The Ballad of the Invisible Boy: Part Eight.
Part Seven.
Sam is awake when Dad leaves before dawn. He listens to him getting ready: the practiced, intent sounds of a man with a mission. He doesn’t try to be quiet when he comes through the livingroom where Dean sleeps and Sam pretends.
He watches Dad from under nearly-closed lashes, watches him pack up a few cans of tuna, a pack of crackers, and some bottles of water. He watches him glance around the cabin and Sam can read his mind, could recite his mental checklist for the road. He watches him check beneath his coat, at the small of his back for his gun. He’s nearly at the door before he finally looks over at the bed, gaze catching on Dean for a few precious seconds before he’s looking right at Sam.
Sam doesn’t move, knows better than to close his eyes completely. He keeps his breath even and deep and wonders what his dad sees, wonders if his thoughts are stressed or warm when he sees Sam, small and awkward and smart and smartass and custom-built with a fierceness that stays quiet most of the time. Most of the time. But it can shake foundations. Can cut right to Dad’s core and Sam doesn’t know how Dad can love him, sometimes. But he hopes he can this morning. Hopes he can take good thoughts with him with a smile.
And there it is, the tiniest hint of a smile playing at Dad’s tired face and then there’s the squeak-creak of the door and a sharp, slicing burst of icy cold and then he’s gone, just like that. Heavy boots on old wood, comforting sound of the driver door whining and then that engine. Sam mentally pulls himself back inside out of the cold, away from Dad’s mind and he looks over at Dean laying next to him, oblivious and asleep and unbothered by anything.
Sam knows that he doesn’t really need Dad here. It’s never been about Dad, or it hasn’t been for a long time. Dean is the one he’s always wanted to stay home, wanted right here beside him. And he’s starting to feel old enough to take care of Dean right back. Like maybe he’ll be good at it, someday.
“I’ll take care of you, too,” Sam whispers to Dean, staring so-close at his face, at the slight tremble of his eyelashes, the pliant pink of his mouth.
He falls back asleep before he has a single other thought, his fingers tangled shyly with Dean’s, paused by sleep while pretending that he’s allowed to do such a thing.
--
The electricity comes on around noon. Sam can hear Dean’s triumphant whoop from outside where he’s dragging in more firewood and he beams, takes off for the cabin at a run. He bursts inside, arms cradling big chunks of wood and there’s Dean, shimmying in slow motion with a grin on his face, the dingy, naked bulb above him flickering bright.
“Power on?” He hugs the wood to his chest, a smile digging at the corners of his mouth.
“Oh, yeah,” Dean gets out one more wiggle of his butt before he claps, letting out a celebratory bark of laughter. “Let’s keep the fire going though, alright? No need to waste more of the man’s electricity than we have to.”
Sam nods, crouching down to start adding wood to the fire. He sniffles a little but pretends he doesn’t notice that his nose is running. The cold that’s coming on is inevitable, but he plans on ignoring it for as long as he can.
He jumps when a car horn blares outside, the sound of it echoing in the trees around them. Sam turns to look at Dean, his eyes wide, a little afraid. Dean smiles at him and just the sight of it calms Sam down a ridiculous amount. He leans into it when Dean’s hand lights on his head, fingers digging into his hair.
“It’s okay, Sammy. It’s Joe, that kid who rang us up at Wal-Mart yesterday? He made a special delivery for me. Hey, I’ll be right back, okay? Maybe start pickin’ out what you want for lunch.”
“Yeah, Dean,” Sam says softly, going unheard as Dean practically skips out of the house. Sam smiles after him, shaking his head as he gets to his feet again. He can’t imagine what Joe could have brought from Wal-Mart that could make Dean so happy.
--
Two fried Spam sandwiches later, it’s well after noon and the snow has picked up again outside. Dean had stayed outside in the cold for nearly half an hour while Sam fried up the thick slices of Spam, sniffling all the while. He’d come back in half-frozen but smiling, wide and lazy, a sweet green smell following him inside.
