Fic: Every Square Inch, Every Split Second (Sam/Dean, NC-17)
Title: Every Square Inch, Every Split Second
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sam's fifteen when he finally outgrows his brother. (NB: underage.)
Words: 3,784
Notes: Written for my fictictactoe game against mistyzeo, for the square 'pride'. Um. Very, very loosely. I did have an excellent plan for a J2 fic that I discussed with oddlyfamiliar, and then I opened a document to write it and wrote schmoopy Wincest indeed. OH WELL. Title from CS Lewis, who would be horrified, I'm sure. Also, fun fact: what happens in this fic is almost exactly opposite to what I intended to happen. Thanks for that, boys.
Sam's fifteen when he finally outgrows his brother. It's been threatening for years, ever since Sam's feet decided that his size tens were for pussies and burst out of three pairs of Goodwill shoes in as many months, but Dean's always remained in a constant state of denial about it - argued with Dad, even, when he laughed and said, "Kid brother'll be bigger'n you soon, Dean."
"No way," Dean said every time, mouth curling up in a little half-sneer at the edges. "He's just goin' for world's biggest feet, aren't you, Sammy?"
Sam shrugged non-committally, not ready to take one side or the other, because sure, it might be cool to be taller than Dean, tall like Dad; but on the other hand, there was something kind of wrong about the thought of it, the idea that it could ever be Dean under Sam's arm when they stumbled home after a bad hunt; that Dean could ever be his little big brother. It was weird. It made Sam's stomach twist a little uncomfortably, the configuration all wrong, and he shrugged it off; pressed back that little bit closer into Dean's body when they squished up in bed after, a reminder to them both that he was still the little spoon.
Except that, as of today, he isn't.
Dean's got him by the shoulders, thrust up firm against the wall now they're sure Dad's gone for the afternoon, and they should be mouth to mouth, breath caught between; except that, incredibly, Sam's mouth is hovering somewhere closer to Dean's nose, and he's looking at his eyebrows. It's maybe six weeks since the last time there was an opportunity for anything more athletic than fumbled handjobs in gas station bathrooms, but Sam's pretty sure he remembers how this goes; remembers the perfect tessellation of Dean's body into his, hips to hips and mouths on a level. Dean's still hard against Sam's thigh, his breath's still hitching with want, but they are not on a level, and the realisation of why breaks over Sam like a sudden sluice of water.
"Oh my God, Dean," he says.
Dean grunts a protest, ducks his head to nuzzle along the line of Sam's jaw, and Jesus Christ, how can he not have noticed? The angles are all different, the way they fit, and Sam turns his face away, grips his brother by the shoulder.
"Dean," he repeats, more insistently - "Dean - I'm taller than you. I got taller."
That gets Dean's attention. He jerks back, eyes narrowing, and Sam's half-ashamed of the kick of pride in his chest, but it's unmistakable, a warm, satisfied swell that makes his cock twitch a little between his legs. He's taller. It's wrong, but Dean has the strangest capacity to turn wrong into right.
"You are not," Dean says, after a second, but it's obvious from his tone that he doesn't quite believe it; that he's finally rung up the changes. Sam shrugs, smiles a little lopsidedly.
"Sorry," he says, and adds, because he can't resist, "Who's the big brother now?"
It's a deliberate goad, thrown out purely to be contradicted, and Dean doesn't disappoint. "You little bitch," he says, rough at first, but then he's laughing a little, like he's wised up to the tease in Sam's voice. He pins Sam's shoulders, still narrower, skinnier than Dean's, and leans in to nip at his mouth, darting, sucking little kisses, all lips and teeth. Sam laughs back into it, fists his hands in Dean's shirt and tugs him closer, spreading his thighs a little to make room.
Dean slots easily into the vee of Sam's legs, narrow hips flush against Sam's, and Sam might be taller, now, but Dean's grip on him is strong and sure, the muscles in his arms standing out under the freckled skin. Up close like this, he smells of gun oil and fresh sweat and Old Spice, the sharp leather-scent of his jacket rubbed off in the hollow of his throat and Sam presses his face there, holding him close by the nape while he breathes in Dean.
The blood pulses close to the surface here, and Sam closes his eyes as he follows it upward, nuzzling open-mouthed in a damp, hot line up to the bolt of Dean's jaw. "You're such a freak," Dean says, but his voice has gone thready and low and the hand on Sam's shoulder, clenching and unclenching, doesn't mean stop, so Sam only opens his mouth and sucks, feeling the blood surge up against his lips.
