Smart went Crazy, Truth went Trendy [NC17] Sam/Dean
Title: Smart went Crazy, Truth went Trendy
Author: queenklu
Beta by:
shri_amato
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
A/N & summary: I asked spnstoryfinders for fics where Sam got turned on by smart!Dean. And then, supported by the fanclub, wrote one myself! ;D
Sam got this weird ringing in his ears when Dean...did that thing, but he didn't think it was particularly weird, considering the eardrum popping AC/DC blaring through the bar speakers.
"'Money is a needful and precious thing,'" Dean murmured to their mark, smirk up slow and sweet as he lined up his shot, "'and when well used, a noble thing....'"
Three balls sank into corner pockets, one shot, and if Sam wasn't so focused on the way his whole head felt like it was pressed up against the hood of the impala at 120 mph he might've noticed a couple other balls getting the same sinking feeling.
"'But I never want you to think it is the first or only prize to strive for,'" Dean continued, scolding, just before he finished the game, "'I'd rather see you poor men's wives, if you were happy, beloved, contented, than queens on thrones, without self-respect and peace.'"
Sam's teeth snapped shut around a curse as he latched onto Dean's leather-clad arm with one hand and swept up the money with the other, curt nod to the befuddled biker boys trying to evolve enough to be insulted. Dean went, laughing all the way, letting himself be dragged so that by the time they reached the door Sam practically had him tucked under one arm.
"Jesus Christ, Dean," Sam hissed, flinging Dean towards the car the instant they were out the door. His ears felt too hot-along with every inch Dean had been pressed against him-and his head still buzzing like he'd stood too close to a Wendigo when it screamed. "What the hell was that?"
"Little Women, bitch." Dean's alcohol heavy tongue lingered just a little too long on the last word (like the first two hadn't sent Sam into cardiac arrest), turning it from an amusing semi-endearment to prison slang. Then he laughed.
The buzzing flushed through Sam's skin, under his jaw and high on his cheekbones.
Fuck. Maybe he'd caught something in the last town.
~*~
Except he didn't feel sick again until he and Dean were fighting for their lives from another demonic assassination attempt, and that was weeks after their last bar dollar was spent. A trampy new demon named Judith knew she couldn't shove Sam around, so plucking Dean from thin air and dragging him kicking and gasping over a pit of hellfire was Plan B, and god damn it, it pure torture concentrating enough to push the flames out of his way without turning to charcoal, but Sam managed, just in time to hear her laugh.
“It’s certainly looking bleak for you, sweetling.”
“Krook,” Dean choked around the invisible hand crushing his windpipe, “didn’t see spontaneous combustion coming either.”
Judith resembled something akin to a starter log after three weeks of use when the buzzing in Sam’s skull settled down. Dean wasn't nearly so flippant about...that thing he did...this time, didn't even acknowledge it, just bumped his shoulder against Sam's leg and let his head rest there for a second, frame shaking as he coughed up smoke. Sam’s knees locked, fists clenched as he forced himself to keep standing and not…do something stupid.
"Who…called it?” Dean coughed, tension (from the demon powers he was ignoring) and charcoal clogging his throat. “Ah…Help me up, Sammy, I want a burger."
"Dean-" he started, voice a hoarse croak, not sure what he was going to say.
"Want it extra crispy." He grabbed Sam's arm and hauled himself up. "Too bad we didn't bring any of our own, could’ve roasted it over Judith."
"That's disgusting," Sam said, too shocked and relieved to feel truly nauseated.
Dean just shrugged. "That's Dickens."
~*~
It was about three weeks later when he realized a direct correlation between Dean...doing that thing...and the tightness in his own skin, starting at the back of his neck, and then shivering all down his spine until he could hardly see straight. Because Dean. Hadn't. Stopped.
"You seriously want to hook up with that girl?"
Dean swayed back in his seat like he was actually tipsy from a beer and a half, smiling up at Sam's face the way he never did outside a bar. "Why not?"
