(I had to immediately after the episode... also, I recommend Nothings gonna Hurt You and Apocalypse by Cigarettes After Sex for this, i had them on repeat...)
Dean’s tired after all of it, the drive back, the bunker, the Chief thing, reuniting and introductions… the whole… wearing not-his clothes thing.
Sam gives him his space, moves around him to make sure everyone else has to go through him first. Protecting the bubble Dean needs right now, doing it with a quiet full calm. Dean makes quips where he usually seems to, but skirts edges and keeps his peripherals checked.
Sam asks, gets the response he expects. He understands. Not now, it’s too fresh, too soon… too confusing still.
Sam’s amused by Dean’s reaction to his beard at least, heartwarmed to have his jerk of a brother back, didn’t think about how he still had it, how that would be different for Dean. Irked and uncomfortable that there is so much of his Sam hidden halfway under it all.
Dean just wants Familiar right now. Sam understands, but he also finds it endearing the way Dean adamantly scoffs at it while everyone else seems charmed.
Sam considers shaving it almost immediately, but Sam also has enough little brother left in him to be captivated by seeing Dean to squirm about such strange things… especially ones that have to do with Sam.
In 9th grade, it was that one time Sam came home after making out with Ashley in her car for half an hour past his curfew. She had worn auburn lipstick that made their kisses sticky and thick, the taste pushing itself into his memory already as he crept back into the house with his heart escalated and kicking in his throat, snuck into their room giddy-quiet. He remembers expecting his big brother’s approval, suffering so many informative sex stories that encouraged him to follow example, but instead he got an agitated Dean, snapping and throwing a wet face cloth at him from the bathroom telling him to wipe off that damn lipstick, you look like a girl.
Or that summer of ’99, when Sam hit his growth spirt and grew up, up, up; tall and lean into the sky, able to look eye-to-eye with Dean and pinning him for the very first time in their combat practices. He felt his body hot and big over Dean’s, felt for the first time Dean genuinely struggle underneath him. Sam remembers it vividly: the hot Arizona sun, the smell of the dirt and the sharp mint of grass torn up by their scuffle, the echoes of a distant community baseball game carried over the dry air. The tickle of Dean’s hair against Sam’s cheek, the flex and pull of his muscles meeting Sam’s hold. The elbow Dean throw back in blind reptilian panic, clocking Sam right in the jaw. The speckle of blood he spat out on the dirt, how some of it landed on Dean’s face where he had twisted onto his back and was staring up at Sam in hot, wild-eyed shock… how they stayed like that a minute too long, Dean’s pink cheeks dirt-smeared and speckled with brother blood, Sam copper-mouthed right above him, blocking the sun, and tingling with the adrenaline of domination. Until the crack of a baseball against bat broke the locked moment, like a snap of fingers through hypnosis.
Now is different though, Sam thinks. Now Dean is agitated because it’s too different; a dent in the shield of familiarity he needs right now.
When Sam gets to his room, it’s not long after that Dean lets himself in, too. Weary, soft and a new colour of uncertainty clouding the edges of his meadow eyes. But still, Dean. Still moving easily over.
Sam doesn’t even say hi or ‘everything okay?’ because he knows it’s not, but he feels everything inside of him relax in contentment, in relief. Because there’s Dean, there’s his brother, his other half, alive and breathing and different but here. Back with him.
Dean comes over slowly, different in the face and the eyes, different in his smile, but still all Dean. He gives a little bit of a smirk, a quirk in the corner of his lips and eyebrow, and he raises his hand and shows off his razor in a pointed mission. “Sit, Paul Bunion.”
Sam huffs a laugh, a smile breaking easy and amused, and he lifts a hand to his beard, rubs at it in a way he’s been doing for the last few weeks, it’s soft scratch against the pads of his fingers a comforting grounding sensation. But now he’s got his anchor here, there’s no need for it anymore.
Sam sits down on the edge of the bathtub, and Dean’s shoulders square in approval. He methodically gathers up a bowl of water, a towel, the shaving cream, and sets them on the toilet seat before he stands in front of him and Sam easily moves his thighs apart to let Dean occupy the space between.
Sam watches as Dean’s jaw clenches subtly, watches the flickers of hologram hauntings behind his eyes, knows there’s so much inside of him he can’t quite exorcise just yet. Sam breathes in soft and slow, relaxes completely for Dean, reaches out tentatively to touch a hand softly against Dean’s thigh.
Dean’s eyes soften warmly, pooling, and they find Sam through the fog… they move over the crinkles forming at the corners of Sam’s eyes, over his eyebrows and the worry lines etched in above, down his cheek bones and to the warm bush of beard around his jaw. Dean’s eyes focus, zero in on the foreign difference and he lifts his hands, touches his fingers against the soft scratch and lets the corners of his mouth dip down in disapproval.
Sam can’t help but let a smile twitch under his offensive beard, and he rubs a thumb against the fabric of Dean’s pants.
The simple texture, real and rough, sends a bolt of relief shaking warm lava up his arm and into his bones.
Dean takes his time snipping at what his scissors can slit away and Sam sinks into the feeling of cold metal sliding sharp and thin against his cheek, his jaw, his throat…
the quick tugs with each snip, the tickle of stray hair falling on his neck, his collarbone.
The cool shivers of sensations fuzzing out his nerves.
