Filling Out (2/?)
Title: Filling Out (2/?)
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean, past Dean/OFC, mention of past Sam/OFC
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~3,000
Warnings: Sexual content between a minor and an adult (Sam is 15 and Dean is 19). Mild stuffing.
Summary: AU in which Mary never died and Dean goes to college. Free from John's scrutinizing eye, he easily puts on the freshman fifteen (and then some). Sam in intrigued and finds himself exposed to a kink he never knew existed.
Note: Continuation of a story written for this prompt at the chubwinchesters Request Anything meme.
Previous Parts: One
Filling Out - 2/?
“Hey.”
Dean stands in the doorway and Sam nods, but otherwise ignores his presence. He focuses on the book in his lap. The words blur before his eyes and he can hear Dean shuffle back and forth a little before he takes a few steps into the bedroom.
“Don’t make this weird, man. It happens. Sorry for freaking out.” He pauses and Sam spares a glance his way. Dean’s hands are on his hips and he looks toward the ceiling. If anything, there’s comfort to be found in the fact that he dons a loose, ratty sweatshirt and jeans that fit but don’t do him justice. Nothing overtly attractive about that (but lord knows he could find something if he looks hard enough).
He snaps his attention back to the book as Dean starts up again. “And I mean it, by the way. If you want any advice, I’m happy to give it,” He says.
“I don’t need advice,” Sam mutters as he flips another page in his book.
“C’mon, man. Don’t be such a little bitch.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m just trying to help you out.”
“Well, stop it,” Sam snaps. His fingers curl and he presses his nails into the soft flesh of his palm as he says, “I don’t want your help. I don’t want your advice. I want…” And he trails off because where is he supposed to go with that sentence? I want you? That’s a can of worms he’d like to leave untouched as long as possible. Preferably forever. One of those things you bury deep inside and rarely acknowledge… except he acknowledges it all the time. Racks his brain over what to do and winds up frustratingly hard more often than not just thinking about Dean.
It’s a fucked up situation. He is fucked up.
Now, however, he swallows his confusion and murmurs, “I want you to leave me alone.” His heart sinks as the words leave his tongue and when he looks up he can see a twist of hurt followed by anger cross Dean’s features.
Dean is quick to cover the emotion with a roll of his eyes though, and he waves a hand dismissively through the air. “Whatever,” He says and then turns sharply toward the door. “I’ll leave you alone.”
He stomps away and Sam gives up trying to read. He tosses the book to the floor and wishes he could talk to somebody. Anybody. Like how Andy goes on, in great detail, about the new girl’s boobs and how perfect they are or how Jo chatters aimlessly about the boys she likes. But it’s not like he can walk up to Jo and say, “So, you think my brother’s hot, right? I do too.”
No, that would not go over well. So instead, he resorts to closing his bedroom door and opening his desk drawer. A neat stack of catalogues he’s snagged from the trash lay inside and he picks up the one on top. His hands instantly flip to the dog-eared page of the lingerie section-the page with the girl who’s a little softer than the rest and has bright, green eyes. His gaze lingers over the soft smirk on her face and he sighs quietly as he begins to undo his jeans.
It’ll do.
-
The next week is frustrating, to say the least.
He didn’t expect Dean to actually leave him alone as he requested in a moment of melodrama, but rather he anticipated things would carry on as they normally do. He expected bickering, name calling, and so on. Regular, brotherly things they’ve always done with maybe a little more tension between them than usual.
What he didn’t expect was… well, this.
Whatever this is.
Dean comes downstairs in a shirt that’s a size too small. It hugs his round stomach and stretches taut when he sits down at the table, threatening to ride up any moment. Sam’s eyes continually drift downward as Dean eats, silently hoping the fabric will give in.
It never does, even as Dean stuffs himself.
As he reaches for his third helping of meatloaf, their Mom asks him, “Are you sure you want more, honey?” Because even she can see he’s pushing himself past his limits. Dean just nods and takes another piece. He eats every bite and leans back in his chair when he’s finished.
“You’re testing the integrity of those jeans, boy,” John mutters before he leaves the table. It’s poker night so he heads out the door soon after, and Mary begins to clear the table.
Sam picks at the remainder of his food and watches as Dean rubs soft circles across his overly full stomach. He finally reaches down and flicks the button on his jeans. It’s an obvious relief to both Dean and the jeans. The zip is immediately pushed aside as his belly fills in the gap, falling forward onto his lap. He sighs contentedly and catches Sam’s eye. Sam doesn’t look away in time and realizes he’s been caught staring.
