It wasnât a big thing, at first. Samâs hair was long and getting longer; Dean made fun of him and that was that, the way life was. Sure, Dean didnât tell Sam how much he actually liked it, because how would he?
âSammy, I know I tease you all the time about your stupid girly hair but I only do it to distract myself from how much it turns me on. I jerk off to the thought of pulling it while my cock is in you. Anyways, howâs the whole thing with those hallucinations going?â
Yeah, no way was he having that conversation. So he made fun of it. Easy way to keep distracted and resist the temptation. Today though, it was just too easy. Samâs head was lying against the door, a light sleep finally coming to him after a whole day of driving. The golden glow of the sunset illuminating him perfectly. Dean kept driving, carefully avoiding staring at him. Until Sam started whining.
Another nightmare. Dean sighed, both out of sadness and irritation. How could he help him? Sam wouldnât even talk to him about what had happened. Not that he didnât understand, not that he didnât do the exact same thing after his stint in Hell.
This was different. Dean would be stupid to deny it, Sam had spent over 150 years in that cage with LuciferâDean had spent 40 years just with a demon. Dean could only imagine what Sam had gone through as he gathered small bits of what he revealed in his hazey state.
Seeing Sam have nightmare after nightmare wasnât easy for Dean. It felt too much like back when Sam was having his psychic visions back before he had gone awol with Ruby and let Lucifer out of his cage, then jumped into Hell and came back without his soul. Sam was helpless and innocent then. He was helpless and less innocent now. Dean still didnât know how to help.
He reached out, eyes still glued to the road, intending to nudge him awake gently, but suddenly a memory came to him. His mom, at the edge of his bed, stroking his hair after a nightmare. Lulling him back into sleep.
It was to help him, like Mom had helped Dean. It wasnât just an excuse, he told himself. He readjusted his hand, stroking it down Samâs head, feeling his silky hair in between his fingers. Sam flinched at first, no doubt expecting violence. That was all he knew how to expect anymore. He slowly adjusted, still leaning away from the touch, but his whines slowing down. Dean continued for a moment, glancing to and from the road to see the expressions Sam made.
Once Sam was barely whining anymore but still trembling, Dean changed his tactic slightly. This part wasnât something his mom used to do for him, this part was just something he had always wanted to do. He tugged. Just slightly, not a full pull, just enough to register as a different movement. When Sam didnât react, he did it again, rougher this time.
Dean watched as Samâs mouth fell open, greedily taking the sight in. He kept stroking his hair, slowly interspersing it with tugs now to see what happened. It was an experiment of sorts, testing how he could calm Sam. Thatâs all.
Sam kept trembling, shaking a bit more when he tugged. Dean tried to stay focused on the road, tried to ignore the ever growing feeling he had. Then, after a harsher tug, Sam whimpered.
Not whined. Whimpered. Full on whimpered, like a puppy asking for food. Dean stared, the Impala drifting into the middle of the road slightly, before he quickly pulled over onto the side. He kept the car on, determined not to wake Sam. He continued stroking, tugging slightly harder the next time, trying to steal that sound from Sam again.
Eventually, it worked. Sam whimpered again. All of Deans blood was rushing down. He stopped stroking Samâs hair, instead focusing on pulling the silky strands down, over and over, like a boy sitting behind a girl in class. As if a puppet, each time he pulled, Samâs let out that delicate, perfect noise. His face was scrunched up slightly, mouth still hanging open. Dean couldnât help it. He unbuckled his pants with the hand not preoccupied in Samâs hair, pulling out his cock in aching relief.
He gave himself no warm up, starting stroking up in down in time with his pulls, a rhythm that he knew wouldnât last long. At an almost pornographic whimper-bordering-on-moan, Dean groaned, unable to stop himself.
âLike it when I pull your hair, huh, Sammy?â He whispered, gripping the base of his cock in an attempt to make the experience last longer.
Sam moaned again as Dean grabbed even more hair in a fist and yanked enough that Samâs head moved. Dean watched his hips roll up in fascination, eyes now glued on the obvious bulge in Samâs pants.
Fuck, he really did like this. Dean should have done this sooner. Who knew a little hair-pulling from his big brother was the solution to Samâs nightmares?
Dean knew he wouldnât last much longer. He quickened his pace, all rhythm gone, replaced with a desperation he could see both of them had. They were both panting, Sam whimpering a constant stream. Dean wondered if he could make him come like this.
âCan you come like this, Sam? From just a few tugs on your hair, like a slut? A slut for your big brother?â He was barely whispering anymore, dirty talk spilling from him without thinking.
Samâs next noise surprised him nearly to completion. A panted out response that made Dean question if he was still sleeping. âPlease, please,â
âI got you. Gonna make you come, gonna come with you, mark you, fuck!â Senseless words spilled out of his mouth as Dean bucked up into his hand before coming all over, painting his hand and shirt in white.
As he did, he tugged harder on Samâs hair, hell-bent on seeing him finish like this. Samâs mouth was a constant stream of noise, whimpers and moans and pleases andâ
âAh, ah, Lucifer, please, gonna come, please, Luciferââ Samâs pants darkened, come seeping into the denim and hips stuttering.
Dean let go of his hair, shock ruining his post-orgasm content. As Sam fell silent, panting and eyes still scrunched up, Dean felt a sudden fury rise in him.
The Devil. The actual fucking Devil. Not just some Demon, but Lucifer himself. Thatâs who Sam whored himself out to this time. He got out of the Impala, door slamming as he heaved in the newly-night air.
He could barely think. Even after all that, even after jumping into Hell for him, Sam still didnât realize who he belonged to. Not some school, not the YED or Ruby, and definitely not Lucifer.
âDean?â Dean hadnât even heard the passenger side open. âAre you okay? What happened? Iâm sorry, I donât know what happened, I had a nightmare.â
A nightmare. Yeah, right. As if he didnât remember coming in his pants to the faux-feeling of Lucifer pulling his hair. The faux-feeling that was very much real and very much not Lucifer. Sam didnât even have the decency to tell him the truth.
Dean turned around to look Sam in the eye. He stared, taking in his rumpled appearance, sad eyes, and the wet stain on the front of his jeans.
Thatâs when he made up his mind. If all Sam remembered was Lucifer, if all Sam could think of was Lucifer, then Dean would just have to show him something better. Something real.
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