Category/Rated: Slash, R
Year/Length: 2007/ ~4689 words
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Warning: Wincest, language, smut, aspersions on Sam's...size.
Summary: And Sam bites his lip against the helpless, crazy laughter in the back of his throat, because he can remember playing I'll Show You Mine, If You'll Show Me Yours with little Donna Summers in Florida when he was six. And he knows he should say no, or fess up to seeing Dean in the shower those weeks ago, he knows it.
Author's Notes: I am a bad, bad person. This started out as a silly fic about Sam not being quite as in proportion as we all hope he is. And then it evolved into something completely different and with much more porn. Also, happy Blowjob Friday!
The first time it happens it's because Dean's being an inconsiderate asshole, as per usual. Sam's just stepping out of the shower and Dean shoves through the door, humming under his breath. And then Dean just freezes, staring blankly at Sam's chest while Sam tries desperately to get himself to move, to grab the towel that's right there or at least cover himself with a hand or raise his knee or something.
He can't. Embarrassment and shock have locked up his limbs and all he can do is watch in growing horror as Dean's eyes slide slowly south. Sam starts praying very, very hard that Dean will mysteriously pass out or get hit over the head or something, anything, to stop this from happening.
But it's too late.
Sam watches Dean blink, several times in quick succession before pivoting on his heel and marching out of the bathroom. And Sam can't even curse around the hot embarrassment in his chest, and so he just dries off and gets dressed and tries to will the blush off his cheeks.
They don't talk about it, of course. But it's there, heavy in the car between them as the Impala roars down the highway. Sam shifts uncomfortably and Dean opens his mouth before closing it again and Sam can't take it anymore. He clears his throat, "Look, it's not like you can judge anything when it's like that anyway."
Dean makes a choking sound, croaks out, "Sam–"
Sam's not done, even though he really wishes that he was because he can't believe he's having this conversation at all, "And you'd used all the hot water earlier and the perspective is off because I'm so tall and–" and he can't believe he's justifying himself to Dean about this. Can't believe this is even happening to him.
Dean doesn't say anything, still staring hard out the windshield. He does reach over and crank the stereo up louder, and then sings along at the top of his lungs. Sam stares down at his hands and wishes some more that he'd never rolled out of bed this morning.
The second time it happens it's because Sam's being stupid and horny and allowing it to overcome his better judgment. Dean walks in, back early from the bar and Sam freezes in mid–stroke. Dean stands in the doorway, eyes darting between the porn on the television and Sam sprawled out on the bed.
Dean turns so quickly he actually runs into the door frame, stumbles, and then pulls himself out of the motel with something like desperation. The door slams, hard enough to rock the cheap motel room walls. Sam groans and falls backwards and throws the remote at the television where the women are still groaning throatily and grinding against each other.
Dean doesn't come back for hours, and when he does he smells like cigarette smoke and booze and sex. Sam is facedown in his own bed, pretending to sleep. Listens to Dean stumble across the room, and is surprised when Dean plops down beside him on the bed.
There's no movement for a long moment, just Dean's warmth creeping over the blankets and into Sam's skin. And then Dean's got a hand flattened on Sam's back, rubbing little soothing circles. Dean starts humming, and Sam lets himself slip into an involuntarily deep sleep.
Maybe Dean's so drunk he's forgotten.
So Sam doesn't think about it again until he walks in on Dean. He hadn't meant to, it had just happened. He'd left his laptop in the bathroom–long story, don't ask–and had figured Dean would be so wrapped up in showering he wouldn't notice if Sam ducked in quick.
And it probably would have worked, except Dean had been beating off in the shower, and Sam had found himself staring quite without his own permission. Dean had one hand braced on the wall of the shower, his shoulders curled over, face buried in the side of his arm. The water had been tracing obscene patterns all over Dean's fair skin, and Sam had felt his mouth go dry.
Because Dean was beating off. And it was–it was–really, really unfair. Sam hears the terribly little choking sound in the back of his throat, grabs the laptop and trips over his own feet exiting the bathroom. When Dean comes out humming ten minutes later, towel slung low over his hips, still glistening with water, Sam is sitting with his head in his hands.
But Dean doesn't comment, doesn't seem aware that Sam is presently having a huge crisis. Which, actually, when Sam thinks about it, is probably for the best. Sam can't look at Dean the rest of the night, not even when Dean starts poking him, irritated at Sam's reticence.
How the hell is it fair that Dean is hung like a fucking horse?
It should go away, after that. Sam knows that. He should just let it go, because it's none of his business and it's stupid. He's never before in his life been concerned with the size of other men's dicks, much less his brother's.
