rivers_bend

Title: Chocolate Shakes and Pecan Pie
Words: ~4700
Rating: Adult (sexual activity/language)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Genre: weechesters (high school)
For mickeym cos there's this whole thing where she's awesome.
Many thanks go to bksncleverness who gives great beta and great fic.
Summary: Sam is all too aware what he thinks about when he looks at Dean. What Dean's thinking about is anyone's guess.



Two years ago, or more like two and a half, when Dean was sixteen and "full of hormones" according to their dad, John started finding places to stay where the boys didn’t have to share a bed anymore. At first, Sam couldn't sleep without Dean’s heat—it was winter and they were in Wyoming and Sam almost convinced himself that's all it was—but when Sam complained it wasn’t fair, Dad just gave him an extra blanket and told him it was time to grow up. Then when they'd moved on to South Carolina and it was summer, Sam was actually a little glad to have his own bed without Dean spreading out and sweating everywhere. Except when he had nightmares, then he’d crawl across the room or creep down the hall and slide into the curl between Dean’s chin and his bent knees, or wriggle under an out-flung arm.

It only happened once or twice a month, and Dean never complained, until last year when thirteen-year-old Sam started waking up with his PJs sticky-wet or with his dick stiff against Dean’s wrist or his hip. Sam wasn’t scared that something was wrong with him or anything—he knew about being a teenager from when Dean was thirteen—but he was worried it was making Dean mad.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean’d say, giving Sam a look and moving him away with firm hands, edging him towards the shower or telling him to get back in his own bed.

Three or four months ago, when Sam woke up with his morning wood poking Dean in the back one too many times and Dean growled at Sam to go away without even rolling over to look at him, he finally got up the courage to ask, “You mad at me, Dean?”

“No. I’m not mad." Dean sounded like when he couldn't get the lug nuts off the Impala though, and if he wasn't mad Sam was pretty sure he was at least frustrated with his stupid little brother. Then Dean sighed, and rolling over to glance sideways at him, said, "Just, that’s private stuff. You don’t want me around while you take care of that.” Breaking out a smile, Dean tried to make it a joke, jerking his hand and waggling an eyebrow, but Sam didn't laugh, just sulked his way to the shower.

Dean was smart about a lot of things, but he wasn’t always right. Sam did want him around. He always wanted Dean around. He wanted Dean in the shower with him right that second. Wanted him to be the one touching Sam under the hot spray, making his dick all slippery with soap, making him feel good. So what if he wasn’t supposed to want a guy to do that to him, or if people said you couldn’t have sex with your brother. People said ghosts weren't real and hustling pool was wrong and all sorts of things that Winchesters knew were different.

There was this girl on Montel Williams and she wanted to marry her cousin. The audience thought she was sick, but Sam just saw how happy the guy made her. Everyone was freaking out about her having kids with two heads or something, but even if she did, it wasn’t like he and Dean were gonna do anything that might make babies. Which led to Sam imagining what they might do instead, making him bash his elbow on the tiles as he came.

Even if Dean hadn't seemed all that mad anymore when Sam left the room, it was still pretty obvious how he felt, so Sam stopped going into Dean’s bed after that. Instead, he sat up and did homework on the nights he dreamed about blood and screams and being trapped in the Impala while it burned. When Dean asked if he’d stopped having nightmares, Sam lied. He caught Dean sending worried looks at his dark circles sometimes, but neither of them said anything. Maybe Dean chalked it up to the fact that Dad was moving them on every six or eight weeks that year.


