Loyal Constituency
Title: Loyal Constituency
Author: girlguidejones
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating/word count: NC-17; 3800 words
Warnings: Graphic Wincest and gratuitous use of political jargon; possible abuse of tenses.
Disclaimer: If there is a real Davis County or a Troutsboro Texas it's news to me. No actual dissing of either intended. All characters property of Kripke and the C-Dub. If I had to choose between owning Sam and Dean and not being screwed out of my vote today, I'd choose...well. Lemme get back to you. I sure as hell don't profit from either, I can tell you that.
Author's notes: Written for wendy who got the idea of vote!fic from nightchik. mereperisflage also enabled.
Summary: It's election time, 2005, and Dean wants to vote. Yeah, that's right. Dean.
“Robinson or Fortnight for judge?”
“Robinson all the way.”
“Why?”
“Dude. Have you seen her legs?”
“Even if we were still going to be here next week and it actually mattered, I’m pretty sure those get covered up by the floor-length black robes, Dean.”
“Doesn’t matter. Thinking of reaching my hand up under there and touching those legs in between jury recesses is jack-off fodder for at least a month.”
“Kinky.”
“Oh yeah.”
“But can’t you still imagine it even if she doesn’t win?”
“It’s just not the same, Sammy. I’ve got to have some degree of authenticity to things.”
Sam snorts and just shakes his head, turning the newspaper page and leaning back, doing the commuter fold and sipping his beer as he speed-reads the next editorial recap for the county commissioner slot. Stealing a glance at Dean as he scans the online board of elections site at the same time, Sam once again wonders what Dean gets out of this.
“Perez or Johnson for Davis county commissioner?”
“Sam. How could you even consider Johnson? The man is single, never been married, goes to church twice a week, doesn’t smoke, gamble or drink- he’s a fucking monk. This’d probably be a dry county next week if he had his way.” Dean punctuated the importance of such disastrous consequences by downing a generous swig of his Budweiser.
“He wants to pave that shitty road we drove in on, though. And he got that big auto parts warehouse to re-locate here. Brought lots of jobs.”
“Whatever, Sammy. Made up my mind already. Man has a constitutional right to his beer.”
“Pretty sure that Adams and Jefferson didn’t exactly spell that one out, Dean.”
“Yeah, well, they should have.”
Sam rolled his eyes and went silent. The Dean Winchester philosophy of candidate selection left a lot to be desired. For that matter, Sam couldn’t fathom why Dean was hell-bent to vote -illegally- in this little podunk election anyway. 2005 was an off-year, with no governor or Congressional seats to determine, just a bunch of local political skirmishes the outcomes of which he and Dean would never even experience, much less care about. “Sammy Martin” and “Dean Lee Davis” would be gone next week, and probably would never see the pot-hole-ridden streets of Troutsboro, Texas again.
“Reed for board of education?”
“Sam! Why the hell would you vote for Reed when you could look at LaRossum’s cleavage during every PTA meeting? And, she’s an ex-teacher, which adds a whole ‘nuther level to ‘hot for teacher’ daydreams.”
“Jesus Christ, Dean. You’re not only obsessed with the idea of voting illegally in this backwater town but every vote you plan to cast is completely corrupt. What the fuck is your deal, anyway?”
But Dean refuses to be goaded and calmly snaps the lid shut on the laptop. “I happen to be a very civic-minded guy, Sam. Now shut up and get in the car. Damn polling place is clear across town. Which, granted, is only four-and-a-half blocks in this little burg, but still...”
“I’m not going.” Sam folds his newspaper, crossing his arms across his chest.
“Quit being a little bitch and get in the car, Sam. Polls close in an hour. Besides, if you don’t go, they’ll be nobody to vote the complete opposite of my “corrupt” ticket and cancel out my “illegal” vote.”
“Your vote is illegal, you idiot!” Sam twists the Special Election Edition up in his hands, the condensation from the beer bottle smearing the ink onto his fingertips.
“So what? I’m voting my conscience.”
“Your conscience? Really? Where exactly did you manage to come across it? The vending machine on the second floor?”
“Fuck you Sam. Get in the car.”
“What part of ‘I’m not voting’ don’t you get, Dean?”
“What part of “get the stick outta your ass” don’t you get, Sam? We’ve done way worse for no better reason.”
“Because I’m going to be a lawyer someday, asshole. You know? Practice of THE LAW? Upholding the code set forth by the judicial and legislative branches that are LEGALLY chosen by the electorate? Forgive me if I managed to keep some sort of an ethical compass despite growing up with YOU as a role model.”
“You got no problems drinking beer that Ishmael Jacobsen bought and paid for, but you’ve got moral issues with casting a vote as Sammy Martin? What-the-fuck-ever, Sam. Stay here and be a whiny bitch by yourself. I’m voting.”
