
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4888267.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Frottage, Sibling_Incest, Underage_Smoking, Underage_Sex, Cigarettes,
      Smoking, Shotgunning, Painplay, Burns, Branding, Angst, Breathplay,
      Weecest, spn-masquerade
  Collections:
      SPN_Masquerade_Fall_2015
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-09-28 Words: 1727
****** Smolder ******
by saltandbyrne
Summary
     Dean rests his cigarette between his lips and looks up at Sam.
     “Gotta light?”
Notes
     Written for round 3 of spn-masquerade for the prompt: All right I see
     Weecest and shot gunning kink a lot, and it is one of my favorites
     kinks, but what about Weecest and shot gunning with cigarette burns
     and breath play? Yeah, or fuck yeah???
     Sam is 15.
Dean rests his cigarette between his lips and looks up at Sam.
 
“Gotta light?”
 
Sam nods, twisting to the side to grab a battered pack of matches off the
kitchen table.  The old brass-rail chair creaks under their weight as Sam
shifts in his lap.
 
Kid’s always good at finding fire.
 
Sam tears a match off and sparks it. It flares in his face, catching in his
eyes, warming the soft glints of gold that dance around his pupils.
 
Sam’s getting pretty.
 
Dean sucks against the flame until his cigarette catches. He breathes in deep,
drawing smoke into his lungs.  He rests the filter between his thumb and
forefinger, letting his free hand wander down to Sam’s hip.
 
Seems like Sam’s less bony every day.
 
Dean presses his thumb into the little crease at the top of Sam’s thigh,
rubbing in little circles against smooth skin. Sam’s growing so fast Dean can
hear his bones creak but he’s still baby-soft down here like he’s always been.
 
Dean wasn’t that soft when he was 15.
 
Dean’s not soft now, not with Sam naked and snug on his lap.  Skinny legs
bracket his hips, the first outlines of muscle skating up his thighs.  Sam’s
been playing soccer.  Not like his ass needs to look any better.
 
He grinds forward without any urging from Dean, skating the cleft of his ass
over Dean’s cock.  Sam’s naked while Dean’s still in two shirts and his
sweatpants.  It’s too much material between them but Dean kind of likes it that
way.
 
Dean blows smoke out the side of his mouth, watching it float just past Sam’s
face.  His eyes must burn a little but Sam doesn’t blink.
 
The heat clanks on in the pipes by the sink. It’s not the nicest place they’re
ever rented but it’s far from the worst.  The landlady downstairs smokes like a
chimney and she’s nosy as shit, but at least the heat works and they have
decent water pressure. They can work around the other things.
 
Dean takes another drag, tracking his eyes up the soft rise and fall of Sam’s
chest.  Goddam soccer practice means Dean can’t mark him there.  Dean digs his
hand in a little harder.
 
“Gotta be quiet, Sammy.”
 
He pushes Sam to grind against him, looking down at the swell of Sam’s cock
between them.  He exhales, smoke curling around Sam’s cock and the soft, secret
curls of his pubes. 
 
Sam nods, lip bitten in his teeth and his ass grinding down onto Dean’s aching
cock.  There’ll be a stain the size of his fist before he takes his sweatpants
off.
 
Sam’s eyes follow the arc of Dean’s cigarette back to his mouth.  Dean spoiled
him early with that mouth. 
 
Dean leaves it to dangle between his lips as he cups Sam’s ass in his hands,
greedy for all that skin even Sam’s locker room buddies don’t get to see.  The
parts that are just for Dean.
 
His fingers drag across soft skin and the small smattering of zits Sam always
seems to spring up when he spends too much time in sweaty clothes.  Sam always
blushes but Dean secretly loves them. 
 
Sam’s getting pretty but Dean still likes the blistered parts best.
 
He skates his fingers along the cleft of Sam’s ass, tucking in just enough to
feel the softer tack of the skin around his hole. If he pressed in he’d slip in
easy. He’d sent Sam to school with a present that morning.
 
But Sam’s all showered and clean after practice, so Dean just trails his
fingers until Sam arches back, whining. The grind feels sweet on his dick but
Dean wants him closer.
 
He pulls Sam in with one palm flat on his back while the other hand clamps his
smoke between his index and middle fingers. He takes a drag, eyes on Sam,
patiently ignoring the fat twitch of Sam’s dick against him.
 
Sam’s arms drape over him, forearms resting on Dean’s shoulders and his fingers
threaded through the top rail of the chair. Sam’s hands get bigger and bigger
every day, just like the rest of him.  His weight presses into Dean’s thighs,
heavy and threatening numbness tingling behind his knees.
 
Sam used to feel like nothing in his lap.
 
Dean arches an eyebrow and presses his fingers over his lips, cigarette still
poised between them.  Sam’s throat works as he watches.
 
“Shhh,” Dean whispers, pursing his lips to exhale between them as he shakes his
head. 
 
“Dean.”
 
Sam says it soft, like Dad’ll still hear them two states away.  Landlady be
damned, they could get loud if they wanted to but it’s better like this, Sam
begging wordless with his bangs in his face and those tiny circles of his hips.
 