Two days after Sam's fourteenth birthday, Dad took him on his first hunt. A haunted bar in Tennessee. It was Sam's job to lay protection in the walls while Dad and Dean held the ghosts off with salt shells. Dean was the only one who got hurt, and that was nothing to do with ghosts. While the bar's owner was raising a glass with John over a job well done, Dean slipped away with the guy's daughter to the parking lot. Sam followed at a discreet distance and found his brother with a hand up the girl's shirt and her hand on Dean's dick through his jeans, like she had any right to touch him there. Sam knew he couldn't go pry them apart and explain to her Dean belonged to him—Dean'd skin him alive, or call the nuthouse, and that was just for a start—but even that had to be better than crying, which he also wanted to do. Instead, he went round the back and shucked rocks at the creek until he heard shouting and ran back to find Dean on the ground with a cut next to his eye, the girl up in her dad's face screaming about not using his fists, and John throwing stuff in the trunk.

"Get in the car, boys," he said, no room for argument, and they headed up to a long-stay motel in Kentucky where Sam played the good little brother and got Dean ice. He even held it against his face for him, but Sam was secretly a little glad Dean got punched. Part of him had wanted to hit Dean himself, or hit something anyway, when he'd walked out to the bar's parking lot and seen him with that girl.

John stayed just long enough to have a shower and change, and then he announced it was time to leave.

"We just got here," Sam said.

"Don't worry, you're staying." John gave his sons a firm look that brooked no argument, but Sam didn't understand.

"Why do we have to stay here without you?" he asked.

"You did good, son," John said to Sam. "It's not a punishment. But it'll be finals time soon at the high school, and if we enroll you now you can take them, finish up the year here and have something to put on your transcript."

He turned to Dean. "You, on the other hand, need to learn some self control. What were you thinking? You met the man. Wasn't no mystery how he was gonna be you went sniffing around his girls."

Even with half his face covered in a towel filled with ice cubes, Dean managed to look chagrined and triumphant all at once.

"Don't give me that look. You need to learn when to keep it in your pants."

"Yessir," Dean said.

"Guess I should be glad you picked the oldest and didn't go after the little blonde one," John said, quieter now that Dean was falling in line.

"The blonde one's only Sammy's age," Dean said.

He sounded like that meant she wasn’t old enough to want to make out with Dean. "What's that supposed to mean?" Sam didn't intend to say it, but the words were out before he could stop them.

"Means she's too damn young for your brother. I swear, Dean, sometimes I wonder what I'm gonna do with you."

"I didn't—" Dean started, but at John's look just said again, "Yes, sir."

"Now, you stay here with Sam, make sure he does his homework. I'll be back middle of June at the latest."

"But—" Dean protested.

"End of conversation." John tucked a roll of money in Dean's hand, made sure their duffels and Dean's weapons bag were inside, and left.


Up at the high school, they wouldn't put Sam in any of the advanced classes, but Dad was right, he was in time for finals, and so he didn't really care. He was going to have to cram for Social Studies and Spanish, but he had the bio and math covered. English was English, they were reading Moby Dick which he did at the beginning of the school year in Montana. When he tried to tell Dean about his first day of school though, Dean just took the sandwich he was eating over to his bed and turned on the TV.

Dean didn't talk to him for three days, deciding to blame Sam for the fact that Dad left him behind, rather than owning up to his own slutty behavior. It was awkward as hell, given that the kitchen was only separated from the bedroom by a half wall and their beds were like two feet apart, but Dean was nothing if not determined, staying out late and pretending to be asleep when Sam got up for school. Then one night he came home with burgers and a six pack of beer and plunked them down on the kitchenette's table where Sam was trying to get his math homework finished.

"Hey, kiddo," he said, hip-checking Sam's shoulder as he passed on his way to the other chair. "You hungry?"

"Kiddo?" Sam was incredulous. "Sammy's bad enough. I'm not a kid, Dean."

"Yeah, I know." Dean handed him a beer, like maybe that would make up for it.

Sam wanted to take it, prove to Dean that he wasn't a kid, but he wanted to get his equations done first, so he just fiddled with the bottle, leaving the cap on. Dean didn’t notice at first, attacking his burger like he hadn't eaten since breakfast, and draining his first bottle in three or four mouthfuls. What finally caught his attention was that Sam wasn't eating.

