team free will endgame
"i cant wait for the day that you're a grown up lawyer with a grown up job and you cry at your desk one day because you started thinking about high school jared jerking off"
anon is on! put [pm] in your message if you don't want me to answer publicly ♥
The first time Sam tries weed, he’s in high school behind the bleachers during gym and he just wants to fit in, for once, make a few friends and relax like he imagines normal teenage kids do. But the taste of the pot is cloyingly sweet, the smoke too thick in his throat, and he coughs it up with watering eyes as the other boys laugh.
So when Dean tries to pass him a joint a few weeks later, in the back of the Impala, he tries to wave off his brother.
“I don’t like it,” he protests. Dean just looks at him, eyes glinting green from beneath lowered eyelashes.
“You will, Sammy,” he promises; his smile is slow and strange, and as Sam watches he raises the joint to his own lips and breathes in, cheeks hollowing.
And then his lips are soft on Sam’s, and he’s breathing out as Sam sucks in his own startled breath at the feel of Dean’s mouth on his own.
“Hold it,” Dean whispers against his lips, “don’t swallow it,” and Sam closes his eyes and does as he’s told, until Dean smiles and says, “Now breathe out.”
Sam doesn’t open his eyes, can’t, but he can hear Dean taking another breath; then Dean’s mouth is against his own again and Sam inhales without being told, his hand coming up to grip Dean’s bicep, smooth worn leather underneath his fingertips.
“Good,” Dean says. Sam’s beginning to feel light, a little strange, floating. When Dean’s lips touch his again he opens his mouth obediently but this time there’s nothing but slick heat, Dean’s tongue clever and hot in his mouth and he groans as Dean’s hand grips the back of his neck and brings him in tighter. Dean tastes like sweet smoke and sin.
Dean breaks off, leans back a little until he’s leaning his forehead against Sam’s, his breaths coming rough and warm against Sam’s face.
“Changed your mind, Sammy?” Dean asks, and Sam shudders, Dean’s voice like a gentle finger trailing down his spine.
“Not sure yet,” he says, his voice coming out rough and used, and cracks his eyes open to see Dean staring at him, the joint in his hand burning down, forgotten. “Just—let me have another one,” and watches as Dean smiles, his eyes going heavy-lidded and satisfied, as he raises the joint to his lips.