Versatile, Tender and Delicious (SPN, Wincest, 2500 words, E)
Title: Versatile, Tender and Delicious
Fandom: SPN
Pairing: Wincest
Characters: Sam, Dean
Warnings: None
Wordcount: c.2500
Rating: E
AO3 link
Summary: Sam finds the zucchini in the salad drawer: just one, left over from a couple of days before, when he hadn’t thought twice about what he was handling. Now, though, even the heft of it in his hand turns him on. He holds it reflectively in his palm, runs his thumb over the ridge where two angled planes of its surface connect. Jesus. He must really be desperate. - Sam/zucchini with a side order of Wincest. The premise is 100% crack, but the smut is 100% serious. Oh yes.
Author's note: Written as a birthday present for my friend Hanna (tipsysam), (non-sexual!) lover of courgette and my gracious host on a recent trip to Finland.
Sam loves zucchini. Sliced, shredded, pan-fried or raw; softened with garlic and butter in a pasta sauce, or with feta and chilli as a salad or side. It’s delicious. It’s good for you. It’s easy to cook.
Until now, though, he’s never put one up his ass.
He’s not sure, exactly, how he got to this point: would certainly never have predicted, when he got up this morning, that by 2pm he’d be face-down in his pillows, fucking himself with a vegetable. Nope. That wasn’t in the plan. What was maybe more predictable was the erection that had greeted him when he woke up; maybe, too, the low throb of desire that persisted in his stomach even after he jacked himself messy into the sink. He’s just… he’s really kind of horny, lately, most of the time. Sleeping with Piper took the edge off, but it was more of a symptom than a cure. After three years of dormancy, Sam’s libido is back, and it’s like being a teenager again; most of the time he’s in a daze, stumbling lust-soaked, struck sideways by everyone he sees. It’s becoming a problem. (It’s becoming a problem mostly because of Dean. Apparently Sam’s not so far over his brother as he thought.)
Anyway, aside from Piper, there’s not been much he can do: just jerk off sweaty and effortfully silent every morning and night. Honestly, when Dean announced this morning that he was driving into Kansas City to buy parts for the car, the first thought that crossed Sam’s mind was that he could masturbate all afternoon without worrying about the noise. Sam really likes to be noisy; and he gets off harder and faster when he can let himself go. So. He spends the morning hurrying through his chores, knocking together some cursory research on ghost possession in case Dean asks what he’s been doing all day. Dean will be gone for hours - “maybe all night” - but Sam keeps checking the clock, fingers tapping anxiously on the wood of the table, unable really to think of anything beyond his growing need to get off. He’s told himself he has to wait until noon. He’s not a kid. And anyway. Sam likes to practise self-restraint.
By 11.30 he’s buzzing, jittery, and he finds himself in the kitchen looking for food as a distraction. He roots through the fridge. There’s nothing much in the central compartment: half a bowl of cold chilli, which Dean’s probably had his fingers all over; and all the usual, eggs, butter, milk. There’s a wilting bag of lettuce in the salad drawer and - oh. Underneath it, that’s where Sam finds the zucchini. There’s just one, left over from a couple days before, when he hadn’t thought twice about what he was handling. Now, though, after a morning thinking of nothing but sex, even the heft of it in his hand turns him on. He holds it reflectively in his palm, runs his thumb over the ridge where two angled planes of its surface connect. Jesus. He must really be desperate.
Shaking his head, Sam puts the zucchini back in the drawer. He doesn’t bother going to his bedroom to jerk off. What’s the good of having the bunker to yourself if you can’t sit spread-legged in a library chair and jack yourself in the open air? The whole room is open, no dividing doors, and Sam’s in full view of the entrance. If Dean were to come back, there’d be no chance to hide himself away. The thought makes him dizzy, high. He closes his eyes and pictures it, Dean’s shocked face, and comes sticky into his fist.
OK. Round one.
