It takes them a while to notice anything’s wrong. Later, Sam will wonder what that says about them.
It all starts during a trip to a local magic shop, where Dean undoubtedly picks up the curse in the first place. Sam casts a glance over his shoulder for his brother in the middle of interviewing the clerk, sees Dean fiddling with a statue that looks dangerous—and, more importantly, expensive—and snaps, “Dean!”
Dean gives a little jerk, almost dropping the statue (naked woman with enormous breasts, figures). The look he throws Sam is wide-eyed, and at the time Sam interprets it as the usual prelude to his brother’s “who shoved that stick up your ass” expression. Dean’s subsequent fidgeting and short, almost rude questions for the clerk aren’t anything out of the ordinary either. He's always had a bit of an attitude when it comes to people who are messing around with things they shouldn’t be.
Which, of course, pretty much covers everyone involved with the supernatural world whose last name isn’t “Winchester”.
Sam plans on waiting until they’re in the Impala to call his brother on it, but he never actually gets the chance because he hasn’t even finished shutting his door behind him when Dean is yanking him practically into the driver’s seat and shoving his tongue down Sam’s throat.
“Mmph!” Sam blurts, pushing him off.
Not that he doesn’t appreciate Dean’s mouth, but he’s not letting his brother sidetrack him right now.
“Dude,” he says as soon as he gets enough space. “You can’t just—”
Dean’s mouth is on him again, shutting him up. This time it’s joined by Dean’s hand, which grips Sam’s cock and starts to work it through his pants with rough, greedy tugs.
“Fuck, Sammy,” he pants between kisses. “Get me so fucking hot in that suit.”
“Can’t you wait until we get back to the motel, Dean?” Sam asks, turning his head to the side to get the words out.
Dean swears, low and hot, and the next thing Sam knows his brother has unzipped Sam’s pants and is sucking Sam’s cock like his life depends on it. Sam gives up trying to make sense of his brother’s moods, closes his door, and leans his head back to enjoy the ride.
The second time they’re in the town library.
Sam says, “Hey, Dean, can you pass me the birth records?”
He gets the birth records. He also gets a lapful of Dean.
“Dean,” Sam hisses, looking around and trying to push his brother away.
“Relax, dude,” Dean responds, sinking down more firmly and trapping Sam’s hands against his chest. “No one’s here. Just ... live a little, would you?”
Turns out, Dean’s definition of ‘living a little’ is riding Sam until they both come with bitten off moans. Dean eases off with a wince while Sam is still recovering, looks down at himself, and then smacks Sam on the back of the head.
“Ow!” Sam complains. “Dude, what was that for?”
“Oh, I dunno, Sam—how about the come leaking out my ass?” Dean snaps as he gets his pants back on. “Gonna be wet for hours. Fucking hate that.”
“You started it!” Sam hisses, remembering at the last second to keep his voice down.
“Yeah, well, you—” Dean scrunches up his face as he searches for a response and then, as he realizes that Sam’s point is valid, he scowls and says, “I’m going back to the motel to change.” Zipping up, he levels a finger in Sam’s face. “Next time, you’re using a condom.”
At dinner that night, Sam thinks his brother is just really into his burger. Until, that is, he winds up crowding Dean against the wall in the bathroom and giving it to him while Dean writhes and moans loud enough to require Sam’s hand over his mouth.
“Dean,” Sam pants in his brother’s ear as they fuck. “Dean, Dean, Dean.”
Somehow, Dean manages to come three times before he finishes.
Later, when they get back to the motel and it’s time to get ready for bed, Sam notices that his toiletry bag is missing an essential ingredient. Pawing through once more in case it’s hiding like it sometimes does, he calls, “Hey, Dean? Have you seen my toothpaste?”
“No,” his brother answers as he appears in the bathroom doorway. “But I’ve got something else you can suck on.”
Sam tosses him a glance that’s half-annoyed, half-admiring—seriously, only Dean would be this insatiable—and says, “If you’ve been sucking on your toothpaste, Dean, then you’re doing it wrong.”
“Dude,” Dean whines, cupping his cock. “Pleeeease?”
Sam sighs. The things he does for his big brother.
“Again? Dean, this is getting a little ridiculous.”
It’s three days later, and they’re stopped at a Citgo filling up the tank. Or they were, until Sam asked how much longer Dean thought it was gonna be until they got to Fairbanks. Now Dean is leaning in Sam’s window and suggesting that they take a little walk behind the station.
Dean flushes at Sam’s words and then, scowling, mutters, “Look, do you want me to suck you off or not?”
“Not, actually, okay?” Sam answers. “And I’m not really in the mood to do you either. You have a right hand, dude: use it.”
Dean opens his mouth like he’s going to argue and then stomps off instead. He presumably takes Sam’s advice, because when he reappears a few minutes later he looks more composed.
“Sometimes I think we should’ve had you neutered,” Sam says as his brother gets back in the car.
Dean flicks him off without missing a beat and then they’re back on their way.
