Current mood:	happy
Current music:	Gabriella Cilmi - Awkward Game
Entry tags:	fic - spn and cwrps

FIC: So Quit Asking Me
Title: So Quit Asking Me
Author: balefully
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: 2,205

Summary: Sam and Dean are bored on a long drive, so they decide to play a little game. Things get interesting.

Disclaimer: Sam and Dean are sadly not mine.

Notes: Written for my Sam's 25th Birthday Drabble Party in response to deirdre_c's prompt: "Sam/Dean, accidental (or "accidental") groping". Thanks to causeways for the inspiration and wee beta! <3! The Awkward Game is totally real! Title from "Awkward Game" by Gabriella Cilmi.



So Quit Asking Me

They're heading west on Route 66, clear across the country from St. Louis all the way to LA. Bobby's already waiting for them; they have to make good time or they won't get there by the full moon. He needs their help with some sort of cleansing ritual or something, and their window of opportunity is pretty narrow as far as the lunar cycle and wind patterns go.

Unfortunately, once they're on the road, there isn't much else they can do about it. And so they find themselves four days into an excruciatingly boring road trip with no stops for food beyond gas station Quik-E-Marts, no pulling over at roadside attractions to alleviate the monotony, and no tape player. It crapped out around mile two hundred and they don't have the time for Dean to fix it.

"Know any games?" Dean says once they hit Baxter Springs. They don't really pass through Kansas much in general, and when they do they both get antsy.

"Not ones that anyone other than a five-year-old with ADD would enjoy," Sam sighs.

"Perfect. Hit me."

"Dean, I am not playing I Spy with you. I may be bored, but I'm not that bored. I have a computer."

"Yeah, well. I don't."

"You're the one who never lets me drive. It's your own damn fault."

"Whatever," Dean says. He falls silent for a moment, but Sam can tell he's thinking. "How 'bout at school? You never once played like. I don't know, stupid party games? That sounds like the kind of thing Stanford dorks would love. Drinking games? Anything?"

"Dean," Sam huffs. "You are driving. Drinking games are not exactly on the table here." Dean's getting desperate, though, Sam can tell, and he really doesn't want to have to put up with a stir-crazy older brother. "I wish I could help you, man, but the only thing we ever really played was the Awkward Game, which just. No. And I only ever did it once, and I was shit-faced at the time, and in retrospect I never should've condoned it, because it's invasive and threatening and marginalizes—"

"The Awkward Game?" Dean sounds intrigued. Sam was hoping he'd drop it, but his life is nothing if not an abundance of vain hope.

"It's really stupid. Really, really stupid. I have no excuses besides that I got thrown together with a lot of immature douches as a freshman. They were easily amused."

"I don't care, Sammy, you gotta explain now that you mentioned it," Dean prods.

"Okay," Sam says. Dean won't let up until he talks; experience has taught him a lot. "So it's usually a guys-only game, and what you do is. You go up to another guy, and you touch him. Anywhere you want, however you want. And if he flinches or shows discomfort in any way, he loses. But if he just stands there and takes it, he wins, and gets the chance to touch you however he wants to and try to make you uncomfortable."

Dean says nothing for a long time. Sam can feel himself blushing bright red, and turns back to his computer without comment. He knew it was stupid, and that Dean would judge, and the fact that Dean isn't mocking him ceaselessly right the fuck now is weird and upsetting and he might possibly kick Sam out of the car and make him walk to LA for both being lame and playing undeniably gay games with other dudes in college.

"Let's do it," Dean finally says. He's still staring straight out the windshield, cheeks tinged pink, and Sam blinks in disbelief but doesn't test his luck.

*

A hundred and twenty-seven miles later, night has fallen and Sam and Dean are sitting silently in the car with their hands pressed to each other's dicks over the empty space between them in the front seat.

"Awkward yet?" Dean asks. It's the first thing either of them has said for at least ten exits.

"Nope," Sam says.

