Fic: By The Horns (Dean/Sam)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 5,150
Warnings: AU, demi-god!boys, underage (Sam is 16), first time, oral, public sex
Notes: Another cresture!boys fic, this time for the_miss_lv and kototyph's prompt, horned gods. Thanks as always to gedry for the cheerleading and helping hand. I didn't get nearly as much time to edit this as I wanted, so I apologize if it sucks but there's not going to be a lot of free time this weekend, so it's post now or wait until Monday... Also, apparently creature!fic give me a comulsion to make terrible puns out of my titles.
Summary - Sam is aware, in the most painful and acute of ways, that he has never really been normal.
On AO3
Sam is aware, in the most painful and acute of ways, that he has never really been normal. He’s tried - oh God, he’s tried - but it’s like there’s some part of him that wasn’t put together right, some odd angle that just won’t let him fit into place. Now, sitting in the middle of the woods, in the middle of nowhere, with no actual clue how he got here, he thinks he’s starting to understand exactly what part of him that is.
The horns. It’s totally the horns.
In his defense, he probably could have figured out that it was the horns interfering with his normative high school experience much earlier if, you know, he’d had them much earlier. As it is, a month ago he’d been convinced he had a couple of those annoying under-the-skin zits. Two weeks ago he’d been convinced he had tumors - freaky, malignant forehead tumors. Yesterday the stretched-thin, irritated skin over the lumps had split, revealing dark, bony protrusions and Sam had been convinced he was having a very long, elaborate nightmare.
Now he can only assume he has died and this is the most jacked up version of hell in the known universe. Because there’s a bonfire with mostly naked people dancing - and, ok, that one couple, totally not dancing, even if they are doing it to the beat of the music that’s coming from nowhere - around it despite the early spring chill and a guy standing in front of him with horns. Like the ones that are apparently growing out of Sam’s head, only not, you know, tiny and lame. His are like horns - black and glossy, moonlight catching on the ridges scalloping the curve of them up to points that curve back to disappear in the spikes of his dark blond hair.
He’s leaning back on this car that’s just as black and shiny as his horns, jeans caught low enough on his hips to reveal a little sliver of flesh under a t-shirt and leather jacket. If it weren’t for the friggin' antlers growing out of his forehead, he’d probably be the most normal-seeming guy here, but those things are seriously hard to overlook. And he looks entirely too pleased to see Sam.
Against his better judgment - pulled against his will by the heady draw of music and smoke on the air - Sam slowly walks toward the gathering. The last thing he remembers is his eyelids getting heavy as he probed the internet for an explanation for spontaneous horn growth. He’d been in a pair of sweats because he hasn’t bothered to leave the house since the tumor phase but now he’s got on his favorite pair of jeans and a flannel, crunching old pine needles and twigs under his tennis shoes.
Hell is confusing.
“Sammy,” the guy grins, firelight casting strange shadows over his features. He’s good looking in that Abercrombie-model-meets-anime-fan's-wet-dream kind of way. All muscled lines, curved and corded in a way that looks natural and effortless, topped off with a pretty boy face of pouty lips and big green eyes with eyelashes like smudges of soot. The whole package makes Sam feel knobby and coltish all over again, even though he’s really started to fill out around his height this past year - almost seventeen, it’s about damn time.
It doesn’t register until several seconds too late that the guy called him by name. At that point, though, what he’s calling Sam doesn’t really matter because he’s pushed himself off the car and, faster than Sam can react, has his arms wrapped around him in a fierce hug that has his feet bidding farewell to the ground.
“Look at you!” the horned dude enthuses while Sam’s still trying to re-expand his rib cage, “You got so big!”
Before Sam’s fully recovered from the first wave of assault, the guy’s got a hand on either side of his face to hold him still for a head-butt that sends Sam reeling. Pain starbursts through his skull, blinding him and turning his knees liquid. But for a strong pressure around his middle he’d be kissing the dirt.
Gentle fingers brush his bangs back from his forehead, soothing over the stinging places where he’s sure blood is blooming under the skin.
“Sorry, sorry, kiddo.” The guy’s voice whisper-laughs against his cheek, leaving moist, warm imprints that make Sam’s hair stand on end. “Forgot you’re still a delicate flower.”
He smells like freshly turned earth and rain, leather and musk and motor oil. Under the jacket he’s burning hot, a soothing heat that melts through Sam’s shirt where they’re pressed chest to chest, thaws his cold fingers as they find their way around the guy’s back, slipping under his shirt to meet soft skin. Sam’s never felt like all of his pieces lock together quite as thoroughly as they do at this moment. That must have been one hell of a blow to the head.
A set of soft kisses get laid against the space between the blunt jut of horns just below his hairline, just a little bit damp where the inside of the guy’s lips touch his skin. At the same time his thumbs sidle up against the mounds where the broken skin is still swollen and tender to press tiny circles into the flesh. The pain flares briefly before mellowing into this pleasant ache like massaging an overworked muscle.
It’s all stupidly comforting, this scent and this presence, strong fingers raking through his hair, strong body holding him in close. Comforting enough that it takes Sam a minute to remember that there are a number of very not ok things going on at the moment, not the least of which being the drugging, happy thrum running through his veins. Something is definitely up.
As soon as that filters through his head, Sam is pulling away. Trying to anyway, not that he gets far with the guy’s arm still wrapped around his waist like a steel band, keeping their hips locked together even as he arches back enough to really look the guy in the face.
He’s still smiling at Sam, happy as can be - guileless, guiltless. Like this is business as usual for him. And shit, maybe it is, maybe this is like his job or something - confuse the newbies so they don’t fight the fact that they’re in hell even though they never had nearly enough fun to really deserve to be there. Shit, he can’t be Satan, right? There would at least be a pitchfork or something. So, like, a demon, or... or something? But if he is, then what does that make Sam?
“Man, you think way to damn hard,” he grins, bright and easy, pushing in closer to Sam’s face. For a second Sam thinks he’s in for another headbutt but at the last second the guy tilts and instead it’s just their lips that make contact, a satin-soft brush that zips across Sam’s nerves like licking a battery. “C’mon, let’s get you something to drink.”
