Sam/Dean. NC-17. ~3400 words. Minor spoilers up to 2.15. Artwork by Ponderosa.
Sometimes, he gets Sam drunk.
Sometimes, he gets Sam drunk.
That one time in Connecticut notwithstanding, Sam’s a happy drunk. The touchy-feely type, all smiles and laughs and good times. Dean tells himself he does it for Sam, that he’s giving Sam a few hours of peace, one guaranteed night of undisturbed sleep. The dreams and the visions never happen when Sam’s passed out cold on cheap liquor.
So when he comes back from a coffee run with a couple flasks of Cuervo Gold instead, Sam just grins and goes for the chipped shot glasses stashed at the bottom of Dean’s pack. Sam sets them on the worn wooden table with a solid thunk, following up with the slap of a dog-eared pack of playing cards and two jingling pocketfuls of spare change.
Sam swings a chair around and straddles it, shaking out the cards to shuffle the first hand while Dean handles the shots. There’s an easy rhythm to it, familiar, even if they’ve only done this a half a dozen times or so.
The nervous twist in Dean’s gut is familiar, too, but Sam doesn’t know anything about that.
Sam stares at his cards, eyes bright and owlish. “Holy shit,” he breathes, and blinks once, slowly.
“What?” Leaning low over the table, Dean shoves Sam’s cards down flat to squint at them. It’s a piss poor hand but better than his.
“I’m really drunk.”
“And you really lost.” Dean grabs the bottle and pours up another generous shot. “Drink up.”
In the television’s dim, flickering light, Sam’s eyes look almost black. The memory of Sam looming over him, warm brown eyes eaten away by Meg’s dark hate, chills him to the core.
Something else in that same memory is made of nothing but heat.
“Dean?” Sam says, voice low and rough and triggering an explosion of razor-winged butterflies to slice at Dean’s insides. He spills from Dean’s arms onto the rumpled sheets, sprawls carelessly across them. His bare feet dangle over the side of the too-small bed.
“Right here, Sammy.”
Dean’s never gone farther than this. He thinks tonight will be no different. Sam will say something, look at him a certain way, and he’ll remember who and what they are to each other. He’ll remember why he shouldn’t have even gotten this far.
“Man,” Sam mutters, fumbling at the buttons on his shirt without bothering to sit up. “You hustled me, didn’t you?”
“‘Course not,” Dean says. He scrubs damp palms dry on his jeans and pushes Sam’s hands out of the way to tackle the buttons himself. Sam doesn’t notice when he pauses, staring at his shaking fingers. “Still pretty drunk, huh?”
Sam laughs low in his throat and it pulls at something deep in Dean’s gut. Dean licks his lips, tastes the salt tang of his own skin. Before his fingers skate along the line of Sam’s jaw, before his thumb rests on the open curve of Sam’s mouth, he knows it’s too late.
He expects the confusion staring back at him. It’s good, it’s healthy, it’s another reason why not and a chance for him to stop. But Sam doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move away. There’s nothing but the whisper of breath on Dean’s fingers.
Words get jammed in Dean’s mouth like a freeway pileup. Things like I’m sorry and this is wrong and I’ll stop, but he doesn’t say any of them. All he wants to do is close the distance and find out for himself what Sam tastes like.
Before he loses his nerve or Sam finds the sense to put an end to it, he does. It’s not the violent crush he wanted; their mouths barely touch. Sam’s heated breath shunts across his lips and into his lungs, makes his skin tingle, tremble from the inside out with sick anticipation.
Sam says his name, a faint question, and Dean isn’t at all sure he can handle it if what are you doing follows. None of this is going as he thought, imagined. It’s all too slow, too hesitant. He needs it harder, faster, filthier.
Desperate, he presses his lips to Sam’s, makes them fit together as right as it is wrong. Sam’s mouth opening under his on a quick intake of breath is a hard jolt of electricity shot straight up his spine.
And this is better than he imagined, the bitter sweetness of alcohol and candy coating his tongue as he dips past the hard line of Sam’s teeth, the shivering pulse of Sam’s heart beneath his palm as he leans closer, goes deeper. He’s so hungry for it, it feels like dying when Sam’s tongue tentatively brushes his.
He could stop, if Sam asked him. If Sam told him. So he turns the kiss rough to keep it from happening, bites at Sam’s mouth and pushes his hands under Sam’s clothes to feel warm, bare skin against his own. He doesn’t ask himself why Sam’s letting him, and he already knows why the hot-wet tangle of their tongues gets him harder than any girl has in months.
