides them to their bedroom, a scatter of t-shirts and socks following them, more little sins.
"Like breadcrumbs," Sam says.
Dean calls him a fucker.
"You know it." Sam pushes him onto the bed and crawls in after. He spills forward, a crash of dark hair and dark eyes, a bright white smile, and his skinny chest feels so light against Dean's, his dick so hot nudging against Dean's balls, his intent so heavy. He sits back on his haunches and arranges Dean exactly how he wants him, spreading Dean's legs until Dean's thighs are draped over his.
Lanky hips and a narrow waist, all this skinny-boy, wiry muscle under Dean's hands is almost enough to make him shoot right away, fills his dick with a searing, aching throb. Sam can see it, reads him as easy as a picture book, wraps his fingers around the base of Dean's dick and squeezes.
"Fuck, Dean, let me get in you first."
"Fuck, Sam, then get in me," Dean says, and he can't believe that he sounds like this already, low and hoarse, all the force behind his voice scrubbed away as he watches Sam suck two fingers into his mouth, spit into the palm of his hand.
"Goddamn mouth of yours," Sam moans, then dives down to kiss it, lick and nip and distract Dean from the fingers he's shoving into his ass. Sam's impatient in this like he is with everything else, the willful little brother, a learned behavior from never having enough time. Their father perpetually in the next room, the hot water about to run out, fast rest stop screwing around, always moving and never, ever holding still.
Sam pulls his fingers free, replaces them with his dick, slams into Dean and closes his eyes. It's rough and biting, the pain a counterpoint to Dean's pure relief at having Sam as close as he can get. Dean loves every second of it, completely dismantled at the hands of his kid brother, cracked wide open.
Never satisfied, Sam sits back and pushes Dean's leg up, hooks it over his shoulder and tries to find a way to get further inside, drill deeper into Dean with each sharp snap of his hips. The new angle makes Dean throw his head back, spreads a live-wire feeling under his skin and he hardly has a chance to get a hand on his dick before he comes, spurts hot and hard, makes a mess of their stomachs.
Sam gasps as Dean clenches around him, stutter-stops for a second and then lets Dean's leg fall from his shoulder. He starts muttering, could be Latin incantations or fucking take-out menus for all Dean knows. His ears full of drowned-out white noise and the metallic screech of the bedframe.
Dean drags Sam down, fists his hands in Sam's damp hair as Sam slides his arms under Dean's back and criss-crosses them to wrap his hands around Dean's shoulders, gathering him up. His lips are open on Dean's neck, sharp hint of teeth scraping against Dean's skin. He shivers and shakes, bones rattling under the surface. Dean can feel every inch of Sam's dick, how it strains and thickens inside him as Sam tips into his orgasm, finally skids to a stop.
"How long do we have?" Sam whispers, still buried inside of Dean, his mouth a hot smear on Dean's collarbone.
Dean trips his fingers along Sam's back, follows the knobby architecture of his spine. "A couple of days."
"Good." Sam starts moving once more, fucking into the clinging, sloppy mess of his own spunk. "Wanna go again."
"Yeah, Sammy, whatever you want." Dean wraps his legs around his brother's waist, hooks his ankles together. The anything and everything are implied.
--end
Thanks for reading!
Genre: Sam/Dean
Word count: 1800
Rating: nc-17
Notes: written for the smpc. warnings for underage. the other day i watched this *cough* film *cough* with someone who looked a bit like a twinky 14 year old Sam being toppy as fuck, and subsequently got this bee in my bonnet about a twinky 14 year old Sam being, well, toppy as fuck. a million, billion thank you's to cherie_morte for reading this through at 4am. dear god.
Summary: um. Alright. Sam is fourteen years old and toppy as hell. (in other words, there is no plot to summarize. there's hardly even a scenario.)
The girl puts an extra swing in her hips, widens her cherry-red lipgloss smile. She hugs her schoolbooks a little closer to her push-up bra, then falters as she realizes Dean's smirk is aimed above her head.
Dean's smiles haven't been for girls for a while now. It's fair to say that the real ones never were. This one is only for his brother, who's taking the stairs down two at a time, shrugging to keep his backpack hooked around one of his bony shoulders and the stretched-out neck of his t-shirt from falling off of the other.
