FIC: Naughts and Crosses [Sam/Dean; NC 17]
Title: Naughts and Crosses
Author: girlguidejones
Rating | pairing: NC17; Sam/Dean. 3400 words.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Eric Kripke and the CW. No profit made; no copyright infringement intended.
Author’s notes: My first foray into the amazing Every Broken Thing/Heart ‘verse, findable here and highly recommended. A while back, poisontaster wrote this. And not so long ago, she posted about this. And when asked about her birthday wish, she asked for happy, future Sam/Dean schmoop. As you can clearly see, none of this is my fault. Thanks to brynwulf for her helpful beta.
Summary: Year 17-18ish in the ‘verse. Dean is annoying, then adorable. Sam is annoyed, then smitten.
Sam rolls over groggily, finding Dean’s pillow and burying his nose in it. Dean usually ended up on his belly, shoving the pillow away, and drooling directly onto the fitted sheet. Sam has a pleasant pressure in his groin and a four-day weekend alone with Dean to do something about it. He stretches out his arm, hand reaching to just where Dean should-fuck. Where the hell is he?
That’s when Sam hears it...an incessant buzzing that sounds like a horde of possessed mosquitoes. On steroids. No way. Surely Dean wouldn’t have-
“Sam!” The bedroom door bursts open, Dean waving his cane in one hand and, inexplicably, a bottle of holy water in the other. The buzzing gets louder. “What the fuck did you do to the stove?” Sam cracks one eye.
“Did you take the knitting needle out?” he mumbles into the pillow.
“Excuse me?” To be fair, it had probably come out more like “Di u tek da nitniddle ouf?” so it’s possible that Dean didn’t understand him. But his polite answer is a dead giveaway. Dean only ever says “Excuse me?” in answer to a query if he’s guilty of something and stalling while he tries to think of a way out of it. Sam lifts his head.
“I had a knitting needle in there. Put it back and come back to bed.” Sam drops his head back to the pillow, rolling over and turning his back to the chaos that was Dean. He’s getting annoyed now...had been looking forward to sleepy morning sex and now is on the verge of being completely awake instead. His I’m-horny hard-on is turning into an I-need-to-piss hard-on uncomfortably quickly.
“Who the fuck jams a knitting needle in a stove?” Question with a question. More avoidance.
“Who the fuck yanks it out without bothering to ask why?”
“How was I supposed to know you were slaying kitchen appliances?”
“What were you doing in there anyway?” Sam rolls back over, trying to glare through the sleep-goop in his eyes. “It’s o’fuck a clock and Mikey took the kids and you weren’t supposed to even get out of bed for days, remember?” Yep. Fully awake now; definitely had to pee.
“I was going to make you pancakes, you little bitch.” Dean turns and clomps out of the room. “Damned if I can remember why!”
“Because it’s my birthday!” Sam yells after him. “Asshole.” Sam does not feel guilty. He doesn’t feel guilty while he’s pissing, or while he is washing his hair. The fact that his hard-on disappears, even while he’s in the shower and in the position to do something about it? Has nothing to do with guilt.
When he steps out of the shower, the buzzing is mercifully gone. Even if it weren’t, Sam would still know where he could find Dean...the smell of coffee and bacon is making his mouth water. The actual cooking being done in the kitchen is all going on in one corner of the black granite counter-none of it is happening on the stove. It’s suspiciously vacant, and that entire end of the kitchen is dark. Under counter lights, hanging lamp over the breakfast table, microwave clock...all out.
“Breaker box?” Distracting Dean with a question doesn’t work; he still gets his fingers slapped away when he tries to snitch a piece of bacon.
“Yeah. Lucky the fridge and stuff is on a different one.” Dean tongs the bacon around on the giant counter-top griddle, and Sam smiles, sidling up behind him.
“Awwww. You used the divider! You do love me!” Sam says he’s sorry by way hooking his thumbs into the waistband of Dean’s pajama pants and huffing behind his ear. He pretends not to notice when Dean says it’s okay by leaning back into his chest.
"Only because I didn’t want to hear you whine about having bacon grease on your pancakes. Gimme those eggs, will ya?” Sam huffs again, and this time gets his desired reaction, watching while Dean pretends to ignore the shiver Sam’s breath causes. He hands Dean the bowl of four shelled eggs, with still-unbroken yolks.
“You aren’t scrambling them?” Sam says, just as Dean carefully tips them into the section of the griddle formerly occupied by nearly an entire pound of bacon. “Awesome!” Sam likes “dippy eggs” best, while Dean likes them fried hard, on buttered toast with bacon and yellow cheese (American, cheddar, Colby...it doesn’t matter so long as it’s yellow. Swiss always makes him think the egg whites are still runny.) They usually compromise on scrambled.
“Don’t make this a thing, Sam,” Dean warns, carefully flicking the hot grease up over the yolks with his spatula. “You could be useful and butter the toast.” The toaster chings as if waiting for Dean’s cue, and Sam sneaks a glance at Dean, who’s grinning smugly while not looking at him.