"Sammy," Dean grunts; sucks in a sharp breath, and Sam knows he's walking an edge, here; knows he's had his long moment of control, of bringing Dean to breathlessness with long, hard kisses. Sure enough, Dean shifts abruptly, big hands shoving under Sam's backside to hoist him up against the wall, and Sam lets his head fall back, hips thrusting into it. This is the way Dean gets when he's claiming them as them, all little brother and mine, Sammy, mine, and that's what Sam wants right now; wants to be marked up and taken and owned by a Dean who will always be big brother, even if Sam ends up seven feet tall. From the way Dean's licking at Sam's mouth, shoving his cock against Sam's through the barrier of their jeans, he's more than happy to oblige.
Dean's fully capable of gentleness. Sam's seen it, felt it in every way: Dean's hand in his hair, cool against his forehead through the burn of a fever; Dean's mouth on his cock, velveteen smoothness of the inside of his mouth swallowing Sam up in slow, deep strokes. Right now, though, there's nothing gentle about this. This is the slam-snap-push of Dean's hips against Sam's, the low rumble of his wordless voice in his throat as he bites at Sam's mouth, fucks his tongue into it and fists a hand in Sam's hair. This is Dean's other hand at Sam's hip, bruising press of fingers into flesh as Sam wriggles back against him, half-pinned against the wall, effectively immobilised. Sam's getting tall, but Dean is stronger than him, and by God, Dean wants him to remember it.
Dean's noisy, always, and Sam doesn't know if he's like that with other people - if other people would be like that with Sam - because he's never done this with anybody but Dean; can't imagine splaying himself open like this for anyone less trusted than his brother. Dean can be rough, aggression in the way he jerks open the fly of Sam's jeans and shoves a hand in afterward to palm Sam's cock, but he knows his own strength, knows what he's doing. If he hurts Sam a little - teeth splitting open the swell of Sam's lip, fingernails drawing blood at the small of his back under his shirt - then it's because he means to, because he knows the way it makes Sam feel. Anybody else - the thought alone makes Sam vertiginous with anxiety; sets him straining harder towards the heat of Dean's body, rolling his hips against his hand. Dean is it. Sam doesn't want to think about a future in which this, inevitably, must change.
He makes a grab for Dean's belt instead, pressing the heel of his hand into the swell of Dean's cock for a moment before he shifts to tug at the buckle. Dean's breath hitches, mouth slipping on Sam's, and his fingers twitch, thumb stilling against the head of Sam's dick through his underwear.
"Dean," Sam murmurs into the little space of silence; licks at the corner of Dean's mouth and rocks up against his hand. "Dean, come on. Want to feel you."
The unspoken demand for skin is clear enough in undertone, and Dean groans assent, knocking Sam's hands away and wrenching open jeans and belt himself. He's bare underneath, stiff cock welling at the slit when it shoves free, and Sam can't bite back a whimper at the sight of it, the musky sour smell. He curls a hand around it, the skin hot and shockingly smooth, and jacks it gently. Dean hisses through his teeth, tight and pleased, and then he's moving, shoving jeans and shorts together over Sam's hips, fingers skimming the sensitive skin of his thighs as he pushes the whole mess out of the way.
"You want to feel me, huh?" Dean's breath is hot against the shell of Sam's ear, skipping down the curve of his neck, and his fingers fumble in the damp heat between Sam's thighs, trace the seam of his balls. "How's this, Sammy? Feel this?" He pushes back, knuckling at Sam's perineum until his finger catches the rim of him, tugs at it in little teasing circles.
Sam whimpers, pushing back instinctively into the too-light touch, a million tiny nerve endings waking up and straining for more. "God, Dean," he manages, squeezing at the shaft of Dean's cock and Dean shivers responsively, shoulders lifting.
"Yeah," he breathes, voice dropping lower now, roughening as his hips piston up into the tunnel of Sam's fist. "That what you want?" He pushes a little deeper, crooks his finger inside dry, and it's intrusive, but it's so exactly the beginning of what Sam wants that he just nods his head and moans encouragement.
When Dean withdraws immediately and fumbles in the pocket of his jeans, Sam's a little surprised but sincerely grateful. Dean has been known to tease like hell, and much as Sam likes to fall apart under his hands, the deep thrust and torque of his clever fingers, that isn't exactly what he wants right now, and Dean knows him well enough to realise it. Dean knows him right to the bones, and when Dean's fingers come back slick, Sam presses down onto them at the first touch, like his body wants to take Dean back inside, keep him right where he belongs.
