Cleaning the Pipes
By
Weirdnessmagnet
Rating: NC-17
Paring: Sam/Dean, Sam/Jess, Sam/Sarah, Sam/OFC
Warnings: Angst, possibly hurt/comfort, underage sex, hetero sex,
masturbation, incest, and other things that Kripke and the CW wouldn’t
approve of.
Summary: A lot of Sam’s sex life involves Dean, in one way or another.
Disclaimers: The boys belong to Kripke and CW. They aren’t mine, or this
would be canon.
Spoilers: Through the first season.
**
The first time Sam has sex, it’s because of Dean.
Her name is Heather, she's a cheerleader (a cheerleader, of all things),
and Sam is almost seventeen. Dean knows Sam likes her. Sam’s walking
towards the car and Dean is leaning against it waiting to pick him up,
pretending to ignore the eyes of the high school girls on him. Sam casts
one final look back at Heather as she says goodbye to her friends.
“You should ask her out,” Dean tells him. He’s got that smirk on his face,
the one that’s partly sexy and partly mocking, the one that Dean gets
whenever he talks to Sam about girls he knows Sam likes. Sam wants to
punch that smirk.
“She’s a cheerleader, Dean,” Sam says.
“So?” Dean is all charisma and charm as he eyes the blonde across the
parking lot.
Sam grits his teeth. “So she’s not going to go out with me. She'll shoot
me down in front of her friends, I’ll be humiliated more than usual, and
I’d rather not deal with that.”
“Tall and geeky isn’t her type, huh?”
Sam resists the urge to deck his older brother and yanks the passenger
door open. Dean pushes the door shut again before Sam can toss his
backpack in. “Ask her out.” Dean’s face is completely serious.
“No way.”
“Ask her out. Right now. She won’t say no.”
“Forget it, Dean. She won’t go out with me.”
“She’ll go out with you once. Once is all it takes.” Dean’s smile is
lecherous.
Sam gives him his patented don’t-be-such-a-horndog look. “Dean.”
“Can’t clean your own pipes forever, Sammy boy,” Dean’s grin gets
impossibly wider.
“You’re disgusting. Can we go home now?” Sam rolls his eyes and yanks on
the door handle again. Dean leans on the door to keep it shut.
“You ask her out right now, and I’ll let you drive my car on your date.”
Dean’s grin is gone. “And I’ll get you out of training on Saturday.”
Sam narrows his eyes. “You’re not serious.”
Dean looks at him.
“Okay, you are serious. Dean -- "
“Ask her out in the next thirty seconds or the offer’s off. And I’ll tell
Dad you’ve been slacking on your knife practice.”
“But I haven’t been slacking!” Sam isn’t whining. He’s not.
“I know. Dad’ll believe me anyway.”
Sam fumbles through asking her out. She smiles in the way people smile at
the homeless -- pity disguised as compassion -- but Dean’s right, she
doesn’t say no. Sam takes Heather to a chain Italian restaurant she likes,
and afterwards they have sex in her bedroom while her parents are out at a
movie. Sam blunders through it and comes too soon, and she giggles at his
ineptness. He knows she's laughing at him and not at the general
ludicrousness of two teenagers’ clumsy attempts at lovemaking. He gets
dressed and leaves as soon as he can. He doesn’t offer to call her, and
she doesn’t act like she wants him to.
Sam returns to the hotel where they've been living for nearly two months,
and Dean grins at him the minute he sees Sam's disheveled appearance.
"How was it?" Dean's grin is brilliant and beaming with masculine,
brotherly pride. Sam ducks his head. He’s embarrassed when he blushes,
then is more embarrassed when he realizes that Dean expects him to be
embarrassed.
"Good," he says finally.
He claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder and offers him a drink from Dad’s stash
of Jack. Sam stiffly accepts Dean's big-brother affection and the alcohol
until he can't stand either one any more. Dean realizes it too late that
Sam's upset, and his smile is fading slightly when Sam retreats to the
bathroom. A long time under scalding-hot water gets the smell of her off
his skin.
Dean doesn't say anything to Sam when he comes to bed. They don't talk
about it again, ever.
**
The second time Sam has sex, it's with Jessica.
They've been dating almost two months. Asking her out was fairly easy. Sam
accepts that he will never be as smooth with women as Dean is, but Jessica
smiled at him with interest rather than pity when he asked her to a
poli-sci study session over pizza and beer.
Things had progressed from there easily, naturally, and it was freaking
Sam out a little. He wonders if it was like that for his Dad and Mom when
they were dating. He thinks about calling his dad, but he doesn’t.
