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Sam,” gasped Dean, burying his face in the pillow. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed. Just a little overwhelmed by the things Sam was doing with his fingers—the way Sam’s weight held him down against the mattress and the way Sam’s heat was setting him on fucking fire. It was too much to take in all at once, and if all Dean knew how to do in response was bury his face in the pillow, then fuck it, that didn’t mean he was hiding.

And that totally wasn’t a whimper coming out of his mouth as Sam worked a third finger in beside the two that were already there. That was a very manly moan, and Dean would defy anyone to keep quiet when Sam kept—

“Oh fuck, there. Sam, right— Jesus Christ!” His whole body shuddered as Sam obeyed, twisting all three fingers together and pressing in just the right spot to light Dean’s whole body up with a shivery flush he’d do pretty much anything to keep feeling.

“Really?” Sam panted in his ear. “Anything?”

Oh fuck, did Dean say that out loud?

“Sure did, baby,” Sam teased. Actually, teasing wasn’t quite the word. Sam’s voice was too husky for that—too low and rumbly—and that new pitch, which he hadn’t heard before, was doing weird, unsettling things to Dean’s stomach. Good things. At least he was pretty sure they were good things. He was finding it a little hard to focus on his stomach right now. His ass—and more specifically Sam’s fingers and the clever things they were doing inside him—held the bulk of his attention.

“Fine.” Dean shuddered, and he was pretty sure he hadn’t told his legs to spread wider but that’s exactly what they were doing. “Fuck, Sam, anything, just— Just don’t stop, okay?” He couldn’t quite believe that breathless, strained sound was his voice.

“Got something better in mind, actually,” Sam answered, and then he was pulling his fingers out, the smug son of a bitch.

Dean might not have signed up for this whole rolling over and spreading for Sammy thing (motherfucking pixies and their true love potions—true sex potions, more like), but he’d been dealing with it just fine, and now there was this gaping, empty feeling in his ass. When Sam had shoved the first finger up there, Dean had thought that he’d be willing to sell his left kidney to get it out, but he was damned sure now that he’d give ‘em both away for free if Sam would stop being such a blue-balling, unfair bastard and put his fingers where his—oh God.

Oh fuck, fuck—Sam’s mouth.

If Dean’s own voice had surprised him before, that was nothing to the startled, moaning keen that met his ears now. He hadn’t even known he was capable of making that sound. It didn’t feel entirely human.

But what Sam was doing with his tongue right now? That didn’t feel particularly human either. Dean’s instincts were split—half wanting to grind back against that hot, wet pressure, and the other half barely resisting the urge to press forward, find some friction for his unbearably full cock. Fuck, if he didn’t get some relief soon, he might just explode.

But even high on sensation as he was—lost to the tidal wave and with no control of his vocal cords—Dean had enough active brain cells to know relief wasn’t what Sam had in mind. No, Dean knew his brother. He knew Sam was a stubborn bastard, always the last to break from a staring contest or a round of surly silent treatment. Dean might have no idea what else Sam had in mind, but he knew damn well the torture wouldn’t be ending any time soon.

Fuck Sam, anyway, he thought.

But then, Dean supposed that was sort of the idea.

This was absolutely the last time he was ever going to let a short, foul-mouthed dude with wings, off the hook with nothing more than a stern warning for spiking the punch at the local high school reunion. Damned pixie’d come right back at him with a “thank you gift” that wasn’t anything more than one of those Chinese finger traps Dean could never get to work right. Sam was always the one who had to get Dean out of those, and Dean had been so sure his brother would rise to the occasion this time as well.

Sam rose, all right. Just not the way Dean had been hoping.

Figured every good deed Dean tried to do would turn around and bite him in the—

“Ow!” he blurted, hips jerking, and twisted his upper body around on the bed to glare behind him.

Sam looked up—from between Dean’s spread thighs, which should have been an alarming sight and was making Dean’s heart beat faster instead—and offered him a grin. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

Screw this shit. Sam was good, but he wasn’t worth putting up with this kind of crap—not when Dean had four good fingers and a thumb on his right hand and could finish this off himself in the bathroom.

Scowling, Dean flailed around—getting his legs out from around Sam’s body took some doing—and then started crawling for the edge of the bed, only to be brought up short when his brother grabbed his ankle and jerked him to a halt.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Sam demanded, watching Dean from underneath a fringe of sweaty bangs. Amusement still lingered around his lips (shiny with spit and reddened from his previous efforts), but there wasn’t anything amused about his tone, or the hunger in his eyes.

