Fic: Crush - Part 1 (Sam/Dean)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Weecest, frottage, a bit of angst
Notes: Look at me! I'm doing chapters (feels so grown up)
Summary - Dean looks at him different now, Sam just can't figure out what the difference is.
Dean looks at him different now. For starters, he looks AT him, not down at him because Sam's allots the same size as Dean now - when Dean's hair's flat, like after the shower, you can't even see a difference - and at fifteen he's probably got another few inches in him at least. His stupid hand-me-downs don't swallow him whole anymore, even pull a little at the shoulders where they're getting broader than Dean's and he gets his own never-before-worn-by-his-big-brother jeans, all of which is awesome, but not really the point.
The point is, Sam always figured Dean would look at him different once he was older, like an equal, or at least a peer, but it's not like that. It's not like the way he looks at Dad - of course - or Caleb or Bobby and it's not even like how he looks at other guys his age, in fact, it's not really like how he looks at anybody else at all. Sam can't exactly figure out what it is, but it's happening a lot - almost constantly for months and months now - and he can just feel Dean eyes on him, like, all the time. He doesn't know what to make of it, but it's kinda driving him nuts.
***
Sam's probably the only kid in America who hates summer more than any other time of year; summer vacation is for kids who don't know the monsters under the bed are real. Being a Winchester means spending the summer in the Impala, following along behind Dad's truck with your arm out the window to catch a road-stained breeze and your sweaty thighs chemically bonded to the vinyl seat. It means stewing in the smell of sweat and gunpowder and salt until it's ingrained in the pores of your soul and living with newspaper ink permanently staining your fingers like you just got booked by the cops. It means Dad has free rein to drag them all over the country, a new motel every week, without feeling guilty about dragging Sam out of school - or, more precisely, without having to hear Sam bitch about being pulled out of school - and that's maybe even more annoying because Sam doesn't even have a leg to stand on to complain now. So yeah, summer can pretty much suck Sam's balls.
The nights would be a little bit better - at least it's not as hot - except that being a Winchester also means that you only know the meaning of privacy as something other people have. If they drive through the night it's not so bad; the cooler air blows in the open windows and circulates around the car so they can finally breath something that doesn't feel like soup in their lungs and Sam can pillow his head on Dean's thigh and sleep like when he was little. Other times, when they've been driving all day and are gonna keep right on going into the next, Dean will pull over and let Sam drive for a couple of hours and everything is switched up so it's Dean's head in Sam's lap and Dean's warm breath on his thigh. The worst is when they get a motel, which is most of the time, because even though they're now three full-sized men, Dad still won't get a second room, and Sam and Dean end up sharing a little queen bed where their shoulders barely fit and they inevitably end up flopped all over each other in the night, sweating right through their underwear and the sheets from all of the body heat.
It's one of those nights, some motel in the boonies in Mississippi,and the air's so muggy Sam swears he can feel it on his tongue. He wakes up with a jolt and sharp breath, mind scrambling for a second as he pulls out of the dream and pieces together where he is. He's wet and sticky all over, but especially down below and he knows with a sickening roll of his stomach why. Sam can't exactly remember what he was dreaming, but it was obviously good from the way his boxers stick and slide through the globs of come pasting his crotch to Dean's thigh.
"Sorry," he whispers, not having to shift his head up to know his brother's awake. This kind of thing shouldn't embarrass him anymore, it's sure as hell not the first time it's ever happened, and Sam's definitely not the only one who does it - shit, he woke up with Dean's jizz spread all over his hip and side not two weeks ago, and his brother's friggin' nineteen and getting laid all the time - but it still makes Sam's face heat up with shame.
"S'ok," Dean mumbles back, hand sliding up Sam's spine to pet through his hair. It's kinda not ok at all, it's kinda gross actually, because they're gonna have to sleep like this now. Dad's whole freaky Marine thing plus a hunter's honed senses means he's basically the lightest sleeper on the planet - more than those couple of short whispers between them, let alone something like going to the bathroom to clean up, and Dad'd be up and alert like a shot went off. Neither of them wants to explain the wet dream situation to their father - that's a torture far worse than sleeping in a puddle of your own come - so as per their mutual, unspoken agreement, they wait it out until Dad gets up to go find some coffee in the morning and then get cleaned up.
