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A pagan of the good times

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Sam and Dean will always do whatever it takes when trying to save someone and, right now, they have a lot of people depending on them.

It doesn’t change the fact that this case has been, thus far, a pain the ass.

So far, they have the where (a small village in Bumfuck, Michigan, where it’s cold as hell and Dean hasn’t felt his toes in forever); the what (a bunch of people slipping into a deep slumber impossible to wake up from – they tried everything); and the why (angry and ancient goddess of fortune who hasn’t been worshiped in centuries but somehow finds it within herself to curse an entire town over a couple of kids playing hide and seek near her altar).

They know things, all right. They know what they have to do: find a way to appease the insane deity before real damage settles in. It’s been almost a month since they started working, a little longer since it all started.

Sam managed to find a ritual to appease her wrath, which was good. The ritual, however, was written in an old indigenous language nearly impossible to translate, which was considerably less good. They are working through it, though, thanks to Sam’s immense nerdiness and Bobby’s willingness to find them some material. And, Dean’s, well, ability to provide his brother with refreshments in the meanwhile.

Regarding the ritual, the first part they figure out is that they’re going to need two people, which luckily is the number of hunters currently involved in the case.

They should have known better, though, Sam will think much, much later.

Besides doing virtually nothing more than hand him beers and listen to him thinking out loud, Dean manages to get the lighter of the oddly specific tasks included in the ritual. So he gets to go into the woods to collect sap from the oldest tree around and dive into the crystal-clear waters of a hidden lake in search of a ritual stone while Sam harvests venom here and butchers a lamb under very precise (and disgusting) instructions there. Seriously, fuck his life.

By the time they get to the actual ritual, the younger Winchester brother is just about ready for it all to be over with.

But.

You see, the translation thing? It is very complicated stuff. That’s why they’ve been following the steps as Sam makes progress through the barely readable text. And, all in all, starting the process for a ritual before knowing how it is going to end?

“Such a ridiculously stupid idea,” Sam groans to himself as he glares at the now completely finished text. They have everything ready, the altar, the statue, the chanting and the people to do it, the ink for the painting of the sacrificial lovers.

Yeah, sacrificial lovers. Sam should have put two and two together when he got to that part, but people are in danger here, okay? He crossed his fingers and hoped it was just an expression, something lost in translation. At his words, Dean looks up from the magazine he’s been reading, dark blue Cadillac shining on the cover, and asks with a frown, “What’s taking it so long?”

Sam sighs. “I’m not sure I’m getting this right, Dean…”

I hope I’m not getting this right, is what he wanted to say. No need to alarm Dean, however, because he is coming over to where Sam is slumped over a mess of paper and books on the frail-looking table of their motel room. And he will be alarmed on his own, Sam thinks when Dean sets a hand on his shoulder. The gesture that should have been comforting makes Sam want to flinch.

“What part?” Dean asks with a frown. He blinks at the papers, looking over Sam’s shoulder. “What do they mean by ‘sacrificial coitus’?”

“Oh, I thought you’d have no problem understanding that,” Sam retorts. It sounds too bitter, but Dean can’t blame him for being a little put off. Dean stands up straighter. Takes a small step back.

“Do they mean…?”

“Ritual sex,” Sam replies, lifting his eyes just in time to appreciate Dean’s freak-out. “Yeah, I know,” he says with a grimace. Dean takes another step back, fingers running nervously through his hair, over his face.

“I knew you should have translated it all before we started,” he bemoans. Sam huffs an impatient breath.

“Thanks for the input. That’s very helpful,” he mutters back, sarcasm biting every word.

“Well, obviously… we’ll start over?” Dean starts. Sam remembers the feeling of being elbow deep into a lamb’s guts and irritation blooms in his chest. They’ve come so far.

“We don’t have time for a do-over,” Sam says. God knows what damage hasn’t already been done. Some of their victims are in hospitals already, but some can’t afford it. Dean nods.

“You think Mrs. Maxwell would consider taking one for the team?” The older hunter wonders with a pained expression. “I’m pretty sure we can find at least one person willing to join her. Maybe that sister-in-law of hers?”

