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I've Got A Hand For You

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Sam woke up with his nose bouncing against Dean's armpit. Even before he was a hundred percent awake, before irritation could flare up at anything -- Dean getting home late, Dean having left in the first place, Dean obnoxiously waking him up from the unsatisfying sleep he'd fallen into -- he smelled Dean, and it was full-on. It was the no-name laundry detergent and the smell of the laundromat in the cotton of Dean's t-shirt, and his sweat having bled through the fabric, this threefold smothering of the Irish Spring Sam had used himself that morning in the shower, Dean's stupid Old Spice deodorant, and Dean's skin. It was a smell Sam had always known, always smelled, and it was right up in his face.

"Hey," he complained into the darkness, into Dean's ribcage, in a sleepy wisp of voice, but he was comforted massively. Dean was back. Everything was all right. The edge of anxiousness that invaded his every move when Dad and Dean were both gone melted off and felt like it was never there in the first place.

"Oh man, Sammy. Lemme in," Dean said, voice this big swell of satisfaction even though it was lowered.

Sam gave him an annoyed grunt and squirmed a little as Dean wormed his way under the blanket with him. He was still fully dressed, and Sam's stomach was bare, and the buckle of Dean's belt was too cold and made him jerk his hips away. The fabric of Dean's jeans was cold, felt wet. At least he'd ditched his boots, but his socks felt damp, too, like socks do when they've been stuffed in your shoes all day.

"You're cold," Sam accused.

"Sorry," Dean said, not sounding sorry at all. Sam kicked his shin, just a lame whack with his foot under the blanket where the warmth he'd collected was disappearing.

"Take 'em off," he ordered.

Dean obeyed him, elbowing Sam in the ribs as he worked his belt open and chuckling low somewhere in his chest. Their creaky old Goodwill mattress squeaked lamely as he pumped up his hips and kicked the jeans off his calves, ditching them somewhere on the floor before settling back down and insistently wedging his arm around Sam's shoulders on autopilot. It was the only way they'd really both fit in a twin bed -- if one of them was on their sides and they overlapped -- so they were used to it, but Sam was aware that Dean put his arm around girls the same way, and it made him feel a little weird inside, somewhere. That he took comfort in it. Kind of liked it, this place under Dean's arm. Like it made him a girl or something. Dean gave him a squeeze around the shoulder, getting them closer and resting his cheek on Sam's hair just as much as he was nudging Sam's nose into the fabric of his t-shirt.

Now Sam smelled even more. Body heat touched him, soaked through Dean's t-shirt to rest between their ribs. The leather jacket their Dad used to wear, but that now Dean wore all the time, left its earthy, particular Dad smell on Dean's clothes indelibly and brought up a thousand memories all at once: standing under Dad's arm in a motel parking lot; being stuck in the back of the car staring idly at the way the folds in the popped collar were creased; sitting next to Dad at diners and dinner tables while cold poured off the jacket; sleeping underneath it in a grungy armchair when he'd been small enough to fit under it entirely. He smelled flannel, that particular old thick cotton smell of it, and trace scents of the outside, the foreign he couldn't place. Wherever Dean had gone on his date. Whoever he had been with.

"You reek," was what he said to Dean.

"Yeah, I smell like... stale popcorn," Dean said, seeming pretty comfortable with the idea that he was smothering Sam with his smelliness, "and, uh... Melissa."

This only conjured up vague images of the girl Sam had seen Dean talking to at the Gas Mart earlier that afternoon, before it had started raining again and getting colder, wetter out, all that gray fog finally turning into rain. She had brown hair with fake blond streaks in it and she'd been wearing a short skirt even though it was February. He could still hear her chirpy voice. Cool car! Dean had either taken her to the movies or they'd just hooked up in a giant bucket of pre-popped popcorn. Sam had moved beyond feeling the odd desire to warn all the girls that his brother took out not to get their hopes up about Dean sticking around or taking them to prom. Now he just didn't understand why Dean bothered.

"I love college chicks, man," Dean said, and Sam sighed gustily right in Dean's neck. He knew it already.

"Maybe you should go to college. Then you'd be swimmin' in 'em," he mumbled, but it was just a jab. Dean had made it plainly clear that he wasn't going to school anymore, and it bothered Sam a little, even though he got that Dean wasn't into school and they weren't rolling in dough and were never gonna stay in one place for longer than a semester.

"Don't need to. They're already all over me. They're so much hotter than high school chicks, too. I mean... most of 'em have already given it up, so they're into doin' it way more than high school girls --"

"Ugh, gross!" Sam exclaimed, rolling himself out of Dean's clutch as much as he could. "Shut up."

Dean just laughed at him and tugged him back with one easy pull of his arm. "Dude. It's fine. That's what college is for. Girls wanna hook up in college. It counts for half their grade."

"Dude. You are so brain-damaged," said Sam. He felt sort of stupid and young, which always made him irritated. By the time Dean was his age, he was already talking up girls at motel pools and Frenching them behind the Coke machines. He'd had three girlfriends at the three schools they'd drifted through his freshman year. He could remember Dean enthusing about high school girls then.

Now Sam was more than halfway through ninth grade and still hadn't done anything other than kiss a girl in someone's coat closet playing the weirdly-titled Seven Minutes In Heaven at a birthday party a year ago. The sensations of having done so were still fresh to him, still crisp in his mind as wet, weird, and kind of disgusting. It wasn't that he didn't want to kiss girls, or be kissed by them. He liked girls and all. He just wanted to like them and then get to know them, but he never had much of a chance, and he didn't have as much confidence as Dean. He liked connecting with people, but his first kiss had no connection other than her saying, We better do it, and him saying, Yeah. He hadn't even met her before their names were drawn out of someone's baseball cap, and there had been no privacy at all even in the dark with the door shut, because the second they'd emerged they'd been laughed at, hooted at resoundingly. It had felt empty to him even though his heart had practically stopped in his chest, it was so major a moment.

Still, he guessed, it was something, some kind of weird milestone. His first kiss. Everyone had one, and that was his. He guessed it counted. He hadn't told Dean about it, though, because unlike Dean, he wasn't dying to brag, and the way everyone at Rogers Junior High knew about it afterwards still bothered him even though it was at least four schools ago.

He bucked himself up.

"So, you guys hook up?" he asked baldly, because he was supposed to want to hear these things, and he knew Dean wanted to tell him. He'd told Sam immediately the first time he'd done it with a girl, not two hours after, and floored him. Sam had been twelve at the time.

"Not all the way," Dean said, and yet he sounded seriously smug. "But she gave me the most serious blowjob ever."

Chest catching oddly, Sam stayed silent. Like, he knew what that meant and all. He wasn't stupid. It was just weird to think that some girl wanted to do that to Dean, and near impossible to actually imagine it. It was something that he couldn't quite believe, but it made his blood rush around thickly and pound in his temples and wrists just to try and comprehend it.

"It was serious?" he asked, froggy-throated.

"Freakin' serious," Dean said, and laughed kind of moronically. "Oh, man, was she into it. Like, usually, they're not really into it, you know? Like they'll lick for like thirty seconds and stop or use their hand instead or just wanna get down to it. But this girl..."

He stopped and sighed, the same kind of happy sigh he reserved for one of Dad's stories from when he was a Marine or the end credits of some satisfying slasher flick or having total control of the radio in the car. Sam felt his chest sink, felt it stay contentedly there in the valley of the breath for a moment and stayed still, too. His heart was annoying his ear drums, and on top of that, now he could hear Dean's too, just inches from his ear, picking up and working harder.

"We were just makin' out in the back row most of the movie," said Dean, voice dragging in his chest as if through gravel. "Then she just stopped before it was over and asked me if I wanted to get outta there. So we went out the back exit... and then she was all up on me again. Just right there in the alley."

He paused and Sam felt a stubbly chin graze along his forehead for a second, like Dean was turning his head to see if Sam was still awake.

"So she blew you in the alley?" Sam ventured disbelievingly.

"She was gonna. She got my belt and my fly open, then someone else came out the exit by us, so we stopped, went back to the car. Walked the whole way there with my belt undone. Then we got in and she just... attacked me, was all over me. Went on forever. She just didn't stop till I was blowin' my load all over her... whole mouth. Her face." Another pause. Then Dean whispered, "God, it was awesome. You were probably already sleepin'."

"Yeah," Sam got out. He didn't know what that had to do with anything. He was usually in bed by eleven on school nights. Dean stayed up later than him all the time. For some reason, he felt rigid, caught there in what Dean was saying.

"Knew you'd be in bed. Just thought, 'Gotta tell Sam...' while she was goin' at it."

"Thoughtful," blurted Sam, employing his masterful embrace of sarcasm, and Dean's arm flexed, his forearm smushing Sam's face as he pretended to get him in a headlock. Sam snorted in protest and said, loud but still well-muffled in Dean's t-shirt, "So glad you thought of me during your serious blowjob!"

