Sure Got a Dirty Mouth Chapter 36: Sweet Little Lies

[justinedelarge]

Title: Sure Got a Dirty Mouth Chapter 36: Sweet Little Lies

Authorjustinedelarge
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing:Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warning: Wincest (Sam is a few months shy of legal age)
Word Count: 3074
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Just for fun.
Summary: Ever wonder how Dean started talking dirty? The genesis is in the way Sam and Dean make their feelings for each other physical. This story has dirty talk, all the feels you can handle, infinite love and even a plot that develops into a nail-biting narrative, with the best kind of hurt/comfor
Chapter Summary John lies to Sam and Dean. Again.
Note: Part of the Great Christmas Update. The chapters I wrote out of order, Thanksgiving and the little coda chapter Aftermath are included in this chapter. I expanded some of the Thanksgiving scene, upstairs with the pie.

In the morning, as they packed up to return to Bobby’s house it didn’t take long for the argument to start.

“You have to tell them.” Bobby’s face was turning red.

“In case you two had forgotten, they’re MY sons and I don’t have to tell them a damn thing.” John stuffed a flannel shirt into his duffel. “And you weren’t listening. I didn’t say I wasn’t going to tell them. I said I want to wait until after Thanksgiving.”

“You don’t think Sam needs to know right freakin’ now that there may be a demon on his ass?”

John spun around to face Bobby. “I’d rather go to my grave without Sam EVER knowing that.” John rubbed his jaw. “I mean, what’s he going to do? What do you do with that?”

Bobby glared at him.

“Anyway, it’s only going to scare the hell out of him. And it doesn’t do any good. Until we know more, get some… some kind of handle on this. What it wants. What we can do to stop it.” John turned his back. “Until then, we just tell them part of the truth, let them have a nice Thanksgiving, for once. Christ, just for once, Bobby.” John shouldered his duffel. “You know how rough those boys have had it over the holidays.” His eyes were bloodshot, pleading with Bobby for understanding.

Bobby dropped his gaze to the floor, and exhaled. “Ok.”

“Reggie?”

Reggie, who had wisely stayed out of the entire exchange, nodded. “I’ll back you. But what are we going to tell them when we get back?”

John thought for a moment. “We tell them as much of the truth as it’s safe to. Tell them Spivey was alive. That the demon resurrected him. That… that it was to mess with me. That it knows I’m after it for what it did to Mary, and it wanted to send a message. To back off.”

Bobby and Reggie pondered this. It was plausible enough—enough for a few days, at least.

The drive back was quiet. Nobody much wanted to speak.

At the sound of the car pulling up to the house, Sam and Dean appeared on the front porch.

John greeted them with long hugs. “You boys good?”

“Yessir.” Sam beamed up at John, still reveling in the relative newness of John’s approval and love focused on him, instead of their fractious relationship before this whole thing began.

It twisted inside Dean’s gut. Knowing that soon Sam would have to learn the painful truth, and that he might never look at John with that kind of love again.

His eyes met his father’s. A wealth of things unspoken passed between them.

“Let’s go in. It’s freezing out here.” John thumped Sam on the back, and they all went inside.

Bobby whipped up some Singer Specials, and passed them out to everyone in the living room.

John explained the story as they had agreed upon. Sam started shaking visibly when John talked about Spivey, breathed an audible sigh of relief when he got to the part where Reggie put a knife in him and how they salted and burned him, and went pale to learn that it appeared the demon had apparently resurrected him, tortured him, and left him for John to find as a message to back off because he’d gotten too close.

John promised that he was going to lay low, and let Joseph and Vesi dig deeper, now that they knew what they were up against. In the meantime, Sam and Dean and John and everyone should be safe.

John was a master spinner of tales. He was so persuasive he could have sold crack to a nun and made her believe she was doing God’s work.

Dean watched Reggie’s face as John talked. Reggie could not meet Dean’s gaze.

Dean swore under his breath.

Bobby said, “We found out more about him. This demon. His name is Azazel.” Bobby told them what they had learned during their research at Joseph’s.

This time, it was Dean who went pale. “Dad. That’s… that thing is pretty far up the food chain.”

