Sam/Dean. NC-17. ~5500 words. Sex pollen and minor breathplay.
“Why the hell do they keep burying these whackjobs out in the middle of freakin’ nowhere?”
“Sam, I swear to god, you ask me if I’m okay one more time and I’m gonna kick your ass.”
Sam lets out a pissy huff but turns his attention back to the road where it belongs. Dark and winding, caked mud rutted with potholes, it’s more like a trail. Just the idea of what those long, skeletal branches are doing to the Impala’s paintjob gives Dean the shivers; every time one banshees over polished metal he winces, scrubs a hand over his sweating face.
Dean’s a city boy. Maybe not a big city boy, but he’ll take asphalt and steel over the great outdoors any day. The sweet, seductive smell of hot wings, old wood worn down to a sheen by the endless exchange of cash for a cold one, the warmth of a girl’s willing body, her sweat sharp on his tongue.
“Dude, seriously,” Sam says.
Irritated, Dean snaps, “What?” and licks the salt from his upper lip.
“Would you quit fidgeting? We’re almost back to the highway.”
“Why the hell do they keep burying these whackjobs out in the middle of freakin’ nowhere?” Dean grumbles.
“To piss you off so you can piss me off with your complaints.”
Dean sinks lower in the seat, the rub of leather on leather familiar, comforting. He hangs one arm out the window, willing the still, silent air to move at least half an inch, give him a sliver of hope for a cool breeze. It’s barely past eight, the sun just vanishing beneath the horizon when the moon made its appearance, pale, bright and full.
“Open your window, would ya, Sammy?”
Loathe to lose the layers between his skin and some freaky ghost’s anger management issues, Dean stubbornly sits and boils in his jacket for another five minutes before giving in. He yanks his arms out of the sleeves and balls it up with a couple annoyed slaps. The smell of smoke puffs up into his face, leftover from the job. He tosses it into the backseat with a warning glance at Sam, then settles back to bask in the relief.
Which is short-lived. Half a heartbeat later, he’s sitting up again, contorting himself around the seat to paw at the handle for the back window, winding it down with jerky anger, spitting curses under his breath.
“Dean, man, it’s not that bad.”
Dean’s gaze skips over, takes in Sam’s barely-rumpled appearance, his clear eyes and his California tan still going strong. The hair at the back of Dean’s neck is damp from the heat, his clothes stuck to him like a second skin, his vision a little blurry, taking a few seconds to resolve into crisp lines in the twilight.
“You’re a freak,” Dean mutters.
Sam’s smile is lopsided. “Yeah, so you keep telling me. But I don’t think-”
“Just- Drive, Sam.”
The car crawls over the rolling, grass-speckled knolls that make up the road. Dean watches the last of the sunset give way to the cool moonlight, praying to something he doesn’t believe in that the molasses-thick heat will dissipate. He’s not surprised when the air seems to grow heavier, oppressive, bearing down on him until the breath in his lungs is gooey, clinging to his insides like lumpy roadside oatmeal.
Unthinking, Dean fumbles open the door, spills himself, gasping, out into the open. Immediately, his ears are filled with the buzz of night insects, the machinegun thump-thump-thump of his own heart. The ground shakes, tilts sideways, and he goes down, caught halfway to his knees by Sam’s arm like a band of iron around his waist.
“Christ, what the hell is wrong with you, I knew you weren’t-” Sam’s voice fades, radio static cutting straight through his words but his mouth still moving, lips soft, flushed, shining wet from the swipe of his tongue.
“-any idiot getting their hands on a spellbook, god, Dean?”
“I’m fine,” Dean says, even though he isn’t and he can hear it in the rough, sandpaper-rasp of his own voice as plain as Sam does.
“Back in the car,” Sam says, heaving Dean to his feet.
Dean focuses on the spill of yellow light on the dirt. He’s glad the Impala’s old enough that there’s no constant ding-ding warning him that the door’s ajar. It’d get on his nerves and they already feel rubbed raw, exposed.
“I don’t think I wanna get back in the car, Sammy.”
