Don't Forget To Breathe Tonight - Dean/Sam - NC17
Title: Don't Forget To Breathe Tonight
Author: jeyhawk
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC17
Category: Angst, Romance, Erotica
Word Count: ~ 15,600
Spoilers: Season One and Two. Season Three character that I know nothing of but looks and name.
Summary: Dean's cursed and only Sam's touch can cure him, but will it ruin their relationship forever?
Disclaimer: Since you didn't see this happening on the show I don't own it. No harm intended, no money made.
Dedication: To teh_kimeye because she had a birthday recently and I love my girl. (You can haz porn with the angst, I prom.)
Beta: mesnica
Notes/Warnings: Thanks to all of the people that encouraged me along the way and assured me I could write Sam and Dean without turning them into Jared and Jensen. You know who you are. ;0)
Banner by titheniel
It happens on a Tuesday, and really, Dean’s not surprised. Bad things have a tendency to happen to him on Tuesdays. Some girl, a pretty blonde with legs to the sky, told him once that Tuesday is Dean’s tahk in German. It’s not spelled that way, he’s pretty sure of it, but that’s what it sounded like to him. Dean’s tahk, Dean’s day, Tuesday; the stupidest fucking day of the week. One would think that when you get your own day it’d be a good day, but good things rarely happen to a Winchester; so Tuesdays, in general, suck.
Tuesdays are great days for getting sprayed with monster guts, getting thrown into walls by angry spirits, or cutting your hand open while polishing your knives (and really, Sam is never going to let him forget about that one). It’s also, it turns out, a great day to get cursed.
He tries to remember the name of the pretty blonde who told him about Dean’s tahk. It was something starting with D, he thinks, Dana, or Doris, maybe Dee. He can see her long legs before his inner eye, remember what it felt like to slide into her, but her name is gone. He supposes it doesn’t matter, if he ever meets her again she’s going to be married and have kids, because such is the way of life, people move on.
It happens on a Tuesday in Michigan. Dean always liked Michigan, good things happen in Michigan and driving over the Mackinac bridge always makes him feel awesome. Not that they visit Michigan much; despite it having an awesomely huge lake and stuff, there aren’t that many hunts that Sam and Dean need to bother with. It’s still like a slap to the face that it happens in Michigan, on a fucking Tuesday. Dean’s tahk, ha.
It starts out as a regular hunt, bad things have been happening to teenagers at a local high school in this small town off the main roads. Sammichville, population 8999, a great place to raise your kids.
Dean teases Sam mercilessly because of the name of the town. Even more so when the local high school turns out to be called Sammich High. It doesn’t matter that Dean hasn’t called Sam Sammich since he was in diapers; it’s the principle of the thing. Especially since it only takes about four bad puns for Sam’s face to turn into the stubborn pout Dean thinks of as the bitch face.
Sam’s been in a weird mood lately, ever since they broke the crossroads deal, and anything that makes him act normal is okay with Dean. Even if normal in this case is bordering on sullen teenager, Dean is willing to work with what he gets. He figures that Sam is thinking about the ‘normal’ life again, but when Dean told him he could have it after they’d broken the deal, Sam just looked at him like he was insane and pulled out a binder full of possible hunts.
It happens on a Tuesday, in Sammichville, Michigan, and it starts with a coven of witches. Even though coven implies some sort of organization and the term witches can only be applied if you’re very generous, which Dean on most occasions is not. He would say it started with a gaggle of idiotic high school girls that should have spent more time learning the rule of three than watching Charmed and dreaming of the popular life.
The truth is that Dean never liked witches much, or wiccans, or whatever they call themselves these days. He doesn’t like the way they seem to look right through him, like they can see what’s hiding in the dark recesses of his soul.
It’s the same reason as why he doesn’t like Missouri. Sam might enjoy her looking through his brain like it’s an open book, but that’s because Sam doesn’t have any secrets. Oh, Sam might think he’s got secrets, but it’s all stupid shit that no one but Sam would ever think to blame him for. Dean though, he’s got secrets. Secrets of the kind he would rather not have some psychic bitch knowing about.
It happens on a Tuesday, in Sammichville, Michigan, and it starts with a coven of witches that turns out to be four terrified high school girls who found a medallion that gave them powers they never should have had. In fact, it has mostly blown over by the time Sam and Dean roll into town. Three of the girls have already sworn off their powers completely after realizing that, unless you’re willing to sell your soul, even magic comes with a price you have to pay.
The fourth girl, now she was probably a little loopy to begin with, for some reason thought that her soul was a small price to pay to win the next popularity contest. There is a fight, although a pretty minor one, before Sam manages to get up close and pull the amulet from around her neck. She crumbles to the ground and the last they see of her she’s being carried into an ambulance.
Dean thinks that people should learn to never turn their back to Sammy, because he is totally sneaky like that. You think you know where you have him but turn around for a minute and suddenly he’s half way to Stanford, or you know, sneaking up on you and stealing your magical powers.
Dean feels pretty good about the whole thing and wants to hightail out of town in a blast of glory, maybe find some reason to take his baby for a spin over the Mackinac bridge, because he’s sure she enjoys the view. Sam, though, ever the thoughtful one, wants to do some research on the medallion and figures they should stick around at least for a couple more days.
After some superficial protests Dean gives up and lets Sam have his way. After all, Dean hasn’t gotten laid since that burn and salt job in Florida, and that was like three weeks ago. If Sam wants to stay in their crappy Caribbean themed hotel room and do research, that’s completely up to him; Dean’s gonna have some fun.
It happens on a Tuesday in Sammichville, Michigan, and it starts with a coven of witches and a woman. Her name is Sadie. She’s got brown hair, hazel eyes, curves in all the right places and that ageless kind of look that puts her anywhere between seventeen and forty-seven. Dean meets her in a smoky bar, three houses from the motel, and when she asks him if he wants to follow her home, he doesn’t hesitate.
He’s pretty sure she’s of legal age and, frankly, she’s hot enough that he wouldn’t care if she was cutting it close. She lives on top of an antique store in a three room apartment cluttered with furniture and miscellaneous objects. They’re kissing even before they enter, and Dean wouldn’t have noticed the stuff if they hadn’t almost tripped over it on their way to the bedroom.
Fucking her is easy and sweet, and he loves the way she quakes underneath him when she comes. He closes his eyes during the last few thrusts, letting the forbidden thoughts well up to the surface, too close now to keep them away. He only ever lets himself think of it like this, distantly, momentary while fucking something pretty.
He comes with a deep groan that could be her name, could be his, and opens his eyes to find her looking at him with a peculiar smile. Shit, he thinks as he gently pulls out and disposes the condom, while she keeps looking right through him. Shit, he thinks again as he rolls over and lets himself land next to her on the sheets.
Out of all the women of the world, Dean had to go and fuck a witch. He should have known by the way she singled him out in the bar, should have known by the way she kept smiling as if the joke was on him. Should have known nothing would ever be that simple on a fucking Tuesday.
“It took you some time to connect the dots,” she says, half smile firmly on her face.
He doesn’t answer, just rolls out of bed and starts looking for his clothes that ended up scattered all over the room. At least he knows his clothes are somewhere close by, it’s one of the many lessons his dad taught him. Never let your clothes get too scattered, you never know when you have to leave in a hurry. Solid piece of advice that; Dean finds himself wondering if their dad ever told it to Sam.
“You think you’re so suave,” Sadie says, stretching as an excuse to show off her admirable body to its fullest extent. “Driving women crazy with your sweet looks and even sweeter talk. Do you ever stop to think about the ones you leave behind?”
