Vaccinium Cyanococcusby nomelon and dreamlittleyo
Rating: NC-17
~~~  Dean didn't know if it was about the lost shoe or the stolen pie, but the look on Sam's face was wrong in every possible way. Shattered and desperate, like everything in the world had gone wrong, spattering his heart in gooshy pieces across the pavement. It ached to see him that way, hurt somewhere so deep Dean couldn't even identify it, and he needed to fix it right goddamn now. Problem was, he didn't have the slightest idea how. Sam was probably seconds away from wanting to Talk About It, which Dean wanted to avoid at all costs. Winchesters never talked their issues through, so that was a total non-option. What they really needed was a little non-verbal communication. Something manly. Something to clear the air. Something with lots of grunting and back-slapping. Something Sam would agree to without too much of an argument. Sparring hadn't really helped them air out their problems in a while (and had started causing other, more dangerous problems if Dean were to be honest with himself which, admittedly, had never really been his thing). All he could think of was finding a bar and getting Sam off-his-ass drunk. It wasn't his best plan ever, but it was his only plan, which left the road ahead clear. No surrender, no regrets, and no more of Sam looking at him like one of them had just kicked a puppy. Dean just had to find a bar and put the plan into action.
Three hours later, Dean decided this was officially the worst plan he'd ever, ever had. Drunken, perky Sam was ten times more of a pain in the ass than sober, miserable Sam. Worse again when he factored in the sugar-buzz Sam was still working through from eating an entire blueberry pie. Not that Dean was bitter about the pie. Oh, no. Dean was the best big brother on the entire goddamn planet for letting that one go. The more Sam had to drink, the more handsy he became. Slapping Dean's back with enough force to nearly knock Dean over every time he barked like a seal at one of his own lame jokes. Banging those huge palms off the bar to punctuate every sentence. Knocking their bowl of peanuts flying on more than one occasion. Nudging his elbow into Dean's ribs or shoulder-checking him at every opportunity, usually just when Dean was about to take a sip of his beer. It only got worse when he started rambling on about-- Jesus Christ, was Sam really trying to explain the Dewey Decimal System? Was this really his idea of interesting conversation? How had Sam ever gotten laid? How were they even related? Sam hooked a hand around the back of Dean's neck and squeezed, right at the sweet spot at the base of his neck, and rubbed his thumb in distracting little circles just behind Dean's ear. He was looking Dean right in the eye and breathing his beer-breath in Dean's face as he pulled him in close and shouted to be heard over the twangy screech of country music that was playing too loud. Dean realized, a little belatedly, that he hadn't heard a word Sam had said to him in the past five minutes, and not just because he couldn't give a flying fuck about faceted classification schemes. He'd been too busy watching Sam's mouth move when he talked, too busy watching Sam take occasional pulls on his Corona and lick the lime off his lips. Too busy trying to remember not to lean into the warm hand Sam had wrapped around the back of his neck. "Dude," Dean said, interrupting Sam's diatribe on improper shelving practices, and it was only when it took him three attempts to say it that he realized how incredibly drunk he was. Hold on. That wasn't right. He frowned and blinked a couple of times. "How come... how come I'm drunker'n you?" Sam gave him a weird, sideways little smile, and ducked his head, looking bashful. "I ate that whole pie, remember? I think it's soaking up the alcohol." He squeezed Dean's neck again, all wide eyes and brotherly concern. "Maybe we should get you back to the motel." Dean nodded, his head bobbing heavily. It was definitely time to get the hell out of there. He slid off his stool and right into Sam's space. His knees wobbled beneath him, so he grabbed hold of the front of Sam's shirt. Just for balance. It was either that or end up with his face pressed up against his brother's chest, and Dean was pretty sure that could get awkward. He looked up to see Sam smiling down at him, warm and indulgent. Dean swallowed. Maybe the cold air outside would sober him up.
It figured that the cold air didn't actually help at all. They were on foot; no reason to put his baby's front fender at risk when the whole point of the evening was excessive booze, so they had a walk of about a dozen blocks ahead of them to get back to the motel. The way Dean was meandering all over the sidewalk, it was likely to take them twice as long this time around. The night air was blessedly cool against Dean's skin, but it wasn't doing a damn thing to help sober him up. The moon was sort of wobbling overhead, swimming unevenly in the night sky, and Dean wished like hell he could've gotten some of that pie. Not goddamn fair, he thought, scowling a little. Even in the muted light, passing from one streetlight to the next, he could see that Sam's lips still had a blueish tinge, mocking him, reminding him of all the things he could never have. Dean wanted to be too proud to lean on his brother for support, he really did, because this was making him look bad. The plan had been to get Sam crazy-stupid drunk. Which had worked pretty well, actually. But Sam was still doing better than Dean, and that was patently unfair. Goddamn baby brother with his impressive, muscled body mass and his goddamn righteous smirk as he helped hold Dean steady along the sidewalk. Goddamn pie-stealing son of a bitch, with his distracting mouth and the body heat pulsing off him like a furnace. Goddamn Sam for the fact that Dean couldn't stand upright on his own right now, because it was obviously Sam's fault in every possible way. But pride had nothing to do with reality just then, and Dean fought not to be grateful for the arm around his waist, too close and too warm and holding him somewhat steady on his feet. It wasn't fair. Sam shouldn't get to be drunk and the coordinated one. Dean decided abruptly that he had suffered enough of the amused-lopsided-superior-drunken smirk on his brother's face, and he dropped his eyes to the cracked pavement at his feet. He watched his footsteps for a moment or three, staring down as his feet carried him along an uneven sidewalk with dry, scrubby grass growing between every square. Sam's footsteps blurred along his peripheral vision, and Dean eventually had to glance over, had to, even though Sam's stupid gargantuan feet did not deserve his attention. Sam was still wearing only one shoe. His other foot clad only in an increasingly filthy sock, and Dean watched, transfixed, all the way back to the motel.
