Big Brother To The Rescue!

Sam's thirteen and he and a seventeen year old Dean have just rolled up to Rezwa, Arkansas' Wake and Snooze motel. (It's a lovely building of decrepitude — new word of the day! — that overlooks the beautiful scenery of a trash littered highway 83. Mm... Don't you just love that sweet exhaust and tarmac smell?) It's the end of Sam's fourth day at Howard Middle school and he still has another ten more days to go before their dad's supposed to come back and drag them away from this hell hole that's become their current home. But his mind isn't really on his impending salvation or his rocky education that's been riddled with more potholes than Philadelphia, PA's Alleghany Avenue.

No. Sam's in bad shape. He's currently suffering from a jagged knife stuck in his back and a case of severely wounded pride. As soon as Dean opens the door to their motel room, a short, watery-eyed Sam tears right past his brother's hips and flings himself at his bed — heavy backpack and all. Seriously, dignity be damned, because it's not like there's anywhere to go run and hide in a motel that only has one other room. (He's not going in the bathroom. That place stinks, thanks.)

So, wallowing in his shame-filled pain and facedown, his scrawny chest begins to heave and fat tears begin pouring their way down his red and ruddy, little cheeks. He doesn't have to tell Dean what's wrong with him either, because the jerkface had already smacked him in the back of the head enough times, in the car, to make him cave like a blubbering, little girl. But Sam knew Dean's stupid prying had been inevitable, especially after his brother had heard certain things being yelled at them when he came to pick him up in front of the school. (Bye, Crybaby Hoover! Try not to suck anyone's face off on your way home!" "Hey, maybe you should marry a vacuum 'cause you two obviously have so much in common!)

Ironically, just yesterday, Sam had come home feeling as if he'd been walking on air. After the bell had rung, pretty, blonde Audrey Clemens had tracked him down at his locker, tapped him on the shoulder, thrown him up against it, hard, and then had promptly set about blowing his innocent little mind. Truthfully, at first, Sam had been afraid that she had wanted to start a fight. (She hasn't exactly been treating him very nice in class these days and, come on, he doesn't hit girls — except for Dean. Ha!)

But, no, instead of getting his face bashed in, she'd pretty much given him his second kiss. (Second grade Marrisa Moore so counts! So what if she'd only tripped and fallen on her face and almost chipped his tooth?) Oh, but Audrey Clemens! She'd even choked him with her tongue! How cool is that? (He may or may not have almost wet his pants.)

However, things are a much different story today, because he just found out that morning that his first would-be girlfriend ever had only done it because of a stupid bet. (You actually kissed that weirdo new kid for five bucks and you even frenched him too! Wow! That's so awesome! What was it like?) To add salt to the wound, she'd even told all her little friends that kissing poor Sam had been like shoving a wet-vac to her lips before having it stuffed in her mouth.(It was horrible! I thought he was going to eat my face off or something! It was totally wet and gross! You couldn't even pay me to do it again!) Turns out she didn't even like him. Actually, it's more like she kind of hates his 'silent and creepy' little guts.

So, here he is bawling his eyes out like some stupid, little crybaby in front of stupid Dean. His only consolation is that their dad isn't there to yell at him for being so weak. (Stop that damn crying, boy! You better learn to toughen up!) The mattress bends at his side then as a hand gently pats his head. "Come on, Sammy. Fuck 'em. We'll be bouncing out of this place in a couple days anyhow. Who cares what those assholes say? …Want me to beat 'em up?"

"T-They're girls, Dean. Y-You're not supposed to hit girls remember?" Sam grumbles with his face still buried in the mattress.

He hears an amused snort from above. "Girls? Looked more like those things with the poisonous fangs and claws and shit. What're they called again? Harpos? Hippos? Hallie Berry? You know, those ugly bitches with wings."

"H-Harpies," Sam says while turning his head to the side — gotta breathe! — even though they both know Dean's not quite that stupid.