“Fuck, Sam,” Dean breathes, so caught up in the dizzying thrill of kissing Sam he can hardly think anymore. But he’s not nearly as drunk as Sam; he knows what he’s doing and he hates himself for wanting it. Hates himself more for not being able to stop, for tugging the rest of Sam’s buttons free instead of leaving and slamming the door behind him. “Where’d you learn to kiss like that?”
Sam’s grip on his upper arms tightens. Strong fingers dig into muscle and bone and Dean can’t hold back the low-pitched noise streaming out of him.
“Nah,” Dean says. Anxiously, he licks the taste of Sam from his lips. “Scratch that, don’t answer. Just let me- let me.” He tugs at the waistband of Sam’s jeans, uses them to drag Sam closer to the edge of the bed and swing Sam’s long legs over.
“You’re drunk,” Sam says, clear enough to spark the irrational thrill of being caught in Dean’s gut. He’s already past the point he can shrug this off as nothing but a drink-faulty memory. Sam will remember this and the taint of nausea rises up to war with a ripple of pure lust.
Dean packs the sick feeling away and says, “Yeah.” He drops to his knees, palms tingling as his hands run up the inside of Sam’s spread thighs, spreading them wider to wedge himself between. “Friggin’ toasted, Sammy.”
“Don’t,” Dean groans, “just don’t.” Sam hardly ever listens to him but he listens this time, and it makes Dean feel as if he is drunk, heady with excitement. Grasping the hem of his tee he hauls it off over his head, drops it to the thin carpet beside him.
Then the uncertainty sets in again, slows him down. Dean’s sure he knows what he wants, knows how to go about getting it, but he hadn’t really counted on Sam going along with it. Outside of his jerk-off fantasies, when he’d imagined this he’d seen Sam laughing and shoving at him, pushing him away and telling him to quit screwing around.
But Sam doesn’t do any of that. He’s propped up on one elbow staring down at Dean, shirt fanned open around his bare chest and one hand stretched out on the bed beside Dean’s arm. He says, “You gonna?” like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
“Yeah,” Dean croaks, swallowing hard. He wants to, he has to be insane to want to, but he’s come to grips with that a long time ago. “Yeah, I’m gonna,” and ducks his head before the look on Sam’s face can change his mind.
Dean gropes at the button and zip of Sam’s jeans, fumbles the tiny bit of metal twice before rudely jerking it down. Sam laughs at him, the sound nervous and sexy and strained at the edges like Dean feels, like Dean can’t explain, and he bares his teeth in a smile as he hauls on Sam’s jeans hard enough to bring boxers down with them.
Sam’s cock is heavy between his legs, and even without a hand on it Dean can tell he’s only half-hard. That’s another thrill in and of itself, staring at Sam’s cock realising it’ll only get thicker, heavier, that he has a chance to feel it fill out in his mouth.
“Too drunk to get it up, Sammy?” Dean says, inching up on his knees to lean closer. Sam’s answer is a strangled noise as Dean noses at the inside of his thigh, brings one hand up to cup his cock. Blood surges as strong as Dean’s relief, drowning the horrible thought that secret revulsion kept Sam soft and the rest of Dean’s hesitation with it.
Touching his tongue to Sam’s cock, drawing in just the head, all Dean notices at first is the taste, the smell. A bitter tang pooling in his mouth and the thick salt-sweat scent drawn in on every breath. He clutches at Sam’s thigh, breathes deep and closes his eyes against the sudden dizzying rush as Sam hardens, pushes against the inside of his mouth.
He hears himself moaning and tries to stop, can’t, and then tries to ignore it to focus on the noises Sam makes. They’re not really quiet but soft, hissing, snaking under Dean’s skin.
Dean doesn’t think about it, just does it on something like instinct, responding to the silent more screaming inside his head. But it’s too much, Sam’s cock filled out too quickly, and he barely manages to stuff half of it down his throat before he gags.
Face heating, he jerks back with a wet cough, the saliva strung between his mouth and the head of Sam’s dick snapping and slapping him in the chin. Quickly, he scrubs it away and flicks a wary glance upwards.
The dazed, shell-shocked look on Sam’s face isn’t a surprise. What kicks Dean in the ribs is his rasped, “Try again?”
Dean thinks he says, “Sure,” but doesn’t really know or really care. All he’s really aware of is the need seared into his brain to make this good, to have Sam in his mouth again, throbbing on his tongue, pulsing down his throat.
