Right Here - Sam/Dean (underage)
Title: Right Here
Author: verucasalt123
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Wordcount: ~1350
Summary: Neither of them ever says I don’t want you to leave or I’m scared out of my mind or this is killing me or I’m sorry.
A/N: for salt_burn_porn prompt "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me"
The front door slams hard enough to shake the coffee cups on the kitchen table. Dean hears the truck start and pull away and he’s still standing there quietly in the middle of this tiny living room. He doesn’t know whether or not to feel relieved, just stares down at the snags in the frieze carpet that’s probably older than he is and tries to regulate his breathing.
It’s gotten to be a pattern the past year or so. Dad’s with them for longer than a couple of weeks, and it ends in a verbal gas main explosion every goddamn time. They fight, Sam and Dad, that’s not anything new. Sam wants information, Dad doesn’t want to give it. Dad wants Sam’s research assistance but not his opinions. Lately, though, it gets ugly. It gets personal and nasty, cheap shots and contempt and posturing bullshit.
Neither of them ever says I don’t want you to leave or I’m scared out of my mind or this is killing me or I’m sorry.
The two of them had gone above and beyond today. Dean can feel the echoes like something physical left behind in the room. He’d stopped trying to get a word in edgewise and just let them go at it, let the argument run its course, until it got to “I’m seventeen years old, Dad, because I said so isn’t fucking good enough anymore” and by that point it was too late.
John doesn’t do that kind of shit, really. He’s knocked Dean around a time or two, but not Sam. Never Sam, which is both surprising and completely predictable in the way that their relationship makes no sense and simultaneously all the sense in the world.
Time to pick up the pieces now, and that’s his job, so Dean gathers himself and whatever else he needs and opens the door to their shared bedroom without knocking.
Sam’s not crying or throwing things or tearing at his stupid hair. He’s sitting cross-legged at the top of his bed, head tilted back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. Looks like the fight’s all gone out of him for now. Dean joins him there, mattress springs creaking as he tries to get a good look at his baby brother.
“You’re not seventeen, Sam, not for another two months.” It feels like a neutral starting point, as much as that might actually exist.
That gets the kid’s eyes away from the ceiling and pointed toward Dean. Sam reaches for the ice-filled hand towel Dean’s holding, but Dean’s faster and leans in, holding it to Sam’s right cheek where it’s already starting to bruise. He flinches but keeps still enough that it catches Dean off guard when Sam grabs his t-shirt and hauls him close for a hard and fast kiss before pushing him away again.
“I don’t understand how you make everything look so easy”, Sam says, in an unexpectedly quiet tone. “Why can’t I do that, why can’t I just say yes sir and be pissed off about it in my head?”
“Because you can’t. Because you’re not me, you’re you, and you don’t work that way, and you know it.”
Sam sighs, leans back into the homemade ice pack, and gives Dean a surly kind of look. “Bet it would make your life a hell of a lot easier.”
“Sure it would”, Dean tells him, honestly. “Make yours a hell of a lot easier too. Right now. But right now’s not forever.”
Then he shuts up because he doesn’t really want to think about later, about the college brochures and SAT workbooks that are in the bottom of Sam’s duffel. Fortunately, Sam’s easy to distract and Dean’s good at compartmentalizing. He drops the towel to the floor, grabs Sam by the hips and hauls him forward into his lap.
This is not standard operating procedure. They have a decent system worked out; the two of them barely so much as knock elbows at the table while their dad’s with them, and they don’t start in on any of this unless he’s been gone at least an hour. But Dean doesn’t have it in him to wait today, and obviously Sam doesn’t either, judging by the way he has Dean on his back before he can blink.
Kissing was all they did for a good while when this whole thing started, and Sam still dives in like it’s the first time. He slides backward a little, straddling Dean’s thighs, and his teeth scrape Dean’s bottom lip on their way to his jaw, then his neck. Dean redirects Sam back to his mouth, tries to slow things down a little but gives up when he feels Sam pulling at the hem of his shirt.
“Hey, that’s not gonna come off unless you give me a little room”, he says, pushing himself up onto his elbows. Sam relents, if only to pull off his own shirt while Dean sheds his. He’s right back down again when Sam pushes at his shoulders and goes straight for his nipples, using his teeth more than his tongue while Dean’s dick gets hard almost immediately inside his jeans. It’s not a dirty trick, exactly, but Sam knows what makes Dean’s eyes roll back and he uses that knowledge to his advantage expertly.
