
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11014746.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, John_Winchester, Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Wincest_-_Freeform, Weecest, John_is_oblivious, Anal_Fingering, Teasing,
      Payback, Hot, Love, Humor, Kissing, Rimming, Diners, Biting, Kinky_Sam,
      Kinky_Dean_Winchester, Boys_In_Love, Brothers, Incest, oh_my, Semi-Public
      Fingering, Revenge
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-05-27 Words: 2268
****** Vengeful Fingers ******
by Yuval25
Summary
     This may or may not be the stupidest thing Dean has ever done. No,
     wait, this is without question the stupidest thing Dean has ever
     done. Might be the stupidest thing anyone's ever done. On a global
     scale. That includes aliens.
     John looks at them suspiciously, eyes narrowed and mouth pulled into
     a tight, grim line. "Pay attention, boys," he scolds.
     "Yes, sir," Dean gives a small nod.
     Behind the cover of Sam's back, Dean's fingers keep working into his
     little brother relentlessly.
Notes
     Aww I've been waiting for a whole week to post this. A WEEK, can you
     believe it? But I had to edit and then I added a few things and then
     I had to edit again and... well, here it is.
     Shameless wincest smut, part fingers, part revenge.
     The only thing that could make me feel better right now is to see
     your reviews! :) :)
     Enjoy!
John looks at them suspiciously, eyes narrowed and mouth pulled into a tight,
grim line. "Pay attention, boys," he scolds, sharp eyes settling on Dean's then
Sam's faces, reading into their expressions. Their very fake, very realistic-
looking expressions of extreme attentiveness.
"Yes, sir," Dean gives a small nod to strengthen his meaning, pushing his
shoulder into Sam's back and making the kid jerk forward with a gasp, his hazel
eyes widening as he chokes on his milkshake. Dean holds back the smirk as Sam
echoes his 'Yes, sir' through his sputtering.
John nods.
Behind the cover of Sam's back, Dean's fingers keep working into his little
brother relentlessly.
This may or may not be the stupidest thing Dean has ever done. No, wait, this
is without question the stupidest thing Dean has ever done. Might be the
stupidest thing anyone's ever done. On a global scale. That includes aliens.
They're at one of those order-at-the-counter-and-collect-it-yourself kind of
places, where the overpriced rent has taken its toll on décor and human
resources in the form of splintering, creaky wooden chairs, no-longer-very-
cushioned cushioned booth benches – they have been lucky to score one of those
instead of the splinter-splinter-little-chair deals, even if the shockingly red
cushions are kind of ugly – and understandable lack of waiters, since there are
not even enough people in this tiny little spot of a town – camp, gathering,
one-house-and-a-chapel? – to man the place. Or woman it. Even the chap
operating the antique cash register doesn't look local. If a total sum of about
three people can be categorized as local. Like there's even enough of a place
to be local at.
Dean bides his time, ignores pointed, jabbing elbows from Sam and soft little
stifled moans Sam muffles with the glass of strawberry milkshake. Eventually,
John sighs and quits pointing at the mess of papers he'd spread all over the
slightly sticky tabletop.
"I'm gonna get us some grub, whadduya want?" he asks them, rubbing the bridge
of his nose with his thumb and index finger and looking like he could use a cup
of coffee or ten.
"Whatever you're getting'," Dean answers, easy as pie, and, hey, that's an
idea. "Pie for enders', yeah?"
John grunts an affirmative, and raises his head to look expectantly at Sammy,
who swallows thickly – he's not taken a sip, Dean notices smugly – a couple of
times before answering. "I would like a salad."
John rolls his eyes, but doesn't argue – he must be more tired than Dean had
realized – instead he turns away from them and crosses the diner to the cashier
dude who looks about two seconds from falling asleep.
"Dean, knock it off," Sam hisses as soon as John's out of earshot, voice
breathless and mouth wide open in panting.
"I dunno, man. I'm kinda havin' a great time, here," Dean teases, flexing his
fingers for emphasis.
Sam's voice breaks on a groan and Dean repeats the action, the stream of
awesome hot Sammy baby so good blush so pretty perfecthe doesn't let past his
lips getting louder inside his head like someone had just turned the volume up.
Sam squirms and flushes, mouth going slack and eyelids dropping a little when
Dean starts stroking the two fingers he's got firmly rammed inside his brother
up and down, caressing the soft, velvety skin with his rough finger pads.
Dean's eyes track John across the diner, speaking to the register guy, probably
placing their order.