After a good five minute struggle to get the door to their room open, Dean staggered straight to the bathroom, where he took what might've been the longest pee of his entire life. He drank down three glasses of stale-tasting water without pausing for breath, and tried not to look at himself in the mirror. He was Dean Winchester. Sam was his brother. Dean had just had a little too much to drink. He was going to go back out there and go right to bed. In the morning he was going to make Sam fetch him coffee and maybe some pancakes and they could put this whole pie business behind them once and for all. He wandered back out in time to see Sam trying to flap his jacket off his arm where it had got tangled with his watch. He looked like a big albatross with a broken wing and stupid hair. Dean grabbed the jacket and tugged, freeing Sam from the stubborn sleeve. Sam had just enough time for a grateful grin before he overbalanced and fell backwards onto the bed. Dean watched with raised eyebrows as Sam just rolled onto his back and lifted his foot to grab at the toe of his sock. It quickly devolved into an impressive wrestling match. After several minutes of grunting and straining and Sam's tongue sticking out the side of his mouth, the sock finally lost the epic battle and Sam bobbed back up to a sitting position, grinning proudly and holding the filthy sock up like a trophy. Dean just kept his eyebrows raised and nodded helpfully. As Sam stared at Dean, his grin faded. He sighed, and tossed the sock over his shoulder. It landed, Dean noted with an air of inevitability, on Dean's pillow. Sam stood up and crossed the room, his one remaining shoe still on his foot. He didn't stop until he had Dean backed against the wall. "Dean." Sam lifted his hands and waved them around a little, like he was waiting for words to fall into his head. He sighed again, sad and deep, and let his hands settle on Dean's shoulders. "Dean. I ate your pie." "S'okay, Sammy," Dean said with a little one-shouldered shrug. "It happens." "But it was your pie," Sam said, giving Dean a little shake to reinforce his words. "I mean, I shouldn't have." "Hey, you made it. You hadn't actually given it to me yet, right?" Sam frowned. "Right." "Right. So ownership rights had not been passed." He patted Sam in the center of his chest. "Still your pie, big guy. No harm, no foul." "Oh," Sam said, thinking this through. "So you're not mad?" Dean just shrugged again, not thinking about blueberry pie. Not thinking about how blueberry pie was possibly his favorite food in the whole entire world. Not thinking about how he'd often waxed lyrical to Sam about how blueberry pie was the foodstuff equivalent of having The Best Sex Ever. Blueberry pie was Swedish masseuse nymphomaniac twins. Blonde ones. Who did yoga in their spare time. Nope, not thinking about it at all. He felt Sam's bare toes spread and settle on the toe of his boot as Sam's hands slid down off his shoulders to rest flat on Dean's chest, which was just... weird. And was most definitely not making Dean's breath hitch. Not even a little bit. Sam was staring at his hands splayed over Dean's chest, smoothing a little at his shirt, tapping lightly at Dean's amulet with his thumbnail. Sam's bangs hung in his eyes, hiding him from view when he murmured, "But I ate it." Dean was not, was definitely not, was really goddamn not thinking about the creative ways Sam could make it up to him. Not going there, not ever, and Sam hovering in close and personal, blueberries and beer on his breath, it was not putting ideas in Dean's head. But Sam looked miserable, just as miserable as he did before Dean's brilliant "get Sammy drunk" plan. His bangs flopped in his face, half obscuring the helpless pout and watery eyes, but Dean could still see them all too clearly. He dropped his own eyes to avoid that look, gaze falling on the floor between their feet in an attempt to escape the heavy weight of Sam's guilt. The sight of Sam's bare foot was almost worse. One shoe scuffed and familiar, one shoe missing; and Dean watched Sam's toes curl against the worn gray carpet. "We gotta get you new shoes tomorrow, dude," he said, because no way they were getting the lost one back. "No," said Sam, and Dean looked up in surprise. He met Sam's eyes even though he'd promised himself he wasn't going to do that again tonight. Even though it was a Bad Goddamn Idea. And there it was: same expression, same reflection of shame in his brother's eyes. "Whaddya mean no?" "I don't deserve new shoes, Dean," Sam whispered. His voice was impossibly low, words murmured right into the air Dean was trying to breathe. "You... why do you always gotta be so good to me, man? You're always good, and it's not fair." Dean just stared, helpless disbelief on his face and he knew it, because seriously, these were not the words that were supposed to be coming out of Sam's mouth. Sam had eaten his pie, and part of Dean still wanted to be pissed about it, but it wasn't fair to let Sam shoulder the burden of all this guilt alone. Dean may have lost a pie, but there were worse things in this world. "I'm not good, Sammy," he said, and his voice caught in his throat. "I'm not. I'm sick, man." Sam laughed, all dark disbelief, and Dean chafed at the sound. He suddenly wanted Sam to see, because it was true. Dean was sick, and who the hell was Sam to eat his pie and not believe him? Dean surged up and in. He kissed Sam before he could think it through, hands locking in the front of Sam's shirt to keep him from pulling away. Sam stood frozen in place, not reciprocating and not resisting, and Dean could still taste blueberries on his brother's tongue. Oh, god, blueberries. Better yet, blueberries on Sam's tongue. This was Dean's new favorite thing ever. This was enough to make his gums tingle, his heart thump in his chest, his fists clench in Sam's shirt. This was like someone had taken all the best things on Earth, mixed them together and baked them in a-- Yeah. Dean so wasn't going there. But it was good. It was awesome. Except for one teeny, tiny, insignificant little detail. Sam wasn't kissing him back. Dean drew back abruptly, bumping his head off the wall, and alternated between glaring at Sam like it was all his fault in the first place, and feeling nervous as hell, darting his gaze everywhere but at Sam. He wondered if maybe he'd just done something stupid enough to lose the only thing he had left that mattered. "See?" he said, his voice cracking. "Sick." Sam just kept right on staring blankly at his hands on Dean's chest, swaying a little. "Dean, that was..." Sam took a little breath and glanced up. "What was that?" Dean gave him an off-center little grin and shrugged, feeling bleak, and wondering if Sam was drunk enough