Sure Got a Dirty Mouth Chapter 9: Hold Me Now

[justinedelarge]

Title: Sure Got a Dirty Mouth Chapter 9: Hold Me Now

Author: justinedelarge
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing(s): Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warning: Wincest (Sam is a few months shy of legal age)
Word Count: 3400
Disclaimer: I own nothing except my original characters and plot. Just for fun.
Summary: John and Bobby are gone for a few days. Sam and Dean have the house to themselves.

Request: Comments and encouraging feedback are really appreciated. If you read my fics and like them, please take a moment to let me know. This will encourage me to write more for you.

Sam and Dean spent the afternoon getting in their six-mile run, sit-ups and pushups, and were lounging in the living room in front of a fire, working on their flash card training.

Sam held up an index card with the word “Rugaru” written on it in black marker.

“Kill it with fire.” Dean crossed his legs at the ankle and leaned back on the couch.

Another card. Changeling.

“Also kill it with fire.”

Sam stared at the cards. “These are kinda lame.”

Dean snorted. “Kinda, huh.”

“I’m hungry.” Sam was always hungry. Constant low level hunger that spiked to ravenous several times a day. It was astonishing how much food he could put away. But it was also astonishing how tall he was getting. Only fifteen and he was already nearly as tall as Dean. Not that Dean would admit it.

“What do you want? Burgers?” Dean’s face was hopeful.

“Or maybe spaghetti?” Sam’s face was equally hopeful.

“My way?” Sam’s way of making spaghetti involved ground turkey, grated zucchini and chopped up spinach in marinara. It wasn’t bad, but Dean preferred it his way: same red sauce, but with ground beef, onions and mushrooms.

Sam didn’t even protest. “Sure.” He stretched, pulling his long arms over his head with his fingers laced, and put the index cards back in their envelope. “I wanna take a bath. You need the room first?”

Sam took long, elaborate, girly baths, with scented oils and a book and music playing. Once, Dean had even caught him sneaking in votive candles. He could spend hours in the tub, running more hot water when the bath cooled off, until his fingers and toes were pruny like an old man. So it was only polite to offer up the facilities to Dean before he locked them down for a long time.

“Yeah, I could bleed the lizard.”

“Ew.”

“What? You haven’t heard that before?”

“Course I have. From douchebags.”

Dean smacked Sam’s arm. “Calling me a douchebag, Sam?”

“Keep talking like one, I might.” Sam smiled, softening the words into the light teasing he intended.

“You prefer squeeze the weasel?”

“Dean.”

Dean walked up the stairs to the bathroom. “Drain the main vein?”

“You’re like a child.”

“See a man about a horse?”

“It’s like you’re 12.”

From the closed bathroom door floated the words, “Tapping a kidney?”

“You’re. So. Gross.”

~

While Sam ran his bath, drizzling in a few drops of lavender oil from Bobby’s stash of essential oils, Dean went to it in the kitchen.

He wasn’t much of a cook, but he could make a few things very well. Spaghetti with meat sauce was his best dish.

His knife skills weren’t relegated to the realm of violence. Dean made short work of the yellow onion, neatly slicing the end off for stability on the cutting board, slashing through it vertically in even rows, then horizontally, and then lopping off cubes in a rough dice. He scooped out a mottled spoonful of bacon grease from the coffee can Bobby kept next to the stovetop, and sautéed the onions until they had softened and caramelized here and there. Cracking the lid of the jarred marinara sauce with a wet pop, he poured the contents into a saucepan and added the onions.

A few quick motions of the chef’s knife and the mushrooms lay in tidy slices. Into the cast iron pan with a bit more bacon grease until they yielded their moisture. Into the saucepan they went. Finally, Dean crumbled two pounds of ground beef into the pan and seared it until it coughed up its grease, poured it off, then sautéed it until evenly brown. He dusted it with Italian seasoning and salt, and scraped it into the saucepan.

He put another log to the fire and sat on the couch waiting for Sam, working on a beer, the scent of simmering sauce filling the house with a warm, homey smell.

Sure enough, Sam didn’t spend nearly as long in his bath as Dean might have expected. Only 45 minutes after he went into the tub, Dean heard the creak of old pipes as the bathwater was drained, and the high-pitched whine of Sam’s hair dryer, the possession of which Dean gave Sam shit for but secretly loved the end result. Dean cranked up the simmering pasta water and dumped in two boxes of spaghetti.

“That smells awesome, dude.” Sam trudged down the staircase, hair perfectly smooth and shining. He kissed Dean on the neck. Dean breathed deep, openly inhaling the scent of green apple shampoo and the Irish bar soap Bobby preferred.

Dean grabbed Sam a bottle of beer and forked an enormous heap of buttered spaghetti onto the plate, ladeling several full scoops of meat sauce over the top. He set it in front of Sam at the table and slid the green can of Parmesan cheese toward him.

