SPN fic: You're my bread and butter | Dean/Sam | NC17
Title: You’re my bread and butter (the nobody but me nocturne)
Author: girlguidejones
Rating/Pairing: NC17, Dean/Sam
Word Count: 4100
Warnings: D/s, references to underage incest
Notes: Written for kamikazeremix. Please enjoy the original story as well, No One But Him by hunters_retreat. Many thanks to poisontaster for not letting me off easy.
Summary: As Lucifer and Michael wait for the Winchesters to capitulate, Dean and Sam try to get back something they’ve lost.
The bag landed on the table with a lighter whump than what Sam’d been expecting.
“Hey.” Sam half-closed the laptop so he could see over it, staring at the ubiquitous, plain white plastic grocery bag. A dying breed, those things were. Already illegal in California, he’s pretty sure. Leave it to the Golden State to outlaw grocery transport while contributing more smog to the atmosphere than most of the rest of the western United States altogether. Sam tried to imagine Dean parked outside a diner, reaching into the Impala’s trunk for one of those reusable, Hawaiian-print bags from Trader Joe’s to tote their burgers back to the room. It didn’t compute.
“Hey.” Dean sounded tired, and didn’t look up as he shook beaded rain off his Carhartt.
“What’s in the bag?” Sam didn’t really know why he did this shit. He knew it drove Dean nuts, but sometimes just getting a reaction out of him was worth it.
“You’d know already if you just opened it instead of asking stupid fucking questions with no point, wouldn’t you?” Dean groused. Sam guessed the downpour was more to blame for Dean’s momentary crankiness than his curiosity about dinner. The drafty apartment’s plumbing groaned to life as Dean waited at the sink for hot water to wash his hands.
Shrugging, Sam lifted the foam lid. He expected a soggy-bunned burger and limp fries, but instead he found a nice, no, check that, really nice, salad.
“Dude,” Sam grinned, genuinely happy about carry-out for a change. “Where did you find a salad like that in a hick-burg like this? It’s got…herbs. And it’s gigantic!”
Sam’s experience with salads-as-road-food usually meant browning iceberg and chicken-colored patties that looked like they came out of the bottom of the popsicle bin and straight onto a George Foreman. But this had not only herbs, but ripe avocado and black olives, and grilled chicken breasts that looked like they came from actual chickens. There were even two crispy, homemade rolls that had visible grains showing.
Dean dropped heavily into the chair across from him, finally looking at Sam for real now, one side of his mouth quirked up in a half-smile as he opened his own dinner and a familiar, fried aroma wafted out. All the burgers in town hadn’t escaped consumption tonight, apparently.
“Oh, it wasn’t hard,” he grinned around his first bite, a tiny smear of ketchup in his mouth-corner already pleasantly distracting Sam. “I saw a sign for Annie’s Tea Room. It had lace curtains so I knew it was just your speed.” Sam snorted, happy enough with his dinner to not bitch about the side of sarcasm.
“Where’s the butter?”
It was a quirk of Sam’s that he had to have butter with his bread. Real butter, too, not I Can’t Believe or Blue Bonnet or some crap made out of yogurt (which in and of itself was totally fine but not as butter). Dean had more than once sweet-talked the waitress into cutting a slab off of the grill-cook’s block to appease his little brother, who wouldn’t eat his waffles with the packets of Country Crock that sat on the table all day.
“Who says there is any?” Dean asked quietly.
Sam felt Dean’s eyes on him and looked up. Dean didn’t say anything else, casually holding his burger while he stared at Sam with an expression of mild interest, like he was calculating how many more shotgun shells they could fill with that partial bag of rock salt.
Something hot skittered up Sam’s ribs and down the insides of his thighs.
“Quit fucking with me, man, and just give me the butter,” Sam answered. Suddenly his throat was dry, and with a jerk he reached for his iced tea, gurgling it and coughing a little before continuing. Smooth. “I know you didn’t forget it.”
“Didn’t say I did,” Dean answered. He moved his left arm back a little, revealing a half-dozen little golden-foiled rectangles tucked under the rim of his own Styrofoam box. Even Dean Winchester didn’t add butter to a hamburger. “I just said I wasn’t sure there’d be any for you.” Dean had given up all pretense of eating his own meal now, arms resting easily on the tabletop as his eyes glittered at Sam. Sam hated (lovedlovedloved) when Dean’s attention was laser-focused on him like that.
When Dean pushed his buttons they usually fucking stayed pushed, smashed flat like someone spilled sweet tea and they got stuck; flat like someone had duct-taped them down, where they fired and fired until his brother (and yeah, that extra-dirty-wrong-secret part made it hotter and made him harder and if he wasn’t going to hell for every other stupid thing he’d done he’d sure end up there anyway for being giddy that he got regularly, thoroughly, magnificently boned by his big brother) finally took pity on him and peeled the tape back.
The thing with the tape, though, even metaphorical tape-because Sam knew at this point that this stupidly long inner monologue was just a stall tactic so he could avoid answering Dean for a minute-the thing with tape was that it always pulled at least a little skin off with it.
And some days Sam just didn’t feel up to losing a layer.
