Wee!cest – Sammy's 16 and Dean's 20. For WincestftwDestielforever – thanks for creating me some new bunnehs! Disclaimer: I don't own

'Oh, but Dean!' you were whining again. You knew you were being irritating, but what did he expect you to do? He was going to go out and leave you by yourself – Dad was away on a hunt – and you were bored. It's not like you had any friends to go out with – you'd only arrived in town three days ago – and you were only sixteen, so he refused to take you to the pub with him.

You pulled out your best pouty face, and smirked internally as his shoulders drooped. 'Maybe I could stay with you for a bit …' he sighed, but you felt more than a little bit guilty as he plonked himself on the sofa beside you and stared despondently at the commercials playing on the TV. He fidgeted, feeling your eyes on him, and eventually turned to meet yours.

You broke off from hungrily raking over the planes of his face and lost yourself in those dollar-bill green eyes of his. Before he could react, you dived forward, pressing your lips to his in a chaste kiss.

He started backwards, laying awkwardly on the sofa to try and get his face as far away from yours as possible. 'Sam!' he said sharply, 'I thought we said we're not gonna do that again!' you'd done it once before, see, and that had been the best night of your life. Not just the fact that you'd finally got laid, but that it was Dean. It was your Dean, helping you through the awkward bits, comforting you through the painful bits, enjoying the pleasurable bits just as much as you.

But then he'd regretted it in the morning when the sun came up and the realisation hit that he'd just taken his baby brother's virginity. You hadn't though, so every opportunity you had, you were trying to convince him to do it again.

First you'd tried asking, then pleading. When even your renowned puppy-dog face had failed, you resorted to everything from 'overheating' and taking off your shirt or coming out of the shower and your towel just 'slipping' to 'just sitting in his lap' and 'just resting your hand there'.

You're pretty sure it almost worked sometimes too – you'd seen his green-green eyes darken with lust and you'd thought you'd won, but then his over-protective big brotherly instincts had kicked in and he'd left the motel room slamming the door behind him, leaving only the scent of his aftershave and the lingering sting of rejection.

So now you've been reduced to this. Throwing yourself at him like some needy whore, and just praying that his hormones will kick in before his brain-cells, which isn't so unrealistic a hope, knowing him.

So here you are: sort-of half-sitting on top of him on the tatty, stained, pale beige sofa in yet another grimy, stale, pale beige motel room. The tension in the room is practically tangible, and you fully intend to climb off him, apologise, and fix your eyes on the TV.

That is, until you felt something digging into the small of your back. And that something felt suspiciously like Dean Winchester Junior. You raise your eyebrows, wriggling into it, and gasp as he lets out a strangled moan which sounds a little bit like 'Sam'. You do it again, simultaneously leaning down to press your lips to his again.

At first, he tries to push you off, but then you twist, and the friction … So he swears under his breath, and he kisses you back. And it's all sloppy, open mouthed kisses and out-of-time thrusts; it's all not-quite-fitting-together bodies, and needy, too-rough caresses.

But it's perfect.

Not my usual, I know, so feedback would be awesome! :D
xx