
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10588239.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Sam/Dean_(Sam/OFC, Dean/OFC)
  Additional Tags:
      dependent_on_your_sensibilities_-_Sam_is_16.
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-09-19 Words: 3327
****** And the touch of your lips, it's a shock not a kiss ******
by obstinatrix
Summary
     "Remember Suzie Heizer? I gave her something." Dean laughed a little,
     dirty. "Something to give to you." For
     [http://l-stat.livejournal.net/img/community.gif?v=556?v=146.2]
salt_burn_porn, for the prompt: crazy girl.
Title: And the touch of your lips, it's a shock not a kiss
Pairing: Sam/Dean (Sam/OFC, Dean/OFC)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: "Remember Suzie Heizer? I gave her something." Dean laughed a little,
dirty. "Something to give to you." For [http://l-stat.livejournal.net/img/
community.gif?v=556?v=146.2]salt_burn_porn, for the prompt: crazy girl.
Warnings: Underage, dependent on your sensibilities - Sam is 16.
Words: ~3500
 
If it hadn't been for the beer, he'd never have done it. Hell, if it hadn't
been for the beer, she'd never have done it either -- or maybe she would, long-
legged siren Suzie Heizer, mouth as smart as it was soft, the worst kept secret
in Sam's tenth grade Biology class. There wasn't supposed to be beer at the
homecoming dance, but a little thing like the law never stopped a group of
headstrong enough sixteen-year-olds, and the wasteland behind the gym was dark
and vast. The grasses licked up around Sam's calves; the music spilling out of
the open doors licked around his ears; and with her knees in the dirt, skirt
hiked up, Suzie Heizer licked around the head of Sam's cock, broad, firm
strokes with the flat of her tongue.
Sam could hold his beer with the best of them, but Suzie was into it, all close
and wet like no girl he'd ever been with, and it was dizzying. Sam clutched at
the low wall at his back, mouth going slack around the neck of his bottle as
his knees weakened, and he felt Suzie smile as she let her mouth go slack too,
hollowing her cheeks as she took him to the root.
Fuck, Suzie. Suzie had done this before, done it in parked cars and empty
classrooms and under the bleachers, deep-throated guys as big as Sam was, he
could tell. Sam wasn't one to go believing what the in-crowd said without good
reason, but Suzie was giving him reason with her low, soft moans, the press of
her slender little fingers behind his balls. This chick was crazy, and Sam was
pretty bone-deep sure he was down with that the whole time she was letting him
fuck her face, the whole time he was coming in her pink-glossed mouth and she
was swallowing it down like sweet punch. He liked that Suzie was nuts, Jesus
Christ, right up until she stood up and straightened her glasses, leaned in and
kissed his own taste back into his mouth. Right up until she put her soft mouth
to his ear and whispered, "You taste just like your brother, Sam."
He wasn't sure what came first: the drop of his stomach like a step off a
cliff, or the way his dick twitched pathetically against his thigh, but either
way it was too damn late. Suzie was leaving, a shadow in her long blue dress in
the October night, and there was Sam bare-assed and gaping, his legs still
shivering with orgasm, the taste of himself (the taste of Dean) in his mouth.
It wasn't the first time he'd thought about it, but afterwards, Sam knew it was
what had made the difference.
*
He thought there was something strange, assessing, in the way Dean looked at
him when he stumbled home, shocked sober, with the marks of Suzie's mouth on
his neck, but maybe it was only his imagination. He'd never been one to confuse
reality with fiction before; but that was before. Now, he was playing a whole
different ballgame.
*
He never asked Dean about Suzie. Maybe she had sucked Dean off, some afternoon
outside the garage he worked that whole fall - just showed up in those stupid
long socks that made Sam breathless and smiled at Dean, all promise. It was as
likely as anything. Or maybe nothing had happened, and Suzie had said
that...why? Because she knew something Sam hadn't fully understood yet; because
she thought Dean was hot; because she wanted to mess Sam up? Sam never asked,
because it didn't matter. Dean was hot, and Sam was messed up, and he
understood now. At night, he jerked off breathlessly, chewing his lips. Licked
the come off his hands and thought of Dean, Dean fucking Sam's face the way Sam
had fucked Suzie's, Dean spreading for him the way only a couple girls had ever
done before. Dean. Dean was everything, the musky smell of his armpit like home
when he crushed Sam's face there giving a noogie, the cut of Dean's hips
disappearing into his jeans like a predetermined path to some forbidden El
Dorado. God, Dean. It wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't been so beautiful,
Sam thought -- but then he thought again, reconsidered. Even if he'd been ugly,
he'd still have been Dean, and Dean was the part Sam couldn't detach himself
from.