Dean would throw some sort of obscure challenge out, and Sam would stare at it for a while, and then he’d either let it lie or end up on his knees begging to choke on Dean’s cock. The craziest fucking part about it (because fucking your brother in and of itself wasn’t nutbar enough, apparently)-was that Dean didn’t seem to care which way Sam went.
Dean never forced the issue, and never held a grudge; for that matter, he never withheld the next opportunity. It was as confusing as it was reassuring, and maybe, if Sam was honest, a little bit insulting that Dean didn’t get pissed if Sam decided not to play. He’d just look at Sam, and Sam could see him assessing and cataloging and making note of a whole bunch of stuff in some invisible, mental journal Dean kept, called Sam’s Fucked-up Headspace Quarterly, that Sam didn’t want to ever read. Eventually Dean would nod, smile, and go back to griping about why the TV remote batteries were always dead or dying when they checked in.
On the nights that Sam backed off sometimes they still ended up having sex. Dean usually bottomed then, seemingly as eager to be bent over the back of a ratty sofa as to be the one doing the bending. He'd suck Sam off in the shower, or lie on the bed, lewdly fingering himself open.
How long you gonna watch, Sammy, before you split me open? Huh? I want it deep, man. Deep and hard, go all in on the first shove. Make it hurt. Can you do that? Why you lookin’ at my face, Sammy? M'not some chick-look at my cock, like I know you really wanna do. And look at my hole, Sam. All shiny and slick and empty. Whatcha gonna do about that, huh?
Sam would watch and listen and jack himself until he couldn't wait any longer to bruise Dean's thighs open with his knees. Later Dean was always malleable-spooning into the bend of Sam’s hips and snoring contentedly.
“Helllloooo? Earth to Sammy?” Dean snapped his fingers under Sam’s nose, close enough that Sam could smell pickles. His head was tilted, freckles winter-fading already, carefully studying Sam like he was under glass at a museum. “You want your butter?”
Christ, how could a request for condiments be so fucking loaded?
“I-yeah, I think s-so,” Sam answered without knowing he would, but as soon as he did he knew it was true. Dean looked pleased, lips softening as he leaned back and away, opening up his stance enough for Sam to reach over…but not so far away that he couldn’t slap a hand down on Sam’s forearm as he reached in.
“Then I think we should start over, Sam,” Dean said, gesturing vaguely to a spot off to the side of his chair.
He didn’t actually like being called Sam when they did this. He preferred nearly anything else. Slut and boy and cocksucker and whore were scorching hot. Sam would stay on his belly, his face smashed into the scratchy comforter by Dean’s hand on his neck, moaning and rutting himself raw for as long as Dean wanted to shame him with them.
But hearing Dean say Sam meant he was going to be held accountable for something, or several somethings-either for not doing them or doing them in the future or for having done them already. Sam meant fear and uncertainty; it meant demands and inconvenience if he wanted to get off. But if Sam was good, he usually got to be Sammy in the end. And Sammy was safe and warm and made Dean rock him and whisper to him and look at him with a really amazed, inexplicably big-brotherish pride, and that…that adoration from Dean was worth all of it.
He’d endure dozens of Sams for just one Sammy.
Even so, Sam wasn't sure he was up for this tonight. Dean was pushing his buttons, but they weren't on lockdown yet; they wouldn’t be without a sign from Sam, because that's how Dean played it. Sam alternated between thinking it was because Dean was being altruistic and would never hurt him, or that Dean was a greedy bastard and got off on it that much more knowing Sam bent of his own free will.
"Can I please have some butter for my bread?" Sam asked.
Maybe they could just tread water here, get through this dinner, trade blowjobs later, and call it a night. No harm, no foul. But Dean didn't give it to him. Instead he reached out and picked up the rolls himself, sliding them over to his side of the table and slowly unwrapping the butter pats.
“You know, Sam,” Dean said, “you take me for granted a lot of the time.” Sam stared, surprised at the turn of things, mind quick-firing as he tried to follow the segue. But Dean wasn’t looking at him. His fingers were tearing into one of the crusty rolls, its edges crumbling off into the coffee ring stains on the cheap vinyl tablecloth.
“I-I don’t m-mean to,” Sam stuttered. Seriously, was this gonna be about butter? Dean started buttering the rolls, setting each half back down on the table without passing it to Sam. They rocked, reeling like Sam himself thanks to the haphazard way Dean had torn them open.
“I know you don’t mean to. That’s the whole point.” Dean finished with the bread and licked the butter from his fingers, pointing the knife at Sam before dropping it to the table with a clatter. “You’re fuckin’ anal about so many things, Sam. Your coffee’s gotta be just so or you’ll just drink water. You always shave your Adam’s apple twice-first and last-because you think you’ll miss a spot. Which is why you always have a rash there.”
Sam rubbed the spot in question, feeling it bob as he swallowed under Dean’s assessment.
“You gotta research with same method no matter what library we’re in, in which state. First it’s the local reference desk, then the computers, then the microfiche, then if you don’t get anything you’ll break down and ask the musty old librarian who probably fucking knew everything to begin with.”
Sam could feel the flush creeping up his neckline. Picturing himself doing all of those things through Dean’s eyes seemed a little…fussy. He was sort of losing his appetite at this point. The buttery rolls-and what they represented-didn’t seem worth it anymore.
“When it comes to me, though, Sam, sometimes you’re pretty careless,” Dean shrugged. Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Dean didn’t give him a chance.
