fic: Jog Your Memory
Title: Jog Your Memory
Author: snglesrvngfrend
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 3,623
Summary: Sam keeps forgetting things; Dean has to help him remember
Notes: This story involves an underage Sam (at 16) so beware if this bothers you. Also, don't forget the incest! So if any of that is not for you, neither is this story.
Written for Porn Battle vii. Encouragement, read-through, and other general thanks belong to nightanddaze. THANKS, BB!
Sammy was always the one getting into trouble on hunts, ever since he started coming along with Dean and Dad when he was 14. And even before then, when Sam was just a kid, the trouble came to him; the shtriga wasn’t the first dirty son of a bitch to try to go around Dean to get to his little brother. And it definitely wasn’t the last.
They were spending Sam’s sixteenth summer in upstate New York when he set off a witch’s booby-trapped spell. He should have known better; he’d been hunting with Dean and Dad for two years by then, and John’s distrust and distaste for witches was deep-seated and legendary. Dean never did really find out how it happened, and he didn’t even know it had happened until about six days later when the moon was, for one night, absent from the sky.
Lunar cycles often affected a hunter’s business. It was true, for them at least, that things got crazier with the full moon. But things got calmer, as well, with a new moon. They were far more likely to have down time over the few days surrounding a new moon; these were also the times John was more likely to leave his boys alone while he hunted his other constant prey: information.
It was a Friday when Sam came home with the bitchiest bitch-face Dean had seen in probably years. He usually would avoid the topic of what had brought out his most hated of Sam’s many expressions, but a bitch-face of this magnitude couldn’t be ignored.
“Sam.”
“Lemme alone, Dean.”
“C’mon, Sammy. S’wrong?”
Dean pulled all his concerned big brother moves, but all it resulted in was Sam hiding behind his slammed bedroom door. He wasn’t sure why he ever worried, though; when he finally got the story out of Sam, he sheepishly admitted that he’d somehow forgotten the Dewey Decimal system.
“The Dewey Decimal system. Are you fucking kidding me, Sammy? You were a bitch for three days because you couldn’t find your way around a library?”
“Shut up, Dean. It was disconcerting, ok?”
Dean gave him the very recognizable are you shitting me look. “Disconcerting?”
“Yes. Ok? God. Jerk.” And the bitch-face was back. “It must have been finals stress or something. I remember it now.” And Dean had a momentary thought about the timing of things, but it had been almost a couple weeks since the run-in with the witch so he couldn’t be sure if there was any connection. Sam didn’t seem worried so Dean let it go. Shrugged it off.
A few weeks later, they’re doing some research for dad when Dean realized Sammy was fucked.
Sam pushed an open book toward him in irritation. Dean just arched his brow.
“I don’t know this one, Dean. You read through it.”
“Don’t know… Sammy, don’t get lazy.” He pushed the book back in front of Sam. “If you want to take a break then take a break.”
“I can’t read this, Dean. I’m not being lazy.”
Dean took a closer look at the book, but he knew he was right even before he confirmed it. “Sam, this is Latin. You know Latin better than I do.” Sam looked horrified, worried and sick. “This’s gotta have something to do with that witch. This is the second time. But you remembered last time, right?”
“Yeah,” Sam answered faintly. “After a few days. I stayed in the library and walked around and kept looking at the books and eventually it came back.”
“Ok. Ok, so, maybe we can force it to come back faster. Just keep reading, or… whatever and maybe you’ll just remember.”
Sam blew out an unreasonable sigh and rolled his eyes. “I might have, maybe, asked somebody about it.” Dean laughed. Holy shit that must have killed him!
“So you’re telling me you want me to teach you Latin?”
“God Dean, why do you have to be such a dick all the time? Ok fine. Yes. Please, big brother, you know everything so please teach me Latin so we can finish this and not tell dad and then forget it ever happened!”
It took about an hour of sitting next to his brother and reading the Latin aloud while Sam listened avidly and followed along before he felt comfortable enough to pull the book to his chest. Over the next hour Sam’s interruptions of “Dean, what’s this one?” and “pronounce that word” came further and further apart, until they stopped entirely.
When the next new moon rolled around, Dean was ready, waiting to see what Sam would forget. They were on a simple salt-and-burn case without dad, no intense research or foreign languages necessary. Just shovels, salt, a book of matches, and their own skills. Except when Dean handed Sam his gun, the confused look as he took it was far from reassuring.
