1040A

Fandom: Supernatural

Category/Rated: Slash, R

Year/Length: 2007/ ~4405 words

Pairing: Dean/Sam

Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, only having fun.

Warning: Wincest, taxes. *cough* And because I cannot write without profanity, some of that, too.

Summary: "No problem at all." And Sam's voice is right in his ear, Sam's body heat soaking into his back. Dean blinks down at Sam's hands on the counter, inches from each of his hips, and very carefully turns the water off and sets the pot gently down.

Author's Notes: So, mgbutterfly was like, I could ask you to write about Dean doing taxes, and it would probably be okay. And, yeah. Don't tell me things like that. It leads to this.

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Dean's always had a brain for math, the only one in the family that was more drawn to proofs and integers than books and Latin. It had made things harder, growing up, when Sam picked up languages like they were nothing and for Dean it was like pulling teeth. Then he had hit sixteen and things had gotten easier when their father had realized that Dean could count cards and determine the best angle for a pool shot in an instant.

But this, this is not math. This is bureaucracy distilled down into its purest form and printed on paper and sent out every year to mess with perfectly innocent people. And Dean knows that they owe Bobby, but this seems excessive.

He sighs, shoves the frustrating papers aside and gropes for his coffee cup. Bobby's taxes might be more convoluted than one of Sam's law books, but the man has the best coffee in the world. Dean's been trying to bribe him for the exact mix of beans for years, with no success.

Fortified by the bitter coffee, he hunches back over the table.

He hates the way his eyes blur trying to read the tiny print. It makes it harder to concentrate than it already is, having to squint to see if he's supposed to be adding row 14A to the sum, or 18B. Then having to tilt the old printing calculator so he can see the sum, because though he trusts himself to do the math in his head, he really doesn't want to mess this up for Bobby.

He manages for another ten minutes before pushing back from the table. There's a splitting headache pounding at his temples, like a drill running behind his eyes. And as much as he hates to admit it, he knows one surefire way to make sure it doesn't get worse.

The glasses are right where he left them, wrapped in his secret stash in the back of the Impala between Sam's report cards through high school and a letter to their mother from her sister. He'd picked them up in Santa Fe when one of the girls he'd fucked had slipped her glasses on him for a laugh and he'd watched the world swim into sharper focus. In the last four years he's used them maybe twice.

He slides them on now, sitting back down in front of his torture for the day. He hates how much clearer everything immediately is, hates this weakness, and the pinch of the glasses over the bridge of his nose. Mostly, he's just glad that Bobby and Sam will be gone the rest of the weekend on their individual errands.

The work is mind numbingly dull, and Dean braces his chin in one hand and tries to keep his handwriting legible as he pencils in the figures. He'd been surprised at first that Bobby even did his taxes, but he supposes that it's harder to get away with owing the government a shit load of money when you stay in one place. The last thing you need in the middle of demon hunting is an audit.

He's pleasantly surprised to find when he's done that Bobby's actually due a refund of close to eight hundred dollars. He shoves the papers away, this time for good, closes his eyes and leans back in his chair while stretching his arms above his head. His shoulders ache and his head hurts and his hand is cramping but he's done.

He cracks his neck side to side, yawns, and lets his eyes slide open behind the glasses.

"Shit!" Dean startles, drops his hands to his head, and then awkwardly to his sides. Sam is leaning in the doorway to the kitchen, hands in his pockets, legs crossed, smiling lazy. He looks comfortable, like he's been there long enough to find the best lounging position. "Jesus Christ, never heard of saying hello?"

Sam doesn't say a word, just pushes off the wall and crosses the room in two long strides. Dean hates, just a little bit, that it probably would have taken him four. He expects Sam to poke at the tax forms, to go over his work and make sure it's correct. Sam doesn't. He just leans his hip against the table, and stares.

Dean gives him another minute to dig in with the scorn, because Sam's been having a crappy week and Dean figures some teasing might make him feel better. When his brother keeps his mouth shut, just watching, Dean rolls his eyes and pushes out of the chair. He needs more coffee, if he's going to be faced with unexpected conversation. "What are you doing here? I thought you were gonna be paying your respects all weekend."

He understands funerals, God knows he's been to enough of them. But mourning the dead has always been a private thing for him, and he didn't know Ava anyway, and so when Sam had taken off to see her buried Dean had stayed behind. Sam rumbles, "Yeah, change of plans," and Dean nods absently, concentrating on the more important task in front of him.