that he wouldn't remember any of this come morning. "You kissed me," Sam said slowly. "No, I didn't," Dean said, far too quickly, his blush burning his cheeks. "I'm pretty sure that was a kiss." "And I'm pretty sure you're a dork." "Is this... is this because of the pie?" "No, it's not because of the pie." Even if it was blueberry pie. Dean was totally over it. "So you admit you just kissed me?" Dean closed his eyes and let the room rotate slowly around him. He was way too drunk for this kind of highbrow, intellectual debate. "I admit nothing," he said with an exaggerated shake of his head. Maybe if he just left it there, just stopped talking and refused to open his eyes again, Sam would get bored and go to bed. Dean could slide right to the floor and sleep where he fell. It was as much as he deserved. He sniffed the air when something that smelled like blueberries and beer wafted warmly over his face. He opened his eyes to see Sam, right there, close enough that Dean sucked in a sharp breath. Sam had his gaze leveled right at Dean's mouth. "You kissed me, Dean. You actually kissed me." Dean groaned. "Would you please stop saying that?" "What?" Sam asked, tilting his head, his voice low and personal. "Kiss?" It would have been sexy as hell if Sam hadn't picked that moment to lose his balance. He tripped over his own feet, managing to stand on his bare toes, and yelped in pain. Dean grabbed at his arms to steady him, and they stumbled, ending up inches apart, Sam's hand on the wall beside Dean's head. Dean didn't get it for a second when Sam leaned in and kissed him. But Sam's lips were soft and wet and warm, and Dean closed his eyes and sighed into it, because they were doing this, and because it was Sam. He slipped his hands under Sam's shirt, needing contact, needing something to hold on to, and rubbed his thumbs in little circles over the warm skin of Sam's hips. "Dude, you know you taste like blueberries," Dean murmured, not breaking the kiss for even a minute. Sam drew back in shock. "I knew it! This is because of the pie! You're just using me for my-my-my... taste!" Dean couldn't help it. The look of outrage on Sam's face was classic, and he couldn't hold in the chuckle. "No, man," he said, and tugged Sam in close by the belt loops. "That's just a bonus." Their third kiss was just as wrong as the first, just as much making out with his brother as the second, and Dean was a distant continent beyond caring. Tongues and gasps and Sam shoving him right up against the wall, taking all of Dean's space for his own and nearly knocking them both off balance. It was delicious, and Dean was drowning in a sea of perfect-hot-yes. When Sam finally drew back, Dean realized breathing was probably a good idea. He was still light-headed from the alcohol, and maybe a little light-headed from the lack of oxygen, too, and the way Sam was looking at him... Christ, it was criminal. Literally criminal, and that thought should maybe have drawn Dean up short. Ended this here and now. Except it didn't, because even as rational thought tried to creep its way in, he couldn't make himself push Sammy away. Dean dropped suddenly to his knees, because there was something he had to do right the hell now. Sam's remaining shoelace was stuck in all sorts of stubborn knots, ratty and thin and tight, and Dean swore as he tried to work them loose. It was a battle of wills, his against the diabolic trickery of the laces that simply refused to untangle, no matter how hard he tried. Might've had something to do with alcohol and a lack of coordination, Dean supposed. Sam's shoe might have been falling apart, but the laces held fast. He finally gave up on plan-A and pulled his knife out from its usual hiding place in his boot. Sam's laces didn't stand a chance against an armed Winchester, and Dean hacked the ratty material to pieces. "Up," he said, setting the knife aside and bracing one hand against Sam's ankle. His brother, who had patiently waited out the entire battle (probably wearing that bemused little smirk the entire time), obligingly lifted his leg just enough for Dean to slip off shoe and sock in one quick, undignified motion. Dean threw them aside and felt the relief well up somewhere deep in his chest. Symmetry at last. Both Sam's feet were bare now, and when Dean stood back up, Sam leaned in close. "Better?" Sam asked, eyes dancing with quiet, slightly unfocused amusement. So close and so happy, no sign of mourning for that goddamn pie, or for his lost shoe, and Dean was suddenly having trouble remembering the seven hundred reasons they shouldn't be doing this. Dean nodded when Sam kissed him again, because, hell yeah this was better. He pulled Sam's shirt off over his head, and that was better still. He had Sam right there, safe and strong and eager, and they were touching everywhere. Sam's hair was a ridiculous mess of tangles, his hands warm as they cradled Dean's face, and Dean was still really buzzed, all warm and dopey and fluttery inside. In short, everything was pretty much perfect. He ran his hands down Sam's arms and, oh hey, muscles. Where the hell had Sam been hiding all of this? Under a billion hoodies, probably. Dean couldn't help puffing out his own chest a little, not like he felt like he needed to compete or anything, but Jesus Christ, his baby brother had some serious upper body strength going on. Dean trailed a soft touch down Sam's back, curving around his ribs to lay his palms on Sam's belly, still swollen from all that pie and beer, Sam's usually trim waist feeling a little rotund under his hands. Dean very purposefully wasn't thinking words like "plump" or "adorable" or "cute little potbelly". Nope, no sir, not Dean Winchester. Dean walked them backwards, careful not to step on Sam's toes, not stopping until the backs of Sam's knees bumped up against the side of the bed, the impact just enough to break their kiss. "We're really doing this?" Sam asked, low and quiet, his eyes still closed. "Yeah," Dean said, the word riding out on a greedy little sigh. Then he remembered what he was doing, and who he was doing it with, and all the ways it could backfire horribly. "I mean, if you want. If this is something, uh, that you think you could, y'know... do." Sam licked his lips and nodded a little, like he was thinking it over. "You'll, uh..." He opened his eyes and gave Dean a shy look. "You'll take care of me, won't you?" Dean flushed from his bellybutton to his hairline. "Yeah, Sammy, 'course I will." "And you'll go slow?" Sam murmured. "Stop whenever I say?" Dean's eyes widened, and he scratched at the back of his neck. "Uh, sure. Whatever you need." "You'll... you'll be gentle with me, right?" Dean floundered, because this really wasn't something he'd been expecting. His