(no subject)
Title: Full Tilt Boogie (5/6)
Authors: hansbekhart & essenceofmeanin
Artist: ladyvyola
Rating: NC-17 (Sam/Dean, Michael/Dean, Sam/Michael, Sam/Dean/Michael, Sam/OC)
Summary: There are only two kinds of secrets: the ones you keep, and the ones you shouldn't have at all. When Sam and Dean take Michel on his first hunt (that doesn't involve a shtriga), they end up on the psychedelic dance floor of a long-vanished motel where disco never died and no one is quite who they appear to be. What was supposed to be an easy salt and burn descends rapidly into a morass of temptation and gold lame, bell bottoms and lies. No one gets to choose what secrets stay buried.
Unless they don't mind checking in ... forever.
He comes shaking and shivering out of the dark. The smell of smoke is the first thing that his brain really registers, still tangled up and tired. Smoke. Acrid and sweet, the mingling of a house fire and a cigar. “Bones,” he rasps, coughing. There’s fire in his lungs, he’s burning up, he’s dying - and then he opens his eyes.
He’s sitting at a table, shoulders loose, wrists crossed on his lap. The light above his head is the only one around, blinding him. He can sense the depth of the room he’s in, the empty air flowing around him. There are cards spread across the table, and as his eyes wander across them - counting instinctively, the way Dad taught them to - he realizes that he’s not alone. A card flutters to the table’s smooth surface, tossed by a careless hand. Two of diamonds.
He can’t see Bones’ face. It might not be there at all. The hand flickers out of the darkness and returns to it, black enough to be a shadow itself. Ace of spades. He thinks maybe Bones is part of the shadows, bleeding into and out of him, part of the smoke that hazes the light overhead. That row of white teeth he can see might as well be a Cheshire grin.
“At last we meet, star child,” Bones says. His voice is everything that Sam was expecting. He says it again, drawing the words out like honey, “At last we meet.”
For a moment, Sam can’t believe that it worked. That he drew Bones out, no more girls, no more mouthpieces - just the man himself, right within Sam’s reach. He shakes his head hard enough that something twinges in his neck - a brief spike of pain that arcs itself up along his cheekbone. “It’s Sam,” he says, and launches himself forward.
His knees hit the table, scattering cards and spilling drinks, and then he’s across. He braces himself for impact, to send Bones crashing to a floor that he can’t see - and then there’s nothing. He’s falling, tumbling faster and faster into endless darkness.
And opens his eyes. Back at the table. Arms braced on the arms of the chair. His cards still spread across the table, waiting to be read. A full drink at his elbow. “What do you want from me?” Sam rasps, even though he already knows.
Bones leans forward, into the light. High cheekbones, a broad nose. The same face looking through Friday’s before Sam killed her. His eyes hidden behind dark glasses.
“Let you slip your leash too long. Pups get hurt that way,” Bones says. When he speaks, the words meander, quick and then slow. Each syllable deliberately measured. Listening to him talk, Sam can see why Friday chose to burn with him. “You look like you’re in bad shape, star child. How’d you get that way, hmm? Gotta tell the management when you’ve got a problem, we fix it right away.”
He reaches across the table and gathers Sam’s hands in his own. Sam tries to pull away, sluggishly, as Bones bends over his burned palms. “Pup hurt his paw,” he croons, and breathes smoke over them, as thick as if he’d drawn from a cigarette. It flows over Sam’s skin like a wet mouth sucking hungrily on his fingers, a tongue curling over the sensitive pads of his fingertips, and Sam groans aloud. Bones grins and releases him.
Sam holds his hands up to his face. The blisters are gone, right along with the pain. He squeezes his eyes shut, breathes deeply. It wasn’t a cure-all; his shoulders ache and his fingers are trembling with hunger. The knot on his forehead throbs and he’s sleepy enough that a concussion is still possible.
He flexes his hands and tries not to cry with gratitude.
Bones is regarding him sympathetically, the slightest quirk of a smile on his mouth. “You look hungry. You hungry?”
Sam looks down at the table. There’s a meatloaf sandwich in front of him. He can see lettuce poking out from under slices of wheat and if he looked close enough, he’d probably see even the corn flakes that Dean used to use to stretch the meat. His mouth waters and he looks away. “Would that feed me, really?”
Bones smiles. “Absolutely.”
Sam pushes the sandwich away and it disappears between one blink of his eyes and the next. “What do you want, Sam?” Bones asks. He sounds genuinely curious and Sam frowns, suspicion prickling at the back of his neck. “Monday? Tuesday? Wednesday?”
He sees eyes glinting in the darkness, and when he breaks his eyes away from Bones, shapes form around them. Breasts and hips changed into soft curves in the smoke, arranged on couches, chairs, all around them. Five bodies. Two gaps where Friday and Sunday should be. Bones’ women, frozen like statues just waiting for someone to breathe life into them.
Sam looks back to Bones, whose lips pull back from his teeth in another grin. His teeth look sharper this time, losing Cheshire friendliness. “Just kidding,” Bones says. “You made up your mind. Our service ain’t up to your standards.”
“I’m not going to give into you,” Sam says. “There’s nothing you can give me that’ll make me change my mind. You can’t control me and sooner or later, I’m going to find out what your weakness is and I’m going to destroy you.”
Bones throws his head back and laughs at that. The sound of his voice breaks apart and scatters, like cockroaches fleeing from the light. “You think you’re the first to fight me? You think you’re the only one who broke free, who didn’t take what we have to give? This is the end of the line, Sam. No midnight train, no second chance. No one makes it past me.”
“You want me,” Sam says, “Friday told me. I don’t know what you want or what you think I can do but -”
“Don’t want anything from you,” Bones says. “Leastways, nothing I don’t want from everyone else.”
That stops Sam cold. He feels arrogant and stupid. “But,” he says. “Friday said the choice was mine. That I was special.”
Bones shrugs. A shiver goes through the girls. “She lied. Only thing that makes you special is that we might have to work a little harder. That’s all. Your brother’s the same as my girls. You think they know what’s going on? You think they get a choice? They’re all a part of me and sooner or later - borrow your phrase, thanks - you’ll be part of me too. So will your brother. So will your little friend.”
“You feed on these people,” Sam says. “That’s how you keep this place going. You feed on secrets. You were psychic when you were alive, weren’t you?”
“We got a lot in common,” is all that Bones says. It’s hard to focus on him, Sam’s vision slipping, his head dropping down to his chest.
“No,” he slurs, “No. Even if - even if you’re right - even if I want my brother like, like that - you can’t make me give into you. You can’t make me into someone else. I’ve made up my mind. I’d rather die than do that to him.”
Bones’ lip curls and Sam flinches back, helpless. “I ain’t no devil offerin’ you a deal, star child. You play high and mighty all you want with yourself, but you ain’t fooling me. It ain’t strength of will keeping you from taking what you want - it’s fear and you know it. You’re too weak to take him. To take either of them.”
“I’m not,” Sam says. “I’m not, it’s wrong. Dean - ” He falls silent. Staring down at his lap, and his healed hands. The drink at his elbow tempts him in a way that the sandwich couldn’t. He looks up, meets Bones’ gaze behind those glasses. He can feel the strength of the man pouring off him, almost thirty years after his death and still a force to be reckoned with. He could blame what he says next on that - on Bones’ charisma, on the fact that he already knows what Sam is about to say, but the truth is that Sam is tired, and a secret is a heavy thing to keep.
“I’m in love with my brother,” is what he says. His voice is soft, and he says it again, tasting the sound of the words. “I’m in love with my brother. I’ve tried so hard to - to just. You’re right. You’ve been right this whole time. I’m in love with Dean.”
His whole body shakes. He takes a deep breath, and then another, fighting them past the knot in his chest. Bones is silent, his fingers steepled together in front of his chin. Waiting. Sam pulls himself back together slowly. Careful of the soft spot above his heart, where realization has hit him like a physical wound, or the lancing of something long infected.
