Fic: And the touch of your lips, it's a shock not a kiss (Sam/Dean, NC-17)
Title: And the touch of your lips, it's a shock not a kiss
Pairing: Sam/Dean (Sam/OFC, Dean/OFC)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: "Remember Suzie Heizer? I gave her something." Dean laughed a little, dirty. "Something to give to you." For salt_burn_porn, for the prompt: crazy girl.
Warnings: Underage, dependent on your sensibilities - Sam is 16.
Words: ~3500
If it hadn't been for the beer, he'd never have done it. Hell, if it hadn't been for the beer, she'd never have done it either -- or maybe she would, long-legged siren Suzie Heizer, mouth as smart as it was soft, the worst kept secret in Sam's tenth grade Biology class. There wasn't supposed to be beer at the homecoming dance, but a little thing like the law never stopped a group of headstrong enough sixteen-year-olds, and the wasteland behind the gym was dark and vast. The grasses licked up around Sam's calves; the music spilling out of the open doors licked around his ears; and with her knees in the dirt, skirt hiked up, Suzie Heizer licked around the head of Sam's cock, broad, firm strokes with the flat of her tongue.
Sam could hold his beer with the best of them, but Suzie was into it, all close and wet like no girl he'd ever been with, and it was dizzying. Sam clutched at the low wall at his back, mouth going slack around the neck of his bottle as his knees weakened, and he felt Suzie smile as she let her mouth go slack too, hollowing her cheeks as she took him to the root.
Fuck, Suzie. Suzie had done this before, done it in parked cars and empty classrooms and under the bleachers, deep-throated guys as big as Sam was, he could tell. Sam wasn't one to go believing what the in-crowd said without good reason, but Suzie was giving him reason with her low, soft moans, the press of her slender little fingers behind his balls. This chick was crazy, and Sam was pretty bone-deep sure he was down with that the whole time she was letting him fuck her face, the whole time he was coming in her pink-glossed mouth and she was swallowing it down like sweet punch. He liked that Suzie was nuts, Jesus Christ, right up until she stood up and straightened her glasses, leaned in and kissed his own taste back into his mouth. Right up until she put her soft mouth to his ear and whispered, "You taste just like your brother, Sam."
He wasn't sure what came first: the drop of his stomach like a step off a cliff, or the way his dick twitched pathetically against his thigh, but either way it was too damn late. Suzie was leaving, a shadow in her long blue dress in the October night, and there was Sam bare-assed and gaping, his legs still shivering with orgasm, the taste of himself (the taste of Dean) in his mouth.
It wasn't the first time he'd thought about it, but afterwards, Sam knew it was what had made the difference.
*
He thought there was something strange, assessing, in the way Dean looked at him when he stumbled home, shocked sober, with the marks of Suzie's mouth on his neck, but maybe it was only his imagination. He'd never been one to confuse reality with fiction before; but that was before. Now, he was playing a whole different ballgame.
*
He never asked Dean about Suzie. Maybe she had sucked Dean off, some afternoon outside the garage he worked that whole fall - just showed up in those stupid long socks that made Sam breathless and smiled at Dean, all promise. It was as likely as anything. Or maybe nothing had happened, and Suzie had said that...why? Because she knew something Sam hadn't fully understood yet; because she thought Dean was hot; because she wanted to mess Sam up? Sam never asked, because it didn't matter. Dean was hot, and Sam was messed up, and he understood now. At night, he jerked off breathlessly, chewing his lips. Licked the come off his hands and thought of Dean, Dean fucking Sam's face the way Sam had fucked Suzie's, Dean spreading for him the way only a couple girls had ever done before. Dean. Dean was everything, the musky smell of his armpit like home when he crushed Sam's face there giving a noogie, the cut of Dean's hips disappearing into his jeans like a predetermined path to some forbidden El Dorado. God, Dean. It wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't been so beautiful, Sam thought -- but then he thought again, reconsidered. Even if he'd been ugly, he'd still have been Dean, and Dean was the part Sam couldn't detach himself from.
Sam was pretty fucking messed up, he knew that well enough. He also knew he couldn't blame Suzie Heizer for it, not really. Not the way they lived, the way they were.