Sam’s hard too, and eager, fingers fumbling at Dean’s button and zipper. Dean reaches up and grabs a handful of Sam’s hair, and Sam’s breath catches in his throat, it’s one of Dean’s favorite sounds, that cut-off inhale and surprised little groan. He uses it to his own advantage and gets himself upright again.
“Okay, alright Sammy, let’s get these off, come on, settle down”, Dean tells him.
Without even looking up from taking off his jeans and boxers, Sam says, “I don’t want to settle down.” He sounds like a little kid, and Dean puts that in another little compartment to feel bad about later. Right now, he just needs to get his hands back where they were, so he throws his jeans and underwear to the floor on top of Sam’s and pins him down with his whole damn body.
Sam starts moving his hips, grinding his cock up against Dean’s, and hell, it’s still early. They both need to take the edge off and this feels about as perfect as anything. Dean pushes up onto his forearms to get some leverage and grinds right back down, starting up a decent rhythm and doing his best to look into Sam’s eyes instead of staring at his bruised and swollen cheek. Maybe he’s a little too obvious because Sam grabs his arm and whispers, “I’m fine, Dean, I’m fine, it’s okay, it’s - fuck…”, before he trails off into less coherent sounds. Dean knows some of the less coherent sounds he’s hearing are his own, and that’s fine because he doesn’t want to say anything, doesn’t trust any words while he’s like this, and they don’t need them anyway.
It’s not more than a few minutes before their rhythm speeds up and starts to falter. Dean can feel his orgasm making its way up and around his middle, can feel his balls draw up, can feel how close Sam is just from his shallow breath against Dean’s skin. He hears “god, Dean, god, I, I’m, I’m gonna” and there it is, Sam’s come is hot and wet all over them. Dean gets his hand between them and rubs it into his skin, into Sam’s, jerks himself the rest of the way until he comes with Sammy’s name on his lips.
He gets up quickly, grabs the wet towel from the floor and cleans them up before they get stuck together. Then it’s quiet - Sam’s eyes are on the ceiling again and Dean’s actively shutting up. He wants to tell Sam to never, ever shut up and do what he’s told. That speaking up and asking questions and being a pain in the ass is going to serve him well out in the world, wherever that might be for Sam, and that their dad surely already knows that.
Instead he just listens to Sammy breathe, right here next to him.
Author: verucasalt123
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Wordcount: ~1350
Summary: Neither of them ever says I don’t want you to leave or I’m scared out of my mind or this is killing me or I’m sorry.
A/N: for salt_burn_porn prompt "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me"
The front door slams hard enough to shake the coffee cups on the kitchen table. Dean hears the truck start and pull away and he’s still standing there quietly in the middle of this tiny living room. He doesn’t know whether or not to feel relieved, just stares down at the snags in the frieze carpet that’s probably older than he is and tries to regulate his breathing.
It’s gotten to be a pattern the past year or so. Dad’s with them for longer than a couple of weeks, and it ends in a verbal gas main explosion every goddamn time. They fight, Sam and Dad, that’s not anything new. Sam wants information, Dad doesn’t want to give it. Dad wants Sam’s research assistance but not his opinions. Lately, though, it gets ugly. It gets personal and nasty, cheap shots and contempt and posturing bullshit.
Neither of them ever says I don’t want you to leave or I’m scared out of my mind or this is killing me or I’m sorry.
The two of them had gone above and beyond today. Dean can feel the echoes like something physical left behind in the room. He’d stopped trying to get a word in edgewise and just let them go at it, let the argument run its course, until it got to “I’m seventeen years old, Dad, because I said so isn’t fucking good enough anymore” and by that point it was too late.
John doesn’t do that kind of shit, really. He’s knocked Dean around a time or two, but not Sam. Never Sam, which is both surprising and completely predictable in the way that their relationship makes no sense and simultaneously all the sense in the world.
Time to pick up the pieces now, and that’s his job, so Dean gathers himself and whatever else he needs and opens the door to their shared bedroom without knocking.
Sam’s not crying or throwing things or tearing at his stupid hair. He’s sitting cross-legged at the top of his bed, head tilted back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. Looks like the fight’s all gone out of him for now. Dean joins him there, mattress springs creaking as he tries to get a good look at his baby brother.
“You’re not seventeen, Sam, not for another two months.” It feels like a neutral starting point, as much as that might actually exist.
