Sam had already thought this was a shitty, half-baked, stupid fucking plan, but as he ran down an alley, tripping over beer cans and gasping for breath, he decided this was officially the Worst Plan Ever, and he was seriously going to kill Dean when he got home. Oh, sure, let's split up and ask sex shop owners if anything suspicious has gone down, no, not the usually suspect crap, we're talking more witchy than that... yeah. That'll work out fine. No, we can't stay home just for this Christmas, no, there’s no rest for the wicked, eh, Sammy?
Well, the kinky witch-slash-sex-shop-owner who was killing people in decidedly un-sexy ways (though Sam reasoned that she most likely thought differently) wasn't one for games, and damn, she could run fast in heels. What the fuck.
Sam turned a corner and saw he was running parallel to one of the busier streets of San Francisco. He groaned internally, cursing the hills and slopes of the city for causing the burning in his lungs and calves. He shrugged his phone out of his pocket, managing to unlock it and get to Dean's contact as he ran, listening to the witch's labored cursing only a few feet behind him. He only managed to type "H" before he slid on what was probably a used condom, catching himself on his elbows, the phone skittering onto the pavement and out of his grasp. He lunged forward, mashing the screen until he saw his text sent, and rolled onto his back just soon enough to block a nice right hook. The witch straddled him, using surprising force to shove him back into the ground when he tried to rise and fight her off.
The witch glared down at him with wide, red-rimmed blue eyes, and sprinkled something flowery-smelling on his face, and shit, it must've been something potent, because his already-leaden limbs were feeling heavier and heavier, like the pavement and his arms both decided to turn into strong magnets. He managed a tiny moan before he couldn't move at all, using just his eyes to purvey how royally pissed he was at his current situation. He was hoping that, in this case, perhaps looks could kill.
"Silly boy," the witch chided, patting him on the cheek, and okay, that wasn't what he was expecting. He was expecting more creepy chanting, more blood in his lungs, that kinda deal. "No one outruns me. Especially when I run in Golden Gate park every week. I mean, seriously, calves of steel."
Sam glared a little harder.
"I'm not going to kill you," she muttered contemplatively, just loud enough for him to hear. She stroked her chin and looked out across the busy city, bright and cloudless in the late afternoon. "No, that's not doing it for me right now. You're a big strong man, yes? Probably toppy, pushy? Well, not this time. I know you have a love. He must claim you, and you must be his servant. If your lover fails to sufficiently claim you before midnight, you'll die."
"I thought you said y'wouldn't kill me," Sam managed through grinding, gritted teeth.
She shrugged, flicking her blonde hair over a shoulder, studying her nails. "I won't kill you, the spell will. Duh."
Sam rolled his eyes.
She clicked her tongue at him, waving a manicured, red-painted fingernail at him. "Don't be rude. When was the last time you got laid? I can practically smell the sexual frustration on you. Tsk, tsk, tsk. I'm doing you a favor. Now, let's get things started, shall we darling, hmm?"
She started reciting Latin, playing distractedly with the buttons on his shirt, and Sam's ears started ringing, first high, and then lower and lower, and then the sloping hills were turning on him, and up was down, and his head felt like someone had taken a hammer to it, and the world was plunged into a murky grey-black.
The next thing Sam knew was the feeling of being thrown onto a trampoline. Repeatedly. His neck ached to be bitten. His head was tumbling like a dryer on its highest setting, and something was poking at his armpits and his ass. He wanted to be pushed and pinned down. He heard what could've been a grunt, and then something rough was pressing against his back, and damn it, why couldn't he focus? He tried valiantly to open his eyes, but while he was asleep someone must've replaced the skin on his eyelids with fifty-pound weights.
Something warm pushed into his cheek, and he was struck with the urge to suck on fingers, to take something into his mouth. A low murmur reached his ears, soothing, though plaintive, and he had a feeling he really needed to wake up more.
He didn't know how he did it, but he opened his eyes, blinking slowly and trying to clear the blur on his vision. His mouth fell open and he whined, squinting, trying to adjust his eyes to a glaringly bright world.
Something came up to cup his other cheek and the desperate noise got louder. He frowned, slowly focusing in on what was in front of his face, and found it was another face.
And oh god, he wanted to kiss it.
It took a few moments for his mind to properly boot up, but he recognized Dean's green eyes, the curve of Dean's nose, smaller than his own. He breathed out a sigh of relief and closed his eyes, languishing in the feeling of Dean's calloused palms on his cheek. Hs mouth curved up in a tiny smile. "D'n," he breathed.
"Oh, thank god," Dean said, his voice crackling and distant like a quiet radio in Sam's ears. His hands left Sam's face, and Sam wanted to cry at the loss. "You okay, Sammy?"
"Mmmphlm," Sam managed, staring into Dean's beautiful, alluring, stunning, gorgeous, pretty eyes. He was running out of adjectives. God, they were just so green...
Dean's already worried face scrunched even further in on itself, which was kinda cute, in Sam's opinion. "Sammy?"
Like someone had punched him with a brick, Sam started, eyes widening as he was chucked into a fully-conscious state, which was also painfully self aware. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking shitty mcfuck shit. Fuck. The spell. The witch. It was all coming back to him. He winced when he realized he'd spent a solid thirty seconds admiring Dean's eyes, of all things.
He was so screwed.
"Oh, no," he groaned, covering his face with his hands, his entire body aching, his dick waking up without his permission. "Oh, god damn it."
Dean swore. "She got you, didn't she."
Sam nodded behind his hands. "You waste her?" he asked, voice muffled by his sweaty palms.
He heard Dean's knees crack as he stood up. "Yep, she's got about four twenty-two caliber shots in 'er right now, probably won't get up anytime soon, especially 'cause she broke a heel. Heh."
Had Dean always been so confident, so funny, so perfect for being a good bottom for? Had he always--
"You have to get away from me," Sam croaked, lowering his hands, cheeks flushing. He kept his eyes glued to the pavement, musing pathetically about how freaked Dean would be if he knew.
Dean looked down at him, the sunlight turning his hair an angelic shade of gold, his eyes narrowed. "Why don't we get to the motel first," he suggested lightly, holding a hand out.
Sam couldn't help but take it and heave himself off of the brick wall, the alley tilting around him as he fought to get his balance back. He kept Dean's hand in his even when he felt better, and waited for Dean to do something. Dean met his gaze evenly, and turned away, heading to the car, parked a ways down. Sam followed him, never releasing his hand, and Dean stopped at the driver's side door, turning to face Sam. He was fighting valiantly against a grin and losing.
"Sam, I'm afraid I'm going to need you to let go of my hand so I can drive," he explained carefully with a barely-contained, amused waver in his voice.
"Um, er. Right," Sam blubbered, slipping his hand out of Dean's and hobbling over to the other side of the car and dropping in. The car shook as Dean slid in beside him, slamming the door shut with a loud creak. Dean started the car, and they entered the traffic of downtown. Sam flipped down the sun visor and Dean turned on the radio while he waited for the light to change. He flipped through a few rock stations before landing on a Christmas station. He froze for a second, and then shrugged, letting Frank Sinatra wax on about what a white Christmas it was going to be. Yeah, not for the Winchesters.
"How did you find me?" Sam asked, looking forward so he wouldn't get lost in Dean's eyes. He could see the water of the bay from here, twinkling in sunlight. He kept his hands folded in his lap and his legs shut tight, ears burning as he waited for Dean to speak.
He saw Dean shrug in his periphery. "Still got your GPS on, dude. I left Good Vibrations when I got your text and found you passed out, a nice-lookin' lady hurrying away from the scene of the crime. She didn't get that far."
Sam nodded, letting out a long breath. "She's dead, but I'm still cursed."
"I know. We'll fix it."
Sam looked down at his watch. "We only have eight hours to fix it before I die."
The light turned, and Dean swung the wheel around to make a right turn, his fingers sliding gracefully on the worn leather. Sam swallowed and thought of old grandmas and piles of trash and Abraham Lincoln.
Dean's jaw ticked. "I know."
Sam laughed darkly. "No, you really don't."
Dean shot him an inscrutable look before turning his eyes back to the road, heading further out of the city. "Just hold on, Sammy," he said tightly.
Sam didn't bother responding, mulling over the various, sex-crazed feelings and thoughts floating around his head. If he was being honest, he'd felt all of this before and stifled it, tamped it down, but this time, everything was amplified by a thousand times and couldn't be ignored. He was surprised he hadn't jumped Dean yet or said something life-endingly cheesy, straight out of a gay romance novel.
He watched idly as the motel came into view. They'd never dealt with the level of sex magic that this witch was wielding, which kind of surprised him, considering all the experience under their belts. Sam could already tell they'd never find an actual cure or reversal spell before midnight. They had no idea where to start. And it had to be some seriously powerful shit, considering the witch's death didn't stop it. They'd likely need something of equal power- like another witch- to stop it, which they'd never find.
For a brief moment, he kind of resented Dean for killing her right off the bat, but the feeling fled quickly. He understood Dean's logic: faced with his brother lying still on the pavement after a series of other deaths, what would he have done? Plus, Dean had been harboring some pent-up shit lately, and it was probably therapeutic for him to kill something. Sam wasn't sure how he felt about that, and he had a lingering feeling that Dean's first bullet had hit the mark, and the other three were just... well, like he'd said. Therapeutic.
