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Title: Things You Can Learn in an Afternoon
Author: [ profile] mya_rofki
Rating: NC-17
Words: about 3,500
Characters: Dean/Sam, Dean/OFCs
Warnings: Dubcon/Noncon (see author's note for slightly more detail), Underage (Dean 17, Sam 13), Language
Spoilers: None
Summary: Pre-series. Dean learns everything he can about sex, and then decides to share his knowledge with Sam, like a good big brother.
Disclaimer: These are not my characters. I'm not making any money off of this.
Author's Note: Heed the Dubcon/Noncon warning, please. This is all Dean POV, and therefore the level of consent between he and Sam is very open to interpretation. His characterization in this is also darker than canon. If you do not like to read about the possibility of Dean as a sexual predator, I do understand, and think that this fic is probably not for you.

When Dean was thirteen, he crashed his first high school party, mooched beer until he'd set himself up nicely for his first hangover, and kissed his first girl. In his head, it went very smoothly. He kissed her, and she melted. In reality, it was the opposite of smooth.

“Just a kiss,” he slurred, and mashed his lips onto the girl curled under his arm before he could chicken out. She squealed and shoved at his face.

“Gross. Fuckin Budweiser breath,” she gasped, flustered and blushing. She wriggled out of his grasp and stood panting for a minute before disappearing into the party, like she wasn’t the chick throwing him those glances all night, like she hadn’t been pressed willlingly into his side for ten minutes. Like she hadn’t even noticed how her batted lashes made his breath stutter, didn’t feel his heart racing at the prospect of having his first kiss.

Dean hated girls that night. But he went home and told Sammy all about it, and when he told it to Sammy, she melted.

The next year, when Dean was fourteen, he reached another big milestone. Another party, another older girl, another attempt at smooth, while his inexperience had his heart in his throat the whole time. He'd kissed a few more girls in-between, but he wanted to go a little farther that night, and he thought he had a chance with this one chick.

He kissed her, and she didn't run away. She gave as good as she got, in fact, working her gloss-slicked lips against his, opening for him when he pressed. He pushed his tongue into her mouth and tangled it with hers, eased her back against the worn blue bedspread, worked his hand up under her shirt. He was practically holding his breath, never had touched a girl’s tits before, but he saw the opening and he went for it. He cupped them in his hands, full and warm and damp. Some of the dampness was from his palms, and he hoped she couldn’t tell.

They felt softer than he’d imagined. He massaged them like he’d been dying to, gently at first, and then, well, and then he got carried away. He got all excited, squeezed like the dudes in those movies he'd watched, and she squirmed and clamped her hand around his wrist, lacquered fingernails pinching skin in a sharp and unpleasant way.

“Jesus Winchester, you don’t knead them like bread dough,” she exclaimed, holding his wrist and giving him a stare.

“Okay. Sorry,” he muttered, redfaced. She huffed and released his arm. They made out for another ten minutes, but he couldn't bring back the feeling, that he was a stud on a mission. He felt more like a slow child with a finger up his nose, and she was stiff under his weight. The women in those movies never ruined the mood like that, he thought unhappily. They didn’t even say anything, just moaned when the guys tried out their moves.

He protested when she claimed she needed to go check on her friend, but of course she’d already made up her mind. He'd screwed it all up, and there was nothing he could've said. She gave him one brief press for a goodbye kiss, rolled out of the bed, and exited the room without a backwards glance. He had the feeling she wouldn’t be coming back. Not like he cared; she was a bitch anyway.

He left the party ten minutes later, went home without stopping. At home, he brushed his teeth and drank a glass of water, wandered back to the bedroom he shared with Sam, and shook his little brother awake for a (heavily embroidered) bedtime story.

When Dean was sixteen, he finally got a girl into the backseat of the car. Took him a couple weeks of working her up to it, and more of his pocket money than he'd have liked to have parted with, but on a Friday night in October, he opened the back door and she crawled in, and she only giggled nervously when he pushed up her skirt, peeled down her panties.

This is the moment, the big moment, he thought, getting himself out. It’s all been working up to this.

He positioned himself in a daze, guided in the tip, and had to bite his lip not to gasp embarrassingly. Warm and wet and he pushed the rest of the way in with one stroke. She cried out under him, writhed and dragged her nails down the back of the Impala’s seat. He froze, gaping in horror at the damage. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. His baby. The leather wasn't torn, but-

“C’mon,” she moaned, eyes closed. “Do it. Dean. Do it.” She urged at him by thrusting with her pelvis, and yeah, it felt good, but he was still stuck on the atrocity she'd just committed, and how was she still thinking about fucking right now?