“Doesn’t matter,” Bones says, finally. “Good for you. Have a drink on the house. You think you’re still at the point where your dreams come true? You killed my girls. This isn’t about giving you what you want.”
Sam slams his hands down on the table. The light is clearer now, the girls’ bodies more distinct. There’s something on the edge of his hearing, taking place of the drums, still too far away to be sure of. It could be inside his head. It could be the concussion. “What do you want from me, then?” he shouts. “That’s all I have, that’s all my secrets! You wanna hear that I want to fuck Michael too? Sure - why not? Who wouldn’t?”
Bones only grins, his teeth like an animal’s, sharp and threatening. “I want you to suffer,” he says. “Makes it all the sweeter. No more options, star child. Just a whole world of punishment. You want them back - then take them. Take them from me. They’re down there. They’re waiting for you. And if you’re strong enough to take what you want - then you can have them.”
Sam reels away from the table. There’s ground underneath his feet now, carpeted, and when his chair falls it makes no sound. The noises are clearer now, below them - slick noises, breathy noises, and a shiver works its way reflexively down Sam’s spine. “No,” he says.
“Bye-bye, child,” Bones says, and wriggles his fingers at Sam. “Don’t keep ‘em waiting, you hear?”
His fingers clutch at the shag banister. It’s unbearably soft against the new skin on his palms. Each step is harder to take than the one before it.
He’s been in this room before. The Gallery, where Michael found him, picked him up at the rotating bar. Where they watched the shadows clink silverware on their plates, as if they could eat. The shadows are gone, and the room is full of people, tables and chairs shoved carelessly aside.
At first, he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing. The light is dim and the room is full of smoke and noise. All he can smell is perfume, sweet and sticky. They don’t look human anymore. Impossible to separate individual bodies and faces from this sweating, humping, grunting monster. They’re all around him, fucking on top of toppled tables, up against walls. He hears a sound of breaking glass as clutching hands smash artwork to the ground.
And they’re in the middle of it all, as he knew they would be. A clean path to them cut out of writhing bodies. The only bed that he can see, surrounded by broken tables piled high around it. The bed itself is as round as the one he left them sleeping on.
He freezes up when he sees them. Somewhere, in the far off reaches of memory when things made sense, he hears Dean berating him. A second’s hesitation can cost a hunt. His hands twitch at his sides. He can’t breathe.
Bones said, they’re waiting for you. And they are. Dean up on his knees, Michael behind him, one hand wrapped around Dean’s cock, lazily jerking him off. The other hand holding Dean’s head back, baring his throat, teeth marks just starting to bruise under Dean’s chin. Michael looks up when Sam approaches, and grins. Dean's eyes are only slits, shadowed by his lashes, his mouth open and wet. Sam looks for Bones in their faces and sees only his brother, only Michael, who swipes his thumb over the head of Dean's cock and then pushes it between Dean's lips, forcing him to lick it clean. Dean's head rolls back against Michael's shoulder, his whole body shuddering.
"I got him ready for you, Sam," Michael says. He blushes when he says it, his eyes smoldering. "He hasn't come yet. We saved that for you. Fuck him hard, Sam. That's the way he likes it."
Sam gasps, his hand pressing down on his dick without even thinking about it, without even feeling himself move, and he stutters out, "A - Angus, Angus Young," all he can think to say. Can't even look at anything but that slow twist of Michael's wrist, the thrust of Dean's hips to meet it. Dean's cock, red and angry and so fucking hard -
They untwine themselves from each other and reach for him, tugging on his sleeves, running their hands up underneath the jacket, and Sam says Angus Young over and over again, Ron Jeremy until Dean's mouth closes over his and Dean's tongue is in his mouth, he's kissing his brother, Dean is kissing him, Michael pulling Sam's jacket from his shoulders, biting and licking Sam's neck.
His hands are raised. His cock aches, his whole body aches. He feels humiliatingly exposed, the orgy around them unbearable, a soundtrack of the worst sort of joyless porno, and there is no excuse for what he knows he's going to do. No midnight train, no second chances. No more Dean and Sam.
He lets them pull him down onto the bed, lets Michael unbutton his shirt, his pants. His clothing melts away as if they were never there in the first place, Sam’s doing or Bones, it’s impossible to tell. Can’t concentrate long enough to wonder, Dean’s hand on his own cock, Michael’s hands on Sam. Can’t think at all.
Part of Sam wants to see recognition in his brother’s face. Some small glimmer of consent. Dean looks drugged, flushed. Michael tells him to go to Sam and he does, dropping down on his hands and knees and crawling up Sam’s body, bracing himself on Sam’s hips, his hands on other side, his face close enough to Sam’s stomach that he can feel Dean’s breath on his skin. Hot puffs of air, and Sam stares at the crown of his brother’s head and his hands come up and push Dean down.
The touch of Dean’s tongue to the head of his cock drags all the air out of Sam’s lungs, one painful exhale. It hurts even worse to suck air back in, to breathe as Dean’s mouth works its way down his cock.
The bed shifts as Michael knee-walks close to them, fingers knotting in Dean’s hair, and Sam feels more than sees the shudder go through Dean’s body. Michael’s other hand reaches under Dean’s mouth, wraps his hand around Sam’s cock and follows Dean’s motion that way, jacking Sam in time.
It lasts just as long as it takes for Sam to really feel it and then he’s scrambling to push Dean away, scrambling not to come. His hand knocks against Michael’s and then he’s squeezing the base of his own dick tightly, his whole body drawn up tense.
Blind gratitude when that mouth pulls away, when there’s nothing but air and cooling spit on his cock, and then that’s even worse. Dean’s gone, and all that Sam can think is that he’s gone again, that they’re both gone and this time it’s for good and Bones will never give them back.
He forces his eyes open. They haven’t gone anywhere, and relief is sharp enough to dull what he sees. Michael’s hands on Dean, twisting him close, Dean’s mouth red and open around his dick. Sam growls without even feeling the noise build in his throat, barks, “Dean!”
Dean flinches like Sam’s slapped him on the ass, and they turn to look at him. Michael’s fingers stay on Dean’s neck, but he lets Dean pull off his cock. Dean reaches for Sam, rubs a hot hand along Sam’s thigh, over his cock, smoothing over the hair on his belly, but Sam shrugs him off. Pushes Dean away just far enough to get his knees under him, get back on Michael’s level. He grabs the kid by both shoulders, hard enough that his ribs compress a little bit. Hard enough that Michael whimpers.
“You touch him when I say you can,” Sam snarls, right in Michael’s face.
And Michael gives, but only a little. Looks up at Sam through his hair and smiles. “It’s all for you, Sam. Whatever you say.”
He shoves Michael away. Michael lands awkwardly, pushes himself back up on his knees, Dean between them. They watch him. The lines of their bodies drawn tense and tight. Sam can see the orgy out of the corner of his eyes, all around them, watching them. He wants to be past the point of caring, past the point of choice. And maybe he is. Maybe he made this choice when he killed Friday, when he took that first step into Sunday’s arms. Maybe the decision was made the first time he looked at Dean and felt shame flood hot and heavy into his gut.
Even as he thinks it, he shakes his head. It’s too easy. He’s never taken the easy road, and every day has been a choice and it’s his own feet that led him here.
He sways. His breath catches. They’re waiting for him. He can still walk away, end this all right now. His cock is heavy, bobbing a little as his muscles flex. Dean’s eyes fix on it and his lips part, just a little. Sam can still walk away.
He can’t look away from Dean’s mouth, still wet from - he can barely think it - from sucking Michael’s cock. From sucking Sam’s. Just the memory of it, of that mouth on him makes Sam’s skin itch, makes him forget all about the bodies around them, everything but how bad he fucking wants to see his come on Dean’s lips, see it drip off his chin. How bad he fucking needs to put his dick back in Dean’s mouth and watch him choke on it.
