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Storm Chaser (The Sex, Lies and Videotape Remix)

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Blame it on the fucking pornado.

Dad was working a job up in Alaska, a succubus prowling the oil fields that he insisted Dean was going nowhere near, while Dean was having his own soul-sucking sex issues. He'd discovered the hard way that internet sex is like regular sex -- laptopdance with too many skeevy types and you could wind up with a nasty virus. Some of them just happened to be fatal. It was a couple of weeks after the torrent of porn images opening on his computer (and if he ever found the demon who invented the "click to close" button that actually triggered the pornado, it would be one dead motherfucker) that his computer finally ground to a halt.

Maybe he should have gotten it checked when it first started slowing down--when it took half an hour to get through a seven-minute YouPorn vid. And he would have, if it had paused for thirty seconds at a time on that unnamed, bland-faced asshole from the first Jay Kansas vid. But it hadn't. Almost unerringly, when the image froze on screen, it was on Jay Kansas himself.

Jay Kansas, caught in the midst of a keening, hitching cry that sounded like he was dying of pleasure.

Jay Kansas, his pink lips wide and soft around the girth of some guy's prick.

Jay Kansas, grinning at someone offscreen (the Bland-Faced Asshole, back for a second costarring appearance) and lazily stroking his own cock with hands the size of frying pans.

Jay Kansas, amateur porn star and alter ego of one Sam Winchester.

Finding out his brother was a porn star with a following had been like a lot like a pornado, taking him by surprise, absolutely unstoppable.

Dean Winchester's Five Stages of Finding Your Brother in a Porn Vid: #1. Shock. I mean, holy fucking shit, that's my little brother. #2. Intense scrutiny. Because if Sammy's being forced into anything, or drugged, or blackmailed, Dean's going to be heading to Cali and kicking some asses into next week. #3. Arousal. Because fuckin' A, dude, nobody looks that avid when they're forced, or drugged. #4. Massive guilt. Because that's just wrong. And gross. #5. Hopeless, obsessive, burning horniness. Just because it's wrong doesn't mean it's not hot.

The morning his laptop finally slid from near-coma to death, he was heading out for a job in Athens, Ohio, so he stopped in Cincinnati to see if the corpse could be reanimated. Picking a repair place from the Yellow Pages felt like Xeroxing a news article by Celtic monk, but it didn't take him long. The moment he laid eyes on the ad for Poindexter Computer Repair, he snorted at the mental image of some poor geek with that name hung around his neck.

It took him a while, but he finally made it to the hole-in-the-wall storefront in a wedge-shaped building at a five-pointed intersection. After another few minutes determining that this was the place he really wanted, despite the chipped and peeling Psychic Readings sign painted on the glass, Dean went inside to find a shaggy, tattooed young guy who was, in fact, surrounded by computers of every type and age.

The guy looked up from the box he was sealing with clear tape. "Hey. Help you?"

"Yeah, I'm looking for Poindexter, actually."

"That would be me, actually." Grinning, the guy straightened to his full heights and offered a hand. "That's not really my name, though. Josh Bayliss."

Dean barely registered the name, buffeted by a series of associations between Josh and JaySam. The six-foot-plus height, the massive hand thrust toward him, the mop of hair -- almost black, in this case. They set off a quick succession of images in his head, as unstoppable as the pornado. Thrusting, arching, sucking, writhing.

Dean blinked the and shook Josh's hand. "Uh, sorry. Dean. Hagar. You're not what I expected."

"Yeah, I know. I get a lot of business from the Poindexter name, though. So what's your damage?"

I couldn't begin to tell you. "My laptop died. I got a pop-up with a porn picture on it, and when I clicked the X in the corner to close the window, it opened about fifty more windows, bambambam."

The grin that quirked up the corner of Josh's mouth reminded him of Sam's (oh god, mouth pornado: lips/tongue/teeth/moans/whispers/curses/shouts ). "Yeah, those pop-ups will get you every time. So what happened then?"

"I shut it down. That was the only way I could get out of it."

