Fic: Fall Into Place (Dean/Sam)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 4,200
Warnings: PWP, weecest (Sam is 15), marking, frottage
Summary -Possessiveness isn’t something Dean’s particularly familiar with
Now with wonderful podfic by reena_jenkins
On AO3
The first one slips right under Dean’s radar. Well, no, not exactly; it’s not that he doesn’t notice, it’s more like it doesn't register. In all fairness, it’s Sam and it’s on his fucking elbow - alright, right below his elbow, that little patch of skin where blue webs of veins show through - and it’s Sam so who in their right mind would ever come up with that? No one, that’s who. So Dean doesn’t get it.
He doesn’t get the second or third or fourth ones either because Sammy’s still awkward and gawky with all this height he packed on in a matter of months and he’s ramming into shit all the time on accident. Besides that, they’ve got a tiny, honest to god house this time so they’ve been training a lot and that just leads to bruises, no way around it. So Dean doesn’t get.
Doesn’t get it and doesn’t get it and doesn’t get it until he does and then he can’t stop getting it like the understanding is an ice pick shoved up through his eye socket.
It’s this case that Dad’s working that finally clues him in - shit getting serious enough with this poltergeist that he brings both Dean and Sam in on it to get knocked around some old lady’s house half the night before the thing up and disappears on them at the first sign of dawn. It's not so much the spirit itself as the aftermath that drives it home. Sam's bitchy from adrenaline and lack of sleep and the fact that he's fifteen so there’s some kind of holy edict making it a sin or some shit for him to go thirty minutes straight without griping about something.
This time it’s missing class - which he needs to do if he doesn’t plan on sleeping through every subject he’s got - because Sammy has made it his mission in life to be the polar opposite of every other teenager on the planet who’d give their right nut to skip school with their parents’ permission. He’s whining about something or other with algebra and GPA thrown in that Dean stopped paying attention to, oh, ten minutes ago, while Dean peels him out of his jacket and hoodie and overshirt and t-shirt - fuck, it’s like a clown car of fabric over here - to check for injuries because sometimes Sam likes to play it tough when he really needs somebody to look after him.
Dad’s got first shower, rinsing off the plaster dust still tickling Dean’s nose that each new layer of clothing sends flurrying into the air, the sound of water rushing through the pipes loud on the other side of the wall. Sam’s standing there bare from the waist up in the middle of their bedroom and he seems to catch on to that fact about the same time Dean does, skinny bird arms wrapping around his middle like that’ll hide the glaring purple marks all over his torso.
“What the fuck?!” Dean shouts, too loud, but Sam’s not the only one riding aimless endorphins at the moment. Sam’s blanched white, panicky, which isn’t doing a damn thing to make the marks all over his skin look any better. They’re dark and deep, bigger than the print of Dean’s thumb when he reflexively matches one up to a splotch on Sam’s collarbone.
His brother smacks his hand away, recoiling back the whole two feet until he’s hit the far wall, Dean following after him like there’s a magnet in him that’s drawn only to Sam. His brother’s still trying to cover the marks but his face has got that determined, dug-in set to it that usually gets aimed at Dad nowadays. Dean’s not really paying attention anyway, too busy replaying the night in his head for any time that Sam could have picked up that many welts. The kid had gotten thrown up against a wall once or twice but it hadn’t been into anything oddly textured and the brunt of both had been taken by his back. This doesn’t make sense, doesn’t goddamn compute and all Dean’s got is another growled, “What the fuck, Sam?”
His brother darts a glance at the wall like he can actually see their father on the other side of it, like he’s going to hear somehow, and with a blush rising at the top of his cheeks hisses, “Phoebe.”
Immediately after, he bites his lip, eyes locked on the floor, just daring it to try something. That gives Dean’s brain a chance to filter down through every obscure piece of lore he’s ever read or heard mentioned to arrive at the obvious, the only, conclusion.
“Who the fuck is Phoebe?” he snarls anyway, crowding up into Sam’s space to get his fingers into the spots left uncovered by Sam’s arms. God knows there’s plenty of them; purple and red, others faded to yellow-green, shoulders and hips and stomach. Nipples, apparently she likes his nipples, dark, warm-looking marks peppered all around the cold-pulled nubs.
Possessiveness isn’t something Dean’s particularly familiar with. In a lifetime with maybe a handful of things he could even loosely call his own, it’s not really a concept he’s ever had the chance to get friendly with. Dad is his and the car is his and the weapons are his, but all in that ephemeral way; that ‘take it and scrap for it and do whatever you can but at the end of the day, it’s out of your hands’ way. And then there’s Sam. Sam, who’s always been Dean’s domain; always Dean’s to watch over and care for and protect. Dean’s, all Dean’s, only Dean’s.
