Blackout
Title: Blackout
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Rating: NC-17
Summary: He finally looks at Sam again, that same considering look in his eyes that he had when deciding whether to give him the weed or not. “You want to try something?” he asks, and Sam says, “Anything.”
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters (I do pretend sometimes.) Don't steal the plot. Cut belongs to Sparks the Rescue.
A/N: So I got high and then I decided that Dean was definitely there when Sam got high for the first time (because they've gotten high before no questions asked) and then I started writing and it turned into porn. Like always. Warnings for underage!Sam (he's sixteen) and weed smoking. Pre-series.
crossposted to supernaturalfic, sn_fic & wincest
Dean doesn’t even bother looking ashamed when Sam walks into the motel room while he’s rolling a joint. He knows it’s not Dad; John is away for the rest of the week and the first half of the next one, taking a standard angry spirit case somewhere in South Carolina while Dean and Sam go to school in some shitty town in the North. He’s sitting crosslegged on the only bed in the room, metal ash tray that comes with every smoking room in any motel in North America on the table to the left and a folded piece of paper in front of him, crumbled pieces of hash contrasting to the white sheet. His eyes are already a little red and there’s ash and the end of a dead joint in the ash tray, and Sam hisses, “Dean, is that weed?” after he looks around outside for a moment and then steps inside, closing the door with a quiet click.
He arches an eyebrow at his little brother, his little brother who’s almost seventeen and clearly as innocent as they come. Dean puts down the chunk of weed that he was crushing into the mixing tray. “Are you telling me you’ve never smoked before?” he asks, voice a little scratchy from the smoke that sears his throat on a bad inhale. Sam shakes his head. “Tell me you’ve at least smoked a cigarette.” The pause between the question and the answer is significantly longer. Dean blanches. “Dude. Dude.” He motions for Sam to come over, pulls the red and white package of Marlboro’s out of his pocket and flips the lid, pulling a white stick out of the box. Sam watches him warily, edging closer and closer to his brother. The package of cigarettes is almost empty.
The cigarette is held between Dean’s lips, tip bobbing for a moment as he fumbles over to the bedside table, almost knocking the ash tray over the edge as he tries to grab his Zippo. It clings as he flicks it open, inhaling deeply as he lights the cancer stick. Sam stares. The smoke drifts out of Dean’s mouth slowly, face tipped the slightest bit up. It slowly thins out until the air is (mostly) clear, and Dean takes another slow drag before motioning Sam to sit on the bed. “Careful,” he says, cigarette held in his left hand. He picks up the mixing tray in his other hand, waiting for the sixteen year old to settle before putting it back down on the bed.
“Try this,” he turns his hand so the filter of the cigarette is near his mouth and all he has to do is lean forward a little till his lips are touching it, touching the edges of Dean’s fingers. “Inhale, slowly. Just try having it in your mouth for a little while. Sam throat burns and he coughs, smoke rushing out of his mouth in a race to see how fast it can hit the ceiling. Dean laughs. “Here, take it.” He takes the cigarette and Dean moves his attention back to the mixing tray, clearly expecting Sam to smoke the cigarette. He tries, coughing his way through the first half of it before he more or less gets the hang of at least pulling small hits of it into his lungs.
It’s a curious thing, watching Dean roll the joint. He’s graceful in a way that he usually isn’t, much the same way as he is when he’s cleaning his gun. Sam watches as Dean takes another cigarette out of the red and white package. He expects him to hold it up to his mouth, light it and take a drag. Dean doesn’t; instead, he holds it a short distance away from himself, holds the Zippo in his other hand and waves it slowly back and forth under the cigarette, white paper turning slowly yellow and then golden and then brown. “I’m toasting the cigarette,” he explains to his brother. When he’s done he puts the Zippo down, peels the paper back and empties the tobacco into the mixing tray.
The mixture in the tray is an array of greens and browns. Dean blends it with his fingers, picks the folded piece of paper up and tips it so that the contents roll into the already-prepared cone. “Never buy ready-rolled joints, Sammy,” Dean says, offering superior stoner wisdom. “You never know what they’re putting in it. ‘s so that you can know exactly how strong you want yours to be.” He’s not looking at him, more concentrated than Sam’s seen him in... definitely in a while. He puts the mixing tray onto the sheets and the cone is more than three quarters of the way filled. His fingers are carefully as he straightens out the paper, pinching it between his middle and his pointer finger as he taps the filter against his lighter. Sam is more than fascinated as he watches Dean go through the motions of picking up the tray again and emptying the last into the paper cone.