“Now, not with my life, I mean,” Dean clarified. “You’ve always got my back. I gotta fight to keep you from jumpin’ in front of the creepin’ crawlers if they’re coming at me, and you’re a regular candy striper if I’m sick, but…” Dean trailed off, staring down at his cooling burger, and Sam waited. “But you just always assume I’m gonna be there, with your butter and your Band-Aids and your kicks-in-the-asses when you need them.”
“N-no…no, Dean that’s-" but Dean held up his hand, and Sam waited. He desperately wanted to fix this, but he didn’t know how, or with what.
“Until this last year, anyway,” Dean raised his head. His eyes were round and wide, no games and no hidden messages there now.
“When you assumed I wouldn't.”
Sam’s eyes stung, and he bit hard on the inside of his cheek. It was true, all the shit with Ruby and the blood and his powers and everything he’d held back from Dean was a canker between them now, when Lucifer and Michael were dogging their every move and they couldn’t afford to do anything but count on each other.
“This isn’t blame, Sam,” Dean continued, “I need you to know that. God knows, I’ve got a do-over list of my own a mile long. But you and me-and I don’t mean someone getting handcuffed to the bed and I don’t even mean hunting-I mean you and me…we only work if you take me for granted when it counts.”
Hearing that was a punch in the gut, but at least Sam was hearing it. This…this thing they had, it was never more valuable to Sam than in moments like this, when Dean would actually talk about whatever was between them. Dean as top-no, that wasn’t right, it went deeper than that: Dean in the Dominant role, capital D-felt freer, maybe even duty-bound, to get into stuff that he’d have run from just a year ago.
Dean probably told himself it was only for Sam, but they both knew that he needed Sam’s instinctive, unexamined trust in him as sure as he needed air.
I wasn’t only all about Sam at all.
“Yeah. Yeah man. I get that,” Sam answered, huffing out in relief and running a hand back through his hair with a tiny, wry smile. Dean looked at him for a long moment before bobbing his chin just once.
“Damn straight you better,” he said, and suddenly reached out to pull the remains of Sam’s salad over in front of him beside the bread. “Now, you gonna finish this or not?”
The tiniest cut of a bright, green glance to the floor near Dean’s feet-the same place he’d gestured to earlier-and Sam knew that Dean wasn’t only referring to the meal. Like always, Dean left it as Sam’s call, but all the knotted dread was loosened and dissipating now, and Sam didn’t even hesitate. He rose and circled the table to sit cross-legged on the floor at Dean’s feet.
Sam never kneeled; that was way too 9½ weeks for them. At least half of their downtime was simple, shared exhaustion anyway-having to remember a set of rules was more work than either of them were interested in. For them, it wasn’t about Sam on his knees or Dean ordering him down (unless it was sex, in which case there was very little Sam wouldn’t offer and even less Dean wouldn’t snatch up greedily because then it was just fucking hot.) If someone had told Sam he’d someday lay on his belly and beg to lick another man’s boots he’d have punched them-right up until the day Dean jacked himself long and slow, came all over his own beat-up Timberlands and then told Sam he couldn’t have it.
A lot of the time…most, really…it was just this: Sam deciding he was good with giving up control and letting Dean run the show. Running the show for Dean usually meant keeping Sam off-balance, at least for a while.
Evidently that was the plan tonight as well, because Dean stood just long enough to shove his own chair away and then sank to the floor beside Sam, cartilage crackling in his knees, bringing their food down with him.
Sam eyed him curiously as Dean took a couple bites of his burger, then reached for Sam’s salad, extending a forkful out to him without preamble. Sam ate. He chewed and swallowed, watched Dean do the same, and talked about whatever Dean brought up in conversation. Really, it could have been any other dinner they’d ever eaten, except for their eating it on the floor and Sam being hand-fed like a baby bird.
Dean waited until he had one of the rolls up to Sam’s lips before showing his hand.
“I know you’re hard, Sam,” he said mildly, and Sam coughed, a couple of crumbs puffing out onto Dean’s greasy fingers. Jesus Christ.
“Am not, asshole,” he retorted, chomping deliberately into Dean’s thumb. But he was lying. The act of Dean feeding him with his own hands…even dabbing Sam’s mouth with a rough paper napkin…made Sam flush, and his jeans tighten around his groin. As far as Sam could tell Dean hadn’t even looked in the direction of Sam’s crotch, but somehow he still knew. Of course he did.
“Oh, but you are, dude.”
Dean snatched his hand back, grinning infuriatingly. He sucked his thumb more thoroughly than strictly necessary while Sam stared at Dean’s lips and struggled to swallow the bread with a suddenly dry mouth. Where the hell was his damn tea, anyway?
“Worst part-or best, maybe, depending on how you look at it-is that I know exactly why that is.”
“Really, man, you’re tryin’ too hard. And I’m thirsty. Gimme my tea.” Despite Sam’s best efforts to make it sound like a demand, it came out needy. Dean’s grin turned shark-like; he was circling and he smelled the chum in the ocean. Sam could feel the air around them charging, like the ripples Sam was giving off were going to draw down lightning to the bloody water and set everything ablaze.