Another fifty miles pass, and Sam is getting good at using his laptop one-handed, avoiding Dean's fingers against his inner thigh as he types. "Awkward yet?" he asks.

"Yeah, sure, Sam. In the past five minutes I've miraculously discovered how uncomfortable I am. Suddenly the awkwardness is killing me," Dean sighs. "No, man, it's not—"

Dean's interrupted by the wailing of a siren and the tell-tale flashing blue-and-red of the biggest inconvenience ever. "Shit," Sam mumbles, closing his laptop and sliding it under his feet. "Shit, I think—"

The cop comes up behind them, and Dean pulls over right away. Sam blinks at Dean's hand still cupped around his crotch. "Um, Dean," he hisses. The policeman behind them is getting out of his car, striding closer, and Dean isn't moving his goddamn hand. "Dean! Awkward now!"

Dean takes his hand away, and Sam's dick suddenly feels weird and cold through his jeans. Dean does a mini fist-pump and shoots a smug smile at Sam just as the policeman comes up and taps on the roof.

After Dean rolls down the window, the policeman relates that they have a tail light needs replacing, but he'll just let them off with a warning since the car looks so fine. Dean beams and charms the cop like he always does, and Sam's heart calms down from spastic pounding to something slightly more healthy.

"I win," Dean says, laughing, after the cop strides back to his squad car.

Sam just huffs and curls up against the window. "That is so, so not fair. I'll get you back, man," he mutters.

*

The motel only has kings left. Sam keeps himself from thunking his head against the counter in frustration, but his smile is tight when he thanks the concierge and books a single-bed room for him and Dean.

Dean is similarly unimpressed when he sees their sleeping arrangements. He's acting fidgety and agitated, which is a little weird, but he's also not actually complaining, which is even weirder. They brush their teeth and get ready for bed as usual, Dean in his t-shirt and boxer-briefs, Sam in his knit pants and undershirt.

After a minor scuffle over who gets which side of the bed, they're both on their backs, staring at the ceiling. "This isn't so bad," Sam says, not sure why he's whispering.

"Just don't roll on me and suffocate me in my sleep, Sasquatch," Dean says. He's whispering, too. Sam just smiles.

He waits until Dean's breath starts evening out, his fingers twitching slightly against Sam's thigh. Dean's probably teetering just on the edge of sleep – perfect. Sam rolls over, sliding his hand up Dean's thigh, fingers and palm cupping and pressing and shifting against Dean's dick, his thumb dragging up under the tight leg of his underwear.

Dean's eyes snap open and his nostrils flare, panting fast and heavy as he focuses on Sam.

"Awkward yet?" Sam breathes, grinning wickedly.

"Unff," Dean says, throat clicking as he swallows. He's hardening under Sam's hand; there's no escaping it. Sam freezes, eyes widening.

There are about twelve billion thoughts racing through Sam's head, and he can't focus on a single one of them. Especially when Dean's hips shift up against his hand, dick a hot hard line under the cotton. Sam can't take his eyes off Dean's lips, slack with surprise and arousal, or his eyes, watery light from the parking lot glinting on the wide black of his pupils.

"It's only going to be awkward if you stop," Dean chokes out. "Because then I'd have to kill you."

And the best part, now that he thinks about it, is that Sam doesn't actually want to stop. Which makes the whole thing not very awkward at all.

He rubs in firm strokes over Dean's half-hard cock, and Dean rocks with him, humming low and ragged in the back of his throat. "Fuck, Sam," he says, "your hands, Jesus Christ—"

Sam's fingers rub farther up against the hair of Dean's thigh, the skin soft as his fingertips graze higher. Dean lets his legs fall apart, and Sam presses his lips together tight between his teeth to keep back the breathy moan he wants to let out, watching Dean turn into this: this slutty, open thing.

The heat from Dean's cock is unreal; Sam feels it burning through the layer between them and he needs to have it against him, against skin. He pushes Dean's waistband down, catching it under the heavy swing of his balls, and his dick springs out, thick and red. Sam can't help the hungry noise he makes, didn't think he'd ever be the type whose mouth would water at the sight of cock but fuck, he is.