Startled, Sam looks at him. Dean can see him take it all in–Dean’s flushed, sweat-damp skin, the way he stands awkwardly in his clothes, the hard kick of his heart against his ribs, the slight tremble in his limbs he can’t quite control. Sam catalogues it all with a swift hunter’s instincts and the deadly, bullet-point logic learned at Stanford and comes up with the same conclusion Dean’s been reassuring himself couldn’t possibly be for the last two hours.
“Bitch booby-trapped her own grave,” Dean says. “Left behind a nice, stinking pile of shit for me to step in.”
Soft and firm, like he’s talking to a crazy person, Sam says, “You have to get in the car.”
Dean nods in whole-hearted agreement, but his body’s not listening. He’s rooted to the spot, leaning heavily against Sam’s solid weight. Thankfully, Sam doesn’t try to push him away, doesn’t bolt like the half a dozen dead men that have come before. Dean can feel the undercurrent of tension in him like Sam’s a river and all Dean needs to do is let himself sink into it, let it drag him down and sweep him away.
“Holy shit,” Dean whispers, under his breath barely loud enough for Sam to hear. “Gettin’ worse.”
“Okay,” Sam says. His eyes dart from left to right, his bottom lip caught between his teeth to worry it as he thinks. “Okay. What do we know? Think about what we know.”
“Crowley fanatic,” Dean says, tracking the bob of Sam’s throat as he swallows. “Ritualistic sex magic. A lot kinky and I probably would’ve liked her if she didn’t freak out her boyfriends before she offed ‘em. And if she wasn’t fucking nuts.”
“Not what I meant.” Sam tips his head back, looks up at the cloudless sky as if the answers are written in the twinkle of the stars. He starts talking and Dean listens, but only to the cadence of his voice, feeling the low rumble of words though his palms spread wide on Sam’s chest.
He doesn’t remember putting them there, doesn’t remember unzipping Sam’s hoodie to get to the thin cotton shirt beneath or the urge to do it or even why he shouldn’t have in the first place.
“Not good, not good,” Dean says, more because it’s the prescribed response Sam expects than any real conviction on his part. Sam still doesn’t push away, one arm now looped protectively around Dean’s shoulders as he shuffles towards the car. The back door opens with a protesting creak and for a moment, Dean tastes panic on the back of his tongue–they have to be in the light of the moon for this or it won’t work, it’ll be a waste of all the lust crawling into the marrow of his bones, rich as his blood. Replacing it, flowing through his veins with more life than he’s ever felt before.
“I’m not leaving you,” Sam says, from too far away.
Dean reorients on the sound of his voice, grey edges of his vision filling in, resolving into the sharp, shadowed angles of Sam’s face. He leans in, breathes deep, smells the smoke and leather clinging to his own skin melting into the unnatural clean of detergent, the chemical stink of aftershave. He presses his face to the crook of Sam’s neck and breathes deeper, desperate for the smell of his brother beneath the pall of civilisation.
Sam’s voice again, tighter, anxious, on sound of his name.
“Not enough,” Dean says. He tugs at Sam’s clothes, paws through layers and layers to get at the bare skin beneath, relishing the jolt of pure sensation that rockets through him when he finds it. He sways on his feet, hands pressed to the soft-skin firm-muscle of Sam’s sides, fingers creeping down until it hits him: “Yes.”
Vise-like grips close about his wrists. A sound somewhere between a whimper and a snarl caught in his throat, he looks up, meets an icy-hard resolve in Sam’s eyes that drives him instantly insane.
“No,” Sam says. “No, it could kill you. No way, Dean. Lemme get the journal. There’s gotta be-”
“Could kill me not to.” There’s a part of him that regrets the flash of fury and fear in Sam’s eyes, and a stronger part, one shouting down all the others, that covets it.
“It’s wrong. You don’t want this.”
Sam’s mostly right. It is wrong, but that’s the point. That’s where the power is. Maybe tomorrow, when the magic’s old, Dean won’t want it. Maybe he’ll hate himself, and Sam’ll hate him, and-
Cold dread floods his system. Violent shivers wrack his body, his mouth wide open but no air reaching his lungs. He clutches at the waistband of Sam’s jeans, feels his legs go to water and again, the only thing keeping him up is Sam, always Sam, elbows hooked roughly under his armpits.
