
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/296743.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Weechesters, Wincest_-_Freeform, Sibling_Incest, Virginity, First_Time,
      Fingerfucking, Rimming, Gift_Fic, Porn
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-12-20 Words: 4072
****** Winchester Rule #34 ******
by BewareTheIdes15
Summary
     Theoretically Sam gets his sexual education at a series of middle and
     high schools crisscrossing the United States. How it actually goes is
     a little something like this.
Notes
     Written as a gift fic for silverfoxflower for the spn_j2_xmas. I
     started out writing one of the prompts but it ran away with me and
     didn’t really fit anymore, so I decided just to throw together some
     of the likes and hopefully create something fun
Theoretically Sam gets his sexual education at a series of middle and high
schools crisscrossing the United States like a spider web from awkward and
disaffected health class teachers and slightly gawky girls under bleachers and
in broom closets. But then again, theoretically, Sam's just an ordinary
teenager with a dad who moves him around a lot for his job as a travelling
salesman/mechanic/whatever the story is this week and an older brother who
makes trouble and chases tail.
How it actually goes is Dean's tongue down Sam's throat three days after he
turns fourteen and Dean's hand on Sam's cock before he’s old enough to drive.
How it goes is Dean and Sam alone in too many dreary motel rooms with too many
hormones and too little to do besides mess around with each other. How it goes
is a week during Sam's junior year of high school when he hardly makes it four
hours at a stretch without coming.
How it goes is a little something like this.
They have this rule: one hour after dad leaves. If he's going to change his
mind or remember he left something in the room or suddenly get an emergency
call and turn the car around without warning, it'll happen within the first
hour and for all the stupid risks they taken over the years, that's one neither
of them wants to chance. Sam honestly can't even fathom what their father would
do if he ever walked in on the two of them, his brain just won't even allow for
the possibility. Sam likes it that way.
Still, that one hour is consistently one of the worst of Sam's life. He keeps
expecting to grow out of this phase that he slammed into headfirst at thirteen
- this phase where he feels climb-the-walls crazy for it, starved for a little
touch when he probably has more sex than the whole Middlebury High football
team combined. It's frustrating, and about ten times worse because Dean totally
knows and totally loves it.
That's why he's sitting over there on the other bed, flipping through the
channels as if he's seriously bored when Sam can freaking see the hard-on
tenting his sweats. Because Dean likes for Sam to be the one to make the first
move. Because, Sam suspects, Dean just likes to torture him.
Academically, Sam is aware that Dean's hot for him. His brother has been party
to every single one of Sam's 'firsts' from kisses right on up through bondage,
has introduced Sam to literally everything he knows about his body and how to
make it feel good, and he sees the way Dean looks at him, burning with intent,
he's just never really going to understand why.
Sam's not as scrawny as he used to be, graduated up from slightly pudgy small-
fry to lanky and gangly, but it's still nothing like Dean. Dean's got a body
while Sam's still stuck looking like a kid that got stretched in a taffy-puller
and there's nothing about it that he can understand Dean getting worked up over
when he's got girls who could be in magazines throwing themselves at him all
the time.
Still, Dean looks when Sam pulls his t-shirt off over his head, trying for
smooth and probably failing miserably. He can feel his hair sticking up in
weird cowlicks and tries to smooth it down with his hands, most likely ruining
the effect altogether.
Dean rakes his eyes over Sam's exposed chest, sandpaper and silk, licks his
lips, doesn't do a goddamn thing. Jerk.
Sam has to do it this way though, by Dean's rules - and there are plenty of
them - or just pack it in altogether. He doesn't know what Dean would do if he
just said screw it and pretended to watch whatever Dean's settled the TV on;
he's never made it any farther into that plan than thinking about it. One day
his libido is going to level out and he is so going to make Dean pay.
For now he undoes the belt holding up his hand-me-down jeans, tries not to
blush too bad when his dick slaps hard and already wet against his stomach,
knees up onto the bed next to his brother. Dean's trying to play it cool -
forever and always - but his eyes get stuck there between Sam’s legs where he
still feels sensitive and strange.
