Smoke Signals

Sam/Dean. NC-17. ~8300 words. For kitsune13 on LJ as part of the spn_j2_xmas exchange. Illustrated by ponderosa121.
Sam and Dean, a lawyer, a stripper and a monster of the week all walk into a bar….

“Thank you for your time, Ms. McKay,” Sam intoned, flipping his notebook shut. He stuck out his hand. “We’ll be in touch.”

The weariness Sam had pulled on with his rumpled suit and slicked-back hair added a good five years or more to his face, enough to be convincing without providing more than token hope to the grieving family. Both of them knew Jason McKay wouldn’t be back for graduation. Nobody said, but so did Mom and Dad.

As they made their way shoulder to shoulder down the driveway, Dean said, “Rough one.”

Wordlessly, Sam nodded.

Ghosts were always tough, for Sam more than him it seemed these days. Worse still when they were new. A teenager this time, planted in the ground less than a month ago, manifesting to give back the hell some punk kids made of his short life. Jason McKay had been number three on a list longer than Dean’s arm.

Unlike a lot of the things they hunted, ghosts started out human and kept on thinking that way. Sometimes, that made it harder. Never easier.

“Swing by the graveyard tonight?” Dean asked. “Gear up now, grab some showers after and hit the road early.”

Sam said, “Okay.”

Since the poltergeist in Lawrence, Dean’s worried about the same thing Sam probably is, but he’s not going to be the one to suggest a side trip to Palo Alto. Maybe it’s greedy of him to not share Sam with a memory and all those what ifs. He’s okay with that.

A few days later, Left Rock and its ghosts long since faded from their rearview mirror, Dean held the door of a tidy small-town diner for Sam. The smell of fresh-brewed coffee and sizzling bacon did the job of waking him up faster than a dunk in the North Atlantic in January.

Sam made a beeline for the counter while Dean sauntered on over to a table with a clear view of the parking lot. It was pretty early, even for breakfast, but there were a couple cars sharing the blacktop with the Chevy. Tourists, a couple passers-through and a handful of locals contributed to relaxed waves of conversation.

Two steaming coffees in hand, Sam settled into the chair Dean kicked out for him. No menus, Dean noticed, a weird prickle set off beneath his skin.

Pushing the creamiest coffee across the table, Sam said, “Got you the scrambled eggs and extra bacon. Your arteries hate me.”

Dean moaned around the first sip. “They’re fickle bastards anyway, you don’t wanna get involved with the likes of them.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

Glancing at the impeccably shiny countertop, Dean asked, “Newspaper?”

“Smaller than your list of requirements in a one-night stand.” Sam knocked a knuckle against the thick porcelain of his mug. “Guess we pick a direction and drive.”


Aimless wasn’t so bad, though. There was a heaping plate of hearty homecooked goodness headed his way, he went to sleep every night with Sam never more than ten feet away and Dad was alive–gone off on his own with some magic gun half-cocked, but alive.

The warmth pooling low in Dean’s gut didn’t have much to do with the coffee.

Cruising along the highway at seventy with a bag of peanut M&Ms in his lap was one of the best ways Dean knew how to relax. Add the steady rhythm of Sam’s voice and it was perfect. It didn’t matter much what the topic was–right then it was the details of two possible victims–just that he was there, talking.

These are the sorts of things Dean won’t say aloud. It’s not that he’s embarrassed, because he’s man enough to acknowledge his feelings, thanks very much, but maybe he’s a little bit superstitious. Never knew what could overhear and use things like that to cut worse than the sharpest knife.

“Quit hogging the candy,” Sam said.

“I’m not hoggin’ it, it’s right there.”

Sam rolled his eyes but shoved a hand deep in the plastic bag, emerging with more than half of what was left.


Unrepentant, Sam tossed a couple in his mouth. “Hallucinations, sleep paralysis, exhaustion. Any number of things could cause that. Excessive stress, for example.”

Dean scratched his chin with a thumbnail. “Both men so far. Could be the start of a pattern.”

“Pretty slim,” Sam said, forehead wrinkling. “No deaths.”

“Yet.” Dean shrugged. “Not like we got anything better to do.”

“Be nice to do something preventative for once, instead of reactive.”

“See, this is your problem. Why couldn’t you just say, ‘get the jump on those fuckers’? Think colloquially, Sam. Like the rest of us.”

Sam gave him a crooked smile. “Colloquially, Dean?”

With a vested interest in his own sanity, Dean ignored him. “Who d’you wanna visit first, the lawyer or the… what the heck was that guy?”

“Freelance relationship counsellor.”


“We’re not going there first just so you can give him hell.”

“Sammy. I wouldn’t ever.”

The M&Ms vanished just as Dean reached for the bag. “Hey! Hey!

“Eyes on the road,” Sam said between loud crunches.

“This is why I never shared with you as a kid.”

Sam snorted, shifting sideways on the seat to sling his arm along the back. “You couldn’t not share with me.” Completely unnecessarily, he started to lick his fingers.

“Self-defence, chubby. It was me or the candy.”

There was an emergency stash in the trunk, hidden in a rough leather bag between the spare ammo and the battered old toolbox. Sam would be lucky if Dean let him even sniff one.

The concrete sidewalk did Dean’s ass no favours. The ragged layers he’d bundled up in cut the chill in the air, the whiskey in the hip flask he held did a lot more. He pulled his knees up, elbows propped up on them and the crumpled begging cup dangling between his legs.

