“Saaaaaammy, I’ve got a present for you!” Dean practically sang as he came through the door.
He slammed it behind himself and grabbed Sam’s attention away from rebandaging his finger over the sink. While Dean beamed like he’d just done something magnificent, Sam was skeptical.
“I thought you were going to the laundromat,” he said incredulously as he gave Dean a once-over, not spotting a small laundry detergent-shaped lump in either of his pockets. Not like he’d be mad at detergent, though, they could use it after tonight. Bandages and Neosporin wouldn’t be so bad, either.
Dean sidled up to Sam, shooting him one of those smouldering looks that made his cheeks heat up like he was still an inexperienced teen about to cop his first feel. He looked away, a slight smile pulled across his lips as Dean propped his hip against the edge of the counter. Sam wasn’t trapped, not really, but that didn’t dampen the excitement that came from feeling like he was cornered.
“Well it wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you exactly what I was doing, now would it?”
Sam finished wrapping his finger and turned to Dean, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not sure I want to know what kind of surprise has you this excited.”
Dean’s gaze bounced downward, and at first Sam mistook it for nothing more than an advance. He grinned and leaned back against the edge of the sink, wincing when his injured finger pressed against the laminate.
“Really, Dean, what?” Sam scoffed, his expression unfaltering even when Dean furrowed his brow.
“I’m leading you to your present, Sammy, follow my eyes!”
Realization hit somewhere between Dean’s ribcage and his waist—at least where they would be underneath his clothes—and Sam felt sinking regret on behalf of his older brother. He knelt down onto his knees and looked up at him, scrutinizing Dean’s face and deciding to continue on only when he decided this wasn’t some kind of joke. At least, not a joke at Sam’s expense.
Sam’s fingers found Dean’s fly underneath the bottom of Dad’s jacket, and he undid the button and zipper carefully, painfully slowly, just to get Dean hot and bothered. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Dean’s boxers and pulled the elastic down, only seeing shaved pubic bone at first. Dean wasn’t hiding the joy he got out of watching Sam undress him, gripping onto the edge of the kitchenette’s counter with white knuckles. His half-cocked grin did something dangerous to Sam, but that’d have to be addressed once this stupid surprise was revealed.
Sam pulled the waistband down another inch and saw the dark green edge of something—whatever it was had pilled up with the friction of his boxers against it, and Sam looked up in disbelief.
“A temporary tattoo?” He shouldn’t have been so mad about it; especially when Dean could have gone the extra mile and gotten a true tattoo, or even worse, some kind of piercing that would inevitably get infected because he refused to abstain from sex and masturbation during the healing process.
“C’mon, at least see the whole thing before you bitch me out,” Dean purred.
Sam rolled his eyes and pulled his boxers down to his knees, a laugh getting caught in his throat at the sight: two holly leaves with berries plastered over Dean’s slit. The design was similarly pilled all over, but not to the extent that Sam couldn’t make out what it was supposed to be. His brother really thought he was hilarious.
As Sam was preparing to stand back up and make himself comfortable in their superfluous bed, Dean grabbed his hair and pulled him back into place, Sam’s face level with his gaily-adorned vulva.
“Up-up-up, Sammy, you’re under the mistletoe.”
Sam rolled his eyes and attempted to ignore how tight the front of his jeans were feeling now that Dean was pulling his hair. “It’s not much of a surprise if you’re giving me something I see every single day, is it?”
Dean scoffed and tightened his grip, getting a short gasp out of Sam. With that additional pressure against his scalp, his cock was pressing against his fly and demanding to be freed.
“At least you don’t have to pretend you like it.” He stroked the side of his thumb against the part of Sam’s hair, looking down at him with dark eyes.
Sam could only hope his irritation was plain on his face even as he smiled up at Dean, leaning in closer and kissing him on the lips. Dean looked proud as he tightened his grip on Sam’s hair, arching his back until he was smashed against Sam’s face like a slice of wedding cake. Dean reeked with arousal, Sam wouldn’t be surprised if he had been wet the entire ride home from wherever he’d bought and applied the temporary tattoo.
“I’m not getting that in my mouth,” Sam said against Dean’s vulva, slotting his tongue between his slit and dragging it upward. Dean grabbed the edge of the counter and attempted to dig his nails into the laminate.
“You’ve had worse things in your mouth, Sammy. Now stop bitching and play with your gift.”
