So Much it Burns Part 2
3.Tease
Sam’s plan -or rather lack thereof- on approaching Dean was to wing it. He’d take any and all opportunities to test out his theory. See if maybe Dean did feel something other than just filial affection for him. He was going to poke and prod at whatever was there until Dean finally conceded to what he’d never admit to wanting. And if it did turn out that Dean wanted anything even remotely similar to what Sam wanted then he’d… Wing it some more? Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the most thoroughly thought out plan ever, but this was all new territory for Sam. And it wasn’t like he could go check out a How-to-seduce-your-big-brother-in-ten-easy-steps-or-less-for-dummies book at the local library. So his only real option now was to work on instinct and hope that Dean would take the bait.
It was still relatively early when Sam walked, freshly showered, out of the bathroom and spotted Dean standing in the small pea green kitchen staring into his coffee mug like it held the answer to all the mysteries in the world. Dad was passed out, dead to the world sleeping off a bender, on the rough, dusty couch all the way across the room and out of view. Normally by this time every other morning Sam would be fully dressed and ready for school, but today he had other plans. Sam walked past the breakfast island toweling his hair dry, wearing only an old, snug pair of jeans and the thinnest, softest undershirt he’d found at the bottom of his duffle.
“Hey.” Dean startled at Sam’s greeting, almost spilling the entire contents of his coffee cup all over his shirt front.
“Oh hey.” He put the mug down on the peeling, speckled vinyl counter and rubbed at the back of his neck at a loss. “So um… Yesterday was fun. Right?”
“Yeah.” Sam replied tactfully, straining to not simper at Dean’s painfully obvious attempt at fishing. “Last night especially.” Dean’s face faltered at that as he leaned his weight against the counter worked out what to say next. Sam smiled as he stepped forward reaching over and crowding in on Dean to pull a chipped, blue cereal bowl off of the shelf behind him. Dean stopped breathing, still as a statue and muscles just as hard, each point of contact seeping out searing heat through the thin barrier of fabric. Sam wished he could stay like this forever, a fixed point frozen in time. But he couldn’t, so he pulled himself away, each movement agonizingly slow, their clothing bunching and riding up. And then he felt it; almost nothing, a split second at the most, and he would have totally missed it if he hadn’t actively been looking for it; the feel of Dean pushing up against him, pressing forward in effort to prolong the contact between them. And that’s all Sam needed, all he would ever need.
“Dean” He breathed over his brother’s ear, saw the hair on his neck stand on end, and inched his body forward. Dean smelled like sleep and coffee, and a faintest trace of alcohol, and Sam wondered if that was the reason for why he suddenly felt half-drunk.
A sudden, deafening bump and thud broke the spell as they both turned towards Dad’s direction, panic rising in Sam’s throat. Dean slipped out from under him, and made his way to John’s sleeping form. A mostly empty bottle of bourbon lay on its side, spilling its contents with a glug glug glug onto the sparse cola colored carpet.
Dean huffed out as he righted the bottle, half exasperation half relief. He pulled Dad’s dry mud crusted boots off and draped the worn brown, leather jacket over him before turning back to Sam with an unreadable expression. “Come on, let’s get you to school.”
-W-
It was almost impossible to pay attention at school the rest of the day, his mind filled with confusion and doubts. He kept running the scenario in his mind over and over wondering what would’ve happened if John hadn’t accidently kicked the bottle off of the end table. He could feel a slight prickle, reminiscent of a sunburn, where he and Dean had been pressed chest to chest. He kept wondering if he was reading into it wrong. What if it was just wishful thinking on his behalf? What if Dean didn’t want anything to do with him? But, that couldn’t be. Not with the way Dean’s breath had stopped and stuttered when Sam pressed into him. Not with the way he had pressed back.
“Please continue on page 153, Mr. Winchester.” His flavor-of-the-month English teacher shook him out of his stupor, and Sam quickly turned to the book in front of him, began to read an excerpt from a collection of Child Ballads The Bonny Hind and was staggered by the cosmic irony of it all.
The final bell rang and Sam couldn’t get out of his seat fast enough. He shoved his papers into the bottom of his book bag and practically jumped out the classroom. The sun blinded him when he stepped out of the front door and for a moment he had a horrible sense of dread when he didn’t immediately spot the familiar black and chrome. It soon faded, however, when he turned to see Dean parked illegally in one of the shaded faculty spots.
“Hey” Dean said as he tossed his backpack into the back seat. “How was your day?” He seemed nervous. The kind of nervous you get when you’re in front of someone you want to impress.
