Sam's lungs are burning when he gets back to the warehouse. Slumped on the floor where Sam left him, Dean is flushed and sweating and gasping for air. Sam crouches, puts his hands on Dean's shoulders so he can look into his eyes. "I couldn't catch her," he says. "She just disappeared."
Dean gives Sam a wry smile, lets out a ragged huff of laughter. "Witches, man. Hell of a sense of humor, that one."
She'd pressed something into Dean's hands, and then she'd run. Dean had gone down almost immediately. All he'd said was, "Hex bag, go", and Sam had taken off after her. "What is it, Dean?" Sam asks. "What'd she do to you?"
Dean looks up at him from beneath long eyelashes. His pupils are dilated, the black almost eclipsing the iris. "Feel like I'm dying, Sammy." He tugs at the neck of his t-shirt, pulls it away from his skin to slide his palm inside. He rubs over his collarbone as his eyes drop to Sam's hand on his shoulder. Then he shuts his eyes and shakes his head. "Oh, this isn't good."
"Tell me where it hurts," Sam says, eyes searching Dean's body for wounds, for blood, for some indication of what Dean might be feeling. He puts his hand on the side of Dean's neck, and he's warm, but not feverish. "Tell me what you need."
Dean's head moves, rubs his jaw over Sam's hand where it touches his skin. "I'm not hurt," he whispers. He laughs again, and then squirms, arching his back and moving his hips. Then his eyes snap open, and he tries to pull away. "You really shouldn't be here, little brother."
"I don't understand." Sam leans closer, holds Dean's face in his hands, forces him to make eye contact. "I'm not leaving you here, so just tell me what she did to you."
Dean's lips part, and his eyelashes flutter. "Sammy," he whines, leaning forward. He licks his lips. "I'm so fucking...that spell, whatever it is, it made me want—need—" He lifts his eyes to the ceiling and huffs out a laugh. "I'm horny, Sam, like, I've never been this desperate, and you'd think I could get off, because I'm no stranger to jerking it, but I tried already and it doesn't work."
Sam's eyes flick down to Dean's waist, and sure enough, his jeans are open. He looks back up, takes in Dean's dilated pupils, his lips, plump, full of blood, slick with saliva, the way he leans into Sam.
Sam jerks back. "Oh."
Dean turns his head away, his mouth twisting into a grimace. "That's not all," he whispers.
"I know I can get off if someone's with me," Dean says. "And it's killing me to tell you this, Sammy, but I think it's gotta be a dude."
Sam's mind goes blank. "I'm sorry, what?"
Dean looks up. "You heard me." His palms are pressed to the floor, and his whole posture screams desperation. "I can feel it, I need something inside me, that's the only thing that's gonna help." He swallows hard, and his eyes roll back in his head. "It's getting worse, Sam, I feel like I'm losing my mind. I look at you and all I think is how good it'll feel to be under you. So you should leave, because pretty damn soon all I'm gonna be doing is begging you for it."
Sam rocks back onto his heels. "I'm not leaving you here, Dean. If you're losing it like you say you are..."
"Send someone else," Dean says, locking his jaw tight. "Give me a couple minutes and I figure I won't care who it is or how much you paid them, a few more and I won't even know."
Sam's breath rushes out of him. "You want me to get you a hooker?"
Dean tips his head to the side, stretching his neck, but he's breathing hard and his fingernails scratch at the dirty floor like he's just trying to hold on. "Whatever works. Like I said, pretty soon it's not going to matter who you send in here."
Sam tries to think, but there's too much to consider for him to be able to make any sense of it. There's no time to try to break the spell. Sam could go out, find a man willing to do...Dean...for the handful of bills in his wallet. This part of town it probably wouldn't take very long, but there's no way he's going to send a stranger in to take care of his brother, no way in hell. "I'm not getting you a hooker."
"Then you better find some rope, Sammy. Tie me up good." Dean leans forward, palms splayed out on dusty concrete, hangs his head. With every breath he lets out, he groans. "And you're gonna have to gag me. I don't wanna be responsible for the things that are gonna come out of my mouth." He looks up, wild eyed and desperate. "Do it now, Sam."
"How do you know this won't kill you if you try to ride it out?"
Dean bares his teeth, shakes his head. "I gave you options, Sam. Either get someone in here to fuck me, restrain me, or knock me the hell out, because I can't hold on much longer."
"I'll do it," Sam says.
The words just fall out of his mouth. There's no thought process behind it, just an impression, a concept. He doesn't trust anyone more than himself to look after Dean, and he's not going to tie Dean up and watch him suffer through this, he's not going to risk Dean's mind, maybe even his life.
Dean's face falls. "No," he says. "No, Sammy."
Sam crawls across the floor toward him, reaches out. "You said it didn't matter who it was." He touches Dean's cheek, holds him there. "If anyone is going to do this, it should be me."
Dean shakes his head, lets out an anguished moan. "You're about the last person alive it should be."
"I don't trust anyone else to take care of you." Sam drags his thumb over Dean's lower lip, red and swollen from where he's been biting it. "Tell me, Dean. Do you want me to do it? I need to hear you say yes."
Dean's tongue slides out of his mouth, glides over his lower lip. "Yeah." He nods, drops his eyes in a kind of weak resignation, and when he speaks, the words are barely audible. "Sammy, please."
Sam nods, then he looks around. The warehouse is abandoned, covered in years worth of dust, not the kind of place anyone should be having sex in. But there's not much they can do about that now. "Okay. I don't want to hurt you. I don't suppose you have any—"
"Weapons bag." Dean's already working off his jeans, taking his boxers down with them.
Sam reaches for it, finds a half empty tube of lube in a side pocket. "I'm not even going to ask why there's lube in this bag, Dean."
Dean manages a shrug as he kicks off his jeans and boxers. "Never know when you're going to get a chance for a little alone time when you live in each other's pockets." He peels off his shirt, drops it into the dust. "Come on then, Sammy. Don't let me turn into a mindless slut." Dean crawls across the dusty floor, stark naked, completely unashamed, and there's something in his eyes that's a little feral.
Sam's been aware of his own simmering arousal for a while, but it starts to develop a little urgency of its own. He's thought about this. It's a little hard not to when fans of Chuck's books shove it in their faces every couple of years, but it's always been with an element of the ridiculous, the belief that it would never ever happen in a million years, so he might as well laugh about it.
He's not laughing now.
Dean slides his hand up Sam's thigh. "Come on, Sammy," he says. "Show me what you got in there." Then he bites his lip, looks away. "You're gonna regret not gagging me."
It's hard to breathe, the air is thick and warm, and Sam can smell Dean's arousal. "No," he says, as his hands go to his belt. It comes free with a rattle and he yanks it out of the loop. "It's okay."
Dean's eyes drop, and his hands move to the fly of Sam's jeans. "Oh yeah," he moans, rubbing his hand over the length of Sam's denim-covered cock while he pushes against Sam's chest, forcing him to lean back so he can straddle his thighs. "I need it, Sammy, I need it now." His fingers work the button of Sam's jeans, fumble over the zipper.
Sam's pulse pounds in his ears as Dean's fingers graze over his dick, trapped behind the zipper of his jeans. The fact that this is Dean, that it's his brother touching him, that it's another man touching him, and that Dean can hardly consent right now—it's all overwhelming. There's so much wrong, and yet, it feels so good, and Sam's got to wonder whether the spell that's affected Dean hasn't bled out somehow, to affect him, too.
He knocks Dean's hand away, opens his jeans. The backs of his knuckles graze the underside of Dean's dick when he pulls his own out, and he opens his hand, wraps his fingers around the both of them.
Dean gasps and looks down. His eyes widen when they fall on Sam's hand, wrapped around their cocks, and he groans. "Fuck, Sammy, you're huge." His hips move, grinding himself down onto Sam's thighs, and then he rises up on his knees. "Need it in me, Sammy."
Sam reaches for the lube, tries to make his mind cooperate. While he's messing around with the lube, getting his fingers slicked up, Dean's touching his cock, calloused fingers sending sparks right to his core. He pulls Dean to him, one arm around his waist, slick fingers sliding down into the crack of Dean's ass, gliding over his hole.