*
Weeks passed. Dad got a lead on some poltergeist activity out in the Dakotas somewhere -- entrenched, he said, bad, and that meant a family move. The school year wasn't out yet for Sam, but it couldn't be helped, and Sam didn't, to Dad's palpable surprise and relief, put up much of a fight about it anyway. Things had been kind of weird with Suzie Heizer since the night of the dance; but then, things had been kind of weird with Dean, too, so maybe it was only Sam that was off, really, knocked out of alignment with the rest of the world. So Dean jerked off kind of noisily in the shower every morning instead of waiting for Sam to go to school like a decent person would've. Could have been, he'd been doing that all along, and Sam had just never been warped enough to pay such close attention before. So sometimes it felt as if Dean watched him a little too closely in the evenings, stayed out too long and came back smelling oddly familiar in a way that was definitely not his usual gun oil-leather spice. Maybe what they all needed was to get out of this place, leave the spectre of Suzie Heizer and her incredible mouth behind them. Make room, draw lines, grow up. Sam was in no doubt at all that this place wasn't where he needed to be right now, so when Dad said "Pack your gear, boys," Sam shut up and packed.
*
It was three months before Sam heard Suzie Heizer's name again. Dad was away, and had been for the past two nights, hunting a skinwalker in the next state over. Dean was out, but that wasn't unusual these days. Sam would come home to dinner -- of some description -- in the oven, because feeding Sam was one of Dean's sworn duties, but now he was old enough, Dean said, to do his fucking homework unsupervised, and that meant that Dean could disappear and come back reeking of perfume and outdoor sex. Apparently, Dean needed to do this almost every night. Not that it was any of Sam's business, of course, despite the stupid twinge in his chest that wouldn't listen to reason, so Sam said nothing, just let him get on with it. Dean would come back. He always did.
This February night, Sam was wading slowly through his trig homework when Dean rolled in, wide-eyed and treading heavy. The door slammed hard against the wall when he pushed it open, and Sam jolted upright, turning in his seat at the sound. "Jesus Christ, could you be any louder?"
"Sorry, Sammy." Dean was shrugging off his jacket already, damp-leather smell of it drifting across the small space of the kitchen. Under that, Dean smelled of eau-de-cologne and cigarettes, maybe an edge of whisky. "You're up late."
"No," Sam countered, fighting back the jealous little roil of his gut at that smell, the scent of someone else all over Dean, his Dean, not his fucking Dean. He had to get used to this some day soon, Jesus. "You're back early. Not the best night, huh?"
"Oh, on the contrary." Dean tugged out the unoccupied chair and sat down heavily, thighs splaying easily wide. He tossed his jacket over the chairback; the fine gold hairs on his arms glinted in the artificial light. His eyes, steady on Sam's, looked preternaturally green, the pupils blown black with his drunkenness. "Got a hummer in the car from some chick, mouth like Suzie fucking Heizer." He shifted, gaze going suddenly sharp. "Remember Suzie Heizer, Sam?"
It was only a question, Sam told himself. Only a question, a rhetorical one, even, and there was no reason for his spine to go cold the way it was doing; no reason for the sparks of something undefinable, alternating hot and cold in the pit of his stomach. But something about the way Dean was sitting, the languid spread of his legs, made all Sam's muscles clench up helplessly, propelled him out of his chair and toward the sink as if in search of safety. "I," he said, stalling, as he stumbled forward, feeling along the edge of the table like a blind man. "Yeah, I --"
"Hey." And that was Dean's hand on his arm, Dean's fingers wrapping around his wrist. Dean's breath, warm and sweet-sour with alcohol, touching Sam's cheek as he leaned in, unhelpfully close. "Suzie Heizer. Thought you knew her Biblically, man."
Rightfully, Sam shouldn't have leaped to any conclusions, he knew that well enough, but Dean was so close, something gone wild and unhinged in his eyes. Sam felt his chest constrict, crazy thoughts rattling loose in his mind. He struggled for words. "Dean --"
"Sam." Dean was smiling, now, and Sam couldn't bite back his shiver as Dean's thumb passed over the veins on the inside of his wrist. Couldn't deny the way it made Dean's smile quirk, just a little, approving. "Remember Suzie? I gave her something." He laughed a little, dirty. "Something to give to you."