He’s heading toward his bedroom for round two (because he’d kind of like to be naked, and he’s still too much of a coward to strip off in the central room), when he takes a diversion into the kitchen to wash his hands and finds himself standing in front of the fridge. It’s not. No. He’s probably not going to use it. He’s just kind of entertaining the thought. He doesn’t let himself think too long or hard about it, picks up the zucchini and hurries down the corridor into his room. He pulls the door to but doesn’t close it, not properly; throws the thing down onto the bed and strips off his jeans and shirt. He’s half-hard again already, and he settles himself back against his pillows and drags a slow fist up his cock. He’s not so desperate now, not quite, which means that he can let himself savour it: pumping his right hand deliberate and regular while his left trails over his chest. He pinches at his nipple, twists it, feels the good shock connecting down to his balls. He moves on to the other nipple, tugs at it roughly; spreads his legs wider, rolls his hips. He’s getting there, building steady; with the rough scratch of his wool comforter on his shoulders and ass just uncomfortable enough to help. He starts to thrust, feet planted firm and his body sliding incrementally up and down the bed, fibres scraping over his skin. He brings his hand up to tug at his hair, pulls it tight to the roots. Yeah. Yeah.
He remembers, then, that he’s allowed to be loud; tries an experimental groan and, when he feels it like a shiver in his chest, abandons himself to his basest urge.
“Dean,” he chokes, fisting himself tight. “Yeah, Dean, yeah, oh God.” He tugs again at his hair, brings his hand down to grind the bones of his palm hard against his aching nipple. Oh yeah. Oh fuck. He’s almost. “Dean,” he says again; and when he comes, moans low, feeling his jizz splatter wet across his thighs. Easing through it, at last he relaxes his grip, drops his hands onto the bed beside him, and lies spread-eagle, panting deep.
Uh. That was definitely good, definitely better than the endless mornings stifling himself on his pillow or fist. But the afternoon’s still young; and after about twenty minutes of satiated dozing, Sam starts to feel the niggle again. What’s worse, of course, is that now there’s this zucchini lying on his bed; and it’s just. It’s just a nice thickness and the right kind of size and he can’t stop thinking, alright, about how good it would feel.
He really, really shouldn’t. It’s super gross. It’s the kind of thing that Dean would never, ever let him live down. Sam can already hear the jokes; ‘I knew you had a boner for salad, Sammy, but…’. It literally wouldn’t stop until one of them died. Which. Sam can do without that, thanks. But… Dean’s not here, right? He’s hundreds of miles away, buying parts for his baby, and Sam’s right here and the fucking zucchini’s right there, and before he can think about it too hard, he rolls over and scrabbles in his bedside drawer for condoms and lube.
The tube, bought more recently than Sam would like to admit, is already maybe two-thirds used; but there’s plenty in there still, and he squeezes a good slug of it into his palm. His heart’s running fast again, his body apparently in denial about its thirty-something years and the three very satisfactory orgasms he’s enjoyed today. Still, this one is gonna be different; and he slicks his hands together, warm, settles on his knees in the centre of the bed. Supporting himself with his left hand spread open over his thigh, he reaches back with his right; rubs a slick finger over his hole. It’s already enough to make him shudder, just that.
He eases in the tip, rocks backward, nudging inside into his own soft heat; then pushes in firm, as far as he can manage with the angle he has. He slides the finger out and in again a couple of times, enjoying the shivery buzz of sensation as the knuckle tugs his rim; and then slips in another, scissoring careful but firm, spreading himself. His other hand is still resting motionless on his thigh. All of Sam’s concentration is focused down to those two fingers, easing gradually apart, the pull of them inside him burning just nicely. A drop of sweat trickles from his hairline, down the side of his neck, and he’s suddenly conscious of the prickle of droplets all over his body as he arches backwards, taut, exposed.
“Fuck,” he gasps, and slips in a third. He’s just fucking himself with them now, open enough to drag slick and easy back and forth. But it’s not… he can’t really get deep, and so he pulls his fingers free and falls forward onto his hands and knees, groping over the bed. He’s actually shaking when he picks the thing up and drops it nearer, fingers unsteady as he opens up the condom. It’s. This is so fucked up. But he unrolls the latex over the dark green skin and doesn’t look at it too closely; closes his eyes and runs his hand up its smooth, thick length. Yeah. Yeah.