Dean jerks when Sam pushes, eyes and mouth flying open, a grunt punched out of his chest. "Give me your cock," he growls, grinding his own against Sam's stomach as he lifts himself, holding Sam's dick steady as he readies himself to sink down on it.
"I'm gonna hurt you," Sam says. "Stop, Dean, I need to—"
"Can't wait." Dean pushes down on the head of Sam's dick, but there's not enough slick. "Gotta fuck me, Sammy, gotta do it now."
Sam grabs Dean by the hips, forces him to be still. "Just let me..." He slides his hand over his own cock, spreading the slick from his fingers over himself, then he reaches for the lube again. He uses too much, because Dean won't wait, and he actually wants to lay Dean out and take his time, make him beg for it as he stretches him open one finger at a time, but Dean's clawing at him now, letting out grunts and moans and whines as he rubs against Sam's stomach.
"Okay," Sam says, dipping his head to look into Dean's eyes. There's no reason there, Dean's iris almost completely black, his cheeks flushed, his mouth open as he takes quick, shallow breaths. "Slow," he says. "This is going to hurt."
Dean's fingers dig into the meat of Sam's shoulders like claws. Sam holds him with one arm wrapped around his waist, the muscles in his arm burning as he tries to hold Dean up, slow him down. Dean pushes, and Sam's not even sure if he's going to fit, if he's going to be able to get inside without hurting Dean, really hurting him.
Dean drops his head, face screwed up like he's in pain, then his body just gives, and Sam can't think past the pressure, the all consuming heat. He's inside Dean, inside his brother, and as he looks down and sees a single tear as it's squeezed out of the corner of Dean's eye, he cries out in anguish.
Dean doesn't stop, keeps sinking down, until his ass rests, heavy, on Sam's thighs. Only then does he still, drops his head onto Sam's shoulder, and each breath he exhales is a groan, deep and rough and broken.
"God," Sam says, wrapping his arms around Dean, holding him to his chest, sliding a hand up and down Dean's lower back. "God, Dean. Oh my god."
The only answer Dean gives him, are his lips, hot and damp, on his throat, still groaning as though he can't stop, and with each, his body tightens around Sam's dick.
Sam slides his hand up the back of Dean's neck, cradles his head in his hand. "Are you okay?" he pants, and he holds tight to Dean as he gets his knees beneath him. He shifts inside his brother, thrusting just a little deeper.
Dean moans, tosses his head, and his eyes flutter open, fix on Sam's face. "S'good, Sammy." He moves his hips, grinds down on Sam's dick, and his eyes fall shut again. "So good." He does it again, the movement stronger this time. "So fucking good."
Sam gasps for air as he tries to stay in control. It's intense, too much, the heat, the tight hold Dean has on him, and the friction every time Dean shifts threatens to drive him crazy. "I must be hurting you, god, Dean. It's gotta hurt."
Dean hums, low and filthy, and his lips turn up in a tight smile. "Like a motherfucker, Sammy, you huge freak." He grunts as he pulls his feet underneath him, planting them on the floor behind Sam's hips, pushing up, grinding back down.
"Fuck," Sam gasps. "Fuck, Dean." Tension fuses his spine, sends shivers like tiny sparks spreading out over his skin. "Holy fucking shit, Dean. I'm gonna come."
Dean's eyes snap open, and Sam can see it there, the taunt, the teasing glint, but the words don't come. Instead, he lifts his chin, and he presses an opened mouthed kiss to Sam's lips.
It'll make for some interesting questions when this is all over, but Sam moans into Dean's mouth, slides his tongue in against Dean's. He gets a hand free, slides it between them, starts to fist Dean's cock.
Dean grunts into Sam's mouth with every roll of his hips, with every stroke of Sam's palm over his dick. He gets tighter inside, then breaks the kiss, stares at Sam wide-eyed and manic. "Do it, Sammy," he says. "Come in me, fill me up." He tosses his head back on a moan, and his hips stutter. His cock jerks in Sam's hand, and wet heat spills over Sam's fingers.
Sam's hips jerk, and he pushes forward, tipping Dean down onto his back without pulling out. He catches himself on his hands, Dean beneath him. Sam thrusts deep, stills for a moment to savor each spasm as Dean continues to tighten around him.
Dean seems to barely notice the change in position, face screwed up and looking like something halfway between pain and pleasure, crying out in one long, drawn out moan. Then he goes limp, his head falling to one side, his eyes closed. But he's tight, so tight around Sam's dick, and Sam pulls back, thrusts back inside, again and again, as he chases his own orgasm.
It hits him hard, fast, punching a grunt out of him. Fire spreads up Sam's spine, and he can't stay quiet when he comes, letting out an anguished roar as he jerks and fills Dean's ass. Everything goes slicker inside, and Sam stills deep inside Dean's body, comes until he feels like he's wrung completely dry.
His heart hammers in his chest, pounds in his ears, takes a long time to slow. Finally, he calms, his heart slows, and he can hear Dean's breath over his own pulse. He slides backward, lifting himself off Dean and away. His softening cock slips free of Dean's body, trails wetness across Dean's thigh, and Dean opens his eyes, looks up at him with an unreadable expression on his face.
Sam turns away, tucks his dick back into his jeans and zips up. He stares into space as the weight of what he's just done comes rushing back.
Sam stares into the emptiness of the vast, abandoned warehouse. "Are you okay?"
Dean lets out a humorless laugh. "I didn't lose my mind," he says. "I'm a little bruised, and I'm not gonna be able to sit down for a week, but it's better than the alternative, so I'm gonna call it good." He pauses, and then, "Sammy, I—"
"I'm sorry," Sam says. "Dean, I'm so—"
"No." There's the sound of a zipper being drawn up, then Dean's hand comes down on Sam's shoulder, pulls him around. "You only did what I asked you to do, Sam. Rather it was you than some stranger, right?"
Sam's face twists up as he fights all the emotions warring inside him. "I'm sorry I couldn't catch her. Stop it before it went that far."
Dean shrugs. He looks wrecked, exhausted. Broken. "We'll hunt her down. We'll get her."
Sam blinks. "What? Why? It's over. Why would you want to risk going after her, when she might hit us with something worse next time?"
Dean stares up at him with a mixture of bemusement and disbelief. "What we did..." He swallows hard. "I want payback, Sammy." He drops his head. "Besides. What if it's not over? What it that was just... A reprieve, or whatever. What if it starts again."
Sam stoops down, picks up the discarded bottle of lube off the floor, stuffs it into Dean's bag and hauls the whole thing onto his shoulder. "Then we'll deal with it," he says. "And we'll get her." He takes Dean by the arm and leads him out of the warehouse.
The trail is going cold three days after Dean begged his brother to fuck him in an abandoned warehouse. All they've got on the witch is a description and her M.O., and their meager sources of information have all but dried up.
Dean wants his revenge, wants the bitch to get what she deserves, and he wants that fucking hex bag, but they've got nowhere to go from here. He fumes into the tumbler of whiskey in his hand and tries to make peace with it.
It hasn't happened again. All systems normal. He can clean the pipes without being desperate for a cock up his ass. There's a lingering awkwardness, the way he can almost feel Sam inside him whenever their eyes meet, but he can live with that. It'll fade, Dean figures. They've done worse things to each other and gotten past it, they'll get past this.
Dean throws back the finger of whiskey in the bottom of the glass and pushes himself to his feet. He sways a little, and the rickety motel table lurches. The bottle tips over, and amber fluid spreads across the surface. Dean grabs for it, just as the door handle rattles and the door swings open.
He looks up, the bottle in his hand, his fingers dripping, and finds Sam in the open doorway. There's a crease between his brows, and he looks worried and confused. "Bad table," Dean says in explanation, and puts the bottle back down. On second thoughts, he lifts it again and is about to pour more into his glass when Sam's hand covers his own and tugs it away.
"I think you've had enough." Sam stoops to find the cap on the floor and screws it back on. "That last lead? Nothing. She's not there, man. Hell, I don't know if she was ever there."
"Bitch," Dean slurs. He collapses on one of the beds and throws his arm over his eyes. "I fucking hate witches."