It had been then that Sam realized Joe probably hadn’t brought Dean anything from Wal-Mart. He’s not entirely sure, but he’s almost positive they don’t sell pot at stores yet.
He doesn’t mind though, not even the tiniest bit. Dean is the absolute best when he’s high, he’s happy and touchy-feely and so, so warm. Sam washes the dishes while Dean gathers up all the tapes Dad had left in a stack on the pushed-aside coffee table, all the tapes from the car that are older than both he and Dean.
Sam doesn’t say so, but he’s glad that Dean has a music player again. Dad had sold Dean’s boombox last fall when money was especially tight, along with their Super Nintendo. Dean hadn’t said anything, but Sam still hasn’t really forgiven their dad for taking those things, silly, indulgent things, from them.
Dean’s camped out on the pull-out bed in under ten minutes, headphones on his ears, eyes closed, pretty smile on his face. Sam takes his time washing the cast-iron skillet he’d unearthed, his eyes on his brother, on the sight of his bare toes, on the sliver of skin exposed between his boxers and his t-shirt.
He’s humming to himself, moving in tiny rolls on the bed, hands curling up on his stomach to very, very lazily mimic a guitar. It takes Sam about five seconds to realize that he’s listening to Led Zeppelin’s self-titled.
He finishes the dishes and blows his nose with the toilet paper they’d bought, already feeling a little feverish and shitty but Dean. Dean’s being so hot and perfect and Sam is not letting this moment pass him by.
Sam strips down to his own boxers and crawls onto the bed next to Dean, already smiling as he tucks himself up under Dean’s arm. Dean moves one headphone back just a little so he can hear Sam.
“Mm,” Dean grunts, arm coming down to wrap around Sam’s shoulders, to pull him close. “You’re burnin’ up.”
“All the hot and cold and hot and cold,” Sam mumbles into Dean’s dirty t-shirt, his nose pressed nearly under Dean’s arm and good god above, he’s in heaven. Dean’s hand tightens a little, starting to massage Sam’s shoulder and Sam nearly moans.
“I’ll make you some tea here in a minute.” Or at least that’s what Sam thinks Dean said. He can barely hear his mumbling over the music blaring at top volume from the crappy little speakers of Dean’s headphones. Sam looks up at Dean and snorts.
“Dean. We don’t have tea. We’ve never had tea.”
“Well.” Dean pauses, obviously deep in thought. “Hot chocolate, then. I got some at the Wal-Mart store. With marshmallows. Marsh. Mallows. Marshymallows.”
“Okay, Dean. Thanks.”
“San’wiches were good, Sammy. So good. Takin’ good care of me, you know it?” Sam burns and burns when Dean squeezes his arm again. He flushes so hot that he’s sweating and he just clings to Dean, arm wrapped tight around Dean’s waist. He hears Dean flip the tape over and hit another button to either fast-forward or rewind.
“Such an awesome album. Jesus,” Dean sighs, relaxing back against the bed again. “Can you imagine being alive then? When this debuted? Just sittin’ around, not knowing who Zeppelin is and then all of a sudden this thing exists and it just changes you forever. Just imagine.”
Sam smiles into Dean’s shirt, his eyes barely open but he’s watching Dean’s hand where it’s spread out over his own tummy, where he’s rubbing his stomach high then low, high then low. Sam squirms and keeps his hips back from Dean like he’s learned to do.
“You love Zeppelin more than Dad.” It’s very soft, just a statement, an admiring one. “He likes ‘em but you love ‘em.”
“They’re the best band to ever exist,” Dean replies immediately and adamantly. It’s just a statement, too, no room for argument. No other answers are valid. Sam has seen Dean nearly get into a fistfight with a man twice his age and almost twice his size over Zeppelin. If Dad hadn’t intervened, Sam is sure that Dean would have at least gotten his nose broken for Jimmy Page.
“Why do you love them so much?”