"Geek," said Dean, all low and hopeless and long-suffering, as if he were worldly in ways Sam would never, ever understand and knew it. His heart thunked against Sam's face, strong and warm, and Sam errantly thought that he was closer to Dean right then than that girl Melissa had been or ever could be. Dean had made out with her, hooked up with her, dropped her off and come home, and now he was close up against Sam, smelling like the exertion of everything he'd done with her. It was a thought that felt good in his bones and then turned kind of uncomfortable in his stomach, because he wasn't sure why he liked it. Dean was just -- Dean, but he had a way about him, and Sam wasn't immune. He was probably even more susceptible than the Melissas of the world, because he knew the difference between the smarmy flirting machine his brother turned into every time a girl walked past and the Dean who always stopped for The Cosby Show channel-surfing. Still, he'd seen Dean in action and he knew, fully and factually and better than anyone else, that Dean was painfully attractive. Everything about Dean was right and perfect; if he'd ever had too-big feet or grumpy hair that couldn't make up its mind between curly and straight, Sam had no memory of it. It didn't matter that Sam was getting taller -- Dean would always be years ahead of him, always already over some invisible threshold. Dean didn't hoard experiences the way Sam did, but it was still both confusing and pleasing that Dean seemed to want to tell him stuff and also smother him with his armpit.

Sam turned his nose into Dean's t-shirt and drew in a slow sniff, the smell washing over him in a warm flush of mired comfort and stomach-achey oddness. It was a low, intense and insistent feeling that he couldn't push down or away.

He was jealous, he guessed. Kind of jealous.



The next time Sam woke up, the room was gray with dawn, and he could tell it was early, and that something was wrong.

He felt weird.

His skin was prickling with sweat.

His body was ringing slightly, like something had just happened, something in a dream that was slipping out of him like soap in a wet, desperate grip, but that was still all over him, too, in every fiber of every muscle.

Slowly, it came to him: the lukewarm, sticky feel of his underwear. His left leg and hipbone, wet. Wet. Achingly warm and wet.

For a split second, Sam froze completely.

He'd wet the bed? He hadn't done that since he was just a kid -- like, really really little -- and once had been enough to shame him away from it for life, especially since he shared beds with Dean half the time, and he didn't want Dean to refuse to sleep with him --

Horror had just begun to touch his nerves (Dean! God, what was Dean gonna say?) when he realized it wasn't pee, and simultaneous spikes of relief and embarrassment nailed him in the chest. It was just jizz. He'd jizzed in his sleep.

It had happened once back in Ohio, too, but then, he and Dean had been set up in different beds, separated by about two feet and sloppy piles of clothes that Sam had actually lost a book in, never to be found again. He'd managed to get up noiselessly, pad over all the clothes half pulled out of their bags, clean up, cover up the sticky splotch on his sheet, and later bury the sheets under all the laundry in the hamper without Dean or Dad catching on.

But here -- he was trapped. He had to climb over Dean to get out of bed, and they were squished together as it was. There was no way he was gonna make it over him without waking him up, and he could feel how his own weight had mashed his jizz through the cotton of his briefs and against the sheets, up his waist and down his leg. It was a complete mess, and there was just no way Dean would miss it. God, Sam hadn't moved an inch and he could smell it, musky and bitter-sharp.

For an endless minute, Sam just laid there sweating alternately hot and cold because he didn't know what else to do, and Dean breathed, noisy and measured, beside him, still totally asleep.

Just move, he finally told himself, and did so gingerly, with arms that wanted to shake instead of support him.

"Dean," he whispered, the weak feeling of his arms making him not feel capable of climbing over his brother's prone, outstretched legs. Dean's head turned toward him automatically, as if responding in his sleep. "Dean, move," he said, louder.

"Yeah," Dean got out, and sat up without really opening his eyes, his hair awry on one side and his necklace hanging backwards, with its knot at his throat. He dropped his legs cooperatively from the mattress, seeming to get that Sam needed to go take a piss or something.

Robotically, knees feeling as jelly-like as his elbows apparently did, Sam managed to climb out of the bed. It wasn't yet bright in the room, but he could see everything plainly in a pale gray wash of what would later be morning light. The floor was cold under his feet.

"Get up," Sam muttered, not knowing what would be worse -- leaving Dean to find it on accident or having to tell him, right to his face, that he'd come in his sleep. On accident. Like a kid. With Dean right there next to him, so close it was a wonder Sam hadn't jizzed right on him. He was going to get ridiculed either way. His underwear was sticking to his skin, sucking in against it wetly and threatening to dry that way. He went quickly for the claptrap dresser drawer and yanked it open to root around for a clean pair of briefs.

"Dude. Wha's wrong?" Dean asked, hoarse but alert.

"Nothing," Sam said shortly, trying to ignore the embarrassment he was only just keeping back. "Just -- get up. I gotta change the sheets."

Before Dean could respond, Sam booked it to the bathroom, which was about four steps away, and slammed the door shut behind him, harder and louder than he'd meant to.

The slam echoed loudly in his ears as he shucked his underwear down his legs, spunk clinging thick and sticky to his pubes in some places and dried in an obvious streak across his thigh, thin but shining.

They only had the most threadbare few towels, bought in a plastic bag for twenty-five cents at the thrift store a few blocks over. Sam grabbed one and wet it down, totally ignoring his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror, and scrubbed at himself harshly, shuddering. The towel felt ice-cold, and the skin around his dick was seriously sensitive. The tile on the floor of the bathroom was even colder, and the chill in the air bit at him everywhere.

As soon as he'd climbed into fresh underwear, Sam balled up the dirty pair with the washcloth, trying his best to cover the sticky stains, and forced himself out of the bathroom. He had to rip the sheets off the bed before Dean had figured out what was going on.

But it was too late. Dean was up. He hadn't turned on the light, but he had already pulled the bedsheets off, and his arms were full of them.

"Hey, uh..." Dean started, meeting Sam's eyes, but he didn't seem to know what he had intended to say, because he just stopped and stared.

Sam's throat squeezed in on itself. "Please don't tell Dad," he managed, voice squeaking, and shoved the unclean clothes in his fist down deep in the hamper, burying them below yesterday's t-shirts.

"Uh, wasn't planning on it," said Dean, and huffed out a laugh, like the mere idea was too hard to cope with straight-faced. "Move your ass, I'm gonna toss these in the wash."

Sam moved in a jumble of feet and knees, watching as Dean ducked around the corner and headed toward the garage. Relief kept wanting to creep in -- relief that Dean wasn't going to tell anybody, relief that Dean didn't seem like he was pissed off -- but he felt so awkward.

More than that, he was so mortified, all his joints felt like they were made of Silly Putty; his limbs twined stupidly as he stood there and wrapped his arms around his own bare stomach. He felt so stupid and rubbery, like he had no control over his own body, and it felt like somehow, without meaning to, he'd just messed things up. When Dean came home, he'd ignored the opportunity to get the couch to himself and climbed right into bed with Sam, wrapped an arm around him and talked to him. Now Dean had woken up to his jizz on the bedsheets. It was too personal, too close for comfort, and Dean probably wouldn't want to ever be that close to him again, ever, or tell him anything about serious blowjobs.

Sam had crookedly pulled on a pair of sweatpants when Dean wandered back in.

"Unless you wanna find a 24-hour Wal-Mart, we don't really have a change of sheets," he said, and grinned ruefully at Sam as he dropped himself onto the mattress again. "And we can't exactly call housekeeping."

"Sorry," Sam murmured, miserable.

"'S okay," Dean told him plainly, reaching down for the blanket he'd ripped off the bed. He didn't seem like he cared. "It happens."

"Yeah, I know," said Sam. He was sinking further and further into a black hole of lame. Even though Dean wasn't being a jerk about it, he still felt jumpy and self-conscious, like any minute, a barb would be coming his way and Dean would be moving to the couch instead.

"You gonna go back to sleep?" Dean asked, smacking at the bare-naked mattress with one hand.

Sam was doubtful he could possibly fall asleep again, but if Dean was going to let him back into bed after all that, Sam felt like he should accept the obvious peace offering. He trudged over and awkwardly climbed onto the bed, kneeing past Dean and touching his palm to about the spot where he'd been pressing his hips, trying to see if it was wet. It seemed to be okay. And more than that, it was still warm with sleep.

He could feel Dean watching him as he settled back down, then dared a glance at him as Dean jerked their fuzzy old blanket up over them both.

"Here," he grunted, and Sam took it gratefully, turning on his side to give Dean all the room he could manage.

Dean laid back alongside him, then, punched the pillow absently to fluff it, and fidgeted with the blanket, fingers rubbing at it in a restless way. His profile was cast in shadow; dawn hadn't even broken yet, but the cleft of his chin and the tiny upturn at the end of his nose were clear as day.

It was awkward. Sam could feel it; the warm tangle they'd formed earlier was gone because he was trying his best not to touch Dean and Dean was probably trying his best not to touch him. But they were both still breathing, so obviously he couldn't literally die of embarrassment.

