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Sam grinds the heel of his hand into his eye, trying to concentrate. His essay on Marbury v. Madison isn't going to write itself, even if they already went over judicial review at his last school, but he's read the relevant sections in his government textbook about five times and it's not really inspiring him. His study environment isn't exactly helping.
"Come on, dork," Dean says, plopping back onto his half of the couch. He kicks his socked feet up onto the egg-crate coffee table and cracks open his next beer. "Aren't you done with your homework yet? You're supposed to be good at this stuff."
"I am," Sam says, sliding a leg over to kick Dean in the thigh. Dean just grins and pinches his Achilles tendon, eyes still on the TV. Sam yanks his foot back, irritated. It's late, and he's tired, and the Seagal movie on the free channels is like extra-stupid right now, and this essay isn't even due until Friday. There's not much else to do, though. Their little studio apartment doesn't have anywhere to be alone except the bathroom, and if he spends too long in there Dean always gets that stupid grin on his face and asks Sam if he's getting friction burns, and even if Sam's well-used to Dean's jerky big brother crap he still blushes, and then—
So, no privacy in the studio. Dad's been gone for a week, and isn't going to be back for at least one more—which probably means a month, but that's okay with Sam. At least he might actually get to finish out the semester at this school. He turns back to the beginning of the chapter while a bunch of people die on TV, and Dean snorts and mutters, "Yeah, real nice trigger discipline, idiot," and Sam rolls his eyes and sticks his pencil into the book as a marker.
"Why do you bother watching these movies if they're so dumb?" he says, and drops the book onto the floor next to the couch.
Dean actually looks at him, surprised. "Are you kidding?" he says. On screen, Seagal does some kind of goofy karate chop move and the extra he's fighting goes down like a lead weight. "This is great!"
Sam sighs and grabs his backpack, and decamps to the queen bed shoved into the corner, where he can't see the TV. He can't believe they're stuck in Butte of all places in December. Three days of snow and it's way too cold to go outside, and the channels suck, and he's just tired of this crap. He pulls out the battered copy of Ethan Frome they're reading for English and props it open against his knees, with a sigh.
"Hey," Dean says. Sam looks up to find Dean watching him, frowning a little.
"What?" he says.
Dean opens his mouth, and then closes it again. Sam raises his eyebrows and Dean hesitates, and then just shakes his head and takes a swallow from the beer can. "Don't hog all the covers," he says, spreading out on the couch now that he's got the whole thing. "I don't want to have to drop you into the snowdrift outside."
"Like you even could," Sam says, but under his breath. He finds where he left off reading and settles more firmly into their two stolen pillows, trying to get comfortable. If Dean comes to bed, he's going to have to wrestle Sam for them.
*
Sam comes awake all at once, interrupted from a weird dream about snow and sledding and his English teacher being his dad and Dean with a ruined leg. He blinks into the pillow and wipes his mouth, disoriented and too-warm. There's a bunch of noise—oh, the TV. Still on, and playing a too-loud commercial. The blankets are pulled over him, somehow, his book tucked safely to the side, but he's still wearing all his clothes. The little bedside alarm clock says it's only one in the morning, but still—
"Dean," he mumbles, and drags up onto one elbow. He knuckles some grit out of his eye, groggy. "Are you seriously still watching that crap?"
The lights are all off, but the TV's still bright and blue-white, flickery over the bare wall and couch and where Dean's slumped back, sprawled and shadowy. "You're supposed to be sleeping," he says, barely audible under the commercial chattering about dishsoap, or whatever it is.
"Well, I was," Sam mutters, and sits up fully, pushing away the too-warm blankets. He pulls off his socks and jeans and overshirt, so he's just in boxers and t-shirt, sweat clinging in his pits and the back of his neck. The apartment building has really good heating, which is—well, better than freezing, at least. His mouth is fuzzy, too-dry, and he stands up, stretching slowly, and takes a deep breath before he wrinkles his nose. "Dude," he says, "it reeks in here."
