
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3656994.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      John_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Angst, Frottage, Intercrural_Sex, Underage_Kissing, Hand_Jobs, Weecest,
      Underage_Sam, Guilty_Dean, Angst_and_Porn, Porn_Watching, Negotiations,
      Mentions_of_Dean/OFC
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-04-01 Words: 2323
****** And Love Too, Will Ruin Us ******
by saltandbyrne
Summary
     Dirty gets his dick hard, but Sammy just makes him ache.
Notes
     Ages unspecified. This one's angsty.
“When do we get to do that?”
 
Sam tilts his head to the side, giving Dean a better view of the screen.  Not
like Dean’s been watching the movie anyway, not since he got Sam on his lap.
 
Dean keeps right on sucking a wet bruise onto Sam’s neck, right at the curve
where it meets his shoulder.  Where his hoodie covers it when Sam’s all zipped
up and prickly. Where Dad can’t see.
 
“Do what, Sammy?”
 
Sam’s hair is still damp from the shower. It tickles over the bridge of Dean’s
nose as he kisses his way up Sam’s neck, more careful now. Dad thinks all the
hickeys peppering Dean’s neck come from the local girls, but Sam’ll need a few
more years before he can sell that excuse with any credibility.  Dean kisses,
softly, brushing his lips against Sam’s skin.
 
“Like, that stuff.”  Sam huffs, jerking his head until Dean looks at the
screen. The sound’s on low so the landlady upstairs won’t complain again.
 
Looks like they’ve reached the Fuckfest part of Fratboy Facial Fuckfest.
 
Dean has stabbed things in the eye and gutted one particularly fragrant slime
monster, so he’s not exaggerating when he says getting his hands on some honest
to goodness gay porn had been a fucking nightmare.
 
Dean watches while one of the overly-hair-gelled frat boys plows into his frat
brother.  They kiss and Dean grins against Sam’s shoulder.
 
“We’re already doin’ stuff, Sammy.”  He slides his free hand up Sam’s chest,
searching for one of Sam’s nipples.  That always distracts him.
 
Dean’s not sure what it says about him that he barely sees whatever porn they
throw on these days.  He’s human, sure, but Dean’s never seen anything that
looks as good as Sam smells when Dean snugs his nose into that little dip at
the base of Sam’s skull. He lets his lips fall open, breathing damp against
Sam’s drying hair, skin still a little moist and catching against Dean’s
mouth.  Sam has always smelled so good.
 
“Dean.”  Sam squirms a little, his hips bucking up into Dean’s waiting hand. It
feels good to see the head of Sam’s dick peeking out over the closed circle of
Dean’s fist. Sam’s getting so big.
 
Dean strokes him a few times, slow, rubbing around the little pebble of Sam’s
nipple at the same time.  Dean loves feeling the goosebumps spring up on Sam’s
skin.
 
Sam had met some girl in Tuscaloosa who’d chewed his ear off about the porn-
industrial complex and the exploitation of sex workers. Dean had never thought
anything but kind and generous thoughts for the deepthroating starlets he’d
been showing Sammy his whole life, but Sam’s bitching and moaning had finally
worn him down.
 
Dean had almost had a moment there, when Sam had crossed his arms over his
chest and pouted and asked if Dean would still watch Hotrod Gangbang: Back With
Assvengeance if it was his sister in the movie. Dean had put his mouth around
his little brother’s dick before he had hair on his balls and he was not the
person to ask about this shit.
 
“Dean.” 
 
Sam used to feel like nothing in his lap, all birdbones and sharp angles.  Dean
can feel him now, fuller, stronger, flushed warm where his weight bears down on
Dean’s cock, trapped hot between Dean’s belly and Sam’s writhing backside.
Sam’s shower-damp skin isn’t the only sticky thing between them.
 
“Like sex stuff, Dean.”  Sam’s voice is a whisper, a mumble, some soft thing
that shouldn’t shoot through Dean like this.
 
Sam can suck a dick like a truckstop whore and he throws tantrums when Dean
doesn’t get home early enough from whatever shit job he’s picking up to put his
tongue in places most people don’t think about, but he can’t even talk about
sex without getting all clammed up. Christ knows he has the vocabulary for it,
kid’s seen enough porn to recite a sailor’s bible of filth if he wants to.
 
Sam wouldn’t, though, and fuck, fuck if Dean doesn’t throb and sting just from
that.
 