He glances at her as he pulls on his boxers, waiting for and trying to anticipate her next move. There’s more than one reason he can’t stand witches, stupid meddling bitches that they are. It’s because they’re all about the power of the feminine and they seem to be out to avenge every woman ever scorned. They’re not too particular about which man gets caught in the crossfire either.
“I’m not gonna make this unnecessarily hard on you…” She laughs as if she just told a great joke and he frowns as he pulls his shirts on. “But you pissed someone off you shouldn’t have and now you’ll deal with the consequences.”
He starts backing away from the bed, seriously contemplating leaving his leather jacket behind, but it’s already too late. She mutters something under her breath and suddenly he finds himself growing uncomfortably hard, tenting the front of his jeans in an obvious way.
“You cursed me with an erection?” he asks in bewilderment, because, all things considered, getting a boner is better than, say, being turned into a girl.
“Not just any erection,” she says with a toothy grin, pushing herself into sitting position. “One that only the fulfillment of your deepest, most secret desire will cure.” She laughs. “But, hey, I hear incest isn’t punishable by death anymore.”
It happens on a Tuesday in Sammichville, Michigan, and it starts with a coven of witches, a woman, and Dean being fucked six ways to the next Tuesday. When he gets back to the motel room, Sam’s already asleep, back turned to the door, and Dean wastes no time in getting into bed himself. His cock is pounding hot and hard, pressing against his boxers, but he ignores it, hoping to wake up the next morning to it all being a dream.
Over breakfast in the morning Sam tells him about the amulet coming from a local antique shop. One of the girls told him she distinctly remembers the woman behind the counter acting like she knew about its powers. Dean squirms in his seat and ignores him, letting Sam’s research voice wash over him. He hasn’t told Sam about last night yet and he isn’t going to if he can help it.
They leave town later that day. The antique shop lead turns out to be nothing, the guy who owns the place swears there was never a dark haired woman working there and despite Sam’s clever questions and witness accounts the guy won’t budge. Dean stands back, lets Sam do the talking while trying to ignore the insistent ache of unfulfilled desire. The curse has to end sometime, they usually come with an expiry date, and Dean is not going to give in.
It takes three days and a hunt going awry for Dean to finally tell Sam. He can’t even properly function any more; it’s like his brain doesn’t get enough blood. He’s twitchy and irritable, and he can’t focus on anything for more than ten minutes. His clothes chafe against his blood swollen dick and he’d give anything for an orgasm, anything except the one thing he knows that he needs.
“What the fuck were you thinking back there?” Sam asks when they’re finally back in the car and the spirit’s decayed body is properly salted and burned. “You could have gotten us both killed.”
Shame coils in Dean’s gut, mixing and mingling with the ever present desire, and he huffs out a breath. “Sorry,” he mutters, wiping a hand over his face.
“You’ve been out of funk for days, ever since Michigan. What the fuck is up with you? Where not taking another hunt until I know I can trust you.” Sam’s nostrils are flared with anger and his chin is set in a stubborn line.
Dean looks away, staring out into the darkness pressing against the windows off the car. The key is in the ignition but he hasn’t turned it yet, isn’t sure he can even drive anymore.
“The antique shop bitch cursed me,” he finally says. “The one you wanted us to look for.”
“Shit,” Sam says, grabbing the back of his neck and forcing him to turn his head. “Cursed you how? And why the fuck haven’t you said anything, Dean?”
Dean flinches at the use of his name, shaking Sam’s hand away. “She cursed me with…” he licks his lips, “an erection.”
Sam blinks, then the corners of his mouth twitches like he’s trying really hard to clamp down on his laughter. “An erection?” The mirth is dancing around the edges of Sam’s voice, and Dean supposes that if the tables were turned he would find it pretty damned amusing too.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “An erection.”
Sam loses the fight against his laughter and his high pitched bellows bounces against the walls of the car, snaking around Dean and making him ache. It’s been too long since he heard Sam’s laugh; too long since anything in their fucked up life was worth more than a smile and a snort. It’s almost worth it, almost.
Absently he presses the heel of his palm against his crotch, trying to ease the ache just for a moment, and Sam’s laughter dies as suddenly as it started.
“Jesus, Dean,” he says, his eyes following the movement of Dean’s hand. “You’re not kidding.”
Dean just shakes his head, putting both his hands on the wheel, gripping hard enough for it to dig into his palms.
“So you’ve been hard for almost four days… Does it hurt?”
“What do you think?” Dean snarls, unable to help himself.
“And you can’t come? Or is it just that you…”
“Option one.”
“Oh… That sucks.”
Dean gives Sam a sideways look that clearly informs him that that was the understatement of the year.
“We’ll figure it out,” Sam promises, but Dean knows he doesn’t really get it.
Sam gets it later that night though when Dean’s near sobs wakes him up. Sometime during the night Dean’s hand found his erection and when he wakes up he just can’t stop. He knows he’s being obvious, making more noises than he should, but the slick slide of his hand over engorged flesh just feels too fucking good.
He’s sweating all over and his hand is slipping in the ridiculous amounts of precome leaking from his aching cock. He’s right at the edge of that pain tinged pleasure haze just before coming, but he just can’t get there. It doesn’t matter that he twists his wrist so and tighten his fingers like that, the ultimate goal of sweet release is out of his reach.
Then Sam is there, big hand curling around Dean’s wrist and pulling his hand away. Precome wets Sam’s fingers as well but he doesn’t seem to care as he curls up behind Dean on the bed, broad chest against Dean’s sweaty back, knees pressing against the backs of Dean’s thighs.
Dean struggles, fights against the constraint, trying to bring his hand back to where he needs it the most. Sam’s wrist slides against the slick head of his cock and he groans deep in his throat, hips pushing forward on their own volition.
“Kinky,” Sam breathes against his ear. “And a whole new level of fucked up even for us.”
Dean stiffens and stops struggling, turning his flushed face into the pillow to hide his uneven raspy breaths and his shame in cloth and synthetic feathers. Sam eases his grip on his wrist and Dean lets his hand flop down on the bed, gripping the sheets as he tries to force his body back from the edge.
“It’s okay,” Sam says, breath ghosting over the sweat curled hair at the back of Dean’s neck. “I understand.”
Dean knows Sam doesn’t really understand, can’t understand. Not Sam, who is good without even trying and carries the pain of the world on his shoulders. He doesn’t understand and he will never have to. Dean won’t ever lay that on him.
It happens on a Tuesday in Sammichville, Michigan, and it starts with a coven of witches, a woman, Dean being fucked six ways to the next Tuesday, and Sam going into research mode over a problem that has no solution. At least no solution Dean will let it have.
On the Monday six days after the curse was uttered, Sam drops Dean off at a biker bar called The Hog. Dean finds her easily, like he knew he would, dark hair pulled into a braid as she hustles some leather clad bikers in pool. She’s been coming here for years, but they never learn. They never realize that such a sweet faced girl can be that cold hearted and calculating, or maybe they let her win to keep her coming back.
She spots Dean as he walks in; he knows she does even though her eyes never turn his way. She wouldn’t be the person she is if she didn’t know exactly who was coming and going at any given time. He takes a seat at the bar, orders a whiskey and waits.
Two hours later they’re in her motel room, on her bed and he’s just fucked her for the third time in a row. He sitting on the edge of the bed, back turned to her, to hide the fact that he’s still hard.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks, looking down on his hands.
She laughs and puts a hand on his lower back. “It takes more than a man on a mission to hurt me.” Her fingers trail down to the cleft of his ass, almost but not quite dipping in. “Want to talk about it?”