The smirk deepened. "The hard reboot. So it's been dead since then?"

"No, that was about three weeks ago. It's been chugging along slower and slower, and then this morning it gave up the ghost." Not that he couldn't match this guy smirky double entendre for smirky double entendre, but damned if he was ever going to say I couldn't get it up.

"I'll see what I can do, but there's a lot of nasty shit out there, especially on the porn sites. Viruses, I mean. You have to keep your protection up to date."

Dean couldn't tell whether Josh was deliberately working the innuendo, or if Dean's raging boner of a mind was supplying it. All he wanted to do was get the damn laptop fixed. "Look, I'll pay what it takes." Inspiration struck. "All my notes for my novel are on there. Paranormal mystery about vampires in the porn industry." That ought to explain the dual obsessions eating up 99% of his computer's memory.

"Dude, you don't have to justify anything on your hard drive to me. Hell, computers evolved to be porn delivery vehicles, according to my personal theory."

The guy's certainty annoyed the shit out of Dean, which made him unwilling to let go of his story. "Whatever, dude. Like I said. I'm writing a book; it's called Sucks to Be You."

"Team Dean is on the case," Josh said. "If anyone can preserve your literary legacy, it's me."

Despite himself, Dean found himself returning the smirk. "I trust a man who's arrogant about his skills."

"I like to call it a high degree of confidence. I bet you've got some skills you're pretty proud of."

Holy fuck, is this guy flirting with me? Struck by another brief whirlwind of images, Dean found himself more interested than he felt entirely comfortable with. "A few," he said abruptly. "I've got to employ some of them over in Athens, so I'd better get on the road."

"You got a number where I can reach you when it's done?"

Dean handed over his cellphone and credit card numbers, eager to get the hell away from the churning weirdness going on in his own brain.


The job in Athens turned out to be disappointingly easy. Unlike others Dean could name, the librarian ghost haunting the university library was actually a Poindexter as advertised. A little research and a quick salt and burn took care of the problem without any unexpected fireworks.

Dean had hoped for something involved enough to take his mind off the incestuous brain pornado that had taken up nonstop residence in his head. Like the one that killed his laptop, this one had no functional close window button.

Since Josh had given him a timeframe of a week to ten days to take a look at his laptop and (smirk) get it up and running again, Dean chose to stick around Athens. He could explore the Indian mounds in the area and check into the local lore for future reference -- and it didn't hurt that the town was just brimming with perky coeds.

What Dean didn't count on was the way he would feel in a college town. He didn't fit in in the college bars, and he wasn't a townie, so the tight-knit local bar crowds weren't exactly welcoming, either. As much as he tried to view the campus area as if he were exploring the culture and social interactions of some distant, newly discovered tribe, what he actually felt was dismay and depression. This was the world Sam had chosen over his family. The guys inhabiting it were either so one-dimensional Dean could practically see through them, or playing at depth with a hipster sneer for everything around them. What was Sammy's crowd like? Even if Dean could have given the slightest attention to anyone but Sam in the Jay Kansas vids, it wasn't like there were clues in their clothing or surroundings. It was all closeups, naked flesh on flesh.

He played at looking for Sam in the swarms of students baring their limbs in the warm third week of April, but eventually realized it wasn't exactly pretend. Dean wanted to find him so badly, if it were possible to manifest someone through sheer force of will, Sam would be right next to him in the computer carrel at the university, which he'd scammed his way into with a fake student ID. Instead it was a pretty girl with soft corkscrews of dark hair. At one point he might have traded Sam for her in a heartbeat, but this was not that day.

He got her anyway, thanks to the loud, even blare of a siren that cut through the library hush.

"Shit! Fuck!" the girl exclaimed.

"What is that?"

"Tornado siren." She added a string of swear words to this declaration, fussing ineffectually at the pile of books she'd been working from. When they started sliding across the desk and onto the carpet, she made flustered attempts to stop the cascade, her hands like agitated birds.

"Leave that," Dean said. "We should get to the shelter."