It’s a revelation in the span of about four nano-seconds because seriously, what the fuck is that? He’s the one who’s taught Sam all about girls, about everything the kid could ever hope to know. He’s the one who gave Sam The Talk, and then later The Condom Talk and then later The Foreplay Is Important Talk - kid should benefit from his experience. He’s the one who encouraged Sam to go after girls, who was proud when Sam got his first girlfriend, his first kiss, who pushed for all the details while Sam blushed and stammered and curled in on himself like he wanted to disappear. And not once had Dean ever felt anything like this. This anger, this… this jealousy. This oh hell no, bitch, this is mine. But he does now, hot and wicked inside his veins, clinging to his insides in a scummy film.
It makes him push in too close against Sam, get their hips aligned with one thigh pressed up against Sam’s crotch so he can feel it when he shoves a rude finger against the soft-edged oval below Sam’s navel and his brother’s cock twitches on reflex. Makes him worm his hands up underneath Sam’s arms and shove them away, pin them to the wall behind him so Dean can see the path of destruction that’s been wreaked on his brother’s body.
Sam probably gives him some smartass, over-informative answer about how Dean’s supposed to know damn well who Phoebe is when mostly he wants to find the bitch and beat her to death, but Dean misses it, misses the whole damn thing, because his body’s eight steps out in front of this even if his brain is still stuck at the starting line. He’s seeing red and the blood is swirling in his ears, south, filling out his dick so it can rut against Sam’s, convince his baby brother to get hard despite his skinny little body’s uncertainty. He’s going crazy right here inside the confines of his own head, inside one blip of a second, and his hands are all over Sam, seeking and pressing and coaxing at wounds under the skin that make Sam’s breath short out and his hips churn.
“Dean,” is the next coherent thing that Dean manages to make out from his little brother and it doesn’t do one fucking thing to cure what’s ailing him. That tone could be a lot of things; warning or frightened or angry or turned on so hard he can’t breathe. Dean opts for the latter because that’s what the part of him that’s driving likes best, and because Sam’s hands are still pressed against the wall, not trying to force him away.
The best he’s got for a reply is, “Not hers,” but it seems to be enough. Enough to make Sam pant and nod, make his hips fuck rough against Dean’s. Whether he meant that to be permission or not, this all just went off the rails.
“Not hers,” Dean hears himself repeating but that’s not really where he’s at right now. Most of his attention is focused on his dick rasping against Sam’s through denim and the dark, glaring reminders that somebody else has been all over this body, thinking they could call it their own with nothing but an open mouth and hard suction. As if they have a fucking ounce of the claim Dean’s spent his whole life putting on this flesh.
He digs two fingers into a half-moon bruise peeking over the band of Sam’s jeans, stealing the breath right out of his brother’s lungs as his head rolls back on blue-striped wallpaper and blue-dappled eyes roll back in his skull. Kinky little bitch. His hair splays out every which way, sticks to his temples with sweat that shines in the harsh overhead light. Sweat that Dean wants to lick, so he does. Licks and sucks, thinks about leaving his own calling card right here on Sam’s face and then sinks lower, down over his jaw to tongue at the throbbing vein in his throat in time with each pulse.
Sam groans, grinds up into the pressure of Dean’s hips, and his hands aren’t pasted to the wall anymore. Instead they’re under Dean’s shirt, clawing at flesh and bone with blunt fingernails, and whatever the reason, that’s the thing that makes Dean sink his teeth in the first time.
It’s not easy or soft or tender, or anything in the same playbook as that. It doesn’t break the skin and that’s enough, just enough, a hard, stark warning on his little brother’s neck to anybody who might decide to get ideas.
Sam starts in on a moan that gets shredded like wet tissue paper, bucking up against Dean so hard they're both practically on tiptoe. Kinky. Little. Bitch.
Next Dean applies his efforts to that taunting spot on Sam's collar bone. With every scrape of teeth and long, wet suck Sammy loses some kind of sound, something sweet and hitched, pained and desperate. Clearly the kid has been getting way too much alone time since they settled in here because no way in hell would Dean have not overheard all that racket if he'd been around when Sam and Phoebe had been doing this.
And speaking of overhearing.
Inside the wall, the pipes thunk together as the shower shuts off. Like an alarm tripped, Sam freezes, halts everything but the post-hunt, junkie-tremble they've both got going and the flutter of flat stomach muscles Dean has one palm plastered to.
This is where it should stop. Well, ok, five minutes ago is where it should stop but Dean's not about to be jumping in the Wayback Machine anytime soon, so now’s probably as close to not fucking up absolutely everything as they're going to get. None of which does a damn thing to explain why what Dean finds himself doing is shoving his first two fingers into Sam's mouth and pinning his tongue. Leaning down to get his lips up against one peaked, abused nipple.
The creaky hinges of the bathroom door aren't exactly subtle when it swings open, letting their father out into the hallway just a handful of feet and one plywood-sheet door away from seeing whatever the hell this is that they're up to. Sam bites at Dean's knuckles, hard but not nearly enough to break skin, harder still when Dean pays him back in kind on the tight little bud between his lips. Kid's still smart enough not to make a sound.
"Boys!" Dad yells, banging on the door hard enough that the flimsy material rattles in the frame, "Wash up then lights out!"
Dean's too close not to feel it when Sam's breathing goes from a rushed loop to sharp, staccato bursts, a hot-cold gust around Dean's fingers as he starts to freak.