“Uh, yeah...sure.” He plates the buttered rye and stops, trying to decide where to set it. “Um...where do you wanna eat?” The breakfast table is fronted by a huge bay window, which would have provided plenty of light even without the electric on that end of the kitchen working. That is, if it wasn’t currently boarded up after Hari and Peter had gotten a little carried away during an arm-wrestling match. As it is, it’s pretty dark over there. When everyone was home, they ate at the gigantic dining room table, but that might seem lonely with just the two of them. And the barstools along the high granite counter are great for the kids, but definitely a no for Dean’s bad leg. Maybe the living room?
“Dude,” Dean sighs, “we have an entire household of junior pyromancers in the making. D’ya think you can find a non-electric source of light for the table?”
“That all depends,” Sam grins, opening the junk drawer and fishing around for matches. “Are you going to act all macho and call me a girl if I get some candles?”
“I’ll do that no matter what you do,” Dean smirks, caning over to the darkened microwave doubling as a hot box and popping the door open. The aroma wafting out from the still-steaming platter is amazing.
“Are those-did you-oh, god. You did. You did, didn’t you?” A lot of people make chocolate chip pancakes, but Dean takes it to an art form. He mixes cocoa and espresso powder into the Bisquick, and buys the mini-chips that are tiny enough to “float” in the pancakes, instead of sinking to the bottom and giving you a pale pancake on top of a burned chocolate slab. For topping he brews tar-like espresso from the machine ostensibly bought for Sam three birthdays ago, and mixes it with some kind of special chocolate syrup-not Hershey’s-that he hides from the entire household. After many failed attempts to find the stash, Mikey declared that clearly Dean must rotate the location. Sam’s pretty sure there’s a flow-chart passworded away somewhere on his computer, with notations of failed search attempts. April 24-Subject alone in house from 0700 to 0812. Checked gun cabinet, hoodoo dust canister, and toilet tank lid upon his departure.
“Dean, I’m totally giving you a blow-job for my birthday.”
Dean beams, clapping Sam on the shoulder as they settle at the table. “You’ve played right into my master plan.” A few minutes of necessary plate-passing ensue, with coffee and O’Brien home fries rounding out the meal. Dean likes the onions, but flicks the peppers into a little pile, then reaches around the trio of squat beeswax candles Sam found and spoons them onto Sam’s plate instead. He says he only puts them in as a token vegetable for Sam’s healthy breakfast.
“Mmmm. God, these are good...” Sam swallows, “I can’t believe you made me mocha pancakes.” They were only for very special occasions; as a general rule, hopping sixteen or so kids up on extra caffeine and sugar was something they avoided.
“Correction,” Dean chews, pointing his fork, tines first, at Sam. “I made you chocolate-coffee pancakes.”
“That is mocha.” Sam grins, showing chocolate teeth. “Chocolate and coffee.”
“Sammy, there is no blowjob good enough to get me to make “mocha” anything. Also,” Dean pauses to fold his egg sandwich, “you’re a girl.”
Sam watches Dean eat for a while, complimenting the food profusely and eating seconds of everything while the candle-flame glints on silver along with the gold in Dean’s temples. Silver...just like the-
“Hey. Why’d you take the knitting needle out, anyway?” Sam leans back, finally pushing his plate away, and Dean does the same, groaning and fiddling with the waistband of his pajama pants. If there was a button on them, Dean would totally be doing an Ed Bundy right now.
“Well, you could have left a note,” Dean grouses. “Who puts a knitting needle in a stove?”
“Somebody who has a reason to, obviously. I mean, accidental knitting needle? Really? I have to warn you for that?” Sam rises, grabbing the plate of candles and helping Dean up under the guise of tugging him seductively into the living room.
“Well, then I could have been prepared...” Dean trails off as Sam pulls him down onto the extra-deep sofa and chuckles low into his ear. The candles aren't as pretty in here, with the room light and cheery, but Dean’s hands are busy, and Sam decides against getting up and closing the world off with drawn curtains.
“You had the holy water. How much more prepared did you want to be?” he laughs, laying back himself and shifting Dean on top of him. Groans rumble out together as their hips slot just where they should be.
“Shuddup.” Dean chews at the knob on his clavicle.
“Seriously,” Sam gasps, “did you exorcise the stove?”
“Mean it, Sam...”
“Did it under-" Sam gasps again, amused now as much as aroused, “did it understand...” Dean’s fingers get under Sam’s waistband at last, just as Sam starts to laugh “-L-L-Latin?” But when Dean’s mouth sinks over his cock that’s the last thing he says for a good, long while.
“Seven-ninety-nine.” Dean’s voice brings Sam out of his post-orgasm haze.
“Is that...some ultra-perverted offshoot of sixty-nine?” Sam says blearily, brain automatically rebooting to its last conscious subject.
“No, but I do like the way your mind works, Samuel.” Dean’s lying between Sam’s legs, his head is on Sam’s belly, and his voice is rough, like it wasn’t at breakfast. Sam’s cock twitches again when he thinks about how Dean’s throat got so scratchy. “Seven-ninety-nine, plus shipping and handling.”