Sam can get as big as he likes, he’ll always be Dean’s little secret.
 
Sam’s heart beats rabbit-fast when Dean presses his cheek to Sam’s chest,
kissing him softly.  Sam’s all soap-scrubbed but Dean can still ferret out the
scent of him beneath that clean shell.
 
He tilts his forehead against Sam’s chest, looking down.  Sam’s hands aren’t
the only thing that gets bigger every day.  He’ll suck Sam off later, after he
sweats off that locker room lather. After he smells a little more like Dean.
 
Dean leans back, nodding softly at the little blinks Sam makes.  Sam knows
he’ll get his if he’s patient.
 
The ember of his cigarette wisps smoke as he reaches across to grab Sam’s hand
with his own.  He guides Sam to wrap a hand around himself, letting the hot tip
between his fingers skate close to Sam’s skin.
 
Sam’s lips tremble.
 
He starts to jerk himself slow, thumb smearing over the head to wet his way. 
Dean’s cock twitches beneath the press of Sam’s ass.  Dean’ll get his later.
 
“Need a little help there, Sammy?”
 
Sam’s too strung out to look bitchy but he sure does try. 
 
“Dean, c’mon.”
 
Dean started sucking his brother off before he could handle a gun.  Sam could
barely drive when Dean fucked his ass for the first time.  Sam had been a
teenager for all of a week when Dean realized that even as fucked up as all
that was, the only thing that really gave him pause was how much Sam wanted it
to hurt sometimes.
 
“Need it.”
 
Dean never could say no to him.
 
He takes another drag before he presses his free thumb into the bow curve of
Sam’s lower lip.  Sam chases it down to let Dean kiss into his mouth, licking
him open with breath held until he feels Sam’s lips open against his. He
breathes into Sam’s sweet, willing mouth, tar smoke and nicotine rushing over
all that Colgate clean until his lungs are empty.
 
“Can’t make a sound, Sammy.”
 
He sweeps his hand up, clamping it over Sam’s mouth, thumb and forefinger
sealing his nose.  Sam’s eyes are wide and wet, darting between Dean’s face and
the cigarette burning beside it.
 
He hasn’t stopped stroking himself.
 
There’s a line of fresh spots on Sam’s thigh, high up between the V of his
stomach and the swell of his dick.  Some are newer than others, pink and red
and scar tissue smooth, healing, healed but never really gone.  Dean picks a
spot just below the oldest one.
 
Sam’s face is red, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes as he holds his
breath, smoke inside him as his hand flies over his dick.  It sounds wet and
desperate, a slick heartbeat throbbing faster than the one beating under Dean’s
hand.
 
“You trust me?”
 
Sam nods frantically, eyes wide and his jaw working against Dean’s firm hand. 
 
The ember burn of Dean’s cigarette sinks into virgin skin as Sam comes.
 
Dean snatches his hand off Sam’s mouth and clamps it over the back of his
neck.  Smoke pours out of his open mouth but he doesn’t make a sound, not his
Sammy. He just clenches his teeth and hisses, broken sounds in his throat going
right to Dean’s cock. He’s rigid on top of Dean, muscles taut as his cock
shoots wet over his clenched fist. 
 
Dean tosses the cigarette aside and closes his hand over Sam’s, milking the
last drops of his orgasm out of him, rubbing his neck as Sam pants and sighs
above him.  Come oozes onto the webbing of his thumb as Sam starts to go lax.
 
Sam used to feel boneless and soft like this all the time, all the million
times Dean’s picked his sleeping brother up from the back seat and carried him
inside, carried him to bed after bed, shouldered his weight because Sam would
let him do anything.
 
Sam’s not always sweet like that any more.
 
Dean slides down a little, spreading his legs until Sam’s blissed out weight
sits perfect on his cock.  Sam’s sweet now, high on whatever it is that makes
him like this, whatever Dean’s breathed into him and sucked out of him. 
 
“Make me come, Sammy.”
 
It sounds like less of a command than it should but Sam won’t notice.  He
moans, out of it and raspy as he grinds down on Dean, practiced and sure in his
pace. Sam grips one hand on the chair and drags the other one to Dean’s mouth,
just as sure in what Dean wants as Dean is that Sam’ll be begging him for
another burn before this one even blisters up.
 
Sam’s fingers slide into his mouth, come slipping onto Dean’s tongue as he
sucks, breathing deep and rutting up into his brother. Dean’s fingers smell
like tar but Sam’s never will.  Dean won’t let him smoke his own cigarettes.
 
Dean comes hard, one of those ground-out orgasms that he rips out of himself
through sheer will, too much fabric between him and Sam to get what his body
really wants. 
 
Maybe Dean needs it to hurt a little too.
 
“You good?”
 
Sam laughs, fox eyes heavy like he’s stoned. He’s beautiful.
 
“I’m good.”
 
He kisses Dean deep, smoke and come and the biting drag of his teeth over
Dean’s lip.  He rests his forehead on Dean’s, looking down.  The half-moon of
his fingernail presses in next to the full circle of his new burn, thumb
pressed white against red-raw flesh. 
 
Sam’s skin will heal but the scars never really go away.
 
 
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