Dean shook him by the shoulder, and Sam couldn't help but sigh and lean into it, all of his morbid thoughts wiped away in a single second. "You doing okay there?" Dean asked. "You looked kinda... zoned out."
"Yeah," Sam agreed, his voice sounding distant and dreamy even to himself, "mmm-hmm."
"O-ookay," Dean said, patting Sam again before getting out of the car. Wait, how long had the car been off? How long had they been in the parking lot? Sam shook his head like a wet dog, gearing himself up as he got out of the car and followed after Dean.
Just seeing the disheveled beds and smelling the motel-signature dried semen odor was like some sort of freaky aphrodisiac for Sam, and he let out a pathetic whimper before stumbling into the bathroom and locking the door behind him, sliding against it to sit on the cool tiles, shutting his eyes and feeling his cock harden. He didn't want Dean to look at him, not right now.
It wasn't long before the knob rattled above him, the door shuddering on its hinges. "Sammy, c'mon," Dean said, and Sam heard the tell-tale thumps and slides of Dean sitting down on the other side of the door.
"We won't find a cure in time. There's no way," Sam croaked.
There was a pause. "You're probably right."
"And we can't do what the curse wants."
Dean shifted. "It's that kinda curse? Do this or die?"
"Then why the hell can't we do it?" Dean barked. "You'll die otherwise, little brother."
Sam thumped his head against the door. "We just can't."
"It's a sex thing, isn't it."
Sam's cheeks flushed and he bit his lip. He took a moment before responding. "Yeah," he mumbled, rubbing a hand over the crotch of his jeans and sighing.
"And it has to do with me."
Sam jolted. "...How did you know?" he whispered, staring up blankly at the scratched bathroom mirror.
"Eh," Dean said, throat sounding tight, "this whole time, you've been sayin' 'we'. And I know that's not all that weird, but. The way you're saying it is. And when you held my hand and how you hand a boner the whole ride over."
Sam wanted to die. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, his whole face heating up like a furnace room. "Oh," he said, saliva flooding his mouth. He leaned forward and flipped the toilet lid up, promptly depositing all of his lunch into the toilet bowl.
The door rattled behind him. "Sam? Sam? You okay?"
"Just felt a little sick," he wheezed. "Oh, god, Dean, I'm so fucking sorry about all of this. If the witch hadn't gotten the drop on me then none of this woul-"
"Wasn't your fault," Dean interrupted, his tone clipped. "Don't blame yourself."
Sam laughed, a short and bitter sound. "I don't even understand how you can keep sitting right there and talking to me. I mean, I'm thirty-two, that's a hell of a long time to harbor a crush for my older brother."
"A crush?" Dean echoed distantly. "Sammy, I. I thought the spell was just, um. You know, fuck the first person you touch type o' deal. I didn't know it had to deal with... want."
"Oh." Sam swallowed thickly. "Oh, I'm gonna be sick again."
He ran a hand through his hair, grimacing at how wet and greasy his forehead felt. There was silence from outside the bathroom, and he really didn't blame Dean at all. This had already been seriously fucked up, and Sam had upped the fucked up levels to like. Hell. Third circle, at best, probably worse. And he would know.
He heard a tiny shifting noise at his back that let him know Dean was still sitting there, probably too shocked to get up and ditch Sam. That would be the logical thing to do, Sam mused, you know, in cases where an older brother finds out his grown-assed little brother is in love with him. Great.
"You know, you can just." Sam cleared his throat. "You can go if you want to, I'm fine."
Dean barked out a laugh. "Bullshit. And just leave you to die? Why the fuck would I ever do that? Shut up, Sam."
"Okay, shutting up," Sam squeaked, feeling lightheaded all over again, because Dean had just ordered him to do something, and he'd done it. And he'd leaked a little precome in his pants. He felt guilt sink low in his stomach, mingling with the arousal that just wouldn't fucking quit.
"I didn't mean that," Dean sighed. A moment passed. "Sam, talk to me."
"Okay." His dick twitched.
"Well." Dean cleared his throat. "Well." Again. "We've only got about seven more hours or so, so we might as well get this done now."
"Now?!" Sam echoed, eyes bugging out in his head, voice going high in pitch. "You want... to do that... now?"
"You got any better ideas?" Sam hated the low, subdued note in Dean's voice, hated that he was the cause, loathed that Dean might never look him in the fucking eye ever again.
"I just don't want thing to be messed up between us," Sam said, his voice crackly and dry with all the emotion lodged in his throat. His eyes were prickling with moisture. He sniffed. "But I guess it's too late for that, huh?"
"Sam," Dean sighed, that one syllable sounding like it meant the world to him. "Things aren't messed up. I mean, it's kinda messed up, but it's not... messed up."
"Articulate," Sam commented, a ghost of a smile on his face.
Dean scoffed. "See? Not fucked up. Now come out of the bathroom, Sammy."
Sam wanted to protest, but his mouth clamped shut and his body levered itself up without him telling it to do so. He grabbed the door handle and opened the door to face Dean, who was also standing, looking like he'd thought Sam wouldn't possibly do it and also kind of like a deer in the headlights.
Sam shrugged, feeling helpless. "I have to obey all your orders."
A flush rose to Dean's cheeks, and he looked away, scratching at the back of his neck. "Oh, gotcha. Nice."
Sam rocked back on his heels, looking everywhere but Dean and praying to god Dean wouldn't look down at his boner. It was starting to hurt at this point, like all those Viagra commercials warn you about, but Sam wasn't about to complain, not with their current... situation.
Dean finally turned back to him, wringing his hands. "Anything else I should know about the curse?" he asked, sounding slightly faint.
Sam ducked his head, his hair falling in front of his face and shielding his eyes. "You have to, uh. In her words. Claim me. I have to obey you and be your servant and you have to sufficiently mark me before the clock chimes twelve."
"Jesus fucking christ."
A manic laugh bubbled out of Sam before he could help it. "I know."
Dean ran a hand through his hair, turning in a slow circle and staring all around the room, apparently looking for something. When he turned to face Sam again, he nodded, biting his lip, a little glint of determination shining in his eyes. "Get on the bed."
"Dean--what?!" Sam yelped as his legs moved him backward and his ass fell onto the mattress. His cheeks were beginning to feel like they'd never be a normal shade again and he couldn't get enough air in his lungs because what the fuck was Dean doing?
Dean made a displeased noise in the back of his throat, waving his hand at Sam in a vague gesture. "Hold on," he said distractedly, digging through his duffel bag. After tossing a few shirts and mismatched socks out of it, he grabbed something and dropped the bag, walking back to Sam. He placed the items on the nightstand and Sam turned his neck to see them.
A condom. And a little, half-used bottle of lube.
"You can't be serious," Sam said tightly, feeling lightheaded. "No punch to the face, no freakout? What about after, huh, Dean? You wanna spend your life hunting with someone you can't look in the eye?" his tone went higher and higher as the panic built in his throat, turning his voice shaky and thick. His heart was going double time, and he was filled to the brim with love for Dean, and annoyance, helplessness, arousal, and lust, lust, lust.
Dean looked him square in the eye without a flinch or a swallow. Sam tried to read him, tried to find the regret in his gaze, and couldn't. "Crawl backward and lay down with your head on the pillow."
Silent, flushed, and chest heaving, Sam did as he was told, flopping back onto the thin motel pillow.
Dean chuckled. "I could really get used to that," he murmured. "You know, I'm being really nice here. I could be ordering you to do a bunch of really wild, embarrassing shit, photo album-worthy stuff, but as the amazing older brother I am, I'll let this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity pass me by."
Sam was speechless. He stared up at the ceiling, resolute not to watch Dean like a hawk. He focused in on some dark, moldy-looking stains spotting the ceiling above him, listening to Dean move around the room with increasing anxiety.
The bed dipped at his feet and his heart jumped. He held himself still, controlling his breaths by thinking of sheep, and soon enough, Dean's face filled his vision. Dean had crawled over him. Dean's hands were on either side of his torso, his knees on either side of his hips. What the hell.
"You're an idiot," Dean said, an odd look on his face. "I'm an idiot."
Sam couldn't find a proper response to that, his mouth falling open in question as he stared up at Dean's mossy eyes, one of his hands reaching up and cupping Dean's jaw. He ripped his hand away like he'd been burned, flushing an even darker shade than he was already sporting. "Sorry."
Dean ducked his head and shook it, sighing. Sam watched him with wide, dark eyes, his brain futilely rushing around for an explanation, for some logic or reason to what was happening, but he kept coming up short.
Dean looked back at him.
Sam bit his lip, trying to stop the rush of moisture flooding his eyes, but he wasn't strong enough. He turned his head to the side, staring across the little room, but not really focusing in on anything. It's not like he'd be able to, anyway, with his vision being so blurred over. God, why was he so weak? Why didn't he outsmart the witch, why'd he run his mouth to Dean, why'd he let any of this happen? Ever since purgatory, and Gadreel, and the Mark, he'd sort of shut himself off, let himself work through the motions and fake a really convincing smile, but now all his carefully-constructed barriers were falling down and he was drowning. He wasn't used to feeling anything, and now he was feeling everything.