"So, uh," Dean said, obviously attempting to sound casual, "you know about... cleanin' the pipes, right? You jack off?"

Ugh, never mind, he obviously hadn't yet begun to be embarrassed.

"Sometimes," he hedged uncomfortably.

After a pause, Dean said, "Yeah, well, you might wanna do it more. More you do it, less likely you are to spooge while you're sleepin'."

As horribly as his face kept prickling with the unforgiving, unabiding heat of humiliation, that grabbed Sam's attention and held it tight. He'd always wondered if Dean jacked off, but he'd never seen any sign of it, so he'd also wondered if he, Sam, wasn't just weird, just really sexed-up and perverted, moreso than other people -- normal people. Dean called him a freak sometimes; what if that meant he really was, and just didn't know how to not be one?

"D'you do it?" he asked lowly.

Again, Dean took a second to answer. "Yeah. Dude, everyone does it. If they say they don't, they're lying."

"But -- when do you do it?" Sam pressed, seriously curious. He'd never not shared either a bedroom or a motel room with Dean, but he'd never once seen Dean doing anything like that.

"I dunno. Whenever. Mostly in the shower. It's the only place with actual guaranteed privacy. And, uh, it helps that you're in school and I'm not," Dean said, then turned his face, eyebrow hitched, catching Sam staring at him.

Sam immediately tucked his chin down.

Dean reached up and scrubbed his face with one hand, then said, "Well, now you know. The more the merrier. You good?"

"Yeah," Sam replied. He wasn't really sure, though. He couldn't seem to keep a rein on how weird and embarrassed he felt, and instead of satiating his curiosities just then, Dean had only piqued them further. He just wanted to know if the stuff he did, the stuff he thought about and felt sometimes, was really all that normal. He wanted to know what Dean did when he wasn't hooking up with a girl and getting blowjobs; if Dean ever thought about some of the stuff Sam did.

"Good," Dean said decisively, and rolled himself onto his side, turning away from Sam. He breathed in deep, rounded shoulders rising, then let the breath out in a long, heavy sigh, and that was that.

Sam was quiet. Dean was quiet.

He waited for Dean to fall asleep again and for his breaths to go shallow, for them to blow out in small puffs, but if Dean fell asleep again, Sam couldn't tell.



At half past noon, Sam finally stretched and rolled out of bed to wander to the bathroom, the bare mattress scratchy and too-slick on his skin as he slid off it. It was a pitiless reminder of waking up at the buttcrack of dawn having jizzed himself in his sleep, and Sam flushed dully all over again as his brain called it all up and then bombed his senses with fresh embarrassment. It was dingy and gray outside, like four in the morning had decided to drag on endlessly and shame him forever.

Dean had left a dent on his pillow and the whole blanket to him, and was nowhere to be found. A scrap of paper torn out of a spiral notebook was pinned to the olive green fridge by a Pizza Hut magnet. It was scrawled with Dean's writing, all in capitals.


Maybe that was good. He could eat in peace and not sit there with Dean feeling dumb and not knowing exactly how to act.

They didn't have much in their tiny little afterthought of a kitchen (they'd had bigger ones in motel suites -- this one only had one counter between a half-sized sink and a creaky gas stove), so it was a good thing Dean was apparently grocery shopping. Sam dug his box of Corn Pops out and finished off both it and the last of the milk, slurping the cereal wetly up from a plastic bowl as he parked himself in front of their flickering stolen cable, settling on Nickelodeon because not much else other than disease-of-the-week Lifetime stuff and Hey Arnold! was on at noon on a Saturday. Just sitting on the couch, he could hear that the dryer was running in the dank old garage and knew their sheets were tumbling around in there.

He was too heavily aware of everything that had happened even without the reminder. His brain was a sludgy, excitable mish-mash alive with the warmth he'd felt with his nose in Dean's chest and he still felt shuddery with humiliation about his body's reaction to stupid Dean's stupid details about his stupid date. Just thinking about it made him sigh tensely and his dick stiffen with interest in his sweatpants. It was seriously annoying, but he couldn't help it; his dick did that all the time lately, all by itself, like his skin was coming alive and even a passing breeze felt good. It didn't care whether he was trying to eat cereal or do algebra.

Slowly, Sam licked his spoon off, repeatedly pushing his tongue into its smooth bend, until he couldn't taste the sweetness of cereal-flavored milk on it anymore -- just warm metal.

Maybe he should do what Dean said to do and jack off. Clean the pipes. Maybe his body was trying to tell him that he needed to do it more, and trying to ignore it was just making him even more likely to bone up out of nowhere, over nothing but confusing smells and thoughts. It seemed to make sudden sense, and with Dad gone, it seemed even safer, because Dad definitely wouldn't catch him, and Dean wasn't even there, either. He had the whole house to himself, just like Dean did while he was at school.

The spoon clattered in the cereal bowl as he thrust it into the dent of the seat next to him and sat back, legs slouching out gracelessly.

His eyelids dropped shut of their own accord as he pawed at his dick through his sweatpants, its swell not huge, and not near as abruptly full-on as it had been last night, but -- yeah. He was ready, he was on and buzzing, like blowing a wad in the middle of the night hadn't done anything to actually relieve him of any tension or horniness. His dick just got stiffer as he pushed at it, then pulled at it, messing with it tentatively through his sweats and shivering from the light, warm rasp of his pubes against his shaft.

Unleashed, his mind went straight back to everything Dean had said about his date, and this time, without Dean breathing right there next to him, his brain went super Technicolor and he could practically see Melissa's streaked hair falling over Dean's lap and hear his belt clinking and his zip opening. Sam's dick gave a jerk, popping harder like a reflex had been jabbed in his belly, blood coursing sweetly through him. God. Another thick, gut-tugging pulse; now he was seriously boning, tenting up his sweatpants from his hips thinking that Dean would do something like that. Let a girl undo his pants in an alley, let her suck his dick right in the car they all practically lived in. He couldn't imagine what someone's mouth would feel like on his dick, but he knew the car so well (knew its smell, the slide of its leather upholstery against denim and skin) that he could see it in his head, Dean behind the wheel with his head tipped back, that Melissa girl working, bent over his thighs.

Oh, jeez. Sam's knees opened up wide as his muscles roiled him up into a hump at nothing other than the thin pressure of his own sweatpants stretching over him and the vague warmth of his palm. He dug down past the elastic waistband into his briefs and clenched fingers around the stiff, hot pole of his cock, his sweats shifting reluctantly over his knuckles and the tip of it, and it felt good, and he felt perverted, like he was a gross little freak who liked hearing about his brother getting his dick sucked. He was doing something wrong thinking about all that and touching himself.

Karma kicked in swiftly; a moment later, there was the metallic crunch and click of a key working in the lock of the front door, and Dean was barging in with plastic bags before Sam could even get it in his head to get up and scamper for the bedroom, the bathroom, anything. He jumped in his seat and yanked his hand back out of his pants, caught red-handed and hard.

"Hey," he heard his brother greet him broadly, and Dean turned directly from the front door into the kitchen, clunking his bags down onto the counters. "Got you some, uh, Corn Pops... you sick of 'em yet?"

Dean shut the front door again with one boot and flipped the deadbolt over, and Sam, who was turning red slowly and painfully, jerked his knees up, heels digging into the couch cushion.

Dean was still talking, his voice loud as he ducked back into the tiny kitchen. "So, Pasta-Roni for dinner. Huh? That cool with you? It was half off."

"Cool," Sam dragged up. He felt glued to the spot, startled out of the ability to just get up and head down the hall to their room, or to the bathroom. The only thing to do, he told himself, was to sit there and wait, gag himself on stupid Nickelodeon programming and toy commercials until he wasn't hard anymore. His cock was making the crotch of his sweats bulge next to his thigh. Why hadn't he just done it in the shower? Why hadn't he put on any real clothes, at least?

He heard the fridge door open and shut again before Dean came wandering out of the kitchen and towards the couch, then stopped short beside him.

"Dude, you okay?"

"Yeah," said Sam, idiotically lightly.

"Look like you're gonna hurl."

"I'm fine."

"Sure you're not sick of Corn Pops?" Dean asked jokingly, and leaned over to swipe the bowl from the seat next to Sam.

"Nah," Sam managed, huddling his arms in his lap and feeling like he was all elbows and stupid angles. Dean eyed him, pausing weirdly as he stood there with Sam's empty bowl, the spoon he'd licked leaning against its side next to Dean's thumb.

There was a long catch of a moment, then instead of taking the bowl away, Dean slowly folded, tall and heavy, onto the couch beside Sam, easing down gingerly and setting the bowl on the floor.

Sam tensed wildly, toes curling tight in defense of whatever Dean was going to say to him. But Dean didn't say anything. His expression was totally unreadable, eyes strange and hesitant as they glanced over him, skipping too quick and uncomfortable but lingering on him like a stare nonetheless. Dean, in jeans with a hole in one knee and one of Dad's flannel shirts hanging open over an ancient black t-shirt, was just looking at him unblinkingly.