"I need those." Barely suppressed panic pushed her voice into a register that sounded as if it was unnaturally high for her.

"Not right now, you don't," he said calmly.

She seemed about to protest, but an inside-out umbrella rolled along the sidewalk toward the building, rising up and flattening itself against the window with a loud thump. The girl shrieked and clutched at his arm.

"C'mon," he urged her. "I'm new here, and I don't know where the shelter is."

Having a mission always helped in a crisis; Dean had known that since he was four years old. Pressing her lips together until the skin around them paled, she stepped away from the carrel and led him to the designated hallway downstairs. She settled herself on the floor, pulling her knees up with her summery skirt tented over them. Her breathing was shallow, erratic -- and Dean knew, not helping.

He sat next to her. "What's your name?"


"Hey, Cassie, I'm Dean."

"I am not normally like this," she declared.

"How about taking a deep breath, before you're not-normally passed out?"


"Seriously, you're pale and you're hyperventilating. Just get a deep breath, it'll help."

Her fingers clenched the hem of her skirt, and he half expected her to rip it. "Very fucking funny."

"What, because you're not white I can't tell that you're pasty? I was looking at you before, okay? Upstairs. You're definitely paler." This was entirely untrue, but he suspected she wouldn't believe him if he told her he was certain he could recognize a state of pastiness across a racial spectrum. "C'mon, breathe with me."

When she seemed less likely to pass out, he engaged her in small talk until she got herself back in hand. When two of her friends came into the shelter area, he backed off to let them soothe her, and was gone before she thought to introduce Dean to them.

Which was how a spring storm in southern Ohio blew Cassie Robinson into Dean's life, though at the time he thought she'd been blown on through, never to be seen again.

Dean was killing the next evening in one of the student hangouts, doing the kind of pool hustling that, at the moment, looked more like getting drunk and not hustling. Pool sharking was a long con, as one-night cons went. He watched a bland-faced jock kicking the metaphorical ass of an unassuming looking guy, and he developed an instant loathing for the prick that required leaving him a couple hundred dollars poorer by the end of the night. It took a good ten minutes of watching the guy play before he realized his hatred was based solely on a resemblance to the Bland-Faced Asshole from a couple of the Jay Kansas vids. The realization had no effect on Dean's desire to lighten his wallet.

Just as Asshole's victim forked over the last of his cash and Dean was planning his approach, Cassie, the girl from the library, came to his table with a beer in each hand. To his surprise, she set one in front of him and slid into the opposite side of the booth with the other.

"I wanted to say thanks for what you did yesterday," she said.

"What? Oh hey, you didn't have to do this." But he sipped it anyway, pleased to discover it's the same beer he'd been drinking.

"I wanted to. You really helped, and I wanted to say I'm never like that," Cassie assured him. "But my hometown in Missouri had a big, wide strip torn out of its middle a few years back. I was in school when it hit, and I get seriously freaked when I'm in a place like that and the sirens go off."

Deciding to flash her a little of the Dean Winchester charm -- which surely must be getting rusty by now -- he smiled. "Nothing to be embarrassed about. We've all got something that wigs us out."

"What's yours?" she asked.

House fires, but that's nothing I'm going to turn into a casual chat. He angled the conversation back to her, and she let the topic go. As she talked, he realized she'd told the truth: Cassie was not by nature a girl who went in for damsel-in-distress behavior. She was sharp and feisty, planning a career in journalism that she'd already started in high school, when she wrote articles and guest editorials for her hometown paper.

By the time she ordered them each another beer, Dean realized the bland faced jock had disappeared at some point without Dean knowing or caring. And Dean had gone maybe five whole minutes without being acutely aware of how fucking much he missed Sam.

From here, things both slowed down and sped up. Slowed, because Dean did not go home with Cassie that night. What they had was an honest to god date, with drinks and dinner (well, beer and pizza), life stories (one probably true, the other 97% false) and a makeout session in the front seat of the Impala (she held him to second base like a cannon-armed catcher, but made it worth the stay).