A couple coins, one or two rumpled dollar bills. It figured pickings would be slim around some hotshot lawyer’s office. All the suits marching by barely glanced his way, let alone registered a person beneath the rags and dirt-smeared face.

It made sense that Sam was the one to head inside and chat up the potential vic while Dean stayed out to watch the comers and goers. The fact that he was actually better than Sam at carefully cataloguing snippets of conversations and the faces that went with it, relying on memory instead of written notes, didn’t do much to lessen the absolute suck of it.

The tips of Sam’s shiny black dress shoes edged into Dean’s line of vision as he listened closely to a woman’s high-pitched whine about Borden-Lardner’s fees. Borden was their victim, but this chick didn’t sound like she’d curse the guy to get out of paying.

Sam dropped a nickel and a tiny scrap of paper into Dean’s cup.

Ten minutes later, Dean gathered up his blankets and shuffled away in the opposite direction.

Dean stretched out on Sam’s bed, laptop warm and whirring on his stomach. He’d meant to pick up the trail right where Sam left off, dutifully saving every scrap of information found. Instead, he clicked aimlessly through the windows, eyelids drooping.

The shower shut off. After a few quiet shuffling noises, the tap ran as Sam brushed his teeth.

“So,” Dean called out. “We got jack squat.”

The door swung open on wobbly hinges. Out of sight, Sam said, “Seems like,” around a mouthful of toothpaste.

“Great.” Ready to call it a night, Dean powered down the notebook. Getting up would take a hell of a lot more effort than he was ready to invest just yet. “What’s tomorrow’s plan?”

“Local history?” Sam stepped out of the bathroom, threadbare sleep boxers dragging low on his hips and ridiculous hair stuck out in all directions as he scrubbed it dry on a towel. “Could be some strange deaths we can link up to our vic profile.”

“Not much of a profile, Sammy.”

Sam scowled out from beneath the towel. He balled it up, unfamiliar muscles flexing in his chest, arms, even his back as he tossed it in on the old linoleum. It’d been a long time since the first hints of those muscles showed up on Sam’s skinny frame and still, every time he stripped off his shirt, or did something crazy like pry up a manhole cover with his bare hands, Dean got caught by surprise.

It’d always be Dean’s job to look out for him, no matter how big or old Sam got, but it was reassuring to know that strength and those capable hands had Dean’s back, too.

“Get your ass out of my bed,” Sam said.

Dean snuggled down deeper into he pillows and flicked the television on. “Comfy.”

Undeterred, Sam clambered up over him, elbows and knees in places elbows and knees had no business going, and flopped down on the other side, taking up way more space than the laws of physics required.

“Fine,” Sam said, jamming a bony elbow into his side again, just for emphasis, and started tugging on the sheets beneath him.

Dean rolled more of his weight onto that side, pinning the blankets down, and kept on channel surfing.

Sam planted a knee in his hip and shoved.

From there, Sam ended up with carpet burn and Dean with a bruise the size of an orange from the bedside table.

But he got Sam’s bed, which was the closest to the door.

Dean was dreaming. He knew he had to be dreaming because he was Sam, and he had his hands, Sam’s strong, long-fingered hands, wrapped up in the waves of Sarah’s pitch-black hair as he fucked her.

Her nails bit into his back, the quick pain of it clashing wildly with the smooth slide of her thighs around his hips. She looked up at him with eyes nearly blank with pleasure, arching into each hard thrust, her soft, perfect-handful breasts pushed tightly against his chest.

And she was so warm, so slick, that he looked down to watch the shiny wet length of Sam’s cock sink into her.

Dean jerked awake, heart racing, cock achingly full. He groaned softly and rolled onto his back, pausing only long enough to measure the steady rhythm of Sam’s breathing before sliding a hand into his shorts.

Denise Fitzpatrick, assistant to asshole lawyer Blair Borden, victim number one on their very short list, looked the part. She had polish, poise and a professional air. She didn’t ignore Dean so much as she favoured Sam, obviously drawn to the last vestiges of his yuppie Californian veneer.

“I’m not at all certain why you insisted on this meeting, Mr. Greene-”

“Sam,” Sam cut in smoothly. The coffee shop hustled and bustled about them, the smell of freshly ground beans heavy in the air.

“Sam,” she amended, tucking a strand of light brown hair behind her ear in a habitual gesture. “As an aide, I’m not qualified to do more than reiterate Mr. Borden’s counsel. You should really speak with him.”

“it sounds as if you really admire him,” Sam said.

She smiled broadly and Dean seriously considered getting up to get fresh coffee just so he didn’t have to listen to whatever tripe she shot out of her mouth next.

“He’s the best at what he does, and keeps some very impressive company at our firm. If you have some information you’d like me to relay to him, I’d be happy to do so.”

Sam leaned forward, sincerity practically oozing from his pores. It was kind of impressive considering he was lying through his teeth. “I have to be honest, Ms. Fitzpatrick.”

“Denise, to be fair.”

Sam flashed her a quick smile. “My partner and I have some concerns about Borden-Lardner’s representation. Our reputation is on the line here, and we can’t put our trust in anyone who has rumours nipping at their own.”

For the first time, a tiny crack appeared in Denise’s perfect polish. Turning his coffee mug casually between his fingers, Dean said, “You’ve heard them.”

“They say a rumour will make it around the world while the truth is still putting its boots on,” Denise replied. “Blair’s reputation is impeccable.”

“You’d sort of have to say that, wouldn’t you,” Sam said. “Considering you’ve got a vested interest in it.”

“The firm-”

“Not the firm,” Dean cut in. “You.”