“If it’s that cheap, I don’t think it can hold up to the two of us past one night,” Sam answers, deliberately suggestive this time, and he feels Dean’s smile against the skin beside his belly button. “Better make sure it comes in plain brown paper, or you’ll never live it down.”
“That was a nickel-plated Knit-Pick you ruined in your Maytag-man delusion. They cost $7.99 apiece, and you’re buying me a new one.”
“Eight bucks for one knitting needle?”
“It’s a number 11, eight inches!”
“Size queen.” Sam grins, pulling Dean up higher on his chest.
“If you don’t buy me a new one, I’ll report you to the Better Business Bureau for fraudulent appliance repair.” Sam keeps smiling, reaching out and shoving the coffee table aside to make room.
“Is that so?” The afghan is next, puddling on the carpet next to the sofa as he runs his fingers down Dean’s spine to his crease, slowly and deliberately pulling his ass cheeks apart.
“Uhm...y-yeah...” Dean stutters as Sam wets a finger and goes back to his crease, slicking up and down, but not in. “M-maybe even A-Angie’s list.” Sam slides out from under Dean, settling on the throw and reaching up, taking Dean’s weight with his hands on Dean’s hipbones while Dean eased himself down on top of him, immediately rutting into a favorite crease of his own by Sam’s thigh.
“Eager, aren’t you?” Sam teases. He’s kneading Dean’s ass apart again and again, tapping his hole with a spit-slick finger, but refusing to push inward no matter how much or how often Dean arches back into it.
“Says the greedy bastard that already got his...” Dean gasps, more and more frustrated. Each time Sam notices him getting close, he sucks his finger and distracts him into arching up and away from Sam’s groin. Dean’s bad leg would only go along with this for so long, though. Sam flips them slowly, cradling his hand behind Dean’s head and disguising caution with seduction, tonguing deep into Dean’s mouth in maddening parody of what he wouldn’t actually give him.
Yet.
Sam sprawls over him, pressing him to the afghan, and slips his cock up underneath Dean’s balls. Dean moans, and clenches his thighs together tightly as Sam seesaws his cock-wet at the end and getting wetter-between Dean’s legs. Dean’s arm stretches out, scrabbling under the dust-ruffle of the sofa, and after a distinctive rrrrriiiiip-ing sound, comes out clutching a small tube. Sam actually stops in mid-stroke, gaping at the smirk on his face.
“You...you...Velcroed...lube under the sofa?” he gasps.
“And the computer desk, on the side of the big oak tree, and under the air hockey table.” Sam’s still speechless. “You’re a kinky bastard, Sam, and it’s your birthday. I had to be prepared.” The way Dean says it makes it sound perfectly reasonable. And insufferably smug, but still, reasonable.
“You’re a regular boy scout.”
“I can arrange it if you wanna see my knot-tying skills...”
“More interested in your mouth-to-mouth.” Sam says, demonstrating thoroughly. Dean tastes like onions and chocolate and Sam is so far gone that it seems like the sexiest combination ever, like Britney should make her next perfume out of it, like they should be selling it at raves alongside the vials of pheromones. Only it wouldn’t work without the Dean-ness, and Sam’s not sharing that with anybody. Dean’s fidgeting under Sam, breaking up the pistoning rhythm Sam has, and Sam pulls back to see if maybe he’s cramping or needs a minute.
“Heya Sammy...remember me? ‘member my sweet ass?” Dean’s hands...fuck...he’s got the cap off the lube, one arm contorted behind his back, and is fingering himself open, eyes gleaming bright, bright green. “Figured I-I’d jumpstart this gig a little. Your slowass is starting to piss me oooffff.” He ends it on a long, slow groan.
“Jesus fuck...” Sam pulls back further, mesmerized by the vision of two of Dean’s shiny fingers slipping in and out of sight. “Jesus fuck,” he repeats dumbly.
“Well if he is, I don’t know what the hell is holding you back.” Sam gulps and swallows, and Dean...he just...rolls his spine up and spreads his legs further and groans obscenely as finger number three sinks in and Sam...Sam is gone. He snatches the lube from Dean and chokes it, catching the spurt in his palm and stripping his cock with it as fast as he can, blinking sweat back as it drips from his bangs and stings his eyes.
“Yeah. That’s my boy.” Dean’s voice is all smoke and nasty, blues-singer-rumbling, and Sam feels it deep, like Dean’s growling into a mic that’s hard-wired to Sam’s prostate. Dean blinks once, long and slow, pupils blown big and black and his own hand still half-up his own ass and says, “Come get yours.”
And Sam does, just yanks Dean’s fingers out of the way and pushes straight in, not easy or careful or loving, just wants-needs-to put himself deep and hard. He bottoms out, but instead of pulling back for another stroke, he snaps his hips once, twice, and again, even though there’s nowhere to go, because Dean will let Sam have anything he wants and Sam will take everything Dean has. Dean grunts at the first, rough grind, but whimpers on the third, and that alone nearly makes Sam come.