Sam shakes his head.

“It can’t be them.”

It has to be us, he doesn’t have to say. Dean looks lost. Sam squares his jaw. Crosses his arms.

“So…” Dean begins.

“I’m calling Bobby.”

“Yeah, you’d better.”

-x-

Once he dials Bobby’s number, he hesitates. Mortification burns the back of his throat, but he can’t think of anything else to do.

“Oh, this is one of the old ones,” Bobby says as he looks through the notes Sam sent him. “The real old ones, I mean.”

Sam can hear the capital letters.

“Yeah, it’s… pretty ancient,” Sam replies. “I just finished the translation, just now… thanks for the material, by the way.”

“Anytime, son.” Bobby pauses. “But if you’re done, why are you calling me?”

“Oh, you see, we have encountered some…” Sam hesitates and Dean, standing next to him like a fucking vulture, gestures impatiently. Sam clears his throat. “Issues with the final interpretation of the text… you read it, right?”

Bobby doesn’t seem to understand what the problem is. “Yes, I did. What’s the issue?”

“The, I mean… the sacrificial…” Sam trails off and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Coitus?” Bobby prompts. “I mean, it’s pretty straight-forward stuff, Sam. Who have you been working with? Hopefully she’s your type…”

“Well, I…” Sam stutters.

“Sam?” Bobby pushes. “Who have you been working with?”

“Er…” Sam doesn’t believe he’s about to say that out loud. “Dean?”

Sam has to pull the phone away from his ear, that’s how loud Bobby laughs at him. After the five or so minutes it takes the older hunter to calm down, however, he doesn’t have anything to tell him other than, “You boys go to a clinic and get yourselves tested afterwards, okay? You never know.”

Yeah, ‘cause ritual sex means no condoms.

Castiel turns out to be just as helpful as Bobby, if not less, since the idea of Sam and Dean having sex for ritualistic purposes stuns him into a vegetative state from which he doesn’t emerge for long minutes.

“You’re right. We should start over,” Sam offers Dean, at the end. But then he thinks of the several unconscious people depending on them, sleeping their lives away.

Dean seems to read his thoughts, though, because he exhales a long-suffering sigh and replies, “No time, Sammy.” Helplessly, they look at one another as if looking for strength in each other’s eyes. Dean swallows. “Call Mrs. Maxwell. Tell her to gather everyone for the chanting and meet us at the parish. We’ll do it tonight.”

-x-

Hallowed ground, it said right there on the text. As they walk along the nave of the church, Sam feels guilty as hell. Everyone is there already, sitting on the pews and talking in low voices. Half a dozen people and Castiel, eyes narrowing as he looks at the brothers.

“Do you have the statue?” Mrs. Maxwell, the shorthaired woman who was their first contact on the case, asks them in a tight, small voice. That’s when Sam forgets to feel guilty. Because that’s the reason why they’re doing this: for her, her husband, her neighbors.

“It’s in the trunk,” Dean says. “Is everything alright here?”

“Yeah, we’re just waiting for you,” the woman next to Mrs. Maxwell, Elaine something, says. Sister-in-law, Sam reminds himself. There’s something about the protective way she’s always within arm’s reach of the other, however, that tells a different story. One of have-been’s, would-have-been’s, who knows.

“We’re ready,” Castiel speaks, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “You just say the word.”

“I’ll go…” Sam begins, taking a step back, but trails off when Dean turns to him. He points his thumb back, choked on his own words. “I’ll get it. The statue.”

And then he’s turning away, a cold sort of lightness settling in his lower abdomen. He doesn’t take two steps before Dean says, “I’ll come with.”

Sam is barely able to breathe until they’re out into the cold night air where they can’t be heard, can’t be seen. Dean pops the trunk open, but raises a hand to stop Sam from reaching inside. His hand stays there on the air for a second before it touches Sam’s arm, fingers digging into his jacket as if he’d be swept away if he didn’t hold on.

“Dean?” Sam calls, trying to catch his brother’s eyes. Dean avoids his gaze, though.