“In a minute,” Dean answered, shoving the last forkful of salad at Sam. “You see, Sammy, you like this-and you like it this way, especially-because you’re a kinky motherfucker. When we do this, all your lines get blurred and it makes you jizz your shorts like a fifteen-year-old in co-ed gym class to think that your big brother might touch your cock.”
Sam’s fingers bit into his own thighs as he struggled for control. His head was swimming and he could feel a rivulet of sweat creeping down the back of his neck. Ohgodohgodohgodheknows- He needed to get a drink, get his head back, but Dean ignored his rapid swallows and reached for his own soda instead.
“When I let you ride me, you think about when you were little, climbing up in my lap to feel better.” Sam groaned, but Dean continued, gesturing with the foam cup as he vocalized each dirty, nasty-true-observation. “When I jack you in the shower, you think about all the times I gave you a bath.” Sam couldn’t help it now; he reached for his crotch, unbuckled and unzipped and God, at least the pressure from his jeans didn’t hurt anymore but he was afraid to touch because then it would be all over.
“Dean-Jesus, p-please-“ Sam croaked, rising to his knees.
“And who the hell knows how deep it goes for you, Sammy. Or just how bent you really are. Maybe even sucking my cock makes you remember all the times I fed you dinner when you were a kid, huh? Gave you something good and hot to eat?”
Dean was still cross-legged on the floor, and, with Sam up on his knees, his dick was mouth-level for Dean. But Dean was fixated on Sam’s face. He acted like he didn’t even notice when Sam grabbed his shoulders, silvery drops flicking from the end of Sam’s aching cock onto Dean’s neck.
“See, you don’t get off because somebody’s giving you orders or tying you down or sticking a dildo up your ass, Sam,” Dean said, finally getting to his knees himself, and leaning in to whisper in Sam’s ear.
“You get off because it’s your big brother doing it,” he hissed. “Did you think I didn’t know?”
Sam whined, inarticulate, hips spasming, ready to give up and just tackle Dean to the floor. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck he couldn’t wait anymore, he just couldn’t-
Dean raised his soda and sucked in a long pull, grabbing Sam around the nape of his neck and yanking him forward to shotgun it into Sam’s mouth. It was gross…lukewarm and too sweet and Sam could feel little pieces of Dean’s last bite of burger floating in it but it was Dean; it was his big brother holding him still and making Sam take what he was putting inside him and it was wrong and nasty and the fucking hottest thing he’d ever felt in his life.
Sam swallowed, choking, and came all over Dean’s henley. He collapsed forward like a dam breaking, taking Dean down with him as he struggled to hitch himself up and onto some part of Dean while he finished. Dean let him, wrapped his arms around Sam and held him while Sam keened and rutted himself against Dean’s thigh.
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s it Sammy, let it go…” Dean crooned, one hand’s fingers buried against Sam’s scalp and those of the other digging into Sam’s ass, gripping and helping him push and grind himself down against Dean’s body. “Rub it all out onto me. I got you, baby…”
It was the “baby” that really finished Sam. Hearing it galvanized every perverted claim in Dean’s litany, and Sam screamed Dean’s name as a last frission of orgasm blurted up from his balls to soak into his brother’s pants.
“I’m thinkin’ if we could figure out how you can weigh as much as a medium-sized grizzly bear while eating rabbit food, we could surely figure out how to kick Lucifer’s ass, am I right?” Dean asked a few minutes later.
“It’s the butter,” Sam mumbled, grinning against Dean’s collarbone. Dean huffed a laugh and shifted, but Sam wasn’t ready to let go yet, not with Dean’s hands smoothing over Sam’s back and scritching softly in his hair.
“What about you?” Sam asked, hand trailing down to cup Dean where he was still semi-hard.
“Pretty sure mine’s from all the red meat,” Dean laughed at his own double-entendre, patting Sam’s ass. Sam snorted, peeling himself up and off. Pants still tangled around his knees, Sam was surprised (and secretly pleased) when Dean made protest noises before letting go. “Where you goin’ so fast?” he complained. “Usually you’re all buckets-of-cuddle.”
“Dude. I gotta brush my teeth,” Sam said, grimacing. “That was gross, even for you.”
“You said you were thirsty, didn’t you?”
“Not for your backwash!” Sam retorted, hopping out of his pants and squeezing out extra toothpaste at the same time.
“Whatever. You geysered like Old Faithful,” Dean crowed, standing up and starting to root around for clean clothes as Sam brushed and spat.
“Gonna shower,” Sam said, as he leaned against the bathroom doorjamb and watched Dean change.
Sometimes Dean would bail after these sessions. He’d head out for a quick game and a beer, his own version of a skin-graft after the tape took its layer. He’d find a place where he could look at people who weren’t Sam, probably rationalizing and self-flagellating and whatever else Dean did so he could look in the mirror after he fucked his baby brother into the floor.
“You’re gonna be here when I get out, right?” Sam asked, swallowing. He usually didn’t cling, just let Dean go and do what he needed to do for as long as he needed to do it.
But tonight felt different.
Dean’s head snapped up-he wasn’t expecting Sam to say anything either. Sam could see where his pupils were still wide and dark; endorphins went both ways, apparently. Dean stared at Sam for a long second, then he smiled. He tossed the clean ball of socks he’d just liberated back into the duffle, flopping belly-down on the bed and reaching for the remote.
“You think?” he asked, brow quirking.