He shuffles over to the tiny kitchenette on the far wall and fills a glass of water, while Dean softly laughs. A few gulps sink icy-cold down to his belly and he leans against the counter, wiping his eye again and checking out the TV. Dean's practically horizontal, one leg up on the egg-crate and the other splayed wide on the floor, body half-hidden by the couch arm. He doesn't recognize the movie that's on now, although the acting's really bad. Par for the course with most movies Dean watches, really. He sniffs again. "Seriously, what is that," he says, "did you eat super bad Chinese while I was asleep or something?"
Dean lets out a low chuckle. "Sammy, you're not exactly a party kid, are you," he says, lazy, and then he picks up—oh. A red glow between his fingers as he takes a drag and holds it, and then a slow plume of smoke as he exhales, and Sam knows what cigarettes smell like and this isn't it.
He licks his lips. "Is that—um." He feels off-balance, suddenly, and weird. "Is that marijuana?"
Dean laughs, again, and Sam feels the blush rushing up to his cheeks again. He's sixteen, damn it, but sometimes Dean makes him feel about five years old. "Weed, Sammy," he says, and tips his head back against the couch. In the blue flicker of the TV Sam can see he's smiling, his eyes closed, and it doesn't look like he's teasing.
"Dad's gonna kill you," Sam says, after a minute, and then when Dean just laughs again: "Where did you even get it?"
"Miranda, from work," Dean says, over-enunciating so the k comes out all hard.
Sam rolls his eyes. He's had to hear a lot about the wonderful and hot Miranda, the checkout girl at the hardware store where Dean's picking up some hours. He comes closer, says, "You better not burn the apartment down, jerk," and Dean's grin just gets wider and then Sam blinks, standing right next to the couch, because—because Dean's jeans are open, and he's got his hand tucked into them, and he's—he's touching himself, with Sam right here.
The blood floods into Sam's face and the awkward twist in his belly nearly doubles him over. They don't—do this. "Dude," Sam says, faintly, horribly aware of his own skin, goosebumps rippling weirdly under his boxers and thin t-shirt, and Dean just hums, takes another drag off of the joint held careful between two fingers and drops it onto the plate next to him on the couch, a makeshift ashtray. His right hand moves, a slow rub, and Sam's lips part, dry.
"Oh, this part's hilarious," Dean says, lifting his head up with some effort, and apparently the movie's still playing, something's happening on the screen. The colors flicker to yellow and green and Dean's lit up, smiling, his eyes heavy, his hand still rubbing down below. Like Sam's not even standing there, like they're in some strange alternate dimension where these things don't matter. The smell's so strong, skunky and thick in the back of Sam's throat, and he swallows.
When he sits down on the other side of the couch, Dean tips his head to one side and smiles at him. "Not gonna narc on me, right?" he says.
His eyes are half-lidded, dark and unreadable, but he looks—purely relaxed. The thing Sam hates most about their life is the edge of it. Never knowing if Dad's going to come home, if there's going to be some bloody final accident. Dean puts on a good show, most of the time, but Sam was eight when he learned better and every year it's just gotten more clear. The way Dean keeps an eye on the phone, on the door. The way he looks after the guns almost obsessively, the way he rides Sam on PT even when Dad's not around. Right now, he's just… loose. Open and easy and fine, no tension in his body even with a shotgun hidden under the couch. "No," Sam says, finally. "No, I won't say anything."
Dean's eyes crinkle when his grin gets that wide. "That's my boy," he says, not half-mocking like he usually is, and spreads his knees wider, his one foot dropping down from the egg-crate so he's spread out, open, thighs wide so Sam can see everything.