"Her name's Troglenda."
Dean shrugged, flicking a peanut across the counter. "'What's in a name...?'"
Stupid. Sam had heard those words come out of the mouth of every single person he'd ever met, including Dean before now, but that wasn't helping the heat bubbling under his skin, was it?
"The sad part is she matches her name." He almost had to fight the urge to bite down on the rim of his glass to feel it shatter, but his hate for Troglenda had been steadily growing the entire evening she'd spent glued to his brother. Thank god she'd headed for the bathroom to give Sam time to plan a way to ditch her body.
"'Love is a great beautifier,' Sammy," Dean chided, lightly, setting it up for Sam.
“Beer is a great beautifier. And what the hell is that even from?"
Dean's expression closed down like an iron gate snapping shut even as his smile grew, eyes flicking away from Sam like he was the most inconsequential thing in the world. "Gotta take a piss."
Watching his brother go towards where Trogwhatthefuckever was most probably waiting, Sam felt something ugly and hot surge up into his mouth, the buzzing back in his ears.
He had this image of Dean. Dean was street smart-which kept them alive more often than not-but that was pretty much it as far as traditional intelligence-the kind of just knowing stuff, not intuition or logic-went. He'd given all his required books to Sam to read growing up, and got the short version on the way to school every morning. Sam was always getting the shallow end of the gene pool when it came to English teachers anyway, so he hadn't minded, really. It was even kind of fun, thinking about the manliest way to explain Pride & Predjudice or the funniest hand gestures for Lord of the Flies. Dean just wasn't into standard education-and Sam was fine with that.
Only now Dean was asking suspects questions about which kind of Vonnegut, and it was freaking Sam out.
After Troglenda-who turned out to be part troll, who saw that coming-Dean toned it way down. He kept his observations vapid and asked Sam dumb questions like there was an uneducated audience tuning in.
The only difference was that now Sam knew it was there, lurking under the surface, taunting him and judging him and quietly disappointed. And the absence of it was tearing a pit in Sam's jaw.
He tried coaxing it out, purposefully set Dean up for obvious quotations, and ignored the part of him that wondered if it was all that-buzzing-feeling withdrawal making him ache when Dean didn't rise to the bait. It was like he was in third grade again, trying to subtly quiz Dean on Tolstoy so he'd pass his stupid final while Dean was too focused on fixing the Impala's fan belt to notice.
In the absence of buzzing? That pit migrated to his stomach, and then lower, gnawing at his insides until he felt sick and empty.
He was poking aimlessly at his food over a breakfast designed to fill that void-hey, scrambled eggs and eggplant had worked at Stanford, don’t judge-when Dean tapped the rim of Sam's water glass with his fork.
"Hey, smart guy. We need a cheap, easy way to blow shit up. Go."
Sam blinked. "Huh?"
Dean's eyes rolled. "The trolls’ve got their magic mojo book of power in a vault under Troggy's basement. We need to blow it up. Go."
"Ah..." He knew the only way to get into that vault was dynamite, but...that wasn't what Dean was asking. "Potassium and sodium."
Dean just looked at him, but there was the tiniest glint in his eye that screamed triumph. "You're shitting me."
"Nope."
Dean's gaze dropped, and then he started rearranging things on his plate. "Alright." And here's where it got weird.
When Dean peeled a banana, the buzzing came back like a chainsaw to the head. And Dean wasn’t even doing that thing he did yet.
Dean dropped the fruit and then, with an Emeril-like bam! jerked the top off the salt shaker and poured.
Green eyes flicked up at him. "Nothing happened, Sam."
Suddenly a grin caught Sam and pulled, hard enough he could feel his own dimples, even though everything behind his ribcage turned to jelly. "That's because table salt isn't pure sodium..." And he rattled off statistics like Dean really gave a damn.
"Riiight," Dean nodded when he finished. "Or, we use dynamite."
It wasn’t quite fixed, whatever had broken between them. But Dean resetting their roles seemed to slap a bandaid on it for a while, which…
…made Sam feel like an utter an complete shit.