"Sammy." Dean's voice was soft. "Sammy, hey, can you look at me?"
"Pass," Sam choked, blinking rapidly to dispel the tears.
Dean's hand found his cheek, and Sam let out a shuddering breath, physically unable to resist pushing his face into the warmth of Dean's palm. Dean shoved his other hand between Sam's cheek and the pillow, nudging his face back up to meet Dean's eyes. He threaded his fingers through Sam's hair, rubbing at his scalp, humming all the while.
"Why are you doing all of this?" Sam growled, suddenly burning with righteous anger, with indignation at the past three years spent alone in his room. "Why pretend?"
Dean stopped humming and frowned at Sam. "Who says I'm pretending?"
Sam scoffed, curling his fingers around Dean's bicep and forcing away the moony thoughts. He shoved Dean's arm away. "The last few years of our fucking lives do." He started to prop himself up on his elbows, but Dean pinned him back down.
"Stay where you are," Dean demanded, and Sam's muscles all relaxed.
"That's not fair!" Sam squawked, huffing.
Dean's glare softened. More like melted, actually, until all the furrowed-brow frustration had bled into shiny eyes and a tiny smile, a level of vulnerability that Sam hadn't seen on Dean's face in... fuck, in too long. Dean's breath hitched in his throat. "Now lemme do this," he murmured with a stern edge to his voice, carefully putting his fingers back into Sam's hair.
Sam quieted, watching Dean with huge eyes and an open mouth, the spell inside of him singing at the feeling of Dean's fingers slowly running through his hair.
"As I was saying," Dean started, curling strands of Sam's hair around his index finger and shuffling so he was straddling Sam more comfortably, "I'm an idiot."
Dean sat down further, the seat of his pants pressing right up against Sam's hard-on. Sam squirmed uncomfortably, clearing his throat. "Dean."
"You're on my boner."
"I know, dumbass."
Sam blinked, the tips of his ears burning pink. "Could you, um. Could you just get to the point."
Dean sighed. "Okay, well the first point is that I'm not grossed out right now, am I? Am I weirded out? No. Now, should I be? That one's debatable. But I want you stop hatin' yourself over this, alright? Sammy, please calm down. I know you're still freaking out. Take a few breaths."
Sam closed his eyes and breathed in, and out, and in, and out. He willed his heartbeat to slow down, and kept his eyes shut, waiting for Dean to continue.
"Good." Sam opened his eyes and Dean settled his hands on Sam's collarbones, staring down at him with a level of focus and clarity that would've taken Sam's words away, if he'd had any. "Sammy, do you remember when we were looking for the demon with Dad and I was losing hope? Meg'd just killed Pastor Jim, and I said none of it mattered 'cause Mom wasn't coming back? And you pushed me into the wall?"
Sam wet his lips and looked at Dean with narrowed eyes. "Yeah."
Dean laughed softly. "And you just... you were so different, you know? From even just a few months before. You were so determined. And you hated to see me so beaten down. I could see it in your eyes. You just wanted me to be okay, just like I wanted you to be okay. At that point, it wasn't even about Mom, Sam. It was about us."
Sam shifted slightly, his brows pushing together as he tried to puzzle out the meaning of Dean's little story. Dean had something left to say, something big, and Sam couldn't figure it out. All he felt was uncertainty, were his toes curling at the edge of a steep precipice, knowing he'd have to jump sooner or later. "Yeah?"
Dean nodded. "Yeah. And you know what I wanted to do? When you were all up in my space and almost crying because you couldn't handle the thought of me giving up?"
Sam's throat was dry, but his eyes weren't. "What?" he managed, and he was with Dean then, and he thought he understood him.
Dean leaned in closer, curled a lock of Sam's hair in his fist, and Sam could feel the pressure near his temple. "I wanted to kiss you, Sammy," he told Sam gravely.
Sam's heart stuttered in his chest. "What?"
Dean nodded, still looking stoic and serious, like a priest at the altar. Considering their position, that wasn't the most appropriate imagery, but Sam thought that it fit, somehow. Dean rested his forehead against Sam's, and they closed their eyes in sync, sharing the same breath. "You were just too damn beautiful to me. All I wanted to do was protect you, keep you safe. And somewhere along the way that turned into something else. I wanted to kiss the scrunch on your forehead, your nose, and your lips, and I thought oh god, but I didn't feel guilty. Not like you are right now. I was okay with it, and you should be, too."
"This whole time?" Sam whispered, and his throat was thick. He was moments away from losing it, he could tell, and the lust and need were mixing around with love and worship, and he couldn't discern the difference between the two. "You too?"
Dean pulled back just far enough to meet Sam's eyes. He nodded, smiling, his eyes crinkling in the corner and his full lips curling in the most adorable way. The curse was bursting through Sam with double the force, but he held it back like hellhounds on a flimsy leash. "This whole time," Dean repeated, stroking Sam's jaw.
Sam's face crumpled, and a tear streaked down the side of his face. "Then why--why didn't we do anything? Why don't we know each other like we used to?"
Dean's forehead creased as he frowned down at Sam. "What do you mean? I know you better than I know anyone, Sammy."
Sam shook his head roughly, his hair falling into his face and plastering against his forehead. He wiped at his eyes with the bases of his palms, trying to get his breaths in control, to stop the little hitch-sobs. "It feels like we aren't the same," Sam protested, "like pieces of us have died along the way. You don't--you don't touch me anymore. We used to just be able to look at each other and know what the other was thinking, you know? I mean, Dean, we don't even talk anymore, not really. You don't treat me like you did when we were looking for the demon. How is that close?"
Dean was quiet. His grip on Sam's hair loosened. "I didn't know that you were hurting."
Sam scoffed. "That kinda proves my point."
Dean sucked in a sharp breath, and Sam looked at him, surprised to see his eyes red and glassy. "Sam, I'm sorry."
Sam felt a stab of guilt pierce through him. He flashed a smile up at Dean, but it fell apart immediately. "It's okay."
Dean shook his head, gently tilting Sam's chin up with the hand not in Sam's hair. "No it’s fucking not."
They lapsed into a strange silence, each unable to tear their eyes from each other. That wordless communication Sam had spoken of, that he'd said was gone, seemed to come back as the minutes passed, and Sam was reading Dean's guilt, his anxiety, and his affection in the dark of his eyes. But most of all, he could see that Dean was scared. Terrified, actually, and even though it was against Dean's very nature to show it, Sam could see it anyway.
"So can we-" Sam's voice broke and he blushed, looking away from Dean's gaze. "Can we try to get better then? Can we talk?"
Dean patted him on the shoulder. "I think that's what we're doing right now, kiddo."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Then at least we keep up the habit. I want to know what you're feeling. We have to have movie nights again. Fight over the remote. And just... don't stay away." Sam smiled with trembling lips. "Don't leave me alone."
"I won't, Sammy," Dean vowed, his voice rough and a couple octaves lower than usual. "We can be--we can be normal again, it's just been awhile," he finished. He swallowed a couple times, blinking and letting his hands wander over Sam's collarbones, his neck, his jaw. Sam couldn't help but press up against Dean's curious fingers, each touch a spark of warmth that went straight to his heart and got his body all excited, too.
"Wanna know what I'm thinking right now, then?" Dean asked, feigning casual. Sam watched him check the clock and relax. It felt like they'd been here a thousand years, but Sam knew by Dean’s look that they still had time.
"I'm thinking that," Dean swallowed again, putting his hands flat on Sam's shoulders, "that I love you, got it?"
Sam was silent for a moment, his brain pausing to process the moment, to memorize it and save it. He broke out into a grin, his dimples springing to life. "Got it," he whispered, nodding, his hands reaching up to grab at Dean's back and curl in the material of his shirt. "I love you, too."
Dean nodded, his face carefully schooled, and he ran a shaking hand through his own hair before leaning down and cupping Sam's face, his lips meeting Sam's in a gentle kiss.
Sam let out a gasp against Dean's lips, his entire body flooding with heat, and Dean used the moment to get his lips between Sam's and suck on Sam's bottom lip oh-so carefully, like this was his first kiss, like he didn't want to break Sam. Sam moaned quietly and used his grip around Dean to push Dean closer to him, to kiss him more deeply, sloppier with the curse taking over and he needed Dean's mouth, needed his tongue.
Dean swore and his fingers tightened on Sam's jaw, enough to bruise. He lapped into Sam's mouth, and Sam could tell he was breaking out all the tricks, softly licking at the roof of Sam's mouth and nipping at his lips until they were red and swollen.
Sam closed his eyes, his entire body shaking with the pleasure that was amplified by the curse. He nudged Dean away with his nose, wheezing out a breathless laugh. "You have to stop," he gasped, "or I'm going to pounce on you."
Dean moved down to kiss at Sam's neck, and Sam could feel the vibrations of Dean's rumbled laughter on his skin. "Just gimme this," he asked good-naturedly, nosing at the curls of hair behind Sam's ear and breathing in deeply.