More lube. Right? Yeah, more lube; so he jams the thing between his thighs and squishes an unintentionally generous glob onto the head; traces his fingers over the surface, slicking it well. His heart is pounding violent, somewhere up in his throat. And then he reaches back, left hand spreading his cheeks, and guides the zucchini steady and slow into his ass. It feels amazing, solid and wide and with just the fraction of give that a cock would have, so that it’s really fucking easy for Sam to imagine that Dean is behind him, spread-legged, and that he’s easing himself down onto his brother’s dick.
It’s been a long time since Sam had anything substantial inside him, and he’s thinking now that that’s been a serious oversight. Next time they hit a big city, he’s definitely gonna sneak out and hit up some kind of sex shop, find himself a dildo. Because this feels good. The stretch of his rim. The solid weight of the thing as it sits inside him. It just. He tugs down on it experimentally, eases it back in; and it’s really good, tingly good, but the angle’s not quite right. He shifts around, drops forward with the weight of his torso pressing heavy on his shoulders, face flattened sideways into the pillow and his knees tucked under his ass; then gropes his right hand back, grips around the end of the zucchini, and starts to fuck himself in earnest. Like this, it’s perfect, nudging over his prostate every couple of thrusts.
Sam goes slow, focusing on the sensation, waves of warm pleasure dragging through him. This. It - it feels so good, and he lets his body respond to it, lets his hips start to shift and push back against the pressure, feeling the burn. His breath gathers damp on the cotton pillowcase, hangs hot over his mouth and chin. Sam eases, eases. He starts to talk.
“Jesus,” he breathes, low. “Jesus, Dean. Fuck. This feels. Jesus, Dean, so good.” He curls the fingers of his left hand into the bedspread, prickly wool. He thinks about Dean in this position, behind him, knees open. He’d have his hands spread, cupping Sam’s hips; or maybe, no, maybe he’d have one hand splayed across Sam’s abs and the other rubbing over his lower back, coaxing him through it. That sounds like Dean.
“Come on, Dean,” Sam says. “It’s okay, I can take it, come on.”
He speeds up his thrusts, snapping the thing into himself as abruptly as he can. It’s difficult: his arm is aching, starting to cramp. But he can feel the pressure building. He doesn’t want to stop.
Instead he spreads his knees wider, grinds forward into the bed, and wriggles his left hand underneath his belly, groping toward his cock. It’s hard to get a proper grip at this awkward angle, but he rounds his fingers to make a kind of circle into which he can thrust. It’s not much, but by this stage he’s so raw and sensitive that it’s probably enough; Jesus, he hopes it's gonna be enough. He jerks the zucchini hard and fast, deep up inside himself then almost all the way out. “Fuck.” He’s gasping, a stream of it, “fuck Dean fuck me fuck fuck fuck.” His blood is roaring in his ears, the room around him greyed out. His whole awareness narrows to the rhythmic push of the thing inside him and the brush of his own fingers around his cock. Every muscle in his body is trembling, tight.
Behind him, the creak of a door and the shiver of cold air over his slick, wet hole. It must have swung open, the movement of an old building; but the shift in pressure tilts something inside Sam, changes the sensation just enough, and on his next thrust-drag he’s coming, harder than he can remember, hard as all the day’s climaxes combined; coming, crying incoherent nonsense, calling Dean’s name.
By the time he’s done, wrung out messy onto the bedsheets, he’s shaking, exhausted. He slumps forward, head sidewise on the pillow, opens his eyes and stares unfocused at the wall. Dean’s denim-clad crotch looms into view.
Sam feels a tight cold prickle of horror wash over his body. His hairs stand on end.
“Oh fuck,” he says. “Oh Jesus. Oh God.” He turns his face down into the pillow. Fuck. Fuck. He’s still trembling but this isn’t pleasure, now. It’s self-loathing, fear. This is the worst-case scenario, the actual worst-case scenario. It’s worse than humiliation. Better to have got drunk and climbed into Dean’s bed, better to have groped him unrewardingly under a diner table and earned himself a punch in the face; better anything than to be found like this, fucking himself with a makeshift dildo and moaning his brother’s name.