“Come get mine?” Sam pants, pushing in and out, Dean’s legs up and splayed, draping over Sam’s thighs. Sam’s looming over Dean, his sweat dripping on him now. “That what you are, Dean? Mine?” Hipsnap. “Huh?” Again. “Say it.”
“Fuck. Yeah...y-yes.” Dean tries to spread even wider, to be more of Sam’s, and, careful of Dean’s leg, Sam knees him open a fraction, just enough so Dean feels him forcing it to happen, so Dean knows it wasn’t his choice. Sam bites then sucks then licks one of Dean’s nipples as he does it, eyes lifting to catch Dean staring at his tongue. Sam slicks his way across Dean’s chest, teeth scraping, tucking his tongue around the amulet’s cord and tugging. Dean’s neck bends and he makes a choked noise, and Sam grinds deep again, reaching between them to fist Dean’s cock. The lube on his hand is sticky now, but Dean acts like anything making Sam’s hand stick to Dean’s cock is a blessing, squirming and sighing in relief and appreciation, so Sam keeps tugging at him.
“You d-didn’t say it. Wanna...wanna hear, Dean,” he whispers, voice rough around the leather string bridling his mouth. “Tell me...” Whether Dean tells or not, Sam’s not gonna go much longer. He can feel the pleasure spooling up from the insides of his calves as he pounds into Dean, building like incoming surf. He sucks the amulet into his mouth, tasting Dean’s salt, and runs his hands behind and beneath Dean, palming Dean’s shoulder blades and digging in for his last run.
“Christ, Sammy,” Dean’s voice is broken, just like Sam’s, freckles in stark relief on his cheeks, his eyes staring at Sam’s mouth. Dean’s lashes flutter REM-style, in hasty half-blinks, as if he can’t look away completely no matter what, fixated on how Sam is sucking down metal and salt and maybe Dean’s very soul. “Don’t you know?” Dean shatters, then, coming fast and like he didn’t know it would be that way, more wet and salt splashing between their bellies, and still trying to answer. “Y-you have to...yours...Jesus yeah, yours...”
Sam’s there, too, then, mouth opening on a shout as he breaks against Dean, the amulet dropping out wet and gleaming on Dean’s chest as Sam pushes and floods him.
“Got you...got you, Sammy. I got you.” Dean’s down and grounded, anchoring Sam, same as ever. Sam tries to pull off, but Dean knocks his elbows out from under him and Sam collapses on Dean’s chest instead. “I got a bum leg. Doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with the rest of me,” he grumbles, sweeping Sam’s sweaty bangs back but leaving his fingers tangled at Sam’s nape. Sam grins, and lets himself be heavy against Dean’s chest. Barring serious injury, illness or emotional damage due to assorted kid-crises, this is Sam’s once-yearly allotted cuddle. But he has to tread lightly. Too much love, too fast, and Dean will reinstate personal space.
“Finger, too.”
“Huzzah?”
“Half a one, actually. You also have half a bum finger.”
“That’s cold, Sam.”
“But, hey. You can make a helluva afghan.” They’re wrapped up in it, in fact, and it’s ugly as sin, crooked rows of O’s and X’s in the colors of dirt. It was the first thing bigger than a scarf that Dean completed, and is mutually embarrassing for Sam, Dean, and the kids. Which is why Mikey insists it stay on the sofa.
“It’s a lovely, hand-crafted afghan that’s gonna need washing, now that you got it all spunky.”
“Me? It’s my birthday. You should wash it. You’ll have plenty of time while you’re not writing the Better Business Bureau.”
“Oh yeah?” Dean shifts, tugging the afghan-and Sam-a little closer as their sweat cools. “What makes you think I’m not ratting your ass out?”
“Because I can prove you wrong,” Sam mumbles. “Basis of scientific proof: the result can be duplicated.”
“And? Do we have another stove with a buzzer that won’t shut off that I don’t know about?”
“Nope,” Sam grins, raising up to wink at Dean. “But for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I used eight inches of hard steel to shut something up.” He doesn’t wait for Dean’s response; just curls against him again, head on his chest. Which begins shaking a few seconds later. Sam listens, eardrum to sternum, fascinated as the Richter-rumble of Dean’s laugh builds from inside, quaking Sam against him until he’s guffawing out loud and then they’re both howling and Dean’s wiping away tears.
“Dude...I...I...” Dean’s still gasping for air, “I got nothing.”
“That’s okay,” Sam replies, raising up on an elbow, tangling his fingers in the amulet cord again and leaning close for a kiss while Dean’s still vulnerable.
“I've got everything.”
Author’s note, the sequel: The title, in addition to being a Brit name for tic-tac-toe and the title of a YA fantasy novel, refers to the pattern of knitting in Dean’s afghan...OXOXOXO , also known (in the states, at least), as Hugs and Kisses. And that, my darling
poisontaster , could not possibly be more schmoopy. Happy Birthday, E.