Snip… snip… snip… the tug of hair, the release. Soft pinches. Weight lifting.
Then Dean places the scissors down, exhales a fuller breath, coming back to himself little by little with this simple task under his hands… his hands.
And Sam knows this is a big part of it: Reforming a relationship with his body through Sam.
Simple motor skills of snips of scissors and now the gel onto brush before he places a hand at the warm base of Sam’s throat and brushes the lathered lotion up his exposed neck… along his sharp jaw… over his scratching cheeks…
Sam watches the desperate single-task focus of Dean’s eyes… the ghost the ripples at the edges every few seconds, and feels his chest swell and ache cold. Understands loss of control, understands powerlessness in his own flesh, but knows the obsessive control Dean’s kept over himself, imagines that one self-trust snapping under his own call, that betrayal of consent he leaned his offering upon.
Dean allowed himself to sacrifice a temporary sense of control but ended up losing all of it. Completely. His body of flesh and blood now a house of transparent, penetrable glass.
Sam feels it in Dean’s gentle fingertips… the soft cradling of his throat…. the whispering cold slide of sharp razor edge against his warm skin, the tug and tickle along each line of gliding stroke.
Fragile, vulnerable, pliable. So Sam is for him, with him.
With his jaw tilted upward, he gazes up at his big brother. He blinks slow and feels young in the eyes, feels old and warm in the chest. Remembers watching Dean do this himself for the first time. Wants to lean forward and hold Dean up against him, pull his abdomen into his chest, act as a second ribcage for all Dean’s softest parts.
The razor slides with a rasp, tinks against the water bowl, comes back cold and wet, sends tingles and sparks along Sam’s jaw, into the back of Sam’s teeth, down low along Sam’s spine…
Sam closes his eyes, bathes himself in the feeling of Dean shaving him back to himself, the air washing cool and clean against his skin. He feels baptised by steel and water, a conduit for renewal.
The razor slides, and Sam sighs, lets Dean tilts his head to the slightest inch by the slightest touch. Rasp, tink, swish. Scrap, clean, wet. A hypnotic spell buzzes over Sam’s brain, tingles the surface of his skin and he sinks low into the feeling, into his brother’s care, welcomes it all.
Then it’s not the cold edge returning to his skin… it’s wet fingers, trailing over his cheeks, his jaw, his adams apple that bobs in a swallow under the touch. Smearing leftover shaving cream, drips of water.
His eyes are too heavy to open, so the fingers explore more… along his chin, the dip between his lips and nose, the dent of his dimples and the rise of his cheekbones.
He feels the fingers slide up to his ears and, slowly, push soft paths into the forest of his hair. Trailing deep and thick back to his neck, and thumbs slide to cup the crevice of his underjaw.
A shiver runs through Sam and his hand on Dean’s thigh tightens a little, hugs Dean closer just with pressure against his solid leg. And Dean comes. Sam feels him rest his forehead down, gently, against his. Feels his breath wash warm over his nose and cheeks. Feels the hands in his hair tremble, the rhythm of his breath stutter in the slightest.
Sam opens his eyes, feels the tickle of a tear drop onto his high cheek from Dean’s eyes clenched shut.
Sam feels his chest tare open hot with desperation and protection, feels his eyes sting in response.
He moves his hands to Dean’s waist and rubs his thumbs slow against his hipbones.
Dean breathes in a stuttered breath and his hands tighten in his hair and Sam welcomes it quietly, closing eyes again… feels the salt tears speckle his cheeks, thinks of his blood speckling Dean’s under that hot sun. And sighs.
Characters: Dean x Reader, Sam (briefly).
Warnings: Pussy (and ass) shaving, shaving!kink, brief oral, implied sex/butt stuff, one very scarred Sam.
Word Count: 900ish
A/N: Here’s some shaving kink and (very brief) ass eating/oral. Don’t know where it came from, but here it is.
Sitting naked and at the edge of the bathtub, Dean’s big green eyes watched your hand move, slow and precise. You had to be delicate. Every slide, scrape, and rasp of the razor across the thick hair between your legs was audible in the silence he’d created.
“I seriously don’t know why you wanted to watch me shave my lady bits,” you half smirked when you dipped the razor under the water, readjusting before bringing it back to your skin.
When you looked down at him, you grinned to yourself. He was sitting cross legged on the bathroom floor in just his boxer-briefs, staring at the crux of your legs with laser focus on his freckled face.
“I-I don’t know, just, keep going.” He waved you off, completely engrossed in the way your fingers danced the razor around your most sensitive area.
Every few dips to clear the hair from your razor, you lathered again, smiling amusedly down at Dean when he took the bottle of shaving cream and claimed the responsibility of squirting it onto your skin for you.
“This stuff smells good,” he commented, making a soft chuckle fall from your lips as you started in again.
It wasn’t until he took the razor from your hand that the slightly odd, but generally amusing nature of the situation changed.
Now, Dean had his hands on you, was on his knees beside the tub, thick fingers splaying you open and dragging the blades up your skin, against the grain. His pressure was firm enough to get any stragglers, but soft enough to avoid cutting you; well, aside from the one, teeny, accidental knick.
Having him there, so close and so focused on every inch you had on display for him was erotic, different, and new. The tension in his brows and focus in his eyes sent a thrum up your spine that came right back down and settled where his skin met yours, and you hoped he wouldn’t notice that you were occasionally clenching around nothing.