They're both panting, now, Sam's fingers gone loose on Dean's leaking cock, mouths damp and slack against each other as Dean works. Dean's good at this, knows just where to press, how to scissor and stroke until Sam is open for him, pushing back onto every thrust of Dean's fingers, swallowing the burn. He's got one hand in the meat of Sam's thigh, bruisingly tight, and Sam's teetering on his tiptoes but there isn't any danger, not really - not with Dean pressed up hard against him, Dean's wrist working between his legs.
"Dean," Sam grits out, and he wants it, screw his little flush of pride at that one measly half-inch. It's not like it means anything in the face of the way Dean touches him, holds him, lifts him bodily and shoves inside. He'll never outgrow Dean as long as he's a slave to this, Dean spreading his thighs, sliding out his fingers with a slick, wet sound and replacing them with his dick. It still isn't easy, after all these months, to take him, but it's the burn Sam loves, the sense of being branded as Dean splits him open, fat, wet head of him breaching Sam with nothing but skin and sweat between them. Condoms are a near-religious compulsion for Dean when he's with girls, but Sam is different. Sam's his brother, so it's okay. Sam gets to feel the way Dean swells inside him, the way he spills, and that's just his; that's Sam's privilege alone. Dean fits inside him like he was made to be there, tight and hot and bleeding heat into every inch of Sam, and Sam will never outgrow this. It isn't even a question.
"Sammy," Dean whispers; thrusts up with all his force behind it and Sam cries out, grabs weakly at Dean's hair, his nape, the straining breadth of his shoulders.
"Yeah," he says, vague and loose, though the muscles in his legs are straining, fluttering all the way up his thighs. "Dean, come on." He rocks back against Dean, more demand than encouragement.
He doesn't anticipate the shift before it comes. One minute he's flat to the aged plaster, legs spread awkwardly to accommodate Dean's hips, and the next, he's in motion, Dean grunting with effort as he half-lifts Sam and walks him back three steps to the bed. Sam's shirt is wrestled unceremoniously off over his head, and then Dean's working on his own, peeling it away from his damp skin.
"Don't know why you had to start it there," Dean mutters, kneeing up over Sam onto the mattress, "when there was a fucking bed like, two feet away."
Sam's pretty sure it was actually Dean whose brilliant idea the wall sex had been, but Dean's shoving in again before he can say so, slamming in hard and fierce against Sam's prostate, and fuck, yes, this is better. Whatever Sam was about to say gets transmuted into a vague sound of approval, and Dean pulls out again, fucks back in so hard he shifts them both three inches up the bed.
"Don't care," Sam manages, "where you do it, just - nnngh, yeah." He rolls up his hips into Dean's next thrust, and the next, until they've got a rhythm going, smooth and deep. Dean's swiftly losing his composure, amulet swinging wildly in imitation of the figure-eights he's making with his hips, and Sam doesn't care right now if he chips a tooth on the damn thing so long as Dean just keeps on doing that, Jesus.
"That right?" Dean's muttering, "that right, Sammy? Like that?" It's only for the sake of talking, really - Dean knows, has to know from the way Sam's shivering under him, moaning and grasping frenetically at Dean's shoulders, that he's doing everything right - but Dean likes the sound of his own voice and Sam's pretty fond of it, too, the way it vibrates through him, whisky-deep and wanting.
"God," Sam manages, his own voice strangely tight in his throat, "Dean, fuck."
Dean's drenched in sweat, the muscles in his shoulders bunching and unclenching under Sam's hands as he fucks in deeper, and he's biting his lip, hot little flash of white on pink. He's gorgeous, perfect like this; he's Sam's, and the heat of that thought snaps up through Sam's body like whiplash, setting little fires of want. He feels his back arching, muscles tightening as the pressure builds in his stomach, and Dean's moving faster, now, rolling into Sam like thunder.
"Got you," Dean says, tacky fingers closing around Sam's cock as his thrusts start to stutter, head dipping forward into the crook of Sam's neck. "I got you, Sammy, okay?" He licks at the tendon in Sam's neck, stretched out with the position of his head, and bites, little nips of pleasure-pain along the line of it. "I got you."
It's still just rambling, Sam's sure, as far as Dean's concerned, but still, it's the words as much as the hand on his cock that push Sam over the edge, up the crest of white heat and out into space, the force of it pulsing wet and slick and hot over Dean's fingers. "I know," Sam gasps out, aftershocks still skidding through his blood, "I know, Dean."