The cheesy ceramic knick-knacks on the tiny shelf over the TV rattle precariously as Dean slams out of the room, but Sam stays where he is, suddenly, unnaturally cold and unwilling to get up and do anything about it. He drinks the rest of Ishmael’s beer, staring at the divot in the wall where the door chain smacked against the plaster as Dean stormed away. Pulling the bottles one at a time out of the padded vinyl ice bucket, he thumbs through the rest of the election docket. After each race, he hypothesizes which of the candidates Dean will support. If the contest is male versus female, that makes the choice rather simple. But male versus male (there are no all-female ballot battles; this is Texas, after all) is trickier. If only one guy was an NRA member, Sam figures he has Dean’s vote. Or if one’s ex-military and the other isn’t, Sam figures that’s getting the Dad-loyalty vote from Dean. Once he puts his mind to it, he figures he can predict Dean’s ballot with approximately 95% certainty, and idly wonders if there’s any sort of career in campaign managing for people with his analytical skills. If all voters are as predictable as Dean, he could make a fortune.
Dean returns just as Sam’s reaching for the beer his brother left half of behind. It’s lukewarm by now, but the point isn’t drinking more beer so much as it’s drinking ALL of the beer and leaving none for Dean. Sam flushes when Dean cocks that stupidly hot (and why did it have to still be hot even when Sam was pissed at him?) brow at Sam, nodding knowingly and brandishing a brand-new six pack from behind his jacket.
“Not so dumb as all that, baby brother. You’re so fucking predictable, Sammy. It’s just sad.” Sam startles, Dean’s talk of Sam’s predictability uncomfortably mirroring his own thoughts about Dean from a minute ago.
“Have fun corrupting the electoral system, honey?” Sam tries to cover, saccharine-sweet voice mocking Dean, but his shit-eating grin says Dean’s having none of it.
“Sure did, darlin’.” Dean thumbs open the cap of a new beer and plops down onto the bed. “You shoulda seen this one poll-worker. Fucking hottest thing I’ve seen in this whole county. Had to fake not knowing how to fill out my ballot so I could get a little one-on-one assistance. Heh.” Dean holds up what presumably is the approximately one-millionth Easy Chicks-R-Us phone number this year. “She even helped me with my sticker.” Sam’s face burns again (not jealous, I’m not jealous, not jealous) as his eyes are drawn down to where Dean’s non-beer-wielding hand frames his fly. Right there, on the makings (or the remnants? Jesus, only Dean Fucking Winchester could get laid in a voting booth) of a nice boner, was the American flag, boasting that Dean’s dick had clearly voted today. Sam doesn’t have a hard time predicting what it had voted in favor of, either.
“Well. It’s nice to know you could mix in a little illicit sex with your illegal voting. You’re the American Dream personified, Dean.”
Five seconds ago Sam was slouched alone on the raggedy sofa, and now his ear’s ringing and his shoulder’s drenched and his lap glitters with shards of broken brown glass. Dean’s beer hand is suddenly empty, and Sam stares across at him, flinching a little at the gleaming green fury Dean’s eyes direct his way. He braces himself when he sees Dean’s mouth open, expecting a verbal onslaught to follow the flying beer bottle, but the voice comes out soft and raspy instead.
“Fortnight believes sex offenders can be rehabbed, even though any first-year psychiatry student will tell you that 99.999% of them can’t, and will still have a craving for raping five-year-old-boys when they’re seventy. Sentences them too light. Robinson gives ‘em the max -NO parole- AND mandates they have to wear ankle bracelets for twenty years after they get out.”
Sam just stares now, trying to catch Dean’s eye but Dean looks to be staring at the beer smear on the wall above Sam’s shoulder as he reaches for a new bottle and keeps talking.
“All Johnson yaks about is building that fucking wall on the border, even though this isn’t even close to being a border town. You hear the way some of these people around here talk about immigrants? Like they’re ignorant and stupid? Less than people? Like their great great granddad didn’t stow away to try and give his kids something better than he had? Like they wouldn’t do anything -ANYTHING- if their own kids were going hungry? Serve those fucking rednecks right to have to answer to someone by the name of Perez, wouldn’t it?”
First Sam’s embarrassed to be caught drinking up Dean’s beer, then jealous that Dean couldn’t even keep it in his pants when he voted, and now Sam’s face is flushing hot for the third time in fifteen minutes, but this time it’s much, much worse. He’s red-faced with shame. Sam opens his mouth to say he’s sorry -so sorry- but Dean just keeps talking and drinking his beer. Sam feels another piece of glass fall onto his shoulder, the beer that had been holding it to the wall above him drying as Dean softly outlines his personal political platform.
“Gotta admit, I don’t know so much about Reed. Or LaRossum. But did you see the condition of that elementary school when we were in there exorcising the old principal’s ghost? The ceiling tiles were rotting, and the radiators clunked and didn’t work in half the rooms, and all the missing tiles in the bathrooms? There were fucking cockroaches in the cafeteria, Sam! Nobody who was a teacher is going to put up with the schools being in that shitty of a condition. The kids that live here deserve better, and I’m betting she’ll do something about it.”
Dean falls silent then, but finally meets Sam’s gaze. Sam expects him to be offended, and defiant, but instead Dean just looks...hurt.
“Was just yankin’ your chain, Sammy, with all that talk. You’re so cute when you get all wound up, you know? But I didn’t realize your opinion of me was so low that you couldn’t see through it.” Dean stands, draining the rest of his beer and turning away as he sets it carefully on the wobbly table next to his elbow. “Joke’s on me, I guess,” he calls softly back, profile sharp in the Texas twilight seeping through the single window. “Definitely explains why you’re so dead set on high-tailing it back to college for that law degree when we find Dad, though, doesn’t it?”