What made things switch into fast-forward after that, Dean wasn't sure. It might have been the thrill of the chase, but he suspected it was more likely an urgent desire to be normal. Guys who were normal didn't watch their brother do other men in badly-lit home videos, and they sure as hell didn't jerk off to it. If there was a hint of desperation in Dean's pursuit of both Cassie and something like love, neither one of them acknowledged it.

When she did surrender to him, he tried not to compare, but found himself watching her face for the same fierce expression of rapture he'd seen on JaySam's face, the pure animal enjoyment of giving and taking. Maybe that scrutiny was what made Cassie take things faster too. She noticed it, remarked on it. "No guy has ever looked at me that way," she murmured one night as he feathered his fingers over muscles that quivered with release. That was three guys, he knew from her history report on date two: boyfriend, serious boyfriend, serious mistake.

She was clearly waiting for an answer, so Dean said, "I want to be sure you're good."

Cassie laughed, still a little breathy. "What, you couldn't tell from the screams?"

To tell the truth, he'd barely heard them over the echoes of Sammy in his head.

They kept taking things at a breakneck speed, thinking it was a relationship, even love, with Dean moving into her apartment by the time a week went by. Settling down (or at least having a home between hunts), he called it in his head, but if he was honest, it felt nothing like being settled. He was running in place, trying to get away from his own fucked-up shit.

He pushed it all too far too fast, including the end. He'd had the opposite intent, but it turned out that the truth about his life was like a giant Eject button in the cockpit -- ha, cockpit -- of a plane. They were in bed when he punched the button. Cassie had an arm and a leg thrown over him, stroking the skin of his chest after a brain-melting session of sex to the sound of what promised to be an all-day rain hissing around them. Something rose up in him that he might have mistaken for claustrophobia if he hadn't just seen that wild abandon in her that he'd been searching for all along. Though it pushed the same panic through his veins, slamming into his racing heart, he knew it was not desperation to leave, but fear that he'd let this slip from his grasp.

"Hey." Cassie raised herself up onto her elbow to study him. "Are you okay?"

"Sure." Then: "Well, I don't know. There are some things I need to tell you."

Frowning, she hoisted herself higher and looked down at him, a hand resting on his chest. Dean wished he could tell her to lie back down in the crook of his arm, but it would be a chickenshit move, and he knew it wouldn't make this any easier.

He swallowed around a tight knot in his throat. "First I have to tell you about the way I was raised. I left some things out."

She took in a breath, let it out. "Okay."

His own breathing sounded painfully loud to him, even with the competition from the hissing rain above and around them. "From the time I was four, my family moved around a lot. I didn't grow up in that house with the picket fence -- I lived across the street in a rented house for a few weeks. We moved all the time, and my brother and I were trained not to talk to people about our lives. I'm telling you this because I want to explain why I told you things that aren't true before I start coming clean about them. I'm breaking two decades of rules here."

Reaching across his body, Cassie found his hand and gripped it tight, drawing it up to plant a kiss on a scarred knuckle. "I'm here, baby. You can tell me."

Despite her reassurance, Dean wasn't sure he could. The secret was lodged so far down, he didn't know if he could bring it up -- or what might happen if he tried. And he could tell what Cassie was thinking, her certainty that he was going to tell her about a childhood full of abuse -- and who wouldn't think so, after seeing his body? Dean was nowhere near as scarred up as Dad, but he had a couple of beauties. He had good stories for them -- Cassie certainly wasn't the first girl to ask -- but now that he'd told her he was a liar, his whole history was open to question. And oh god, he saw his reluctance to speak click for her as her expression melted into sympathetic horror.

That realization helped him pull the trigger on his confession. "The way I grew up -- it was kind of like being a military kid, except I was a soldier too. We moved around so much because my dad was after something."

"I don't understand."

Managing a little laugh, Dean said, "I'd wonder about you if you did. Something killed my mom. My dad went after it." He laughed again. "Kind of like The Fugitive." Or The Fugitive in a high-speed collision with Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

The thought gave him a sudden inspiration. "So you remember when your friend Dani brought over her DVDs for the Buffy marathon?"

