Title: Rite of Passage
By: ruefulgirl
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: about 1650
Warnings: underage incest
Summary: Dean teaches Sam to shave. Sex ensues.
Author's Notes: So, basically this is shaving porn. And let me tell you, if shaving my legs was this hot I'd never leave the tub. Although I don't really dig angst with my shaving, so maybe I would leave the tub after all ... Anyhow. Inspired by notthequiettype's Two Bits, which, by the way, kicks my ass when it comes to the actual shaving stuff. ;-) Beta'd by dysonrules.

***

For the third time in a few minutes, Dean uses a hand towel to wipe the steam from the bathroom mirror.  It doesn't help much, although he can make out Sam's dark hair as he stands next to him.  It's early Saturday morning and they don't really know where Dad is -- maybe sleeping it off in the parking lot of a bar, or chasing down some spook on his own.  He's not due back for three days yet, and Dean's been entrusted with Sam's care, like usual.  Sam insists he doesn't need a babysitter at 17 (even though Dean damn sure intends on brothersitting for the rest of his life) but he does want Dean to teach him to shave without  shredding his skin into bloody ribbons.  There are already enough monsters out there that want to do that to him.

Sam's holding the razor awkwardly, so Dean wraps his hands around Sam's, fingers covering fingers, as he positions Sam's hand correctly and guides him through the motions.

"Gentle ... gentle," Dean croons.

Sam nods.  His green eyes are clear, his face unlined and smooth. Carefully, he slides the razor across the scattering of facial hair on his chin.  He's fresh from the shower, dark hair curling on his neck, white towel twisted low across his hips.

Dean watches, affection welling up in his throat.  Sam's as tall as Dean now, and likely to add a few more inches on top of that.  Growing up so fast ... and Dean's so proud of the man he's becoming.  The kid has changed so much, leaving behind gawky adolescence and diving headlong into adulthood, with all its personal space and grooming requirements. It's been a long time since they've stood this close together, done anything so slow and quiet and intimate.

He can smell the soap Sam's just used, and now he notices the way Sam purses his full lips as he concentrates.  Dean wipes an errant streak of shaving cream from the smooth line of Sam's jaw, and slides the creamy silk of it between his thumb and index finger.  It dawns on him just how tempting Sam's lips look up this close, something he's really never noticed before.  But now, he can't help but think about running his hands up his brother's smooth naked chest to cup his newly shaven jaw, lick those plump moist lips, press his hand to Sam's groin, feel his cock hardening under his touch, hardening because of him ...

If Dean had been able to give the thought some time he's sure it would have automatically slipped into the same category as another of those things Dean is never meant to have:  a real home, a steady girlfriend, and more than $20 to his name.  Although, honestly, an incestuous relationship with his underage brother didn't really seem to fit in the same category as those other things.  

This would have remained as some bizarre, random impulse, never to be realized, except for one thing.  Sam chooses that moment to look at him—really look—and Dean sees his own need and longing mirrored in his brother's shaving-cream-streaked face.

"Dean ..." he murmurs on a breath, lips parted.  The sound seizes a primal part of Dean that exists purely on instinct, jarring him into action.

Both of them move toward each other.  Lips meet lips – warm, wet, sucking, nipping – and their hands are all over each other, feeling smooth, hot skin, hard muscles, jutting bones – jutting erections ... Dean's senses are on overload as a sudden hunger to taste his brother's flesh, to make him groan and cry out in ecstasy, overcomes him.  A sliver of sanity remains, though.  A voice crying in the wilderness of lust:  you can't.

He tears his lips away, pulse hammering through the roof, breathing harsh.  He means to say something to Sam, to apologize or make an excuse, but words are trapped somewhere in his higher brain functions, and all he can do is stare.  He's only aware of Sam: his taste and smell and feel.  So when Sam makes a needy sound and draws Dean toward himself again, fingers digging into the pressure points at Dean's elbows, Dean lets himself yield.

When he's hunting, Dean doesn't think about each step of the fight – the angle of his wrist as he lets fly with a knife, or the position of his foot when pivoting around to block a blow – he just does.  He trusts his body, a trust rewarded with fluid, effortless power and a singing kind of joy.