Sam stares a hole between Dean’s shoulder blades, and Sam knows he can feel it, but Dean ignores him and just closes the bathroom door behind him with a subdued click. Sam hears the faucet squeak and the shower whine to life a moment later. Getting a sudden picture of a bare-footed Dean exiting the shower and stepping on those glass shards, Sam snatches at the newsprint and carefully unfolds it, papering the greasy-flat carpet. He watches some of the beer soak into it before standing up and gently brushing himself off. Sam’s eyes sting and he blinks back tears, but when he kneels down next to the chair to pick out any remnants of Budweiser glass, they slip out anyway and he doesn’t bother to wipe them away.
Sam’s waiting, hunched on the toilet when Dean finally steps out of the shower. There’s no way Dean couldn’t have heard him come in, but he seems content to ignore the intrusion, just reaching for his customary share of the towels -meaning: all of them- and not meeting Sam’s eyes. Sam blocks him, though, fingers reaching out and clasping Dean at the hip-points, pulling him close. Dean doesn’t fight him, but he’s stiff under Sam’s grip, clearly employing the Endure and Ignore plan of action to get past this part as quick as he can. Sam bends his neck, turning his face into Dean’s damp hair as the humidity rises between them in a palpable fog, but Dean’s chin lifts, defiant and resistant, turning away from Sam’s nuzzle. Sam tries to think of the right words, but knows Dean won’t want any of them. Besides, how well can “I’m sorry I thought you were a superficial jackass?” translate, anyway?
There’s only one way to beat Dean when he’s like this, because he’s Dean Winchester, dammit, and nobody, but nobody, gets through those defenses without a plan. Sam’s got to catch him off guard. Sam’s fingers tighten on Dean’s shower-slippery pelvis, and where he was holding Dean close, now he pushes him away to arm’s length, steadying him as the back of Dean’s calves meet the edge of the grimy tub. Just as Sam guesses, Dean’s head -jaw set and eyes suspiciously bright- jerks up to evaluate this sudden tactical change. Sam catches Dean’s gaze, and knows his brother can’t break it so easily now.
“You’re tougher on the bad guys than Robinson. Tougher than anyone I know. Maybe even more than Dad. You’ve looked out for -protected- more people than Perez and all his descendants ever will, and you never once cared if they were poor or what color their skin was or where they came from. And no matter how good LaRossum is, you’ve saved more kids than she can. And you taught me more than any teacher or professor ever will.”
Dean’s mouth is open now, the hard line that his lips were in a moment ago gone soft and twitching, and Sam fights to not let his eyes spill over. He doesn’t care at all if Dean sees him cry, but Sam knows if he starts up, that the shimmering in Dean’s eyes will probably leak as well, and Dean will be pissed as all hell at him for causing that.
“Dean, if you were on a ballot anywhere, I’d vote. I’d vote as Sammy Martin, and then I’d cheat and come back again as Dean Davis, and forge another card to get in as Ishmael Jacobsen. I’d campaign, and I’d rig the machines, and I’d stuff the ballot boxes. Because you...you... Fuck, Dean. You’ve served the public better than anyone who’s ever been on a ballot. Better than anyone can ever even dream of doing. I’d do anything and everything to vote for you, Dean, and never once question the morality of it.”
Dean stands absolutely stone-still then, staring up at Sam, and Sam breaks the gridlock of their mutual stare long enough to watch Dean’s adam’s apple bob thickly in his throat, then looks back to see Dean smiling shyly up at him.
“Really?” Dean breathes, and Sam feels his eyecorners crinkle a little as he nods the affirmative.
“Really, Dean.” Dean shudders then, but Sam’s fingers re-tighten at his hipbones. He’s not letting go now.
“Well.” Dean’s throat growls, clearing. “Guess that officially makes you my bitch, then, doesn’t it Sammy?” Sam laughs, shaking his head, mumbling something about whatever and you wish but the tension between them is dissolving and slips away, like soap down the shower drain.
“Quite a grip ya got there, Sammy-boy,” Dean grins, winking at Sam who’s blushing again, but instead of relinquishing his hold on Dean’s hips, he steps closer into his brother’s space and leans his head in toward Dean’s ear.
“You complaining?” he whispers, grinning as he watches gooseflesh prickle across the place where Dean’s neck tendons meet his shoulder.
“I will be if you don’t do something about the goddammed fingerprints you’re leaving all over my nice clean body.”
Sam looks down, ignoring Dean’s small sound of protest as he pushes him back far enough to see what Dean’s talking about. Sure enough, two sets of Sam’s inky fingerprints frame Dean’s pelvis and Sam knows there must be another under where his fingertips now rest. Between reading the newspaper with a beer bottle in his hands and cleaning up the wet remains of Dean’s shattered Budweiser with it, Sam’s fingers are blackened like a Louisiana catfish and leaving marks everywhere he touches Dean’s showerslick skin. A couple of the prints are so perfect he can discern his own whorls tattooed over the blue veins on Dean’s hips.
Sam thinks that might be the hottest fucking thing he’s ever seen.
Looking at Dean without raising his head, Sam’s gaze slides up through his messy hair to meet Dean’s stare, and he smiles a slow, predatory smile.
“No,” he whispers, soft and deliberate.