“You won’t hate me, will you, Sammy?”
Sam jerks like he’s been slapped. “What?”
“If I go down on you, you won’t hate me.” With the return of the heat comes the confidence, with the confidence, more heat. It cycles through him like an ouroboros, feeding on itself for eternity. He could spend forever existing on nothing but Sam. “If I’m on my knees for you, you won’t hate me. You’ll let me suck your dick and love me for it.”
Sam goes ashen. “Dean-”
“You will,” Dean hisses. The force of it surprises him, takes him aback, knocks him off track for long enough that he loses the ground he’s gained. He’s pressed tightly to Sam, not enough space for a spare thought between the long line of their bodies, and it’s as if it doesn’t really register until he can feel the heaviness of his own erection ground against Sam’s hip.
“Running out of choices,” Dean gasps. “Think fast, Sammy.”
Sam looks dazed, confused. Dean supposes he would be too, if Sam were oscillating between almost rational and a hormone-crazed pervert every five minutes.
And it would’ve been Sam ready to burst out of his own skin if Dean hadn’t broke ground first. He knew it when the electric twang shot up though the shovel into his arms, his chest, coiled sparking and spitting around his heart. It faded fast and Dean thought–hoped–that without its human anchor, the spell would be worthless.
But before all that, hours before, he’d already made the decision that he’d be the one to desecrate Molly Brown’s grave. He takes point, that’s the way it is. Can’t tell Sam that, because Sam just doesn’t get it. Easier to do it and apologise later if he’s got to.
He just might need to make it a really good one this time.
“You’re gonna let me,” Dean says. He tastes salt on his lips. Sam freezes, indecision and uncertainty loosening his grip, and Dean sinks to the ground, the drag of his body against Sam’s lighting his nerves on fire.
Sam’s groin is right in front of his face. He shoves Sam’s hoodie out of the way and presses his mouth, open and hot, against the slight rise under the zipper of Sam’s old, worn-soft jeans. Sam makes a choked noise and Dean tilts his head, mouths along the swell of flesh he can feel against his lips. He imagines the dizzying, thick rush of blood, what the heaviness of Sam’s cock will feel like in his hands, his mouth.
Sam’s hand comes down, grips his hair, and a moan is rattling Dean’s lungs before Sam can speak. Whatever he was going to say is stopped, forgotten as Dean drags his tongue over the front of Sam’s jeans, pushes his face close and breathes, just breathes.
“Fuck, you smell good. Knew you would.” Dean’s hand shakes as he reaches for Sam’s zip, an eagerness stronger than he’s felt in a long time making him clumsy, and he’s turned on enough to enjoy it.
Sam’s says, “Stop,” but it comes out more like a question than a demand. Questions, Dean can ignore.
“Don’t want to.” Dean pushes Sam’s jeans aside, nudges them down a little so he can bring his mouth to the front of Sam’s boxers, find the head of Sam’s cock and suck it through the thin cotton. Sam’s hips jerk and he pulls away, burns a wet path down the full length of it and back up again. By the time he’s done, he barely has the taste of Sam on his tongue and Sam’s already panting heavily for breath, face gone slack, eyes dark.
Dean knows he wants more.
“Still looking for another way, Sammy?” Wicked echoes in Dean’s head in a voice he doesn’t recognise as his own. Sinful: tainted with, marked by, full of sin. This is what he feels like and he could drown in it, if he weren’t already downing in Sam. “I don’t think you really wanna find one.”
“Did you know?”
Dean hesitates, noses under Sam’s hoodie to find the flat planes of his stomach and speaks to those, voice muffled. “Know what?”
“Did you know, Dean?”
“That I’m batting for the other team?” Dean inches Sam’s boxers down, eyes caught on the dark trail of hair riding low on Sam’s belly. It’s the fucking sexiest thing he’s ever seen. “‘Cause I’m not, really.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Sometimes,” Dean says, and he knows he needs to keep talking, needs to keep Sam focused on what’s important here, on this moment that’s stretched between them when everything, everything, is clear as purest crystal. “Sometimes, they’re not enough. Oh, fuck, I love ‘em, soft and small and wet, so fucking wet, but sometimes-” Dean tugs Sam’s clothes down a little further, the sharp jut of his hipbones revealed, the waistband barely clinging to his thighs “-there’s this itch I just, I just gotta scratch.”
