
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/290130.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Pre-Canon, Weechesters, Recreational_Drug_Use, Shotgunning, dean
      corrupting_sam_like_the_big_brother_he_really_is
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-11-11 Words: 3057
****** Blackout ******
by apodiopsys
Summary
     In which Sam comes home from school early and finds his brother
     rolling a joint. In classic big-brother fashion, Dean goes about
     corrupting his little brother.
Dean doesn’t even bother looking ashamed when Sam walks into the motel room
while he’s rolling a joint. He knows it’s not Dad; John is away for the rest of
the week and the first half of the next one, taking a standard angry spirit
case somewhere in South Carolina while Dean and Sam go to school in some shitty
town in the North. He’s sitting crosslegged on the only bed in the room, metal
ash tray that comes with every smoking room in any motel in North America on
the table to the left and a folded piece of paper in front of him, crumbled
pieces of hash contrasting to the white sheet. His eyes are already a little
red and there’s ash and the end of a dead joint in the ash tray, and Sam
hisses, “Dean, is that weed?” after he looks around outside for a moment and
then steps inside, closing the door with a quiet click.
He arches an eyebrow at his little brother, his little brother who’s almost
seventeen and clearly as innocent as they come. Dean puts down the chunk of
weed that he was crushing into the mixing tray. “Are you telling me you’ve
never smoked before?” he asks, voice a little scratchy from the smoke that
sears his throat on a bad inhale. Sam shakes his head. “Tell me you’ve at least
smoked a cigarette.” The pause between the question and the answer is
significantly longer. Dean blanches. “Dude. Dude.” He motions for Sam to come
over, pulls the red and white package of Marlboro’s out of his pocket and flips
the lid, pulling a white stick out of the box. Sam watches him warily, edging
closer and closer to his brother. The package of cigarettes is almost empty.
The cigarette is held between Dean’s lips, tip bobbing for a moment as he
fumbles over to the bedside table, almost knocking the ash tray over the edge
as he tries to grab his Zippo. It clings as he flicks it open, inhaling deeply
as he lights the cancer stick. Sam stares. The smoke drifts out of Dean’s mouth
slowly, face tipped the slightest bit up. It slowly thins out until the air is
(mostly) clear, and Dean takes another slow drag before motioning Sam to sit on
the bed. “Careful,” he says, cigarette held in his left hand. He picks up the
mixing tray in his other hand, waiting for the sixteen year old to settle
before putting it back down on the bed.
“Try this,” he turns his hand so the filter of the cigarette is near his mouth
and all he has to do is lean forward a little till his lips are touching it,
touching the edges of Dean’s fingers. “Inhale, slowly. Just try having it in
your mouth for a little while. Sam throat burns and he coughs, smoke rushing
out of his mouth in a race to see how fast it can hit the ceiling. Dean laughs.
“Here, take it.” He takes the cigarette and Dean moves his attention back to
the mixing tray, clearly expecting Sam to smoke the cigarette. He tries,
coughing his way through the first half of it before he more or less gets the
hang of at least pulling small hits of it into his lungs.
It’s a curious thing, watching Dean roll the joint. He’s graceful in a way that
he usually isn’t, much the same way as he is when he’s cleaning his gun. Sam
watches as Dean takes another cigarette out of the red and white package. He
expects him to hold it up to his mouth, light it and take a drag. Dean doesn’t;
instead, he holds it a short distance away from himself, holds the Zippo in his
other hand and waves it slowly back and forth under the cigarette, white paper
turning slowly yellow and then golden and then brown. “I’m toasting the
cigarette,” he explains to his brother. When he’s done he puts the Zippo down,
peels the paper back and empties the tobacco into the mixing tray.
The mixture in the tray is an array of greens and browns. Dean blends it with
his fingers, picks the folded piece of paper up and tips it so that the
contents roll into the already-prepared cone. “Never buy ready-rolled joints,
Sammy,” Dean says, offering superior stoner wisdom. “You never know what
they’re putting in it. ‘s so that you can know exactly how strong you want
yours to be.” He’s not looking at him, more concentrated than Sam’s seen him
in... definitely in a while. He puts the mixing tray onto the sheets and the
cone is more than three quarters of the way filled. His fingers are carefully
as he straightens out the paper, pinching it between his middle and his pointer
finger as he taps the filter against his lighter. Sam is more than fascinated
as he watches Dean go through the motions of picking up the tray again and
emptying the last into the paper cone.
He realizes too late that he’s been just holding the cigarette for the past
five minutes and it’s almost burnt out, a long stick of ash clinging to the
end. Sam risks a glance at his brother and holds it to his lips, attempting one
last drag at the cigarette. The end of it flicks and the ash floats down,
glowing where it rests on his legs and the off-white sheets on the bed. He
stares, and Dean says, “Jesus, Sammy,” and leans forwards, brushing it off his
jeans and off the bed. There’s black stains on the sheets where the ash moved
against them. Dean plucks the cigarette stub out of his fingers, dropping it
artlessly into the ash tray.