“I just took it for granted, yeah.” Sam said.
Author: girlguidejones
Rating/Pairing: NC17, Dean/Sam
Word Count: 4100
Warnings: D/s, references to underage incest
Notes: Written for kamikazeremix. Please enjoy the original story as well, No One But Him by hunters_retreat. Many thanks to poisontaster for not letting me off easy.
Summary: As Lucifer and Michael wait for the Winchesters to capitulate, Dean and Sam try to get back something they’ve lost.
The bag landed on the table with a lighter whump than what Sam’d been expecting.
“Hey.” Sam half-closed the laptop so he could see over it, staring at the ubiquitous, plain white plastic grocery bag. A dying breed, those things were. Already illegal in California, he’s pretty sure. Leave it to the Golden State to outlaw grocery transport while contributing more smog to the atmosphere than most of the rest of the western United States altogether. Sam tried to imagine Dean parked outside a diner, reaching into the Impala’s trunk for one of those reusable, Hawaiian-print bags from Trader Joe’s to tote their burgers back to the room. It didn’t compute.
“Hey.” Dean sounded tired, and didn’t look up as he shook beaded rain off his Carhartt.
“What’s in the bag?” Sam didn’t really know why he did this shit. He knew it drove Dean nuts, but sometimes just getting a reaction out of him was worth it.
“You’d know already if you just opened it instead of asking stupid fucking questions with no point, wouldn’t you?” Dean groused. Sam guessed the downpour was more to blame for Dean’s momentary crankiness than his curiosity about dinner. The drafty apartment’s plumbing groaned to life as Dean waited at the sink for hot water to wash his hands.
Shrugging, Sam lifted the foam lid. He expected a soggy-bunned burger and limp fries, but instead he found a nice, no, check that, really nice, salad.
“Dude,” Sam grinned, genuinely happy about carry-out for a change. “Where did you find a salad like that in a hick-burg like this? It’s got…herbs. And it’s gigantic!”
Sam’s experience with salads-as-road-food usually meant browning iceberg and chicken-colored patties that looked like they came out of the bottom of the popsicle bin and straight onto a George Foreman. But this had not only herbs, but ripe avocado and black olives, and grilled chicken breasts that looked like they came from actual chickens. There were even two crispy, homemade rolls that had visible grains showing.
Dean dropped heavily into the chair across from him, finally looking at Sam for real now, one side of his mouth quirked up in a half-smile as he opened his own dinner and a familiar, fried aroma wafted out. All the burgers in town hadn’t escaped consumption tonight, apparently.
“Oh, it wasn’t hard,” he grinned around his first bite, a tiny smear of ketchup in his mouth-corner already pleasantly distracting Sam. “I saw a sign for Annie’s Tea Room. It had lace curtains so I knew it was just your speed.” Sam snorted, happy enough with his dinner to not bitch about the side of sarcasm.
“Where’s the butter?”
It was a quirk of Sam’s that he had to have butter with his bread. Real butter, too, not I Can’t Believe or Blue Bonnet or some crap made out of yogurt (which in and of itself was totally fine but not as butter). Dean had more than once sweet-talked the waitress into cutting a slab off of the grill-cook’s block to appease his little brother, who wouldn’t eat his waffles with the packets of Country Crock that sat on the table all day.
“Who says there is any?” Dean asked quietly.
Sam felt Dean’s eyes on him and looked up. Dean didn’t say anything else, casually holding his burger while he stared at Sam with an expression of mild interest, like he was calculating how many more shotgun shells they could fill with that partial bag of rock salt.
Something hot skittered up Sam’s ribs and down the insides of his thighs.
“Quit fucking with me, man, and just give me the butter,” Sam answered. Suddenly his throat was dry, and with a jerk he reached for his iced tea, gurgling it and coughing a little before continuing. Smooth. “I know you didn’t forget it.”
“Didn’t say I did,” Dean answered. He moved his left arm back a little, revealing a half-dozen little golden-foiled rectangles tucked under the rim of his own Styrofoam box. Even Dean Winchester didn’t add butter to a hamburger. “I just said I wasn’t sure there’d be any for you.” Dean had given up all pretense of eating his own meal now, arms resting easily on the tabletop as his eyes glittered at Sam. Sam hated (lovedlovedloved) when Dean’s attention was laser-focused on him like that.
When Dean pushed his buttons they usually fucking stayed pushed, smashed flat like someone spilled sweet tea and they got stuck; flat like someone had duct-taped them down, where they fired and fired until his brother (and yeah, that extra-dirty-wrong-secret part made it hotter and made him harder and if he wasn’t going to hell for every other stupid thing he’d done he’d sure end up there anyway for being giddy that he got regularly, thoroughly, magnificently boned by his big brother) finally took pity on him and peeled the tape back.
The thing with the tape, though, even metaphorical tape-because Sam knew at this point that this stupidly long inner monologue was just a stall tactic so he could avoid answering Dean for a minute-the thing with tape was that it always pulled at least a little skin off with it.
And some days Sam just didn’t feel up to losing a layer.
Dean would throw some sort of obscure challenge out, and Sam would stare at it for a while, and then he’d either let it lie or end up on his knees begging to choke on Dean’s cock. The craziest fucking part about it (because fucking your brother in and of itself wasn’t nutbar enough, apparently)-was that Dean didn’t seem to care which way Sam went.