Sam watching him is like something warm and heavy pressing against his skin. He hasn’t an honest fucking clue what the hell he’s doing; giving is a hell of a lot different than taking so Dean counts his practical experience as nil. Trying to make a good show of it, like the first time he went on a hunt by himself, fails him completely. The smell and the taste of Sam, Sam, rush back, go straight to his head and mess him up bad seconds after his mouth closes around thick flesh.
Beneath him, Sam shifts and twists, tiny twitches of muscle and the stronger buck of hips like all Sam wants to do is surge forward and fill Dean’s mouth up entirely. Dean pins his hips down, works his tongue against the underside of Sam’s dick and finds that even if the finer points of sucking cock escape him all it takes is a bit of firm pressure to have Sam tugging at his hair.
A low-pitched warning about making this last echoes dimly in the back of Dean’s mind. With a reluctance strong enough to choke, Dean pulls himself off Sam’s cock. Bluish light from the television catches on wet flesh, makes it shine.
Dean takes the chance to catch his breath. Sam’s mouth is slack, lips bitten thick, one long-fingered hand splayed over his chest half-hiding the dark red welts framing his nipple. Air clogs Dean’s throat until Sam’s fingers twitch, pinch at his own flesh, then bursts free on a ragged groan.
He goes down again, sharp frantic breaths dragged in through his nose as Sam’s cock slides slick as sin over his lips. This time when Sam thrusts he eases back to accept it, one hand clutched in the bunch of his jeans to haul them tight against his dick, the other glued to Sam’s hip, urging. And Sam takes it, fucking takes Dean’s mouth, fucking up into it hard enough to bruise Dean’s lips, fast enough to send him reeling.
Dean’s cock jerks, a spill of thick fluid that isn’t really come staining the inside of his jeans. He can’t breathe and he can’t think, mind a hurricane whirl of Sammy and fuck and please. He can taste the rawness of his throat, feel sweat prickle at his scalp and wetness at the corners of his eyes. Sam’s hands frame his face, so large they nearly cover it completely. Fingers press tight to the hollow of his cheeks, the swell of Sam’s cock through them when Sam shifts.
Dean hears himself moaning, hears his own rabbit-fast heartbeat pounding in his ears and through it all, Sam’s voice. Sam talking to him, heated, jagged words that Dean can’t quite make out but it doesn’t matter. The stutter of Sam’s hips and the weighted tone of his voice says everything Dean wants to hear. He strains against Sam’s grip, starving and desperate for more of anything Sam will let him have.
Sam’s hands turn rough, jump down to his arms and back up, wedged under his armpits. Dean’s eyelashes flutter in an attempt to open his eyes, more wordless noises spilling out around the thick flesh buried in his mouth. He can’t follow what Sam’s saying and just moans louder, hoping it’s what Sam wants, not understanding what’s happening when he’s dragged off Sam’s dick until it slaps wetly against his face, smears saliva-slick and precome-sticky against his skin.
Sam heaves, uses all that strength to haul Dean’s dead weight up to his knees. Dean’s mouth falls open on Sam’s name, shaking and trembling in Sam’s grip as his dick jerks, as come spills warm and wet inside his clothes.
Roughly, Sam kisses him, covers his mouth and pushes inside it, tongue lashing against his. Dean tries clumsily to kiss back through the blissed-out haze taking him over, deeming it a lost cause after a couple attempts and more than happy to just let Sam eat at his mouth.
Sam pulls away, moans, “Dean,” against his neck. Teeth follow the brush of lips, biting hard, harder than anyone’s bitten Dean before, hard enough to make Dean jerk and moan and press into it. In his mind, Dean can already see the mark, the imprint of teeth and bruised flesh and the way he’ll stare at it in the mirror listening to his reflection whisper Sam’s.
“God, Dean, get up.” Not giving him a chance, Sam hauls him up onto the bed, rolls over so Dean’s trapped beneath Sam’s heavy weight. “Let me,” he says, “let me,” and the wet grind-thrust of Sam’s cock against his belly clears away some of his daze.
“Okay,” Dean says, “okay, Sammy, okay,” without really knowing what Sam wants. But Sam jerks against him, hiss-whispers something like a prayer, praise and thank you all in one in his ear as he tugs at his own clothes, peels the come-sticky cloth away from his skin.