Dean just smiles. “Like what you see?” He asks, and Sam’s cheeks begin to burn.
Caught between embarrassed and aroused, he pushes himself up from the table and grabs what’s left on the table. “Gonna help Mom,” He mutters, and rushes to the kitchen. He doesn’t look back, but he knows Dean is still grinning.
He doesn’t know what game Dean is playing with him, but he doesn’t want any part of it.
-
The door opens a crack.
Light from the hallway spills across the carpet and Sam lifts his head. He blinks sleep from his eyes and squints at the figure that fills the doorframe. “S’ok, Sammy. Just me,” A voice whispers.
Dean.
Sam drops his head back to the pillow. He can smell the alcohol from here. It mixes with the wispy scent of smoke that clings to Dean’s hair and clothing. A party, he figures. Dean had left around nine to hang out with a few friends from high school. Their mom figured he’d stay the night at Ash’s, but now he’s back. Sam glances at his clock, wondering how late it is. A red 2:46 shines brightly on his nightstand.
Dean walks over, but doesn’t stop at Sam’s bedside. He nudges Sam until he moves, and crawls in next to him. Sam tries to push him out. It’s been years since they’ve shared a bed and Sam’s is far too small to accommodate both of them. It’s barely enough for Sam’s increasingly gangly frame, let alone for Dean’s broad shoulders and girth. Sam finds himself pressed right up against Dean. He’s on his side, soft belly protruding and fitting snugly against Sam’s hip. Sam can feel himself stiffening and he closes his eyes tightly. Counts backward from twenty and tries not to savor the feel of Dean’s warm, solid weight next to him.
He gets the situation under control and listens to Dean’s soft breaths next to him. He turns his head. Takes in his brother’s features and then whispers, “This isn’t your bedroom,” because he figures Dean is a little bit drunk and disoriented. Dean only grunts in response.
“I know that, dumbass. I wanted to see you.”
“Oh.” Sam pauses. “What do you want, then?”
Dean doesn’t respond. Not immediately, at least. He shuffles closer to Sam and presses his nose against his jaw. His skin is warm and he tucks an arm around Sam, pulling him closer. When he finally speaks, his words are soft, barely even a whisper. “Is it me?” He asks.
He replays the question in his head several times. Of course, He wants to say, but refrains. Instead, he chokes out a hoarse, “What?” And Dean laughs. It’s a throaty rumble against his shoulder and Dean burrows closer.
“Is it me.” He says again. “That you’re into?”
Sam doesn’t answer. He questions whether he’s dreaming. He’s had some vivid dreams before, but not this vivid. Everything seems real, right down to Dean’s hand on his hip, thumb rubbing soft circles through the fabric of his boxers. Sam clears his throat and tries to shift away, but Dean holds him close.
His voice cracks in Sam’s ear again. “I see the way you look at me. And I tried to give you a pass, telling you we could forget about that little incident and pretend it was about some girl, but you’re just so obvious. I’m surprised Dad hasn’t brought in the pastor yet to save you.” He presses a finger firmly against Sam’s chest. Drags it downward, slowly, and mumbles, “You are fucked up. You know that, little brother?”
Sam quivers and bites back a moan, but then he’s angry. Not just angry, but furious. Who does Dean think he is? Placing all this on him and then coming into his bedroom and teasing him like this?
“What about you?” He snaps.
Dean angles his head to look him in the eye. “Hm?” He hums. His expression flicks with amusement and anger flares in Sam’s chest once more. He shoves Dean’s shoulder roughly.
“You knew. You knew and you went and stuffed yourself and walked around in stuff you know I like. How am I supposed to be less obvious when you’re flaunting yourself all the time?”
“So, you do like me.”
Dean begins to grin and Sam wants to hit him. Wants to slap him and push him out of the bed. He huffs angrily and his voice begins to rise as he spits, “And then you come in here and make fun of me? Tell me I’m fucked up? Well, let me tell you-”
Dean cuts him off. Presses a finger against his lips and whispers, “Believe me, Sammy. I’m just as fucked up as you are. Probably even more so.”