Sam was pretty fucking messed up, he knew that well enough. He also knew he
couldn't blame Suzie Heizer for it, not really. Not the way they lived, the way
they were.
*
Weeks passed. Dad got a lead on some poltergeist activity out in the Dakotas
somewhere -- entrenched, he said, bad, and that meant a family move. The school
year wasn't out yet for Sam, but it couldn't be helped, and Sam didn't, to
Dad's palpable surprise and relief, put up much of a fight about it anyway.
Things had been kind of weird with Suzie Heizer since the night of the dance;
but then, things had been kind of weird with Dean, too, so maybe it was only
Sam that was off, really, knocked out of alignment with the rest of the world.
So Dean jerked off kind of noisily in the shower every morning instead of
waiting for Sam to go to school like a decent person would've. Could have been,
he'd been doing that all along, and Sam had just never been warped enough to
pay such close attention before. So sometimes it felt as if Dean watched him a
little too closely in the evenings, stayed out too long and came back smelling
oddly familiar in a way that was definitely not his usual gun oil-leather
spice. Maybe what they all needed was to get out of this place, leave the
spectre of Suzie Heizer and her incredible mouth behind them. Make room, draw
lines, grow up. Sam was in no doubt at all that this place wasn't where he
needed to be right now, so when Dad said "Pack your gear, boys," Sam shut up
and packed.
*
It was three months before Sam heard Suzie Heizer's name again. Dad was away,
and had been for the past two nights, hunting a skinwalker in the next state
over. Dean was out, but that wasn't unusual these days. Sam would come home to
dinner -- of some description -- in the oven, because feeding Sam was one of
Dean's sworn duties, but now he was old enough, Dean said, to do his fucking
homework unsupervised, and that meant that Dean could disappear and come back
reeking of perfume and outdoor sex. Apparently, Dean needed to do this almost
every night. Not that it was any of Sam's business, of course, despite the
stupid twinge in his chest that wouldn't listen to reason, so Sam said nothing,
just let him get on with it. Dean would come back. He always did.
This February night, Sam was wading slowly through his trig homework when Dean
rolled in, wide-eyed and treading heavy. The door slammed hard against the wall
when he pushed it open, and Sam jolted upright, turning in his seat at the
sound. "Jesus Christ, could you be any louder?"
"Sorry, Sammy." Dean was shrugging off his jacket already, damp-leather smell
of it drifting across the small space of the kitchen. Under that, Dean smelled
of eau-de-cologne and cigarettes, maybe an edge of whisky. "You're up late."
"No," Sam countered, fighting back the jealous little roil of his gut at that
smell, the scent of someone else all over Dean, his Dean, not his fucking Dean.
He had to get used to this some day soon, Jesus. "You're back early. Not the
best night, huh?"
"Oh, on the contrary." Dean tugged out the unoccupied chair and sat down
heavily, thighs splaying easily wide. He tossed his jacket over the chairback;
the fine gold hairs on his arms glinted in the artificial light. His eyes,
steady on Sam's, looked preternaturally green, the pupils blown black with his
drunkenness. "Got a hummer in the car from some chick, mouth like Suzie fucking
Heizer." He shifted, gaze going suddenly sharp. "Remember Suzie Heizer, Sam?"
It was only a question, Sam told himself. Only a question, a rhetorical one,
even, and there was no reason for his spine to go cold the way it was doing; no
reason for the sparks of something undefinable, alternating hot and cold in the
pit of his stomach. But something about the way Dean was sitting, the languid
spread of his legs, made all Sam's muscles clench up helplessly, propelled him
out of his chair and toward the sink as if in search of safety. "I," he said,
stalling, as he stumbled forward, feeling along the edge of the table like a
blind man. "Yeah, I --"
"Hey." And that was Dean's hand on his arm, Dean's fingers wrapping around his
wrist. Dean's breath, warm and sweet-sour with alcohol, touching Sam's cheek as
he leaned in, unhelpfully close. "Suzie Heizer. Thought you knew her
Biblically, man."
Rightfully, Sam shouldn't have leaped to any conclusions, he knew that well
enough, but Dean was so close, something gone wild and unhinged in his eyes.