That was it. Sam remembered Suzie, the heat of her mouth on his dick, the taste of her lipgloss, and couldn't breathe. His fingers found Dean's shoulder. The bottom fell out of his stomach, but Dean was unrelenting, pulling Sam down until the space between them was obliterated entirely, his lips almost touching the helix of Sam's ear when he spoke. "Did you like it, Sam, huh?" Dean shifted, then, and his mouth caught on Sam's earlobe like an electric shock.
"Dean," he whispered. He sounded wrecked, could hear it in his own voice, could feel his knees buckling, but there was nothing for it. It was too late. Dean knew: the line between fantasy and reality was blurring, and Sam was bleeding colours in the disappearing hinterland in the middle.
"You liked it, Sammy." Dean's voice was no longer even the slightest bit uncertain, not questioning, and Sam took a second to wonder how he could be so sure of himself, always; cocky, perfect Dean, before Dean's teeth nipped at the soft place below Sam's ear and Sam moaned, gave himself away, gave everything. He felt Dean's smile.
"Yeah," Dean said, and his fingers found the curve of Sam's jaw, thumb hovering at the corner of his mouth. "Think you'd like it better if I gave it to you myself?"
The sound Sam made at that was probably going to be embarrassing, something tight and strained and involuntary, but luckily Dean chose just that moment to turn his face and catch it in his mouth, smooth as always. Typical fucking Dean, smooth as silk as he pressed his lips to his brother's, licked them open with the tip of his tongue. Fuck. Sam moaned, grasping at the sleeves of Dean's tee, pulling it askew as his fingers curled into fists, trying to hitch Dean closer. Dean kissed hard, kissed right, teething along the swell of Sam's lower lip before he thrust his tongue against the flat of Sam's and Sam was lost to it, swallowing Dean's breath, bleeding into him. Dean.
Dean was a sneaky motherfucker, Sam knew, but he was disoriented all the same to find himself the one in the chair, manhandled into it by Dean's strong arms, his clever hands, pinning him down. Sam was hard as hell in his pants by now, straining awkwardly against the seam, and some stupid urge deep in his stomach wanted to cross his arms over it, despite the part where his mouth tasted like Dean's second-hand alcohol and Dean was staring down at Sam's hard-on like it was something good to eat. Holy shit, like he wanted it in his mouth. The thought made Sam twitch, hard against his zipper, and he knew Dean could see it -- knew, too, that Dean must smell the tang of his precome when he knelt between Sam's legs, shouldering them open at the knee. Fuck.
"Dean." His hands fluttered over the fine-cut planes and angles of Dean's face, thumbing at his mouth, sliding into his hair, and it was like a fantasy, something unreal. He felt detached from it, as if he were the one drunk and not Dean, as if this were some fabrication of his intoxicated brain. "Dean, God --"
"Shhhh." Dean hushed him, easy, but there was something in his voice like a shudder, coming all the way from his shoulders. He leaned in, like a man moving through water, and then his broad palm was on Sam's hip, sliding down to squeeze at the bulge of his cock through the stretched-out denim of his jeans -- loose, torn jeans that had been Dean's once. God. Sam couldn't help but groan under the touch, deep and throaty, and he felt the stretch of his dick as it lengthened further, impossibly, pushing up fiercely against his zipper until the pressure rode close to pain. He whimpered, shifted against the solid wood of the chair.
"Dean -- "
"Yeah, baby." And that -- that should not have been hot, but it was, somehow; was Dean and Sam, was them. "I gotcha." And then Dean's nose, Dean's whole fucking face, was pressed against the bulge of Sam's cock, his slow exhalation bleeding hot and wet through two layers of fabric into Sam's skin. "God, Sam, smell so fucking good."
"Oh my God." Sam knew he sounded desperate, couldn't help it, didn't fucking care any more, his teeth and tongue feeling clumsy and too big for his mouth. Dean was nuzzling at him, fingers popping the button of Sam's fly, tugging at the zipper till his dick thrust up of its own accord out of the splayed-open vee, and Sam was beyond thought. "God, Dean, you can't --"
"Can," Dean said, low and sure, and Sam was pathetically grateful; couldn't understand why he'd protested in the first place, not with Dean between his legs, his downturned face like a marble god's. A snap of elastic in Dean's clever fingers, and Sam was hot and bared to the air, the waistband of his boxers snagged under the heavy fullness of his balls. Blood rushed in Sam's ears, a roar, pounding, but Dean leaned in all the same, curling his fingers around Sam's length, and it was so fucking impossible, so incredibly good, that Sam had to clench his toes into the floor to keep from blowing his load there and then, right on Dean's face.