That gets the kid’s eyes away from the ceiling and pointed toward Dean. Sam reaches for the ice-filled hand towel Dean’s holding, but Dean’s faster and leans in, holding it to Sam’s right cheek where it’s already starting to bruise. He flinches but keeps still enough that it catches Dean off guard when Sam grabs his t-shirt and hauls him close for a hard and fast kiss before pushing him away again.
“I don’t understand how you make everything look so easy”, Sam says, in an unexpectedly quiet tone. “Why can’t I do that, why can’t I just say yes sir and be pissed off about it in my head?”
“Because you can’t. Because you’re not me, you’re you, and you don’t work that way, and you know it.”
Sam sighs, leans back into the homemade ice pack, and gives Dean a surly kind of look. “Bet it would make your life a hell of a lot easier.”
“Sure it would”, Dean tells him, honestly. “Make yours a hell of a lot easier too. Right now. But right now’s not forever.”
Then he shuts up because he doesn’t really want to think about later, about the college brochures and SAT workbooks that are in the bottom of Sam’s duffel. Fortunately, Sam’s easy to distract and Dean’s good at compartmentalizing. He drops the towel to the floor, grabs Sam by the hips and hauls him forward into his lap.
This is not standard operating procedure. They have a decent system worked out; the two of them barely so much as knock elbows at the table while their dad’s with them, and they don’t start in on any of this unless he’s been gone at least an hour. But Dean doesn’t have it in him to wait today, and obviously Sam doesn’t either, judging by the way he has Dean on his back before he can blink.
Kissing was all they did for a good while when this whole thing started, and Sam still dives in like it’s the first time. He slides backward a little, straddling Dean’s thighs, and his teeth scrape Dean’s bottom lip on their way to his jaw, then his neck. Dean redirects Sam back to his mouth, tries to slow things down a little but gives up when he feels Sam pulling at the hem of his shirt.
“Hey, that’s not gonna come off unless you give me a little room”, he says, pushing himself up onto his elbows. Sam relents, if only to pull off his own shirt while Dean sheds his. He’s right back down again when Sam pushes at his shoulders and goes straight for his nipples, using his teeth more than his tongue while Dean’s dick gets hard almost immediately inside his jeans. It’s not a dirty trick, exactly, but Sam knows what makes Dean’s eyes roll back and he uses that knowledge to his advantage expertly.
Sam’s hard too, and eager, fingers fumbling at Dean’s button and zipper. Dean reaches up and grabs a handful of Sam’s hair, and Sam’s breath catches in his throat, it’s one of Dean’s favorite sounds, that cut-off inhale and surprised little groan. He uses it to his own advantage and gets himself upright again.
“Okay, alright Sammy, let’s get these off, come on, settle down”, Dean tells him.
Without even looking up from taking off his jeans and boxers, Sam says, “I don’t want to settle down.” He sounds like a little kid, and Dean puts that in another little compartment to feel bad about later. Right now, he just needs to get his hands back where they were, so he throws his jeans and underwear to the floor on top of Sam’s and pins him down with his whole damn body.
Sam starts moving his hips, grinding his cock up against Dean’s, and hell, it’s still early. They both need to take the edge off and this feels about as perfect as anything. Dean pushes up onto his forearms to get some leverage and grinds right back down, starting up a decent rhythm and doing his best to look into Sam’s eyes instead of staring at his bruised and swollen cheek. Maybe he’s a little too obvious because Sam grabs his arm and whispers, “I’m fine, Dean, I’m fine, it’s okay, it’s - fuck…”, before he trails off into less coherent sounds. Dean knows some of the less coherent sounds he’s hearing are his own, and that’s fine because he doesn’t want to say anything, doesn’t trust any words while he’s like this, and they don’t need them anyway.
It’s not more than a few minutes before their rhythm speeds up and starts to falter. Dean can feel his orgasm making its way up and around his middle, can feel his balls draw up, can feel how close Sam is just from his shallow breath against Dean’s skin. He hears “god, Dean, god, I, I’m, I’m gonna” and there it is, Sam’s come is hot and wet all over them. Dean gets his hand between them and rubs it into his skin, into Sam’s, jerks himself the rest of the way until he comes with Sammy’s name on his lips.
He gets up quickly, grabs the wet towel from the floor and cleans them up before they get stuck together. Then it’s quiet - Sam’s eyes are on the ceiling again and Dean’s actively shutting up. He wants to tell Sam to never, ever shut up and do what he’s told. That speaking up and asking questions and being a pain in the ass is going to serve him well out in the world, wherever that might be for Sam, and that their dad surely already knows that.
Instead he just listens to Sammy breathe, right here next to him.