Author: Regala Electra
Warnings: Sexual Content, Language
Spoilers: S3, set after Bad Day at Black Rock
Word Count: 2,990
Summary: When Sam sees, out of the corner of his eye, Dean taking another gigantic bite of his double bacon cheeseburger with extra cheese and special sauce, he tries not to shudder. Instead, he decides to plan. Wherein there is plenty of cake, questionably girly drinks, presents from a Pie Maker and lots of sexing.
Author’s Notes: There is a slight crossover with Pushing Daisies at the end of this story but you don’t need to know anything about the show nor does it spoil any episodes of the ongoing series.
Feedback is appreciated.
Forgive Sam for noticing it, but the taste of Dean is different now.
It’s sweeter almost and look, there's a lot that Sam enjoys about, well, Dean’s the one who says it, out of the blue in the pitch-black night, gunning towards another demon causing all kinds of trouble in a forgotten little town: “Man Sammy, you just can’t get enough of my cock, huh?”
And it’s weird to admit it, but it’s true. He might roll his eyes or huff in disagreement, tell Dean that it’s not the time for him being disgusting, meanwhile, in four hours time, he’s going to be pushing Dean up against a wall, somewhere not private, but dammit, close enough, freeing Dean’s dick enough just to get him to shut up, because Dean’s all talk, always, but he wants this too, no matter how much he can’t handle it, deflecting with all his stupid and questionable jokes.
When Dean’s out of words, and surprisingly, it doesn’t take much, Sam flicking his thumb over the head of Dean’s cock, switching up a few things, fisting him rough and then gentle strokes, barely touching and then, when his eyes focus again, that’s when he goes a little harder, and yes, just when Dean can’t take it, Sam’s on his knees, barely gets his mouth open in time, Dean coming against Sam’s face, probably knocking the back of his head against the wall, can’t help that either.
There are plans that go awry and there are plans that are perfectly executed to a near-cinematic degree, as though living in a noir movie and the twist being that the villain isn’t caught.
Sam doesn’t quite know why he’s always making himself the villain when he considers his plan, it isn’t even fiendish. The simplicity of it certainly keeps him from being an evil genius because at the end of the day, all Sam’s doing is just taking advantage of a particular trait of Dean and furthering it to his own advantage.
Also, speaking of villains, he’s really got to stop letting Dean put on those late-night movies. They’re kind of infecting his brain. Instead he snatches the remote away, puts on the news, ignores that Dean’s eating in Sam’s bed, because Dean’s spoiling for an argument.
When Sam sees, out of the corner of his eye, Dean taking another gigantic bite of his double bacon cheeseburger with extra cheese and special sauce, he tries not to shudder.
Instead, he decides to plan.
It's just that Dean's eating habits have affected more than just Dean. Okay, no way to say this: his semen has had, well, this bitter aftertaste that Sam can't shake.
Or really want to swallow, blowjobs aren’t a problem until it comes to the end, Sam’s had to have to take his mouth off, have Dean come while Sam’s fisting him, because spitting isn’t an option. Sam damn well knows Dean’ll bring that up, another time, another day, whisper rough in Sam’s ear that Sam might be aching to fuck him ‘til he walks funny (and if Sam’s mental facilities are in check, he’ll snap back that Dean already walks funny), but you’re still holding out on me? Not gonna suck me off, suck me all down, yeah, you ain’t doing anything to my ass if you’re gonna be a prude, Sammy. Gotta own your freakiness.
Sam’s re-edited that conversation, bits of previous conversations, his own Frankenstein monster of an excuse for why his plan is downright logical.
Sex. And food. Basic needs (wants) that have to be addressed and Sam knows that when it comes to Dean, that’s all Dean ever wants to deal with, the basics.
The messy complications that come out of it, well, that’s just nature.
It happens easy enough, the birth of the plan, before Sam had even a glimmer of a plan forming in his mind, better to say the plan happened and then Sam shaped it into words, into a new regimen, diet, a way to sustain his not-so-nefarious plan.
