Sam/Dean. NC-17. ~1500 words. Underage.
It’s rare enough that he wants to tag along on a regular salt and burn that no way was Dean telling him no.
Richard Powers is still juicy.
Dean scratches the back of his head and listens to the leaves above them rustle in the night breeze, wishing he weren’t six feet underground with sweat sticking his tee to his back and the rotting stink of dead guy nested in his nose. Could be his imagination, but Sam looks more pale than usual, even for a kid who prefers sticking his nose in a book to running around in the sun.
It’s about half past midnight on a Tuesday, which means Sam’s got class in the morning. But Sam’s also as stubborn as a donkey, sometimes as much of an ass, and it’s rare enough that he wants to tag along on a regular salt and burn that no way was Dean telling him no.
Well, he gave it a half-hearted shot. At the first hint of a flared nostril, he threw up his hands and said sure, why not.
Dean glances up, crowbar wedged into the top half of the casket. He’s used to old wooden boxes, not this fancy hinged-cover shit. He figures he should just count himself lucky Richard was too cheap to spring for a concrete slab. Stealing a backhoe to toast the guy would’ve been a bitch.
Dean yanks the crowbar free, thunks it down on the coffin and gives Sam a flat look. “Seriously, what? You gonna puke? ‘Cause if you’re gonna puke, man-”
“Shut up,” Sam says. Then, in a rush, “Dude, those are D&G’s, we should, uh, snag ‘em.”
“Which are what?”
Sam gestures vaguely at the guy’s legs, looking even greener around the gills than before. If he weren’t perched at the very edge of the half-open coffin where a sneeze would send him tumbling in, Dean would put money down on him squirming from the obvious embarrassment staining his face.
“The boots, Dean,” Sam squeezes out. “They’re designer. Six, seven hundred bucks easy.”
Ignoring the fact that his lanky sixteen year old brother knows enough about fashion to recognise designer duds on a dead guy in the middle of a black hole in the ground, Dean thinks this is pretty sweet. Classic, even.
“You tellin’ me you’re up for a little graverobbing, Sam? Turnin’ into a real juvenile delinquent, aren’t ya.”
Sam’s lips thin, his cheeks flushing darker. “Eight hundred,” he says.
Which is also pretty sweet. A bonus for a job well done. Couple new tires for the car and something other than worn-out tennis sneakers from the Salvation Army for Sam. “Grab ‘em.”
“You want ‘em,” Dean says, “grab ‘em. I gotta crack this sucker open.”
“What, you think they’re your size?”
“Jesus, shut up,” Sam mutters, scowling as he hunkers down and stares at the disembodied legs sprawled out on the white satin. “Money’s money, right?”
“If we can get the stink out of ‘em.”
It takes Dean longer than it should to wrench open the top half of the coffin’s lid because he keeps glancing down to see if Sam’s really going to do it. Then, after Sam starts tugging at the laces and Richard’s legs start flopping around boneless as beached fish, if he’s going to puke after all.
“Shut up.” Sam tosses one boot up onto the grass and gets started on the other, which follows with a dull thump a couple seconds later. “We can dump some of your cologne on them, that stinks worse than he does.”
Dean waits until the coffin splits open with a creak and splinter of broken wood to stand, stretch lazily and say, “You want to light him up now that you’re done with the striptease?”
Sam glares. “Gimme a leg up.”
“Sure, Sammy.” Casually, Dean kicks the guy’s legs together so he’s got a place to brace himself as Sam shuffles over, pointedly not looking down. Sam gropes for a handhold at the edge of the grave, one sneaker wedged into the damp earth, and waves a hand at him, impatient.
Instead of lacing his fingers together to give Sam a boost, Dean props a hand on either side of him and leans in close. “Figure the spook’s gonna have it out for ya now?” Sam makes an annoyed noise as his foot skids down, slips on the coffin’s edge. Dean presses closer, pushes him flush against the dirt wall, pins him there. Earth mixed with the smell of Sam’s warm neck overwhelms the stink of decomp, a trickle of a fresh breeze sneaking in over the edge to ruffle Sam’s hair against Dean’s cheek. “Or since you’re in the mood, how about adding s’more morally reprehensible acts to the list, huh?”