Dean wasn’t—he wasn’t scared of his brother’s expression. But he was still finding it difficult to draw in a breath, and if it wasn’t fear doing that to his chest, then the only alternative explanation was that the pixie really knew his aphrodisiacs.

Not that Dean was going to give Sam the satisfaction of knowing what sort of effect the potion was having. No matter how much Dean’s wet, open ass was aching for a little more attention.

“To jerk off,” Dean shot back, and then pulled his ankle out of his brother’s grasp.

Unexpectedly, Sam lunged, and the half-tackle brought Dean back down onto the mattress with a grunt. He got his hands underneath him, trying to push up, and Sam crawled back into position, chest dropping against Dean’s back like an oversized, sweaty blanket. The weight of Sam’s body sent an excited flutter through Dean’s chest, which was mortifying enough that Dean chose to ignore it.

“What the fuck, dude?”

Sam’s fingers scrubbed through Dean’s short hair and caught a few strands in a tight grip—encouragement to stay still, although they both knew Dean could knock Sam off in a second if he really wanted to. For some reason, Dean didn’t. Instead, he squirmed in an attempt to rub his body back against his brother’s, keeping his movements small and hopefully unobtrusive.

“I wasn’t finished with you,” Sam breathed in Dean’s ear before licking a hot, shivery line along his throat. Sam’s cock was tracing similar paths around the wet, empty place between Dean’s legs, and Dean shut his eyes tightly—if he didn’t see it, then it wasn’t happening—and pushed his ass back to meet him.

“Not so fast,” Sam growled, thick and low, and his hand settled like a vice to grip Dean’s hip—stilling Dean’s inviting movements and holding him steady.

“Fuck you, Sammy, now what?” Dean snarled, tossing his head angrily and trying to twist around and meet Sam’s eyes. But Sam wasn’t having it. Sam was pressed stubbornly all along Dean’s backside, nuzzling at the column of Dean’s throat even as Dean twisted rebelliously beneath him. They both knew Dean wasn’t going anywhere without putting up more of a fight than this.

They both knew he wasn’t going to put up more of a fight than this.

“Motherfucker,” Dean groaned, collapsing forward in sweaty resignation. His breath came in uneven pants, his eyes fluttered closed against his will, and his heart was beating so fast he thought it might just wiggle through his rib cage and find a way out of his chest. “Would you stop being such a cocktease?”

“Maybe I don’t want to rush this,” Sam goaded him, but again the lightness of his words was belied by the hungry intent that coated every syllable.

“Bullshit,” Dean bit out, grinding deliberately back against his brother—trying to, anyway, because Sam’s hands tightened and held him maddeningly still. “You want to have your cock in me just as bad as I want it there, so what. The fuck. Is the holdup?”

It felt like a remarkable feat, getting that many coherent words out in one go.

Dean doubted he could repeat the trick, but it already looked like he wouldn’t need to. Sam had gone still above him—against him—and now, for just a second, his breath stuttered unevenly. Dean might not have Sam exactly where he wanted him—that would be inside already, god damn it, which Sam obviously wasn’t—but he had to be close to caving. Sam’s fingers were digging possessively into his skin, and the silence between them was overwhelming, heavy with intent.

Except then Sam’s weight was gone—as suddenly as he’d tackled Dean in the first place—and the air felt cold and unwelcome along Dean’s back where seconds ago there’d been nothing but the furnace of his brother’s body.

He only had a handful of seconds to wonder if he’d completely biffed it before Sam’s voice—scalding and intense—ordered him to turn over.

“What?” Dean asked, confused.

“On your back, Dean,” Sam clarified. Impatient heat colored the command. “Now. Before I have to put you there myself.”

“Why?” Dean asked.

The second it was out of his mouth, he knew it was a stupid question.

Sam moved without explaining. Fast and strong, not quite ninja-quick but enough of a blur that Dean was on his back before he even registered what was happening. His head spun as he stared up into his brother’s face, and the expression he found there sent heat and chills racing along his spine.

“Sammy?” he asked, momentarily cowed. He still wasn’t nervous. He refused to be scared of his brother. But there was something dangerously predatory in Sam’s eyes, and it left Dean feeling completely exposed. He may have been naked for the better part of an hour, but this was the first he really felt it.