But he can't seem to help himself. Catches himself dropping his eyes to the fold of Dean's zipper at highly inappropriate times. Like in the car, when Dean lets his thighs fall open. Or at bars, when Dean sprawls in a chair and Sam can't stop his eyes from dipping.
That's bad enough, worse than bad actually, because Dean catches him, sometimes, gives him a weird look. But Sam thinks about it, too. All the time. About how big Dean's cock had been, how dark and red beneath Dean's pale fingers. It's stupid and weird and creepy and he can't seem to stop himself.
And he's not gay, or a fucking pervert to be thinking about his brother like this, except that apparently he is. Because he starts waking up breathing hard, aching with want, still feeling his mouth stretched around Dean's dick, his jaw stretched so wide it's almost painful, even in the dream.
He thinks Dean doesn't notice, right up to the point that Dean sits down on the bed beside him, takes a deep breath and says, "Dude, you're starting to freak me the fuck out."
Sam can feel himself blushing, not only because he hadn't thought Dean had noticed how bad the staring had gotten. The last week his dreams had gotten even worse, he can almost feel the rough drag of carpet on his knees, can almost feel Dean pushing into him and he's never even done anything like that in his life and so he'd really like to know how his subconscious managed to think up those sensations.
Dean's continuing, waving his hands around, clearly uncomfortable, "I didn't mean to look, and I'm sorry. Would it make you feel better to see mine, too? And then we could stop with the looks and everything?"
And Sam bites his lip against the helpless, crazy laughter in the back of his throat, because he can remember playing I'll Show You Mine, If You'll Show Me Yours with little Donna Summers in Florida when he was six. And he knows he should say no, or fess up to seeing Dean in the shower those weeks ago, he knows it.
What comes out of his mouth is, "Yeah. Yeah. Let's do that."
Dean rolls his eyes, says, "Fine. If you laugh, I will fucking kill you." And then he's standing, and unbuckling his belt and Sam digs his hands into the sheets to keep from inappropriate grabbing. He's not sure what could possibly be funny about Dean's huge dick, but thinks sad thoughts, just in case.
And then Dean's rolling his jeans down his hips, shoving his boxers aside, and then it's just there. Dean's not excited, obviously, and it's still fucking huge. Sam stares, trying really, really hard to ignore the itch in his fingers.
He only realizes that he's licked his lips when Dean makes a weird sound, and yanks his jeans back up. Dean heads to the bathroom, then changes his mind and starts for the parking lot, calling over his shoulder, "Now stop fucking staring at me all the time."
Sam tries. He really, really does. But he can't help it. Knowing that Dean's dick is lurking there. Right under his jeans. Waiting. Knowing that when they drive if he just drops his hand, just slides it across the seat and up Dean's thigh, he could touch it.
Dean starts acting more and more uncomfortable around him, starts draping his jacket over his lap when they drive, and curving his body away from Sam whenever they're out somewhere. And Sam feels guilty, and dirty, and it doesn't stop him from wanting to look and touch and lick and oh God, he's gay and totally obsessed with his brother's cock.
Sam's dreams don't help. Neither does the gay porn, which just gives his brain the fuel it needs to flesh out the fantasies that plague him at night. In fact, the gay porn was probably a really, really bad idea, especially when he accidentally leaves it on the laptop and only realizes this when Dean opens it to check for the address of a local college and ends up dropping the computer like it has burned him.
Dean's rubbing his hands on his jeans, scrubbing them up and down his thighs, and Sam's watching the movement, rapt. His mouth feels dry, and his brain thick, and Dean's saying, "I just–I just–I'm going to go. To the store. To get. Dinner. Yes. I'll be back. Bye."
The smell of Chinese food precedes Dean's arrival an hour later. They eat in almost silence, and Dean spends the next week avoiding coming within a ten foot radius of the laptop.
Every night Sam dreams about his brother fucking him.
They're in Nashville, hunting for a phantom Cadillac when Dean pivots to face him in the Impala, and says, "Okay, seriously, what the fuck? So it's a little crooked, so what? It still works just fine, and anyway, it's not like it's genetic or anything so stop trying to use fucking laser vision on me all the time, okay?"
And Sam hadn't even known it was crooked, but now he does and God, he's hard just thinking about Dean's cock curving up towards his stomach, leaning to one side. He bites the insides of his cheeks and Dean narrows his eyes, and for the first time Sam sees the hurt and Dean thinks he's making fun of him which couldn't possibly be farther from the truth.
Seeing as all the blood that should be in Sam's brain has already drained south, he figures he can't really be blamed for what comes out of his mouth, "Which way does it lean?"