Sam scoffed again, pushing Dean’s thighs apart and nestling his head in between them. He buried his face into Dean’s pussy and worked into his slit, rocking the tip back and forth until he decided to focus his attention on Dean’s clit. First, Sam pulled back and stared at it, bouncing his gaze between it and Dean’s desperate face. He waited patiently even as his knees screamed, and eventually Dean pulled his hair and forced his face back into his decorated crotch. Sam smiled and got to work sucking his brother off.
He rolled his tongue across Dean’s clit, enjoying both the pain shooting across his scalp and Dean’s attempts to sound tough while Sam ate him out. He wrapped one hand around the back of Dean’s thigh, digging his nails into the flesh just underneath his ass while he used the other to spread Dean’s lips apart. Sam’s tongue circled around Dean’s entrance but he failed to slot inside of him—his muscles were contracted and Sam couldn’t have forced his way in even if he wanted to. He tightened his grip and dragged his tongue tip upward, his cock twitching in his pants when he heard Dean struggle to hold back a gasp.
“Good job, Sammy, fuck, you’re really good at this,” he said roughly. Dean wrapped his hand around one thick section of Sam’s hair and tugged it hard.
Sam moaned and readjusted himself to try and alleviate some of the pressure on his leaking cock—Dean probably wouldn’t have been mad if Sam reached down in between his legs and palmed himself through his jeans, but he wasn’t mad about solely getting off on moaning, hair-pulling, and now praise.
“Were you doing porn to pay for school? You should’ve been, god damn, Sammy.”
He whimpered at the feeling of his cock pressing against his fly, pressure growing in his jeans but denied touch or even freedom; Sam was going to come in his underwear and even though he hated the feeling in the aftermath he wanted to focus all of his attention on his brother and giving him the Christmas that he wanted.
“For all you know I sold my soul to a crossroads demon to give better head,” he said against Dean’s saliva-slicked vulva before he spread him open again and darted the tip of his tongue across the underside of his clit.
“It was worth it, Sammy, baby, fuck, I’m gonna fall on my ass.”
Dean’s knees buckled and Sam attempted to keep him upright, holding onto his thighs until it felt like he was steady, even as the pressure against his finger made him wince in genuine, non-pleasurable pain. Though Dean was tired—they both were—and all the blood rushing between Sam’s legs wasn’t helping in keeping him alert, either. Sam took the slight length of Dean’s clit into his mouth and sucked on it, feeling pleased when Dean dragged his fingernails across his scalp and tugged hard enough to pull strands.
Dean had to have been happy, and Sam hoped that’d make up for the last-second candy bar and motor oil.
—
He wasn’t proud to admit that he found tiny flecks of temporary tattoo in his teeth when he went to brush them. He also wasn’t extremely proud to admit that he did kind of enjoy his “present,” a much preferred backup gift to the skin mags, and would probably think back on it for years to come.
That wasn’t entirely because of how mindblowing going down on Dean for the fiftieth time was, though: Sam liked it, but giving Dean head didn’t stick out in his mind like pulling off on the side of the highway to have incredibly impromptu anal did. What would stick with him was probably the fact that when Dean came, he jolted his hips forward so hard that he gave Sam a nosebleed, which he thought was incredibly hot. Sam could have gone without the pain, but he did like Dean doting over him and fixing him up after he got his fix of bloody Sammy. It also wouldn’t be the first time one of them got injured because of their Christmas gifts, but they didn’t talk much about the year Dad got Dean his first switchblade, AKA the year that Sam learned how to give stitches.
The motel room was dark now, the only light coming from the dim strand of LEDs wrapped around their tiny Christmas tree and the TV across from the couch. Dean had fallen asleep waiting for Sam to get ready for bed, and he didn’t want to wake his brother up. He carefully maneuvered around Dean’s sprawled body, nestled against the back of the couch and struggling to find even a wedge of space without pushing Dean onto the floor.
Sam found a nook to slide himself into, careful not to knock his nailless finger into anything as he pressed flush to Dean’s side.
“Nhgh,” he moaned, turning on his side and allowing Sam enough room to comfortably lay on his side. It wasn’t the first time they’d shared a couch, and Sam was sure it wouldn’t be the last.
The sound of cars cutting through the dark night paired nicely with the muffled sounds of Rudolph: The Red-Nosed Reindeer on the TV across from them. Sam snuggled up against Dean, his forehead pressed against the back of his brother’s head. He draped one arm over him and let it fall limp across Dean’s chest, smiling when he felt Dean grab onto it and hold it in place over his heart. His breathing was steady, but his body was still radiating a much-appreciated heat in their chilly motel room. This was all Sam really wanted for Christmas, and he was going to revel in the first peaceful Christmas morning they’d had in years, bruised and bloodied nose notwithstanding.