Sam doesn’t know what to say when Dean drops the folded paper of a mixing tray
onto the floor, landing right next to the boots that he’s so fond of. Specks of
tobacco and maybe pieces of weed slip off, clinging to the linoleum floor. Dean
sits back against the headboard, rolls his shoulders and holds the joint
between his thumb and pointer finger, bringing it to his lips. His eyes narrow
down to slits as he lights it up, closing finally. Sam watches the whole time,
focusing on the way his throat constricts as he swallows the smoke, bringing it
into his lungs. It’s thicker than cigarette smoke, he notes, smells sweeter and
stronger too. He does it again, takes a long drag and then holds it in for
countless seconds, finally releasing it from his lungs in a slow, neverending
cloud.
The end of it glows red after Dean has to relight it, tipping the ashes off
into the ash tray. He takes four short, quick tokes in succession, one after
another and then lets the smoke out of his mouth. “That’s called a homerun,” he
doesn’t look at Sammy, eyes closed as he does another one. “Like in baseball.”
Smoke drifts out of his mouth as he says the second part and Sam shifts up the
bed, closer to Dean until he’s kneeling near his knees.
“Why do you do it, what’s it like?” he finally breathes curiously, cheeks
flushed red. He knows that this is wrong, knows that it’s illegal. Sam knows
that this kid in his class’s older brother got caught with weed on him while he
was driving and put in jail overnight and fined for drug possession, but he has
the overwhelming need to know. Dean rolls his neck slowly, opens his eyes to
look at him as a slow smile curves over his lips. “Because sometimes you just
need to loosen up.” He’s quiet for a second, considering. He’s corrupted his
little brother in every other way, gave him his first taste of vodka when he
was thirteen and his first real kiss at twelve. He showed him how to erase the
browser history on the laptop when he’s been watching porn and what it feels
like to have someone else’s hand on his dick and now he’s offering him weed.
He’s honestly not sure what’s worse, but he really just doesn’t even care right
now. “You want to try?”
He hesitates - of course he hesitates - but then he’s nodding and leaning
forwards to take the joint from his brother. Dean taps the top of it with his
finger first, over the ash tray so that the end drops off, crumbling in a pile
next to all the others. He says, “Like this,” and sits up properly, shows his
little brother how and then lets him take it from his fingers. His first try
goes terribly, coughing and choking on smoke until he almost drops the joint.
Dean takes it from him at the last second, pats him on the back until he stops
coughing. Sam’s eyes are watering, and Dean comments mildly, “That wasn’t
entirely bad for the first time.” At his point Sam doesn’t understand how this
is anything fun at all. It hurts his throat more than smoking, and when he says
as much, Dean just says, “Here, try again.” It’s not much better, but he can
feel the smallest bit of smoke in his lungs. It’s harder to pull in than
cigarette smoke, and he chokes while it’s on the way out, but he can feel the
tiniest affect, light headed and dizzy.
His brother nods at him, the okay for him to try again. The joint is just over
halfway done. It goes terribly again, coughing and spluttering until tears
rolls down his cheeks. Dean wipes them away from his skin with his thumbs and
takes the joint back. Sam holds his breath. He waits while he does one two
three tokes, closing his eyes as he blows rings of smoke into the air above his
head. He finally looks at Sam again, that same considering look in his eyes
that he had when deciding whether to give him the weed or not. “You want to try
something?” he asks, and Sam says, “Anything.” His voice hurts.
Dean nods and says, “Open your mouth and breathe in when I breathe out.” He
holds the joint between his finger and his thumb and brings it to his lips,
taking a long, hard drag. He doesn’t understand what he wants when Dean motions
to him, crooking his finger towards himself until he grabs him by the shirt
collar and pulls him forwards. It’s much the same as when Dean kissed him that
first time, before he stopped them from happening because it wasn’t right,
because Sam was too young. Suddenly Dean is right there again, and their lips
are touching and his breath is leaving him and his lips are opening, and
suddenly Dean is blowing air in between his lips, blowing smoke into his mouth
and forcing it all down his lungs. His mouth snaps shut and he sways, suddenly
crazy dizzy. He’s barely managed to exhale it all, throat burning before Dean
is right there again, blowing air and pushing smoke into his lungs until he
absolutely cannot have any more in him or else he will explode.
“Sam,” Dean says, hand that isn’t holding the joint in the air, moving to a
rhythm that he can’t hear. “You are so weird, the ones I just gave you were so
strong and you took it like it was nothing. His voice is really funny and Sam
opens his eyes and the room is absolutely spinning around him, forcing him to
lie down on his back next to his brother so that he can look up and focus on
the cracks in the ceiling until the walls stop moving around him. His lips feel
funny, tongue heavy in his mouth. His whole body feels funny, skin tingling all
over. Sam wants to roll in the feeling, make him feel even more and he does,
body rolling slowly like a wave. They’re at the very end of the joint, Dean
takes a hit and then does another, holding the smoke in his mouth for Sam. He
stubs it out in the ash tray, drops the end and it’s just like before, one
second Dean isn’t there and then the next he is, hovering over him all wide
shoulders and muscular chest, strong where Sam is still lean and long. Dean’s
lips cover his, push smoke like it’s air into his lungs and he’s dizzy from the
lack of air.
