RockStarPeach

Title: Answered By You
Rating: R
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Word count: 2200
Summary: Sam sucks a lot. It makes it both easier and harder for them to fall back into each other after Dean comes back from purgatory.

A/N: Written for weresocklive, who long, long ago gave me the prompt "Sam and Dean suck. In three different ways (meanings of the word)" Anyone who has ever left me a prompt before, knows that I suck at them and the final product is probably going to be nothing like you expected, so... Yeah, this is nothing like that. But there is sucking in different ways, and there is wincest, so. Hope you like!



Sam sucks.

And Dean’s not just being colloquial, he’s not just saying ‘Sam sucks’ because he sometimes trips over his own shoelaces or he eats salads instead of cheeseburgers or because he’s always Xenon when they play twenty questions. (But seriously, Xenon? He really does suck).

You know, sure, Sam sucks when he takes too long in the shower and uses up all the hot water (especially when Dean just knows he’s jerking off in there, instead of letting Dean do it for him while he presses Sam’s face against the tiled wall and wraps his arms around Sam from behind). And he sucks when he makes Dean do most the digging at a tightly packed grave, and Dean can feel the twinges in his back for days after. Not that he’d tell Sam how done in he sometimes feels, because the asshole sucks so much he’d probably make fun of Dean, instead of kissing it better and feeding him pie, like he deserves.

And okay, yeah, Sam sucks when he won’t let Dean watch porn and when he changes the radio station in the Impala and when he breathes down Dean’s neck over the laptop because he doesn’t think Dean knows how to google as well as he does. Oh, that’s another thing. Sam uses the word google. Like it’s an actual verb.

So yeah, he sucks plenty.

But that’s not what Dean’s talking about.

Sam also, on top of all that and much, much more, actually, literally sucks.

And Dean sort of loves it, but mostly he hates it.

Straws, for starters, have skyrocketed to the top of Dean’s list. Err, if Dean had a list, that is, straws would probably be number one. Because, Dean’s man enough to admit, he’s become jealous as hell of the hollow, plastic fuckers.

Sam was never much of a straw guy before, used to always take them out of his drinks at diners and tilt the cups back to crunch on the ice, but now he even puts straws in bottles of water.

Nervous habit, Sam tells him, when Dean looks at him funny. He spent months on his own after Dean disappeared, spent hours at a time out of those months tap tap tapping the straw against the bottom of a glass with his fingers. Became friends with the sound, the splash, the feeling of holding onto something that wouldn’t be suddenly gone if he blinked.

And sure, the way Sam goes to town on the tip of those straws with his tongue, the way his lips curve and press around the tiny opening and the way his cheeks hollow out when he teases his water, or coke or iced tea up the narrow tube, down again, up – the way he pinches his fingers against the straw, loosens them and draws the drink up that last half inch – finally into his mouth, after thirty seconds, a minute, sometimes more…

Fuck.

Yeah, while all that might make him crazy enough to knock that fucking straw out of Sam’s mouth and replace it with Dean’s cock, he feels guilty enough about having left Sam again that he can’t possibly begrudge him one of his now unnecessary crutches.

So yeah, straws. Sam sucks them.

Also, pudding pops.

Yeah, that’s right, fucking pudding pops. Like it’s 1988 and multi-coloured sweaters are the height of fashion.

Dean didn’t even know they sold those things anymore. Sometimes they don’t, so Sam makes his own. Shoves coffee stir sticks into Snack Packs and puts them in the feezer.

And when he eats them… Holy fuck. If Dean has a hate on for straws, that’s nothing compared to how he feels about pudding, these days.

It’s like Sam’s jaw fucking unhinges, like his gag reflex disappears entirely (which is actually a little unfortunate, because Sam’s gag reflex was always one of Dean’s favourite things about him – at least, it was back when they were fucking) and the entire damn popsicle disappears down his damn throat.

But not before Sam sucks. Just the slightest puckering of his lips around the stick under the frozen treat, the tiniest hollowing of his cheeks to showcase those fantastic fucking cheekbones of his, and… And okay, so it’s possible Dean’s a little drunk at the moment. Fuck, he hopes he is, because he doesn’t think shit like ‘Sam has fantastic cheekbones’ without some serious alcoholic lubrication.

Whatever.

Point is, Sam sucks that frozen chocolate bitch down like it’s… well, Dean can’t think of anything he wants Sam to be sucking down that’s not his cock, and he doesn’t want to get too ‘one track mind’ about this shit, so. Yeah.

Sam sucks straws and pudding pops.

And his coffee.

The coffee thing isn’t really new and it isn’t really sucking so much as it is slurping, but seriously? Has Sam never looked in the mirror and seen the obscenely pornographic way that his lips shape around the pinprick hole in the lid of his cup? Has he never heard the sounds he makes when he suctions his mouth against the cup and draws the coffee up into his mouth and down his throat?

Has he never seen how red his lips get from the heat, how warm his breath becomes after even half a cup?

No, those are stupid questions.

Of course Sam has. He has, because he always looks at Dean after he does it, checks to see if Dean’s paying attention. He knows what he’s doing. Knows exactly what he’s doing and he’s doing it all on purpose.

He’s doing it so that Dean will lose his shit and pin Sam down and make it like it was before. Before Dean went to purgatory and before he met Benny and before he let Cas down and before Sam hit a dog and met a girl.

And Dean wants to. He really wants to, because Sam is hot as fuck and yes, okay, he loves Sam like a motherfucker and when they’re together, Dean can’t ever imagine them not being together.