Sam stared uncomprehendingly up at the mold stain he’d decided looked like a pine tree, his skin tingling acutely where Dean's breath was ghosting against it, his cock straining in his pants, and he knew Dean could feel it. His chest moved up and down erratically and he closed his eyes, letting out a sob-sigh as Dean shifted experimentally, moving their dicks against one another.
His brain had pretty much come to a full-stop, unable to accept that the events of earlier this morning had led to this, that just a couple of hours ago he'd been civil-friendly with Dean, the constant ache of loss and want dulled down to a tolerable level. Just a couple of hours ago he'd mused that they'd grown so separate that his crush might fade altogether, and maybe he'd be able to truly love someone else in the way that he couldn't love Dean. Maybe he'd been fooling himself though--when he'd asked Dean about settling down a few weeks back in the Impala, about finding another hunter, someone who knows the life, he'd been thinking me me me me the entire time.
He remembered missing Dean, even though he was sitting right there in the driver’s seat, because even though the Mark was gone and they were fine in theory, things were still all screwed up.
And now here they were, and Sam was happy, of course he was, and he wanted to cry, but he was still hesitant to let himself have this after so many years, to believe that they could really fix themselves. It felt like each time they tried, something else forced them apart again, fractured the trust between them that had to be painstakingly fixed time and time again.
But maybe this time was different. Dean had cried a little, Dean was kissing him, Dean had apologized.
"Hey," Dean murmured, breathing into his mouth, his spiky hair brushing at Sam's forehead, "whatever you're thinking, stop it."
"Sorry," Sam apologized, realizing belatedly that he'd been getting soft and his lips had stopped responding to Dean's little encouraging bites and licks. Jesus, the more he thought about it, the more crazy it seemed.
Dean made a chiding noise in the back of his throat. "You're still lost in your head," he stated.
"Just... a lot of stuff all at once," Sam croaked, smiling up at his brother. "Kind of hard to deal."
"Well, you just need to lighten up," Dean told him decisively, nodding to himself. "We can talk more later, 'kay? But right now you need to get laid. Can't have you thinking deep, emotional, geek-boy thoughts right now."
Sam nodded back, biting his lip. "Then what do we do?" he asked, putting all his faith in Dean. It had never been anywhere else.
"Why Sammy," Dean said, exaggerating his tone to be overly-sexual and cheesy, "who do you think you're talking to? Mr. Dry Spell? Mr. Prude? Because I'm telling you, if you think those guys look anything like me, we're going to have a problem."
Sam barked out a laugh, covering his eyes with his forearm. "You're such a dork."
Dean gasped. "Seriously, dude, out of the two of us here, you're calling me a dork? Do you know how a mirror works?"
"Which one of us knows every single one of Han's lines from the entire Star Wars series?" Sam shot back, flipping Dean the bird.
"Ungrateful bastard," Dean muttered under his breath, and hopped off of Sam like a rider dismounting from the saddle. He ambled over to the kitchenette table, snagging his keys and making his way over to the door.
"Hey, where the hell are you going?" Sam yelled after him, his voice cracking like a pubescent teenager with his panic. "I sort of have a... problem." He palmed himself once, and demonstrated by twitching his legs that he was still bound to the bed by Dean's orders.
Dean turned back to face him and tsked at him. "Sammy, I know I once said I want to see you chugging viagra, but I was hoping it'd take a few more years before you got to that stage."
Sam flopped his head back down on the pillow, unable to fight the curse's orders. "You know, I would normally cuss you out for saying that, but I was actually thinking the same thing earlier."
Dean chuckled. "Stay put, and don't touch yourself," he barked, and Sam's hand shot away from his pants to his side. He groaned, shivering at the anguish of pretty much edging for hours on end. Dean's chuckle turned into a cackle, and Sam heard the motel door click open. "I'm just gonna go get some... supplies, and then I'll be back and we can have some fun, alright?"
"Alright," Sam parroted back quietly, the curse's dismay at Dean's absence making him weak and tired. The door clicked shut and Sam sighed, feeling simultaneously like he'd overslept and ran a marathon.
Without anything else to do, he listened to the muffled rumble of the Impala stirring to life outside. The headlights shone through the thin curtains, lighting up the room with a dull yellow color. As the car backed out of the spot and turned, the streams of light moved slowly across the ceiling. Red slowly bled into the room as the tailights replaced the headlights, and soon enough the room was back to the dim lighting of the bathroom and a small lamp, the Impala joining the distant sounds of traffic.
Unable to move or touch himself, Sam soon fell into a light sleep and was reawoken by the door opening and Dean striding in, arms full of bulging shopping bags. He kicked the door shut behind himself, distractedly humming an Aerosmith song. He tossed the keys on the table and kicked off his shoes, depositing the bag on the other table. "So I got you some stuff," he said, his back to Sam as he picked through the bags.
Sam yawned slowly, blinking owlishly as he shook himself into consciousness. It wasn't hard, though, as Dean moved over to him, brushing his hair out of his face and making Sam sigh and turn his head toward Dean's palm. Dean patted him on the shoulder. "Feel better?"
"Define better," Sam said, bucking his hips into empty air.
Dean laughed. "Well, your day is about to get a whole lot better, so don't worry."
Sam's anxiety dutifully bled away at Dean's accidental order, and well, Sam could get used to that kind of thing. He should have Dean order him to feel happy and safe for the rest of his life and see if it sticks. Dean went back to the bags and Sam craned his neck to watch him, to try to see the bags obscured by Dean's torso (and fantastic ass), curiosity winning out over any distractions of the curse. "What'd you get?" Sam asked, and glanced at the clock on the nightstand in his periphery. "You weren't gone long."
"As you remember, we're conveniently located near like, four sex shops," Dean answered without turning. "One of them is a sex costume shop, and I noticed a pretty interesting costume in the window when we first stopped in town. And don’t worry, you’re not gonna be Mrs. Claus. You’re too tall, anyway."
"...And?" Sam said, still trying to peer into the bags and see what Dean had bought. "Are we going to cosplay or something? Didn't you try to argue earlier that you aren't a geek?"
"Oh, shut up," Dean laughed, and turned around, a bundle in his arms. "I just, uh... I really wanted to see you in this."
Sam narrowed his eyes at the brownish-red lump in Dean's arms, suspicious of Dean's plans. "And what is 'this'?"
Dean smiled at him, but it was a little shaky, a little uncertain. "You have to wear it," he said cautiously, and Sam felt the order shoot to his brain, committing it to memory, and god damn it. The next moment, Dean held up the garment, shaking it so all the long, draping pieces would fall and display, and Sam totally should've expected this.
Dean was holding up a nicely-made copy of Princess Leia's metal bikini from Return of the Jedi, only it was large, and Sam could tell just from eyeing it and knowing Dean that it was exactly his size. He stared at it and all its little golden bits and pieces, a little grin of disbelief quirking his lips up. He met Dean's eyes, who was beaming like it was his birthday. "You have got to be kidding me."
Dean's smile grew impossibly wider. "Nuh-uh," he said, clicking his teeth and winking at Sam. "Time to live out one of my favorite fantasies."
Sam's eyes widened, his eyebrows shooting up. "You never got a girl to do this with you? You've been grossing me out with graphic stories about this for years, Dean."
Dean shrugged. "I didn't want to do it with just anyone," he said, "this has got to be special."
Sam blinked, affectionate warmth spilling into his belly. He risked a guess. "Were you saving it... for me?"
"Maybe without realizing it," Dean agreed, blushing and looking down at the costume in his hands. He cleared his throat. "This thing's been jerkoff material for me since I was thirteen." His eyes went distant and he nodded, biting his lip. "Good times."
"Dean, someday you're legitimately never going to be able to tell the difference between porn and reality," Sam warned, his hands itching to unbutton his shirt, but Dean hadn't given the order yet.
Dean scoffed. "Today, porn is reality."
Sam couldn't really argue that one.
"Well." Dean clapped his hands together. "Time to satisfy all my dreams and fantasies, huh? You can get up now. Put on the costume."
The invisible restraints anchoring Sam's body to the bed disappeared, and he drew in a deep, grateful breath and sat up, stretching out his arms and groaning. He couldn't enjoy it for long before his legs were levering him up to stand, and he took the costume from Dean, the metal cool in his hands and the fabric soft. He put it on the bed behind him and went to the top button on his flannel shirt, but Dean held out a hand, stopping him.
He had a mischievous grin on his face, his eyes dark and gleaming. "Strip for me. Slowly," he added, his slow, sensual smile sending tendrils of fanatical, teenage-girl-with-her-first-crush want all the way down to Sam's toes.
Sam wanted to roll his eyes and call Dean a name, but Dean was making his fucking knees weak and mouth uncooperative. Dean's gross, cheesy charm was really working on Sam right now, and he wanted to be embarrassed, but more than that, he wanted to be fucked into the mattress. So.
He reached for his button with more careful movements. He looked up at Dean once, unsure, biting his lip, and Dean nodded, so Sam undid the button, then went down to the next one, and the next, until his shirt was open, revealing his v-neck undershirt.