Sam huffs out a soft laugh. "Yeah." There's the sound of shoes scuffing the floor as he moves around the room. "We've done all we can, Dean. Maybe it's time to call it." He drags something out from under his bed, and the next sound is a zipper. "How are you doing, anyway? No signs it's coming back?"
Dean gives him a non-committal grunt, and rolls over onto his stomach. "I'm good."
Sam is ominously still and silent for a moment, then he pulls his bag off the floor and dumps it on the end of his bed. Ancient springs squeak in protest. The muffled thuds of folded cloth reach Dean's ears as Sam stuffs his clothes in. "We need to get out of here," Sam says, every word measured and careful. "We need to get back to work."
"You mean you need to take my mind off the way I begged you to do me," Dean mumbles into the pillow. He pushes himself up on his elbows, turns his head to look over his shoulder. "Sam. I'm fine, seriously."
Sam stares back at him, a look of horror on his face. "Dean—"
Dean rolls onto his back, keeps rolling until his feet are on the floor. "Sam. I said I'm good." He grabs the keys off the nightstand, and he's about to shove them into his pocket when Sam swoops in and hooks them right out of his hand.
"I'm driving," Sam says, lifting an eyebrow when Dean sways towards him when he tries to get them back.
Dean wakes with a sore neck and a boner that threatens to break the zipper of his jeans. He squirms and groans, and before he's fully cognizant, presses the heel of his hand into his crotch.
Sam glances away from the dark road stretching out in front of them. "Dean? Are you okay?"
Dean moans and shakes his head, clawing his fingers into his thigh because it's the only way he's going to stop himself from whipping it out and jerking it right here. "Where are we?"
"'Bout an hour from home."
"Damn." The word is low pitched, drawn out on a harsh breath. Dean's fingernails scritch audibly along the denim of his jeans, and he whimpers. "I'm sorry, man. We're gonna have to stop."
"It's okay." Sam's breathing hard, and Dean doesn't know why he's focusing on that, on Sam's face, the curve of his jaw as it works, when there's an empty ache inside that has to be filled right fucking now. "So it's happening again," Sam says, glancing quickly at Dean before he pulls off the road and onto a dirt track that'll take them into the woods. The brief glimpse Dean gets of his eyes, they seem bright with excitement, and Dean can't parse it, not now.
Sam stops the car in the middle of the track, and the engine doesn't finish rumbling to a stop before Sam pops the door and dives out into the night.
Seconds later, the passenger door flies open, and Sam hauls Dean up and out of the car. "How much time we got?" He grabs Dean's face in his hands, forces his head up, because Dean's eyes are stuck on the bare patch of skin at Sam's throat, the desire to lean in and lick almost irresistible.
"Some," Dean whispers, as he looks up from beneath his eyelashes and licks his lips. He aches, needs, but right now he'd be okay with a hand or a mouth on him. It's not going to last forever, though. Pretty soon he's going to climb Sam like a tree and try to impale himself. Pretty soon he's going to beg for it. "Shit, Sammy." He looks around, and they're surrounded by trees and darkness, the whole place smelling of decomposing leaves and dirt. "Find something to shove in my mouth, man. You gotta shut me up this time, please."
Sam shakes his head, slow and careful. "I don't care what you say."
Dean remembers begging for his brother's cock, the words echoing in his mind like they have been for the last few days. Dean lifts his chin, stares up into Sam's eyes like he's daring him to look away, to flinch. "Gonna do me down in the dirt, Sam? Like a dog?" He draws out the word, makes it as dirty and confrontational as he can. "Like I'm a bitch in heat? Like you just can't help yourself when I'm all bent over and whining for it?"
To Sam's credit, he doesn't blink. "No." He leads Dean around to the front of the car. "You're getting up close and personal with your Baby tonight. And it doesn't matter what comes out of your mouth, as long as it's yes, okay?"
Dean swallows hard, but can't shift the sudden lump in his throat. "It's always gonna be yes, Sammy." He bites hard at his lip to stop it quivering, and turns his eyes away so Sam can't see them shine in the moonlight, so he can't see the fear.
"Always?" Sam's fingers on his jaw force him to look, and there's confusion in the shape of Sam's brow.
"Until this is done, Sam." Dean wets his lips, remembers the taste of Sam in his mouth, the wet heat of Sam's tongue as it slid past his teeth. "Tonight. 'Til we're done tonight."
There's a hint of disappointment in the set of Sam's jaw, but the observation is gone before it can stick. Dean drags his gaze down and reaches out, slides his palms over the front of Sam's shirt. "Which we should totally get moving on, by the way." It's getting harder to breathe, and he really wants to get out of his jeans. He glances back over his shoulder. "Up close with my best girl? Won't be the first time."
Sam drops his eyes on a soft laugh. "Always knew you two would get together eventually." When he lifts them, they're darker somehow, almost black in the darkness. He steps forward, almost predatory, and slides his hand into his pocket as he crowds Dean up against the hood of the car.
His hand comes out of his pocket with a tube of lube. He looks down at it, shrugs, like an apology. "I was ready. Just in case." With his eyes still downcast, he reaches for the front of Dean's jeans with the other hand. "I'm gonna do it properly this time, Dean." Dean's jeans open, and loosen, and Dean lets out a whimper of relief. Sam lowers his voice. "I'm gonna need you to turn around and get your jeans off for me."
There's uncertainty in Sam's voice, something like fear, but Dean's far enough gone that he turns and kicks off his jeans. With only a little shame tugging at the back of his mind, he spreads his feet apart and leans forward, presses his palms down on the smooth hood.
She's still warm, and as if he can see the future, a scene plays out in his head, one where he's pressed naked against the curved steel, and Sam is a solid weight on his back, and Dean's ass is full and stretched and it's exactly what he needs. "Sammy," he rasps. "Yeah, Sammy. Yes."
"Good, Dean." Sam's hand slides up Dean's back, underneath his shirt, over his bare skin. "That's good." There's a snap and a squelch, and then slick fingers slide over his hole.
Dean chokes back a moan and leans back into the touch, bending a little lower, spreading his thighs a little wider. "Sammy, please."
"Shh. You gotta hold on a little while for me, Dean." There's pressure as Sam's fingertip pushes against him, sliding, circling. "Can you do that?"
Dean nods, lets his head hang down. "Long as you quit wasting time back there."
Sam takes a step forward, and Dean can feel the denim of his jeans against the back of his bare thighs. Sam's breathing is audible, rough and quick, but he doesn't hesitate when he breaches Dean with a fingertip.
Dean gasps at the initial shock and weirdness of having something inside him again. It's different this time, he's not as far gone, not near mindless with lust and need like he was then. All he can remember from that moment before was a searing pain, but a sense of relief that kept him from stopping or pulling away. This time he could pull away, if he wanted. This is good, a little bit at a time, and when he doesn't care anymore, hopefully he'll be able to walk the next day without wincing. Hiding that from Sam was a bitch.
He gets used to it quick, and he wants more. "Come on, Sammy."
"Okay." Sam's voice is low and wrecked already. The hand still laying flat on Dean's lower back clenches as Sam slowly pushes that finger in all the way, and Sam leans into him more.
Dean moans, long and just a little too high pitched for his liking, and the sound only fades when Sam's hand stills. Dean breathes hard. "I can feel every knuckle, Sammy," he rasps. "Do it again."
Sam lets out a choked off groan. "Jesus, Dean." He slides his finger out again, slow, and this time he works it so every single knuckle on the digit stretches Dean for just a little bit longer. "God." He leans into Dean more, and that's definitely his cock pressing hard and thick against Dean's left ass cheek.
"What?" Dean sucks air into his lungs in shallow gasps. "Not enough yes for you? Yes. Yesyesyes, Sam, come on."
"It's fine." Sam sounds like he's talking through his teeth. The finger slides in, out, torturously slow. Again and again, until Dean's panting and about to demand more, or faster, or something, when Sam presses another fingertip to his hole on the outstroke, and without missing a beat, slides two into Dean's ass.
"Holy fucking god." Dean's rim burns like it's on fire, but inside, it's so good. Sam twists on the outstroke, comes in different, grazes over a place inside that makes Dean cry out as perfect tingles spread out from the base of his cock, all the way to the tips of his fingers and the tips of his toes and the tips of his ears. He tries to ask for more, tries to beg Sam to never stop but all that comes rumbling up out of his throat is a guttural groan.