Time seems to slow. Dean holds his gaze, finger still pressed firmly over his mouth. Sam wants to slap his hand away, but he can’t move. He’s frozen beneath Dean’s stare, and finally Dean stirs. He lifts the finger and promptly replaces it with his lips. It’s a quick, dry kiss-feather-soft but intoxicating. Sam’s breath hitches in his chest and Dean smiles as he pulls away.
“Just wanted to make sure we were on the same page,” He murmurs.
He presses one more quick kiss against Sam’s lips and then rolls out of the bed. “See you in the morning,” He whispers. Then he’s gone out the door, leaving Sam to lie alone in shocked silence.
-
Sam had a girlfriend last year.
Their relationship lasted approximately two weeks before she moved on to the new student from Brazil. He was exotic and romantic with great hair and a killer smile; Sam kind of had a crush on him too, so he couldn’t really blame her. A few months after that, he tried fooling around with Andy just to see what it was like. That was when he decided he likes guys as much as he likes girls and Andy decided he only likes girls. They shrugged the experience off and Jo is still pissed they didn’t let her watch.
Neither of these things holds a candle to what it’s like being with Dean.
They take things slowly. Dean’s nervous they’re going to be caught and Sam’s just plain nervous. It starts with a few kisses here and there as they slowly inch toward more.
Only now, as summer dwindles and Dean has to head back to school in a week, they try to make the most of each moment.
“You can touch me, you know,” Dean mumbles against the side of Sam’s mouth. “Anywhere you want.”
He snagged the keys to their Dad’s car and they’re out in a field, in the middle of nowhere. It’s a place Dean seems familiar with and Sam wonders how many others he’s brought out here. All those girls and guys he worked his way through in high school. He probably has another spot he favors at school. The thought makes Sam’s stomach churn and he tries to push it from his mind.
“Like… how?” He asks. His voice shakes a little and Dean chuckles warmly. He kisses him again, calloused fingertips stroking the strong line of Sam’s jaw. It calms him a little. He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous. It’s Dean, after all. Then again, he never thought this would actually happen.
Dean tugs him closer, closer, closer. He takes Sam’s hand and guides it to his stomach. Presses it down so it sinks into the warm, supple flesh.
Sam squawks with surprise and pulls back. “What are you doing?” He asks breathlessly.
“I thought you were into it.”
“I am, but…” He trails off and Dean lifts his brow. Gives him a look that says, Then go ahead, and Sam can feel himself blushing. It’s one thing to be able to greedily look at Dean without reservation, but actually touch him?
Dean tugs him in and meets his mouth in another kiss. Sam parts his lips and experimentally places a hand on Dean’s stomach. Traces his fingers over the fabric of Dean’s t-shirt and then slips his hand underneath. Dean’s skin is warm. Soft. He gravitates to the plumpest part of his stomach and presses his fingers in tentatively. The soft flab gives and Sam takes a handful of it. He begins to knead it beneath his palm and fingertips and before he knows it, Dean’s mouth has fallen open with a soft moan.
Sam pulls back, surprised he was able to produce such a response. Dean looks at him curiously and his eyes tell him to do it again. To keep going. As his confidence rises, Sam takes control and pushes Dean onto his back. Climbs over him and straddles his thighs. With both hands, he traces the contours of Dean’s body. Grips his sides and rubs his hands up and down his stomach, sumptuously massaging his plump potbelly.
“Fuck, Sammy.”
“You’re just so big.”
“I know,” He groans. “Been eating even more to get your attention.”
“You are so stupid.”
“You mispronounced genius.”
“Idiotic.”
“Hey, it worked, didn’t it?” And Sam can’t argue with that. It did.
He leans down and kisses Dean. “We should get you even bigger,” He mumbles as he pulls away.
“Mm.” Dean hums in response and lifts his hands to grip Sam’s sides. His fingers dip beneath Sam’s t-shirt and trail up his back. As he does so, Sam can’t help but feel a little inadequate. Skinny and awkward and nothing in comparison to Dean. Before he can dwell on the thought however, Dean grips him tightly and flips them. Sam huffs lightly as his back connects with the ground, and Dean adjusts himself. His heavy weight presses down on Sam; soft thighs grip Sam’s lean legs and Dean dips forward. His belly presses down against Sam’s body and the sensation is nearly enough to make him come on the spot, but he refrains.