Jess never laughs at him, even after she discovers the bordering-on-OCD
color-coding system he uses for note taking and the way he can't leave the
grocery store without buying salt. When she laughs, it’s near him rather
than at him, and when she does it she hugs him affectionately or stands on
her toes to kiss the tip of his nose.
He tells her little about his past and his family. He tells her as much
truth as he can. If Jess suspects Sam has lied about the rest of it, she
never lets on. She learns not to ask about his family.
When they're alone in his dorm room bed she lets him do whatever he wants.
He uses every technique he ever read in the magazines Dean left around,
everything he remembers Dean telling him about sex. He focuses on Jess,
listening for every breathy moan and every quiver, every gasp to tell him
where to touch and how hard and when to stop. Or not.
He gets her off three times with his fingers and his mouth. She
practically grabs him by the hair and draws him up her body. "What's
wrong?" he asks.
"I swear to God, Sam, if you don't do it right now..."
Sam actually hesitates. "Are you sure?" It's not what he means to ask. Are
you sure you want me? Are you sure I won't hurt you? Are you sure you
won't disappear afterward? Are you sure you won't laugh?
"Yes." There's impatience and slight irritation in her tone, but mostly
there's need and he’s not used to hearing that from her.
"I want you to enjoy it,” he stammers. "A woman is less likely to achieve
orgasm during vaginal intercourse than through other forms of --”
She digs her fingers in his hair and kisses the breath out of him. Her
tongue runs across his lips, tasting herself on him. "Sam," she says when
she finally breaks the kiss, "stop talking."
As soon as his dorm housing contract is up, they move in together. He
doesn’t tell Dean or Dad, but the postcards from the road are addressed to
Sam’s new apartment anyway.
**
Sam hasn't masturbated since Jessica died. His dick betrays him on
occasion: morning wood and involuntary twitches when Dean finds
not-completely-horrific porn on the motel televisions. But Sam’s focus is
on finding Dad and hunting in the meantime, and his body falls into line.
He's spent months watching Dean's eyes follow barflies and diner
waitresses and disappear after them into the shadows of back hallways.
Sometimes Dean waggles his eyebrows and suggests that maybe Sam ought to
take a crack at that little lady in too-tight shirt. Sam just rolls his
eyes and gives Dean his exasperated look until either Dean sags back in
his chair and asks what Sam’s researching or goes after the girl in
question himself, off on his second-favorite kind of hunt.
Sam doesn't chase after girls. He doesn't flirt, not even to get
information. He's not any good at flirting anyway, not the way Dean is.
Dean flirts like he breathes, just oozes charm and sensuality out of every
pore, unaware he's even doing it most of the time. Dean is way too
effective at it when he's trying to flirt. Sam prefers to stick with his
strengths, and as long as Dean is around, he doesn’t have to embarrass
himself by trying to charm women.
Sam doesn’t really see women any more. They skirt the edges of his field
of vision, only coming into focus when they’re in danger or trying to kill
him. There are exceptions, but they’re rare. The only people that matter,
really matter, are Dean and Dad. And Dad wouldn’t matter so much if he
wasn’t missing.
The few occasions when Sam allows himself to palm his cock in the shower,
his mind flashes to Jessica’s body pinned on the ceiling and dripping
blood on him. Salt water on his face mixes with the shower spray, and
Sam’s cock doesn’t stay hard long.
If Dean hears him, he never says anything beyond, “You better have left me
some hot water.”
**
Sam kisses Sarah because Dean wants him to be okay.
Sam likes her, too, and if they ever stayed in one place long enough he
might have tried dating her. But mostly he kisses Sarah because Dean won’t
stop worrying about him until he kisses someone, and she’s nice and unless
he’s completely read her wrong Sam thinks she wants him to.
Sam gets in the car after kissing her goodbye. Dean doesn’t stop grinning
for the next hundred miles.
**
"I'm going on a supply run," Dean says. He's looking at the bar down the
street when he says it, so Sam figures Dean won't be back for dinner.
He's fine with that. They've been living on top of each other for the last
week, and Sam could use some time alone in the motel room not being
subjected to Dean's taste in television.
Sam folds the clean laundry and re-packs the duffels, then opts for a
shower. The water cascades over his skin, too warm, or maybe he's just too
warm inside. His body has been reacting to things lately: random, stupid
things like kissing scenes on TV shows and cute waitresses. It makes him
feel like a stupid teenager again, makes him angry at his lack of
self-control.
He adjusts the water temperature and it doesn't help. His groin is heavy,
cock thickening despite how not in the mood he feels. He soaps himself
carefully, rinses, and towels dry, giving his cock as little attention as
he can manage.
Sam leans back on his bed. He hasn’t bothered getting dressed yet. The
cool motel air feels good on his damp skin, and there aren’t enough towels
anyway. Sam picks up the remote and idly channel surfs while he air-dries.
