hello fam another oneshot! be warned i write in second person pov so if u dont like, dont read!!! i kind of hate this one bc i just hate writing dialogue, it always reads so unnatural to me but i couldnt write this without dialogue i feel so pls lmk if this seems ooc or awkward or something :) reader is sam in this one! also sam is kind of a perv in which hes (you) 17 and fucking old men and also implied dean sucks him off in the end but everything remains implied so no true warning bc ill never be able to write a proper sex scene ;p
summary: the one in which sammy (reader) is a little perv who fucks old men and gets yelled at by big brother. ;)
( read this chapter on ao3! ) https://archiveofourown.org/works/61008211/chapters/156488599
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You were sixteen when you first had sex.
âSuch a fucking DUMBASS! I swear to fucking God Sam, how fucking dumb are you? Running off and doing that shit? Fucking men well into their 40âs? They probably got a wife and kids at home, waiting for daddy to come back from the store. Fucking stupid..â Dean shouts, his sound booming in your ears, wincing as he practically tears up the motel room. If you knew heâd be this mad, you wouldâve never fucked those men. Or at least wouldâve done it on the down low. (Not that it mattered. He always found out in the end.)
Youâve been seventeen for almost 8 months now. You were basically 18 at this point, about to leave in the middle of the night. You wondered how he would react that night but now wasnât the time to focus on leaving. Be in the present.
âDean, Jesus, take a fucking breath. It isnât that big of a deal. Iâm basically legal. And I was being careful. Whyâre you so fucking mad?â
âWhy am I mad? What the fuck, Sam?! Why am I mad? Take a fucking hint, Sam.â
Deans volume and tone just makes you want to shrivel up into a ball and die but you were never one to back down, not to John, and certainly not to Dean right now.
âOh my fucking God Dean, you arenât my fucking daddy , I can fuck whoever I want, young or old. You did when you were my age, I know that.â You shout back with a groan, throwing your head back against the couch with dramatic effort.
âShut the fuck up Sam! Fuck, Iâm so fucking sick of you and your bullshit!â You can barely make out what heâs spitting in your face, your ears ringing as he pulls you up and forces you up against the wall. You couldnât exactly tell if the ringing in your ears was from the adrenaline of the stupid argument or the growing boner in your jeans. (His jeans, really. You grabbed them out of his bag this morning.)
âYou are so fucking stupid Sammy. Donât even think for yourself. Maybe you need a daddy, huh?â You know Dean means it as a threat but with the lack of space between your face and his made it hard to take it as a threat. (More of a promise, you think.)
âDonât be fucking smart Sammy, answer me!â Heâs practically demanding at this point and your cock is practically already leaking and you canât handle this and you think youâre going to cry. (Youâd blame it on him yelling at you but if you were honest with yourself, it was something entirely different. Besides, you liked him when he yelled.)
âFuck, Sammy, donât cry. You get what Iâm saying, donât you? I just need you to be safe , need you to be okay. Itâs my job, looking after my pain in the ass little brother, huh?â The way Dean chuckles as he says that makes you want to hurl and beg him to yell at you and cry all in the same motion. In some masochistic way, you wanted him to continue yelling at you, want to tell him to dig his palms so far into your shoulders blade the prints would be there in the morning.
Youâre sure your words would fail you as he finally catches a glimpse at the growing mess in your pants. (You werenât ashamed, not truly. It was the same as if he had a glimpse of you in the shower. It was all the same and in the same breath, it was not.)
âCâmon Sammy.. youâll be alright, câmere, I didnât mean it..â He sounds so impossibly soft, youâre sure you will fall apart. His breath fans across your neck and the tingles in your spine do nothing but add to the sticky mess in your boxers, a growing white wetness at the seam. (You are sure your face is beat red. You arenât sure when your flannel gets unbuttoned but you only notice when the temperature against your skin changes and your spine is flat against the cold motel wall behind you. You arenât sure when he ends up in front of you either, sucking at the wet stains through soaked denim.)
You are seventeen when big brother cleaned you up afterwards.
(hi if you made it this far. i dont like how i ended this but i didnt know how to end it so um. sorry..)