He hits the cooling hood of the car when Sam starts to pump his fingers. "Do that, Sammy," he gasps, with his cheek pressed to cold steel and the fuzzy shape of Sam towering above him in the corner of his eye, "do what you just did, and you won't need a hex to make me come looking for it."
Sam falters and chokes. "Fuck, Dean." The words come out broken and mangled, and he stops to clear his throat.
Dean closes his eyes. "Could've shut me up, but no." He grinds back on Sam's fingers and thrusts his cock against Baby's hood. "Get on with it, we don't have all night."
"Okay, okay." Sam lines up another finger and twists three in. It's different this time, Sam's not going as deep, but the further he gets in, the wider Dean's ass stretches open. It's kind of filthy to think about, but all it does is send a sick kind of thrill through Dean at the thought of his baby brother slowly working his way inside him.
Dean would like to believe that he'll regret this in the morning, but he won't. Not for the reasons he should, anyway. Truth is, these last few days there's been a disturbing absence of horror in regards to being fucked by his brother. All his discomfort has been worry, fear, that Sam is disgusted by what they did, what they're doing. The things he said, the things he's saying. He'll never forget asking his brother to fuck him, for as long as he lives.
Sam's gotta do it because that's what they do. They save each other. Dean's given up on any chance that either of them would—or could—live on without the other. It's never going to happen. They'll check out together or not at all.
Sam's obliged to do this, but Dean wants it. Wants it so bad he'll die if he doesn't get it. "Fuck me," he croaks, bitten down fingernails scraping at the hood with no thought for the paint job. Yeah, the shame is going to hit him when he comes out of this, but right now he needs more, more than the fingers of Sam's right hand, because even with the stretch burning his hole, inside he feels empty, open, gaping, and there's a searing pain licking at his insides that only cock will ease. "Now, Sammy, right now."
He sounds freaked, his voice rising in pitch, and Sam moves fast. He pulls his hand free, there's the sound of a zipper, then the blunt head of Sam's cock presses against Dean's hole. Before he can blink, there's a flash of pain, nothing like last time, and then he's full, Sam's dick going deep, bottoming out on the first thrust.
Dean lets out a sound that's halfway between a moan and a scream, like a wild animal or one of the monsters they've hunted, and it hangs in the air for long after his throat stops vibrating. Sweat slicks his cheek where it's stuck to the hood of the car, and he pulls it away, looks back at Sam over his shoulder.
Big mistake. Sam's mouth hangs open and he breathes hard. Shock, maybe. Or horror. Or disgust. His eyes are wide and staring, and his dick is twitching deep inside Dean's body. Dean closes his eyes tight. "Sorry, Sammy," he whispers, and he fights his body's betrayal, but he can't stop himself from clenching down on Sam's dick, like he can milk the come right out of him.
Sam whimpers. "No, Dean." He drops down over Dean's body, pinning him to the car, and they're joined from knee to shoulder. "Don't say you're sorry about this." Every single word is a rough growl hissed out from between clenched teeth. He rocks his hips, forcing a moan from Dean's throat. "You think this is hard for me?" He moves again, a solid thrust this time, and Dean slides up the hood. "This isn't hard."
Sam's hot breath washes over Dean's face as Sam starts to move, slow thrusts, deep inside Dean, never pulling out far as though he can't bear to leave. Dean opens his eyes, and Sam's blurry up this close, and his eyes hurt with the effort it takes to just catch the edge of Sam's face. Sam's arm slides around his chest and pulls him up, twists Dean while his cock is still buried deep inside. Then Sam's kissing him, kissing him like he's the one out of control here, and all Dean can do is take it.
He's gotta not think, because if he does he'll go insane. He can't think about how strangely right it feels to be kissing Sam out here in the woods, Sam's cock right up inside him. He can't think about how he's breathing his brothers breath, how even their hearts seem to beat in time. And when they can't kiss anymore, and Dean turns back to the car, plants his palms and locks his elbows so Sam can pound into him hard and fast. Definitely can't think about the fact that his orgasm crashes down on him out of the blue and he comes in thick white ropes over the black paint without a single touch to his dick.
He can't allow himself to think when he's still crying out as aftershocks roll over him and Sam's fingers are digging into his hips while he grunts with every hard thrust, and Dean swears he can feel it go warm and slick inside when Sam comes.
He can't think when Sam pulls out of him and come drips down the inside of his thigh, and he can't think when Sam pulls him around and pulls him close and kisses him again.
It all crashes down on him, all those thoughts, when they're back on the road and he's behind the wheel this time, but they're coming too hard and too fast and he can't make sense of it all. He can't stop it enough to talk, and every time Sam asks him if he's okay and he turns to answer, all the words get stuck in his throat.
I last updated this fic close to 5 years ago. The other two chapters have been complete and sitting on my hard drive since then. Something happened back then to make me never want to look at it again, but I don't remember what it was.
So, because I don't remember why I ran away, and because all the remaining chapters need is to be edited, I'm posting Chapter 3 now. Chapter 4 will appear at some time in the future, provided I don't get inexplicably terrified for no good reason again....
"Beer," Sam calls, standing at the bottom of the stairs with a six-pack in each hand and a bad feeling. "Dean? Where the hell are you, man?"
He heads for the kitchen, dumps the beer on the table, and checks his phone. He would have heard it if it had rung, but there's not even a text message. He heads down the hall toward their rooms. "I'm starting to freak out, Dean. Where are you?"
Five days have passed since they stopped the car in the woods. When the third day came and went, the theory that these 'attacks' went on a regular schedule went out the window. Dean was ecstatic. Sam was a little more pessimistic. If they didn't know when it was going to happen, they could hardly hunt. What if it happened in the middle of a job? Something like that could take Dean out of the hunt completely, if not put his life in danger.
Sam was even reluctant to leave to get much needed supplies, but Dean without beer is unpleasant at the best of times. Dean locked up in the bunker without beer is intolerable.
Dean's door is closed. Sam knocks, and stands close so he can speak through the solid wood. "Dean?"
Bed springs squeak, and there's a muffled thump. "Sammy?" He sounds breathless and panicked, and Sam's moving before he gets his next words out: "Don't come in."
Sam bursts through the door, two things in his mind. Either Dean's suffering from the effects of the spell again, or there's something in there with him and he's been attacked. By the time Dean's final words have registered in his brain, it's too late, and he's halfway across the room, his gun raised.
Then he drops it, because it's pointed right at Dean, and there's no one else in here. He frowns, tries to make sense of the scene before him. "Dean? What's going on?"
Dean's backed up against the wall, a sheet hastily pressed against his apparently naked body, sticking to his belly in a spreading patch of wetness. "I told you not to come in, man. Come on."
Sam quickly turns around and tucks the handgun back into the back of his jeans. "I thought you needed help. Or...ahhh...something."
"Well, I did." Dean sounds pissed. "Figured I could wait 'til you got back, because beer runs? Sure don't take me that long. And then you didn't come back, and I'd left it a little long to be able to deal with making a phone call. I thought I was dying, Sammy."
Sam almost turns back, but stops, when, from the corner of his eye, he catches Dean wiping his stomach down with the corner of the sheet. "What happened?"
Dean comes further into his field of vision, waves his hand around in a gesture that means 'turn the other way'. "It just stopped. Don't know why, don't know how, but just before you turned up, it stopped."
"Stopped?" Sam turns his head, and Dean's pulling on his jeans, so he turns his whole body. "Why would it just stop?"
"Hell if I know, Sammy, but I'm not going to complain about it." Dean pulls a clean t-shirt over his head and heads for the door.
Sam's been watching Dean a lot more than usual lately. Watching the way he moves, the way he walks. After the first time, in the warehouse, he moved stiff, like he was in pain, and that didn't surprise Sam at all. As far as he knows, that was the first time Dean had ever been fucked, and Sam did it without any preparation. Left behind in Dean's room, he shivers thinking about it. Dean was so hot and so tight and so damn hungry for it. Sam shouldn't have enjoyed fucking his brother so much, but in the days that came after, he couldn't stop thinking about it, and while he, along with Dean, hoped that it was over, he knew he wouldn't hesitate to do it again if Dean needed him.