“Eggplant is a member of the thistle family,” Dean said, leaning back in his seat the instant Sam forced his attention back on his plate.
Sam’s fork fell with a clatter, but he hoped his face looked annoyed enough that Dean would think it was on purpose.
~*~
“You know Jimmy Page?”
“Uh…” Sam looked down at their cassette box, searching for the trap. It’d been almost a week since blowing up Troglenda and her sisters (with good old dynamite), and about as long since they’d said anything of any real substance to each other, so he wasn’t sure why the sound of Dean’s voice now sounded like a set up. “The lead guitarist of Led Zeppelin?”
“Yup. He used to own an occult bookstore and publishing house.” Dean’s thumbs tapped the steering wheel along to Heartbreaker blaring from the speakers. “Made an exact replica of Aleister Crowley’s The Goetia, complete with a cover made from camel hair.”
Heat rolled down Sam’s body from head to toe, like they’d rolled smack dab into the middle of a Texas summer. So much for hoping Dean’s metaphorical punching of the reset button would fix whatever was defective in his brain. His fingers twitched where his palms were sweating through his jeans, mouth open a fraction of an inch to keep his breathing quiet as he glanced at Dean through his lashes.
“Some people cry and some people die by the wicked ways of love, but I’ll just keep on rollin’ along…”
Sam took the opportunity of Dean’s distracted singing to stare at his reflection in the glass and gulp down the sheer mass of panic racing through his blood. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh SHIT.
It wasn’t even-SHIT.
If they’d had another hour or so of driving time, Sam might’ve been able to talk himself down. As it was, at that particular moment, Dean pulled them into the Pining For You Motel, complete with tiny little trees making up each letter, and checked them into a room-watch it be the only one left, one king-before Sam could move without embarrassing himself.
As it was, he apologized profusely in his head to their own leather bound copy of The Goetia he had to press against the pup tent in his jeans, cursing Jimmy Page in the same mental breath.
Mental. Ha. Because he was, if he was getting worked up about-
Dean knocked against his window, making him jerk almost painfully against The Goetia. “C’mon, Sammy. Unless you want to sleep in the car.”
Considering the thoughts spinning in his head right now? It probably would have been a good idea.
“Sam?” Dean asked when they’d moved their bags into the room and shed shoes and jackets, all without saying a word. He had his hands on his hips, silver ring glinting, amulet a splash of gold against the black of his t-shirt and dark, unbuttoned button-up. It was defensive, and Sam cringed without thinking. (Well, no, there was thinking. And it involved threatening the impala with his psychic powers and yelling at each other on the side of the road.) “You got something you want to say to me?”
Yes, Sam’s psyche breathed, flooding his throat and thoughts with-
“Ngh-no.” Sam choked on the first try, cleared his throat and said it again. “Just, uh. The thistle.” His hand circled over his stomach. “Not the best plan.”
Dean shifted his weight and took his time answering, so there was no way it could be anything but deliberate. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
Sam couldn’t have been more caught off guard if he’d been whacked in the face with a waffle. “What?”
“Do you. Think. I’m stupid?” Dean growled, advancing until Sam’s hip touched the door handle and he almost fell, it startled him so bad.
“No,” Sam whispered, all of his air suddenly gone. He kept swallowing instead of breathing, which was a big part of the problem.
“No?” Dean repeated, green eyes snapping with anger and something a lot like hurt. “See, the way I see it? We keep shit from each other, and that’s fine. Hell, that’s even healthy. But I always assumed that when it was something that needed to be said, you wouldn’t pussy out and wait for me to pry it from your c-"
Cold dead fingers stuck in Dean’s throat but they cut through the room, cut into Sam as viscously as if they’d been said aloud. Maybe even more.
“So I’m gonna ask you again,” Dean said when he could. “You got something to say to me?”