Everybody fell silent. It was not good to have drawn the attention of such a powerful being.

“I know, son. But we’re gonna be ok.”

“How can you be sure?”

John’s smile was warm, blinding, his confidence infectious. “Because we’re Winchesters.” He leaned forward and put his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “That thing wants me to back off? I’m backing off. I’m not going to risk you two in some… some obsessive need for vengeance.” John turned to Sam. “I took you boys for granted before. I always assumed you’d be there. You’d be ok. But I learned my lesson. I won’t do anything to put you at risk. So I’m going to let this go for now. That thing is too powerful, and until we know a hell of a lot more, going after it is a suicide mission.”

Sam was entirely convinced.

Dean didn’t let his doubts show.

John went to take a shower, and Bobby headed into his office to call Rufus and gloat.

Dean put his hand on Reggie’s shoulder, holding him back. “Anything I should know?”

Reggie’s smile was reassuring. “Nope.”

Still, something pulled at Dean. Something not quite right. But he let it go. It was nearly Thanksgiving, and for the first time in a long time, they were going to have the whole deal, in a real house, with Dad there, and sober, and other people. And an actual turkey that was not from Kentucky Fried Chicken.

And Dean was tired of the strife and drama and angst and pain. He had his Sammy back. He was with Sam in every sense of the word, finally. Sam had forgiven him for the harsh things he’d said before Sam was taken. Sam and John were finally getting along, not at each other’s throats. Even if it was based on a lie, Dean was tired.

He’d take it. Just for a little while. Sam deserved to have a nice Thanksgiving, safe and warm and surrounded by family, such as it was. And he figured, maybe so did he.

~

“Keep your hands off the pie, Dean. We haven’t even had dinner yet.”

Dean eyed the apple-pecan pie cooling on the countertop.

“You baked that?”

“Yeah. I baked that. But that one’s for everyone. So hands off.”

“It just looks so freakin’ good.”

Sam looked at the crowd of hunters assembled in the living room with John and Bobby, all caught up in a board game, of all things, and took Dean’s hand. “Come on,” he whispered, tugging Dean upstairs to their room and locking the deadbolt behind them.

There, on the table next to Dean’s side of the bed, was a small, individually sized apple pie. On the bed itself were two large folded towels.

Sam bit his lip, hazel eyes locked on Dean’s green ones. “I was saving this for after. Think we have time right now?”

Dean groaned, staring at the apple pie. The towels. At Sam.

“I thought you could, you know… eat it off me.” Sam stuck two fingers into the pie, coating them with sweet cinnamon-scented syrup, and brought them to Dean’s mouth. Dean licked and sucked them without an ounce of shame, not caring how debauched he looked. Actually, he did care. And loved it. Loved seeing how Sam’s eyes darkened, how his breath sped up, how his hand trembled.

“Sam. Marry me.”

“Yes.”

Dean had been joking. He thought.

Sam was joking too. He thought.

A second later, they realized neither one had been joking at all.

“I know we can’t do it legal, Sam, but…”

“We can do a ritual.”

Dean pulled Sam to him, claiming his mouth, smearing pie filling all over Sam’s lips, kissing him hard, sweet and messy. Sam melted into him, kissing him for a long, long time.

Sam pulled away, just a bit. “Two things. First, I want a ring and a date.”

Dean smiled. “Ok. What else?”

Sam pressed up against Dean. “Probably should wait until I’m 18, huh.”

Dean smiled, unbuckling Sam’s belt and tugging his jeans off. “If I have to.” He reached down, pulled Sam’s cock out. “Eat it off you, you said?”

Sam shivered. “Yeah. That was the plan.”

Dean scooped up a handful of warm apple pie and smeared it over Sam’s cock. “I like your plan.” He sank to his knees and took Sammy into his mouth, sucking the spiced, syrupy juices off him. He gripped Sam’s hips hard, moaning at the combination of his favorite thing to eat, and his favorite thing to have in his mouth.

Dean went absolutely crazy, licking the pie off Sam, sucking and hollowing out his cheeks, moaning like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted, and it was. It honestly was. Apple pie and Sam, mingling on his tongue. He lifted little pieces of apple and crust off with his tongue, chewed and swallowed them with little sounds so wanton they literally made Sam’s knees shake, jacking himself off as he sucked Sam off.