He wants Sam back, like they were before. He wants more than they had before, more than they’ve ever had before, but it all starts with Sam’s swollen lips and Dean’s swollen cock.

Because Sam sucks straws and pudding pops and coffee cups and he does it like he’s fucking paid to do it. He does it to drive Dean crazy.

Sam sucks all those things and probably more besides, sucks hard and tight and sucks to make Dean dream of white picket fences and baseball games.

Sam sucks.

Every time he does, it gets to Dean, in different ways, to different degrees. It makes him want to cry, makes him want to hug Sam tight, fuck him hard, hold him close. It makes him want to tell Sam he’s here, he’s back, hold Sam’s hand to his chest so he can feel Dean’s heart beat. It makes him want to stick Sam’s hand down his pants so he can feel his dick thick and pulsing and dying to get back inside Sam, where it belongs.

But Dean doesn’t.

He doesn’t, because Sam’s not ready for it, yet. Not for any of it. He might think he is, but Dean’s always figured he knows best, and he’s not stopping now. Especially when Sam so obviously needs a big brother, not a lover.

He had a girl while Dean was gone, but that’s not what’s holding Dean back. They’ve both had girls, over the years. And none of them were meaningless, not ever, but at the same time, none of them could ever compare to whatever this fucked up thing is that they have with each other.

Dean understands, he gets that Sam needed to look for comfort where he could find it. He gets that Sam wrapped himself up in a warm set of arms and closed his eyes and ears to the rest of the world.

It hurts like a bitch, pisses him off in a serious way, but he does get it.

He hasn’t touched Sam since he came back, but that has nothing to do with Amelia, and it has nothing to do with what Dean did in purgatory. He was lonely, too, and while he hasn’t told Sam, won’t ever tell Sam… the things he did? He doesn’t regret.

No, the reason, the main reason, he hasn’t taken Sam up on the whole ‘starting again’ vibe Sam’s been none too subtly giving off, is the other thing that Sam sucks.

It’s not all the time, it’s not when the lights are on, it’s not even when Sam’s awake.

It’s after a hunt, after a man has cried on Sam’s shoulder over his dead wife and Sam’s curled up on the couch while Dean texts back and forth on his cell phone with friends Sam doesn’t approve of.

It’s when Dean holds a scared woman in his arms and him and Sam sleep in the same bed for the first time in a long time, tense and waiting until sunrise, and the start of the ritual that could save her life.

It happens when Dean lets slip about Cas, about how rough it was, how much of a failure he feels like and how he’d give anything to fix it.

Sam doesn’t answer when Dean talks, doesn’t do or say anything, just falls asleep next to Dean, with his thumb in his mouth.

Yeah, that’s right.

Sam sucks a bunch of things that piss Dean off and turn him on, but he also sucks his thumb.

And Dean watches him. Perhaps even more than when Sam sucks other things, Dean watches him. He can’t help it. There’s something so… innocent, so pure about Sam like that. It’s not a turn on, not like he thinks it should be. It reminds him too much of times long past for that, but his dick always gives a guilty little twitch, anyway.

Sometimes it’s just the tip that settles against the wet inside of Sam’s lower lip. His top lip presses down sometimes, suction created inside his mouth when Dean jostles him or tries to pull his hand away, so Dean lets go and leaves him like he is, and Sam stays that way all night, wakes up with his thumb pruney from the knuckle up.

Sometimes the whole damn thing is stuffed into his mouth, lips pressed tight around the base and every now and then, even without prompting, Sam will give it a few pulls, stop, bite down even. His mouth will go lax, Dean will think he’s done, he’ll reach over and wrap his hand around Sam’s elbow.

Before he can even start to coax Sam’s hand lower, though, his mouth will close back up and Dean will sigh, kiss the back of Sam’s neck and go back to his own bed.

Sometimes, Sam will reach out, curl his fingers through the short spikes of Dean’s hair while he sucks a steady rhythm along the column of his thumb.

Sam sucks his thumb.

Sam, Dean’s thirty year old little brother, sucks his fucking thumb.

It’s these times, when Sam sucks like this, that Dean is almost relieved. It makes it easier to convince himself he’s happy waiting for Sam to be ready, that he doesn’t need Sam in a wholly unnatural way.

Sam used to suck his thumb, back when he was four, five years old.

Dean didn’t say anything then and he won’t say anything now.

Back then, Dad was gone all the time, Dean was more into video games than his kid brother and Sam would pull the covers up over his head to try to hide it.

Now, Sam probably doesn’t even know it’s happening, but he’s so fucking vulnerable, so needy with that shit and Dean could probably make it all go away with an arm around Sam’s middle, his hips tucked up behind Sam’s and his chin resting on the back of Sam’s shoulder while they slept.

He could probably make it go away, but he doesn’t want to. Not yet.

Sam sucks straws and pudding pops and coffee cups and his thumb, and it all fucks with Dean’s head and his heart and his libido so fucking bad, but he doesn’t want to, can’t make a move. Not until he knows Sam’s ready, knows Sam wants it again, too.

He’s not made of stone, though. He’s only human.

And Sam started the day out with a coffee, followed it up with a bottle of water and then a Coke at lunch, a pudding pop in the afternoon and two more bottles of water. And now he’s sleeping, thumb curled up against his lips and Dean can only take so much.

He’s not ready to start fucking Sam again, Sam’s not ready either.

But he doesn’t see anything wrong with falling asleep with his hand on Sam’s elbow and his hip against Sam’s ass.

If Sam makes fun of him in the morning when Dean inevitably wakes up with Sam in cuddle-chokehold, he’ll just tell Sam that he sucks.

END