Dean never lasts long after Sam's clenched and come hot around him, on him, and his face is tight with how close he is, fingers biting into Sam's hips as he thrusts. Sam turns his head, ears still echoing strangely, to mouth at Dean's lips; strokes a hand down the sweat-damp length of his back and lower, into his loosened jeans, grazing his hole. They haven't done this much - Dean's bigger; it's awkward - but Dean clenches up immediately, seizes and cries out, and as he pulses heat all over Sam's insides, Sam thinks, maybe. Dean's still Dean, after all, half an inch the wrong side of Sam or not, and it isn't as if he hasn't always had Sam inside of him anyway. It might be good to burrow inside Dean like that, feel all that heat and surety holding him, cradling him safe. Sam rubs his face in Dean's hair; mouths damply at the bolt of his jaw until Dean shifts sleepily and lifts his head so they can make out slack and slow, like always. Sam slides the flat of his tongue languidly over Dean's, curls it up to stroke over the roof of his mouth and swallows the soft little sound Dean makes. Maybe.
They lose the afternoon in sweat and skin, the taste and weight of each other, and by the time they're done and showered, Sam's almost forgotten how this started; almost forgotten about his discovery. It doesn't seem to matter much, after all. Dean, though, is apparently less easily distracted. When Dad gets home around midnight, Dean's on him with a pencil the moment he's sure there's no gaping wound in need of medical attention. Dad just laughs, catching Sam's eye with a brief flash of the kind of conspirators' amusement they don't often share, and Sam feels his belly flush warm with it, laughs right back.
"Back against the doorpost, then, Mr Eager," Dad says, gesticulating with a pencil. Dean pulls himself up on the balls of his feet, but Dad's wise to that old trick and stamps them down again, flattening them unceremoniously under his own. "Cheater."
"Whatever," Dean huffs through his teeth, but he relents and lets Dad make a line at the top of his head. When Sam steps away a moment later, there's a clear three quarters of an inch between the marks, and Dean grins, gesticulating with one hand.
"See? Got an inch on you yet, Sammy."
Sam blinks. He's so bemused that it takes Dad's snort from behind him to make him realise exactly how deluded Dean is, that he actually thinks -
"Dream on, shorty," Dad says, ruffling Dean's hair all out of shape in a way only Dad could walk away from without injury. "Told you your brother was overtaking you, didn't I?" He tosses the pencil down on the table and heads for the bathroom. "Get in bed. I'll be out in a minute. Early start tomorrow."
The look on Dean's face when the bathroom door closes behind Dad is so disgruntled it's all Sam can do not to laugh. He bites his lip, watching Dean pointedly and deliberately rearrange his hair.
Dean, apparently, takes objection to being watched. "What?"
Sam lets the smile escape, then; backs Dean up against the wall. "It's not the end of the world, you know." He leans in, nips at Dean's lower lip; traces his tongue along it until Dean relents and opens his mouth on a sigh.
"It's weird," Dean mutters, after a minute, but his hands come up to span Sam's waist, thumbs stroking up and down over the back of his tee. Sam shrugs, kisses Dean again.
"Weird's kind of our stock in trade, though, right?" He nudges a knee between Dean's legs, as if in demonstration, and Dean ducks his head on a grin; shoves at Sam's shoulders.
"Yeah, well."
"We'll make the best of it," Sam says, and he isn't sure exactly how many things are encompassed in that statement, but goddamn, he knows he means it. Sam's growing, but he's growing around Dean, not away from him. Like those trees they sometimes see in graveyards, trunks twisted together through years of proximity. They'll make the best of it.
Dean shoves him again, but it's half-hearted, not unkind. "Yeah, okay." He leans up, whippet-quick, to press his mouth to Sam's, and then he's slipping out from under Sam's arm, making for the bed. "Dad's here, dude. Gonna get me hard again."
Sam laughs at that, turns down the other side of the bed. They're too big for this, really, but it's only for one night, the three of them squished into a two-person room, and the Winchesters are all long-used to close quarters. So far, so normal. In a manner of speaking.
"Feet are fucking freezing," Dean complains, when Sam gets into the bed, and Sam twists around, deliberately pressing the soles of them to Dean's calves.
"Ow, fuck!" Dean wrestles around for the pillow, presses it over Sam's face, and any threat of an erection is lost in the struggle by the time Dad's out and yelling at them to break it up. Dean's pink-cheeked and panting, grinning far too smugly when they subside, curl up under the blankets. Big brother. Sam takes his extra three quarters of an inch and folds it up with the rest of him, winnows his way under Dean's outstretched arm and into the perfect curve of his body, carved out for Sam's. It's a familiar closeness, safe in the warm dark. Only the usual sort of weird.
Sam smiles into the darkness, presses back against Dean. Situation normal, he thinks: all fucked up, but if Sam's honest, he kind of likes it that way. He falls asleep with Dean's arm around his waist, Dad snoring softly in the other bed, and doesn't dream.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sam's fifteen when he finally outgrows his brother. (NB: underage.)
