
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/496127.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Not_Related, Underage_Sex, Prom, Formalwear,
      Jealousy, Rough_Sex, Car_Sex
  Series:
      Part 6 of Not_A_Verse
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-08-26 Words: 4012
****** How Deep This Runs ******
by BewareTheIdes15
Summary
     Sam should have known. He's more than reasonably smart if his grades
     are anything to go by, he's always been a good planner, and this,
     this is the one subject he knows better than anything they've
     bothered to teach him in school. This is Dean, and Sam should have
     known.
Sam should have known. He's more than reasonably smart if his grades are
anything to go by, he's always been a good planner, and this, this is the one
subject he knows better than anything they've bothered to teach him in school.
This is Dean, and Sam should have known.
How can he do that? How can he stand under fucking powder-blue crepe paper and
a goddamn disco ball and look like living, breathing sex? Sam's standing here,
looking like an idiot in a rented tux that smells like industrial cleanser and
a frickin' white rose boutonniere - and ok, stopping dead in the middle of the
dance floor to stare at his hot next door neighbor is probably not helping the
'looking like an idiot' scenario – while Dean looks... pornographic. Tuxedo
pants held up by black suspenders which are the only thing keeping his dusky
nipples from showing right through the dress shirt because from the way Dean's
got it unbuttoned all the way down, sloppily tucked into his waistband, it's
pretty obvious that he's not wearing anything underneath that crisp, white
cotton. Holy fuck.
At least it's dark enough that there's a good chance that the multi-colored
toggle lights haven't highlighted his massive boner enough for anyone to
notice, though Gwen seems to be kind of pissed that Sam's basically ignoring
her. The sharp pinch she gives him is evidence enough of that; at least the
formal jacket takes the brunt of her manicured talons.
With an effort, Sam manages to pull his eyes off of Dean - speaking of
basically ignoring, Dean doesn't seem to have noticed that Sam's actually in
the room, too caught up talking to Melinda Culpepper's cleavage - and gives
Gwen a weak smile. She huffs a little, elaborately styled blonde hair flipping
with a toss of her head, but she rests her tiny, sharp-pointed hands on Sam's
shoulders and starts swaying to the slow beat pouring out of the speakers –
totally ignoring the bulge in Sam’s pants. Sam picks up the beat fast, his own
big hands covering too much real estate across the back of Gwen's red dress and
- seriously, Melinda Culpepper does not have that great of a rack!
Dean grins up at her though, then opens his mouth to display that little glint
of metal Sam can pick out even from here - he knew no good could come of that
damn tongue ring - and Melinda leans in with this impressed, hungry look on her
face, to which Dean grins some kind of obscene proposal - Sam can't exactly
hear it from here, but he just fucking knows it's obscene.
"Ow! Jesus, Sam!" Gwen yelps tugging at the stranglehold Sam has around her
waist. Sam's face flushes hot, an apology already sweeping across his tongue
when his eyes catch on the receding backs of Melinda and Dean, heading for the
front entrance. The older boy stops for a second, spiky blond head turning just
enough to lock gazes with Sam. Those green eyes are sharp, hard, a challenge
glittering in them, all for Sam.
Then they're gone, drowned in a sea of tuxedos and prom gowns and right out the
front door.
The cheap Italian food he'd taken Gwen for before the dance has turned to
molten lead in his stomach, his skin flushed and fever-hot in a way that's got
nothing to do with embarrassment or lust or anything else he knows how to put a
word to. He's going to be sick and that's all there is to it and damnit he's so
fucking mad he could put his fist through a wall. Or Dean. Dean would be
better.
He never should have told Dean he was coming to this stupid dance - not that he
really could have kept it a secret; Dean would have found out one way or
another even is Gwen hadn't been gabbing about it to every animate creature in
a five mile radius - should never have been stupid enough to think that Dean
could just let him have this one easy, normal night.
