spn: the end to satisfy the story {sam/dean, 3K, nc-17}
Eeeeek, better late than never, I guess? *hides face*
title: the end to satisfy the story
fandom: supernatural
pairing: sam/dean, minor sam/ofc, dean/ofc
rating/warnings: nc-17 | graphic slash, incest, underage themes (sam is 14/15).
word count: 3,200+
summary: sammy’s gone and gotten himself a girl, and suddenly everyone around dean is a suspect.
notes: written for sinoftheday, who wanted a first sexual experience/sammy unable to keep his hands off his dick; thank you to dontyouwaitup, kittyzams, and nu_breed for their encouragement/beta skills. ♥
The second Sam comes walking through the door of their Spanish classroom, Dean knows something’s wrong. Maybe not wrong, not entirely, but…different. His little brother’s eyes are faraway and glazed over, no sign of the intense focus that makes Sam Winchester a threat to grading curves everywhere.
And deep down, Dean knows there’s only one thing that can put that look on a guy’s face. It sends a little shockwave of surprise, pride, and something else not quite as pleasant rip-rolling through his veins as the corners of Sam’s mouth lift into the tiniest of smiles.
Sammy’s gone and gotten himself a girl, and suddenly everyone around Dean is a suspect.
xxx
Her name is Amy Miller, and she’s a pretty little blonde dancer for the marching band. Dean’s seen her around, recognizes her heart-shaped face and big blue eyes. Nice tits, killer legs and an ass that definitely does justice to a rhinestone leotard. Thing is, Miss Miller’s a senior, and Sam might be tall for his age, but he’s still riding shotgun in the Impala and legally won’t be able to do otherwise for another year. Longer, if Dean’s got any say in the matter.
Therefore, it doesn’t make much sense for her to have her sights set on Sam, and Dean’s too damn cynical to think anything good will come out of this.
“Fuck her, Sammy,” he says one afternoon, Paul Rodgers singing about staying rock steady as the wind whips through the Chevy’s windows. “Don’t date her.”
Sam just rolls his eyes. Ignores Dean in favor of messing with the radio station until some artsy-fartsy new age rock station comes blaring out of the speakers, clearly intent on making Dean’s ears bleed out through his nose.
“You’ve made your point,” Dean mutters, and drops the subject.
For now.
xxx
He sees them together at school. Sitting together during lunch, Sam looking uncomfortable to Dean’s knowing gaze. His brother doesn’t belong there, with the football punks and cheerleaders and general dipshit teenage community.
Or maybe Dean just doesn’t want for him to. Because he sure as hell doesn’t fit, and then where does that leave them?
Some guy from his shop class claps him on the shoulder, nods toward the lunch table teeming with laughter and bright, careless grins. “Your brother’s girl is smokin’, Winchester.”
“Sam could do better,” is all Dean says, biting the words off more than really necessary, and the guy lifts an eyebrow. He doesn’t try to argue, but doesn’t stick around, either. Dean spends another ten minutes watching his brother watch Amy Miller before he grows so disgusted with himself that he loses his appetite and winds up chucking his entire lunch into the trash.
Too bad, really. The cafeteria’s steak nuggets are pretty much the only reason he bothers to show up on Friday’s.
xxx
It’s been a good three weeks, and Sam still hasn’t even bothered to introduce him to his girlfriend. Dean would take it personally, but he kind of thinks it reflects more poorly on Amy Miller. Obviously, Sam just isn’t as enraptured as he’d thought. Dean’s been worrying over nothing, and the realization leaves him feeling lighter than he has in days.
Until one night when Dad takes off and Sam darkens Dean’s doorway, chewing his bottom lip and looking generally confused and hesitant. “Hey, Dean?”
Dean glances up from the latest Sports Illustrated he pilfered from the drugstore down the street, cocks his head. He takes in Sam’s ironed shirt, the pleats in his pants, and can’t bite back the laughter. “What the fuck?”
Sam’s brows draw together. “What?”
“What the fuck are you wearing?” Dean rolls over and props his head on one hand.
Sam’s expression clears and he heaves a sigh Dean recognizes all too well. “It’s called bathing, Dean.”
“It’s called being a freak.” Dean’s lips twitch. “Jesuschrist, did you actually iron your jeans? Oh. Dude.”
“I have a date,” Sam interrupts, the tips of his ears going pink, and Dean stops mid-laugh. “Amy’s picking me up soon, and I…well. I kinda.”
