#sam is seventeen warning in advance if u read the tags first... apologies if u didnt

[cowboyified]

Why don't we slip away?

"Why don't we slip away?"

She says it by his ear, pressed heavy into his side. It's accompanied by a guiding hand on his shoulder, turning him towards the door; making it easy.

She's pretty enough, the length of her dress doing her most of the favours. Sweet smelling in a way that makes him want to put his mouth to all the delicate places she'd applied perfume, replace it with sweat, the wisps of her fine blonde hair stuck to the nape of her neck. He's good that, and she bites her lip like she knows it.

Except Dean's lost count of how many shots he's had and the location of his brother. Only one of those is cause for concern.

Dean gives her his last ten dollars in way of apology, tells her to buy herself another drink. She scowls dirtily and Dean watches her go with only a little regret.

Sam's sitting in the booth folding soggy beer labels into tiny chatterboxes. The questions he's asking it are probably unkind. Sam's frowns have become a permanent fixture, all of seventeen, clumsy with adolescence, drunk on the idea of anywhere but here. Or maybe just drunk. Dean had snuck him in to lighten him up a little.

He's made him worse.

"I can wait here if you want to use the car," Sam says before Dean's even made himself known. His brother doesn't look up.

"What?" He's whiskey-slow.

"To fuck her?"

Dean catches up, stumbles mentally to get there. He shakes his head. "I'm not-” Dean rubs his chest, uncomfortable. “Jesus, c'mon let's just go."

Sam sculls the last of his drink, tipping back his head. He stands and Dean’s too slow to move out of the way, his brother in his space, almost standing on his toes and he forgets that Sam is just about taller than him now. He feels woozy with the reminder - until Sam stumbles on his feet and Dean has to catch his elbow before he finds himself on the floor. 

“How much have you drunk?”

Sam shakes him off violently. “Who cares. What else was I supposed to do while you were off trying to wet your dick.” 

The part of Dean’s drunk that makes him want to be violent rears its head for a moment. He pushes his brother through the throng towards the exit. They stumble out onto the gravel parking lot and the frigid night air makes him cough. 

“Pretty fucking ungrateful, Sam. I could have left you at home. It’s not my fault you don’t know how to have a good time.” 

Sam goes still ahead of him, swaying a little on his feet, - could be his own wobble - wipes the back of his hand over his mouth before turning around and pushing Dean backwards with enough force to trip him up on the loose stones. He goes down. 

There’s a flicker of concern in Sam’s expression but it disappears as fast as it came and he’s grabbing Dean by the collar and heaving him up, Dean’s hands clawed around Sam’s arms. The world spins in spirals of neon and he thinks he might hurl.

His elbow is bleeding from the fall, gravel caught up in the gunge, the pain is secondary with how hard his back hits the weatherboards of the bar. His head is inches from a fusebox and the corner of it rusted and sharp, it calls him lucky in a cartoonish voice that Dean makes up in his rattled head. 

It takes more than a moment to register Sam’s mouth on his. 

Nowhere near a first, but kissing your brother isn’t something you get used to. 

“This how you were going to show her a good time?” Sam asks, his cold hands under Dean’s shirt, against his belly. He flinches against it. 

Dean shoves weakly against Sam’s chest. “Well, I would have tried for little more romantic, a little less blood maybe.” 

Sam curls up his nose, angry, he ducks his head to get at Dean’s neck, pushes him back into the wall fully. Dean is startled by how much weight is behind it, his little brother able to overpower him. His dick has other interpretations, his jeans tight and uncomfortable with Sam pressed close.

“Don’t do that again,” Sam says against his neck, teeth and tongue and heat down his spine. 

“Hmm?” Dean asks, hazy, his hands sliding up the back of Sam’s shirt of their own accord. 

“Don’t bring me along to your hook-ups,” he says, kissing him, drunk and messy and open-mouthed when Sam grabs him around his jeans. “Not when I’m right here.”