brain was stalling, just trying to find a way to answer that wouldn't leave him coming off like a total girl or send Sam running for the hills. "Dean?" Sam said in that same soft little voice. "Yeah?" "You do know I'm just fucking with you, right?" Dean spluttered, and tried to get up the energy to be indignant, he really did, but it all just seemed like a lot of hard work. Especially when Sam gave him a shove that sent him toppling back onto the bed and made short work of pulling off Dean's boots, then crawled onto the bed beside him. That big, shit-eating grin was still on his face as he tugged Dean's hips in close, thumbing open the button of his jeans, and drew him in for another kiss. "I hate you," Dean said into his brother's mouth. Sam just laughed and slid his hands down the back of Dean's pants, groaning obscenely when the extra pressure made Dean's zipper slide slowly down. It was agony, it was rapture, it was perfect. It was Sam's hands all over him, sliding up and under his shirt, unbuttoning his way up one by one until he lost patience and just pulled, and the half dozen remaining buttons went skittering across the bedspread. Dean yelped in protest. He liked this shirt. It wasn't like he had many clean ones, and wasn't it enough that Sammy had already eaten Dean's entire goddamn pie? But Sam was still memorizing the contours of Dean's mouth, and it was really hard to whine about having his clothes destroyed when he had his brother's tongue halfway down his throat. Besides, Sam was making this low humming sound, deep in his chest, didn't even seem to realize he was doing it, and it was distracting as hell. Dean was already so over the stupid shirt. Which didn't stop him from getting all tangled up in the sleeves when Sam tried to pull it off. Flannel everywhere, trapping his arms and keeping him from touching his Sammy. He growled and strained against the fabric and pressed up against Sam's body until Sam had no choice but to kiss him again. "Jesus, Dean, easy." Sam slid a hand down Dean's ribs, a gentling touch, and Dean drew back and took a deep breath. He forced himself still so Sam could untangle him from the mess of plaid. The t-shirt was a cakewalk after that, thrown across the room and out of the way, and oh-oh-oh, Sam kissing his way down Dean's chest, that was exactly what Dean needed. Maybe the alcohol was starting to wear off, or maybe the adrenaline was making him more coordinated, but either way Dean's next maneuver went off without a hitch. Shove and roll and straddle, and Sam was laid out beneath him, blinking like he was just as surprised as Dean that it had worked. "Um," said Dean, and tried to figure out what should happen next. They were both still wearing pants. Problematic. But his brain was starting to catch up with him, and that was problematic, too. Sam's eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Dean's hesitation, and his hands slid up denim, up until his fingers dug into Dean's thighs through the thick material. Dean went very still, both of them holding their breath as Sam's hands slid higher, inch by inexorable inch. All of Sam's attention was on the gaping V of Dean's fly, and on Dean's erection, clearly visible through his shorts. Sam licked his lips, his hand trembling as he touched his fingertips to the low muscle of Dean's stomach and let his thumb ghost a touch up the length of Dean's cock. Dean grabbed Sam's wrist, the harsh slap of connection making Sam suck in a surprised gasp as his gaze flew to Dean's face. "Did I... Should I not...?" "Sammy--" Dean said, hating himself, but knowing he had to ask. "I don't want you to... I mean, I don't want you to think..." Sam's face crumpled. Dean couldn't take it, not the sad puppy eyes, anything but that, so he stared down at the soft pooch of Sam's belly instead. "You don't have to do this," he said miserably. "You know that, right?" "Dean?" "I just don't want you to think that you have to do this. 'Cause you feel guilty or whatever." Dean's voice got very small. "Y'know... 'cause of the pie." Dean resisted the urge to squirm under the weight of Sam's gaze, or to trail his fingertips over the gentle curve of Sam's belly. That damn pie. Getting them into this mess in the first place. Damn Winchester guilt and stupid coping mechanisms. But the last thing he wanted was for them to rush into doing something this important, this life-altering, for the wrong reasons. Not that there were any right reasons for what they were doing, but he still had to do this first; had to give Sam his out. "Oh," Sam said softly. He sat up and looped his arms around Dean's waist, ducking his head to try and get Dean to meet his eye. "Dean," he murmured. "Hey, Dean. Look at me." Dean glanced up from under his eyelashes. "Does this feel like guilt to you?" Sam asked, and rocked his hips up against Dean. Dean bit back on a moan. No, he had to admit, not guilt. It felt like Sam had been eating his Wheaties and had maybe got more than his fair share of Winchester genes in the pants department, but, no, definitely not guilt. Dean slid his hand into the hair at the nape of Sam's neck and pulled his brother into another kiss. He barely registered the way Sam's hands were urging at his hips, lifting Dean up onto his knees so Sam could tug his jeans down, bunching them around Dean's thighs, the material twisted and awkward. Their kiss stuttered and broke when Sam wrapped his hand around Dean's cock. Dean rested their foreheads together, his eyes screwed tightly shut, and it was all he could do to remember to breathe. "Okay?" Sam asked softly, his words brushing Dean's lips, his thumb teasing the head of Dean's cock, the combination of the two doing all sorts of crazy things to Dean's insides. Dean nodded raggedly and tilted Sam's face up for another kiss. He pushed Sam back down on the bed, trying to keep their mouths together as the two of them scrambled to get Sam's jeans open. It didn't go well with two sets of hands, not enough buttons to go around and the zipper was an absolute debacle. But they worked it out between them, and this time Dean didn't give himself that moment to wonder what came next; just wrapped his hand around Sam's cock and slid right into a heavy rhythm. He watched, full of pride and sin, as the touch made Sam arch back, eyes rolling right up into his head as Sam let out a shuddering groan. "Yeah, Sammy," he growled, not even caring that Sam wasn't touching him, because there was too much going on at once and Dean was only just holding it together. Sam was clutching at the sheets, was writhing beneath him, head thrown back and throat held bare. Open, honest, so damn beautiful Dean could hardly stand it. How did his dorky little brother end up looking so goddamn