He realizes too late that he’s been just holding the cigarette for the past five minutes and it’s almost burnt out, a long stick of ash clinging to the end. Sam risks a glance at his brother and holds it to his lips, attempting one last drag at the cigarette. The end of it flicks and the ash floats down, glowing where it rests on his legs and the off-white sheets on the bed. He stares, and Dean says, “Jesus, Sammy,” and leans forwards, brushing it off his jeans and off the bed. There’s black stains on the sheets where the ash moved against them. Dean plucks the cigarette stub out of his fingers, dropping it artlessly into the ash tray.
Sam doesn’t know what to say when Dean drops the folded paper of a mixing tray onto the floor, landing right next to the boots that he’s so fond of. Specks of tobacco and maybe pieces of weed slip off, clinging to the linoleum floor. Dean sits back against the headboard, rolls his shoulders and holds the joint between his thumb and pointer finger, bringing it to his lips. His eyes narrow down to slits as he lights it up, closing finally. Sam watches the whole time, focusing on the way his throat constricts as he swallows the smoke, bringing it into his lungs. It’s thicker than cigarette smoke, he notes, smells sweeter and stronger too. He does it again, takes a long drag and then holds it in for countless seconds, finally releasing it from his lungs in a slow, neverending cloud.
The end of it glows red after Dean has to relight it, tipping the ashes off into the ash tray. He takes four short, quick tokes in succession, one after another and then lets the smoke out of his mouth. “That’s called a homerun,” he doesn’t look at Sammy, eyes closed as he does another one. “Like in baseball.” Smoke drifts out of his mouth as he says the second part and Sam shifts up the bed, closer to Dean until he’s kneeling near his knees.
“Why do you do it, what’s it like?” he finally breathes curiously, cheeks flushed red. He knows that this is wrong, knows that it’s illegal. Sam knows that this kid in his class’s older brother got caught with weed on him while he was driving and put in jail overnight and fined for drug possession, but he has the overwhelming need to know. Dean rolls his neck slowly, opens his eyes to look at him as a slow smile curves over his lips. “Because sometimes you just need to loosen up.” He’s quiet for a second, considering. He’s corrupted his little brother in every other way, gave him his first taste of vodka when he was thirteen and his first real kiss at twelve. He showed him how to erase the browser history on the laptop when he’s been watching porn and what it feels like to have someone else’s hand on his dick and now he’s offering him weed. He’s honestly not sure what’s worse, but he really just doesn’t even care right now. “You want to try?”
He hesitates - of course he hesitates - but then he’s nodding and leaning forwards to take the joint from his brother. Dean taps the top of it with his finger first, over the ash tray so that the end drops off, crumbling in a pile next to all the others. He says, “Like this,” and sits up properly, shows his little brother how and then lets him take it from his fingers. His first try goes terribly, coughing and choking on smoke until he almost drops the joint. Dean takes it from him at the last second, pats him on the back until he stops coughing. Sam’s eyes are watering, and Dean comments mildly, “That wasn’t entirely bad for the first time.” At his point Sam doesn’t understand how this is anything fun at all. It hurts his throat more than smoking, and when he says as much, Dean just says, “Here, try again.” It’s not much better, but he can feel the smallest bit of smoke in his lungs. It’s harder to pull in than cigarette smoke, and he chokes while it’s on the way out, but he can feel the tiniest affect, light headed and dizzy.
His brother nods at him, the okay for him to try again. The joint is just over halfway done. It goes terribly again, coughing and spluttering until tears rolls down his cheeks. Dean wipes them away from his skin with his thumbs and takes the joint back. Sam holds his breath. He waits while he does one two three tokes, closing his eyes as he blows rings of smoke into the air above his head. He finally looks at Sam again, that same considering look in his eyes that he had when deciding whether to give him the weed or not. “You want to try something?” he asks, and Sam says, “Anything.” His voice hurts.