No, Dean just HAD to show up - even though fucking prom was just about the last
place Dean would ever want to be – looking like THAT, to prove some kind of
fucked up point about... something! Sam didn't even know what Dean was getting
at and he damn well couldn't think straight with all of those images of Melinda
and Dean filtering into his brain. Dean on his knees, Melinda's dress hiked up
around her hips with Dean's face buried between her thighs; Dean's arms wrapped
tight around her, holding her weight as he pressed her back against the wall;
Dean's face contorted in that mask of agonizing pleasure as he spills hot and
wild into the condom - and he better fucking well use a condom - and...
Shit!
Sam manages to mumble some sort of half-coherent excuse about the bathroom - he
seriously is going to puke all over his stupid rented shoes in about two
minutes unless he finds Dean. And damn him and his stupid pretty face, and his
goddamn winning smile and his motherfucking quiet sincerity that only Sam ever
got to see because… Christ, this isn't Sam. He isn't the one who gets all
irrationally jealous like he and Dean are a real couple or something, he
doesn't freak out every time Dean gets laid - which isn't exactly rare - he
didn't want Dean to be with him and only him, all evidence to the contrary as
he slams his way out of the front door of the Rec center and tears though the
parking lot. No, this isn't his role, but apparently he’s playing it anyway
because there they are ahead of him, just stepping up to the Impala.
Of course, the problem with playing this part is that Sam doesn't actually know
the lines, so when his shiny patent-leather dress shoes skid to stop a couple
of yards from Dean's car, he hasn't got a clue what to say. Dean hears him
though, turns instantly with eager fire burning so bright in his eyes they're
practically glowing.
"You ok, Sammy?" The concern might be halfway believable if Dean wasn't
grinning like a maniac. Melinda pulls the twin to Gwen's hacked off expression
back on the dance floor - what, did they pull girls aside and tutor them in
this shit?
That hot lead in Sam's stomach is boiling now, bubbling and hissing against the
lining of his belly, trying to crawl up his throat on the burn of bile the
longer the older two stare at him expectantly. Dean's not rescuing him, just
stands there and watches him squirm - smug bastard - until Sam's feeble brain
finally chokes out.
"Not feeling so hot. Thought maybe you could take me home."
Stupidly, Melinda opens her mouth to snap something at him and Sam's instant
dislike of her flares. Dean cuts her off anyway, absolute evil glee in his
voice when he says, "Sure thing, kiddo". Sam's pretty sure he hates Dean.
Melinda squawks, honest to God squawks, and Dean spares her one blinding smile
before hustling Sam around her and into the car, leaving her standing under the
soft halo of a streetlamp. He really hopes she'll explain things to Gwen.
Sam sinks back into the vinyl seat, head lolling against the headrest, his
sickness almost entirely dissipated with the smell of Dean and dirt and
upholstery cleaner. The air feels immediately cooler, more breathable, and Sam
tugs his bowtie open where it feels like it's been trying to strangle him for
hours.
Dean looks positively feral in the strobe-fast flashes of streetlights, hands
gripped creakingly tight on the leather cover of the steering wheel, gaze
cutting to the side to check on Sam every few seconds. Neither of them speaks,
nothing but the sound of tires on pavement and John Bonham breaking up the
quiet until the pavement turns to gravel and the gravel to grass before Dean
finally parks.
It's one of their spots - they have plenty – the back side of a little fishing
pond on the back forty of the Mordice's property. Not hard to get to really,
but it doesn't seem like many people know about it; least ways they've never
run into anyone else out here.
It's silent once the motor cuts off, except for the croak of frogs in the
water, still too early in the year for cicadas. Sam hears Dean shift on the
seat beside him but doesn't let himself look. He's not really sure how he feels
right now; relief and frustration and want all warring for the top spot so hard
that mostly he just ends up as tired.
"Check you out, all done up for your big date." Dean doesn't say 'for her' but
Sam hears it anyway. He lets his head roll to the side, looks at Dean in the
cool, blue-tinged moonlight. His eyes are dark and glittering, wider and
heavier than usual so he must be wearing that eyeliner too – probably just to
torture Sam. The rest of him is all Dean though, sharp angles, strong lines,
all that determined intensity with the volume turned up to max; debauched and
oversexed already even though they haven't touched yet.