“C’mon, can’t blame me,” Dean says, bringing a hand straight down to cup the front of Sam’s stupid skater shorts. “You’re the one stealing from the dead guy, ain’t my fault I got a soft spot for freaks.”
“You’re the freak,” Sam snaps, the low whine that follows completely ruining the effect. His hips buck, twist, because he’s still young and goes off like a shot. Sure, Dean might rib him about that sometimes but truth is, it gets under Dean’s skin like nothing else.
Just like how easy Sam really is gets Dean so fucking hot. He gets away with shit like this all the time, stuff he wouldn’t even try on anybody else, even the parade of love-struck, moon-eyed girls that manage to find him in every town. Hardly two seconds in and he’s got a handful of Sam’s hard cock already. He bets himself twenty bucks that if he worms a hand inside Sam’s clothes, he’ll find the front of Sam’s boxers nearly soaked right through.
But skin-to-skin always makes Sam blow it fast. And maybe, just maybe, Dean wants Sam to lose it in his shorts, wants to peel those come-tacky clothes off later, talking Sam straight through another embarrassed flush right back to horny.
“Gonna lose it for me?” Dean mouths at the delicate shell of Sam’s ear, soft strands of hair sticking to his damp lips. “Richie don’t care, he’s dead, gonna be flambé in a few, and you don’t give a shit either, huh, long as I get you off.”
Dirt rains down into the open casket, rocks knocked free by Sam’s scrabbling fingers thunking dully on the body. “C’mon, c’mon,” Dean breathes, “look at you, humpin’ my hand just like a kid, didn’t think you’d last this long, Sammy.”
Sam stiffens, lets out this long, ragged moan that has Dean’s hips jerking against his ass, and then Dean can feel it, the throb and pulse of Sam’s cock in his hand, the seeping warmth of Sam’s load sinking into cotton.
Sam’s dead weight almost sends both of them tumbling in with Richie Rich. “Up,” Dean grunts a couple seconds later, way too soon for Sam to be with it, but they both manage to scramble out of the grave. Sam rolls flat on his back in the grass, staring up at the cloudy sky, his chest heaving.
A few more seconds, then Sam’s roughened voice, “You want me to suck your dick?”
Hearing that sort of thing come flying out of his little brother’s mouth still socks Dean solidly in the gut. He sort of figures it always will and can’t say he’s sorry. He never claimed to be a real good guy and there’s nowhere else he’s going to get that heady, visceral thrill.
Still, he makes an exaggerated tut-tutting noise, on his knees beside the edge garnishing Richard with a few good handfuls of salt and an extra shot of gas. “Where’d you learn filth like that, Sammy?”
There’s a rustle in the grass as Dean strikes the match, then the sweaty warmth of Sam pressed close to his back, wide, dirt-smudged palms on his thighs. The gas catches, flares bright and hot and blinding. For a moment, that’s all there is, Sam and scorching heat.
“From you,” Sam whispers, hushed by the roar of the fire. Dean’s noticed before how even they’re not immune to the way people automatically go quiet in the face of unchecked flames. “Pull it out and I’ll show you.”
Dean’s mouth goes wet. Tongue thick, he says, “Do it for me.”
The curve of Sam’s smile against his neck is the only warning he gets before they’re flattening the grass again, Sam’s quick, insistent tug turned to a grinning scuffle. Dean’s heart isn’t in gaining the upper hand, not when he ends up with miles and miles of Sam wedged up tight between his spread legs.
“You gonna?” Dean wheezes, all the air squeezed out of his lungs by the slant of Sam’s mouth. Wood crackles and pops, flames flaring brighter. The rising wind whips away smoke made sour by burnt flesh and bubbling varnish. “C’mon, Sammy, you-”
“Shut up,” Sam says, grabbing for his wrists. One slow, easy roll of Dean’s hips takes the bite out of Sam’s voice like the fire sucks the oxygen out of the air. “You know I’m gonna.”