“Same as always.” Sam gave him a resigned smile “I’m learning about mitochondrial DNA in my bio class- for the fourth time.”
Dean chuckled “well at least you got a head start.” As he pulled into a gas station to refuel. He handed Sam a crisp hundred dollar bil only creased twice down the middle; probably hustled in some game of pool or poker; and motioned with an eye flick towards the convenience store.
Sam loaded up the little blue basket with their usual arsenal of empty calories; several packs of Cheetos and Doritos, Twinkies and Ding Dongs, several bottles of Soda Pop, Sunflower seeds and beef jerky -because if they were gonna binge Sam would at least make sure they got some type of protein- and a mountain of candy. He idled at the frozen treat section, wondered if he should or if it was too much, but then again how many opportunities like this was he gonna get? Well, knowing Dean probably a lot. But Sam was young and stupid so he decided to go for it anyway.
Sam waited until Dean was back in the driver’s seat and they had pealed out back on to the road. “Want something?” He asked wading through the plastic bags on his lap. Dean acquiesced, never being one to turn down food, and opted for a Twinkie. He watched as Dean took the package in one hand, opened it with his teeth, and finished off the yellow sponge cake in two bites flat. Nervously he fiddled with his own wrapper sneaking side-glances towards Dean whose attention was focused on the road ahead. He’d bypassed his usual Choco taco and pulled out a Rocket Pop instead. Sam swallowed anxiously and pressed the frosted red tip to his tongue. He tasted nothing and felt the ice stick to his skin on the first few licks but that all changed as the frosty coating melted and he was hit by the syrupy sweetness of cherry flavoring. Sam let out a satisfied groan as he sucked the frozen treat into his mouth.
There was a gasp and a jerk and swerve of the car. Sam smirked around the giant Popsicle -oh yeah, this was gonna work out just fine- pulled out the flavored ice with a slight slurp and licked his cold, numbed lips. “You okay?”
“I’m F-fine” Dean’s voice broke. Sam shrugged nonchalantly and returned to his Rocket Pop enthusiastically. He sucked and laved at the sugary ice. Lapped up the long, messy trails of melted sweetness with broad, flat stripes of his tongue. Out of his peripheral vision he could see Dean intensely focused in front of him, back ramrod straight, hands a white knuckled grip on the steering wheel. He let the sweet water collect in his mouth; swallowed with a thick, eager groan; the chill of it doing nothing to mitigate the fire in his belly. Dean bristled, flicked the radio on to deafening, muffling every sound in and around them with When the levee breaks.
They idled at a set of train tracks, the barrier coming down and warning lights flashing. Sam feeling bold lowered the volume on the radio down to a staticky whisper. He pulled the Popsicle out of his mouth excruciatingly slow, letting his frozen lips drag against the body.
He lifted the Rocket Pop; red tip rounded, shiny and glisteningly wet, almost obscene; to a few inches away from his brother’s face, licked his lips and with all the innocence he could muster asked “Want some?”
Dean stared at the treat running sticky trails of blue and red over Sam’s fingers and gulped. Sam startled when Dean leaned down and took the whole thing in his mouth, twitched when he felt Dean’s blisteringly hot, velvety tongue drag over his finger tip. Dean pulled off, leaving only a tri-stained Popsicle stick in Sam’s trembling hand, chewed and swallowed with a shiver. Sam’s brain ceased to function as they stared into each other’s eyes, the air all around them felt molasses thick.
The moment was broken when several cars behind them honked. They turned to see the caution barrier up, the train apparently come and gone without them noticing. Dean laughed mirthlessly and put the car into drive
-W-
Having all the confirmation he wanted or needed Sam decided to redouble his efforts. He started lounging around to as close to naked as he possibly could and still be clothed, just a pair of running shorts, or an old pair of pajama pants, the fabric so clingy and almost translucent with wear that they left little to the imagination. During training he’d pull his shirt off after running laps, use it to sop away the trails of sweat that ran down his neck and matted his hair. He’d let their touches linger a little longer than necessary during sparing, and he’d made sure to stretch thoroughly before and after each session, letting out little moans and groans whenever John was out of earshot. Dean in turn would only squirm on the edge of his seat. He would stumble on over his own feet and shuffle awkwardly from one place to the next. It got to the point where Dad started to notice, ragged on Dean over his slowed reaction times or lack of focus. Because of that, and frankly because the constant flirting and teasing was beginning to turn exhausting, Sam chose to take some pity on his older brother and decided take it down a notch.