Sam can feel his breath flattening shallow, speeding out of control. He can’t. He can’t breathe properly, and he’s choking but he can’t take his face out of the pillows. He can’t. He can’t ever look at Dean again. He shakes.
Dean’s hand lands warm and solid on his shoulder. “Hey,” and his brother’s voice is soft, concerned. “Hey, Sammy, hey.”
Sam cringes, doesn’t look up.
“Sam,” Dean says to him. “It’s okay.”
Sam pushes his palms into the mattress and shifts his weight onto his knees; lifts himself out of the pillow, gasps for air. He’s half-sobbing. “It’s not,” he says, “It’s not.” He turns his face towards Dean; eyes burning with rage, shame, both. “You weren’t supposed to come back.”
Dean’s face cracks in a slow grin. “Yeah, gathered that,” he says.
Sam can’t, he can’t. Sure, Dean amused is better than Dean disgusted, repulsed; but the humiliation is too raw and immediate for Sam to be able to laugh. “It’s not funny,” he says, wavering, hating himself.
Dean hesitates, his expression unreadable, and grips Sam’s shoulder tighter in his hand. “Sam,” he says. “It really is OK.” He pauses, then looks direct down into Sam’s eyes. “It was hot.”
The fiery pins and needles of a blush spread over Sam’s cheeks. He can’t speak over the lump in his throat.
“Hey,” says Dean, and shifts his feet a little further apart. He takes Sam’s hand in his and settles it over the solid warm line of his cock, pressing hard against the seam of his jeans. “I mean it. See?”
Sam still doesn’t trust himself to speak; but he curls his fingers, taking the measure of his brother. Okay. Okay. He breathes out, juddery, and nods; and that seems to be the cue Dean has been watching for. He smiles down at Sam again, feral now, nudges Sam’s fingers away and unzips his jeans.
“Right,” he says. “Apparently, you wanna fuck yourself with food. So… tell me, Sammy. How do you feel about me feeding you this?”
Fandom: SPN
Pairing: Wincest
Characters: Sam, Dean
Warnings: None
Wordcount: c.2500
Rating: E
AO3 link
Summary: Sam finds the zucchini in the salad drawer: just one, left over from a couple of days before, when he hadn’t thought twice about what he was handling. Now, though, even the heft of it in his hand turns him on. He holds it reflectively in his palm, runs his thumb over the ridge where two angled planes of its surface connect. Jesus. He must really be desperate. - Sam/zucchini with a side order of Wincest. The premise is 100% crack, but the smut is 100% serious. Oh yes.
Author's note: Written as a birthday present for my friend Hanna (tipsysam), (non-sexual!) lover of courgette and my gracious host on a recent trip to Finland.
Sam loves zucchini. Sliced, shredded, pan-fried or raw; softened with garlic and butter in a pasta sauce, or with feta and chilli as a salad or side. It’s delicious. It’s good for you. It’s easy to cook.
Until now, though, he’s never put one up his ass.
He’s not sure, exactly, how he got to this point: would certainly never have predicted, when he got up this morning, that by 2pm he’d be face-down in his pillows, fucking himself with a vegetable. Nope. That wasn’t in the plan. What was maybe more predictable was the erection that had greeted him when he woke up; maybe, too, the low throb of desire that persisted in his stomach even after he jacked himself messy into the sink. He’s just… he’s really kind of horny, lately, most of the time. Sleeping with Piper took the edge off, but it was more of a symptom than a cure. After three years of dormancy, Sam’s libido is back, and it’s like being a teenager again; most of the time he’s in a daze, stumbling lust-soaked, struck sideways by everyone he sees. It’s becoming a problem. (It’s becoming a problem mostly because of Dean. Apparently Sam’s not so far over his brother as he thought.)