“You scratched the leather,” he mumbled in shock.

She glared at him and thrust her hips again pointedly. “Fucking forget about it, c’mon.”

Dean went ahead and finished losing his virginity, so, technically, victory was his, but she was still pissy, and he just couldn’t get over her complete lack of remorse, and it was nowhere near as awesome as he thought it was gonna be.

“Sorry about your fucking carseat,” she bitched as she hauled herself out to walk the block home.

“Yeah, thanks,” he muttered back. Jesus. The car’d been his for less than a month, and Dad was gonna go through the roof when he noticed, which he so would. At least Dean could tell Sammy about getting his cherry popped before he died.

When Dean was seventeen, Sammy came to him for advice about girls, and Dean, who thought he could probably give that kind of advice in his sleep, found himself for some reason spouting some bullshit about Sammy needing hands-on tutoring instead. He surprised himself with the idea, and Sammy's saucer-wide eyes spoke to his own shock. But once it was out, Dean decided to just go with it. Some of his best ideas had come to him on the fly, after all.

“Just a practice kiss, so you know how to do it,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

“I gotta practice?” Sammy asked sceptically, but his expression had a little edge of uncertainty that Dean recognized. Sammy was halfway there with him, he just wanted to be convinced, a little bit.

And thank God. Sammy deserved to have his first kiss with someone who wouldn’t just call him gross and ditch him. Dean could handle rejection like that, but Sammy’d probably be scarred for life and enter a monastery or something, if he went through anything like the disasters that had marked each of Dean's first times.

“Sammy, what in this life don’t you have to practice?” he asked low and smooth, flashing his teeth, feeling vaguely scuzzy as he did it, but this was important after all. It was Dean’s duty to help Sammy out, by whatever means necessary. “You gotta practice shooting, you gotta practice driving... so, you gotta practice kissing too. No one’s a natural, no matter what bullshit they spout.”

Sammy peered up at him through his bangs, wavering. One of his bony hands worked a loose sofa cushion button, and for some reason, Dean was fascinated by that. He had to work to draw his eyes away, back to Sammy's face. “If you have a girl to practice on, one you don’t care about so much...” Dean offered. Sammy bit his lip, troubled. Dean knew that was a definite ‘no.’

“Man, that’s why you’ve got me,” he smiled persuasively. “I’ll still be your brother no matter how bad you suck at kissing. C’mon Sammy, you know I’m awesome at this stuff. You came to me for help, remember? So, this is how I help.” He waited. Sammy fidgeted.

In a minute, Sammy was going to nervously laugh it off and call him a perve. Dean braced himself for the disappointment, which would, of course, be mild. Because this was just some crazy, spur of the moment bullshit, nothing momentous.

“Okay,” Sammy finally mumbled, fingers stilling on the couch button. “Sure. One practice kiss. Just so I know how to do it right for Tracy.”

Dean practically fell off the couch in surprise, and something rocketed through his bloodstream like he'd just popped a pill. His heart gave several hard thumps. It was weird, that the thought of kissing his little brother would make him so... nervous. Dean didn't know what to think about it, and then Sammy was turning his face towards Dean, edging closer, eyes down, and Dean was having trouble thinking at all.

Sammy's shoulders were tensed, and his breathing sounded a little rough to Dean’s ears, and it wasn't a turn-on, that Sammy was nervous. It wasn't a turn-on, it was just that this was probably a stupid idea, and Dean was a little hyped up himself. That was why his blood surged all through him, including down to his cock, when he realized this was maybe really about to happen.

With the late afternoon sun heating the back of his neck through the open drapes, and the muted TV brightly flickering cartoons in his periphery, it seemed like what they were doing couldn't really be a big deal, not when it was just taking place in their cramped little living room, after school. If Dean were telling this story to Sammy, he'd make it evening, not mid-afternoon. And he'd make the couch nicer, upholstered in leather or something, not some dingy, worn-out canvas material. But this time, he wouldn't have to tell Sammy the story later. For some reason, that thought held Dean suspended for a moment.

Then Sammy licked the corner of his mouth nervously, just a flash of tongue. Some nervous tic. It wasn't sexy at all, but Dean saw that and closed the distance, in a rush he could almost hear.