Author: girlguidejones
Rating | pairing: NC17; Sam/Dean. 3400 words.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Eric Kripke and the CW. No profit made; no copyright infringement intended.
Author’s notes: My first foray into the amazing Every Broken Thing/Heart ‘verse, findable here and highly recommended. A while back, poisontaster wrote this. And not so long ago, she posted about this. And when asked about her birthday wish, she asked for happy, future Sam/Dean schmoop. As you can clearly see, none of this is my fault. Thanks to brynwulf for her helpful beta.
Summary: Year 17-18ish in the ‘verse. Dean is annoying, then adorable. Sam is annoyed, then smitten.
Sam rolls over groggily, finding Dean’s pillow and burying his nose in it. Dean usually ended up on his belly, shoving the pillow away, and drooling directly onto the fitted sheet. Sam has a pleasant pressure in his groin and a four-day weekend alone with Dean to do something about it. He stretches out his arm, hand reaching to just where Dean should-fuck. Where the hell is he?
That’s when Sam hears it...an incessant buzzing that sounds like a horde of possessed mosquitoes. On steroids. No way. Surely Dean wouldn’t have-
“Sam!” The bedroom door bursts open, Dean waving his cane in one hand and, inexplicably, a bottle of holy water in the other. The buzzing gets louder. “What the fuck did you do to the stove?” Sam cracks one eye.
“Did you take the knitting needle out?” he mumbles into the pillow.
“Excuse me?” To be fair, it had probably come out more like “Di u tek da nitniddle ouf?” so it’s possible that Dean didn’t understand him. But his polite answer is a dead giveaway. Dean only ever says “Excuse me?” in answer to a query if he’s guilty of something and stalling while he tries to think of a way out of it. Sam lifts his head.
“I had a knitting needle in there. Put it back and come back to bed.” Sam drops his head back to the pillow, rolling over and turning his back to the chaos that was Dean. He’s getting annoyed now...had been looking forward to sleepy morning sex and now is on the verge of being completely awake instead. His I’m-horny hard-on is turning into an I-need-to-piss hard-on uncomfortably quickly.
“Who the fuck jams a knitting needle in a stove?” Question with a question. More avoidance.
“Who the fuck yanks it out without bothering to ask why?”
“How was I supposed to know you were slaying kitchen appliances?”
“What were you doing in there anyway?” Sam rolls back over, trying to glare through the sleep-goop in his eyes. “It’s o’fuck a clock and Mikey took the kids and you weren’t supposed to even get out of bed for days, remember?” Yep. Fully awake now; definitely had to pee.
“I was going to make you pancakes, you little bitch.” Dean turns and clomps out of the room. “Damned if I can remember why!”
“Because it’s my birthday!” Sam yells after him. “Asshole.” Sam does not feel guilty. He doesn’t feel guilty while he’s pissing, or while he is washing his hair. The fact that his hard-on disappears, even while he’s in the shower and in the position to do something about it? Has nothing to do with guilt.
When he steps out of the shower, the buzzing is mercifully gone. Even if it weren’t, Sam would still know where he could find Dean...the smell of coffee and bacon is making his mouth water. The actual cooking being done in the kitchen is all going on in one corner of the black granite counter-none of it is happening on the stove. It’s suspiciously vacant, and that entire end of the kitchen is dark. Under counter lights, hanging lamp over the breakfast table, microwave clock...all out.
“Breaker box?” Distracting Dean with a question doesn’t work; he still gets his fingers slapped away when he tries to snitch a piece of bacon.
“Yeah. Lucky the fridge and stuff is on a different one.” Dean tongs the bacon around on the giant counter-top griddle, and Sam smiles, sidling up behind him.
“Awwww. You used the divider! You do love me!” Sam says he’s sorry by way hooking his thumbs into the waistband of Dean’s pajama pants and huffing behind his ear. He pretends not to notice when Dean says it’s okay by leaning back into his chest.
"Only because I didn’t want to hear you whine about having bacon grease on your pancakes. Gimme those eggs, will ya?” Sam huffs again, and this time gets his desired reaction, watching while Dean pretends to ignore the shiver Sam’s breath causes. He hands Dean the bowl of four shelled eggs, with still-unbroken yolks.
“You aren’t scrambling them?” Sam says, just as Dean carefully tips them into the section of the griddle formerly occupied by nearly an entire pound of bacon. “Awesome!” Sam likes “dippy eggs” best, while Dean likes them fried hard, on buttered toast with bacon and yellow cheese (American, cheddar, Colby...it doesn’t matter so long as it’s yellow. Swiss always makes him think the egg whites are still runny.) They usually compromise on scrambled.
“Don’t make this a thing, Sam,” Dean warns, carefully flicking the hot grease up over the yolks with his spatula. “You could be useful and butter the toast.” The toaster chings as if waiting for Dean’s cue, and Sam sneaks a glance at Dean, who’s grinning smugly while not looking at him.