God, but Dean would look good with come all over his face, Sam thought, pearls of it clinging to his eyelashes, smears of it glistening on his sinful mouth. Sam was wrong inside, but apparently, Dean was right there with him, and that made it difficult to care. Dean had always been right with him, after all, and where Dean was couldn't be a wrong place to be.
Especially when Dean was mouthing at the tip of Sam's cock, Jesus. The wet insides of his mouth were like snatches of heaven, catching at the head, and then Sam's fingers fisted, involuntary, in Dean's hair, and Dean was fucking doing it, taking him in in this wet, hot slide, breathing in slow and careful through his nose.
"Shit," Sam whispered, "shit." Dean wasn't as practised as Suzie, Sam could tell -- he knew how to breathe; knew to suck and pull up in tandem, hollowing his cheeks around Sam's fat girth; knew to press his tongue against that spot below the glans, pull almost off and work it into the slit. All that, though, was stuff Dean could've learned from porn -- could've picked up, moreover, from the way girls had sucked him off, so many girls, all those nights, and under it all, his technique was sloppy, too wet and too eager. God, but he was into it, so grossly, deeply, noisily into it that Sam was sure this couldn't last much longer: not with Dean's throat fluttering around the head of him when Dean slid down slow on Sam's cock; not when it was Dean on his knees between Sam's legs. Dean, giving a hummer like some cheerleader behind the bleachers, and it was better because it was him, because it was Sam's brother moaning around his dick, body shaking as he jerked himself from how much he wanted it. God. Sam was close, could feel it arrowing down sharp and sure into his dick, the push of it fat and heavy and overwhelming. He didn't know what made him look down, but he knew what kept him looking: the flash of Dean's tongue, pink and wet around the head of his dick, the length of it glistening with Dean's spit. The flash of his eyes, dark and dirty in the fluorescent light of the kitchen, and that was his brother. That was his brother, and Sam was gone, Jesus. Sam was fucking gone.
Dean didn't pull back, as Sam had half-expected. Sam clenched his fists in Dean's hair as his hips fucked up, pistoning; he made some sound of warning in his throat, but Dean only groaned and sank back down, the smack-slap of his hand clearly audible as he worked himself, slick sound of palm on dick. God. Sam shot off in his mouth like a geyser, spurting thickly over Dean's tongue. "God," he ground out, through gritted teeth, "Dean, Jesus, fuck --"
But Dean was too busy seizing up, tongue fluttering against Sam's underside as his mouth went slack with orgasm, come spurting over his fingers even as Sam's dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. Jesus fucking fuck.
"Dean," Sam whispered, faintly, leaning back in his chair, but Dean was still coming, shoulders hitching with the force of it, and his face was tight and closed. His eyelashes were long, shadowed on his cheeks. Sam wanted to kiss them, almost as much as he wanted to spatter them in come and lick it off. Jesus. His dick twitched pathetically at the thought, pushed out a final few droplets of aftershock.
"Sam," Dean murmured when he could -- looked up at Sam under those eyelashes. His hand was wet with come, and Sam reached for it almost on instinct, the smell and sight of it seizing up his stomach. When his tongue sought out the space between Dean's first and middle fingers, Dean breathed in tightly, and Sam's skin sang with it, the want in it, the promise.
"Hey, Dean?" Sam felt dizzy, stupid, omnipotent.
"Sam," Dean shot back, level. His eyes were wild and unbalanced.
"Fuck Suzie fucking Heizer."
He never knew who started to giggle first, Dean or him, but soon they were both at it, Dean pulling himself up when his legs grew bones again, clinging to Sam by his fingertips. "God," Dean said, "yeah," and Sam thought, I'll do you better than she ever did. You'll see. You'll fucking see.
The exhilaration beat out everything, whisky and punch and girls, and it was Dean; it was his brother. It was the way they were.