“There are just. There are just some things that can’t be taken from you, Sammy. Not really. I mean. There’s not much that’s mine. Just mine. You know what I mean? I have my clothes. My gun. My knife. But not much else, you know?”
Sam wants to say, you have me. Every single inch and thought of me is yours, whether you want it or not.
“But music. Zeppelin. That can’t be taken away. Not ever. By anybody. Somebody could go outside and torch the car next week. All our shit inside. Just gone, like that. I could get fucking shot or have my leg cut off tomorrow. But no matter what happens, I can always come back and ‘Rain Song’ will always exist, just the way it is. It will always make me feel exactly the same way. It will always exist, no matter what anybody does. And so it can always be mine.”
Sam nods fiercely, Dean’s shirt tugged tight because it’s gripped in Sam’s fist. He loves Dean like this, so open and passionate and right here for him, only for him.
“They’re sex and poetry and insane layers of sound and bluesy pagan gods and they can never be duplicated. By anybody. How amazing is that? What they did was new and unheard of. Anything that followed is a shadow. They’re just shadows, Sammy. Even if they’re really fuckin’ good shadows, that’s all they are.”
They lay there in relative quiet for a little bit, listening to “Babe, I’m Gonna Leave You” and Sam watches Dean from his little hiding spot against him, watches his facial expressions, listens to his breathing get faster when the tempo picks up.
“You know Dad saw them in concert once? Drove over to St. Louis to see them at the St. Louis Arena. Four and a half hours away. February 16, 1975.” Sam mouths it along with him, has heard the story a hundred times but Dean loves to tell it, loves to think about how he’s one degree away from a Led Zeppelin concert.
“He got to see them play ‘Stairway.’ ‘Stairway,’ Sammy.” Sam smiles when Dean’s eyes open, red-rimmed and bright, glassy green, to meet his own for emphasis. “And ‘Kashmir.’ Fuck. Can you imagine seeing ‘Kashmir’? Can you fuckin’ imagine?”
Before Sam can answer he hears the unmistakable sound of the guitar that opens ‘You Shook Me’ blaring in Dean’s ears and bleeding out into the whole cabin. Dean moans, actually moans, shifting on the bed. Sam watches Dean’s hips lift and thrust lazing before they settle back down. Sam pulls his bottom lip into his mouth and sucks on it, trying to distract himself from how immediately hard he is just over that, just that sound from Dean and his fucking hips.
“This song is exactly like fucking. Fuck, yeah. Just that deep grind. God, feels so good.” Sam can only watch as Dean rolls his hips to the beat, to that rut and grind of the guitar and Sam almost bites clean through his bottom lip when Dean moves a hand down to his dick to adjust himself. Sam can see the bulge of Dean’s dick there, a little hard just from the song, just the fucking music. He wants to push his hand down, tickle over the little golden hairs trailing down his stomach and into his shorts, wants to take him in his hand and feel him scorch against his palm, just burn there like the center of the sun.
“Yeah, Dean?” He spreads his hand out to rub at Dean’s stomach, slow and lazy and he wants so badly to shove his hips right up against his body, to hump Dean into a screaming, quaking orgasm but he can never, ever do it. Not ever. He twists his legs together, trapping his dick between his thighs a little to give it some relief. Dean’s still moving, still loose-legged and grinding up into whatever he’s picturing in his beautiful, stoned head.
“Yeah, baby,” Dean huffs back. “So fuckin’ good.” Sam almost gasps when Dean’s arm tightens around him, when he drags Sam in closer and Sam just shoves his face into Dean’s sweaty neck, closer to the music just in time for the harmonica to start up and it’s obscene, really, all of this. The gorgeous filth of the song, the heat between the two of them and the beautiful fuck of Dean’s teenage hips.
Sam can see it, Dean’s dick standing up and hard, tenting his dark blue boxers, can see the heavy sway of it under the fabric as Dean moves his hips back and forth. Sam wants to climb him like a stallion, wants to push his little virgin butt right over that dick and see what Dean can do with him. He lets out a tiny sound against Dean’s neck, almost a whimper even as his fingers drag over one of Dean’s hard nipples through his thrift store t-shirt.