“…I don’t think you’re stupid,” Sam let out on a breath, then went quick because he saw Dean’s hands fly up, pissed and exasperated at what he’d see as the easy way out, “No, Dean. I don’t. It’s just… I keep forgetting that while I was off having a life at Stanford that you were too. And if that’s not-" He held up a hand, cringing as Dean opened his mouth to deny it. “Fuck, Dean. If you’ve just been…letting me be the smart one-letting me think I’m the smart one-what the hell is wrong with you?”
Dean blinked, taken aback, and Sam wasn’t doing much better now that all that was said, hanging between them in the air. He clung tight to his guns, gritting his teeth as he waited Dean out.
“This is the something that needs to be said, Dean,” he continued even quieter, letting the rest-Gonna pussy out?-ring out unsaid.
“I...was never gonna go to college,” Dean ground out after another minute and a half, one hand poised in front of him like a pen he was using to write himself off.
“You could’ve-"
“No. Sam,” he added, a sort of Come on… “But you could. And I wanted to make sure you…could.”
“Dean…” Something was tearing inside Sam, but he wasn’t sure if it was something that had healed wrong or not. He put everything he had into that one word that meant everything to him, memories sharp and painful playing in his head of the look on his brother’s face when he’d told him he was going, white as that acceptance letter clutched in his hand.
“I wanted you to choose me, alright?” Dean lashed out, loud and brutal in the quiet of their motel room. “That’s what you want to hear? It’s not much of a choice if you don’t know there’s other options.”
Sam just stood there, swaying a little on his feet as he looked at his brother. Dean was smart. Dean was really fucking smart. About most everything except Sam.
“I didn’t know you wanted me to stay,” he said slowly, faltering a couple times as he tried to decide not to smile.
“Wouldn’t have kept you from going,” Dean shot back, like it was a fact of life-birds flew, dogs barked, and Sam left.
“Maybe,” he admitted, so quiet he had to move closer so Dean could hear, “But it’s keeping me now.”
It was Dean’s turn to back up, only he didn’t, blinking up at Sam like a stunned and panicked owl. “Wh-”
“I wasn’t planning on going, Dean,” he added with a quick shake of his head, “It’s just…I’m used to being the smart one. So I always figured that’s what you needed me for.”
“The hell?” Dean snapped, eyebrows knotting in disbelief. “You think I’d kick you to the curb if I didn’t need you looking shit up? Damn it,” he plowed over Sam’s hunched shoulders and flinching shrug, lifting his chin in a grip that was much less vice-like than it looked, “anyone can google. Not everyone can recite the Seven Wonders of the World at the drop of a hat.”
Sam shivered.
There was no way for Dean not to feel it, as close as he was, touching him, and a pair of green eyes flew wide, flicking over Sam’s skin for injuries to explain it. But there wasn’t anything to explain it, except for Sam, being a fucking pervert.
“You could do it too,” he breathed, kind of sort of praying really hard the instant it was out of his mouth that he could go back in time ten seconds and kill himself. His eyes squeezed shut in a cringe, but Dean’s heat didn’t move, and his grip didn’t loosen, and when Sam pried his eyelids apart Dean’s eyes were locked with his, expression unreadable.
“Pyramids at Giza.” His voice rumbled low, so low that Sam fucking trembled with it, painfully still in Dean’s light grip as he smiled. “But that ones easy. Let’s see…Statue of Zeus at Olympia…”
The buzzing swept up in the back of his head, but Sam crushed it, desperate to hear Dean speak.
“Hanging gardens of Babylon…”
Something else was hanging, and Sam’s hips canted towards Dean without any sort of say so from his upstairs brain which was far too busy screaming at the utter and complete insanity of the situation.
“Colossus at Rhodes…Lighthouse at Alexandria…”
“Jesus,” Sam whispered, absolutely silent.