Sam takes a deep breath. He's almost used to the smell, now. The TV switches to commercial, again, and it's one of those gross Girls Gone Wild ads, drunk chicks who probably aren’t even as old as Dean, flashing their boobs at the camera. His lip curls, reflexively, but Dean groans next to him, and his eyes snap to his left to see Dean shift his hips, lifting up against his hand briefly with a flex of his ass and thighs, his forearm working. Oh, god. "God," Dean says, with a sigh, and licks his lips so they shine. "There's a dream-job."
His left hand slides down, too, slipping down into his boxers, and Sam realizes he's just breathing open-mouthed and staring, like a weirdo. He swallows, and says, "You think they've got a big ghost problem in Miami?" Dean frowns, looks at him. "You could do both—big hero hunter and boob-wrangler."
That gets a bark of real laughter, Dean flat-out giggling all high and breathy. "Boob-wrangler!" he repeats, voice juddering, and Sam can't help but grin. "Oh, man." His eyes lock back onto the TV—this is one of those long commercials, little fake interviews and squealing answers, goofy censor bars so no nipples show. There's plenty of bounce, though.
Dean groans, again, and his hand slides in a slow twist, and that's a real jerk-off motion, that's actually happening, right next to Sam on the couch. He bites his lip and watches Dean do it again, hips languorously shifting, and finally he drops his hand down to his own crotch where his dick's well past half-mast, rising up against the thin fabric of his boxers. He flattens his palm and presses himself down against his own thigh, trying to hide it, but even high Dean catches the motion out of the corner of his eye. He laughs, again, soft, and Sam closes his eyes in mortification. "Thought you were too much of a prude for this stuff," Dean says, and Sam shakes his head, can't say anything.
More squealing, from the TV, and it really, truly doesn't do anything for Sam. Maybe if it were muted. There's a rustle, the couch's deep springs popping as Dean shifts, and then a long sigh and Dean says, "Oh, better," and Sam forces his eyes open to see—oh, fuck. Dean's shoved his jeans and boxers down to his knees, and it's just the stretch of bare white thighs, muscled and smooth since he's barely got any hair, and now Sam can see—god, everything, his dick standing up and his balls cupped in his left hand while he reaches for the joint, still smoldering on the plate between them. "Want to try?" Dean says, waving it vaguely, and Sam shakes his head, mutely. Dean grins at him, nothing but fond. "Good," he says, and takes a last long drag, holding it and huffing little sips of choked air before the smoke purls out from his nose like a cartoon dragon. "Just say no, Sammy."
Sam huffs. "Idiot," he mumbles, and Dean drops the burned up end down to the plate and flips him off, cheerful and lazy. He licks his hand and drops it back to his dick, massaging himself at the base. There's a bit of shine at the head, gleaming in the TV-light, and Sam's mouth floods with spit. God. His own dick throbs, warm and stiff through the cotton under his palm, and he swallows and licks the corner of his mouth and slips his hand under the too-big leg of his shorts, takes himself in his sweaty grip. Fuck—he hitches a noise, deep in his chest, but Dean doesn't seem to notice. The commercial's over, finally, and they're back to the movie. Some big blond guy and a dark-haired woman arguing about something, and Dean sighs, licking his lips again and dragging his thumb up the back of his dick, rubbing. Sam can't believe this is happening. He has fucking school in—god, like six hours, but he's not stopping, can't stop. Dean's dick is… big. Sam doesn't know if it's bigger than his, but he thinks so, maybe. His balls definitely are, from what he can see while Dean rolls them idly, eyes on the television. Sam bites his lips between his teeth and drags his left leg up, blocking himself a little in case Dean looks over, and then pulls himself out through the slit in his boxers, bolsters his dick up in his palm so it's sitting high, just like Dean's is. He's not even looking out of the corner of his eye, now, just staring, while Dean squeezes himself at the base again and then drags up, slow, not even trying to get himself off—and Sam copies it, hot-eyed, breathing too fast. Dean shifts his legs, spreads them a little more, and presses—lower, makes a low pleased hum deep in his chest, and Sam copies that, too, slipping his fingers down below his balls and pushing two against the muscle there, a deep thrum of pleasure surging right up to the head of his dick.