Sam stared up at him with wide eyes. “You’re the best.”

Dean’s mouth twitched in that tiny smile he gave on rare occasions, when something amused him deeply. “The best what?”

Sam opened his mouth, intending to say “brother,” but nothing came out, as he realized the difficulty of naming what they were now. Dean could practically hear the gears whirring in that powerful brain of Sam’s, already so smart it was scary. “The best everything.”

Dean served himself an equally huge plate of spaghetti, turning the cheese can’s top to fully open holes and shaking a great cloud of Parmesan over it.

They ate the first plate quickly, like the teenagers they were.

The second helping, they ate more slowly. By the time their plates were reduced to red, oily smears, they had both finished two beers.

They looked at each other, remembering Bobby’s stern admonition to keep it to two each per night.

“Might as well finish off the six-pack, right?” Sam went to the refrigerator and pulled out two more.

Dean rifled through Bobby’s stack of movies on VHS. Bobby owned nearly ever Western from the 30s to modern day. Sam and Dean bickered over whether to watch A Fistful of Dollars or Unforgiven, when Sam uncovered a tape hiding behind The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. Dean took one look at the box and threw his hands in the air. “Done.”

Dean pulled a blanket out of the vast, old trunk next to the wide, comfortable couch and Sam inserted “Blazing Saddles” into the VCR and turned the lights off, kicking a small bag he’d brought down with him to the side of the couch.

They settled back under the blanket, fire flickering, making the shadows dance and writhe behind them, drinking their third beer each, feeling the warmth rise up from within and seep in from without, becoming giddy when two met and melted into one. Arms around each other, they got lost in the movie, laughing so hard tears rolled down their cheeks.

They watched the ending, rapt.

“Where you headed, cowboy?”

“Nowhere special.”

“Nowhere special.” Gene Wilder tips up his hat. “I always wanted to go there.”

Dean sighed. “Best ending line in any movie, ever.”

Sam couldn’t dispute that. Dean watched Bart and the Waco Kid dismount their horses and get into the car. Sam just watched Dean in the soft light of the fire, a curious expression on his face.

“What’s on your mind, Sammy?” Dean loved how Sam looked at him. Like he was a work of art and the hottest woman in the world walking along the beach in a barely-there string bikini, all in one.

Sam just blinked his long eyelashes once, without artifice. But the effect was striking.

Dean leaned in. “So, you all nice and clean from your bath, Sam?”

Sam’s eyes darkened. That’s all it took.

Dean stoked the fire, adding another log.  He didn’t want his Sammy getting cold. And he wanted him—oh, how badly he wanted him, stretched out naked in front of the fire, that warm light playing over his body.

Dean pulled a thick comforter out of the trunk and spread it out in front of the fireplace. Then he pulled Sam to his feet and undressed him, slowly.

“Are you cold?” Dean peered at Sam, concerned.

“No. Not at all.”

“But you’re shaking.”

“Not cold.” Sam stood before Dean naked, trembling visibly.

“Is it… is this too…are you feeling shy?”

Sam’s mouth slipped into an easy smile. “No. I like being like this with you.” He made a small gesture indicating his nakedness. “Your face gets all…lit up.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re fucking beautiful naked. Love to see you like this.”

San stretched himself out on the comforter, watching Dean watch him. “There’s a bag by the couch. Get it for me?”

Dean found the small paper bag and handed it to Sam. He pulled a small bottle of sweet almond oil out of it and paused, blushing. Then he popped the cap and drizzled the oil over his chest, rubbing it in until his skin gleamed.

“Fuck. Sam. You’re…” and Dean couldn’t continue. Not in words.

“Gonna come down here anytime soon?” Sam stared up at Dean, face rapt, as he shucked off his clothing and lay down next to Sam.

The firelight played across their naked bodies like fingers delicately grazing their skin.

Dean groaned as he dragged his hand over Sam’s oiled flesh. Sam dripped more oil over his stomach, between his legs, and, eyes locked onto Dean’s, he spread his thighs slowly and worked the oil onto his cock.

“Jesus Christ, Sammy… gonna kill me.” Dean watched Sam rub the oil all over his cock, not lasciviously putting on a show like a porn star, but with such trust and intimacy it brought tears to his eyes. He brought his hand to Sam’s cock, slid over it easily, and Sam shivered, arching his back, letting his hand fall away. “Dean. Want you.”

“Fuck. Gotta taste you, baby boy.” Dean slid between Sam’s legs, unable to resist licking a wide stripe up his cock, despite getting a mouthful of oil for his trouble. He settled between Sam’s thighs, pushed them back, tipping his hips up and placing that sweet pink hole at the perfect level.

He lapped at Sam. Sam gasped.