Dean nods and says, “Open your mouth and breathe in when I breathe out.” He holds the joint between his finger and his thumb and brings it to his lips, taking a long, hard drag. He doesn’t understand what he wants when Dean motions to him, crooking his finger towards himself until he grabs him by the shirt collar and pulls him forwards. It’s much the same as when Dean kissed him that first time, before he stopped them from happening because it wasn’t right, because Sam was too young. Suddenly Dean is right there again, and their lips are touching and his breath is leaving him and his lips are opening, and suddenly Dean is blowing air in between his lips, blowing smoke into his mouth and forcing it all down his lungs. His mouth snaps shut and he sways, suddenly crazy dizzy. He’s barely managed to exhale it all, throat burning before Dean is right there again, blowing air and pushing smoke into his lungs until he absolutely cannot have any more in him or else he will explode.
“Sam,” Dean says, hand that isn’t holding the joint in the air, moving to a rhythm that he can’t hear. “You are so weird, the ones I just gave you were so strong and you took it like it was nothing. His voice is really funny and Sam opens his eyes and the room is absolutely spinning around him, forcing him to lie down on his back next to his brother so that he can look up and focus on the cracks in the ceiling until the walls stop moving around him. His lips feel funny, tongue heavy in his mouth. His whole body feels funny, skin tingling all over. Sam wants to roll in the feeling, make him feel even more and he does, body rolling slowly like a wave. They’re at the very end of the joint, Dean takes a hit and then does another, holding the smoke in his mouth for Sam. He stubs it out in the ash tray, drops the end and it’s just like before, one second Dean isn’t there and then the next he is, hovering over him all wide shoulders and muscular chest, strong where Sam is still lean and long. Dean’s lips cover his, push smoke like it’s air into his lungs and he’s dizzy from the lack of air.
And then Dean’s tongue is there, licking across his bottom lip and then dipping in between, rubbing at his tongue and the roof of his mouth like he owns the place. He exhales quickly, too fast almost, smoke rushing up in between their faces and Dean doesn’t stop kissing him, pulling back for a split second before diving in to kiss him again. “It’s called shotgunning,” he kisses him, again and again and again. “You seem to have an unnatural talent for it.” Sam feels so good, wants to kiss Dean for hours - for hours and days and weeks and months and years. His hands are so restless, cupping Dean’s shoulders and then sliding down his arms to touch his wrists and then back up again, going down his shirt to pull at them hem and slide up it, finger skittering past warm skin.
God, Dean is so, so pleased that Sammy is a lightweight, pleased that it didn’t take so much to get him out of his head and onto a cloud, especially when he’d already smoked two joints by the time his younger brother even showed up.
He can feel Sam’s cock, hard and straining against denim, pressing against his thigh. All Dean is wearing is a pair of sweatpants he put on after he showered in the morning, too lazy to go to school like the eighteen year old he’s pretending to be and choosing to stay home and get high instead. “You grew up,” he marvels, propping himself up on his arms above Sam. He can feel him, remembers what it was like last time (last time when he realized that Sam wasn’t even fifteen and he knew what it felt like to have him rut against him until he comes) and he marvels at it in the way that you would only when high like this. Dean kisses him again, pushes his tongue into his mouth and licks at the taste, like he’s trying to get inside of Sam and slides his hand down his body, cupping the front of his jeans.
Sam moans, startled, hips arching into his touch and Dean pops the button, pulls the zipper down until he can slide his hand into his boxers and curl his fingers around his cock, tight and hot and perfect. “Fuck, you got big.” Dean mutters into his neck, lips moving against his skin while he jerks him slowly, Sam’s hips pushing up into his fist on every down stroke. He hadn’t realized it before, hadn’t thought about how while Sam was growing longer and heavier and bigger, that while his hands and feet and clothing size were all growing up that the rest of his body would go with him. Dean’s thumb smears pre-come across the head, presses into the pressure point just under the crown and Sam keens, fingers clutching uselessly at his shoulders while his brother gets him off and marks his neck like he belongs to him.