“N-no?” Dean breathes in return, and Sam shakes his head.
“I’m leaving them there. The next time you get caught doing something illegal, they can print you down here too and they’ll know who you really belong to.” Dean’s breath hitches, and Sam can feel Dean’s heretofore stubborn cock finally nudging itself to life against Sam’s groin.
“Christ, Sammy. You- you- Jeezus.” Dean gasps, pressing himself against Sam and grinding. His mouth searches out Sam’s and his tongue paints Sam’s lips, Sam’s smile blooming bright with intent under Dean’s attentions. He whispers to Dean again, grinding his denim-ed crotch against Dean’s now-stiffened dick for emphasis.
“Do that again, Dean. Fuck yeah. Do it again.” Pliant -Sam would almost say obedient- Dean happily complies, warm tongue snaking out to worm its way back and forth across Sam’s mouth. Sam moans, and Dean sighs back happily, but when his lips finally feel super-slick with Dean’s spit Sam pulls back and breaks the kiss. Before Dean can shake his lust-muzzy head and vocalize a protest, Sam’s at last letting go of Dean’s left hip and rubbing his inky fingers against his own wet mouth, watching Dean who’s avidly watching Sam’s lips and panting softly.
“Uh...uhm...”
...and that’s pretty much all Dean can muster up before Sam’s glance in the mirror confirms his lips are well and truly tarred and he sinks to his knees in front of Dean. Sam’s eyes dance and he sees Dean’s get black and smoky in return.
“Might as well mark you everywhere that counts, right?” Dean’s ‘oh fuck-hell yes’ is garbled and nearly unintelligible to anyone who isn’t Sam, but Sam smiles and ducks and sucks just the very end of Dean’s cock into an open-mouthed pucker, sealing his lips tight and pressing while the tip of his tongue delicately dabs away the silvery drop that was waiting for him. When he pulls back Dean’s protesting...a bunch of ‘pleases’ and ‘god Sammys’ and one very, very clear ‘I’ll do anything you want later, just don’t stop’ all garbled together, but even Dean stops talking and gasps when Sam grins up at him, his long fingers grasping Dean’s stiffened dick and bending it up for him to see.
There -on the very end of it- rests a perfect black pucker-print, Sam’s mark on him plain as could be. Dean groans, gasping again.
“Shit. SHIT Sammy. Shouldn’t...shouldn’t have...oh god. Oh f-fuck. Oh god...”
It’s Sam’s turn to gasp, then, because suddenly Dean’s exploding in his hand, come jumping out from between Sam’s black lipmarks and spurting over his jaw. Sam drops his mouth open and lays Dean’s cockhead on his flattened tongue, looking up at Dean and letting him see the waning spurts pool on his tongue before he finally closes his mouth around Dean and swallows. Up until now Dean hasn’t moved much, hasn’t thrust, just looks down in awe at his brother’s mouth caverned open around his orgasm, but once Sam’s lips close it trips a switch inside him and Dean shoves as deep as he can go, poking and pushing again and again, hands cupping Sam’s head, until he finally starts to soften and slow.
Sam’s trembling himself by the time he finally releases Dean’s fat, softened cock, knees cold on the bathroom floor and his own dick hard and hurting inside his jeans. He nuzzles up into Dean’s balls, rubbing them with his hair and breathing heavily on the insides of Dean’s thighs. They end up at the bed, somehow, and Dean spirits away his clothes with secret words and soft fingers, and Sam feels like he’s being worshipped with both. Sam can’t help it, he starts laughing in the middle of everything, and Dean manages to look offended until Sam tugs him upright and points to both of their reflections in the cracked full-length mirror on the closet door. Dean’s got gray-black kissprints all over his face and torso to go along with the grip-marks on his hips, and even Sam’s beginning to look dingy from revisiting the places he’s already licked and kissed and smearing himself in return. They grin at each other in the glass, and then suddenly Dean’s jumping across the room and scrounging for something on the bathroom floor. When he climbs back into bed -climbing back onto Sam- Sam sees he’s got the stupid fucking “I voted today” sticker plastered to his left nipple.
“What’re you voting for now, Dean? Another blowjob? Predictable. And, therefore, lame.”
“Shows what you know, Sammy. Not a what. It’s a who.”
“Yeah?” Sam grins, guessing at Dean’s intent. “And what election did I win?”
“You didn’t win shit, you smug little bitch. I did. And I voted for myself, which, by the way, is perfectly legal.” Dean’s the one who looks smug, and Sam rolls his eyes, trying to hide the little niggle of disappointment. It didn’t pay, after all, to expect confessions of love and adoration from Dean Winchester. He knows that by now.
“Fine, Dean. What did YOU win?”
Dean leans down, proning himself flat and pressing Sam down into the lumpy mattress. He mouths at Sam’s lipcorner for a minute without answering, teasing it and rubbing his nose along the bridge of Sam’s before raising his head and smiling down at him. It’s the kind of smile he doesn’t get much from Dean, only in his most vulnerable, indulgent moments and those Dean’ll deny later. Sam knows this, and his heart ribbits in his chest.
“I’m the new Chief Lucky Bastard of Davis County Texas, of course.” Dean rolls to his back, pulling Sam up and over and aligning his straining cock with Dean’s mouth.
“Now c’mere so I can thank my constituency with inappropriate sexual favors.”