They were sitting quietly at some random little greasy spoon out in the middle of Kentucky, Dean eerily quiet; John sitting next to him with a myriad of manila folders and newspaper clippings that swallowed half of the garish beige and teal booth; and Sam inattentively playing with the remnants of his cherry pie a la mode, mixing the white of the melted ice cream and the lumpy blood-red filling into something into something morbidly reminiscent to fresh brain matter. He scooped the last bite, let the too sweet sugary substance melt on his taste buds, kept the fork in his mouth, absentmindedly running his tongue between each metal tine. John stood up and made some remark about “hitting the head” their usual warning to either finish up or be prepared to leave unsatisfied.
“Stop it!” Dean leaned in across the table and let out in a low breathy huff. Sam blinked, once, twice; pulled the fork out of his mouth, the warm metal scratching at his tongue; and cocked an eyebrow.
“What?”
“You know what.” And no, Sam really didn’t. “This-this whole…thing.” Dean let out exasperated and motioned at Sam with his hands. “The constant licking and biting at your lips. And the running your hand up and down your thigh all sultry.” Sultry? ldquo;And that, that look of innocence and confusion, like you have no idea what you’re doing.” But, Sam hadn’t been doing any of that- at least not actively. “And in front of Dad. You’re driving me out of my friggen’ mind, here.” John came back before Sam had had any opportunity to even begin to respond, tossed a few bills on the table and ordered them to haul ass. The ride back to the room was unbearably long, John’s assurance that he’d be back in a in a day or two and monotonous tone of NPR flickering in and out of the speakers the only things piercing the heavy silence.
-W-
“Yes Sir.” Dean’s voice filtered from outside the room along with the roar of John’s truck pulling out. Sam closed the door as Dean made his way, unsure, into the room.
“Dean” His brother jerked around at the sound.
“Sam.”
“Are we gonna talk about it?” He took a step forward. Dean took two back.
“Nothin’ t’talk about.” And wasn’t that just so damn like Dean? To hide from or ignore the elephant in the room.
“Bullshit.” Sam surged forward in irritation as Dean, just as quickly, walked backwards until the back of his knees hit against the heavy wooden chair propped against the far wall. He fell plopped down onto the too firm leather cushion with a startled oomph. “Stop acting like I’m crazy, Dean” And before Sam completely realized how it happed, he was straddling his brother’s lap, thighs spread wide and trapped between the chair and Dean’s hips. “You can’t tell me you don’t feel this.” And Sam was definitely beginning to feel something. The hard leather upholstery creaked underneath Dean’s firm grip. “I know what I feel.” He pressed in closer, ran his hands over Dean’s chest
“Sammy, don’t” Dean’s voice sounded wrecked. His hands shot out and gripped Sam’s wrists and held him away
“I want this Dean.” Sam twisted his hands in Dean’s bruising grip enough to take a hold of his forearms. “And I know you want this too.” He emphasized each word with a quick, dirty roll of his hips. And if Sam was rock hard, Dean was diamond. “And” Dean’s body was strung so tense it was practically vibrating. A guitar string two strums away from breaking. “what I’m saying is” He pulled Dean’s arms behind him, ironclad grip slipping and fingers landing splayed on Sam’s lower back; and leaned to whisper hot and wet against Dean’s ear “You can have it.” Snap.
Dean made a noise that could hardly be described as human as he pulled Sam in tight with one hand, the fingers of the other one slipping underneath Sam’s waistband to ghost over his ass and in between his cheeks. Sam closed his eyes as Dean nuzzled into his neck over the thin skin behind his ear, mouthed hot, wet lines over his jaw and down his collar bone. Sam’s cock throbbed with each roll and press of denim on denim. “Fuck” Sam gasped and keened as Dean’s hips bucked and his hand slid further down, rough fingertips catching and dragging against his hole, each nerve ending in Sam’s body going off at once. Sam came without warning, light fracturing into a million pieces behind his eyelids. “Fuck” he bit down on Dean’s shoulder listened to the way his brother moaned at the sharp pain.
Sam opened his eyes expecting to see his brother in a similar state to his own but what he found was a cornucopia of conflicting emotions. Dean’s breaths were heavy, eyes dark with lust, his face fluctuating between fear, fondness, and regret. Dean stood up slowly and slid Sam’s orgasm dazed frame off him and placed him gently -always the caretaker- on the chair. Dean was still hard, dick straining what looked to be painfully against his zipper, tenting out the front of his Jeans. He spun on his heel and flew out the door like he’d seen the devil, leaving Sam abandoned in a state of physical satisfaction but emotional disorientation.