Begins the night after Dean put away three thick slices of a disgusting-looking upside down cake (the thing had maraschino cherries for Christ's sake, wedged into the holes of canned pineapple slices). Sam found it a lot more pleasant to swallow down Dean's come. It got a little...different, no longer just swallowing whatever he could, letting the rest dribble out of his mouth. No, that didn’t have to be done, faking how good it was because Sam got into it, leading to Dean groaning, almost pushing Sam off of him, saying he was too young for a heart attack.
Anyway this plan starts to form, not some sort of master plan, a little one, honestly. It barely counts really, that’s how basic it is, has no more than two steps. Plus, it’s not like Dean would object to it as it involves two of Dean's favorite things in the world: food and sex.
And hey, they have comp meals at any Big Gerson's and it turns out they do serve a pineapple upside down cake on the dessert menu, not exactly the down-home version, still, it's got actual pineapples in it and that's all that matters.
It’s too loud to hear himself think, honestly, nothing worse than getting stuck at a bar with a party college just outside the town limits, where it’s clear that most of the patrons aren’t twenty-one yet, obnoxious kids, first time away from home, unspoken question, an answer scrawled across their desperate-frightened-careless-fearless bodies. The drinks are flowing fast and loose, crowd control not a concern tonight, it’s about partying, with the kind of dancing going on that isn’t real dancing at all, more a jerky rhythm slowed down by too much alcohol.
Originally they stopped here to question someone but that someone’s napping on one of the lone tables, one of his friends (or enemies, or both, when it comes down to it) having drawn a penis on the side of his face.
Dean tries to get the guy to wake up but nothing’s happening tonight and there’s no point in trying to research in here, instead Dean’s heading towards the bartender, Sam following, nearly knocking into a scurrying girl, who almost upends a cosmopolitan on Sam’s jeans.
“Don’t worry, Sam here loves the cosmos,” Dean says, having turned quick to see what Sam’s sputtering (“Excuse me, oh! Sorry! I didn’t...see you...uh...there!”). “Can’t get enough of ‘em.”
Sam starts wondering if he can bribe some of the women in the bar to get Dean to order them the kind of girly drinks with pineapple juice in it. He's pretty sure that a Sex on the Beach has it, and Dean would totally fall for that.
It doesn’t take much, after all, Dean’s always looking, despite the unspoken arrangement between them (not a relationship, it is what is: fucked up but somehow it works), Dean would probably die if couldn’t continue to hit on women with the kind of cheerful perseverance only gifted to people who are insane.
By the time of the fifth round of Sex on the Beach, as ordered by Dean and his new bevy of cohorts, the multiple rounds of the sweet Vodka drinks have not gotten Dean drunk-drunk. Still, there’s something happening, warm glow that slows things down, hot pressure building. There’s the kind of light in his eyes that Sam’s always been frustrated by before, and he is, uh, frustrated now. Only it’s different.
And far, far better.
Back at the motel room, they land on Dean’s bed, kind of messy sloppy sex that happens when one person’s still in the high burning moment of the surge of alcohol (or both people, Sam maybe had a few drinks of his own, but not vodka, it’s never been a friend to him come the morning). Dean comes against Sam’s stomach, Sam nearly comes from the friction as well, ridiculous how easy it is: just rubbing up against each other, clothing pulled off in haste just for the skin-on-skin touch.
Sam dips his fingers, gingerly, into the sticky mess, tasting it with the tip of his tongue. A scientific experiment: closes his eyes and sucks on his fingers.
It’s a complete success.
Dean watches it all, nearly breathless, then this groan drags out of him, deep in his throat, and Sam can feel his own dick twitch and knows the night is far from over.
It happens slowly, not unlike when radio stations completely switch out as they’re driving across the highways pulsing across the country, America’s own not-so-delicate cardiovascular system, hardened and worn.
(There’s bruises and wounds still healing, stitches that are still too new on Sam’s leg.)