Dean barely notices the flustered stammer. “You’re still banging that chick?” he asks, failing miserably at sounding disinterested.
“I…what?” Sam scowls at him. “I’m not banging her, Dean, god. Is that all you think about?”
As a matter of fact, it was, ever since Shelly Davis put her sweet little mouth on his dick back in the eighth grade. Dean just shrugs. “Then what’s the problem? I’m kinda busy here, Sam.”
Sam looks pointedly at the forgotten magazine, and raises a condescending brow. Dean’s a little pissed off at the implication. Hell, he could be the one going out on a stupid fucking date if he really wanted to. All it’d take is a phone call and he could have half the cheerleading squad on their backs on the fifty-fucking-yard line. But he’d draw the line at ironing his goddamn jeans for a piece of ass.
“We haven’t done it yet,” Sam says, shifting on his feet, and Dean most definitely clues into that yet. Suddenly, all of his attention’s on his little brother. Standing there in his dork jeans, hair slicked back and damn it, adorable, and Dean knows. Sam might not have scored yet, but it’s only a matter of when.
It makes him feel dark and ugly to think about it, about Amy Miller and her soft, pretty hands all over Sam’s skin. Touching him in places that previously only belonged to Dean, and jesus, what the fuck?
“I’m not really sure…” Sam’s saying while Dean stares at him and swallows against the sudden, inevitable lump in his throat. “ I mean. I just don’t wanna seem like I don’t know what I’m doing, you know? I don’t wanna-”
“Blow your wad when she flashes her tits?”
Sam flinches a bit, blushes bright red. Then he grumbles, “Yeah, I guess.”
And if that ain’t a damn image to drive someone crazy. “Just. Jerk off before you go.” Dean hates the words as they pass his lips, feels that same weird twist in his belly as Sam’s eyes go wide.
“You’re horny.” Dean forces a mocking grin, and this. This feels comfortable. “You’re a little horny bastard. Aw, Sammy, you gotta release a little tension? Need a little help?”
“You. You can’t…say that to…forget it, I’m outta here,” Sam grits out through his teeth, something twitchy and impossible flashing like quicksilver through his eyes, and Dean doesn’t release another breath until the door slams shut.
xxx
“So. You bang her?” he asks on the way to school the next morning, and the sweet, embarrassed blush on Sam’s cheeks more than tells him the answer. “What the hell’re you waiting for? Rose petals and friggin’ moonlight?”
Sam stares out the window. “Just leave it alone, Dean.”
Dean would love to, actually hates the idea of it all, but he can’t fucking leave it alone. Can’t stop thinking about it, needs to know just what the hell’s going on with his little brother that he’s stopped telling Dean anything and leaves him begging for scraps of information for weeks until he sees fit to drop a bomb.
Dean parks the Impala and Sam’s out of the car in an instant; Dean stares after him, jaw working.
xxx
He’s washing up in the senior’s bathroom on the second floor, grease smeared up to his elbow, when he hears the first choked-off whimper. Curious warmth washes over him; he stops scrubbing the cheap paper towels over his skin and tries to squint with his ears.
Sure enough, a second later comes another little groan. Dean’s smirking to himself, thinking that at least the dude picked the best place to jerk off between classes - no one bothers to use the second floor bathroom around this time of day - when the guy mutters something under his breath, and jesus christ, but Dean knows that voice.
He leans against the wall, mind spinning as he listens to Sam. He can even picture it if he tries really hard, knows exactly what Sam’s dick looks like. Thick and still growing long, a pale, fragile pink. He’s walked in on Sam beating off plenty lately…his little brother suddenly can’t get enough of his hands on his cock. Dean he knows just how those long fingers would wrap around the wet, sticky head and squeeze…
He’s just never stuck around to listen.
He’s hard all on his own now, eyes half-closed and throat tight as he reaches down. He palms once against his cock and about jumps ten feet in the air when a door swings open.
Sam walks out of the stall, still buttoning his pants; he meets Dean’s gaze and freezes. Dean opens his mouth, but isn’t really sure what he wants to come out of it. He stares at Sam for a minute, feels his dick throbbing in his shorts, then turns around. Walks out and tries not to think about Sam pulling on his hard little teenage cock until he shoots.
xxx
They don’t talk about it.
xxx
It’s a Tuesday afternoon when Dean drops Sam off for a study session at the local library. “Go get your geek on, Sammy,” he says with a sarcastic salute, and Sam waves him off. Dean sits in the parking lot for a few minutes, thinking aimless, pointless thoughts before heading back home.