“Sam,” he says like a warning. Alarms go off on Sam’s mind, but he doesn’t step away. “I’m going to kiss you.”

It’s a funny thing how you can understand every single word in a sentence, and yet they don’t make any sense.

“Isn’t that gonna make it worse?” Sam wonders. Dean inhales shakily.

“Don’t ask difficult questions, Sam,” he retorts. “If you’re going to fuck me, you’d better kiss me.”

Sam is so taken aback by that last sentence that he only realizes how close Dean is when it’s too late. Dry lips press against his, a swipe of tongue gone too fast. Sam’s hand goes to Dean’s neck just as the kiss break and, well… kissing Dean feels exactly like one would expect. Like kissing his ass of an older brother.

“This is so weird,” Sam whispers as they part. He knows Dean so well, is familiar with his scent, every expression on his face, his fears and quirks, and yet this feels new.

“Your face is weird,” Dean replies very maturely. His breath tickles against Sam’s lips, warm and sweet from the bubblegum he was chewing on the car. Did he swallow it? “This? Is downright fucked-up!”

The edge of panic in Dean’s voice makes Sam smooth his hand from Dean’s neck down to his shoulders and squeeze the tense muscles there. It feels like he’s trying to crush iron. Futile.

“Sam. Dean,” a familiar voice calls from the steps in front of the church. Sam turns around, but doesn’t let go of his brother.

“Cas,” he whispers back. He barely recognizes his voice, how strangled it is. He feels like crying, overwhelmed by whatever insane emotion that is trying to crawl its way out of the depths of his chest. He’s been so good at keeping it away, these feelings… and now. “Can you give us a minute?”

Dean doesn’t really step back from Sam, but he moves away slightly. His face feels hot and he can’t bring himself to look at Castiel. He can’t bear the idea of what he’ll see there: pity? Disgust? But Sam’s hand solid on his shoulders, warm and solid.

When Castiel doesn’t answer, Dean risks a glance towards him. But the angel’s face is only grave. Not judgmental. Not disgusted.

Not yet.

“Alone,” Sam adds, a little impatiently. Castiel nods, in that serious way of his, and goes back inside.

Meanwhile, Dean finds out that it’s easier if he doesn’t think of Sam as a whole, but as parts. Sam’s hand on his shoulder, fingers light as they come back up his neck until they can angle his face up. Sam’s lips, coming back down onto his with renewed intent. Sam’s breath, Sam’s tongue.

Sam sees, though, how fragile is the state Dean is in. It terrifies him to think that this might break his brother. That he might break his brother, after all they’ve been through.

He stops thinking when Dean’s lips part for him though. It’s a little easier to kiss him, this time around, the knowledge that he has in his arms the most import person in his entire world vibrating in his bones. But even though Dean goes along with it, he doesn’t exactly kiss back.

“Let go,” Sam whispers, fingers dragging against the rough stubble on his brother’s chin, two days since he shaved. “Come on, Dean. It’s just me…”

“That’s the problem,” Dean replies. His eyes are dark, a bit wet, and he sounds so angry when he says, “This is so fucked up.”

Sam rests his forehead against Dean’s with a dry chuckle. He can feel the phantom touch of Dean’s lips still when he asks, “Still weird, huh?”

“Yeah, it’s not gonna get any less weird…,” Dean replies, frustrated, but he kisses Sam again almost as if he’s determined to get this right. Stubborn, hands locked onto the fabric of Sam’s jacket, tongue venturing against Sam’s and… well, that’s less weird, Sam thinks, wrapping careful arms around Dean’s back and kissing back.

“Just… pretend I’m someone else…,” Sam suggests, when Dean takes a deep breath. “That redhead from the coffee shop. Adriana? I know you hate their coffee, but you keep going there.”

Dean lets out an irritated noise at Sam’s words. “Tastes like dirt water,” he complains, coming back to Sam’s lips. Sam, on the other hand, tastes like eternal damnation, like something Dean will not be able to come back from. It’s a good kiss, a damn good one, and Dean just might be a little fucked in the head, he thinks. “I can’t… it’s you, Sammy. How can I…?”