“Fuck,” Dean gasps and Sam gasps too, feverishly hot already and he feels like he’s going to pass out from this, from all of this. He rubs at Dean’s nipple with tiny, tiny movements, with terrified fingers. He feels Dean sweating through his clothes and he wants to hold him down and lick him clean, wants every drop on his tongue. He’s beyond disgusting and he knows it, absolutely knows it. He doesn’t want to do that to anyone else, not even Cindy Crawford.
Sam watches Dean’s hand sneak down his body again and grab his dick, hard and ruthless. He squeezes it a few times and Sam pinches Dean’s nipple through his shirt, pinches it hard and Dean’s hips shoot straight up. He watches Dean rub at his dick desperately even as Robert Plant is screaming along with that burning guitar, watches Dean fuck up into his hand and he can feel it all pulsing through Dean’s body, can feel the almost unnatural burn of his skin and the gasping heave of his chest and the unbelievable sounds that Dean keeps trapped in his throat.
The song ends just as Dean comes, right against the flat of his own wide palm. He’s jittery all over, he’s shaking hard and Sam just clutches at him, just watches him ride out of his orgasm and the smell of it hits the air, thick and tangy and overwhelming. Sam digs his hips right up against one of Dean’s hipbones, just presses up desperately and that single point of contact, just that one movement has Sam going off like a fucking firework, coming all against Dean’s side, right when “Dazed and Confused” starts up.
They pant together, Sam clinging pathetically to his big brother as he fights through the come-down, tries so hard to stay quiet, not to make too much sound and freak Dean out. They go still and the song plays on, just as searing and sexy as “You Shook Me.”
Sam dares to glance up at Dean and he’s amazed to see that he’s barely coherent but he’s smiling, a fat, satisfied smile.
“Zep’s better than sex,” Dean rumbles, licking his lips just once before he’s out for the count, leaving Sam shaking at his side through the rest of the song.
next.
Sam is awake when Dad leaves before dawn. He listens to him getting ready: the practiced, intent sounds of a man with a mission. He doesn’t try to be quiet when he comes through the livingroom where Dean sleeps and Sam pretends.
He watches Dad from under nearly-closed lashes, watches him pack up a few cans of tuna, a pack of crackers, and some bottles of water. He watches him glance around the cabin and Sam can read his mind, could recite his mental checklist for the road. He watches him check beneath his coat, at the small of his back for his gun. He’s nearly at the door before he finally looks over at the bed, gaze catching on Dean for a few precious seconds before he’s looking right at Sam.
Sam doesn’t move, knows better than to close his eyes completely. He keeps his breath even and deep and wonders what his dad sees, wonders if his thoughts are stressed or warm when he sees Sam, small and awkward and smart and smartass and custom-built with a fierceness that stays quiet most of the time. Most of the time. But it can shake foundations. Can cut right to Dad’s core and Sam doesn’t know how Dad can love him, sometimes. But he hopes he can this morning. Hopes he can take good thoughts with him with a smile.
And there it is, the tiniest hint of a smile playing at Dad’s tired face and then there’s the squeak-creak of the door and a sharp, slicing burst of icy cold and then he’s gone, just like that. Heavy boots on old wood, comforting sound of the driver door whining and then that engine. Sam mentally pulls himself back inside out of the cold, away from Dad’s mind and he looks over at Dean laying next to him, oblivious and asleep and unbothered by anything.
Sam knows that he doesn’t really need Dad here. It’s never been about Dad, or it hasn’t been for a long time. Dean is the one he’s always wanted to stay home, wanted right here beside him. And he’s starting to feel old enough to take care of Dean right back. Like maybe he’ll be good at it, someday.
“I’ll take care of you, too,” Sam whispers to Dean, staring so-close at his face, at the slight tremble of his eyelashes, the pliant pink of his mouth.