Dean noticed Sam watching him load the shotgun with salt rounds, and when Sam managed to load his own gun Dean hoped that was it. Maybe he just forgot how to load it. But Dean was grateful for all his extra vigilance soon after, when the angry spirit they were after was closing in fast on Sam, and the goofy little shit fumbled with the gun for way too long. When he finally did get a shot off, it was so far wide Dean almost wanted to stop just to gape in horror. Seriously. Sam was a Winchester. No Winchester should ever shoot that badly.
“Sam! Get down!” Dean hit the ghost center-of-chest, just like dad taught them, and dragged Sam along to help dig up the grave. He was riled up, the memory of Sam at the mercy of a stupid ghost loosening his tongue. “Stupid fucking witches. What did you do, Sammy, huh? This has to be her. Ok, we don’t have to tell dad yet. He won’t be back for a couple weeks. We’ll figure it out by then.”
He took Sam out to a clearing the next day, setting up pop bottles for him to shoot just like dad used to do for Dean when he was a little kid. Sam was absolutely useless with the gun. Dean had to show him how to do everything, chest-to-back with his little brother-already almost his height even at just 16-as he helped him aim over and over again.
Dean couldn’t tell you if it was torture to be pressed so close to his little brother, or the best day he could remember having for a long damn time.
John actually came back early, for once. And he stuck around for a while, spending his days reading through a thick, old book and scribbling notes on a legal pad. It was summer, so Sam didn’t have school, and Dean kept the peace between them by keeping Sam busy with sparring, running, studying or shooting practice. With John around, Dean couldn’t really keep searching for a way to break Sammy’s curse, or whatever it was, without letting him know.
As time stretched on, and the lunar cycle got closer to completion again, Dean found himself wishing for the first time that John would just leave, and soon. But the longer John stayed, the more Dean was convinced he wasn’t going anywhere this time; he was going to find out about Sammy’s curse and oh shit he was going to kill Dean.
But finally, finally, one day before Dean would have to give it up and confess the whole thing, John gave him the usual “take care of your brother” speech, packed his duffel and the big book into his truck and took off. Dean watched him go from the doorway, and when he turned around his little brother was right behind him, looking at Dean with a pinched expression.
“Don’t worry, Sammy. We’ll get through tomorrow, I’ll teach you whatever you forget, and then we’ll figure this out. Let’s just stay in and crash early tonight, ok?” He moved past Sam and into the kitchen. “Come on. I’ll make burgers.”
They went to bed early, but the pinched, worried look Sam still wore as he retreated behind his own bedroom door had Dean tossing and turning for most of the night. When he dragged himself out of bed the next morning, he was no closer to a solution and a hell of a lot grumpier. He moved on auto-pilot to the kitchen to make coffee.
Sam was already at the table when he shuffled in, cleaning and sharpening his favorite knife. An empty, sticky bowl was pushed away from him, so Dean figured he wouldn’t have to cook breakfast.
Dean grunted at Sam before grabbing the coffee pot to fill with water. Sam was staring, wide-eyed and still, as Dean moved around the kitchen. Dean could feel it; Sam’s eyes raking over him, as if Dean hadn’t stumbled around the kitchen a thousand times before in his underwear. Getting dressed before coffee was something Dean only did when he had to.
The weight of Sam’s stare was a little too grating to deal with pre-caffeine. “Sam. What?”
Sam immediately dropped his head and went back to sharpening his knife, dropping the cleaning cloth in his lap. His hair fell forward, as usual obscuring his face, but Dean could see the tips of his ears darkening with blood. He finished setting the coffee maker up, waited to see that it started to brew, and left the kitchen shaking his head at the mystery of temperamental little brothers. He needed a shower before he could deal with this shit.
Once he was clean, dressed in a pair of worn jeans, and clutching his cup of coffee, he felt ready to face Sam and deal with whatever problem Sam’s curse was going to throw at them today. Sam had vacated the kitchen, so he padded into the living room, where he found his little brother furiously doing sit-ups on the floor.
Sam stopped when he noticed Dean in the doorway, gaze dropping immediately from Dean’s face to his chest, still lightly dotted with water. He sat up quickly, arms wrapping around his knees. Uh, ok.
“So, Sam, anything different?” Sam looked up at him sharply.
“What do you mean?”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Did you forget something, Sam?”
“Forget?” Sam looked confused. Then he smiled, and unwrapped his knees to lean back on his hands. If he didn’t know better, Dean would swear Sammy looked flirtatious. “I don’t think so. Did I forget to do something this morning, Dean?” Sam’s change in position showcased an obvious bulge in his mesh running shorts. Dean stood shock-still as Sammy uncoiled from the floor and approached him. He flinched as Sam’s over-warm hands slid over his flanks and he leaned his sweaty body into Dean’s.