Summer can really, seriously, suck Sam's balls.
Sam shuffles around on Dean's thigh - trying really hard to ignore the shocky, razor-edged sweetness of friction on his freshly emptied dick - his own leg accidentally brushing Dean's inevitable hard-on which makes his brother clench up. That's not exactly new either, they're both teenagers and rubbing up against another warm body in the night is just bound to do stuff, it's not like it's a big deal or anything, and sometimes that makes Sam even sadder that his big brother's erection against his leg doesn't even freak him out.
Except this time maybe it does just a little bit because Dean's free hand reaches down to cup around the back of Sam's thigh and pull it against his cock again. He's not exactly sure what that's supposed to mean until Dean does it again, and then again, and holy shit that's a rhythm; Dean's rubbing himself off with Sam's freakin' leg!
Sam's eyes shoot up to Dean's in the dark, cheek trying to stick against his brother's bare chest. Dean purses his lips and makes a very quiet shushing sound before he presses his head further back into the thin pillow and rolls his hips up against Sam's thigh again.
Sam's face almost tingles with all of the blood rushing to it, a tight heat blooming in his chest like a hot lead flower. This seems weird, feels weird, makes him all jumpy and squirmy and he wants to say something because this is too fucking much but Dad's right there and if he doesn't stay quiet it's going to be even worse than the wet dream talk and God, Sam'd rather just cut off his dick than have to deal with that fuster cluck of a conversation. So he stays silent, listening to Dean draw in tightly controlled breaths as the hot line of his cock rides up and down Sam's thigh.
On the one hand, helping is worse, right? Helping is like actively getting his big brother off, but at the same time, helping will make it go a lot faster than if he just lays he and lets Dean move his leg around. And it's not exactly the worst thing in the world, after all; he'd probably been doing to to Dean just a few minutes ago in his sleep so it really shouldn't be any worse doing it awake, right? Right.
Sam flexes the muscles, pushes in a little harder to give Dean something firm to ride and Dean's breath catches in his chest like he might have made a sound if he could afford to. Instead he just bucks his hips up a touch more and takes what Sam's giving. The hand he was using to control Sam's leg now slips softly up and down the back of Sam's thigh, the slow constant rasp of calusses lighting the skin on fire.
His heart's pounding in his chest, blood rushing close to the surface of his skin to make everything run hotcoldhot almost like he's turned on but he doesn't want to think about that even if his cock is trying to twitch back to life. It's just that the way Dean's moves make Sam's groin rub against his brother's hip, that all.
Dean's dick is so full, literally rock hard against Sam's leg so he's got to be close and now Sam just mostly wants it to be over with before he gets back to that point himself and they have to start this all over again - there's really only so much spooge smell Dad can be expected to ignore.
Dean was the one who taut Sam pretty much everything, told him it was ok when he first started wanting to touch himself, told him about sex and condoms and porn and stuff that feels good, so Sam knows way more than he should - way more than he ever realized until right this moment - about what Dean likes. Sam's fingers slide up Dean's chest slowly, eyes darting to meet his brother's but they're closed like he's lost in the steady roll-thrust they've got working between them. Dean's barely daring to breathe, the sound of it in his lungs underneath Sam's ear ragged and desperate as the thunder of his heartbeat. When Sam's fingers find the dark disk of his brother's nipple, Dean's breath stops completely, a choked off little noise murdered in the pit of his throat. Dad shifts but doesn't wake.
The sound does something weird to Sam, makes his stomach muscles flutter with bright little bursts of almost-cold that melt away into the pool heat in his gut. Yep, he's hard again.
The blunt pads of his fingers dance over the peak of Dean's nipple, slowing to rub it in soothing circles before he catches and twists it until Dean's lips are clamped in a tight line. Dean's hand slides into the leg of Sam's ruined boxers to palm the cheek of his ass, sending another slow, dirty wave of heat through Sam's body. Dad snuffles in his bed, three feet away, one arm flopping out over the side and Sam could touch it if he reached out.