Shouldn't isn't one of those concepts Dean's got a particularly firm grasp on either, too much thrill-seeking ingrained on his DNA to really be good at all of that patience and prudence crap. So yeah, when he calls back a, "Yes sir!" he's already halfway to his knees, letting his body drag against Sam every inch of the way.
His amulet gets hung on the waistband of Sam's jeans, pants loose enough that there's a little space at the fly for it to stick. It looks good there, bronze glittering against soft, tender skin. Sam's gift and Sam's flesh pressed right there together, X marks the spot.
Dean wastes no time in getting his mouth pressed tight over both of them, the amulet sliding into the hollow under his tongue while he sucks messily at the low of Sam's belly, barely even a hint of baby-hairs darkening into a trail.
There's a pop of Dean's fingers puling free of his brother's mouth as Sam bangs his head back against the wall, feeding out harsh gasps into the air. Down the hall comes the slightly muffled warning of their father's, "Boys!" and then another, louder pop as Dean keeps the suction up on Sam's skin as he pulls away, feeling it mound against his mouth before it snaps back into place.
"Sorry!" Dean shouts back, feeling anything but. The flesh he just pulled off of is blood-dark, shiny with spit, the warmth of the amulet bleeding into his chest in answer where it hangs against his t-shirt. The mark is nearly purple, fading suddenly to the normal color of Sam's skin in a near-perfect O. He can't resist pushing his face against it, feeling the heat he raised to the surface simmering there with his lips, his cheek.
That's still nothing compared to the ember-burn of Sam's cock pressing against his throat through denim, thick and heavy when he gets his palm against it instead.
"Dean," Sam whisper-groans again, the sound of it tugging at Dean's balls. He gets that it's a warning - nice to finally be getting what’s up again - he just doesn't particularly care. No, wait, strike that, he cares a lot, just not about the stopping. What he cares about is rubbing the heel of his palm against the base of his baby brother's dick while his fingers play at the cloth-muted shape of the head and sucking at that stupid fucking mark somebody else left on Sam's hip until he can feel fluid heat pulsing under denim. That he really fucking cares about.
The bones in Sam's legs all seem to turn to Jell-o at once. And not even the good kind of Jell-o, more like hospital Jell-o where they used too much water so it's part-jiggly, part-liquid. It makes it really fucking hard to keep him upright.
With an effort, Dean eases his brother down the wall until he's sitting on the worn out carpet in front of him, all flushed and loose and dazed-looking.
Sam's got a whole battery of those puppy-dog stares, so Dean's not sure why he's surprised that the kid makes puppy noises too; soft, crooning almost-whines that make Dean need - like physically need - to tug at Sam's floppy limbs until he's spread out over Dean's lap, head resting in Dean's shoulder.
Dean's cock is still so hard in his jeans that just the pressure of Sam's body against him has his eyelids drooping; enough so that he's practically crazy with it, but Sam doesn't seem to mind the small, desperate rolls of Dean's hips for tiny doses of friction. Actually Sam doesn't seem to mind much of anything, dead weight in his arms, shaky breath against his neck.
After a couple of minutes that get Dean nowhere but mired in sexual frustration Sam groans a dejected, "I came in my pants."
Dean's still aching like he took a kick to the nads, but he's got to laugh anyway at the pouty-soft look on Sam's face. "Good work, Captain Obvious," he huffs back really getting into the way his brother is squirming uncomfortably from the mess in his jeans.
The glare Sam shoots him would probably have a lot more heat in it if he could claw his way out of that sated sex-daze that Dean's shooting for a helping of himself. There's not exactly a lot on the incentive side to make Dean want to give the kid a chance to pull himself back together.
A hand pushed into the spread of Sam's thighs takes care of that fast enough, the fabric all hot and damp and fucked-up-sexy. His brother flinches, oversensitive, but doesn't really make a go at pulling away, just lets Dean grope at him until the flesh underneath his palm starts to heat and thicken again. God bless being fifteen.
Barely another minute and Sam gets with the program, bucking up against Dean's hand and then grinding back down, rough gritty drag against Dean's needy cock.
"Yeah, just like that," Dean moans for it, only managing to keep the noise down because he can hardly breathe through how sweet it feels. Sam rolls his hips a little bit more forcefully with the praise, arms snaking around Dean's shoulders, one hand finding its way to the back of his head to urge it down, press his lips against the side of Sam's neck where the shape of his teeth is livid on thin skin.
Prodding his tongue against the mottled bruise makes Sam hiss and hump Dean's hand like he's getting paid for it. His fingers clench against Dean's scalp, scratching at the dried sweat and sheet-rock dust on his skin as he gasps another, "Dean!"
He could so get used to the sound of that.
"Killin' me, kiddo," Dean slurs into Sam's throat, sucking at the edges of what's already going to be a spectacular mark. He's walking that line between almost and there, Sam's bony little ass doing one hell of a number on him while those shaky breaths he's panting right into Dean's ear whisper down his spine like a promise. Why the fuck didn't he ever think of doing this before?