"Growing boy's gotta eat," Dean said, poking the burger closer to Sam. But he was looking at it like if Sam didn’t eat it soon Dean would make short work of it. He still had that ravenous look when he caught Sam's eye, and it made Sam's stomach flip over.

"I'm not really hungry," Sam said. "D'you want it?"

Dean looked closer, considering, and gave the burger another little shove. "It's all we've got except that piece of cheese in the fridge, and I'm not going out again later. You'd better eat it. I got fries too."

There was a little bit of sauce on the corner of Dean's mouth, and Sam wanted to lick it off. "Okay," he said, staring at the slick of pink, totally unable to look away. He opened the burger's wrapper blind, raised the meat and bread to his lips and took a bite.

"What's up?" Dean asked. "Have I got…" He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Sam could feel his eyes tracking the movement. "Sam? You okay?" Dean was starting to look worried.

"I'm, yeah. Good," Sam answered. His dick, which totally had a mind of its own, was trying to nose its way out of the waistband of his jeans. Sam was unusually grateful for how baggy they were.

"If you say so." Dean took a swig of his second beer and gestured towards Sam's. "Open that for you?"

Sam just nodded.

"You better do your homework though. I'm not having Dad slam me cos I gave you beer and made you fail your finals or something." He twisted the top off the beer and without looking, flipped it over his shoulder into the trash can.

Homework. Excellent plan. Except it seemed like all the blood in Sam's body was currently occupied somewhere significantly south of his brain. "Just have to finish this," he muttered, gesturing towards his books.

"Want some fries?"

Sam took the offered box and ate a few, though they were cold and pretty much tasteless. That didn’t stop Dean from stuffing them into his mouth by the handful, which made Sam notice how wide he could open his mouth, which made—

"Fuck," Sam said, and ran for the bathroom before he came in his pants at the table.

Sam got his dick out and aimed at the toilet, hand on its far-too-sensitive skin, just in time for Dean to start banging on the door.

"Sammy? You okay? You're not going to be sick are you?"

At the sound of Dean's voice, Sam came with a grunt he hoped was swallowed up by the next volley of thumps.

"I'm fine! Jeez, stop pounding the door down!" Sam wiped the evidence off the seat and flushed. He was turning around to wash his hands when Dean opened the door and walked in.

"Dean!" Sam's voice broke and Dean laughed reflexively, conditioned to paying Sam back for making fun of Dean all the way through puberty.

"You told me not to bang it down," Dean said when he'd stopped chuckling.

"That didn't mean 'come in'!" Sam was trying not to yell, but he felt an edge of hysteria he couldn't control.

Then Dean sniffed and gave Sam a look heavy with brotherly glee. "You dog! Never knew French fries had that effect on you."

"Fuck off." Sam edged past his brother and scrubbed at his fingers under the tepid water.

"Nothing to be ashamed of, Sammy."

"I'm not ashamed, Dean. You're the one who said you didn't want to be around while I jerked off. You're the one who said I should keep it private."

"Woah, woah, Sam. What the hell are you getting so worked up about?"

"You just—Jesus, Dean. You don't know anything, do you?" Sam tried to push his way out the door, get to somewhere he could breathe, but Dean grabbed his arm.

"What's that even mean?"

Sam couldn't take any more. He'd gone past the point of fear. Pushing into Dean's space, he pulled his brother down by the collar and kissed him. Dean was shocked rigid at first, and then shoved Sam away.

"What the HELL? Sam, what was that?"

"It's not the fucking French fries you asshole." Sam pushed Dean so hard he heard the toilet lid clank, but he didn’t see if Dean fell, because he was too busy running.