"Kind of hard to forget." That night had pissed her off more than any other moment in their two-week turbo-accelerated courtship. "You got completely shitfaced and were seriously obnoxious."

"Exactly. I was playing a little drinking game with myself. Every time they got something stupidly wrong, I took a belt."

"Wrong? About what?" As she edged a little more toward irritation, Dean felt less like he wanted to bail on this whole conversation. "And what does this have to do with what you were going to tell me, anyway?"

"What my dad really does. What I do. We chase shit like that -- demons and ghosts. That's what I was doing in town when me met. Your haunted library isn't haunted anymore."

Cassie abruptly sat up, the sheets sliding off her skin, making him want to touch her. "That's it? That's your deep, dark secret? A dumbass joke about Buffy and ghosts?"

So okay. That inspiration wasn't so blindingly brilliant after all. "It's not a joke. I know it sounds crazy, but it's true. Those things are real, and more besides. Well, except vampires, that's bullshit."

"Stop it." She yanked the top sheet off him, pulling it around her as she rose from the bed. Anger vibrated through her petite form. "Just stop it. This isn't funny."

"I'm not trying to be." It was fucking hard to be earnest when he was buck naked on her bed. Dean grabbed a pillow and gave himself a little coverage. "It's hard to believe unless you've seen it with your own eyes, I know. But I have. My mom was killed and my house burned down, and it was a demon that did it."

Snatching up a wine glass from the bedside table, she hurled it at him. It glanced off his upraised arm and hit the wall without breaking, but spilled red wine in a bloody-looking smear down the wall. "You asshole! Get your clothes on and get out!"

Without waiting for him to make a move, she started picking his clothes up off the floor and flinging them toward him. Her feet tangled in the sheet puddled around her, sending her crashing to the floor.

Scrambling from the bed, Dean knelt at her side as she started to cry. "Cassie, Cassie, are you okay? Babe--"

She lashed out at him with her fists, raining blows on his shoulders and chest and cheek. "You shithead, you fucker, you asswipe. Don't you treat me like a moron. Don't you dare!"

"I'm not--"

"Get out!"

He hadn't known there was something that was a cross between a bellow and a shriek, but he did now. He half expected blood to come surging from her throat and down over her lush lips.

"Okay, I'm going." Dean didn't know what else to do. He pulled on his jeans and a tee, and was reached for a boot half under the bed when he heard pounding on the door.

"What the hell is going on in there?" a male voice called. Her landlord, a guy Dean had seen but not met. If he wasn't a cop, he sure had the voice skills for it. "Cassie? Are you okay?"

"I'm going," Dean told her, "but I'll be back. Try to calm down, and I'll explain later."

More pounding that sounded like it was going to take the door from its hinges. "Open up now."

"I'm coming!" Dean called. One foot stuffed into a boot, the other one bare, he stumped across the living room to the door. He'd no more than unlocked it before the door flew open, smashing into his left hand, knocking the other boot to the floor.

"What the hell is going on?" The landlord looked from Dean to Cassie, who still sat on the floor, sheet clutched to her chest and pooled around her.

Crazily, Dean flashed on the cover of an old vinyl record he'd found in one of the rentals he'd lived in as a kid, with a hot chick covered in whipped cream like it was a dress. It might've been the first picture he'd ever masturbated to. He left the record behind when they moved, but he'd taken the cover with him. Cassie looked like that now, folds of creamy white against her dark skin and hair, except it was all wrong. Tears pouring down her face, sobbing so hard her words were barely intelligible when she screamed, "Get the fuck out!"

The landlord drew himself up, as if the act could make the doughy flesh in his wifebeater undershirt turn into hard muscle. "You heard her. Get gone before the cops get here."

Sonofa-- "Yeah," Dean said quickly. Grabbing his boot, he felt his jeans pockets to be sure his keys and wallet were still there and shot out the door.