“That’s five, right? So there’s still…” It was hard to tell if Dean was playing with him, and that just made Sam want it more, muscles bunching in his lower back and thighs as he struggled to stay where he was and not wrap himself around Dean and hump. Dean. Dean, his brother. Oh, f- “Temple of Artemis at Ephesus…”
He couldn’t hold in a strangled breathless noise. And there was no way for Dean to think it was anything but exactly that, or caused by something other than a few random words coming from Dean’s mouth.
Which was suddenly a lot closer, hello. “Sam…”
Closer, closer, and Sam’s head fell forward to meet Dean’s, an electric touch of skin even as the spark that wrapped around them felt a lot more like safety, and home, and Dean Dean Dean. Dean in every sense of the word.
But he still had to breathe, “This is…”
“Yeah. But it’s illegal to get a fish drunk in Oklahoma, too.”
Sam blinked at him-which was odd, anyway, so close-feeling every drop of logical blood flowing south. “You’re kidding.”
“Can’t kill a whale, either,” Dean said with a shaky but honest shrug.
Sam pulled back just far enough to stare, taking in all the ways Dean was just as terrified and turned on by this, and it felt like something exploded in his brain because no way. What were the odds?
“…Oklahoma’s landlocked,” Sam croaked, suddenly painfully aware of how close they were, how he could feel Dean’s quickening breath on his lips.
“Yeah,” Dean laughed, barely audible as his hand moved to the back of Sam’s head, “Yeah, it is.”
Dean’s lips were warm and dry and just a little too plush, like he was puckering because he thought kissing a guy was different that kissing a girl. Well, it was (and thanks to Stanford? Sam knew) but it wasn’t that different.
Sam’s hands were shaking hard enough to drop something, but they cupped Dean’s jaw just fine and held it in place while Sam bit at his lips until they behaved themselves and relaxed. Dean’s hands were fisted in the front of Sam’s shirt like he was about to take a swing or Sam was about to leave-neither one seemed entirely likely considering the way every cell in his body was straining for his brother.
But Dean was keeping it completely PG below the waist, not so much arching away, but not grinding into him either-maybe he didn’t know he could. Sam rocked his hips forward, just barely close enough for their tented flies to snag, and Dean made a noise into Sam’s mouth like he was dying.
That settled it. Sam might not be the smartest, but he was pretty damn sure he was the most experienced one in the room-at least when it came to where they were headed.
Sam grabbed Dean’s hips and pushed, holding on while Dean stumbled back and broke the kiss, taking it back up again as he walked his brother backwards toward a beaver-patterned bed. Ironic, but he didn’t much care.
When the back of Dean’s legs hit the bed he sat but tensed his thighs and didn’t fall, dragging Sam onto his knees instead of on top of him, like he thought if he did it would make him the girl. Plus, this was the perfect set up for a blow job, which was pretty damn good no matter which gender was giving it. Sam smiled into the kisses while his head spun and his cock throbbed, hands roving from Dean’s hips down the outside of his thighs, pulling his knees apart so Sam could slot between them.
“Sam, fuck, Sam,” Dean choked, breaking from the kiss before Sam even got his hands on his buckle. “Wait.”
He didn’t grab Dean and pin him, but it was a near thing. Instead, he leaned in close enough that Dean had to meet his gaze. “I’m choosing you. Dean. I’m choosing you.”
A sudden flicker of doubt made him pull back and add, even if it was corny as hell, ask, “You…you’re choosing me, too, right?”
Dean gaped at him like he really was stupid, then tackled him back onto the floor, catching Sam’s head with a careful palm before it could smack against the scratched hard wood floor. “Stupid,” he growled and crushed their mouths together, a real kiss this time, with lips and teeth and real boy lips on boy lips, Sam’s fingertips holding Dean exactly where he was in case he got it in his head that moving elsewhere was a good plan.
Because it wasn’t. Dean’s ass was snug against Sam’s cock, and that was almost as close to heaven as he’d never let himself hope to get.