Then he said something, low under the colorful, urgent, sugar-hyped tones of the commercials on TV.

"Need to come again?"

It was like a kick to the gut, Sam felt it so hard in his chest and belly, embarrassment shot through with something that responded unfailingly to the intimate grit of Dean's voice. He couldn't even speak; he wasn't even sure what Dean was saying, exactly.

"Lemme help," Dean said, gripping Sam's calves around the stalk of his ankle and tugging gently.

Not sure what else to do, Sam let Dean pull his heels off the couch and lower his legs until his skinny thighs were flat on the couch again and he felt the urge to squirm away and hide like he should've in the first place. Some huge arrow had pinned him where he sat, though, and now he was totally caught, totally messing up everything ever. His legs were splayed stupidly open and his hands were gripping at the cushion underneath him nervously. Dean could see his hard-on, the stiff shape of it caught crookedly in his sweatpants.

"Need some help, huh?" Dean asked him, sounding hoarse but understanding, and palmed Sam's thigh deliberately with a hand that could've wrapped around most of it. Shocks of feeling spiked up through Sam; they were so strong they almost registered as pain, and he flinched and quivered helplessly in response, his cock jerking intensely in his sweats. Dean's hand gave his leg a squeeze then worked its way up higher, and that was more than enough; heat bled through Sam in a burst, and he nodded, dazed.

Dean blew out a short, harsh breath in response, darting Sam a look with flinty eyes, and for a second touched Sam's belly-button with his left fingers, thumb swiping over it before sliding downwards. Just that made Sam gasp.

"That okay?" Dean asked immediately. Sam nodded again, fast and dizzy. He couldn't speak; his mouth couldn't move to form words. For a moment, Dean just stared up at him, looking alert for a sign that Sam was lying, then he said, "'Kay. Just tell me if you're not into it." His strong grip had the elastic waists of Sam's sweatpants and underwear pulled down around his thighs before he'd even finished talking. Then he breathed, "Jeez," because Sam's dick was wagging stiffly with the squirm of fabric down his hips, and he was just naked all of a sudden from the knees up.

Intensity pulled Sam's guts tight and painful again. He hadn't been so naked in front of Dean for years, at least not this purposefully, or with his dick all hard like this, and his limbs all tensed with a needy apprehension, because he had no idea what Dean was thinking about his body, his cock. He wasn't nearly as developed as Dean -- what if he was way behind? He felt like a little kid. He was bony and small and shaky.

"Just tell me to stop," Dean muttered, fingers sliding capably around the base of Sam's dick and propping it up from the low sink of his tummy.

A weird squeak got stuck in Sam's throat. It felt better than anything he'd ever felt in his life. It was Dean's hand, warm and knowing and strong, and it was touching him, and Dean was really doing it, leaning in over him and overlapping his shoulder. Sam could feel the amulet he'd given Dean when he was little grazing ticklishly against his chest from where it hung around Dean's neck, and somewhere under the February weather that had sunk its way into Dean's clothes, there was that smell.

Sam's balls were pulling tight just feeling Dean steady him and his cock sway and twitch against his fingers, but then Dean gave him an experimental pump, and he seemed to sink into the back of the couch even while his spine and toes curled and all his nerve endings overloaded with the feeling.

"Dean," he whispered vulnerably, and earned himself a bracing hand that stroked his ribcage and the warmth of Dean bending to kiss at the naked skin between his hip and belly. The tip of Dean's nose teased through the wry little curls framing his dick, and he could feel Dean's breaths, surreal in how hot and damp they were and how wet they made him feel, like he was leaking in Dean's hand -- oh. He was. He was dripping everywhere, all over his own belly and Dean's fingers and everything --

Sam let out a tiny noise of embarrassment, but Dean kissed his stomach and whispered, warm and wet, "'S okay, dude. 'S okay."

He squeezed Sam's dick and drew his fist up, making it slick and slippery in the dribble of precome, and Sam couldn't even see straight from the heat and blur of his own eyelashes, but he was still bombarded with mental snapshots of the thick veins in the back of Dean's hand standing out and his over-popped knuckles seeming to slide Sam's skin along his shaft and the tiny wet shimmer Dean's lips left on his hipbone when he got another reassuring kiss and cartoons babbling on TV in slices of bright color. Dean stroked him slow and wet, huffing breaths that made the rest of Sam's skin prickle with how turned on he felt, only a few more times before it hit Sam with an unforgiving wallop: he was going to come, and all over, and fast, and all over Dean. In an instant, Sam strained and tightened and pulsed, and Dean hissed in surprise.

"Yeah," he grunted, and his grip switched up perfectly, slipping up and squeezing like he was trying to wring out every insistent bit of jizz that was blurting out of Sam's dick, hot and clinging in liquidy dribbles on the skin of his stomach. "Just like that. Just like that, Sammy."

Dean kept going for what seemed like forever, coaxing out endless dribbles of spunk and making Sam hiccup and flex and his balls clench in tight with effort, and by the time he leaned back and let go, Sam was slimy and his dick fell sensitively against a slick of come and slumped over heavily, flushed beyond pink. Some kind of knee-jerk modesty made Sam's hand move to clutch at it, even though he'd totally creamed himself and Dean had already seen it all anyway.

"You good?" Dean asked warily.

Sam had no idea what to say. He nodded, lifting heavy eyelids so he could look up at Dean's face. The points of Dean's ears were deeply pink, and his face and neck looked stained with his blush. Even over sunburned summers, Sam had never seen him look like that.

"You sure?"

"Sure," Sam echoed breathlessly.

Dean's face changed before his eyes, his furrowed brow and sharp gaze relaxing.

"Good," he said, and dropped his chin to his chest heavily. "Don't want you to be mad. Just wanted to..." He trailed off for a moment, and looked to Sam like he was grappling for words. "Make it... make it good. You know? You were embarrassed... it's not -- it isn't bad --"

They both jerked, then, Dean swinging back from Sam quickly, because the old rotary phone plugged in on the kitchen counter rang out of nowhere, echoing loudly, then fell silent again. Sam clutched at his sweats and pulled them back up around his waist in a desperate wiggle even as he and Dean stared at each other, both of them still and waiting on tenterhooks for another ring. It was too weird to be naked and doing this and talking about it all with the thought that Dad might be calling from wherever he was, that he was thinking about them right at this moment.

Dean was up like a flash the second the phone rang again, and Sam didn't think he could sit there with spunk dripping down his stomach and hear Dean say, Hi, Dad.

The floor creaked under him as he shoved himself up off the couch and scuttled to the bathroom, awkwardly banging his shoulder on the door frame in the process and uttering, "Ow!"

"Oh, nothin'. He just ran into the door," Sam heard Dean say.

"Shut up," Sam blustered, and threw the door shut behind him. It just bounced up out of the frame again from the force, so he had to grab at it and force it shut again.

"Yeah. Not at all awkward," Dean told the receiver.



After Sam had showered (he soaped up twice and shuddered involuntarily as he rubbed his hands over his stomach where Dean had kissed it, as if his whole core was suddenly extra ticklish) and pulled on clean clothes, he found that Dean had picked up the stack of newspapers that had been piling up by the couch since they'd moved in and put them where Sam had been slouched before. He had a pen hanging out of his mouth and was scanning sections of paper with a discerning eye. He'd turned the TV to some channel that was running Remington Steele.

Before, Sam would walk in and steal the TV back, then they'd wrestle for the remote and wind up channel surfing till they found something good, or maybe something really crappy that they could make fun of the whole time. Or he'd walk through the room to the kitchen and Dean would pretend to try and trip him in the process, or he'd go tell Dean he was bored and they'd pile on jackets and walk to the nearest Gas Mart or hop a bus and find a used bookstore to get random old comics and stuff on Sam's reading list. It had been a while since Sam had seen a movie, but -- Dean mostly went to movies with girls these days, and he seemed busy, and Sam felt... confused. He was knee-jerkedly embarrassed, but Dean had told him he didn't have to be.

"On the hunt," Dean said stoutly, when he noticed Sam lingering in the hallway watching him. "Dad said to be in bed by eleven-thirty."

"Did the trail get cold?" Sam asked.

"For now, yeah. He can't find any evidence the spook even existed, and she only turns up on full moons, so it'll be another three weeks till Dad can verify the claim. Gonna try and help find something he can have on the line."

Rue collected tightly in the corner of Sam's mouth. He didn't really think it was Dean's job to be doing this stuff for Dad. He hadn't even finished school. He should've been studying, or working a real job, or out with friends or Melissa or something. Instead, he was sitting around with re-runs and old newspapers, reading obituaries and articles about murders.

"Guess I'll get the sheets out of the dryer," murmured Sam. He cut around the coffee table crates and Dean stuck his leg out. Sam kicked it.



At eleven-twenty-five on the dot, Sam shoved the book he was reading for English back into his particularly-arranged backpack, got ready for sleep, and bounced himself onto the bed with its fresh sheets. His skin was ringing, alive and electric, beneath the blanket. Just knowing Dean was going to be with him on top of these sheets he'd helplessly creamed earlier made them feel weird, and kind of sexy.