Dean’s white teeth had taken his bottom lip between them while he focused on shaving every hair from your soaked and lathered pussy. He was intent, and his lip only fell free when he was done with your first half.
One hand was behind you to hold your weight, the other had fallen to the back of his neck where your fingers were pushing gently through the ends of his hair. When he set the razor down, his eyes took you in, that pink tongue dragging over his lips before his sparkling eyes flicked up to meet yours, blinking slow and heavy.
“Done.”
“Do you want to do my-” You gestured to your ass with an embarrassed blush heating your cheeks.
He seemed slightly puzzled, furrowing his brows and looking away from you for a moment before replying, “Do you usually do it when you wax and stuff?” You nodded yes, and he nodded in return.
After a bit of awkward instructing, maneuvering, and careful handling, you were completely shaved and on all fours in the tub. The sight before him was absolutely stunning, and he’d just rinsed your body with the detachable shower head when he finally let himself get hard.
His hands were on your skin, palm on your ass with the spray flowing over you, down your lips and thighs, and he wanted to be that water so badly. So, he let his fingers follow the path the spray made, smoothed his digits over you. When you let out a moan, he brought his lips to your skin, biting down into the flesh of your ass before dropping the shower head, taking your cheeks in both hands, and diving in.
Dean had rimmed you in the past, but never with this much passion. The shock of it had you gasping his name and reaching for the only thing you could find to grab onto: the shower knobs. Quickly twisting them in your hands, the spray of the water faded and let you hear Dean’s deep-throated groans echoing off the shower walls when he moved down to taste your dripping pussy. Dean was drunk with need and had to force himself to pull away, jumping up on his feet and hauling you with him.
On the way to his room, Dean passed Sam in the hall, and you let out a yelped ‘Sorry!’ when his appalled face came into your line of sight. Your chest was pressed against Dean’s, and your legs were wrapped around his waist, but that didn’t stop him from getting a full flash of your ass and his brother’s bulging hard-on as Dean skid down the hallway with you.
Stopping, Dean turned back, and Sam groaned and covered his eyes. “Dude, really?” he sighed, averting his eyes from your bare frame.
“You-” Dean stopped to huff out a chuckle, “you might wanna get a new razor. We may or may not have borrowed it,” he smirked, winking and slapping your ass when his brother’s head cocked in confusion.
“Ugh!” Sam’s disgruntled noises faded with the sounds of laughter falling from yours and Dean’s mouths.
When you rounded the corner, Dean pressed you up against his door and winked, leaning in to speak against your ear. “I’m gonna eat you out so good, then I’ll fuck this shaved pussy. Maybe even your pretty little ass, if you ask nice enough.”
Lips dancing over your neck, you let out a groan that had Dean grinning and pushing you into his room to make good on his promise.
Author’s note: So I now posted you the whole story as one piece. I hope that’s okay, if not I have it saved and can send it again in pieces. It’s 4.5k, JFC. I hope you like it! Your WM <33
Whoever said that alcohol is not the answer never lost the most important person in their life just because they couldn’t let them go. Ironic, when you say it like that. In refusing to let Sam go he may have lost his brother forever.
So, he and Jack would spend the evening in the kitchen, doing everything but thinking about Sam’s parting words.
Same circumstance, I wouldn’t.
He knew Sam had been angry and rightfully so. Dean had fucked up big time. Not necessarily by letting Gadreel in, because if nothing else, he did save Sam. And he can’t bring himself to be sorry for that. It’s just not in him. He would have freed Lucifer to get Sam back out of the Cage without regret.
It’s Sam. There are no rules that could be applied, no rationality or even a real decision.
His biggest mistake had been to lie to Sam though. How could he be so stupid? After having seen so many times what lies did to their relationship. And he still chose that path again. Wasn’t that the definition of insanity, to do the same thing over and over again and expecting another outcome? Sam would know. Hell, maybe he should pledge insanity. The lawyer in Sam should be able to work with that.
Dean felt pathetic, sitting in the empty kitchen with an empty bottle of Jack and an empty life. He wished the numbness would start to settle in already, because the ache in his heart and the pressure of tears behind his eyes were almost unbearable by now.
His body had started to feel hot and his stomach clenched like a fist whenever he thought of Sam, and of what he lost. The empty bottle shattered against the wood of their kitchen table without his conscious input. Splinters planted themselves in his hands, but Dean was too far gone to care, so he just buried his face in his bloody hands, mindless of the shards sticking in his flesh. He didn’t even feel them cutting the skin on his face as well or the blood that made his skin sticky.
He must have zoned out because the next thing he knew, Sam was kneeling at his side. His big, capable hands cradled Dean’s face and for a hysterical moment Dean thought that the last months had been one big bad dream.
“What the hell, Dean?”
Or maybe not.
As much as it pained him, he shoved Sam away, mumbling a dismissive “I’m fine” at him. He hoped Sam’s indifference would be enough to deter his little not-anymore-brother from asking more question. But when had Dean Winchester ever gotten what he hoped for?
“You’re clearly not. You’re bleeding Dean. So tell me, what happened?”
For no apparent reason that made anger bubble up in his chest. “What do you even care?” he roared with a force that surprised even himself.
“What do I care? Fine, be that way.” With a huff Sam stood up from the squatting position he had been in and started to walk away. Again.
