Something’s off about Sam. Stanford Sam with his shiny scholarship and tattered shoes. He’s polite, soft-spoken, studious- not one anyone would assume capable of violence. So why does he stuff those gun magazines in his satchel? Why are they well-thumbed, dog-eared and worn? Why does he watch shooting-range videos, tutorials, reviews and unboxings on the library computers?
Jess can tell he likes guns, he leaves books and guides on the mantle, but, he doesn’t mention them- doesn’t talk about hunting or self-defence. It almost makes her nervous- makes everyone nervous. But it’s just a hobby, it has to be.
When Dean shows up, it feels like everything slots into place. Jess notices the gun tucked in Dean’s waistband instantly, and then the way Sam’s eyes linger on the bulge of it as they talk.
When he leaves with his brother (Sam has family- isn’t that breaking news?), Jess has no idea the extent of Sam’s fixation. She’ll never know it.
A few days after her death, Dean sits on the edge of a motel bed, a towel laid out to his side with a deconstructed shotgun on top. Smears of gun oil and wax stain the fabric. The room is quiet.
Sam’s watching him closely, more than closely, breathing heavily from his seat on the opposite bed as his eyes follow Dean’s fingers wrapping the pearl grip of his Colt 1911. He’s resting the gun flat over the crotch of his jeans, almost mindlessly, loosely, as he searches for the part he needs from the pile. Sam slides off the bed onto his knees.
Dean eyes him cautiously, locked on to the movement in an instant, but he stays quiet, stays watching, as Sam leans his face in close to the barrel. For a second, Dean thinks Sam’s going to try something stupid, cap himself out of grief, but his lips part, his pink tongue peeks out, and he plants a wet, open-mouth kiss to the metal.
Dean takes a sharp breath in, his eyes widening and his dick suddenly twitching to life. A heat swells in his stomach. His voice, barely a whisper. “Oh fuck- Sammy, what the fuck…?!”
Sam chases it with a harsher kiss, lips smooshing into the engraving. He’s delirious from the grease fumes- light-headed, burning-hot and humming, as he covers the barrel with slow, sloppy kisses.
Dean watches, ever-so-closely, as Sam drops his jaw, stunned to see the strings of saliva snapping between Sam’s teeth, his wet tongue sliding out to lave over the mouthpiece. The tip of his tongue slides into the barrel almost erotically, and the stain of the oil catches at the corners of his lips. He moans like he’s tasting something better.
Dean’s hard and leaking like an inexperienced kid, his dick, straining against the denim of his jeans as he presses up into the hilt of the gun. It almost looks like Sam’s sucking on his dick instead…
Sam’s drooling so much, there’s spit coating the gun and it’s dripping, sliding down the barrel to dampen Dean’s knuckles. He swears under his breath when it slides over the trigger guard and in between his fingers. Dean’s teeth clench; fights cumming, right there in his jeans, as Sam returns to pressing slow kisses to the outside, almost purring in content, his chin slick and shining.
He looks up at Dean, meets his eyes for the very first time, as he takes Dean’s wrist in his hand.
He guides it- guides the fucking gun- into his open mouth and pushes it, far enough back that the sight digs into his soft palette.
Sam’s lips are wrapped around the barrel like it’s a cock- his eyes, heavy with tears, flutter up towards Dean’s face- and it’s so fucking hot.
Dean gasps, shudders, his dick jerking wildly under the gun grip. He can’t take it- the sight- it’s too much, so he cums, completely untouched, as his brother moans out from between his knees.
Yeah, Jess was right- something’s off about Sam. After tonight, Dean reckons it runs in the family.
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