Dean's thrusting his hips up in abortive little movements, short quiet groans an obvious beg for more friction, more of Sam's hands. Sam obliges, fisting Dean's dick and feeling it, soft skin and hot, hard length against his palm. It's wet at the tip, drips of precome collecting and sliding down the side, like how Dean's eyes water, squeezing shut as he pushes up into Sam's fingers.

Sam smears it around, the slick, clear fluid. He leans down to lick at it, curious and needing all of Dean he can possibly get right now. It's bitter, kind of sour at the back of his tongue, but god, it makes him ache with wanting Dean. He can't believe how much he's loving this, how dizzy he is with the feel of Dean under him, watching Sam through wet eyelashes and spit-slick lips as Sam works his cock, rubs at his balls, presses his knuckles against the thin skin between Dean's thighs that makes him jerk and keen.

Sam's cock is hard and wet too; he can feel it slipping against his belly, tenting his knit pants, the tip leaking and soaking through. That's not important right now, though, and he stops himself from humping Dean's leg like a dog, leaning down to mouth at Dean's neck instead, craving the taste of skin and sweat and Dean's desperation.

He works his way up Dean's fluttering throat, his sparse stubble, finally kissing at his reddened lips, licking and nipping as Dean whispers against his mouth, "Sammy, oh god, Sammy." Sam just deepens the kiss, drinks down Dean's words and the solid taste of him. He feels it through every inch of his body when Dean tenses up, the kiss turning frantic as Dean's hips snap fast with Sam's frenzied rhythm. Come on, Dean, come on. Sam can't say it, tongue wrapped up in Dean, but he presses it into him with his hands, with his mouth.

Dean comes with a broken cry, caught in Sam's lips. He pumps thick streaks over Sam's fist, up his own belly and chest, even some on Sam's stomach and chin. Sam strokes him through the shivery convulsions, soothes him with quiet words when their kiss is broken even though Sam's about to lose it himself.

"Oh my fucking god," Dean sighs, brushing his fingers over the white splatters on Sam's skin, bringing them up to his own lips to taste. Sam squeezes his eyes shut, can't look or he's going to shoot right there, no hand on him at all. "You like that?" Dean asks, sly, and Sam can't see it, but he can hear the smirk in Dean's voice.

Dean's hands, wet with come and spit, slide around Sam's shoulders, hauling him up to the head of the bed, rolling him over. "Your turn, Sammy," he says against Sam's ear, barely audible words hidden in the hiss of his breath.

"It's—I'm almost—" Sam attempts to warn him, but Dean's hand is already warm and slick, wrapped around Sam's cock all rough and strong before he can finish his sentence. He's shooting after two strokes of Dean's fist, so on-edge, rock-hard, that that's all he needed. He's clenching and sobbing with release as he pumps out the best orgasm he's had in who-knows-how-long, pinching thrill spiraling up from his balls all through his body, every limb and nerve tingling with buzz. "Shit, Dean—god—" he cries, babbling as Dean jerks him through it, sucking and nipping at his neck, his jaw, his mouth. Sam is in sensory overload and he seriously doesn't feel like he'll ever be sane again.

Dean backs off, though Sam doesn't know how long it takes him to come out of it. He lets his eyes flutter open to the gentle pulse of Dean's heart pressed to his side, Dean's hand cradling his spent cock, Dean's lips rubbing over the most sensitive stretch of skin on his shoulder. "Awkward yet?" Dean murmurs.

"Nope," Sam says, voice scratchy and worn. He leans forward and cranes his neck a little to press a soft kiss to Dean's temple. "If I'd known it could end like this, I totally would've played it more at school."

"Yeah, I think I like this game," Dean says. He turns, lying half on top of Sam, sweet smile on his face. "Good thing we still got fifteen hundred miles to go."

Sam laughs, warm and comfortable. "I'll never be bored again."

*