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'Nasty'
That was what Dean grunted as he was prompting his feet up on the cheap, chipped wood coffee table, bottle of beer on hand (probably stolen from Dad's supply off the stinky fridge that came with the house) and a shitty TV show playing low, illuminating the living room with white and blue watercolors, fading on orange nd yellow warmth where the living room carpet ended and the hallway wood began, right on the threshold.
Cigarette dangling between chapped lips, smoke curling slowly towards the ceiling in little translucent spirals, filling the silence with the thick smell of burnt tobacco.
And Sam was no strong man.
He was just a boy with lace under bootcut jeans that hung low on his bony hips.
It was a routine by now, they did this before, the first time was just Sam being belly down on Dean's cheap motel bed back in Minnesota, lace peeking from under soft hand-me-down sweatpants, big puppy-dog eyes looking at him through his lashes, back arched just slightly as Sam rolled down on his belly and hid his pouty face on the pillow that reeked of sweaty cologne and motel detergent.
That night was nasty.
Then happened again.
And again.
Because Dean was no strong man.
And again.
Until a kiss evolved into a session of rubbing against each other, until the hands reached for belt buckles and the lips were bruised by careless kisses.
After an argument about college, after a bad hunt were Sam screwed up and made dad mad.
A new sting of a cigarette butt extinguishing against his skin.
Dean promised himself that this would never happen again.
Dad was on a hunt that would take him two or three days, and they had finally settled in a small town with no supernatural activity for Sam to finish high school and Dean to get his mandatory dose of girls in G-strings.
But sometimes, hell, God, heaven, or whoever that was watching, hated Dean.
Dean took another long drag and closed his eyes, like a tired predator deciding whether to pounce or back away to get some rest.
"Sammy" He said, hoarse, maybe from nicotine, maybe from the cold sting of the beer's bubbles on his throat. "C'mere" Sharp, one word, and If Dean could swim his way on people's brain, he knew that Sam at the time was like a dachshund wagging his tail from side to side.
Sam looked from his book, almost like a puppy with perked up ears, snuggled on the single sofa, knees tucked on his chest, barely giving any attention to his environment besides the text lines on the thick book between his hands. "for what?"
Defiance.
And Dean had his patience dangling from a very thin treat. "C'mere" He repeated, this time patting his thigh as if he was calling a pup.
And Sam?
He felt a little weak in the knees.
With a heavy, loud sigh, he rose from the single couch and tossed his thick book onto the padded seat, approaching Dean with soft steps. And when he was finally right next to his crossed legs that were thrown on top of the coffee table? Sam took a hard swallow.
And slowly, oh so slowly, he lowered himself in his knees, still looking up at Dean as if he was the only and last man on earth.
Dean just smirked.
"Good boy" he said, lowering his feet from the coffee table and spreading his legs, beckoning Sam even closer. Sam swallowed hard again and closed his eyes, moving to kneel between Dean's legs. "Move your hair out the way for big bro, Sammy" he cooed.
And sam felt embarrassed, but he nodded and slowly raised a hand, moving his hair from the side of his neck, normally dad would force him to cut it, but now he had allowed him a little indulgence.
or it was another way of defending himself that was always futile against Dean.
then, Dean pulled the cigarette from his lips, the orange ember glowing between his calloused fingers, almost finished, almost extinguishing on its own after being ignored. he slowly brought the bright red tip close to the sensitive skin of Sam's neck, playfully, once, twice.
Until he squeezed the cigarette butt straight into the skin, the hiss almost obscenely vulgar, almost like burning leather, and Sam just gasped, loudly, but didn't pulled away.
He knew better than that.
Sam gasped again, loud, high-pitched with that pretty eyes squeezing shut.
"Hey, hey, look at me" Dean said, cradling one side of that soft face on his rough palm. "What do good boys say?" Mockingly.
Sam just stared at him, eyes glassy, eyelashes damp and sticky.
"Thanks, Dee"
A whine.
Then a low rumble from Dean's chest.
"Good boy".
Again, and Sam felt his stomach flip.