Denise coloured. “I don’t know what sort of rumours you’ve been listening to.” She reached for her purse, flinched when Sam lightly touched her wrist. “I think that’s the end of this meeting.”

“I don’t care about his personal life, who he sleeps with is his business,” Sam pushed. “I want to know if you think there’s anything to these episodes he’s been having. Hallucinations, insomnia. Is it job stress or something else?”

Denise’s thin mouth tightened. “If Mr. Borden were suffering from such things, yes, I would say they were induced by the pressures of his position. I don’t have the vaguest idea what else you could be hinting at.”

Dean had to give her credit. She was almost as good at lying as Sam. But her gaze gave her away, the way it jumped from one thing to another without settling on either of theirs.

“I think you do,” Dean said, and Sam asked, “What did he tell you he sees at night? Something not real, something not really there but it is?”

“Which is impossible.” The second time Denise goes for her purse, she moves carefully out of their reach first. “Please call Mr. Borden’s direct line if you need further assistance.”

The door chimes merrily on her way out.

Dean slumped back in his chair, hand gone loose on his warming beer. He exchanged one incredibly incredulous look with Sam before he said, “Seriously.”

Calvin, the freelance relationship counsellor who needed a swift kick in the balls instead of the vodka and tonic he clutched so hard, nodded miserably. “I couldn’t help it. She’s sweet,” he said, gazing imploringly at Sam, “she’s so sweet and beautiful and the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with, but-”

“You cheated on her with a stripper?” Dean interrupted. “Look, I’m not coming down on the profession or anything, I appreciate the talent as much as the next guy, but seriously?”

“I couldn’t help it!” Calvin downed the dregs of his drink and signalled for another. “I couldn’t stop dreaming about her! Every time I turned around something reminded me of her and it just got worse and worse and-” Calvin cut himself off, choking on a wretched noise and desperately grabbing up the glass the bartender slid his way.

Dean gave Sam another pointed look.

“This strip club,” Sam said, “is it in town?”

“Yeah,” Calvin sniffled, poking dejectedly at melting ice. “Down on Thurber.” After a pause, he lifted his head, fixing Sam with a red-rimmed gaze. “Why? You know you shouldn’t, if he’s, if you need to go outside your relationship for satisfaction,” he trailed off, oozing sympathy at Dean out of every pore.

“Forget it,” Dean said, snatching the drink straight out of Calvin’s slack grip. “You’re cut off, Dr. Feelgood.”

Barely two steps from the gaudy neon entrance, Sam said, “Don’t you think we should check out the girlfriend first?”

“Oh, I’m definitely checking her out,” Dean shouted over the thudding bass line before tossing a charming grin at the beefy guy perched on a stool just inside the door. The guy didn’t look impressed, but he didn’t punch Dean’s face in either. “Chances are, Sammy boy, she’s tucked safely away in bed at this hour, which leaves Curvaceous Candy as our only lead.”

“Just… stop saying her name like that, okay?”

Dean shrugged. He angled a path through the haphazardly scattered tables, unsurprised to find business booming despite the club’s location on the outskirts. A man’ll go a long way to find some good T&A.

As they neared the front, Sam grabbed the back of Dean’s collar. “I think that’s close enough.”

Dean smiled helplessly and mimed deafness because of the music.

Something hard flickered in Sam’s eyes. He put his mouth right up next to Dean’s ear, said, “Sit,” and yanked Dean down into an uncomfortable chair.

“Okay, pushy.” Dean resettled himself, shrugging his jacket back into place.

Slumped carelessly in the chair beside him, radiating awkward energy, Sam nodded at the stage where a tiny thing in a glittery thong rocked smoothly between two steel poles. “D’you think that’s her?”

Dragging his gaze from her very nice heart-shaped ass, Dean sized up her face for a second before shaking his head. “Doesn’t look like a Curvaceous Candy. Now that one, giving that guy over there the lap dance of his life, that looks like a Curvaceous Candy.”

Panic flared as brightly as the neon outside across Sam’s face as Dean dug absently for his wallet. “Dean! Dean, I’m serious, don’t you even fucking dare.”

Wad of bills in hand, Dean plastered on his best innocent look, which while not as potent as Sam’s, was nothing to sneeze at. Granted, it probably wasn’t up to Dean’s best; Candy had caught his eye, already blowing a kiss goodbye to the hick and sashaying her way over.

Like a true professional, Candy barely gave Dean more than a teasing shimmy of her hips before snagging the cash. Dean fully intended to sit back, enjoy the shine of the lights on her soft-looking skin, the hint of lean, flexible muscle beneath as she danced, he couldn’t help being hyperaware of how hard Sam was trying to vanish into thin air beside them.

On a whim, Dean offered up another crumpled bill and jerked his chin at Sam’s long-limbed sprawl.

Sam startled upright, started to say, “No, no-” and Dean reached over the little table, slugged him in the shoulder.

“Go with it, Sammy! Don’t go wasting the girl’s time.”

When Candy said, “Yeah, Sammy, go with it,” smooth and touchable like sex, something hot flared in the pit of Dean’s stomach.

Sam leaned back, elbow hooked over the back of his chair in a pretty decent show of nonchalance if anybody but Dean was looking. He tried his damnedest to be a gentleman about it, keeping his eyes on her face at first, but there wasn’t anything polite about getting a lap dance from a stripper while your brother watched.

And of course Dean watched, he’d paid for it, after all. If he found the flickers of arousal in Sam’s expression more fascinating, well, that was just because Sam was blushing like a virgin about the whole thing.

