You pour two more shots of vodka, and somewhere in the dim fog of your brain you hope like hell Dad doesn't come home tonight. He probably wouldn't care too much about you, but he'd be furious to see Sam, thirteen years old and swaying dangerously, in this state; the kid's completely shitfaced. Nevertheless, you're having a lot of fun, and it's nice to see Sammy laughing again - it's been a while.

Sam's looking at you now, trying to hold the glass steady and failing miserably. And no wonder; he's gone through nearly half a bottle of vodka, and a couple of beers before that. Dad's going to kill you, but you can't bring yourself to care - you're pretty far gone yourself, and besides, Sammy's happy, and that's all that matters.

"'S your turn, Sammy," you say, and oh, shit, maybe you're a little more drunk than you thought; you're slurring your words pretty badly. You grin at him as he blushes and looks at the ground. Sammy, you're getting to be one gorgeous kid... Fuck, did you really just think that?

You nearly miss what he says, he whispers so quietly, but you catch: "Never have I ever been kissed."

You start to laugh, then realise he's serious. "Well... shit, Sammy. We'll hafta do summin bout that, won't we?"

You mean find him a girl, of course. But he's wasted, and you're wasted, and suddenly your little brother's kissing you, and you don't do a thing to stop it - because you like it. Sammy may not have the technique down, but hell, he makes up for that in enthusiasm.

His tongue presses hesitantly against your lips, as if he's not sure whether his is okay, but your soft moan and opening mouth probably answer that question fairly clearly. Sam's got his hands wound in your hair, and his crotch - achingly hard - is thrusting softly against your leg, almost without thought.

So, obviously your moral compass has been well and truly drowned by now - you're kissing your baby brother, for fuck's sake - but despite your own growing erection and a kind of desperate need, you know better than to fuck Sammy. He's a little kid; just a horny little kid, and there's a good chance he won't even remember this in the morning.

Still kissing him, you deftly undo his jeans - and huh, you can barely manage that sober - and grasp his cock in your hand. You stroke him, hard and fast, and before long he's gasping "Fuck yeah, Dean..." and coming all over your hand.

He lies there, dazed and limp. Your cock is throbbing insistently; you're more turned on than you care to admit. It can wait, though, until you get Sammy into bed.

You pick him up, and tuck him into the single bed in the middle of the room. The kid's already asleep, still covered in his own come. That's going to be a bitch to clean off in the morning.

You can barely bring yourself to get rid of the bottles and glasses, but you do it anyway. Then you strip, climb into bed, and jerk off quickly and quietly before slipping into sleep.


You're woken in the early morning by the sound of vomiting from the bathroom. You've got a pounding headache of your own, but you grab some aspirin out of your bag and take it into him with a glass of water.

You assume Sam was too far gone to remember last night, but when you hand your little brother the water, he brushes your hand with his own, bites his lip a little and smiles at you.

"Dean, I-" but you cut him off.

"S'all good, Sammy. I know."

"You do?"

"Yeah," you grin at him. "We've never lived by anyone else's standards before; why start now, right?"

Sam's smile lights up the room. "You mean that?" he whispers, sidling closer.

"Yeah. But I ain't gonna kiss you when you've been vomiting."

You've never seen the kid brush his teeth so fast. As he turns towards you, grinning, you realise that somehow, this is what you needed all along.