“Uh, yeah...sure.” He plates the buttered rye and stops, trying to decide where to set it. “Um...where do you wanna eat?” The breakfast table is fronted by a huge bay window, which would have provided plenty of light even without the electric on that end of the kitchen working. That is, if it wasn’t currently boarded up after Hari and Peter had gotten a little carried away during an arm-wrestling match. As it is, it’s pretty dark over there. When everyone was home, they ate at the gigantic dining room table, but that might seem lonely with just the two of them. And the barstools along the high granite counter are great for the kids, but definitely a no for Dean’s bad leg. Maybe the living room?
“Dude,” Dean sighs, “we have an entire household of junior pyromancers in the making. D’ya think you can find a non-electric source of light for the table?”
“That all depends,” Sam grins, opening the junk drawer and fishing around for matches. “Are you going to act all macho and call me a girl if I get some candles?”
“I’ll do that no matter what you do,” Dean smirks, caning over to the darkened microwave doubling as a hot box and popping the door open. The aroma wafting out from the still-steaming platter is amazing.
“Are those-did you-oh, god. You did. You did, didn’t you?” A lot of people make chocolate chip pancakes, but Dean takes it to an art form. He mixes cocoa and espresso powder into the Bisquick, and buys the mini-chips that are tiny enough to “float” in the pancakes, instead of sinking to the bottom and giving you a pale pancake on top of a burned chocolate slab. For topping he brews tar-like espresso from the machine ostensibly bought for Sam three birthdays ago, and mixes it with some kind of special chocolate syrup-not Hershey’s-that he hides from the entire household. After many failed attempts to find the stash, Mikey declared that clearly Dean must rotate the location. Sam’s pretty sure there’s a flow-chart passworded away somewhere on his computer, with notations of failed search attempts. April 24-Subject alone in house from 0700 to 0812. Checked gun cabinet, hoodoo dust canister, and toilet tank lid upon his departure.
“Dean, I’m totally giving you a blow-job for my birthday.”
Dean beams, clapping Sam on the shoulder as they settle at the table. “You’ve played right into my master plan.” A few minutes of necessary plate-passing ensue, with coffee and O’Brien home fries rounding out the meal. Dean likes the onions, but flicks the peppers into a little pile, then reaches around the trio of squat beeswax candles Sam found and spoons them onto Sam’s plate instead. He says he only puts them in as a token vegetable for Sam’s healthy breakfast.
“Mmmm. God, these are good...” Sam swallows, “I can’t believe you made me mocha pancakes.” They were only for very special occasions; as a general rule, hopping sixteen or so kids up on extra caffeine and sugar was something they avoided.
“Correction,” Dean chews, pointing his fork, tines first, at Sam. “I made you chocolate-coffee pancakes.”
“That is mocha.” Sam grins, showing chocolate teeth. “Chocolate and coffee.”
“Sammy, there is no blowjob good enough to get me to make “mocha” anything. Also,” Dean pauses to fold his egg sandwich, “you’re a girl.”
Sam watches Dean eat for a while, complimenting the food profusely and eating seconds of everything while the candle-flame glints on silver along with the gold in Dean’s temples. Silver...just like the-
“Hey. Why’d you take the knitting needle out, anyway?” Sam leans back, finally pushing his plate away, and Dean does the same, groaning and fiddling with the waistband of his pajama pants. If there was a button on them, Dean would totally be doing an Ed Bundy right now.
“Well, you could have left a note,” Dean grouses. “Who puts a knitting needle in a stove?”
“Somebody who has a reason to, obviously. I mean, accidental knitting needle? Really? I have to warn you for that?” Sam rises, grabbing the plate of candles and helping Dean up under the guise of tugging him seductively into the living room.
“Well, then I could have been prepared...” Dean trails off as Sam pulls him down onto the extra-deep sofa and chuckles low into his ear. The candles aren't as pretty in here, with the room light and cheery, but Dean’s hands are busy, and Sam decides against getting up and closing the world off with drawn curtains.
“You had the holy water. How much more prepared did you want to be?” he laughs, laying back himself and shifting Dean on top of him. Groans rumble out together as their hips slot just where they should be.
“Shuddup.” Dean chews at the knob on his clavicle.
“Seriously,” Sam gasps, “did you exorcise the stove?”
“Mean it, Sam...”
“Did it under-" Sam gasps again, amused now as much as aroused, “did it understand...” Dean’s fingers get under Sam’s waistband at last, just as Sam starts to laugh “-L-L-Latin?” But when Dean’s mouth sinks over his cock that’s the last thing he says for a good, long while.
“Seven-ninety-nine.” Dean’s voice brings Sam out of his post-orgasm haze.
“Is that...some ultra-perverted offshoot of sixty-nine?” Sam says blearily, brain automatically rebooting to its last conscious subject.
“No, but I do like the way your mind works, Samuel.” Dean’s lying between Sam’s legs, his head is on Sam’s belly, and his voice is rough, like it wasn’t at breakfast. Sam’s cock twitches again when he thinks about how Dean’s throat got so scratchy. “Seven-ninety-nine, plus shipping and handling.”