Author: girlguidejones
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating/word count: NC-17; 3800 words
Warnings: Graphic Wincest and gratuitous use of political jargon; possible abuse of tenses.
Disclaimer: If there is a real Davis County or a Troutsboro Texas it's news to me. No actual dissing of either intended. All characters property of Kripke and the C-Dub. If I had to choose between owning Sam and Dean and not being screwed out of my vote today, I'd choose...well. Lemme get back to you. I sure as hell don't profit from either, I can tell you that.
Author's notes: Written for wendy who got the idea of vote!fic from nightchik. mereperisflage also enabled.
Summary: It's election time, 2005, and Dean wants to vote. Yeah, that's right. Dean.
“Robinson or Fortnight for judge?”
“Robinson all the way.”
“Why?”
“Dude. Have you seen her legs?”
“Even if we were still going to be here next week and it actually mattered, I’m pretty sure those get covered up by the floor-length black robes, Dean.”
“Doesn’t matter. Thinking of reaching my hand up under there and touching those legs in between jury recesses is jack-off fodder for at least a month.”
“Kinky.”
“Oh yeah.”
“But can’t you still imagine it even if she doesn’t win?”
“It’s just not the same, Sammy. I’ve got to have some degree of authenticity to things.”
Sam snorts and just shakes his head, turning the newspaper page and leaning back, doing the commuter fold and sipping his beer as he speed-reads the next editorial recap for the county commissioner slot. Stealing a glance at Dean as he scans the online board of elections site at the same time, Sam once again wonders what Dean gets out of this.
“Perez or Johnson for Davis county commissioner?”
“Sam. How could you even consider Johnson? The man is single, never been married, goes to church twice a week, doesn’t smoke, gamble or drink- he’s a fucking monk. This’d probably be a dry county next week if he had his way.” Dean punctuated the importance of such disastrous consequences by downing a generous swig of his Budweiser.
“He wants to pave that shitty road we drove in on, though. And he got that big auto parts warehouse to re-locate here. Brought lots of jobs.”
“Whatever, Sammy. Made up my mind already. Man has a constitutional right to his beer.”
“Pretty sure that Adams and Jefferson didn’t exactly spell that one out, Dean.”
“Yeah, well, they should have.”
Sam rolled his eyes and went silent. The Dean Winchester philosophy of candidate selection left a lot to be desired. For that matter, Sam couldn’t fathom why Dean was hell-bent to vote -illegally- in this little podunk election anyway. 2005 was an off-year, with no governor or Congressional seats to determine, just a bunch of local political skirmishes the outcomes of which he and Dean would never even experience, much less care about. “Sammy Martin” and “Dean Lee Davis” would be gone next week, and probably would never see the pot-hole-ridden streets of Troutsboro, Texas again.
“Reed for board of education?”
“Sam! Why the hell would you vote for Reed when you could look at LaRossum’s cleavage during every PTA meeting? And, she’s an ex-teacher, which adds a whole ‘nuther level to ‘hot for teacher’ daydreams.”
“Jesus Christ, Dean. You’re not only obsessed with the idea of voting illegally in this backwater town but every vote you plan to cast is completely corrupt. What the fuck is your deal, anyway?”
But Dean refuses to be goaded and calmly snaps the lid shut on the laptop. “I happen to be a very civic-minded guy, Sam. Now shut up and get in the car. Damn polling place is clear across town. Which, granted, is only four-and-a-half blocks in this little burg, but still...”
“I’m not going.” Sam folds his newspaper, crossing his arms across his chest.
“Quit being a little bitch and get in the car, Sam. Polls close in an hour. Besides, if you don’t go, they’ll be nobody to vote the complete opposite of my “corrupt” ticket and cancel out my “illegal” vote.”
“Your vote is illegal, you idiot!” Sam twists the Special Election Edition up in his hands, the condensation from the beer bottle smearing the ink onto his fingertips.
“So what? I’m voting my conscience.”
“Your conscience? Really? Where exactly did you manage to come across it? The vending machine on the second floor?”
“Fuck you Sam. Get in the car.”
“What part of ‘I’m not voting’ don’t you get, Dean?”
“What part of “get the stick outta your ass” don’t you get, Sam? We’ve done way worse for no better reason.”
“Because I’m going to be a lawyer someday, asshole. You know? Practice of THE LAW? Upholding the code set forth by the judicial and legislative branches that are LEGALLY chosen by the electorate? Forgive me if I managed to keep some sort of an ethical compass despite growing up with YOU as a role model.”
“You got no problems drinking beer that Ishmael Jacobsen bought and paid for, but you’ve got moral issues with casting a vote as Sammy Martin? What-the-fuck-ever, Sam. Stay here and be a whiny bitch by yourself. I’m voting.”