“Because,” Sam answered, almost as if they hadn’t even paused their conversation. “I want to be able to see you.”

And without another second’s hesitation, he lined his cock up at Dean’s entrance and filled him with a single, impatient thrust.

It drove Dean’s breath from his lungs—not because it hurt, although it did, a little—but because Sam’s cock and eyes and possessive, heavy hands were filling his chest up with more warmth than he had room for. Something had to go, and oxygen was overrated anyway, especially in comparison to this completed, claimed sensation that rolled through him in a burning wave every time Sam pulled out and rocked back in.

Now that it was finally happening, Sam seemed as impatient as Dean himself, because he hadn’t given Dean time to adjust at all. As if Dean could have adjusted to this sort of thing—Sam’s cock spreading him wider than Sam’s fingers and tongue had managed, while Sam’s eyes stripped away layer after layer of Dean’s protective walls until there wasn’t anything left between them.

Dean wasn’t sure which was worse—the fact that it was turning out to be a true love potion after all, or the fact that this meant he and Sam were going to owe the motherfucking pixie a favor.

“Stop thinking,” Sam murmured, tipping forward, and that was very definitely a kiss, which crossed more boundaries than Dean was comfortable with, thanks very much. With an alarming clench of his chest, he turned his face to the side.

Sam chased him, brushing their mouths together, and Dean turned his head the other way.

A moment later, Sam’s forehead was resting on the upturned side of Dean’s face while his hips snapped more violently, driving his cock in and out of Dean’s ass at a burning pace. It was intense—blindingly good—and Dean hooked one leg around his brother’s hip without worrying much about whether he was going to be able to move at all the next day. As long as he kept getting more of this for as long as Sam could keep it up, he’d readily deal with pulled muscles and a sore ass.

“God, you feel good,” Sam breathed suddenly, like it was some kind of revelation.

It was a little insulting—Dean was practically a pro, of course it felt good—except Dean knew that the only thing he was really capable of doing right now was holding on. He’d never been in this position before, although he’d done a hell of a lot of riding, and if the girls he’d fucked had felt as good as he was feeling right now, then he deserved some kind of medal or something. Possibly the Nobel Peace Prize.

“Dean,” Sam exhaled sharply, one hand moving down to grip Dean’s hip in a bruising hold. This time, instead of holding him still, Sam moved him, urging Dean into a rhythm that counterbalanced Sam’s thrusts and somehow resulted in Sam’s cock sliding deeper.

“Fuck,” Dean spit, and dug his fingers into his brother’s shoulder, trying like hell to ground himself.

“Dean,” Sam repeated--more of a moan this time, and for the first time it sounded like he was the one begging. There was a layer of yearning twined through Dean’s name as Sam breathed it again and again--a plea just as needy as any Dean was making back when their positions were reversed and Sam was making him sit up and beg for it.

Having the tables finally turned in his favor didn’t feel nearly as satisfying as Dean wanted it to, and as he tried to pick up the rhythm Sam was training into his hips, he did his best to convey his acceptance--with the arch of his back, the rub of his cheek against his brother’s, the tightening of his ass around Sam’s cock. Anything that didn’t involve actually saying the words—yes, always, anything you want, Sammy—aloud.

He didn’t know what Sam wanted, of course, but that didn’t matter. Sam could have asked him to cut off his own balls right then and Dean would have at least considered it. No way was whatever Sam actually wanted as bad as turning himself into a eunuch.

No way Sammy could come up with anything Dean would say no to.

“Dean,” Sam moaned. “Dean, God, Dean—Dean, please.”

It tore Dean’s chest up to hear Sam sounding so desperate, damn it, and he didn’t need that kind of buzzkill when he was busy working himself toward the most intense orgasm of his life. He still didn’t want to come right out and say it, but apparently Sam’s body language-fu was broken or something, and that left Dean with only one option.

“Fucking just—yes, okay? Anything, I told you, just—oh, fuck, Sammy, whatever it is, just fucking do it.”

When Sam kissed him again, Dean’s first instinct was still to jerk away. He twitched beneath Sam’s hands, beneath Sam’s demanding mouth, but even as he tensed to turn away, realization clicked in his head.

This was what Sam had been begging him for. And Dean already said yes. He said it aloud, even—fucking anything he’d said—and much as it might make his chest feel hollow and full and impossibly tight to comply, he couldn’t call do over now. No take backs here. Not after the veritable landslide of ‘Yes’ that had just come out of his mouth.