“Dean,” he says, and then, “Michael.”
They come to him, as he knew they would. They’ll do anything for him, to him, and whether they really would, out in the real world - it doesn’t matter anymore. They sidle close, reaching out to pet him, smooth their hands over his back and chest, biting and licking at each side of his throat. His arms encircle them both. “Dean,” he says. He breathes his brother’s name into Michael’s mouth. “Dean, suck him.”
They share a look, and when Dean leans forward, Sam grabs him by the back of the neck, fingers curling in hard enough to hurt. Dean’s shoulder bangs against his and Dean looks up at him, startled. “I didn’t say kiss him,” he hisses, “I said suck his cock.”
Dean’s lips, parted just enough to show the barest line of teeth, curl slowly into a smile, and Sam thinks, this is my brother. It gets easier every time he thinks it, and his hand slides up into Dean’s hair, supporting him instead of restraining, and Dean opens willingly for him. His mouth is as soft as Sam always knew it would be, his teeth hard shapes behind them, and he groans when Sam bites him - his lower lip, his chin, the soft space under the line of his jaw.
When he releases Dean, it’s with a hard look at Michael, and this time, it seems to stick. Michael keeps his hands to himself as Dean sinks down onto his hands and knees and lips Michael’s cock into his mouth. He sucks it down slow, glancing up through his eyelashes to check Sam’s reaction. Sam puts a hand to the back of Dean’s head, pushes him fast enough that Dean chokes a little, flutters a hand out to steady himself on Michael’s thigh.
He can feel the muscles bunch in Dean’s neck as he slides up and down, the tension in his shoulders from holding himself steady. He looks up at Michael, who’s staring down at Dean with his mouth open. He looks as drugged as Dean, and when Sam snakes an arm around Michael’s shoulders and tugs, his head rolls back onto Sam’s arm, and when Sam kisses him, he can feel Michael yielding. Not all the way - Michael kisses as hard as he fights and it surprises Sam even now, in the middle of all this - but it’s enough.
And as Michael gives, Sam takes. He marks Michael as he marked Dean, biting his mouth and shoulders and neck, hard enough that blood rushes up to the surface of Michael’s skin as soon as Sam releases him. He kisses Michael like he could win the war that way. He’s lost in it, in making Michael surrender, submit, lost enough that when Dean’s tongue traces the underside of his cock, he almost jumps away from the touch. Michael catches Sam - steadies him - and Dean pushes forward, licking and nuzzling as he jerks Michael’s cock with his other hand. Sam’s almost afraid to touch him. This is my brother.
Michael touches Sam’s face, dragging his eyes up, and when he leans forward, Sam lets him. Stays still as Dean switches from one to the other, sucking and fucking with his fist, as Michael kisses Sam. This time, it’s soft. Thoughtful, as if Sam could break at any time even though Michael’s the one shaking.
He can see when Michael’s about to come, hears the little groan that Michael tries so hard to keep between his teeth, and he pulls Dean off his cock, holds them both steady as Michael shoots onto Dean’s face. Dean groans for it, like it’s his own personal money shot, opening his mouth for whatever Sam will let him have. Sam rubs Michael’s dick around Dean’s lips even though Michael’s squirming away from him, over-sensitized and boneless, and pushes his own fingers in when Dean’s tongue comes to lick it away. He pulls them out of Dean’s mouth just long enough to smear them through the come on Dean’s face. He makes Dean lick them clean.
Sam lets Michael go. Michael falls back against the bed gracelessly, his long legs folding uncomfortably underneath him. He reaches for Dean almost absently, just stroking a hand down Dean’s bicep as Sam pulls him upright.
“Michael said he got you ready,” he says rapidly. “Is that true? Are you ready for it?” It’s not what he really wants to ask. He wants to ask Dean if he really wants it, but can’t bring himself to say it. He knows what the answer would be, so he asks the closest thing he can. “Are you ready for it?”
Slowly, Dean nods. He turns his head and nips at Sam’s fingers. “Find out.”
With a snarl, Sam pushes Dean down on the bed, shoving his brother’s thighs roughly apart. He reaches between Dean’s legs, tugs hard on Dean’s balls, and then snakes his fingers underneath them. He is ready. Slick and open enough that Michael must’ve fingered him loose, ready for Sam’s cock. He takes two of Sam’s fingers and then an awkward third, fucking himself wider.
Sam’s heart is pounding hard enough to kill him. His whole body’s wound too tight as he lines himself up. He’s going to fuck his brother. Dean’s eyes glitter as he stares up at Sam, his hands fisted in the bed like he’s waiting for Sam to say he can touch himself. Sam’s going to fuck his brother.
He slides in slow. Takes it easy. Shallow thrusts at first or else he’ll just come right there, the world’s shortest foray into incest. His hands are trembling where they’re holding onto Dean. He can hear Michael moving closer to them - can feel the bed dip underneath his weight - but there’s nothing that matters as much as the hot press of Dean’s thighs against his hips, that measured sink into Dean’s body.
The last thrust knocks all the air out of his body and Sam pitches forward, catching himself on his elbows. It’s all he can do to hide his face in Dean’s shoulder and just - breathe through his bared teeth for a little while. Dean’s head and shoulders are pressed against the mattress and the rest of him is pinned in Sam’s lap, clenching around Sam’s dick. He felt loose on Sam’s fingers but he’s so tight around Sam’s cock that it hurts.
He feels Dean’s hand stroke through his sweaty hair. Sam jerks at the touch, looks up into Dean’s face. “S’okay, Sammy,” he whispers.
“Dean,” Sam says, and then drops his face again, embarrassed by the little broken noise that came out with it. “Dean, I can’t - I can’t do this to you, it’s…”
“S’okay, Sammy,” Dean says. “It’s good. Make it good, Sam.”
“Tell me you want it,” Sam whispers. His eyes are wide and unseeing, Dean’s shoulder too close to really see. He can feel the texture of old scars underneath his cheek. “Say it’ll be okay when you wake up, please - I know it’s not -”
Dean tilts Sam’s face upwards, until they’re eye to eye. His stubble burns against Sam’s chin. Michael’s hands smooth down the line of Sam’s spine. His mouth is warm against the back of Sam’s neck.
Dean smirks, and oxygen floods back into Sam’s lungs and then back out as he laughs, the sound of it startled out of him, and then he moves. He digs his fingers into Dean’s hips, holding him down, fucking into him. Dean arches underneath him - grabbing Sam, his fingers pressing hard enough to leave marks under Sam’s shoulder blades - and it takes Sam a minute to get what Dean wants.
Michael helps them rearrange, helps them get Sam sitting up against a backboard that, vaguely, he doesn’t remember being there, his legs sprawled out, Dean straddling him, facing away. He holds Sam’s cock as he lowers himself back onto it, his shoulders tensing as it goes deeper and deeper, until Dean’s thighs lay heavy and hot against Sam’s. Michael swings a knee over Sam’s and they stare at each other over Dean’s shoulder. Michael’s close enough that Sam could kiss him again, if he wanted to. Michael reaches for Sam, strokes long fingers over Sam’s temple.
“You’d be good for him, wouldn’t you?” Sam asks. He whispers it. Says it in his own head first and then out loud, leaning into Michael’s touch. Michael frowns, the corner of his mouth lifting like he doesn’t really get it, whatever Sam’s saying to him, and Sam closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the headboard. All he can do is hang on to Dean’s hips as Dean fucks himself on Sam’s cock, all his weight on Michael, whose fingers tangle with Sam’s on Dean’s hips. They move Dean together, Michael’s other elbow just visible, flexing in a way that makes Sam think Michael’s got both of their cocks, jerking them together as Dean rocks back and forth, so fucking deep that it’s all he can do.