His sneakers skid over damp leaves slowly decomposing into the forest floor but the guy doesn’t seem to mind that he’s mostly dragging Sam toward the circle of light like a ragdoll. Doesn’t even seem to notice, in fact.
As they approach, a girl in purple lace underwear - she has got to freezing but you'd never know it - breaks off from the group she's laughing wildly with to snatch up one of the red plastic cups that seemed to be scattered around everywhere and bring it over to them. With the cup changing hands, she kisses the horned guy, mouth wide open so Sam catches shutter-flashes of their tongues writhing together, glossy in the firelight.
She huffs this sound when they finish, like the bastard child of a laugh and a sigh that Sam's brain jumps in with 'swoon'. Her lips are all slick and pouty, moreso when she licks them and scrapes the bottom one with her teeth and it's not until she's pressed up against his chest that Sam realizes she's been watching him stare at them.
Clearly Sam missed some important information about this party - like, all of it - because evidently this kissing strangers thing is like a trend or something. With Anonymous Purple Lingerie Girl's tongue pushing into his mouth, he can't seem to feel very upset about it.
What? He's mostly an adult and maybe possibly dead. He can makeout with hot crazy people if he wants to.
A dark, velvet laugh pouring into the curl of his ear brings his attention back to the Maybe-devil-demon-thing guy who, Sam realizes with sudden clarity, has a thumb hooked inside of Sam's waistband, hot against the cut of his hip. It startles him enough that he pulls back from the girl's mouth, getting an unhappy sound in response and this hip roll that- Yeah, ok, his dick's more than a little bit interested.
But there's the guy, this guy with freaking horns and he's all up in Sam's space, bridge of his nose to Sam's cheekbone and his breath so damn warm, like a mid-summer wind caressing Sam's neck so goosebumps pop up and he shivers paradoxically. This is so not the time to be hard and - fuck, he's never going to be able to use the word horny again, is he? - turned-on and rules by his dick. Sam hasn't got an ever-loving clue what kind of time it is, but it's definitely not that time.
“Who the hell are you?” splutters out of Sam’s mouth. Maybe not the best choice of words under the circumstances, but whatever.
That pulls the guy up short. He's still smiling, drawn back just enough that Sam can see him while still sharing all that body heat, but there’s a waver to it that wasn’t there before.
“I’m Dean,” he says, and it might just be the way the fire catches on the gold flecks in his eyes, but he almost looks pleading. “You were probably too young to remember, but you used to call me Dee. I- I took care of you.”
At some point the girl must have melted back into the crowd, but Sam missed it. Only notices now because Dean slides around so he's directly in front of Sam, arms looped around his hips, and he doesn't have to jostle her out of the way to do it. Thick fingers pluck at Sam's shirt at the small of his back, the temperature there rising and falling slightly with the flushes of fresh air. He can feel the cup resting against the curve of his ass, this tiny brush that makes him feel skittish and unglued.
"I've never met you before," Sam argues as if there's one single second of anything that's happened so far that follows the laws of reason.
Dean flinches, barely perceptible but it's there. If anything, though, he's crowding in closer to Sam who's still just standing here taking it for reasons he can't even begin to grasp. Shock, maybe.
"All your life," is solemn, a statement and a whisper that breaks against Sam's skin and seeps into his pores.
There's got to be something to say to that, but Sam doesn't know what it is. He's not really in a position to argue considering he's stumbling blind through this whole whateveritis and Dean seems so sure that it's almost like...
No. Sam brushes away that 'did I remember to lock the door' tingle because there's nothing he's forgotten and the moment he does it's gone like fog in the sunlight.
In a blink the whole atmosphere changes. Those serious eyes Dean had him locked with thaw to an easy non-chalance and his arm is crooking around Sam's shoulders, tugging him into a one-sided hug. It's weird. It's all very, very weird and Sam's not sure why he's surprised by that, all told.
"C'mon, kid," he claps Sam on the arm, taking a deep drink out of the cup the girl had brought them before offering it up to Sam. "It'll make you feel better."
Drinking beverage of unknown origin is one of those things his grandma and grandpa brought him up smart enough to know not to do. Then again, they've spent the last couple of weeks sending each other furtive glance and insisting that the fact that he's growing freaking horns isn't anything to worry about, so what the hell.
He'd been expecting beer - are you even allowed to serve anything but beer out of red plastic cups? - but his mouth is flooded instead with something sweet and thick that he doesn't have the words to describe. It's like it bypassed his entire digestive system and slides straight into his veins, warm honey and sparks lighting him up on the inside.
It's so good but it's... it's wrong. One sip shouldn't make him feel like this. It's got to be drugged or something, dosed somehow-
"There you go." Dean puts a finger against the bottom of the cup as Sam moves to lower it, tipping it back against his lips again so the sweet liquid rushes past them. Sam can't keep himself from swallowing. "Food of the gods, baby boy."
He couldn't stop if he wanted to, not with Dean urging him on like this, but he doesn't bother to try again. Not until the cup is drained dry and he's licking the taste from his lips.
The world is spinning just a little bit faster than it was a minute ago but he doesn't feel drunk. He feels connected. Plugged in and just- just right in this crazy, spinny, perfect way. And Dean! Dean's great. He's just, like, just right. Just like exactly the person Sam needs and not just because he's probably the only thing that's holding Sam up right now. He's like good. Like really good. They should kiss again, that was good too. Kissing, yes, more of that.
Dean laughs against Sam's mouth when he tips his head onto Dean's shoulder and offers up his mouth but he doesn't say no.
Sam’s kissed a few people before. Girls. Okay, a couple. It’s never hit him like this before, though. Never made him want to open up and take everything the way just the ghost of Dean's breath on his lips does, put himself at the mercy of a slick slide of tongue and that shuddery electric bliss that he just got a shadow of earlier.
Dean seems to be perfectly content with the situation, holding Sam still with a palm to the back of his head so he can eat at Sam’s mouth. At the soft hollow of his temple he can feel one of Dean’s horns, smooth and slightly cool and he’s struck suddenly with the idea of what it would be like if his own matched. Would they tangle or slip against each other? What would it feel like? How would it work?