He slowly shrugged it off one shoulder, letting the material fall to his elbow. He did the same with the other side, and let the shirt fall to the floor.
"I can't believe I'm actually doing this," he muttered, probably holding the record for World's Longest-held Blush, and reached for the bottom of his shirt, pulling it up over his abs in painfully-slow slow motion. He shrugged it off of his arms and tossed it into the corner, sneaking a quick look at Dean's face and freezing up at what he found there.
Dean's pupils were blown, so big that hardly any bright green remained around them. His mouth was slightly open, and his hands were rubbing at his thighs, his face bright pink and his cock practically bulging out of his pants. He was the picture of arousal, of lust so strong it makes you lightheaded, and Sam had dreamed about putting that look on Dean's face since he was a gangly, socially-awkward teenager, jerking off in the shower twice a day to the thought of Dean's bruised knuckles. Now, there it was, the look he'd seen Dean give girls, except it was so much bigger, so much more intense, like all the times Dean had worn it in bars was just a sneak peek of the real thing.
The curse pushed at him, dominated him, and seeing Dean like that because of him, made him want to drop to his knees and take Dean into his mouth, to swallow down his musky taste, to feel the heavy weight of him there.
Wordless, and throbbing all over, Sam slipped his belt through the loops as slowly as he could, unable to tear his eyes from Dean's. Dean was apparently under the same spell, and Sam could hardly breathe as he dropped the belt to the ground and went to the button of his jeans.
"Wait," Dean murmured, stepping into Sam's space. His eyes never left Sam's, his hands going from Sam's chest to his hips to his waist and squeezing there. "Let me."
Sam obeyed, dropping his hands away. Dean unbuttoned his pants and pulled the zipper down, shrugging the jeans off of Sam's hips and pulling them down to his ankles. Sam kicked them off, stepping out of them in time for Dean's hands to rub at his hips briefly before palming his cock through his boxers.
Sam gasped, putting his hands on Dean's sides to anchor himself.
"Pretty wet for me," Dean said lowly, rubbing his thumb over Sam's cockhead through the soaked material.
"Dean... please..." Sam strung out, his voice high and strained, another blurt of precome leaking out of his dick.
Dean stepped back, nodding at Sam. "Alright, do the rest."
Sam's hands were trembling as he pushed his boxers off his hips. They fell to the ground and his cock sprung free, hanging heavily between his legs. Dean's eyes dropped down there and he bit his lip, swearing under his breath. They'd proved as overconfident teenagers that Sam was longer than Dean, and now Sam knew that Dean was seeing that that hadn't changed. Sam didn't need to be humble--he knew he was well endowed, and before, when he'd liked his own body more, he used to admire the slim, soft pinkness of his cock, the slight and wicked curve to it.
Clearing his throat, Sam shook himself out of his thoughts and took the bikini bottom-slash-skirt thing from the bed, stepping into it and letting the metal rest on his hips. It was a perfect fit, which kind of surprised Sam, considering how slim and feminine his hips were and how big the costume had looked. He grabbed the bikini top metal bra thing from the bed, unsure of how to put it on. There wasn't a clasp in the back, so he simply slipped his arms into it like a t-shirt and adjusted it on his chest so it didn't sit strangely. There were metal bracelets to wear, too, and after slipping those on, he let out a breath and held his arms out. "Well?" he asked, his voice shaking.
Dean was all predator, his eyes hungry and his movements slow and practiced, like a tiger's. He padded into Sam's space, running his hands up and down Sam's sides and causing him to shiver. Sam turned his neck to the side and closed his eyes, and, like Dean knew all the steps of some intimate dance, Dean pressed against him and nuzzled his nose briefly before sucking at his neck, his hands sliding over the curve of Sam's ass. Dean squeezed his cheeks and bit down on Sam's shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise. Sam pressed further against Dean, barely holding back a whine, trying to get any friction he could to his aching cock. Dean bit him in the neck, growling low in his throat.
He was lost in the sensations. He was overstimulated, oversensitive, and being overindulged by a big brother with a movie fetish. He let his head fall back, closing his eyes, his adam's apple bobbing. His cock twitched spasmodically and leaked through the soft skirt, which felt so fucking nice against his cockhead. He liked being owned by Dean, and the curse did too, so Dean's possessive hold on his ass was only amplifying everything.
He heard the clink of metal and the whoosh of fabric on fabric and then jolted at more friction rubbing against his dick. He looked down and saw Dean's boxers and jeans pooled around his feet, Dean's hips jerking roughly forward and bringing their dicks together to rub in the most heated, electric way, sending pulses of pleasure through Sam and making his eyes well up. The curse was beyond singing, it was a physical thing in his chest, reaching out to paw at Dean, to beg, and it was like his soul and his dick were possessed with love and arousal, respectively.
"Dean," he whimpered, biting at his lips and closing his eyes, breathing hard through his nose. He let out a quiet "oof" noise when Dean shoved him in the center of his chest, his ass falling back onto the bed, which squeaked and groaned. The skirt slipped off his leg to reveal his pale inner thighs. Dean reached forward and rubbed at them with his calloused palms and Sam became fairly certain tonight would be a really loud night. He hoped there wasn't a sleeping family in the room next to theirs.
Dean towered over him, his eyes roving over Sam's body, spending the most time flicking between his hard nipples and the steep tent of Sam's cock beneath the skirt, like he couldn't decide what he wanted to look at more. "Crawl back onto the bed," murmured, fingers tracing briefly at Sam's chin before squeezing at the base of his own thick, red dick.
Sam trusted his body to follow the order, so he let go of the reins and just stared at Dean's dick, his limbs robotically levering him backward and dropping him onto the mattress. He'd mastered the art of sneaking looks at Dean throughout their lives, whether it was an "accidental" walk-in on Dean masturbating, or taking a piss while Dean was in the shower, or pretending to act busy while Dean dressed beside him. God. It was so much more beautiful out in the open like this, right here for him to admire, and it held a promise, his asshole clenching at the thought of how this night would end.
Dean crawled over him at a lethargic pace, taking his time to situate himself above Sam once again. His dick bounced with his movements, and the pale cream of his thighs was enticing, and Sam wanted to run his fingers through his happy trail, and shit. He feared he might get brain damage because there definitely was not enough blood in his head, nor was he getting enough oxygen. Dean was sucking it away with his looks and his sexual presence, and now pretty literally taking Sam’s breath away with his lips.
They made out leisurely for awhile, just barely humping each other, their hips giving little jerks to let their cockheads rub against each other in the most delicious way. Sam hummed under Dean's lips, loving the quiet, warm arousal pushing throughout his body, satiating the curse. Dean reached down and brushed the skirt part of Sam's bikini aside and stroked Sam loosely a few times, rocking down to give their dicks friction.
Sam panted into Dean's mouth, his lips having trouble meeting Dean's, his body burning hot and beginning to sweat. "You're going to have to order me to do everything from now on," he whispered breathily, smiling and blushing up at Dean, "'cause I'm losing higher brain function here."
Dean chuckled. "Stroke me," he whispered back, his fingers curling around Sam's length, and Sam's hand did the same to him. "Hey, slow down. Do it just like I am," Dean instructed, slowly jerking Sam off, bunching the skin at the head before sliding back down to the base and repeating the process. Sam did as he was told, and Dean swore, lowering his hips so they could rub against each other as they moved.
For several minutes, Sam's hands copied Dean's movements perfectly, his hips stuttering in pleasure, their heavy breaths and cut-off moans the only noises in the room. Dean nosed at Sam's neck and Sam kept his eyes closed, his mouth falling open, the hand that wasn't stroking Dean running up and down the planes and slopes of Dean's back.
Dean's hand dropped off of Sam's cock and Sam was forced to do the same, a quiet cry of protest leaving his mouth at the loss of touch. He wanted to sob, his hips pushing up against Dean, craving sensation, but Dean was rising up on his hands and knees, denying it to Sam.
"What're you doing?" Sam slurred breathlessly, frowning up at Dean. He knew he was pouting by the look of amusement in Dean's eyes, but he couldn't help it, he honestly couldn't. He needed, he wanted, he craved. He'd dreamt of this for so long, and now it was happening, and Dean was so calm and perfect, and fuck, Sam had been celibate for a while but now he was going to be one constantly horny sonofabitch, he could already tell. Luckily for him, Dean was into that kind of thing.
Sam wasn't quite sure he would survive daily sex with his brother, but what better way to go out?
Dean kissed him lightly on the lips and patted him on the cheek. "The night's still young," he told Sam. "I could feel you tensing, didn't want this night to end just with a couple of handjobs, you know what I mean?"
The vivid image of Dean balls-deep inside of Sam flickered briefly through Sam's mind and he nodded, reaching down and pressing a finger against his hole, shivering. "Yeah."
"Woah, hey," Dean protested, circling his fingers around Sam's hand and pulling him away from his hole. "Don't touch yourself."
Sam grunted, his hand flopping limply to the bed. "I'm going to murder you," he whined, and god damn, what did it take for someone to get an orgasm around here?
"It's the curse," Dean said, "normal Sammy would totally be game for letting this last all night instead of it being a quick fuck. Normal Sammy likes foreplay and getting to know his partners."