Sam knows when it all changes. He’s been waiting for it, for the big reveal. He was long past the point where all his dreams come true and when Michael stiffens, his eyes going wide and shocked, his rhythm stuttering - when he looks at Sam and sees Sam, his mouth falling open to say something or because he’s somewhere past words entirely - it’s as if Sam’s been bracing himself for impact when he should’ve stayed loose enough to roll with the punches. And it is a punch: a sharp, swift pain that’s amazing in its physicality. He did what Bones told him to; he took what he wanted and he’s had them both and his cock is buried in Dean’s ass, and Dean and Michael will hate him forever.
And Dean’s hand closes around his wrist, hard enough to hurt, Dean’s jagged, bitten fingernails digging into Sam’s skin, and the noise Sam makes echoes Michael’s. Dean looks over his shoulder, his eyes rolled back in his head to meet Sam’s - and Sam gasps, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” and Dean growls and thumps the back of his head against Sam’s collarbone, and then lurches forward, capturing Michael as he tries to get away. He keeps one hand on Sam - the other holding Michael by the nape of his neck, kissing Michael even though the kid’s making sounds like he’s gonna cry, Dean’s hips still sawing back and forth on the edge of Sam’s control. He takes Michael’s hand - Sam sees him do it, sees the motion of it - and puts it back where it was, back on their cocks, and squeezes.
Dean comes first, whining from it, the noise high and startling to Sam, so much more submissive than he would’ve imagined. Michael tumbles after him, sagging against Dean, his face pressed against the side of Dean’s neck, hidden. He gasps - and that’s what does it for Sam, two more thrusts and then his whole body shaking with orgasm, strung out from it.
And for a long time, no sound but ragged, panicked breathing as they all, carefully, don’t look at each other. Sam’s cock twitches, still inside his brother’s body, and Dean flinches. He nudges Michael, and they clamber awkwardly off. Sam’s dick makes a wet noise as it slides out of Dean’s ass. He stares down at his body, watches Dean and Michael out of the corners of his eyes. Dean moves to the edge of the bed, elbows balanced on his knees, Michael up against the wall, his legs drawn up against his chest. Something hard and selfish in Sam’s heart is glad of the three feet of space between them, and he barely notices the wall against Michael’s back that should be open air.
They’re alone, in a room that Sam hasn’t been in before, underneath a huge wooden canopy. Sam’s eyes wander over the die-cut Cupids, the plastic chairs, and it’s the only thing in this that doesn’t make perfect sense to him. No broken pictures or sweating bodies, nobody standing in a ring around them and pointing fingers. Just the three of them in this ugly room, no more hideous than some of the places that Dean’s checked them into over the years. Somehow, that almost makes it worse, like this - this thing could’ve happened anyway, some drunken mistake or tempers stretched too far. There are bruises on Dean’s arms and Sam doesn’t even remember grabbing him there.
Dean pushes himself off the bed, his mouth set in a grim line. There’s a slickness on the back of his legs that’s probably Sam’s come leaking out of him. There’s come on his face, almost dried now, little flaking patches of white. It’s on his cheekbones, his throat. And what Sam thinks of - despite everything - is that he should make Michael lick Dean clean. He can’t help the stifled moan that he makes, and they both look at him. Dean’s face is slack. His eyes bright and dead. He meets Sam’s gaze without expression, just a blank wall that Sam can’t look away from. Say something, Sam thinks, and Dean turns away.
He rummages in the dresser, turns up handfuls of frilly lingerie in oversaturated colors. “Dean,” Michael says, softly, and blushes. He looks so young and for a minute, Sam can’t even remember how old Michael is. His face is still flushed and god, he’s still a teenager. He has to be. He’d still be in high school if not for them. Nursing a crush on a teacher or something, instead of - instead of this.
He shouldn’t be here, Sam thinks. Not because Michael isn’t strong enough. But because he shouldn’t be within a hundred miles of people like them. Like Sam.
Dean’s shoulders sag, his hands braced on the top of the dresser. A yellow bra trailing down between his fingers. Sam wants to make a joke. It’s right on the edge of his teeth, that they can never find any fucking clothes in this place. “I can …” he says, trailing off. Michael looks at Sam. Dean doesn’t. He lifts the bra to his face like it’s a washcloth and scrubs absently.
“I’m sorry,” Sam blurts out. Dean turns around. His eyes skitter away from Sam and land on Michael, but there’s something living behind his eyes again, and Sam will take what he can get. Something funny in there, somewhere, and safe in his own head, Sam thinks: I’d do it all again. No matter what happens, I wouldn’t take it back.
And that - that really is funny.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” Sam says. He’s crying, messy and panicked, and he says it again even though it’s a lie and he’s not sorry. “I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry.” He covers his face with his hands. His whole body is shaking.
Dean sighs. His bare feet make no noise as he steps back across the shag and sits heavily next to Sam. Sam twitches back from him, scoots back up against the headboard. Doggedly, Dean follows.
“Sam,” he says. “Sam, come on.”
“It’s not okay,” Sam says. He sounds like an old woman and he knows it, his voice shrill and scolding. “It’s not okay, don’t fucking patronize me, Dean. I raped you. I raped Michael. It’s not fucking okay.”
“I wasn’t gonna say that it was,” Dean says. He scrubs a hand over his hair, rubs his fingertips over his cheek.
Sam gulps air. “You - you’re not?”
Dean shakes his head. Sam can feel him hesitating. Dean stares down at the ground, at his hands. He shakes his head again. He looks back up at Sam, his eyes steady. “I knew,” he says, and Sam feels the words wash down the back of his neck like ice. “I knew the whole time, okay? That’s my secret, I guess. So if you wanna blame anyone, blame me.”
“That’s stupid,” Sam says, trying to breathe. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
Dean shrugs. “Yeah, well.”
“You what?” Michael says. He crawls towards them on his knees, dropping down on the other side of Dean. “You knew?”
“M’sorry,” Dean says.
Michael waves a hand, staring off into middle ground. “No, it … actually sorta makes sense. You … I thought …” He trails off. “Huh.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam says, and Michael rolls his eyes.
“God, enough with the apologies,” he says, and Dean laughs, a little startled. Michael twitches at the sound. His hands are shaking where they’re wrapped around his knees. “Look,” he says, “Look, I’m not gonna lie. This is pretty fucking weird. But it’s not the end of the world, is it? I mean - we’re in a disco ghost hotel that kidnaps people so that they’ll fuck each other. And that’s, like, our day job. That’s pretty fucking weird too.”
“That is such a cop out,” Sam mutters.
“Yeah, well, I don’t think that giving into a downward spiral of self-loathing and guilt is making the situation any better,” Michael snaps, and then sags back onto the bed. “God, Sam, I’m sorry. See, now I’m doing it. Fuck you both. Oh my god.”
Dean snickers. “See?” he says to Sam. “That’s why I keep him around. He’s funny.”
“Funny looking,” Michael mumbles.
Sam rolls his eyes, but he manages a smile when Dean tilts his head. He knows what they’re trying to do, and he almost says as much. But maybe Michael’s right. Sam can feel the cracks like they’re a physical thing, but if he can hold it together long enough to get out of here - to get back to their own lives - he thinks maybe he can just take things as they come.
Dean’s hand is hot against the back of Sam’s neck. He wants to shrug it off. He doesn’t deserve what they’re offering him. Instead, he scoots closer and lets his head fall on Dean’s shoulder. Might as well. Dean’s hand stays where it is, awkward until he shifts it to Sam’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. It’s not at all like the last time Sam touched Dean - no expectation of anything more. But the stroke of Dean’s thumb over his arm feels like - like Dean’s rubbing off dead skin, splitting all those cracks wide open, leaving him raw underneath. When Michael’s hand joins Dean’s, a warm pressure on Sam’s back, Sam’s not really surprised. He shuts his eyes - and then opens them again, struck by something.
“Dean?” he asks. “When - when did you wake up?”
All he can see from where he is is just the corner of Dean’s mouth, the slightest lift of a smile, and it’s all the response he gets.