He'd like to try and tell himself that he's just helping his brother, saving him, but it's not all of it. Not by a long shot.
After the night they stopped in the woods, Dean still moved different, but he didn't seem to be in pain. Sam enjoyed opening Dean up slowly, bit by bit, had been planning it just like that in his head since the first time. There are things that have been going through his head since then, other ways of getting Dean ready to take his cock. There's a part of him that feels disappointed at the fact he didn't get the chance to do those things this time.
Dean's moving different now, not entirely relaxed, just a little more bow-legged than usual. Sam wonders if he had his own fingers up his ass before Sam got back, before it all just stopped. He wonders if Dean was getting himself ready to take his brother's cock.
Sam's eyes flick to Dean's bedside table. There's a bottle of lube there, and the cap is off, and it's squeezed, the bottle buckled, and the outside of the bottle is slick and shiny where Dean's gotten lube all over the outside. There's wet smudges on the bottom sheet that Sam didn't notice before. Sam closes his eyes, imagining what Dean might have looked like fucking himself with his fingers, and he lets out a soft moan as his cock, hard in his jeans for some time now, pulses and jerks.
"You okay there, Sammy?"
Sam's eyes snap open, to find Dean leaning around the edge of the open doorway. "Yeah," he chokes, and then clears his throat. "Hey Dean? If it'd been me who touched the hex bag, would you have...?"
Dean's eyes go wide, and he swallows hard as he moves back into the doorway. "Honestly? I don't know. Maybe not. And I don't know whether that makes me the good brother, or a crap one."
After the first time, Sam had waited for Dean to tell him that no matter what, he didn't want Sam to do it again, if it happened again. Dean never did.
Another week goes by and nothing happens, so they find a case. Sam leaves piles of books, spell books, some Men of Letters research on love spells, on sex magic, he leaves them all out in the library and they leave for some hick town in Nebraska.
Dean might be convinced it's all over, but Sam's not so hopeful. He knows there's little difference between Nebraska and all the way across the country, but he'll feel better if they're not too far from home.
When they get there, he checks them into a motel, just so they have somewhere to go if everything goes sideways.
Technically, it's a routine haunting, and they could easily be in and done and gone again in the space of a day, but he's not taking any chances.
As hauntings go, it's as routine as they get. They get a positive ID on the ghost within an hour of getting into town, but then they've got a couple hours to kill before dark, because it's no fun digging graves in broad daylight.
So they head back to the motel.
Sam's reading, and Dean's chucking back beers in front of the television, when the laughter directed at the screen fades. Sam watches him from the corner of his eye as he starts to squirm on the couch.
"You okay, Dean?" he asks, when Dean's been shuffling back and forth as though he can't get comfortable for the last five minutes.
Dean glances up quickly, then back to the television. He goes stock still, looking rigid and uncomfortable. He clears his throat. "Fine," he says, and his voice is low, rough and deep, but lilts up at the end of the word. He stares for another few minutes, then suddenly leaps off the couch and heads for the bathroom. "Taking a shower," he says, without giving Sam so much as a look.
Sam gives him a good ten minutes before he stands outside the bathroom door and knocks. He raises his voice, so that Dean can hear him over the running water. "What do you want me to do, Dean? When it gets bad, what do you want me to do?"
Long moments pass in which Sam listens to the running water, and then it abruptly shuts off. "Dean? Are you okay? I need you to tell me—"
"I'm good," Dean says, and he's right on the other side of the door. "For now. Just... I gotta do this on my own, Sam. If it stops..." His heavy, labored breaths travel through the thin layers of wood. "If it doesn't, man. You'll know."
"Dean." Sam presses himself against the door, palms flat against the surface, cheek pressed against the wood. "What do you want me to do?"
Dean's quiet for a long time, silent but for his rasping breath. Then, finally, he speaks, and it's a pained growl through the door. "Wait 'til I call you. If I call you, you can take that as a yes."
The door moves under Sam's hands, flexes as Dean pushes away from it. There's movement inside, the slap of Dean's bag hitting the counter, the rip of the zipper as it opens. Other sounds that paint a picture in Sam's mind, the snap of a plastic cap and the creak of cheap carpentry and the sudden soft gasping moan from inside.
Time passes, and Sam's still pressed to the door, eyes closed and hard as a rock inside his jeans. The scene plays out in his mind, Dean bent over the counter with his fingers up his ass and he must be up to three by now if the sounds from inside are any indication. Sam can even hear the soft squelching of too much lube, playing counterpoint to Dean's grunts as he fucks himself like that. Interspersed with the sounds of sex are wordless cries of frustration and helplessness and it's all Sam can do to stay where he is instead of bursting through the door and giving Dean what he needs.
It feels like hours have passed, and Sam's getting desperate, unable to bear the sounds Dean is making any longer. He's about to burst in anyway when the call finally comes.
"Sammy," Dean groans, his name drawn out, long and low and wrecked, and Sam's through the door before his name has even faded on the air.
The scene before him is almost exactly as he imagined it. Dean's completely naked, both hands on the edge of the sink as he bends over, legs spread wide, his asshole open and dripping and red and used-looking. Dean's head hangs down, and Sam can't see his face, but he can see his own reflected in the mirror. He looks away from the mirror quickly, because he looks scary; hungry and mad with lust and terrified all at once. "Dean," he says, voice breaking. "Oh, god. Dean."
Dean lifts his head. Reflected in the mirror, his eyes look black, pupils blown so wide as to eclipse the iris completely. His lower lip is red and swollen and bleeding from a cut, like he's been biting down hard in his failed attempts to stay quiet. "Need you to fuck me, Sammy," he groans, and his eyes roll back in his head as something shivers through him. "Now, Sammy, please."
The begging does Sam in completely, and he crosses the small room in one long stride, his jeans open before he really realizes what he's doing, and he lines up his cock and slides right in deep.
Dean grunts, hard and sharp, and he buckles over like he's been gut-punched. His ass clamps down on Sam's cock, pulses like he's coming already. Sam can barely think, too long spent hard and pressed up against the door listening to Dean finger himself, and he rides the knife edge even while he's stilled inside Dean's body.
He's got an arm wrapped around Dean's chest, holds him tight, looks over his shoulder into the mirror, right into Dean's eyes. And he sees his own, and they're the same, lust blown and dark, and he breathes hard, and so does Dean, and they're both wearing the same expression. Desperate, and hungry, and utterly shameless.
"You feel good, Sammy," Dean whispers, and Sam reads his lips because he can't hear a thing over the thundering of his own heart. "You always feel so good."
Sam moves his hips, rocks into Dean as he moans an affirmative. "Can't stop thinking," he grunts as he pulls out, long and slow, and then slides back in. "'Bout being in you." He pulls his arm tighter around Dean's chest and jerks into him, does it again. "I wanted this," he growls, and he hates himself for it, but he won't let himself look away from the mirror, from Dean's face, from Dean's eyes.
He expects to see betrayal there, expects something from his admission, but there's nothing. Nothing but Dean's eyes rolling up in his head as Sam starts to fuck him harder, his long drawn out moan and the tightening of his ass around Sam's cock until Sam doesn't think he's going to bear it, won't last.
He doesn't need to. Sam cries out when Dean starts to come, his body tightening until Sam sees stars. Spurts of come hit the mirror, drip down onto the countertop, then Dean slumps in Sam's arms, and only Sam holds him up. He fucks up into Dean's slack body, comes right behind him, fills him full of slick, then they both slump forward over the counter.
Sam can hardly breathe. It must have been over in seconds, too much, too fast, and his mind and his heart and his lungs are still trying to catch up. Then Dean moans and shifts beneath him, and Sam pulls back, and his cock slips out of Dean's body. It's followed by a trickle of fluid, Sam's come dripping down the inside of Dean's thigh. It's sick. It's fucked up. But he wanted it. God, he wanted it.
Sam stumbles back, gasping. Dean catches his eye in the mirror, and fear creases his forehead. "You okay, Sammy?" His voice is barely a rasp, his throat ruined by screaming.
"I—" Sam chokes on a sob and backs away on unsteady legs. "Dean, I—"
Dean drops his eyes from the mirror, shakes his head. "You wanna give me a minute, Sam?"