Sam laughed. "I hate you, but I'm also flattered that you know that."
Dean waved a hand around dismissively. "Eh. We were already pretty gay before any of these shenanigans started."
Sam couldn't come up with a decent argument against that.
"Now," Dean said, getting into Sam's space but not kissing him, "answer me honestly, Sam. What do you want to do?"
"I want to suck you," Sam responded without a moment of hesitation, staring wide-eyed up at Dean and licking his lips. "Please."
Dean's eyebrows shot up into his hairline and he gawped at Sam for a second, processing. He shut his mouth and nodded a couple times, his hips pushing forward of their own volition. "Christ. Yeah. Yeah, okay. You can suck me."
Sam breathed out a rough sigh of relief, his eyes prickling with tears, feeling like he'd just been given a million dollars or a cup of cool water after struggling through hellish heat. "Thank you," he gasped as Dean rolled off of him and fell onto the bed by his side, "thank you."
"You really want this, don't you?" Dean asked, squeezing himself a few times and spreading his legs as Sam crawled over and settled on his haunches between them, the skirt pooling around him and the bracelets clinking as he moved.
Sam nodded like his head was going to fall off, his mouth flooding with saliva just at the thought of it. "For as long as I can remember, I've wanted this," he said, eyes glued to the shiny crown of Dean's length.
Dean propped himself on his elbows, quirking a lopsided, sensual smile down at Sam. "Well," he said, gesturing crudely, "go for it, little brother."
Sam nodded, his hand shaking as he held Dean's burning hot dick up, his heart fluttering around in his chest like a hummingbird on crack. He felt like an actor with stage fright thrust onto Broadway, and Dean was the critic.
Dean huffed impatiently. "There's no fucking way you could do this wrong. You've sucked a dick before, haven't you?"
"Yeah," Sam chirped back obediently before freezing. He snuck a look up at Dean, and saw Dean glaring back down at him. He looked away, flushing. Dean reached down and tugged on his hair, forcing eye contact.
"Wait," he ground out, a vein standing out on his temple, "you fucking have? You've fucked around with guys before?"
"More than girls," Sam replied, feeling resentment at the stupid curse get lodged in his throat.
Dean's eyes went dangerous, filled with the look he got before decapitating monsters or filling them with bullets. "Never again," he growled. "You gotta follow that order even when the curse has fucked off. No one else but me, you hear?"
Sam was embarrassed at how thoroughly he was leaking through his skirt at the tone Dean was using with him. He bobbed his head frantically, dick jumping between his legs, feeling pleased at how much Dean wanted him, how protective he was. Sam could tell Dean's jealousy would fuel a rougher fuck, and god, was he ready for that. "Yes, yes, yes," he chanted, looking at Dean with the most earnest puppydog eyes he could muster up, "only ever you."
Dean nodded, apparently satisfied, and waved Sam on, watching him with slightly more heat than he had before Sam's forced confession.
Apparently non verbal commands worked with the curse, because Sam readjusted his grip on Dean's cock, breathing through his nose as he let saliva get his mouth good and wet. He licked his lips and then shuffled backward, bending down until he was faced with Dean's cock, inhaling the sweaty, salty smell of it. The curse overcoming his performance anxiety, he leaned forward and licked a broad stripe up the underside, slowly going from Dean's balls to his slit.
Dean's entire body quaked, his thighs trembling, and Sam risked a look at Dean, who was looking back down at him like was the centerfold in his favorite vintage porn mag, only a thousand times more lustful.
Encouraged, Sam opened his mouth and smacked his bottom lip with Dean's dick, copying actions he'd liked in pornos he'd seen. He rubbed precome over his cheeks, closing his eyes, nuzzling Dean's cock like an affectionate kitty.
"Fuck," Dean spat out, his hips rising, causing his dick to bump over Sam's nose, leaving a sheen there.
Sam caught Dean's dick with his mouth, sucking on the head like a lollipop and hollowing out his cheeks to give Dean the most feeling. He wanted this to be perfect, and even if he'd thought the saying was gross before, he couldn't deny it: he was hungry for cock. More than that, he was starved, and here was Dean, served up just for him.
Wondering when he really did turn into a gay erotica novel for middle-aged women, he lowered his mouth slowly onto Dean's dick, recalling his little trick for deepthroating that he'd learned at Stanford. The school was well-known for its research school and law school, but the homoerotic frat parties really did deserve a mention. He closed his eyes so he could concentrate, relaxing his throat to accommodate for Dean's girth and length. He choked, the tip of Dean's cock brushing against the back of his throat, and he let up a little. Dean's dick was shiny from all of Sam's drool, and a bead of it dripped onto his balls.
Dean said something encouraging and ran a hand through Sam's hair, but Sam wasn't listening. He had always been a persistent perfectionist, too stubborn to ever give up, and this situation was definitely not an exception to the rule. He raised all the way off, and then tried again, slowly inching himself down on Dean, sucking and using his tongue all the way down. He felt Dean's pubic hair brush at his nose, and his lips touched where Dean's balls met his cock.
He looked up at Dean from under his eyelashes, staying poised with Dean stuffed down his throat, swiping his tongue slowly along the underside, teasing at veins where he knew sensitivity usually lay.
Dean looked back at him, his mouth a perfect "O" shape, his eyes crinkled up into mere slits, his throat and cheeks red as he panted openly. "S-Sammy..." he ground out, tossing his head back, his adam's apple dipping and rising in the irresistible column of his throat. He raised his head, and Sam watched his eyes look down at Sam's mouth, stretched so wide around him, and Dean moaned, low and dirty. "Keep moving, baby," he slurred, and Sam flushed with pleasure at the accidental pet name.
He obeyed immediately, starting with slow bobs, moving just barely, and then raising and dropping further distances. He upped his pace, listening distantly to the wet, sloppy noises he was making. He was practically slobbering over Dean's cock. He reached the tip and suckled on it. Dean's hips jerked and he reached up to hold them down, curling his fingers into Dean's hot skin. Dean's belly was convulsing, and his breath was ragged. His dick kept nudging against the roof of Sam's mouth, and Sam knew he was close.
He went even faster, his jaw aching something fierce, but he ignored it. He licked and used a tiny bit of teeth, going from the base of Dean's cock to the head (pressing his tongue into the slit and enjoying the desperate, high-pitched noise it produced from Dean) and back again. He concentrated on breathing through his nose, on tasting Dean and sucking him the best he could, when he felt a hand press at his face. The hand slapped him lightly, and he let up, pulling off slightly and quirking an eyebrow at Dean in a silent question.
"Don't... wanna come this way," Dean panted, and slapped Sam again. "Up. Off."
Sam slipped off, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and coughing. "Sorry."
Dean laughed. "Dear god, little brother, you have nothing to be sorry for."
Sam grinned, scratching the back of his neck and ducking his head. "It was okay?" He sat up between Dean's propped legs.
Dean slapped him again. "Don't be modest, you little shit."
It was Sam's turn to laugh.
"Anyway," Dean began, scooting backward until he was sitting against the backboard of the bed, "you liked bein' called baby, huh?"
Sam burned a bright pink, shuffling to sit next to Dean and press up against him to avoid eye contact.
Dean made a pleased noise low in his throat and slung an arm around Sam. "Well, baby, your skirt's ruined. Blowing me got you all nice and hot, didn't it? Why don't you take the skirt off."
Sam watched him out of the corner of his eye, rubbing at his jaw. "Is that an order?"
Dean nodded. "Ah. I forgot. Take your skirt off, baby."
Sam reached down and slid it off of his hips before letting it slip to the ground with a muted thump. His dick curved up against his belly, and Dean eyed it with a low, hungry look in his eyes. "This is the best Christmas Eve ever."
Sam opened his mouth to say something, but he forgot what it was the moment Dean leaned over him and kissed him, dirty, no pretense. His hands rubbed at Sam's sides before slowly dancing up to his nipples, first lightly brushing them and then pinching them. Sam's breath stuttered against Dean's lips and he sucked on Dean's tongue, his favorite treat besides Dean Jr., keeping his mouth open and pliant as Dean lapped into it.
After Sam's lips were swollen and almost numb, Dean pulled away, a thin string of saliva still connecting their lips. Dean patted him on the hip, his eyes flicking between Sam's, the low light accentuating the planes of Dean's face with shadow. God, he was so beautiful. Sam watched Dean's freckles as Dean began to speak.
"Get up and take off the bikini top, 'kay? In the other bag are a bunch of panties. Choose your favorite and put 'em on. Dean gave his hip another push. Go on."
Sam crawled over Dean and hopped off the bed, crossing the little gap between beds to paw through the other plastic bag. It was filled with a myriad of colors--soft blue, blood red, black, white, and cheetah print.
Sam pulled out the cheetah print thong with pink lace around the waistband. "Seriously?"
Dean shrugged. "Hey, I'm sure that would look fantastic on your ass. Speaking of, how is your ass so round? Are you an alien? Usually guys are cursed to flat, weird asses, but I didn't even need to be into you to see that you have a perfect ass."