4. Play
When Dean finally came back the next day, it was past four in the afternoon, his clothes were a rumpled mess, and he smelled of stale liquor and cheap perfume. He bypassed Sam and headed straight for the shower, came out fully dressed and left once more without a word, didn’t come back until around midday. Sam tried to talk to him as soon as he stepped into the door but Dean cut him off with a “Dad just called, he’s 10 away and he sounds pissed.” Sam sighed as he and Dean set to picking up the trash strewn around the room.
John came home cradling a bad shoulder, mumbling and cursing “Motherfucker got the drop on me.” And “bad shot” and the occasional “fucking Caleb”. Sam decided not to press when John cringed and downed a handful of Oxy with half a bottle of Gin. His only reward for his self-control, however, was Dad driving them out to some local field for shooting practice.
John set up a neat row of empty bottles and cans on a fence post a good 30 yards away, against the sun.
“Start here and work your way out” Dad called out, voice carried out by the wind as Sam stared down the black barrel of the shot gun. He took one shot, bang, and barely grazed the top of one of the rusted cans, knocked it down with a muffled clank. The second shot missed completely. “The hell was that?” Dad yelled out, words slurring a bit together. “You two even been practicing?” He started off on one of his usual rants “what we do is important. We save lives” and how not training “is what get people killed”
“He’ll get the next one, Sir.” Dean’s voice cut through. “Sam can do it.” Sam’s body tensed at the tone of Dean’s voice. At the implication of a trust and belief in Sam so great that he’d actually stand up against their father even marginally. He set the sight back on the target. His hands trembled and he squinted, the too bright sun making his eyes ache and water, and beads of sweat break out across his temples. He was going to fail; everyone knew it, everyone except Dean apparently. Dean who was looking at him with a face so sure it made Sam’s lungs stutter. He gulped and focused on the glass bottles glinting like jewels in the setting sun. The blue grass shivered and rippled lazily like waves on a lake, fluctuating between minty green, white and almost turquoise. Sam adjusted for the wind resistance. The first shot echoed in Sam’s ears, drowning out the crack of the glass, but the small curve to the corner of Dean’s lips was all the confirmation he needed. He set his sight to a rusty beer can next and squeezed slightly on the trigger, almost jerked when he felt Dean kick his feet apart, and the press of Dean’s palm against his lower back to straighten his stance. Sam took two consecutive shots, which hit right in the center of the targets, sent the aluminum cans flying. “My turn” Dean’s voice was smug.
“You need to practice more.” Dad began. “Your brother’s not always gonna be there to-“ John’s voice was cut off by the sound of Dean picking off the rest of the targets, pop pop pop pop, metal and shattered glass raining down like diamonds. Dean winced as he lowered the shotgun, rolled and rubbed at his shoulder which struck Sam as odd since the kickback of the shot gun hadn’t been that bad.
“Out’a targets, Sir.” He spared a quick wink at Sam, and for a moment Sam felt his stomach bubble over.
“Yeah, let’s get heading back.” John groused, spun on his heal and started to walk away.
From then on out everything seem to be back to normal, their own particular brand of normal, which was hardly normal at all. Dean still teased Sam incessantly, refused to take a side whenever Sam and Dad would argue, pissed them off more with his failed attempts to mollify them both, and constantly made bad jokes and puns. Still, everything felt slightly off for some reason, barely perceptible, like someone had picked up the world and moved it two inches to the left.D
ean had been flirting extra hard with the 7-11 clerk, Angela her nametag said, and was cajoling into meeting up after her shift was over. Normally that wouldn’t really strike Sam as odd, Dean had always been a bit of a philanderer, but the way his voice wavered was. He sounded anxious, like he was dreading her saying no. She acceded of course. He was Dean, they never said no. When they got back to the room Dad left “for a few hours” and Dean slipped out like a ghost not fifteen minutes later. And Sam had been so sure that they were past the avoidance.
It was a little bit before 5am when Dean finally walked through the door. There was lipstick on his collar and he looked debauched. School started at eight and for a while Sam thought he’d end up missing Dean completely. Dean quirked an eyebrow in Sam’s direction, he tossed his keys and a bag of donuts on the scarred wooden table and wordlessly made his way to the bathroom, pointedly not looking in Sam’s direction. Sam stared at the plywood door for an hour, soundlessly tearing apart a bear claw -Dean’s favorite- into a million little pieces.