Sam didn't give a damn.
Pairing: Sam/Dean (Sam/OFC, Dean/OFC)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: "Remember Suzie Heizer? I gave her something." Dean laughed a little, dirty. "Something to give to you." For salt_burn_porn, for the prompt: crazy girl.
Warnings: Underage, dependent on your sensibilities - Sam is 16.
Words: ~3500
If it hadn't been for the beer, he'd never have done it. Hell, if it hadn't been for the beer, she'd never have done it either -- or maybe she would, long-legged siren Suzie Heizer, mouth as smart as it was soft, the worst kept secret in Sam's tenth grade Biology class. There wasn't supposed to be beer at the homecoming dance, but a little thing like the law never stopped a group of headstrong enough sixteen-year-olds, and the wasteland behind the gym was dark and vast. The grasses licked up around Sam's calves; the music spilling out of the open doors licked around his ears; and with her knees in the dirt, skirt hiked up, Suzie Heizer licked around the head of Sam's cock, broad, firm strokes with the flat of her tongue.
Sam could hold his beer with the best of them, but Suzie was into it, all close and wet like no girl he'd ever been with, and it was dizzying. Sam clutched at the low wall at his back, mouth going slack around the neck of his bottle as his knees weakened, and he felt Suzie smile as she let her mouth go slack too, hollowing her cheeks as she took him to the root.
Fuck, Suzie. Suzie had done this before, done it in parked cars and empty classrooms and under the bleachers, deep-throated guys as big as Sam was, he could tell. Sam wasn't one to go believing what the in-crowd said without good reason, but Suzie was giving him reason with her low, soft moans, the press of her slender little fingers behind his balls. This chick was crazy, and Sam was pretty bone-deep sure he was down with that the whole time she was letting him fuck her face, the whole time he was coming in her pink-glossed mouth and she was swallowing it down like sweet punch. He liked that Suzie was nuts, Jesus Christ, right up until she stood up and straightened her glasses, leaned in and kissed his own taste back into his mouth. Right up until she put her soft mouth to his ear and whispered, "You taste just like your brother, Sam."
He wasn't sure what came first: the drop of his stomach like a step off a cliff, or the way his dick twitched pathetically against his thigh, but either way it was too damn late. Suzie was leaving, a shadow in her long blue dress in the October night, and there was Sam bare-assed and gaping, his legs still shivering with orgasm, the taste of himself (the taste of Dean) in his mouth.
It wasn't the first time he'd thought about it, but afterwards, Sam knew it was what had made the difference.
*
He thought there was something strange, assessing, in the way Dean looked at him when he stumbled home, shocked sober, with the marks of Suzie's mouth on his neck, but maybe it was only his imagination. He'd never been one to confuse reality with fiction before; but that was before. Now, he was playing a whole different ballgame.
*
He never asked Dean about Suzie. Maybe she had sucked Dean off, some afternoon outside the garage he worked that whole fall - just showed up in those stupid long socks that made Sam breathless and smiled at Dean, all promise. It was as likely as anything. Or maybe nothing had happened, and Suzie had said that...why? Because she knew something Sam hadn't fully understood yet; because she thought Dean was hot; because she wanted to mess Sam up? Sam never asked, because it didn't matter. Dean was hot, and Sam was messed up, and he understood now. At night, he jerked off breathlessly, chewing his lips. Licked the come off his hands and thought of Dean, Dean fucking Sam's face the way Sam had fucked Suzie's, Dean spreading for him the way only a couple girls had ever done before. Dean. Dean was everything, the musky smell of his armpit like home when he crushed Sam's face there giving a noogie, the cut of Dean's hips disappearing into his jeans like a predetermined path to some forbidden El Dorado. God, Dean. It wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't been so beautiful, Sam thought -- but then he thought again, reconsidered. Even if he'd been ugly, he'd still have been Dean, and Dean was the part Sam couldn't detach himself from.
Sam was pretty fucking messed up, he knew that well enough. He also knew he couldn't blame Suzie Heizer for it, not really. Not the way they lived, the way they were.