He gives her a look over his shoulder, and she grins, eyes twinkling. He can’t help his answering smile, shaking his head slightly to indicate that now would not be the time to change the terms of their not-relationship.
“You’re an odd man, Dean Winchester,” she says, stretching in a way that takes him a few days back in time to another woman who wanted to show off her body.
He shrugs, still half turned away from her. Without saying anything, he reaches for his boxers that landed beside the bed and pulls them on, once again trapping his still rock hard dick against his stomach. She doesn’t say goodbye when he leaves, and he doesn’t look back.
Sam’s waiting for him outside, looking way too cool behind the wheel of Dean’s baby. Dean walks around the car and slides into the passenger seat, waiting for it even before Sam opens his mouth.
“Did it help?” Sam asks, his voice tight and his face squished into the oh so familiar bitch face. Apparently Sam doesn’t like the thought that anyone can be of service to Dean but him. If he only knew.
Dean shakes his head, before leaning it against the blessedly cool window. He doesn’t want to talk about it, not right now, when he’s still riled up.
“I just…” Sam turns the key in the ignition, “Don’t get it.”
Dean doesn’t say anything. It’s not like Sam needs input when he’s worked up about something and Bela never fails to get his panties in a twist.
“The two of you… I just don’t get it. If you love her so much then why don’t you marry her and have a gaggle of kids?”
Sam, Dean decides, is really an idiot when it comes to certain things. “I’m not you,” Dean points out.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Dean shifts in his seat and sighs. He really doesn’t want to have this conversation; he does, in fact, not want to have any conversation. He wants to get to a decent motel and curl up on the bed thinking unhappy thoughts until he calms down enough to fall asleep, and he doesn’t want to wake up humping the mattress, sobbing into his pillow.
“I don’t want to get married and have a gaggle of kids; that’s your dream.”
“No, it’s not, but you never fucking got it, did you?”
Dean glances at Sam, who’s staring at the road, knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. God, Sam is such a pain sometimes and more complex than any woman ever.
“Fine, Sam. What do you want?” Dean asks, rubbing his flushed face against the window even though he knows the stain will be a bitch to remove later.
Sam presses his lips together and huffs out a breath through his nose. “Nothing.”
Dean lets his eyes slide close and decides that ignoring Sam would be a good thing right now. A very good thing even if he wants to keep the remaining shreds of his sanity.
“I don’t love her,” he says after a few minutes. “At least not in the way you seem to think I do.”
Sam doesn’t answer and Dean falls back into silence, letting the hum of the engine and his own steady breaths lull him into uneasy sleep. Sam wakes him up when they’re at the motel and Dean follows him to their room, wondering if the fact that Sam chose a motel in the next town over has anything to do with how Sam feels about Bela, or how Dean possibly feels about her.
It happens on a Tuesday in Sammichville, Michigan, and it starts with a coven of witches, a woman, Dean being fucked six ways to the next Tuesday, Sam going into research mode over a problem that has no solution, and it includes hookers.
Dean makes it all of one day after the encounter with Bela before he’s climbing the walls again. Twitchy, angry, annoyed at the world at large and with Sam in particular. Sam who’s treating this like he would any normal hunt, completely disregarding the fact that Dean is fucking dying.
Whenever Dean looks up from his pacing, or the TV, or whatever manages to hold his interest for all of two seconds, Sam is typing away at the laptop, keeping it on his knees in what looks like a stupidly comfortable slouchy position.
“I need to get laid.”
Sam looks up from the laptop screen. “Right now?”
“Yes.”
He nods. “So… want me to drop you off at a bar?”
Dean blinks, stops his pacing for a moment. “Seriously Sam… Look at me? Do you think anyone in their right mind would follow me home?”
Sam purses his lips. “I would.”
“You’re my brother… and a freak. No one else would even dream about it.”
“A hooker then?”
Dean nods, smoothing his hands over the crinkly front of his shirt. It’s been a long time since he paid for sex, a very long time.
“Okay.” Sam puts the laptop on the table before him and rubs his hands together. “I’m just gonna go and… Where do you find a hooker?”
“Check the yellow pages, ask someone, I don’t care.”
Sam huffs and gets up from the chair reaching for his hoodie. “You wanna tag along?”
Dean shakes his head, pushing his hands into his pockets. “You have to make up a lie… A hooker is bound to notice I can’t come… Say you dared me to take Viagra or something.”
“Much experience with hookers, have you?” Sam asks with a smirk.
“Shut up. Oh, and you have to stay.”
“Yeah, okay. I… What?”
“They charge extra for that kind of thing, so be sure to mention it.”
Sam just looks at him like he lost all his marbles. “Let me get this straight… The most important part of your statement was that they charge extra for that kind of thing? Not that, oh, you just asked me to watch you have sex?”
“It would be good if she doesn’t mind playing rough… You should probably say something about that too.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and…”
“You know what? I got it. Okay? I’ll just… I’m just… I’m going now. Bye.”
Dean stares at the door for a moment before going into the bathroom. He needs to take a piss and it takes him about twenty minutes to relax enough for that to happen, and when it does, it gets fucking everywhere. Sam suggested he piss in the bathtub from now on, but he’s so not ready for that kind of thing. He’d rather give himself a golden shower and clean up afterwards than sit in the fucking bathtub.
He cleans up after himself and scrutinizes his image in the bathroom mirror. They will have no problems what so ever getting someone to believe Sam slipped him Viagra. The problem will be convincing people he’s not on something else as well.
He’s got three days worth of stubble, because the razor makes him too happy. His clothes are wrinkly from use, and he keeps sweating, getting them damp and gross. His cock tents the front of his jeans, and if it hadn’t been for Sam evil genius suggestion that Dean wear a hygiene pad there would have been a wet spot as if he’d peed himself.
Biting his lower lips he removes the hygiene pad. There is only so much you can expect a woman to put up with, even if you’re paying her. He throws it away with a disgusted shudder. It might have been a good idea, but it’s still completely gross, and he knows Sam is going to tease him ENDLESSLY about it once they’ve gotten rid of the curse.
Trying to give himself something else to think of but how much he aches, Dean looks over the place, making sure the sheets aren’t too wrinkly and that there’s not too much junk on the floor. Who knows how long it will take Sammy to find a hooker, he could be gone all night for all Dean knows.
It doesn’t quite take all night, just a few hours, and Sam looks ridiculously proud of himself when he walks into the motel room with a scantily clad forty something woman in tow. She looks like she’s watched Pretty Woman one too many times and wishes she were Julia Roberts, but she smiles sweetly at Dean and as long as she lets him fuck her, he doesn’t really care what she looks like or how old she is.
Sam reluctantly goes into the bathroom to wait, leaving the door ajar so that he can hear what’s going on, and the woman, Sheila, focuses her attention on Dean. It’s clear that Sam told her something about Dean being touched in the head, but Dean doesn’t really care because within minutes she’s got her mouth on his dick.
The good thing about hookers, or women of the trade to be more polite, is that you can cut all the bullshit that is not directly related to getting off. She blows him until her jaw must be aching and then she pushes him down flat on the bed and climbs on board. Dean fists his hands in the sheets, bends his knees for leverage and pushes up on her down thrusts.
It feels so fucking good, he can’t help the stupid noises slipping from his lips, rocking up into her until it’s simply not enough anymore. At that point he manages to flip them over and fucks into her until Sam shows up and pulls him away with an arm around his waist. He has no idea how much time has passed, all he knows and cares about is that he is so fucking close he can taste it at the back of his throat.