"Oh, god," he breathes, squeezing himself too-tight around the base, and Dean tips his head over again and blinks at him. Sam stares back, mouth open, his stomach churning. "Oh, god."
"Hey," Dean says, smiling, and shifts a little, pulls his hand away from his dick to lean his elbow on the back of the couch. It twists his body a little, his dick falling to land heavy on the muscle of his thigh, his t-shirt pulling up so Sam can see flat golden belly. "No big deal, huh? It's hot, right?"
Hot—Dean nods at the TV, and oh, the muscle dude and the starlet are making out, now, transitioning to one of those awkward soft-core sex scenes, saxophone and soft drums, and Sam nods, wordless, eyes jumping back to Dean's face and then to his crotch, where he hasn't softened, not at all. Sam wants—fuck, he wants to lean over there and touch it. He wants that… badly, to get his hand around Dean and feel how he's different, or maybe how he's the same, to cup his balls and test the weight, to feel the heat of his skin, taste him. Dean's attention is caught as the actress sighs out a little moan, and his hand drifts back to his dick, and instantly Sam imagines it on him—big and capable, a little rough like Dean can be sometimes when he claps Sam on the shoulder or smacks the back of his head, heavy and warm like he is when they spar, and Sam's jerking himself for real, now, tension coiling up in the base of his belly, watching Dean sigh and squeeze himself and melt into the couch, and Sam scrunches his eyes closed and imagines, imagines crawling over there and getting between Dean's sprawled-apart legs and shoving their dicks up together, and maybe Dean would grin at him again, would say something like want to try something, Sammy? with his voice all slow and lazy, and maybe, maybe Sam would say shut up and maybe then he'd lean in, and Dean would smile, and Sam would kiss him—
Oh, fuck, that's—Sam jerks, hips surging up in tight little motions, coming and spilling all over his boxers, his thighs. He cups his left hand over so he doesn't mess the couch and his chest heaves with it, his lips bitten tight between his teeth with the long habit of keeping absolutely silent. God. His balls pulse and he drops his head back on his shoulders, letting the ripples shudder through him. He hasn't come that hard in… ever. He licks his lips, runs his tongue over the teeth-dents, and when he opens his eyes Dean is…
His hand's still cupped loose around his dick, his head slumped and tipped against the couch back, his eyes closed. His mouth, a little shiny still, parted and loose, his chest rising slow and steady under the black t-shirt, the amulet he never takes off. Asleep. Sam wipes his hands off on his boxers, as best he can so his hands aren't totally disgusting, and moves the ashtray-plate over to the eggcrate next to the empty beer cans. Finds the remote and turns the volume way, way down, but leaves the TV on for the light. Some daylight scene, now, so white spills out into the room, leaves a pool of bright and shadow that highlights Dean's cheekbone, his mouth, the dark of his eyelashes. The fine golden hair on his arm, sparse on his thigh. The pink rounded head of his dick. Sam swallows, and reaches out—and closes his hand on empty air, and pulls his fist back to his chest. Puts his hand over his eyes.
There's two blankets on the bed and the heater's working overtime. He pulls the top one off, the nice one without any stains, and drapes it carefully over Dean's body, covering where he's bare. There's a soft noise, barely a sound at all, and Dean rubs his face gently against the back of the couch, snuggling in. He's going to have corduroy-stripes on his cheek, when he wakes up. Sam stands there and stares at him, for a second, and for no reason at all his eyes heat up and the room goes blurry. He turns away. Strips off his gross wet boxers and stuffs them deep in the laundry bag, pulls on a fresh-ish pair. Folds himself into the empty bed. He wonders if Dean will remember this—but he squeezes his eyes shut tight and pushes his face into the pillow and breathes deep. It doesn't matter. The alarm's set to go off in like five hours, and he's got school to get to, in the morning.