Amy Miller’s waiting on the front steps of their apartment, and Dean stares at her for a long moment. She stands up as he gets closer, something nervous and uncertain coloring her pretty face as she brushes the seat of her skirt and bites her lip.
“Hi, Dean,” she says. “Sam around?”
“No,” Dean says, and god, he kind of hates her. A lot.
An hour later, he’s got his hands in her little pink panties, when Sam walks in.
Dean hears Amy gasp, begin to scramble away from him, and glances over his shoulder just in time to see Sam drop his bookbag on the table. Sam only meets his gaze for all of a second before he blinks, looks away and stares instead at the pretty blonde senior who’d pursued him for a month.
“Sam,” Amy begins, genuinely horrified and ashamed, blue blouse crushed from Dean’s own fingers. “Oh god, Sam.”
“So, I guess the dance is out of the question,” Sam says in this calm, weirdly casual tone. He’s so careful not to look at Dean, but Dean feels like an ugly, filthy stain on the walls that no one can miss. Sam’s fingers flex at his sides. “I’ll see you around, Amy.”
She opens her mouth to answer, but Sam’s already halfway up the stairs.
“Fuck.” Dean runs a hand through his hair, disgusted with himself, with Sam, with the girl standing there staring at him like she expects him to explain, to make it better. “Jesus, what, you need me to spell it out? Get out.”
“I don’t…” she swallows, picks up her purse with trembling fingers and heads for the door. “Tell him…I’m sorry.”
Dean’s smile is just this side of mean. “You were never good enough for him, anyway, sweetheart.”
The only problem is that Dean’s even worse. And by the time he gets upstairs, Sam’s gone.
xxx
He hears footsteps on the stairs and has to physically clamp down on the immediate, fierce urge to jump to his feet. Grab Sam by the shoulders and shake the everloving shit out of his little brother. He draws his lip between his teeth as the door opens, Sam’s soft, hesitant, familiar breath piercing the silence.
Then, “Dean?”
It’s like someone pulls the plug, pops the cork, and Dean’s standing up and in Sam’s face in an instant. “What the hell were you thinking?” he shouts, ignoring the guilt and shame in favor of righteous, flowing anger. Sam’s glaring up at him with those dark puppy eyes, and Dean grinds his teeth. “Where were you? Do you have any idea-”
“Fuck you, Dean.” The words are so full of bitterness that it makes Dean flinch. Sam turns around, ready to stomp off again, and Dean reaches out. Catches him by the arm and jerks him up and against him. He’s off-center, doesn’t see the punch coming until Sam’s knuckles kiss the corner of his mouth. He stumbles back on a starburst of pain, holding his chin and already feeling the wet-warm trickle of blood on his bottom lip.
Sam’s still breathing hard, choked-off and thick like he might start crying any minute, and Dean wants to die. “Yeah, okay, I deserved that,” he says quietly, watching his brother from under his lashes. He sees the flash of disbelief, the pained confusion that smudges the gorgeous brown and green of Sam’s eyes, makes them go wide and black. “Sammy-”
“Why?” Sam blurts out, seeming surprised the second the question is out. Then his face screws up, cheeks pink and eyes anywhere but on Dean. “Why did you bother helping me? Were you. Were you just laughing the whole fucking time, did you think it was funny or something--”
“God, no,” Dean interrupts him, taking him by the shoulders. He can’t stop his fingers from climbing Sam’s cheeks, wrapping around his neck. “Sam, I was helping you because I…because I’m your brother and-”
Sam slaps his hands away, spits the truth out from between clenched teeth. “You fucked my girlfriend, Dean.”
“I’m…sorry.”
“Screw your half-assed apology, and screw you.” Sam sneers at him, but this time, Dean sees it coming. He catches Sam’s fist in the palm of his hand, shoves his brother up against the wall and stares down at the mutinous anger darkening those pretty eyes.
“One free pass, little brother,” he whispers, something hot and uncomfortable knottng his belly as Sam’s eyes fall south of his nose, pink tongue slicking his lips. “That’s all you get.”
Sam squirms against him; they both freeze. Dean’s mouth twists on a dangerous smirk when he feels the press of Sam’s dick, that gorgeous, hungry little thing riding his thigh and making a mockery of the teenage angst Sam’s trying so hard to project. “Well, well…”
“Get off me.” Sam won’t look at him now, all shallow breath and ruddy cheeks and lips. Dean jerks his head back by the sweaty curls at Sam’s neck and sucks in a sharp breath at the desperation he finds there.