Sam’s dick jerks and their lungs hitch at the same time. Warm precome soaks into his boxers and Dean presses his cheek to it, closes his eyes and tracks the throb of blood like a second heartbeat. He doesn’t bother to open them again, instead imagining the look on Sam’s face when he says, “You totally almost lost it just then, didn’t you?”
Something in the air shifts. A breeze, lightly caressing, rises. It rustles the leaves, cools the prickle of sweat on Dean’s skin. Sam notices it, too. Dean can tell from the shift in his body language, the slight fraction of his attention.
“Maybe you’re not into guys, s’okay,” Dean says, though the thought brings a stain of disappointment. He doesn’t need Sam to match him blowjob for blowjob–fuck, the idea of sucking Sam’s cock is enough to make him cream himself–and just like any other guy, even Sam’s got the capacity to close his eyes and pretend. Dean just would’ve liked it a little more if Sam got off on it being him.
“I got no problem bending over. It’ll feel just as good, you’ll see.” Sam makes a noise when Dean pulls away, and quickly, he stands, gets a hand back on Sam’s cock so he doesn’t lose interest. “Once you got your dick in me, you won’t be thinkin’ about anything except how fucking hot it is, how all you wanna do is just fuck me wide open.” His mouth brushes Sam’s ear, soft strands of hair caught on damp lips. “Tell me you want it. Say you’re gonna do it, Sammy, Jesus, please.”
One of Sam’s hands squeezes tight on his arm, just above the elbow. “Find something,” he grits out, and shoves Dean towards the open door.
Dean stumbles, heart tripping. “Spit-”
“No.” Livewire thrill courses down Dean’s spine, fans out and dives straight for his balls. There’s no arguing with that tone of voice, that razor-edge in Sam’s eyes. “I’m not- I’m not spitfucking you. Find something or I’m not doing it at all.”
Dean gives him a jerky nod and crawls into the backseat, pawing through one of the packs before realising it’s Sam’s and abandoning it in favour of his own. He’s got a half empty bottle of lube and a box of condoms; the lube he takes, the condoms he stuffs back down between his socks and some protein bars. The only thing Dean’s ever needed between them is blood.
He gets his clothes out of the way and thumbs the top open, coats the fingers of one hand slippery-wet with it. He slings one arm over the top of the car, somewhere to rest his head, and sets the bottle down beside it. “You want me to do it?” His fingers are already trailing across his skin, painting a long glistening trail from the base of his spine to warm, delicate flesh. That one touch is enough to make him groan like it’s someone else’s hands on him.
Sam’s breath is shaky, uneven, when he says, “No.”
Fingers tangle with Dean’s, push between his knuckles and slick down to the tips, skimming the lube off. He flashes on the image of Sam’s hands–long, long fingers, sharp knuckles, wide palms–and the sound he makes when one finger slides up inside him isn’t human, rough and ragged and so full of need that it couldn’t be.
“Don’t need much,” Dean says, pushing back, widening his stance to arch his back. It’s a blatant lie–been months since he’s done this–but Sam’s ignoring him anyway, smearing the lube deep. He bites his lip and gropes for Sam, fingers hooking on open jeans and tugging.
Sam shuffles closer, the heat of him pressing close before his arm comes up and braces on the edge of the roof beside Dean. “What? Dean-”
“Your dick, Sammy,” Dean groans, knocking the lube over and snatching it up before it can tumble to the ground. “Jesus, pull your dick out. Slick it up for you.”
On the car, Sam’s knuckles go white. The steady push-pull of his finger stops, still buried halfway inside and Dean can’t help himself, muscles clamping down tight to feel it. Sam hisses and jerks free, slides his fingers through the lube smeared thick along the crease of Dean’s ass. He pushes back in with two, sends Dean rocking, moaning, up on his toes.