“If it’s that cheap, I don’t think it can hold up to the two of us past one night,” Sam answers, deliberately suggestive this time, and he feels Dean’s smile against the skin beside his belly button. “Better make sure it comes in plain brown paper, or you’ll never live it down.”
“That was a nickel-plated Knit-Pick you ruined in your Maytag-man delusion. They cost $7.99 apiece, and you’re buying me a new one.”
“Eight bucks for one knitting needle?”
“It’s a number 11, eight inches!”
“Size queen.” Sam grins, pulling Dean up higher on his chest.
“If you don’t buy me a new one, I’ll report you to the Better Business Bureau for fraudulent appliance repair.” Sam keeps smiling, reaching out and shoving the coffee table aside to make room.
“Is that so?” The afghan is next, puddling on the carpet next to the sofa as he runs his fingers down Dean’s spine to his crease, slowly and deliberately pulling his ass cheeks apart.
“Uhm...y-yeah...” Dean stutters as Sam wets a finger and goes back to his crease, slicking up and down, but not in. “M-maybe even A-Angie’s list.” Sam slides out from under Dean, settling on the throw and reaching up, taking Dean’s weight with his hands on Dean’s hipbones while Dean eased himself down on top of him, immediately rutting into a favorite crease of his own by Sam’s thigh.
“Eager, aren’t you?” Sam teases. He’s kneading Dean’s ass apart again and again, tapping his hole with a spit-slick finger, but refusing to push inward no matter how much or how often Dean arches back into it.
“Says the greedy bastard that already got his...” Dean gasps, more and more frustrated. Each time Sam notices him getting close, he sucks his finger and distracts him into arching up and away from Sam’s groin. Dean’s bad leg would only go along with this for so long, though. Sam flips them slowly, cradling his hand behind Dean’s head and disguising caution with seduction, tonguing deep into Dean’s mouth in maddening parody of what he wouldn’t actually give him.
Yet.
Sam sprawls over him, pressing him to the afghan, and slips his cock up underneath Dean’s balls. Dean moans, and clenches his thighs together tightly as Sam seesaws his cock-wet at the end and getting wetter-between Dean’s legs. Dean’s arm stretches out, scrabbling under the dust-ruffle of the sofa, and after a distinctive rrrrriiiiip-ing sound, comes out clutching a small tube. Sam actually stops in mid-stroke, gaping at the smirk on his face.
“You...you...Velcroed...lube under the sofa?” he gasps.
“And the computer desk, on the side of the big oak tree, and under the air hockey table.” Sam’s still speechless. “You’re a kinky bastard, Sam, and it’s your birthday. I had to be prepared.” The way Dean says it makes it sound perfectly reasonable. And insufferably smug, but still, reasonable.
“You’re a regular boy scout.”
“I can arrange it if you wanna see my knot-tying skills...”
“More interested in your mouth-to-mouth.” Sam says, demonstrating thoroughly. Dean tastes like onions and chocolate and Sam is so far gone that it seems like the sexiest combination ever, like Britney should make her next perfume out of it, like they should be selling it at raves alongside the vials of pheromones. Only it wouldn’t work without the Dean-ness, and Sam’s not sharing that with anybody. Dean’s fidgeting under Sam, breaking up the pistoning rhythm Sam has, and Sam pulls back to see if maybe he’s cramping or needs a minute.
“Heya Sammy...remember me? ‘member my sweet ass?” Dean’s hands...fuck...he’s got the cap off the lube, one arm contorted behind his back, and is fingering himself open, eyes gleaming bright, bright green. “Figured I-I’d jumpstart this gig a little. Your slowass is starting to piss me oooffff.” He ends it on a long, slow groan.
“Jesus fuck...” Sam pulls back further, mesmerized by the vision of two of Dean’s shiny fingers slipping in and out of sight. “Jesus fuck,” he repeats dumbly.
“Well if he is, I don’t know what the hell is holding you back.” Sam gulps and swallows, and Dean...he just...rolls his spine up and spreads his legs further and groans obscenely as finger number three sinks in and Sam...Sam is gone. He snatches the lube from Dean and chokes it, catching the spurt in his palm and stripping his cock with it as fast as he can, blinking sweat back as it drips from his bangs and stings his eyes.
“Yeah. That’s my boy.” Dean’s voice is all smoke and nasty, blues-singer-rumbling, and Sam feels it deep, like Dean’s growling into a mic that’s hard-wired to Sam’s prostate. Dean blinks once, long and slow, pupils blown big and black and his own hand still half-up his own ass and says, “Come get yours.”
And Sam does, just yanks Dean’s fingers out of the way and pushes straight in, not easy or careful or loving, just wants-needs-to put himself deep and hard. He bottoms out, but instead of pulling back for another stroke, he snaps his hips once, twice, and again, even though there’s nowhere to go, because Dean will let Sam have anything he wants and Sam will take everything Dean has. Dean grunts at the first, rough grind, but whimpers on the third, and that alone nearly makes Sam come.