He did it again. Sam hooked his knees over his hands and pulled his legs back as far as he could.

“You like it when I do this.”

Sam answered with a moan.

“Good. Because I like doing it.” Another long swipe of his tongue.

Sam had never stopped trembling, not from the moment he stood completely naked in front of the fire. But now the trembling was heightened, shivers rocking his frame with each lap of Dean’s clever tongue.

When Sam grabbed his ass cheeks with both hands and pulled them apart, murmuring “more,” Dean nearly lost it right there.  Sam opened to him, his tight little rim softening, yielding, letting Dean’s tongue in deeper.

Christ, he could do this forever, Dean thought, driving his tongue in deeper, punching a rough cry out of Sam, his cock blurting a gleaming drop of pre-come onto his stomach.

Dean scooped it off with his fingers and stuck them in his mouth, licking up the taste. “Sweet,” he murmured.

Sam whimpered, running his hands through Dean’s hair.

Dean resumed trying to kill his little brother by working his tongue in his ass.

He licked it with gentle curls of his tongue, teasing the tip around the rim, probing deeper, astonished at how silken the flesh just inside the rim felt on his tongue. It was the softest thing Dean had ever felt.

And Sam gave it to him. Just to him. Only him.

The sounds Sam made felt as good as physical touch to Dean, the little cries and gasps, and oh Christ, the pleading and begging. His beautiful, whip-smart little brother, so much smarter than Dean would ever be, stretched open for him without shyness, oil-gleaming in the hypnotic dance of the firelight,  red mouth open, trembling with pleasure, with something deeper… it was almost too much.

He could come just from this. Struggled not to come just from this.

“Sammy,” he breathed, moving up to lay over Sam. Sam pulled him down into a kiss, panting into his mouth, body a slow serpentine of desire beneath him.

Sam tipped them both over until they were laying on their sides, pressed the bottle of oil into Dean’s hand. “Please. More.”

Dean slicked his shaking fingers, unable to take his eyes off Sam, cheeks stained red, pupils wide, eyes half-lidded, biting his lip unconsciously, still trembling. Still trembling.

He pressed an oiled fingertip to the center of Sam’s entrance. “This what you want, Sammy?”

Sam parted his thighs, pressing down against Dean’s finger. “Dean. Please.”

Dean pressed more firmly, and his finger breached Sam with barely any resistance at all. Sam just opened to him, repeating, “Oh…oh…oh…” and finally finishing with “god.”

Dean bit his own lip, trying to keep it together, as the tight grip of his little brother on his finger threatened to shiver him to pieces. So good… it felt so good….it would feel so good on his cock but no, he couldn’t, he wouldn’t. Not yet.

But Sam. For the love of all that’s holy, Sam. Sam rocked down on his finger, crying out as the entire length of it entered him, all the way to the last knuckle. “Yes. Yes. Yes.” Sam chanted, body sheened with sweat.

Dean fucked Sam slowly with his finger, watching him writhe. Sam just fell to pieces, shivering, unable to hold still. Dean was suddenly seized with a desire to tie Sam down completely, knot him up so he couldn’t move, HAD to hold still, and drive him crazy with his fingers up his ass and a long stream of sweet/dirty talk in his ear.

“More. Please. More.” Dean increased the pace, but Sam shook his head. “More.” His voice was rough with urgency.

Dean blinked a few times. Then he pulled his index finger out, brought his middle finger alongside, gently pressed the tips of both against Sam. “You want more, Sammy?”

Sam practically sobbed “Yes” and arched his lower back, driving himself down on Dean’s fingers. They slid inside Sam without much less resistance than Dean expected. “Christ, Sammy. You just took that so easy for me.”

Sam wrapped his arms around Dean, whispered in his ear, “Upstairs. Got myself ready for you.”

Dean had to bite his lip and think of ugly people to avoid coming at the thought of Sam in the bathtub, working a finger (or two at least two oh Christ three?) in his ass, preparing himself for Dean.

Dean swore and worked his two fingers inside Sam, fucking him slow and deep. Sam gave a frustrated groan, and fucked up into Dean’s hand.

“Want it faster?”

Sam nodded furiously, sucking on Dean’s lower lip.

Dean gave it to Sammy, faster, slick fingers working him, stabbing into him. Sammy bounced and jerked and groaned underneath Dean, gasping into his mouth. “Dean. Want you. Please. Want you so bad.”

“You wanna come, Sammy?”

Sam’s hazel eyes were wide, guileless, dark with need. “Want you inside me.”

Dean wanted nothing more that to be inside Sam, that heat and tightness around him, feel Sam just lose it beneath him, driving into him, his Sammy, claiming him.

But he couldn’t.

Sam sensed Dean’s hesitation. “”S’ok. I… I, uh, cleaned myself. So you could… it’s ok.”