God, he was so weird. They were just sheets.

He'd successfully rustled his way into them when Dean came lumbering into the room, meeting his eye for a split second before he got preoccupied with shucking his flannel shirt down his arms.

"Lights out, Sammy," he said, like nothing was unusual, and unconcernedly nudged the bedroom door shut by leaning against it with one shoulder.

Dean, Sam found himself thinking. Just his brother's name felt oddly tentative and unfamiliar-feeling to him of a sudden, like Dean was some stranger. He just didn't look like the same person to Sam anymore, wrestling his t-shirt up and over his head. That same hand Dean was tossing the shirt vaguely at the their already stuffed hamper with, had... touched him. His mouth had been pressed to Sam's belly.

But the laser focus of attention Dean had fixed on him had disappeared as the day had gone on; Dad calling had shut them both down faster than fast, and Dean had wrapped himself up in a pile of newspapers waist-high, folding them up and setting them aside only to grab a fresh one, take a leak, and make Pasta-Roni while talking to Dad again on the phone, giving him a follow-up on what he'd been reading. Sam had retreated to his room, done his geometry homework, robotically worked three chapters ahead in his history book, and buried his nose in a school copy of The Big Sea.

Dean, he wanted to say, but didn't; he could feel his ears heating up and his face twinging with an unwelcome heat.

"Brush your teeth?" Dean asked him.

"Yeah," Sam responded. Dean hadn't really had to ask him that since he was in third grade -- Dean must've thought things were weird, too; was trying to come up with stuff to say.

"Finish all your homework?" continued Dean, and now he was teasing, flashing a smirk in Sam's direction.

"I dunno, did you?" Sam razzed back on autopilot.

"Dude. You know I can't resist a big ol' pile of dead people," he said, and Sam snorted softly, making Dean smirk further as he went to unbutton his jeans.

Dean unzipped his fly, and that casual buzz of zipper with the way Dean shoved his jeans down with his spine bending and both arms working got Sam's stomach fluttering.

Two days ago, Sam wouldn't have paid any attention to stuff like this. At least, not a lot. He'd kind of checked out the shape and hang of Dean's junk in his boxers and noted all the places Dean was hairy because it was -- kind of interesting. Someday, maybe his shoulders would widen like that, his arms develop like that. Maybe his body would look more like Dean's. But that had been all. Now, every move Dean made had a weirdly sexy overtone; every bit of his body seemed so different and grown-up in comparison to Sam's, so adult and unattainable.

"You good?" Dean asked him, and Sam broke from the stare he'd locked on Dean, realizing that Dean was waiting with his hand on the light switch.

"Yeah," he said stupidly, and wiggled down. Dean flicked the old light switch with a noisy click, leaving the room momentarily pitchy black before moonlight began to fight its way through the blinds, coming through in stripes.

Sam's eyes struggled to find Dean in the darkness, finally landing on the lit-up line of his shoulders as he rounded the bed and sank down next to Sam, hand searching for the blanket.

Neither of them said anything as Dean settled down next to him, though Dean punched at his end of the pillow, sighed, and jerked his shoulders around on the mattress noisily, but Sam was so used to it that none of it really registered or bothered him. It didn't mean anything that Dean didn't say anything, either, but Sam still hung on the silence awkwardly.

It just felt abnormal and obvious to him. He wanted to say something, but he didn't know how to without shattering the illusion of normalcy -- because what if he did, and it never came back? And more than caring if things weren't the same as always, more than anything else, he didn't want Dean to think he was obsessing over it, especially if Dean was cool with it and it wasn't anything worth making a big deal out of. It wasn't really sex or anything, was it? Dean had already had sex, anyway; it was probably nothing like pulling his geek little brother off on the couch during Hey Arnold!

He was never going to sleep again if he didn't say something.

"Dean?" he finally managed in a tiny breath.

Maybe Dean was sleeping already. He answered, though, and Sam heard his head shift on his pillow.

"Yeah, buddy."

Sam worked his jaw, clenching it and pressing his lips together tight. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to make things all right again, because even if they acted normal for the rest of their lives, he was always going to know what had happened and know how he felt right then, and be a total freak for it.

"Was it... weird?" he wound up murmuring. "That -- earlier?"

"Uh." In the dim light, Sam could see Dean's elbow lifting and the bumps of his knuckles as he rubbed his hand over his face. From behind it came a muffled, "I dunno. Probably kinda weird, but -- I dunno. Weird is... just -- kinda our whole schtick. Y'know? Family business."

Sam dimly guessed that was true, but the answer still made his stomach swoop low in a distantly painful way.

"I dunno. Maybe it's not that weird," Dean pressed on. "When I, uh..." He paused, then forged ahead kind of slowly, sounding like he might start laughing. "When I did baseball... back in Little Rock, in eighth grade... this group of guys on the team did circle jerks. Like it was the most normal apple pie thing ever. Ball games and hot dogs and whackin' it at sleepovers. So, uh, I did that once, that time I went over to, uh, what's his... Aaron Douglas's for the whole rah-rah team spirit sleepover thing. 'Fore we moved."

"I didn't know that," Sam managed, kind of awed and turned on and weirded out all at once, insides pulling around in a confusing tangle.

"Yeah, well, I never told anyone," muttered Dean. "I just did it once. Don't see me doin' baseball anymore, do you?"

Even though there was a sign up in his science teacher's classroom that declared, There's no such thing as a stupid question, Sam still felt stupid as he asked, "But... what's a circle jerk?"

"Uh, pretty much exactly what it sounds like," Dean answered, a laugh roughening his voice.

But Sam only had a muddled mental picture of a bunch of guys in the blue and white baseball uniforms he remembered from Dean's stint on a team standing in a circle like clones, a bunch of identical points on a Burger King crown, pants unbuttoned and dicks in hand as if encircling a single urinal. He didn't really know if that was accurate.

"Did you not like it?" he asked. After all, Dean didn't seem interested in sports since he'd randomly taken up pitching at that one school -- not like Sam tried out for soccer every time he got the chance, or at least joined soccer clubs where they kicked around balls after school.

"I dunno. Haven't really thought about it like that," said Dean, finally abandoning rubbing at his forehead and letting his arm flop back down over his chest. "Just kinda... somethin' I did. Everybody else was doin' it, so I just did it too, y'know. Like everybody wanted to watch a movie, so we did that, then everybody wanted to jack off, so we did that. It was kinda like a game, to see who could shoot first. It wasn't like doin' stuff with chicks. So, uh... don't worry 'bout it. People do all kinds of shit just to get off, it just happens. Doesn't mean anything."

Sam exhaled slowly, relieved and left aching at the same time. He couldn't even pinpoint why he felt like he was straining inside, let alone where the relief was coming from, except that Dean had said he didn't have to worry.

Dean obviously heard him sighing, because he immediately said, in his annoyingly authoritative way, "Yeah. Everybody does shit like that when they're growin' up. You gotta start sometime."

His face was too warm. Sam rolled onto his stomach and stuffed it into his pillow, which wasn't nearly cool enough. He'd started... shit. Whatever it was. Growing up. Doing shit to get off. But he'd started it with his brother, and it felt messed up -- not because it had happened, and not because Dean was his brother, but because he -- he'd liked it. Just circumnavigating the idea was getting him nervous and sweaty, intense. His guts were pounding low and insistent, his dick caught stiff against his underwear, sweatpants an extra weight, an extra layer against it. He wanted to mash it against the mattress, rub off against it until he was laying in his own jizz again.

"Did you not like it?" Dean asked him, the words an oddly exact echo of Sam's.

Against the pillow, Sam's face burned abruptly hotter. He didn't want to have to answer.

"Dunno," he muffled into the pillow.

"Sammy. Did you not like it?" Dean asked, sounding a whole shade more serious, and somehow, his concern made Sam need to answer in kind.

"No, I liked it," he said, squirming.

After a moment, Dean seemed to relax. He tucked an arm up under his cheek, propping himself up on it, and flicked the backs of his fingers loosely against Sam's bare shoulder. With Dean on his side, leaning close like that, Sam could feel the heat of his bare chest, and on top of his own, it felt like so much, too much.

"Hey," Dean whispered. "Can you be quiet?"

Something in Sam's chest screwed up tight again.

So that was that. Dean wanted him to shut up about it, when Sam had barely said anything. He hadn't even scratched the surface with stuff he wished he could ask Dean, confess to him.

"'Kay," he returned with effort, feeling like his lungs were only just working around the knot in his chest.

That was that.

Maybe things would get back to normal after all -- what did he know --

But then Dean was catching his arm, fingers all wrapping strong around his bicep and pushing him insistently.

"Roll over," Dean huffed out, and Sam did, body a muddle of heat he was sure Dean could feel; his dick was so obvious in his sweatpants that he was grateful the light was off.