“Come get mine?” Sam pants, pushing in and out, Dean’s legs up and splayed, draping over Sam’s thighs. Sam’s looming over Dean, his sweat dripping on him now. “That what you are, Dean? Mine?” Hipsnap. “Huh?” Again. “Say it.”
“Fuck. Yeah...y-yes.” Dean tries to spread even wider, to be more of Sam’s, and, careful of Dean’s leg, Sam knees him open a fraction, just enough so Dean feels him forcing it to happen, so Dean knows it wasn’t his choice. Sam bites then sucks then licks one of Dean’s nipples as he does it, eyes lifting to catch Dean staring at his tongue. Sam slicks his way across Dean’s chest, teeth scraping, tucking his tongue around the amulet’s cord and tugging. Dean’s neck bends and he makes a choked noise, and Sam grinds deep again, reaching between them to fist Dean’s cock. The lube on his hand is sticky now, but Dean acts like anything making Sam’s hand stick to Dean’s cock is a blessing, squirming and sighing in relief and appreciation, so Sam keeps tugging at him.
“You d-didn’t say it. Wanna...wanna hear, Dean,” he whispers, voice rough around the leather string bridling his mouth. “Tell me...” Whether Dean tells or not, Sam’s not gonna go much longer. He can feel the pleasure spooling up from the insides of his calves as he pounds into Dean, building like incoming surf. He sucks the amulet into his mouth, tasting Dean’s salt, and runs his hands behind and beneath Dean, palming Dean’s shoulder blades and digging in for his last run.
“Christ, Sammy,” Dean’s voice is broken, just like Sam’s, freckles in stark relief on his cheeks, his eyes staring at Sam’s mouth. Dean’s lashes flutter REM-style, in hasty half-blinks, as if he can’t look away completely no matter what, fixated on how Sam is sucking down metal and salt and maybe Dean’s very soul. “Don’t you know?” Dean shatters, then, coming fast and like he didn’t know it would be that way, more wet and salt splashing between their bellies, and still trying to answer. “Y-you have to...yours...Jesus yeah, yours...”
Sam’s there, too, then, mouth opening on a shout as he breaks against Dean, the amulet dropping out wet and gleaming on Dean’s chest as Sam pushes and floods him.
“Got you...got you, Sammy. I got you.” Dean’s down and grounded, anchoring Sam, same as ever. Sam tries to pull off, but Dean knocks his elbows out from under him and Sam collapses on Dean’s chest instead. “I got a bum leg. Doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with the rest of me,” he grumbles, sweeping Sam’s sweaty bangs back but leaving his fingers tangled at Sam’s nape. Sam grins, and lets himself be heavy against Dean’s chest. Barring serious injury, illness or emotional damage due to assorted kid-crises, this is Sam’s once-yearly allotted cuddle. But he has to tread lightly. Too much love, too fast, and Dean will reinstate personal space.
“Finger, too.”
“Huzzah?”
“Half a one, actually. You also have half a bum finger.”
“That’s cold, Sam.”
“But, hey. You can make a helluva afghan.” They’re wrapped up in it, in fact, and it’s ugly as sin, crooked rows of O’s and X’s in the colors of dirt. It was the first thing bigger than a scarf that Dean completed, and is mutually embarrassing for Sam, Dean, and the kids. Which is why Mikey insists it stay on the sofa.
“It’s a lovely, hand-crafted afghan that’s gonna need washing, now that you got it all spunky.”
“Me? It’s my birthday. You should wash it. You’ll have plenty of time while you’re not writing the Better Business Bureau.”
“Oh yeah?” Dean shifts, tugging the afghan-and Sam-a little closer as their sweat cools. “What makes you think I’m not ratting your ass out?”
“Because I can prove you wrong,” Sam mumbles. “Basis of scientific proof: the result can be duplicated.”
“And? Do we have another stove with a buzzer that won’t shut off that I don’t know about?”
“Nope,” Sam grins, raising up to wink at Dean. “But for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I used eight inches of hard steel to shut something up.” He doesn’t wait for Dean’s response; just curls against him again, head on his chest. Which begins shaking a few seconds later. Sam listens, eardrum to sternum, fascinated as the Richter-rumble of Dean’s laugh builds from inside, quaking Sam against him until he’s guffawing out loud and then they’re both howling and Dean’s wiping away tears.
“Dude...I...I...” Dean’s still gasping for air, “I got nothing.”
“That’s okay,” Sam replies, raising up on an elbow, tangling his fingers in the amulet cord again and leaning close for a kiss while Dean’s still vulnerable.
“I've got everything.”
Author’s note, the sequel: The title, in addition to being a Brit name for tic-tac-toe and the title of a YA fantasy novel, refers to the pattern of knitting in Dean’s afghan...OXOXOXO , also known (in the states, at least), as Hugs and Kisses. And that, my darling
poisontaster , could not possibly be more schmoopy. Happy Birthday, E.