Sam’s legs shuffle on either side of him as if he wants to get closer when there’s not enough room to move as it is. He’s back to making those puppy sounds and it hits Dean in places he didn’t know he had or maybe just didn’t have before right this second.
There’s heat rolling inside of him, pulsing in waves like his guts have turned liquid and it’s all sloshing around inside him every time he pushes up against Sam’s ass or Sam grinds down onto his dick. It’s too much to take and he feels like he’s been waiting his whole life for it, like this is what he was built to feel. In the curve of his hand, Sam throbs, harder, ready, and Dean shoves his palm against him roughly, thumb crooked uncomfortably to swipe over the head, wetness from before bleeding through to dampen his skin.
Sam bites down on a groan, teeth clicking with the force, and then he’s got Dean’s flesh between them, a smooth, natural move that presses mouth behind the bolt of Dean’s jaw and sinks in a hard, sharp bite. Dean’s orgasm stabs him in the gut.
Nobody said Sammy didn’t come by kinky naturally.
Somewhere in the midst of the electro-light laser extravaganza going on inside of Dean’s body, he kind of forgets what he’s supposed to be doing with his hand. Luckily Sam's always been a 'take what you want' sort of kid, so by the time Dean's back with it enough to remember things like arms and motion Sam's got his own palm clapped to the back of Dean's, just using him as something firm to rub off against. Talk about kinks; Dean's pretty sure he just developed a new one.
Even with the edge taken off, it doesn't take long for Sam to lose it again, eyes fallen shut, mouth slung open, head tipped all the way back with the sharp arch of his marked-up body. This time his jeans are soaked enough that a thin film of come bleeds through to Dean's hand and he's just blissed out enough on the whole thing to roll with it when the urge hits to lick across his palm and see what it tastes like.
Sam shudders when he does - salt and musk too thick on his tongue to match the invisible sheen of it on his skin - like he's coming all over again, but there's no way even his recovery time is that good.
They flop down onto the floor together, loose and breathless, Sam rolling so Dean's not taking his full weight. He's still panting against Dean's skin though, sending out shockwaves of shivery afterburn. Dean feels sort of stupid with how good it is.
"So, um," Sam starts, a few minutes into what was becoming a rocking 'let’s not ever talk about this' silence. Damnit, Sam. "What just happened?"
Dean's impulse is to come back with something like 'you'll understand when you're older' just to piss Sammy off, but then it would turn into a thing about how he's not a kid, even though he’s still totally a kid, and then he'd bitch and pout and, yeah, no, not worth it. Instead Dean just shrugs.
That's about as much of a real answer as he's got for it anyway because it's just now starting to really set in that he just hardcore molested his baby brother. And liked it. A lot. Like, this is definitely happening again, a lot. That's... kinda freaky.
"Ooookay," Sam draws it out into a five syllable word. There's something in Sam's eyes that Dean recognizes all too well even though it doesn't live there much anymore. Uncertainty. It makes him look so young. Although Dean's reasonably confident that his cock never tried to stand at attention over it when Sam actually was that young. "I'm... I'm gonna go shower."
He grimaces as he slowly pulls himself up, probably from his junk shifting around in the wet mess of come in his shorts. The movement slowly reveals Sam's torso all over again and it's not like Dean forgot about the hickeys playing connect the dots all over his brother's body but he would have guessed that the impact would have worn off a little bit, considering.
It hasn't. Not at all. It's still Sam's skin looking all wrecked and claimed and it still makes Dean's stomach twist, just not in the same way. Now instead of anger, it's want that's simmering low in his belly, dulled a little by the ease of orgasm but still very much there.
Well that's new.
Hand on the doorknob, Sam pauses, lip caught between his teeth. Just that little bit is all it takes to make Dean's head swim with the fact that they've never even kissed.
"You coming?" is hardly a whisper, falling just short of a joke and landing smack dab in the middle of a big pile of serious. Dean nearly pulls something in his rush to get vertical.
Answer obvious, Dean goes for a question of his own, two fingers finding their way to hook in Sam's waistband and pull him close. "You done with Phoebe?"
The rush of Sam's sigh against his lips is tantalizing and Dean's tilting his head to slot his mouth against Sam's before his brother has even finished nodding. It's short and gentle after everything they just did, just a quick sip at honey-sweet lips that part like a dream when he slide his tongue across them. He wonders if that's something special for him or just the way Sam kisses before he realizes it doesn't really matter because from here on in, they're one and the same.
Their lips make a quiet noise as they pull apart that does all sorts of ridiculous things to Dean's insides. Almost as bad as what Sam's hands do when they settle over his hips, fingers burning through his ruined jeans and shirt. Next time, Dean is absolutely going to be naked for this.
He feels his lips curl into a smirk at the realization of how true that really is. After all, showering is pretty exclusively a naked activity. As is practically everything else he wants to do to Sam right now. Isn’t it nice when things just fall into place like that?
“C’mon, Sammy,” he breathes the words into Sam’s mouth, thumb finding that bruise he left just over Sam’s fly and digging in just to feel his brother hiss and push into it, “Let’s get you out of those dirty clothes.”