He doesn’t understand whatever it is Sam is saying, doesn’t understand why Sam is pushing him into the shower, doesn’t understand until a shock of icy water hits him in the face and he crumbles to the floor. He pulls his legs up, and wraps his arms around them, pressing his hot face against his knees as the cold water beats down on him.
“I’m gonna take her back, okay?” Sam says, and his voice sounds odd, off somehow.
Dean makes a sound that could be taken as an affirmative and Sam leaves him alone in the bathroom. The cold water is making him tremble, crawling over his body like icy spiders, and he sucks in uneven breaths in an attempt to calm down. He hopes he didn’t hurt her, that Sam stopped him in time.
He can’t keep going like this; he can feel his sanity slipping away from him. He’s turning into an animal, ruled only by his most primal instincts; there is no telling what he might do. Who knows for how long Sam will agree to be his conscience. It’s okay now, but what about in three weeks, will it still be okay then, or will Dean try to rape Sam in pure desperation, ruining their relationship forever?
Sam comes back some time later and turns the water heat up, making Dean mewl with the sudden change of temperature.
“Idiot,” Sam says fondly, and Dean turns to look at him, noting the shine in his eyes and the flush of his cheeks.
He blinks against the water that keeps getting in his eyelashes and tries to make sense of the situation and Sam’s appearance.
“Did I hurt her?” he croaks, his voice sounding odd in his ears.
Sam shakes his head. “She said it was quite a ride actually.” A flush creep up his cheeks, and Dean wonders if he looked, listened. If he got off on hearing his brother fuck a hooker. Sheila, he reminds himself, her name was Sheila.
“You feel better now?”
Sam reaches up to turn the water heat up a few more notches, and Dean starts to feel itchy, uncomfortable. He’s never been this vulnerable in front of Sam, never this much out of control. Sure, Sam’s seen him naked a million times, they’re two guys and share a motel room almost every night, of course he has, but never like this. Never open, vulnerable and hard like this.
Without saying a word, maybe sensing that Dean doesn’t want to talk, Sam helps him out of the shower, towels him off, makes sure he disposes of the condom still hugging his angry red cock and puts him to bed. Dean curls into a miserable ball and contemplates suicide until sleep over takes him.
It happens on a Tuesday in Sammichville, Michigan, and it starts with a coven of witches, a woman, Dean being fucked six ways to the next Tuesday, Sam going into research mode over a problem that has no solution, includes hookers, and it ends with Sam being a self sacrificing asshole and the best brother ever.
Dean wakes up in the middle of the night, so turned on that it hurts, a raging fire spanning from his groin and licking at his limbs. His hand curls around his cock without him giving it a second thought, sliding over rock hard flesh that’s already wet with precome. He groans deep in his throat, rolling over on his stomach to push into his own hand at the same time as he grinds against the sheets.
Touching himself hurts, makes him sweat all over, and sucks the life out of him, but not doing it is even worse. He buries his face in the pillowcase to keep silent, sobbing as he writhes on the bed, trying to just fucking get there. He doesn’t know how much time has passed in the haze of pleasure-pain when Sam gets there.
All he knows is that he can’t let Sam stop him this time, just can’t. He has to come, has to. It’s fucking killing him inside. When Sam finally gets the upper hand, managing to trap his hands and pin him down, Dean is crying freely. Deep hulking sobs like he didn’t even cry when he lost Sam.
“I’ll figure it out,” Sam promises, voice full of desperation. “Okay? There has to be something I haven’t thought about, something I missed. I… I’ll help you. I’ll find a way.”
Dean wants to tell him there is no way, but he can’t find the words. How can he tell Sam that the only thing that will cure him is Sam? How can he even think it? He doesn’t know how long it takes for him to finally fall back to sleep, still pinned down by Sam’s bulk, arms trapped above his head, but somehow he manages.
When he wakes up next he can tell it’s morning by the light filtering in through the curtains, painting the bed in streaks of pale silver. The first thing that hits him is the ache, half forgotten in his sleep. It comes back with a vengeance upon waking. His cock throbs with a constant dull pounding that makes his entire body feel weird and out of sync. Like his skin is pulled too tight over his flesh, like he can’t breathe.
Sam’s no longer in bed with him, so he blinks his eyes open to locate him. He’s sitting at the table, hunched over his laptop and reading intently from the screen. His right arm twitches when he scrolls further down the page, otherwise he’s unmoving.
“Hey,” Dean says, and Sam looks up at him mouth set into a thin white line.
“I can’t… I can’t find anything. I figured out how to break a deal with a crossroads demon but I can’t figure out how to break a stupid curse…” Sam says, catching his lower lips between his teeth and chewing on it. “I’ve talked to everyone we know, scoured all the sources and they all say the same thing. The terms of breaking the curse have to be uttered with the curse or it won’t work.”
Dean rolls over on his side, breaking eye contact.
“She must have said something, Dean… It might have been a riddle or seemed stupid at the time, but there must have been something. It wouldn’t work otherwise. It’s not like… It’s not like it’s a really harmful curse, it’s mostly uttered to cause embarrassment, or as a temporary punishment. Several of the sources mentions sheep, she didn’t say anything about sheep, did she?”
Dean shakes his head mutely.
“Dogs then? We could work with dogs.”
Dean’s head snaps back, but Sam isn’t even smiling. He’s looking sincere and damned near desperate.
“Jesus,” Dean mutters.
“So it was dogs then? I think maybe we could figure something out with a cat too, but then it would have to be dead, but really you won’t have any troubles getting it up so I suppose…”
“It’s you,” Dean half whispers, hoping that Sam won’t hear him because he’s not going to say it again.
“I really think… Oh.”
The silence stretches out between them and Dean dares to sneak another look. Sam’s mouth is hanging open and he’s blinking stupidly, like he for once can’t think of something to say. Then he snaps out of it and licks his lips.
“Well, it’s not unheard of. There was this one guy who had to fuck his grandma, but he opted to shot her instead so his dick fell off, or I mean it didn’t fall off… it just… Are you sure?”
“Do you think I would say that if I wasn’t? Jesus, Sam.”
Sam nods, looks down on his hands, up to Dean and back to his hands. “I’m hungry. Are you hungry? I could really use something to eat.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Dean gets dressed in silence, making a pitiful little noise when his cock once again gets trapped against his stomach, ignoring Sam who is still fidgeting with the laptop. The ball, ha ha, is in Sam’s court now, and Dean isn’t going to push him. Sick, twisted longing fills him when he thinks of having Sam’s hands on him, Sam’s mouth against his, Sam buried balls deep within him.
Dean’s no stranger to gay sex, even though he plays at being arrow straight, and he can all too vividly imagine what it would be like with Sam. He would like to think that it’s only because of the curse and the desperation that comes with the constant ache, but he knows he’d be lying to himself. He’s been thinking about it for more years than he cares to count.
Breakfast is an uncomfortable affair, filled with furtive looks and stilted conversation. It feels like the last few days before Sam took off for Stanford all over again, and Dean finds himself ripping his napkin to shreds. Sam’s as jittery as he is, shoveling food into his mouth to hide the fact that his hands are trembling.
They walk back to the motel in silence, Dean bow-legged and slower than usual, getting winded even though it’s no more than a couple of blocks. When Sam suggests they find another place he doesn’t argue, just sits in the car and waits while Sam packs up their stuff and pays for the room.
Sam makes a pit stop at the drugstore, throwing a bag into the back before driving them to a new motel, a much classier place than their last. A much classier place then they usually frequent, with bungalows and a pool that isn’t full of dry leaves. Dean stays in the car as Sam gets them a room and he silently traipses after Sam after he parks the car in one of the allotted spaces.