Anyway, aside from Piper, there’s not been much he can do: just jerk off sweaty and effortfully silent every morning and night. Honestly, when Dean announced this morning that he was driving into Kansas City to buy parts for the car, the first thought that crossed Sam’s mind was that he could masturbate all afternoon without worrying about the noise. Sam really likes to be noisy; and he gets off harder and faster when he can let himself go. So. He spends the morning hurrying through his chores, knocking together some cursory research on ghost possession in case Dean asks what he’s been doing all day. Dean will be gone for hours - “maybe all night” - but Sam keeps checking the clock, fingers tapping anxiously on the wood of the table, unable really to think of anything beyond his growing need to get off. He’s told himself he has to wait until noon. He’s not a kid. And anyway. Sam likes to practise self-restraint.
By 11.30 he’s buzzing, jittery, and he finds himself in the kitchen looking for food as a distraction. He roots through the fridge. There’s nothing much in the central compartment: half a bowl of cold chilli, which Dean’s probably had his fingers all over; and all the usual, eggs, butter, milk. There’s a wilting bag of lettuce in the salad drawer and - oh. Underneath it, that’s where Sam finds the zucchini. There’s just one, left over from a couple days before, when he hadn’t thought twice about what he was handling. Now, though, after a morning thinking of nothing but sex, even the heft of it in his hand turns him on. He holds it reflectively in his palm, runs his thumb over the ridge where two angled planes of its surface connect. Jesus. He must really be desperate.
Shaking his head, Sam puts the zucchini back in the drawer. He doesn’t bother going to his bedroom to jerk off. What’s the good of having the bunker to yourself if you can’t sit spread-legged in a library chair and jack yourself in the open air? The whole room is open, no dividing doors, and Sam’s in full view of the entrance. If Dean were to come back, there’d be no chance to hide himself away. The thought makes him dizzy, high. He closes his eyes and pictures it, Dean’s shocked face, and comes sticky into his fist.
OK. Round one.
He’s heading toward his bedroom for round two (because he’d kind of like to be naked, and he’s still too much of a coward to strip off in the central room), when he takes a diversion into the kitchen to wash his hands and finds himself standing in front of the fridge. It’s not. No. He’s probably not going to use it. He’s just kind of entertaining the thought. He doesn’t let himself think too long or hard about it, picks up the zucchini and hurries down the corridor into his room. He pulls the door to but doesn’t close it, not properly; throws the thing down onto the bed and strips off his jeans and shirt. He’s half-hard again already, and he settles himself back against his pillows and drags a slow fist up his cock. He’s not so desperate now, not quite, which means that he can let himself savour it: pumping his right hand deliberate and regular while his left trails over his chest. He pinches at his nipple, twists it, feels the good shock connecting down to his balls. He moves on to the other nipple, tugs at it roughly; spreads his legs wider, rolls his hips. He’s getting there, building steady; with the rough scratch of his wool comforter on his shoulders and ass just uncomfortable enough to help. He starts to thrust, feet planted firm and his body sliding incrementally up and down the bed, fibres scraping over his skin. He brings his hand up to tug at his hair, pulls it tight to the roots. Yeah. Yeah.
He remembers, then, that he’s allowed to be loud; tries an experimental groan and, when he feels it like a shiver in his chest, abandons himself to his basest urge.
“Dean,” he chokes, fisting himself tight. “Yeah, Dean, yeah, oh God.” He tugs again at his hair, brings his hand down to grind the bones of his palm hard against his aching nipple. Oh yeah. Oh fuck. He’s almost. “Dean,” he says again; and when he comes, moans low, feeling his jizz splatter wet across his thighs. Easing through it, at last he relaxes his grip, drops his hands onto the bed beside him, and lies spread-eagle, panting deep.
Uh. That was definitely good, definitely better than the endless mornings stifling himself on his pillow or fist. But the afternoon’s still young; and after about twenty minutes of satiated dozing, Sam starts to feel the niggle again. What’s worse, of course, is that now there’s this zucchini lying on his bed; and it’s just. It’s just a nice thickness and the right kind of size and he can’t stop thinking, alright, about how good it would feel.