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 4,200
Warnings: PWP, weecest (Sam is 15), marking, frottage
Summary -Possessiveness isn’t something Dean’s particularly familiar with
Now with wonderful podfic by reena_jenkins
On AO3
The first one slips right under Dean’s radar. Well, no, not exactly; it’s not that he doesn’t notice, it’s more like it doesn't register. In all fairness, it’s Sam and it’s on his fucking elbow - alright, right below his elbow, that little patch of skin where blue webs of veins show through - and it’s Sam so who in their right mind would ever come up with that? No one, that’s who. So Dean doesn’t get it.
He doesn’t get the second or third or fourth ones either because Sammy’s still awkward and gawky with all this height he packed on in a matter of months and he’s ramming into shit all the time on accident. Besides that, they’ve got a tiny, honest to god house this time so they’ve been training a lot and that just leads to bruises, no way around it. So Dean doesn’t get.
Doesn’t get it and doesn’t get it and doesn’t get it until he does and then he can’t stop getting it like the understanding is an ice pick shoved up through his eye socket.
It’s this case that Dad’s working that finally clues him in - shit getting serious enough with this poltergeist that he brings both Dean and Sam in on it to get knocked around some old lady’s house half the night before the thing up and disappears on them at the first sign of dawn. It's not so much the spirit itself as the aftermath that drives it home. Sam's bitchy from adrenaline and lack of sleep and the fact that he's fifteen so there’s some kind of holy edict making it a sin or some shit for him to go thirty minutes straight without griping about something.
This time it’s missing class - which he needs to do if he doesn’t plan on sleeping through every subject he’s got - because Sammy has made it his mission in life to be the polar opposite of every other teenager on the planet who’d give their right nut to skip school with their parents’ permission. He’s whining about something or other with algebra and GPA thrown in that Dean stopped paying attention to, oh, ten minutes ago, while Dean peels him out of his jacket and hoodie and overshirt and t-shirt - fuck, it’s like a clown car of fabric over here - to check for injuries because sometimes Sam likes to play it tough when he really needs somebody to look after him.
Dad’s got first shower, rinsing off the plaster dust still tickling Dean’s nose that each new layer of clothing sends flurrying into the air, the sound of water rushing through the pipes loud on the other side of the wall. Sam’s standing there bare from the waist up in the middle of their bedroom and he seems to catch on to that fact about the same time Dean does, skinny bird arms wrapping around his middle like that’ll hide the glaring purple marks all over his torso.
“What the fuck?!” Dean shouts, too loud, but Sam’s not the only one riding aimless endorphins at the moment. Sam’s blanched white, panicky, which isn’t doing a damn thing to make the marks all over his skin look any better. They’re dark and deep, bigger than the print of Dean’s thumb when he reflexively matches one up to a splotch on Sam’s collarbone.
His brother smacks his hand away, recoiling back the whole two feet until he’s hit the far wall, Dean following after him like there’s a magnet in him that’s drawn only to Sam. His brother’s still trying to cover the marks but his face has got that determined, dug-in set to it that usually gets aimed at Dad nowadays. Dean’s not really paying attention anyway, too busy replaying the night in his head for any time that Sam could have picked up that many welts. The kid had gotten thrown up against a wall once or twice but it hadn’t been into anything oddly textured and the brunt of both had been taken by his back. This doesn’t make sense, doesn’t goddamn compute and all Dean’s got is another growled, “What the fuck, Sam?”
His brother darts a glance at the wall like he can actually see their father on the other side of it, like he’s going to hear somehow, and with a blush rising at the top of his cheeks hisses, “Phoebe.”
Immediately after, he bites his lip, eyes locked on the floor, just daring it to try something. That gives Dean’s brain a chance to filter down through every obscure piece of lore he’s ever read or heard mentioned to arrive at the obvious, the only, conclusion.
“Who the fuck is Phoebe?” he snarls anyway, crowding up into Sam’s space to get his fingers into the spots left uncovered by Sam’s arms. God knows there’s plenty of them; purple and red, others faded to yellow-green, shoulders and hips and stomach. Nipples, apparently she likes his nipples, dark, warm-looking marks peppered all around the cold-pulled nubs.
Possessiveness isn’t something Dean’s particularly familiar with. In a lifetime with maybe a handful of things he could even loosely call his own, it’s not really a concept he’s ever had the chance to get friendly with. Dad is his and the car is his and the weapons are his, but all in that ephemeral way; that ‘take it and scrap for it and do whatever you can but at the end of the day, it’s out of your hands’ way. And then there’s Sam. Sam, who’s always been Dean’s domain; always Dean’s to watch over and care for and protect. Dean’s, all Dean’s, only Dean’s.
It’s a revelation in the span of about four nano-seconds because seriously, what the fuck is that? He’s the one who’s taught Sam all about girls, about everything the kid could ever hope to know. He’s the one who gave Sam The Talk, and then later The Condom Talk and then later The Foreplay Is Important Talk - kid should benefit from his experience. He’s the one who encouraged Sam to go after girls, who was proud when Sam got his first girlfriend, his first kiss, who pushed for all the details while Sam blushed and stammered and curled in on himself like he wanted to disappear. And not once had Dean ever felt anything like this. This anger, this… this jealousy. This oh hell no, bitch, this is mine. But he does now, hot and wicked inside his veins, clinging to his insides in a scummy film.
