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Dean enjoys teaching Sam new things. This time, it's alcohol. Whiskey, to be more exact.
"A blindfold? Really, Dean?" Sam says, incredulous, half-drunk and six shots of whiskey in.
Dean walks back from his duffel, grin strung across his face as he lets a tie hang from his fingers. "Well, makeshift--but hell yeah, a blindfold. You've tasted all these enough to know the difference by taste alone," he says, moving around the backside of the couch. Tying the black tie around Sam's head, he waves a hand in front of him. Satisfied, he sits back down, looking between the different bottles.
He grabs a shot glass and pours some into it, putting the edge of it to Sam's lips. Sam slides his tongue across the edge of the glass before opening his mouth, downing the alcohol all at once. Dean's glad Sam can't see his face because, well, Dean can't help but lift an eyebrow and his jaw drops on its own.
"Jameson," Sam says, wiping his mouth on the back of his arm.
Dean blinks, coughing. "Ah yeah. Yup! That's the one. Okay, next."
They get through three more, Sam guessing each one correctly. "Red Stag," Sam says quickly after swallowing the next one, so damn sure of himself.
Dean leans forward to inspect the tie around Sam's eyes. He squints, frowning. He smells the sweet trace of cherry on his brother's breath. Dean swallows, watching Sam lick the last drop off his bottom lip. He can't help but wonder if whiskey would taste even sweeter on Sam's tongue.
"Dean?" Sam's calling his name, knocking him back into reality.
Dean leans back, letting out the breath he'd been holding. "Huh? Sorry what?"
"I said, I like that one," Sam repeats, grinning in that stupid cute way that makes Dean's chest tighten up. Sam looks almost like he did when he was a kid--pink cheeks and sloppy grin hanging on his face.
Dean nods, even though Sam can't see it. "Yeah, me too," he says, smiling.
"Next!" Sam calls, grinning. "Only three left, right?"
"Yeah, three left," Dean repeats, scrubbing a hand over his face. Quickly, he realizes that it's going to be difficult to get through them all without trying to lick the whiskey straight out of his brother's mouth.
Taking a deep breath, Dean lifts the next shot glass of alcohol to Sam's lips. Sam's tongue dips into the liquid slowly before tipping his head back to drink the rest. Nearly dropping the shot glass on the carpet, Dean sets it down on the table, air knocked clear out of his chest.
"Mmm, Jack. Easy," Sam says, head tipping back just slightly--just enough for Dean's eyes to lock onto the curve of Sam's throat--the expanse of skin enough to make Dean's jeans grow tight.
"Sam..." Dean breathes out, the word so natural on his tongue.
"What--was I wrong?" Sam asks, eyebrow's bunching up just above the blindfold.
"Oh uh, no, I--" Dean chokes out, coughing, reaching for the next shot and downing it himself. "I mixed them up. You're right. Next." Laughing nervously, he lifts the glass to Sam's lips, his throat going dry.
Dean can almost swear he spots the hint of a smile on Sam's lips before Sam opens his mouth for the shot. He watches as the liquid slowly disappears into his little brother's mouth.
"Hmm...." Sam doesn't say the name right away. Instead, he juts out his bottom lip in contemplation. "This one's hard," he adds. And Dean can't help but think 'hell yeah, it's hard.'
A single drop of whiskey sits on the middle of Sam's bottom lip and Dean wonders if it would be such an awful idea to lick it off--to just lean forward, stick his tongue out and...and he can't help himself as his body pulls forward, his mouth achingly close to Sam's, the bitter smell of alcohol ghosting over his lips in tiny breaths.
Dean closes his eyes and slides his tongue over Sam's lip, catching the stray drop of alcohol.
Sam's sharp inhale is hard to miss, but he leans forward into the kiss anyway, mouth opening up for Dean to explore.
Dean's hands lift to the sides of Sam's face, licking the taste of whiskey from his mouth, getting drunk on the taste alone. The taste of the forbidden fruit, the taste of his little brother.
Sam's hands get grabby, needy at Dean's neck, his chest--pulling, grabbing, scratching at him to get closer, closer. And Dean can't even try to hide the low growl that escapes his throat.
Leaning back, Sam lays on the couch so Dean can crawl on top of him, just looking so fucking inviting.
Dean reaches up to take the blindfold off of Sam, his fingers brushing against the material, but Sam's hand catches Dean's wrist, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
"Leave it on," Sam breathes.