Sam grins at him and it's like he's punched Dean in the chest, pushed all the air out his lungs. There's nothing new about this. Dean's strange, violent little brother, who can field strip an M-4 assault rifle faster than any boot camp vet, knows how to cheat at dice and cards and can throw a knife with preternatural accuracy, yet still doesn't fully understand the kinda damage he inflicts whenever he reaches under Dean's shirt at night and curls his slender fingers against Dean's stomach.
"How about a milkshake?" Dean says, snags Sam's backpack, and throws it in the backseat while Sam skids his fingers along the side of Dean's neck. Dean circles fast around the car, puts himself out of Sam's reach before he gives in and drags Sam somewhere dark, pushes him under the bleachers and fucks him up for a little while.
"That one place?" Sam asks, already licking his lips, shaking his head so his hair flies out of his eyes.
"Yeah, that place," Dean tells him. He has a pocket full of change because he never walks past a vending machine without checking. He digs it out and hands it to Sam to occupy him, making sure he keeps his hands to himself.
Sam's a vampire like that, has an obsessive need to put things in order, part of what will make him such a good hunter once he grows into it. He sets to it, arranging and rearranging until all the quarters are facing the same way and everything's in order of denomination, counts and then recounts. He's a vampire in other ways too, with a mouthful of sharp teeth and a bottomless desire to use them.
The ice cream place is a bunch of blue-painted plywood boards haphazardly nailed together and tall, wispy grass growing all along the base of it. A few picnic tables with faded umbrellas lend legitimacy to the whole thing. Leaning up against the front is a handwritten chalkboard that lists what they have today, ice cream and creamsicles and nuttybuddys.
"You're a creamsicle," Sam says, low and quiet, criminally close to Dean's ear and drenched with innuendo.
An elbow to Sam's ribs only holds him off for a second. "Don't know what's gotten into you," Dean says. He's going for irritable but it comes out choked.
The expression on Sam's face is wide-eyed innocence as he creeps closer again. "You've gotten into me. Or have you forgotten, old man? Am I gonna have to start putting post-it notes all over the place?"
And alright, okay, Dean sorta stepped right into that one with both feet.
Sam gets his milkshake, extra chocolate and extra whipped cream, and they retreat to a picnic table, Dean settling on top of it and Sam sitting on the bench, his shoulder against Dean's knee.
"Why didn't you get anything?" Sam asks, as he sucks whipped cream off of the top, pointy pink tongue curling out to lap at it,,and Dean goes from zero to a respectable forty-five his jeans. Not quite a sixy, but getting close.
"Didn't want one," Dean says. That he only had quarters and dimes enough for one is implied.
Sam hums, fits his mouth around the straw and sucks. His cheekbones are already blooming sunburn-pink. He's staring up at Dean through his lashes, doesn't look away as he feeds Dean his cherry.
~*~*~*~
Sam is long arms and legs, sharp skinny elbows and soft thighs covered in peach fuzz. Ladder-rung ribs that Dean likes to walk his fingers up, then his tongue. He's thrashing, restless cold toes in the middle of the night and warm, damp, loose-lipped kisses in the morning. Dean is wrapped around Sam's pinky finger as tightly as Sam is wrapped around his heart.
"Dad's not here," Sam says once he trudges through the door to their place, jittery with sugar.
"Nope," Dean says, and shoves out of his boots. He leaves them in front of the door, something their father would never allow. A small sin to balance out the bigger ones that only he and Sam know about. "He hauled ass outta here with Caleb this morning."
There's not much in the house. Cereal and bread, some honey in the cabinet that is slowly crystallizing, but Dean remembers reading somewhere that honey never goes sour. He makes Sam some toast to soak up the ice cream, douses it with honey, then sits on the counter to watch Sam eat it.
"Are you trying to fatten me up?" Sam says, crunching through one piece in three big bites.
"I'm trying to make you sweet," Dean answers, fixated on the delicate hinge of Sam's wrist, wondering if there's anything about this kid that he might not find completely fascinating.
"You're like the witch in Hansel and Gretel," Sam starts. He launches into an explanation of narrative structure in fairy tales, something about the hero's journey. Motherfucking geek-boy.
Dean can't follow the thread of it. I'll eat you up, I'll eat you up. It's a looping litany in his head until eventually, inevitably, the preposition changes. I'll eat you out.