Sam backs out of the bathroom, and closes the door behind him.
They're standing on the edge of an open grave watching bones burn when Sam finally clears the blockage in his throat. "It's not over, Dean."
"You think I don't know that?" Dean drops his chin into his chest and shakes his head before he lifts his eyes to Sam's. "That bitch ain't done." He huffs out a laugh and turns his head away, and the glow from the grave lights his face on fire. "What the hell kind of game is she playing? Is she getting her kicks out of watching me—" He stops, and he looks back up at Sam. "She's watching," he says, and his face is blank. "She's fucking watching. You came back to the bunker last week, and it stopped. We leave, and it starts up again." He turns slowly on the spot, looks out into the darkness. "Where are you, you perv?" he yells out across the headstones. He turns back to Sam. "She can't see us in the bunker. It's warded in ways we've never heard of. No point to it happening there, right?"
Sam clears his throat. He still feels like he's choking on every word. "Must have hoped you'd follow me out. She doesn't know how stubborn you are." He looks around the cemetery himself, though he knows she'll never be found like that. "She's watching remotely, gotta be. And whatever she's doing she can't see into the bunker."
"Right." Dean groans, and he shoves his hand onto his pocket, pulls out the car keys. "Let's go. We can get this figured out once we're safe."
"Once you're safe," Sam says, and that lump in his throat is guilt. It's growing like a tumor, eating away at him until he'll have no voice left at all.
Fills the 'complete something unfinished' square of my 2020 bingo card.
Yeah, I started this fic about five years ago. Pleased to finally be hitting the complete button.
They're packed as if they're driving across the country, as if they might be away from the bunker for weeks, moving from job to job, motel to motel.
Their first stop, though, is less than half an hour drive away. Dean's heart is pounding in his chest, and he can't keep still, stamping his feet on the floor while he waits for Sam to gather the last of the books they need.
Sam zips his bag up, and pulls it up off the table, slings it onto his shoulder. He looks up and meets Dean's eyes.
Dean swallows hard as he stares back, and then he's got to look away. It's too much, staring into Sam's eyes like that, all concern and grave intensity, and it hurts, where his jaw is clenched and his lungs are tight. "You ready for this, Sammy?" He drops his eyes and takes a couple of aimless steps across the floor.
Sam's not moving. He's just standing there, bag over his shoulder, but he's not going anywhere. Even without looking, Dean knows what's going to come out of his mouth next, knows the way his face shifts into this self-sacrificing frown, all furrowed brow and 'do the right thing' and 'lets talk' and shit and Dean just can't.
"Dean, we should talk about this. Now, while we still can."
Dean lifts his head, shoots him a look that's supposed to convey 'seriously?' but which Sam tends to ignore. Then he looks wistfully up toward the stairs. "Times ticking, Sammy."
Sam lets out a soft laugh, drops his head, shakes it. "It's really not." He looks back up. "Fine. You don't want to talk. I get that, I do. But I'm gonna talk, Dean, and you're going to listen because there's some stuff I need to say."
Dean groans, drops his bag back onto the floor, and sinks down onto the step. "Whatever, Sam. Get it done, man. Some of us want this over."
Sam flinches, but he puts his bag back down on the table and takes a deep breath. "You know what's going to happen when we leave here."
Dean looks up at him, lifts his eyebrows. "Duh, Sammy." They've been locked up in the bunker for close to two weeks, or at least Dean has been. It's taken that long just to find the information they need, to find a way to get the witch who did this to him and stop her. Nothing's happened in that time, but Dean still thinks about it every day, thinks about it when he lies in his bed at night, he thinks about it when he showers, he thinks about it when he jerks off. He thinks about having Sam inside him, how good it feels to have Sam's big hands on him, those long, thick fingers inside him, and then his cock, stretching him open, filling him so right, so good, easing the desperation.
And he just wants it over. He wants to gank the bitch doing it, end it once and for all, because knowing it's going to happen again? That's the worst. It's the anticipation that's killing him, the wanting it as if this curse or hex or spell or whatever affects him all the time, not just when someone's watching. Because he knows it's not. Right now? Not under the influence. But he wants Sam like he's never wanted anyone before, and it's crazy, and it shouldn't be real, but he knows it is.
Sam's still staring at him, all puppy dog eyes and martyr complex, and that's supposed to be Dean's deal, and he frickin hates it when Sam does it because that's not Sam's job. It's not right Sammy looking out for Dean like this, it's not right that Sam should have to do this.
Then Sam's face shifts, twists into anger, hopelessness, desperation, and that's supposed to be Dean's deal, too, at least lately, so what the fuck is going on here?
"I don't know what I'm supposed to feel," Sam whines, and that's more like it. "There's some things I should have told you a long time ago, back when this first started, because every time it happens, every time I have to—" All the color drains out of Sam's face, and Dean looks away, wishes he could shove his fingers in his ears so he didn't have to hear it. "Every time, Dean, it just gets harder."
Dean picks at the seam of his jeans. "Fuck you, Sam," he mutters, and then lifts his head, stares right at Sam, glares with all the accusation he can muster. "Fuck. You. You couldn't have waited 'til it's over?" And then he flinches, because no, Sam should have said something at the beginning, because then Dean never would have known what it felt like to have his brother inside him, and he wouldn't be feeling like such a sick fuck right now for forcing his baby brother to degrade himself like that. He shakes his head, grinds his teeth and chokes on bile. He knew what Sam was thinking the whole time, but now he has confirmation, and it's going to be awful doing it again, because it's got to happen, they can't do the spell they need to do until they know she's watching and they only know she's watching when Dean starts getting like he needs to be fucked. It's going to hurt, knowing that Sam's doing something that disgusts him. It's going to hurt so much, and Dean'll still be begging Sam to fuck him.
"I know what you're thinking, Dean," Sam says, and he's moving toward Dean now, but he stops, too far away. "I'm sick. There's something wrong with me. It wouldn't be the first time, and I remember the way you used to look at me, and how much it hurt, and I just want you to know, it's okay. You don't have to pretend, Dean. I'm not going anywhere. You can say what you like to me, and I'll take it. I know how wrong this is."
What the actual fuck? Dean stares, like he can figure out what Sam's saying from the look on his face, but for once, Dean can't read it. The expressions are familiar, but they don't match the words, they don't match what's stuck in Dean's head. "Huh?" he says, stupidly, completely unable to parse what Sam's trying to say.
Sam comes a bit closer, but stops, still too far away. "I like what we've been doing," he says. He glances back at his bag, the one with all the books and equipment and arcane thingies inside. "When I found that spell, Dean? You know what I thought about first? Not that we could end this, not that we could finally find her. I thought about the fact that we would have to leave. That we'd have to find somewhere and wait for it to start again. That I would get to be inside you again."
He's incredibly pale, head hung low, and that's not hard to read. It's shame. Sam's ashamed.
Dean's in shock. His mouth opens and closes like a fish, but no words come out. When he can finally form a thought, he speaks slow, careful. "You only did what I asked you—repeatedly—to do, Sam."
Sam shakes his head. "It was my idea. You gave me options, and I chose something else. I chose something I wanted, not what was best for you. I took what I wanted. And I liked it. I liked it every single time, and I wanted more." He lifts his head, and his eyes are wet and shining. "I still want more."
Dean pushes himself to his feet, drags himself up the steps, and he slowly crosses the space between them, like he's afraid Sam's going to spook. When he's close enough, he reaches out for Sam's shoulder.
Sam flinches away, like he's been doing since this started. Between fucks, he always flinches away when Dean gets close. "You can't even look at me," Dean says, and he knows he's a hypocrite, because he can't look at Sam, either, and he pulls away when Sam gets too close, too. "It should be gross, right? Having to fuck your brother, literally having to? We've done some fucked up shit for each other, Sam. We've made deals, we've become monsters, we've killed and we've died. But this? This is where you're supposed to draw the line."