He stifles his own suddenly heavy breaths in Dean's underarm. It should be gross, and if they were up and horsing around he'd whine and wrestle and tease Dean about B.O. when his brother tried to shove Sam's face in his pit, but they're not up and horsing around and right now the smell of Dean's sweat and cheap deoderant and generic laundry detergent is oddly comforting.
Dean's fingers dig in hard against Sam's ass and he can already picture fuzzy round bruises from Dean's fingers, pushing down harder with his leg as his brother rocks against him faster. So close, so close. He can feel Dean's precome soaking through his brother's boxers, painting a whisper of a trail on Sam's skin and his finger's close in on Dean's nipple again, pinching until he can feel the pressure of his short fingernails from either side with only the thin strip of Dean flesh separating them.
Dean goes rigid, body arched bow string taut and Sam feels the sludgy heat spread against his leg as Dean's dick jerks over and over again in time with his brother's quiet, hicupping breaths. And, God, if this wasn't one of those things he was pretty sure they were never going to talk about, he'd worry about Dean giving him shit over blowing his wad again this fast, with nothing but a little friction to get him there, but he's not, so he lets go like he has any choice in the matter anyway and rewets his sticky boxers against Dean's hip.
So, yeah, that just happened.
A part of Sam wants really badly to freak out, but he just came twice in under an hour, so he's all kind of buzzy and unintentionally mellow and there's this other part of him - he has a feeling it's being heavily influenced by is cock - that says it's not really that much freakier than anything else he's ever done with Dean, so what's the big deal? Sam doesn't have a good answer for that at the moment.
Dean's hand reluctantly slides away from Sam's ass to cradle the small of his back, but the hand in his hair doesn't move. Sam nestles his head back into the comfy spot under Dean's chin that seems like it was made for him to fit into and for a second, Dean's mouth dips down and presses to Sam's forehead. He's not sure what that was supposed to mean either, but apparently this is just one of those nights where nothing's gonna make sense so he closes his eyes and tries to find a comfortable position inside his messy underwear. Showering's going to be a bitch.
On to Part Two!
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Weecest, frottage, a bit of angst
Notes: Look at me! I'm doing chapters (feels so grown up)
Summary - Dean looks at him different now, Sam just can't figure out what the difference is.
Dean looks at him different now. For starters, he looks AT him, not down at him because Sam's allots the same size as Dean now - when Dean's hair's flat, like after the shower, you can't even see a difference - and at fifteen he's probably got another few inches in him at least. His stupid hand-me-downs don't swallow him whole anymore, even pull a little at the shoulders where they're getting broader than Dean's and he gets his own never-before-worn-by-his-big-brother jeans, all of which is awesome, but not really the point.
The point is, Sam always figured Dean would look at him different once he was older, like an equal, or at least a peer, but it's not like that. It's not like the way he looks at Dad - of course - or Caleb or Bobby and it's not even like how he looks at other guys his age, in fact, it's not really like how he looks at anybody else at all. Sam can't exactly figure out what it is, but it's happening a lot - almost constantly for months and months now - and he can just feel Dean eyes on him, like, all the time. He doesn't know what to make of it, but it's kinda driving him nuts.
***
Sam's probably the only kid in America who hates summer more than any other time of year; summer vacation is for kids who don't know the monsters under the bed are real. Being a Winchester means spending the summer in the Impala, following along behind Dad's truck with your arm out the window to catch a road-stained breeze and your sweaty thighs chemically bonded to the vinyl seat. It means stewing in the smell of sweat and gunpowder and salt until it's ingrained in the pores of your soul and living with newspaper ink permanently staining your fingers like you just got booked by the cops. It means Dad has free rein to drag them all over the country, a new motel every week, without feeling guilty about dragging Sam out of school - or, more precisely, without having to hear Sam bitch about being pulled out of school - and that's maybe even more annoying because Sam doesn't even have a leg to stand on to complain now. So yeah, summer can pretty much suck Sam's balls.