He took himself to a movie at the Athena, hoping it would give her time to simmer down. Two hours later, chilled to the bone from the effect of air conditioning on rain-wet jeans and tee, he walked out, without the slightest idea what the hell it had been about or what language the people in it had been speaking. He'd heard thunder even inside the movie theater, but the rain had ended. The sky still looked ominous, though. He headed back to Cassie's, the wet asphalt hissing under the Impala's tires.

His duffel bag was lying on the wet grass of the obsessively manicured lawn. Dean was surprised that the landlord has left it that way -- Dean's duffel with its half-disgorged contents and, hell, even the grass. It was sort of surprising the guy didn't go out there and ShopVac the whole yard until it was dry and perfect. The stuff he didn't have in the duffel was also scattered where she'd heaved it, one piece at a time, out her window. The landlord sat absolutely still in a rocking chair on the porch, a baseball bat resting across his legs. Hastily Dean righted the duffel and checked over its contents.

"It's all there. I've been watching," said the landlord, in a tone that brooked no fuckery.

"I don't know what she told you--" Dean wasn't even sure why he gave a rat's ass what this guy thought, except for that no-bullshit Marine vibe he gave off. It reminded him of Dad.

"She said you're a lying asshole, but you didn't hurt her. She wants you gone anyway."

"Yeah, I gathered that." He grabbed a few other things, including his razor, toothbrush and hair gel, plus the Dopp kit they belonged in. Cassie hadn't even taken the time to stuff them into the kit before she'd fired them out the window into the rain.

Dean hoped it was cathartic. He glanced back up at the window for a moment, still open but abandoned.

"Don't do it, son," the landlord warned.

Beefy as the guy was, Dean had a pretty good suspicion he could rip that bat out of his hands and ram it down his throat without much of a struggle, but that wasn't going to get him anywhere with Cassie.

Instead he rummaged in the trunk of his car for a tarp and spread it out over the false bottom before hoisting the rain-sodden duffel on top. He closed the trunk and stood there for a moment, his hand resting on the skin of the Impala. Dean gazed off into the distance, not liking the greenish cast the late afternoon sky was taking on. "Tell her --" He turned back to the landlord. "Tell her she won't have to worry about seeing me in town. I'm going back to the family business. Tell her to keep an eye on the weather. I don't like the look of that sky."

He settled himself behind the wheel and headed back into more pounding rain toward Cincinnati, away from his failed experiment in normal.


Dean dragged the tarp into his motel room and set about sorting through his belongings, separating the clean-but-soaked from the mud-smeared and the completely trashed. Soon every area that could be used as a drying rack was festooned with t-shirts, socks and boxer-briefs. The rest could wait until the weather cleared for him to drag it to the laundry or sling it in a dumpster.

Now that his relationship with Cassie was blown apart, Dean could see the slapdash way it had been constructed, held together with bent paper clips and hope. He could see her qualities that had echoed Sam's, and the ways she was the exact opposite of the things that made his desires so wrong -- the ways she could never be what he wanted, no matter how he tried -- and conversely, he'd never be what she needed. It was miraculous it stood as long as it had, and fortunate that it collapsed before Cassie could get hurt any worse than she already was.

Turning on the shower, Dean peeled out of his still-clammy clothes and stepped in, carefully pulling the curtain so he wouldn't dislodge the laundry draped over the rod. He let his mind wander to what he did want, Sam's eager hands pulling off his shirt, wrenching his fly open, exploring him with fingertips and tongue and teeth. Practiced as he was at bringing himself off, he couldn't get the right rhythm. The images he called up in his head weren't working, and the sound was synced all wrong. He saw Sam's avid face, the foxlike tilt of his eyes, but heard the sound of Cassie's soft cries.

He managed to come, but it was a helluva lot more work than getting yourself off had any right to be. He leaned against the grubby shower wall and cursed, then punched his hand into the tiles until he could feel something beyond the dead space that seemed to be expanding inside him.


The storm had picked up, slashing rain in gusts against the windows of his room, when Josh from Poindexter called.

"It's up, and it's looking great," he said.