Outside, still twitchy in his own skin, Sam said, “She’s gonna mace you.”

“You just sit there and look trustworthy, smartass.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Yeah, because two customers staking out the back lot after closing won’t make her jump to conclusions or anything.”

The door opened. Dean tossed a quick, “Shut up,” over his shoulder and jogged the short distance from the car. “Hey,” he said to her, both hands carefully in sight, what he hoped was an open, harmless smile on his face.

Her gaze darted from him to Sam as her hand dived into her purse.

“Heh, yeah, I know what it looks like,” Dean said, careful to keep out of her personal space. “Just wanted to talk to you, that’s all. We can do it here, inside, you can get your bouncer buddy if you want.”

Though she doesn’t take her hand from her purse, some of the wariness in her eyes was replaced by curiosity. “Talk to me about what?”

Dean began, “I know this guy, Calvin.”

That night, while Dean brushed his teeth, he thought about the red stain that had crept its way up the back of Sam’s neck, about the times he’d seen Sam chat easily with girls until they started making eyes at his mouth.

He fell asleep still thinking of it, and dreamed of the tiny, sweet Reverend’s daughter back in Iowa on her knees for him with her mouth on his cock.

The pleasure was vague like a memory, his brain too caught up in trying to remember her name than the tentative little flickers of her tongue against his slit. She cupped a hand beneath one of her small breasts, rubbed her fingertips over the hard peak of nipple, moaned prettily, and it felt more like watching amateur porn than participating in it.

He felt himself begin to wake, the dream too odd, weirdly detached, and when he looked back down at her face, he met Sam’s heavy-lidded gaze.

Dean gasped, felt the rough cotton sheet in his grasp soften to a handful of Sam’s hair. Pushing it back, Dean watched the way his eyelashes fluttered, how his cheeks hollowed as he pulled back, sucked hard on the head of Dean’s dick.

Something brushed Dean’s lips as he whispered Sam’s name. The tight heat coiled inside him released. He woke up gasping into his pillow as his hips humped desperately against the mattress, slick warm come smearing the inside of his boxers.

Afterward, the quiet darkness pressing in on him like a weight, Dean panicked. He’d just had a wet dream about his brother, for fuck’s sake. Who lay sleeping no more than five feet away, completely unaware of the cooling mess on Dean’s skin.

The covers flew halfway off the bed in Dean’s scramble for the bathroom. He stopped short of slamming the door, remembering at the last second that probably wasn’t the best way to ensure Sam stayed oblivious about the entire debacle.

Quick wash in the shower or the sink, he couldn’t decide. Either one might wake Sam up. He spent an agonising three and a half minutes debating before stripping, balling his clothes up tightly and going for the shower.

The next five minutes were spent determinedly not thinking. About anything. At all.

And then, when he emerged from the bathroom in a puff of hot steam, Sam was sitting up in bed, laptop screen blazing. Stupidly, Dean just stood there, dirty clothes clutched guiltily.

“Dean,” Sam said.

Dean’s mouth worked soundlessly. He should’ve been coming up with a nice believable lie while he showered.

“I think it’s time you came clean,” Sam continued. “We both know what’s going on here.”

Air weighed heavy in Dean’s lungs. Who knows what he’d said while he dreamed, he can’t even remember now how much noise he’d made. “Sammy.”

Sam glanced up. “It all fits. The lawyer who had an affair with his married assistant, the cheating relationship guy, the sleep paralysis and hallucinations.”

Which was not what Dean expected. Brow crinkled, he intelligently said, “What?”

“When were you planning on telling me you’d caught an incubus?”

“Incubus,” Dean breathed. The heavy led in his gut vanished, his shoulders bowed on a deep, relieved breath. “Jesus Christ, an incubus.”

“All the sexual energy those couples were giving off would be more than enough to attract one. It’s probably collecting semen from the men before it attempts to impregnate the women.” He gave Dean a quick once over. “It’s not really surprising it latched onto you.”

Giddy with finding out it his own twisted subconscious hadn’t come up with those dreams, Dean sauntered on over to his duffle to dig out some clean sleep clothes. He carelessly dropped his soiled ones on the floor. No reason to hide it now, anyway. Nothing to be ashamed of there.

“So, McGeek, how do we get rid of it?” Dean asked brightly.

Absently, Sam chewed the corner of his bottom lip. Dean yanked on his boxers and quickly dived back into bed, trapping the heat lingering from his shower beneath the covers.

“There’s a lot of lore about what incubi do, but not half as much about how to banish one,” Sam said. “Go figure.” A few moments of rapid-fire typing later he went on. “The Maleficarum says exorcism, the Sign of the Cross, relocating the afflicted–don’t think that one will fly with either vic, but is it technically still victimising them now that it’s moved on to you?”

Dean shrugs. “Don’t look at me. It might have what it wanted from me now, anyways, which means it’s gonna move on.”

“Maybe so.” Sam kept reading. “Sacramental Confession is also listed as an option. Easiest of them all. Got anything you want to confess?”

Forcing his shaky grin to widen, Dean said, “Gotta be sorry for that to work.”

On a snort, Sam said, “We all know you’re never sorry about sex.”

“Right,” Dean agreed. “Good, healthy sex.”

“I’d say our best option is picking one of the girls and exorcise the incubus while she sleeps.” After a moment’s thought, Sam asked, “Candy? She’s practically dripping sexual energy nightly.”

“Then we’re golden,” Dean said. “You just find me a rite, Sammy.”