Dean chokes, eyes going huge, staring like Sam's just grown a third arm. "The fuck, Sammy?" And why did he have to whip out the 'Sammy' right now? That's what dream Dean calls him without fail every night, and Sam shifts uncomfortably in the seat and thinks about how incredibly weird this is.
He can feel the words running out of his mouth, involuntary, "I mean. Not that I–I just–" Oh, God. He can't believe this is actually happening to him, "Just wanted–"
And then Dean is shoving the door open, half–falling out of the car. Sam sees his brother's retreating back, and then Dean's gone. Sam bashes his forehead forward into the dashboard, and curses himself, and in his jeans his cock gives a disappointed little jerk.
Seeing as this is all his dick's fault, he's not in the mood to deal with it.
Dean's sitting on one of the beds in the motel when Sam gets back. His jeans are caked with mud up to the knees and there's a scratch high on his cheek, but other than that Dean looks pretty much exactly as he had in the car. Dean turns to look at him, but won't meet his eyes, is staring somewhere over his shoulder. Sam starts, "Look–"
Dean talks over him, voice flat and far away, "Don't mention it."
Sam gets desperate, because the situation doesn't seem inclined to get any better. He dreams every night about Dean fucking him, or about sucking his brother's cock, or sometimes both. And in the day Dean treats him like fine china.
He starts grasping at straws, trying to find a solution to this insanity. Figures that it can't just been Dean's cock he's suddenly so interested in, right? One dick is pretty much the same as the next except that Dean's is fucking huge.
Anyway, that's how he ends up in a gay bar, which is one place that he never thought he'd end up in. He's looking for short blond hair and green eyes and a muscular build and only realizes what he's doing when a man smiles up at him with a grin so close to Dean's it's painful. The man has a deep voice, stronger features than Dean, and really they don't look very much alike at all and he's saying, "What's your name, stranger?"
And Sam tries to imagine this man's cock, tries to imagine touching it, tries to imagine it inside him and waits for the hot flood of lust. But there's nothing. His body couldn't care less about this man or any of the others in the bars, and he finishes his drink and walks out.
Dean's cleaning their guns when he gets back to the room, his long fingers moving over the weapons. Sam stands in the doorway and stares and imagines his brother's hands in his hair, guiding him, holding him.
He only realizes that he's staring, mouth open, when Dean looks up. Dean blinks like he's confused, tilts his head to the side and Sam watches the arch of his neck with something like hunger building in his gut and Dean's voice is familiar and deep, "You okay?"
And Sam doesn't mean to say, "I want to suck you off."
Dean stares at him blankly for a long moment and then opens his mouth and closes it again without speaking. Sam's crossing the room without meaning to, hovering in front of Dean, hearing his mouth going and wondering if someone maybe slipped him something because he can't believe he's doing this, "And I want you to fuck me, too."
Dean hisses, "Jesus," and shoots to his feet. His eyes are hooded, his jaw tight and Sam wonders for a split second if Dean is going to hit him and knows he couldn't exactly blame the his brother if he did. He's pretty sure he deserves a good right hook to the jaw. Maybe a swift kick to the balls.
Somehow that's not stopping his mouth from running, "I understand if you don't want to fuck me, but I could–I'd still like to–I mean. Head. I could give you head. Please." He thinks this is what happens when you bottle everything up for months. He's been a pressure cooker since the first time Dean walked in on him and now it's bubbling out and there's no way for him to stop it.
Dean waves a hand between them, like he's trying to push Sam's words out of the way. He's doing that thing where he stares over Sam's shoulder again, says, "Look, Sam." And then he clears his throat and starts again, "Look. You're tired. Why don't you go to sleep, you'll feel better in the morning."
Sam's not tired at all. He's got this terrible itch in his thighs, like he just wants to drop to his knees. He reaches out, wraps his fingers into the hem of Dean's shirt and tugs. His mouth is dry, his voice hoarse, "Don't want to sleep."
Dean's grip is tight around his wrist, twisting in the skin. Sam groans, and then realizes he did, and wonders what the hell that means. Dean's staring at him now, jaw tensing and relaxing. The lines around his eyes are suddenly tense. His voice is very low, "I want you to listen to me, okay? Where were you? What did you drink? Did anyone buy you a drink or food?"
And he's not sure what to make of Dean thinking he's been drugged. Especially since Dean's been panicking about him staring for months. This can't exactly be coming as a surprise. He eases closer to Dean, enjoying the way Dean's eyes suddenly flare wide, says, "C'mon Dean, everyone loves a blow job."
And then Dean punches him.