Sam felt his chest constrict, crazy thoughts rattling loose in his mind. He
struggled for words. "Dean --"
"Sam." Dean was smiling, now, and Sam couldn't bite back his shiver as Dean's
thumb passed over the veins on the inside of his wrist. Couldn't deny the way
it made Dean's smile quirk, just a little, approving. "Remember Suzie? I gave
her something." He laughed a little, dirty. "Something to give to you."
That was it. Sam remembered Suzie, the heat of her mouth on his dick, the taste
of her lipgloss, and couldn't breathe. His fingers found Dean's shoulder. The
bottom fell out of his stomach, but Dean was unrelenting, pulling Sam down
until the space between them was obliterated entirely, his lips almost touching
the helix of Sam's ear when he spoke. "Did you like it, Sam, huh?" Dean
shifted, then, and his mouth caught on Sam's earlobe like an electric shock.
"Dean," he whispered. He sounded wrecked, could hear it in his own voice, could
feel his knees buckling, but there was nothing for it. It was too late. Dean
knew: the line between fantasy and reality was blurring, and Sam was bleeding
colours in the disappearing hinterland in the middle.
"You liked it, Sammy." Dean's voice was no longer even the slightest bit
uncertain, not questioning, and Sam took a second to wonder how he could be so
sure of himself, always; cocky, perfect Dean, before Dean's teeth nipped at the
soft place below Sam's ear and Sam moaned, gave himself away, gave everything.
He felt Dean's smile.
"Yeah," Dean said, and his fingers found the curve of Sam's jaw, thumb hovering
at the corner of his mouth. "Think you'd like it better if I gave it to you
myself?"
The sound Sam made at that was probably going to be embarrassing, something
tight and strained and involuntary, but luckily Dean chose just that moment to
turn his face and catch it in his mouth, smooth as always. Typical fucking
Dean, smooth as silk as he pressed his lips to his brother's, licked them open
with the tip of his tongue. Fuck. Sam moaned, grasping at the sleeves of Dean's
tee, pulling it askew as his fingers curled into fists, trying to hitch Dean
closer. Dean kissed hard, kissed right, teething along the swell of Sam's lower
lip before he thrust his tongue against the flat of Sam's and Sam was lost to
it, swallowing Dean's breath, bleeding into him. Dean.
Dean was a sneaky motherfucker, Sam knew, but he was disoriented all the same
to find himself the one in the chair, manhandled into it by Dean's strong arms,
his clever hands, pinning him down. Sam was hard as hell in his pants by now,
straining awkwardly against the seam, and some stupid urge deep in his stomach
wanted to cross his arms over it, despite the part where his mouth tasted like
Dean's second-hand alcohol and Dean was staring down at Sam's hard-on like it
was something good to eat. Holy shit, like he wanted it in his mouth. The
thought made Sam twitch, hard against his zipper, and he knew Dean could see it
-- knew, too, that Dean must smell the tang of his precome when he knelt
between Sam's legs, shouldering them open at the knee. Fuck.
"Dean." His hands fluttered over the fine-cut planes and angles of Dean's face,
thumbing at his mouth, sliding into his hair, and it was like a fantasy,
something unreal. He felt detached from it, as if he were the one drunk and not
Dean, as if this were some fabrication of his intoxicated brain. "Dean, God --"
"Shhhh." Dean hushed him, easy, but there was something in his voice like a
shudder, coming all the way from his shoulders. He leaned in, like a man moving
through water, and then his broad palm was on Sam's hip, sliding down to
squeeze at the bulge of his cock through the stretched-out denim of his jeans -
- loose, torn jeans that had been Dean's once. God. Sam couldn't help but groan
under the touch, deep and throaty, and he felt the stretch of his dick as it
lengthened further, impossibly, pushing up fiercely against his zipper until
the pressure rode close to pain. He whimpered, shifted against the solid wood
of the chair.
"Dean --"
"Yeah, baby." And that -- that should not have been hot, but it was, somehow;
was Dean and Sam, was them. "I gotcha." And then Dean's nose, Dean's whole
fucking face, was pressed against the bulge of Sam's cock, his slow exhalation
bleeding hot and wet through two layers of fabric into Sam's skin. "God, Sam,
smell so fucking good."
"Oh my God." Sam knew he sounded desperate, couldn't help it, didn't fucking
care any more, his teeth and tongue feeling clumsy and too big for his mouth.