Dean shifts his hips and grinds down. The thick line of his erection presses against Sam’s, obvious even through a layer of cotton and denim. Sam whimpers at the contact and Dean is quick to lean down and kiss him. His tongue dips into the depths of his mouth and Sam nips at it; sucks on it and emits one more moan as Dean continues to grind against him.
“Fuck, Sammy,” He groans against Sam’s mouth. Sam wraps an arm tight around Dean’s waist and guides him. He wants-needs the contact. More, more, more his mind screams. They’ve never gone this far before. He isn’t sure what to do, but it just feels so good.
And then Dean stops. Looks down and slips a hand between them, toying with the button on Sam’s jeans. He silently asks, Can I? And Sam nods. Of course he can.
Dean swiftly undoes his jeans, pausing only to spit into his palm. Slipping his hand into Sam’s boxers, he circles his hand around his cock and gives it a slow, smooth stroke from base to tip. Sam’s eyes flutter closed. He rocks his hips up into Dean’s fist and Dean rolls his palm; rubs the pad of his thumb in slow circle around the head and Sam bites down on his lower lip to keep from screaming.
“Is this good? Is it ok?” Dean pants. His grip tightens and all Sam can hear is the slick sound of his cock gliding wetly through Dean’s grip.
He nods. “Yes,” He chokes out after a moment, but the word dissolves into a moan. Dean’s rhythm builds in speed. He jacks him artfully and tightens his grip even more as he strokes upward. Sam is close. He can feel himself teetering on the edge, each pass of Dean’s hand bringing him closer and closer to tipping. My brother, he thinks briefly. My brother is giving me a hand job. It should freak him out, shouldn’t it? Probably.
Instead, the thought sends him over the edge.
He comes in three long, shuddering pulses and Dean strokes him through it. His pants are going to be a sticky, disgusting mess but he can’t bring himself to care. All he can do is watch Dean from beneath heavy lids as he pulls his hand out and rebuttons his jeans for him.
Sam feels wrecked. His hair is damp with sweat, plastered to his forehead, and his breathing erratic. He takes a couple long, slow breaths and it gradually events out. Dean runs a hand through his hair. Strokes the damp strands and Sam wants to thank him. Worship him. Do something.
What he settles for is murmuring, “Awesome,” And it earns a chuckle from Dean.
“Dork,” He mutters, and then leans in to kiss him one more time.
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean, past Dean/OFC, mention of past Sam/OFC
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~3,000
Warnings: Sexual content between a minor and an adult (Sam is 15 and Dean is 19). Mild stuffing.
Summary: AU in which Mary never died and Dean goes to college. Free from John's scrutinizing eye, he easily puts on the freshman fifteen (and then some). Sam in intrigued and finds himself exposed to a kink he never knew existed.
Note: Continuation of a story written for this prompt at the chubwinchesters Request Anything meme.
Previous Parts: One
Filling Out - 2/?
“Hey.”
Dean stands in the doorway and Sam nods, but otherwise ignores his presence. He focuses on the book in his lap. The words blur before his eyes and he can hear Dean shuffle back and forth a little before he takes a few steps into the bedroom.
“Don’t make this weird, man. It happens. Sorry for freaking out.” He pauses and Sam spares a glance his way. Dean’s hands are on his hips and he looks toward the ceiling. If anything, there’s comfort to be found in the fact that he dons a loose, ratty sweatshirt and jeans that fit but don’t do him justice. Nothing overtly attractive about that (but lord knows he could find something if he looks hard enough).
He snaps his attention back to the book as Dean starts up again. “And I mean it, by the way. If you want any advice, I’m happy to give it,” He says.
“I don’t need advice,” Sam mutters as he flips another page in his book.
“C’mon, man. Don’t be such a little bitch.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m just trying to help you out.”
“Well, stop it,” Sam snaps. His fingers curl and he presses his nails into the soft flesh of his palm as he says, “I don’t want your help. I don’t want your advice. I want…” And he trails off because where is he supposed to go with that sentence? I want you? That’s a can of worms he’d like to leave untouched as long as possible. Preferably forever. One of those things you bury deep inside and rarely acknowledge… except he acknowledges it all the time. Racks his brain over what to do and winds up frustratingly hard more often than not just thinking about Dean.
It’s a fucked up situation. He is fucked up.
Now, however, he swallows his confusion and murmurs, “I want you to leave me alone.” His heart sinks as the words leave his tongue and when he looks up he can see a twist of hurt followed by anger cross Dean’s features.