Bobby's coffee might be the best in the world, but his coffee maker is not. Dean holds the filter and fills it carefully in his palm, because the machine has a tendency to fall apart whenever you move it too much. He holds the pot firmly, makes sure it's under the faucet before turning the water on. "Some kind of problem?"

"No problem at all." And Sam's voice is right in his ear, Sam's body heat soaking into his back. Dean blinks down at Sam's hands on the counter, inches from each of his hips, and very carefully turns the water off and sets the pot gently down.

It's only then that he turns to face Sam, irritated again that Sam is big enough that he can turn completely in the circle of his arms. He arches an eyebrow, crosses his arms over his chest and glares up into Sam's smile. "What do you think you're doing?"

It's unnerving, how close Sam is. His hands seem closer, all of a sudden, his thumbs brushing against Dean's waist. From here it's impossible not to see the slight crookedness of Sam's nose, the way his right eye has a rim of startling blue around the iris. It's impossible not to feel the brush of air across his mouth when Sam speaks, "Nothing."

Dean wonders why Sam is purring at him, because there's no other way to describe the way he says the word. It makes something tighten in Dean's gut, makes him suddenly terribly aware of the ratty white tee-shirt he's wearing and his faded jeans and bare feet. Of Sam's booted feet, his khakis and polo shirt and heavy jacket. Dean clears his throat, "Well, I was making coffee. So if you're done being weird now I'd like to get back to that."

"I'm not done."

Dean opens his mouth to inform Sam that yes, he fucking is, because no one stands between Dean Winchester and his coffee. He gets interrupted by Sam's palm sliding across his cheek and fitting itself under his ear like it belongs there. He has time to see Sam leaning in, the stubborn glint in his eyes, and then Sam kisses him.

There's nothing soft or hesitant about it, but it is slow. Sam's wide mouth over his, sliding as Sam tilts his head to get a better angle and they just fit. Dean doesn't think about it, which seems weird. He's pretty sure there should be some kind of crisis going on in his brain, but he's still thinking in equations and somehow maybe he'd always known that this was the solution to the Winchester Family Theorem.

Dean pushes up into the kiss, gets a hand in Sam's shaggy hair and directs him to the perfect angle, if he does say so himself. Which he does. Sam makes a noise into his mouth, Dean catches it with his lips and tongue and swallows it down. Traces the line of Sam's thinner upper lip with his tongue and this time Sam's growl is too big to be swallowed.

There's a shifting of weight and Sam blatantly abuses his height advantage. Dean slides his legs apart to prevent getting his toes crushed by Sam's goddamn boots, and Sam steps into the space like Dean opened it up for him. Dean huffs, a laugh that got aborted when Sam nibbled on his bottom lip and then soothed the tingling skin with a slow, lazy, lick.

Sam's still cupping his head with one hand, Dean feels each long finger like a brand. His other hand is gripping what he can reach of Dean's ass above the counter, fingers curling involuntarily when Dean drags his fingernails across the back of Sam's neck.

Sam pulls back, just enough that Dean can look at him without going cross eyed. Sam's breathing hard, his eyes lust dark, lips already kiss bruised. He says, "Dean. Please. Can I?"

Dean wonders for a second what he's asking for, but it doesn't really matter, because he's never been able to deny Sam a damn thing. He runs his fingertips across Sam's neck again, enjoying the way Sam sucks in a quick breath, the way his hand on Dean's ass trembles. He says, surprised with how husky his own voice has gotten, "C'mon, do you really have to ask?"

Sam says what might be, "Thank God." It's hard to tell, because he's kissing Dean again, hungry and dirty. Dean smiles into the kiss, tugging on Sam's hair again to get him in the right place, and decides that if Sam's going to keep trying to use his size to his advantage that Dean will just have to play dirty.

He slides a leg around Sam's, knocks his heel into the back of Sam's knee hard enough to jolt him forward. Runs his heel as high up the back of Sam's thigh as he can manage and Sam curses against his mouth, and leans his entire weight into Dean before dropping his hand off Dean's ass and sliding it across Dean's thigh. He hooks his hand behind Dean's knee, tugs his leg up higher.

Dean can already feel the bruises forming where the counter is digging into him, doesn't really mind. Not with the pressure of Sam's hips holding him in place, his brother safely between his thighs, trying to push even closer.