It wasn't until he was on his back, though, and Dean's hand was shoving the blanket down off his chest that he realized what exactly was happening there in the darkness. His breath caught, strangled; his heart hammered hard with mingled excitement, fright, and hope.

"You ever done this kind of stuff with anyone else?" Dean asked. His wide hand landed on Sam's stomach, warm and huge and spanning it totally, with fingertips curling over one side and the heel of his palm pressing against the other.

"No," escaped Sam's lungs in a wild gasp.

After a pause, Dean grunted, "Nothin' else. No girls. Just me."

Sam nodded hard, not able to stop there for a few seconds, hair rubbing hot against the pillow and tangling. He half-expected Dean to call him a geek again, tease him for not having a girlfriend or a soccer team circle jerk or serious blowjob in any of the places they'd ever lived.

But instead, Dean panted, "You wanna stop, just say, or else I'm not gonna stop," and slid his hand low, fingertips slipping under the waistbands of Sam's sweatpants and briefs and finding his dick sitting hard in them.

Sam's belly pulled, that primal heat mixed with fear charging through him, and Dean let out an amused-sounding breath as his palm slid to cover the whole sensitive spine of Sam's hard-on.

"Jeez, kiddo."

Sense-memory was already burning through Sam's brain and all his limbs, vividly recognizing and remembering how it had felt to have Dean's hand be working those wads of come out of him and all over his stomach. His breath caught in his throat, making his voice come out tiny and high-pitched.

"Dean --"

"You like that, Sammy?" Dean whispered, fingertips sliding slowly through a wisp of his pubes, palm flat and broad over every bit of him. "You want me to keep goin'?"

For a second, Sam's insides all seized, arresting all the air and voice in him, because he didn't want to say it --

"Yeah," he wound up sobbing out under his breath, blood pushing through him in such a rush it felt like he was burning, like he was glowing red and waves of heat were coming off him; he'd never felt so hot and sweaty, even after running the mile in phys ed. or getting stuck to the leather interior in the backseat while summer air blew in through the windows and baked him alive with no air conditioning to save him. He felt so naked under Dean, even though Dean's hand was just touching him under his clothes -- and he felt weirdly desperate and embarrassed even as Dean wrapped his dick up in his capable grip, squeezed him, made him feel good.

Like before, Dean handled him easily, pumping him deep and certain, but this time all Sam could seem to realize was how much bigger Dean's hand was than his own, how he jerked him like that mostly just because his hand was just so big. Sam's guts all quivered; he didn't know if he was more horny or self-conscious -- he wondered if Dean thought he was babyish and if his dick was small -- he wondered how Dean's hand fit over his own dick. How his hand would fit over it, how big it was --

It felt wet, then, and Dean's fingers coaxed a wet noise as his fist jacked Sam's dick steadily in his sweatpants, and Sam bit down on the inside of his lip punishingly, his belly giving into another low, threatening twist.

"Just like that," Dean said, just a scrape of breath near Sam's ear.

A gasp tried to rip Sam's lungs open and he choked, clamping down on it ruthlessly, trying to be quiet -- trying not to let Dean hear, feeling like his every breath was something Dean could take, turn backwards, and ridicule him with, if he wanted. His dick felt so hard in Dean's fist and he could feel himself pushing out bead after bead of clear, sticky fluid all over Dean's fingers -- it was getting smeared on his belly and along the inside of his briefs.

"C'mon," his brother whispered, but this time, it was coaxing; his nose rubbed along Sam's neck. "You wanna come for me again, huh, Sammy?"

He didn't even have to finish the thought -- Sam was losing it so compulsively he couldn't breathe at the mere reminder of how Dean had touched him then, just so randomly, and like earlier, Dean just patiently tugged it out of him, fingers solid and unforgiving around the meat of his cock as it pulsed hard around every load.

Sam's guts pulled, his brain fuzzed and spun out of his control; Dean was jerking him off, making him come, he was coming and Dean knew it and wanted him to, and no one had ever seen this part of him but Dean. It was all so much.

"Dean," he whispered, or tried to, but it just came out crooked, ruined -- like he was going to cry -- like it wasn't even Dean's name he'd just said.

"That good?" Dean asked him, low and wary, his grip gentling as he stroked Sam's dick, pulling him through another round of aching and dripping. Sam grunted in his throat, and it sounded like a whimper, but he couldn't help it.

After a minute, Dean inhaled deeply and slipped his hand away, leaving Sam soaking and slimy in his briefs and letting the elastic of his waistbands settle back onto his stomach with a snap. He puffed out a sensitive breath, brain still reeling in disbelief that Dean had just touched him again. Dean was right there, leaning over him. But it didn't seem possible somehow, the knowledge that they weren't supposed to be doing this too heavy to fully shove away but too undesirable to keep a grip on.

"Man, you really got, like, a backlog goin'," Dean spoke up, chuckling. Sam realized he was trying to wipe his hand on the blanket.

"I do?" Sam whispered, voice raw in his throat. Maybe there really was something wrong with him.

"Freakin' shoot off like a -- geyser, or whatever. Should put you on display at Yellowstone." At that, Sam froze in horror, his brain cruelly supplying a mash of when they'd stopped to watch Old Faithful go off when he was like, eight, and Yogi Bear. But Dean just snorted at him. "Freakin' over-achiever."

"Sorry," managed Sam. His teeth only just caught at the beginning to form the word. A low throb of embarrassment grabbed at his gut and he found himself twisting his face into Dean's arm, nose pressing right into the cut of his bicep. He was close to Dean's armpit, and his exhales came back to him loud and smelling like his own breath and Dean's skin at the same time.

"'S all right. You're like a porn star."

That was gross. And ridiculous. Still, Sam's heart tentatively lifted in his chest like a little helium birthday balloon being steadily filled as he realized Dean probably thought that was an ideal career. He said it like Sam was like an astronaut or James Bond or something. His mouth pulled against Dean's arm as he started to smile in spite of himself and pursed his lips trying to fight it down.

Dean was quiet for a stretch, and Sam lost the time in the buzz of his body and the smell of Dean and come, but then he spoke up.

"Hey, uh... so, like... you've really never hooked up with anyone, huh?" he asked.

"No," repeated Sam, threadbare.

"Really? You never kissed anyone or anything?"

For a second, Sam hesitated, breaths taking a pause there against Dean's arm.

"I did at Rogers," he said, and it felt so weird to finally confess it to Dean when he'd kept it to himself for so long, but the rest came tumbling out of him now that the stopper was out. "It was this girl I didn't know at that birthday party, in a closet. I had to," he added, afraid Dean wouldn't believe him. "It was a game."

"Huh," Dean let out audibly, clearly surprised. "You slip 'er the tongue?"

Sam huffed. He wanted to squirm. His underwear was wet and the mess of spunk trapped inside them was cooling down, getting sludgy, and a thick mess of it was finding its way down his hip, and he was baring his very soul to Dean more and more with every passing minute. "Kind of. Not really. Like, for a second. It was stupid."

"I was in sixth," Dean said conversationally.

"I thought you were in fifth." Actually, Sam clearly remembered the fact -- and the girl, who was a hall monitor by the first grade hall in the school they'd gone to for the first half of the year, where Dean was every day after school, picking up Sam. She'd had curly blond hair and wore sneakers with fluorescent pink shoelaces that also curled all corkscrew like little vinyl telephone cords. Dean had gotten a letter from the principal he was supposed to take home and give to Dad, since kissing on school property wasn't allowed, but instead he'd tossed it in the cafeteria dumpster.

"Well, yeah, but not for tongue," Dean said, like this made all the difference, and shifted a hand to rub briefly at the skinny pan of Sam's sternum.

A confused haze of feelings jangled underneath it in Sam's chest. It was a comforting pat but it felt sweaty and sexy and Dean had just jerked him off with that hand, and it felt so big on him; it tugged at that floating feeling in his heart and put it in his throat. Another rush of blood through his veins heated him up as he realized Dean could probably feel his heart going hard with the adrenaline of everything -- what they were doing, what they were talking about, how close their bodies were. It all felt closer than Sam had ever been to anyone, ever.

"Your little closet girlfriend wasn't doin' it right," Dean said, sounding all wise and smug, but Sam just felt like his heart was taking up his whole chest, now, clunking against his ribcage and Dean's hand and closing up his throat. His breaths weren't enough; they were short and harsh and he knew Dean could hear him panting, which made them even shorter.

Smoothly, so naturally Sam didn't even register it until the feeling of it hit him, Dean's hand moved to grip him lightly under the jaw, thumb bracketing his cheek, and Dean was leaning in closer, so close their noses touched and Sam could feel him breathing, too, and their breaths just clashed in a hot muddle against their mouths. He froze, pulling in a shallow, alarmed gasp, because he knew -- he just knew -- Dean was about to kiss him, and he wasn't prepared for that. He wasn't. He wasn't good at kissing. He'd only done it once. Dean wouldn't even like it, because he wasn't good at it like Dean, wasn't some cute girl. But Dean didn't move for what felt like resounding forever, leaving Sam's heart to chug like crazy and his breaths to suffer between them, and then he thought he was wrong, Dean wasn't going to kiss him at all, and he was just a freak for his mind rocketing to the idea --

And then Dean did kiss him, pressed in gently with his mouth finding Sam's and just settling against it, pillow-soft and warm and surreal, for a sweet second. Sam didn't even move, but still, their lips made a quiet parting noise when Dean drew back only a fraction of a space, still so close that Sam's mouth felt their warmth.