Words: 3,784
Notes: Written for my fictictactoe game against mistyzeo, for the square 'pride'. Um. Very, very loosely. I did have an excellent plan for a J2 fic that I discussed with oddlyfamiliar, and then I opened a document to write it and wrote schmoopy Wincest indeed. OH WELL. Title from CS Lewis, who would be horrified, I'm sure. Also, fun fact: what happens in this fic is almost exactly opposite to what I intended to happen. Thanks for that, boys.
Sam's fifteen when he finally outgrows his brother. It's been threatening for years, ever since Sam's feet decided that his size tens were for pussies and burst out of three pairs of Goodwill shoes in as many months, but Dean's always remained in a constant state of denial about it - argued with Dad, even, when he laughed and said, "Kid brother'll be bigger'n you soon, Dean."
"No way," Dean said every time, mouth curling up in a little half-sneer at the edges. "He's just goin' for world's biggest feet, aren't you, Sammy?"
Sam shrugged non-committally, not ready to take one side or the other, because sure, it might be cool to be taller than Dean, tall like Dad; but on the other hand, there was something kind of wrong about the thought of it, the idea that it could ever be Dean under Sam's arm when they stumbled home after a bad hunt; that Dean could ever be his little big brother. It was weird. It made Sam's stomach twist a little uncomfortably, the configuration all wrong, and he shrugged it off; pressed back that little bit closer into Dean's body when they squished up in bed after, a reminder to them both that he was still the little spoon.
Except that, as of today, he isn't.
Dean's got him by the shoulders, thrust up firm against the wall now they're sure Dad's gone for the afternoon, and they should be mouth to mouth, breath caught between; except that, incredibly, Sam's mouth is hovering somewhere closer to Dean's nose, and he's looking at his eyebrows. It's maybe six weeks since the last time there was an opportunity for anything more athletic than fumbled handjobs in gas station bathrooms, but Sam's pretty sure he remembers how this goes; remembers the perfect tessellation of Dean's body into his, hips to hips and mouths on a level. Dean's still hard against Sam's thigh, his breath's still hitching with want, but they are not on a level, and the realisation of why breaks over Sam like a sudden sluice of water.
"Oh my God, Dean," he says.
Dean grunts a protest, ducks his head to nuzzle along the line of Sam's jaw, and Jesus Christ, how can he not have noticed? The angles are all different, the way they fit, and Sam turns his face away, grips his brother by the shoulder.
"Dean," he repeats, more insistently - "Dean - I'm taller than you. I got taller."
That gets Dean's attention. He jerks back, eyes narrowing, and Sam's half-ashamed of the kick of pride in his chest, but it's unmistakable, a warm, satisfied swell that makes his cock twitch a little between his legs. He's taller. It's wrong, but Dean has the strangest capacity to turn wrong into right.
"You are not," Dean says, after a second, but it's obvious from his tone that he doesn't quite believe it; that he's finally rung up the changes. Sam shrugs, smiles a little lopsidedly.
"Sorry," he says, and adds, because he can't resist, "Who's the big brother now?"
It's a deliberate goad, thrown out purely to be contradicted, and Dean doesn't disappoint. "You little bitch," he says, rough at first, but then he's laughing a little, like he's wised up to the tease in Sam's voice. He pins Sam's shoulders, still narrower, skinnier than Dean's, and leans in to nip at his mouth, darting, sucking little kisses, all lips and teeth. Sam laughs back into it, fists his hands in Dean's shirt and tugs him closer, spreading his thighs a little to make room.
Dean slots easily into the vee of Sam's legs, narrow hips flush against Sam's, and Sam might be taller, now, but Dean's grip on him is strong and sure, the muscles in his arms standing out under the freckled skin. Up close like this, he smells of gun oil and fresh sweat and Old Spice, the sharp leather-scent of his jacket rubbed off in the hollow of his throat and Sam presses his face there, holding him close by the nape while he breathes in Dean.
The blood pulses close to the surface here, and Sam closes his eyes as he follows it upward, nuzzling open-mouthed in a damp, hot line up to the bolt of Dean's jaw. "You're such a freak," Dean says, but his voice has gone thready and low and the hand on Sam's shoulder, clenching and unclenching, doesn't mean stop, so Sam only opens his mouth and sucks, feeling the blood surge up against his lips.