Dean is quick to cover the emotion with a roll of his eyes though, and he waves a hand dismissively through the air. “Whatever,” He says and then turns sharply toward the door. “I’ll leave you alone.”
He stomps away and Sam gives up trying to read. He tosses the book to the floor and wishes he could talk to somebody. Anybody. Like how Andy goes on, in great detail, about the new girl’s boobs and how perfect they are or how Jo chatters aimlessly about the boys she likes. But it’s not like he can walk up to Jo and say, “So, you think my brother’s hot, right? I do too.”
No, that would not go over well. So instead, he resorts to closing his bedroom door and opening his desk drawer. A neat stack of catalogues he’s snagged from the trash lay inside and he picks up the one on top. His hands instantly flip to the dog-eared page of the lingerie section-the page with the girl who’s a little softer than the rest and has bright, green eyes. His gaze lingers over the soft smirk on her face and he sighs quietly as he begins to undo his jeans.
It’ll do.
-
The next week is frustrating, to say the least.
He didn’t expect Dean to actually leave him alone as he requested in a moment of melodrama, but rather he anticipated things would carry on as they normally do. He expected bickering, name calling, and so on. Regular, brotherly things they’ve always done with maybe a little more tension between them than usual.
What he didn’t expect was… well, this.
Whatever this is.
Dean comes downstairs in a shirt that’s a size too small. It hugs his round stomach and stretches taut when he sits down at the table, threatening to ride up any moment. Sam’s eyes continually drift downward as Dean eats, silently hoping the fabric will give in.
It never does, even as Dean stuffs himself.
As he reaches for his third helping of meatloaf, their Mom asks him, “Are you sure you want more, honey?” Because even she can see he’s pushing himself past his limits. Dean just nods and takes another piece. He eats every bite and leans back in his chair when he’s finished.
“You’re testing the integrity of those jeans, boy,” John mutters before he leaves the table. It’s poker night so he heads out the door soon after, and Mary begins to clear the table.
Sam picks at the remainder of his food and watches as Dean rubs soft circles across his overly full stomach. He finally reaches down and flicks the button on his jeans. It’s an obvious relief to both Dean and the jeans. The zip is immediately pushed aside as his belly fills in the gap, falling forward onto his lap. He sighs contentedly and catches Sam’s eye. Sam doesn’t look away in time and realizes he’s been caught staring.
Dean just smiles. “Like what you see?” He asks, and Sam’s cheeks begin to burn.
Caught between embarrassed and aroused, he pushes himself up from the table and grabs what’s left on the table. “Gonna help Mom,” He mutters, and rushes to the kitchen. He doesn’t look back, but he knows Dean is still grinning.
He doesn’t know what game Dean is playing with him, but he doesn’t want any part of it.
-
The door opens a crack.
Light from the hallway spills across the carpet and Sam lifts his head. He blinks sleep from his eyes and squints at the figure that fills the doorframe. “S’ok, Sammy. Just me,” A voice whispers.
Dean.
Sam drops his head back to the pillow. He can smell the alcohol from here. It mixes with the wispy scent of smoke that clings to Dean’s hair and clothing. A party, he figures. Dean had left around nine to hang out with a few friends from high school. Their mom figured he’d stay the night at Ash’s, but now he’s back. Sam glances at his clock, wondering how late it is. A red 2:46 shines brightly on his nightstand.
Dean walks over, but doesn’t stop at Sam’s bedside. He nudges Sam until he moves, and crawls in next to him. Sam tries to push him out. It’s been years since they’ve shared a bed and Sam’s is far too small to accommodate both of them. It’s barely enough for Sam’s increasingly gangly frame, let alone for Dean’s broad shoulders and girth. Sam finds himself pressed right up against Dean. He’s on his side, soft belly protruding and fitting snugly against Sam’s hip. Sam can feel himself stiffening and he closes his eyes tightly. Counts backward from twenty and tries not to savor the feel of Dean’s warm, solid weight next to him.
He gets the situation under control and listens to Dean’s soft breaths next to him. He turns his head. Takes in his brother’s features and then whispers, “This isn’t your bedroom,” because he figures Dean is a little bit drunk and disoriented. Dean only grunts in response.
“I know that, dumbass. I wanted to see you.”
“Oh.” Sam pauses. “What do you want, then?”