Chapter 4 ** Chapter 6
Authors: hansbekhart & essenceofmeanin
Artist: ladyvyola
Rating: NC-17 (Sam/Dean, Michael/Dean, Sam/Michael, Sam/Dean/Michael, Sam/OC)
Summary: There are only two kinds of secrets: the ones you keep, and the ones you shouldn't have at all. When Sam and Dean take Michel on his first hunt (that doesn't involve a shtriga), they end up on the psychedelic dance floor of a long-vanished motel where disco never died and no one is quite who they appear to be. What was supposed to be an easy salt and burn descends rapidly into a morass of temptation and gold lame, bell bottoms and lies. No one gets to choose what secrets stay buried.
Unless they don't mind checking in ... forever.
He comes shaking and shivering out of the dark. The smell of smoke is the first thing that his brain really registers, still tangled up and tired. Smoke. Acrid and sweet, the mingling of a house fire and a cigar. “Bones,” he rasps, coughing. There’s fire in his lungs, he’s burning up, he’s dying - and then he opens his eyes.
He’s sitting at a table, shoulders loose, wrists crossed on his lap. The light above his head is the only one around, blinding him. He can sense the depth of the room he’s in, the empty air flowing around him. There are cards spread across the table, and as his eyes wander across them - counting instinctively, the way Dad taught them to - he realizes that he’s not alone. A card flutters to the table’s smooth surface, tossed by a careless hand. Two of diamonds.
He can’t see Bones’ face. It might not be there at all. The hand flickers out of the darkness and returns to it, black enough to be a shadow itself. Ace of spades. He thinks maybe Bones is part of the shadows, bleeding into and out of him, part of the smoke that hazes the light overhead. That row of white teeth he can see might as well be a Cheshire grin.
“At last we meet, star child,” Bones says. His voice is everything that Sam was expecting. He says it again, drawing the words out like honey, “At last we meet.”
For a moment, Sam can’t believe that it worked. That he drew Bones out, no more girls, no more mouthpieces - just the man himself, right within Sam’s reach. He shakes his head hard enough that something twinges in his neck - a brief spike of pain that arcs itself up along his cheekbone. “It’s Sam,” he says, and launches himself forward.
His knees hit the table, scattering cards and spilling drinks, and then he’s across. He braces himself for impact, to send Bones crashing to a floor that he can’t see - and then there’s nothing. He’s falling, tumbling faster and faster into endless darkness.
And opens his eyes. Back at the table. Arms braced on the arms of the chair. His cards still spread across the table, waiting to be read. A full drink at his elbow. “What do you want from me?” Sam rasps, even though he already knows.
Bones leans forward, into the light. High cheekbones, a broad nose. The same face looking through Friday’s before Sam killed her. His eyes hidden behind dark glasses.
“Let you slip your leash too long. Pups get hurt that way,” Bones says. When he speaks, the words meander, quick and then slow. Each syllable deliberately measured. Listening to him talk, Sam can see why Friday chose to burn with him. “You look like you’re in bad shape, star child. How’d you get that way, hmm? Gotta tell the management when you’ve got a problem, we fix it right away.”
He reaches across the table and gathers Sam’s hands in his own. Sam tries to pull away, sluggishly, as Bones bends over his burned palms. “Pup hurt his paw,” he croons, and breathes smoke over them, as thick as if he’d drawn from a cigarette. It flows over Sam’s skin like a wet mouth sucking hungrily on his fingers, a tongue curling over the sensitive pads of his fingertips, and Sam groans aloud. Bones grins and releases him.
Sam holds his hands up to his face. The blisters are gone, right along with the pain. He squeezes his eyes shut, breathes deeply. It wasn’t a cure-all; his shoulders ache and his fingers are trembling with hunger. The knot on his forehead throbs and he’s sleepy enough that a concussion is still possible.
He flexes his hands and tries not to cry with gratitude.
Bones is regarding him sympathetically, the slightest quirk of a smile on his mouth. “You look hungry. You hungry?”
Sam looks down at the table. There’s a meatloaf sandwich in front of him. He can see lettuce poking out from under slices of wheat and if he looked close enough, he’d probably see even the corn flakes that Dean used to use to stretch the meat. His mouth waters and he looks away. “Would that feed me, really?”
Bones smiles. “Absolutely.”
Sam pushes the sandwich away and it disappears between one blink of his eyes and the next. “What do you want, Sam?” Bones asks. He sounds genuinely curious and Sam frowns, suspicion prickling at the back of his neck. “Monday? Tuesday? Wednesday?”
He sees eyes glinting in the darkness, and when he breaks his eyes away from Bones, shapes form around them. Breasts and hips changed into soft curves in the smoke, arranged on couches, chairs, all around them. Five bodies. Two gaps where Friday and Sunday should be. Bones’ women, frozen like statues just waiting for someone to breathe life into them.
Sam looks back to Bones, whose lips pull back from his teeth in another grin. His teeth look sharper this time, losing Cheshire friendliness. “Just kidding,” Bones says. “You made up your mind. Our service ain’t up to your standards.”
“I’m not going to give into you,” Sam says. “There’s nothing you can give me that’ll make me change my mind. You can’t control me and sooner or later, I’m going to find out what your weakness is and I’m going to destroy you.”
Bones throws his head back and laughs at that. The sound of his voice breaks apart and scatters, like cockroaches fleeing from the light. “You think you’re the first to fight me? You think you’re the only one who broke free, who didn’t take what we have to give? This is the end of the line, Sam. No midnight train, no second chance. No one makes it past me.”
“You want me,” Sam says, “Friday told me. I don’t know what you want or what you think I can do but -”
“Don’t want anything from you,” Bones says. “Leastways, nothing I don’t want from everyone else.”
That stops Sam cold. He feels arrogant and stupid. “But,” he says. “Friday said the choice was mine. That I was special.”
Bones shrugs. A shiver goes through the girls. “She lied. Only thing that makes you special is that we might have to work a little harder. That’s all. Your brother’s the same as my girls. You think they know what’s going on? You think they get a choice? They’re all a part of me and sooner or later - borrow your phrase, thanks - you’ll be part of me too. So will your brother. So will your little friend.”
“You feed on these people,” Sam says. “That’s how you keep this place going. You feed on secrets. You were psychic when you were alive, weren’t you?”
“We got a lot in common,” is all that Bones says. It’s hard to focus on him, Sam’s vision slipping, his head dropping down to his chest.
“No,” he slurs, “No. Even if - even if you’re right - even if I want my brother like, like that - you can’t make me give into you. You can’t make me into someone else. I’ve made up my mind. I’d rather die than do that to him.”
Bones’ lip curls and Sam flinches back, helpless. “I ain’t no devil offerin’ you a deal, star child. You play high and mighty all you want with yourself, but you ain’t fooling me. It ain’t strength of will keeping you from taking what you want - it’s fear and you know it. You’re too weak to take him. To take either of them.”
“I’m not,” Sam says. “I’m not, it’s wrong. Dean - ” He falls silent. Staring down at his lap, and his healed hands. The drink at his elbow tempts him in a way that the sandwich couldn’t. He looks up, meets Bones’ gaze behind those glasses. He can feel the strength of the man pouring off him, almost thirty years after his death and still a force to be reckoned with. He could blame what he says next on that - on Bones’ charisma, on the fact that he already knows what Sam is about to say, but the truth is that Sam is tired, and a secret is a heavy thing to keep.
“I’m in love with my brother,” is what he says. His voice is soft, and he says it again, tasting the sound of the words. “I’m in love with my brother. I’ve tried so hard to - to just. You’re right. You’ve been right this whole time. I’m in love with Dean.”
His whole body shakes. He takes a deep breath, and then another, fighting them past the knot in his chest. Bones is silent, his fingers steepled together in front of his chin. Waiting. Sam pulls himself back together slowly. Careful of the soft spot above his heart, where realization has hit him like a physical wound, or the lancing of something long infected.