Sammy’s lips were soft, cool, not too wet, not too dry. Dean’s eyes slipped closed as he pressed chastely against them. Sammy didn't seem to react at all, unless the stillness in his body was a reaction, and before he'd even made the decision to, Dean was pushing like he would with a real chick, like he shouldn’t because Sammy wasn’t a chick, but... Sammy’s mouth was so small, and he needed to push at it to get a real taste. He was just curious, or something, curious enough to probe a little bit, put a little pressure on. He did, and the mouth under his held still for a few long moments, and then it opened, slightly.

Heat shuddered through Dean’s innards, and his dizzy mind went running, running out ahead. He couldn't think anymore. He could only react. React to the tingling in his lips: by moving them against Sammy's pliant ones, licking at the slight part to Sammy's mouth, tasting and laving and sucking. React to the emptiness in his hands: by sliding them up and down Sammy's sides, until some instinct made them clutch at his waist, hard, and pull Sammy in towards him.

The move made Sammy gasp, and while his mouth was more open, Dean slipped his tongue in. He didn’t even realize he'd done it until Sammy choked a little in surprise, belly tightening under Dean’s thumbs. The muffled noise was like an electric jolt with a direct hook-up to Dean’s cock.

Sammy pulled back slightly against his hands, and Dean clamped down harder. Something uneasy tickled at the back of his mind, but Sammy was sweet like sugar inside, warm and wet like blood. And he wasn't struggling or anything, his hands were even clutching Dean's upper arms. Emboldened, Dean hauled Sammy in closer, until there was no closer he could come, and he was hot and taut, pressed against Dean's front. Dean’s brain thrummed with sudden knowledge. This was how it fit, his body against another, smaller body, line to line and curve to curve, perfect, perfect. It had never felt like that before. And he thought that it finally felt how it should feel, and he'd just never known that he was missing the point all along, before. His cock was hard enough to drive nails, and his skin was tingling, and his heart was beating like it was going to explode in his chest. Dean groaned, and it echoed in his ears, loud and obscene compared to Sammy’s subdued hitching.

He didn’t know how much time had passed when he tore himself away. He was breathless and wanting, with his cock throbbing insistently at his fly, and his lips buzzing. He would've kept going, but he needed to breathe.

He used the break to study Sammy's face, his flushed cheeks and swollen lips. It made a pretty picture, but Dean was certain, after a moment, that he could already see Sammy’s brain jittering itself into a worrying state. Sammy's body was stiff, and he was staring at Dean’s shoulder, not meeting Dean’s eyes. If Dean gave him time, Sammy would be overthinking all the implications at the first opportunity. Worrying about totally unimportant crap like what his guidance counselor would say, or how many years in prison Dean could get for this, or something ridiculous like that. Dean should do something to stop him before he got himself all worked up over nothing.

He flexed a soothing hand against Sammy’s waist through his thin t-shirt. He was still pretty keyed up himself, but he tried to project an air of calm, while he searched his mind for the perfect words, the ones that would convince Sammy about how much of a big deal this wasn't. Well, except it was a big deal, because it was the most fucking awesome sexual experience of Dean's life, but that probably wasn't the tack to take with Sammy, when he was all set to build this up into some huge problem, clearly.

“You okay, Sammy?” Dean leaned in close and tried to meet Sammy's gaze, as calm as he could manage it. Some anxiety still seeped through, roughening his voice. Sammy started and looked at Dean briefly, eyes screaming with a millions things that Dean wished he had a fucking translation for. He reached up, cupped his tender hand on the nape of Sammy’s neck, and squeezed comfortingly. Sammy’s mouth opened, but whatever thoughts were swirling around in his little brother’s head, they didn’t make it out into the air. Dean was still left to guess at the problem, as so often in the past. And then another thought struck him, a really good reason why Sammy might be nervous.

“Relax Sammy. I mean it. That was really great for a first time. Really great,” he soothed, in a sincere tone he didn’t let himself use often. He was not a sincere kind of guy.

Dean didn’t tell him that it was perfect, the best kiss he’d ever had, so different from all the others that it felt like it was his first real kiss too. There was no point in getting all crazy like that. Anyway, the praise was enough to have Sammy's eyes meeting his for a moment, though they skipped away again almost immediately.

“You know, Sammy, it’s okay if it felt good. It’s supposed to.”