Sam smiled, turning his back to Dean and bending over slightly as he held up each pair to inspect it. At the bottom of the bag, he found a tiny pair of baby pink panties, semi-transparent and covered in little lacy, frilly designs. There was a wiggly stripe of white at the top, and, at the center, a little pink bow. Sam curled them in his fist, his heart beating wildly at the thrill of dressing up for Dean. He couldn't wait to find out the rest of Dean's kinks. There was another bag left on the bed, and Sam wanted to open it so damn badly. He and the curse both wanted to get out all the toys and good things that Sam hoped were in the bag.
He turned around, easily hiding the panties in his fist. "Can I put these on in the bathroom and then come out?"
Dean smiled, catlike and slow. "Go ahead."
Sam walked over to the bathroom on wobbly, coltish legs, his cock bouncing obscenely with each step. He slipped into the tiny room, the tiles cool on his bare feet, and shut the door. He leaned against it, taking a breather, fighting against the curse, which cried out for Dean. He took off the bikini top and let it drop to the floor. He smoothened out the pink panties and stared at them for a moment, at the place in the front that would hold his cock. There was no way he was ever parting with these. Hell, Dean had bought enough pairs to last a week, and they usually did the laundry on weekends. Maybe he'd never have to go back to boxers. Except the cheetah thong looked uncomfortable, and having scratchy fabric riding up his ass while chasing after a vampire did not seem like the most practical idea...
"Sam!" Dean barked, the bed squeaking. "Any day, now."
"M'almost done," Sam called back, and stepped into the panties, pulling them up and letting the elastic snap against his hips as he let go of them. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror and his entire face burned. His dick was clearly visible through the soft pink, the bulge hanging low between his legs. The material was so soft. He turned around, and checked out his butt, too. The material clung tightly to it, accentuating the roundness of it. Holy shit. This was going make Dean go crazy.
Sam pushed open the door and stepped back into the room like a startled, wary puppy, coming to a stop a few feet from the bed. He stayed there, aware that at this moment he existed just for Dean's eyes, for Dean's pleasure. He was Dean's, period. Dean was stroking himself rapidly, tugging and squeezing roughly, his eyes glued to Sam's penis, and Sam felt himself leak a little into the soft material.
"I'm gonna push them aside and fuck you 'til you can't walk straight," Dean growled, his voice ragged and sultry. "Gonna make you cry, babe. Gonna milk you for all you got."
Sam whimpered, his thighs trembling. "Please," he begged, "please, Dean."
Dean jerked his head to the other bed. "There's a surprise in the other bag, and toss me the lube, too," he said. "Go."
Sam didn't need to be told twice. He tripped over his own legs in his haste, tearing open the bag and reaching over to the nightstand and tossing the condom and the lube behind him. He heard Dean catch them and turned his attention back to the bag, pulling out the small object lying at the bottom.
It was a collar.
A pink, leather collar, with a metal heart in the front that said "mine".
He turned back to Dean, the collar in his sweaty hands. "Can I?" he asked, his voice wavering.
Sam unclasped it and put it up to his throat, fumbling with the clasp at the back of his neck, his hair catching in the metal.
"Here." The bed squeaked as Dean got up. "Let me."
Dean pressed up against Sam's back, his hard cock nudging against Sam's ass cheeks. He gently lifted Sam's hair away from the collar and clasped it together, letting Sam's hair fall back to his shoulders. He moved closer, wrapping his arms around Sam and pressing them flush back-to-front. He reached down and rubbed at Sam's dick through the thin material of his panties. "Feel beautiful for me, Sammy?"
Sam let out a shuddering breath, leaning back into Dean's touch and wishing Dean was inside him now. Now now now. "Yes," he whispered, leaning his head back as Dean sucked another bruise into the spot where his neck met his shoulder.
"Mmm," Dean murmured against his skin, a noise of contentment. He pulled back and unwrapped himself from Sam. "On the bed, hands and knees," he said, his mouth right against Sam's ear, his breath hot on Sam's skin.
Sam turned and crawled onto the bed, settling in the center on his hands and knees, just like Dean said. His hanging dick stretched the material of the panties, pressing the soft satin right against his hole. The collar was tight around his throat, and Sam had never been more aroused in his life. He checked the clock and saw they had less than an hour left.
"Dean," he choked out, suddenly faint, the curse flooding over him and stealing away his breath and his control. He sobbed once. "Dean, you need to."
The bed dipped, and a hand caressed his back in a soothing, comforting gesture, alleviating some of the curse's hold on him. He sighed in relief, dropping his head.
"I'm gonna," Dean said in a voice he usually used to calm Sam down after a nightmare. "Don't you worry."
Sam heard the foil rip on the condom, and then the barely-there noise of Dean rolling it onto his dick. He heard the cap of the lube bottle pop open, and then the wet noise of it being spread onto fingers and a heavy dick.
Oh god. Sam's heart missed a few beats, and suddenly he felt more conscious than he had since he'd been cursed, more lucid, and this was actually fucking happening. He was all dressed up in pink, belatedly realizing Dean must've known which panties he'd choose because of the matching collar, and god, didn't that just sum them up well? Dean knew his little brother so well that he knew which panties he'd choose. And in just a few moments, Dean would be inside him, would be opening him up, and they'd have sex. Dean wanted to. Dean felt it. They were in San Francisco on Christmas Eve and were about to have gay sex because of a horny witch's spell.
Sam started at the cold feeling of Dean's hands sliding up and down his ass. Dean slapped him there, and Sam bucked into the touch, despite all of his worries. The tip of Dean's finger circled Sam's hole through his panties, and Sam held himself still, fighting against the curse.
"You sure?" Sam asked, because he was pretty fucking sure this was the biggest point of no return of all fucking time.
Dean must've heard something in his voice, because he took his hand away and started drawing circles on Sam's back again. "You think I wouldn't be?" he asked, fingers bumping over his shoulder blades. "Are you asking for consent?"
A thousand unwanted, dirty, scary, horrible memories welled up to the surface, but Sam knew how to make them disappear. He thought of Dean behind him and his vision grew blurry, and wasn't this just the best time to get emotional?
"Yeah," he finally managed, turning his neck to share a look with his brother. "Yeah, I am."
"Sam," Dean said, clear and steady. "Sam, I'm gonna do this with you, 'cause you're cursed and 'cause I want to. And we already promised to talk all this over tomorrow, and I'm not gonna leave you. You good?"
Sam smiled, his eyes shining, and he shifted on the bed, taking a breath. "Yeah," he said in a whoosh, "yeah, I'm good."
Dean hummed. "Good."
The finger was back, pressing lightly at his pucker, but not pressing in. The rest of Dean's fingers held the panties away from Sam's hole. Dean played coy for awhile with barely-there touches, and then his finger disappeared altogether. Sam was about to complain, but he heard the snick of the lube bottle again and understood. The next thing he felt was the first knuckle of Dean's finger pressing in, moving slowly in and out, and Sam grimaced. If even this burned, would he ever be able to take Dean?
As always, Dean read him better than any book. His other hand held him by the hip, his thumb rubbing slowly back and forth. "Just relax for me," he said quietly.
Sam tried his best, and well, with the curse thing, it wasn't that hard. Dean pressed his finger in further, pausing for a moment to add more lube. Sam was positive that at this point he must be wet with it, like a girl. Dean probably got some on the panties, so when he finally takes them off they'll look like someone really did get wet in them.
Sam was all loose and pliant and worry-free when Dean finally got his finger completely wrapped in Sam's heat, and Sam could feel his muscles rippling around it, adjusting to the intrusion. Even as the burn persisted, it was a pleasant feeling. He and the curse liked being filled up.
"Another?" Dean asked.
Sam nodded. "Yeah."
Dean applied more lube and pressed the first knuckle of another finger in. It wasn't long before he was slowly but surely working Sam open, scissoring him with two fingers. Sam sighed and let out a quiet moan, slowly rocking his hips back onto Dean's thick fingers. Everything about Dean was so amazingly thick. He smiled lazily, twitching his hips so the tips of Dean's fingers brushed at his prostate. He shivered helplessly at the electric feeling that spiked through him, and another moan fell out of his lips. "'Nother finger," he managed, his fingers curling in the sheets.
This time, Dean obeyed him, working through the same process with the third finger. Sam could almost fit all three when a thought struck him. "Have you done this before?" he asked, listening to the wet noise of Dean pressing in and out of him.
"Only with girls," Dean replied, sounding distracted. He moved his fingers faster, curling them up, and they scratched at Sam's nub with each movement.
"Oh!" he cried out, his eyes rolling up, toes curling. He pushed back onto Dean's fingers, wiggling his ass. "That was good."
Dean hummed again, rubbing at Sam's prostate. Sam's dick twitched in his panties, and he reached down to thumb at his head, peeking out of the elastic band.
Dean made a noise of dissent. "No touching," he murmured, and Sam groaned with pleasure and dismay, his hand dropping away.
Sam huffed with impatience at Dean's careful ministrations. He could easily fit three fingers now, his hole fluttering around Dean's hand, and he knew it was time. "Dean," he barked, fucking himself back onto Dean's fingers with more urgency, "Dean, I can take it."