He’s all out of words, energy and will. All he can think of is the way his clothes chafe against his cock and how good Sam’s ass looks in his jeans. They’re not even a pair of good jeans, old, worn and too baggy. Dean can still sense his ass underneath the clothes as he moves and it’s enough to make his mind wander.
He isn’t surprised to find that the bungalow has two rooms, one general living area with an L shaped couch, wide screen TV and a kitchenette, and one bedroom with a huge king-sized bed. One bedroom, one bed and the mere sight of it makes his cock throb dully.
Sam dumps their bags inside the door, all but the drugstore bag that he brings into the bedroom. Dean trails after him, unsure of what to do with himself. It’s like his higher brain functions have been turned off and he exists in a vacuum where only imitation remains.
“So,” Sam says, sitting down on the bed. “Did she… Do you have any idea of what you need?”
Dean shakes his head, unable to wrap his mind around the thought that this is going to happen, that Sam will do this for him. For the first and only time he will get a taste of the one thing he thought he could never have.
“I’m sorry,” Dean says, looking down on his feet and the plush carpet he’s violating with his dusty boots.
“It’s not your fault,” Sam says, sounding calmer than Dean thought he would. “Someone out there wants us to have a fall out over this, which means we need to stick together more than ever. It’s okay. It really is.”
Dean looks up and a surge of pride that nearly overpowers the desire washes through him. This is the Sam he loves, the strong confident one, who faces down demons even when he’s scared shitless. The one who never backs down on a fight and who will never ever fail to surprise him.
“This is awkward,” Sam says with loop-sided grin. “Luckily for us, I bought supplies.”
The sudden hot flash almost brings Dean to his knees and he’s slightly disappointed when all Sam procures from the secret bag is a bottle of good whiskey. He notices the bag isn’t empty though, so he supposes there might still be nice surprises in there.
Sam twists the cap off and takes a swig directly from the bottle; apparently his penance for romance didn’t include actual glasses. He hands the bottle over and Dean takes a mouthful, grimacing slightly as the amber liquid burns its way down to his stomach. Sam takes the bottle back and Dean watches his throat move as he swallows.
Dean takes the bottle when Sam offers it, but he doesn’t drink again. He just curls his hand around the neck, hoping that the cool glass will help him focus.
“I can’t do this if you’re drunk,” he says, looking at Sam’s knees. “I can’t… I have to know you can say no.”
”I understand,” Sam says and hands the cap to Dean, who screws it on with fumbly fingers.
“So… how do we… do this?”
Dean shrugs. He doesn’t want to think anymore, doesn’t want to make decisions or force Sam into a situation where he is clearly not comfortable. Sam stands up suddenly and Dean flinches, sure that Sam has changed his mind.
“Come here,” Sam says, opening his arms.
Part Two
Author: jeyhawk
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC17
Category: Angst, Romance, Erotica
Word Count: ~ 15,600
Spoilers: Season One and Two. Season Three character that I know nothing of but looks and name.
Summary: Dean's cursed and only Sam's touch can cure him, but will it ruin their relationship forever?
Disclaimer: Since you didn't see this happening on the show I don't own it. No harm intended, no money made.
Dedication: To teh_kimeye because she had a birthday recently and I love my girl. (You can haz porn with the angst, I prom.)
Beta: mesnica
Notes/Warnings: Thanks to all of the people that encouraged me along the way and assured me I could write Sam and Dean without turning them into Jared and Jensen. You know who you are. ;0)
Banner by titheniel
It happens on a Tuesday, and really, Dean’s not surprised. Bad things have a tendency to happen to him on Tuesdays. Some girl, a pretty blonde with legs to the sky, told him once that Tuesday is Dean’s tahk in German. It’s not spelled that way, he’s pretty sure of it, but that’s what it sounded like to him. Dean’s tahk, Dean’s day, Tuesday; the stupidest fucking day of the week. One would think that when you get your own day it’d be a good day, but good things rarely happen to a Winchester; so Tuesdays, in general, suck.
Tuesdays are great days for getting sprayed with monster guts, getting thrown into walls by angry spirits, or cutting your hand open while polishing your knives (and really, Sam is never going to let him forget about that one). It’s also, it turns out, a great day to get cursed.
He tries to remember the name of the pretty blonde who told him about Dean’s tahk. It was something starting with D, he thinks, Dana, or Doris, maybe Dee. He can see her long legs before his inner eye, remember what it felt like to slide into her, but her name is gone. He supposes it doesn’t matter, if he ever meets her again she’s going to be married and have kids, because such is the way of life, people move on.
It happens on a Tuesday in Michigan. Dean always liked Michigan, good things happen in Michigan and driving over the Mackinac bridge always makes him feel awesome. Not that they visit Michigan much; despite it having an awesomely huge lake and stuff, there aren’t that many hunts that Sam and Dean need to bother with. It’s still like a slap to the face that it happens in Michigan, on a fucking Tuesday. Dean’s tahk, ha.
It starts out as a regular hunt, bad things have been happening to teenagers at a local high school in this small town off the main roads. Sammichville, population 8999, a great place to raise your kids.
Dean teases Sam mercilessly because of the name of the town. Even more so when the local high school turns out to be called Sammich High. It doesn’t matter that Dean hasn’t called Sam Sammich since he was in diapers; it’s the principle of the thing. Especially since it only takes about four bad puns for Sam’s face to turn into the stubborn pout Dean thinks of as the bitch face.
Sam’s been in a weird mood lately, ever since they broke the crossroads deal, and anything that makes him act normal is okay with Dean. Even if normal in this case is bordering on sullen teenager, Dean is willing to work with what he gets. He figures that Sam is thinking about the ‘normal’ life again, but when Dean told him he could have it after they’d broken the deal, Sam just looked at him like he was insane and pulled out a binder full of possible hunts.
It happens on a Tuesday, in Sammichville, Michigan, and it starts with a coven of witches. Even though coven implies some sort of organization and the term witches can only be applied if you’re very generous, which Dean on most occasions is not. He would say it started with a gaggle of idiotic high school girls that should have spent more time learning the rule of three than watching Charmed and dreaming of the popular life.
The truth is that Dean never liked witches much, or wiccans, or whatever they call themselves these days. He doesn’t like the way they seem to look right through him, like they can see what’s hiding in the dark recesses of his soul.
It’s the same reason as why he doesn’t like Missouri. Sam might enjoy her looking through his brain like it’s an open book, but that’s because Sam doesn’t have any secrets. Oh, Sam might think he’s got secrets, but it’s all stupid shit that no one but Sam would ever think to blame him for. Dean though, he’s got secrets. Secrets of the kind he would rather not have some psychic bitch knowing about.
It happens on a Tuesday, in Sammichville, Michigan, and it starts with a coven of witches that turns out to be four terrified high school girls who found a medallion that gave them powers they never should have had. In fact, it has mostly blown over by the time Sam and Dean roll into town. Three of the girls have already sworn off their powers completely after realizing that, unless you’re willing to sell your soul, even magic comes with a price you have to pay.
The fourth girl, now she was probably a little loopy to begin with, for some reason thought that her soul was a small price to pay to win the next popularity contest. There is a fight, although a pretty minor one, before Sam manages to get up close and pull the amulet from around her neck. She crumbles to the ground and the last they see of her she’s being carried into an ambulance.
Dean thinks that people should learn to never turn their back to Sammy, because he is totally sneaky like that. You think you know where you have him but turn around for a minute and suddenly he’s half way to Stanford, or you know, sneaking up on you and stealing your magical powers.