The cheesy ceramic knick-knacks on the tiny shelf over the TV rattle precariously as Dean slams out of the room, but Sam stays where he is, suddenly, unnaturally cold and unwilling to get up and do anything about it. He drinks the rest of Ishmael’s beer, staring at the divot in the wall where the door chain smacked against the plaster as Dean stormed away. Pulling the bottles one at a time out of the padded vinyl ice bucket, he thumbs through the rest of the election docket. After each race, he hypothesizes which of the candidates Dean will support. If the contest is male versus female, that makes the choice rather simple. But male versus male (there are no all-female ballot battles; this is Texas, after all) is trickier. If only one guy was an NRA member, Sam figures he has Dean’s vote. Or if one’s ex-military and the other isn’t, Sam figures that’s getting the Dad-loyalty vote from Dean. Once he puts his mind to it, he figures he can predict Dean’s ballot with approximately 95% certainty, and idly wonders if there’s any sort of career in campaign managing for people with his analytical skills. If all voters are as predictable as Dean, he could make a fortune.
Dean returns just as Sam’s reaching for the beer his brother left half of behind. It’s lukewarm by now, but the point isn’t drinking more beer so much as it’s drinking ALL of the beer and leaving none for Dean. Sam flushes when Dean cocks that stupidly hot (and why did it have to still be hot even when Sam was pissed at him?) brow at Sam, nodding knowingly and brandishing a brand-new six pack from behind his jacket.
“Not so dumb as all that, baby brother. You’re so fucking predictable, Sammy. It’s just sad.” Sam startles, Dean’s talk of Sam’s predictability uncomfortably mirroring his own thoughts about Dean from a minute ago.
“Have fun corrupting the electoral system, honey?” Sam tries to cover, saccharine-sweet voice mocking Dean, but his shit-eating grin says Dean’s having none of it.
“Sure did, darlin’.” Dean thumbs open the cap of a new beer and plops down onto the bed. “You shoulda seen this one poll-worker. Fucking hottest thing I’ve seen in this whole county. Had to fake not knowing how to fill out my ballot so I could get a little one-on-one assistance. Heh.” Dean holds up what presumably is the approximately one-millionth Easy Chicks-R-Us phone number this year. “She even helped me with my sticker.” Sam’s face burns again (not jealous, I’m not jealous, not jealous) as his eyes are drawn down to where Dean’s non-beer-wielding hand frames his fly. Right there, on the makings (or the remnants? Jesus, only Dean Fucking Winchester could get laid in a voting booth) of a nice boner, was the American flag, boasting that Dean’s dick had clearly voted today. Sam doesn’t have a hard time predicting what it had voted in favor of, either.
“Well. It’s nice to know you could mix in a little illicit sex with your illegal voting. You’re the American Dream personified, Dean.”
Five seconds ago Sam was slouched alone on the raggedy sofa, and now his ear’s ringing and his shoulder’s drenched and his lap glitters with shards of broken brown glass. Dean’s beer hand is suddenly empty, and Sam stares across at him, flinching a little at the gleaming green fury Dean’s eyes direct his way. He braces himself when he sees Dean’s mouth open, expecting a verbal onslaught to follow the flying beer bottle, but the voice comes out soft and raspy instead.
“Fortnight believes sex offenders can be rehabbed, even though any first-year psychiatry student will tell you that 99.999% of them can’t, and will still have a craving for raping five-year-old-boys when they’re seventy. Sentences them too light. Robinson gives ‘em the max -NO parole- AND mandates they have to wear ankle bracelets for twenty years after they get out.”
Sam just stares now, trying to catch Dean’s eye but Dean looks to be staring at the beer smear on the wall above Sam’s shoulder as he reaches for a new bottle and keeps talking.
“All Johnson yaks about is building that fucking wall on the border, even though this isn’t even close to being a border town. You hear the way some of these people around here talk about immigrants? Like they’re ignorant and stupid? Less than people? Like their great great granddad didn’t stow away to try and give his kids something better than he had? Like they wouldn’t do anything -ANYTHING- if their own kids were going hungry? Serve those fucking rednecks right to have to answer to someone by the name of Perez, wouldn’t it?”
First Sam’s embarrassed to be caught drinking up Dean’s beer, then jealous that Dean couldn’t even keep it in his pants when he voted, and now Sam’s face is flushing hot for the third time in fifteen minutes, but this time it’s much, much worse. He’s red-faced with shame. Sam opens his mouth to say he’s sorry -so sorry- but Dean just keeps talking and drinking his beer. Sam feels another piece of glass fall onto his shoulder, the beer that had been holding it to the wall above him drying as Dean softly outlines his personal political platform.
“Gotta admit, I don’t know so much about Reed. Or LaRossum. But did you see the condition of that elementary school when we were in there exorcising the old principal’s ghost? The ceiling tiles were rotting, and the radiators clunked and didn’t work in half the rooms, and all the missing tiles in the bathrooms? There were fucking cockroaches in the cafeteria, Sam! Nobody who was a teacher is going to put up with the schools being in that shitty of a condition. The kids that live here deserve better, and I’m betting she’ll do something about it.”
Dean falls silent then, but finally meets Sam’s gaze. Sam expects him to be offended, and defiant, but instead Dean just looks...hurt.
“Was just yankin’ your chain, Sammy, with all that talk. You’re so cute when you get all wound up, you know? But I didn’t realize your opinion of me was so low that you couldn’t see through it.” Dean stands, draining the rest of his beer and turning away as he sets it carefully on the wobbly table next to his elbow. “Joke’s on me, I guess,” he calls softly back, profile sharp in the Texas twilight seeping through the single window. “Definitely explains why you’re so dead set on high-tailing it back to college for that law degree when we find Dad, though, doesn’t it?”