Dean never forced the issue, and never held a grudge; for that matter, he never withheld the next opportunity. It was as confusing as it was reassuring, and maybe, if Sam was honest, a little bit insulting that Dean didn’t get pissed if Sam decided not to play. He’d just look at Sam, and Sam could see him assessing and cataloging and making note of a whole bunch of stuff in some invisible, mental journal Dean kept, called Sam’s Fucked-up Headspace Quarterly, that Sam didn’t want to ever read. Eventually Dean would nod, smile, and go back to griping about why the TV remote batteries were always dead or dying when they checked in.
On the nights that Sam backed off sometimes they still ended up having sex. Dean usually bottomed then, seemingly as eager to be bent over the back of a ratty sofa as to be the one doing the bending. He'd suck Sam off in the shower, or lie on the bed, lewdly fingering himself open.
How long you gonna watch, Sammy, before you split me open? Huh? I want it deep, man. Deep and hard, go all in on the first shove. Make it hurt. Can you do that? Why you lookin’ at my face, Sammy? M'not some chick-look at my cock, like I know you really wanna do. And look at my hole, Sam. All shiny and slick and empty. Whatcha gonna do about that, huh?
Sam would watch and listen and jack himself until he couldn't wait any longer to bruise Dean's thighs open with his knees. Later Dean was always malleable-spooning into the bend of Sam’s hips and snoring contentedly.
“Helllloooo? Earth to Sammy?” Dean snapped his fingers under Sam’s nose, close enough that Sam could smell pickles. His head was tilted, freckles winter-fading already, carefully studying Sam like he was under glass at a museum. “You want your butter?”
Christ, how could a request for condiments be so fucking loaded?
“I-yeah, I think s-so,” Sam answered without knowing he would, but as soon as he did he knew it was true. Dean looked pleased, lips softening as he leaned back and away, opening up his stance enough for Sam to reach over…but not so far away that he couldn’t slap a hand down on Sam’s forearm as he reached in.
“Then I think we should start over, Sam,” Dean said, gesturing vaguely to a spot off to the side of his chair.
He didn’t actually like being called Sam when they did this. He preferred nearly anything else. Slut and boy and cocksucker and whore were scorching hot. Sam would stay on his belly, his face smashed into the scratchy comforter by Dean’s hand on his neck, moaning and rutting himself raw for as long as Dean wanted to shame him with them.
But hearing Dean say Sam meant he was going to be held accountable for something, or several somethings-either for not doing them or doing them in the future or for having done them already. Sam meant fear and uncertainty; it meant demands and inconvenience if he wanted to get off. But if Sam was good, he usually got to be Sammy in the end. And Sammy was safe and warm and made Dean rock him and whisper to him and look at him with a really amazed, inexplicably big-brotherish pride, and that…that adoration from Dean was worth all of it.
He’d endure dozens of Sams for just one Sammy.
Even so, Sam wasn't sure he was up for this tonight. Dean was pushing his buttons, but they weren't on lockdown yet; they wouldn’t be without a sign from Sam, because that's how Dean played it. Sam alternated between thinking it was because Dean was being altruistic and would never hurt him, or that Dean was a greedy bastard and got off on it that much more knowing Sam bent of his own free will.
"Can I please have some butter for my bread?" Sam asked.
Maybe they could just tread water here, get through this dinner, trade blowjobs later, and call it a night. No harm, no foul. But Dean didn't give it to him. Instead he reached out and picked up the rolls himself, sliding them over to his side of the table and slowly unwrapping the butter pats.
“You know, Sam,” Dean said, “you take me for granted a lot of the time.” Sam stared, surprised at the turn of things, mind quick-firing as he tried to follow the segue. But Dean wasn’t looking at him. His fingers were tearing into one of the crusty rolls, its edges crumbling off into the coffee ring stains on the cheap vinyl tablecloth.
“I-I don’t m-mean to,” Sam stuttered. Seriously, was this gonna be about butter? Dean started buttering the rolls, setting each half back down on the table without passing it to Sam. They rocked, reeling like Sam himself thanks to the haphazard way Dean had torn them open.
“I know you don’t mean to. That’s the whole point.” Dean finished with the bread and licked the butter from his fingers, pointing the knife at Sam before dropping it to the table with a clatter. “You’re fuckin’ anal about so many things, Sam. Your coffee’s gotta be just so or you’ll just drink water. You always shave your Adam’s apple twice-first and last-because you think you’ll miss a spot. Which is why you always have a rash there.”
Sam rubbed the spot in question, feeling it bob as he swallowed under Dean’s assessment.
“You gotta research with same method no matter what library we’re in, in which state. First it’s the local reference desk, then the computers, then the microfiche, then if you don’t get anything you’ll break down and ask the musty old librarian who probably fucking knew everything to begin with.”
Sam could feel the flush creeping up his neckline. Picturing himself doing all of those things through Dean’s eyes seemed a little…fussy. He was sort of losing his appetite at this point. The buttery rolls-and what they represented-didn’t seem worth it anymore.
“When it comes to me, though, Sam, sometimes you’re pretty careless,” Dean shrugged. Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Dean didn’t give him a chance.