Dean’s done dirty shit. He knows what dirty feels like, how it twists up inside
you, wriggles down between your legs until you’re hard so fast your nuts get
whiplash.  Dean knows the sounds a girl makes when you coax it in her ass, when
she’s got a friend who’s waiting her turn.  Dirty feels like that housewife in
Duluth who wanted Dean to smack her in the face with his dick.  He’d done it
and she’d still given him enough cash for a month’s rent.
 
Dirty gets his dick hard, but Sammy just makes him ache.
 
“Sammy,” Dean shushes, twisting his wrist the way Sam likes.  He knows
everything Sam likes because he taught Sam how to like it.
 
“I make you feel good, don’t I?”
 
Dean’s done shit that would make half his favorite porn stars blush but no one
makes him come like Sam.  It’s different with Sam, the way Sam gets inside him.
Dirty makes him roil on the inside but Sam makes it all go quiet.
 
Dean had bought this tape in Baltimore, from a shop with sticky floors and too
much incense burning on the counter. He hadn’t even had the balls to steal the
thing, because the day Dad bails him out for swiping gay porn is the day Dean
eats his own socks.  No, he’d scrimped and saved and managed to snag two VHS
tapes from the sale box in the corner. He’d washed his hands a bunch of times
after.
 
“Feels so good, Dean.”  Sam knocks his head back against Dean’s shoulder,
tilting his head until Dean has to kiss him.  Sometimes Dean feels like he’ll
lose it if he can’t kiss Sam, when Dad’s been stuck around the house like the
ghost of Jim Beam and he can’t steal any time alone.
 
Dean had carefully peeled off the labels with a razor blade.  After he’d
shredded them and burned them for good measure, he’d made up cheesy porn names
of his own and block-printed them on some masking tape. 
 
Dean knew how to hide in plain sight and the best way to keep his Dad away
wasn’t to act like they were innocuous movies. He just had to make sure it was
porn his Dad wouldn’t want to watch.  His dad likes girl-on-girl stuff,
especially anything with babysitters and bored housewives.  He hates gangbangs
and anything too violent and Dean knows he shouldn’t know this kind of shit
about his family.  All he can do is use it.
 
Sam’s tongue still has that mint-hum of toothpaste on it, as clean on the
inside as he is everywhere else.  Sam wants Dean to fuck him in the ass and
where’s that dirty part of Dean’s gut now?  Dormant, like a snake sleeping
inside him.
 
Sam turns to him, soft and pliant as he repositions himself to face Dean.  His
legs fold easily alongside Dean’s own, flat feet tucked under his thighs. Sam’s
always been so flexible.
 
Dean runs his hand up Sam’s back, counting off the little rungs of his
vertebrae like a rosary.  Sam can’t see the television anymore.  Dean’s not
sure which one of them cares less.
 
God, it’s good like this.  Sam’s been getting bigger faster than Dean can
scrounge clothes for him but he always fits right here, pressed against Dean.
His arms loop around Dean’s neck and his tongue dives between Dean’s lips. 
Under the toothpaste even Sam’s spit tastes sweet to him.
 
“Don’t you wanna?”
 
Sam knows how to move his hips just right, little figure eights that drive the
cleft of his ass over Dean’s dick. He looks down at Dean, the soft line of his
bangs falling in his face.
 
“Yeah, fuck, of course, Sammy.”
 
Dean thinks about it constantly. Dean’s been thinking about it since he really
shouldn’t have.  It lives inside him, an itch under his skin and Dean’s not
sure what’ll happen once he scratches it.
 
“You were 14 when you did it.” Sam’s voice has the edge of a pout in it, that
sulk that gets Dad’s hackles up and makes Dean want to pin him down and make
Sam forget he wants anything else.
 
“It’s different,” Dean mumbles, feeling the rising tide of a lost argument
swirling around him.  It’s so different, though, everything with Sam is.  Dean
will drown in him one day and he won’t miss breathing.
 
“God, Sammy.”  Dean pulls him closer, presses all of him in, Sam’s cock slip-
grinding into his belly and the long arch of his neck curling down to Dean. 
Sam always hums while he grinds himself against Dean. It’s Dean’s favorite
sound.
 
“I just.”  Dean sighs, inching down the couch until he’s face to face with Sam.
 
“Christ, Sammy.”  Sam’s on top of him but the weight on his chest is Dean’s and
Dean’s alone.
 