“Maybe I forgot to greet you properly,” Sam said huskily. His lips brushed softly across the corner of Dean’s mouth, and Dean felt the damp warmth of his breath as he whispered “Good morning” against his cheek.
Sam pulled away and walked nonchalantly toward the bathroom. Dean could only watch him go in complete shock.
*
Forty-five minutes later and Dean had convinced himself it was a joke, that Sammy would come out of his room, clean and dressed, poking fun at Dean for falling for it. But when Sam finally emerged back into the living room-where Dean was still collapsed on the couch, coffee cup still in hand but empty-he wasn’t laughing or smiling. He thumped down on the couch next to Dean-too close, Sammy never sat that close-and watched Dean’s bare chest rise and fall in what was rapidly becoming panic.
“Dean?” And there was no hidden laughter in his voice; if anything, Sammy only sounded concerned. “You ok?”
Dean meant to snort, but what came out was more of a sound of desperation than of humor. “No. I don’t have a fucking clue what is going on right now. What the fuck is going on, Sammy?”
Sam plucked the empty mug from his fingers and pushed it absent-mindedly onto the little table at the end of the couch as he literally climbed into Dean’s lap.
“Just making sure I don’t forget to do anything this morning, like you said.” Sam’s knees were sharp on either side of Dean’s hips. “Let’s see,” Sam sounded playful. “I ate breakfast.” He lowered his head and nipped Dean’s jaw. Dean did not whimper.
“I went for my run.” Another nip to the jaw on the opposite side. “I took care of my weapons.” There was obvious laughter in his voice as he smoothed his palms up Dean’s chest, skating over his nipples and causing him to tense up even more. “I even did extra push-ups and sit-ups.” Sam’s hands met behind Dean’s neck, cupping his nape as his fingers slid into the short hairs there. “So what could I have forgotten to do?”
Sam’s tongue snuck out to wet the smooth skin below Dean’s ear as his hips ground down. Dean groaned loudly, the noise shocking him into realizing-too late-that his own hands had somehow ended up clutching Sam’s ass, fingers straining toward the crease in the middle.
“Sam. Sammy.” And that didn’t sound forceful at all. “C’mon. Stop. This has to be the curse.”
“Curse didn’t make me want you, Dean. Curse didn’t make me forget that I want you. Couldn’t.” Sam tried to kiss him but Dean turned his face away. Sam latched on to his throat instead, sucking bruising kisses and pressing the shape of his teeth into the skin.
“No, Sam, c’mon. You don’t want to do this.”
“Why not?”
Because we’re brothers. Because you’re my responsibility. Because I know this wouldn’t have happened before the curse. Because I’m somehow taking advantage of you. Because Dad will literally kill me if he finds out.
But he couldn’t say any of that to Sam, either because he was simply incapable of being that emotionally frank or because he thought Sam knew all those things, anyway, and he’d just use his superior Sammy-logic to knock down every one of his arguments. So he said the only thing he could say, the only thing that has any meaning.
“Sammy.”
Sam breathed in deep and sharp, and raised his head to press his mouth, open and demanding, to Dean’s. He let Sam push his lips open with his tongue, relaxing against the couch and giving control to his little brother, letting Sam take what he wanted. Sam groaned at his surrender, pulling his mouth away to press his forehead to Dean’s, groaning his name like a prayer.
Sam scrambled off his lap to shuck his shorts and boxers in one fast movement, and he reached for Dean again to push and pull him along the back of the couch until he was lying along the length of it, head and shoulders propped by the arm. Sam kneed his lanky body between Dean’s legs, pausing only to pop the buttons on Dean’s fly and spread the denim as wide as it would go before dropping down on top of him.
Dean oomphed and Sam groaned at the heavy full-body contact. Sam’s hips started moving right away, cock sawing next to Dean’s against the damp, sensitive skin of his groin and lower stomach. Dean opened his legs as wide as his position on the couch would let him, hands immediately zeroing in on Sam’s perfect, round ass; not pushing or pulling, just letting himself feel the muscles bunch tantalizingly beneath the skin as he thrust and rolled his hips.
Sam was noisy, a glut of moans, grunts and groans filling the room, peppered liberally with the only word Sam seemed to remember-“Dean. Dean.”-while all Dean could manage was very heavy breathing accompanied by the occasional gasp when Sam did something truly inventive with his hips.
His little brother’s hands were everywhere, clutching at his shoulders, wrapping around his ribs, pressing bruises into his hips, but his mouth was only interested in the taste of Dean’s lips, all his words and sounds breathed into or against the cavern of Dean’s mouth.