His mouth against his own tastes like weed, and Sam just can’t do anything but claw at Dean’s back under his t-shirt and take everything that he’s being given. Dean worships his mouth, kissing him until his jaw almost aches and he’s just pulling this out, making him last hours upon hours upon hours and he can’t even make his mouth work properly to bed for Dean to let him come. There’s a dull pounding in his head, blood pounding in every part of his body. His limbs all feel too heavy, skin tingling and twitching everywhere that Dean is pressed up against.
He just keeps on going and Sam thinks he’s going to go crazy, go crazier when all of a sudden Dean’s hand is gone and there’s this high-pitched whine that can’t even be coming from himself (except that it is) filling the hot space. He manages to get his eyes open, sees Dean palming himself and makes grabbing hands at him, pulling him back down and mashing their lips together. It’s so so good and messy and not at all co-ordinated, and he almost forgets that no one is even touching his dick until Dean is, until Dean has both his own and Sam’s cock in one hand, spit slick so there’s the perfect slide. He’s not even going fast enough though, needs to go faster.
“Sammy,” Dean pants. His little brother breathes, “Faster,” one hand fumbling his way down to tangle with Dean’s and help get them both off. He comes first with a hoarse shout, spilling hot and white into the hand that Dean disentangled and cupped there when Sam bit out a warning. He keeps going even after he’s is finished, hand wrapped back around both of them, wet with Sam’s come. Sam keeps shaking, not from the orgasm anymore but because it’s toomuch and toosoon and the overstimulation feels sogood that it makes white lights spark behind his eyelids and moan at Dean to stop. His brother comes when Sam bites him in the neck, leaving teeth shaped indents in the flesh.
When he’s spent he flops down, knocks the ash tray on the floor and the butts of the joints and cigarettes and ashes spill everywhere. Dean doesn’t care; he pulls Sam on top of him, his cum-stained belly rubbing into Dean’s skin where his shirt is rucked up but he kisses Sam, deep and slow and like he has all the time in the world. It feels like hours and hours after when he’s rolling away and Sam’s skin is still tingling, limbs too heavy and Dean is sitting up and wiping himself off with the shirt he pulled off. “What?” he asks, voice completely fucked up from the smoke grating his throat.
Dean’s grin is a curve of his lips, slow and wolf-like. “Want another joint?”
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Rating: NC-17
Summary: He finally looks at Sam again, that same considering look in his eyes that he had when deciding whether to give him the weed or not. “You want to try something?” he asks, and Sam says, “Anything.”
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters (I do pretend sometimes.) Don't steal the plot. Cut belongs to Sparks the Rescue.
A/N: So I got high and then I decided that Dean was definitely there when Sam got high for the first time (because they've gotten high before no questions asked) and then I started writing and it turned into porn. Like always. Warnings for underage!Sam (he's sixteen) and weed smoking. Pre-series.
crossposted to supernaturalfic, sn_fic & wincest
Dean doesn’t even bother looking ashamed when Sam walks into the motel room while he’s rolling a joint. He knows it’s not Dad; John is away for the rest of the week and the first half of the next one, taking a standard angry spirit case somewhere in South Carolina while Dean and Sam go to school in some shitty town in the North. He’s sitting crosslegged on the only bed in the room, metal ash tray that comes with every smoking room in any motel in North America on the table to the left and a folded piece of paper in front of him, crumbled pieces of hash contrasting to the white sheet. His eyes are already a little red and there’s ash and the end of a dead joint in the ash tray, and Sam hisses, “Dean, is that weed?” after he looks around outside for a moment and then steps inside, closing the door with a quiet click.
He arches an eyebrow at his little brother, his little brother who’s almost seventeen and clearly as innocent as they come. Dean puts down the chunk of weed that he was crushing into the mixing tray. “Are you telling me you’ve never smoked before?” he asks, voice a little scratchy from the smoke that sears his throat on a bad inhale. Sam shakes his head. “Tell me you’ve at least smoked a cigarette.” The pause between the question and the answer is significantly longer. Dean blanches. “Dude. Dude.” He motions for Sam to come over, pulls the red and white package of Marlboro’s out of his pocket and flips the lid, pulling a white stick out of the box. Sam watches him warily, edging closer and closer to his brother. The package of cigarettes is almost empty.