Ignore the fact that it’s Sam he’s kissing, is what Dean can’t say because Sam deepens the kiss with a soft groan that makes Dean’s blood run hot. Sam’s hold on Dean goes a little tighter, hands sliding down his back in a tentative touch, as if it’s just occurred to him that he can touch. He’ll have to, so he might as well start now.

Thing is, he has thought about kissing Dean before. One of those stray thoughts that come to you when you’re least expecting and then keep repeating and you can’t believe your fucked up brain was able to come up with such a thing — jump from this bridge, don’t put out the fire and let it spread and burn everything and everyone, kiss your older brother.

Kiss your older brother, who is sucking a vicious kiss from Sam’s lips and moaning in approval, in surprise, as their bodies press together from chest to thighs. He’s not hard and neither is Dean, but it feels good to press against the warmth between his legs. “Okay,” Dean says, a little breathlessly. “It’s fucked up, but I think we might be able to do this…”

Sam runs shaky fingers down the back of Dean’s head to press against his neck, grounding, supporting. “You think?” He asks, tension melting away in waves. He feels electrified and then something occurs to him. “Have you ever…?”

Dean is shaking his head before Sam can finish his thought. “Never with a dude,” Dean replies. He doesn’t sound as defensive as Sam would have expected. Just honest. But that’s not what Sam was going to ask.

“Have you thought about this?” He manages to say. “Before?”

That Dean doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. He takes a step back, face tight, and Sam knows. “They’re waiting,” he says.

“We don’t have to do this, Dean,” Sam offers as Dean takes the statue out of the trunk and closes it with a loud sound. “It’s not the end of the world.”

This time, Dean grimly thinks. “No, you were right before, Sammy. It’s too late to turn back now,” Dean says. And he’s not thinking about the victims. Not really. After spending most of his life ignoring the complicated mess his feelings for Sam are — too big, too dependent, too dark, don’t look too close or they might bite you. Every dirty dream and invasive line of thought smothered, left for dead.

Well, it’s all coming back to him now, flooding into him all at once. Too bright to look away, too big to swallow. Now that he has Sam’s taste on his tongue. Now that he knows what it feels like to have Sam lick inside his mouth, hold him like he wants him.

There’s no turning back, now.

When he sets the statue on the altar, Dean is almost hyperventilating. Sam is talking to Mrs. Maxwell and the others, checking everything. The older Winchester thinks nobody is watching him so it takes him a second to realize Castiel is talking.

“Dean?” He calls probably not for the first time. “Dean, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Dean replies, somewhat impatiently. Too sharp, too loud, it brings Sam’s eyes straight to him. For a second, their eyes meet and Dean sees on his brother’s face the same agony that runs in his veins. What even are their lives?

Sam raises a hand to Mrs. Maxwell as if asking for a second.

“No, you’re not,” Castiel replies. Dean can’t stand to look at the angel’s ancient, too knowing eyes, so he looks at his feet instead.

“Yeah, I appreciate the input, but my current frame of mind is the least of our concerns here…” Dean replies just as Sam reaches them.

“Hey,” Sam whispers, barely audible exhale.

“Hey,” Dean replies. He moves without thinking, leaning into Sam’s body longing for the comfort of his brother next to him. Clearing his throat, he asks, “Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” Sam confirms. He drapes an arm around Dean and turns to look at the others. “Does everyone understand what is about to happen?” he asks.

“A s-sacrifice,” Mrs. Maxwell replies.

“Well, yeah…” Sam concedes, arm weighing like a ton of bricks over Dean’s shoulder. He can’t risk things not being crystal clear, though, so he goes on, “No blood or people dying, though. This one is about sex. We’ve got all the other items to grant us the Goddess’s favor. We’re about to give her the last one.”

“I’m sure we can find other ways to…,” Castiel begins.

“Look, I know you’re not down with the whole brother-fucking thing, but we’ve been at this for a month, Cass,” Dean interrupts him. He knows the angel means well, but Dean’s nerves are getting the best of him. “If you had a better idea, you should have said something earlier.”