"Sammy," Dean grunts; sucks in a sharp breath, and Sam knows he's walking an edge, here; knows he's had his long moment of control, of bringing Dean to breathlessness with long, hard kisses. Sure enough, Dean shifts abruptly, big hands shoving under Sam's backside to hoist him up against the wall, and Sam lets his head fall back, hips thrusting into it. This is the way Dean gets when he's claiming them as them, all little brother and mine, Sammy, mine, and that's what Sam wants right now; wants to be marked up and taken and owned by a Dean who will always be big brother, even if Sam ends up seven feet tall. From the way Dean's licking at Sam's mouth, shoving his cock against Sam's through the barrier of their jeans, he's more than happy to oblige.
Dean's fully capable of gentleness. Sam's seen it, felt it in every way: Dean's hand in his hair, cool against his forehead through the burn of a fever; Dean's mouth on his cock, velveteen smoothness of the inside of his mouth swallowing Sam up in slow, deep strokes. Right now, though, there's nothing gentle about this. This is the slam-snap-push of Dean's hips against Sam's, the low rumble of his wordless voice in his throat as he bites at Sam's mouth, fucks his tongue into it and fists a hand in Sam's hair. This is Dean's other hand at Sam's hip, bruising press of fingers into flesh as Sam wriggles back against him, half-pinned against the wall, effectively immobilised. Sam's getting tall, but Dean is stronger than him, and by God, Dean wants him to remember it.
Dean's noisy, always, and Sam doesn't know if he's like that with other people - if other people would be like that with Sam - because he's never done this with anybody but Dean; can't imagine splaying himself open like this for anyone less trusted than his brother. Dean can be rough, aggression in the way he jerks open the fly of Sam's jeans and shoves a hand in afterward to palm Sam's cock, but he knows his own strength, knows what he's doing. If he hurts Sam a little - teeth splitting open the swell of Sam's lip, fingernails drawing blood at the small of his back under his shirt - then it's because he means to, because he knows the way it makes Sam feel. Anybody else - the thought alone makes Sam vertiginous with anxiety; sets him straining harder towards the heat of Dean's body, rolling his hips against his hand. Dean is it. Sam doesn't want to think about a future in which this, inevitably, must change.
He makes a grab for Dean's belt instead, pressing the heel of his hand into the swell of Dean's cock for a moment before he shifts to tug at the buckle. Dean's breath hitches, mouth slipping on Sam's, and his fingers twitch, thumb stilling against the head of Sam's dick through his underwear.
"Dean," Sam murmurs into the little space of silence; licks at the corner of Dean's mouth and rocks up against his hand. "Dean, come on. Want to feel you."
The unspoken demand for skin is clear enough in undertone, and Dean groans assent, knocking Sam's hands away and wrenching open jeans and belt himself. He's bare underneath, stiff cock welling at the slit when it shoves free, and Sam can't bite back a whimper at the sight of it, the musky sour smell. He curls a hand around it, the skin hot and shockingly smooth, and jacks it gently. Dean hisses through his teeth, tight and pleased, and then he's moving, shoving jeans and shorts together over Sam's hips, fingers skimming the sensitive skin of his thighs as he pushes the whole mess out of the way.
"You want to feel me, huh?" Dean's breath is hot against the shell of Sam's ear, skipping down the curve of his neck, and his fingers fumble in the damp heat between Sam's thighs, trace the seam of his balls. "How's this, Sammy? Feel this?" He pushes back, knuckling at Sam's perineum until his finger catches the rim of him, tugs at it in little teasing circles.
Sam whimpers, pushing back instinctively into the too-light touch, a million tiny nerve endings waking up and straining for more. "God, Dean," he manages, squeezing at the shaft of Dean's cock and Dean shivers responsively, shoulders lifting.
"Yeah," he breathes, voice dropping lower now, roughening as his hips piston up into the tunnel of Sam's fist. "That what you want?" He pushes a little deeper, crooks his finger inside dry, and it's intrusive, but it's so exactly the beginning of what Sam wants that he just nods his head and moans encouragement.
When Dean withdraws immediately and fumbles in the pocket of his jeans, Sam's a little surprised but sincerely grateful. Dean has been known to tease like hell, and much as Sam likes to fall apart under his hands, the deep thrust and torque of his clever fingers, that isn't exactly what he wants right now, and Dean knows him well enough to realise it. Dean knows him right to the bones, and when Dean's fingers come back slick, Sam presses down onto them at the first touch, like his body wants to take Dean back inside, keep him right where he belongs.