Cake can catch up with a person and Dean loosens the notch on his belt, then shrugs, dismissing it with, “Too bad I won’t be leaving a handsome corpse” and it’s not funny at all, Sam ready to start the fight all over again, wants to say I’m going to save you so stop being an asshole only this time, he really looks at Dean before he says anything and he can’t fall back into the tired routine, too many fights in the car, sick of it. Stops looking at what he expects to see, his obnoxious older brother with the nonstop sex drive and constant appetite (who he refuses to lose, no matter what).
Expects to see the hard edges, lines of “I am a badass” that Dean’s always affected, which exasperates Sam, this mask of Dean’s, only it’s gone, replaced by, no, it’s not replaced. Something’s just changed, a little softness in Dean’s face, that’s all it is, and the thing is, it’s nothing more than the price of getting older. Of regular meals chock full of cholesterol and fat, should make Dean sluggish only it isn’t doing that, if anything, it’s like, Sam’s seeing what could be.
It makes Sam think that’s where he’s going to end up too, the both of them, old men with grey hair and war stories to tell, but they’ll be survivors. Grizzled decrepit old men and it’s intoxicating, the thought of not rest but peace.
Hell or Death is not an option, even if the road to survival might mean Sam has to make drastic decisions.
A month passes, twenty-seven days to be precise, because Sam is counting every day slipping on by, makes him ache more, needing Dean, waking Dean up in the middle of the night, Dean already half-hard and even in the darkness, Sam can see Dean. Can pull Dean’s dick out of the boxer-briefs without looking down, gripping him and Sam wants Dean to fuck him, wants Dean to be stupid and say dumb things in his ear, those lowdown kind of things that Dean promises that they’ve barely scratched the surface of, but first he wants Dean, all of him.
Exactly what he can’t have, so he kisses him, deeper, and there’s a tang of pineapples, under the overwhelming taste of Dean and Sam can’t help it, ruins his own plan, taking all of Dean in his mouth, sucking the head, then going down more, more, briefly wondering if Dean’s even fully awake, if he thinks it’s a dream.
Doesn’t worry for too long, Dean shuddering, spurting in Sam’s mouth, grunting, “Sammy,” and then “c’mere.”
“Dean,” Sam begins, breathless, amazed at how Dean tastes so much better, little thing, insignificant thing, maybe means he can handle the real things, the substantial weight of the world (of the deal) hanging over them.
“I can hear you fuckin’ angsting even when you’re sucking me off. Dammit, just,” Dean says, tries to say, but he fails, tongue fucking Sam’s mouth as if that’s the right response.
Not right, but it’s the response that Sam has to take, for now, because letting a few lies settle between them, damn, that’s kind of the Winchester way.
“Dude, are you poking me?”
“No,” Sam mutters, wipes the hair off of his forehead, slowly getting up, which takes some doing, his body’s exhausted and they’ve been up to too much, his dick and ass are going to hurt tomorrow.
Then he flops back down again, sighing, because he forgot, they fucked on his bed and Dean’ll be damned if he gets stuck sleeping in the mess they made. Uh, the mess that Sam mostly made, coming all over the sheets when Dean, after he’d come inside of Sam, pulled out and then his mouth was on Sam’s ass, and really, just the breath of Dean there, it pretty much set Sam off.
And that was only round one.
“Good. Because I’m not like, that Pillsbury Dough boy,” Dean says, but he pokes his own stomach, looking down at it, his face twists in annoyance. Grunting, he dismisses the softening of his stomach, not as flat as it used to be, his muscle definition lost a little, grave digging’s always been better for the shoulders and arms and even all the running they do can’t keep up with Dean’s constant snacking. “At least there’s more of me to lust after.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, this time he really does poke Dean, on his side, Dean swearing at Sam, under his breath, you little bitch. “I’m sure that’s what everyone thinks when they see you. Instant lust.”