He really, really shouldn’t. It’s super gross. It’s the kind of thing that Dean would never, ever let him live down. Sam can already hear the jokes; ‘I knew you had a boner for salad, Sammy, but…’. It literally wouldn’t stop until one of them died. Which. Sam can do without that, thanks. But… Dean’s not here, right? He’s hundreds of miles away, buying parts for his baby, and Sam’s right here and the fucking zucchini’s right there, and before he can think about it too hard, he rolls over and scrabbles in his bedside drawer for condoms and lube.
The tube, bought more recently than Sam would like to admit, is already maybe two-thirds used; but there’s plenty in there still, and he squeezes a good slug of it into his palm. His heart’s running fast again, his body apparently in denial about its thirty-something years and the three very satisfactory orgasms he’s enjoyed today. Still, this one is gonna be different; and he slicks his hands together, warm, settles on his knees in the centre of the bed. Supporting himself with his left hand spread open over his thigh, he reaches back with his right; rubs a slick finger over his hole. It’s already enough to make him shudder, just that.
He eases in the tip, rocks backward, nudging inside into his own soft heat; then pushes in firm, as far as he can manage with the angle he has. He slides the finger out and in again a couple of times, enjoying the shivery buzz of sensation as the knuckle tugs his rim; and then slips in another, scissoring careful but firm, spreading himself. His other hand is still resting motionless on his thigh. All of Sam’s concentration is focused down to those two fingers, easing gradually apart, the pull of them inside him burning just nicely. A drop of sweat trickles from his hairline, down the side of his neck, and he’s suddenly conscious of the prickle of droplets all over his body as he arches backwards, taut, exposed.
“Fuck,” he gasps, and slips in a third. He’s just fucking himself with them now, open enough to drag slick and easy back and forth. But it’s not… he can’t really get deep, and so he pulls his fingers free and falls forward onto his hands and knees, groping over the bed. He’s actually shaking when he picks the thing up and drops it nearer, fingers unsteady as he opens up the condom. It’s. This is so fucked up. But he unrolls the latex over the dark green skin and doesn’t look at it too closely; closes his eyes and runs his hand up its smooth, thick length. Yeah. Yeah.
More lube. Right? Yeah, more lube; so he jams the thing between his thighs and squishes an unintentionally generous glob onto the head; traces his fingers over the surface, slicking it well. His heart is pounding violent, somewhere up in his throat. And then he reaches back, left hand spreading his cheeks, and guides the zucchini steady and slow into his ass. It feels amazing, solid and wide and with just the fraction of give that a cock would have, so that it’s really fucking easy for Sam to imagine that Dean is behind him, spread-legged, and that he’s easing himself down onto his brother’s dick.
It’s been a long time since Sam had anything substantial inside him, and he’s thinking now that that’s been a serious oversight. Next time they hit a big city, he’s definitely gonna sneak out and hit up some kind of sex shop, find himself a dildo. Because this feels good. The stretch of his rim. The solid weight of the thing as it sits inside him. It just. He tugs down on it experimentally, eases it back in; and it’s really good, tingly good, but the angle’s not quite right. He shifts around, drops forward with the weight of his torso pressing heavy on his shoulders, face flattened sideways into the pillow and his knees tucked under his ass; then gropes his right hand back, grips around the end of the zucchini, and starts to fuck himself in earnest. Like this, it’s perfect, nudging over his prostate every couple of thrusts.
Sam goes slow, focusing on the sensation, waves of warm pleasure dragging through him. This. It - it feels so good, and he lets his body respond to it, lets his hips start to shift and push back against the pressure, feeling the burn. His breath gathers damp on the cotton pillowcase, hangs hot over his mouth and chin. Sam eases, eases. He starts to talk.
“Jesus,” he breathes, low. “Jesus, Dean. Fuck. This feels. Jesus, Dean, so good.” He curls the fingers of his left hand into the bedspread, prickly wool. He thinks about Dean in this position, behind him, knees open. He’d have his hands spread, cupping Sam’s hips; or maybe, no, maybe he’d have one hand splayed across Sam’s abs and the other rubbing over his lower back, coaxing him through it. That sounds like Dean.