Sam stares a hole between Dean’s shoulder blades, and Sam knows he can feel it, but Dean ignores him and just closes the bathroom door behind him with a subdued click. Sam hears the faucet squeak and the shower whine to life a moment later. Getting a sudden picture of a bare-footed Dean exiting the shower and stepping on those glass shards, Sam snatches at the newsprint and carefully unfolds it, papering the greasy-flat carpet. He watches some of the beer soak into it before standing up and gently brushing himself off. Sam’s eyes sting and he blinks back tears, but when he kneels down next to the chair to pick out any remnants of Budweiser glass, they slip out anyway and he doesn’t bother to wipe them away.
Sam’s waiting, hunched on the toilet when Dean finally steps out of the shower. There’s no way Dean couldn’t have heard him come in, but he seems content to ignore the intrusion, just reaching for his customary share of the towels -meaning: all of them- and not meeting Sam’s eyes. Sam blocks him, though, fingers reaching out and clasping Dean at the hip-points, pulling him close. Dean doesn’t fight him, but he’s stiff under Sam’s grip, clearly employing the Endure and Ignore plan of action to get past this part as quick as he can. Sam bends his neck, turning his face into Dean’s damp hair as the humidity rises between them in a palpable fog, but Dean’s chin lifts, defiant and resistant, turning away from Sam’s nuzzle. Sam tries to think of the right words, but knows Dean won’t want any of them. Besides, how well can “I’m sorry I thought you were a superficial jackass?” translate, anyway?
There’s only one way to beat Dean when he’s like this, because he’s Dean Winchester, dammit, and nobody, but nobody, gets through those defenses without a plan. Sam’s got to catch him off guard. Sam’s fingers tighten on Dean’s shower-slippery pelvis, and where he was holding Dean close, now he pushes him away to arm’s length, steadying him as the back of Dean’s calves meet the edge of the grimy tub. Just as Sam guesses, Dean’s head -jaw set and eyes suspiciously bright- jerks up to evaluate this sudden tactical change. Sam catches Dean’s gaze, and knows his brother can’t break it so easily now.
“You’re tougher on the bad guys than Robinson. Tougher than anyone I know. Maybe even more than Dad. You’ve looked out for -protected- more people than Perez and all his descendants ever will, and you never once cared if they were poor or what color their skin was or where they came from. And no matter how good LaRossum is, you’ve saved more kids than she can. And you taught me more than any teacher or professor ever will.”
Dean’s mouth is open now, the hard line that his lips were in a moment ago gone soft and twitching, and Sam fights to not let his eyes spill over. He doesn’t care at all if Dean sees him cry, but Sam knows if he starts up, that the shimmering in Dean’s eyes will probably leak as well, and Dean will be pissed as all hell at him for causing that.
“Dean, if you were on a ballot anywhere, I’d vote. I’d vote as Sammy Martin, and then I’d cheat and come back again as Dean Davis, and forge another card to get in as Ishmael Jacobsen. I’d campaign, and I’d rig the machines, and I’d stuff the ballot boxes. Because you...you... Fuck, Dean. You’ve served the public better than anyone who’s ever been on a ballot. Better than anyone can ever even dream of doing. I’d do anything and everything to vote for you, Dean, and never once question the morality of it.”
Dean stands absolutely stone-still then, staring up at Sam, and Sam breaks the gridlock of their mutual stare long enough to watch Dean’s adam’s apple bob thickly in his throat, then looks back to see Dean smiling shyly up at him.
“Really?” Dean breathes, and Sam feels his eyecorners crinkle a little as he nods the affirmative.
“Really, Dean.” Dean shudders then, but Sam’s fingers re-tighten at his hipbones. He’s not letting go now.
“Well.” Dean’s throat growls, clearing. “Guess that officially makes you my bitch, then, doesn’t it Sammy?” Sam laughs, shaking his head, mumbling something about whatever and you wish but the tension between them is dissolving and slips away, like soap down the shower drain.
“Quite a grip ya got there, Sammy-boy,” Dean grins, winking at Sam who’s blushing again, but instead of relinquishing his hold on Dean’s hips, he steps closer into his brother’s space and leans his head in toward Dean’s ear.
“You complaining?” he whispers, grinning as he watches gooseflesh prickle across the place where Dean’s neck tendons meet his shoulder.
“I will be if you don’t do something about the goddammed fingerprints you’re leaving all over my nice clean body.”
Sam looks down, ignoring Dean’s small sound of protest as he pushes him back far enough to see what Dean’s talking about. Sure enough, two sets of Sam’s inky fingerprints frame Dean’s pelvis and Sam knows there must be another under where his fingertips now rest. Between reading the newspaper with a beer bottle in his hands and cleaning up the wet remains of Dean’s shattered Budweiser with it, Sam’s fingers are blackened like a Louisiana catfish and leaving marks everywhere he touches Dean’s showerslick skin. A couple of the prints are so perfect he can discern his own whorls tattooed over the blue veins on Dean’s hips.
Sam thinks that might be the hottest fucking thing he’s ever seen.
Looking at Dean without raising his head, Sam’s gaze slides up through his messy hair to meet Dean’s stare, and he smiles a slow, predatory smile.
“No,” he whispers, soft and deliberate.
“N-no?” Dean breathes in return, and Sam shakes his head.