The motel was about a mile from Maybelle's Diner, and Sam ran all the way. He didn't have a coat or any money and he had no idea what he was going to do. His legs and lungs were burning; trying not to cry really fucked up your endurance. God, he was so screwed! Why'd he have to kiss Dean like that? And call him an asshole. He was never going to be able to go home again, and Dad would kill him. And then he'd kill Dean for losing Sam probably. If Dean didn't find Sam and kill him first.

After looking longingly through the door wondering if the waitress would give him a coke even if he didn't have any money, Sam figured no and went around to the side of the diner where there was a flight of stairs leading up the side of the building. Sitting on the third step from the bottom, he pulled the hem of his shirt up to scrub at his face. There was a rumble he couldn't mistake, and raising his head, he saw the Impala pulling into the lot. He had nowhere to run—three days at school wasn't long enough to have made any friends—and Dean, with his longer legs and not having just run a mile, would catch him anyway. So Sam sat, looking at the ground between his feet, waiting for Dean to shout or punch or do whatever he'd come here to do.

The last thing he expected was for Dean to kneel in the dirt and cup Sam's elbows in his palms. Sam managed to look up as far as Dean's chest, but couldn't look at his face.

"Sam?" Dean said, soft, like he was talking to the kid whose dad and uncle had been killed by a werewolf last year in Arkansas.

Sam just shook his head. No way could he say anything, tears and terror tied in a knot that blocked his whole throat.

"Sammy, it's okay. You didn't—" Dean moved a hand to tilt Sam's chin up, so Sam just closed his eyes. "You didn't need to run away. Come on. Look at me."

Sam shook his head again.

"Look at me, Sam." Less gentle this time, and accompanied by a tightened grip on Sam's arm.

"Can't," Sam managed, and then Dean's grip on his chin became a thumb caressing his cheekbone and fingers carding through the hair at his nape.

"Sammy," Dean breathed the word against Sam's lips.

It felt like it might be easy to tip forward and let Dean kiss him, except for how it felt totally impossible.

"Sam." Dean laid his cheek alongside his brother's, scratch of stubble on his jaw and cheekbone so smooth Sam could hardly feel it.

There would be no crying. Not even a little bit, because if Dean kept his face there he would totally feel the tears. Sam took a breath that shuddered its way past every single rib and Dean slid his arm around Sam's shoulders.

"You didn't have to run away."

Sam nodded, and Dean held him closer.

"Want to go inside? Get a milkshake?" This time when Dean looked at Sam, he looked back.

"Okay."

"Good." Dean squeezed the back of Sam's neck and then rose to his feet, holding out a hand to help Sam stand.

Sam didn’t need it, but he took it anyway, liking that Dean didn't let go right away, waiting until they reached the pool of light from the windows.

"Chocolate okay?" Dean said.

Nodding, still shaking a little, Sam headed towards an empty booth in the front, but Dean steered him towards the back with a hand on his shoulder.

"Why don't you go clean up?"

Sam caught sight of himself in the reflective steel over the counter, sticky with sweat from his run and with dirt smeared on his face from god knew where. Dean didn’t look irritated, or like he was laughing, and Sam realized he must have scared his brother if he wasn't one or the other. "Yeah," he said. "I'll be right back."

The paper towels were cheap scratchy brown ones and the water was cold, but Sam scrubbed his face until it was pink and tingling and his heart wasn't knocking around in his chest. A few deep breaths, and Sam started to feel almost normal. Dean wasn't mad. He still wanted Sam around. Sam had no idea what he was thinking about the rest of it, but at least the stupid kiss hadn't fucked everything up completely.

When Sam came out, the waitress was standing next to Dean, hip cocked and gesturing towards the pies on the counter. Dean caught Sam's eyes, asked with a head tilt what Sam wanted. Sam could see pecan from where he stood and didn't even bother looking in the other pie stands. He mouthed the word from across the room and smiled as Dean held up two fingers and the waitress nodded.