He's got this impression in his head like a photo out of focus of a sensation, a pressure, strange and alien but familiar. Then Dean's fingers comb through his hair again, one butting up against the tiny nub of his horn to trace around it and it all comes into clarity so sharply Sam's surprised it doesn't leave him sliced open and bleeding.
The "Dean!" that jolts out of him would be a shout if he could freaking breathe. He ends up stumbling backward against Dean's car - when the hell did they get over here? - when he pulls away because his legs try to collapse under him, leaving him clinging to night-cold black metal and glass for a substitute.
"Yeah?" Dean's edging forward, worry clear in every line of his face. One of his hands hovers in midair between them, halting when Sam winces away.
Sam doesn't want to say it, can't even process it with all of these impossible memories of his parents and a house and a life long before he should have been old enough to be able to remember anything crashing in on him, but it's also the closest thing out of all the mess in his head to being something he can deal with so it comes out anyway, choked and awed. "You're my brother."
Dean's grin is so huge it seems like dawn should break, like the whole clearing is going to go bright with that elated flash of teeth as its own miniature sun.
"Yeah," Dean says again, almost a laugh. Apparently it makes him forget all about personal space because he's bracketing Sam in against the car now, pressing his face into the warm hollow under Sam's ear and licking at the skin as if he can't feel Sam rigid and struggling against him.
"No, Dean! You're my brother!" he insists. There's a door handle digging into the meat of his ass hard enough it'll probably bruise but it's the only way he can get anything remotely resembling space between his body and his brother's. His freaking brother! Oh God. Oh shit.
"Yeah..." Dean says slowly like he's waiting on Sam to make a point. As if it's not perfectly obvious what's wrong with this scenario.
He eases back enough that they're looking each other in the eye, but there's still an arm planted against the roof of the car on either side of Sam and Dean's legs are still long trails of heat melting through Sam's jeans.
And Sam honestly can't think of a good way to phrase this so he just bursts out with it, too loud for the scrap of space between them. "You kissed me!"
Kind of a lot, actually, with Sam as a willing participant for at least part of it. Great, he finds out he's not in hell - that he's a freaking demi-god, what the fuck? - only to immediately buy himself a one way pass downstairs with his brother.
Dean rolls his eyes so hard he's bound to have strained something, muttering, "Fucking humans," before grabbing Sam by the chin and forcing their mouths together again.
Sam's squeak into it is anything but manly but right now he doesn't particularly care. Dean's sucking at Sam's lips, fingers pressing into his cheek to pry his jaw open so he can force his tongue inside. The most messed-up part about it - and considering he's being forcibly made out with by his newly remembered sibling, that's saying something - is that it still feels just as good.
Sam wasn't doing so hot at standing on his own anyway and the rough satin swipe of Dean's tastebuds against his own is just making his knees weaker. It's ok, though, because Dean's using his hips to pin Sam to the car, keeping them both upright while also making it painfully, deliciously obvious that they're both rock hard.
"'S wrong," Sam manages to slur when Dean changes the angle. Admittedly the fact that he's trying to lick Dean's molars at the same time detracts somewhat from the objection.
"Does it feel wrong?" smears against the corner of Sam's mouth. As much as he knows he should, Sam can't get himself to say yes. Instead he moans out a wordless noise that Dean catches with his mouth, warm used air pouring back and forth between them at the rate of Sam's erratically pounding heart.
"Sixteen years, Sammy," Dean pants, his hips starting up the rough, churning grind that tears Sam's focus to ribbons, "They could take you away from Mom and Dad but not from me. Even when you weren't allowed to see me, I always watched out for you. Always. And now you're all grown up and you can choose for yourself."
So carefully, he shakes his head, just enough that the hard curve of his horns catch at the stubs of Sam's with a soft clack that jars Sam down to his marrow. He remembers them - people, no, not people, gods; angry with his mother for... for choosing a human, loving him, having his children. Being torn from her arms because of some technicality and not understanding, never understanding until he forgot it altogether, until he was just the human he was sent to be raised as.
"Don't tell me no now," it's a plea, nothing but, and it gets under Sam''s skin in ways he doesn't think anything has before. "Not after everything, Sam, please. You're my brother."
All things considered, that shouldn't mean much. Sam's got maybe six months’ worth of memories - he was a goddamn baby, how does he even have memories? - and the last hour or so to go by; hardly anything in the grand scheme of things but still everything when it comes to Dean. Because Dean held him and played with him and helped feed him. Because Dean kissed him goodnight every night when their mother put him to bed. Because Dean, tiny and golden with his chubby fingers and little prongs for horns, reaching out for Sam as he was taken away, screaming Sam's name, has been a part of every single nightmare Sam has ever had even if he didn't remember why.
Because he's Dean and Sam never had a chance to learn how to say no to that.
It should feel stranger than it does when he lifts a hand to run his fingers through Dean's clipped hair, stalls out halfway and ends up palming the back of his head instead, pulling him in until their lips crash together.
There are a lot of things Sam still doesn't understand and probably a lot more that they should really sit down and talk about - like, oh, say, everything that's happened since he was six months old - but there's still this thrum in his system like sitting on a amp with the base turned all the way up and he can't get past it. So he does the only thing he can do; he hitches his leg up against Dean's hip and goes with it.
Dean groans like he's dying and loving every second of it. He ducks out of the kiss to mouth at Sam's neck instead, shocky-sharp thrills burrowing down into Sam's gut as he nips at straining tendons.
“I wanted you to remember," he says like Sam can process one damn thing outside of the rough friction of Dean's cock rutting against his own, "I thought for sure when you saw me-“
Sam cuts him off with a breathless, doped-up, “I dreamt about you. I didn’t understand, but you were always there. I never forgot that.”
It has Dean groaning again, hands skidding over the car's roof with a sweat-tacky squeals. Then he's down on his knees, crumpling gracelessly to breathe hot-spots into the swollen thickness under the sipper of Sam's jeans. Sam almost joins him on the ground involuntarily, only Dean's hands bruising firm on his hips keeping him steady.
The blunt curve of his horns presses into Sam's belly, shortening his breaths as hard bone digs against tender softness. He'd probably mind it if he could, like, think, but whether it's the drink or Dean or the fact that everything he has ever believed about himself and the world at large has just been turned on its head, Sam has no particular ability or inclination to do anything but watch the soft give of Dean's lips against tough denim as he rolls his hips.