Dean would forever blame the stupid alcohol for the tears that sprung to his eyes at the sight of his brother’s retreating back. He whispered a broken “Goodnight, Sammy,” sure Sam would be too far away to hear it. But one of the great traits of drunken people is their misjudging of their own volume.
When Sam turned back he wore that one pronounced crinkle between his eyebrows, the one that roughly translated in I have it up to here with your bullshit. The hard lines around his eyes only disappeared when he noticed the teardrops rolling down Dean’s bloody cheeks. His big brother almost never cried and the sight did something very complicated to Sam’s insides.
“How much did you have to drink?” Sam asked in a much softer voice, sadness and resignation dulling everything else he felt.
“Not enough,” came the clip reply. There was not enough alcohol in the world to make him forget all the times he had failed his brother.
In lieu of anything to say Sam heaved a sigh and stepped closer to Dean again, his gaze intent. Dean wouldn’t have been able to look anywhere else but the familiar face in front of him. These days it was rare for them to by so close to each other and he used the opportunity to drink in every tiny detail he could.
He was startled out of his reverie when Sam gently grabbed his hands to access the damage. His hands were a bloody mess and he saw that some of the flinders had buried themselves deeply in his flesh. Sam actually clucked with his tongue at the sight before his gaze returned to Dean’s bloody face.
“Your stupid scruff makes it impossible to ascertain the damage you did to your face,” he groused, but for a moment Dean could have sworn he detected something like fondness and concern in Sam’s tone. Must be wishful thinking.
“If it bothers you so much you will have to shave it off yourself because I certainly won’t.” It was meant as a joke, to break the weird tension that had settled between them. Only, it came out too soft and vulnerable.
Sam, who was considerable more sober than him, and also an observable little fucker if he wanted to be, picked up on his tone. Of-fucking-course he did. Dean braced himself for the blow, for being let down easily (or not , depending on how much resentment Sam harbored for him). But it never came.
“I guess I have to then. Come on, move your lazy ass.”
Again, Dean blamed the alcohol (and the way his body always listened to Sam’s voice when it ordered him to do something, the traitorous thing) for the way he hurriedly stumbled to his feet and followed Sam to the bathroom. The bright light that greeted him there helped to sober him up considerably. He still made no move to leave. Dean had no idea what Sam tried to accomplish but his selfish heart leaped at the chance to be close to his brother again.
“Dean? Hey, man, look at me.” Sam’s voice sounded thin, edgy with barely hidden worry. Dean wondered what happened to make him sound like that, when Sam reached out to still his trembling hands. That’s when Dean realized he was shaking like a leaf. Stupid alcohol. Stupid longing.
A warm hand landed on his shoulder, gentle pressure used to guide him towards the closed toilet lid. He sat down without protest, still slightly out of it by the proceedings of this overwhelming day. Besides, it felt good to let Sam take the lead, to give himself over to his brother. Sam may have lost his trust in Dean but that does not mean Dean had to do the same. Deep down Dean knew that Sammy was still safe, was still home.
While he sat there, head down and frame still trembling, Sam rummaged through the bathroom cupboard. When he returned to Dean it was with a razor in his right and shaving cream in his left hand. The sight baffled Dean despite its obviousness. Did Sam want to force him to shave himself? His confusion must have shown on his face because Sam gave him one of his impatient I-have-an-idiot-for-a-brother looks and Dean felt a new set of tears spring to his eyes. He stubbornly refused to let them fall, but to be subjected to this look again made his stomach hurt while it swallowed up his rapidly beating heart.
His little brother raised one of his eyebrows in question and he gave a barely discernible nod in answer. Their way of wordless communication still intact (and yet a curse when actual words were needed).
They’ve never done this before and it felt oddly intimate to even think about what Sam was about to do. They had sex for Christ sake and still, this right here felt heavier than anything they have done before. Dean had a feeling this was more than a simple act of shaving or taking care of each other’s wound. This was a chance for him to show Sam that he still trusted his brother. That he still wanted them to have this kind of relationship. The one where you give the other a way to hurt you, knowing they would never do it.
“First of all I need to make sure you didn’t cut yourself too bad before I go anywhere near you with this stuff.”
And with that Sam went over to the sink, put down the razor and the cream to grab a washcloth instead. He wetted it with warm water and went back to Dean to clean his face with gentle, careful strokes. The gesture was so tender Dean had problems reconciling it with the words Sam had spoken to him not even an hour ago. Still, he couldn’t help but press into the touch oh so slightly, face heating in embarrassing. He never had stopped needing Sam, loving, wanting him with every fiber of his fragile heart.
“Seems like there only a few shallow nicks, your hands are far worse.”
That made Dean look down, surprised at the sight of his mangled flesh. He looked back up at Sam again, dazed confusion openly displayed on his face. The alcohol, the accident, Sam’s strange behavior – something must have rendered his defenses useless, his mask had slipped sideways and he didn’t even care.
Sam looked back at him like you would look at a kid, eyes soft and so, so old. “Let’s get them cleaned up as well, shall we?” And with that he made a pair of tweezers appear out of thin air and started to tweeze the splinters of glass. He worked fast and expertly but still with utmost care. Sam had always been the one to stitch him up, wouldn’t hear a word about letting their father do it. It seemed like by taking care of Dean’s wounds he could make sure for himself that his big brother was still alive, relatively okay and breathing. Not even ten minutes later Sam applied the disinfectant and bandaged both of his hands. Not once did their eyes meet.