“I’m not even touching you,” he manages, lies, and Sam swallows.
“Dean,” he says. “Y-You’re bleeding.”
Dean thinks of those broken little groans and whimpers in the bathroom, the smell of heat and come and Sam, and holds his breath. “C’mere and kiss it better, then.”
Sam’s gaze snaps to him for a long, charged moment.
“Go to hell,” he finally says as he reaches up, pulls Dean’s mouth down. Dean goes with it, sinking into temptation with an eagerness he ought to be ashamed of. But he’s known, deep down, this day was coming.
“You stupid little shit,” he gets out between feverish licks at Sam’s mouth, breath broken and husky. “You ever…pull another stunt like that…two fucking days, looked everywhere…”
Sam hisses through his teeth and Dean pulls back, blinks slowly at the spit-slick curve of his brother’s lips. “Sam,” he says, and bites back a groan when Sam plants both hands on Dean’s chest. Shoves him back against the unmade bed and climbs on top.
“Shut up, Dean,” he says, and then those long fingers are skimming under Dean’s t-shirt. Dean sits up on his elbows, searching out Sam’s mouth. He catches hold of his brother’s hips and jerks him in closer. Sam’s surprised groan melts on his tongue; Dean humps his hips and relishes the shaky shudder Sam can’t hide.
“Gonna show me what a big boy you are, then, Sammy?” he murmurs, pleased by the flash of heat in Sam’s eyes. “Well, here I am. Lay it on me.”
Sam rocks back on his knees and stares down at Dean. Dean doesn’t want him thinking too hard, doesn’t really want to contemplate what’s happening too much himself, and simply follows Sam. Crowding against him until he’s curled around his little brother and Sam’s straddling his lap and he can reach in between and - finally - get a hand on that gorgeous cock.
The minute he does, it’s like Sam’s…electrified. He cusses out loud, nasty filth Dean would be impressed with any other time (and hell, now, too), and starts sucking in cheap, shallow breaths. “Please, please, please,” he whispers on a keening repeat, and Dean chokes on his own curse.
“Lemme in,” he says, begs, jerking at Sam’s belt with fumbling fingers; Sam mouths up and under his jaw and Dean’s eyes roll back. “Jesus, hold up…lemme…”
Sam all but pushes him away and takes care of it himself, popping his buttonfly open and pulling out his dick. Dean’s mouth drops open a little as he watches his sweet little baby brother fuck his own hand, eyes heavy-lidded and trained on Dean.
“Jeez, Sam,” he gets out, throat gone dry, and sinks his teeth in his bottom lip. “Yeah, harder. C’mon, fuck yourself, bro, show me…lemme…” He can smell how hot Sam is right now, a sweet-sharp tang of sweat and teenage juices and, fuck, that’s it. He keeps watching the slick slip-and-slide of Sam’s fist and reaches for his own zipper.
Sam’s tongue touches the corner of his mouth when Dean starts a steady pull of his own, and soon there’s barely even enough room between them for a quick jerk. Sam’s breath on his mouth, and Dean sucks on his bottom lip, pulls back to glimpse the splash of pink across Sam’s cheeks before leaning in again. Forcing Sam’s mouth wide open with his tongue.
“You’re killer, Sam,” he husks out against Sam’s lips and Sam slumps against him. Head on Dean’s shoulder as he gasps into his neck and rolls his hips hard, fast, against Dean’s thigh. He can feel that sticky mess starting up; Sam’s just barely teething the bare skin at Dean’s throat, and Dean grunts and tightens his fist on his dick.
“Fuck my cock.” A rough whisper as he spreads his legs wider, lifting his hips so that Sam settles in between his thighs. “Do it.”
Sam gets off three, maybe four quick and dirty thrusts against him before he’s jerking back, then crashing back into Dean and shooting hot and warm and wet all over Dean’s belly. Dean about strangles his dick, cussing and staring at the blissed out look on Sam’s face as he shoots his own jizz across his fingers.
“Didn’t even have to flash my tits,” he sighs minutes later, sort of proud, and then immediately wants to slap himself upside the head. But Sam’s shaking against him, and the sounds coming from him sound suspiciously close to laughter.