He doesn't seem to need much more incentive to get Sam's jeans open, the first rush of cold air on hot flesh seizing up Sam's lungs. Which is about the time that Sam remembers this isn't exactly a private party.
They're standing far enough outside of the circle of firelight that they aren't completely on display here, but one look up tells him they haven't been entirely forgotten either. The music-from-nowhere has picked up a heavier pulse, tempo clicking up a few notches to a fittingly-frantic pace. Most of the people - Dean's followers or friends or whatever they are - appear to have been swept up in it, dancing devolving into something that looks a hell of a lot more like an orgy. There are still a few on the fringe, though, sticking to more casual touches and undulations, focus unabashedly on where Sam is propped up against Dean's car with his dick hanging out and his brother on his knees in front of him and-
Thoughts. Sam had them. Really, he did. Now they're fond memory because sweet holy fucking fucking fuck. Dean's mouth. It's awesome. Sam wants to live there.
The feeling - hot, wet, slick, fuck - is overwhelming, so much so that it isn't until Dean hums happily and arches into it that Sam even realizes what his hands are doing. The answer is using Dean's horns like handles to push him down further onto Sam's cock.
Dean glances up at him through the spread of Sam's arms, eyes shadowed by the angle and the lust swollen pupil that has all but erased his irises. His lips are pouted obscenely around the thick swell of Sam's cock, dark and shiny with spit, cheeks hollowed out enough on a slow suck that Sam can see the shape of the head through Dean's cheek. There's not a single part of that that should look even a quarter as hot as it does.
Against his hold Dean's horns jerk slightly, a pointed nudge that makes Sam's damp palms slide against ridged bone - permission as much as the uptick of his eyebrow is a dare.
The horns are just starting to warm under Sam's touch when he firms his grip, pulling just a little tentatively at first, then harder when Dean bucks into it. There are rules for this kind of thing, Sam's sure. Well, maybe not this kind of thing - he doesn't know if there are enough people out there who have been given blow jobs by horned demi-gods to have a firmly established set of protocols - but getting head, there's definitely rules for that. Sam doesn't know what they are and if he ever did, the memory is long gone, but he's still pretty sure he's got to be doing it wrong as he feels Dean go tense and loose by turns while Sam uses him.
Dimly Sam can hear things over the rapid huff of his own breath and the swirl of blood in his ears. The music is still there, keeping tempo with Sam's scattershot heartbeat, and the people, moans and grunts punctuated by giddy, unhinged laughter and things that might be praise or suggestions or who knows what. He feels like some of them are directed at him - them, together - but he's too distracted by the wet click of Dean's throat, almost gagging, fighting to swallow, porn-nasty and blazing fucking hot, to actually listen or care.
There are reflex-tears watering at the corners of Dean's eyes but he's just letting Sam have his way, manipulating Dean's head by the horns in little shifts and hitches that have him alternately going deep, pulling out to thrusts shallowly against the silky insides of Dean's cheeks.
He's too high on this to be allowed to think about anything and still he finds himself wandering off into the idea of how Dean expected this to go. Did he want it sloppy and frenetic and in over their heads the way it is now or had he planned something else, soft and easy? Is this his style, all-in, giving it all up for all the people he sleeps with or is it something just for Sam, his baby brother? If the years he's spent watching out for Sam, never able to interact is what brought this on, some kind of creepy, pining obsession or if this is just... them? A part of their nature.
Not that it matters - not right now. Later, maybe a lot, but not now.
The sweet rasp of Dean's tongue sinks into Sam's nerves, sets them shivering like his breath, aching like his balls. He feels like whatever tether used to keep him grounded to the Earth snapped and somehow got tangled up around Dean. If the dirt under his feet disappeared right now, Sam doubts he'd even know it, just as long as Dean was still there, still doing that.
At some point along the way Dean got his own dick out of his jeans, his fist moving over it in an unsteady blur as he humps up into his own grip. Sam only gets flashes of it, fat, glossy head through the circle of thick fingers, dark, heavy shaft that makes his mouth water. Pretty sure that's a brand spanking new reaction to a dick, but whatever, Dean's looks good, really good. Especially framed by Sam's arms manhandling Dean into taking him deeper, all long fluttering eyelashes and this moan that takes Sam's brain, tosses it in a blender and hits puree.
The heat boiling in the pit of Sam's stomach prowls out under his skin, making the little prickles of air-cool sweat at his hairline tingle like shaken soda. He feels fevered, delirious, motherfucking awesome. Then Dean tosses him this look that, like... Eyes can't actually flash hot, ok? But it feels like it, like there's something simmering just behind the surface of Dean's just waiting to pounce on him.
And Sam explodes like shatterglass.
Thick, choking waves of ecstasy wash him under, Dean sucking him through it ravenously, shoving more sideways pleasure deep into Sam's veins. It's perfection on that crackling edge of painful and Sam can't do anything but surrender and trust Dean to get him through it.
"Come on, baby boy," Dean's whispering against Sam's cheek when he finally manages to tune back in again. In the background he hears something that sounds unnervingly like cheering.
He's on his ass in the dirt - like, bare ass meets dirt; awesome - with the cold metal of the car door bleeding through his shirt at the back.The heat of Dean's body kneeling all but on top of him counterbalances it so that all Sam has room to feel is sated and sticky.
The sticky part seems to have a lot to do with Dean's hand rubbing over his belly, a suspiciously thick wetness that's growing tacky on Sam's skin.
"Dude, did you just rub your spunk on me?" Sam's voice sounds like he's been snacking on sandpaper and there's like, absolutely zero inflection, but he still thinks the accusation comes across. All it does is make Dean smirk.
Sighing, "I have the weirdest brother in the world," pumps the look up to Cheshire cat proportions. It also earns Sam a slow, soft kiss that melts into an even slower, deeper one so he figures that's ok. Somehow or other. He really doesn't have the energy at the moment to worry about the details. And with the way Dean's hands are wandering, he's starting to doubt if he's going to have the opportunity either.