The following morning, Dean trudged up seven flights of stairs with a duffle full of salt and holy water and an explanation yanked straight out of Twilight Zone reruns.

Khandi–which was her real name and sounded almost exactly like Candy–opened the door after he knocked and smiled shyly up at him. “I don’t do things like this,” she said, looking sleepy and a little fuzzy around the edges. It wasn’t a bad look.

“Invite crazy people into your home?” Dean guessed, adding a little extra charm to his smile just for the hell of it.

“No, people I’ve danced for,” she answered. Laughing, she amended, “Or yeah, that too. This is weird.”

“Welcome to my life. You, uh, gonna let me in or are you still thinking about it?”

“Oh, yes. Sorry!” Blushing prettily, she took a step back, revealing a hallway lit by a tiny, decorative lamp on a small table piled with mail and her keys. Nothing about her or her place screamed Smokin’ Hot Stripper. More like, Cute Girlfriend with Slightly-Kinky Potential.

She said, “I guess I’m a little nervous. Hell, I don’t think I would’ve even talked to you that night except you’re obviously not into me.”

“I- What?”

Both of her eyebrows crept upwards. “That guy you bought the dance for? The really tall one with the eyes?”

“The eyes,” Dean repeated.

“Yeah, the pretty, dark eyes.” She sighs. “He was a good customer, y’know? He didn’t make grabby hands at me, and it didn’t make much sense, because he was definitely turned on. And then I saw how you were watching him.”

“Right,” Dean said. “I mean, no. That’s the thing we’re hunting, right? The incubus. The one that’s probably after you, too. So, where do you want to do this?”

She looked completely unconvinced but led the way into the kitchen.

When Dean got back to the motel room, Sam was glued to CSI reruns. A box of cold pizza yawned open on the floor next to the bed. Dean shrugged out of his jacket, snagging a slice before settling back against the headboard of his own bed.

“That was fast,” Sam said.

“The lady works late, Sammy. She’s still sleeping it off.”

“Did it work?”

“Not sure.” Feeling weirdly twitchy, Dean got back up, deposited his half-eaten pizza back in the box and went digging for yet another pair of clean boxers. “Maybe we should exorcise the assistant too, just to be safe.”

“Hilarious,” Sam said, jabbing the mute button on the remote several times before it finally kicked in. “We’re not even sure if it’s after them yet, or if it’s still working on sperm collection.”

Face scrunched up in disgust, Dean said, “That’s gross, Sammy,” and picked up the towel flung over the foot of Sam’s bed to give it a quick sniff-test.

Sam cocked an eyebrow. “And that isn’t?”

“We can’t exorcise the whole town- wait, can we?”

“No, Dean.”

Dean sighed. That could’ve been awesome. “So if we can’t do that, our best bet is to just exorcise everyone involved and hang around for a few days to see if anybody drops dead or some girl is suddenly and inexplicably nine months pregnant.”

“Hardly ideal,” Sam replied. “But you’re right, we don’t have another option.” He flicked the television off entirely and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll do you now.”

Dean’s brain blanked completely. “Huh?”

“The exorcism,” Sam prompted, both eyebrows creeping into his hairline. “Might as well do you now, we could get lucky.”

Slowly, Dean said, “Right. Exorcism. I’m just… gonna grab a shower first, okay?”

“Do you think you should?” Tiny spots of deep red gradually darkened Sam’s cheeks. “I mean, you just, you know, and sex attracts it.”

“This conversation isn’t making me feel even remotely horny in any way, Sam.”

“I’m not suggesting you jerk off or anything, Dean,” Sam snapped, rising and going straight for his notes. He fiddled with them like a shield. “Just go sit down, think about whatever and keep it to yourself.”

“Fine,” Dean grumbled, throwing towel and boxers both in the general direction of the bathroom. Grumpily, he flopped back down on his bed, legs stretched out and arms crossed. “Make if fast, will ya?”

Sam’s grip on the bottle of blessed Aquafina water he’d given Dean that morning tightened. Instead of saying anything, he simply twisted off the cap and shook some over his left hand, droplets dripping from the tips of his fingers as the crossed the room.

“Try to feel at least marginally repentant,” he suggested.

The bed creaked alarmingly as Sam knelt, knees bracketing Dean’s hips. The weird itchiness beneath Dean’s skin flared back full force, uncomfortably reminding him of the lingering feel of sex still clinging to him.

He watched Sam’s lips smoothly form the Latin words Dean had stumbled over only a short time ago, barely hearing any of them. Sam’s fingers, when they painted a wet cross on his forehead, were warm, warmer still when he lifted the hem of Dean’s wrinkled tee to draw a second low on Dean’s belly.

The third and final cross, forming the full circle of Father, Son and Holy Spirit, went over Dean’s thundering heart.

Dean stood in front of a mirror and knew he was dreaming again. The motel room behind him was hazy and indistinct beyond the broad span of Sam’s bare shoulders. Knowing he shouldn’t, he looked up anyway, met Sam’s heavy gaze and felt Sam’s wide palms pressed firmly to the sharp, naked cut of his hips.

“Sam,” Dean said, and Sam smiled impishly. That sparkle dancing in his eyes meant he was up to something and knew he’d get away with it. “You’re not-”

Quietly, Sam shushed him, bent low to press a warm, open-mouth kiss to the slope of his neck. A hand splayed in the centre of his back, pushed gently but insistently until Dean let it ease him down, his forearms coming to rest on the low dresser beneath the mirror.