The cigarette is held between Dean’s lips, tip bobbing for a moment as he fumbles over to the bedside table, almost knocking the ash tray over the edge as he tries to grab his Zippo. It clings as he flicks it open, inhaling deeply as he lights the cancer stick. Sam stares. The smoke drifts out of Dean’s mouth slowly, face tipped the slightest bit up. It slowly thins out until the air is (mostly) clear, and Dean takes another slow drag before motioning Sam to sit on the bed. “Careful,” he says, cigarette held in his left hand. He picks up the mixing tray in his other hand, waiting for the sixteen year old to settle before putting it back down on the bed.
“Try this,” he turns his hand so the filter of the cigarette is near his mouth and all he has to do is lean forward a little till his lips are touching it, touching the edges of Dean’s fingers. “Inhale, slowly. Just try having it in your mouth for a little while. Sam throat burns and he coughs, smoke rushing out of his mouth in a race to see how fast it can hit the ceiling. Dean laughs. “Here, take it.” He takes the cigarette and Dean moves his attention back to the mixing tray, clearly expecting Sam to smoke the cigarette. He tries, coughing his way through the first half of it before he more or less gets the hang of at least pulling small hits of it into his lungs.
It’s a curious thing, watching Dean roll the joint. He’s graceful in a way that he usually isn’t, much the same way as he is when he’s cleaning his gun. Sam watches as Dean takes another cigarette out of the red and white package. He expects him to hold it up to his mouth, light it and take a drag. Dean doesn’t; instead, he holds it a short distance away from himself, holds the Zippo in his other hand and waves it slowly back and forth under the cigarette, white paper turning slowly yellow and then golden and then brown. “I’m toasting the cigarette,” he explains to his brother. When he’s done he puts the Zippo down, peels the paper back and empties the tobacco into the mixing tray.
The mixture in the tray is an array of greens and browns. Dean blends it with his fingers, picks the folded piece of paper up and tips it so that the contents roll into the already-prepared cone. “Never buy ready-rolled joints, Sammy,” Dean says, offering superior stoner wisdom. “You never know what they’re putting in it. ‘s so that you can know exactly how strong you want yours to be.” He’s not looking at him, more concentrated than Sam’s seen him in... definitely in a while. He puts the mixing tray onto the sheets and the cone is more than three quarters of the way filled. His fingers are carefully as he straightens out the paper, pinching it between his middle and his pointer finger as he taps the filter against his lighter. Sam is more than fascinated as he watches Dean go through the motions of picking up the tray again and emptying the last into the paper cone.
He realizes too late that he’s been just holding the cigarette for the past five minutes and it’s almost burnt out, a long stick of ash clinging to the end. Sam risks a glance at his brother and holds it to his lips, attempting one last drag at the cigarette. The end of it flicks and the ash floats down, glowing where it rests on his legs and the off-white sheets on the bed. He stares, and Dean says, “Jesus, Sammy,” and leans forwards, brushing it off his jeans and off the bed. There’s black stains on the sheets where the ash moved against them. Dean plucks the cigarette stub out of his fingers, dropping it artlessly into the ash tray.
Sam doesn’t know what to say when Dean drops the folded paper of a mixing tray onto the floor, landing right next to the boots that he’s so fond of. Specks of tobacco and maybe pieces of weed slip off, clinging to the linoleum floor. Dean sits back against the headboard, rolls his shoulders and holds the joint between his thumb and pointer finger, bringing it to his lips. His eyes narrow down to slits as he lights it up, closing finally. Sam watches the whole time, focusing on the way his throat constricts as he swallows the smoke, bringing it into his lungs. It’s thicker than cigarette smoke, he notes, smells sweeter and stronger too. He does it again, takes a long drag and then holds it in for countless seconds, finally releasing it from his lungs in a slow, neverending cloud.
The end of it glows red after Dean has to relight it, tipping the ashes off into the ash tray. He takes four short, quick tokes in succession, one after another and then lets the smoke out of his mouth. “That’s called a homerun,” he doesn’t look at Sammy, eyes closed as he does another one. “Like in baseball.” Smoke drifts out of his mouth as he says the second part and Sam shifts up the bed, closer to Dean until he’s kneeling near his knees.