*
Weeks passed. Dad got a lead on some poltergeist activity out in the Dakotas somewhere -- entrenched, he said, bad, and that meant a family move. The school year wasn't out yet for Sam, but it couldn't be helped, and Sam didn't, to Dad's palpable surprise and relief, put up much of a fight about it anyway. Things had been kind of weird with Suzie Heizer since the night of the dance; but then, things had been kind of weird with Dean, too, so maybe it was only Sam that was off, really, knocked out of alignment with the rest of the world. So Dean jerked off kind of noisily in the shower every morning instead of waiting for Sam to go to school like a decent person would've. Could have been, he'd been doing that all along, and Sam had just never been warped enough to pay such close attention before. So sometimes it felt as if Dean watched him a little too closely in the evenings, stayed out too long and came back smelling oddly familiar in a way that was definitely not his usual gun oil-leather spice. Maybe what they all needed was to get out of this place, leave the spectre of Suzie Heizer and her incredible mouth behind them. Make room, draw lines, grow up. Sam was in no doubt at all that this place wasn't where he needed to be right now, so when Dad said "Pack your gear, boys," Sam shut up and packed.
*
It was three months before Sam heard Suzie Heizer's name again. Dad was away, and had been for the past two nights, hunting a skinwalker in the next state over. Dean was out, but that wasn't unusual these days. Sam would come home to dinner -- of some description -- in the oven, because feeding Sam was one of Dean's sworn duties, but now he was old enough, Dean said, to do his fucking homework unsupervised, and that meant that Dean could disappear and come back reeking of perfume and outdoor sex. Apparently, Dean needed to do this almost every night. Not that it was any of Sam's business, of course, despite the stupid twinge in his chest that wouldn't listen to reason, so Sam said nothing, just let him get on with it. Dean would come back. He always did.
This February night, Sam was wading slowly through his trig homework when Dean rolled in, wide-eyed and treading heavy. The door slammed hard against the wall when he pushed it open, and Sam jolted upright, turning in his seat at the sound. "Jesus Christ, could you be any louder?"
"Sorry, Sammy." Dean was shrugging off his jacket already, damp-leather smell of it drifting across the small space of the kitchen. Under that, Dean smelled of eau-de-cologne and cigarettes, maybe an edge of whisky. "You're up late."
"No," Sam countered, fighting back the jealous little roil of his gut at that smell, the scent of someone else all over Dean, his Dean, not his fucking Dean. He had to get used to this some day soon, Jesus. "You're back early. Not the best night, huh?"
"Oh, on the contrary." Dean tugged out the unoccupied chair and sat down heavily, thighs splaying easily wide. He tossed his jacket over the chairback; the fine gold hairs on his arms glinted in the artificial light. His eyes, steady on Sam's, looked preternaturally green, the pupils blown black with his drunkenness. "Got a hummer in the car from some chick, mouth like Suzie fucking Heizer." He shifted, gaze going suddenly sharp. "Remember Suzie Heizer, Sam?"
It was only a question, Sam told himself. Only a question, a rhetorical one, even, and there was no reason for his spine to go cold the way it was doing; no reason for the sparks of something undefinable, alternating hot and cold in the pit of his stomach. But something about the way Dean was sitting, the languid spread of his legs, made all Sam's muscles clench up helplessly, propelled him out of his chair and toward the sink as if in search of safety. "I," he said, stalling, as he stumbled forward, feeling along the edge of the table like a blind man. "Yeah, I --"
"Hey." And that was Dean's hand on his arm, Dean's fingers wrapping around his wrist. Dean's breath, warm and sweet-sour with alcohol, touching Sam's cheek as he leaned in, unhelpfully close. "Suzie Heizer. Thought you knew her Biblically, man."
Rightfully, Sam shouldn't have leaped to any conclusions, he knew that well enough, but Dean was so close, something gone wild and unhinged in his eyes. Sam felt his chest constrict, crazy thoughts rattling loose in his mind. He struggled for words. "Dean --"
"Sam." Dean was smiling, now, and Sam couldn't bite back his shiver as Dean's thumb passed over the veins on the inside of his wrist. Couldn't deny the way it made Dean's smile quirk, just a little, approving. "Remember Suzie? I gave her something." He laughed a little, dirty. "Something to give to you."