Sam’s hands swept up his sides, down again, dipped between his thighs. The barely-there brush of knuckles against his sac kicked a violent shiver up Dean’s spine. He opened his mouth to protest and all that came out was a ragged groan.

This wasn’t right. The long, hot line of Sam pressed against his back should turn his stomach, make him sick with how wrong it was. He shouldn’t want Sam’s hands on him to turn rougher, shouldn’t moan when they do or rock up on the balls of his feet as the damp head of Sam’s dick pushes up between his legs, rides slickly along the crack of his ass.

On the nightstand, Sam’s phone buzzed dimly. He shook his head, saw his reflection mouth Sam and no when Sam paused. The flash of Sam’s smile was bright and happy and hungry all at once, and the throb of want it sent throbbing through Dean brough his breath in a rasp.

The phone buzzed again as Sam leaned forward, set the sharp edge of his teeth to the nape of Dean’s neck. His cock settled against Dean’s hole, warm and thick, thicker as he rocked forward, forced Dean to open up and take him in. Knife-edged pleasure rocketed straight to Dean’s balls, made his dick jerk on a wet spill of precome.

Sam bottomed out and Dean woke with the phantom ache of his brother’s cock buried inside him.

He fumbled in the dark for Sam’s cell, barely squinting at the display before flipping it open. “Denise, what is it, what’s wrong?”

“Oh god,” Borden’s assistant babbled, “oh god, Sam, I thought you were crazy but it happened to me, everything that Blair said and I didn’t believe him, oh my god.”

“Hey, hey,” Dean soothed, not bothering to correct her. He automatically reached out to Sam, jerking back abruptly as his fingers touched Sam’s arm and he remembered the feel of them wrapped tightly around him, holding him down as Sam fucked him open. He swallowed roughly and flicked on the lamp. “Did you see it?”

“I did,” Denise gasped, choking back tears. She was putting herself back together fast. He didn’t even really like the woman and it still made him proud. “It was so ugly. Twisted up like a rotted old tree. I think, I woke up and couldn’t move and I think- I think I scared her off.”

Dean threw one of Sam’s sneakers at his back. “Her? How’d you get rid of it?”

“It sounds so stupid but I just kept telling myself to not be afraid. I was only dreaming it, it couldn’t hurt me, it should just go away because I wasn’t afraid,” Denise said as Sam flailed himself awake after getting clobbered with the second shoe.

“Okay. Listen to me Denise. It won’t be back tonight. Me and Dean, that’s my brother, we’ll be there in a couple minutes to make sure it doesn’t ever. Okay?”

Denise took a deep breath. “Okay. I’m–god, it feels like a dream. I’m at thirty-two Dunbar, it’s a cul-de-sac off 3rd.”

“Thirty-two Dunbar, got it. Go turn on all the lights, okay?”

Sam was sleep-rumpled but awake, only slightly annoyed at finding his shoes already in bed with him. “Was that the lawyer’s assistant?” he asked after Dean hung up.

“Yep, and we got it wrong, Sammy.” Hauling on his jeans, Dean patted his pockets for his keys. “It’s a freakin’ old hag, no wonder nobody’s dead yet.”

Realisation hit Sam fast. “It fed off their terror. It’d keep them alive for months. Fear of being caught gave it an opening big enough to drive a Mack through.”

Dean flicked open his lighter, grinned as it sparked and caught. “And this one I know how to kill.”

The hunt was easy after that. They found Denise shaken but unharmed. If she thought their questions weird the second time around there was no sign of it. Within an hour of her phone call they had found the hag’s tree, up near the lake just like she said, banked a firestop around it and sent it up in smoke.

It happened too fast for Dean. There was little doubt left that it was over, even though they’d hang around another night or two to make sure. But now, with the fire shining warm and golden on Sam’s face, he had nothing to distract himself.

Hell. Sam just standing there breathing felt like an accusation.

“Not an incubus, then,” Sam said, making Dean jump.

“Guess not.”

Sam slanted him a quiet, sideways glance. A lump the size of Australia got stuck in Dean’s throat.

“Pretty vivid dreams.”

Dean shrugged noncommittally.

“We’re gonna have to talk about it.”


“I heard you, Dean.”

“You were sleeping!”

Sam shook his head. “You woke me up. You sounded like- I thought you were in pain.”

Desperately, Dean latched onto the first thought he had after oh god, no. “You faked sleeping through getting smacked in the head with a shoe?”

Something not quite a flush from the fire’s heat stained Sam’s skin a dusky red. “I said I thought you were in pain. Didn’t take long to figure out the difference.”

“Whatever you think you heard, you didn’t okay?” Dean stared resolutely at the fire, willing Sam to drop it. He’d happily live out the rest of his life pretending the last few days never happened. “I had a fucked up dream, doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“No,” Sam agreed, “doesn’t have to.”

That was the last either of them said until the tree tuned to ash. At dawn, they smashed whatever charcoal hunks of it were left and scattered them out over the lake.

Two days later, on a deserted stretch of highway, Dean woke groggily as the car slowed and pulled off to the side. He glanced around, trying to get their bearings. When he turned to Sam, the question on his lips withered up and died.

“You don’t have to talk, you just have to listen,” Sam said.

“Is there a door number three?” Dean asked, throat gone as dry as the dead grass outside.

“No. Shut up.” Sam dragged in a deep breath that didn’t seem to do much to relax the choke-hold he had on the steering wheel. “I know what I heard. What I saw, Dean. I don’t know what the hell you did to be able to dream like that, but-” He cut himself short, shook his head. “Tell me the truth. Did you dream about me?”