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
 
Sam’s face shouldn’t look so sweet like this, flushed with his lips all pink,
eyes wide.  Dean gets a lot of comments about his eyes but Sam’s are something
else entirely. Sam knows so many things he shouldn’t and he knows Dean better
than anything.
 
“You’d never hurt me.”  The certainty, and the hint of wounded surprise behind
it, the way Sam looks at him – Dean’s breath catches and it’s all he can do to
kiss Sam again.
 
“Never, never, Sammy, never.” Dean shakes his head, like he could ever say it
enough times to believe himself. 
 
“Then why can’t we?”
 
Because he’ll never stop.  Because once Dean gets inside him he’ll never want
to leave. Because Sam is everything good and all Dean wants to do is get him so
dirty he’ll never be able to go anywhere else.
 
“We should, Jesus, Sam.” Dean’s mind stutters as Sam reaches back, letting the
tips of his fingers skate over the leaking slit of Dean’s cock.  He slides them
down, pressing Dean’s cock into the warm V of his ass, so close.
 
“Soon, okay?”  Dean waits for his stomach to drop out but it doesn’t.  All he
can feel is Sam all around him.
 
“The next time Dad’s away.”  Those times have been more and more frequent now
that Dad and Sam can barely be in the same room without hissing at each other.
 
“You promise?”  Sam’s still pouting a little but his back’s not in it, Dean can
tell.
 
Promises are such fragile things. Dad throws them around like old Pabst cans,
littering the floor of half the shithole motels Sam’s grown up in. Dean isn’t
too good to lie to Sam when he has to but he’s kept every promise he can offer
up to his brother.
 
“Yeah, Sammy.”  Dean reaches back, threading his fingers through Sam’s,
pressing down until his cock is molded to the smooth curve of Sam’s ass.  Moans
drift in the background, tinny from the television’s crappy speakers.  Dean
barely hears it over the thrum of Sam in his arms, blood rushing in his ears as
Sam stills on top of him, waiting.
 
“I promise.”
 
Dean shifts, rutting up just enough to make Sam huff soft against him.  He
grins, eyes slanting up to Sam’s as his cock glides against the soft pull of
Sam’s skin.
 
“I just wanna take my time.”  He pushes a little, feeling the insistent press
of Sam’s dick against his stomach.  There’s just enough friction to make Sam’s
jaw twitch.  Dean licks his lips.
 
“We can pretend, okay?”
 
Dean can’t carry Sam around the way he used to but Sam still lets him bend and
push, boneless under Dean’s hand when he wants to be. It’s easy to ply Sam off
his lap, bend him over the couch.  The carpet digs in, threadbare and gritty
from a hundred makeshift families settling for something to call home.  They’ll
both have rug burned knees come morning, one more aching spot to touch in
public.
 
They’ve done this before, long before Sam would ask for anything and Dean knew
what he was asking for.  Their bodies slot together, Sam’s legs pressed tight
where Dean crowds behind him.  Dean slides into the warm space Sam makes for
him, cock skidding against the nap of Sam’s balls.
 
It’s sweaty, precome-slick and it would never be enough for him, not with
anyone else.  Dean gets the angle just right, his cock trapped between Sam’s
thighs and his hand threaded into Sam’s hair, back bent over him and there’s
barely an inch of Sam he isn’t touching.  It smells like sweat and the soft,
stripped scent of their off-brand shampoo.
 
Their skin sticks where they’re pressed together. Dean bucks into him, his neck
craning down so he can lick at the divot under Sam’s jaw.  It’s stuck out so
often these days, defiant and sulking every time Dad so much as looks at him. 
It’s like Sam saves all his sweetness for this, his mouth slack and soft as he
moans and arches back into the hard swell of Dean between his legs.
 
A bead of sweat escapes from Dean’s forehead and deftly nestles into Sam’s
cheekbone.  Dean can hear the wet slide of himself against Sam’s skin, the
slaps and shucks that echo over the endless piledriving of House Alpha Sigma
Sigma. Dean could cherry-pick a million dirty things to snake down inside him
right now, but it’s the way Sam shivers and whispers his name that turns him
inside out.
 
Dean cleans them up after, sacrificing another sock to the stiff pile
accumulating under the couch.  They’ll need to do laundry soon.
 
Sam doesn’t ask about it again, but he does cling to Dean’s neck and murmur his
name.  Dean lets him fall asleep like that, long after the tape runs out and
the screen flickers blue against Dean’s empty, tangled insides.
 
They lay in the same bed that night, but Sam’s the only one who sleeps.
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