When Sam seemed to be satisfied with his work he took his time to put everything away at its proper place. Something about the utter Sam-ness of this gesture made Dean smile for the first time this evening. His smile disappeared however and was replaced by a new set of nerves when his brother took the dose of shaving cream in his hands.
Sam rattled the dose and filled a generous amount in the cup of his hand. His movements were steady but his eyes never met Dean’s. Sam also was aware how big this was for them, especially given the current status of their relationship. The moment Sam’s hand reached Dean’s cheek, cool cream a stark contrast to his burning face, a shiver ran down his spine. Sam made sure the cream was distributed equally, his hands gentle and warm. Dean gulped audibly at the sensation flooding his body.
Finished once again Sam finally took the razor in his hands before he slowly advanced on Dean. The tension was rising with every step he took towards an almost terrified Dean. He was so out of his comfort zone here and anticipation warred with fear in his chest. Rationally spoken, there should be no way how he could fuck up things between them even more but that had never stopped them before.
And then Sam touched the razor to his left cheek and moved it down in a first, slow stroke.
Despite his own apprehension of the intimacy this simple act conveyed, Dean found himself still overwhelmed by the desire that pooled in his groin at that first stroke. Intellectually, he was well aware that shaving was a serious kink for some people, but in all his years of sexual escapades, he never once suspected it was one for him as well. Maybe it had more to do with the fact that it was Sam who did it. That Sam was the one to put a sharp object against his skin, holding the power to hurt, and Dean helpless and at his mercy. And yet, his little brother did not abuse said power. Instead, he did what Dean had done all their life for him. Sam took care of his brother.
Sam slowly finished up his left cheek, stroke by tantalizing stroke. Sometimes it burnt a bit, whenever he hit a nick from the shards. But the slight pain, mixed with the maddening pleasure cursing through his veins, made it even better. By now the signs of arousal were visible for everyone who cared to look. He should be thankful Sam’s gaze was intently trained on the task at hand. Dean was not sure which rules applied to this situation (if any at all) but he didn’t want to break whatever spell they were under right now.
He didn’t even realize that his lungs hadn’t drawn any air since they started until Sam stopped his ministrations for a second to let out his own bated breath. To know that Sam was just as affected as he was helped a great deal to calm his nerves.
That was, until Sam directed his attention (and with it the razor) to Dean’s throat. As much as Dean would have wanted to stifle the needy moan that broke out of his chest, he stood no chance.
He felt cool air against the freshly exposed skin, a stir caused by Sam’s shaky exhale. Still, the hand that worked the razor continued its steadfast work as nothing had ever happened. From his head’s position Dean was unable to see Sam’s face and it was driving him insane. He needed to see if Sam’s cheek had turned the tantalizing shade of red they only took on if he was helplessly turned on. Craved to know if his tongue was visible between his pink lips, a sign of concentration that was oddly endearing to Dean.
The chance to do exactly that presented itself when Sam turned Dean’s face down and to the left with a hand on his jaw, ready to start on his other cheek. The look Dean got was shorter than he had hoped for but he didn’t mind as much either. Because instead he found himself face-to-face with Sam’s groin.
The thick, hard length that caught his eye was so much better of a view. Sam had learned to lie with his face, had to in order to protect that big heart of his and survive their dangerous life. But his body told Dean that, if nothing else, the desire, the want, was still there.
Sex was not all that Dean wanted, but it was still something he could give, something Sam would maybe want.
Here they were. Two brothers, bound by their souls and still miles apart. Dean felt the ache, the actual physical sensation, of a longing soul.
That was his excuse for what he did next, and it was as good as any.
His hands went for Sam’s fly, his reward a sharp inhale from his brother and another nick on his face.
“Dean.”
Maybe it was meant as one but it didn’t sound like a protest.
It sounded like wonder and need, like his name in Sam’s mouth should always sound like.
He ignored his half-shaven face, which probably looked ridiculous. The only thing that matters was skin on skin, his mouth on Sam. Sam’s hands in his hair.
Dean hurriedly freed the throbbing flesh from its cotton prison, hungry for its unique taste. Their position brought his mouth at the perfect height, so he lost no time to lick off the first drops of clear liquid that had gathered at the head of Sam’s impressive erection.
Nothing was little about his little brother, a fact that no longer unnerved him. He had learned to embrace it, was even turned on by it so badly it made him tremble from desire.
The salty tang was familiar and he felt once again reminded of all the time they had done this before. It’s been months by now since the last time, and even if it was by no means the longest stretch of time they hadn’t been with each other, it felt like forever. So much had changed since then and it made his movements desperate.
And so his lips closed over the glossy head, hungry for another taste of Sam. The sucking motion he made earned him another cut off moan and the hands in his hair balled to fists. Just like that there was nothing he wanted more than to make Sam lose the control he had hung onto all night.
Surprising Sam was always a good way to go about that so he swallowed down almost the whole length of him at once. The cockhead bumped against throat, making him gag. Tears sprung to his eyes but his own cock was throbbing almost painfully in his jeans. The sounds Sam were making by now -deep and guttural like he couldn’t believe something could feel this good- were driving him insane. Dean’s inhibitions had been shaved off together with most of his scruff and he wasn’t even embarrassed by the way he was thrusting into thin air in his search for friction.