Dean hooks two fingers in the top button of Sam's shirt, pulls him forward by
it - damnit, this shit is rented! - until the little space between them heats
up with the press of their bodies. "Wanna mess you up, Sammy. So pretty all
fucked up, fucked out for me." Dean ghosts his lips over Sam's until the
younger boy is aching to press forward into it, unwilling to give that last
inch because it's what Dean wants and he’s fucking tired of just giving Dean
whatever he feels like taking. He can't help the way his breathing goes ragged
though, the way his briefly ebbed erection comes back full force, straining
against the slightly too-short dress pants.
"You know you need me, baby. Gotta pull you out of all of that shit you pretend
to care about, remind you where you belong." The heat of Dean's hands melts
through the thin fabric of Sam's dress shirt, skating up and down his chest
teasingly, thumbs pausing to flick with laser-perfect aim over his nipples.
"You don't know anything about what I want. Not your business to come dragging
me out of my life." It would help if his lips didn't keep catch-dragging on
Dean's, if he didn't sound, feel, so goddamn hungry for it.
"If that was really what you wanted, you'd still be there with your pretty
little girlfriend, making nice with all the townsfolk. But here you are, with
me, that's what you picked. What you're always gonna pick, Sammy, 'cause you
need me so bad you can't think straight." Sam hears those unsaid words again,
'just like I need you', and they tear at something inside of him. His gut’s
churning with heat and he doesn't even know whether it’s that he wants Dean so
much he can taste it, can't resist letting the tip of his tongue catch on
Dean's lips when he licks his own slick, or that he hates him too, wants to
punish him, hurt him, get him just as wound up and tangled inside as Sam is.
Sam slams their lips together with all of the force he can muster, sharp teeth
digging into soft flesh until the coppery tang of blood fouls his tongue.
Dean's just as vicious, gives no quarter, just fists his fingers in Sam's hair
and holds him in the kiss. It's all teeth and tongue, both of them pissed off
and ravenous and so deep in this thing that Sam doubts either one of them knows
which way is up anymore.
The click of metal is loud against his teeth as Dean's tongue fucks its way
into Sam's mouth, matching the steady rhythm of the not-enough pressure of
Dean's hand cupped around his rock hard cock. Sam can't keep back a moan so he
doesn't even try, ends up getting lost in the throb throb throb all around him;
Dean's hand, Dean's tongue, Dean's heartbeat hammering against Sam's chest, the
machine gun pound of his own molten blood in his veins. He takes it all and
snarls for more against Dean's mouth, head swimming with too much and the all-
consuming need for more.
Thick fingers tear at the buttons on Sam's shirt, finally managing to get them
undone over a blue streak litany of curses Sam's pretty sure Dean's just making
up off the cuff. His undershirt just gets rucked up under his armpits, Dean's
ragged fingernails laying down fiery tracks over the tender flesh of Sam's
belly. His head bounces against the side window when he tosses it back, Dean's
mouth already pouncing on the bare stretch of his throat with hard, merciless
nips.
Sam hears himself gasp "I love you," knows in a heart-stopping, gut-wrenching
way how much he means it.
"Know you do, Sammy," Dean smears into Sam's collarbone, "Getting sick of
reminding you." Sam hisses when sharp teeth clamp down around the jut of bone,
pull and tug until the blood’s so close to the surface he feels like he's been
burned.
Dean's hands tug Sam's fly open, his whole body skidding down the seat with the
force of Dean pulling his pants down. His underwear joins them around his knees
and Sam's left arching up from the shockingly cold upholstery on his bare
backside. One broad hand flat to his stomach pushes him down against the seat,
make his body adjust to the startling cool against overheated skin while Dean
looks down on him like a raptor surveying its prey.
"Just look at you," Dean purrs, two fingers ‘V’d around Sam's engorged shaft
just under the ridge the way Sam's seen him hold a beer bottle, "What would all
you prissy little friends think if they could see you now? All strung out and
hungry for me, so fucking willing. You let it go so fast, baby, don't know why
you gotta act like it's not what you want."