It wasn’t long before Sam was clutching Dean’s head, spilling warm and salty into his mouth. The taste of it mingling with the sticky-sweet apple pie, made Dean swear, suck the head of Sam’s cock hard, trying to pull as much come out of him as he possibly good. “Holy hell, Sam.” He braced his forehead against Sam’s stomach, shuddering as he came. “Holy hell.”

~

The kitchen was a hive of activity. Bobby checked the temperature of the 28 lb turkey, stuffed with his grandfather’s secret stuffing recipe, swathed with butter-soaked cheesecloth. Bosie pinched the ends off a giant pile of green beans. John poured a generous dose of Barbados rum into the huge crockpot filled with simmering apple cider with orange slices and cinnamon sticks.

Reggie stood over the biggest cast iron pan Sam and Dean had ever seen, whisking the browned mixture of flour and butter, adding turkey juices Bobby had poured into a fat separator an hour before.

Sam and Dean exchanged private glances over the large heap of potatoes on the kitchen table, peeling the leathery skins off in long strips. Under the table, Dean bumped Sam’s knee with his leg.

Sam stared at the pile of potatoes, but his smile, achingly sweet, was all for Dean.

~

Two hours later, the potatoes, mashed not beaten (“Keep your damn mitts off it, John. Too important to screw up.”) by Bobby were placed on the long dining room table, along with a dizzying array of side dishes brought by the motley crew of hunters that had made the pilgrimage to Bobby’s house, in honor of the boys. Jeweled cranberry sauce, orange-and-pink fresh cranberry relish ground with whole oranges and walnuts, a heavily spiced chutney of some sort, maple syrup yams dusted with cayenne (“That’s my own personal recipe,” Reggie had said with a wink.), stuffed sweet potatoes with pecans and bacon, creamed pearl onions, marinated cucumber salad, roasted Brussels sprouts with bacon, thick Southern-style biscuits, Bobby’s secret-recipe stuffing, corn pudding, a seemingly endless spread.

Bobby’s turkey was set before him at one end of the table, and a massive glazed ham on the other end in front of John. The table bristled with bottles of various liquids: red wine, white wine, champagne, non-alcoholic cider, cranberry juice, and mugs of spiked apple cider. A fire blazed in the fireplace, and ruby tapers in candlesticks were placed along the cranberry-colored runner down the middle of the table.

John stood. “Thank you all for being here. I’m more grateful than I can say. It’s not often that me and my boys get to have this kind of thing. And I know it’s the same for all of you.” He looked around the table at the assortment of people, people who had sacrificed so much to keep the world safer, given up having families of their own, normal lives, all to be hunters.

“So today means a lot. And it means a lot more, what with what my family has been through over the last month.” John looked at Sam and Dean. “I’m thankful for all of you and the help you gave us. But most of all, I’m thankful for my two sons.”

All eyes turned to them.

“I did the best I could to raise them without their mother. And I know—“John’s voice cracked. “I know I messed it up. Let Mary and you boys down. But you turned out so well anyway. Probably because you had each other. And Dean… you really… I can’t even thank you enough. For how you took care of Sammy. Better care than I did.”

Dean swallowed hard, trying to retain some semblance of composure.

“I always knew they were exceptional boys, but they proved themselves to be exceptional men, and fine hunters.” John’s face shone with pride and love. “I love you both, and I’m so proud to call you my sons.”

Sam and Dean both wiped their hands across their eyes.

Dean cleared his throat. “We love you too, Dad.” He went on. “Um, I want to say thanks to all of you. For what you did for Sam.” Under the table, he put his hand on Sam’s knee. “Sam’s…” Dean bit his lip, looking at Sam. “He’s the best brother anyone could ever hope to have. And I’m damn lucky he’s mine.”

Sam beamed, squeezing Dean’s hand under the table. The specific phrasing Dean had used was not lost on Sam.

And Sam was not the only one at the table that caught that.

Quickly, unnoticed by everyone else present, Bobby and Reggie exchanged a glance.