Sam rocks against him, Dean can feel the heat of his erection pressing against his belly, can feel the jackhammer of Sam's heart through the layers of their clothes. He feels himself push up onto his tiptoes, revels in the beautiful slide of friction this causes, the way that Sam groans and breaks the kiss for a half-second.

Dean takes advantage of the pause, tightens his fingers in Sam's hair and tugs back. Sam's neck arches up before him, and he lowers his mouth, so much skin to taste and lick and suck.

And he'd forgotten about the glasses until they bang against the sharp jut of Sam's jaw. He reaches up absently, plans to grab them and toss them somewhere across the room where he doesn't have to think about them for the next couple of hours and Sam's voice, almost slurred, stops him, "Leave 'em on. Please. God."

Dean grins, feels Sam's pulse dancing beneath his lips, says right into his tightly stretched skin, "What was that? I didn't hear you."

Sam honest to God whimpers, his hand on Dean's thigh tightening almost painfully, the rock of his hips lifting Dean off the ground and that's a weird goddamn feeling. Doesn't stop Dean from feeling ridiculously proud of himself at Sam's breathy voice, "Please, Dean, please, please."

Sam's skin is too tempting not to bite, already reddened by the slide of Dean's stubble. He nibbles and sucks and considers, blows across the agitated skin and murmurs, "Begging already, Sammy?"

Sam grunts, and just like that they're kissing again, Sam pulling his leg higher and it doesn't go any higher than that without the rest of Dean's body following behind it. Which is, apparently, how Dean ends up sitting half in the sink.

Wrapping his arms around Sam's neck and clinging is an automatic response to the edge he's balanced on. Sam pulls back a second to trace a finger across the frame of Dean's glasses, and then he's ducking his head, attacking Dean's neck. Dean's hair isn't long enough to get a handful of it, so Sam just wraps his whole arm around Dean's head and tilts it back. Dean admits that there is a certain appeal to that.

Sam sucks open mouthed kisses down his throat, Dean feels the drag of his teeth when Sam pulls back the collar of his shirt. And then Sam's got his lips sealed over the skin at the base of Dean's neck, holding him in place, rubbing distracting patterns into Dean's thigh with one hand, thrusting absently against him, and by the time Dean realizes what he's doing it's too late to prevent the inevitable bruising.

Dean says, "Shit, shit, Sammy," feeling stupid because he hasn't had a hickey for years. And then Sam hums into his skin, and it doesn't matter. He leans his head back to give Sam better access and can feel Sam grinning, the smug bastard.

Apparently Sam also decides that he doesn't have to hold his head anymore, because he slides the hand down Dean's spine, and Dean's beginning to think that Sam has a slight preoccupation with his ass. He also thinks that Sam has really fucking big hands, because Sam's got his thumbs tucked into the waistband of Dean's jeans and his fingers are digging into Dean's flesh more than an inch below the bottoms of his pockets.

Sam slides his mouth up Dean's neck, drags his teeth along the line of Dean's jaw and Dean digs his fingers into his shoulders and wishes that he was wearing fewer clothes. He only realizes he vocalized the thought when Sam groans, says, "Jesus, Dean, you're gonna kill me."

There's a spider crawling across Bobby's ceiling, and Dean wraps his hands around Sam's jaw and the back of his head and drags back until he can look him in the eye. He arches one eyebrow, loving the flush on Sam's cheeks, the glaze on his eyes, the way he stares at Dean's mouth like he can't look away. Dean says, "Well, a little death, anyway."

Sam's eyes flutter closed, just for a half second, and then he's lunging forward, capturing Dean's mouth in another kiss, all tongue and Dean sucks and Sam's hips stutter against him. And then Sam decides that they're relocating, and Dean makes a startled noise around Sam's tongue in his mouth, because he's not used to being carried around.

Sam rumbles, "Bed," working his hands farther under Dean's legs, lifting him higher like he doesn't weigh anything. Dean absolutely does not wrap his legs around Sam's waist, but he does tighten his grip on his brother's shoulders.

Counters with, "Couch," because that's closer.

There's a pause as Sam stands swaying in the middle of the kitchen and Dean gives just a little and hooks one leg over Sam's hips. Just in case. Sam makes a desperate little sound, kissing wherever he can reach on Dean's face, says, "Couch, couch is good." And stumbles off in the general direction of Bobby's living room.