Sam gives his head a shake, and then he drops it into a nod. He looks as though he's going to hurl. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be," Dean says, and he grabs Sam's face in his hands and he forces Sam to look him in the eye. "This ain't your fault, man. It ain't any of our faults. You like this?" He drops his eyes, lets them fall over his own body. "So what. I like it too. And not just when she's watching, Sammy. You think I'm grossed out by my baby brothers cock in my ass?" Sam's eyes go wide. "I'm not. Should be, but I'm not. It's good, Sam. We're both freaking out because we think we're doing something bad. Hell, I thought you were grossed out having to do it. But it's good. You like it, I like it—"
"We're brothers," Sam hisses out through his teeth.
Dean shrugs. "So? We've fucked with the natural order, over and over and over again. This is nothing. Right now, all I'm pissed about is the pervy bitch getting off on watching us, taking away my fucking ability to make my own fucking decisions about when I wanna get fucked by my brother."
Sam's face, when he looks up at Dean, is scandalised. "But that's just it, Dean. You couldn't possibly consent, and I fucked you anyway."
"Pretty sure you heard me say yes about a hundred times, Sam. 'Sides, who's to say I wouldn't, if I had the choice? If it was something that had actually crossed my mind before she put it in there, anyway."
"You said I was the last person on earth it should be, Dean."
"I didn't want you to do something you didn't want to do."
"I did. I wanted to do it."
For the first time in a long time, the two of them maintain eye contact for an extended period. Dean's not going to be the one to break it. "Good," he says, never looking away, and sliding his hands down the sides of Sam's throat. "Now, can we please get this frickin show on the road? I'd like to be making my own fucking decisions by morning, you know?"
An hour later they're sitting on opposite sides of a table in a gaudy motel room. The legs are uneven, and Sam carefully folds a sheet of plain white paper before bending to shove it under one leg. It stops rattling.
Spread out on the table is another, larger sheet of paper. This one's parchment, kind of a sandy dirt color, with ragged edges, and Sam moves to place items on the corners to keep it from rolling back up. There's a silver knife, the blade so sharp it'll cut through human skin like butter. There's a small pottery bowl that Sam found on a shelf in the archives. There's a wooden box, carved with arcane symbols and full of a mixture of evil smelling herbs and powders. And there's a bottle of whiskey, because it's the heaviest thing Dean could find in his bag and he wants it close to hand in case everything goes sideways.
"Anything?" Sam says, as he smooths down the edges of the parchment with his fingertips. His eyes are on the paper, on his hands, but he licks his lips and lifts his head. "Dean?"
Dean keeps getting lost in his mind. The things they said to each other before they left the bunker, some of the things they've said to each other since this whole thing started, they're all echoing in his mind and he can't concentrate, and it doesn't help when Sam goes and does that to his lips. "What? Oh." To be honest, he's been half-hard since they got in the car, and he could pretend it's being back behind the wheel of his baby for the first time in two weeks, but that's not it at all. "Maybe? Though it could be the little talk we had back there."
Sam chokes on nothing, coughs to clear his throat. "We've gotta be sure she's watching."
"Right." Dean clears his throat as well. "Yeah, we should wait."
Dean's taking swigs out of the whiskey bottle whenever Sam's attention is elsewhere. Dean's still at the table, Sam wandered off, and he's playing with his phone, stretched out on one of the beds. Dean thinks they should have got a double, but it must be habit them getting two. He's completely hard in his jeans now, but it doesn't feel quite the same. There's no urgency, not like the other times, not yet, at least, and he doesn't know whether it's the hex, or if it's just Sam.
He passes the time thinking about getting Sam's clothes off and taking small sips out of the bottle, because if this works, they're going to have to bounce from here fast in order to catch her. He distracts himself by imagining what they might do, how they might do it, once this is over and Dean can choose again.
He'd like to bend Sam over the edge of the bed. Make him press his hands flat to the mattress, hold him by his hips and slide in, nice and slow. He never really thought much about fucking a guy before, but he bets Sam would be really fucking tight and— He moans at the thought of fucking his brother, presses the heel of his hand against his crotch to ease a bit of the pressure.
Sam's head jerks up. "Dean?"
Dean shakes his head. "Nope. Thinking about something else."
Sam's eyes darken. "Like what?"
Dean stares back for a long time as he debates sharing his thoughts with Sam. He's got to tear his eyes away when he decides to spill, he can't say it out loud with Sam staring like he is. "When this is over," he says, and his voice has gone thick and rough. "I'm gonna fuck you."
He can actually hear it when Sam swallows hard. He doesn't look up, though, because otherwise, Sam's silent.
Then there's a low, breathy moan, a word slipping out with it. "Yeah," Sam says. "Yeah, Dean."
Dean lets out the breath he's been holding, can't stop the smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. "Yeah," he echoes.
Bed springs creak as Sam puts his feet on the floor. Dean looks up as he crosses the room, almost chokes on his tongue when Sam drops to his knees at Dean's feet and looks up into his eyes. There's so much there, and the pupils of Sam's eyes are blown wide with lust and he blinks away a glistening wetness. Then he reaches for Dean's waist, and gentle fingers slip under his shirt.
They're warm on Dean's belly, but that's apparently not Sam's goal. He flicks the button of Dean's jeans open, tugs the waistband apart, and the well worn zipper slides right down. "Can I?" he asks, and he licks his lips, and his eyes are still on Dean's face, and they're hungry and questioning.
And all Dean can do is nod and gasp when Sam pulls his cock out of his pants, and slowly, tentatively, lowers his head and takes Dean into his mouth.
Dean's eyes roll back in his head. He's had plenty of blowjobs, never from a guy, and he wonders if guys are better at sucking dick simply from the virtue of having one of their own and knowing what feels good. So far, he thinks, yeah, maybe, or maybe Sam's just done this before. Sam would have kept that to himself, Dean figures, he's not one to kiss and tell, not one to shout his conquests from the rooftops.
Sam goes slow, like he's in no hurry. Dean's quite keen on coming, though, and he figures that will at least let them know if it's the witch making him crazy like this, or if it's just Sam. He links his fingers through Sam's hair, puts a little pressure behind the touch.
Sam lets Dean guide him. The suction is perfect, the way his tongue flicks beneath the head as he pulls off between sucking him in. Too perfect, and yeah, guys just know what they're doing, or Sam just knows what he's doing, because pressure starts building at the base of Dean's spine and he pulls Sam off him, grabs him by the hair and drags him up, until just the tip of Dean's cock is still in his mouth and his tongue wraps around the underside as though he can hold on like that.
"You like it, Sam?" Dean growls and bites at his bottom lip. "You like sucking my dick? Are you doing this because you like having your mouth full of my cock?"
Sam's eyes go wide and his head bobs in a quick, jerky nod, and he moans around Dean's dick and it feels so fucking good.
"I'm gonna come," Dean hisses, and he lets Sam go, drops his hands to his thighs, fingers clawing into the denim of his jeans. "Won't be offended if you move, man."
And Sam, his eyes still on Dean's face, gives his head a shake and sucks him back down deep.
When Dean comes, it's almost painful, his stomach clenching so hard he almost falls off the chair, but Sam catches him.
"Well, fuck," he says, when he can breathe again. "I guess that was all us."
Sam won't let Dean touch his dick. "I shouldn't have done that," he says, glancing down at Dean's crotch as they sit side by side on one of the narrow single beds.
"Awesome," Dean says, and then turns his head, glares at Sam's profile. "I thought we were past that, Sammy. 'Cause I wasn't feeling bad about forcing you to do me before our little talk. Which was your idea, by the way. Dude, I'm gonna get whiplash."
After he came in his brother's mouth, Sam dragged Dean up off the chair, practically threw him down onto the bed, and they were both stripped to the waist and Dean's hand was halfway down Sam's jeans, all in the space of about 30 seconds.
Then Sam froze. "We can't do this," he said, and pulled away, and Dean was left reeling.
"Is it the incest thing?" Dean says, shaking off the recent memories. "Because I think that ship has sailed, man."
"No." Sam turns to face him, and there's a hint of a smile on his lips. "It's definitely a thing, Dean, but that's not why." He pushes himself to his feet, shoves his hands deep into his pockets, and his jeans tug down to his hips, and Dean can't drag his eyes away from Sam's hips, the muscle, tight beneath the skin. He kinda wants to lick at the place it cuts in between his hard stomach and his hip bone.
"We're giving her a free show, Dean."