Dean doesn’t respond. Not immediately, at least. He shuffles closer to Sam and presses his nose against his jaw. His skin is warm and he tucks an arm around Sam, pulling him closer. When he finally speaks, his words are soft, barely even a whisper. “Is it me?” He asks.
He replays the question in his head several times. Of course, He wants to say, but refrains. Instead, he chokes out a hoarse, “What?” And Dean laughs. It’s a throaty rumble against his shoulder and Dean burrows closer.
“Is it me.” He says again. “That you’re into?”
Sam doesn’t answer. He questions whether he’s dreaming. He’s had some vivid dreams before, but not this vivid. Everything seems real, right down to Dean’s hand on his hip, thumb rubbing soft circles through the fabric of his boxers. Sam clears his throat and tries to shift away, but Dean holds him close.
His voice cracks in Sam’s ear again. “I see the way you look at me. And I tried to give you a pass, telling you we could forget about that little incident and pretend it was about some girl, but you’re just so obvious. I’m surprised Dad hasn’t brought in the pastor yet to save you.” He presses a finger firmly against Sam’s chest. Drags it downward, slowly, and mumbles, “You are fucked up. You know that, little brother?”
Sam quivers and bites back a moan, but then he’s angry. Not just angry, but furious. Who does Dean think he is? Placing all this on him and then coming into his bedroom and teasing him like this?
“What about you?” He snaps.
Dean angles his head to look him in the eye. “Hm?” He hums. His expression flicks with amusement and anger flares in Sam’s chest once more. He shoves Dean’s shoulder roughly.
“You knew. You knew and you went and stuffed yourself and walked around in stuff you know I like. How am I supposed to be less obvious when you’re flaunting yourself all the time?”
“So, you do like me.”
Dean begins to grin and Sam wants to hit him. Wants to slap him and push him out of the bed. He huffs angrily and his voice begins to rise as he spits, “And then you come in here and make fun of me? Tell me I’m fucked up? Well, let me tell you-”
Dean cuts him off. Presses a finger against his lips and whispers, “Believe me, Sammy. I’m just as fucked up as you are. Probably even more so.”
Time seems to slow. Dean holds his gaze, finger still pressed firmly over his mouth. Sam wants to slap his hand away, but he can’t move. He’s frozen beneath Dean’s stare, and finally Dean stirs. He lifts the finger and promptly replaces it with his lips. It’s a quick, dry kiss-feather-soft but intoxicating. Sam’s breath hitches in his chest and Dean smiles as he pulls away.
“Just wanted to make sure we were on the same page,” He murmurs.
He presses one more quick kiss against Sam’s lips and then rolls out of the bed. “See you in the morning,” He whispers. Then he’s gone out the door, leaving Sam to lie alone in shocked silence.
-
Sam had a girlfriend last year.
Their relationship lasted approximately two weeks before she moved on to the new student from Brazil. He was exotic and romantic with great hair and a killer smile; Sam kind of had a crush on him too, so he couldn’t really blame her. A few months after that, he tried fooling around with Andy just to see what it was like. That was when he decided he likes guys as much as he likes girls and Andy decided he only likes girls. They shrugged the experience off and Jo is still pissed they didn’t let her watch.
Neither of these things holds a candle to what it’s like being with Dean.
They take things slowly. Dean’s nervous they’re going to be caught and Sam’s just plain nervous. It starts with a few kisses here and there as they slowly inch toward more.
Only now, as summer dwindles and Dean has to head back to school in a week, they try to make the most of each moment.
“You can touch me, you know,” Dean mumbles against the side of Sam’s mouth. “Anywhere you want.”
He snagged the keys to their Dad’s car and they’re out in a field, in the middle of nowhere. It’s a place Dean seems familiar with and Sam wonders how many others he’s brought out here. All those girls and guys he worked his way through in high school. He probably has another spot he favors at school. The thought makes Sam’s stomach churn and he tries to push it from his mind.
“Like… how?” He asks. His voice shakes a little and Dean chuckles warmly. He kisses him again, calloused fingertips stroking the strong line of Sam’s jaw. It calms him a little. He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous. It’s Dean, after all. Then again, he never thought this would actually happen.
Dean tugs him closer, closer, closer. He takes Sam’s hand and guides it to his stomach. Presses it down so it sinks into the warm, supple flesh.
Sam squawks with surprise and pulls back. “What are you doing?” He asks breathlessly.
“I thought you were into it.”