The bare hang of his balls gets him a lifted eyebrow, not quite enough to
distract from the catch in Dean's breath. There's a dark spot forming on Dean's
sweats where the smooth curve of his cockhead strains obviously against it.
"Wasn't really what I meant when I said you needed a haircut," Dean says and
maybe it'd sound smart-ass if it didn't come out so husky.
The backs of his fingers tickle-itch against the fine dusting of hair on the
inside of Sam's thighs. Sam's cock leaps, stomach muscles bunching to hold back
the urge to just grab Dean's hand and rub off against it, take anything he can
get. Fingertips skirt around the freshly-shaved skin, tip-toe up the line where
Sam's thigh meets his hip and back down again.
"All of it?" his brother asks, not waiting for an answer before he's pushing
further between Sam's legs, kneading at that sensitive middle space before
forcing their way up into the crack of his ass. He feels around with the same
expertise and attention to detail he uses honing a knife or packing bullets,
lovingly careful and maddeningly slow.
The groan that wants to spill out nearly chokes him when Dean prods at his
hole, finding it just slick and open enough for a finger to slide in easy.
Holding back that shiver that rocks up Sam’s spine at the smoothness of it is
another matter entirely.
Sometimes he wonders if this is the kind of thing he'd be into if he and Dean
had grown up like everybody else, if he'd still feel this weird, confusing need
to having something up in him or if he's just trained himself that way, like
how he can go straight from deep sleep to ready to fight without warning
because that's one of those skills they just need to survive. Times like now he
figures that the answer doesn't matter very much because he and Dean didn't
grow up like everybody else and Dean's fingers inside him are only challenged
by his brother's tongue for the crown of 'best thing Sam's ever felt'.
Yet, anyway.
"Damn." Dean sounds like he just ran a mile and swallowed some thumbtacks for a
chaser. His finger sort of stirs against Sam’s insides, drawing concentric
circles on the tender flesh as he slides it out to the very tip, pushes back in
again with two. There's just a hint of a burn from where Sam's body has started
to tighten back up again since his shower earlier but it disappears when Dean
crooks against that spot that makes Sam forget how to see for a second.
"You promised." It ends up coming out more of a little-kid-whine than he was
hoping. That's all Dean's fault though for leaning in to suck one of Sam's
nipples into his mouth right as Sam was saying it. That shit is dirty pool.
Something that might be agreement gets mumbled against Sam's skin, not letting
up with the slow fuck of Dean’s fingers. At the same time he's maneuvering Sam
to straddle his lap, covering his pebbled skin in soft licks and bites. It's a
positive direction to be moving, but Sam's not going to let himself get
distracted this time. Not much anyway.
Dean has some weird idea that he needs to protect Sam from himself or Dean or
something - as if at some point Sam's going to realize that wanting to climb
his brother like a tree is just a phase he's going through because that makes
all kinds of sense. But Sam's been seventeen for just over two weeks - of
course this would be the one time in his life Dean decides to care about things
being legal, nevermind the against-the-law-in-all-50-states incest thing - and
he is finally going to have sex just like Dean's been swearing they will for
six months even if he has to knock Dean out, tie him to the bed and ride him to
do it. It's happening. Today.
A third finger flirts at the rim, just mapping out where the other two are
taking him apart by inches. He's not really wet enough to take another but
that's rectified pretty fast when Dean spits onto the fingers of his other hand
and snakes them around to paint messily over Sam's hole, one slipping in enough
to stuff some more of the saliva inside. He tugs a little with the fingertip on
his way out, holding Sam open to the air just long enough to make his heart
skip a beat at how filthy it feels.
As soon as he's released, that third finger is slotting in all the way to the
knuckle. Sam grinds down onto them helplessly.
"Dean," he gasps into his brother's shoulder, "You said. You said you would."
It’d probably help if he could actively avoid reminding Dean of the fact that
he used to have to tie Sam’s shoelaces for him and stuff, but his big boy words
don’t seem to be coming out right. That’s one of any number of things that
Dean’s hands on him seem to do to Sam that he’s actively not thinking about
ever.