He both sees and feels Sam jump about a foot in the air, knobby knees knocking
against the underside of the table, when he grazes his blunt fingernails down
Sam's inner walls. Sam crams half his own fist into his mouth and bites down,
but Dean still catches the whine that escapes his throat and smirks.
"Again, Dee," Sam whispers, his floppy hair falling into his eyes. Dean should
probably cut it for him, but he finds himself unable to grab the scissors and
trim those brown locks every time he gets the chance to do that, remembering
how much Sammy likes having his hair pulled, how much Dean likes how messy it
gets when he's got Sam pinned under him and he's pounding into the hot, sweaty
curve of his brother with so much force that he actually pushes Sam's quivering
body up the bed with each thrust.
Dean does it again, pushing his fingers higher, deeper, to cover as much land
as possible as he curls them just right and starts pulling them out of Sam,
painfully slow, fingernails dragging across the sensitive flesh as Sam bites
his lip and exhales a stuttering breath.
Dean continues to play with Sam's ass until John returns, a tray in each hand
and a disgruntled scowl that is usually followed by either a snap or the silent
treatment. Dean's hoping for the latter, although the first one does have the
advantage of John storming off afterwards and leaving Dean and Sam enough time
for two-to-three rounds of uninterrupted fun-time, at least.
Sam hurriedly pushes the papers scattered across the table to one side of the
table, gathering them in neat piles, unconsciously grinding down on Dean's
explorative fingers and keeping his eyes down. Dean bites the inside of his
cheek to avoid snickering like he's just heard a dirty joke – Sam is dirty,
alright, fucking filthy when he wants to be, sometimes even when he doesn't
even try to be, but Dean is more likely to tackle him to the floor and take him
raw at this point than burst out laughing, though that, too, has been known to
happen every so often – and stuffs a fry into his mouth with the hand that is
not buried knuckle-deep inside his little brother.
"What's gotten into you, boys?" John grumbles, and Dean bites the inside of his
cheek hard enough to taste blood as Sam's hands snatch the milkshake to mask
his cough behind his drink. "Get your heads straight, this is a hunt!"
"Sorry," Dean has no idea how he manages to keep an even tone and a straight
face, but he does.
Sam doesn't.
"Yes-s-" he coughs again raspingly, inhaling loudly as Dean starts scissoring
his fingers ruthlessly, stretching as far as he can. "-sir."
John's not even looking at them. He's got his eyes on a creasy piece of torn-
off old newspaper article, finger tracing the letters as his other hand brings
forkfuls upon forkfuls of corn-speckled-white-rice to his openly chewing mouth.
And he wonders why Dean and Sam grew up to be such savages.
It's only because of John's distractedness that Dean risks moving his wrist a
bit more, gathering enough momentum to jam his fingers into Sam more
forcefully, Sam jerks and shudders. Not one of those subtle shudders, either. A
full-body shudder.
John raises his eyes and frowns at Dean's little brother.
"B-brain f-f-freeze," Sam stammers, hands gripping the glass of milkshake
almost hard enough to break it. Dean's feeling a tad apprehensive but that
feeling quickly diminishes when John seems to accept Sam's bluff and returns to
his paper-reading.
Sam only picks at his salad, so Dean spins their joined tray so Sam can pick at
the more calorie-laden French fries from his plate, instead. Sam doesn't seem
to notice the switch from crisp-fresh to crisp-fried, though, because he keeps
shifting the food across the plate, occasionally bringing a fry to his lips and
nibbling at it. Dean thinks it's got a lot to do with how hard he's fucking Sam
with his fingers now, the change in posture as he leans into Sam's space to
snatch a fry or two allowing him more leeway and bolder wrist-movements.
They finish their food in silence – apart from a few not-entirely-suppressed
sounds from Sam – and when John puts his empty cup of coffee back down on the
table with a resolute clank, Dean counts that as their cue to leave.
He drags his fingers slowly out of Sam, prodding at the fluttering, swollen
hole a couple of times for good measure, and wipes his hand discretely on the
inside of Sam's underwear – if Sam had any capacity of forming a lucid thought,
he would have been mortified and probably slap Dean's bicep sharply enough to
leave a gigantic, bright red handprint – before slipping it out from under Sam
and into his jacket pocket, making a mental note to avoid touching any part of
John and John's with that hand unless there's a life or death situation. Maybe
not even then.