Sam rose up slightly on his knees, and the change in position pressed Dean’s cock back, behind Sammy’s balls. Dean felt the scrape of his cock on the soft skin there, before a thrust of Sam’s hips had it skating back further. Sammy shook as the head of Dean’s cock brushed over his hole, a blurt of precome smearing hot and wet in Dean’s pubes. Dean did clutch Sam’s ass, then, using broad fingers to gently pull the cheeks apart as Sammy thrust again.
The rub of his cock against Sam’s hole was much more obvious, and when Sammy twisted his hips again it stroked the opposite way, the head catching the rim with delicious, agonizing friction. Sammy let out a harsh, sobbing noise and collapsed into Dean, hips twitching frantically as his cock jerked and coated Dean’s stomach and groin with sticky strands of come.
Dean smoothed his hands up to pet Sammy’s hair, ready to deal with Sam’s embarrassment or shyness now that he’d come. But Sam didn’t even take a minute to catch his breath; Dean found his hands following Sammy’s descent as he moved down the couch, bringing his mouth even with the slick, flushed length of Dean’s cock.
Sam didn’t hesitate, wrapping hot swollen lips around Dean and working his mouth down a few inches before looking up. Dean couldn’t help the jerk of his hips, so aroused he felt sick, at the way Sam looked with Dean’s cock in his mouth, head so close to Dean’s body that the hair that was always in his face was sticky at the ends from dragging through Sam’s own come on Dean.
Sam’s tongue dragged up the underside of Dean’s cock and that was it. Dean couldn’t believe he’d actually made it through being pressed against Sam’s hole without shooting so he knew getting inside Sam’s mouth was the beginning of the end. He groaned and pushed away with the hand still conveniently still pressed against Sam’s head but his brother only moaned and dropped to take Dean in a few millimeters more.
Dean shook and gasped through his climax, Sam’s name the only word he knew as Sam swallowed as much as he could before pulling off and panting for breath as Dean spotted his skin with translucent white drops. Sam finally released him, dropping length-wise on top of Dean to kiss his mouth raw and salty with the taste of Dean’s own come.
Their kisses slowed along with their breath, and Sam eventually tucked his head beneath Dean’s chin and settled comfortably with Dean’s arms around him. Dean tried to push his thoughts away but it wasn’t working. He gave in with a sigh and let out the words that wouldn’t leave him alone.
“Can’t ever tell Dad. He’d fucking kill me.”
“Why?” Sam sounded unconcerned. “Your dad not like you being with guys or something?”
Dean puzzled that through for a minute before he decided it meant exactly what he thought it did. “Sam, do you have a brother?”
“No. That’s a weird question, Dean; why would you ask me that?”
Dean groaned. Son of a bitch.
It took half an hour to convince Sam he was really his brother, but once Dean saw the belief and acceptance in his eyes, he prepared himself for what they’d done-what he’d done to his vulnerable little brother-to sink in. But Dean didn’t see any shock. Sam just sat quietly for a few minutes-at least he’d put his shorts back on-but there was no panic or desperate denial on Sam’s part, just acceptance and, seemingly, relief.
They decided to throw in the towel and call Bobby. They gave him the bare bones of Sam’s curse and he called them twelve kinds of idiot before admitting he was pretty sure he knew a ritual that would cleanse Sam of the witch’s booby-trap.
Sam sat at the kitchen table while Dean cooked a couple gooey grilled cheese sandwiches. He could feel Sam watching his still bare back as he plopped the hot sandwiches on two folds of paper towels. He handed Sam his own and wearily sat down next to him to eat. His brother seemed infuriatingly calm.
“You sure don’t seem very surprised by any of this.”
Sam looked up at him. “No. I guess I’ve been waiting for something like this to happen for a while. The shit that’s always happening to us… guess you can’t keep something like wanting to fuck your brother a secret forever.”
Dean stared at his little brother as he put his head down, hair in his face as he picked at his sandwich. “Yeah.” Dean said faintly. “I guess not.”
He watched Sammy pick apart his grilled cheese into little bites and was startled when the phone rang. BOBBY, the display said. Sam was looking at him and his expression was defeat, and worry.
Sam was his little brother, his responsibility, his job not to let him look like that. He smiled as he picked up the phone just before it-of course-stopped ringing. “We’re done with forgetting things, Sam. Ok? It’ll be alright now.”
Sam smiled back, tension leaving his shoulders as he slumped in his chair. “Sure Dean.” His smile got wider as Dean rubbed his thumb across Sam’s bottom lip, wiping a smear of butter and cheese from the soft skin.
The phone rang again and Sam looked back to his sandwich. Dean sat back to watch his brother as he answered with a grin.