It makes him push in too close against Sam, get their hips aligned with one thigh pressed up against Sam’s crotch so he can feel it when he shoves a rude finger against the soft-edged oval below Sam’s navel and his brother’s cock twitches on reflex. Makes him worm his hands up underneath Sam’s arms and shove them away, pin them to the wall behind him so Dean can see the path of destruction that’s been wreaked on his brother’s body.
Sam probably gives him some smartass, over-informative answer about how Dean’s supposed to know damn well who Phoebe is when mostly he wants to find the bitch and beat her to death, but Dean misses it, misses the whole damn thing, because his body’s eight steps out in front of this even if his brain is still stuck at the starting line. He’s seeing red and the blood is swirling in his ears, south, filling out his dick so it can rut against Sam’s, convince his baby brother to get hard despite his skinny little body’s uncertainty. He’s going crazy right here inside the confines of his own head, inside one blip of a second, and his hands are all over Sam, seeking and pressing and coaxing at wounds under the skin that make Sam’s breath short out and his hips churn.
“Dean,” is the next coherent thing that Dean manages to make out from his little brother and it doesn’t do one fucking thing to cure what’s ailing him. That tone could be a lot of things; warning or frightened or angry or turned on so hard he can’t breathe. Dean opts for the latter because that’s what the part of him that’s driving likes best, and because Sam’s hands are still pressed against the wall, not trying to force him away.
The best he’s got for a reply is, “Not hers,” but it seems to be enough. Enough to make Sam pant and nod, make his hips fuck rough against Dean’s. Whether he meant that to be permission or not, this all just went off the rails.
“Not hers,” Dean hears himself repeating but that’s not really where he’s at right now. Most of his attention is focused on his dick rasping against Sam’s through denim and the dark, glaring reminders that somebody else has been all over this body, thinking they could call it their own with nothing but an open mouth and hard suction. As if they have a fucking ounce of the claim Dean’s spent his whole life putting on this flesh.
He digs two fingers into a half-moon bruise peeking over the band of Sam’s jeans, stealing the breath right out of his brother’s lungs as his head rolls back on blue-striped wallpaper and blue-dappled eyes roll back in his skull. Kinky little bitch. His hair splays out every which way, sticks to his temples with sweat that shines in the harsh overhead light. Sweat that Dean wants to lick, so he does. Licks and sucks, thinks about leaving his own calling card right here on Sam’s face and then sinks lower, down over his jaw to tongue at the throbbing vein in his throat in time with each pulse.
Sam groans, grinds up into the pressure of Dean’s hips, and his hands aren’t pasted to the wall anymore. Instead they’re under Dean’s shirt, clawing at flesh and bone with blunt fingernails, and whatever the reason, that’s the thing that makes Dean sink his teeth in the first time.
It’s not easy or soft or tender, or anything in the same playbook as that. It doesn’t break the skin and that’s enough, just enough, a hard, stark warning on his little brother’s neck to anybody who might decide to get ideas.
Sam starts in on a moan that gets shredded like wet tissue paper, bucking up against Dean so hard they're both practically on tiptoe. Kinky. Little. Bitch.
Next Dean applies his efforts to that taunting spot on Sam's collar bone. With every scrape of teeth and long, wet suck Sammy loses some kind of sound, something sweet and hitched, pained and desperate. Clearly the kid has been getting way too much alone time since they settled in here because no way in hell would Dean have not overheard all that racket if he'd been around when Sam and Phoebe had been doing this.
And speaking of overhearing.
Inside the wall, the pipes thunk together as the shower shuts off. Like an alarm tripped, Sam freezes, halts everything but the post-hunt, junkie-tremble they've both got going and the flutter of flat stomach muscles Dean has one palm plastered to.
This is where it should stop. Well, ok, five minutes ago is where it should stop but Dean's not about to be jumping in the Wayback Machine anytime soon, so now’s probably as close to not fucking up absolutely everything as they're going to get. None of which does a damn thing to explain why what Dean finds himself doing is shoving his first two fingers into Sam's mouth and pinning his tongue. Leaning down to get his lips up against one peaked, abused nipple.
The creaky hinges of the bathroom door aren't exactly subtle when it swings open, letting their father out into the hallway just a handful of feet and one plywood-sheet door away from seeing whatever the hell this is that they're up to. Sam bites at Dean's knuckles, hard but not nearly enough to break skin, harder still when Dean pays him back in kind on the tight little bud between his lips. Kid's still smart enough not to make a sound.
"Boys!" Dad yells, banging on the door hard enough that the flimsy material rattles in the frame, "Wash up then lights out!"
Dean's too close not to feel it when Sam's breathing goes from a rushed loop to sharp, staccato bursts, a hot-cold gust around Dean's fingers as he starts to freak.