good? It wasn't the first time Dean had been with a man, but this was different. This was Sam. This meant something. The world narrowed down to just the two of them; the low gasps and guttural sounds Sam was making every time Dean touched him were more than enough. He couldn't remember moving, but suddenly he was leaning all the way into Sam's body, tasting a sweaty line from clavicle to ear. He could feel the rumble of Sam's groan against his tongue, wanted to bite into the soft skin below his brother's jaw, mark him up and leave it for later, for a reminder to show himself that yes, this really happened. Not just some deluded fantasy, not a hallucination brought on by the alcohol or the hunger from his lack of blueberry pie, this was real. Sam was under him, flush against him, powerless in his hands. Sam wanted this, and Dean was going to give it to him. Everything and more. Sam could have it all if it meant they never had to stop. Dean barked an undignified yelp when Sam's huge hand wrapped around him again, working him hard and steady, mirroring the way Dean was touching him. Dean felt Sam's smile when they kissed, felt the chuckle against his tongue, and it was good. No more taste of blueberry -- Dean had kissed it all away by now -- but good, and Dean groaned into the kiss, a manly, dignified groan, he decided, ignoring the hell out of the way it trailed off into a whimper. "Dean," Sam said, and drew back suddenly. His fingers stilled on Dean's flesh, his free hand sliding between them to wrap around Dean's wrist and stop him short. "Dude, what are you... Sam?" Dean felt the hint of panic lodge in his throat, a sudden jolt of fear that Sam had changed his mind, and it took every ounce of conscious effort not to pull free of Sam's hold and scramble off and away. He suddenly wanted to put the whole damn room between them, because Sam was going to tell him to stop. His heart was racing as he searched Sam's eyes. "Not enough," said Sam, and fire still sparked in his eyes. Dean held his breath, didn't dare, didn't know, and waited to follow Sam's cue. Sam kept talking, kept almost making sense. "Gotta have more, Dean. Gotta..." "What, Sammy?" Dean asked, even though he sort of maybe already knew. Sam met the question in his eyes without flinching, no sign of nervousness except the quick flex of his fingers against Dean's cock. "Can I fuck you?" Such a simple question, really. Yes or no answer. But Dean was stalled, caught completely off guard, blinking and at a loss, his brain refusing to cooperate even as his cock twitched against Sam's palm. The urge to thrust was almost overwhelming, his entire body telling him to just rush headlong into orgasm and worry about all this other tricky stuff later. But Sam was waiting for an answer, his gaze flicking back and forth between Dean's eyes, his nostrils flared, his chest heaving as he awaited Dean's reply. Dean didn't have the first clue what he was going to say when he opened his mouth and the words started pouring out. "I... Sam, we could... Don't you think that's a little... I mean, what if... There isn't... Shouldn't we... But don't get me wrong, there's a whole lot of... But then there's the... You know?" Yeah, Dean thought, that about covers it. Sam pulled off a complex little expression, admirably conveying his lust, fear, amusement, and fond confusion. "Is that a no?" "No," Dean said, and Sam's face fell. "No," Dean said quickly. "Not that. I mean, no, it's not a no. I mean, yes." "Dean," Sam said with a little frown, getting up on his elbows. "You want to try being a little more unclear here? Vague it up for me? I wouldn't want to understand any of this first time around." Very calmly, Dean got up from the bed. He kicked off his jeans and his shorts, managing not to fall over in the process, and grabbed the lube he kept in his duffel for "emergencies." When he crawled back onto the bed, completely naked, straddled Sam's hips and pressed the lube into Sam's palm, he almost wished he had a camera. "That's a yes, then," Sam breathed, his eyes wide and glassy. "Yeah," Dean said, leaning forward. "That's a yes." Sam flipped the top on the tube with his thumb as they kissed. Dean was more focused on distracting Sam, running his tongue over Sam's lips, behind his teeth, so it almost came as a surprise when Sam touched him again, warm and slippery, getting a hand around both of their cocks and squeezing, his other hand reaching behind Dean's balls and tracing maddening little patterns on the tender skin, making Dean whimper and shift his hips. A familiar scent wafted through the air. "Dean?" Sam said into their kiss, because Dean wasn't giving him any space, not that Sam seemed to mind. "Did you actually buy blueberry lube? Seriously?" "It's slippery, ain't it?" Dean said, his teeth pulling on Sam's lower lip. "S'all we need." "Yeah," Sam agreed, too lost in this, too turned on to even bicker properly, and he nodded as he slid a finger slowly into Dean. Dean's face crumpled like he was in pain only to even out as he rocked against Sam's hand, blissed out and biting on his own lip, eyes closed, his hands clenched tight on Sam's shoulders. Dean groaned right against Sam's throat as his body adjusted to that one finger, then to two, and Sam slid and worked them, reaching deep and twisting, making Dean see stars. Sam pulled out and added more lube, and Dean was ready this time when his fingers slid back in. It had been years since the (admittedly few) times he'd been on the receiving end like this. Dean Winchester didn't spread 'em for just anyone, hadn't really planned on ever doing it again after a few awkward experiments in the past. But Sam was persuasive, and he was good at this, with his enormous hands and long fingers flexing just so. Dean grunted and bit reflexively into the curve of sensitive skin just below Sam's jaw. It felt amazing. This was Dean's new new favorite thing ever, and Sam could keep doing this all night as far as Dean was concerned. Bigger plans on the To Do List, though, and Dean quashed the automatic protest when Sam gently withdrew his hand. "God, Dean, look at you," Sam whispered, no heed to the slowly bruising imprint of Dean's teeth on his throat. His eyes were wide, half obscured by the wild chaos of his bangs. "Me?" Dean barked out a low, dry chuckle. "Look at you, dude. You're so..." "Pretty," Sam whispered, ignoring the interruption entirely. Sam's thumb swept reverently along Dean's lower lip, his eyes dark with want and love and hope, all rolled up and mixed together. Dean thought about protesting. He was a manly, vibrant specimen of masculinity. He was handsome. Rugged maybe. Studly at the very least. Except who was he kidding? He was goddamn pretty. And this was Sam, no secrets left