“Hey, Bobby.”
Author: snglesrvngfrend
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 3,623
Summary: Sam keeps forgetting things; Dean has to help him remember
Notes: This story involves an underage Sam (at 16) so beware if this bothers you. Also, don't forget the incest! So if any of that is not for you, neither is this story.
Written for Porn Battle vii. Encouragement, read-through, and other general thanks belong to nightanddaze. THANKS, BB!
Sammy was always the one getting into trouble on hunts, ever since he started coming along with Dean and Dad when he was 14. And even before then, when Sam was just a kid, the trouble came to him; the shtriga wasn’t the first dirty son of a bitch to try to go around Dean to get to his little brother. And it definitely wasn’t the last.
They were spending Sam’s sixteenth summer in upstate New York when he set off a witch’s booby-trapped spell. He should have known better; he’d been hunting with Dean and Dad for two years by then, and John’s distrust and distaste for witches was deep-seated and legendary. Dean never did really find out how it happened, and he didn’t even know it had happened until about six days later when the moon was, for one night, absent from the sky.
Lunar cycles often affected a hunter’s business. It was true, for them at least, that things got crazier with the full moon. But things got calmer, as well, with a new moon. They were far more likely to have down time over the few days surrounding a new moon; these were also the times John was more likely to leave his boys alone while he hunted his other constant prey: information.
It was a Friday when Sam came home with the bitchiest bitch-face Dean had seen in probably years. He usually would avoid the topic of what had brought out his most hated of Sam’s many expressions, but a bitch-face of this magnitude couldn’t be ignored.
“Sam.”
“Lemme alone, Dean.”
“C’mon, Sammy. S’wrong?”
Dean pulled all his concerned big brother moves, but all it resulted in was Sam hiding behind his slammed bedroom door. He wasn’t sure why he ever worried, though; when he finally got the story out of Sam, he sheepishly admitted that he’d somehow forgotten the Dewey Decimal system.
“The Dewey Decimal system. Are you fucking kidding me, Sammy? You were a bitch for three days because you couldn’t find your way around a library?”
“Shut up, Dean. It was disconcerting, ok?”
Dean gave him the very recognizable are you shitting me look. “Disconcerting?”
“Yes. Ok? God. Jerk.” And the bitch-face was back. “It must have been finals stress or something. I remember it now.” And Dean had a momentary thought about the timing of things, but it had been almost a couple weeks since the run-in with the witch so he couldn’t be sure if there was any connection. Sam didn’t seem worried so Dean let it go. Shrugged it off.
A few weeks later, they’re doing some research for dad when Dean realized Sammy was fucked.
Sam pushed an open book toward him in irritation. Dean just arched his brow.
“I don’t know this one, Dean. You read through it.”
“Don’t know… Sammy, don’t get lazy.” He pushed the book back in front of Sam. “If you want to take a break then take a break.”
“I can’t read this, Dean. I’m not being lazy.”
Dean took a closer look at the book, but he knew he was right even before he confirmed it. “Sam, this is Latin. You know Latin better than I do.” Sam looked horrified, worried and sick. “This’s gotta have something to do with that witch. This is the second time. But you remembered last time, right?”
“Yeah,” Sam answered faintly. “After a few days. I stayed in the library and walked around and kept looking at the books and eventually it came back.”
“Ok. Ok, so, maybe we can force it to come back faster. Just keep reading, or… whatever and maybe you’ll just remember.”
Sam blew out an unreasonable sigh and rolled his eyes. “I might have, maybe, asked somebody about it.” Dean laughed. Holy shit that must have killed him!
“So you’re telling me you want me to teach you Latin?”
“God Dean, why do you have to be such a dick all the time? Ok fine. Yes. Please, big brother, you know everything so please teach me Latin so we can finish this and not tell dad and then forget it ever happened!”
It took about an hour of sitting next to his brother and reading the Latin aloud while Sam listened avidly and followed along before he felt comfortable enough to pull the book to his chest. Over the next hour Sam’s interruptions of “Dean, what’s this one?” and “pronounce that word” came further and further apart, until they stopped entirely.
When the next new moon rolled around, Dean was ready, waiting to see what Sam would forget. They were on a simple salt-and-burn case without dad, no intense research or foreign languages necessary. Just shovels, salt, a book of matches, and their own skills. Except when Dean handed Sam his gun, the confused look as he took it was far from reassuring.