“Why do you do it, what’s it like?” he finally breathes curiously, cheeks flushed red. He knows that this is wrong, knows that it’s illegal. Sam knows that this kid in his class’s older brother got caught with weed on him while he was driving and put in jail overnight and fined for drug possession, but he has the overwhelming need to know. Dean rolls his neck slowly, opens his eyes to look at him as a slow smile curves over his lips. “Because sometimes you just need to loosen up.” He’s quiet for a second, considering. He’s corrupted his little brother in every other way, gave him his first taste of vodka when he was thirteen and his first real kiss at twelve. He showed him how to erase the browser history on the laptop when he’s been watching porn and what it feels like to have someone else’s hand on his dick and now he’s offering him weed. He’s honestly not sure what’s worse, but he really just doesn’t even care right now. “You want to try?”
He hesitates - of course he hesitates - but then he’s nodding and leaning forwards to take the joint from his brother. Dean taps the top of it with his finger first, over the ash tray so that the end drops off, crumbling in a pile next to all the others. He says, “Like this,” and sits up properly, shows his little brother how and then lets him take it from his fingers. His first try goes terribly, coughing and choking on smoke until he almost drops the joint. Dean takes it from him at the last second, pats him on the back until he stops coughing. Sam’s eyes are watering, and Dean comments mildly, “That wasn’t entirely bad for the first time.” At his point Sam doesn’t understand how this is anything fun at all. It hurts his throat more than smoking, and when he says as much, Dean just says, “Here, try again.” It’s not much better, but he can feel the smallest bit of smoke in his lungs. It’s harder to pull in than cigarette smoke, and he chokes while it’s on the way out, but he can feel the tiniest affect, light headed and dizzy.
His brother nods at him, the okay for him to try again. The joint is just over halfway done. It goes terribly again, coughing and spluttering until tears rolls down his cheeks. Dean wipes them away from his skin with his thumbs and takes the joint back. Sam holds his breath. He waits while he does one two three tokes, closing his eyes as he blows rings of smoke into the air above his head. He finally looks at Sam again, that same considering look in his eyes that he had when deciding whether to give him the weed or not. “You want to try something?” he asks, and Sam says, “Anything.” His voice hurts.
Dean nods and says, “Open your mouth and breathe in when I breathe out.” He holds the joint between his finger and his thumb and brings it to his lips, taking a long, hard drag. He doesn’t understand what he wants when Dean motions to him, crooking his finger towards himself until he grabs him by the shirt collar and pulls him forwards. It’s much the same as when Dean kissed him that first time, before he stopped them from happening because it wasn’t right, because Sam was too young. Suddenly Dean is right there again, and their lips are touching and his breath is leaving him and his lips are opening, and suddenly Dean is blowing air in between his lips, blowing smoke into his mouth and forcing it all down his lungs. His mouth snaps shut and he sways, suddenly crazy dizzy. He’s barely managed to exhale it all, throat burning before Dean is right there again, blowing air and pushing smoke into his lungs until he absolutely cannot have any more in him or else he will explode.
“Sam,” Dean says, hand that isn’t holding the joint in the air, moving to a rhythm that he can’t hear. “You are so weird, the ones I just gave you were so strong and you took it like it was nothing. His voice is really funny and Sam opens his eyes and the room is absolutely spinning around him, forcing him to lie down on his back next to his brother so that he can look up and focus on the cracks in the ceiling until the walls stop moving around him. His lips feel funny, tongue heavy in his mouth. His whole body feels funny, skin tingling all over. Sam wants to roll in the feeling, make him feel even more and he does, body rolling slowly like a wave. They’re at the very end of the joint, Dean takes a hit and then does another, holding the smoke in his mouth for Sam. He stubs it out in the ash tray, drops the end and it’s just like before, one second Dean isn’t there and then the next he is, hovering over him all wide shoulders and muscular chest, strong where Sam is still lean and long. Dean’s lips cover his, push smoke like it’s air into his lungs and he’s dizzy from the lack of air.