"Yeah, that's it. Little chicks looked more like harpies to me. And you know I can salt and burn those mothers like nobody's business."

Although a small part of Sam appreciates his brother's ridiculous words, the majority of him still thinks Dean's an idiot that can't understand his embarrassing pain. But, after a while of more shameful crying into the mattress that he's pretty much soaking, he hears his big brother come up with a devious plan that just might make all those stupid kids eat their stupid, retarded words. But like most things in his life, it comes with a price. To make Audrey Clemens' knees turn to jelly in front of the entire school tomorrow, Sam has to become a better kisser and that's where Dean says he comes in.

Sam's immediate response to this is, "Ew! No way! Gross!"

In his mind, it's the only answer to give. Come on, besides the guy being, well, a guy and his brother, Sam knows Dean's mouth has been places he's only ever seen in magazines or the nudey channel when no one's looking. (He knows this because his stupid, cocky brother loves to brag about his conquests when drunk and doesn't understand what the hell too much information actually means.) Besides, he's seen the guy talk with his mouth full of chewed up greasy whatever on several — several! — occasions. Those barftastic memories are enough to make Sam's stomach turn over five times in a row. However, his supposedly wiser, big brother begs to differ.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean lazily coaxes, after popping a few M & Ms into his mouth from the bag that perpetually lives in his coat pocket these days. "If you wanna get back at that bitch and totally make her little groupies eat crow, you gotta learn somehow right? Besides, it's not like I'm all gung ho about teaching you either. The thought of playing tonsil hockey with my little bro don't exactly turn my crank. You get me?"

Ever the conman, Dean continues to talk a fair game, whittling down Sam's worries, smoothing out all his crinkled, little kinks. "Seriously, though, no way are you ruining the Winchester name here. Worked too hard to get that shit legit. Besides, s' not like I'm gonna tell anybody and you better not either. Look, I'm just talking ten minutes tops here. Ten minutes of me giving up my precious free time to help out the less fortunate, meaning you. Promise ya, kiddo, after my blood, sweat, and tears, you'll be able to wet any girl's panties in under thirty seconds flat. Seriously, that chick won't know what hit her."

Sam is about to turn him down again when he stops. Picking at a frayed stitch in the blanket, he thinks back to what he was forced to see two days ago. Like always, Dean had picked him up from school, but his new girlfriend of the week — Patricia something or other — had been in the car with him. (She was nice enough, but kind of annoying with that nasally, high-pitched voice and — oh god! — that hyena laugh.)

Needless to say, on their way home, Dean had dropped her off at her house, but not without giving her his hot and nasty version of a heartfelt goodbye. (In the backseat, Sam had immediately turned green and then turned away. But his morbid curiosity had still managed to make him see enough out of the corner of his eye.) In the end, when the girl had finally poured herself out of the car, Sam had noticed her unsteady gait, like the wind might have blown her over if it picked up just right.

So, after much thought, the next thing Sam knows, he's agreeing to let his brother teach him the right way to swap spit. Dean's next words of praise help to sweeten the deal for him. "That's the spirit, Squirt! Don't worry. Besides hunting, making chicks swoon's in the Winchester blood. Trust me, you're gonna be a natural. …But just remember, you tell anybody about this and I swear on Dad's journal, little bro or no, I'll salt and burn your body while ya sleep." After popping some more M&Ms into his mouth, Dean relaxes with a laugh given around a few chews, "Ha! Just call me Obi-Wan 'cause you're now my whiny, girly-haired apprentice."

"Shut up," is Sam's immediate annoyed and rather unimpressed answer as he sits up and dries his eyes and face with the bottom of his shirt. What the crap. If they're going to do this, then they're going to do this. Right? "Whatever," he says, looking like his usual defiant little self. "Come on, Obi-jerk. You gonna teach me or what?"