Sammy shrugged weakly, his fingers tugging restlessly at the loose couch button again.

“C’mon. It felt good, didn’t it?”

“Yeah... But it was just for practice.” Sammy said quickly.

"Pretty damn good for a practice," Dean grinned.

"So you, uh... You thought it was good?"

“What did I just say? You’re a natural. So awesome, I wouldn't mind doing it again, right now." Dean kept grinning.

He saw Sammy’s lips part, and he knew he should let Sammy talk. He did. But Sammy was right there and his lips were pink from kissing, and he was looking right into Dean’s eyes anxiously, and before Dean knew it, he was pulling Sammy in, brushing his lips lightly in a much gentler, somehow more intimate kiss. He couldn’t help himself, he really couldn’t. He’d always been more of an actions than words guy anyway. And that kind of tenderness would tell Sammy more about how much Dean meant it than words could. He ended it quickly, then pulled Sammy into his arms instead of pulling back.

“So awesome, Sammy,” he husked in Sammy’s ear, feeling how Sammy jumped at the brush of moist air in his delicate ear canal.

“Dean...” Sammy started, pushing a little at Dean’s chest. He smelled so good, and when the tip of Dean's nose was brushed by a strand of flyaway hair, a shiver ran all the way through Dean's body. Sammy's skin was close enough to make out pores and all his tiny imperfections, and all Dean wanted was to map them out thoroughly with his lips, tongue, and teeth.

Dean mumbled “Shhh,” in his ear, and then began to mouth at Sammy’s neck, nibble and suck. Sammy stopped pushing at him and held still. “Lesson’s not over,” Dean said between attacks. “This is, like, the intermediate level. You’re too good for beginner.”

Sammy's pulse throbbed under the thin skin of his throat. That, and his uneven breathing, and his tight body were the only real responses Dean was getting. It occurred to Dean, with a burst of fond amusement, that Sammy might be trying to concentrate, trying to treat this as a real lesson. It was so Sammy. He must still be thinking there was going to be a test later. It made Dean want to teach him more. And then he could test him on it.

The idea of going further, once it had planted itself in his brain, seemed like a good one. Without overthinking it, he rolled forward, pushed Sammy down so his back was against the couch and Dean was crouched up over him. Sammy offered a little resistance, a little push-back against Dean's hands, but he never said 'Stop,' so Dean just put it down to nerves. He distracted Sammy with kissing, almost got distracted himself, to be honest, because God it was good, and it only seemed to get better with time. Little pants of air from Sammy’s nostrils brushed across his face, and Sammy’s skin under his lips was so soft and sweet when he tasted it.

"Kiss me back," Dean said hoarsely.

Sammy’s eyes slipped closed, and he finally started responding, a little haphazardly, mouth working under Dean’s onslaught, tongue twisting inexpertly against Dean’s. It was goddamn hot. Shouldn't have been, because there was no finesse in the movements at all, but somehow it was.

Dean slid a hand down Sammy's body, cupped Sammy’s groin, and gently pressed. Beneath him, Sammy squirmed, and made a strangled noise that was too ridiculous to be as sexy as it was. He could feel Sammy’s dick firm up under his palm for an instant, and then it was gone. Sammy was twisting his hips away, reflexively trying to bring a knee up to block. Dean was straddling him, one knee wedged between Sammy's knee and the back of the couch, the other hemming him in from the other side, so there was nowhere really for him to go, but that didn't seem to stop him from trying.

"No, Sammy," Dean husked. "Hold still. I'm gonna make you feel so good." He pushed Sammy's leg back down flat, while with his other hand he started rubbing Sammy again, roughly. He kept kissing him and sucking on his neck. He slipped his free hand under Sammy’s shirt and smoothed it up and down Sammy’s side. Sammy stayed still as he could, but Dean thought he could feel the trembling build-up, the coiling and coiling in the stiff body under him. He cupped and rubbed, and watched sweat build up at Sammy’s temples and his teeth sink into his lower lip. With every second of watching Sammy, Dean was getting harder. Sammy’s eyes stayed shut, a furrow as if he was in pain creased his brow. Dean felt his own cock, swollen hot, straining against his jeans. He couldn’t stop touching Sammy long enough to get it out. He didn't want to stop for even a second, for fear Sammy would change his mind.