Dean's fingers hesitated for the briefest moment because continuing up their rhythm. "In just a bit, Sammy, hold on."
He fingered Sam for a moment longer, pressing Sam's prostate with every other stroke. He maintained a low, even level of pleasure, and Sam's hips slowly rotated, his body humming at the pulsing feeling Dean was giving him.
Finally, fucking finally, Dean pulled his fingers out, and Sam sighed, imagining confetti and dick-shaped balloons raining down from the ceiling. His hole was open and waiting, shiny and dripping with lube. "No time to waste," he said, his voice thin, and god, if Dean didn't put his dick inside him right now, Sam was going to spontaneously combust.
He almost cried when he felt the blunt head of Dean's cock nudge at his entrance, and refrained from rearing back and pushing it in with his own movements. Dean's hand left his hip to keep the panties pulled aside, and Sam looked up and found he could see their reflections in the painting hanging above the bed. He watched Dean's forearm move, and Dean was most likely lining up his dick with Sam's hole. Dean pushed in, and shit, this was a lot bigger than three fingers, and it burned again. Dean's order still held, though, and Sam's muscles relaxed to hold Dean, his rings of muscle pushing Dean even further in.
Dean grunted and started shallowly thrusting, only the head and a little of his shaft actually inside of Sam.
Sam whined, closing his eyes and slurping up some drool that was about to fall onto the pillow. "More, Dean, please, you don't--I need more."
Dean made a noise of acknowledgement, apparently incapable of stringing a sentence together at the moment. He pushed deeper in, and Sam gasped as he roughly slid all the way home, seating himself fully inside Sam.
They paused there, panting raggedly in time with one another. Sam had never felt this full in his fucking life. His ass was adjusting to the feeling, and even without movement, it was so good, so perfect, and he never ever wanted Dean to be anywhere but inside of him. Nope. From now on, they had to live life attached at the ass, because this was something Sam wasn't willing to give up.
Okay, maybe that was the curse talking, but still. Dean's dick had magical properties.
Dean slowly pushed in and pulled out, the hand holding the panties away flexing against Sam's ass. He sped up a little and groaned like a dying man. Sam watched Dean drop his head in the mirror, watched his hips swivel and move.
Dean pulled out without warning and Sam was devastatingly, life-endingly empty, and his eyes welled up as he sobbed, his ass pushing backward into open air. "What are you...? What? What?" he babbled, trembling minutely.
"Just gotta..." Dean growled, he tugged roughly at Sam's panties, dragging them down to his thighs, and Sam understood. He didn't want Dean to rip them, so he put his legs closer together and tugged them down himself, shrugging them past his knees and throwing them off the bed. He slipped the collar off and threw it away, too. He got back into position, spreading his legs wide, his cock hanging low and almost brushing at the sheets.
Dean was back immediately, sliding balls-deep so quickly it hurt, but Sam didn't care. Dean's fingers curled in the soft fat of Sam's hips hard enough to draw blood and he let loose, pumping into Sam with a vigor that would put any pornstar to shame.
They'd used too much lube, so each movement made a wet squelching noise, and Dean's hips slapped against Sam's ass and his balls slapped against his rim. The bed was screaming, too, and it was so close to midnight that Sam couldn't hear, the world dull and fuzzed-out by the curse’s influence, but he could feel his throat vibrating and knew he must be screaming or panting or moaning or something. It was most likely a scream-moan sound, he decided, and he shut his eyes and submerged himself in the moment until all he could feel was his ass and Dean pounding inside of him.
Distantly, he heard Dean slurring some dirty talk, spitting out "baby" and "babe" and "Sammy" at an impressively fast rate. Sam was boiled down to just his hole and his prostate, and Dean adjusted his angle and just like that he was hitting it with every single stroke, and Sam screamed.
There was a knock on the wall but neither of them cared. Dean let out a low sob, his hips thrusting erratically into Sam's asshole of their own volition. Sam was beyond full, and his entire body was lit up with the crazy pleasure from his prostate, and he'd been fucked before but it was nothing compared to this. Sam considered himself a pretty rational person, and not very sexual. Sure, it was fun and felt amazing and let some steam off, but he wasn't like Dean, didn't need it.
This was. This was the single most amazing, indescribable feeling in the world. Sam was openly sobbing and pushing mindlessly back into Dean, and Dean was raking his fingers down Sam's back and chanting "mine" over and over again, and their bodies knew intrinsically how to move together, how to get the best sensation, the best angle, and it was too fucking soon but Sam was coming apart, was coming all over himself harder than he ever had in his life, come splattering against his chin. He managed to raise his head and watch Dean grunt and slam into Sam one last time, hard enough to make Sam fall face-first into the pillow. Dean lost his rhythm as he came, turning "Sammy" into a prayer, into the most wrecked, loving noise, his dick pulsing inside Sam as he filled the condom up with come.
It took them over a minute to find their way back to themselves.
Sam lifted his head to check the clock, his muscles still moving around Dean's softening cock: 11:54. Jesus. He never felt the curse bleed away, but he knew it was gone. The weird, smothering ache inside himself was gone, and he breathed in and out, too wiped out to string together a single thought.
After a moment, Dean pulled out slowly, and they sighed in sync at the loss. Sam heard Dean peel the condom off and toss it into the trashcan. Dean crawled up the bed, and all it took was a tiny touch at the small of Sam's back to make Sam collapse, falling onto Dean's chest.
Dean chuckled and brought his arm up around Sam, rubbing away any tension left in his body. Sam purred like a kitten and shifted into a comfortable position, slinging his leg over Dean's and pressing his nose against Dean's ear and breathing in the homey smell of him. Dean's grip around his waist tightened. They lay there in a mess of drying come and limbs, breathing slowly. The warmth of Dean's skin and Dean's touch and the fact Sam had just literally been fucked within an inch of his life were making Sam's eyes droop. He yawned against Dean's skin.
"You gonna sleep?" Dean asked quietly.
Sam planted a tiny kiss against Dean's collarbone. He dropped his head back down on Dean's shoulder. "If that's okay."
"Yeah," Dean murmured. "Merry Christmas, bitch."
Sam's lips curled up in the trace of a smile as he drifted off. "Merry Christmas, jerk," he mumbled before drifting away into a black, peaceful sleep.
Sam woke to a cold, empty bed. He sat up, stretching, listening to his back pop. He sighed and scratched at the itchy, dried come on his chest, waking up with a faster rush as the memories flooded back to him. He looked around the room, but it was empty. The bathroom door was open and the light was off. He looked out the window, but the whole world was obscured by a strong, early-morning fog, curling around the city from the bay and plunging everything into a deceptive silence.
Sam hopped out of bed, his ass throbbing lightly as he tried to stay calm and rational. "Dean?" he asked, even though he knew it was no use.
He picked up his phone from the kitchenette table. No texts or calls. He ran a hand through his hair, freezing when he noticed the keys to the Impala were gone. He swallowed thickly.
C'mon, you idiot, he chastised himself. Dean's probably just grabbing breakfast. He promised he would talk. He wouldn't just leave with the Impala. He wouldn't leave Sam like that. He promised not to.
He really needed a shower.
The warm spray helped wake him up some more, and loosened up his bones. His heart slowed down to a manageable rate, and he was more confident now that Dean hadn't left him.
Of course, that wasn't saying much.
He stepped out of the shower and into his clothes. He pushed open the bathroom door to the sight of Dean, arms full of cups of coffee and a donut box. They were both silent and still, staring at each other, and Sam blinked, breaking the moment, and stepped forward.
Dean held up a cup of coffee. "Got you some joe," he said, setting down his bounty on the table.
Sam loped over, staring at Dean's fingers as he flipped open the lid to the donut box, his ass flexing a little as he remembered where those fingers had been just a couple hours ago.
"I freaked out a bit," he confessed, sitting down. "I saw that you were gone and thought you might've flipped and left."
Dean's lips curled up in a warm smile, which Sam wasn't expecting. "When I came home to an empty room I thought the same thing. Soon as heard the shower running, though, I knew I was an idiot."
"Soon as I saw the keys were gone, I knew I was one too." Sam grinned, stealing a glazed donut out from under Dean's fingers.
"Isn't that what I said just last night?" Dean asked, taking a deep gulp from his drink. "We're idiot brothers."
Sam laughed. "So... we're good?"
Dean scoffed, rolling his eyes. He stood, bending over the table to plant a sugary-sweet kiss on Sam's waiting lips. Sam's eyes fluttered closed and he kissed back, leaning forward to close the space between them. It was over too soon, and Dean was flopping back down in his chair. He hooked a foot around Sam's ankle under the table, and Sam slipped free, kicking him in the shin in retaliation.
"Yeah," Dean said after a moment, looking at Sam like the rest of the world wasn’t worth glancing at, even for a second, "we're good, Sammy."
All it took were those four words to make Sam relax, slumping back in his chair and devouring another donut. He traded mindless banter with Dean, waging a foot war all the while. He smiled more over breakfast than he had in the past entire year, and he trusted in Dean, believed him. Things might start out weird and rocky, but they were good. They would be okay.
And that was all Sam needed to smile over at Dean and get one of similar wattage in return, no words necessary.
They were okay.