His own moans caused his throat to flutter around the flesh in his mouth.
“Dean, fuck, that mouth of yours”
To hear his name again, to have Sam acknowledge it’s Dean who made him feel like that, caused the heat in his belly to burn hot and bright.
He swallowed once, twice, and then started bobbing his head in earnest. The skin on Sam’s hips had started to get moist with sweat under Dean’s hands and his breath came labored and uneven. Dean knew his brothers tells, no matter if it was poker, or lies, or sex. Sam was already close.
But they weren’t finished. Not before Dean had one more chance to feel Sam inside of him. And so he pulled off with effort, Sam as reluctant to let him go as Dean was to let go of that gorgeous cock in his mouth. Sam’s hands held him there for another few heartbeats before allowing Dean to pull back and look up at Sam.
“Fuck me. Now.”
The needy groan he got in reply almost sent him over the edge. Sam looked at Dean like he could devour him whole, burn off his skin, flay him wide open and make his home between his bones. But then his eyes cleared from the lustful fog and he shook his head.
“We don’t have anything here.”
Shit. Lube was in his bedside drawer but Dean knew if he left right now the moment would be forever gone. So he looked around in desperate search of something they could use to ease the way. After Stanford he had once tried to take Sam without. It was an experience neither man wanted to repeat.
“The shaving cream!” Of course! It was right there. Dean patted himself on his back mentally for this great idea but his face fell at Sam’s appalled look.
“I’m not going to fuck you with shaving cream! Are you crazy?”
He would need to bring the big guns then. His hand went to Sam’s rigid cock once more, lazily pumping the hot flesh. With his other hand he went to his own fly to free his painfully hard dick, mirroring the movement.
“Sam, please, come one. Fuck me. I can’t, please –“
If there was one thing Sam couldn’t resist it was a begging Dean. The inner fight that was clearly visible on the expressive face was short.
“Okay. Okay. Fuck. Look at you.”
And with that he hauled Dean up to rid him of his jeans and underwear so fast, you could think they had offended him personally. Dean helped as well as he could but whenever Sam got like that he was like a tornado, unstoppable. A force of nature.
Dean was turned around like a ragdoll, like he wasn’t 6’1’ and almost two hundred pounds. The thick and steady stream of precome running down his length told the story about his stand on being manhandled by his little brother. Still, until his dying day he would deny the whimpers and mewls that were caused by him being thoroughly fucked. Sam’s dominant side laid dormant most of the time, but the right triggers always made him lose it quick and dirty.
Exhibit A was the two fingers that breached Dean at once, slicked by the cream but still thick enough to really burn. Good thing he was beyond caring at this moment. He even hoped to feel Sam for days, was not sure there would be another time.
The prep was fast and efficient, no lingering touches or excessive teasing. Once, Sam had gotten him off on his fingers alone twice before he had fucked Dean into the mattress. But they were both too keyed up by now for that, so Dean actually sighed in relief when he felt the thick and slippery head at his entrance. That sound was followed by a shout when Sam shoved in all the way with one smooth thrust, impaling Dean on his big cock.
Dean felt so full so sudden it gave him whiplash. It hurt but it was also the best feeling in the world, Sam flooding his senses from all sides. His smell, the feeling of his skin, the heat of his cock and the pressure that actually made Dean actually feel light and unburdened. And then, when he thought nothing could ever feel better, Sam started moving.
He withdrew almost all the way, until only the head was keeping Dean open, before he slammed back in with so much force they both almost lost their balance. That was the rhythm he set for them, hard and punishing, and Dean felt himself getting closer and closer embarrassingly soon. Sam skirted around his prostate, never hitting it dead on but teasing it, almost, almost there.
And then something changed.
Dean took one hand away from where it was supporting his weight against the wall to wrap it around his cook instead. Only, Sam wouldn’t have any of that, loved it when Dean came from nothing but Sam fucking him relentlessly. So he grabbed Dean’s hand and slammed it back against the wall. The impact made Dean wince in pain despite the happy hormones flooding his system right now. The wound on his hand started bleeding again and the pain was instant and sharp.
“Shit, Dean. I’m, I’m sorry.”
He was stroking Dean’s arms by now, hips moving in an almost lazy rhythm. One of Sam’s hands found its way to his chest to press Dean’s body flush against his, palm resting above the tattoo they no longer shared. Sam’s nose was pressed behind Dean’s ear, punched out breath tickling the sensitive skin there. His other hand wandered down, from his arm over his shoulder and flanks until it reached his hip, where it stayed to anchor them both.
The pace of his thrusts had changed from short and urgent to long and deep, stroking over his most sensitive spot every damn time. Were the sounds out of Dean’s mouth high and needy before, they were now breathy moans, almost inaudibly. His own orgasm came of a surprise to him, even more so in its intensity, whole body going lax in Sam’s arms. He was only held upright by his brother’s tight embrace, Sam’s hips speeding up again. Dean himself could do nothing but hold on for the ride and let his brother race towards his own climax while his body almost jiggled in Sam’s arms.
When he came, Sam let out one last shuddery breath that sounded suspiciously like Dean’s name. His movements stilled while he rested his forehead on Dean’s nape and they stayed like that for another minute or two before Sam pulled out and cleaned them up. Their eyes had still yet to meet.