The nights would be a little bit better - at least it's not as hot - except that being a Winchester also means that you only know the meaning of privacy as something other people have. If they drive through the night it's not so bad; the cooler air blows in the open windows and circulates around the car so they can finally breath something that doesn't feel like soup in their lungs and Sam can pillow his head on Dean's thigh and sleep like when he was little. Other times, when they've been driving all day and are gonna keep right on going into the next, Dean will pull over and let Sam drive for a couple of hours and everything is switched up so it's Dean's head in Sam's lap and Dean's warm breath on his thigh. The worst is when they get a motel, which is most of the time, because even though they're now three full-sized men, Dad still won't get a second room, and Sam and Dean end up sharing a little queen bed where their shoulders barely fit and they inevitably end up flopped all over each other in the night, sweating right through their underwear and the sheets from all of the body heat.
It's one of those nights, some motel in the boonies in Mississippi,and the air's so muggy Sam swears he can feel it on his tongue. He wakes up with a jolt and sharp breath, mind scrambling for a second as he pulls out of the dream and pieces together where he is. He's wet and sticky all over, but especially down below and he knows with a sickening roll of his stomach why. Sam can't exactly remember what he was dreaming, but it was obviously good from the way his boxers stick and slide through the globs of come pasting his crotch to Dean's thigh.
"Sorry," he whispers, not having to shift his head up to know his brother's awake. This kind of thing shouldn't embarrass him anymore, it's sure as hell not the first time it's ever happened, and Sam's definitely not the only one who does it - shit, he woke up with Dean's jizz spread all over his hip and side not two weeks ago, and his brother's friggin' nineteen and getting laid all the time - but it still makes Sam's face heat up with shame.
"S'ok," Dean mumbles back, hand sliding up Sam's spine to pet through his hair. It's kinda not ok at all, it's kinda gross actually, because they're gonna have to sleep like this now. Dad's whole freaky Marine thing plus a hunter's honed senses means he's basically the lightest sleeper on the planet - more than those couple of short whispers between them, let alone something like going to the bathroom to clean up, and Dad'd be up and alert like a shot went off. Neither of them wants to explain the wet dream situation to their father - that's a torture far worse than sleeping in a puddle of your own come - so as per their mutual, unspoken agreement, they wait it out until Dad gets up to go find some coffee in the morning and then get cleaned up.
Summer can really, seriously, suck Sam's balls.
Sam shuffles around on Dean's thigh - trying really hard to ignore the shocky, razor-edged sweetness of friction on his freshly emptied dick - his own leg accidentally brushing Dean's inevitable hard-on which makes his brother clench up. That's not exactly new either, they're both teenagers and rubbing up against another warm body in the night is just bound to do stuff, it's not like it's a big deal or anything, and sometimes that makes Sam even sadder that his big brother's erection against his leg doesn't even freak him out.
Except this time maybe it does just a little bit because Dean's free hand reaches down to cup around the back of Sam's thigh and pull it against his cock again. He's not exactly sure what that's supposed to mean until Dean does it again, and then again, and holy shit that's a rhythm; Dean's rubbing himself off with Sam's freakin' leg!
Sam's eyes shoot up to Dean's in the dark, cheek trying to stick against his brother's bare chest. Dean purses his lips and makes a very quiet shushing sound before he presses his head further back into the thin pillow and rolls his hips up against Sam's thigh again.
Sam's face almost tingles with all of the blood rushing to it, a tight heat blooming in his chest like a hot lead flower. This seems weird, feels weird, makes him all jumpy and squirmy and he wants to say something because this is too fucking much but Dad's right there and if he doesn't stay quiet it's going to be even worse than the wet dream talk and God, Sam'd rather just cut off his dick than have to deal with that fuster cluck of a conversation. So he stays silent, listening to Dean draw in tightly controlled breaths as the hot line of his cock rides up and down Sam's thigh.
On the one hand, helping is worse, right? Helping is like actively getting his big brother off, but at the same time, helping will make it go a lot faster than if he just lays he and lets Dean move his leg around. And it's not exactly the worst thing in the world, after all; he'd probably been doing to to Dean just a few minutes ago in his sleep so it really shouldn't be any worse doing it awake, right? Right.