Dean feels pretty good about the whole thing and wants to hightail out of town in a blast of glory, maybe find some reason to take his baby for a spin over the Mackinac bridge, because he’s sure she enjoys the view. Sam, though, ever the thoughtful one, wants to do some research on the medallion and figures they should stick around at least for a couple more days.
After some superficial protests Dean gives up and lets Sam have his way. After all, Dean hasn’t gotten laid since that burn and salt job in Florida, and that was like three weeks ago. If Sam wants to stay in their crappy Caribbean themed hotel room and do research, that’s completely up to him; Dean’s gonna have some fun.
It happens on a Tuesday in Sammichville, Michigan, and it starts with a coven of witches and a woman. Her name is Sadie. She’s got brown hair, hazel eyes, curves in all the right places and that ageless kind of look that puts her anywhere between seventeen and forty-seven. Dean meets her in a smoky bar, three houses from the motel, and when she asks him if he wants to follow her home, he doesn’t hesitate.
He’s pretty sure she’s of legal age and, frankly, she’s hot enough that he wouldn’t care if she was cutting it close. She lives on top of an antique store in a three room apartment cluttered with furniture and miscellaneous objects. They’re kissing even before they enter, and Dean wouldn’t have noticed the stuff if they hadn’t almost tripped over it on their way to the bedroom.
Fucking her is easy and sweet, and he loves the way she quakes underneath him when she comes. He closes his eyes during the last few thrusts, letting the forbidden thoughts well up to the surface, too close now to keep them away. He only ever lets himself think of it like this, distantly, momentary while fucking something pretty.
He comes with a deep groan that could be her name, could be his, and opens his eyes to find her looking at him with a peculiar smile. Shit, he thinks as he gently pulls out and disposes the condom, while she keeps looking right through him. Shit, he thinks again as he rolls over and lets himself land next to her on the sheets.
Out of all the women of the world, Dean had to go and fuck a witch. He should have known by the way she singled him out in the bar, should have known by the way she kept smiling as if the joke was on him. Should have known nothing would ever be that simple on a fucking Tuesday.
“It took you some time to connect the dots,” she says, half smile firmly on her face.
He doesn’t answer, just rolls out of bed and starts looking for his clothes that ended up scattered all over the room. At least he knows his clothes are somewhere close by, it’s one of the many lessons his dad taught him. Never let your clothes get too scattered, you never know when you have to leave in a hurry. Solid piece of advice that; Dean finds himself wondering if their dad ever told it to Sam.
“You think you’re so suave,” Sadie says, stretching as an excuse to show off her admirable body to its fullest extent. “Driving women crazy with your sweet looks and even sweeter talk. Do you ever stop to think about the ones you leave behind?”
He glances at her as he pulls on his boxers, waiting for and trying to anticipate her next move. There’s more than one reason he can’t stand witches, stupid meddling bitches that they are. It’s because they’re all about the power of the feminine and they seem to be out to avenge every woman ever scorned. They’re not too particular about which man gets caught in the crossfire either.
“I’m not gonna make this unnecessarily hard on you…” She laughs as if she just told a great joke and he frowns as he pulls his shirts on. “But you pissed someone off you shouldn’t have and now you’ll deal with the consequences.”
He starts backing away from the bed, seriously contemplating leaving his leather jacket behind, but it’s already too late. She mutters something under her breath and suddenly he finds himself growing uncomfortably hard, tenting the front of his jeans in an obvious way.
“You cursed me with an erection?” he asks in bewilderment, because, all things considered, getting a boner is better than, say, being turned into a girl.
“Not just any erection,” she says with a toothy grin, pushing herself into sitting position. “One that only the fulfillment of your deepest, most secret desire will cure.” She laughs. “But, hey, I hear incest isn’t punishable by death anymore.”
It happens on a Tuesday in Sammichville, Michigan, and it starts with a coven of witches, a woman, and Dean being fucked six ways to the next Tuesday. When he gets back to the motel room, Sam’s already asleep, back turned to the door, and Dean wastes no time in getting into bed himself. His cock is pounding hot and hard, pressing against his boxers, but he ignores it, hoping to wake up the next morning to it all being a dream.
Over breakfast in the morning Sam tells him about the amulet coming from a local antique shop. One of the girls told him she distinctly remembers the woman behind the counter acting like she knew about its powers. Dean squirms in his seat and ignores him, letting Sam’s research voice wash over him. He hasn’t told Sam about last night yet and he isn’t going to if he can help it.
They leave town later that day. The antique shop lead turns out to be nothing, the guy who owns the place swears there was never a dark haired woman working there and despite Sam’s clever questions and witness accounts the guy won’t budge. Dean stands back, lets Sam do the talking while trying to ignore the insistent ache of unfulfilled desire. The curse has to end sometime, they usually come with an expiry date, and Dean is not going to give in.
It takes three days and a hunt going awry for Dean to finally tell Sam. He can’t even properly function any more; it’s like his brain doesn’t get enough blood. He’s twitchy and irritable, and he can’t focus on anything for more than ten minutes. His clothes chafe against his blood swollen dick and he’d give anything for an orgasm, anything except the one thing he knows that he needs.
“What the fuck were you thinking back there?” Sam asks when they’re finally back in the car and the spirit’s decayed body is properly salted and burned. “You could have gotten us both killed.”
Shame coils in Dean’s gut, mixing and mingling with the ever present desire, and he huffs out a breath. “Sorry,” he mutters, wiping a hand over his face.
“You’ve been out of funk for days, ever since Michigan. What the fuck is up with you? Where not taking another hunt until I know I can trust you.” Sam’s nostrils are flared with anger and his chin is set in a stubborn line.
Dean looks away, staring out into the darkness pressing against the windows off the car. The key is in the ignition but he hasn’t turned it yet, isn’t sure he can even drive anymore.
“The antique shop bitch cursed me,” he finally says. “The one you wanted us to look for.”
“Shit,” Sam says, grabbing the back of his neck and forcing him to turn his head. “Cursed you how? And why the fuck haven’t you said anything, Dean?”
Dean flinches at the use of his name, shaking Sam’s hand away. “She cursed me with…” he licks his lips, “an erection.”
Sam blinks, then the corners of his mouth twitches like he’s trying really hard to clamp down on his laughter. “An erection?” The mirth is dancing around the edges of Sam’s voice, and Dean supposes that if the tables were turned he would find it pretty damned amusing too.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “An erection.”
Sam loses the fight against his laughter and his high pitched bellows bounces against the walls of the car, snaking around Dean and making him ache. It’s been too long since he heard Sam’s laugh; too long since anything in their fucked up life was worth more than a smile and a snort. It’s almost worth it, almost.
Absently he presses the heel of his palm against his crotch, trying to ease the ache just for a moment, and Sam’s laughter dies as suddenly as it started.
“Jesus, Dean,” he says, his eyes following the movement of Dean’s hand. “You’re not kidding.”
Dean just shakes his head, putting both his hands on the wheel, gripping hard enough for it to dig into his palms.
“So you’ve been hard for almost four days… Does it hurt?”
“What do you think?” Dean snarls, unable to help himself.
“And you can’t come? Or is it just that you…”
“Option one.”
“Oh… That sucks.”
Dean gives Sam a sideways look that clearly informs him that that was the understatement of the year.
“We’ll figure it out,” Sam promises, but Dean knows he doesn’t really get it.
Sam gets it later that night though when Dean’s near sobs wakes him up. Sometime during the night Dean’s hand found his erection and when he wakes up he just can’t stop. He knows he’s being obvious, making more noises than he should, but the slick slide of his hand over engorged flesh just feels too fucking good.