Dean noticed Sam watching him load the shotgun with salt rounds, and when Sam managed to load his own gun Dean hoped that was it. Maybe he just forgot how to load it. But Dean was grateful for all his extra vigilance soon after, when the angry spirit they were after was closing in fast on Sam, and the goofy little shit fumbled with the gun for way too long. When he finally did get a shot off, it was so far wide Dean almost wanted to stop just to gape in horror. Seriously. Sam was a Winchester. No Winchester should ever shoot that badly.
“Sam! Get down!” Dean hit the ghost center-of-chest, just like dad taught them, and dragged Sam along to help dig up the grave. He was riled up, the memory of Sam at the mercy of a stupid ghost loosening his tongue. “Stupid fucking witches. What did you do, Sammy, huh? This has to be her. Ok, we don’t have to tell dad yet. He won’t be back for a couple weeks. We’ll figure it out by then.”
He took Sam out to a clearing the next day, setting up pop bottles for him to shoot just like dad used to do for Dean when he was a little kid. Sam was absolutely useless with the gun. Dean had to show him how to do everything, chest-to-back with his little brother-already almost his height even at just 16-as he helped him aim over and over again.
Dean couldn’t tell you if it was torture to be pressed so close to his little brother, or the best day he could remember having for a long damn time.
John actually came back early, for once. And he stuck around for a while, spending his days reading through a thick, old book and scribbling notes on a legal pad. It was summer, so Sam didn’t have school, and Dean kept the peace between them by keeping Sam busy with sparring, running, studying or shooting practice. With John around, Dean couldn’t really keep searching for a way to break Sammy’s curse, or whatever it was, without letting him know.
As time stretched on, and the lunar cycle got closer to completion again, Dean found himself wishing for the first time that John would just leave, and soon. But the longer John stayed, the more Dean was convinced he wasn’t going anywhere this time; he was going to find out about Sammy’s curse and oh shit he was going to kill Dean.
But finally, finally, one day before Dean would have to give it up and confess the whole thing, John gave him the usual “take care of your brother” speech, packed his duffel and the big book into his truck and took off. Dean watched him go from the doorway, and when he turned around his little brother was right behind him, looking at Dean with a pinched expression.
“Don’t worry, Sammy. We’ll get through tomorrow, I’ll teach you whatever you forget, and then we’ll figure this out. Let’s just stay in and crash early tonight, ok?” He moved past Sam and into the kitchen. “Come on. I’ll make burgers.”
They went to bed early, but the pinched, worried look Sam still wore as he retreated behind his own bedroom door had Dean tossing and turning for most of the night. When he dragged himself out of bed the next morning, he was no closer to a solution and a hell of a lot grumpier. He moved on auto-pilot to the kitchen to make coffee.
Sam was already at the table when he shuffled in, cleaning and sharpening his favorite knife. An empty, sticky bowl was pushed away from him, so Dean figured he wouldn’t have to cook breakfast.
Dean grunted at Sam before grabbing the coffee pot to fill with water. Sam was staring, wide-eyed and still, as Dean moved around the kitchen. Dean could feel it; Sam’s eyes raking over him, as if Dean hadn’t stumbled around the kitchen a thousand times before in his underwear. Getting dressed before coffee was something Dean only did when he had to.
The weight of Sam’s stare was a little too grating to deal with pre-caffeine. “Sam. What?”
Sam immediately dropped his head and went back to sharpening his knife, dropping the cleaning cloth in his lap. His hair fell forward, as usual obscuring his face, but Dean could see the tips of his ears darkening with blood. He finished setting the coffee maker up, waited to see that it started to brew, and left the kitchen shaking his head at the mystery of temperamental little brothers. He needed a shower before he could deal with this shit.
Once he was clean, dressed in a pair of worn jeans, and clutching his cup of coffee, he felt ready to face Sam and deal with whatever problem Sam’s curse was going to throw at them today. Sam had vacated the kitchen, so he padded into the living room, where he found his little brother furiously doing sit-ups on the floor.
Sam stopped when he noticed Dean in the doorway, gaze dropping immediately from Dean’s face to his chest, still lightly dotted with water. He sat up quickly, arms wrapping around his knees. Uh, ok.
“So, Sam, anything different?” Sam looked up at him sharply.
“What do you mean?”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Did you forget something, Sam?”
“Forget?” Sam looked confused. Then he smiled, and unwrapped his knees to lean back on his hands. If he didn’t know better, Dean would swear Sammy looked flirtatious. “I don’t think so. Did I forget to do something this morning, Dean?” Sam’s change in position showcased an obvious bulge in his mesh running shorts. Dean stood shock-still as Sammy uncoiled from the floor and approached him. He flinched as Sam’s over-warm hands slid over his flanks and he leaned his sweaty body into Dean’s.