“Now, not with my life, I mean,” Dean clarified. “You’ve always got my back. I gotta fight to keep you from jumpin’ in front of the creepin’ crawlers if they’re coming at me, and you’re a regular candy striper if I’m sick, but…” Dean trailed off, staring down at his cooling burger, and Sam waited. “But you just always assume I’m gonna be there, with your butter and your Band-Aids and your kicks-in-the-asses when you need them.”
“N-no…no, Dean that’s-" but Dean held up his hand, and Sam waited. He desperately wanted to fix this, but he didn’t know how, or with what.
“Until this last year, anyway,” Dean raised his head. His eyes were round and wide, no games and no hidden messages there now.
“When you assumed I wouldn't.”
Sam’s eyes stung, and he bit hard on the inside of his cheek. It was true, all the shit with Ruby and the blood and his powers and everything he’d held back from Dean was a canker between them now, when Lucifer and Michael were dogging their every move and they couldn’t afford to do anything but count on each other.
“This isn’t blame, Sam,” Dean continued, “I need you to know that. God knows, I’ve got a do-over list of my own a mile long. But you and me-and I don’t mean someone getting handcuffed to the bed and I don’t even mean hunting-I mean you and me…we only work if you take me for granted when it counts.”
Hearing that was a punch in the gut, but at least Sam was hearing it. This…this thing they had, it was never more valuable to Sam than in moments like this, when Dean would actually talk about whatever was between them. Dean as top-no, that wasn’t right, it went deeper than that: Dean in the Dominant role, capital D-felt freer, maybe even duty-bound, to get into stuff that he’d have run from just a year ago.
Dean probably told himself it was only for Sam, but they both knew that he needed Sam’s instinctive, unexamined trust in him as sure as he needed air.
I wasn’t only all about Sam at all.
“Yeah. Yeah man. I get that,” Sam answered, huffing out in relief and running a hand back through his hair with a tiny, wry smile. Dean looked at him for a long moment before bobbing his chin just once.
“Damn straight you better,” he said, and suddenly reached out to pull the remains of Sam’s salad over in front of him beside the bread. “Now, you gonna finish this or not?”
The tiniest cut of a bright, green glance to the floor near Dean’s feet-the same place he’d gestured to earlier-and Sam knew that Dean wasn’t only referring to the meal. Like always, Dean left it as Sam’s call, but all the knotted dread was loosened and dissipating now, and Sam didn’t even hesitate. He rose and circled the table to sit cross-legged on the floor at Dean’s feet.
Sam never kneeled; that was way too 9½ weeks for them. At least half of their downtime was simple, shared exhaustion anyway-having to remember a set of rules was more work than either of them were interested in. For them, it wasn’t about Sam on his knees or Dean ordering him down (unless it was sex, in which case there was very little Sam wouldn’t offer and even less Dean wouldn’t snatch up greedily because then it was just fucking hot.) If someone had told Sam he’d someday lay on his belly and beg to lick another man’s boots he’d have punched them-right up until the day Dean jacked himself long and slow, came all over his own beat-up Timberlands and then told Sam he couldn’t have it.
A lot of the time…most, really…it was just this: Sam deciding he was good with giving up control and letting Dean run the show. Running the show for Dean usually meant keeping Sam off-balance, at least for a while.
Evidently that was the plan tonight as well, because Dean stood just long enough to shove his own chair away and then sank to the floor beside Sam, cartilage crackling in his knees, bringing their food down with him.
Sam eyed him curiously as Dean took a couple bites of his burger, then reached for Sam’s salad, extending a forkful out to him without preamble. Sam ate. He chewed and swallowed, watched Dean do the same, and talked about whatever Dean brought up in conversation. Really, it could have been any other dinner they’d ever eaten, except for their eating it on the floor and Sam being hand-fed like a baby bird.
Dean waited until he had one of the rolls up to Sam’s lips before showing his hand.
“I know you’re hard, Sam,” he said mildly, and Sam coughed, a couple of crumbs puffing out onto Dean’s greasy fingers. Jesus Christ.
“Am not, asshole,” he retorted, chomping deliberately into Dean’s thumb. But he was lying. The act of Dean feeding him with his own hands…even dabbing Sam’s mouth with a rough paper napkin…made Sam flush, and his jeans tighten around his groin. As far as Sam could tell Dean hadn’t even looked in the direction of Sam’s crotch, but somehow he still knew. Of course he did.
“Oh, but you are, dude.”
Dean snatched his hand back, grinning infuriatingly. He sucked his thumb more thoroughly than strictly necessary while Sam stared at Dean’s lips and struggled to swallow the bread with a suddenly dry mouth. Where the hell was his damn tea, anyway?
“Worst part-or best, maybe, depending on how you look at it-is that I know exactly why that is.”
“Really, man, you’re tryin’ too hard. And I’m thirsty. Gimme my tea.” Despite Sam’s best efforts to make it sound like a demand, it came out needy. Dean’s grin turned shark-like; he was circling and he smelled the chum in the ocean. Sam could feel the air around them charging, like the ripples Sam was giving off were going to draw down lightning to the bloody water and set everything ablaze.
“In a minute,” Dean answered, shoving the last forkful of salad at Sam. “You see, Sammy, you like this-and you like it this way, especially-because you’re a kinky motherfucker. When we do this, all your lines get blurred and it makes you jizz your shorts like a fifteen-year-old in co-ed gym class to think that your big brother might touch your cock.”