“I am, but…” He trails off and Dean lifts his brow. Gives him a look that says, Then go ahead, and Sam can feel himself blushing. It’s one thing to be able to greedily look at Dean without reservation, but actually touch him?
Dean tugs him in and meets his mouth in another kiss. Sam parts his lips and experimentally places a hand on Dean’s stomach. Traces his fingers over the fabric of Dean’s t-shirt and then slips his hand underneath. Dean’s skin is warm. Soft. He gravitates to the plumpest part of his stomach and presses his fingers in tentatively. The soft flab gives and Sam takes a handful of it. He begins to knead it beneath his palm and fingertips and before he knows it, Dean’s mouth has fallen open with a soft moan.
Sam pulls back, surprised he was able to produce such a response. Dean looks at him curiously and his eyes tell him to do it again. To keep going. As his confidence rises, Sam takes control and pushes Dean onto his back. Climbs over him and straddles his thighs. With both hands, he traces the contours of Dean’s body. Grips his sides and rubs his hands up and down his stomach, sumptuously massaging his plump potbelly.
“Fuck, Sammy.”
“You’re just so big.”
“I know,” He groans. “Been eating even more to get your attention.”
“You are so stupid.”
“You mispronounced genius.”
“Idiotic.”
“Hey, it worked, didn’t it?” And Sam can’t argue with that. It did.
He leans down and kisses Dean. “We should get you even bigger,” He mumbles as he pulls away.
“Mm.” Dean hums in response and lifts his hands to grip Sam’s sides. His fingers dip beneath Sam’s t-shirt and trail up his back. As he does so, Sam can’t help but feel a little inadequate. Skinny and awkward and nothing in comparison to Dean. Before he can dwell on the thought however, Dean grips him tightly and flips them. Sam huffs lightly as his back connects with the ground, and Dean adjusts himself. His heavy weight presses down on Sam; soft thighs grip Sam’s lean legs and Dean dips forward. His belly presses down against Sam’s body and the sensation is nearly enough to make him come on the spot, but he refrains.
Dean shifts his hips and grinds down. The thick line of his erection presses against Sam’s, obvious even through a layer of cotton and denim. Sam whimpers at the contact and Dean is quick to lean down and kiss him. His tongue dips into the depths of his mouth and Sam nips at it; sucks on it and emits one more moan as Dean continues to grind against him.
“Fuck, Sammy,” He groans against Sam’s mouth. Sam wraps an arm tight around Dean’s waist and guides him. He wants-needs the contact. More, more, more his mind screams. They’ve never gone this far before. He isn’t sure what to do, but it just feels so good.
And then Dean stops. Looks down and slips a hand between them, toying with the button on Sam’s jeans. He silently asks, Can I? And Sam nods. Of course he can.
Dean swiftly undoes his jeans, pausing only to spit into his palm. Slipping his hand into Sam’s boxers, he circles his hand around his cock and gives it a slow, smooth stroke from base to tip. Sam’s eyes flutter closed. He rocks his hips up into Dean’s fist and Dean rolls his palm; rubs the pad of his thumb in slow circle around the head and Sam bites down on his lower lip to keep from screaming.
“Is this good? Is it ok?” Dean pants. His grip tightens and all Sam can hear is the slick sound of his cock gliding wetly through Dean’s grip.
He nods. “Yes,” He chokes out after a moment, but the word dissolves into a moan. Dean’s rhythm builds in speed. He jacks him artfully and tightens his grip even more as he strokes upward. Sam is close. He can feel himself teetering on the edge, each pass of Dean’s hand bringing him closer and closer to tipping. My brother, he thinks briefly. My brother is giving me a hand job. It should freak him out, shouldn’t it? Probably.
Instead, the thought sends him over the edge.
He comes in three long, shuddering pulses and Dean strokes him through it. His pants are going to be a sticky, disgusting mess but he can’t bring himself to care. All he can do is watch Dean from beneath heavy lids as he pulls his hand out and rebuttons his jeans for him.
Sam feels wrecked. His hair is damp with sweat, plastered to his forehead, and his breathing erratic. He takes a couple long, slow breaths and it gradually events out. Dean runs a hand through his hair. Strokes the damp strands and Sam wants to thank him. Worship him. Do something.
What he settles for is murmuring, “Awesome,” And it earns a chuckle from Dean.
“Dork,” He mutters, and then leans in to kiss him one more time.