apocalypsos | Fic: The Dance Is Where It's At (Supernatural)

Title: The Dance Is Where It's At
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Spoilers for: "Shadows"
Warnings: Wincest, het sex, underage sex
Disclaimer: Dear

trollprincess's gym teacher, please excuse her from class, as she has borrowed these characters without permission and with no intention of making money off this.
Summary: Dean knows Sam's first time with a girl because he paid for it and Sam's first blowjob because he was in the room for it and Sam's first handjob because it was Dean's fingers at work.
Author's note: That particular summary was taken from a line in Subtle Innuendo Follows and really, that just demands fic.

*****

The Dance Is Where It's At

*****

Because the kid's got to get laid sooner or later, right?

But the best part -- and this is the part that always makes Dean roll his eyes years down the line -- is that he gave the brunette the money to fuck his little brother, and it was the blonde who ended up doing the deed.

See, here's the thing. Dean's got this scar on his arm, faded away to nearly nothing and not half as harsh as it had been when the fangs had ripped into his flesh. Now, you can't see shit unless you squint, but back then he'd been positive he was going to bleed out behind some bar after paying a hooker to go to his hotel room and screw Sam until he couldn't see straight. It was the kid's sixteenth birthday a few weeks earlier, after all, and Hallmark had yet to make a card big enough to fit a willing girl inside.

So that night he's staggering to his feet pressing a hand to the jagged tear in his jacket that's barely hiding the jagged tear in his arm, and there's this girl he'd been trying to save from the thing. Blonde, petite, big blue eyes like saucers and a pair of breasts she'd better not ever feel ashamed about.

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other as she stands over the creature, and he half-expects her to piss herself. It happens. "What is that thing?" she asks, and looks back at him.

Dean's still holding the sawed-off in his injured arm, fingers gripping it despite the slick coating of blood, and he's trying his best to pull off the coolest act he can manage. What'd really help is if smoke started trailing from the shotgun like in the movies, but he'll take what he can get.

"Demon," he says with a weaker version of his most charming smile, and he's all ready to elaborate when he slumps to the ground.

The next time Dean comes to, he's spread out on his motel room bed as if somebody waved a magic wand and teleported him there. Somewhere in the middle of the haze of medication and the far-too-familiar tug of Sam's neat stitching in his arm is the muffled whispers of a pair of voices, one Sam and the other female.

Dean wonders if prostitutes are really that discreet about whatever the hell Sam had to do to fix him, but his brain's in a fog and the next thing he knows, he's unconscious again.

Two days later, they're still in Montgomery waiting for Dad to come back from wherever he went to this week, and Dean's feeling good enough to where he decides he's going to take a walk and get himself something with a little more fat and caffeine in it than Sam will ever bring him. His shoulder and upper arm still ache like a bitch and he probably needs another day or two to rest, but one more minute in that room with Sammy and he's going to throttle the helpful little bastard.

Are you sure you don't want any Percocet? Do you want me to get you another pillow? Corn chips aren't going to help you get your strength back, Dean.

Jesus, you'd think the kid hadn't lost his virginity a couple of days ago, Dean thinks, and it never even occurs to him that the prostitute might never have shown up or -- more likely -- that Sam had politely declined when she'd shown up at their motel room door and sent her on her merry way.

So Dean's wandering around town, right, taking a breather from being anywhere near Sam and sightseeing in the vintage car lot on the other end of Main Street, and he doesn't even realize he's been gone three hours until he walks back to the motel and he hears fucking moaning coming from inside.

Dean's brow furrows as he leans up against the door, and he's thinking, Does he have a girl in there? with this very stupid part of his brain that already knows there's a girl but still has a hard time putting two and two together.

And they're laughing.

The girl makes this other low moan, and Sam's got to be doing something right, but then he hears Sammy say, "Sorry, it's my first time" like he's apologizing for something and Dean has to resist the urge to go inside and smack him upside the head.

But then the girl laughs again, low and husky, and when she says, "Well, you're doing a hell of a job," Dean thinks, I'll be damned, it's the blonde, with a smile on his face that won't go away anytime soon.

And then they're laughing again in this really great infectious way, like Sam might be screwing up a little but the blonde's having a lot of fun in spite of it. Dean hears this gasp and the blonde saying Sam's name in this voice that's got to be doing a number on Sam if it's making him half as hard as Dean is right now, and he shakes his head as he walks off. The bar's within walking distance, thank God, because he might not be in a drinking mood but he's sure as hell going to work off this tension somehow.