Dean was looking at Sam, waiting for his little brother to say something, to acknowledge what they just did. Sam always was the one who wanted to talk, who said sappy shit like “I still care about you,” so Dean was waiting. And indeed, after the silence between them had lasted too long to be comfortable, he looked at Dean like he wanted to say something. But he didn’t.
He only turned around, back to Dean, and walked towards the still open door. There, he paused.
“This doesn’t change a thing.”
The deafening silence did almost drown out the sound of a heart shattering in a million pieces.
OMGGGG ANONNNNNNNNNNNNN, you are trying to kill me--this is all i know???????????? because holy mother--4k words of fucking PURE UNDERLYING ANGST, with shaving!kink and breakup scruff thrown on top of it. I DIDNT KNOW WHETHER TO BE TURNED ON OR CLUTCH MY BLANKETS AND CRY. THE VERY END MADE ME GO :O because wowwww THAT HURT!!!!!!!!!!!! I don’t deserve you kind anon, you’ve done amazingly and I can’t thank you enough. ;;;;;;;;;;;
Authors note: My dearest Karri, I wanted to gift you with a break-up scruff, shaving!kink, bottom!dean fic but alas the story grew a life of it’s own, so this will be the (not smutty) first part and tomorrow you’ll get the actual porn :D
Inspired by this
submitted by: My 12 Days of Wincestmas Anon
Whoever said that alcohol is not the answer never lost the most important person in their life just because they couldn’t let them go. Ironic, when you say it like that. In refusing to let Sam go he may have lost his brother forever.
So, he and Jack would spend the evening in the kitchen, doing everything but thinking about Sam’s parting words.
Same circumstance, I wouldn’t.
He knew Sam had been angry and rightfully so. Dean had fucked up big time. Not necessarily by letting Gadreel in, because if nothing else, he did save Sam. And he can’t bring himself to be sorry for that. It’s just not in him. He would have freed Lucifer to get Sam back out of the Cage without regret.
It’s Sam. There are no rules that could be applied, no rationality or even a real decision.
His biggest mistake had been to lie to Sam though. How could he be so stupid? After having seen so many times what lies did to their relationship. And he still chose that path again. Wasn’t that the definition of insanity, to do the same thing over and over again and expecting another outcome? Sam would know. Hell, maybe he should pledge insanity. The lawyer in Sam should be able to work with that.
Dean felt pathetic, sitting in the empty kitchen with an empty bottle of Jack and an empty life. He wished the numbness would start to settle in already, because the ache in his heart and the pressure of tears behind his eyes were almost unbearable by now.
His body had started to feel hot and his stomach clenched like a fist whenever he thought of Sam, and of what he lost. The empty bottle shattered against the wood of their kitchen table without his conscious input. Splinters planted themselves in his hands, but Dean was too far gone to care, so he just buried his face in his bloody hands, mindless of the shards sticking in his flesh. He didn’t even feel them cutting the skin on his face as well or the blood that made his skin sticky.
He must have zoned out because the next thing he knew, Sam was kneeling at his side. His big, capable hands cradled Dean’s face and for a hysterical moment Dean thought that the last months had been one big bad dream.
“What the hell, Dean?”
Or maybe not.
As much as it pained him, he shoved Sam away, mumbling a dismissive “I’m fine” at him. He hoped Sam’s indifference would be enough to deter his little not-anymore-brother from asking more question. But when had Dean Winchester ever gotten what he hoped for?
“You’re clearly not. You’re bleeding Dean. So tell me, what happened?”
For no apparent reason that made anger bubble up in his chest. “What do you even care?” he roared with a force that surprised even himself.
“What do I care? Fine, be that way.” With a huff Sam stood up from the squatting position he had been in and started to walk away. Again.
Dean would forever blame the stupid alcohol for the tears that sprung to his eyes at the sight of his brother’s retreating back. He whispered a broken “Goodnight, Sammy,” sure Sam would be too far away to hear it. But one of the great traits of drunken people is their misjudging of their own volume.
When Sam turned back he wore that one pronounced crinkle between his eyebrows, the one that roughly translated in I have it up to here with your bullshit. The hard lines around his eyes only disappeared when he noticed the teardrops rolling down Dean’s bloody cheeks. His big brother almost never cried and the sight did something very complicated to Sam’s insides.
“How much did you have to drink?” Sam asked in a much softer voice, sadness and resignation dulling everything else he felt.
“Not enough,” came the clip reply. There was not enough alcohol in the world to make him forget all the times he had failed his brother.
In lieu of anything to say Sam heaved a sigh and stepped closer to Dean again, his gaze intent. Dean wouldn’t have been able to look anywhere else but the familiar face in front of him. These days it was rare for them to by so close to each other and he used the opportunity to drink in every tiny detail he could.
He was startled out of his reverie when Sam gently grabbed his hands to access the damage. His hands were a bloody mess and he saw that some of the splinters had buried themselves deeply in his flesh. Sam actually clucked with his tongue at the sight before his gaze returned to Dean’s bloody face.
“Your stupid scruff makes it impossible to ascertain the damage you did to your face,” he groused, but for a moment Dean could have sworn he detected something like fondness and concern in Sam’s tone. Must be wishful thinking.