“Just let me,” Sam says, hands skidding down Dean’s sides, gripping, rolling him over. He strips Dean’s clothes away and Dean claws at the sheets for purchase, stomach flipping as the full length of Sam covers him, presses him down into the creaking bed. “I promise, Dean, fuck.”
Heart lodged in his throat, Dean rasps, “Sammy?”
Instead of answering, Sam bites at his back, follows the curve of his spine up between his shoulder blades. Sparks fly at the contact, zing along Dean’s nerves until his breath shorts out and his head drops forward, bares the back of his neck for Sam to latch onto, kissing and biting and almost succeeding in distracting Dean from the press of strong, calloused fingers between his thighs.
He thinks he made a noise because Sam shushes him, coaxes with hands and mouth and a low purr that’s one part plea, two parts promise. It brings the fog of pleasure roiling back, rolling over him and rolling him under as easy as breathing. The sound of Sam spitting in his palm rips a groan straight up from the pit of Dean’s stomach.
“Sam,” Dean says, “Sam, I-” and he can’t finish it. He can’t ignore the sudden wrench in his guts and he can’t ask Sam to stop, either, doesn’t want Sam to stop. But Sam’s one hard push from fucking him, cock dragging over his hole and there’ll be no coming back from tonight no matter what they do, how much farther they go.
Sam’s cock rides the crack of his ass and slips between his legs, pushes snug against the heavy weight of his balls. “I’m not,” Sam says, gripping Dean’s hips to haul him up and back, “your legs, Dean, I just want, I didn’t know I,” and whatever he wants dissolves into a deep-throated moan as Dean squeezes his thighs together as best he can.
After that, Sam doesn’t talk. Real words are traded for moans, sharp intakes of breath and hissing pleasure, all of it spilling from Sam’s lips and breaking against Dean’s back like waves on the shore, eroding at his thoughts just as steadily, as inevitable. Everything narrows down to the glide of sweat and skin, Sam’s cock between his legs and Sam’s hands on his hips, Sam’s voice and Sam’s wants and Sam.
He feels it seconds before it happens, a dizzying rush of knowledge bundled up in the hitch of Sam’s breath and the flex of Sam’s fingers. Heat pulses between his legs and spills over his skin, drips from his balls to his thighs to the sheets. He legs clench tighter and Sam jerks, gives a few last, rutting thrusts before it’s too much and he collapses onto Dean’s back. Dean’s elbows buckle but catch, barely manage to support Sam’s weight long enough to bring them both slowly down instead of in a crash and tangle of limbs. The aftershocks of Sam’s orgasm shiver under his skin, creep into his chest and squeeze it tight, then tighter again when Sam’s lips touch the slope of his shoulder.
Dean’s caught somewhere between sleep and waking when Sam mumbles, “Other bed.” He grunts, waves a hand and ends up nearly swallowing his tongue when Sam grabs him under the arms again hauls him up. “‘M not sleeping in a wet spot.”
“Whoa, Sammy,” Dean slurs, stumbling but managing to get his feet under him about half a second before Sam tumbles him down on the other bed. He at least has the presence of mind to grab his tee from the floor and make an attempt to clean himself up. Sam strips the covers back, ready to settle in without until Dean throws the tee in his face.
Every other time they’ve shared a bed, it was after long minutes of posturing and no-sprawling rules and setting out clear property lines over sheets and pillows and mattress space. Sam foregoes it all to unceremoniously tug Dean down, the shifting and positioning nothing but a blur in Dean’s eyes until he finds himself flat on his back with Sam curled under his arm, against his side.
It feels good and it feels weird, and it freaks him out that Sam isn’t freaking. He waits for Sam to ambush him and start talking about it, but Sam doesn’t. Sam doesn’t say they’ll talk about it in the morning, or extract a promise that they will; he slings an arm across Dean and tucks his fingers under Dean’s hip, holding on.
Sam drifts off to sleep, face and body going slack with it, oblivious as always to the sour taste creeping up the back of Dean’s throat.
What’s worse than wanting this, worse than all the times he’s gotten Sam drunk with this explicitly in mind and somehow managed to chicken out before it was too late, is Sam’s acceptance. It slinks through his blood like poison, coils through his guts and nests there, thick and putrid and rotten.
It was supposed to be his idea, his fucked-up need. His sin against the whole god damn world. Not Sam’s. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.
Sam wasn’t supposed to want it, and now it’s Dean’s fault that he does.
Sequel: Burdens to Hold