"Anyway," Sam's saying, "do you think that they were fucking?"
That brings Dean back into it very quickly. "What?" he spits.
"Hansel and Gretel." Sam's mouth is shiny with honey, crumbs clinging to the corners. "I think they were totally fucking, and if they weren't, then that was a missed opportunity."
"Not everyone's like us," Dean says. Something breaks loose in his chest and it feels so fucking good to say it out loud, let it fill the bright, sunny room.
Sam maneuvers between his legs, bossy hands drawing them tighter around his middle. "Poor fuckers," he says and pushes up onto his toes, kisses Dean deep and dirty, his sticky, honey tongue prying Dean's lips apart and licking inside. "Am I sweet enough now?"
"Yeah, you are."
"Good," Sam says, and pulls Dean down, grabs handfuls of Dean's ass and squeezes, "because I have some lollipops stashed somewhere around here, was really hoping I wouldn't have to pull them out before you'd let me fuck you."
The empty house is theirs, but Sam guides them to their bedroom, a scatter of t-shirts and socks following them, more little sins.
"Like breadcrumbs," Sam says.
Dean calls him a fucker.
"You know it." Sam pushes him onto the bed and crawls in after. He spills forward, a crash of dark hair and dark eyes, a bright white smile, and his skinny chest feels so light against Dean's, his dick so hot nudging against Dean's balls, his intent so heavy. He sits back on his haunches and arranges Dean exactly how he wants him, spreading Dean's legs until Dean's thighs are draped over his.
Lanky hips and a narrow waist, all this skinny-boy, wiry muscle under Dean's hands is almost enough to make him shoot right away, fills his dick with a searing, aching throb. Sam can see it, reads him as easy as a picture book, wraps his fingers around the base of Dean's dick and squeezes.
"Fuck, Dean, let me get in you first."
"Fuck, Sam, then get in me," Dean says, and he can't believe that he sounds like this already, low and hoarse, all the force behind his voice scrubbed away as he watches Sam suck two fingers into his mouth, spit into the palm of his hand.
"Goddamn mouth of yours," Sam moans, then dives down to kiss it, lick and nip and distract Dean from the fingers he's shoving into his ass. Sam's impatient in this like he is with everything else, the willful little brother, a learned behavior from never having enough time. Their father perpetually in the next room, the hot water about to run out, fast rest stop screwing around, always moving and never, ever holding still.
Sam pulls his fingers free, replaces them with his dick, slams into Dean and closes his eyes. It's rough and biting, the pain a counterpoint to Dean's pure relief at having Sam as close as he can get. Dean loves every second of it, completely dismantled at the hands of his kid brother, cracked wide open.
Never satisfied, Sam sits back and pushes Dean's leg up, hooks it over his shoulder and tries to find a way to get further inside, drill deeper into Dean with each sharp snap of his hips. The new angle makes Dean throw his head back, spreads a live-wire feeling under his skin and he hardly has a chance to get a hand on his dick before he comes, spurts hot and hard, makes a mess of their stomachs.
Sam gasps as Dean clenches around him, stutter-stops for a second and then lets Dean's leg fall from his shoulder. He starts muttering, could be Latin incantations or fucking take-out menus for all Dean knows. His ears full of drowned-out white noise and the metallic screech of the bedframe.
Dean drags Sam down, fists his hands in Sam's damp hair as Sam slides his arms under Dean's back and criss-crosses them to wrap his hands around Dean's shoulders, gathering him up. His lips are open on Dean's neck, sharp hint of teeth scraping against Dean's skin. He shivers and shakes, bones rattling under the surface. Dean can feel every inch of Sam's dick, how it strains and thickens inside him as Sam tips into his orgasm, finally skids to a stop.
"How long do we have?" Sam whispers, still buried inside of Dean, his mouth a hot smear on Dean's collarbone.
Dean trips his fingers along Sam's back, follows the knobby architecture of his spine. "A couple of days."
"Good." Sam starts moving once more, fucking into the clinging, sloppy mess of his own spunk. "Wanna go again."
"Yeah, Sammy, whatever you want." Dean wraps his legs around his brother's waist, hooks his ankles together. The anything and everything are implied.
--end
Thanks for reading!