Something wet hits Dean’s cheek. He swipes at it, distantly realises it’s rain. The air’s gone cooler, crisper. Dean feels hotter than before, like steam should rise from him to waft away on the growing wind.
Sam’s fingers vanish. Dean’s eyes snap open, he twists to look back, but Sam’s hand resettles low on his hip, palm curved over the jut of bone and it just fits. He stills, quivering slightly when Sam’s hand pulls away again, but he stays where he is, obeying Sam’s silent command, trusting in it.
Sam’s breath hisses out from between his teeth. Clothes rustle, skim with a soft sound over skin and the jingle of loose change, hitting the ground with a quiet whump. A fresh rush of heat breaks out on Dean’s chest, shoots upward over his throat, his face.
“Here,” Sam rasps, guiding Dean’s hand to the thick, heavy weight of his cock.
Dean chokes on the sound caught low in his throat, pressing his cheek to blessed cool metal and wrapping his fingers tight. Sam jerks in his grasp, throbs once on the hard rush of blood. Dean gives him a few firm, slow tugs, just getting used to the awkward angle when Sam’s fingers shove into him again, stretching him wide around bent knuckles.
“Shit,” Dean gasps. “Shit, Sam. Don’t you fuckin’ stop, c’mon.”
Sam does it again, pulls free and drives deep. They sink into a stuttering rhythm, Sam fucking into the slick circle of his hand and fingering him open. Dean can’t breathe past how good it is until his brain kicks and sputters into gear and it hits him, really fucking hits him, that pretty soon it’s going to be Sam’s cock filling him up, and then it’s all he can do to speak through quick, shallow gulps of air.
“That’s good, Christ, that’s good, gotta do it now, do it now, Sammy-”
“God, okay, just-”
“No, now,” and he punctuates it with a vicious squeeze to Sam’s dick, fingers fanned out so his nails scrape Sam’s balls.
Sam yanks his fingers free. Dean stumbles back half a step, tosses Sam a careless grin over his shoulder and freezes, caught by the look on Sam’s face like a hellhound on a bloodtrail. He’s never seen Sam like this, flushed and wanting and a little pissed off all at once, and Dean knows, just knows, that the next time Sam’s angry with him even after this is over, all he’s going to be able to think about is how goddamned hot it is.
He’s thinking about it so hard right now he almost misses the moment the head of Sam’s dick touches him. His attention snaps back the second it opens him up, and Sam keeps pushing steadily, holding him by one hip, gaining inch after inch and not giving either of them time to breathe. Just how Dean likes it and he didn’t even have to fucking ask.
Sam settles flush to him, buried to the balls and not moving, hot breaths exploding against the back of his neck. Sam sucks in a hard lungful of air and time hangs between one second and the next, the entire world silent and expectant because this is it.
On the first real thrust, Dean loses every scrap of breath he’s got on the low keening sound of Sam’s name.
Sam doesn’t go slow or take it easy. He fucks up into Dean just the right side of brutal, walking the fine edge like it’s effortless to keep Dean feeling the sweet, sweet burn, the ache, and nothing else. It’s never been like this before and in one cold-water shock of clarity, Dean realises it’s got less to do with the magic riding him than the fact that it’s Sam, Sammy, who knows him like nobody else could ever dream.
The moment fades fast, slamming Dean back down into himself when Sam pulls him back by a hand splayed wide on his belly. But the knowledge sticks, humming in his veins.
His gaze slides sideways to Sam’s hand still clutching at the Impala, fingers curved over the roof and thumb tucked under through the open door. Dean’s mouth falls open on a sharp moan as he reaches for it, fingers slipping on Sam’s skin before his grip firms and he jerks it free, slaps it to his throat. His head tips back, Sam’s palm completely covering the front of his neck, fingers curled long around the side, spread wide.
Sam’s rhythm barely stumbles but all he’s doing is holding on, hardly any pressure. Dean swallows, feels his Adam’s apple bump against Sam’s hand.
“Fuck,” he says, “you gotta-” and then he doesn’t have to say it at all, Sam gets it, gets him. Sam’s hand tightens on his throat, his hip, holding onto him just like that and slamming in deep.