Sammy finally came, sudden and violent. His head wrenched to the side, and his mouth gaped open, his hips jerking once against Dean’s hand before slamming back down against the sofa cushions and pressing in, hard. Not a sound escaped his clenched throat. His hands twisted in the threadbare fabric of the sofa. His whole body rocked in a tightly controlled seizure. After a few moments, Sammy collapsed back limply. Dean looked down and he could see through the sweatpants how Sammy’s cock had softened, how there was a wet patch starting to seep through.

Dean yanked at his button and zipper like his pants were on fire, eyes fixed on the growing wet stain. He did that. He made that. He made Sammy come. He bit back a groan at the thought, and scrabbled even more frantically at his crotch, shoved down the waist of his underwear one handed while he supported his weight with the other..

He freed his cock finally. It sprang up against his belly, red and proud, and he looked from it to Sammy’s face, but Sammy’s eyes were still closed, mouth still open. There was a tear trailing from the corner of his eye. A shiver of something stronger than lust ran through Dean, and his dick twitched at the sight. He was Sammy’s first and only. This was something Sammy would never forget, and Dean was the one who gave it to him. He felt so proud and grateful and full of love for Sammy, in that moment.

“Oh God,” he groaned, and barely stopped himself from saying something unbearably sappy. Instead, he fisted his cock with one hand as he leaned in to kiss Sammy's temple. He tasted the trace of saltwater on his lips, felt Sammy gasp against his ear, and Sammy’s eyes opened, crystalline sparkling of moisture in his lashes and his irises were limpid pools. He gazed straight ahead, past Dean, to the dingy old back of the couch. Dean's hand stilled on his cock. He looked young, vulnerable, and at the same time, Dean could see a kind of depth in his eyes. Sammy had always been so wise for his age. An old soul, one neighbor had called him once. Dean had scoffed at the time, but the words had stuck in his head.

They were why this was okay, when probably most people would say this was wrong. Sammy was mature for his age. Sammy was ready for this.

"Hey," Dean husked.

Sammy turned his head, and his shining eyes met Dean's gaze, solemn and unflinching.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

Sammy nodded.

Dean felt kind of stupid for even asking, because seriously, it wasn't like having a mind-blowing orgasm was going to traumatize a teenage boy. And watching Dean come was not gonna traumatize Sammy either. He let go of his dick long enough to pull Sammy’s shirt up past his ribs, almost choked on a wave of want as he saw how flushed his dick looked next to Sammy's pale, concave belly.

He pumped himself hard and ducked his head down to latch onto Sammy’s smooth jaw, still not a hint of hair there yet, and Dean wondered if Sammy’s hairs were growing in down around his dick yet, and the thought of it, the mental picture of what he’d find if he just slipped his hand under Sammy's waistband right then, of what he would find when he had the patience later, was enough to send him over the edge. He came hard onto Sammy’s bare belly, eyes closed, and still mouthing mindlessly at his jaw as the spasms of pleasure racked him.

After his brain started to function again, he straightened up, tucked himself away, and covered the mess on Sammy’s belly with his t-shirt. The way the material skewed wetly when he pulled it back down over almost made him groan aloud. He thought he should let Sammy go take a shower, before the messes under his shirt and in his pants got tacky and dried on him. And maybe Sammy wanted a little time alone to process or something, too. Dean hated being alone, didn’t see the point in brooding or dwelling, and would always rather be with somebody, if it couldn’t be Dad or Sammy, then at least a diner full of strangers was better than alone, but Sammy always said he needed to be alone sometimes.

He didn't suggest a shower though. And Sammy came without protest when Dean grasped his wrist and pulled him up tight against his side, almost into his lap. When something was really bothering him, Sammy never had a problem speaking up, so Dean knew he wanted to stay close for a while, bathe in the afterglow.

Dean tucked his head up under his chin and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He fixed his eyes on the TV, so he could at least pretend like his every sense wasn’t still quivering full of Sammy Sammy Sammy.

“That felt pretty good, huh?” he asked, couldn’t believe how casual he managed to get his voice. He gave Sammy an affectionate little shake.

“Sure,” Sammy mumbled. Embarrassed. He was such a dork.

Dean smiled about it, about how different it felt this time. Sammy was hooked under his arm, quiet, still, not going anywhere, and he reveled in the rightness of it; the certainty that this time no one was walking away. He’d had more than enough of them always walking away.

The End

If you're interested, you get a little more insight into what Sam's thinking here.

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