“Doesn’t matter,” Bones says, finally. “Good for you. Have a drink on the house. You think you’re still at the point where your dreams come true? You killed my girls. This isn’t about giving you what you want.”
Sam slams his hands down on the table. The light is clearer now, the girls’ bodies more distinct. There’s something on the edge of his hearing, taking place of the drums, still too far away to be sure of. It could be inside his head. It could be the concussion. “What do you want from me, then?” he shouts. “That’s all I have, that’s all my secrets! You wanna hear that I want to fuck Michael too? Sure - why not? Who wouldn’t?”
Bones only grins, his teeth like an animal’s, sharp and threatening. “I want you to suffer,” he says. “Makes it all the sweeter. No more options, star child. Just a whole world of punishment. You want them back - then take them. Take them from me. They’re down there. They’re waiting for you. And if you’re strong enough to take what you want - then you can have them.”
Sam reels away from the table. There’s ground underneath his feet now, carpeted, and when his chair falls it makes no sound. The noises are clearer now, below them - slick noises, breathy noises, and a shiver works its way reflexively down Sam’s spine. “No,” he says.
“Bye-bye, child,” Bones says, and wriggles his fingers at Sam. “Don’t keep ‘em waiting, you hear?”
His fingers clutch at the shag banister. It’s unbearably soft against the new skin on his palms. Each step is harder to take than the one before it.
He’s been in this room before. The Gallery, where Michael found him, picked him up at the rotating bar. Where they watched the shadows clink silverware on their plates, as if they could eat. The shadows are gone, and the room is full of people, tables and chairs shoved carelessly aside.
At first, he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing. The light is dim and the room is full of smoke and noise. All he can smell is perfume, sweet and sticky. They don’t look human anymore. Impossible to separate individual bodies and faces from this sweating, humping, grunting monster. They’re all around him, fucking on top of toppled tables, up against walls. He hears a sound of breaking glass as clutching hands smash artwork to the ground.
And they’re in the middle of it all, as he knew they would be. A clean path to them cut out of writhing bodies. The only bed that he can see, surrounded by broken tables piled high around it. The bed itself is as round as the one he left them sleeping on.
He freezes up when he sees them. Somewhere, in the far off reaches of memory when things made sense, he hears Dean berating him. A second’s hesitation can cost a hunt. His hands twitch at his sides. He can’t breathe.
Bones said, they’re waiting for you. And they are. Dean up on his knees, Michael behind him, one hand wrapped around Dean’s cock, lazily jerking him off. The other hand holding Dean’s head back, baring his throat, teeth marks just starting to bruise under Dean’s chin. Michael looks up when Sam approaches, and grins. Dean's eyes are only slits, shadowed by his lashes, his mouth open and wet. Sam looks for Bones in their faces and sees only his brother, only Michael, who swipes his thumb over the head of Dean's cock and then pushes it between Dean's lips, forcing him to lick it clean. Dean's head rolls back against Michael's shoulder, his whole body shuddering.
"I got him ready for you, Sam," Michael says. He blushes when he says it, his eyes smoldering. "He hasn't come yet. We saved that for you. Fuck him hard, Sam. That's the way he likes it."
Sam gasps, his hand pressing down on his dick without even thinking about it, without even feeling himself move, and he stutters out, "A - Angus, Angus Young," all he can think to say. Can't even look at anything but that slow twist of Michael's wrist, the thrust of Dean's hips to meet it. Dean's cock, red and angry and so fucking hard -
They untwine themselves from each other and reach for him, tugging on his sleeves, running their hands up underneath the jacket, and Sam says Angus Young over and over again, Ron Jeremy until Dean's mouth closes over his and Dean's tongue is in his mouth, he's kissing his brother, Dean is kissing him, Michael pulling Sam's jacket from his shoulders, biting and licking Sam's neck.
His hands are raised. His cock aches, his whole body aches. He feels humiliatingly exposed, the orgy around them unbearable, a soundtrack of the worst sort of joyless porno, and there is no excuse for what he knows he's going to do. No midnight train, no second chances. No more Dean and Sam.
He lets them pull him down onto the bed, lets Michael unbutton his shirt, his pants. His clothing melts away as if they were never there in the first place, Sam’s doing or Bones, it’s impossible to tell. Can’t concentrate long enough to wonder, Dean’s hand on his own cock, Michael’s hands on Sam. Can’t think at all.
Part of Sam wants to see recognition in his brother’s face. Some small glimmer of consent. Dean looks drugged, flushed. Michael tells him to go to Sam and he does, dropping down on his hands and knees and crawling up Sam’s body, bracing himself on Sam’s hips, his hands on other side, his face close enough to Sam’s stomach that he can feel Dean’s breath on his skin. Hot puffs of air, and Sam stares at the crown of his brother’s head and his hands come up and push Dean down.
The touch of Dean’s tongue to the head of his cock drags all the air out of Sam’s lungs, one painful exhale. It hurts even worse to suck air back in, to breathe as Dean’s mouth works its way down his cock.
The bed shifts as Michael knee-walks close to them, fingers knotting in Dean’s hair, and Sam feels more than sees the shudder go through Dean’s body. Michael’s other hand reaches under Dean’s mouth, wraps his hand around Sam’s cock and follows Dean’s motion that way, jacking Sam in time.
It lasts just as long as it takes for Sam to really feel it and then he’s scrambling to push Dean away, scrambling not to come. His hand knocks against Michael’s and then he’s squeezing the base of his own dick tightly, his whole body drawn up tense.
Blind gratitude when that mouth pulls away, when there’s nothing but air and cooling spit on his cock, and then that’s even worse. Dean’s gone, and all that Sam can think is that he’s gone again, that they’re both gone and this time it’s for good and Bones will never give them back.
He forces his eyes open. They haven’t gone anywhere, and relief is sharp enough to dull what he sees. Michael’s hands on Dean, twisting him close, Dean’s mouth red and open around his dick. Sam growls without even feeling the noise build in his throat, barks, “Dean!”
Dean flinches like Sam’s slapped him on the ass, and they turn to look at him. Michael’s fingers stay on Dean’s neck, but he lets Dean pull off his cock. Dean reaches for Sam, rubs a hot hand along Sam’s thigh, over his cock, smoothing over the hair on his belly, but Sam shrugs him off. Pushes Dean away just far enough to get his knees under him, get back on Michael’s level. He grabs the kid by both shoulders, hard enough that his ribs compress a little bit. Hard enough that Michael whimpers.
“You touch him when I say you can,” Sam snarls, right in Michael’s face.
And Michael gives, but only a little. Looks up at Sam through his hair and smiles. “It’s all for you, Sam. Whatever you say.”
He shoves Michael away. Michael lands awkwardly, pushes himself back up on his knees, Dean between them. They watch him. The lines of their bodies drawn tense and tight. Sam can see the orgy out of the corner of his eyes, all around them, watching them. He wants to be past the point of caring, past the point of choice. And maybe he is. Maybe he made this choice when he killed Friday, when he took that first step into Sunday’s arms. Maybe the decision was made the first time he looked at Dean and felt shame flood hot and heavy into his gut.
Even as he thinks it, he shakes his head. It’s too easy. He’s never taken the easy road, and every day has been a choice and it’s his own feet that led him here.
He sways. His breath catches. They’re waiting for him. He can still walk away, end this all right now. His cock is heavy, bobbing a little as his muscles flex. Dean’s eyes fix on it and his lips part, just a little. Sam can still walk away.
He can’t look away from Dean’s mouth, still wet from - he can barely think it - from sucking Michael’s cock. From sucking Sam’s. Just the memory of it, of that mouth on him makes Sam’s skin itch, makes him forget all about the bodies around them, everything but how bad he fucking wants to see his come on Dean’s lips, see it drip off his chin. How bad he fucking needs to put his dick back in Dean’s mouth and watch him choke on it.