"Roses and friggin' moonlight," he says, and Dean thinks that's just fine.
THE END.
title: the end to satisfy the story
fandom: supernatural
pairing: sam/dean, minor sam/ofc, dean/ofc
rating/warnings: nc-17 | graphic slash, incest, underage themes (sam is 14/15).
word count: 3,200+
summary: sammy’s gone and gotten himself a girl, and suddenly everyone around dean is a suspect.
notes: written for sinoftheday, who wanted a first sexual experience/sammy unable to keep his hands off his dick; thank you to dontyouwaitup, kittyzams, and nu_breed for their encouragement/beta skills. ♥
The second Sam comes walking through the door of their Spanish classroom, Dean knows something’s wrong. Maybe not wrong, not entirely, but…different. His little brother’s eyes are faraway and glazed over, no sign of the intense focus that makes Sam Winchester a threat to grading curves everywhere.
And deep down, Dean knows there’s only one thing that can put that look on a guy’s face. It sends a little shockwave of surprise, pride, and something else not quite as pleasant rip-rolling through his veins as the corners of Sam’s mouth lift into the tiniest of smiles.
Sammy’s gone and gotten himself a girl, and suddenly everyone around Dean is a suspect.
xxx
Her name is Amy Miller, and she’s a pretty little blonde dancer for the marching band. Dean’s seen her around, recognizes her heart-shaped face and big blue eyes. Nice tits, killer legs and an ass that definitely does justice to a rhinestone leotard. Thing is, Miss Miller’s a senior, and Sam might be tall for his age, but he’s still riding shotgun in the Impala and legally won’t be able to do otherwise for another year. Longer, if Dean’s got any say in the matter.
Therefore, it doesn’t make much sense for her to have her sights set on Sam, and Dean’s too damn cynical to think anything good will come out of this.
“Fuck her, Sammy,” he says one afternoon, Paul Rodgers singing about staying rock steady as the wind whips through the Chevy’s windows. “Don’t date her.”
Sam just rolls his eyes. Ignores Dean in favor of messing with the radio station until some artsy-fartsy new age rock station comes blaring out of the speakers, clearly intent on making Dean’s ears bleed out through his nose.
“You’ve made your point,” Dean mutters, and drops the subject.
For now.
xxx
He sees them together at school. Sitting together during lunch, Sam looking uncomfortable to Dean’s knowing gaze. His brother doesn’t belong there, with the football punks and cheerleaders and general dipshit teenage community.
Or maybe Dean just doesn’t want for him to. Because he sure as hell doesn’t fit, and then where does that leave them?
Some guy from his shop class claps him on the shoulder, nods toward the lunch table teeming with laughter and bright, careless grins. “Your brother’s girl is smokin’, Winchester.”
“Sam could do better,” is all Dean says, biting the words off more than really necessary, and the guy lifts an eyebrow. He doesn’t try to argue, but doesn’t stick around, either. Dean spends another ten minutes watching his brother watch Amy Miller before he grows so disgusted with himself that he loses his appetite and winds up chucking his entire lunch into the trash.
Too bad, really. The cafeteria’s steak nuggets are pretty much the only reason he bothers to show up on Friday’s.
xxx
It’s been a good three weeks, and Sam still hasn’t even bothered to introduce him to his girlfriend. Dean would take it personally, but he kind of thinks it reflects more poorly on Amy Miller. Obviously, Sam just isn’t as enraptured as he’d thought. Dean’s been worrying over nothing, and the realization leaves him feeling lighter than he has in days.
Until one night when Dad takes off and Sam darkens Dean’s doorway, chewing his bottom lip and looking generally confused and hesitant. “Hey, Dean?”
Dean glances up from the latest Sports Illustrated he pilfered from the drugstore down the street, cocks his head. He takes in Sam’s ironed shirt, the pleats in his pants, and can’t bite back the laughter. “What the fuck?”
Sam’s brows draw together. “What?”
“What the fuck are you wearing?” Dean rolls over and props his head on one hand.
Sam’s expression clears and he heaves a sigh Dean recognizes all too well. “It’s called bathing, Dean.”
“It’s called being a freak.” Dean’s lips twitch. “Jesuschrist, did you actually iron your jeans? Oh. Dude.”
“I have a date,” Sam interrupts, the tips of his ears going pink, and Dean stops mid-laugh. “Amy’s picking me up soon, and I…well. I kinda.”