“Maybe I forgot to greet you properly,” Sam said huskily. His lips brushed softly across the corner of Dean’s mouth, and Dean felt the damp warmth of his breath as he whispered “Good morning” against his cheek.
Sam pulled away and walked nonchalantly toward the bathroom. Dean could only watch him go in complete shock.
*
Forty-five minutes later and Dean had convinced himself it was a joke, that Sammy would come out of his room, clean and dressed, poking fun at Dean for falling for it. But when Sam finally emerged back into the living room-where Dean was still collapsed on the couch, coffee cup still in hand but empty-he wasn’t laughing or smiling. He thumped down on the couch next to Dean-too close, Sammy never sat that close-and watched Dean’s bare chest rise and fall in what was rapidly becoming panic.
“Dean?” And there was no hidden laughter in his voice; if anything, Sammy only sounded concerned. “You ok?”
Dean meant to snort, but what came out was more of a sound of desperation than of humor. “No. I don’t have a fucking clue what is going on right now. What the fuck is going on, Sammy?”
Sam plucked the empty mug from his fingers and pushed it absent-mindedly onto the little table at the end of the couch as he literally climbed into Dean’s lap.
“Just making sure I don’t forget to do anything this morning, like you said.” Sam’s knees were sharp on either side of Dean’s hips. “Let’s see,” Sam sounded playful. “I ate breakfast.” He lowered his head and nipped Dean’s jaw. Dean did not whimper.
“I went for my run.” Another nip to the jaw on the opposite side. “I took care of my weapons.” There was obvious laughter in his voice as he smoothed his palms up Dean’s chest, skating over his nipples and causing him to tense up even more. “I even did extra push-ups and sit-ups.” Sam’s hands met behind Dean’s neck, cupping his nape as his fingers slid into the short hairs there. “So what could I have forgotten to do?”
Sam’s tongue snuck out to wet the smooth skin below Dean’s ear as his hips ground down. Dean groaned loudly, the noise shocking him into realizing-too late-that his own hands had somehow ended up clutching Sam’s ass, fingers straining toward the crease in the middle.
“Sam. Sammy.” And that didn’t sound forceful at all. “C’mon. Stop. This has to be the curse.”
“Curse didn’t make me want you, Dean. Curse didn’t make me forget that I want you. Couldn’t.” Sam tried to kiss him but Dean turned his face away. Sam latched on to his throat instead, sucking bruising kisses and pressing the shape of his teeth into the skin.
“No, Sam, c’mon. You don’t want to do this.”
“Why not?”
Because we’re brothers. Because you’re my responsibility. Because I know this wouldn’t have happened before the curse. Because I’m somehow taking advantage of you. Because Dad will literally kill me if he finds out.
But he couldn’t say any of that to Sam, either because he was simply incapable of being that emotionally frank or because he thought Sam knew all those things, anyway, and he’d just use his superior Sammy-logic to knock down every one of his arguments. So he said the only thing he could say, the only thing that has any meaning.
“Sammy.”
Sam breathed in deep and sharp, and raised his head to press his mouth, open and demanding, to Dean’s. He let Sam push his lips open with his tongue, relaxing against the couch and giving control to his little brother, letting Sam take what he wanted. Sam groaned at his surrender, pulling his mouth away to press his forehead to Dean’s, groaning his name like a prayer.
Sam scrambled off his lap to shuck his shorts and boxers in one fast movement, and he reached for Dean again to push and pull him along the back of the couch until he was lying along the length of it, head and shoulders propped by the arm. Sam kneed his lanky body between Dean’s legs, pausing only to pop the buttons on Dean’s fly and spread the denim as wide as it would go before dropping down on top of him.
Dean oomphed and Sam groaned at the heavy full-body contact. Sam’s hips started moving right away, cock sawing next to Dean’s against the damp, sensitive skin of his groin and lower stomach. Dean opened his legs as wide as his position on the couch would let him, hands immediately zeroing in on Sam’s perfect, round ass; not pushing or pulling, just letting himself feel the muscles bunch tantalizingly beneath the skin as he thrust and rolled his hips.
Sam was noisy, a glut of moans, grunts and groans filling the room, peppered liberally with the only word Sam seemed to remember-“Dean. Dean.”-while all Dean could manage was very heavy breathing accompanied by the occasional gasp when Sam did something truly inventive with his hips.
His little brother’s hands were everywhere, clutching at his shoulders, wrapping around his ribs, pressing bruises into his hips, but his mouth was only interested in the taste of Dean’s lips, all his words and sounds breathed into or against the cavern of Dean’s mouth.
