Dean never could have predicted that Sam would grow up to be such a coy little slut.
The way he can’t keep pencils and pens out of his mouth. He suckles on the blunt ends, drags them across his bottom lip, practically makes them his bitch while he’s reading local news articles and marking any strange obituaries he finds. The innocence that flashes in his eyes when he looks up and catches Dean staring only makes it harder for him to sit straight.
He isn’t convinced that Sam doesn’t know what he’s doing, playing that shy bookworm act. With Sam around, Dean feels like he’s in his own personal porno where he inspires the frumpy young librarian to take off her glasses and shake her hair out of its old lady bun. He wishes Sam would drag him back to periodicals and bang him senseless when he flicks his tongue across the end of his Bic. The Velma to his Fred, obviously.
“You’re staring,” Sam tells him from the other end of the lumpy couch.
“So? I can’t stare at my own brother?”
Sam laughs, giving the paper a lopsided grin.
“It’s just that you’re tenting your jeans pretty hard right now. You know you can just ask and I’ll suck your dick, right?”
Dean’s face went hot and he stretched his arm out across the back of the couch. Smooth. Casual. Cool.
“Yeah. I knew that,” he said stiffly, cupping his mouth with his other hand. He couldn’t think about anything but Sam kneeling in between his legs, his mouth wrapped around his cock instead of a pen that couldn’t appreciate his talents the way Dean could.
“So?” Sam teased, glancing over at him. The paper was folded and placed to his side.
Dean nodded once, not too eagerly.