Sam looks at his brother, eyebrows raises in alarm. Dean scrubs a hand down his face, uncomfortable, and adds, “Look, Cass, you don’t have to stay. You have already taught the chant and...”

“Well…” It’s Sam’s turn to interrupt. Dean tenses under his arm, here it comes, he thinks, but doesn’t move away. The glare he shoots Sam would have made other men flinch. “What? It wouldn’t hurt to have one more voice. The chanting…”

“Fuckin’… Alright, then,” Dean grunts, abruptly pushing out from under Sam’s arm and turning towards the altar. “But I’m not fuckin’ holding the angel hostage.”

“I’m staying,” Castiel says. Then, lower, he adds to Sam, “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Sam offers him a tense smile. “Don’t mind him…”

“Are we doing this or not?” Dean asks, voice a little louder, a little more annoyed. A cover. Sam comes up behind him. A hand on his shoulder, pulling the fabric of his flannel shirt.

“Take it off,” Sam whispers, low but close enough that it tickles, words poured right into his ear. “I have to paint those symbols on you.”

“Oh, you know I love some finger painting,” Dean jokes. His fingers shake when he starts pulling his clothes off, so he does it more forcefully. Sam does the same with his own. Kicks his boots off, too, so Dean follows. Someone, Dean doesn’t know who, can’t keep up with whoever it is, takes their clothes away. Away from them, away from the altar. He thinks about taking his pants off as well. Get it over with. But he’s already feeling too vulnerable, even though he’s never been particularly shy.

The church is cold and so is the paint Sam uses to trace symbols on his chest, back and arms. But his fingers are warm. He keeps asking, “You doing okay there?”, and Dean just hums and nods.

When it’s his turn, Dean keeps thinking that he’ll mess the symbols up somehow, the paint, grainy and oddly metallic, a bright purple color that clings to Sam’s skin and his fingers as he traces the images from the sheet of paper Mrs. Maxwell holds up for him. It’s awkward especially when he reaches Sam’s front. He can feel Sam’s gaze locked onto his face, but he keeps his eyes down. Focuses on his task, even if he gets distracted by the coarse hair on chest and stomach, the tantalizing smoothness of all that skin.

“You’re doing fine, Dean,” Sam assures him. Dean swallows, looking between his painting and the design on the paper.

“I don’t know,” Dean begins to say, unsure. It does look like what’s on the paper, at least.

“You did a good job,” Mrs. Maxwell tells Dean. He feels like a child being comforted by a teacher over a mediocre assignment. She takes the paint away from his unsure hands, offers him a washcloth already stained purple by Sam for him to clean his hands.

Soon enough, the washcloth is gone and Sam has a quilt in his hands, soft-looking, pastel colors that match absolutely nothing around them. Probably Mrs. Maxwell’s. She looks like someone who owns quilts.

Sam’s fingernails are still purple when he takes Dean by the wrist and leads him to the altar. Dean sits on the cold stone and holds his breath as he opens his jeans. The quilt is right there around him when he takes them off, though, hiding his nakedness from everyone’s eyes, a cocoon he’s happy to bury himself into while Sam finishes undressing himself.

“Give me,” Sam says, gesturing towards Dean’s jeans and underwear. Dean hands them over and watches as his brother walks over to the side to give their clothes to… someone, Dean doesn’t know who. He’s not looking at anything but Sam, not an ounce of shame in him.

Not that he should feel shame, that is.

When Dean sees Sam’s cock, all thoughts of right and wrong vanish from his mind. It’s soft, yeah, but sizeable, hair trimmed short, heavy set of his balls, pink head peeking out from under darker skin.

Dean’s never wanted anything is his mouth this much before and he has a moment to wonder if there’s something to this ritual, to the ink itching on his skin, something that’s messing him up, but he can’t lie to himself like this. He knows it’s all him and that this is not why they’re here. They’re having sex to please a goddess. Just that. They’ll deal with the rest later.

Sam pulls the blanket off Dean just long enough to throw it over his own shoulders before laying down on top of him, skin warm and soft even though he’s trying not to rest all his weight on his brother’s body.