They're both panting, now, Sam's fingers gone loose on Dean's leaking cock, mouths damp and slack against each other as Dean works. Dean's good at this, knows just where to press, how to scissor and stroke until Sam is open for him, pushing back onto every thrust of Dean's fingers, swallowing the burn. He's got one hand in the meat of Sam's thigh, bruisingly tight, and Sam's teetering on his tiptoes but there isn't any danger, not really - not with Dean pressed up hard against him, Dean's wrist working between his legs.
"Dean," Sam grits out, and he wants it, screw his little flush of pride at that one measly half-inch. It's not like it means anything in the face of the way Dean touches him, holds him, lifts him bodily and shoves inside. He'll never outgrow Dean as long as he's a slave to this, Dean spreading his thighs, sliding out his fingers with a slick, wet sound and replacing them with his dick. It still isn't easy, after all these months, to take him, but it's the burn Sam loves, the sense of being branded as Dean splits him open, fat, wet head of him breaching Sam with nothing but skin and sweat between them. Condoms are a near-religious compulsion for Dean when he's with girls, but Sam is different. Sam's his brother, so it's okay. Sam gets to feel the way Dean swells inside him, the way he spills, and that's just his; that's Sam's privilege alone. Dean fits inside him like he was made to be there, tight and hot and bleeding heat into every inch of Sam, and Sam will never outgrow this. It isn't even a question.
"Sammy," Dean whispers; thrusts up with all his force behind it and Sam cries out, grabs weakly at Dean's hair, his nape, the straining breadth of his shoulders.
"Yeah," he says, vague and loose, though the muscles in his legs are straining, fluttering all the way up his thighs. "Dean, come on." He rocks back against Dean, more demand than encouragement.
He doesn't anticipate the shift before it comes. One minute he's flat to the aged plaster, legs spread awkwardly to accommodate Dean's hips, and the next, he's in motion, Dean grunting with effort as he half-lifts Sam and walks him back three steps to the bed. Sam's shirt is wrestled unceremoniously off over his head, and then Dean's working on his own, peeling it away from his damp skin.
"Don't know why you had to start it there," Dean mutters, kneeing up over Sam onto the mattress, "when there was a fucking bed like, two feet away."
Sam's pretty sure it was actually Dean whose brilliant idea the wall sex had been, but Dean's shoving in again before he can say so, slamming in hard and fierce against Sam's prostate, and fuck, yes, this is better. Whatever Sam was about to say gets transmuted into a vague sound of approval, and Dean pulls out again, fucks back in so hard he shifts them both three inches up the bed.
"Don't care," Sam manages, "where you do it, just - nnngh, yeah." He rolls up his hips into Dean's next thrust, and the next, until they've got a rhythm going, smooth and deep. Dean's swiftly losing his composure, amulet swinging wildly in imitation of the figure-eights he's making with his hips, and Sam doesn't care right now if he chips a tooth on the damn thing so long as Dean just keeps on doing that, Jesus.
"That right?" Dean's muttering, "that right, Sammy? Like that?" It's only for the sake of talking, really - Dean knows, has to know from the way Sam's shivering under him, moaning and grasping frenetically at Dean's shoulders, that he's doing everything right - but Dean likes the sound of his own voice and Sam's pretty fond of it, too, the way it vibrates through him, whisky-deep and wanting.
"God," Sam manages, his own voice strangely tight in his throat, "Dean, fuck."
Dean's drenched in sweat, the muscles in his shoulders bunching and unclenching under Sam's hands as he fucks in deeper, and he's biting his lip, hot little flash of white on pink. He's gorgeous, perfect like this; he's Sam's, and the heat of that thought snaps up through Sam's body like whiplash, setting little fires of want. He feels his back arching, muscles tightening as the pressure builds in his stomach, and Dean's moving faster, now, rolling into Sam like thunder.
"Got you," Dean says, tacky fingers closing around Sam's cock as his thrusts start to stutter, head dipping forward into the crook of Sam's neck. "I got you, Sammy, okay?" He licks at the tendon in Sam's neck, stretched out with the position of his head, and bites, little nips of pleasure-pain along the line of it. "I got you."
It's still just rambling, Sam's sure, as far as Dean's concerned, but still, it's the words as much as the hand on his cock that push Sam over the edge, up the crest of white heat and out into space, the force of it pulsing wet and slick and hot over Dean's fingers. "I know," Sam gasps out, aftershocks still skidding through his blood, "I know, Dean."