“Dean,” he says, and then, “Michael.”
They come to him, as he knew they would. They’ll do anything for him, to him, and whether they really would, out in the real world - it doesn’t matter anymore. They sidle close, reaching out to pet him, smooth their hands over his back and chest, biting and licking at each side of his throat. His arms encircle them both. “Dean,” he says. He breathes his brother’s name into Michael’s mouth. “Dean, suck him.”
They share a look, and when Dean leans forward, Sam grabs him by the back of the neck, fingers curling in hard enough to hurt. Dean’s shoulder bangs against his and Dean looks up at him, startled. “I didn’t say kiss him,” he hisses, “I said suck his cock.”
Dean’s lips, parted just enough to show the barest line of teeth, curl slowly into a smile, and Sam thinks, this is my brother. It gets easier every time he thinks it, and his hand slides up into Dean’s hair, supporting him instead of restraining, and Dean opens willingly for him. His mouth is as soft as Sam always knew it would be, his teeth hard shapes behind them, and he groans when Sam bites him - his lower lip, his chin, the soft space under the line of his jaw.
When he releases Dean, it’s with a hard look at Michael, and this time, it seems to stick. Michael keeps his hands to himself as Dean sinks down onto his hands and knees and lips Michael’s cock into his mouth. He sucks it down slow, glancing up through his eyelashes to check Sam’s reaction. Sam puts a hand to the back of Dean’s head, pushes him fast enough that Dean chokes a little, flutters a hand out to steady himself on Michael’s thigh.
He can feel the muscles bunch in Dean’s neck as he slides up and down, the tension in his shoulders from holding himself steady. He looks up at Michael, who’s staring down at Dean with his mouth open. He looks as drugged as Dean, and when Sam snakes an arm around Michael’s shoulders and tugs, his head rolls back onto Sam’s arm, and when Sam kisses him, he can feel Michael yielding. Not all the way - Michael kisses as hard as he fights and it surprises Sam even now, in the middle of all this - but it’s enough.
And as Michael gives, Sam takes. He marks Michael as he marked Dean, biting his mouth and shoulders and neck, hard enough that blood rushes up to the surface of Michael’s skin as soon as Sam releases him. He kisses Michael like he could win the war that way. He’s lost in it, in making Michael surrender, submit, lost enough that when Dean’s tongue traces the underside of his cock, he almost jumps away from the touch. Michael catches Sam - steadies him - and Dean pushes forward, licking and nuzzling as he jerks Michael’s cock with his other hand. Sam’s almost afraid to touch him. This is my brother.
Michael touches Sam’s face, dragging his eyes up, and when he leans forward, Sam lets him. Stays still as Dean switches from one to the other, sucking and fucking with his fist, as Michael kisses Sam. This time, it’s soft. Thoughtful, as if Sam could break at any time even though Michael’s the one shaking.
He can see when Michael’s about to come, hears the little groan that Michael tries so hard to keep between his teeth, and he pulls Dean off his cock, holds them both steady as Michael shoots onto Dean’s face. Dean groans for it, like it’s his own personal money shot, opening his mouth for whatever Sam will let him have. Sam rubs Michael’s dick around Dean’s lips even though Michael’s squirming away from him, over-sensitized and boneless, and pushes his own fingers in when Dean’s tongue comes to lick it away. He pulls them out of Dean’s mouth just long enough to smear them through the come on Dean’s face. He makes Dean lick them clean.
Sam lets Michael go. Michael falls back against the bed gracelessly, his long legs folding uncomfortably underneath him. He reaches for Dean almost absently, just stroking a hand down Dean’s bicep as Sam pulls him upright.
“Michael said he got you ready,” he says rapidly. “Is that true? Are you ready for it?” It’s not what he really wants to ask. He wants to ask Dean if he really wants it, but can’t bring himself to say it. He knows what the answer would be, so he asks the closest thing he can. “Are you ready for it?”
Slowly, Dean nods. He turns his head and nips at Sam’s fingers. “Find out.”
With a snarl, Sam pushes Dean down on the bed, shoving his brother’s thighs roughly apart. He reaches between Dean’s legs, tugs hard on Dean’s balls, and then snakes his fingers underneath them. He is ready. Slick and open enough that Michael must’ve fingered him loose, ready for Sam’s cock. He takes two of Sam’s fingers and then an awkward third, fucking himself wider.
Sam’s heart is pounding hard enough to kill him. His whole body’s wound too tight as he lines himself up. He’s going to fuck his brother. Dean’s eyes glitter as he stares up at Sam, his hands fisted in the bed like he’s waiting for Sam to say he can touch himself. Sam’s going to fuck his brother.
He slides in slow. Takes it easy. Shallow thrusts at first or else he’ll just come right there, the world’s shortest foray into incest. His hands are trembling where they’re holding onto Dean. He can hear Michael moving closer to them - can feel the bed dip underneath his weight - but there’s nothing that matters as much as the hot press of Dean’s thighs against his hips, that measured sink into Dean’s body.
The last thrust knocks all the air out of his body and Sam pitches forward, catching himself on his elbows. It’s all he can do to hide his face in Dean’s shoulder and just - breathe through his bared teeth for a little while. Dean’s head and shoulders are pressed against the mattress and the rest of him is pinned in Sam’s lap, clenching around Sam’s dick. He felt loose on Sam’s fingers but he’s so tight around Sam’s cock that it hurts.
He feels Dean’s hand stroke through his sweaty hair. Sam jerks at the touch, looks up into Dean’s face. “S’okay, Sammy,” he whispers.
“Dean,” Sam says, and then drops his face again, embarrassed by the little broken noise that came out with it. “Dean, I can’t - I can’t do this to you, it’s…”
“S’okay, Sammy,” Dean says. “It’s good. Make it good, Sam.”
“Tell me you want it,” Sam whispers. His eyes are wide and unseeing, Dean’s shoulder too close to really see. He can feel the texture of old scars underneath his cheek. “Say it’ll be okay when you wake up, please - I know it’s not -”
Dean tilts Sam’s face upwards, until they’re eye to eye. His stubble burns against Sam’s chin. Michael’s hands smooth down the line of Sam’s spine. His mouth is warm against the back of Sam’s neck.
Dean smirks, and oxygen floods back into Sam’s lungs and then back out as he laughs, the sound of it startled out of him, and then he moves. He digs his fingers into Dean’s hips, holding him down, fucking into him. Dean arches underneath him - grabbing Sam, his fingers pressing hard enough to leave marks under Sam’s shoulder blades - and it takes Sam a minute to get what Dean wants.
Michael helps them rearrange, helps them get Sam sitting up against a backboard that, vaguely, he doesn’t remember being there, his legs sprawled out, Dean straddling him, facing away. He holds Sam’s cock as he lowers himself back onto it, his shoulders tensing as it goes deeper and deeper, until Dean’s thighs lay heavy and hot against Sam’s. Michael swings a knee over Sam’s and they stare at each other over Dean’s shoulder. Michael’s close enough that Sam could kiss him again, if he wanted to. Michael reaches for Sam, strokes long fingers over Sam’s temple.
“You’d be good for him, wouldn’t you?” Sam asks. He whispers it. Says it in his own head first and then out loud, leaning into Michael’s touch. Michael frowns, the corner of his mouth lifting like he doesn’t really get it, whatever Sam’s saying to him, and Sam closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the headboard. All he can do is hang on to Dean’s hips as Dean fucks himself on Sam’s cock, all his weight on Michael, whose fingers tangle with Sam’s on Dean’s hips. They move Dean together, Michael’s other elbow just visible, flexing in a way that makes Sam think Michael’s got both of their cocks, jerking them together as Dean rocks back and forth, so fucking deep that it’s all he can do.