“If it bothers you so much you will have to shave it off yourself because I certainly won’t.” It was meant as a joke, to break the weird tension that had settled between them. Only, it came out too soft and vulnerable.
Sam, who was considerable more sober than him, and also an observable little fucker if he wanted to be, picked up on his tone. Of-fucking-course he did. Dean braced himself for the blow, for being let down easily (or not , depending on how much resentment Sam harbored for him). But it never came.
“I guess I have to then. Come on, move your lazy ass.”
Again, Dean blamed the alcohol (and the way his body always listened to Sam’s voice when it ordered him to do something, the traitorous thing) for the way he hurriedly stumbled to his feet and followed Sam to the bathroom. The bright light that greeted him there helped to sober him up considerably. He still made no move to leave. Dean had no idea what Sam tried to accomplish but his selfish heart leaped at the chance to be close to his brother again.
“Dean? Hey, man, look at me.” Sam’s voice sounded thin, edgy with barely hidden worry. Dean wondered what happened to make him sound like that, when Sam reached out to still his trembling hands. That’s when Dean realized he was shaking like a leaf. Stupid alcohol. Stupid longing.
A warm hand landed on his shoulder, gentle pressure used to guide him towards the closed toilet lid. He sat down without protest, still slightly out of it by the proceedings of this overwhelming day. Besides, it felt good to let Sam take the lead, to give himself over to his brother. Sam may have lost his trust in Dean but that does not mean Dean had to do the same. Deep down Dean knew that Sammy was still safe, was still home.
While he sat there, head down and frame still trembling, Sam rummaged through the bathroom cupboard. When he returned to Dean it was with a razor in his right and shaving cream in his left hand. The sight baffled Dean despite its obviousness. Did Sam want to force him to shave himself? His confusion must have shown on his face because Sam gave him one of his impatient I-have-an-idiot-for-a-brother looks and Dean felt a new set of tears spring to his eyes. He stubbornly refused to let them fall, but to be subjected to this look again made his stomach hurt while it swallowed up his rapidly beating heart.
His little brother raised one of his eyebrows in question and he gave a barely discernible nod in answer. Their way of wordless communication still intact (and yet a curse when actual words were needed).
They’ve never done this before and it felt oddly intimate to even think about what Sam was about to do. They had sex for Christ sake and still, this right here felt heavier than anything they have done before. Dean had a feeling this was more than a simple act of shaving or taking care of each other’s wound. This was a chance for him to show Sam that he still trusted his brother. That he still wanted them to have this kind of relationship. The one where you give the other a way to hurt you, knowing they would never do it.
“First of all I need to make sure you didn’t cut yourself too bad before I go anywhere near you with this stuff.”
And with that Sam went over to the sink, put down the razor and the cream to grab a washcloth instead. He wetted it with warm water and went back to Dean to clean his face with gentle, careful strokes. The gesture was so tender Dean had problems reconciling it with the words Sam had spoken to him not even an hour ago. Still, he couldn’t help but press into the touch oh so slightly, face heating in embarrassing. He never had stopped needing Sam, loving, wanting him with every fiber of his fragile heart.
“Seems like there only a few shallow nicks, your hands are far worse.”
That made Dean look down, surprised at the sight of his mangled flesh. He looked back up at Sam again, dazed confusion openly displayed on his face. The alcohol, the accident, Sam’s strange behavior – something must have rendered his defenses useless, his mask had slipped sideways and he didn’t even care.
Sam looked back at him like you would look at a kid, eyes soft and so, so old. “Let’s get them cleaned up as well, shall we?” And with that he made a pair of tweezers appear out of thin air and started to tweeze the splinters of glass. He worked fast and expertly but still with utmost care. Sam had always been the one to stitch him up, wouldn’t hear a word about letting their father do it. It seemed like by taking care of Dean’s wounds he could make sure for himself that his big brother was still alive, relatively okay and breathing. Not even ten minutes later Sam applied the disinfectant and bandaged both of his hands. Not once did their eyes meet.
When Sam seemed to be satisfied with his work he took his time to put everything away at its proper place. Something about the utter Sam-ness of this gesture made Dean smile for the first time this evening. His smile disappeared however and was replaced by a new set of nerves when his brother took the dose of shaving cream in his hands.
Sam rattled the dose and filled a generous amount in the cup of his hand. His movements were steady but his eyes never met Dean’s. Sam also was aware how big this was for them, especially given the current status of their relationship. The moment Sam’s hand reached Dean’s cheek, cool cream a stark contrast to his burning face, a shiver ran down his spine. Sam made sure the cream was distributed equally, his hands gentle and warm. Dean gulped audibly at the sensation flooding his body.
Finished once again Sam finally took the razor in his hands before he slowly advanced on Dean. The tension was rising with every step he took towards an almost terrified Dean. He was so out of his comfort zone here and anticipation warred with fear in his chest. Rationally spoken, there should be no way how he could fuck up things between them even more but that had never stopped them before.
And then Sam touched the razor to his left cheek and moved it down in a first, slow stroke.
Sam's hurt both hands, so Dean has to shave him. Having Dean that close to him, focused with that little concentrating frown, breath warm on his face, Dean's competent hands tilting his head and angling him exactly the way he wants him -- well, Sam's not doing too well right now pretending he's not attracted to his brother. And he's only wearing boxers, Dean's bound to notice. Dean's going to have him all figured out.