He falls back asleep before he has a single other thought, his fingers tangled shyly with Dean’s, paused by sleep while pretending that he’s allowed to do such a thing.
--
The electricity comes on around noon. Sam can hear Dean’s triumphant whoop from outside where he’s dragging in more firewood and he beams, takes off for the cabin at a run. He bursts inside, arms cradling big chunks of wood and there’s Dean, shimmying in slow motion with a grin on his face, the dingy, naked bulb above him flickering bright.
“Power on?” He hugs the wood to his chest, a smile digging at the corners of his mouth.
“Oh, yeah,” Dean gets out one more wiggle of his butt before he claps, letting out a celebratory bark of laughter. “Let’s keep the fire going though, alright? No need to waste more of the man’s electricity than we have to.”
Sam nods, crouching down to start adding wood to the fire. He sniffles a little but pretends he doesn’t notice that his nose is running. The cold that’s coming on is inevitable, but he plans on ignoring it for as long as he can.
He jumps when a car horn blares outside, the sound of it echoing in the trees around them. Sam turns to look at Dean, his eyes wide, a little afraid. Dean smiles at him and just the sight of it calms Sam down a ridiculous amount. He leans into it when Dean’s hand lights on his head, fingers digging into his hair.
“It’s okay, Sammy. It’s Joe, that kid who rang us up at Wal-Mart yesterday? He made a special delivery for me. Hey, I’ll be right back, okay? Maybe start pickin’ out what you want for lunch.”
“Yeah, Dean,” Sam says softly, going unheard as Dean practically skips out of the house. Sam smiles after him, shaking his head as he gets to his feet again. He can’t imagine what Joe could have brought from Wal-Mart that could make Dean so happy.
--
Two fried Spam sandwiches later, it’s well after noon and the snow has picked up again outside. Dean had stayed outside in the cold for nearly half an hour while Sam fried up the thick slices of Spam, sniffling all the while. He’d come back in half-frozen but smiling, wide and lazy, a sweet green smell following him inside.
It had been then that Sam realized Joe probably hadn’t brought Dean anything from Wal-Mart. He’s not entirely sure, but he’s almost positive they don’t sell pot at stores yet.
He doesn’t mind though, not even the tiniest bit. Dean is the absolute best when he’s high, he’s happy and touchy-feely and so, so warm. Sam washes the dishes while Dean gathers up all the tapes Dad had left in a stack on the pushed-aside coffee table, all the tapes from the car that are older than both he and Dean.
Sam doesn’t say so, but he’s glad that Dean has a music player again. Dad had sold Dean’s boombox last fall when money was especially tight, along with their Super Nintendo. Dean hadn’t said anything, but Sam still hasn’t really forgiven their dad for taking those things, silly, indulgent things, from them.
Dean’s camped out on the pull-out bed in under ten minutes, headphones on his ears, eyes closed, pretty smile on his face. Sam takes his time washing the cast-iron skillet he’d unearthed, his eyes on his brother, on the sight of his bare toes, on the sliver of skin exposed between his boxers and his t-shirt.
He’s humming to himself, moving in tiny rolls on the bed, hands curling up on his stomach to very, very lazily mimic a guitar. It takes Sam about five seconds to realize that he’s listening to Led Zeppelin’s self-titled.
He finishes the dishes and blows his nose with the toilet paper they’d bought, already feeling a little feverish and shitty but Dean. Dean’s being so hot and perfect and Sam is not letting this moment pass him by.
Sam strips down to his own boxers and crawls onto the bed next to Dean, already smiling as he tucks himself up under Dean’s arm. Dean moves one headphone back just a little so he can hear Sam.
“Mm,” Dean grunts, arm coming down to wrap around Sam’s shoulders, to pull him close. “You’re burnin’ up.”
“All the hot and cold and hot and cold,” Sam mumbles into Dean’s dirty t-shirt, his nose pressed nearly under Dean’s arm and good god above, he’s in heaven. Dean’s hand tightens a little, starting to massage Sam’s shoulder and Sam nearly moans.