Dean's free hand traces over the bumps of Sam's spine, up until he's cupping
Sam's head to breathe against his temple. "Dunno Sammy, wouldn't wanna do it if
you're not into it. You sure you really want it? Want my cock up that tight.
little. ass?" He punctuates the words with hard, mind-bending thrusts of his
fingers, rough enough that Sam wonders if he can get a bruise between his
cheeks but loves it all the same.
And it's the most ridiculous question in the world because Sam has begged -
literally, physically on his knees, begged - for Dean to fuck him. There's
probably not a human being on the planet that wants to have sex more than Sam
does. Hell, his dick is starting to make a little puddle on Dean’s abs. Yes, he
fucking well wants this.
He growls something to that general effect too, though it might lose a little
eloquence between all of the gasped stops and the sudden moans that steal whole
sections of the diatribe. Dean seems to get it anyway, since he laughs all low
and pleased, big-brother sadistic.
"Yeah? You want me to punch your v-card, kiddo?"
He rubs over Sam's sweet spot at the same time, negating the whole question
because like hell Sam can answer. Doesn't seem to matter anyway since just a
second later he's saying, "Prove it. Show me how bad you want it."
In a way, Sam hates that he responds like this - that anybody, especially Dean,
ordering him around gets him hot. It needles at the part of him that, despite
everything else, is just Dean's little brother, and that part of him is always
going to rise to the challenge. At the same time, he can't really pretend he
doesn't get off on it too.
Going with the slow rhythm Dean has set up, Sam grinds down onto his brother's
fingers, clenching and flexing in turn to feel Dean's breath stutter. Without
warning, Dean stops moving his hand, just holds it still for Sam to fuck back
onto. Shivers run up Sam's spine as he twists his hips, rolling and wiggling
until he gets himself into the right position to have Dean hitting him exactly
how he wants. It makes his stomach feel hollowed out and hot, head gone fuzzy
with the feverish rush through his veins.
Since Dean's not stopping him, Sam picks up the pace, taking his brother's
fingers and losing them again quick and steady. Every couple of downstrokes he
pauses, rubbing himself against Dean's knuckles to feel the fat, hard stretch.
He props his head up next to Dean's, arms looped around his brother's shoulders
for his cheek to rest on, putting his mouth right on level with Dean's ear. It
takes work to keep his noises soft, breathy, like it's so good he can barely
make a sound which is actually mostly true. More than that, though, he knows
Dean goes nuts for it - nothing winds his brother up faster than hearing how
good he makes Sam feel.
The hard, damp jut of Dean's cock brushes against the inside of Sam's thigh
with every motion, tapping at the tender, naked skin of his balls like a
perfect kind of torment. Thick fingers tighten on the back of Sam's head, start
to squirm around in him, just tickling at his insides, a telegraph code of how
hard this is nailing Dean too.
It feeds in on itself, Sam getting off on knowing he's making Dean crazy and
Dean rubbing around in him and whispering filth that makes Sam's guts go
liquid. By the time he's pushing down on Dean's fingers hard enough to hear a
fleshy smack with each thrust Sam's so on fire with it that he doesn't even
care that Dean managed to worm his way out of fucking him again, he just wants
to come before the ache in his balls makes him scream.
Which is, of course, when Dean stops.
A strangled noise creaks out of Sam's throat at the bereft flutter of muscle
where he suddenly finds himself empty. His body's all worked up but his brain
has fallen behind, unable to make heads or tails of what's happening until Dean
has already got him flipped over onto his back.
Dean mumbles something Sam can't hear over the pound of his pulse and then he's
shoving Sam's legs apart, his head down between them to get his mouth where his
fingers just were thirty seconds ago. The buzz in Sam's blood surges into a
full electric current, sputtery crackles kicking up sparks.
He makes a grab at his own knees in a useless attempt at getting himself to
stop shaking. It gives Dean a free hand to hold Sam open with so he can really
get up in there, his tongue sliding in smooth and almost gratingly easy after
the weird, sweet pressure of fingers.
As good as Dean's mouth feels - and it feels freaking fantastic no matter where
Dean puts it to work - Sam kind of doubts that's the reason that this turns his
crank as much as it does. What does it is the way Dean loves it, obviously and
unabashedly.