Dean never lasts long after Sam's clenched and come hot around him, on him, and his face is tight with how close he is, fingers biting into Sam's hips as he thrusts. Sam turns his head, ears still echoing strangely, to mouth at Dean's lips; strokes a hand down the sweat-damp length of his back and lower, into his loosened jeans, grazing his hole. They haven't done this much - Dean's bigger; it's awkward - but Dean clenches up immediately, seizes and cries out, and as he pulses heat all over Sam's insides, Sam thinks, maybe. Dean's still Dean, after all, half an inch the wrong side of Sam or not, and it isn't as if he hasn't always had Sam inside of him anyway. It might be good to burrow inside Dean like that, feel all that heat and surety holding him, cradling him safe. Sam rubs his face in Dean's hair; mouths damply at the bolt of his jaw until Dean shifts sleepily and lifts his head so they can make out slack and slow, like always. Sam slides the flat of his tongue languidly over Dean's, curls it up to stroke over the roof of his mouth and swallows the soft little sound Dean makes. Maybe.
They lose the afternoon in sweat and skin, the taste and weight of each other, and by the time they're done and showered, Sam's almost forgotten how this started; almost forgotten about his discovery. It doesn't seem to matter much, after all. Dean, though, is apparently less easily distracted. When Dad gets home around midnight, Dean's on him with a pencil the moment he's sure there's no gaping wound in need of medical attention. Dad just laughs, catching Sam's eye with a brief flash of the kind of conspirators' amusement they don't often share, and Sam feels his belly flush warm with it, laughs right back.
"Back against the doorpost, then, Mr Eager," Dad says, gesticulating with a pencil. Dean pulls himself up on the balls of his feet, but Dad's wise to that old trick and stamps them down again, flattening them unceremoniously under his own. "Cheater."
"Whatever," Dean huffs through his teeth, but he relents and lets Dad make a line at the top of his head. When Sam steps away a moment later, there's a clear three quarters of an inch between the marks, and Dean grins, gesticulating with one hand.
"See? Got an inch on you yet, Sammy."
Sam blinks. He's so bemused that it takes Dad's snort from behind him to make him realise exactly how deluded Dean is, that he actually thinks -
"Dream on, shorty," Dad says, ruffling Dean's hair all out of shape in a way only Dad could walk away from without injury. "Told you your brother was overtaking you, didn't I?" He tosses the pencil down on the table and heads for the bathroom. "Get in bed. I'll be out in a minute. Early start tomorrow."
The look on Dean's face when the bathroom door closes behind Dad is so disgruntled it's all Sam can do not to laugh. He bites his lip, watching Dean pointedly and deliberately rearrange his hair.
Dean, apparently, takes objection to being watched. "What?"
Sam lets the smile escape, then; backs Dean up against the wall. "It's not the end of the world, you know." He leans in, nips at Dean's lower lip; traces his tongue along it until Dean relents and opens his mouth on a sigh.
"It's weird," Dean mutters, after a minute, but his hands come up to span Sam's waist, thumbs stroking up and down over the back of his tee. Sam shrugs, kisses Dean again.
"Weird's kind of our stock in trade, though, right?" He nudges a knee between Dean's legs, as if in demonstration, and Dean ducks his head on a grin; shoves at Sam's shoulders.
"Yeah, well."
"We'll make the best of it," Sam says, and he isn't sure exactly how many things are encompassed in that statement, but goddamn, he knows he means it. Sam's growing, but he's growing around Dean, not away from him. Like those trees they sometimes see in graveyards, trunks twisted together through years of proximity. They'll make the best of it.
Dean shoves him again, but it's half-hearted, not unkind. "Yeah, okay." He leans up, whippet-quick, to press his mouth to Sam's, and then he's slipping out from under Sam's arm, making for the bed. "Dad's here, dude. Gonna get me hard again."
Sam laughs at that, turns down the other side of the bed. They're too big for this, really, but it's only for one night, the three of them squished into a two-person room, and the Winchesters are all long-used to close quarters. So far, so normal. In a manner of speaking.
"Feet are fucking freezing," Dean complains, when Sam gets into the bed, and Sam twists around, deliberately pressing the soles of them to Dean's calves.
"Ow, fuck!" Dean wrestles around for the pillow, presses it over Sam's face, and any threat of an erection is lost in the struggle by the time Dad's out and yelling at them to break it up. Dean's pink-cheeked and panting, grinning far too smugly when they subside, curl up under the blankets. Big brother. Sam takes his extra three quarters of an inch and folds it up with the rest of him, winnows his way under Dean's outstretched arm and into the perfect curve of his body, carved out for Sam's. It's a familiar closeness, safe in the warm dark. Only the usual sort of weird.
Sam smiles into the darkness, presses back against Dean. Situation normal, he thinks: all fucked up, but if Sam's honest, he kind of likes it that way. He falls asleep with Dean's arm around his waist, Dad snoring softly in the other bed, and doesn't dream.