Dean picked up his fork as soon as she left, holding it at the ready, handle on the table and tines straight up, as though the pie might appear at any moment and without warning. That made Sam laugh, a delighted sound from deep in his belly, prompting Dean to tap the utensil like a prisoner in a mess hall riot. Still laughing as he slid into the booth across from his brother, Sam picked up his own fork and used it to wrestle Dean's to the table. He felt Dean's leg slide against his, toe of Dean's boot nudging the heel of Sam's.

When both their forks were vanquished, Dean said, "I knew you'd get pecan. You're so predictable."

Which, um… "I am?" Sam wasn't sure if Dean was really still talking about pecan pie.

"Well, mostly. " Dean pressed his knee to Sam's, " You know, mostly."

Not talking about pie then. Sam tried to think of something to say to that, but was given a reprieve by the arrival of their pie and shake. Dean doled out the chocolatey goodness into the two fountain glasses and blew his straw-wrapper at Sam's face. Same-old same old. Except for the heat of Dean's knee between his thighs. That was pretty different.

They ate pie and drank their shakes in silence, grinning at each other over the rims of their glasses, stealing pecans off each other's plates, and shifting their feet in an elaborate game of footsie, until Sam felt like waves of flame were rising from the friction of his jeans against the skin of his legs.

His dick was so hard it ached, it was getting difficult to breathe, but Sam still smiled and forked sickly-sweet goodness into his mouth, and he thought that if the world ended, right here, right now, he'd die happy.

There'd be no chance for Dean to change his mind about his brother being a sick freak, no chance of Dad finding out what happened and killing him.

But then Dean said, "You done there, slim?" laid ten bucks on the table, and slid out of the booth, and Sam was sure Dean had just done all that with the leg rubbing so he could laugh his ass off at his horny little brother.

Except, when Dean stood, Sam got a flash of the tent Dean was pitching in his own jeans. Just for a second, until he moved his folded jacket over the bulge.

"Stop staring and get your ass in the car, Sam," Dean said, giving him that smile again, like when he was drinking his shake, the amused but almost… nah, Dean was never gentle, but… Sam thought maybe fond, but then Dean smacked the back of his head, laughing, and said again, "In the car."

With no clue how he got out to the Impala, Sam was still thinking about the tent in Dean's jeans when Dean opened the passenger door and manhandled him inside. What did it mean? Was Dean wanting the same thing as Sam? Was it just a guy thing? Dean was only 18, he might still be getting spontaneous erections. Mrs. Dillar said in health class that boys still got them into their 20s sometimes. So it might just be that.

Probably though, Dean wouldn't be sliding across the seat, fingering the hem of Sam's shirt, looking at him like that, if it was just teenaged horniness. He wouldn't be saying, "Sam?" in that voice like this was the most important question Dean ever asked.

"Do you—" Sam said, and then Dean was kissing him. Really kissing him, with a hand in his hair and tongue and soft-hard lips.

The sound Sam made set his own dick throbbing, and clearly it had a similar effect on Dean, because his brother jerked against him and clutched at Sam's ribs.

Just as Sam was getting it together enough to return Dean's embrace, releasing his grip on the arm rest and the edge of the seat, Dean pulled away.

"Fuck," he said. "Fuck! I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Sam's heart started pounding. If Dean didn't really want this—

"I shouldn't—" Dean gripped the wheel. "I shouldn't have just jumped on you in the car like some kind of… Let's go home, okay?"

Sam still wasn’t sure if that meant the jumping and kissing or the car was the problem. He wasn't sure he could ask though. While Dean fumbled to get the keys in the ignition, Sam tried to do his seatbelt up with icy fingers.

"Hey. Sam. I'm not sorry about the kiss." Dean looked over at him. "Unless. Are you? I mean—"

"No!" How could he think that? After the whole thing in the bathroom, surely Dean knew that kissing was what Sam wanted.

"I just. I didn't want to do it like that. But you—Sam. God. Do you have any idea? With that fucking straw."