So he let Sam kiss him. And when Sam’s tongue teased along the seam of his lips, Dean parted them to grant his brother entry. When Sam laid deeper claim, Dean finally—almost reluctantly—began to kiss Sam back.

That was the beginning of the end, really. Up until now, Sam’s rhythm had been steady. A driving force that rocked Dean with the power of Sam’s thrusts, in and out, harder and deeper—a mounting intensity that gave no sign of abating.

But as their kiss grew sloppy—as Dean finally started giving back as good as he was getting—Sam’s hips stuttered just enough to broadcast that he was close. Dean knew the feeling—he’d been close for what felt like an eternity—and this time he broke the kiss out of pure necessity. He couldn’t focus, he needed air, he didn’t have the coordination to do more than rock his hips up against Sam. His head was spinning raggedly, and he sucked in oxygen and clung to his brother.

He felt Sam’s lips against his throat as Sam’s thrusts became shorter and shallower—Sam’s lips and then his teeth, and Dean bit off a broken curse as too much happened at once. Sam’s hips snapped forward, harsh and quick, burying his cock so deeply that Dean was surprised he wasn’t choking on it. At the same time, Sam’s teeth closed hard on Dean’s throat, just below his jaw, and Sam was groaning against his skin, sucking at the column of his throat like it was the only lifeline he had. And when warm, slick heat filled him—deep and startling—Dean wrapped his arms and legs even tighter around his brother as his own orgasm overtook him.

Pleasure crashed through him in a wave, leaving his mouth heavy with the same, cloying burnt rose flavor as the pixie’s potion and his insides vibrating with something that felt like solid energy. It had to be coming out of his skin—radiating from him in golden rays of light—because he couldn’t contain it all. He and Sam couldn’t contain it all, even joined together like they were, with their hearts pressed together and beating to the same, unheard song.

Dean’s orgasm was over, but the energy was still building, cresting inside of him in something that wasn’t just a wave but a tsunami, and he cried out hoarsely as it reached some magic breaking point and collapsed in on itself. Then he cried out again as it snapped into him—and, somehow, into Sam as well—and everything went dark for a while.


When the lights came back on, someone was playing with Dean’s hair. Someone was lying on top of him, humming an off-key, tuneless song and playing with Dean’s hair like he was some kind of personal Chia Pet or something.

Only he knew it was Sam, and somehow that meant that he didn’t really mind.

Cracking his eyes open, he found Sam looking down on him with a lazy, fond smile. “Hey there,” Sam said, nudging his nose against Dean’s.

Dean flushed—who the fuck did that sort of girly crap—but didn’t duck away. Girly or not, it felt kind of good. Still, it wasn’t like he planned on admitting he liked it, so instead he muttered, “Your dick better not still be in my ass.”

“I think we’ve got other things to worry about,” Sam replied, only he didn’t sound all that worried.

Which was supposed to be worrying in and of itself, Dean guessed.

Frowning, he cast his mind back through all of the really awesome sex they just had in search of the possible problem. Sure, there had been that sex (true love) potion the pixie gave Dean in order to magic him into jumping his brother, and the really intense resolution of the spell when they both finally, uh, completed the required parameters. But Dean had been caught up in enough mystical crap to recognize bad mojo when he ran into it, and this particular batch of potion had been naughty at best.

Like a glass of watered down whiskey, it tasted like shit going down, but didn’t do any damage at all once it got where it was going.

Dean was going somewhere with that metaphor, he really was, except that was when Sam decided to distract him with a kiss. Dean opened for his brother easily, chest expanding with warmth, and he couldn’t—quite—resist a moan.

When Sam pulled back, he was laughing softly.

“Dude, what’s so funny?” Dean asked, doing his best to feel cross and not really succeeding at all. “And what’s the problem?”

“Nothing’s funny,” Sam answered with a tiny, nervous smile. “And the problem is, uh, mostly that I, uh. I think I’m kind of in love with you.”

Dean waited for shock or fear to set in, and when nothing happened, licked his lips and said, “Just kind of?”

“A lot,” Sam corrected, sounding more confident now that Dean hadn’t blown a gasket.

Dean felt his own mouth stretch into what was undoubtedly a stupid-looking grin, but couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Guess we’re both screwed, then.”

It shouldn’t have been possible for Sam’s smile to spread wider, but somehow, he managed the trick just fine.