When Sam wakes up he's flat on his back in bed, and his jaw is aching. Dean is sitting ramrod straight on the other bed, watching Saturday morning cartoons. Sam groans and sits up, rubbing at his jaw. It hurts, stings, and he remembers the collision of Dean's fist with his jaw.
Dean's voice is a low mumble, barely audible above the screams of the little cartoon kids on television, "Feeling better this morning, Sammy?" And Sam groans again, because he'd had the dreams again last night and had felt Dean whispering Sammy into his shoulders as he–
Sam shakes his head to clear it, says, "I still want to blow you."
There's silence for a long moment, and then Dean sighs, and lets his head fall forward into his hands. Sam sits, terribly still, watching the little cartoons cavort around on stage, waiting for something from Dean. Dean's voice, when it comes, is rough, "You can't say things like that."
Sam takes that as a no.
He doesn't mention it again. He tries to keep his eyes to himself, and knows he fails in that in a big way. His dreams taunt him, offer him everything that he can't have in his waking hours. It's not like he can even blame Dean, because God, they're brothers. Brothers aren't supposed to want to fuck each other.
That's not stopping Sam, somehow. Dean makes a valiant effort not to act weird around him, and for the most part he succeeds. But sometimes Sam catches Dean watching him, eyes hooded, or sees Dean reaching for him only to pull back at the last second.
Sam would like to point out that he's not about to jump Dean without his permission, but he's moved on to the school of thought that says maybe if he ignores it long enough it'll go away. Time passes, and nothing changes, he carries his want around beneath his skin like an itch he can't scratch.
And then they're eating at a diner, and Dean slides out of the booth first, and Sam's eyes just go to his crotch without any prior approval of his brain. Dean dresses left and Sam had known that, obviously, because he's been paying attention to that kind of thing for the better part of six months now.
Dean crosses his arms, and Sam closes his eyes and there's silence, heavy between them on the ride back to the motel. Dean stops at a liquor store on the way, comes back with a bottle of Jack Daniels and a stubborn look on his face. He peels the plastic off the bottle with his teeth, opens it with one hand on the wheel and takes a long slug.
Sam opens his mouth, and then thinks better of it. There are no words all the way back to the motel, nothing but the swish of liquid as Dean gets himself steadily drunk.
Dean drags the bottle inside, sets it down heavily on the dresser and sighs like there's the weight of the world on his shoulders. He's talking to the carpet, "Okay, tell me why. I want to know why." Dean's not slurring his words yet, but his fingers are playing along the bottle again, walking up and down the glass.
There's better ways to deal with this than drunk, but maybe it's the best Dean can do. Sam sighs, and closes the door, and contemplates trying to get a drink himself. He leans against the dresser beside Dean, close enough to feel his warmth, far enough away that if Dean takes another swing at him he'll be able to dodge.
Dean's shifting uncomfortably, waiting for an answer. And Sam didn't ever expect having to explain himself. Because you have a big cock isn't the truth anymore, if it ever was. It's just, he's Sam and he's Dean. Sam sighs, "Look, Dean, I'm not trying to freak you out, okay? We don't have to talk about it."
"I want to know." Dean's voice has gone all low and belligerent. He takes another long drink of the Jack, and turns to face Sam. And there's a part of Sam that's proud of Dean for trying to face this. Mostly, though, he wishes Dean would just let it drop.
He takes the bottle out of Dean's hands, and pours the burning whiskey down his throat. Dean makes an indignant sound, and Sam slams the bottle down before closing the distance between them. Dean's eyes go wide right before Sam kisses him, and Sam keeps his own open because this might be the only chance he gets to see this.
He keeps it light, barely a brush of lips. And then Dean rumbles against his mouth, and there's a hand in his hair, and another around his hip. Dean's mouth is strong and warm, demanding. Sam gets a hand balled in his shirt, tugs him closer, and lets his mouth fall open around a groan.
And Dean's hard and huge against his thigh, and it's the best thing ever. Sam presses tighter against him, his own erection pressing into Dean's stomach, and he can hear his own voice, thick and rough, "Please. Please, I want to, you have to let me."
And Dean pulls back, dragging his teeth over Sam's bottom lip, says, "Yeah. Yeah. Okay."
Sam's surprised by the sudden swell in his chest. He steals another quick kiss, hard and dirty, and then goes to his knees because he's been waiting for this forever. Dean groans above him, and the sound shoots through Sam, and his hands shake on Dean's belt buckle. He has to freeze for a second, to take a deep breath and lick his lips and convince himself this is really happening.