The door finally clicked open and Dean stepped out, face faltering for a moment before pulling up a mask of casualness.
“Dude, not the Bear Claw.” He walked up to Sam voice full of mock indignation as he tried to pry the still half complete pastry out of his hands. Sam looked up at Dean’s face; paled from the lack of sleep, dark smudges underneath his eyes, a light ghosting of stubble; acting as if everything was okay. Dean was ignoring it, pretending as if that night hadn’t happened, and today was just another normal day, and that made Sam angry. Angrier than Dean running away that night leaving Sam with a fuzzy head and Jizz soaked pants. Angrier than those red and purpling marks peaking from underneath his T-Shirt collar, made him feel. Sam clamped a hand onto Dean’s wrist, before he could pull away. They both stared at each other intently, Sam challengingly, Dean’s façade faltering slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing marginally with a dry swallow.
“I’m not giving up, Dean.” He tightened his grip, wanting to leave his own marks on Dean. Wishing he could erase the one’s that he had nothing to do with.
“Let go a’me.” Dean’s voice vibrated over Sam, a warning and a promise all in one. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“No matter what you do -who- I’m not going to stop feeling this way.” Sam struggled to keep his voice calm. “I’m not gonna stop wanting this.”
“You’re Sixteen, Sammy. You don’t know what you want.” Dean’s agitated words only inflamed the rage building in Sam’s belly as he pulled out of Sam’s grip.
“It’s Sam, God damn it.” His voice rose and octave. “ m’not a kid!- And what? Just ‘cause I’m sixteen I’m not supposed t’know what -who- I want? Just cause I’m Sixteen I’m not supposed to want sex?”
“You’re not supposed to want it with me.” Dean shouted exasperated.
“Well too bad, Dean.” Sam steeled his voice. “Because I do. More’n anything.” He stood up and breached the space between them, cautiously pressed his fingertips to Dean’s jawline, above a recent bruise. Dean stilled, screwed his eyes shut and shuttered.
“How’d I screw you up so bad?” And wasn’t that just like Dean? To blame and beat himself up when it was Sam doing everything himself. “You’re supposed to be different, Sammy.” Dean’s face pressed into Sam’s palm out of its own volition and Sam could feel the flutter of razor-tipped butterflies slicing up his insides. “I don’t wanna ruin you.”
“You won’t.” The words scrapped at Sam’s throat like broken glass
“Yeah.” Dean huffed out and Sam wasn’t sure if was admission or reassurance. It didn’t really matter though. Because that’s the moment John’s truck decided to pull into the drive, all loud Diesel engine and squeaky breaks. They separated quickly, Dean shoving a pastry in his mouth as their Dad walked in. Sam handed a donut to John who stared at them with thinly veiled suspicion. You have no idea, Dad. He licked the melted sugar off of his fingertips and only tasted the salt of Dean’s skin.
-W-
Dean cut down on his overactive flirting and avoidance of Sam. He didn’t, however, stop pushing Sam’s advances away. Whenever Sam would get too close Dean would push him away, hold him still at arm’s length; not wanting to let go, but too afraid to let it progress beyond a few longing looks and chaste, stolen touches. It was, quite frankly, beginning to get on Sam’s last nerve.
School had just let out and pretty soon they’d pick up and leave to wander through every back road and backwater town in search of one hunt after the next. Dean was out, having been guilted into “celebrating”, with a few guys from the local garage he’d been moonlighting at. Sam sat quietly, on the bed closest to the door -Dean’s bed- waiting in the dark. It was around 1am -Way before last call, Sam noted- when Sam heard the quieted click of the door opening and closing. Sam flicked on the lamp sitting on the side table, casting the room in a warm, golden glow.
“Sammy?” Dean spun to face him, startled, back plastered to the beige plywood door. His eyes were glassy, and his face was ruddy -every freckle standing out- because of his inebriation. “what’re you still doin’ up?”
“Waiting for you.”
“Wh-“ Dean cleared his throat. “What for?” The husk in Dean’s voice sent chills up Sam’s spine. Sam peeled off his T-shirt, his skin somehow feeling twice as hot without it on. “Sam?” Dean croaked out.