Sam spoke next. “I don’t even know how to begin to thank all of you. You’ve done so much.” He looked at every one in turn. “I can’t ever pay you back. But I’ll try.” He took a moment. “First off, I’m thankful I’m still here.”

No one said anything, but nodded.

“And I’m thankful I met Reggie. Who’s awesome.” Reggie grinned, chewing on his toothpick.

“And Bobby. And Dad.” Sam searched for words. “I love you guys.”

Sam turned his eyes to Dean. He didn’t even have to say anything. But he did. “And Dean. All my life, I wanted to be as good as him. At something.” An expression of pain flickered across Dean’s face. “I’m serious. You’re so good at everything. Shooting, fighting, running, hunting, driving, everything. And you were just the coolest thing ever.”

A ripple of laughter issued from the people at the table.

“I just tried to live up to him. And I know you guys were all, wow, what you did when they took you was amazing. But I…” Sam’s voice thickened, and he paused to let the emotion subside. “That wasn’t really me. That was Dean. All I did was try to do what I thought Dean would do in that situation. Live up to his example.”

Dean tried to remain cool, but he couldn’t prevent the tear from rolling down his face.

“People can make you better or worse. And Dean makes me better. He’s the best brother ever.” Sam’s eyes were wet. “And I’m glad he’s mine.”

Bobby raised his glass again. “We’re glad you boys have each other.”

Reggie raised his glass as well. “You two make a hell of a pair.”

John raised his glass. “To Sam and Dean.”

Everyone at the table raised a glass or mug. “To Sam and Dean.”

Sam and Dean turned red under the weight of the attention, but sat up straight and let it wash over them. Under the table, Dean twined his fingers in Sam’s.

Bobby stood. “Sam. We’d like you to carve the turkey.”

Sam was stunned. Carving the turkey was what the man of the house did.

John nodded, his face lit up with pride. “Go ahead, son. You’re a man now.”

Sam stood, cheeks stained pink, and moved to the head of the table. He took the carving fork and knife Bobby handed him. He stood there for a moment, all eyes on him. Then deftly, as though he had practiced this a hundred times, he sliced off the leg and wing, flipped them onto the empty platter, and began carving perfect, even strips of white meat.

“Damn, son. I should have had you do this all along.” Bobby shook his head.

Dean watched Sam elegantly carve the turkey, slicing medallions of dark meat off the thigh, separating the drumsticks, all techniques absorbed simply by watching others do it over the years. Because Sam was just that smart.

He watched Sam, the memory of their secret kisses earlier still tingling on his lips, the scent of Sam all over him. Sam at the head of the table, bathed in love and praise.

His Sammy.

Dean closed his eyes, folded his hands under the table, and from his lips issued a prayer of thanks.

~

The food was demolished, pies inhaled, and everyone retired to their RVs, bedrooms, spare rooms and couches.

Sam snicked the deadbolt shut and crawled onto the bed next to Dean.

Dean lay on his back, already wearing his baggiest flannel pajamas. He rested both hands on his engorged stomach.

“Gonna die.”

Sam pulled up the hem of his long flannel pajama top and ran his hand over Dean’s tummy, stuffed full to bursting. “So adorable.”

“Cut it out, Sammy.” Dean didn’t try to swat Sam’s hand away.

Sam rubbed Dean’s swollen abdomen gently. “Someday you’ll be old like Bobby with a belly just like this.”

“And you’ll leave me for an underwear model. I know.”

Sam stared at Dean in feigned shock. “I would never!”

His voice dropped into a whisper. “Never.” He kissed Dean’s stomach. “I like your belly.”

“Really?” Dean pushed up on his elbows to stare at Sam.

“Yeah. It’s cute. Feels good.” Sam kissed it again. “And it means…”

“What?”

“Means you got enough to eat.” Sam rested his cheek lightly against Dean’s belly, remembering all the times Dean gave him the lion’s share of what little food was in the house, going hungry himself.

Dean remembered it too.

“I’ll love you when you’re old and fat.”

Dean met Sam gaze, something vulnerable and unsure in his eyes.

“Promise?”

Sam pressed his mouth to Dean’s belly once more. “Promise.”