Sam knows when it all changes. He’s been waiting for it, for the big reveal. He was long past the point where all his dreams come true and when Michael stiffens, his eyes going wide and shocked, his rhythm stuttering - when he looks at Sam and sees Sam, his mouth falling open to say something or because he’s somewhere past words entirely - it’s as if Sam’s been bracing himself for impact when he should’ve stayed loose enough to roll with the punches. And it is a punch: a sharp, swift pain that’s amazing in its physicality. He did what Bones told him to; he took what he wanted and he’s had them both and his cock is buried in Dean’s ass, and Dean and Michael will hate him forever.
And Dean’s hand closes around his wrist, hard enough to hurt, Dean’s jagged, bitten fingernails digging into Sam’s skin, and the noise Sam makes echoes Michael’s. Dean looks over his shoulder, his eyes rolled back in his head to meet Sam’s - and Sam gasps, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” and Dean growls and thumps the back of his head against Sam’s collarbone, and then lurches forward, capturing Michael as he tries to get away. He keeps one hand on Sam - the other holding Michael by the nape of his neck, kissing Michael even though the kid’s making sounds like he’s gonna cry, Dean’s hips still sawing back and forth on the edge of Sam’s control. He takes Michael’s hand - Sam sees him do it, sees the motion of it - and puts it back where it was, back on their cocks, and squeezes.
Dean comes first, whining from it, the noise high and startling to Sam, so much more submissive than he would’ve imagined. Michael tumbles after him, sagging against Dean, his face pressed against the side of Dean’s neck, hidden. He gasps - and that’s what does it for Sam, two more thrusts and then his whole body shaking with orgasm, strung out from it.
And for a long time, no sound but ragged, panicked breathing as they all, carefully, don’t look at each other. Sam’s cock twitches, still inside his brother’s body, and Dean flinches. He nudges Michael, and they clamber awkwardly off. Sam’s dick makes a wet noise as it slides out of Dean’s ass. He stares down at his body, watches Dean and Michael out of the corners of his eyes. Dean moves to the edge of the bed, elbows balanced on his knees, Michael up against the wall, his legs drawn up against his chest. Something hard and selfish in Sam’s heart is glad of the three feet of space between them, and he barely notices the wall against Michael’s back that should be open air.
They’re alone, in a room that Sam hasn’t been in before, underneath a huge wooden canopy. Sam’s eyes wander over the die-cut Cupids, the plastic chairs, and it’s the only thing in this that doesn’t make perfect sense to him. No broken pictures or sweating bodies, nobody standing in a ring around them and pointing fingers. Just the three of them in this ugly room, no more hideous than some of the places that Dean’s checked them into over the years. Somehow, that almost makes it worse, like this - this thing could’ve happened anyway, some drunken mistake or tempers stretched too far. There are bruises on Dean’s arms and Sam doesn’t even remember grabbing him there.
Dean pushes himself off the bed, his mouth set in a grim line. There’s a slickness on the back of his legs that’s probably Sam’s come leaking out of him. There’s come on his face, almost dried now, little flaking patches of white. It’s on his cheekbones, his throat. And what Sam thinks of - despite everything - is that he should make Michael lick Dean clean. He can’t help the stifled moan that he makes, and they both look at him. Dean’s face is slack. His eyes bright and dead. He meets Sam’s gaze without expression, just a blank wall that Sam can’t look away from. Say something, Sam thinks, and Dean turns away.
He rummages in the dresser, turns up handfuls of frilly lingerie in oversaturated colors. “Dean,” Michael says, softly, and blushes. He looks so young and for a minute, Sam can’t even remember how old Michael is. His face is still flushed and god, he’s still a teenager. He has to be. He’d still be in high school if not for them. Nursing a crush on a teacher or something, instead of - instead of this.
He shouldn’t be here, Sam thinks. Not because Michael isn’t strong enough. But because he shouldn’t be within a hundred miles of people like them. Like Sam.
Dean’s shoulders sag, his hands braced on the top of the dresser. A yellow bra trailing down between his fingers. Sam wants to make a joke. It’s right on the edge of his teeth, that they can never find any fucking clothes in this place. “I can …” he says, trailing off. Michael looks at Sam. Dean doesn’t. He lifts the bra to his face like it’s a washcloth and scrubs absently.
“I’m sorry,” Sam blurts out. Dean turns around. His eyes skitter away from Sam and land on Michael, but there’s something living behind his eyes again, and Sam will take what he can get. Something funny in there, somewhere, and safe in his own head, Sam thinks: I’d do it all again. No matter what happens, I wouldn’t take it back.
And that - that really is funny.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” Sam says. He’s crying, messy and panicked, and he says it again even though it’s a lie and he’s not sorry. “I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry.” He covers his face with his hands. His whole body is shaking.
Dean sighs. His bare feet make no noise as he steps back across the shag and sits heavily next to Sam. Sam twitches back from him, scoots back up against the headboard. Doggedly, Dean follows.
“Sam,” he says. “Sam, come on.”
“It’s not okay,” Sam says. He sounds like an old woman and he knows it, his voice shrill and scolding. “It’s not okay, don’t fucking patronize me, Dean. I raped you. I raped Michael. It’s not fucking okay.”
“I wasn’t gonna say that it was,” Dean says. He scrubs a hand over his hair, rubs his fingertips over his cheek.
Sam gulps air. “You - you’re not?”
Dean shakes his head. Sam can feel him hesitating. Dean stares down at the ground, at his hands. He shakes his head again. He looks back up at Sam, his eyes steady. “I knew,” he says, and Sam feels the words wash down the back of his neck like ice. “I knew the whole time, okay? That’s my secret, I guess. So if you wanna blame anyone, blame me.”
“That’s stupid,” Sam says, trying to breathe. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
Dean shrugs. “Yeah, well.”
“You what?” Michael says. He crawls towards them on his knees, dropping down on the other side of Dean. “You knew?”
“M’sorry,” Dean says.
Michael waves a hand, staring off into middle ground. “No, it … actually sorta makes sense. You … I thought …” He trails off. “Huh.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam says, and Michael rolls his eyes.
“God, enough with the apologies,” he says, and Dean laughs, a little startled. Michael twitches at the sound. His hands are shaking where they’re wrapped around his knees. “Look,” he says, “Look, I’m not gonna lie. This is pretty fucking weird. But it’s not the end of the world, is it? I mean - we’re in a disco ghost hotel that kidnaps people so that they’ll fuck each other. And that’s, like, our day job. That’s pretty fucking weird too.”
“That is such a cop out,” Sam mutters.
“Yeah, well, I don’t think that giving into a downward spiral of self-loathing and guilt is making the situation any better,” Michael snaps, and then sags back onto the bed. “God, Sam, I’m sorry. See, now I’m doing it. Fuck you both. Oh my god.”
Dean snickers. “See?” he says to Sam. “That’s why I keep him around. He’s funny.”
“Funny looking,” Michael mumbles.
Sam rolls his eyes, but he manages a smile when Dean tilts his head. He knows what they’re trying to do, and he almost says as much. But maybe Michael’s right. Sam can feel the cracks like they’re a physical thing, but if he can hold it together long enough to get out of here - to get back to their own lives - he thinks maybe he can just take things as they come.
Dean’s hand is hot against the back of Sam’s neck. He wants to shrug it off. He doesn’t deserve what they’re offering him. Instead, he scoots closer and lets his head fall on Dean’s shoulder. Might as well. Dean’s hand stays where it is, awkward until he shifts it to Sam’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. It’s not at all like the last time Sam touched Dean - no expectation of anything more. But the stroke of Dean’s thumb over his arm feels like - like Dean’s rubbing off dead skin, splitting all those cracks wide open, leaving him raw underneath. When Michael’s hand joins Dean’s, a warm pressure on Sam’s back, Sam’s not really surprised. He shuts his eyes - and then opens them again, struck by something.
“Dean?” he asks. “When - when did you wake up?”
All he can see from where he is is just the corner of Dean’s mouth, the slightest lift of a smile, and it’s all the response he gets.
Chapter 4 ** Chapter 6