“You can start the chanting,” Sam tells the others loud enough that his voice echoes around, but he’s looking at Dean when he says it, forearms on each side of Dean’s head as he braces himself.

Castiel’s voice guides the choir, louder than the others, but Dean can’t understand a word they say because Sam is so very close and so warm, whispering, “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

Without waiting for an answer, Sam leans down and takes Dean’s lips in a kiss, deep and infuriatingly slow. Dean feels as though he’s in one of those Hollywood movies, the world spinning around as Sam all but devours his mouth. Either that or a really good porno, because Hollywood probably does not approve of this much tongue.

Against his body, Sam’s skin feels soft and warm, his cock, not so soft anymore, warmer than the rest where it’s resting against Dean’ own growing erection. Dean reaches up, fingers digging into Sam’s hair, and arches against him, thighs parting to grant him better access.

Sam moans in delighted surprise as he moves against Dean, rolling his hips slowly but surely. This should be the most difficult part, being aroused enough to have sex with his brother, but it’s hardly any trouble. The voices around them grow louder, more confident. They seem to vibrate inside Dean’s chest, inside his very bones, and so does the growl Sam makes when Dean wraps his legs around his hips.

“Sam,” Dean gasps when he feels the tight grip of his brother’s slide over his hips, going lower still until he has the globes of his ass fit into his palms. Sam breaks the kiss as his fingers spread, touching where Dean’s wet and ready and Dean inhales sharply.

“You…” Sam begins, a bit breathlessly, disbelieving. His fingers stroke, tease Dean’s entrance, making Dean moan. “You prepared…”

“Of course I did. You think I’d let you get near my ass with that dinosaur you call a dick without preparing myself?” Dean mumbles, embarrassed and ridiculously turned on all at once.

“Can I just…? Oh,” Sam trails off because Dean reaches down with one hand, wraps fingers around his cock and lines him up.

Dean has a second of panic thinking that that’s Sam’s cock, hard and hot and velvety against his palm, before Sam starts to slide inside.

Dean might have prepared, all right, but that doesn’t mean he’s really ready.

“Fuck,” he breathes, grimacing against the burn and stretch. Sam fits his face beside Dean’s, lips grazing the skin of his cheek. Soft kisses against rough stubble, Sam soothes him and waits until he can’t anymore, until Dean starts pushing against him.

Sam moans as he picks up speed, thrusting harder, dizzy on the smell of Dean’s sweat, his pleasure, the way his arms and legs close around him like a trap, like he can’t help it.

And he can’t. Not really. It hurts, yes, because Sam is not small, but it also feels so good Dean barely registers the pain. And tomorrow he’ll probably regret not asking Sam to slow down, right, but right now he is loving the fact that what they’re doing involves orgasms, because he’s halfway there already. A little closer still as Sam leans back on his heels, giving up on being careful, hips snapping forward again and again in a punishing pace, pounding Dean into the altar. It grants Dean quite a nice view, if he disregards the fact that this is his baby brother. What can he do, though? Sam has a nice body, muscles shifting as he moves.

Dean has to touch him. He runs his hands up Sam’s stomach, his chest, smearing the purple paint and biting his lips to try and prevent more embarrassing noises from spilling from his mouth. Sam’s face is twisted in concentration, eyes dark with heat.

Eyes that could end the world.

Dean is so consumed in being the sole focus of Sam’s attention that he’s startled into a helpless moan when Sam wraps his hand around his cock, fingers tracing the wet head, smearing precome all over his length as he strokes him.

Sam smirks, cocky in a way that shouldn’t be attractive, and proceeds to punch these small, surprised moans out of Dean, bringing the older Winchester closer and closer to his climax. He feels so good he can almost forget what brought them here. More than that, he feels right.

While lost in each other’s pleasure, both men smell the faint scent of burning wood. Dean is about to ask something when he feels Sam trying to slow down. That’s the opposite of what Dean wants him to do, though. He wants Sam to go faster, harder. To come inside him, to mess him up, mark him in such a way he will never be clean again.