And then Dean’s tongue is there, licking across his bottom lip and then dipping
in between, rubbing at his tongue and the roof of his mouth like he owns the
place. He exhales quickly, too fast almost, smoke rushing up in between their
faces and Dean doesn’t stop kissing him, pulling back for a split second before
diving in to kiss him again. “It’s called shotgunning,” he kisses him, again
and again and again. “You seem to have an unnatural talent for it.” Sam feels
so good, wants to kiss Dean for hours – for hours and days and weeks and months
and years. His hands are so restless, cupping Dean’s shoulders and then sliding
down his arms to touch his wrists and then back up again, going down his shirt
to pull at them hem and slide up it, finger skittering past warm skin.
God, Dean is so, so pleased that Sammy is a lightweight, pleased that it didn’t
take so much to get him out of his head and onto a cloud, especially when he’d
already smoked two joints by the time his younger brother even showed up.
He can feel Sam’s cock, hard and straining against denim, pressing against his
thigh. All Dean is wearing is a pair of sweatpants he put on after he showered
in the morning, too lazy to go to school like the eighteen year old he’s
pretending to be and choosing to stay home and get high instead. “You grew up,”
he marvels, propping himself up on his arms above Sam. He can feel him,
remembers what it was like last time (last time when he realized that Sam
wasn’t even fifteen and he knew what it felt like to have him rut against him
until he comes) and he marvels at it in the way that you would only when high
like this. Dean kisses him again, pushes his tongue into his mouth and licks at
the taste, like he’s trying to get inside of Sam and slides his hand down his
body, cupping the front of his jeans.
Sam moans, startled, hips arching into his touch and Dean pops the button,
pulls the zipper down until he can slide his hand into his boxers and curl his
fingers around his cock, tight and hot and perfect. “Fuck, you got big.” Dean
mutters into his neck, lips moving against his skin while he jerks him slowly,
Sam’s hips pushing up into his fist on every down stroke. He hadn’t realized it
before, hadn’t thought about how while Sam was growing longer and heavier and
bigger, that while his hands and feet and clothing size were all growing up
that the rest of his body would go with him. Dean’s thumb smears pre-come
across the head, presses into the pressure point just under the crown and Sam
keens, fingers clutching uselessly at his shoulders while his brother gets him
off and marks his neck like he belongs to him.
His mouth against his own tastes like weed, and Sam just can’t do anything but
claw at Dean’s back under his t-shirt and take everything that he’s being
given. Dean worships his mouth, kissing him until his jaw almost aches and he’s
just pulling this out, making him last hours upon hours upon hours and he can’t
even make his mouth work properly to bed for Dean to let him come. There’s a
dull pounding in his head, blood pounding in every part of his body. His limbs
all feel too heavy, skin tingling and twitching everywhere that Dean is pressed
up against.
He just keeps on going and Sam thinks he’s going to go crazy, go crazier when
all of a sudden Dean’s hand is gone and there’s this high-pitched whine that
can’t even be coming from himself (except that it is) filling the hot space. He
manages to get his eyes open, sees Dean palming himself and makes grabbing
hands at him, pulling him back down and mashing their lips together. It’s so so
good and messy and not at all co-ordinated, and he almost forgets that no one
is even touching his dick until Dean is, until Dean has both his own and Sam’s
cock in one hand, spit slick so there’s the perfect slide. He’s not even going
fast enough though, needs to go faster.
“Sammy,” Dean pants. His little brother breathes, “Faster,” one hand fumbling
his way down to tangle with Dean’s and help get them both off. He comes first
with a hoarse shout, spilling hot and white into the hand that Dean
disentangled and cupped there when Sam bit out a warning. He keeps going even
after he’s is finished, hand wrapped back around both of them, wet with Sam’s
come. Sam keeps shaking, not from the orgasm anymore but because it’s toomuch
and toosoon and the overstimulation feels sogood that it makes white lights
spark behind his eyelids and moan at Dean to stop. His brother comes when Sam
bites him in the neck, leaving teeth shaped indents in the flesh.
When he’s spent he flops down, knocks the ash tray on the floor and the butts
of the joints and cigarettes and ashes spill everywhere. Dean doesn’t care; he
pulls Sam on top of him, his cum-stained belly rubbing into Dean’s skin where
his shirt is rucked up but he kisses Sam, deep and slow and like he has all the
time in the world. It feels like hours and hours after when he’s rolling away
and Sam’s skin is still tingling, limbs too heavy and Dean is sitting up and
wiping himself off with the shirt he pulled off. “What?” he asks, voice
completely fucked up from the smoke grating his throat.
Dean’s grin is a curve of his lips, slow and wolf-like. “Want another joint?”
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