It was --

Weird. For a moment, it was just nothing but weird. His brother had just kissed him, and he smelled so overwhelmingly too-familiar; it was a totally different weird than the first time his lips had touched someone else's. This time he knew what that could feel like, and Dean felt... different. And he felt like Dean. Then the feeling slid away and Sam took a staggering breath.

This was wrong, really wrong, but he waited, holding a clutch of air in his chest, for Dean.

When he said nothing, did nothing, Dean hung there uncertainly for a long moment. Then he pressed in and gave him another small kiss. It was warm and brief, too, just kind somehow, and Sam squinched his eyes closed and kissed back. He was running on instinct, the feel of it. It was only a second long, but Dean sighed heavily against Sam's face when it was over and rocked in rhythmically to give him yet another one.

Three times. They'd kissed three times, Sam realized, and tipped his chin up into more because they kept coming.

Every time, it was better, the soft way Dean was doing it, and even though it was jarring in Sam's conscience, he wanted more; he didn't want Dean to stop. It wasn't wet. It wasn't forced. His head was spinning. It felt good. It felt so good. Dean didn't rush, didn't smother him. He just gave Sam's lips kiss after kiss, pausing for a second between to let Sam breathe between them but then always fitting their mouths back together like they were just made to be together like that. Their noses touched and rubbed and even went from feeling awkward at first to feeling kind of nice; it felt like Dean was nuzzling him.

His hand felt shaky and sweaty and he was almost afraid to touch Dean like Dean was touching him, but after a jerky false start, he eased an arm around Dean's neck and Dean leaned in more heavily, warm and big all over.

Everything dropped away. The only thing Sam could hear was their breaths ramping up together and the sound their kisses made in the dark, sometimes soft and sometimes such a smooching kiss noise that it shocked his senses that it was them making it. He went from feeling dumb and awkward with his jizz-soaked pants to feeling hot-dirty and sexed up and vibrating and he lost count of how many times their mouths came back to each other's between breaths.

Then Dean suddenly tilted his head, changing the angle, and Sam tilted the other way responsively, and breathed gutted and ragged. All over again, it hit him -- it felt so good -- and Dean dragged the kiss longer, the space of two, then three, and it only stopped because Sam gasped openly through it.

"Good, Sammy?" Dean asked, letting him breathe.

"Yes," he wheezed plaintively.

"Wanna hold on to me?"

Sam's fingers were clenched in a fist along Dean's shoulder blade. He didn't really know what to do, but Dean clearly did, and he sounded encouraging.

"Try to breathe in through your nose, okay?" murmured Dean. Sam nodded compulsively and gripped at the back of Dean's neck, inhaling shakily as Dean's lips fit and slid against his. Dean exhaled sharply against his cheek, warm wet-feeling breath, up close and personal, and scritched fingers into the sweaty-damp hair behind Sam's ear, touching him back. Dean's breath went from too much for his brain to take in to not enough, because he just smelled like sex and everything that Sam loved.

He couldn't believe Dean was doing this with him. Why would Dean want to kiss him and touch him? He couldn't even breathe right. His chest felt rigid; he could feel his stomach muscles, thighs, toes, and dick flexing. His breaths were so loud he sounded like he was wincing with pain every time Dean kissed him, but Dean was breathing hard, too. He gave Sam long, meandering kisses with his lips shifting to catch Sam's between them and re-find places that felt perfect, and Sam kissed him back every time, trying to keep up, slipping up and forgetting to breathe through his nose, but Dean didn't seem to care.

It just felt natural when Dean caught his mouth open and kissed him with tongue, though Sam outright moaned and froze again. For a second he wasn't sure they should be going that far, not sure if it would be good, not sure what he was doing. It was intimidating for a few seconds, Dean's tongue touching the inside of his mouth and feeling so warm and wet and oddly strong and moving against his in a coaxing sort of swipe. He pressed back tentatively, feeling clumsy, and their tongues touched again, and within seconds, Sam was popping wood, sticky underwear clinging to his cock. He made another noise, and Dean gently pulled away, nose pressing against Sam's cheek.

"You okay?"

There was nothing but warmth between them, shared panting breath.

"Got hard again," Sam admitted in a whisper, and yeah, it was a little embarrassing, but all he could feel was that he was safe there with Dean, warm and hanging on to him.

Dean sort of nuzzled him, or something, rubbing his forehead against Sam's.

"See? Porn star," he said smugly, and Sam huffed right in his face. For a second, Dean just let his hand slide to that skinny place on Sam's chest that he seemed to think was made to rub comfortingly, and Sam's heart just thudded wildly. He had this overwhelming need for Dean to keep kissing him, but Dean whispered at him instead. "I could get you off again."

Sam totally overheated in the space of a breath. Again? This wasn't even happening.

"That what you need, Sammy?" Dean asked him warmly, something about the way he said it reminding him of earlier, on the couch, the way Dean had suddenly touched him -- his voice was leaning so far past friendly it was something else totally. It was almost flirty except it was so familiar and intimate that it was like Dean was talking to him like he was a little kid or something, and some pit deep in his gut responded to it pathetically, 'cause he was such a sucker, wholly and always Dean's little brother.

"'M still all gross from before," he squeaked.

"Yeah... creamed yourself pretty good, huh?"

"Yeah," Sam whispered.

Dean shifted there beside him, body hot, his muscles eager. His hand rubbed Sam's stomach, making it jerk a little as Sam breathed in sensitively. "God... been needin' it pretty bad, huh, buddy?"

"Yeah," he repeated, helplessly following the path Dean was leading him down.

The waistband of Sam's sweatpants got fingered, then snapped loosely.

"You wanna let me take these off you?"

"Okay," said Sam, blood tugging dizzily all around him, stinging in his face and ears, flushing his neck over-hot, and surging eagerly to his dick.

No big deal, he thought, it was no big deal; Dean had already seen him naked earlier and he'd been naked countless times around Dean when he was younger, in the bathtub with him... then Dean had given him baths, helped him wash his hair... and they'd squeezed into tiny motel bathrooms to get into their swim trunks... got dressed together... it was no big deal. Only his body felt so alive, all his nerve-endings naked too. Dean eased himself down the mattress in a smooth scoot and had Sam's sweatpants down just as quick as earlier, then peeled his briefs down, too, de-sticking them from his skin. Where he was, he could probably smell the heat of Sam's cock and the jizz drying sticky on his skin. This time, the damp ring of his pants and underwear were pulled down over his feet and thrown somewhere in the dark.

"Okay?" Dean asked.

Sam just nodded, flustered. Without Dean to grip at he had no idea what to do with his hands and they wandered from the sheets to his stomach up to clutch at the pillow. He was intensely aware of his cock poking up from his skinny hips and how close Dean was to it, and it didn't feel any less surreal or skin-crawlingly, intensely good when Dean bolstered it in his fingers than it had just before, or earlier. He was a little more sensitive and raw-feeling, but not hair-triggered like before either; this time, his brain fully grasped it. Dean had fingers wrapped around his cock, handling him easily, made of sex.

"Sammy," Dean muttered at him, pushing his grip up Sam's shaft and wiggling his shoulders in a way that reminded Sam weirdly of a tiger preparing to pounce. He ducked down to press a wet kiss into Sam's stomach, and at that, Sam moaned, sense memory remembering in a big way that tummy-kisses like that were a really, really good thing. Dean moved his mouth in a trail of them, keeping up with the way Sam's belly sunk low with tension, fist lazily working its way up and down Sam's dick as he went. Once he paused and licked right at the center of Sam's stomach, so close to where his pubes were slowly reaching upwards toward his navel, pulling his tongue in a slow, hot drag from there in short little licks and sucks that tugged Sam's skin between his lips for funny-feeling instants. Then he licked, flat and wide, over Sam's sticky hipbone and pushed a sludge of jizz right across it.

"Dean --" Sam erupted, hitching up apprehensively onto his elbows.

"What's the matter?" Dean asked, stilling for him.

"Just -- it's gross there," he faltered.

"'S not gross," Dean said, giving his cock an almost reassuring jack. Heat bloomed in Sam's stomach in spite of himself. "Haven't you ever tasted it?"

Sam had, the first time he'd ever shot off a runny, pearly little load of jizz by his own hand; it had gotten between his fingers and clung there wetly. It wasn't horrible, kind of strong and bitter, but it was the clingy filmy texture that had made it weird to him. "Not... like that."

"Well, I have," said Dean capably. "It doesn't gross me out, dude. It just tastes like... you."

"I don't taste weird?" he asked in a whisper.

"Not to me."