And then Dean’s tongue is there, licking across his bottom lip and then dipping in between, rubbing at his tongue and the roof of his mouth like he owns the place. He exhales quickly, too fast almost, smoke rushing up in between their faces and Dean doesn’t stop kissing him, pulling back for a split second before diving in to kiss him again. “It’s called shotgunning,” he kisses him, again and again and again. “You seem to have an unnatural talent for it.” Sam feels so good, wants to kiss Dean for hours - for hours and days and weeks and months and years. His hands are so restless, cupping Dean’s shoulders and then sliding down his arms to touch his wrists and then back up again, going down his shirt to pull at them hem and slide up it, finger skittering past warm skin.
God, Dean is so, so pleased that Sammy is a lightweight, pleased that it didn’t take so much to get him out of his head and onto a cloud, especially when he’d already smoked two joints by the time his younger brother even showed up.
He can feel Sam’s cock, hard and straining against denim, pressing against his thigh. All Dean is wearing is a pair of sweatpants he put on after he showered in the morning, too lazy to go to school like the eighteen year old he’s pretending to be and choosing to stay home and get high instead. “You grew up,” he marvels, propping himself up on his arms above Sam. He can feel him, remembers what it was like last time (last time when he realized that Sam wasn’t even fifteen and he knew what it felt like to have him rut against him until he comes) and he marvels at it in the way that you would only when high like this. Dean kisses him again, pushes his tongue into his mouth and licks at the taste, like he’s trying to get inside of Sam and slides his hand down his body, cupping the front of his jeans.
Sam moans, startled, hips arching into his touch and Dean pops the button, pulls the zipper down until he can slide his hand into his boxers and curl his fingers around his cock, tight and hot and perfect. “Fuck, you got big.” Dean mutters into his neck, lips moving against his skin while he jerks him slowly, Sam’s hips pushing up into his fist on every down stroke. He hadn’t realized it before, hadn’t thought about how while Sam was growing longer and heavier and bigger, that while his hands and feet and clothing size were all growing up that the rest of his body would go with him. Dean’s thumb smears pre-come across the head, presses into the pressure point just under the crown and Sam keens, fingers clutching uselessly at his shoulders while his brother gets him off and marks his neck like he belongs to him.
His mouth against his own tastes like weed, and Sam just can’t do anything but claw at Dean’s back under his t-shirt and take everything that he’s being given. Dean worships his mouth, kissing him until his jaw almost aches and he’s just pulling this out, making him last hours upon hours upon hours and he can’t even make his mouth work properly to bed for Dean to let him come. There’s a dull pounding in his head, blood pounding in every part of his body. His limbs all feel too heavy, skin tingling and twitching everywhere that Dean is pressed up against.
He just keeps on going and Sam thinks he’s going to go crazy, go crazier when all of a sudden Dean’s hand is gone and there’s this high-pitched whine that can’t even be coming from himself (except that it is) filling the hot space. He manages to get his eyes open, sees Dean palming himself and makes grabbing hands at him, pulling him back down and mashing their lips together. It’s so so good and messy and not at all co-ordinated, and he almost forgets that no one is even touching his dick until Dean is, until Dean has both his own and Sam’s cock in one hand, spit slick so there’s the perfect slide. He’s not even going fast enough though, needs to go faster.
“Sammy,” Dean pants. His little brother breathes, “Faster,” one hand fumbling his way down to tangle with Dean’s and help get them both off. He comes first with a hoarse shout, spilling hot and white into the hand that Dean disentangled and cupped there when Sam bit out a warning. He keeps going even after he’s is finished, hand wrapped back around both of them, wet with Sam’s come. Sam keeps shaking, not from the orgasm anymore but because it’s toomuch and toosoon and the overstimulation feels sogood that it makes white lights spark behind his eyelids and moan at Dean to stop. His brother comes when Sam bites him in the neck, leaving teeth shaped indents in the flesh.
When he’s spent he flops down, knocks the ash tray on the floor and the butts of the joints and cigarettes and ashes spill everywhere. Dean doesn’t care; he pulls Sam on top of him, his cum-stained belly rubbing into Dean’s skin where his shirt is rucked up but he kisses Sam, deep and slow and like he has all the time in the world. It feels like hours and hours after when he’s rolling away and Sam’s skin is still tingling, limbs too heavy and Dean is sitting up and wiping himself off with the shirt he pulled off. “What?” he asks, voice completely fucked up from the smoke grating his throat.
Dean’s grin is a curve of his lips, slow and wolf-like. “Want another joint?”