longsufferingly

Man, I totally thought I was gonna do nothing on this today, and then I did this. Smutty schmoop (schmoopy smut? I'm not sure) is better than nothing, right? Let's pretend it is.

Title: Baby's First Booze
Author:

chash
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean.
Rating: R.
Warnings: AU, non-related Winchesters, Sam is 17.
Word Count: 1300 words.
Summary: May 2, 2001. Sam turns seventeen.
Notes: Previous parts here. This is not the plot-advancing story you are looking for.
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue.

"Don't you ever get pissed?" asks Sam.

"All the time," says Dean. He's on his bed, cleaning his gun. He does it with practiced, mechanical skill. Sam's never been that good at it. "Was there a followup there?"

"I mean," says Sam, cross-legged on his own bed, pretending to do his homework, "you joined up with us so you could hunt, right?"

"Yeah," says Dean.

"So my dad keeps telling you to stay at home and take care of me. Isn't that...I mean," Sam looks down, blushes. "Doesn't that piss you off?"

Sam loves it. But, of course, Sam has been in love with Dean since he was thirteen, so it's not surprising that he wants to spend as much time as he can with Dean. But Dean, Dean's twenty one, an adult in every sense of the word, and his idea of a good time can't be watching Sam do his calculus homework.

"Dude," says Dean. "You really think I'd leave you alone on your birthday?"

Sam blushes more. He hates his stupid face. He's always blushing.

His dad called two days ago, told Sam happy birthday, and went out into the woods with no cell reception to hunt some creature Sam's never heard of. Sam hadn't figured that Dean even knew his birthday, let alone that he would have planned around being home for it.

"I'm kind of used to it," says Sam.

"See, that's why I don't mind sticking here," says Dean. "Especially on easy jobs like this."

"Why?" asks Sam.

"Just cuz your dad's a hunter doesn't mean you should be all alone, Sammy."

Sam looks down. He's trying very hard to concentrate on his homework. He's good at numbers, good at homework--he's good at all this stuff. But somehow, everything is swimming in front of him, a meaningless jumble.

"Sides," says Dean, "that last job was a bitch. Your dad wants to give me a break, I'm not gonna object."

"I guess it was," Sam agrees. "How's your arm?"

"Good as new," says Dean. "Or, good enough I don't need painkillers anymore, which is the important thing. Cuz we've still got a party to do."

"Party?" asks Sam.

Dean grins, roots around under his bed and grabs a brown bag. "Party."

"Dean, is that--"

"This, Sammy," says Dean, pulling out a bottle, "is Jack Daniel's. You and him are gonna be good friends. Soon as you're done with your homework."

Sam looks at the calc, and then back at Dean. He's grinning, cocky, and the hottest thing Sam has ever seen in his life.

"Yeah," he says. "All done."

*

Sam hates shots. They burn down his throat, they burn in his mouth, and they burn in his stomach. Shots are pretty much endless burning. He is not a fan.

"That'll put hair on your chest, Sammy," says Dean, after their third shot.

"Maybe I don't want hair on my chest. Maybe I think it's creepy."

"Chicks dig it," says Dean.

"Maybe I don't want chicks," Sam mutters. Immediately, he wants to die. He spends so much time not wanting to die, the desire is a new feeling. "I hate alcohol already," he adds.

"Don't hate on booze," says Dean. "What do you mean, don't want chicks?"

"Nothing," says Sam.

"Come on, Sammy," says Dean. When Sam looks up, he's a little closer, his eyes a little wider. "Tell me."

Sam swallows past the swelling of his tongue. "I, um. I like guys."

"'s nothing to be ashamed of," says Dean. "Nothing wrong with it."

"I know," says Sam.

"Does your dad know?"

Sam snorts. "Like dad cares who I sleep with."

"You been sleeping with guys?" Dean asks. It comes out strange.

"No," says Sam. "Um. Not yet."

Dean grins. "Got your eye on someone?"

He should say no. He really, really should say no. He should say no, go away, and pretend this never happened. But Dean's close and he's grinning, and he's Dean, and there are three shots of Jack Daniel's heavy in Sam's stomach.

"Yeah," he says, "I do."

"So why don't you go for it?" asks Dean.

"Because--" Sam looks away. "I'm me."

"Not really getting the problem here. It's not like you're a bad-looking dude, Sammy. Little nerdy, yeah, but it works on you."

"Yeah," says Sam, "but you're--you're you."

"So?" says Dean. "What's it got to do with me?"

"Um," says Sam. He hates alcohol.

Dean shifts closer. "That it?" he asks, softly. "You like me, Sammy?"

Sam swallows. His hand is tight on the shot glass.

"Cuz, you know, I'd get it if you did," says Dean. "I'm pretty hot."

"Dean--" says Sam. His voice comes out kind of strangled.

Dean keeps getting closer. "And you're not too bad yourself."

Sam's throat is suddenly dry. His throat is dry, his lips are dry, he can't even think. "Dean..."

"Didn't give you your present yet, you know," says Dean. His hand is on Sam's knee. Sam can feel their heartbeats there.

"What about the whiskey?"

"Yeah," says Dean, "that wasn't it."

And then Dean kisses him.

Sam whimpers against Dean's lips. No one has ever kissed him before. He doesn't actually know what to do, flails out and gets his hands on Dean's thighs.

"Dean," he says, "Dean," against Dean's lips. "Don't fuck with me, okay? Don't--just give me a present."

Dean pulls back a little, looking at Sam steadily. "Sam--Sammy, I'm not. I wouldn't, okay? I wouldn't."

Sam opens his mouth to say something, but Dean is kissing him again, his mouth open against Sam's, and Dean's tongue is suddenly against his, slick and wet, and everything Sam was going to say goes straight into Dean.

Dean is kissing Sam like Sam's seen Dean kiss girls, his focus all on them, and it's amazing. He brings his hands up to hold Dean's face, can feel Dean's mouth moving under his fingers. Dean keeps thrusting his tongue into Sam's mouth, and when it finally occurs to Sam to thrust back, Dean makes a little encouraging noise.

Sam has no idea how long they stay like that, breaking apart only for slick seconds to get breath, and Sam can't even think. His brain is overloaded from alcohol and Dean and he's never had a good birthday before, but he knows that even if he had, it wouldn't be able to compare.

Dean shifts slightly and suddenly, Sam realizes he could do more. He's so hard he feels like he's going to rip his pants or something equally ridiculous, and Dean--Dean could help.

He pulls back so Dean's on top of him, and it's only a second before Dean's hands are under his shirt, pushing it up.

"Dean," he pants. "Dean."

"Yeah," says Dean, moving his mouth down to suck at Sam's neck as his hand brushes over Sam's cock.

Just like that, it's all over. Sam's hips jerk up and he comes in his pants.

"Fuck," he mutters. "Dean, I'm sorry, I--"

Dean kisses him again, sloppy and hard. "Hottest thing I've ever seen," Dean says against his mouth. "Don't fucking apologize."

"Oh," says Sam.

Dean grins, rolls off Sam onto the other side of the bed. "Wanted that for fucking years, Sammy," says Dean.

Sam flushes, but for once, it's because he's happy. "Really?"

"Yeah," says Dean. "But don't expect me to tell you again. Just said it now cuz it's your birthday and I know you're a fucking girl."

"Are we gonna do it again?" asks Sam. He tries not to look too eager.

"Yeah," says Dean. "Whenever you want."

"Really?" asks Sam. He rolls on top of Dean, grins down at him.

"Fuckin' horny teenagers," says Dean, his hand on Sam's neck, pulling him down. "Gonna be the death of me."