Dean's head jerks up. "Huh?"
Sam rolls his eyes, and his smile spreads wider, "If she's watching, she's getting it for free, but if she's not triggering the hex, we don't know for sure that she's watching, you know?"
"Ahh." Dean gets it now, and a wave of relief kind of washes over him at Sam's words. "And we can't do the spell until we know she's watching."
"So no sex 'til I turn into a wanton whore again, check." Dean looks around the room, the spell set up and ready to go on the table, the small, crappy TV with no cable, and pretty much nothing else. "Well, do you want to go get some food, or shall I?"
Sam hooks his shirt off the floor and pulls it on, then holds his hand out for the car keys. "I'll do it," he says.
Dean lies on the bed and listens to the rumble of the engine as Sam pulls out of the motel lot in search of food. He closes his eyes, tries to think about perfect burgers and warm apple pie instead of the other stuff that's filling his brain. He briefly wonders if whatever triggers his need for cock is inhibited by his own regular, garden variety arousal, because that would be a pain in the ass. He's not sure it's ever going to go away now. This day has been a whirlwind of upheaval. Two weeks of waiting, of not being able to get the thought of Sam filling him out of his head, despite the belief that Sam was only doing it out of duty, despite the belief that Sam wouldn't have done it otherwise, he couldn't stop thinking about it, couldn't stop wanting it.
His dick is hard again. Does it count as a free show if he just rubs one out before Sam gets back, just to take the edge off? Dean decides it doesn't, and he shoves his hand into his jeans and wraps it around his cock. He stays zipped up, just in case, and he starts to stroke. Hard and fast, using the recent memory of Sam's mouth on his dick.
But his thoughts drift to images of himself, lying back on this bed, his thighs pulled into his chest as Sam hovers above and slides inside him in one quick stroke.
Dean moans and jerks his dick faster, harder, denim pressing down, tight, on the back of his hand as he spreads his legs involuntarily. He needs something else, needs something in him before he can come and—
Dean yanks his hand out of his jeans, wipes it on his thigh, and reaches for his phone, dialing quickly. "You need to get back here," he says, when Sam finally picks up. "Right the fuck now, Sammy."
When Sam bursts through the door ten minutes later, Dean's pacing the floor, only seconds away from stripping naked. "Too fast, Sammy," he says, the words tumbling out of him. "It's moving too fast, I can't—"
Sam dumps a whole pie and two take-out bags down on the kitchen counter, and then he's there, right there, smelling like cinnamon and leather and just what he needs and it's all Dean can do just to stay clothed when what he really wants to do is get naked and bend over. Sam's hands come down on his shoulders, and he ducks his head to look into Dean's eyes. "We gotta do the spell, Dean. We've got to do it now, can you hold on?"
Dean drops his head, shakes his head. "Then get the party started, Sammy, you gotta—" He lifts his head, and his lungs are too tight, and his eyes are focused on Sam's lips and he's kissed his brother before, but only while they were fucking, or after they fucked, never in between and not even today when they figured out they both wanted this and he really wants Sam to kiss him again. Preferably after he gets his dick inside him. "Fuck, Sam. Get it done."
Then Sam's moving, standing over the table as he opens the wooden box. "Get over here, Dean," he says, as he pulls out tiny twists of paper and empties them into the bowl. When he's done that, he picks up the knife, and he reaches out for Dean's hand.
Dean barely feels it when Sam drags the knife across his palm. "What am I gonna do, Sammy?" he pleads, because his body feels like it's trying to turn itself inside out. "This works, and you go after her, what am I gonna do?"
Sam holds Dean's hand over the bowl as blood drips down on the rest of the mixture. He looks up into Dean's eyes. "I thought of that. Look in my bag. I don't know if it'll work, but it might give you some time, at least." He gives Dean's hand one last squeeze, and then drops it, and picks up a tiny slip of paper with words written on it in hurried ballpoint.
"Et apertis oculis nostris, exigimus videre videntis. Ostendo qui videt nos!" Sam says, and then drops the piece of paper.
Purple flames shoot up from inside the bowl, and then drop down to cast a dull illumination over the table. Something starts to form on the surface of the parchment, a shifting of shade that is barely visible to the naked eye, but soon it's evident that something's changed.
Looking like it's been that way for a hundred years, there's a map now drawn on the sheet of parchment. Dean expected something different, something they'd have to get up real close to read, but it almost like those big text books they make for old people. Or babies. The map barely covers a couple of blocks, but of where he doesn't know and can't form enough of a thought outside 'fuck me' to figure it out.
Sam, however, is pulling his gun, checking the clip, and tucking it back into his jacket. "It's close," he says, and then looks up. "My bag, Dean. I'll be back as soon as I can, and hopefully this will all be over."
An hour later, Dean's sitting on his bed, surrounded by the remnants of take-out burgers eaten cold. He's got a fork in the apple pie, and he fully intends to eat the entire thing. He figures he deserves it.
Sam bursts through the door when it's down to crumbs, stops in his tracks when his eyes fall on Dean, and they just kind of stare at each other for a while.
"I take it it went well," Dean mumbles around his last mouthful. He puts the pie plate aside and crosses one leg over the other.
"What happened?" Sam asks, closing the door behind him. He stands there, kind of stiff and awkward.
"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"
Sam's eyes flick to his bag, lying open on the floor. "Did you—?"
Dean snorts. "Didn't need to. Don't get me wrong, I was ready to try anything, but then it just... Faded. I figured you killed her, or burned the hex bag. Anyway, it stopped. Good job, Sammy." He grins.
Sam looks halfway disappointed and halfway relieved. "I didn't kill her."
Dean looks up sharply. "Why the hell not?"
Sam drops his head, shakes it. "She was an amateur, Dean. I think that was the only spell she knew. I scared the crap out of her though, and she handed the hex bag over easy."
Dean grins. "So it's burned. It's over."
Sam swallows hard and drops his eyes.
"It is burned, right, Sammy?"
Sam's hand slides into his pocket, and when it comes out, he opens his fist to reveal the thing that's been torturing Dean for weeks. "She was stroking it when I found her," he says, and drags his thumb up the side of the tiny package.
Immediately, a shiver that starts at the base of Dean's spine moves up his back. "Sam," he growls.
Sam lifts his eyes, and there's a frown creasing his brow. He strokes the bag again, and Dean shudders. "I'm scared, Dean. You've been under a spell this whole time. But I'm just me. I've admitted that I want this. That I want you. What if I burn the bag, and it just stops for you. What if you can't look at me anymore after what I've done?"
Dean steps off the bed, and he slowly closes the space between them. He takes the bag out of Sam's hand, and Sam lets him. "I don't think that's going to happen, Sam. But if it does, do you want something that isn't real? I don't think you do."
Sam shakes his head, but his eyes are wet, and reddening around the edges. He puts his hand in his pocket again, and pulls out a lighter, hands it over.
Dean sets the hex bag on fire, drops it in the bowl on the table before the flames reach his fingers, and they both watch it burn.
"You got me a rubber cock," Dean says, when all that's left is ash. He looks up into Sam's eyes and lifts one eyebrow. "You went out, and you bought your brother a fake dick? What the hell, Sammy?"
Sam's eyes flick back to his bag on the floor. He looks mortified, like he'd like the earth to open up and swallow him. Again. "Dean, I— I thought—"
"You didn't think about the fact that I'd much rather have the real thing, did you, Sam?" Dean steps forward, right into Sam's personal space, and he can see it in the way his brother leans back that he hasn't quite caught up yet. Then something flickers across Sam's face, confusion, surprise, and Dean lets his lips curve into a smile. "Still want it," he says, and twists his fingers into the front of Sam's shirt.
Sam's eyes go wide when Dean pulls him down into a kiss, the one Dean's wanted all day, and as he slides his tongue into Sam's mouth, he thinks about the fact his cock slid between those lips just a few hours ago. "My turn," he mumbles against Sam's lips as his hands go to Sam's belt.
Then he drops to his knees.
The best thing ever, he thinks, as he takes Sam's dick as far into his mouth as he can manage, is the wondrous, blissed out look on Sam's face, and Dean's pretty sure he'd thank the witch that hexed him if he ever saw her again.