Dean, always with the scissors (Smutty Remix)

A/N:  I realized when I wrote this that it owes a debt to Anita Mashman’s short story “Five Dimes”, which can be found in the 1993 edition of The Best American Erotica. 

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Dean muttered angrily to himself as he tied the strings around his neck, and then again around his waist. The strings hanging down from the bow at the small of his back tickled his asscrack. The air moving across his naked ass and balls was distracting, as was the movement of cloth across his thighs and…other parts.



He looked down and grimaced. The bib of the apron was a white expanse down his torso, so that wasn’t so bad. It was the skirt that was causing him to plot Sam’s death in messy, painful ways. It was wide and long, just hitting his knees and it had ruffles. A double row of them, in fact. All starched and wide and…ruffly-looking.



In no way did Dean find this at all arousing. Or amusing.



At least he got to keep his boots on. For when he was going to kick Sam’s giant cheating ass after this.



“Hurry up in there!” Sam called out from the other room.



Dean’s grumbling ratcheted up a notch to semi-audible as he banged a metal tray onto the counter.  He took a lacy paper doily from a plastic wrapped packet and laid it on the tray.



“Quitcher bitching. You lost fair and square.”  Sam’s voice continued.



“Should know better than to play rock paper scissors with a freaking PSYCHIC!” Dean yelled the last part.



“I don’t need to be psychic to predict that you’ll pick scissors every time. Now hurry it up or my beer’ll get warm.”



Dean pulled a bottle from the fridge, popped the cap, and put it on the doily on the tray. Sam didn’t even have the decency to drink something manly or common, he had to have some sort of wussy local microbrew.



The cold air from the refrigerator swirled around his bare legs and upwards and his nuts shriveled up like a sack of dimes.



Oh, Sam was going to pay and pay and pay for this. Itching powder in his underwear for all eternity. Superglue on every possible surface he might touch. Red t-shirts in with the white laundry. Oh yes. Dean’s revenge would be subtle and terrible.



“And put a smile on your face when you bring that beer.” ordered Sam.



“That wasn’t part of the deal!” protested Dean.



“It’s part of the service.” returned Sam. “Do it.”



“Toppy bitch,” Dean muttered to himself as he picked up the tray, balanced it on his fingertips, and pasted a minty-fresh smile on his face. He clomped into the next room.



Sam was in the only comfortable chair in the room, head bent as he pored over some book or another. Dean stood in front of him, struck a pose like Alfred the Butler’s, and said tartly, “Your beer, sir.”



Sam didn’t respond for a minute, and then his gaze traveled slowly up Dean’s body, from his disreputable scuffed boots to the ruffles edging the apron, and by the time he got to Dean’s face, he was flushed, panting slightly, and his pupils were totally blown.



Dean breathed, “Shit, Sammy,” as his own flush raced down his body. His dick slowly hardened in the face of Sam’s obvious arousal, unfurling until the front of the apron tented out.



The book fell to the floor, forgotten, as Sam leaned forward. He trailed his hands up Dean’s legs, tickling the skin gently until he got to the edge of the apron. He grasped it and pulled it taut, throwing Dean’s dick into even greater relief as he touched his tongue to the damp circle of precome on the front. Dean choked slightly and his arm shook, making the beer bottle clatter on the tray.



Sam stopped what he was doing and looked up at Dean. “Don’t drop the beer.” he stated clearly. Dean frowned at him.



“I mean it. Drop my beer and I stop immediately. You don’t want that, do you?” Sam said. He then bent his head to the outline of Dean’s dick and any smartass remark Dean was going to make died in the blood rush out of his brain. He managed to stammer out, “N-no,” and Sam smiled. “Didn’t think so,” he said.



Sam’s hands fisted the apron, clenched just behind Dean’s legs, below his ass, holding him still while he slathered Dean’s cloth-encased dick with spit. Sam licked it with long rough strokes as Dean swayed and trembled, legs shaking with the effort of holding himself up, arm shaking with the effort of holding the tray steady. His other hand grasped Sam’s hair, twining his fingers in the strands to hold himself up.



Sam sucked at the wet fabric surrounding Dean’s dick and Dean let out a thready moan -- it felt good, so good, Sam knew just what to do, but the cloth was starting to chafe a bit. “Sam,” he gasped out, “you gotta stop.”



“I do?” Sam replied, looking up and looking disingenuous.



Dean took his hand from Sam’s hair and gestured downward. “I know you like it raw, but maybe not this raw,” was all he said. Comprehension dawned in Sam’s eyes and before Dean could move away, Sam tossed the apron over his head. Dean could see nothing of what Sam was doing, but the sudden sensation of wet warmth, tongue doodling, and suction on his slightly sensitive dick was like a punch in the head. “Sweet JESUS, Sam,” Dean groaned, swaying.



Sam didn’t say anything, his mouth was full, but his hands gripped Dean’s hips, thumbs stroking the jutting knobs of bone, holding his brother steady while he inexorably swallowed Dean down and down.



And Dean, well, Dean’s focus narrowed to two pinpoints: the swirling pleasure building up from Sam’s mouth on his dick, and NOT DROPPING THE BEER. As his orgasm spiraled outward, shattering all his muscle control, Dean’s awareness was split between the oblivion of coming and shoving all of his diminished control into that directive. Sam hummed and swallowed as Dean threw his head back, teeth clenched around a scream of both frustration and release.



Sam pulled off Dean, laying an open-mouthed kiss on his hipbone, and slid his head out from under the apron. He grinned up at Dean through messy hair, lips ruddy and shining.



Dean scowled down at him. “Take your beer, control freak,” he grumped, maneuvering the tray carefully in front of him. Sam took the beer, placing the tray gently on the floor. He tugged on the apron until Dean was kneeling in front of him. He kissed Dean slowly and thoroughly, letting him taste his come on Sam’s tongue. “You love it,” Sam whispered into Dean’s ear, and Dean blushed, averting his gaze, admitting nothing.



Next time, they’d flip a coin or something; at least then Dean would have a 50/50 chance of coming out ahead.