Dean realizes that he's probably being distracting when he manages to worm a hand under Sam's coat and proceeds to trace the muscles dancing across his back. He can't say he really cares. Not when Sam's making those desperate little sounds and pleading, "Dean, Dean, please, God, want you so much."

He knows he should be irritated by Sam being able to carry him around, but really, it's kind of cool right now. He'll freak out about it later. After sex.

What he'd expected was for Sam to drop him onto the couch and then crawl on after him. He's surprised when Sam backs up into the arm of the couch and flops down backwards instead. He blinks down into Sam's face, cataloging the fact that he is straddling his brother, that they're horizontal, and that they're both wearing far too many clothes.

Sam gets his big hands under Dean's shirt, runs his palms up Dean's back and takes the shirt with them. Dean feels the glasses twist on his face when Sam tugs the tee over his head and tosses it somewhere in the oblivion of Bobby's books, blinks and gets clear vision through one eye and slightly blurred through the other.

Sam groans, biting on his bottom lip like he's trying to keep the sound inside, and his hand is shaking when he carefully straightens the glasses. Dean grins, stores this away for future teasing material, and grabs handfuls of Sam's shirt, hauls him up.

Dean manages to get Sam's jacket off his shoulders, and then comes to a hang up, because Sam refuses to take his hands off of Dean's skin long enough for Dean to wrestle the sleeves off. Not that it isn't about the best goddamn thing ever, Sam's long fingers tracing patterns across his skin, following the line of his spine, curving around his ribs, dragging his knuckles down Dean's side and swallowing Dean's involuntary whimper.

Dean knows when he's beat, slides his hands down Sam's chest, over muscles that bunch and jump under his fingers. Sam's belt buckle is iron, Dean knows because he bought it for him, formed into a pentagram by an old blacksmith who had thought Dean was out of his mind.

The buckle is cool beneath Dean's fingers, as is the button on his pants and the zipper, but Sam's skin beyond is burning hot. Dean spreads his fingers across Sam's lower abs, and somewhere above, Sam throws his head back and gasps, "Christ, I need, I need-"

Dean smiles, can feel how soft it is and worries that it should be more predatory. Sam can't see him anyway, it doesn't matter. He slides one hand up, under Sam's shirt, flattens it in the middle of his chest and pushes. Says, "I got you, I know, let me take care of you."

Sam goes, falls backwards like he has no strength left in him to resist. Dean slides, shifts his legs so he's between Sam's thighs, ignores the fact that he can feel Sam watching every move he makes with diamond sharp intensity. Ignores Sam's fingers, tracing absent patterns up and down Dean's arms, across the tops of his shoulders, over his cheeks and lips and jaw.

Sam's pants are too big on him, like they always are, Dean grabs one of Sam's legs, pushes it up and tugs his boot off. It makes a terrible bang on the floor, but there's no one here to bother, and Dean pulls on the pants leg for what feels like a small eternity before it's finally off Sam's ridiculously long leg. He leaves that leg flung over the back of the couch, presses a kiss into the side of Sam's knee and then realizes how girly that was and waits for Sam's inevitable laughter.

He's surprised by the soft sweep of Sam's thumb over his bottom lip, and doesn't look at Sam's face because he's afraid of what's showing in his own eyes. Instead he sucks Sam's thumb into his mouth, swirls his tongue around calluses identical to his own and hears Sam make a choking sound.

Sam's skin tastes like salt and grease and Dean sucks on it as he pulls Sam's other shoe off, and finally manages to get the pants completely off. Sam's whimpering in time with each suck, shifting his hips each time Dean flicks his tongue. He grins, feels Sam's fingers curl against his cheek, and lets the thumb slip out from between his lips with a wet pop.

Sam wraps the hand around the back of his head, drags him down into a kiss, thrusting up against Dean's stomach. And it's so good, so sweet, that for awhile Dean lets it sidetrack him from his plan. Sam's got his other arm slung low over Dean's waist, squeezing at Dean's hip, rubbing his thumb in a little circle over bone and nerves.

Dean thinks that one day he would like to do this for hours. Just lay here and kiss Sam and forget about everything else and he curses the fact that apparently he has no control over his mouth when he's this far gone, because Sam is pushing him back. Sam is rubbing his thumb across Dean's cheek, looking at him hard, smiling, says, "You mean that?"

