For a small town public library, they don’t have a bad selection. Hell, they’ve even got a copy of the Necronomicon. Dean turns away from the shelf he’s been browsing. “Hey Sam, look at this.”
Sam doesn’t move. Texts are piled on the table where he sits motionless, staring into an open book. Something has been skinning people alive in the surrounding area so maybe he’s found a lead.
Dean leans in to check it out, and he snorts when his eyes fall on the page. “Dude,” he says. “Is this really the time for porn?”
The page that has Sam’s undivided attention holds an engraving. Fine black lines depict two naked figures—two men—in an intimate embrace. It’s old. The paper is yellowed and crisp, like it’ll disintegrate if touched, and the text on the facing page is in a language Dean vaguely recognises as ancient Greek.
“Sammy?” Dean shakes Sam’s shoulder. “Snap out of it. You know that shit can be addictive.”
Sam lets out a shuddering breath, and finally looks up. “Dean.” His eyes are wide and the way he says Dean’s name is filthy. He reaches up, puts his hand over Dean’s, then pushes it up to circle his wrist in a tight grip. “Dean.” He pushes himself to his feet.
“You okay?” Dean glances down at the book, at the page. His eyes linger. “What’s the book?” He tries to look back up, but he can’t. The two men in the drawing, they’re… Well. They’re fucking. It’s obvious. One man is standing, facing the wall, the other is behind him. Before Dean’s eyes the image seems to move. He can almost hear them, and he can feel them.
He can feel the lust, the desire, the need. He’s pulled into the image, drawn into it—
Then he’s wrenched away. His eyes search, reaching for the page, but it’s gone, and in its place, his brothers face.
“Dean,” Sam moans, as he shoves Dean backward. The shelves bruise stripes across Dean’s back. “Dean, I need—”
“That book,” Dean says. He sighs beneath the weight of his brother’s body and his hands go to Sam’s belt, tugging at it. “What the fuck is that book?”
“Cursed,” Sam says, pulling at Dean’s clothing. “Fuck, Dean. I’m sorry. I can’t stop this. I need to fuck you.” He steps back, flips Dean around, pushes him against the shelves face-first.
Dean could fight. If he hadn’t looked at the page, he would have stopped this, burned the book, broken the curse Sam is under. But he looked, allowed himself to fall under the same spell, and now all he can think about is having his brother inside him.
He’s got enough control to produce a condom (who knows when he might meet a hot librarian) and hand it to Sam, but that’s all. “Gonna have to be quiet. We’re in a fucking library.” He thanks fate that the occult section is toward the back of the building, rarely frequented by even the staff if the fine layer of dust on the edge of the shelves can be trusted.
Dean lets out a strangled whimper when Sam’s cock breaches him. There’s no lube but what’s already on the condom. Sam didn’t give him so much as a warning, let alone preparation, and Dean’s never been in this position before. He’s got no experience with being fucked by another man. Still, he’s not surprised that the first time it happens he’s under some kind of spell and it’s his baby brother, because that’s just their life.
“I’m sorry,” Sam says. “God, Dean, I’m so sorry.” He doesn’t stop.
It hurts, more than Dean had time to consider, “Sammy,” he says. “S’okay, Sammy. Don’t stop. Keep going.” Dean knows that he needs it, and he knows that he won’t stop needing it until the situation comes to its inevitable end.
“Dean.” Sam stills only when he’s fully inside of Dean. He’s shaking, his hot breath washing over the skin of Dean’s throat. He mouths at Dean’s neck, then buries his face in Dean’s hair, behind his ear. “You’re so hot, so tight, fuck, Dean. I gotta—”
Except for the clothes they’re wearing they probably look exactly like that picture in the book, and Dean wonders what other pictures are in there, what other situations they might get themselves into before they do the right thing and burn it.
“Move.” Dean braces himself against the shelves. He’s spilt open on Sam’s dick, he’s stretched and burning, but he needs it, needs more, wants friction. He wants to feel the rasp of Sam’s fat cock forcing him open again and again. “Fuck me.”
Sam gasps and jerks his hips, driving himself just a little deeper into Dean’s body. “You’re so good. So good, Dean.” He starts to move, then, pulling out slow. It’s a special kind of torture, leaving Dean empty and wanting. When he pushes back in, it’s like fire licking at Dean’s skin, at his insides. Hot pleasure, exquisite pain. Sam feels so good inside him, the drag of his heavy cock making flesh Dean never really thought about before sing and burn and scream for more.
He muffles himself against his own bicep, a guttural moan with every thrust of Sam’s hips. He’s hard and leaking, his shorts the only barrier between his impending orgasm and the valuable collection gracing the shelves. “Right there, Sammy,” he whispers. “Harder, right there, gonna make me come.”
Sam’s so good to him, keeps slamming his cock into that secret place deep inside Dean, harder, faster. “Come,” Sam breathes, right into Dean’s ear, hot and damp. “Come on my cock, Dean.”
The filthy words his brother whispers shove him right over the edge. He bites down on the soft skin of his arm, tastes blood, still moans so loud it echoes among the stacks. His whole body is on fire, lightning-struck, taut and shuddering as he comes untouched, violently, painfully.
“Fuck,” Sam says, and his fingers bruise Dean’s hips. “Fuck, Dean.” His cock swells inside Dean’s body, throbs and flexes as he comes.
Then they’re both still, and quiet but for their heavy breaths. Dean’s skin tingles, stings, like salt in a wound. Sam pulls out and Dean whimpers, suddenly empty, and it aches like he’s lost a vital part of himself.
“Oh my god,” Sam says, and he stumbles back, fumbling with his clothes. “What the fuck.” He tosses the condom into the metal garbage can under the table and he slams the book shut, shoves it into the bag he brought with him.
Dean yanks up his jeans, buckles his belt. Cold fire still licks at his skin. His knees are weak. “Burn it,” he says.
“Not here.” Sam gathers his things, leaves the other books where they are, lying open or stacked in piles on the table. “We’ve defiled the place enough for one day. Burning books in a library might be going a little far.”
“People fuck in libraries all the time,” Dean says. “Probably.”
Sam winces. “Dean, I’m sorry—”
“Don’t,” Dean says. “Let’s just get out of here. I need booze, Sam. A lot of booze.” Now is not the time for talking. It’s the time for repressing the shit out of whatever just happened between them.
Because cursed book or not, Dean can’t deny that having his brother inside him felt good. Painful, and filthy, and he’s pissed because he couldn’t say no, and neither could Sam, but there’s something he’s trying to push down deep inside, to bury. Something about them together like that that felt right. That felt inevitable.