Yeah, it's good to be home.
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 5,150
Warnings: AU, demi-god!boys, underage (Sam is 16), first time, oral, public sex
Notes: Another cresture!boys fic, this time for the_miss_lv and kototyph's prompt, horned gods. Thanks as always to gedry for the cheerleading and helping hand. I didn't get nearly as much time to edit this as I wanted, so I apologize if it sucks but there's not going to be a lot of free time this weekend, so it's post now or wait until Monday... Also, apparently creature!fic give me a comulsion to make terrible puns out of my titles.
Summary - Sam is aware, in the most painful and acute of ways, that he has never really been normal.
On AO3
Sam is aware, in the most painful and acute of ways, that he has never really been normal. He’s tried - oh God, he’s tried - but it’s like there’s some part of him that wasn’t put together right, some odd angle that just won’t let him fit into place. Now, sitting in the middle of the woods, in the middle of nowhere, with no actual clue how he got here, he thinks he’s starting to understand exactly what part of him that is.
The horns. It’s totally the horns.
In his defense, he probably could have figured out that it was the horns interfering with his normative high school experience much earlier if, you know, he’d had them much earlier. As it is, a month ago he’d been convinced he had a couple of those annoying under-the-skin zits. Two weeks ago he’d been convinced he had tumors - freaky, malignant forehead tumors. Yesterday the stretched-thin, irritated skin over the lumps had split, revealing dark, bony protrusions and Sam had been convinced he was having a very long, elaborate nightmare.
Now he can only assume he has died and this is the most jacked up version of hell in the known universe. Because there’s a bonfire with mostly naked people dancing - and, ok, that one couple, totally not dancing, even if they are doing it to the beat of the music that’s coming from nowhere - around it despite the early spring chill and a guy standing in front of him with horns. Like the ones that are apparently growing out of Sam’s head, only not, you know, tiny and lame. His are like horns - black and glossy, moonlight catching on the ridges scalloping the curve of them up to points that curve back to disappear in the spikes of his dark blond hair.
He’s leaning back on this car that’s just as black and shiny as his horns, jeans caught low enough on his hips to reveal a little sliver of flesh under a t-shirt and leather jacket. If it weren’t for the friggin' antlers growing out of his forehead, he’d probably be the most normal-seeming guy here, but those things are seriously hard to overlook. And he looks entirely too pleased to see Sam.
Against his better judgment - pulled against his will by the heady draw of music and smoke on the air - Sam slowly walks toward the gathering. The last thing he remembers is his eyelids getting heavy as he probed the internet for an explanation for spontaneous horn growth. He’d been in a pair of sweats because he hasn’t bothered to leave the house since the tumor phase but now he’s got on his favorite pair of jeans and a flannel, crunching old pine needles and twigs under his tennis shoes.
Hell is confusing.
“Sammy,” the guy grins, firelight casting strange shadows over his features. He’s good looking in that Abercrombie-model-meets-anime-fan's-wet-dream kind of way. All muscled lines, curved and corded in a way that looks natural and effortless, topped off with a pretty boy face of pouty lips and big green eyes with eyelashes like smudges of soot. The whole package makes Sam feel knobby and coltish all over again, even though he’s really started to fill out around his height this past year - almost seventeen, it’s about damn time.
It doesn’t register until several seconds too late that the guy called him by name. At that point, though, what he’s calling Sam doesn’t really matter because he’s pushed himself off the car and, faster than Sam can react, has his arms wrapped around him in a fierce hug that has his feet bidding farewell to the ground.
“Look at you!” the horned dude enthuses while Sam’s still trying to re-expand his rib cage, “You got so big!”
Before Sam’s fully recovered from the first wave of assault, the guy’s got a hand on either side of his face to hold him still for a head-butt that sends Sam reeling. Pain starbursts through his skull, blinding him and turning his knees liquid. But for a strong pressure around his middle he’d be kissing the dirt.
Gentle fingers brush his bangs back from his forehead, soothing over the stinging places where he’s sure blood is blooming under the skin.
“Sorry, sorry, kiddo.” The guy’s voice whisper-laughs against his cheek, leaving moist, warm imprints that make Sam’s hair stand on end. “Forgot you’re still a delicate flower.”
He smells like freshly turned earth and rain, leather and musk and motor oil. Under the jacket he’s burning hot, a soothing heat that melts through Sam’s shirt where they’re pressed chest to chest, thaws his cold fingers as they find their way around the guy’s back, slipping under his shirt to meet soft skin. Sam’s never felt like all of his pieces lock together quite as thoroughly as they do at this moment. That must have been one hell of a blow to the head.
A set of soft kisses get laid against the space between the blunt jut of horns just below his hairline, just a little bit damp where the inside of the guy’s lips touch his skin. At the same time his thumbs sidle up against the mounds where the broken skin is still swollen and tender to press tiny circles into the flesh. The pain flares briefly before mellowing into this pleasant ache like massaging an overworked muscle.
It’s all stupidly comforting, this scent and this presence, strong fingers raking through his hair, strong body holding him in close. Comforting enough that it takes Sam a minute to remember that there are a number of very not ok things going on at the moment, not the least of which being the drugging, happy thrum running through his veins. Something is definitely up.
As soon as that filters through his head, Sam is pulling away. Trying to anyway, not that he gets far with the guy’s arm still wrapped around his waist like a steel band, keeping their hips locked together even as he arches back enough to really look the guy in the face.
He’s still smiling at Sam, happy as can be - guileless, guiltless. Like this is business as usual for him. And shit, maybe it is, maybe this is like his job or something - confuse the newbies so they don’t fight the fact that they’re in hell even though they never had nearly enough fun to really deserve to be there. Shit, he can’t be Satan, right? There would at least be a pitchfork or something. So, like, a demon, or... or something? But if he is, then what does that make Sam?
“Man, you think way to damn hard,” he grins, bright and easy, pushing in closer to Sam’s face. For a second Sam thinks he’s in for another headbutt but at the last second the guy tilts and instead it’s just their lips that make contact, a satin-soft brush that zips across Sam’s nerves like licking a battery. “C’mon, let’s get you something to drink.”