Sam groans out a bitchy, "Dean," under his breath, but gets up at Dean's non-
too-gentle nudging, standing on shaky legs and trying not to let his front be
visible from any angle, lest someone catches sight of the woody he's sporting.
"Later, Sammy," Dean retorts back with a wink, getting Sam's trademark eye-roll
in response.
In the car, Dean rides shotgun and Sam tries not to squirm in the back with
every bump the Impala hits. Dean finds it endlessly amusing.
"It's gonna be a long ride, boys. You might wanna catch a wink," John informs
them as he pulls onto the interstate.
Sam's face morphs into something so tragic Dean actually feels a speck of
sympathy for the kid. All turned on and teased, forced to endure hours in an
enclosed space with the source of his sexual frustration as well as his own
father. Must be torture.
Dean looks back over his shoulder and shoots his little brother a smirk that
fully expresses his smugness over the situation.
Sam glares at him through floppy bangs and huffs in irritation.
Yeah, Dean's an awesome big brother.
 
Dean should have known it would all come bite him in the ass someday.
Literally, because Sam's a kinky bitch and likes to leave teeth imprints on
every available space on Dean's body. Of course, Dean has rules about those,
too. Rule. One rule. No bite marks where Dad can see. So there.
"Fuck, Sammy, let up," Dean groans as Sam finds that extra sensitive spot – one
of many – on the inside of Dean's thigh. Sam lets up, but it takes him a couple
of seconds, and Dean curses internally. He should have never let Sam see just
how much Dean likes it when Sam takes him just this bit much further, bites
with just a little bit more force, extends the pain just a little bit longer
than Dean can handle. It's one of Dean's sick pleasures – one of many, since
getting off on the fact that it's his brother he's fucking is not exactly what
one would call normal or healthy. "Bitey bitch."
Sam hums as he rubs his cheeks over Dean's ass, before nuzzling under. Dean
jerks, muscles pulling impossibly tenser when he feels Sam's teeth graze his
balls.
"Sam," he says warningly.
Dean feels the slick wet warmth of Sam's tongue flicker over his sack, before
his little brother's lips close over it, sucking lightly. Dean gradually
relaxes into the ministrations, pleasure rolling over him in waves as Sam licks
and sucks on his skin.
"C'mon, Sammy," Dean urges, pushing his ass back so Sam's nose shoves into the
crack, seeking stimulation. "C'mon, baby."
Sam complies, and Dean gasps when smooth, slick tongue starts breeching him in
tiny thrusts. He spreads his thighs further, giving Sammy room to shuffle
closer between them, and Sam puts both of his palms on Dean's cheeks to spread
them so he could spear his tongue deeper into Dean.
Dean muffles his moan by burying his head in the pillow, his fingers digging
into the springy mattress as his toes curl and release on either side of Sam's
waist.
A few minutes later, Dean is breathing hard into the pillow, unable to stifle
his soft moans and deep growls and filthy stream of yeah baby boy fuck me with
your tongue giving it to me so good as Sam moans into Dean's ass like he's the
one getting licked open.
Just when Dean thinks he's going to come, half-way through reaching down with
one hand to pull at his painfully hard cock, Sam suddenly springs from the bed,
his tongue leaving Dean's hole clenching and fluttering and fuck, so empty.
"Didn't Dad say to be ready for travel by four o'clock?" Sam asks hurriedly,
throwing on his clothes – that's Dean's shirt, the little shit – and zipping
his duffle shut after shoving the bottle of lube he'd taken out of it earlier –
and hadn't used, the little fuck – as deep into it as he possibly can – as
opposed to his cock in Dean's ass, the little bitch – and looking at Dean with
something fierce and bitchy shining in his eyes.
"No, it was six," Dean corrects him, remembering what Sam had said when Dean
had stepped out of the shower earlier. 'Dad just called. We're supposed to be
packed up and ready to go by six PM.'
Oh.
THE LITTLE–
"Revenge!" Sam cries, pumping one fist in the air and yelping when Dean growls
and pounces, managing to evade Dean's grabby hands and the fate of doom only
because Dean hasn't had a fully functioning brain in at least ten minutes and
his movements are hindered by the ache in his unfilled asshole.
"You're gonna get it, Sammy!" Dean snarls after him as the kid shuts himself in
the tiny motel bathroom, leaving Dean to mourn his un-fucked-ness as he pulls
on his boxers, jeans and shirt regretfully.
"At least one of us will!" Sam shouts back, cheeky as hell and so, so in
trouble when Dean finally gets his hands on him.
Revenge, indeed.
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