between them now, maybe never again. He had nothing to prove to his brother, no façade to maintain or stereotypes to beat into submission. If Sam thought he was pretty, Dean could deal. "Yeah, Sammy," he said. And then, because he could, "You gonna lie there and be a girl about it all night, or are we doing this thing?" Sam's face contorted at that, caught somewhere between amused smirk and startled indignation, but it settled into a mischievous little smile that set Dean's whole body on edge with anticipation. It was Sam's turn to exhibit surprising coordination, and Dean's stomach did a startled little flip when his brother bucked and pushed and reversed their positions before Dean had even figured out what was going on. Sam scooted far enough down the bed to give himself room to maneuver, and it looked like he couldn't get out of his pants fast enough. Dean watched from propped on his elbows, and felt the eager thud of his heart with every new centimeter of bared flesh, until Sam was finally naked, on his knees on the bed between Dean's legs, and suddenly Dean couldn't breathe. Sam was all freakish, confident grace when he finally moved. He slid right back into the welcome splay of Dean's legs, settled in close so Dean's thighs pressed in against his sides. "You ready?" Sam asked. His voice was deep, heavy, serious, and Dean was so ready he ached with it. "Bring it on, gigantor," he said, because even aching with want, Dean couldn't resist. "You are. Such a. Jerk," Sam said, breathless and strained as he pushed slowly inside. Dean let out a noise that he didn't recognize, something halfway between a chuckle and a low, pained groan. "Oh, fuck, Sammy. Wait. Wait." Sam's head dropped to Dean's chest, breathing heavy, his hair tickling Dean's skin, his arms shaking as he held himself up. "Tell me. Tell me when." Dean struggled to get control of himself, breathing slow and even, trying to relax. Sam felt huge and impossible between his legs. "Sammy, god, I can't. I..." Sam raised his head and stared out at Dean from behind his messy bangs, his pupils huge, his cheeks flushed, struggling to hold back, to give Dean what he needed. Fuck, Dean thought, but Sam looked good. Screw pretty, Sam looked like sex and need and home. Dean made himself relax. He pushed all the tension out of his body and nudged his hips up against Sam. Sam slid in another couple of inches, and it made him grunt and swear and grab at Dean's hips. He shuffled forward on his knees for better leverage, making room for himself inside Dean. "Dean? Is this... Are you...?" "Fuck, fuck." Dean grabbed fistfuls of the sheets, twisting the material hard enough that he could hear stitches ripping. "Yeah, Sammy, just, yeah. Just do it." Sam pulled out slowly, making Dean arch up off the sheets -- no, no, no, that wasn't what he'd asked for at all -- suddenly too empty, his body aching and needy. Sam was fumbling on the bedside table, grabbing the lube and squirting out half the tube between their legs, over his cock and pushing more inside Dean with trembling fingers, messy and sloppy, getting it all over Dean's thighs, spilling some on the sheets. Sam moved forward again, pulling Dean half up onto Sam's thighs, Dean's legs spread wide and obscene. He pushed back into Dean, sliding in easier this time, and he just kept right on going, not stopping until he bottomed out. Dean threw his head back, teeth digging into his lower lip, breath caught in his throat. "Okay?" Sam asked, low and rough, bent over far enough that his lips brushed Dean's jaw. It was all Dean could do to nod as Sam started to move. Sam rolled his hips, riding easy now, slow and inevitable, giving gave Dean the full length on every thrust, making Dean cry out. Sam's body bowed over Dean, his hands on Dean's skin, those huge shoulders blocking out the rest of the world, so it was just Sam and Dean, Dean and Sam, the scent of blueberries, and the feeling of yes, God, finally that was bubbling up inside Dean's chest. Sam was already speeding up, too far gone to make this last, his body shuddering, calling Dean beautiful -- which Dean fully intended to make him pay for later -- and muttering filthy little things against Dean's skin. Gripping Dean's hips hard enough to bruise, moving Dean where he wanted him. Sam came hard and deep, biting at Dean's shoulder as Dean worked him through it, murmured in Sam's ear, his hands on Sam's skin. Dean felt wrecked and boneless, and not just because Sam had collapsed on top of him. He didn't think he could move right now if an army of demons burst in through the door and carried Sam off to be their lord and master. "Jesus," Sam breathed hot and damp against his shoulder. "Just gimme. Just gimme a second." Dean fisted Sam's hair, pulling him back to touch their mouths together. Sam couldn't quite get it together enough to kiss, so Dean did it for him, licking into his mouth, swallowing down Sam's breath. "I take it back, man," Sam said. "You were right. Any lube is good lube." Dean grinned. "You know, it's flavored, too." They both glanced down Dean's body at his still hard cock. "Flavored like plastic, you mean." Dean sighed. "You gonna be a bitch about it all night, or you gonna help a brother out?" Sam shook his bangs out of his eyes, the gesture a strange little toss of the head that somehow managed to look sure and snarky and so full of confidence that Dean's heart stutter-skipped in his chest. It was a split-second transformation, and then Sam was sliding down Dean's body, settling comfortably between his knees, hands hot and possessive against Dean's thighs. Their eyes held sharp, locked in some silent battle, and Dean couldn't look away. The sight was filthy, sin incarnate, and Dean couldn't breathe until Sam's gaze finally, finally released him, focus shifting to more immediate concerns. To his credit, Sam didn't whine about the flavor once he got down to business. Might've had something to do with an inability to multitask, considering his mouth was occupied with other things. Dean could see now where the confidence came from. Within seconds he was reduced to noises at the embarrassingly inarticulate end of the spectrum, breathing fast and hard, gasping pants and grunts and groans that he planned on denying to the day he died. He couldn't get enough air, and he didn't care so long as Sam kept up just what he was doing. God, but the things his brother could do with that tongue. He tried to keep his hands clenched in the bed sheets, fought to keep himself from just grabbing hold and riding Sam's mouth until he came. "Dean," said Sam. Had to pull off to do it, and Dean groaned his protest but listened anyway. "Dean, it's okay. I'm not gonna break, dude, you don't have to keep your hands to yourself." No