Dean scrubbed a hand over his mouth. He had a list of conversations he never wanted to have with Sam, everything from Sam leaving again to Dad dying, but this one. He’d never thought of this, and he wasn’t sure if he was eternally grateful or not.

“I’m going to assume yes if you don’t answer me.”

Dean opened his mouth, closed it. Looked out the windshield. Maybe he owed Sam a reply but he couldn’t get the words out. It was easier to just sit there and let Sam draw his own conclusions. Shamefully easy.

“Okay,” Sam said. “Okay.”

There were a few seconds of silence after that where Dean actually hoped his heart would give out again. Just for a moment. It’d give them a different sort of crisis to deal with.

Sam said, “I need to know something.”

In the middle of Dean croaking out, “What?” Sam slid across the seat, put one hand on Dean’s face and the other on the back of his head, and kissed him.

Not a tentative, questioning kiss, either. A full on, open-mouthed, suck-on-his-tongue kiss that punched the air out of Dean’s lungs like taking a slug in the chest. He stared at a blurry bit of Sam’s hair until Sam bit his lip, tugged on it just hard enough to get his attention and then his eyes slipped shut.

Sam tasted like over-sweetened coffee and the wad of minty gum he’d spit out the window thirty miles back.

When Sam pulled back, his eyes were only a fraction as certain as his kiss. He searched Dean’s face as if he could find an answer there, one that Dean himself didn’t even know, and then he smiled that mischievous, cocksure little smile.

“We’re okay,” he insisted.

A helpless laugh Dean hadn’t meant to let free echoed loudly in the close air. “We are so far from okay.”

“Maybe.” Sam’s thumb brushed the wet fullness of Dean’s bottom lip. “But I watched you spread your legs for me in your sleep. I heard the noises you made just dreaming about it, and even if it freaks me out a little, it doesn’t exactly repulse me.” With a quick glance at Dean’s mouth, he added, “Obviously.”

“That’s a real rousing endorsement there, Sam.”

“Baby steps.”

Dean snorted, finally pulling from Sam’s grasp. His skin felt seared where Sam had touched him. “You’re running a decent con, Sammy, but I’m not buying what you’re selling.”

“Do I actually have to justify myself to you now?” Sam asked, incredulous and confused but not angry. “Seriously?”

“Are you actually trying to tell me you’d be okay if I stuffed a hand down your pants right now?” Dean countered.

A whole flurry of emotions flew across Sam’s face. Sam had been a closed book to him for so long is was fascinating to see everything he was thinking put right out there for Dean to know.

“Try it,” Sam said.

“And now we’re gonna play gay chicken. Fantastic.”

Sam unbuttoned his jeans, lowered the zip. He put his hands palm-down on his thighs and met Dean’s gaze head on, dare and invitation all rolled up into one really fucked up package.

“Fine,” Dean said, and shoved his hand into his brother’s pants right there on the side of the highway before he could talk himself out of it.

When Dean’s fingers first touched him, Sam jumped, like he was honestly surprised. But he didn’t pull away, or scream incestuous rape, or do much of anything except tilt his hips forward and let his head roll back against the seat.

“I’m gonna do it,” Dean warned, as if either one of them were going to back down now.

Sam wet his lips and nodded. His cock thickened in Dean’s grasp, the hard muscles in his thighs and stomach visibly tensing as Dean drew it out into the waning light.

For a minute, all Dean could do was stare, because that was his brother’s dick, heavy and warm and a little damp at the slit, and it fit weird and perfect in his hand.

Dean said, “If you make one joke about technique-”

Sam choked on a laugh and bumped his forehead against Dean’s shoulder. He sounded slightly out of breath when he said, “No joking, got it.”

“I mean it.” Despite the fluttering anticipation in Dean’s gut, his nerves felt raw and exposed. Nobody ever really mentioned how to deal with giving your younger brother a handjob. He tried one long, slow upstroke, caught how Sam’s eyelashes fluttered out of the corner of his vision and quickly did it again. And again, and one more time, just to see the subtle rock of Sam’s hips.

Hit by sudden inspiration, Dean said, “Wait, hang on,” and took his hand away, hesitating about an inch from his face when he realised he was about to put his tongue on the palm of the hand he’d just had on Sam’s cock.

Sam watched silently, gaze gone dark and expectant like in the dreams. With his brother’s eyes on him, Dean licked his own palm wet and tasted the salt of their skin.

What Dean recognised now as the flush of sex crept up Sam’s throat. “You like that?”

Wordlessly, Sam nodded, and then lost all the breath he was holding in a rush as Dean took him in hand again, jerked him fast and firm despite the awkward, unfamiliar angle.

Sam’s hand found Dean’s thigh, gripped tightly, and Dean scooted closer, torn between watching Sam’s face and Sam’s cock and all the things churning him up inside. He wanted to be the one to make Sam come, to put that rare, satisfied spark in his eyes. It was like a living, tangible thing, snaking through his veins and squeezing his heart.

Sam said, “Dean.” His hand came up to cup the back of Dean’s head again, fingers strong and sure, a hint of pressure as a suggestion.

Dean’s brain sputtered offline, his hand abruptly stilling. “That’s not- that’s not baby steps, Sammy.”

Sam rocked his hips, said in a rush, “You can say no, you can, but Christ, Dean, if you want to, even just a little.”

Scooting back as much as he could, Dean twisted and dropped one leg into the footwell. It wasn’t comfortable, not by far, but it didn’t really matter. Not much mattered now except Sam wanted Dean’s mouth on his cock and Dean was going to give it to him.