Then Dean was tugging at his shirts, all of them at once without unbuttoning a thing, dragging it over his head with about as much care as a hurricane so when he could see and breathe again his hair was in a static-y halo around his flushed face, and Dean-Jesus. Dean was looking at him, really looking at him, in a way that made Sam question every other look he’d ever received from his brother since puberty. He was looking like he hadn’t been allowed to, like someone half blind with glasses for the first time but more raw than that, every sweep of his gaze raking across Sam’s skin like the bite of short nails he could feel in Dean’s unmoving hands.
Sam squirmed, trying to bump his hips against Dean’s and distract him, but Dean was planted solid as a boulder, fingers wrapped around Sam’s biceps just this side of bruising. If Sam really wanted free he could’ve, but he didn’t, and Dean knew that, the bastard. Knew the stupid skips in his heartbeat and the shivers racing across Sam’s skin was enough to hold him while Dean’s eyes stripped him bare.
“Dean…” he whispered when it started to hurt, and all breath stopped when those liquid green eyes snapped up to him. Dean’s mouth was open just wide enough to pant, lips curled almost imperceptibly at the corners, almost too perfect to look at.
And then, with a gulp that had Sam’s eyes glued to his neck with a painful kind of longing, Dean lifted his hips and rocked down.
Dean stripped out of his button-up while Sam tore at his buckle, a big brass one Sam had picked out at a gas station five hundred miles back, and somewhere in the back of his mind he must’ve been thinking, Hey, maybe if it’s a bitch to get it out of his pants maybe it’ll stay in there, because it would-not-come-undone.
He might’ve snarled that last part out loud because Dean chuckled softly and undid the damn thing with a flick of his thumb that made Sam’s mouth water, leaning down to kiss the stunned look off Sam’s face. He was definitely getting with the guy-on-guy program, not too gentle, not careful like anyone here was fragile-but maybe that was only Sam’s experience talking. He’d singled out leather jackets and short hair for reasons other than he liked his sex a little rough.
Dean’s zipper snicked with a sound that seemed loud between kisses and pants, which-speaking off-weren’t going to let anything free, pulled taut around Dean’s hips like that, unless…damn it.
Sam’s hands, practically glued to Dean’s hips, half-guided and half-lifted him off his lap, eyes closed tight so he wouldn’t see the startled indignant look on his brother’s face. Before he even had time to peek, though, Dean grabbed hold of his elbows and pulled, gravity and momentum tumbling them both up and onto the bed, where Sam nearly crushed Dean when he fell.
“Jesus,” Dean huffed through a grin, wriggling in an attempt to get the pressure off his lungs, “the god damn size of you…”
They both realized what he’d said around the same time, eyes locking and breaking as they ducked their heads to laugh. “Yeah?” Sam rumbled, 90% teasing as he rolled his hips slow and dirty against Dean’s.
His brother made a choked sort of gasp and snapped his hands to Sam’s bare sides, clinging tight. “Y-yeah,” he panted, pupils expanding in a heady rush as they met Sam’s and rolled up into his head. “Ah…fuck…”
Sam worked Dean’s t-shirt off without moving a millimeter of his weight off of Dean, heat racing along the lines of his body where they met and felt Dean breathing. But after that, it was either get up and get off, or stay put and smother-the heavy throbbing Sam’s dick didn’t leave much room for an opinion on the matter.
Stripping them both of their jeans took entirely too long and not nearly long enough, because now they were naked and there was nowhere else to run. There was Dean’s cock, pinkish and hard, hot, vulnerable, white splash of precome at the tip dribbling down to curl over his balls and, as Sam watched, lower, into the crease of his ass.
Just as Sam’s pleasured shaking threatened to turn into something more along the lines of terrified, Dean reached out and grabbed his shoulder, nothing gentle in the tug so everything could come out in his voice. “C’mere, Sammy. Come on.”
All of Sam’s being surged toward him, sweeping Dean up and pushing him further across the bed so their legs could tangle together, even if it meant supporting Dean’s head where it dangled over the side. The softest, quickest flash of annoyance flitting across Dean’s face made him grin so hard it hurt, so he traded it for a laugh and ducked his head to brush kisses along the side of his jaw and lower, over the tender exposed skin of his throat. When he didn’t do more than that, weight forcing Dean’s hips still, Dean let out a needy growl and smacked Sam on the ass.