Dean gives him a chance to snap back with something, but he's right, Sam's
strung out so far he doesn't even care; Dean can say whatever filthy fucking
thing he wants right now, all it does is ramp up the roar of blood in Sam's
ears. So instead of answering Sam curls his hand around the couple of fingers
Dean's got scissoring Sam's cockhead and pulls them up to his mouth.
Sam can be a tease too, when he's got enough blood in his brain for it, but
right now the desperate little gasps catching in Dean's throat are just a
byproduct. Sam's just enjoying the feel of Dean's rough skin against his
swollen lips, the heavy texture of callused fingers and the taste of his own
precome on the nubs of his tastebuds. It just gets better when Dean's control
snaps, his fingers pushing all the way inside to massage at the back of Sam’s
tongue.
Dean's other hand is bruising on his side, pulling Sam up, shuffling and urging
him around until he's over in the driver's seat with Dean, back to chest, the
hot, heavy line of his dick pressing into Sam's ass through the tuxedo pants
Dean hasn’t undone yet. His legs are braced across Dean's – pants sliding down
to bunch around his ankles - so his ass isn't actually touching the seat and
when Dean pulls his fingers free from Sam's mouth, dragging a mournful sound
out right along with them, and plunges them right underneath Sam, immediately
finding the furled pucker of his entrance.
Dean gives him one finger straight off, pushes in all the way to the knuckle
even when Sam's muscles scream and tighten. The older boy finds that searing
bright spot inside of him though, and Sam's muscles forget what they were upset
about in the dizzying rush of adrenaline. He lets his head fall back on Dean's
shoulder, nose pressed into the hollow below Dean's ear as his friend opens him
up with a second digit.
Dean's other arm is wrapped around his chest, idly playing with Sam's nipple
while his occupied fingers spread and curl, randomly finding that perfect
blinding place that makes Sam's knees slam into the steering wheel. Dean's hips
rock in little churning thrusts, so soft it’s probably nothing more than
unconscious reflex.
"Gonna ride my cock like a good little bitch, all hot and tight for me," Dean
growls into his ear, a shudder twitching all the way down Sam's frame at the
coal-dark promise in that voice. "Give you just what you need, baby."
Then Dean's tearing at Sam's jacket, gets it off with a struggle that earns him
an elbow to the jaw that Sam doesn't even bother to feel bad about. The shirt
gets hung somewhere around Sam's biceps when Dean just gives up and pulls his
fingers free to undo his own pants.
There's not anywhere close to enough air, everything Sam's pulling down feels
thready and weak in his aching lungs. His skin's oversensitized, like a steam-
burn over his whole body, everything too hot, too tight, too much and he's got
to have more or else he’s just not going to make it.
Sam's pitched forward suddenly, hands catching himself on the steering wheel
while Dean awkwardly fumbles in the glove box, finally comes out with their
lube. It's seconds, literally seconds, before the cool, slick press of Dean's
cock is snugged up against his hole, Dean's fingers tight around Sam's hip as
he slowly guides the younger boy down onto the hard press of his cock.
Sam gasps at the flash-fire sting when it breaches him, the swell of heat
blooming in his gut from all of that pain, the promise of pleasure. Dean's arm
wraps firmly around him once he's fully seated, spread out on Dean's lap like a
little kid.
His friend murmurs non-sense words of pleasure and praise that all sound like
love, punctuated by 'Sammy, Sammy, my baby'. Dean's hips roll, not really a
thrust, just a shallow slide that gets Sam's muscles jerking again on the slow
deep rhythm. Big fingers slide into the nest of curls at Sam's root, scritching
through the hair but not actually gripping anything. Sam whines in his throat,
nuzzling and kissing at Dean's ear to urge him on.
Dean mumbles a 'no', a barely perceptible shake of his head where he's got his
lips buried against the curve of Sam's exposed shoulder.
"Gotta come on my cock, baby, nothing else. Know you can," is stuttered and
breathless like Dean's just as far gone as Sam is.
Sam whines again, half-swallowed in the instinctual thrash of his body because
he wants, he just WANTS and it's not going to be enough. Then Dean starts
pumping his hips, grip tightening on Sam's hip to help move him up and down in
the uncomfortable sort of crouch he's stuck in. His hands latch onto the wheel
for balance, earns himself an extra little bit of leverage and when he cocks
his hips just so - oh yeah!