“Come on, Sammy,” he beckons. For a second, he thinks he might be seeing things. But it’s really happening. On Sam’s chest, the symbols shift and move around, purple turning a light shade of blue and then white. Swirling down towards where Sam is driving into Dean with stuttering movements, losing rhythm. Dean looks down to his own torso as Sam shifts a bit, hitting him in all the right places.

The symbols are completely gone when Sam reaches his climax, spilling hard and hot inside his brother, and so is Dean. Gone. Dean throws his head back and thrusts into the circle of Sam’ fingers, tighter, a twist at the head, just right, and he comes all over his own chest. Sam barely blinks as they moan and clutch each other in the aftermath, indifferent to the people around them.

As their heartbeats return to normal, though, the chanting feels louder and louder.

“Fuck…” Dean groans, staring at blue ceiling behind Sam’s head. No angels there, thankfully. When Sam pulls out of him, he feels his semen ooze out and it’s disgusting in a way that Dean is oddly certain he can get used to. Instead of voicing that thought, he asks, “Did it work?”

“Let’s hope so…” Sam says, retrieving the blanket to cover them both. His breathing is still heavy, a touch of disbelief on his face.

“Sam, the statue…” Mrs. Maxwell says from somewhere Dean can’t see with the way Sam is shielding him with his body.

Sam lays a distracted kiss upon Dean’s tattoo, such a soft thing it stings Dean’s eyes, and says, “Take it. You know what to do.” Dean closes his eyes, waiting for the weight of what they just did to hit him. It doesn’t, though, and he’s left shaking with apprehension in his brother’s arms. “I need a minute. We’ll be right behind you.”

Dean only opens his eyes again when he’s sure everyone has left. Only then he dares look at Sam. But it’s just Sam, a bit flushed and sweaty and the one thing Dean loves more than anything on this planet.

“How do you feel?” Sam asks, full of concern. Dean makes a face.

“Sore,” he begrudgingly admits. “Kinda… empty? It’s so weird.”

You’re an idiot, Sam’s eyes say, but what he asks is, “Does it hurt?”

Did I hurt you?

“I think I’ll know for sure later,” Dean considers, trying to sit up. His muscles ache a bit, but nothing remarkable. The quilt pools around his legs and he feels a bit cold without it, but then Sam is sitting next to him, close enough to touch, and Dean asks, “How ‘bout you? How’re you doing?”

“I’m fine, I’m…” Sam hunches his nose as if he just thought something funny. “Happy, I think.”

“You think?” Dean asks, voice lighter than it has been in a while because, well, he’s happy too, strangely enough. Getting dressed is tricky, though, with Sam’s come dripping between his legs. Dean ends up cleaning himself up with his underwear and going commando. It’s not like they have much more to do anyway.

It’s pretty late when they arrive at the Maxwell’s house, but most neighbors are out on the street talking to each other about this surreal experience they have all gone through. Castiel is there, too, as if to make sure no one else is having ritual sex.

Before they leave, Mrs. Maxwell hugs the Winchesters in a ‘sorry I made you fuck your brother’ kind of way. Sam and Dean smile at her in a ‘sorry you had to watch me fuck my brother’ kind of way and that’s that.

Castiel keeps watching them as they get into the car. He looks at Dean as if he’s seeing him for the first time, but he looks at Sam the same as always — like the younger Winchester is about to sprout horns and a pointy tail any minute now.

There’s something different about the way Dean looks at him too, but that’s to be expected. After all, now Sam is forever changed for him, and vice-versa.

That’s why before he pulls the car away from the garage, Dean leans over the seat and pulls Sam into a soft kiss. Against his lips, Sam makes this surprised happy noise, so small, the sweetest thing. Dean wants to scrape the sound of it and hide it, bury it where no one but him will ever find it.

They part with a sigh and as he settles back onto the driver’s seat, he makes a face.

“What is it?” Sam asks.

Dean frowns to cover his tentative smile and pulls the car into traffic, honking once as they drive away, before saying, “It kinda hurts, now.”

Before Sam can answer, he turns the music up. That’s as much as he’s willing to talk about it for the time being. They’ll stop somewhere soon enough and then he can show Sam just how good it hurts.