Dean closes his eyes, squeezes out, “Harder,” and then he’s losing air in bits and pieces, scraps of it forced out on tiny noises he can’t hold back. His lungs begin to burn, the pressure on his throat hitting him with the urge to cough and making his eyes water.
He can feel Sam wavering, hear the worry gnawing on Sam’s bones, so he puts his hand over Sam’s, holds him there with a weakened grip that says what he can’t.
Still, Sam’s hold loosens. A bitter taste creeps up the back of Dean’s tongue, starts to spread throughout his mouth until Sam leans forward, whispers, “One breath,” into his ear, and then it’s gone, sucked back down on a harsh gulp of air that fills his lungs.
It goes stale fast, stretching his chest but useless to him, the heady relief morphing quickly into dizzying blackness eating at the corners of his vision. Sam’s fingers dig into his belly hard enough to bruise, so hard it’s like Sam’s trying to feel himself buried in Dean from the outside, and then Dean’s blinded on a white-hot flash, everything that’s been building inside him for hours released on a guttural, choked-back scream and his come shooting across Sam’s fingers.
Miles and miles above, the sky cracks, jagged lightning splitting the clouds and the rain pours down, soaking them both in seconds. The muddling heat vanishes, Dean’s vision clears; Sam’s hand has gone loose on his neck, face buried against his shoulder as he comes. Dean swallows spit to wet his aching throat, licking water from his lips as he waits for the tremors wracking Sam’s body to subside.
After, Sam collapses heavily against him. He grunts softly and doesn’t have time to complain because Sam instantly straightens, mutters apologies in a fucked-out voice and smoothes his hands down Dean’s bare sides as he pulls free.
Dean winces, abused muscle reflexively tightening against the leak of come. He scrubs a hand over his face and thinks about what happens next, jumping when Sam gingerly touches his throat.
“Turn around,” Sam says.
Dean closes his eyes, breathes, opens them again and faces Sam with the reluctance of the condemned. “Sammy-”
“Shut up.” Sam’s gaze flicks up to meet his and drops again, fixing on the bruises Dean can already feel forming. “God, Dean, sometimes you’re so fucking stupid.”
And that would hurt, really, really fucking hurt like having your guts yanked out by a hot poker, except Sam’s mouth is on his, tongue parting his lips, and Sam’s hand is gentle on his throat, thumb sweeping in long, slow caresses over his jaw and across his chin, tilting his head for the right angle to go deeper.
Dean’s knees go to jelly because he’s exhausted, well-fucked beyond belief, and maybe a little because Sam’s kiss ranks at least number two in the top five best kisses of Dean’s life.
Sam’s big hands come up to frame his face and it rockets into the number one slot without a backwards glance.
He almost falls when Sam lets go, sagging back and realising at the last second that there’s nothing for him to lean against with the door still wide open. He hooks an arm over the window and licks the taste of Sam from his lips, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“You ever,” Sam says, his voice shaking, “you ever pull shit like this again, Dean,” and his hands fist in the front of Dean’s soggy shirt, looking for all the world like he wants to shake Dean until his teeth rattle in his skull, “Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ.”
“You wanna hash this out right here or get in the car, Sam?”
Sam shoves him so hard he ends up flat on his bare ass in the passenger seat, legs barely pulled up and in before the door slams.
“Gonna get fucking come all over the leather,” Dean mutters, jerking his hips up off the seat and fighting to get his dripping jeans up over his ass.
Sam drops into the seat beside him, door yanked shut against the rain. He drags a hand through his hair, pushing the soaking wet mess of it out of his face, and Dean has to shake himself to keep from following the long curve of his fingers.
“You could’ve told me,” Sam says. “We could’ve taken another couple of days to research.”
“No good. Can’t break death magic, Sammy, it’s like a curse. You either stay the fuck away or you ride it out.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“‘Cause I’m sure, alright? You think I’d do it if I wasn’t so fucking sure?” Dean rubs a hand over his face, flicks away the water. “Can’t break it but it gets weaker, okay? And this sex magic stuffs always been iffy, anyway, too much relying on who’s involved and-”
“And what?” Sam’s voice cracks over him, whip-sting sharp. “You figured you’re such a hot piece of ass it’d be no trouble for you to handle it, find some guy into you enough that he’d fuck it all away?”