He lingers on Jeopardy! until he loses three questions in a row on
18th-century poets. Sam gets annoyed at how much he’s forgotten since
leaving Stanford and changes channels to a cooking show.
He watches until he feels his dick harden as the chef massages oil and
herbs into a leg of lamb for a lot longer than Sam thinks is strictly
necessary. His dick pokes the towel into a tent shape as he clicks away
from that show. He punches a random number into the remote and lands on a
porn movie.
His dick twitches invitingly beneath the towel. Sam bangs the back of his
head against the wall in frustration. Obviously, the Universe hates him.
The smart thing to do, Sam decides, is just handle it. Too many years of
their dad telling them that procrastination and avoidance get you dead, or
worse. He tries not to think about their Dad as he searches for the hand
lotion in the duffel bag.
The hand lotion is too slick on Sam’s skin. His hand skims over his shaft.
He watches the flickering images of the random blonde women on the TV, all
generic surgically-enhanced breasts and heavy makeup. His mind flits to
waves of blonde curls curtaining his face and he's suddenly beneath Jess,
her breasts in his face, hair surrounding him, scent of her skin and her
sex filling his head.
He remembers the way he'd thread his fingers into her mop of hair, how
she'd press her head back against his grip and grind harder on him in
response. She loved the feel of his hand on the back of her neck, and he'd
clutch at her and bury his face into her neck and move up into her. She’d
slide down and gasp and he'd groan and dig his fingers into her hip and
urge her harder, faster, knowing he won't last with her on him like this.
She knows how this drives him crazy, how he's completely utterly hers when
she's on him. He's lost in her hair and her skin and her smell and her
blue, blue eyes, and he envisions her eyes again, wide and shocky and
scared and she's bleeding, eviscerated and pressed against the ceiling and
her blood drips into his eyes and Sam is screaming and the room explodes
and Dean is there pulling him out of the flames and Sam can't stop
screaming No --
He hears the key in the lock and Sam rolls away, turning his back to the
door. He's bareassed naked and his lungs burn. He's sobbing into his fist,
his other hand still wrapped around his dick and he doesn't want Dean to
see him like this but he can't stop shaking.
"Sam?" There's a tease in his voice at first, but Sam can hear the moment
Dean realizes Sam's crying. Dean's suddenly there, his big warm hands
rolling Sam onto his back. "Sammy?"
"I can't," Sam chokes out around the pain in his chest.
"You hurt?” Dean’s hands move over him, looking for wounds. “Sam, what’s
wrong?"
"I can't do it.”
“Do what, Sam?” Dean’s voice is urgent. He brushes Sam’s hair out of his
eyes, smearing tears into his hair.
“I see her."
“Who?” Dean’s hands flex on Sam’s arms.
“I close my eyes and I see her. I can’t. I can’t.” Sam says it over and
over. He covers his still-hard dick with this hand and curls in on
himself.
“Jess?" Dean says. His voice is too soft. Dean should be making fun of
him. He should be laughing at how pathetic Sam is, walking in on his
brother buck naked and jerking off to grainy motel porn. Sam squeezes his
eyes shut and feels the tears roll down his temples. Sam waits for Dean to
act like Dean and give him hell.
Dean doesn't. Dean slides an arm beneath Sam's head and shoulders. Sam
finds himself cradled against Dean's chest. He smells smoke and alcohol
from the bar clinging to his brother's leather coat. "Sam, look at me."
Command voice, and Sam has no choice but to obey. His brother’s green eyes
are creased and it makes Sam’s chest hurt worse. Dean is worried about
him, and Sam tries to get his breathing under control. Collect himself
enough to get dressed and pretend this never happened.
He wants to tell Dean he’s fine. He wants to get off this bed, get
dressed, maybe do some research until he’s too tired to see. He can’t get
I’m fine to come out. "I can't," Sam says again.
"It's okay," Dean says. “It’s okay, Sam. Look at me. Look right here.” His
voice is quiet, gentling. Sam inhales slowly as Dean skims a hand over
Sam’s face, brushing his hair.
Sam looks into Dean’s eyes. He focuses on his breathing -- in, out, in,
out -- right until Dean's hand trails down and wraps around Sam’s fingers
still tangled around his dick. Dean makes Sam move his hand, slow up-down
over his cock. Sam swallows and stiffens in Dean's grasp. "Dean?"
"Look at me, Sam," Dean says. "Right here. Don't close your eyes. Keep
looking at me."
Sam swallows. He locks eyes with Dean. Dean barely blinks as they move
their hands over Sam's dick. Dean makes him tease the head and scrape
gently along the shaft. Sam shudders against Dean's chest. Wide green eyes
all Sam can see and hands on his dick all he feels. Dean slowly shifts his
hand from Sam’s and slides lower, down to Sam’s balls.