That was it. Sam remembered Suzie, the heat of her mouth on his dick, the taste of her lipgloss, and couldn't breathe. His fingers found Dean's shoulder. The bottom fell out of his stomach, but Dean was unrelenting, pulling Sam down until the space between them was obliterated entirely, his lips almost touching the helix of Sam's ear when he spoke. "Did you like it, Sam, huh?" Dean shifted, then, and his mouth caught on Sam's earlobe like an electric shock.
"Dean," he whispered. He sounded wrecked, could hear it in his own voice, could feel his knees buckling, but there was nothing for it. It was too late. Dean knew: the line between fantasy and reality was blurring, and Sam was bleeding colours in the disappearing hinterland in the middle.
"You liked it, Sammy." Dean's voice was no longer even the slightest bit uncertain, not questioning, and Sam took a second to wonder how he could be so sure of himself, always; cocky, perfect Dean, before Dean's teeth nipped at the soft place below Sam's ear and Sam moaned, gave himself away, gave everything. He felt Dean's smile.
"Yeah," Dean said, and his fingers found the curve of Sam's jaw, thumb hovering at the corner of his mouth. "Think you'd like it better if I gave it to you myself?"
The sound Sam made at that was probably going to be embarrassing, something tight and strained and involuntary, but luckily Dean chose just that moment to turn his face and catch it in his mouth, smooth as always. Typical fucking Dean, smooth as silk as he pressed his lips to his brother's, licked them open with the tip of his tongue. Fuck. Sam moaned, grasping at the sleeves of Dean's tee, pulling it askew as his fingers curled into fists, trying to hitch Dean closer. Dean kissed hard, kissed right, teething along the swell of Sam's lower lip before he thrust his tongue against the flat of Sam's and Sam was lost to it, swallowing Dean's breath, bleeding into him. Dean.
Dean was a sneaky motherfucker, Sam knew, but he was disoriented all the same to find himself the one in the chair, manhandled into it by Dean's strong arms, his clever hands, pinning him down. Sam was hard as hell in his pants by now, straining awkwardly against the seam, and some stupid urge deep in his stomach wanted to cross his arms over it, despite the part where his mouth tasted like Dean's second-hand alcohol and Dean was staring down at Sam's hard-on like it was something good to eat. Holy shit, like he wanted it in his mouth. The thought made Sam twitch, hard against his zipper, and he knew Dean could see it -- knew, too, that Dean must smell the tang of his precome when he knelt between Sam's legs, shouldering them open at the knee. Fuck.
"Dean." His hands fluttered over the fine-cut planes and angles of Dean's face, thumbing at his mouth, sliding into his hair, and it was like a fantasy, something unreal. He felt detached from it, as if he were the one drunk and not Dean, as if this were some fabrication of his intoxicated brain. "Dean, God --"
"Shhhh." Dean hushed him, easy, but there was something in his voice like a shudder, coming all the way from his shoulders. He leaned in, like a man moving through water, and then his broad palm was on Sam's hip, sliding down to squeeze at the bulge of his cock through the stretched-out denim of his jeans -- loose, torn jeans that had been Dean's once. God. Sam couldn't help but groan under the touch, deep and throaty, and he felt the stretch of his dick as it lengthened further, impossibly, pushing up fiercely against his zipper until the pressure rode close to pain. He whimpered, shifted against the solid wood of the chair.
"Dean -- "
"Yeah, baby." And that -- that should not have been hot, but it was, somehow; was Dean and Sam, was them. "I gotcha." And then Dean's nose, Dean's whole fucking face, was pressed against the bulge of Sam's cock, his slow exhalation bleeding hot and wet through two layers of fabric into Sam's skin. "God, Sam, smell so fucking good."
"Oh my God." Sam knew he sounded desperate, couldn't help it, didn't fucking care any more, his teeth and tongue feeling clumsy and too big for his mouth. Dean was nuzzling at him, fingers popping the button of Sam's fly, tugging at the zipper till his dick thrust up of its own accord out of the splayed-open vee, and Sam was beyond thought. "God, Dean, you can't --"
"Can," Dean said, low and sure, and Sam was pathetically grateful; couldn't understand why he'd protested in the first place, not with Dean between his legs, his downturned face like a marble god's. A snap of elastic in Dean's clever fingers, and Sam was hot and bared to the air, the waistband of his boxers snagged under the heavy fullness of his balls. Blood rushed in Sam's ears, a roar, pounding, but Dean leaned in all the same, curling his fingers around Sam's length, and it was so fucking impossible, so incredibly good, that Sam had to clench his toes into the floor to keep from blowing his load there and then, right on Dean's face.