Sam’s fingers bit into his own thighs as he struggled for control. His head was swimming and he could feel a rivulet of sweat creeping down the back of his neck. Ohgodohgodohgodheknows- He needed to get a drink, get his head back, but Dean ignored his rapid swallows and reached for his own soda instead.
“When I let you ride me, you think about when you were little, climbing up in my lap to feel better.” Sam groaned, but Dean continued, gesturing with the foam cup as he vocalized each dirty, nasty-true-observation. “When I jack you in the shower, you think about all the times I gave you a bath.” Sam couldn’t help it now; he reached for his crotch, unbuckled and unzipped and God, at least the pressure from his jeans didn’t hurt anymore but he was afraid to touch because then it would be all over.
“Dean-Jesus, p-please-“ Sam croaked, rising to his knees.
“And who the hell knows how deep it goes for you, Sammy. Or just how bent you really are. Maybe even sucking my cock makes you remember all the times I fed you dinner when you were a kid, huh? Gave you something good and hot to eat?”
Dean was still cross-legged on the floor, and, with Sam up on his knees, his dick was mouth-level for Dean. But Dean was fixated on Sam’s face. He acted like he didn’t even notice when Sam grabbed his shoulders, silvery drops flicking from the end of Sam’s aching cock onto Dean’s neck.
“See, you don’t get off because somebody’s giving you orders or tying you down or sticking a dildo up your ass, Sam,” Dean said, finally getting to his knees himself, and leaning in to whisper in Sam’s ear.
“You get off because it’s your big brother doing it,” he hissed. “Did you think I didn’t know?”
Sam whined, inarticulate, hips spasming, ready to give up and just tackle Dean to the floor. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck he couldn’t wait anymore, he just couldn’t-
Dean raised his soda and sucked in a long pull, grabbing Sam around the nape of his neck and yanking him forward to shotgun it into Sam’s mouth. It was gross…lukewarm and too sweet and Sam could feel little pieces of Dean’s last bite of burger floating in it but it was Dean; it was his big brother holding him still and making Sam take what he was putting inside him and it was wrong and nasty and the fucking hottest thing he’d ever felt in his life.
Sam swallowed, choking, and came all over Dean’s henley. He collapsed forward like a dam breaking, taking Dean down with him as he struggled to hitch himself up and onto some part of Dean while he finished. Dean let him, wrapped his arms around Sam and held him while Sam keened and rutted himself against Dean’s thigh.
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s it Sammy, let it go…” Dean crooned, one hand’s fingers buried against Sam’s scalp and those of the other digging into Sam’s ass, gripping and helping him push and grind himself down against Dean’s body. “Rub it all out onto me. I got you, baby…”
It was the “baby” that really finished Sam. Hearing it galvanized every perverted claim in Dean’s litany, and Sam screamed Dean’s name as a last frission of orgasm blurted up from his balls to soak into his brother’s pants.
“I’m thinkin’ if we could figure out how you can weigh as much as a medium-sized grizzly bear while eating rabbit food, we could surely figure out how to kick Lucifer’s ass, am I right?” Dean asked a few minutes later.
“It’s the butter,” Sam mumbled, grinning against Dean’s collarbone. Dean huffed a laugh and shifted, but Sam wasn’t ready to let go yet, not with Dean’s hands smoothing over Sam’s back and scritching softly in his hair.
“What about you?” Sam asked, hand trailing down to cup Dean where he was still semi-hard.
“Pretty sure mine’s from all the red meat,” Dean laughed at his own double-entendre, patting Sam’s ass. Sam snorted, peeling himself up and off. Pants still tangled around his knees, Sam was surprised (and secretly pleased) when Dean made protest noises before letting go. “Where you goin’ so fast?” he complained. “Usually you’re all buckets-of-cuddle.”
“Dude. I gotta brush my teeth,” Sam said, grimacing. “That was gross, even for you.”
“You said you were thirsty, didn’t you?”
“Not for your backwash!” Sam retorted, hopping out of his pants and squeezing out extra toothpaste at the same time.
“Whatever. You geysered like Old Faithful,” Dean crowed, standing up and starting to root around for clean clothes as Sam brushed and spat.
“Gonna shower,” Sam said, as he leaned against the bathroom doorjamb and watched Dean change.
Sometimes Dean would bail after these sessions. He’d head out for a quick game and a beer, his own version of a skin-graft after the tape took its layer. He’d find a place where he could look at people who weren’t Sam, probably rationalizing and self-flagellating and whatever else Dean did so he could look in the mirror after he fucked his baby brother into the floor.
“You’re gonna be here when I get out, right?” Sam asked, swallowing. He usually didn’t cling, just let Dean go and do what he needed to do for as long as he needed to do it.
But tonight felt different.
Dean’s head snapped up-he wasn’t expecting Sam to say anything either. Sam could see where his pupils were still wide and dark; endorphins went both ways, apparently. Dean stared at Sam for a long second, then he smiled. He tossed the clean ball of socks he’d just liberated back into the duffle, flopping belly-down on the bed and reaching for the remote.
“You think?” he asked, brow quirking.
“I just took it for granted, yeah.” Sam said.