Oh yeah. This was still his brother. Smart or not, gay or not, working a hand between them to get this party started or lying there placidly, this was Dean. “Dean, Dean, Dean…”
“What, what, what?” Dean breathed back, snarky even though his lips were kissed red and puffy and his eyes were almost black with need, and then he shoved Sam over and climbed on top.
“Over-thinking things, Sammy,” he whispered against Sam’s lips, grinning into the kiss and grinding down on Sam in general, sliding their cocks together in the growing mess of precome on Sam’s belly. And then he circled his hand around them both and gave them a squeeze.
Just like that Sam was on the edge, straining up into Dean’s grasp, bucking his hips, making stupid desperate noises between gasps as Dean tweaked and tuned him like a fucking car, like the Impala if he was ever almost rough with her, fucking perfect on the down stroke and nearly causing one on the up. There was just-too much. Of everything, of Dean, of-
Dean’s eyes blinked wide, glazed for a split second Sam nearly missed, and then, before anyone could stop him, he blurted out, “Mausoleum at Halicarnassus!”
It wasn’t Sam’s fault Dean’s outburst made him hold a little tighter, fingertips pushing the head of his dick all along the thick vein on the underbelly Sam’s cock, practically dragging his orgasm out by the roots. The Mausoleum at Halicarnassus had nothing to do with the way his balls pulsed and throbbed all the harder for the solid press of Dean’s against them, and the aftershocks that left him limp and gasping had far more to do with the fact that Dean was still holding them together, his hand sloppy-sticky with come.
See? Not his fault. And yet Dean was completely still with the effort not to react, which meant Bad Things.
Sam growled with all the air he had left in his lungs and flipped them before Dean could so much as crack a smile, landing hard on the floor and dragging Dean half with him, so that they were about in the same position as before-Sam on his knees, Dean on the bed. And then, before Dean so much as gargle a protestation, Sam swallowed him down in one long gulp.
It wasn’t like Dean was easy to deep throat either, with his size and the way he was thrashing, trying to buck up against Sam’s tongue. Sam was just blissed out, pissed off, and dead set on getting Dean to come in thirty seconds or less.
He failed. By about two seconds.
“Not…not gonna say…a word…” Dean panted, gulping down breaths as Sam maneuvered their near-liquid bodies onto the dry bed, “…’bout your smart kink, Sammy.”
“Not gonna tell you how you’re gonna take it up the ass,” Sam grumbled, not enough energy to blush. Dean had even less, apparently, because he just flopped an arm across Sam’s chest and tucked his head next to Sam’s on the pillow, low hum rumbling through them both.
It wasn’t actually all that horrible of a hotel, Sam thought, eyes roaming lazily over the shape of Dean beneath the beaver sheets. It was quiet, and kind of rustic, and almost homey in a homely sort of way. He couldn’t even hear the traffic from the highway half a mile down the street, which meant their cheap log cabin-esque abode had some pretty fucking awesome soundproofing, or-(gasp)-was made out of actual logs.
“…You tried to get a fish drunk, didn’t you.”
“Sh’t ‘p ‘n’ sl’p, s’mmy,” Dean grumbled without lifting his lips from Sam’s shoulder, which-Sam was smart enough to tell-meant Yes.
A/N The problem with writing smart!Dean is that…I’m not all that smart. SO!
--The Dickens reference is from Bleak House, in which he killed off a character with deus ex machina spontaneous combustion.
--The Little Women quote is from, uh, Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
--Everything else I stole from this book and is completely true. o.O
(Title from Smart Went Crazy by Atmosphere, which I have not actually heard.)
NOW WITH DEAN+DRUNK!FISH BACKSTORY!
AND THIS DRABBLE I wrote for trainhopper . ^^