Sam’s innocence just hammered home Dean’s absolute resistance to going all the way with Sam before he turned sixteen. But Christ, he was two fingers inside his little brother’s ass, and Sam was naked, oiled, prepped, and literally begging for it.

There was no way he could resist. Nobody could resist that.

Nobody except Dean Winchester.

He brushed his mouth over Sam’s throat, murmured, “Not yet, Sammy. Gotta wait.”

Sam answered by spreading his thighs wider, arching into Dean’s fingers. “Please. Need you.”

Dean shook his head no, whispered, “I can’t, sweetheart. Not yet. Not ‘till you’re 16. We gotta wait.”

Sam shuddered with frustration. “Can’t wait. Need you inside me. So bad.”

Dean worked his fingers inside Sam, crooked them, finding that spongy spot along the top wall and stroking it until Sam cried out, sharp and surprised. “I am inside you, baby boy.”

Sam half-sat up, gripping Dean’s shoulders, and said, “I want your cock inside me.”

Dean seized Sam’s mouth in his, driving his tongue into his mouth, pushed almost beyond endurance by that phrase coming out of Sam’s mouth.

He pushed Sam back down. “Yeah? You want to feel my dick inside you? Want me to fuck you? Want to give it up to me?”

Sam was practically in tears. “Yes.”

“Then you gotta be a good boy for me, Sammy. Gotta wait. I’ll do it. I promise.” Dean crawled between Sam’s legs, worked his fingers into Sam harder now, stroking that special spot that drove sharp, delicious cries out of Sam, and wrapped his other hand around Sam’s cock. “Christ, want to do it so bad. Want to be inside you, make you feel so good, split you open on my dick. You want that? Feel how good I’ll fill you up? Want to come on my cock, baby boy?”

And Sam wailed, body seizing, wracked with tremors as he came, shooting ropy white strands into the air, landing on his throat and face.

Dean licked the come from Sam’s throat, sucked it from his lips and cheek, hands scrabbling for the bottle of oil, slicking up his cock. “Fuck, you taste so good, Sam. Goddamn.” He rolled Sam onto his side, wrapped his hand around Sam’s chest, held him close and thrust his oiled cock between Sam’s thighs. “Keep your legs closed.” He pressed Sam close to him, fucking his smooth thighs, murmuring into his ear, “Love you so much, fuck, Sammy, feel so good, Christ, Sam, oh god, Sam, Sam, Sam…” And then Dean was lost in the spark-white chaos of his own orgasm, the taste of Sam on his lips, all control lost, shooting hot and wet between Sam’s thighs, shuddering with the force of it.

Sam shook in his arms. Still trembling.

Dean stroked Sam’s hair, his face. His face was wet.

No. Not still trembling.

Crying.

“Sammy? What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” Dean turned Sam to face him, held him close.

Sam wouldn’t say anything. Just clenched his teeth and tried to hold the tears back, but they spilled, traitorous, down his cheeks.

“Shh… it’s ok, Sammy. C’mere. Tell me. What’s wrong?”

Sam just shook his head, breath coming erratic, control all but gone.

Dean stroked his hair. “You wanted…more tonight.”

Sam cried openly.

Dean felt like an absolute, scum-sucking, puppy-murdering asshole. It was all clear now. Sam upstairs, taking a special bath. Getting ready for his night alone with Dean. No John, no Bobby. Dinner. Firelight. Beer.

Of course.

“You got yourself ready. Wanted tonight to be special.”

Sam sob-hiccoughed, nodding wordlessly into Dean’s chest.

Dean was glad Sam’s eyes were closed. He couldn’t bear to see the disappointment in them.

“I want that too. Sammy. I do. I swear.” Dean held Sam close. It was killing him. This was killing him. “But it’s important, Sam. Waiting. It’s really important.”

Sam sniffled. “Why?”

“Because it is. It just matters. Being sixteen first matters.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut harder. “But that’s six months away.”

“See? Just six months.”

Sam’s eyes flashed open. He stared at his brother like he was the world’s biggest moron. “Just six?”

“Shhh. It’ll be over before you know it.” Dean kissed Sam’s forehead. “You don’t like the other stuff we’re doing?”

Sam hiccoughed again. “’Course I do.”

Dean assured him, “We’re gonna do all that stuff. All the time. As often as we can get away with it. Ok?”

Sam burrowed his face in Dean’s chest, but wouldn’t look at him. Dean tipped his face up gently until he met his gaze.

“Hey. I’m gonna be counting the days. Literally. Counting the days. Don’t you even doubt that I want you like that.”

Sam took a deep breath, and wiped his eyes.

“You know I keep my promises, right?”

Sam nodded, softening.

“I’ll make it worth the wait. I promise.” And Dean sealed that promise, as solemn as any vow he had ever made or would ever make, with a soft brush of his lips across Sam’s mouth.

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