Dean barely notices the flustered stammer. “You’re still banging that chick?” he asks, failing miserably at sounding disinterested.
“I…what?” Sam scowls at him. “I’m not banging her, Dean, god. Is that all you think about?”
As a matter of fact, it was, ever since Shelly Davis put her sweet little mouth on his dick back in the eighth grade. Dean just shrugs. “Then what’s the problem? I’m kinda busy here, Sam.”
Sam looks pointedly at the forgotten magazine, and raises a condescending brow. Dean’s a little pissed off at the implication. Hell, he could be the one going out on a stupid fucking date if he really wanted to. All it’d take is a phone call and he could have half the cheerleading squad on their backs on the fifty-fucking-yard line. But he’d draw the line at ironing his goddamn jeans for a piece of ass.
“We haven’t done it yet,” Sam says, shifting on his feet, and Dean most definitely clues into that yet. Suddenly, all of his attention’s on his little brother. Standing there in his dork jeans, hair slicked back and damn it, adorable, and Dean knows. Sam might not have scored yet, but it’s only a matter of when.
It makes him feel dark and ugly to think about it, about Amy Miller and her soft, pretty hands all over Sam’s skin. Touching him in places that previously only belonged to Dean, and jesus, what the fuck?
“I’m not really sure…” Sam’s saying while Dean stares at him and swallows against the sudden, inevitable lump in his throat. “ I mean. I just don’t wanna seem like I don’t know what I’m doing, you know? I don’t wanna-”
“Blow your wad when she flashes her tits?”
Sam flinches a bit, blushes bright red. Then he grumbles, “Yeah, I guess.”
And if that ain’t a damn image to drive someone crazy. “Just. Jerk off before you go.” Dean hates the words as they pass his lips, feels that same weird twist in his belly as Sam’s eyes go wide.
“You’re horny.” Dean forces a mocking grin, and this. This feels comfortable. “You’re a little horny bastard. Aw, Sammy, you gotta release a little tension? Need a little help?”
“You. You can’t…say that to…forget it, I’m outta here,” Sam grits out through his teeth, something twitchy and impossible flashing like quicksilver through his eyes, and Dean doesn’t release another breath until the door slams shut.
xxx
“So. You bang her?” he asks on the way to school the next morning, and the sweet, embarrassed blush on Sam’s cheeks more than tells him the answer. “What the hell’re you waiting for? Rose petals and friggin’ moonlight?”
Sam stares out the window. “Just leave it alone, Dean.”
Dean would love to, actually hates the idea of it all, but he can’t fucking leave it alone. Can’t stop thinking about it, needs to know just what the hell’s going on with his little brother that he’s stopped telling Dean anything and leaves him begging for scraps of information for weeks until he sees fit to drop a bomb.
Dean parks the Impala and Sam’s out of the car in an instant; Dean stares after him, jaw working.
xxx
He’s washing up in the senior’s bathroom on the second floor, grease smeared up to his elbow, when he hears the first choked-off whimper. Curious warmth washes over him; he stops scrubbing the cheap paper towels over his skin and tries to squint with his ears.
Sure enough, a second later comes another little groan. Dean’s smirking to himself, thinking that at least the dude picked the best place to jerk off between classes - no one bothers to use the second floor bathroom around this time of day - when the guy mutters something under his breath, and jesus christ, but Dean knows that voice.
He leans against the wall, mind spinning as he listens to Sam. He can even picture it if he tries really hard, knows exactly what Sam’s dick looks like. Thick and still growing long, a pale, fragile pink. He’s walked in on Sam beating off plenty lately…his little brother suddenly can’t get enough of his hands on his cock. Dean he knows just how those long fingers would wrap around the wet, sticky head and squeeze…
He’s just never stuck around to listen.
He’s hard all on his own now, eyes half-closed and throat tight as he reaches down. He palms once against his cock and about jumps ten feet in the air when a door swings open.
Sam walks out of the stall, still buttoning his pants; he meets Dean’s gaze and freezes. Dean opens his mouth, but isn’t really sure what he wants to come out of it. He stares at Sam for a minute, feels his dick throbbing in his shorts, then turns around. Walks out and tries not to think about Sam pulling on his hard little teenage cock until he shoots.
xxx
They don’t talk about it.
xxx
It’s a Tuesday afternoon when Dean drops Sam off for a study session at the local library. “Go get your geek on, Sammy,” he says with a sarcastic salute, and Sam waves him off. Dean sits in the parking lot for a few minutes, thinking aimless, pointless thoughts before heading back home.