Sam rose up slightly on his knees, and the change in position pressed Dean’s cock back, behind Sammy’s balls. Dean felt the scrape of his cock on the soft skin there, before a thrust of Sam’s hips had it skating back further. Sammy shook as the head of Dean’s cock brushed over his hole, a blurt of precome smearing hot and wet in Dean’s pubes. Dean did clutch Sam’s ass, then, using broad fingers to gently pull the cheeks apart as Sammy thrust again.
The rub of his cock against Sam’s hole was much more obvious, and when Sammy twisted his hips again it stroked the opposite way, the head catching the rim with delicious, agonizing friction. Sammy let out a harsh, sobbing noise and collapsed into Dean, hips twitching frantically as his cock jerked and coated Dean’s stomach and groin with sticky strands of come.
Dean smoothed his hands up to pet Sammy’s hair, ready to deal with Sam’s embarrassment or shyness now that he’d come. But Sam didn’t even take a minute to catch his breath; Dean found his hands following Sammy’s descent as he moved down the couch, bringing his mouth even with the slick, flushed length of Dean’s cock.
Sam didn’t hesitate, wrapping hot swollen lips around Dean and working his mouth down a few inches before looking up. Dean couldn’t help the jerk of his hips, so aroused he felt sick, at the way Sam looked with Dean’s cock in his mouth, head so close to Dean’s body that the hair that was always in his face was sticky at the ends from dragging through Sam’s own come on Dean.
Sam’s tongue dragged up the underside of Dean’s cock and that was it. Dean couldn’t believe he’d actually made it through being pressed against Sam’s hole without shooting so he knew getting inside Sam’s mouth was the beginning of the end. He groaned and pushed away with the hand still conveniently still pressed against Sam’s head but his brother only moaned and dropped to take Dean in a few millimeters more.
Dean shook and gasped through his climax, Sam’s name the only word he knew as Sam swallowed as much as he could before pulling off and panting for breath as Dean spotted his skin with translucent white drops. Sam finally released him, dropping length-wise on top of Dean to kiss his mouth raw and salty with the taste of Dean’s own come.
Their kisses slowed along with their breath, and Sam eventually tucked his head beneath Dean’s chin and settled comfortably with Dean’s arms around him. Dean tried to push his thoughts away but it wasn’t working. He gave in with a sigh and let out the words that wouldn’t leave him alone.
“Can’t ever tell Dad. He’d fucking kill me.”
“Why?” Sam sounded unconcerned. “Your dad not like you being with guys or something?”
Dean puzzled that through for a minute before he decided it meant exactly what he thought it did. “Sam, do you have a brother?”
“No. That’s a weird question, Dean; why would you ask me that?”
Dean groaned. Son of a bitch.
It took half an hour to convince Sam he was really his brother, but once Dean saw the belief and acceptance in his eyes, he prepared himself for what they’d done-what he’d done to his vulnerable little brother-to sink in. But Dean didn’t see any shock. Sam just sat quietly for a few minutes-at least he’d put his shorts back on-but there was no panic or desperate denial on Sam’s part, just acceptance and, seemingly, relief.
They decided to throw in the towel and call Bobby. They gave him the bare bones of Sam’s curse and he called them twelve kinds of idiot before admitting he was pretty sure he knew a ritual that would cleanse Sam of the witch’s booby-trap.
Sam sat at the kitchen table while Dean cooked a couple gooey grilled cheese sandwiches. He could feel Sam watching his still bare back as he plopped the hot sandwiches on two folds of paper towels. He handed Sam his own and wearily sat down next to him to eat. His brother seemed infuriatingly calm.
“You sure don’t seem very surprised by any of this.”
Sam looked up at him. “No. I guess I’ve been waiting for something like this to happen for a while. The shit that’s always happening to us… guess you can’t keep something like wanting to fuck your brother a secret forever.”
Dean stared at his little brother as he put his head down, hair in his face as he picked at his sandwich. “Yeah.” Dean said faintly. “I guess not.”
He watched Sammy pick apart his grilled cheese into little bites and was startled when the phone rang. BOBBY, the display said. Sam was looking at him and his expression was defeat, and worry.
Sam was his little brother, his responsibility, his job not to let him look like that. He smiled as he picked up the phone just before it-of course-stopped ringing. “We’re done with forgetting things, Sam. Ok? It’ll be alright now.”
Sam smiled back, tension leaving his shoulders as he slumped in his chair. “Sure Dean.” His smile got wider as Dean rubbed his thumb across Sam’s bottom lip, wiping a smear of butter and cheese from the soft skin.
The phone rang again and Sam looked back to his sandwich. Dean sat back to watch his brother as he answered with a grin.
“Hey, Bobby.”