Dean takes his strangled shout for a signal, pounds whole-heartedly into the
angle Sam's set up and he's like a lightning rod in an electrical storm, not
enough time for one shock to dissipate before the next one hits.
"Never gonna shake me, baby. All mine, all mine," Dean huffs into the heavy air
fogging up the windows. He doesn't have to say 'say it' for Sam to know his
part.
"Never, never, never. 'M yours, all yours. God, Dean!" Sam's hand skids across
the dash, catches on the wet windshield and all he can do is flip sweat-damp
hair out of his eyes and arch his back for more. And Dean gives it, gives him
everything, right up to the edge of pain until Sam's vision starts to silver
out and holy fucking hell, it's gonna happen just like Dean said.
Some choked squeak sound makes it part way out of his mouth as the heat pulsing
in his tense balls swells and then blessedly Dean's hand is there, barely a
brush of his fingers against the head before Sam's blowing it.
Dean works him through the shuddering gasps of pleasure with the force of his
cock inside and the pressure of his hand outside, milking every ounce from Sam
until his body just gives out, fucking collapses over the wheel.
Dean raises up behind him, braces himself awkwardly against the dash and just
goes for it, pounds Sam right into the curve of the wheel. His hand, sticky-
slick with Sam's come presses into Sam's neck, a couple of fingers catching on
his jaw and cheek before they drag all the way down his chest like a milky,
cool racing stripe. Dean slams into him one last time, pushing as deep as he
can get as his dick spasms inside of Sam, warmth spreading around him.
They crumple back into the seat together, Dean still half-hard inside of him,
the two of them nothing more than a breathless pile of twitching muscle. Dean
pets at Sam's sticky chest, pleasure vibrating through him in absent little
hums. Sam hasn't quite convinced his eyes to roll forward in his head again so
he just buries his face in the comfortable niche of Dean's neck, caressing the
soft curve of the older boy's hip beneath him.
Sam says "I love you," again, long after that's usually off-limits according to
his rules. And he means it. Even with his own come drying itchy across his body
- wonder how much the cleaning fee is going to be for the tux? - and Dean
reluctantly sliding out of him, he still means it. It feels like that ought to
be more of a shot to the gut than it is.
Dean's eyes go all glittery-soft when it comes out of Sam's mouth, no sex high
to blame it on this time, and then Dean kisses him, smooth and slow and deep.
They stay like that for a long time, lazy kisses and soft touches; easier and
more sensual than they usually allow themselves. Sam's come is dry on his skin,
Dean's slowly seeping out onto the vinyl by the time they pull themselves away.
It feels like more of a loss than it ever has before, to not have Dean's lips
on him, his heat wrapped groundingly around Sam. The space between them across
the benchseat feels cold and empty and a thousand times to far.
As soon as he gets his pants done back up, Sam scoots in close again, tucking
his arms around Dean's waist. It's weird like this, with him clinging and Dean
just opening up and taking it, like the world decided to have Opposite Day and
forgot to tell Sam. He can't figure out why now and not any of the other
hundreds of times they've done this, can't figure out what changed, just knows
that achy thing inside of him wants Dean right the hell now and he doesn't have
the strength to deny it.
"Love you," he mumbles again into the warmth of Dean's chest and his friend's
arms cradle him, strong fingers brushing back the mat of hair that keeps
falling over his eyes.
"Love you too, baby," Dean breathes into the top of Sam's head, tiny kisses
pressed into his hair and deep, hitching breaths in the broad ribcage under
Sam's palm. He starts to drift in it, the fog of comfort overtaking the forced
patter of worry in his head. Dean's heartbeat is steady and sure under his ear,
like Dean always is, always has been even when Sam's tried to make it all
harder.
He should have known it couldn't be easy – should have known that the struggle
of it wasn’t going to be Dean’s fault. Still, with this warm, whole feeling
filling up his chest like a balloon, it just might turn out to be worth it.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