Sam flexes the muscles, pushes in a little harder to give Dean something firm to ride and Dean's breath catches in his chest like he might have made a sound if he could afford to. Instead he just bucks his hips up a touch more and takes what Sam's giving. The hand he was using to control Sam's leg now slips softly up and down the back of Sam's thigh, the slow constant rasp of calusses lighting the skin on fire.
His heart's pounding in his chest, blood rushing close to the surface of his skin to make everything run hotcoldhot almost like he's turned on but he doesn't want to think about that even if his cock is trying to twitch back to life. It's just that the way Dean's moves make Sam's groin rub against his brother's hip, that all.
Dean's dick is so full, literally rock hard against Sam's leg so he's got to be close and now Sam just mostly wants it to be over with before he gets back to that point himself and they have to start this all over again - there's really only so much spooge smell Dad can be expected to ignore.
Dean was the one who taut Sam pretty much everything, told him it was ok when he first started wanting to touch himself, told him about sex and condoms and porn and stuff that feels good, so Sam knows way more than he should - way more than he ever realized until right this moment - about what Dean likes. Sam's fingers slide up Dean's chest slowly, eyes darting to meet his brother's but they're closed like he's lost in the steady roll-thrust they've got working between them. Dean's barely daring to breathe, the sound of it in his lungs underneath Sam's ear ragged and desperate as the thunder of his heartbeat. When Sam's fingers find the dark disk of his brother's nipple, Dean's breath stops completely, a choked off little noise murdered in the pit of his throat. Dad shifts but doesn't wake.
The sound does something weird to Sam, makes his stomach muscles flutter with bright little bursts of almost-cold that melt away into the pool heat in his gut. Yep, he's hard again.
The blunt pads of his fingers dance over the peak of Dean's nipple, slowing to rub it in soothing circles before he catches and twists it until Dean's lips are clamped in a tight line. Dean's hand slides into the leg of Sam's ruined boxers to palm the cheek of his ass, sending another slow, dirty wave of heat through Sam's body. Dad snuffles in his bed, three feet away, one arm flopping out over the side and Sam could touch it if he reached out.
He stifles his own suddenly heavy breaths in Dean's underarm. It should be gross, and if they were up and horsing around he'd whine and wrestle and tease Dean about B.O. when his brother tried to shove Sam's face in his pit, but they're not up and horsing around and right now the smell of Dean's sweat and cheap deoderant and generic laundry detergent is oddly comforting.
Dean's fingers dig in hard against Sam's ass and he can already picture fuzzy round bruises from Dean's fingers, pushing down harder with his leg as his brother rocks against him faster. So close, so close. He can feel Dean's precome soaking through his brother's boxers, painting a whisper of a trail on Sam's skin and his finger's close in on Dean's nipple again, pinching until he can feel the pressure of his short fingernails from either side with only the thin strip of Dean flesh separating them.
Dean goes rigid, body arched bow string taut and Sam feels the sludgy heat spread against his leg as Dean's dick jerks over and over again in time with his brother's quiet, hicupping breaths. And, God, if this wasn't one of those things he was pretty sure they were never going to talk about, he'd worry about Dean giving him shit over blowing his wad again this fast, with nothing but a little friction to get him there, but he's not, so he lets go like he has any choice in the matter anyway and rewets his sticky boxers against Dean's hip.
So, yeah, that just happened.
A part of Sam wants really badly to freak out, but he just came twice in under an hour, so he's all kind of buzzy and unintentionally mellow and there's this other part of him - he has a feeling it's being heavily influenced by is cock - that says it's not really that much freakier than anything else he's ever done with Dean, so what's the big deal? Sam doesn't have a good answer for that at the moment.
Dean's hand reluctantly slides away from Sam's ass to cradle the small of his back, but the hand in his hair doesn't move. Sam nestles his head back into the comfy spot under Dean's chin that seems like it was made for him to fit into and for a second, Dean's mouth dips down and presses to Sam's forehead. He's not sure what that was supposed to mean either, but apparently this is just one of those nights where nothing's gonna make sense so he closes his eyes and tries to find a comfortable position inside his messy underwear. Showering's going to be a bitch.
On to Part Two!