“I’ll make you some tea here in a minute.” Or at least that’s what Sam thinks Dean said. He can barely hear his mumbling over the music blaring at top volume from the crappy little speakers of Dean’s headphones. Sam looks up at Dean and snorts.
“Dean. We don’t have tea. We’ve never had tea.”
“Well.” Dean pauses, obviously deep in thought. “Hot chocolate, then. I got some at the Wal-Mart store. With marshmallows. Marsh. Mallows. Marshymallows.”
“Okay, Dean. Thanks.”
“San’wiches were good, Sammy. So good. Takin’ good care of me, you know it?” Sam burns and burns when Dean squeezes his arm again. He flushes so hot that he’s sweating and he just clings to Dean, arm wrapped tight around Dean’s waist. He hears Dean flip the tape over and hit another button to either fast-forward or rewind.
“Such an awesome album. Jesus,” Dean sighs, relaxing back against the bed again. “Can you imagine being alive then? When this debuted? Just sittin’ around, not knowing who Zeppelin is and then all of a sudden this thing exists and it just changes you forever. Just imagine.”
Sam smiles into Dean’s shirt, his eyes barely open but he’s watching Dean’s hand where it’s spread out over his own tummy, where he’s rubbing his stomach high then low, high then low. Sam squirms and keeps his hips back from Dean like he’s learned to do.
“You love Zeppelin more than Dad.” It’s very soft, just a statement, an admiring one. “He likes ‘em but you love ‘em.”
“They’re the best band to ever exist,” Dean replies immediately and adamantly. It’s just a statement, too, no room for argument. No other answers are valid. Sam has seen Dean nearly get into a fistfight with a man twice his age and almost twice his size over Zeppelin. If Dad hadn’t intervened, Sam is sure that Dean would have at least gotten his nose broken for Jimmy Page.
“Why do you love them so much?”
“There are just. There are just some things that can’t be taken from you, Sammy. Not really. I mean. There’s not much that’s mine. Just mine. You know what I mean? I have my clothes. My gun. My knife. But not much else, you know?”
Sam wants to say, you have me. Every single inch and thought of me is yours, whether you want it or not.
“But music. Zeppelin. That can’t be taken away. Not ever. By anybody. Somebody could go outside and torch the car next week. All our shit inside. Just gone, like that. I could get fucking shot or have my leg cut off tomorrow. But no matter what happens, I can always come back and ‘Rain Song’ will always exist, just the way it is. It will always make me feel exactly the same way. It will always exist, no matter what anybody does. And so it can always be mine.”
Sam nods fiercely, Dean’s shirt tugged tight because it’s gripped in Sam’s fist. He loves Dean like this, so open and passionate and right here for him, only for him.
“They’re sex and poetry and insane layers of sound and bluesy pagan gods and they can never be duplicated. By anybody. How amazing is that? What they did was new and unheard of. Anything that followed is a shadow. They’re just shadows, Sammy. Even if they’re really fuckin’ good shadows, that’s all they are.”
They lay there in relative quiet for a little bit, listening to “Babe, I’m Gonna Leave You” and Sam watches Dean from his little hiding spot against him, watches his facial expressions, listens to his breathing get faster when the tempo picks up.
“You know Dad saw them in concert once? Drove over to St. Louis to see them at the St. Louis Arena. Four and a half hours away. February 16, 1975.” Sam mouths it along with him, has heard the story a hundred times but Dean loves to tell it, loves to think about how he’s one degree away from a Led Zeppelin concert.
“He got to see them play ‘Stairway.’ ‘Stairway,’ Sammy.” Sam smiles when Dean’s eyes open, red-rimmed and bright, glassy green, to meet his own for emphasis. “And ‘Kashmir.’ Fuck. Can you imagine seeing ‘Kashmir’? Can you fuckin’ imagine?”
