Rating: PG-13 for implied sexuality between brothers, you know, mild stuff
Word Count: 778
Author’s Note: This was a drunk podfic experiment I did with eosrose. I wrote it drunk, and did my best to make it podfic-y, and she read it several times in increasingly intoxicated states. You can listen to the drunk!podfic here! I hope this amuses you guys as much as we amused ourselves when we decided to give it a try. :D eosrose & I wanted to make sure to announce to any podficcers out there who are interested in trying a drunk podfic experiment of your very own that we would love to hear more drunk takes on this ficlet, so please feel free to repod (DRUNKLY :P).
Summary: Sam and Dean are given a very strong bottle of whiskey by a grateful fairy. They drink it.
"'m starting to get kinda tired," Dean says. Slurs, really. It's mostly one word.
Sam huffs a laugh, his fingers working through Dean's hair. "You are allowed to stop, you know."
"'mnot," is the reply. Sam feels a big, wet mouth open against his stomach, lips attaching like a goddamn vacuum cleaner, sucking at his skin. "There's still some down here. Can't waste it. Some. Some…"
Sam waits a few seconds, shifting when Dean goes back to licking alcohol off of him, tongue swirling in his navel, and then Dean's head reappears, looking up at Sam with a hazy expression. "Hey, what was this stuff called again?"
"Bru," Sam begins. His tongue tries to get ahead of him, and he spends the next ten seconds stuttering out different interpretations of what the drink may or may not be called. "Icyuia…ichly…icylydick. Bruicybu. Bruicydick."
"Heh," Dean bites his shiny bottom lip, "you said 'icy dick.'"
Sam's dick twitches as if it heard Dean, starts to wake up not far from where Dean's mouth is playing with him, and he's pretty drunk, but there's no amount of whiskey that can stop him from wanting.
He closes his eyes, tries to think non-dirty thoughts about his brother, who is way more fucked up than he is, and who Sam is, theoretically, not supposed to even be tempted to put his dick into. Not even when drunk. Not even when he looks like Dean and has spit on his big, shiny mouth and hair all mussed up from Sam's fingers in it and—
None of that. None. Whatsoever. Bad Sam, Sam thinks. That's a very bad Sam.
Dean's mouth trails down a little, into the cut of his hip, and he whimpers. Sam is pretty sure there's something he's supposed to say right now. Like 'stop,' maybe? 'Dean, I'm your brother and this is weird?' His head is fuzzy, though. He can't quite remember the script.
"Sammy," Dean says. "Why'm'I licking you?"
"Because the Scottish fairy gave us whiskey to thank us for saving her from—um." Sam snorts, passes his hand over his face to try and pull himself together, but he still ends up giggling like a lunatic. "From that cat. Remember? The cat. It was like…a cotton ball. An angry cotton ball."
"I remember the cat. I remember the fairy. I damn well remember the bruhaicydick whiskey."
"Bruich…bruichladdich," Sam corrects.
"But how did it get all over you. It was in a bottle. Now it's not in the bottle. It's on you. It makes," Dean pauses to lick, "no sense."
"You said it was cold," Sam reminds him. "And then you poured it on me because." He swallows hard, tries to remind himself that Dean has no idea what he's doing or saying right now. "You said I was hot. And that I would make it less cold."
"Mmm." Dean's tongue licks one long stripe up Sam's chest, all the way to Sam's neck where he's already sucked all the alcohol away. It feels more like sloppy kisses now, and Sam might actually die. "You are."
"I'm what?" Sam asks, holding his breath. "I'm what, Dean?"
"There's too much, though," his brother replies, pushing his nose against Sam's neck and taking that amazing mouth away. "There's too much of you and a guy gets tired."
"You can stop," Sam says again. His chest hurts, and he tries to tell himself it's just because he drank too much, but god knows he outgrew excuses like that the summer his bones all stretched too far, made him look down at the brother he always looked up to. "Please stop."
"Sammy wants me to stop?" Dean asks, laughing lightly as he lets his head loll against Sam's shoulder. "So grumpy." He slaps Sam's cheek playfully. "Why're you so grumpy, Saaaaammy?"
Sam tries to push Dean away, but he's drunk too, so he ends up pulling his boneless brother on top of him instead.
Dean pushes himself up on his hands, stares down at Sam. "You really are, though."
"Dean, what am I?"
Dean smiles, pushes some hair out of Sam's face. "Kind of insanely attractive, did you know that?"
"Dean," Sam whispers.
"I'mmagonna kiss you now," Dean says, but Sam catches him.
"Don't," he says. "It's not right. You're drunk and I—"
"Sam," Dean interrupts putting a hand over Sam's mouth. Or, well. He misses. But Sam can tell it's his mouth Dean was aiming for, so Dean has made his point. And Sam's point, too, kind of. "Saaaam, Sam, Sammy Sam, Sam."
"What the hell, Dean?"
Dean grins and touches his forehead to Sam's. "Shut up and kiss me."