So, yeah, there was payment for his brother to lose his goddamn virginity, but it was blood and pain instead of money, and somehow that comes off classier.

*****

Because he's mad at his big brother and pissed as hell and probably drunk to boot.

Later on, Dean can't even pinpoint when the hell it happened, because he's been to West Clarkston before and more than one person knows who the hell Dean Winchester is, but suddenly everybody's treating Sam like he's Dean and they're calling him Dean, which is just weird.

But then Sam starts getting into it, you know? He does Dean's cocky smirk, he walks like Dean and he flirts with every girl he sees like Dean would do. And all it's doing is pissing Dean right the fuck off.

Look, Dean's not stupid. He's got enough self-awareness to know Sam's impression is pretty much dead-on. That whole way he walks, and the look on the face he gives Sammy when he's pulling the big-brother card on the bastard? He can't deny he recognizes it, but what's really unsettling about the whole thing is that Sam's so good at it that there's that frightening possibility he's been practicing in the bathroom or something.

Dean really does not even want to think about that.

So here they are in this pissant little town where everyone thinks Sam's Dean and the reputation's working so well in getting them information on this ghost that they're just going with it. Hell, Dad's getting this hysterical kick out of the whole thing, because the more Sam acts like Dean, the more Dean starts getting all moody like Sam.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you two got body-switched again," Dad says, and that's one weekend Dean really doesn't need reminding of, not with Sam over at the bar hitting on the hot redhead mixing drinks. After all, if they had been body-switched again, that'd be him over at the bar hitting on the hot redhead.

Life could be fucking unfair like that.

Anyway, Dean's thinking things can't possibly get any worse, and all he really wants to do is go the hell back to the motel room and get some sleep in before they've got to go after this ghost tomorrow. The less he's got to stay awake for this Sam-I-Am bullshit, the better.

So when he wakes up to the sound of Sam saying, "Fuck," over and over again like some profane religious chant, it doesn't exactly put him in the best of moods.

Not that Dean gets up and starts bitching about the whole thing, because he can see just fine from his line of sight that Sam's zipper is down and the redhead's apparently having a lot of fun blowing his brains out, pun intended.

Dean doesn't flinch and manages to slam his eyes shut again before he sees much more, but now he can't go to sleep because there's a porn soundtrack being taped five feet away. And it wouldn't be so bad except that the more those dirty, wet sounds and occasional moans rise up from the next bed, the harder he's getting, and he can't move. He can't relieve a goddamn thing without giving himself away, while Sam's doing a hell of a job holding himself in check to the point where Dean wonders if he's trying to break a fucking record or something.

Then Sam comes, making this hoarse groan that goes right to places in Dean's body it probably shouldn't, and the redhead's getting up to kiss him and making some muttered comment about leaving "before your brother wakes up."

Too late, Dean thinks.

He gives Sam a little while to get to sleep, and when he's sure the kid won't wake up, he's in that bathroom so fast he's amazed he doesn't leave skid marks on the motel room carpet.

When he jerks himself off in the shower, Sam's groans and moans echo in his head in a way he really doesn't want to acknowledge.

*****

Because just when you think there's no such thing as too bored on a stakeout, you prove yourself wrong.

Seriously, Dean doesn't know what the hell happened. Ask him later on, and ... well, you won't get an answer, will you? He'll just cock an eyebrow or something, grumble under his breath and stalk off as if he hadn't stuck his hand down Sam's pants.

Well, what was he supposed to do? They're sitting in the fucking Impala in the middle of the night, right? Three in the morning, and they haven't seen an eyelash on the breeze from the goddamn creature they've been doing surveillance for, and Dad's on the other side of town in the other place this thing's been spotted. Hell, it'll probably turn up where Dad is, anyway, every-evil-thing-on-the-planet magnet that he is.

And Sam's almost sixteen, so they're having another one of those sex conversations. You know the ones, when you're the older one and you think you know everything so you're filling your virgin of a little brother full of this smug garbage about what girls like.

Not that Dean was wrong -- he was good at two things in life, and hunting evil was the other one -- but maybe he could have turned down the smugness a little, since he's pretty sure that was what led to what came next.