“Come on, Dean,” Sam says. “It’s okay, I can take it, come on.”
He speeds up his thrusts, snapping the thing into himself as abruptly as he can. It’s difficult: his arm is aching, starting to cramp. But he can feel the pressure building. He doesn’t want to stop.
Instead he spreads his knees wider, grinds forward into the bed, and wriggles his left hand underneath his belly, groping toward his cock. It’s hard to get a proper grip at this awkward angle, but he rounds his fingers to make a kind of circle into which he can thrust. It’s not much, but by this stage he’s so raw and sensitive that it’s probably enough; Jesus, he hopes it's gonna be enough. He jerks the zucchini hard and fast, deep up inside himself then almost all the way out. “Fuck.” He’s gasping, a stream of it, “fuck Dean fuck me fuck fuck fuck.” His blood is roaring in his ears, the room around him greyed out. His whole awareness narrows to the rhythmic push of the thing inside him and the brush of his own fingers around his cock. Every muscle in his body is trembling, tight.
Behind him, the creak of a door and the shiver of cold air over his slick, wet hole. It must have swung open, the movement of an old building; but the shift in pressure tilts something inside Sam, changes the sensation just enough, and on his next thrust-drag he’s coming, harder than he can remember, hard as all the day’s climaxes combined; coming, crying incoherent nonsense, calling Dean’s name.
By the time he’s done, wrung out messy onto the bedsheets, he’s shaking, exhausted. He slumps forward, head sidewise on the pillow, opens his eyes and stares unfocused at the wall. Dean’s denim-clad crotch looms into view.
Sam feels a tight cold prickle of horror wash over his body. His hairs stand on end.
“Oh fuck,” he says. “Oh Jesus. Oh God.” He turns his face down into the pillow. Fuck. Fuck. He’s still trembling but this isn’t pleasure, now. It’s self-loathing, fear. This is the worst-case scenario, the actual worst-case scenario. It’s worse than humiliation. Better to have got drunk and climbed into Dean’s bed, better to have groped him unrewardingly under a diner table and earned himself a punch in the face; better anything than to be found like this, fucking himself with a makeshift dildo and moaning his brother’s name.
Sam can feel his breath flattening shallow, speeding out of control. He can’t. He can’t breathe properly, and he’s choking but he can’t take his face out of the pillows. He can’t. He can’t ever look at Dean again. He shakes.
Dean’s hand lands warm and solid on his shoulder. “Hey,” and his brother’s voice is soft, concerned. “Hey, Sammy, hey.”
Sam cringes, doesn’t look up.
“Sam,” Dean says to him. “It’s okay.”
Sam pushes his palms into the mattress and shifts his weight onto his knees; lifts himself out of the pillow, gasps for air. He’s half-sobbing. “It’s not,” he says, “It’s not.” He turns his face towards Dean; eyes burning with rage, shame, both. “You weren’t supposed to come back.”
Dean’s face cracks in a slow grin. “Yeah, gathered that,” he says.
Sam can’t, he can’t. Sure, Dean amused is better than Dean disgusted, repulsed; but the humiliation is too raw and immediate for Sam to be able to laugh. “It’s not funny,” he says, wavering, hating himself.
Dean hesitates, his expression unreadable, and grips Sam’s shoulder tighter in his hand. “Sam,” he says. “It really is OK.” He pauses, then looks direct down into Sam’s eyes. “It was hot.”
The fiery pins and needles of a blush spread over Sam’s cheeks. He can’t speak over the lump in his throat.
“Hey,” says Dean, and shifts his feet a little further apart. He takes Sam’s hand in his and settles it over the solid warm line of his cock, pressing hard against the seam of his jeans. “I mean it. See?”
Sam still doesn’t trust himself to speak; but he curls his fingers, taking the measure of his brother. Okay. Okay. He breathes out, juddery, and nods; and that seems to be the cue Dean has been watching for. He smiles down at Sam again, feral now, nudges Sam’s fingers away and unzips his jeans.
“Right,” he says. “Apparently, you wanna fuck yourself with food. So… tell me, Sammy. How do you feel about me feeding you this?”