And Dean is willing to admit a lot of things, but he is not a teenaged girl, and so he drops a quick kiss onto Sam's waiting lips, and resumes his prior plan. He wishes that he'd managed to get Sam out of his coat and shirt earlier, because he'd like to trace his lips across all the stretched skin of his brother's body. Another time.

He slides down, pretending that Sam isn't watching him. Grabs Sam's hips and pushes and twists till he's satisfied with the positioning, and licks his lips. Somewhere Sam is making a desperate little sound, and his hands are clutching at Dean's shoulders, but Dean is nothing if not focused on the task at hand.

He presses a kiss to the inside of Sam's thigh, which, weird, he hadn't expected his brother to be that hairy. The hair tickles under his lips, and he slides his lips higher, towards the soft skin where Sam's thigh joins his hips and Sam jerks under him. Dean tightens his hands on Sam's hips, shoves him down into the cushions.

Sam's pleading, "Please, please, please, Dean, I can't, please, need you, so much, I need you-" and Dean imagines that he tastes it through Sam's skin more than he hears it. He likes that idea, saves it for later and nips the skin stretched taunt over Sam's hip before lifting his head.

Sam is staring at him, mouth open, eyes huge, and Dean winks.

He intends to look away, when he lowers his mouth slowly over Sam's cock, and doesn't quite manage it. Somehow Sam holds him spellbound even as he gets used to the unfamiliar weight against his tongue, the weird stretch this requires from his jaw. He thinks that maybe he should have taken up some of those propositions for blowjobs, because they would have helped with this.

But Sam's looking at him like he's doing the most awesome thing in the whole world, and so he doesn't worry. Concentrates on keeping his teeth behind his lips, and probes with his tongue, curious and Sam breathes his name like a prayer. Dean can live with that.

He slides his lips down slowly, trying to see how far he can go, and how bad his gag reflex is. Turns out pretty bad, and Sam tries to pull him off when Dean jerks. Dean strokes at the soft skin around his hips, big soothing circles and Sam eases off. They're still staring at each other and it's weird in the best way that Dean can think of.

He sucks, hollows his cheek and Sam's eyes flutter but he doesn't look away. He's rocking his hips, tiny little jerks that are barely noticeable. Dean himself is grinding into the couch, but it feels far away, a wonderful friction that he's aware of but not focusing on.

Sam reaches out, suddenly, grabs at the glasses and throws them across the room. Dean hears them hit something, hopes absently that they aren't broken, and Sam is mumbling, "There, there, much better." Dean does not point out that leaving them on was Sam's idea in the first place, but he does smile as well as he presently can.

Sam's got a hand cupping his head again, and Dean can feel the tremor in his fingers, stroking reverently through his hair and Dean bobs his head and flicks his tongue and alternates short bursts of pressure with long pulls. Sam's babbling, "Dean, Dean, God, look at you, God, I, Dean-"

And then Sam's pulling at him again, hands shaking so badly that for a half second Dean worries. This time he goes, because as much as he loves his brother he's had a long day and there are some things he's just not ready to have in his mouth.

Sam's got a hand around his own erection before Dean can move, jacking himself off with three quick strokes and coming all over his own shirt. And Dean grinds down into the couch and bites the insides of his cheeks and watches Sam's face when he falls off the edge.

It's even better watching Sam come back down, so slowly. Watching the lazy sweep of his eyelashes across his cheeks, the way he breathes through his mouth slow and heavy. The loose sprawl of him, like he's happy and relaxed for once and Dean put him there.

Sam tugs at him, pulls until Dean collapses forward on him, till Dean buries his face in the crook of Sam's neck and just breathes him in. Sam's voice vibrates Dean's entire body, "Can I touch you now? Please?"

Dean can feel the flush over his skin, "Um."

He's surprised when Sam flips them, because he hadn't thought the couch was big enough for that and also because he'd assumed that Sam wouldn't be up to anything that taxing for at least a few minutes. Sam's got his elbows on either side of Dean's head, body heavy and unmovable spread out over him, his eyes dark and serious, "Are you about to freak out on me? Because you can't. I refuse to allow you to freak out over this."

Dean opens his mouth, closes it again. And then figures screw it, he's done more embarrassing things than this before. He's sure. Probably. He still can't get his voice above a mumble, "I came in my pants." He closes his eyes, and maybe that's a little cowardly, but whatever.

He's surprised by the soft brush of Sam's lips over his, the awed whisper of Sam's voice, "Can I touch you anyway?"

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