response needed, Sam just went right back to work, and Dean couldn't even think he was so close to the edge. Slip-slide-lick, the hollowing of Sam's cheeks as he sucked. Dean gave up the battle, buried both hands in the soft, sweaty chaos of his brother's hair. "Christ, Sammy," he said, more like a groan than actual words, and then he was coming so hard the world stopped. There was nothing but the shattered cry from his own throat, the firm press of Sam holding him steady, the soft touch of Sam's mouth as his brother swallowed every goddamn drop. Dean's turn for total paralysis, and he needed a minute or ten. Maybe the rest of his life to come down from that orgasm, and he didn't even have the energy to acknowledge Sam's self-satisfied smirk. His brother gave him the time to reconstruct himself before grinning wide and leaning in to kiss him again. "So," said Sam, a smile in his eyes. "Good?" "Like the best blueberry pie in my entire goddamn life." He half worried Sam would go back to guilting, but he had to say it. It was the truth, and he needed Sam to see, needed to know they could do this again. He needed to know he could have this, and now that the moment had passed he couldn't quite be sure. He tried to put it all in his eyes. Tried to make Sam see it. It must have worked, because Sam's smile softened to something lighter. Amusement and a little bit of disbelief shone in his eyes, and Dean realized that he kind of really wanted to cuddle right now. Not that he planned on admitting it aloud. "I kinda really want to cuddle right now," he said, blushing scarlet and cursing his stupid, stupid mouth, but not missing the way Sam's face melted into a ridiculously huge and sappy smile, dimples scattered all over the place. They clambered over onto the other bed, tossed Sam's dirty sock away and flipped the pillow, got under the covers and made themselves comfortable. Dean lay on his back, with Sam curled up against his side, his face tucked in the curve of Dean's shoulder, Sam's lips brushing the bruise he had bitten there earlier. Dean sighed deeply, refusing to let the outside world come crashing back in, determined to enjoy this hazy oasis they'd created for as long as he could. He was with Sam. He'd just had mind-blowing, life-altering sex. He was warm and sated and kind of sticky but too lazy to do anything about it and aching in all the best possible places. Sure, there was a potential minefield of problems waiting for them, but hey, that was for tomorrow. Call him crazy, but right now he was just going to kick back and enjoy the afterglow. Honestly, the only thing that could make this moment any better would be some of that pie, but Dean could live without it. He already had so much. No sense being greedy. His gaze strayed across the room into the tiny almost-kitchen along one wall of the "living area", complete with fridge, hotplate, microwave, and the tiny little oven that Dean had figured for overkill when he'd first seen the room, but it must have given Sam his pie-baking ideas in the first place. The little strip of kitchen still looked like a disaster area, which was odd. Sam was usually such a neat-freak. The empty pie dish was still on the counter -- a sight sad enough to break Dean's heart -- nothing but crumbs and an occasional blue smear still clinging gamely to its surface. There were dishes still piled in the sink and ingredients for the pie strewn all over the counter. Their father's journal sat nearby, lying open to a familiar page. Dean's heart sank into his stomach. "Sam?" Sam let out a little hum, already drifting off. "Sam, what recipe did you use for that pie?" "It was just something I found in Dad's journal," Sam said without opening his eyes. Dean put his hand to his forehead and closed his eyes, like it could make this any less the truth. "Not the recipe stuck on the page next to the thing about the haunted Weeping Willow, right? Tell me." "Yeah. That one." The hand on Dean's forehead became a fist, because pressure was good. "Tell me you didn't read the recipe out loud as you were making it." Sam shrugged. "Yeah, I think so. Kinda flowery language. Why?" "Why the fuck would you use a recipe you found in Dad's hunting journal? Didn't it strike you as a little odd?" "Dude, there's old grocery lists tucked in the back of that thing from a decade ago. I just thought he'd stuck it in there. I didn't think much of it at all." "Obviously." "Why? What's the problem?" Dean turned so he could glare better at his sleepy brother. "Sammy, that recipe was in a pile of stuff he confiscated from this witches' coven back in Modesto. Pretty lightweight mojo, but it still fucks with you." "Shit," Sam said, getting up on his elbow, finally picking up on a little of Dean's urgency. "What does it do?" Dean sighed heavily. "It..." Suddenly it struck him what he was about to admit to, and he twisted up his face. "It puts you in touch with your emotions." He glanced up at the ceiling. "It takes away your inhibitions. Makes you go after what you've always wanted. That kinda shit." Sam frowned, thinking this over. "I made emo pie?" "Kinda," Dean said with a horrified little nod. "Oh," said Sam, a little nonplussed. He sighed, and it turned into a yawn. "Well. Too late now." "That's all?" Dean snapped, because clearly Sam was missing the bigger picture here. "'Too late now'? Sammy, if it hadn't been for that pie..." "Jesus, Dean, it's no big deal. What's done is done. No regrets from me." Sam slanted a glance up at his big brother and grinned a truly wicked little grin. "What you should really be freaking out about is the fact that I ate an entire emo pie, while you only got a taste of it from kissing me, and the effects were pretty much the same for both of us. And you kissed me first, without any pie at all." He held out his arms. "You still wanna cuddle?" "Aw, bite me," Dean grouched, but a few seconds later he was snuggling down into Sam's embrace. "One word and I'll throw away every left shoe you ever buy for the rest of your natural life. We clear?" "Crystal." Sam's smile shone bright as he wrapped his arms around Dean and held on tight. And maybe he was still feeling the effects of the pie. Maybe Sam was too, for that matter. Maybe it had just been a long damn night and a whole lot of great sex, because Dean found consciousness impossible to cling to. Sam was already breathing evenly against him, slow rise and fall of his chest, and it left Dean drifting. Warm. Relaxed. Still inhaling the scent of blueberries and, oh, this was going to be a sticky mess come morning. But literal or metaphorical, that was a crisis for later. Dean let the sleep take him and drag him down into dreams of Sam, and Sam, and Sam. The beat of his brother's heart was all he needed.