"Keep going," Dean whispers.
Sam maintains the rhythm on his dick and Dean's fingers play with his
balls, stroke the soft skin of Sam’s inner thighs. Dean’s hands skate up
and tease Sam’s balls again, sneaking behind with calloused fingers and
pressing that hard spot behind his balls. It makes Sam gasp and buck. Sam
moans and he almost closes his eyes at the sensation but Dean's gaze is
too intense. He can't close his eyes against it, can't turn his face into
the leather and breathe the way he wants to, because Dean told him to keep
looking at him.
Sam’s cock pulses pre-come into his fist. The stimulation is too much. The
weight of Dean watching him is also more than he can handle, and he wants
to turn his face away. Wants to kiss Dean's mouth, do anything that lets
him close his eyes against the onslaught.
"Good boy," Dean murmurs.
"Dean."
"It's okay," Dean says. "Come if it feels good."
"I can't."
"Yes, you can. I've got you."
Sam moans louder than he means to, but he can't stop his body from
shuddering or his cock from twitching or Dean from teasing his balls
exactly the way he likes it. Can’t stop his own hand from sliding
slick-sweet over his cock. Can’t stop Dean from rubbing a wet finger
across his hole or the way Sam spreads his legs a little more every time
Dean does it. Can't stop the way his hips buck and the intense green eyes
boring into his own and oh god, he's going to -- he can't --
"That’s my boy, come on, Sam…"
Sharp cry and Sam's head falls back over Dean's arm as he spasms and
shoots all over himself. Dean’s fingers slide around his own and keep
stroking Sam’s dick through the aftershocks until Sam whimpers in
discomfort.
Dean eases Sam back onto the bed and disentangles himself. Sam lets his
eyes flutter shut. His limbs are heavy and he can’t keep his eyes open. He
hears water running in the bathroom over his own harsh breathing. A few
minutes later he feels the bed dip and warm wetness on his groin. He opens
his eyes to see Dean wiping him clean with a washcloth. Dean runs the
cloth across Sam’s sticky hand before tossing it at the sink.
Dean maneuvers Sam under the covers and tucks him in. Sam helps him, sort
of, but it’s hard to move and he’s suddenly very, very tired. Sam is
naked, sweaty, and spent and smells like Dean's coat.
Dean brushes Sam’s hair from his face. "Go to sleep," he says.
"Dean..." Sam’s voice comes out sleepy but he wants to talk. Dean just
jerked him off and come morning this is going to be miles from okay, and
Sam can’t have them be broken too.
"Go to sleep, Sam," Dean says, and turns off the light. Sam hears Dean's
clothes rustle as he strips and gets into the other bed. Sam falls asleep
to the sound of gentle snoring, but doesn't know if that's Dean's loud
breathing or his own.
**
They avoid talking about sex at all until after the next job is over four
days later. Dean is riding high after a particularly successful and
gruesome hunt (god, but kelpies are assholes) and he's shooting pool and
tossing back beers and all but crowing in triumph.
Their waitress is an unnatural redhead, but she's got huge tracts of land
and leans over unnecessarily when gathering up the empties. Dean takes a
long pull from his beer and stares directly at her chest, which makes the
waitress grin and shimmy back to the bar. Sam doesn't roll his eyes when
Dean ogles her.
"What?" Dean says to him.
"What, what?"
"Aren't you going to roll your eyes and give me the 'you're always
thinking with your dick' speech?"
Sam swallows a swig. "We’ve earned some fun. And as you once poetically
said --" Sam gestures to the departing waitress, " -- that's fun."
Dean's eyebrow twitches. “You sure?” Dean asks.
Sam smiles into his beer. “Yep.”
Dean's face splits into a grin. He hands Sam the motel key. "Don't wait
up."
"Never do," Sam says, but Dean's halfway across the bar.
The air is crisp but not too cold as he walks back to the motel. He'd
turned the heat up when they left for dinner, so the room is comfortably
warm when Sam enters, tossing the key onto the table. He kicks off his
shoes and flops on the bed, picking up the remote and switching on the
television.
He surfs through infomercials, pauses on the weather reports, listens to
the news, and eventually finds porn. It's decent porn for once, or at
least featuring a porn star he's seen before with remarkable flexibility
and an even more impressive bra, at least from an engineering standpoint.
He finds himself absently stroking his nipple through his t-shirt.
Sam scrunches the pillows under his back and props against the headboard.
He slides a hand lower, feels himself half-hard through the denim and
pushes against the growing bulge. He closes his eyes and listens to the
moaning from the television, and imagines green eyes.
~end