Any time Sam had thought about this before Dean showed him what it was all
about, Sam had kind of figured 'eating' was just a turn of phrase, like how
there's no real blowing involved in a good blow job. But obviously nobody ever
told Dean that because the way he goes at Sam is like he honestly intends to
devour him, like there’s a four-course dinner shoved up there, like Sam's the
best thing he's ever tasted and he's starving for more; all moans and slurps,
pulling Sam in so tight that his lips will be puffy afterward.
Sam's balls are drawn up so close to his body it feels like a legitimate source
of danger but every time he tries to get a hand anywhere south of his belly
button, Dean knocks it away. He might actually start to cry if Dean doesn't let
him come soon.
Then he's got a couple of Dean's fingers to ride again, Dean tongue stabbing
between them in short, wet pushes and all Sam can do with his hands is twist
them up in the sheets. There's a crazy burn coiled up tight in his belly,
knotting like tangled thread under Dean's puppet-master touch. Lightning-bug
flashes spiral out from it, dance along Sam's nerves in places that have fuck-
all to do with his dick or his ass. How anybody has ever gotten Dean into their
bed and let him walk away afterward is so far beyond Sam he doesn’t even have
words for it.
"You really want it don't you?" Dean breathes, snugged up under the heft of
Sam's balls. He sounds awestruck, incredulous, and for about four seconds, Sam
legitimately goes insane.
"Yes!" he spits because it's either that or curl into fetal position and scream
from how unfair it is that he still hasn't blown his load. "Yes, I've wanted
your fucking cock in my fucking ass for two fucking years, Dean, now man the
fuck up and fucking fuck me already, ok?"
He's pawing at the back of Dean's head, his shoulders and chest when his
brother starts to sit up, just needing something to keep him grounded or he's
going to fly off the handle, just lose his freaking mind here. And Dean,
despite all of his 'for your own good' bullshit, the one thing Sam's always
been able to count on him to do is 'take care of Sammy'.
"Ok, ok," Dean shushes, face pressed into Sam's neck. His hands trace over
Sam's sides, steady motions that are probably supposed to soothe him and bring
him down but that's just not happening. His skin feels raw, every inch of him
overloaded and desperate for more.
All of the air in Sam's lungs squeezes out like toothpaste from a tube as Dean
lays down over him. He must have pushed his sweats down because when the head
of his dick slips against Sam's sac it leaves a wet trail of precome behind.
Then at long freaking last it's nudging up against Sam's hole, skidding off
aimlessly without Dean's hand to guide it.
It’s stupid for Sam to be shaking. He wants this, so bad it’s the only thing he
can think about sometimes, strung tight from the holding pattern he’s been
caught in for years. But still he’s trembling, junkie-shivers from the
adrenaline, chest clenching like a fist.
His calf slides over the curve of Dean's ass when he hitches his legs up around
his brother's hips, trying in vain to get them aligned right for this to -
finally finally finally - happen.
Dean halts with his face hovering just above Sam’s, flushed and terrified and
completely desperate looking. Sweat glistens at his eyebrows, the little dip
above his upper lip. His eyes seem huge, great green depths swallowing up Sam’s
attention, feeding on it the way Dean will never admit – though Sam knows it
anyway – he always has.
He breathes, “Sammy,” thumb tracing Sam’s jaw before slipping away, down, and
then he’s-
He’s-
He-
Oh!
A single strained note escapes from Sam before Dean is smashing their mouths
together, inhaling the unidentifiable noises that he can’t hold back.
With Dean sucking on his tongue it’s less overwhelming, a familiar distraction
from the stinging, alien shove of Dean’s dick forcing him open. He can’t
breathe around it, no room for his lungs to expand with all of that thick, hot
weight taking up space inside of him. The sizzle of it is radiating out along
his nerves, dialing up the heat in his body until it feels like he’ll
incinerate at a touch. Somewhere between his ass and his brain, though, the
message gets confused so that by the time Dean is pressed up against him the
waves of sensation throbbing out through him are starting to make him feel
good.