God, but Dean would look good with come all over his face, Sam thought, pearls of it clinging to his eyelashes, smears of it glistening on his sinful mouth. Sam was wrong inside, but apparently, Dean was right there with him, and that made it difficult to care. Dean had always been right with him, after all, and where Dean was couldn't be a wrong place to be.
Especially when Dean was mouthing at the tip of Sam's cock, Jesus. The wet insides of his mouth were like snatches of heaven, catching at the head, and then Sam's fingers fisted, involuntary, in Dean's hair, and Dean was fucking doing it, taking him in in this wet, hot slide, breathing in slow and careful through his nose.
"Shit," Sam whispered, "shit." Dean wasn't as practised as Suzie, Sam could tell -- he knew how to breathe; knew to suck and pull up in tandem, hollowing his cheeks around Sam's fat girth; knew to press his tongue against that spot below the glans, pull almost off and work it into the slit. All that, though, was stuff Dean could've learned from porn -- could've picked up, moreover, from the way girls had sucked him off, so many girls, all those nights, and under it all, his technique was sloppy, too wet and too eager. God, but he was into it, so grossly, deeply, noisily into it that Sam was sure this couldn't last much longer: not with Dean's throat fluttering around the head of him when Dean slid down slow on Sam's cock; not when it was Dean on his knees between Sam's legs. Dean, giving a hummer like some cheerleader behind the bleachers, and it was better because it was him, because it was Sam's brother moaning around his dick, body shaking as he jerked himself from how much he wanted it. God. Sam was close, could feel it arrowing down sharp and sure into his dick, the push of it fat and heavy and overwhelming. He didn't know what made him look down, but he knew what kept him looking: the flash of Dean's tongue, pink and wet around the head of his dick, the length of it glistening with Dean's spit. The flash of his eyes, dark and dirty in the fluorescent light of the kitchen, and that was his brother. That was his brother, and Sam was gone, Jesus. Sam was fucking gone.
Dean didn't pull back, as Sam had half-expected. Sam clenched his fists in Dean's hair as his hips fucked up, pistoning; he made some sound of warning in his throat, but Dean only groaned and sank back down, the smack-slap of his hand clearly audible as he worked himself, slick sound of palm on dick. God. Sam shot off in his mouth like a geyser, spurting thickly over Dean's tongue. "God," he ground out, through gritted teeth, "Dean, Jesus, fuck --"
But Dean was too busy seizing up, tongue fluttering against Sam's underside as his mouth went slack with orgasm, come spurting over his fingers even as Sam's dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. Jesus fucking fuck.
"Dean," Sam whispered, faintly, leaning back in his chair, but Dean was still coming, shoulders hitching with the force of it, and his face was tight and closed. His eyelashes were long, shadowed on his cheeks. Sam wanted to kiss them, almost as much as he wanted to spatter them in come and lick it off. Jesus. His dick twitched pathetically at the thought, pushed out a final few droplets of aftershock.
"Sam," Dean murmured when he could -- looked up at Sam under those eyelashes. His hand was wet with come, and Sam reached for it almost on instinct, the smell and sight of it seizing up his stomach. When his tongue sought out the space between Dean's first and middle fingers, Dean breathed in tightly, and Sam's skin sang with it, the want in it, the promise.
"Hey, Dean?" Sam felt dizzy, stupid, omnipotent.
"Sam," Dean shot back, level. His eyes were wild and unbalanced.
"Fuck Suzie fucking Heizer."
He never knew who started to giggle first, Dean or him, but soon they were both at it, Dean pulling himself up when his legs grew bones again, clinging to Sam by his fingertips. "God," Dean said, "yeah," and Sam thought, I'll do you better than she ever did. You'll see. You'll fucking see.
The exhilaration beat out everything, whisky and punch and girls, and it was Dean; it was his brother. It was the way they were.
Sam didn't give a damn.