Amy Miller’s waiting on the front steps of their apartment, and Dean stares at her for a long moment. She stands up as he gets closer, something nervous and uncertain coloring her pretty face as she brushes the seat of her skirt and bites her lip.
“Hi, Dean,” she says. “Sam around?”
“No,” Dean says, and god, he kind of hates her. A lot.
An hour later, he’s got his hands in her little pink panties, when Sam walks in.
Dean hears Amy gasp, begin to scramble away from him, and glances over his shoulder just in time to see Sam drop his bookbag on the table. Sam only meets his gaze for all of a second before he blinks, looks away and stares instead at the pretty blonde senior who’d pursued him for a month.
“Sam,” Amy begins, genuinely horrified and ashamed, blue blouse crushed from Dean’s own fingers. “Oh god, Sam.”
“So, I guess the dance is out of the question,” Sam says in this calm, weirdly casual tone. He’s so careful not to look at Dean, but Dean feels like an ugly, filthy stain on the walls that no one can miss. Sam’s fingers flex at his sides. “I’ll see you around, Amy.”
She opens her mouth to answer, but Sam’s already halfway up the stairs.
“Fuck.” Dean runs a hand through his hair, disgusted with himself, with Sam, with the girl standing there staring at him like she expects him to explain, to make it better. “Jesus, what, you need me to spell it out? Get out.”
“I don’t…” she swallows, picks up her purse with trembling fingers and heads for the door. “Tell him…I’m sorry.”
Dean’s smile is just this side of mean. “You were never good enough for him, anyway, sweetheart.”
The only problem is that Dean’s even worse. And by the time he gets upstairs, Sam’s gone.
xxx
He hears footsteps on the stairs and has to physically clamp down on the immediate, fierce urge to jump to his feet. Grab Sam by the shoulders and shake the everloving shit out of his little brother. He draws his lip between his teeth as the door opens, Sam’s soft, hesitant, familiar breath piercing the silence.
Then, “Dean?”
It’s like someone pulls the plug, pops the cork, and Dean’s standing up and in Sam’s face in an instant. “What the hell were you thinking?” he shouts, ignoring the guilt and shame in favor of righteous, flowing anger. Sam’s glaring up at him with those dark puppy eyes, and Dean grinds his teeth. “Where were you? Do you have any idea-”
“Fuck you, Dean.” The words are so full of bitterness that it makes Dean flinch. Sam turns around, ready to stomp off again, and Dean reaches out. Catches him by the arm and jerks him up and against him. He’s off-center, doesn’t see the punch coming until Sam’s knuckles kiss the corner of his mouth. He stumbles back on a starburst of pain, holding his chin and already feeling the wet-warm trickle of blood on his bottom lip.
Sam’s still breathing hard, choked-off and thick like he might start crying any minute, and Dean wants to die. “Yeah, okay, I deserved that,” he says quietly, watching his brother from under his lashes. He sees the flash of disbelief, the pained confusion that smudges the gorgeous brown and green of Sam’s eyes, makes them go wide and black. “Sammy-”
“Why?” Sam blurts out, seeming surprised the second the question is out. Then his face screws up, cheeks pink and eyes anywhere but on Dean. “Why did you bother helping me? Were you. Were you just laughing the whole fucking time, did you think it was funny or something--”
“God, no,” Dean interrupts him, taking him by the shoulders. He can’t stop his fingers from climbing Sam’s cheeks, wrapping around his neck. “Sam, I was helping you because I…because I’m your brother and-”
Sam slaps his hands away, spits the truth out from between clenched teeth. “You fucked my girlfriend, Dean.”
“I’m…sorry.”
“Screw your half-assed apology, and screw you.” Sam sneers at him, but this time, Dean sees it coming. He catches Sam’s fist in the palm of his hand, shoves his brother up against the wall and stares down at the mutinous anger darkening those pretty eyes.
“One free pass, little brother,” he whispers, something hot and uncomfortable knottng his belly as Sam’s eyes fall south of his nose, pink tongue slicking his lips. “That’s all you get.”
Sam squirms against him; they both freeze. Dean’s mouth twists on a dangerous smirk when he feels the press of Sam’s dick, that gorgeous, hungry little thing riding his thigh and making a mockery of the teenage angst Sam’s trying so hard to project. “Well, well…”
“Get off me.” Sam won’t look at him now, all shallow breath and ruddy cheeks and lips. Dean jerks his head back by the sweaty curls at Sam’s neck and sucks in a sharp breath at the desperation he finds there.