Really good.
So good that Dean’s first tentative thrust has Sam clinging onto him like he’s
the only thing keeping Sam alive. A slow slide out turns him rigid, gasping
around the strange, gritty friction he’s helpless to stop. The next push and
his whole body is giving a livewire jerk, helpless sound wrenched free when
Dean’s cockhead won’t stop pushing at him there, right there.
That’s the moment Sam forgets how he lived without this for so long.
Dean’s mouth smears kisses into Sam’s cheek, down his neck, fueling the bonfire
crackling low in his belly. There’s too much going on inside of him to keep it
all down, screwed-up, delicious thrills ever time Dean’s cock punches deep into
him, rasping over things that don’t get nearly enough action to account for how
sensitive they are.
All the noise seems to be working wonders for Dean, his lip starting to curl in
that way that says he’s about to blow it right down Sam’s throat. Except it’s
not his throat this time and damn that makes his dick leak, just thinking about
Dean painting him wet that way, how it’s going to be stuffed up in there and
then slowly leak out, drip all over him until Dean decides he needs to get back
in again.
Shit, Sam’s going to come soon, too soon, and he wants it so bad he can
practically taste it.
“C’mon,” Dean says, so turned on Sam can see it in the black wells of his eyes.
Then he’s got a hand on Sam’s cock, off-balance enough that it messes up the
rhythm for a second until Sam works out how to roll up into it and help out.
Sam’s mouth hangs open uselessly, unable to do anything about it when Dean’s
sweat-salty lips skim against it. Dean’s tongue doesn’t seem too put off by
that going by the way it rubs itself on the roof of Sam’s mouth anyway, slicks
down to trace out the curves of his teeth.
Wrapped up in the flood of sensation vibrating out of his pores, Sam’s not
keeping very good track of what his body is up to unchaperoned, so he misses
the exact second he clamps down curiously around Dean and instead gets hit with
the reverb like a crowbar to the face. A grunt jolts out of him, not the
sexiest sound in the world but it’s a little less embarrassing than the noise
Dean makes.
The thrusts into him stutter, fist sliding up and down his cock squeezing just
the right side of too tight while the heel of Dean’s thumb digs in against his
slit and all at once, that’s all Sam can take.
Most people will never know this, but there are these frequencies where
supernatural things can be heard. Generally it comes across as fuzz on a radio
or phone line, gone before anyone notices, too far out of the human range of
hearing to make an impression anyway. As Dean crushes Sam into the mattress and
pounds the orgasm out of him in short choppy bursts, Sam’s pretty sure he can
actually pick up on those things. It sounds a lot like angels singing.
Dean doesn’t stop, his rhythm turning manic as Sam’s synapses fry in the barren
wasteland of his skull, all of the operational parts of his brain draining away
to spurt out in sticky ropes over his stomach. The grip on Sam’s ass goes
tight, blunt points of pain washed out by the fact that literally everything
everywhere in the world feels good right now. A high, sweet gasp drags out of
Dean like somebody hitched a tow truck to it and there’s a sting on Sam’s scalp
that he’s pretty sure means that Dean just bit his hair which is weird but at
this point just sort of funny because Sam’s too high on sex to care.
He lets himself float for a long while after that. He’s waited seventeen years
for this – ok, fine, some of those probably don’t count since he didn’t have a
sex drive, but still - he’s earned the right to bask.
Because it almost always is, he’s not entirely shocked that it’s Dean who drags
him back out of it.
“Happy now?” he gripes, but the smile is obvious under the roughed-up scratch
of his voice. He sounds just as doped up and giddy as Sam feels.
Not up to actually forming words, Sam mumbles something that should approximate
a response. It must work because Dean laughs, the little bit of motion enough
to pull his softening dick free, making them both groan.
Carefully Dean rolls off of him, keeping one arm out for Sam to slide under and
snuggle up against Dean’s side.
Winchester Rule #34 – it’s not a chick flick moment if you don’t verbally
acknowledge it.
  Works inspired by this one
      [Podfic]_Winchester_Rule_#34_|_written_by_bewaretheides15 by Tipsy_Kitty
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