Dean was nuzzling at him, fingers popping the button of Sam's fly, tugging at
the zipper till his dick thrust up of its own accord out of the splayed-open
vee, and Sam was beyond thought. "God, Dean, you can't --"
"Can," Dean said, low and sure, and Sam was pathetically grateful; couldn't
understand why he'd protested in the first place, not with Dean between his
legs, his downturned face like a marble god's. A snap of elastic in Dean's
clever fingers, and Sam was hot and bared to the air, the waistband of his
boxers snagged under the heavy fullness of his balls. Blood rushed in Sam's
ears, a roar, pounding, but Dean leaned in all the same, curling his fingers
around Sam's length, and it was so fucking impossible, so incredibly good, that
Sam had to clench his toes into the floor to keep from blowing his load there
and then, right on Dean's face.
God, but Dean would look good with come all over his face, Sam thought, pearls
of it clinging to his eyelashes, smears of it glistening on his sinful mouth.
Sam was wrong inside, but apparently, Dean was right there with him, and that
made it difficult to care. Dean had always been right with him, after all, and
where Dean was couldn't be a wrong place to be.
Especially when Dean was mouthing at the tip of Sam's cock, Jesus. The wet
insides of his mouth were like snatches of heaven, catching at the head, and
then Sam's fingers fisted, involuntary, in Dean's hair, and Dean was fucking
doing it, taking him in in this wet, hot slide, breathing in slow and careful
through his nose.
"Shit," Sam whispered, "shit." Dean wasn't as practised as Suzie, Sam could
tell -- he knew how to breathe; knew to suck and pull up in tandem, hollowing
his cheeks around Sam's fat girth; knew to press his tongue against that spot
below the glans, pull almost off and work it into the slit. All that, though,
was stuff Dean could've learned from porn -- could've picked up, moreover, from
the way girls had sucked him off, so many girls, all those nights, and under it
all, his technique was sloppy, too wet and too eager. God, but he was into it,
so grossly, deeply, noisily into it that Sam was sure this couldn't last much
longer: not with Dean's throat fluttering around the head of him when Dean slid
down slow on Sam's cock; not when it was Dean on his knees between Sam's legs.
Dean, giving a hummer like some cheerleader behind the bleachers, and it was
better because it was him, because it was Sam's brother moaning around his
dick, body shaking as he jerked himself from how much he wanted it. God. Sam
was close, could feel it arrowing down sharp and sure into his dick, the push
of it fat and heavy and overwhelming. He didn't know what made him look down,
but he knew what kept him looking: the flash of Dean's tongue, pink and wet
around the head of his dick, the length of it glistening with Dean's spit. The
flash of his eyes, dark and dirty in the fluorescent light of the kitchen, and
that was his brother. That was his brother, and Sam was gone, Jesus. Sam was
fucking gone.
Dean didn't pull back, as Sam had half-expected. Sam clenched his fists in
Dean's hair as his hips fucked up, pistoning; he made some sound of warning in
his throat, but Dean only groaned and sank back down, the smack-slap of his
hand clearly audible as he worked himself, slick sound of palm on dick. God.
Sam shot off in his mouth like a geyser, spurting thickly over Dean's tongue.
"God," he ground out, through gritted teeth, "Dean, Jesus, fuck --"
But Dean was too busy seizing up, tongue fluttering against Sam's underside as
his mouth went slack with orgasm, come spurting over his fingers even as Sam's
dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. Jesus fucking fuck.
"Dean," Sam whispered, faintly, leaning back in his chair, but Dean was still
coming, shoulders hitching with the force of it, and his face was tight and
closed. His eyelashes were long, shadowed on his cheeks. Sam wanted to kiss
them, almost as much as he wanted to spatter them in come and lick it off.
Jesus. His dick twitched pathetically at the thought, pushed out a final few
droplets of aftershock.
"Sam," Dean murmured when he could -- looked up at Sam under those eyelashes.
His hand was wet with come, and Sam reached for it almost on instinct, the
smell and sight of it seizing up his stomach. When his tongue sought out the
space between Dean's first and middle fingers, Dean breathed in tightly, and
Sam's skin sang with it, the want in it, the promise.
"Hey, Dean?" Sam felt dizzy, stupid, omnipotent.
"Sam," Dean shot back, level. His eyes were wild and unbalanced.
"Fuck Suzie fucking Heizer."
He never knew who started to giggle first, Dean or him, but soon they were both
at it, Dean pulling himself up when his legs grew bones again, clinging to Sam
by his fingertips. "God," Dean said, "yeah," and Sam thought, I'll do you
better than she ever did. You'll see. You'll fucking see.
The exhilaration beat out everything, whisky and punch and girls, and it was
Dean; it was his brother. It was the way they were.
Sam didn't give a damn.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