He’s sweating all over and his hand is slipping in the ridiculous amounts of precome leaking from his aching cock. He’s right at the edge of that pain tinged pleasure haze just before coming, but he just can’t get there. It doesn’t matter that he twists his wrist so and tighten his fingers like that, the ultimate goal of sweet release is out of his reach.
Then Sam is there, big hand curling around Dean’s wrist and pulling his hand away. Precome wets Sam’s fingers as well but he doesn’t seem to care as he curls up behind Dean on the bed, broad chest against Dean’s sweaty back, knees pressing against the backs of Dean’s thighs.
Dean struggles, fights against the constraint, trying to bring his hand back to where he needs it the most. Sam’s wrist slides against the slick head of his cock and he groans deep in his throat, hips pushing forward on their own volition.
“Kinky,” Sam breathes against his ear. “And a whole new level of fucked up even for us.”
Dean stiffens and stops struggling, turning his flushed face into the pillow to hide his uneven raspy breaths and his shame in cloth and synthetic feathers. Sam eases his grip on his wrist and Dean lets his hand flop down on the bed, gripping the sheets as he tries to force his body back from the edge.
“It’s okay,” Sam says, breath ghosting over the sweat curled hair at the back of Dean’s neck. “I understand.”
Dean knows Sam doesn’t really understand, can’t understand. Not Sam, who is good without even trying and carries the pain of the world on his shoulders. He doesn’t understand and he will never have to. Dean won’t ever lay that on him.
It happens on a Tuesday in Sammichville, Michigan, and it starts with a coven of witches, a woman, Dean being fucked six ways to the next Tuesday, and Sam going into research mode over a problem that has no solution. At least no solution Dean will let it have.
On the Monday six days after the curse was uttered, Sam drops Dean off at a biker bar called The Hog. Dean finds her easily, like he knew he would, dark hair pulled into a braid as she hustles some leather clad bikers in pool. She’s been coming here for years, but they never learn. They never realize that such a sweet faced girl can be that cold hearted and calculating, or maybe they let her win to keep her coming back.
She spots Dean as he walks in; he knows she does even though her eyes never turn his way. She wouldn’t be the person she is if she didn’t know exactly who was coming and going at any given time. He takes a seat at the bar, orders a whiskey and waits.
Two hours later they’re in her motel room, on her bed and he’s just fucked her for the third time in a row. He sitting on the edge of the bed, back turned to her, to hide the fact that he’s still hard.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks, looking down on his hands.
She laughs and puts a hand on his lower back. “It takes more than a man on a mission to hurt me.” Her fingers trail down to the cleft of his ass, almost but not quite dipping in. “Want to talk about it?”
He gives her a look over his shoulder, and she grins, eyes twinkling. He can’t help his answering smile, shaking his head slightly to indicate that now would not be the time to change the terms of their not-relationship.
“You’re an odd man, Dean Winchester,” she says, stretching in a way that takes him a few days back in time to another woman who wanted to show off her body.
He shrugs, still half turned away from her. Without saying anything, he reaches for his boxers that landed beside the bed and pulls them on, once again trapping his still rock hard dick against his stomach. She doesn’t say goodbye when he leaves, and he doesn’t look back.
Sam’s waiting for him outside, looking way too cool behind the wheel of Dean’s baby. Dean walks around the car and slides into the passenger seat, waiting for it even before Sam opens his mouth.
“Did it help?” Sam asks, his voice tight and his face squished into the oh so familiar bitch face. Apparently Sam doesn’t like the thought that anyone can be of service to Dean but him. If he only knew.
Dean shakes his head, before leaning it against the blessedly cool window. He doesn’t want to talk about it, not right now, when he’s still riled up.
“I just…” Sam turns the key in the ignition, “Don’t get it.”
Dean doesn’t say anything. It’s not like Sam needs input when he’s worked up about something and Bela never fails to get his panties in a twist.
“The two of you… I just don’t get it. If you love her so much then why don’t you marry her and have a gaggle of kids?”
Sam, Dean decides, is really an idiot when it comes to certain things. “I’m not you,” Dean points out.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Dean shifts in his seat and sighs. He really doesn’t want to have this conversation; he does, in fact, not want to have any conversation. He wants to get to a decent motel and curl up on the bed thinking unhappy thoughts until he calms down enough to fall asleep, and he doesn’t want to wake up humping the mattress, sobbing into his pillow.
“I don’t want to get married and have a gaggle of kids; that’s your dream.”
“No, it’s not, but you never fucking got it, did you?”
Dean glances at Sam, who’s staring at the road, knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. God, Sam is such a pain sometimes and more complex than any woman ever.
“Fine, Sam. What do you want?” Dean asks, rubbing his flushed face against the window even though he knows the stain will be a bitch to remove later.
Sam presses his lips together and huffs out a breath through his nose. “Nothing.”
Dean lets his eyes slide close and decides that ignoring Sam would be a good thing right now. A very good thing even if he wants to keep the remaining shreds of his sanity.
“I don’t love her,” he says after a few minutes. “At least not in the way you seem to think I do.”
Sam doesn’t answer and Dean falls back into silence, letting the hum of the engine and his own steady breaths lull him into uneasy sleep. Sam wakes him up when they’re at the motel and Dean follows him to their room, wondering if the fact that Sam chose a motel in the next town over has anything to do with how Sam feels about Bela, or how Dean possibly feels about her.
It happens on a Tuesday in Sammichville, Michigan, and it starts with a coven of witches, a woman, Dean being fucked six ways to the next Tuesday, Sam going into research mode over a problem that has no solution, and it includes hookers.
Dean makes it all of one day after the encounter with Bela before he’s climbing the walls again. Twitchy, angry, annoyed at the world at large and with Sam in particular. Sam who’s treating this like he would any normal hunt, completely disregarding the fact that Dean is fucking dying.
Whenever Dean looks up from his pacing, or the TV, or whatever manages to hold his interest for all of two seconds, Sam is typing away at the laptop, keeping it on his knees in what looks like a stupidly comfortable slouchy position.
“I need to get laid.”
Sam looks up from the laptop screen. “Right now?”
“Yes.”
He nods. “So… want me to drop you off at a bar?”
Dean blinks, stops his pacing for a moment. “Seriously Sam… Look at me? Do you think anyone in their right mind would follow me home?”
Sam purses his lips. “I would.”
“You’re my brother… and a freak. No one else would even dream about it.”
“A hooker then?”
Dean nods, smoothing his hands over the crinkly front of his shirt. It’s been a long time since he paid for sex, a very long time.
“Okay.” Sam puts the laptop on the table before him and rubs his hands together. “I’m just gonna go and… Where do you find a hooker?”
“Check the yellow pages, ask someone, I don’t care.”
Sam huffs and gets up from the chair reaching for his hoodie. “You wanna tag along?”
Dean shakes his head, pushing his hands into his pockets. “You have to make up a lie… A hooker is bound to notice I can’t come… Say you dared me to take Viagra or something.”
“Much experience with hookers, have you?” Sam asks with a smirk.
“Shut up. Oh, and you have to stay.”
“Yeah, okay. I… What?”
“They charge extra for that kind of thing, so be sure to mention it.”
Sam just looks at him like he lost all his marbles. “Let me get this straight… The most important part of your statement was that they charge extra for that kind of thing? Not that, oh, you just asked me to watch you have sex?”
“It would be good if she doesn’t mind playing rough… You should probably say something about that too.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and…”
“You know what? I got it. Okay? I’ll just… I’m just… I’m going now. Bye.”