Closing his eyes at the last second, he took the head of Sam’s cock onto his tongue, let his lips slide wetly around it. All he tasted as first was sweat-salty flesh, like on his hand. He licked and got a fresh burst of flavour, only vaguely bittersweet: precome. Sam’s precome.

Above him, Sam moaned and thrust up gently, asking for more.

Dean wasn’t going to kid himself. It wasn’t the best blowjob in the world by far. Probably didn’t even register on the talent scale. But it was Sam and it felt good, way better than having a cock stuffed in his mouth should’ve. He was getting off on it, honestly and truly working his way up to losing it in his pants just from the way Sam clutched at him as he squirmed on the leather upholstery, obviously trying not to thrust into Dean’s mouth like he wanted.

And god, that sounded hot. More than hot enough for Dean to pull off, say, “You can, just, don’t choke me or anything, okay, Sammy?”

Sam’s answer was a ragged, “Okay,” and a hand on Dean’s jaw, holding him still as Sam fucked shallowly between his lips.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut again, fumbling to press a hand against his own cock. Dreams were one thing but this was something else entirely, it was real, he was having sex with his brother, Sam was going to come and it was going to be because of Dean.

Sam was going to come in his mouth.

Managing to interpret Dean’s startled noise, or maybe just travelling the same wavelength, Sam shook his head, said, “Don’t have to, don’t care if you spit, just let me-”

Easing back to get enough space to finish jerking Sam off, Dean closed his lips tightly around the head and let Sam’s come pool warmly on his tongue.

After Sam handed him a slightly used wad of fast food napkins to spit into, Dean said, “Aren’t you a gentleman.”

“Baby steps,” Sam repeated. He grabbed onto Dean’s hand and shifted back, half-hard, wet cock left carelessly bare, which was surprisingly hot according to the trip of Dean’s pulse. “C’mon, I want to-” He tugged and scooted and pretty much manhandled Dean into place halfway on top of him. “There.”

“Here,” Dean repeated, glancing down. “What am I gonna do up here, huh?”

Somehow, Sam pulled off the neat trick of looking smug and shamefaced all at once. “I sorta thought you could beat off.”

Dean sucked in a sharp breath. “Losing those gentlemanly points, Sammy.”

“Heard you do it before, wanted to see what went with it.”

“Right.” Dean swallowed, hoping Sam couldn’t see how his fingers shook as he reached for his fly. “Hope the show’s worth the price of admission.”

Sam didn’t say anything until Dean tugged his cock free, and even then it was hardly more than a whispered, “It is.”

Dean tried to take his time. Crammed into the car on the side of the road jerking off for Sam should’ve been ridiculous, and instead, all Dean could think was that any second, his spine was going to melt. Sam had wandering hands, first pushing up under his shirt to touch his belly, then sliding beneath the loose waist of his jeans to skim road-rough fingertips over his ass.

Dean tensed, waiting for those fingers to push lower, between, but Sam just lingered there, hand splayed possessively wide.

Shuddering, Dean grunted out something about grabbing the napkins, but Sam ignored him completely. He wrapped his free hand over Dean’s, used the other to bring them close so Dean’s cock rubbed up against his stomach.

“Gonna make a mess,” Dean hissed.

“Wet naps in the trunk.”

“Jesus Christ.” Back arched, Dean let go right there on Sam, dazed by the sight of his come spilling stark white on Sam’s California-kissed skin. Beneath him, Sam gulped down air, looking as shell-shocked as he felt.

Dean caught himself just short of collapsing on Sam. He fumbled around for the glovebox, digging out a fresher stack of napkins and shoving them into Sam’s lax hand.

“Thanks,” Sam mumbled, taking a few vague swipes at the mess on his stomach before Dean rolled his eyes and took over.

When he finished, balling up the napkins to give them a toss out the window later, he glanced back up and met the full force of Sam’s dimpled grin. Inexplicably, it made the back of his neck burn.

Not sure what to do, Dean stayed where he was, sinking down until some of his weight rested lightly on Sam. “So, uh. Probably only about sixty miles out of Dunbin.”

“What’s in Dunbin?”

“Decent motel.”

“Ah,” Sam breathed. He craned his neck up to glance at the window. “Guess we probably should get off the road, huh.”

Dean nodded. “Probably.”

“I’m still driving.”

A bright, shining bubble of something very much like insanity welled up in Dean’s chest. He cleared his throat, said, “S’okay with me. ‘Bout time you earned your keep, freeloader.”

It took a couple minutes to untangle themselves and get their clothes back together. For a good chunk of that, Dean debated post-coital protocol in this particular situation. The whole sibling thing threw a slight wrench in the proceedings.

“Quit thinking,” Sam ordered, which was so out of whack with the usual order of things that all Dean could do was gape. “Sit next to me.”

“I am next to you, dipwad,” Dean grumbled, but he shuffled a little closer, one leg halfway up on the seat and the other stretched out long, dangling over the side. “Happy?”

Sam cranked the key, grinning. He pulled back onto the clear road and punched it, then slung his arm along the back of the seat.

If Dean leaned back into it, well. He’d just deny it later.


2 Responses to “Smoke Signals”

  1. Abby Says:

    Omg this is so cute!! Well, hot too, but surprisingly adorable as well. Aw, who am I kidding–all of your work is brilliant :D

  2. abi z Says:

    Oh, yum. I like the red herring of the incubus, and how tentative and hot their sex is. Nice!

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