Minutes later, Dean has the both of them arranged in what he likes to refer to as prime make out position: right hand on the girl's (Sam's) hip and his left hand on the back of her (his) neck. Paused in this absurd sitting arrangement, Dean studiously tells him it's important to keep one's dominant hand free for other things that really gets a chick going. Sam quickly retorts that he doesn't want to know anything about what those things might actually be. Thankfully, his brother just opens his mouth … and then promptly closes it. (At least when Dean's sober he sort of remembers how old little Sammy actually is. …Mostly.)

"So, you ready?" Dean instead questions, like its morning already and he's asking a bed-headed Sam if he's ready to shove off to school. Irritation overshadowing his nervousness, Sam just stares back at him with a look that clearly says, "Dude, what the crap? Let's just get this mess over with already."

With that, Dean just shrugs and does what he previously explained is the 'hunter' moving in for the kill and Sam immediately closes his eyes like his brother had told him to. After feeling Dean's breath on his cheek, he then feels his brother's lips on his own. It's nothing really. It's not even all that gross once he finally gets past the initial moment of thinking, "Ew! Ew! Ew!" Really, it's just two mouths pressed against each other — way tamer than that girl had sprung on him in the hallway of their school yesterday. As they hover there, Sam's even starting to think to himself: this is it? This is Dean's awesome Jedi Kiss training?

However, his silent comments soon recede as Dean starts doing things — new things — that he feels he should categorize and memorize for tomorrow's revenge. He feels the hand on the back of his neck slide up to cradle his head. And then it's soon tilting him the other way as his brother's mouth softly coaxes his lips to part with a gentle suckle of his bottom lip. Ok … this is different, he thinks after a moment as Dean's mouth lets go and then presses back against him to delicately pull at his upper lip next. Yeah, ok, Audrey Clemens hadn't done that either. Unfortunately, as things progress back into slightly familiar territory — the French in French kiss — Sam starts to feel kind of weird. For one, unlike Audrey, Dean's not trying to choke him with his tongue. Instead, he's gently licking into his mouth and each intimate lap he feels is oddly going straight to a place that's suddenly tightened in the lower parts of his gut.

What's… What's going on, he silently questions his body as his thighs give a slight twitch and his toes begin to unconsciously curl in his 's left trying to mimic Dean's actions as his brain goes slightly fuzzy around the edges. Even so, he's becoming fully aware that what he's feeling, now, isn't something he should be experiencing while sucking face with his brother. Why… Why is his heart pounding so hard in his chest? Why is it suddenly getting so hot? And why the heck is it getting so hard to breathe? …Holy crap! What's happening in his…?

Completely freaked and gasping for breath, Sam tries to push away the moment he feels Dean pulling him closer, obviously trying to truly deepen the kiss. Fortunately, like the good older brother that he is, feeling Sam's hands on his chest, Dean immediately backs off with both of his own hands held innocently in the air. "Hey? You ok, kiddo?" he asks with a hundred and ten percent concern as he looks down at his sweating, flushed face little brother, who suddenly looks like a cornered, wild animal about to bolt.

Immediately backing off the bed and wiping his mouth, Sam fumbles for words as he tries not to stumble over his feet. While looking everywhere but at Dean, he finally finds his voice, "Y-Yeah, I, uh, I-I just," —A quick look back to an opened door— "I-I gotta use the bathroom that's all! G-Gotta pee! I-I'll be back!"

In under five seconds flat, not only has he crossed the room into the bathroom, but he's shut and locked the door behind him. Using the toilet as a seat, he feels embarrassed and highly confused and just all kinds of wrong. (He also still tastes melted chocolate in his mouth and weirdly it's not even that gross.) His heart is still pounding as he grips the knees of his jeans with clammy, shaky hands. Trembling and hanging his head, he's staring down at his lap, trying to make all these disturbing sensations go the hell away. Needless to say, when he fully realizes what's happening in his pants, thirteen year old Sam Winchester's brain almost explodes like a raging volcano. However, Dean's sudden voice just outside the door makes him jump slightly and thankfully manages to bring him out of his anxiety-riddled stupor.