“I can’t stop thinking about you.” Sam’s body slid down the bed in one fluid motion, head on the pillow, and rapidly swelling cock tenting the front of his thin cotton pajama pants. “I can’t help it, Dean. I just start thinking of you and my skin goes all tight.” Sam craned his head back, ran his hands from his throat down his chest, thumbing at his nipples so that the little nub of flesh was hard and sensitive, and over his taut belly. Dean’s breath hitched as he pressed himself harder into the door, hand holding on to the metal doorknob like a lifeline. Sam hooked his thumbs underneath the elastic waistband of his pajama bottoms, at the wings of his hips, and arched his back. He pulled them down slowly, over the swell of his ass, his straining dick, let the fabric scrape against his trembling thighs and over his knees, kicked them off when he could no longer reach.
Sam slid his hands over his thighs, dragged his blunt nails down the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, leaving faint red trails over the paled flesh. He cupped at his tight, heavy balls with one hand while the other played at tracing lazy patterns over the hair at the base of his cock. The air around them felt stuffy and thick to them both, judging by Dean’s heavy, unnaturally loud breaths. Sam’s eyes fluttered closed as he wrapped his dry palm around his hot length, gave it a few leisurely tugs before running a thumb over the leaking head, smearing the precome down the overheated skin to make the movements smoother. He let go of his balls, pressed firm, circular motions over his perineum, and felt his body jolt at the sensation. “Sometimes I imagine touching you.” He stole a peek at his brother through his lashes. Dean’s chest was heaving, his eyes void dark, his hand white knuckled against the doorknob as if he would bolt any second now, and Sam wondered if the only reason he didn’t was the thick bulge of his cock straining down one of the legs of his jeans. “Sometimes I imagine it’s you touching me.” A deep raucous moan tore from Sam’s throat. He lifted his hand to his mouth, sucked and laved at his fingers greedily, his other hand picking up the pace on his aching prick. He let go of his fingers with a loud slurp and lowered them to in between his legs, ran a saliva soaked digit across the furled skin of his entrance. “I wish it was you touching me.” Sam moaned. “Your hands, your mouth.” Sam’s pace quickened, hand pulling and tugging frantically at his swollen dick, wrist flicking with a twist at the drooling head. “Your fingers” he tentatively pressed his finger past the quivering muscles of his clenching hole, let it stretch and drag against the skin before adding another, pushing and pulling until he hit that one spot that made colors explode behind his eyelids. “Your -cock” the last word scraped out of his throat, pulling all the air from his lungs along with it as his fingers hit against his prostate just right. He felt his balls draw up and came in long, drawn out spasms, come landing in spurts over his convulsing belly.
Dean’s fingers slipped off of the doorknob and for a moment Sam was sure he was going to turn tail and run. So Sam was dumbfounded when instead of slipping out of the room Dean crossed the space separating them in three long strides. He planted a knee between Sam’s bent legs and hesitantly placed a rough hand over Sam’s knee cap. Dean pushed Sam’s legs apart enough so he could fit in between them and ran a large, calloused palm over the rapidly cooling come on Sam’s abdomen, spreading it and painting slick trails on previously dry skin. Sam whimpered as Dean’s hand ran over his chest and scraped over the sensitive bud of his nipple. Something in Dean broke. He let out a noise analogous to a growl and gripped Sam’s thighs hard enough to bruise, pulled him over his lap, the rough denim of Dean’s jeans scraping almost painfully against the over sensitized flesh of Sam’s thighs and ass.
Dean undid his belt, the metal buckle and leather slapping and stinging against Sam’s skin, undid his pants, and winced as he finally freed his huge, throbbing cock, the angry red, swollen head oozing wet. Sam gulped, both in trepidation and excitement. Dean’s piercing gaze caught him, swallowed him up until Sam forgot just how to breathe, but it didn’t really matter, not with the groan Dean let out. Dean started to stroke himself with a frantic, punishing rhythm, chest heaving with huge, pained gasps. Sam whimpered at the indescribable sounds emanating from his older brother. “Dean” his voice hitched and Dean let out a deeply pained out moan, like a death rattle and came brutally all over Sam, painting his stomach, chest and even face with thick gobs of searing heat.
Sam panted in stunned silence as Dean’s eyes snapped open. He could feel a small amount of come clinging to the corner of his lower lip, and without thinking he stuck his tongue out and licked it clean. It tasted salty and bitter, kind of gross to be honest, but also kind of wonderful because that was the taste of Dean.
Dean jerked up, eyes wide and face with a look full of guilt. Sam really fucking hated that look.
“I’m sorry.” He croaked, tucking himself back into his pants and running out the door like the house was on fire. Leaving Sam a wrecked, filthy mess.
Covered in come and ruined as prophesied.
Part 3