His sneakers skid over damp leaves slowly decomposing into the forest floor but the guy doesn’t seem to mind that he’s mostly dragging Sam toward the circle of light like a ragdoll. Doesn’t even seem to notice, in fact.
As they approach, a girl in purple lace underwear - she has got to freezing but you'd never know it - breaks off from the group she's laughing wildly with to snatch up one of the red plastic cups that seemed to be scattered around everywhere and bring it over to them. With the cup changing hands, she kisses the horned guy, mouth wide open so Sam catches shutter-flashes of their tongues writhing together, glossy in the firelight.
She huffs this sound when they finish, like the bastard child of a laugh and a sigh that Sam's brain jumps in with 'swoon'. Her lips are all slick and pouty, moreso when she licks them and scrapes the bottom one with her teeth and it's not until she's pressed up against his chest that Sam realizes she's been watching him stare at them.
Clearly Sam missed some important information about this party - like, all of it - because evidently this kissing strangers thing is like a trend or something. With Anonymous Purple Lingerie Girl's tongue pushing into his mouth, he can't seem to feel very upset about it.
What? He's mostly an adult and maybe possibly dead. He can makeout with hot crazy people if he wants to.
A dark, velvet laugh pouring into the curl of his ear brings his attention back to the Maybe-devil-demon-thing guy who, Sam realizes with sudden clarity, has a thumb hooked inside of Sam's waistband, hot against the cut of his hip. It startles him enough that he pulls back from the girl's mouth, getting an unhappy sound in response and this hip roll that- Yeah, ok, his dick's more than a little bit interested.
But there's the guy, this guy with freaking horns and he's all up in Sam's space, bridge of his nose to Sam's cheekbone and his breath so damn warm, like a mid-summer wind caressing Sam's neck so goosebumps pop up and he shivers paradoxically. This is so not the time to be hard and - fuck, he's never going to be able to use the word horny again, is he? - turned-on and rules by his dick. Sam hasn't got an ever-loving clue what kind of time it is, but it's definitely not that time.
“Who the hell are you?” splutters out of Sam’s mouth. Maybe not the best choice of words under the circumstances, but whatever.
That pulls the guy up short. He's still smiling, drawn back just enough that Sam can see him while still sharing all that body heat, but there’s a waver to it that wasn’t there before.
“I’m Dean,” he says, and it might just be the way the fire catches on the gold flecks in his eyes, but he almost looks pleading. “You were probably too young to remember, but you used to call me Dee. I- I took care of you.”
At some point the girl must have melted back into the crowd, but Sam missed it. Only notices now because Dean slides around so he's directly in front of Sam, arms looped around his hips, and he doesn't have to jostle her out of the way to do it. Thick fingers pluck at Sam's shirt at the small of his back, the temperature there rising and falling slightly with the flushes of fresh air. He can feel the cup resting against the curve of his ass, this tiny brush that makes him feel skittish and unglued.
"I've never met you before," Sam argues as if there's one single second of anything that's happened so far that follows the laws of reason.
Dean flinches, barely perceptible but it's there. If anything, though, he's crowding in closer to Sam who's still just standing here taking it for reasons he can't even begin to grasp. Shock, maybe.
"All your life," is solemn, a statement and a whisper that breaks against Sam's skin and seeps into his pores.
There's got to be something to say to that, but Sam doesn't know what it is. He's not really in a position to argue considering he's stumbling blind through this whole whateveritis and Dean seems so sure that it's almost like...
No. Sam brushes away that 'did I remember to lock the door' tingle because there's nothing he's forgotten and the moment he does it's gone like fog in the sunlight.
In a blink the whole atmosphere changes. Those serious eyes Dean had him locked with thaw to an easy non-chalance and his arm is crooking around Sam's shoulders, tugging him into a one-sided hug. It's weird. It's all very, very weird and Sam's not sure why he's surprised by that, all told.
"C'mon, kid," he claps Sam on the arm, taking a deep drink out of the cup the girl had brought them before offering it up to Sam. "It'll make you feel better."
Drinking beverage of unknown origin is one of those things his grandma and grandpa brought him up smart enough to know not to do. Then again, they've spent the last couple of weeks sending each other furtive glance and insisting that the fact that he's growing freaking horns isn't anything to worry about, so what the hell.
He'd been expecting beer - are you even allowed to serve anything but beer out of red plastic cups? - but his mouth is flooded instead with something sweet and thick that he doesn't have the words to describe. It's like it bypassed his entire digestive system and slides straight into his veins, warm honey and sparks lighting him up on the inside.
It's so good but it's... it's wrong. One sip shouldn't make him feel like this. It's got to be drugged or something, dosed somehow-
"There you go." Dean puts a finger against the bottom of the cup as Sam moves to lower it, tipping it back against his lips again so the sweet liquid rushes past them. Sam can't keep himself from swallowing. "Food of the gods, baby boy."
He couldn't stop if he wanted to, not with Dean urging him on like this, but he doesn't bother to try again. Not until the cup is drained dry and he's licking the taste from his lips.
The world is spinning just a little bit faster than it was a minute ago but he doesn't feel drunk. He feels connected. Plugged in and just- just right in this crazy, spinny, perfect way. And Dean! Dean's great. He's just, like, just right. Just like exactly the person Sam needs and not just because he's probably the only thing that's holding Sam up right now. He's like good. Like really good. They should kiss again, that was good too. Kissing, yes, more of that.
Dean laughs against Sam's mouth when he tips his head onto Dean's shoulder and offers up his mouth but he doesn't say no.
Sam’s kissed a few people before. Girls. Okay, a couple. It’s never hit him like this before, though. Never made him want to open up and take everything the way just the ghost of Dean's breath on his lips does, put himself at the mercy of a slick slide of tongue and that shuddery electric bliss that he just got a shadow of earlier.
Dean seems to be perfectly content with the situation, holding Sam still with a palm to the back of his head so he can eat at Sam’s mouth. At the soft hollow of his temple he can feel one of Dean’s horns, smooth and slightly cool and he’s struck suddenly with the idea of what it would be like if his own matched. Would they tangle or slip against each other? What would it feel like? How would it work?