“Well.” Dean scratches at the back of his neck. “Yeah.”
Sam’s nostrils flare. He throws himself back into the seat, hands clenched on the wheel, gaze fixed wide and unseeing on the rain pounding the windshield.
When he speaks again, it’s very slowly, tightly, like he’s trying to keep from screaming. “And you didn’t at all think that ‘taboo’ was practically one of Crowley’s buzzwords?”
“I figured the gay thing would take care of it.”
“Brothers, Dean!” Sam explodes. He rounds on Dean like the thunderstorm raging above their heads. “Magic that specific is gonna latch onto incest like, like- Jesus!”
Dean’s beaten slightly into submission by the fact that Sam, university-educated Sam who has a love/love relationship with the English language, can’t come up with a suitable metaphor.
“Don’t think Jesus was much into incest,” Dean ventures.
Instead of throttling him–oh, god, don’t go there–Sam laughs weakly. Dean summons up a lopsided smile and pretends his guts aren’t twisting themselves up into fancy Celtic knots.
“So,” Sam says, and Dean should know better than to let that easy, casual tone disarm him but he can’t help hoping Sam’s gonna let this slide. “I know you’re an idiot, but why’d you do it?”
“Uh, do what?”
Sam gives him a withering stare.
“Seriously, that’s pretty vague, Sam.”
“Alright, why’d you want it to be me fucking you?”
Dean knows he’s not imagining the tiny spots of colour high on Sam’s cheeks. He also knows he shouldn’t find it equal parts sexy and adorable that Sam can still blush after fucking somebody six ways to Sunday.
Adorable, Jesus. It’s like he’s cursed to act like a thirteen year old girl or something.
“Spell’s not that targeted.”
“Yeah,” Sam says. “It is.”
“Is, Dean. You want me to recite it back at you verbatim, or sum it up? ‘Cause it’s specifically meant to latch onto the strongest emotions, which is why there were heterosexual guys fucking their best friends–guy friends–up the ass while this woman did god knows what with the energy they gave off. Until she killed them. So, you wanna tell me how you even thought it wouldn’t see me and you as an all you can eat buffet?”
Dean slumps in the seat and crosses his arms, staring moodily at the dashboard. He should’ve known Sam would pick it apart, piece-by-piece, until all the bits that make him up were laid out in a neat little row to poke at.
The silence stretches long between them, punctuated by the angry spatter of the rain.
Finally, when it’s pretty clear Sam’s just gonna sit there until something happens, Dean says, “Why’d you kiss me?”
“Forget everything else,” Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes at the absurdity of it. “Just for a minute, okay, forget it. You kissed me.”
Sam shifts. Nervously, his fingers tap out a staccato rhythm on his knee, until he notices Dean watching. Grudgingly, he says, “Because I’d just fucked you.”
“Yeah, and that’s a totally normal reaction for the guy who just fucked his older brother to have.”
“I’d say we both got issues, Sammy.”
Sam covers his face with both hands, breathes out, and scrubs them through his hair. “We are so fucked up.”
“Pretty much a given.” Carefully, Dean rubs at his neck and, despite the uneasy tension still lurking in the air, grins widely when Sam’s eyes jump to it. “You liked that, huh?” he says, stretching his neck out, knowing the light’s hardly bright enough but Sam’s imagination could do a good job of filling in the blanks.
Sam’s hand comes up, two fingers tracing the long line of Dean’s throat from chin to collarbone honey-slow. He lingers on the hot flare of a bruise.
“Shoulda known you’d be a kinky bastard.”
Sam laughs, short and low, only a little startled, and takes his hand away to start the car. He slides her into gear before quirking an eyebrow Dean’s way. “Guess I should’ve known you’d be a slutty little bitch then too, huh?”
He draws off and slugs Sam right in the arm. “Yeah, asshole,” he says. “You fucking should’ve, jerk.”