Before Sam can answer he hears the unmistakable sound of the guitar that opens ‘You Shook Me’ blaring in Dean’s ears and bleeding out into the whole cabin. Dean moans, actually moans, shifting on the bed. Sam watches Dean’s hips lift and thrust lazing before they settle back down. Sam pulls his bottom lip into his mouth and sucks on it, trying to distract himself from how immediately hard he is just over that, just that sound from Dean and his fucking hips.
“This song is exactly like fucking. Fuck, yeah. Just that deep grind. God, feels so good.” Sam can only watch as Dean rolls his hips to the beat, to that rut and grind of the guitar and Sam almost bites clean through his bottom lip when Dean moves a hand down to his dick to adjust himself. Sam can see the bulge of Dean’s dick there, a little hard just from the song, just the fucking music. He wants to push his hand down, tickle over the little golden hairs trailing down his stomach and into his shorts, wants to take him in his hand and feel him scorch against his palm, just burn there like the center of the sun.
“Yeah, Dean?” He spreads his hand out to rub at Dean’s stomach, slow and lazy and he wants so badly to shove his hips right up against his body, to hump Dean into a screaming, quaking orgasm but he can never, ever do it. Not ever. He twists his legs together, trapping his dick between his thighs a little to give it some relief. Dean’s still moving, still loose-legged and grinding up into whatever he’s picturing in his beautiful, stoned head.
“Yeah, baby,” Dean huffs back. “So fuckin’ good.” Sam almost gasps when Dean’s arm tightens around him, when he drags Sam in closer and Sam just shoves his face into Dean’s sweaty neck, closer to the music just in time for the harmonica to start up and it’s obscene, really, all of this. The gorgeous filth of the song, the heat between the two of them and the beautiful fuck of Dean’s teenage hips.
Sam can see it, Dean’s dick standing up and hard, tenting his dark blue boxers, can see the heavy sway of it under the fabric as Dean moves his hips back and forth. Sam wants to climb him like a stallion, wants to push his little virgin butt right over that dick and see what Dean can do with him. He lets out a tiny sound against Dean’s neck, almost a whimper even as his fingers drag over one of Dean’s hard nipples through his thrift store t-shirt.
“Fuck,” Dean gasps and Sam gasps too, feverishly hot already and he feels like he’s going to pass out from this, from all of this. He rubs at Dean’s nipple with tiny, tiny movements, with terrified fingers. He feels Dean sweating through his clothes and he wants to hold him down and lick him clean, wants every drop on his tongue. He’s beyond disgusting and he knows it, absolutely knows it. He doesn’t want to do that to anyone else, not even Cindy Crawford.
Sam watches Dean’s hand sneak down his body again and grab his dick, hard and ruthless. He squeezes it a few times and Sam pinches Dean’s nipple through his shirt, pinches it hard and Dean’s hips shoot straight up. He watches Dean rub at his dick desperately even as Robert Plant is screaming along with that burning guitar, watches Dean fuck up into his hand and he can feel it all pulsing through Dean’s body, can feel the almost unnatural burn of his skin and the gasping heave of his chest and the unbelievable sounds that Dean keeps trapped in his throat.
The song ends just as Dean comes, right against the flat of his own wide palm. He’s jittery all over, he’s shaking hard and Sam just clutches at him, just watches him ride out of his orgasm and the smell of it hits the air, thick and tangy and overwhelming. Sam digs his hips right up against one of Dean’s hipbones, just presses up desperately and that single point of contact, just that one movement has Sam going off like a fucking firework, coming all against Dean’s side, right when “Dazed and Confused” starts up.
They pant together, Sam clinging pathetically to his big brother as he fights through the come-down, tries so hard to stay quiet, not to make too much sound and freak Dean out. They go still and the song plays on, just as searing and sexy as “You Shook Me.”
Sam dares to glance up at Dean and he’s amazed to see that he’s barely coherent but he’s smiling, a fat, satisfied smile.
“Zep’s better than sex,” Dean rumbles, licking his lips just once before he’s out for the count, leaving Sam shaking at his side through the rest of the song.
next.