He's got this impression in his head like a photo out of focus of a sensation, a pressure, strange and alien but familiar. Then Dean's fingers comb through his hair again, one butting up against the tiny nub of his horn to trace around it and it all comes into clarity so sharply Sam's surprised it doesn't leave him sliced open and bleeding.
The "Dean!" that jolts out of him would be a shout if he could freaking breathe. He ends up stumbling backward against Dean's car - when the hell did they get over here? - when he pulls away because his legs try to collapse under him, leaving him clinging to night-cold black metal and glass for a substitute.
"Yeah?" Dean's edging forward, worry clear in every line of his face. One of his hands hovers in midair between them, halting when Sam winces away.
Sam doesn't want to say it, can't even process it with all of these impossible memories of his parents and a house and a life long before he should have been old enough to be able to remember anything crashing in on him, but it's also the closest thing out of all the mess in his head to being something he can deal with so it comes out anyway, choked and awed. "You're my brother."
Dean's grin is so huge it seems like dawn should break, like the whole clearing is going to go bright with that elated flash of teeth as its own miniature sun.
"Yeah," Dean says again, almost a laugh. Apparently it makes him forget all about personal space because he's bracketing Sam in against the car now, pressing his face into the warm hollow under Sam's ear and licking at the skin as if he can't feel Sam rigid and struggling against him.
"No, Dean! You're my brother!" he insists. There's a door handle digging into the meat of his ass hard enough it'll probably bruise but it's the only way he can get anything remotely resembling space between his body and his brother's. His freaking brother! Oh God. Oh shit.
"Yeah..." Dean says slowly like he's waiting on Sam to make a point. As if it's not perfectly obvious what's wrong with this scenario.
He eases back enough that they're looking each other in the eye, but there's still an arm planted against the roof of the car on either side of Sam and Dean's legs are still long trails of heat melting through Sam's jeans.
And Sam honestly can't think of a good way to phrase this so he just bursts out with it, too loud for the scrap of space between them. "You kissed me!"
Kind of a lot, actually, with Sam as a willing participant for at least part of it. Great, he finds out he's not in hell - that he's a freaking demi-god, what the fuck? - only to immediately buy himself a one way pass downstairs with his brother.
Dean rolls his eyes so hard he's bound to have strained something, muttering, "Fucking humans," before grabbing Sam by the chin and forcing their mouths together again.
Sam's squeak into it is anything but manly but right now he doesn't particularly care. Dean's sucking at Sam's lips, fingers pressing into his cheek to pry his jaw open so he can force his tongue inside. The most messed-up part about it - and considering he's being forcibly made out with by his newly remembered sibling, that's saying something - is that it still feels just as good.
Sam wasn't doing so hot at standing on his own anyway and the rough satin swipe of Dean's tastebuds against his own is just making his knees weaker. It's ok, though, because Dean's using his hips to pin Sam to the car, keeping them both upright while also making it painfully, deliciously obvious that they're both rock hard.
"'S wrong," Sam manages to slur when Dean changes the angle. Admittedly the fact that he's trying to lick Dean's molars at the same time detracts somewhat from the objection.
"Does it feel wrong?" smears against the corner of Sam's mouth. As much as he knows he should, Sam can't get himself to say yes. Instead he moans out a wordless noise that Dean catches with his mouth, warm used air pouring back and forth between them at the rate of Sam's erratically pounding heart.
"Sixteen years, Sammy," Dean pants, his hips starting up the rough, churning grind that tears Sam's focus to ribbons, "They could take you away from Mom and Dad but not from me. Even when you weren't allowed to see me, I always watched out for you. Always. And now you're all grown up and you can choose for yourself."
So carefully, he shakes his head, just enough that the hard curve of his horns catch at the stubs of Sam's with a soft clack that jars Sam down to his marrow. He remembers them - people, no, not people, gods; angry with his mother for... for choosing a human, loving him, having his children. Being torn from her arms because of some technicality and not understanding, never understanding until he forgot it altogether, until he was just the human he was sent to be raised as.
"Don't tell me no now," it's a plea, nothing but, and it gets under Sam''s skin in ways he doesn't think anything has before. "Not after everything, Sam, please. You're my brother."
All things considered, that shouldn't mean much. Sam's got maybe six months’ worth of memories - he was a goddamn baby, how does he even have memories? - and the last hour or so to go by; hardly anything in the grand scheme of things but still everything when it comes to Dean. Because Dean held him and played with him and helped feed him. Because Dean kissed him goodnight every night when their mother put him to bed. Because Dean, tiny and golden with his chubby fingers and little prongs for horns, reaching out for Sam as he was taken away, screaming Sam's name, has been a part of every single nightmare Sam has ever had even if he didn't remember why.
Because he's Dean and Sam never had a chance to learn how to say no to that.
It should feel stranger than it does when he lifts a hand to run his fingers through Dean's clipped hair, stalls out halfway and ends up palming the back of his head instead, pulling him in until their lips crash together.
There are a lot of things Sam still doesn't understand and probably a lot more that they should really sit down and talk about - like, oh, say, everything that's happened since he was six months old - but there's still this thrum in his system like sitting on a amp with the base turned all the way up and he can't get past it. So he does the only thing he can do; he hitches his leg up against Dean's hip and goes with it.
Dean groans like he's dying and loving every second of it. He ducks out of the kiss to mouth at Sam's neck instead, shocky-sharp thrills burrowing down into Sam's gut as he nips at straining tendons.
“I wanted you to remember," he says like Sam can process one damn thing outside of the rough friction of Dean's cock rutting against his own, "I thought for sure when you saw me-“
Sam cuts him off with a breathless, doped-up, “I dreamt about you. I didn’t understand, but you were always there. I never forgot that.”
It has Dean groaning again, hands skidding over the car's roof with a sweat-tacky squeals. Then he's down on his knees, crumpling gracelessly to breathe hot-spots into the swollen thickness under the sipper of Sam's jeans. Sam almost joins him on the ground involuntarily, only Dean's hands bruising firm on his hips keeping him steady.
The blunt curve of his horns presses into Sam's belly, shortening his breaths as hard bone digs against tender softness. He'd probably mind it if he could, like, think, but whether it's the drink or Dean or the fact that everything he has ever believed about himself and the world at large has just been turned on its head, Sam has no particular ability or inclination to do anything but watch the soft give of Dean's lips against tough denim as he rolls his hips.