“I’m leaving them there. The next time you get caught doing something illegal, they can print you down here too and they’ll know who you really belong to.” Dean’s breath hitches, and Sam can feel Dean’s heretofore stubborn cock finally nudging itself to life against Sam’s groin.
“Christ, Sammy. You- you- Jeezus.” Dean gasps, pressing himself against Sam and grinding. His mouth searches out Sam’s and his tongue paints Sam’s lips, Sam’s smile blooming bright with intent under Dean’s attentions. He whispers to Dean again, grinding his denim-ed crotch against Dean’s now-stiffened dick for emphasis.
“Do that again, Dean. Fuck yeah. Do it again.” Pliant -Sam would almost say obedient- Dean happily complies, warm tongue snaking out to worm its way back and forth across Sam’s mouth. Sam moans, and Dean sighs back happily, but when his lips finally feel super-slick with Dean’s spit Sam pulls back and breaks the kiss. Before Dean can shake his lust-muzzy head and vocalize a protest, Sam’s at last letting go of Dean’s left hip and rubbing his inky fingers against his own wet mouth, watching Dean who’s avidly watching Sam’s lips and panting softly.
“Uh...uhm...”
...and that’s pretty much all Dean can muster up before Sam’s glance in the mirror confirms his lips are well and truly tarred and he sinks to his knees in front of Dean. Sam’s eyes dance and he sees Dean’s get black and smoky in return.
“Might as well mark you everywhere that counts, right?” Dean’s ‘oh fuck-hell yes’ is garbled and nearly unintelligible to anyone who isn’t Sam, but Sam smiles and ducks and sucks just the very end of Dean’s cock into an open-mouthed pucker, sealing his lips tight and pressing while the tip of his tongue delicately dabs away the silvery drop that was waiting for him. When he pulls back Dean’s protesting...a bunch of ‘pleases’ and ‘god Sammys’ and one very, very clear ‘I’ll do anything you want later, just don’t stop’ all garbled together, but even Dean stops talking and gasps when Sam grins up at him, his long fingers grasping Dean’s stiffened dick and bending it up for him to see.
There -on the very end of it- rests a perfect black pucker-print, Sam’s mark on him plain as could be. Dean groans, gasping again.
“Shit. SHIT Sammy. Shouldn’t...shouldn’t have...oh god. Oh f-fuck. Oh god...”
It’s Sam’s turn to gasp, then, because suddenly Dean’s exploding in his hand, come jumping out from between Sam’s black lipmarks and spurting over his jaw. Sam drops his mouth open and lays Dean’s cockhead on his flattened tongue, looking up at Dean and letting him see the waning spurts pool on his tongue before he finally closes his mouth around Dean and swallows. Up until now Dean hasn’t moved much, hasn’t thrust, just looks down in awe at his brother’s mouth caverned open around his orgasm, but once Sam’s lips close it trips a switch inside him and Dean shoves as deep as he can go, poking and pushing again and again, hands cupping Sam’s head, until he finally starts to soften and slow.
Sam’s trembling himself by the time he finally releases Dean’s fat, softened cock, knees cold on the bathroom floor and his own dick hard and hurting inside his jeans. He nuzzles up into Dean’s balls, rubbing them with his hair and breathing heavily on the insides of Dean’s thighs. They end up at the bed, somehow, and Dean spirits away his clothes with secret words and soft fingers, and Sam feels like he’s being worshipped with both. Sam can’t help it, he starts laughing in the middle of everything, and Dean manages to look offended until Sam tugs him upright and points to both of their reflections in the cracked full-length mirror on the closet door. Dean’s got gray-black kissprints all over his face and torso to go along with the grip-marks on his hips, and even Sam’s beginning to look dingy from revisiting the places he’s already licked and kissed and smearing himself in return. They grin at each other in the glass, and then suddenly Dean’s jumping across the room and scrounging for something on the bathroom floor. When he climbs back into bed -climbing back onto Sam- Sam sees he’s got the stupid fucking “I voted today” sticker plastered to his left nipple.
“What’re you voting for now, Dean? Another blowjob? Predictable. And, therefore, lame.”
“Shows what you know, Sammy. Not a what. It’s a who.”
“Yeah?” Sam grins, guessing at Dean’s intent. “And what election did I win?”
“You didn’t win shit, you smug little bitch. I did. And I voted for myself, which, by the way, is perfectly legal.” Dean’s the one who looks smug, and Sam rolls his eyes, trying to hide the little niggle of disappointment. It didn’t pay, after all, to expect confessions of love and adoration from Dean Winchester. He knows that by now.
“Fine, Dean. What did YOU win?”
Dean leans down, proning himself flat and pressing Sam down into the lumpy mattress. He mouths at Sam’s lipcorner for a minute without answering, teasing it and rubbing his nose along the bridge of Sam’s before raising his head and smiling down at him. It’s the kind of smile he doesn’t get much from Dean, only in his most vulnerable, indulgent moments and those Dean’ll deny later. Sam knows this, and his heart ribbits in his chest.
“I’m the new Chief Lucky Bastard of Davis County Texas, of course.” Dean rolls to his back, pulling Sam up and over and aligning his straining cock with Dean’s mouth.
“Now c’mere so I can thank my constituency with inappropriate sexual favors.”