“I’m not even touching you,” he manages, lies, and Sam swallows.
“Dean,” he says. “Y-You’re bleeding.”
Dean thinks of those broken little groans and whimpers in the bathroom, the smell of heat and come and Sam, and holds his breath. “C’mere and kiss it better, then.”
Sam’s gaze snaps to him for a long, charged moment.
“Go to hell,” he finally says as he reaches up, pulls Dean’s mouth down. Dean goes with it, sinking into temptation with an eagerness he ought to be ashamed of. But he’s known, deep down, this day was coming.
“You stupid little shit,” he gets out between feverish licks at Sam’s mouth, breath broken and husky. “You ever…pull another stunt like that…two fucking days, looked everywhere…”
Sam hisses through his teeth and Dean pulls back, blinks slowly at the spit-slick curve of his brother’s lips. “Sam,” he says, and bites back a groan when Sam plants both hands on Dean’s chest. Shoves him back against the unmade bed and climbs on top.
“Shut up, Dean,” he says, and then those long fingers are skimming under Dean’s t-shirt. Dean sits up on his elbows, searching out Sam’s mouth. He catches hold of his brother’s hips and jerks him in closer. Sam’s surprised groan melts on his tongue; Dean humps his hips and relishes the shaky shudder Sam can’t hide.
“Gonna show me what a big boy you are, then, Sammy?” he murmurs, pleased by the flash of heat in Sam’s eyes. “Well, here I am. Lay it on me.”
Sam rocks back on his knees and stares down at Dean. Dean doesn’t want him thinking too hard, doesn’t really want to contemplate what’s happening too much himself, and simply follows Sam. Crowding against him until he’s curled around his little brother and Sam’s straddling his lap and he can reach in between and - finally - get a hand on that gorgeous cock.
The minute he does, it’s like Sam’s…electrified. He cusses out loud, nasty filth Dean would be impressed with any other time (and hell, now, too), and starts sucking in cheap, shallow breaths. “Please, please, please,” he whispers on a keening repeat, and Dean chokes on his own curse.
“Lemme in,” he says, begs, jerking at Sam’s belt with fumbling fingers; Sam mouths up and under his jaw and Dean’s eyes roll back. “Jesus, hold up…lemme…”
Sam all but pushes him away and takes care of it himself, popping his buttonfly open and pulling out his dick. Dean’s mouth drops open a little as he watches his sweet little baby brother fuck his own hand, eyes heavy-lidded and trained on Dean.
“Jeez, Sam,” he gets out, throat gone dry, and sinks his teeth in his bottom lip. “Yeah, harder. C’mon, fuck yourself, bro, show me…lemme…” He can smell how hot Sam is right now, a sweet-sharp tang of sweat and teenage juices and, fuck, that’s it. He keeps watching the slick slip-and-slide of Sam’s fist and reaches for his own zipper.
Sam’s tongue touches the corner of his mouth when Dean starts a steady pull of his own, and soon there’s barely even enough room between them for a quick jerk. Sam’s breath on his mouth, and Dean sucks on his bottom lip, pulls back to glimpse the splash of pink across Sam’s cheeks before leaning in again. Forcing Sam’s mouth wide open with his tongue.
“You’re killer, Sam,” he husks out against Sam’s lips and Sam slumps against him. Head on Dean’s shoulder as he gasps into his neck and rolls his hips hard, fast, against Dean’s thigh. He can feel that sticky mess starting up; Sam’s just barely teething the bare skin at Dean’s throat, and Dean grunts and tightens his fist on his dick.
“Fuck my cock.” A rough whisper as he spreads his legs wider, lifting his hips so that Sam settles in between his thighs. “Do it.”
Sam gets off three, maybe four quick and dirty thrusts against him before he’s jerking back, then crashing back into Dean and shooting hot and warm and wet all over Dean’s belly. Dean about strangles his dick, cussing and staring at the blissed out look on Sam’s face as he shoots his own jizz across his fingers.
“Didn’t even have to flash my tits,” he sighs minutes later, sort of proud, and then immediately wants to slap himself upside the head. But Sam’s shaking against him, and the sounds coming from him sound suspiciously close to laughter.
"Roses and friggin' moonlight," he says, and Dean thinks that's just fine.
THE END.