They’ve been driving for all of an hour before Dean starts to shift uncomfortably in his seat. For a few minutes, Sam thinks maybe his brother has to go (Dean likes his coffee on road trips), but Dean has never been too shy or proud to pull over and drain the lizard at the side of the road before. This time, he shows no sign of wanting to stop. And he’s flushed, and sitting with his legs spread instead of clenched, and finally Sam realizes what’s going on.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Shut up,” Dean mutters, bunching his shoulders.
“Are you, like, spiking your coffee with Viagra?” Sam asks. He doesn’t think his brother would be that stupid, but then again he never thought Dean would want to take it up the ass from his kid brother either, so that shows how much he knows.
“No!” Dean insists, shooting Sam an angry, embarrassed look. “I don’t—” Taking one hand off the wheel, he presses the heel of his palm against his cock. “It fucking hurts, okay?”
Dean actually sounds pained, and honestly offended by Sam’s accusation. And he just isn’t a good enough actor to be pretending. Sitting up a little straighter, Sam casts his mind back over the last few days. The more he reexamines everything, the worse it looks.
“Dean, how often do we normally fuck?” he asks finally.
Dean presses harder against his hard cock, grimacing. “I dunno, at least once a day, sometimes twice. Why?”
“How many times have we fucked in the last three days?”
Dean thinks about it for all of a second and then, visibly, it hits him. Scrunching his face in annoyance and shaking his head, he complains, “Man, this is not cool.”
Actually, for the most part, Sam’s been enjoying himself. He’s pretty sure Dean liked it as well—for the first twenty-hour hours, anyway. But his brother looks miserable now (although still turned on, which is sending really mixed messages to Sam’s cock and heart), so instead of pointing that out he only says, “So, symptoms?”
Dean’s mouth sets in a sulky line. “What, the stiffie that wouldn’t die isn’t enough?”
“Look, do you want to find out what’s causing this or what?”
“Okay, fine,” Dean huffs, and then his brow furrows in obvious thought. “Um. I dunno. It’s like, one second I’m fine, and the next my dick’s harder than a fucking piston. That’s it.”
“All right,” Sam says. He’s going for soothing, cause Dean certainly sounds like he needs it. “We just need to retrace our steps. Do some research. Then we can figure out what’s going on and fix it.”
“Can you,” Dean starts and then licks his lips. “Sammy, can you just.” He looks down at his cock and then back at the road. “Please, man, I’m begging you.”
“Dean, no way—”
Dean moans, squirming in the seat and nearly driving them off the road.
“Dean!” Sam blurts. “Watch it!”
“I can’t help it,” Dean whines. He isn’t so much pressing against his cock anymore as he’s palming it, rubbing himself through his pants as he drives—although calling it ‘driving’ at this point is beyond generous. “Fuck, man, I’m dying over here and you’re gonna play ice princess?”
“Pull over,” Sam says, gripping the side of his door with white knuckled tension as the Impala drifts into the other lane.
“Dean, car!” Sam shouts, and then squeezes his eyes shut as Dean yanks the wheel to the right and narrowly avoids plowing headfirst into an oncoming minivan.
A few moments later, they’re stopped by the side of the road (thank you God) and Dean is sobbing into the steering wheel. Not about their near miss, either.
“Please, man, I’m begging you, I just need—”
“Dean!” Sam yells for what has to be the fifth time in the last minute. His brother jerks and makes a piteous keening noise. Sam’s heart is still in his throat, but he isn’t dead and Dean looks wretched enough that Sam pushes his own emotions aside to explain, “I’m gonna blow you, dude. I just wasn’t going to do it while you were driving.”
“Oh thank God,” Dean breathes, both hands immediately flying to his zipper. He’s shaking too badly to manage it on his own, though, and Sam ends up pushing his hands out of the way and doing it himself.
Three minutes later, Dean is slumping in the driver’s seat, practically passed out, while Sam licks a few stray flecks of come off his lips.
“I’m driving us back,” he announces as he sits up.
“Ngh,” Dean moans.
“I’m gonna take that for an ‘okay’.”
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out where Dean picked up his little problem, so Sam drives them directly back to the magic shop. Well, almost directly. They have to stop off halfway there so Sam can give Dean a quick handjob.
He doesn’t think he’s ever seen his brother wince his way through sex before, although he doesn’t blame him. By now? Dean’s cock is raw.
Naturally, Sam is decidedly upset by the time they get back to the magic shop. But he’s doing his best to remain calm. This could all be some big accident, after all.
Then the clerk looks up, sees them—sees Dean at Sam’s side—and smirks.
“I wondered when you’d make your way back.”
Sam has the man off the floor and pinned against the wall before he realizes that he’s moving. “What the fuck did you do to him?” he growls.
Suddenly, the clerk’s smug superiority is nowhere to be found. “Woah, woah!” he squeaks. “I didn’t do anything! He did it himself! Sign on the table said don’t touch!”