"Sam?" he hears his brother say loud and clear through the thin piece of wood. "Hey, Sammy, you ok? …You know, we don't gotta keep going. It's cool with me, man. Besides, if you just do what I just showed you, it should be more than enough to make that little chick of yours follow you around like a groupie."

"Y-You think?" Sam manages to hoarsely choke out, feeling grateful that Dean's giving him a way out of having to explain exactly why he's currently locked himself in the bathroom.

"Sure, man," Dean replies with an evident grin in his voice that makes Sam begin to eat his previous unspoken words. "I mean, if that technique can make even my own little brother pop wood, then it's obviously deadlier than I thought."

"I-I'm not—! I-I don't know what you're—! S-Stop being stupid! Stupid!" Sam sputters, feeling all kinds of red in the face and wrong in the pants. Yeah, he's not coming out of that bathroom anytime soon and his brother is more of an ass than he originally thought.

"Hey-hey-hey! Simmer down there, short-stack," Dean soothes with much humor. "Tell you what. You just take your time in there. I'm gonna go order us some pizza. You wanting pepperoni and mushrooms on your half?"

There's a pause as Sam tries to decide and then he sighs and tries not to pout as he begrudgingly takes the peace offering that's given. "And garlic bread. With cheese. And I get three pieces and you only get one!"

Dean's chuckle kind of ticks him off as he hears, "Alright, alright. Fine. You got it, squirt. But the deal is you gotta come out of there sometime before the food gets here. Ok?"

"Whatever," Sam grumbles and then he finally hears Dean walk away. The bastard can totally stop laughing any time now. Jerk.

Even with his humiliation thankfully having calmed down his body's reaction to the kiss, Sam still continues to sit in the bathroom for quite some time. However, he does in fact come out from his hiding place before the delivery man shows up. But it mostly has to do with the fact that Dean comes pounding back on the door ten minutes later, threatening to break it down, saying he has to take an urgent piss.

Unfortunately for Sam, the moment he opens the door and steps foot out of the room — in true big brother fashion — Dean immediately tries to help him get over any awkwardness he may be feeling by tackling him to the floor. Within seconds, Sam finds himself being put in a pretzel hold with Dean's weight crushing his back and his face and his mouth full of dirty, grey carpet. "Tch. Hiding like a girl. What were you thinking, Sammy? Huh? Huh? Huh? What's to be embarrassed about? Would've totally tented my pants too if I had to kiss me. Come on, dude, I'm just that friggin awesome."

"Get … off me … jerk! You're not … awesome! You … suck!" Sam pants from his place on the floor. It pisses him off that Dean only continues to laugh. Thankfully, he's saved by the ring of the doorbell, especially since Dean has never been one to believe in the general rule of tapping out.

Only slightly winded, Dean just rolls off him, straightens his collar, and heads for the couch with a smirked, "Wallet's on the table, bitch. Your turn to get the door."

After that, the night progresses like it usual does: lots of bickering, name-calling, and roughhousing before an early bedtime for Sam. Covering him up with the covers, after making him brush his teeth, Dean helpfully reminds him to remember what he'd taught him that afternoon so he can use it for the next day. Sam throws a pillow at his face for the shit-eating grin his brother had used. But, fortunately, the sandman comes easily for little Sammy and, oh, does he put what he learned to action the next day.

In fact, after mustering his courage and before the homeroom bell even rings, he walks right up to little Audrey Clemens, who's surrounded by her usual gaggle of giggling girlfriends and taps her on her shoulder. When she turns around, he grabs her and does exactly what he'd learned from his supposedly awesome big brother. And, as Dean promised, when Sam lets her go, she wilts like a dying flower right onto her butt. He even gets hoots and catcalls from the watching guys and most of the watching girls even became what Dean likes to refer to his 'groupies.' The only thing that bothers Sam is that kissing Audrey Clemens still hadn't felt anything close to what it had felt like kissing his own stupid brother.

But then again, she's a two-faced harpy that tasted like something died in her mouth while Dean could be ok at times and at least tasted like M&Ms.