It's the same now as Dean acts, sliding down Sam's lean form.  Unwilling to break physical contact even for a moment, he ends up on his knees on the damp linoleum, hand tugging Sam's towel away.  

Sam gasps as Dean's lips trail across the skin under his navel, following the thin line of hair down, down, down until his lips meet hard flesh – probably virgin flesh – because although Sam doesn't let on how far he and his cute little girlfriend have gone, Dean's pretty sure she's never done this to him. Urged on by some rolling inevitable tide, he sucks Sam's cock into his mouth, sucks long, deep and hard, tongue slip-sliding along the veins and over the smooth head, laving it with love and pride and duty all those sentiments he can never speak out loud.

Sam's head falls back and he makes an inarticulate noise of bliss in the back of his throat, something halfway between a growl and a tortured cry.  His fingers, calloused from weapons training, cradle Dean's head, spasming every now and again when Dean scrapes Sam's shaft with his teeth.  

Dean's hands rest on Sam's hips, his thumbs caressing the soft unbroken skin under which Sam's muscles tense and release.  Dean feels sweat spring up from the sudden tidal wave of lust in Sam's body.  Sam's cock grows harder, swelling from Dean's worshipful attention, and the noises he's making have devolved into choked, animal-like cries.

Dean's hands creep around Sam's ass, gripping him tighter, pulling him closer, all the while sucking and licking like he'll up and die if he can't get his brother off right now.  Sam responds – hell, how can he not respond considering the fervor Dean is lavishing on him? – with bucking hips and fingertips that tighten on Dean's scalp.  Dean urges him on, relaxing the muscles of his throat, his thoughts a never-ending litany of Come on, Sammy, come for me, come into me ...

He knows he's succeeded when Sam goes shock-still, and lets loose with a low exhalation, coming down Dean's throat.  Dean continues to suck Sam through his orgasm, choking a little as he milks Sam dry.  

"Dean," Sam says hoarsely and tugs him upward.

Dean climbs to his feet reluctantly, placing a kiss here and there up Sam's long torso until they stand face to face, Dean's erection trapped between them.  Sam gives a lazy little groan and slides his hand down to fist Dean's cock and that touch is what does it.  That touch.  It's fire and ice and all the forbidden things of the world.  And suddenly Dean is staggering backwards.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, breath frozen in his lungs, eyes locked on Sam's flushed, trembling form.

God, what have I done?

"I ..." he trails off, because after the enormity of the sin he's just committed, what can he say?
Sam just looks at him, eyes burning, lips swollen.  He's gulping breaths like he's just run a relay race, and maybe he has.  He seems at a loss.

"Sammy ... I didn't mean to hurt you.  I ... what was I thinking?  I'm so sorry," he whispers in horror, suddenly dizzy and nauseous.

Sam blinks.  "What?"  He seems stunned.

Shame surges up Dean's throat.  God, no wonder the kid seems stunned – he's just been mauled by his big brother.  How else should he act?  Dean makes a choked sound and sinks down on the edge of the tub, head in his hands.  

Sam sinks down in front of him, grasping Dean's shoulders between his hands.  He squeezes until Dean looks at his face, so young and earnest.  "You don't get to blame yourself for this, Dean.  I liked it.  I wanted it," he pauses, swallowing.  "If it makes you bad and sick, then what does it make me?"  

Dean feels a stirring of anger.  "Don't do that, Sam," he warns.

"Then you can't, either."

Sam's expression is stubborn and familiar, and Dean can't help but give him a grudging smile. "You're too smart for your own good, you know that?"

"Yeah," Sam says.  "Doesn't mean I still don't need you to teach me things."

Dean's starting to realize that he and Sam are okay, and the relief leaves him weak.  He clears his throat.  "Like shaving?"

Sam gives a bark of laughter.  "Yeah.  Like shaving."  Sam slips his hand down Dean's back suggestively, and turns his lips to Dean's neck.  "Speaking of that lesson, we've got a little more practicing to do still ..."

Dean's not entirely sure this is a good idea.  Not sure in the least.  Still.  "Dad is always going on about how practice makes perfect," he says hoarsely.  

He feels Sam smiling against his neck.  "Now, that's one thing I'm not going to argue about."   


--end

***

Next story in series - Deep Waters.