Sam jerks the clerk forward so that he can slam him against the wall again. It’s satisfying hearing the man grunt, but not as satisfying as hearing him whimper and beg will be.
“No. Dean, this asshole—”
Dean groans, pained, and Sam knows that his brother’s cock is filling yet again. Which does nothing for his mood. He shifts his grip to the clerk’s throat. “Fix him. Now.”
“Can’t,” the clerk chokes out while he tries to pry Sam’s fingers away. “Curse.”
Sam can’t process that for a few moments, doesn’t want to process it, but finally it hits and he slumps a little, loosening his grip on the clerk’s throat and lowering him to the ground. He doesn’t release the man, though. Not yet.
“Sammy,” Dean whimpers from behind him. “Please.”
“In a minute, Dean,” Sam says. He’s trying to focus on the clerk so that he can do what he needs to, but his brother chooses that moment to make a hurt, keening noise that lodges in Sam’s chest and makes it impossible to do anything but look back over his shoulder.
Dean is slumped over the checkout counter with his legs spread, humping the side of the case and looking like a cheap advertisement for sex. Only when Sam looks at him, all he can see is Dean’s embarrassment. His shame. All he can hear is the pain in Dean’s moans.
“Go to the bathroom, Dean.”
“Don’t fuckin’ need to piss, I need—”
“Go take care of it.”
Dean doesn’t move for a moment (okay, he does, hips still rocking into the counter), but finally he gives a reluctant groan and pushes off to stagger towards the back of the store. Sam waits until his brother is out of sight and then, fixing the clerk with a cold stare, flexes his fingers around the man’s throat.
“How does it work?”
“Please. It’s harmless—”
“Did that look fucking harmless?” Sam roars, knocking the clerk back into the wall again.
“It’s only you!” the clerk shouts. “Please, it’s only you, okay?”
Sam tightens his grip.
After, Sam takes Dean out through the back. He knows how embarrassed Dean must be by his behavior in the store, and he doesn’t want him to have to see the clerk again. Dean comes along quietly, no questions asked.
It isn’t until they’re both in the car and Sam is reaching for the ignition that he says, “How long’ve I got?”
“What?” Sam replies, too caught up by the clerk’s news to even begin figuring out what Dean is asking.
“Dude, I heard him. It’s a curse. You can’t fucking fix that, so ... Lay it on me. Couple more days? A week? What?”
“De—” Sam catches himself, barely, and corrects, “It’s not fatal. It isn’t even gonna be a problem, now that I know what’s going on.”
As long as he remembers to watch his mouth.
But instead of looking relieved, Dean looks more agitated than ever. “Sam, if you don’t explain right fucking now, I’m gonna—”
“It’s the statue you picked up.”
“The fat chick with the rack?” Dean asks, as though there are so many to choose from. Although, come to think of it, who knows what Dean was fiddling with on that table before Sam turned around.
Sam nods and chances a glance over. He isn’t quite sure how Dean’s going to handle the news. After all, he’s finding it a little overwhelming himself, and he’s way more in touch with his emotions than his brother is.
“It’s the totem of an obscure Middle Eastern mother goddess. She’s supposed to ensure sexual happiness and fruitfulness with your soul mate. One, uh, partner holds the totem while their soul mate says their name, and it, uh, guarantees arousal.”
Sam sneaks another glance. Dean’s frowning at his hands now, but Sam doesn’t think he looks too freaked out. Although that could just be wishful thinking.
“Say something,” Sam rasps when he can’t take the silence any longer.
Dean stirs and obliges by asking, “So, what? Every time you say my name I’m gonna pop wood?”
“Pretty much,” Sam admits, wincing a little as he readies himself for Dean to latch onto the pertinent part of the explanation. Waiting for the explosive denial he knows is coming any second now.
Instead, Dean says, “Huh. Guess you get to pick a pet name, dude, cause I love sex, but I’m not spending the rest of my life with a permanent hard on.”
Sam blinks. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? ‘Guess you’d better pick out a pet name?’”
“Well, yeah,” Dean answers, giving him a confused look. “What else am I supposed to say?”
“You heard me, right? About the soul mate thing? I mean, Christ, man, that’s a pretty huge deal, and I don’t—mmmph!”
Sam flails a little, but Dean’s determined, and eventually he gives in and lets his brother kiss him. Dean’s hands come up to frame Sam’s face as well, fingertips buried in Sam’s hair and thumbs lightly stroking his cheeks. When Dean finally releases his mouth five minutes later, Sam’s feeling a little lightheaded.
Being kissed so thoroughly by Dean will do that to him every time.
“I love you, Sammy,” Dean says fondly, still cupping Sam’s face between his hands. “But if you’re just figuring this shit out now, then you’re a little slow, dude.”
“Huh?” Sam says intelligently.
Dean kisses him again, slow and sure and not freaked at all and oh.
This time, when Dean pulls back, Sam lets out a little laugh and whispers, “I’m such a fucking moron.”
“Yeah,” Dean agrees, grinning. “But you’re my moron.”
And Sam guesses he is.