Over the last couple of weeks, Dean had forgotten the weirdly flirtatious conversation they'd had, but now it came back to him -- without the uncertainty. How could have have mistaken Josh's insinuating words and that tone for anything accidental? The guy was as subtle as a brick.

Dean liked that.

He also remembered Josh's height and shoulder span, the huge hands and shaggy hair that reminded him of Sam. This new Sam, taller and more muscular, two years older than the Sam who'd left him for Stanford. JaySam. Heat pooled in Dean's groin at the thought of those hands (Sam's hands) on him.

"That's good to hear," Dean said, using his waitress-charming tone. He'd never used it on a guy before, and never over the phone, so this was another experiment.

"If you want it, you can come for it anytime. Now would work for me."

Taken aback, Dean repeated, "Now? It's after ten."

"I do my best work at night," Josh said. "And I thought you'd be anxious to have it as soon as I could give it to you."

This was sounding more and more like a cheesy porn script. Then again, porn was how he'd gotten into all this. "I have been looking forward to getting my hands on it."

"Come on, then. I'm open."

Hell, Dean had nothing better to do than sit on the bed regarding his soggy belongings. He pulled on his still-damp jeans and the tee he'd worn fleeing from Cassie's and headed out into the driving storm.


He showed up at the Psychic Readings storefront, hair plastered to his scalp, clothing clinging to every line of his body. Josh pulled him inside and handed him a towel, but Dean let it fall and reached for Josh instead. He didn't want chitchat or pretense or even the teasing double-meanings of their earlier conversations. All he wanted was what had been in those Jay Kansas clips, nothing but bodies crashing together, hungry, searching, sex as a full-contact sport.

"Fuck, yeah," Josh muttered, matching Dean's frenzy. Right there by the glass door he peeled off Dean's wet shirt, letting it fall to the floor with a wet smack. Pulling Dean close, sucking and nipping at his neck, Josh slipped his hand between their bodies and palmed Dean's groin through his jeans. Some feral sound rose in Dean's throat as he rutted against Josh's hand.

Sam was the only word that formed in his head, but the noise he made was nothing like a word. Josh tucked a hand down the waistband of his pants, dragging him away from the door, toward an arched passage behind the counter. In the room beyond was a big bed, surrounded on three sides by wall shelves piled with computers and parts.

Josh stripped him of his jeans with some effort, gooseflesh rising on Dean's legs as his damp skin was exposed. Dropping down, Josh pulled him close and mouthed a jagged scar on Dean's hip, making Dean lightheaded with desire.

Dean groaned so loud it almost embarrassed him, and then Josh turned his face from the scar, his ragged breath disturbing the hairs at Dean's crotch. He groaned again, keeping the name locked behind his teeth but echoing in his head. Sam Sam Sammy, god Sam.

He closed his eyes then, storing away every sensation into a bank of memory that he could tap into when needed. Skin on skin, tongue and teeth on nipples, silky wet heat of mouth surrounding his fingers, a teasing promise, and then tonguing the crook of his elbow.

And finally, that hot wet sweet mouth right where he most wanted it, Dean's hands threading through his lover's hair, tugging and relishing the soft grunt of pain.

Sam, fuck.

The weight of his body covering Dean's.

Hot breath accompanying a whisper into his ear: "I'll make it so good for you."

He'd never even let a girl finger him back there, but the thought of Sam, JaySam taking it and coming apart like Dean had never done in his life, made him want it desperately.

He wanted what Sam had and loved.

He wanted Sam.

If the only way he could have him was through porn vids and borrowed bodies, he'd take that. Josh was true to his word, taking it slow and teaching him new things about his own body until Dean rode a crest of mingled pain and pleasure and the sound of his own cries mimicking JaySam's, heard so many nights diminished through his laptop's speakers. He gave them full, raw-throated voice, as if releasing the sounds in his head gave them explosive force. Caution: Contents under pressure.

He rode the storm as it broke and coasted on the near silence after it was done.

Sam Sam Sammy, fuck, Sam.