Shouldn't isn't one of those concepts Dean's got a particularly firm grasp on either, too much thrill-seeking ingrained on his DNA to really be good at all of that patience and prudence crap. So yeah, when he calls back a, "Yes sir!" he's already halfway to his knees, letting his body drag against Sam every inch of the way.
His amulet gets hung on the waistband of Sam's jeans, pants loose enough that there's a little space at the fly for it to stick. It looks good there, bronze glittering against soft, tender skin. Sam's gift and Sam's flesh pressed right there together, X marks the spot.
Dean wastes no time in getting his mouth pressed tight over both of them, the amulet sliding into the hollow under his tongue while he sucks messily at the low of Sam's belly, barely even a hint of baby-hairs darkening into a trail.
There's a pop of Dean's fingers puling free of his brother's mouth as Sam bangs his head back against the wall, feeding out harsh gasps into the air. Down the hall comes the slightly muffled warning of their father's, "Boys!" and then another, louder pop as Dean keeps the suction up on Sam's skin as he pulls away, feeling it mound against his mouth before it snaps back into place.
"Sorry!" Dean shouts back, feeling anything but. The flesh he just pulled off of is blood-dark, shiny with spit, the warmth of the amulet bleeding into his chest in answer where it hangs against his t-shirt. The mark is nearly purple, fading suddenly to the normal color of Sam's skin in a near-perfect O. He can't resist pushing his face against it, feeling the heat he raised to the surface simmering there with his lips, his cheek.
That's still nothing compared to the ember-burn of Sam's cock pressing against his throat through denim, thick and heavy when he gets his palm against it instead.
"Dean," Sam whisper-groans again, the sound of it tugging at Dean's balls. He gets that it's a warning - nice to finally be getting what’s up again - he just doesn't particularly care. No, wait, strike that, he cares a lot, just not about the stopping. What he cares about is rubbing the heel of his palm against the base of his baby brother's dick while his fingers play at the cloth-muted shape of the head and sucking at that stupid fucking mark somebody else left on Sam's hip until he can feel fluid heat pulsing under denim. That he really fucking cares about.
The bones in Sam's legs all seem to turn to Jell-o at once. And not even the good kind of Jell-o, more like hospital Jell-o where they used too much water so it's part-jiggly, part-liquid. It makes it really fucking hard to keep him upright.
With an effort, Dean eases his brother down the wall until he's sitting on the worn out carpet in front of him, all flushed and loose and dazed-looking.
Sam's got a whole battery of those puppy-dog stares, so Dean's not sure why he's surprised that the kid makes puppy noises too; soft, crooning almost-whines that make Dean need - like physically need - to tug at Sam's floppy limbs until he's spread out over Dean's lap, head resting in Dean's shoulder.
Dean's cock is still so hard in his jeans that just the pressure of Sam's body against him has his eyelids drooping; enough so that he's practically crazy with it, but Sam doesn't seem to mind the small, desperate rolls of Dean's hips for tiny doses of friction. Actually Sam doesn't seem to mind much of anything, dead weight in his arms, shaky breath against his neck.
After a couple of minutes that get Dean nowhere but mired in sexual frustration Sam groans a dejected, "I came in my pants."
Dean's still aching like he took a kick to the nads, but he's got to laugh anyway at the pouty-soft look on Sam's face. "Good work, Captain Obvious," he huffs back really getting into the way his brother is squirming uncomfortably from the mess in his jeans.
The glare Sam shoots him would probably have a lot more heat in it if he could claw his way out of that sated sex-daze that Dean's shooting for a helping of himself. There's not exactly a lot on the incentive side to make Dean want to give the kid a chance to pull himself back together.
A hand pushed into the spread of Sam's thighs takes care of that fast enough, the fabric all hot and damp and fucked-up-sexy. His brother flinches, oversensitive, but doesn't really make a go at pulling away, just lets Dean grope at him until the flesh underneath his palm starts to heat and thicken again. God bless being fifteen.
Barely another minute and Sam gets with the program, bucking up against Dean's hand and then grinding back down, rough gritty drag against Dean's needy cock.
"Yeah, just like that," Dean moans for it, only managing to keep the noise down because he can hardly breathe through how sweet it feels. Sam rolls his hips a little bit more forcefully with the praise, arms snaking around Dean's shoulders, one hand finding its way to the back of his head to urge it down, press his lips against the side of Sam's neck where the shape of his teeth is livid on thin skin.
Prodding his tongue against the mottled bruise makes Sam hiss and hump Dean's hand like he's getting paid for it. His fingers clench against Dean's scalp, scratching at the dried sweat and sheet-rock dust on his skin as he gasps another, "Dean!"
He could so get used to the sound of that.
"Killin' me, kiddo," Dean slurs into Sam's throat, sucking at the edges of what's already going to be a spectacular mark. He's walking that line between almost and there, Sam's bony little ass doing one hell of a number on him while those shaky breaths he's panting right into Dean's ear whisper down his spine like a promise. Why the fuck didn't he ever think of doing this before?