He doesn't seem to need much more incentive to get Sam's jeans open, the first rush of cold air on hot flesh seizing up Sam's lungs. Which is about the time that Sam remembers this isn't exactly a private party.
They're standing far enough outside of the circle of firelight that they aren't completely on display here, but one look up tells him they haven't been entirely forgotten either. The music-from-nowhere has picked up a heavier pulse, tempo clicking up a few notches to a fittingly-frantic pace. Most of the people - Dean's followers or friends or whatever they are - appear to have been swept up in it, dancing devolving into something that looks a hell of a lot more like an orgy. There are still a few on the fringe, though, sticking to more casual touches and undulations, focus unabashedly on where Sam is propped up against Dean's car with his dick hanging out and his brother on his knees in front of him and-
Thoughts. Sam had them. Really, he did. Now they're fond memory because sweet holy fucking fucking fuck. Dean's mouth. It's awesome. Sam wants to live there.
The feeling - hot, wet, slick, fuck - is overwhelming, so much so that it isn't until Dean hums happily and arches into it that Sam even realizes what his hands are doing. The answer is using Dean's horns like handles to push him down further onto Sam's cock.
Dean glances up at him through the spread of Sam's arms, eyes shadowed by the angle and the lust swollen pupil that has all but erased his irises. His lips are pouted obscenely around the thick swell of Sam's cock, dark and shiny with spit, cheeks hollowed out enough on a slow suck that Sam can see the shape of the head through Dean's cheek. There's not a single part of that that should look even a quarter as hot as it does.
Against his hold Dean's horns jerk slightly, a pointed nudge that makes Sam's damp palms slide against ridged bone - permission as much as the uptick of his eyebrow is a dare.
The horns are just starting to warm under Sam's touch when he firms his grip, pulling just a little tentatively at first, then harder when Dean bucks into it. There are rules for this kind of thing, Sam's sure. Well, maybe not this kind of thing - he doesn't know if there are enough people out there who have been given blow jobs by horned demi-gods to have a firmly established set of protocols - but getting head, there's definitely rules for that. Sam doesn't know what they are and if he ever did, the memory is long gone, but he's still pretty sure he's got to be doing it wrong as he feels Dean go tense and loose by turns while Sam uses him.
Dimly Sam can hear things over the rapid huff of his own breath and the swirl of blood in his ears. The music is still there, keeping tempo with Sam's scattershot heartbeat, and the people, moans and grunts punctuated by giddy, unhinged laughter and things that might be praise or suggestions or who knows what. He feels like some of them are directed at him - them, together - but he's too distracted by the wet click of Dean's throat, almost gagging, fighting to swallow, porn-nasty and blazing fucking hot, to actually listen or care.
There are reflex-tears watering at the corners of Dean's eyes but he's just letting Sam have his way, manipulating Dean's head by the horns in little shifts and hitches that have him alternately going deep, pulling out to thrusts shallowly against the silky insides of Dean's cheeks.
He's too high on this to be allowed to think about anything and still he finds himself wandering off into the idea of how Dean expected this to go. Did he want it sloppy and frenetic and in over their heads the way it is now or had he planned something else, soft and easy? Is this his style, all-in, giving it all up for all the people he sleeps with or is it something just for Sam, his baby brother? If the years he's spent watching out for Sam, never able to interact is what brought this on, some kind of creepy, pining obsession or if this is just... them? A part of their nature.
Not that it matters - not right now. Later, maybe a lot, but not now.
The sweet rasp of Dean's tongue sinks into Sam's nerves, sets them shivering like his breath, aching like his balls. He feels like whatever tether used to keep him grounded to the Earth snapped and somehow got tangled up around Dean. If the dirt under his feet disappeared right now, Sam doubts he'd even know it, just as long as Dean was still there, still doing that.
At some point along the way Dean got his own dick out of his jeans, his fist moving over it in an unsteady blur as he humps up into his own grip. Sam only gets flashes of it, fat, glossy head through the circle of thick fingers, dark, heavy shaft that makes his mouth water. Pretty sure that's a brand spanking new reaction to a dick, but whatever, Dean's looks good, really good. Especially framed by Sam's arms manhandling Dean into taking him deeper, all long fluttering eyelashes and this moan that takes Sam's brain, tosses it in a blender and hits puree.
The heat boiling in the pit of Sam's stomach prowls out under his skin, making the little prickles of air-cool sweat at his hairline tingle like shaken soda. He feels fevered, delirious, motherfucking awesome. Then Dean tosses him this look that, like... Eyes can't actually flash hot, ok? But it feels like it, like there's something simmering just behind the surface of Dean's just waiting to pounce on him.
And Sam explodes like shatterglass.
Thick, choking waves of ecstasy wash him under, Dean sucking him through it ravenously, shoving more sideways pleasure deep into Sam's veins. It's perfection on that crackling edge of painful and Sam can't do anything but surrender and trust Dean to get him through it.
"Come on, baby boy," Dean's whispering against Sam's cheek when he finally manages to tune back in again. In the background he hears something that sounds unnervingly like cheering.
He's on his ass in the dirt - like, bare ass meets dirt; awesome - with the cold metal of the car door bleeding through his shirt at the back.The heat of Dean's body kneeling all but on top of him counterbalances it so that all Sam has room to feel is sated and sticky.
The sticky part seems to have a lot to do with Dean's hand rubbing over his belly, a suspiciously thick wetness that's growing tacky on Sam's skin.
"Dude, did you just rub your spunk on me?" Sam's voice sounds like he's been snacking on sandpaper and there's like, absolutely zero inflection, but he still thinks the accusation comes across. All it does is make Dean smirk.
Sighing, "I have the weirdest brother in the world," pumps the look up to Cheshire cat proportions. It also earns Sam a slow, soft kiss that melts into an even slower, deeper one so he figures that's ok. Somehow or other. He really doesn't have the energy at the moment to worry about the details. And with the way Dean's hands are wandering, he's starting to doubt if he's going to have the opportunity either.
Yeah, it's good to be home.