Marginally, Sam relaxed, easing his head back to the pillow, and Dean smooched him right by his belly-button.

"Trust me," he said, sounding half satisfied and half breathless. "You're gonna like this. Promise."

Like he had on the couch earlier, Dean suddenly braced him down with a hand on his stomach and curled over him. This time, Sam felt the rough warmth of Dean's day-old stubble against his cock and jerked with the overwhelming feel of it before he felt something wet, hot, tentative, running in a ticklesome path up to his knob.

It took him a second to realize Dean was licking him, and he could have passed out right then, his body tightened up so much and fell so utterly out of his control.

He wet his own stomach with a sudden pulse of precome and hissed in his teeth and grabbed at the pillow again. This wasn't really happening, only it was, right then and there in the dark -- Dean was blowing him. The tastebud-rough flat of his tongue slid along Sam's shaft naturally, and Dean didn't seem to have a problem sinking in deep and low, taking in everything to his fingers and covering Sam's cock whole with his mouth.

"Oh my God, Dean," he uttered, breath quavering.

Dean seemed to wriggle, curling over him intently and huffing out a forceful exhale at Sam's tummy as he pulled his head back slowly and let Sam's cock slide between his lips again, the suck of it fierce, pulling Sam's balls and everything in him to a tight center of pressure.

"Oh my God," he repeated uncontrollably. Dean didn't want to do this. Not really. He knew it because there was no reason for Dean to want to suck his dick, but he was, and Sam wanted to tell him he didn't have to, but the slow rhythm Dean was finding kept making him lose the words. He could feel Dean's head moving just by their bodies being so close together, let alone the feel of his cock sinking deeper into heat, the wet noises of effort against his stomach.

Then Dean started pumping his fist up to meet his mouth instead of the other way around, and Sam forgot the fear totally.

"Mm," Dean said, sending a humming thrill racing through Sam for a moment before he backed off and gasped for air. "Wet," he grunted, and that was all it took for Sam's senses to zero in on the fact that some slippery strand of precome was connecting them still, hanging thick between his cock and Dean's mouth. He didn't have time to be horrified about it. Dean tapped his lower lip with the head of Sam's cock, messing with the gob of wetness. It felt disgusting and beyond amazing. Sam flexed his hips instinctively, making his dick slide slickly against Dean's lips, and Dean just let him, breathed wet against his cock and licked the sensitive head of it as Sam's hips fell again. "Good, Sammy?" he pretty much purred.

"Yeah," Sam sighed heavily.

"Hold your dick for me," Dean instructed, and Sam instantly moved to do so, their fingers briefly tying together as Dean handed it off to him. After pressing a short, breathless kiss to Sam's knuckles that just smeared them with the slimy feel of precome and spit, Dean popped back up and rubbed his cheek along Sam's cock again. Then he grunted, "Put it in my mouth again."

Sam tilted his grip, dick towering in his fingers and leaning with the shift of them, and breathed shakily as he found Dean's lips with his knob, moved against them and nudged them to open.

On his chest, Dean's hand pressed in harder as he did, cooperatively going back down on Sam with a drippy wet sucking noise till his lips pushed against the loop of Sam's fingers and picking up in rhythm right where he'd left off.

Oh, God, he was getting a blowjob from his brother, Sam realized all over again. His first blowjob and it was Dean. It made him feel close to blacking out just thinking about it, but now he couldn't stop thinking about it, how Dean was snuffling and working him like -- Melissa, probably, blowjob queen of the Midwest. Like he was into it, liked what he was doing to Sam. And that idea was hotter than anything, anything ever.

Charged up with it, Sam's hips pumped shallowly, pushing his dick through his fingers and into Dean's mouth, and Dean huffed, meeting him with quick reflexes. Pumping them up again was just instinct so deep there was no thought, no hesitation, because that's what his hips were supposed to do and it made him feel like coming just doing it, let alone Dean just taking it wetly and roiling to work with him. The mattress springs squeaked with all the ways they were rocking together, a noise that would've once made Sam's attempts to jerk off sound too loud and incriminating, but now it was hot, hearing Dean's body move.

Sam was circling close when Dean muscled his way up and off his dick, a gush of wetness sliding from his lips to drip back down Sam's cock in a warm wad. He grunted, and Dean spit yet more out onto him.

"You're so fuckin' wet," Dean choked out, and yeah, he was undeniably dripping everywhere.

"Sorry," Sam whispered, but Dean just huffed, pressed his face into Sam's stomach and sucked at it. He was breathing jerkily, Sam realized, and his body was still making the mattress squeak. It hit him all at once that Dean was jerking himself off, hand in his boxer-briefs right there by Sam's knee. Dull, sludgy heat kicked him in the gut. He wanted to -- do something to Dean, too, but he didn't know what he could do, what Dean would like. He sounded like a total kid when he said, "Dean, come kiss me?"

He felt newly small and young as Dean moved up over him again, body bigger than Sam's in every way, and though Dean collapsed beside him, he was still half atop him in the skinny bed. His arm was working hard and frantic as he jerked himself off, the mere sound of his skin working on skin so stupidly sexy that Sam couldn't help suddenly wishing the light was actually on so he could see. Even though his limbs felt exhausted and shaky, Sam rolled himself over, skinny elbow supporting him as he leaned in and eagerly kissed Dean, tasting himself all over Dean's mouth, his lips sliding a little in the slickness clinging on Dean's. He wasn't expecting the pained noise in Dean's throat, but it was obviously good, because he was clutched almost too tightly by one of Dean's muscular arms and held there against him as Dean shook and came, jets of his come hitting Sam's already smeary stomach in hot blurts. It was too much, so intense, sex like Sam could never have imagined it would be like. The smell alone was making him crazy.

He broke away, out of the kiss, smothered by the heat of it all, and in a fury of want, grabbed at Dean's other arm and shoved it up. He was burying his face in Dean's armpit before he could stop to think or control himself.

"Gah," Dean got out, sounding surprised but not totally coherent either.

He smelled salty, sweaty like Sam had never smelled before, and even here he just smelled insane, like sex and feverish skin. He had a light layer of hair that rode close to his skin, not much but still sticky against Sam's face from sweated-out deodorant, but Sam didn't care; his tongue found the deepest dip of pit and licked it out greedily.

"Jesus Christ," Dean uttered, arm jerking in response before relaxing under Sam's fingers again. "Sam..."

Sam's whole body was one giant shudder. He was filthy with come and sweat and the smell of Dean's skin all over him and his wet hard-on was right against the cut of muscle above Dean's hipbone. He'd never smelled anything so good or tasted anything that tasted like Dean's sweat or this intimate place on his body that no one, not even Melissa, had touched or licked; his snuffle was loud in the cup of skin that was just big enough for his face.

"Y'like that?" demanded Dean breathlessly. "Like gettin' in there?"

"Mmh," he squeaked in acknowledgement, and pressed his nose into the warmth so he could smell it steadily, his spit and Dean's armpit, as he clumsily humped Dean's hipbone and smeared Dean's jizz between them.

"Yeah, c'mon, buddy," his brother muttered, tipping his chin into Sam's forehead. "Make it good. C'mon."

He wanted to. He was close like Dean sucking his dick and getting off right in the middle of it had burned away all of the rope he was hanging by but for one single strand, senses totally overloaded and body full of heat and know-how. His thighs cramped and shook with it.

"Smell that," Dean prompted him, low and nasty. "Smell me, Sammy? Like that?" That did it. Sam shot off shamelessly against Dean's hip and stomach, and Dean hissed with him, whispered, "That's it. Just like that."

Sam's knee finally settled between Dean's as he hitched down, sank down into Dean, body going flat and limp. This time it felt like he was truly wrung out, like maybe he couldn't come again even if Dean tried... or, well, maybe he could. His arm slumped from where he'd pinned Dean's up, so Dean eased it down around him. It was just how Dean had grabbed him last night, only this time they were both feverishly sweaty, panting, covered with come, and -- closer. Much, much closer. He sighed, a strain of uncertainty pulling vaguely through him as he felt the difference between then and now. Whatever grown-up threshold Dean had crossed, he'd crossed too, and more than that, they'd tumbled over something totally different together and landed here, tangled, and he could never go back to not knowing what it was like to do this with Dean.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

Sam wondered if Dean asked girls that, or if it was just that he was really afraid Sam couldn't handle any of this. He tried to squint up at Dean and got nosed when Dean looked back at him, their faces were still so close.

"I'm okay if you're okay," he replied.

"Well, that answers nothing," was what Dean murmured. "I'm the one blowing my baby brother. That sound like the definition of 'okay' to you?"

It was really more than okay by Sam. He asked pointedly, "Were you mad at Melissa when she gave you a serious blowjob?"

Dean chuckled; Sam could feel it in his face, warm and throaty.

"Damn right it was serious," he said happily.

"Freakin' serious," Sam teased, and got pulled into Dean's armpit and smothered there with Dean muttering something that sounded vaguely threatening, somewhere under the smug. His heart soared so high it hurt.