Sam’s legs shuffle on either side of him as if he wants to get closer when there’s not enough room to move as it is. He’s back to making those puppy sounds and it hits Dean in places he didn’t know he had or maybe just didn’t have before right this second.
There’s heat rolling inside of him, pulsing in waves like his guts have turned liquid and it’s all sloshing around inside him every time he pushes up against Sam’s ass or Sam grinds down onto his dick. It’s too much to take and he feels like he’s been waiting his whole life for it, like this is what he was built to feel. In the curve of his hand, Sam throbs, harder, ready, and Dean shoves his palm against him roughly, thumb crooked uncomfortably to swipe over the head, wetness from before bleeding through to dampen his skin.
Sam bites down on a groan, teeth clicking with the force, and then he’s got Dean’s flesh between them, a smooth, natural move that presses mouth behind the bolt of Dean’s jaw and sinks in a hard, sharp bite. Dean’s orgasm stabs him in the gut.
Nobody said Sammy didn’t come by kinky naturally.
Somewhere in the midst of the electro-light laser extravaganza going on inside of Dean’s body, he kind of forgets what he’s supposed to be doing with his hand. Luckily Sam's always been a 'take what you want' sort of kid, so by the time Dean's back with it enough to remember things like arms and motion Sam's got his own palm clapped to the back of Dean's, just using him as something firm to rub off against. Talk about kinks; Dean's pretty sure he just developed a new one.
Even with the edge taken off, it doesn't take long for Sam to lose it again, eyes fallen shut, mouth slung open, head tipped all the way back with the sharp arch of his marked-up body. This time his jeans are soaked enough that a thin film of come bleeds through to Dean's hand and he's just blissed out enough on the whole thing to roll with it when the urge hits to lick across his palm and see what it tastes like.
Sam shudders when he does - salt and musk too thick on his tongue to match the invisible sheen of it on his skin - like he's coming all over again, but there's no way even his recovery time is that good.
They flop down onto the floor together, loose and breathless, Sam rolling so Dean's not taking his full weight. He's still panting against Dean's skin though, sending out shockwaves of shivery afterburn. Dean feels sort of stupid with how good it is.
"So, um," Sam starts, a few minutes into what was becoming a rocking 'let’s not ever talk about this' silence. Damnit, Sam. "What just happened?"
Dean's impulse is to come back with something like 'you'll understand when you're older' just to piss Sammy off, but then it would turn into a thing about how he's not a kid, even though he’s still totally a kid, and then he'd bitch and pout and, yeah, no, not worth it. Instead Dean just shrugs.
That's about as much of a real answer as he's got for it anyway because it's just now starting to really set in that he just hardcore molested his baby brother. And liked it. A lot. Like, this is definitely happening again, a lot. That's... kinda freaky.
"Ooookay," Sam draws it out into a five syllable word. There's something in Sam's eyes that Dean recognizes all too well even though it doesn't live there much anymore. Uncertainty. It makes him look so young. Although Dean's reasonably confident that his cock never tried to stand at attention over it when Sam actually was that young. "I'm... I'm gonna go shower."
He grimaces as he slowly pulls himself up, probably from his junk shifting around in the wet mess of come in his shorts. The movement slowly reveals Sam's torso all over again and it's not like Dean forgot about the hickeys playing connect the dots all over his brother's body but he would have guessed that the impact would have worn off a little bit, considering.
It hasn't. Not at all. It's still Sam's skin looking all wrecked and claimed and it still makes Dean's stomach twist, just not in the same way. Now instead of anger, it's want that's simmering low in his belly, dulled a little by the ease of orgasm but still very much there.
Well that's new.
Hand on the doorknob, Sam pauses, lip caught between his teeth. Just that little bit is all it takes to make Dean's head swim with the fact that they've never even kissed.
"You coming?" is hardly a whisper, falling just short of a joke and landing smack dab in the middle of a big pile of serious. Dean nearly pulls something in his rush to get vertical.
Answer obvious, Dean goes for a question of his own, two fingers finding their way to hook in Sam's waistband and pull him close. "You done with Phoebe?"
The rush of Sam's sigh against his lips is tantalizing and Dean's tilting his head to slot his mouth against Sam's before his brother has even finished nodding. It's short and gentle after everything they just did, just a quick sip at honey-sweet lips that part like a dream when he slide his tongue across them. He wonders if that's something special for him or just the way Sam kisses before he realizes it doesn't really matter because from here on in, they're one and the same.
Their lips make a quiet noise as they pull apart that does all sorts of ridiculous things to Dean's insides. Almost as bad as what Sam's hands do when they settle over his hips, fingers burning through his ruined jeans and shirt. Next time, Dean is absolutely going to be naked for this.
He feels his lips curl into a smirk at the realization of how true that really is. After all, showering is pretty exclusively a naked activity. As is practically everything else he wants to do to Sam right now. Isn’t it nice when things just fall into place like that?
“C’mon, Sammy,” he breathes the words into Sam’s mouth, thumb finding that bruise he left just over Sam’s fly and digging in just to feel his brother hiss and push into it, “Let’s get you out of those dirty clothes.”