The scent of fresh orange filled the kitchen when Sam got home from school. Dean leaned over the card table, painstakingly peeling an orange in one unbroken spiral.
Sam swung his backpack, laden so heavily with books the straps strained under the weight, to the floor and sat in the chair kitty-corner from Dean.
“What are you doing?”
Sam grabbed another orange out of the bowl, and ripped the peel off in great chunks, stuffing a segment into his mouth. “On an orange.”
“Yeah. You stitch the peel back. If you do it right, you can’t even see the seam. So like when you get your face sliced open during a hunt for being a dumbass, I can keep you looking pretty.” Sam slumped in his chair, shooting Dean a dirty look, and concentrated on eating his orange, pretending not to watch.
Dean threaded a small half-circle needle with silk from the suture kit. Sam watched out of the corner of his eye. Dean slipped the needle into the white pith and began suturing it back together. His fingers were delicate for such a masculine teenager. It only took a few minutes for Sam to soften from the verbal jab and watch Dean work, rapt, sucking on orange segments.
When he was done, a few areas showed gaps and tears, but where he had placed the sutures exactly right, the peel looked perfect, as if it had never been torn.
Sam stared at his older brother with something he would hesitate to call “awe” but Dean recognized it for what it was and smirked.
Sam leaned forward. “Show me?” Dean peeled another orange, and patiently but thoroughly, showed Sam how to do running subcutaneous sutures on a piece of citrus.
* * *
When Dean strutted through the door after his date with a local hottie, John was on the phone, hammering out the details of the lead he’d gotten on a possible demon sighting. Sam was stretched out on the threadbare sofa, bare feet hanging off the end, reading a thick book on Haitian vodoun. Dean flashed a blinding grin at Sam, who just shot him a sullen look in response and ignored him.
“Shove over, Francis.” Dean pushed Sam’s legs off the couch, pivoting him in place, and flopped down next to him.
“Ugh. You fucking reek of sex, dude.” Sam pulled his legs up and tucked them underneath, retracting from Dean.
Dean’s lips twitched, and he scratched his stomach. “How would you know, Sammy?”
“Because my brother’s a fucking slut, that’s how I know.” Sam’s face reddened. “Smell it on you. All the time.” Dean tried to look him in the eye, but Sam turned his head away and refused to meet his gaze.
Dean just looked at Sam for a long moment. Noticing. Thinking. Biting his lip, trying to hold back that feeling that flooded through him in Sam's presence all the time now. This shivery warmth that had almost nothing to do with his dick. He looked at Sam until he squirmed, uncomfortable under Dean’s curious scrutiny. Then he leaned closer to Sam.
“Wanna know what it’s like?”
Sam dropped his book.
Dean just looked at him, his green eyes glinting. “What it feels like to stick your fingers inside a girl?” Dean couldn’t believe what he was saying. Contrary to public opinion, Dean was actually more than a little shy. But the look on Sam’s face, desperately interested while pretending not to be, was like the first hit of the best drug in the world. Dean swallowed, and pushed a little farther. “Get her wet for you?” Saying the words to Sam made him feel all shivery. Dean licked his lips, still looking at Sam, and that was all it took. Sam was caught on the hook.
“See, a girl’s got lips too, kinda like this“ --Dean brushed the back of his fingers against his mouth-- “but down there. And you gotta push past them to get inside. And on top is the clit. It’s like a tiny little dick. So yeah, they like it when you get your fingers in, but to really make ‘em squirm, you gotta use your thumb to rub their clit.”
Sam squirmed on the couch, ruddy patches rising on his cheeks. Dean thought had just meant to embarrass his little brother, but…something else was happening here. Something he didn’t want to stop. It was like the air was suddenly thick between them. That thing that had been forming between them taking more weight, more fire.
“And if you really want to make a girl lose her fucking mind, you gotta lick her.”
Sam’s lips parted, the tip of his tongue darting out unconsciously. Dean’s cock twitched at the sight. “They love that.”
The breathiness in Sam’s voice got Dean rock-hard instantly.
“Go crazy for it. Grab your hair. Make these little sounds. If you lick them real nice, you can make them beg.” Sam shifted in place, and Dean just knew Sam was making room in his jeans for his cock getting hard. Hard because of Dean. What Dean was saying.
“Like…how?” Sam’s face was bright red, but he didn’t look away in embarrassment. The combination of innocence and boldness hit Dean like a freight train. He’d never been so hard in his life.
“Like… ‘Please, god, please, fuck me.’” Dean rubbed his hand on his thigh, desperate to touch Sam, not daring to do any such thing. Sam’s pupils were huge and dark.
“They… they actually say that?”
Dean leaned in a little closer, swiping his tongue over his lower lip in his unconscious habit. Sam’s eyes darted down to watch, transfixed. “They do to me.” Dean couldn’t help the cocky smirk. It was part of his nature. And he was proud of how good he was. He waited until Sam looked up again. “I can make them beg, Sammy." Dean took a deep breath to steady himself, and held Sam's gaze. "‘C’mon… fuck me. Need you inside me. Want you to fuck me so hard.’”
Sam was trembling so hard Dean could feel the vibration through the cushions. Sam jumped up from the couch and pelted upstairs.
John poked his head in from the kitchen. “Christ, Dean, are you giving your brother a hard time again?”
Dean just grinned, and thought, you have no idea.