Dean surprises him, hand curling around the line of Sam's jaw, fingers warm and callused. He says, "Sammy, you don't have to, I don't want you to think you–"
His voice cuts off in a hoarse whimper when Sam mouths the line of his cock through his jeans. There's so much heat, and Sam thinks this shouldn't be half as awesome as it is. But then he feels Dean's cock twitch against his mouth, and it's twice as awesome as it just was.
He moans into Dean's jeans and feels Dean shudder and his hands steady, just like that. There's no more fumbling when he reaches for Dean's belt buckle, no shake in his hands at the button, or the zipper. Dean's running fingers through his hair, following the lines of his skull.
Dean's wearing plain white boxers, tented out ever so impressively and Sam catches his fingers in the waistline and tugs. He must pull a little too roughly, because Dean sways and tightens his fingers in Sam's curls. Sam can feel his breathing shorten, his chest tighten, want rising like a flood in his gut.
Because Dean's cock is right there. Big and hard and, yes, it's definitely crooked to the left. Sam's dreamed this a hundred times. He licks his lips again, hears Dean groan, and while he knows that there's preamble he should be following, he can't seem to help himself.
Dean growls, "Sammy," somewhere above him, and Sam wraps his tongue around the tip of his brother's cock. He's dreamed about taking Dean deep, swallowing around him and sliding back off, over and over until Dean comes down his throat. He's dreamed about slow licks, like an ice cream cone to be savored and drawn out. He wants it all, but knows logically that he's not going to get it all in one go.
It's hot and heavy and awkward between his lips, and he thinks that there's really no question why Jess hated doing this. And then he circles his tongue, slowly, around what he can get in his mouth, and Dean shudders and prays, "Sammy, Sammy, oh God," and it's the most amazing thing ever.
He slides his lips, his mouth, and feels Dean jerk, feels Dean start to tug on his hair and then restrain himself. It's hard to think of anything beyond Dean's cock and Dean's hand and the soft little sounds Dean is making. Time stretches and bends in on itself and Sam tries to swallow the spit in his mouth but after awhile that's just an exercise in futility and he lets some slide out the corners of his mouth.
He's dizzy with it, from sucking in desperate gasps of air and his jaw aches in the best way. Dean rocks forward, just a little, just a little deeper into his mouth than Sam had been taking him on his own and Sam sucks in surprise. Dean groans, inarticulate, and so Sam does it again.
That's about when Dean starts swaying dangerously, and Sam gets his hands wrapped around his brother's hips, digs his fingers in and holds him in place. Dean's muscles jump under his palms, in time with each lick, a counter rhythm to each suck. He's babbling, "Oh, Christ, Sammy, oh Jesus–"
And Sam hums, pleased with himself, and Dean yanks hard on his hair.
He pulls back, to give Dean a dirty look, and gets to see Dean's face when he falls apart. Dean's knees buckle when he comes, all over his shirt and stomach. Sam tries to hold him up but there's too much dead weight and Dean ends up catching himself on the dresser before he can fall completely to the floor. The bottle of Jack upends, but Dean doesn't seem to notice or care.
Dean's slumping towards him, ends up sprawled in his lap. Sam tugs him closer, and Dean's got a hand in his pants before Sam manages to kiss him, wanting Dean to taste himself in Sam's mouth. It's a display of motor coordination that surprises Sam, just a little bit. He'd been aiming for mind–blowing.
And then Dean's got a hand around Sam's cock, and it doesn't matter so much except it kind of does and this is possibly the least convenient time in the world to remember that Sam's not exactly put together the same way Dean is. Dean doesn't seem to mind, twisting his wrist and sliding his fingers, pressing sloppy kisses against Sam's neck.
Sam wraps his arms around him, holds him while Dean jerks him off and hopes that they get to do this again. Frequently. And then he stops thinking because Dean's fingers are thinner than his, his palm smaller and warmer and it's a perfect fit and–and–and–and–
He thinks he must white–out, briefly, when he comes. He's vaguely aware of Dean hauling him to his feet, and aware even more distantly of falling into one of the beds. And then sleep, because he's exhausted, and he finally got to blow his brother, and his dreams climb up and take him.
Dean's watching cartoons when he wakes up.
He's shirtless on the end of the bed, leaning forward on his elbows, the bright yellows and blues on the screen painting patterns across his pale skin. Sam stretches, nudges Dean's leg with his foot to get his attention.
Dean turns to look at him, eyes tired and dark like he didn't sleep at all. There's a tense set to his jaw, and Sam jerks into a sitting position. Dean's voice is rough, and there's a empty bottle of Jim beside the overturned Jack on the dresser. "How you feeling, Sammy?"
And Sam shrugs, says, "I still want to blow you."
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