There were no stop signs between the diner and the motel, and they were almost there. Sam thought maybe he was finally getting what Dean was saying. "So—" He swallowed and started again. "So when we get inside, then I can kiss you again? On—um, maybe we could lie on your bed or something?"

"Jesus, Sammy, you trying to make me run off the road? Yes. Hell, yes."

Getting inside was awkward and messy and Sam bit his own lip tripping over Dean's foot while he tried to kiss him, take off his shirt and push him towards the bed all at once, but finally they were shirtless, shoeless and horizontal with Dean's skin under Sam's palms and his lips over Sam's lips. Sam came while Dean was trying to undo his zipper, but it didn’t slow him down, just made it easier to concentrate on Dean's button fly.

Sam thought it might be awkward, coming at it from a different angle, and Dean was bigger, thicker, but it wasn’t that strange after all. Dean clung to him, bucking into his fist, but whispering frantically, "You don't—it's okay—I can, you don’t have to…"

"Dean," Sam finally said. "Shut up, will you? I've been imagining this moment for like two years, and you're kind of ruining it."

Sam wasn't sure if it was his pleas or the fact that Dean couldn't talk while he was coming, but either way, Dean stopped protesting. By the time Dean collapsed back on the bed, Sam was hard again, dick straining against the cold sticky mess in his shorts. While his brother panted and stared at him, Sam shucked out of the rest of his clothes.

Dean blinked, groaned, and threw an arm over his eyes.

"Dean? Is this—Is it okay?"

The chuckle coming from under Dean's arm was only half reassuring. "It's fine. A little weird, ya know? But fine. I just, dude. I'm only eighteen and you're making me feel kinda old, here. Fourteen-year-old refraction time. Man." He laughed again.

"Refraction time?"

Dean waved at Sam's obviously interested dick.

"Oh." A few months ago, Sam came three times in fifteen minutes after just hearing Dean jerk off on the other side of the bedroom door, so getting hard again while actually touching his brother's dick didn’t seem like much of a feat, but Sam decided not to mention that. "So does that mean we're done here, old man?" Sam felt emboldened by Dean's joking.

"Ha," Dean said, "you're gonna be done before I am, trust me." He pulled Sam down and kissed him again.

This time Sam lasted until Dean had slithered out of his own jeans and moved so Sam was lying on top and rubbing into the groove of Dean's left hip. With one hand curved under Sam's ass and the other fisted in Sam's hair, Dean rocked them slow and steady, kissing, stroking, tickling, until Sam shook his way through a second and then a third orgasm. At some point between the two, Dean got hard again and rubbed himself off against Sam's belly.

Eventually, the friction was more painful than pleasurable, and they rolled apart and under the sheets, where Sam lay stiff and still, wanting to cling to Dean, but too afraid of being shoved away. Dean spent an agonizing few minutes plumping his pillows and shifting around before he rolled over and laid an arm across Sam's chest, resting his chin on Sam's shoulder.

"Better not be late to school tomorrow," he said.

"Are you kidding?" It was almost midnight, and the last thing Sam wanted to think about was school.

"Nope. Not kidding." Dean pinched the skin over Sam's ribs gently. "If you got to stay home from school cos of a few orgasms, there'd be no boys in high school at all."

"That's not—" Whatever. Dean was teasing. But not kidding. Sam reached out and made sure the alarm was set.

"'morrow's Friday though," Dean mumbled into the back of Sam's arm. "And this weekend we can do whatever you want."

Sam was pretty sure the weekend wasn't going to be nearly enough time, but he was more than willing to make a start.

~fin~
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A/N: So mickeym asked for a prequel to Bleachers, specifically the first time Dean gave in to Sam without guilt. I'm pretty sure this isn't that story, and I'm not even sure this is that verse and now this is all part of the much much longer Stanford 'Verse. Cos, man, teenaged Sammy? Not all that easy to control. But hopefully she will love me this anyway.