It wasn't morning that Dean woke to, but the middle of the afternoon. He felt groggy and gross, hung over and weirdly shaky. Probably the natural result of spending the night under the influence of emo pie mojo. Or something. No sign of Sam, and he was a little bit grateful as he stood on unsteady legs. Dean didn't quite know how things were supposed to stand now that the pie was out of his system. Time to regroup, that was what he needed. Regroup and take a long, hot shower, because on top of the hangover he felt pretty rank from last night's endeavor. His body ached in all those key places, little reminders of everything that had happened, and he wasn't quite ready to think about it. As he passed the other bed, there was a strong whiff of blueberries. This brought the memories on hard and potent, and god damn if he wasn't suddenly, desperately, blindingly hard from the images replaying themselves in his head. He stalked the rest of the way into the bathroom with curses on his breath, but jerking off was his first priority when he stepped into the shower. Fast and rough and over with, because he wanted to stand here for the next three hours and just melt under the spray. Easier than trying to figure out answers to all the tricky questions he didn't want to think about. There were pants on the floor by the sink, and he wasn't even sure until he pulled them on whether they were Sam's or his own. Sam's, he deduced, as they hung low and almost useless on his hips. He shrugged at himself in the mirror and grabbed the toothpaste. He had a whole lot of brushing to do if he wanted the fuzzy taste of hangover and cursed pie out of his mouth. Fifteen minutes later he decided that had maybe been overkill, but hey, his gums weren't bleeding yet. He spat in the sink, rinsed a couple times and spat again, and was in the middle of drying his face on the single tiny hand towel when he heard the click and slam of the other door heralding Sam's return. Dean froze right where he stood. The towel dropped to the floor, his fingers suddenly useless with uncertainty, and he leaned on the edge of the sink. "Dude." Sam knocked on the bathroom door, loud and insistent. "You busy in there?" "No," said Dean, surprised at the sound of his own voice. Twist-click of the doorknob and Sam banged his way into the tiny room, sure and easy, and wasted no time getting right into Dean's space. He slid up behind, arms wrapping around Dean's middle in a gesture that asserted an unmistakable 'mine'. The touch should've had him tensing up, but Dean relaxed right into the embrace, drew in the warmth of Sam pressed close against his back. "Hey," said Sam, meeting his eyes in the mirror. There was a question there, and Dean didn't really know what it was, let alone how to answer it. "Hey," he said back. Not a helpful response, but he forced his hands to release their grip on the sink so he could cover Sam's arms with his own. "So, uh..." Sam ducked his head and looked suddenly self-conscious. The complete antithesis of everything Dean had been expecting, and he waited in surprised silence for his brother to continue, watching the blush spread over Sam's face from his view in the mirror. "So," Sam finally started again. "I bought you something." "What--?" Dean started to ask, but then it hit him. A smell he hadn't noticed before, warm and familiar and delicious. Wafting in from the other room, and oh. Oh. Sam's blush made total sense now, and Dean felt a wide, stupid smile start spreading across his face. "Is that what I think it is?" Dean asked, staring at Sam in the mirror. Sam just rolled his eyes as his smile curved up one side of his face. He only just had time to let go to prevent losing an arm as Dean tore out of the bathroom, following his nose. There it was. Golden and glorious and making Dean's mouth water in anticipation. Dean snatched up a fork and made a beeline for the pie Sam had left sitting on the little kitchen counter. He broke the crust with the side of his fork and nearly whimpered at the little puff of steam that rose up. This baby was fresh. Dean paused with the fork halfway to his mouth. "Wait. Where did you get this?" "Relax. Bakery down the street." "Thank god," Dean said and stuck the forkful of pie in his mouth. "Oh," he moaned as the sweet, warm pie melted on his tongue, juicy little blueberries bursting between his teeth. "Oh, god. Oh, yeah, it's like heaven on a pie plate," he said around his mouthful of pie. "Sammy, man, you gotta try this." Sam grimaced a little and patted his belly. "Uh, thanks, but no. I can live without eating pie again for maybe the next thirty or forty years." Dean shrugged happily. "More for me, dude." Goddamn but this was exactly what he needed. He hadn't eaten since that grease, gristle and salt medley that passed for breakfast the previous morning, and all the teasing about the pie-that-wasn't yesterday had given Dean a ferocious craving for some blueberry pie. And Sam, bless him, Sam had certainly delivered. Dean glanced over at his brother as he ate, trying to be surreptitious about checking Sam out, not looking at his face, instead watching those long legs as Sam moved around a little, shucking out of his jacket, toeing off a pair of brand spanking new sneakers. Dean shifted his weight a little. He was hard again, had been since Sam had wrapped his arms around him and Dean had smelled the enticing scent of pie in the air. Sam's loose pants were hiding it for now, but this was getting to be a Pavlovian response. Sam and pie and pie and Sam, and Dean was in heaven and hell and his dick was just being helpful, letting him know all about it. He tried to ignore it, only leaning up against the counter just a little bit to take the edge off, and shoveled up another forkful of pie, still watching Sam out of the corner of his eye, but when the sweet berries hit his tongue, Dean's eyes fluttered closed and he let out a long moan of pleasure. He sighed happily and savored the moment. He had no clue where he stood with Sam, but Sam obviously wasn't pissed. He didn't have that dark cloud hanging over him and he hadn't uttered the immortal words, "Dean, we need to talk." So far, Dean thought, so good. He looked up to see Sam watching him with dark and serious eyes, his lips parted as he watched Dean eat. This was so very not what Dean had been expecting that he froze in place, absently licking a crumb off the corner of his mouth, his stomach flip-flopping as he watched Sam's eyes track the movement. "Workin' on a little pie kink over there, Sammy?" Dean asked, aiming for light-hearted and missing by a mile. Sam backed Dean up against the wall, and Dean just had time to think that maybe walls were yet another kink of Sam's, because here he was, pushed up against that same spot, right back where this whole crazy thing between them had started. Although, honestly, Dean was pretty sure this whole thing had started a long, long time before last night. "Dean," Sam was saying, his voice a low rumble. "Jesus. Your fucking mouth." When Sam kissed him, the fork fell from Dean's hand and hit the floor with a clatter. It was Sam's turn to chase the taste of pie from Dean's mouth, despite his earlier protests, and he groaned against Dean's lips, leaning into Dean with his whole body. When they finally broken apart, Dean felt dazed and kiss-stupid. "So we're really gonna do this thing," he said, and it didn't sound like a question. "We really are." "I didn't know if you'd want..." Me. Us. Together. Like this. "This. Y'know, this morning. Now you're thinking clearly." Sam just smiled, all big, soft eyes and fingertips on Dean's jaw. "Dumbass," he said fondly. Dean wanted to let it go at that. He really, really did, but he couldn't help ducking his head and letting out a hopeful little, "Yeah?" "Yeah," Sam said, solemn now. "Told you. No regrets from me. Not about this." Dean's smile started off slow, but it lit up his whole face. Then he burped. "Too much pie, dude." Sam laughed and thumped him off the wall, both of them grinning like idiots, and just like that, things were fine and normal and right between them again. No regrets. Dean grinned and went in search of a new fork.
Authors' Notes: * Why yes, there ARE two summaries. It's not that we disagreed. It's that we are indecisive and loved them both. If you can guess whose is whose, then you know us way too well. * Vaccinium Cyanococcus is the scientific term for blueberry. For one kind of blueberry anyway. That second word is pronounced "sy-an-oh-COCK-us", or at least one Leave a comment in livejournal. Email the author | nevermelon AT yahoo.com |