“Damn straight,” Dean says, throwing Sam a cocky smile, which is weird when they’re both naked and fucked out. Then, keeping the tone exactly the same, only the words are more careful, not expected at all, not when it’s coming from Dean, he says, “So, pineapples, huh?”
Sam blinks. “What?”
“Been wondering why you been pushing all kinds of junk with pineapples on me. But I figured it out. Back when we got that ham at that diner with the waitress.” Dean puts his hands to his chest for emphasis before continuing, flashing a fond smile. “She couldn’t afford enough buttons on her shirt, you remember? You asked if the ham had pineapples on it. She said yeah and then you ordered it too and damn, you hated pineapples when you were a kid. Then you made sure to push ‘em all on my plate.”
It would be a good idea to deny any weird motivation for doing that and Sam quickly selects that tactic because honestly, Dean’s own plan here is sadistically smart, Sam’s a little too worn out to lie properly. “Dean, do I have to defend my meal choices to you? You’d eat a bacon milkshake if it was on the menu.”
“Oh, that ain’t a smooth move, Sammy,” Dean’s hand covers Sam’s lower face, moving down so his fingertips cover Sam’s lips, tapping his index finger once-twice, little rat-tat. “No, no need for you to lawyer up. But ya do have to defend why you’ve been freakin’ slipping me pineapples and you haven’t been doing the same, jackass.”
His hand’s away, rough kiss that leaves Sam gasping, then just as quick as he’s there, Dean’s away, waiting for Sam’s brilliant response.
Which is this little gem: “What?”
“Dude. Pineapples. I know exactly what they do. Totally not fair that you’ve got me aching to have you sucking off all my come at all hours of the friggin’ day and meanwhile you didn’t think, hey, maybe you don’t taste like goddamn pie or candy or whateverthefuck and would do me the same favor.”
“You’re pissed because, uh...”
“Sammy,” Dean sighs. “Just fucking say it. You though my spunk was funky and you tried to fix it. Actually, uh, you might have. Uh. Tastes different, anyhow.”
It takes a pause, awkward moment that leads to Dean flicking his tongue over his lips, nervous, before Sam realizes, then says, “You noticed a difference? In your own—”
“Shut up. And next time you bribe someone to get me wasted, make sure I get fuckin’ wasted. Girl drinks don’t do jack. Oh, and uh, pick a chick who doesn’t laugh like a freaking hyena.”
Sam decides it’s better to get Dean to shut up, best way to bite at that point on Dean’s neck that makes him all quiet and still, both too weary for sex, but that doesn’t mean that touching is out of the question.
There’s no more talking, a good thing, because Sam’s got pictures on his cell phone of Dean happily holding up a series of “girl drinks”—his face more and more pleased by each concoction as the night had progressed. Oh, that kind of blackmail has to be saved for later.
“Your love affair with pie has to end one day,” Sam tells him after the grateful, if twitchy, pie maker offers free pies in exchange for their help in getting rid of a particularly disturbed spirit.
“No, it won’t,” Dean says, voice so grave, it would be easy to believe that Dean’s serious and Sam almost makes that mistake when Dean strokes the outside of the pie box, the kind of loving gesture that makes Sam want to ask Dean if he’d like some alone time with the pie (which leads to Sam nearly imagining that happening and no, Sam’s going to happy block that out of his thoughts). “He made me these special, dude. Also? Free.”
Sam’s carrying three boxes all on his own, didn’t even bother to look at them, just stumbled out his own thanks to the strange pie maker, never even asked what it was. Then, realizing, he says with growing dread, “What do you mean these are special, Dean?”
“He said pineapple pies weren’t normally on the menu, but he’d totally hook us up,” Dean says with a wink, evil cackle as he hands Sam the three boxes he’d been carrying. “Now don’t drop ‘em, cuz I’m starving. You?”
“Yeah,” Sam says, dropping his voice low, the plan still in effect, only he likes Dean’s way better, food and sex, more direct, “I could eat.”