See, they're keeping their eyes on the shadows but they're not seeing shit, and Dean's going on about how the first time a girl undid his jeans and slipped her hand around him he nearly kneed her in an uncomfortable place by accident. He makes it sound less dorky and more funny, though. Ha, ha, isn't it hilarious when chicks give you handjobs and scare the crap out of you? That kind of thing.

But then Sam laughs in response with this weird high pitch to it, and Dean stops staring at the shadows and blurts out, "Jesus, Sammy, you've never had a girl --"

"No," Sam snaps before he can even say it out loud. His ears turn this shade of red bright enough to stop traffic, and he says, "You're the one who's always complaining because I haven't had sex yet, Dean."

"Well, yeah, I knew you were a virgin, but I didn't know you were that much of a virgin."

Sam tilts his head and gives him this hard glare, and Dean half-expects the kid to punch him right in the face, which he probably deserves.

Dean shakes his head, and he mutters something like, "Hell, I might as well jerk you off at this rate," because he's just that bored. And he doesn't even mean it seriously, but then Sam stiffens and makes this sound that's not a sound and Dean's not sure he wasn't being serious anymore.

So then Dad calls, perfectly timed if you can believe it, and his breath comes out ragged as he tells them the thing they've been chasing just got its ass handed to it on a platter by Dad's favorite shotgun. Dean rambles off some question into his cell phone about whether or not he needs help getting rid of the body, but Dad says the damn thing's disintegrating before his eyes and they shouldn't have to worry, and Dean can't hang up fast enough.

See, Sam's eyes are wide as his fingers clench in his lap and that sarcastic offer to jerk him off echoes in the air like a goddamn death knell. Dean doesn't know what the hell is going on, but he knows he's done a lot of weird shit for Sam in the past just because he asked. And yeah, he isn't asking this time, but the offer's out there and ... Jesus, they earn a lot of free passes doing this job, is what Dean's thinking.

Dean slides across the front seat of the Impala, shaking his head the whole time, and he's pretty sure he's insane.

"Dean," Sam says, and there's a protest coming so Dean cuts him off with a kiss before it can even arrive on the horizon.

Because he can't do this if he doesn't at least kiss Sam first, okay? Just doing it doesn't seem right without something leading up to it, like if Dean's going to do it, he's got to add a little to keep it from going overboard. Just doing it feels like a worse sort of wrong than it already is, and it's distracting enough to slip his tongue along Sam's and fuck, the kid might be a virgin but he's better at all of this than he should be.

The distracting part works wonders, because when he tugs Sam's belt undone and the hiss of the zipper fills the Impala, Sam stops kissing Dean for a moment. He stares at Dean with this confused look in his eyes, like, Are you sure?

Dean's fingers wrap around Sam's cock as if that's answer enough, and Sam's protests cut off with a rushed breath littered with curse words.

And the thing is there was this weekend a few months back where this spell made them switch bodies, and Dean's first reaction when he got himself alone was to jerk himself (jerk Sam) off. He couldn't help it, honestly. If he'd been turned into a girl, he would have pissed, masturbated, and fucked a guy, not necessarily in that order. Adventurer's spirit and all that.

So he knows this body whether Sam likes it or not -- and if those sounds he's making are any indication, he's never liked anything better -- and Dean leaves bite marks on Sam's neck while his hand moves in this way that he's pretty sure is torturing the hell out of Sam.

Sam's breath hitches and starts once, twice, and then it's over.

For a long moment, they're sitting there in the front seat, breathing heavy and developing a defensive form of amnesia, remembering how to look at each other again without flinching. Neither one of them says anything, but Sam's straightening himself up and Dean's wiping his hand on his own T-shirt.

Dean has to clench his jaw to keep from asking Sam to return the favor, because he's harder than he's been in ages, and if he drives them back to the motel fast enough, he might have enough time to dive into the shower after Sam and get cleaned up before Dad ever makes it back.

He starts the Impala again, and his hand is trembling.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

sylph-ironlight.livejournal.com

Oh holy gods. So good. I love that Dean was there for everything.

...and it is just calling out for a sequel, ya know? 'Cause there's gotta be some fallout from all of this. *nods and is hopeful*

From:

who was absolute shite at writing limericks ...

Fic: The Dance Is Where It's At (Supernatural)

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