Dean stares at the door for a moment before going into the bathroom. He needs to take a piss and it takes him about twenty minutes to relax enough for that to happen, and when it does, it gets fucking everywhere. Sam suggested he piss in the bathtub from now on, but he’s so not ready for that kind of thing. He’d rather give himself a golden shower and clean up afterwards than sit in the fucking bathtub.
He cleans up after himself and scrutinizes his image in the bathroom mirror. They will have no problems what so ever getting someone to believe Sam slipped him Viagra. The problem will be convincing people he’s not on something else as well.
He’s got three days worth of stubble, because the razor makes him too happy. His clothes are wrinkly from use, and he keeps sweating, getting them damp and gross. His cock tents the front of his jeans, and if it hadn’t been for Sam evil genius suggestion that Dean wear a hygiene pad there would have been a wet spot as if he’d peed himself.
Biting his lower lips he removes the hygiene pad. There is only so much you can expect a woman to put up with, even if you’re paying her. He throws it away with a disgusted shudder. It might have been a good idea, but it’s still completely gross, and he knows Sam is going to tease him ENDLESSLY about it once they’ve gotten rid of the curse.
Trying to give himself something else to think of but how much he aches, Dean looks over the place, making sure the sheets aren’t too wrinkly and that there’s not too much junk on the floor. Who knows how long it will take Sammy to find a hooker, he could be gone all night for all Dean knows.
It doesn’t quite take all night, just a few hours, and Sam looks ridiculously proud of himself when he walks into the motel room with a scantily clad forty something woman in tow. She looks like she’s watched Pretty Woman one too many times and wishes she were Julia Roberts, but she smiles sweetly at Dean and as long as she lets him fuck her, he doesn’t really care what she looks like or how old she is.
Sam reluctantly goes into the bathroom to wait, leaving the door ajar so that he can hear what’s going on, and the woman, Sheila, focuses her attention on Dean. It’s clear that Sam told her something about Dean being touched in the head, but Dean doesn’t really care because within minutes she’s got her mouth on his dick.
The good thing about hookers, or women of the trade to be more polite, is that you can cut all the bullshit that is not directly related to getting off. She blows him until her jaw must be aching and then she pushes him down flat on the bed and climbs on board. Dean fists his hands in the sheets, bends his knees for leverage and pushes up on her down thrusts.
It feels so fucking good, he can’t help the stupid noises slipping from his lips, rocking up into her until it’s simply not enough anymore. At that point he manages to flip them over and fucks into her until Sam shows up and pulls him away with an arm around his waist. He has no idea how much time has passed, all he knows and cares about is that he is so fucking close he can taste it at the back of his throat.
He doesn’t understand whatever it is Sam is saying, doesn’t understand why Sam is pushing him into the shower, doesn’t understand until a shock of icy water hits him in the face and he crumbles to the floor. He pulls his legs up, and wraps his arms around them, pressing his hot face against his knees as the cold water beats down on him.
“I’m gonna take her back, okay?” Sam says, and his voice sounds odd, off somehow.
Dean makes a sound that could be taken as an affirmative and Sam leaves him alone in the bathroom. The cold water is making him tremble, crawling over his body like icy spiders, and he sucks in uneven breaths in an attempt to calm down. He hopes he didn’t hurt her, that Sam stopped him in time.
He can’t keep going like this; he can feel his sanity slipping away from him. He’s turning into an animal, ruled only by his most primal instincts; there is no telling what he might do. Who knows for how long Sam will agree to be his conscience. It’s okay now, but what about in three weeks, will it still be okay then, or will Dean try to rape Sam in pure desperation, ruining their relationship forever?
Sam comes back some time later and turns the water heat up, making Dean mewl with the sudden change of temperature.
“Idiot,” Sam says fondly, and Dean turns to look at him, noting the shine in his eyes and the flush of his cheeks.
He blinks against the water that keeps getting in his eyelashes and tries to make sense of the situation and Sam’s appearance.
“Did I hurt her?” he croaks, his voice sounding odd in his ears.
Sam shakes his head. “She said it was quite a ride actually.” A flush creep up his cheeks, and Dean wonders if he looked, listened. If he got off on hearing his brother fuck a hooker. Sheila, he reminds himself, her name was Sheila.
“You feel better now?”
Sam reaches up to turn the water heat up a few more notches, and Dean starts to feel itchy, uncomfortable. He’s never been this vulnerable in front of Sam, never this much out of control. Sure, Sam’s seen him naked a million times, they’re two guys and share a motel room almost every night, of course he has, but never like this. Never open, vulnerable and hard like this.
Without saying a word, maybe sensing that Dean doesn’t want to talk, Sam helps him out of the shower, towels him off, makes sure he disposes of the condom still hugging his angry red cock and puts him to bed. Dean curls into a miserable ball and contemplates suicide until sleep over takes him.
It happens on a Tuesday in Sammichville, Michigan, and it starts with a coven of witches, a woman, Dean being fucked six ways to the next Tuesday, Sam going into research mode over a problem that has no solution, includes hookers, and it ends with Sam being a self sacrificing asshole and the best brother ever.
Dean wakes up in the middle of the night, so turned on that it hurts, a raging fire spanning from his groin and licking at his limbs. His hand curls around his cock without him giving it a second thought, sliding over rock hard flesh that’s already wet with precome. He groans deep in his throat, rolling over on his stomach to push into his own hand at the same time as he grinds against the sheets.
Touching himself hurts, makes him sweat all over, and sucks the life out of him, but not doing it is even worse. He buries his face in the pillowcase to keep silent, sobbing as he writhes on the bed, trying to just fucking get there. He doesn’t know how much time has passed in the haze of pleasure-pain when Sam gets there.
All he knows is that he can’t let Sam stop him this time, just can’t. He has to come, has to. It’s fucking killing him inside. When Sam finally gets the upper hand, managing to trap his hands and pin him down, Dean is crying freely. Deep hulking sobs like he didn’t even cry when he lost Sam.
“I’ll figure it out,” Sam promises, voice full of desperation. “Okay? There has to be something I haven’t thought about, something I missed. I… I’ll help you. I’ll find a way.”
Dean wants to tell him there is no way, but he can’t find the words. How can he tell Sam that the only thing that will cure him is Sam? How can he even think it? He doesn’t know how long it takes for him to finally fall back to sleep, still pinned down by Sam’s bulk, arms trapped above his head, but somehow he manages.
When he wakes up next he can tell it’s morning by the light filtering in through the curtains, painting the bed in streaks of pale silver. The first thing that hits him is the ache, half forgotten in his sleep. It comes back with a vengeance upon waking. His cock throbs with a constant dull pounding that makes his entire body feel weird and out of sync. Like his skin is pulled too tight over his flesh, like he can’t breathe.
Sam’s no longer in bed with him, so he blinks his eyes open to locate him. He’s sitting at the table, hunched over his laptop and reading intently from the screen. His right arm twitches when he scrolls further down the page, otherwise he’s unmoving.
“Hey,” Dean says, and Sam looks up at him mouth set into a thin white line.
“I can’t… I can’t find anything. I figured out how to break a deal with a crossroads demon but I can’t figure out how to break a stupid curse…” Sam says, catching his lower lips between his teeth and chewing on it. “I’ve talked to everyone we know, scoured all the sources and they all say the same thing. The terms of breaking the curse have to be uttered with the curse or it won’t work.”
Dean rolls over on his side, breaking eye contact.
“She must have said something, Dean… It might have been a riddle or seemed stupid at the time, but there must have been something. It wouldn’t work otherwise. It’s not like… It’s not like it’s a really harmful curse, it’s mostly uttered to cause embarrassment, or as a temporary punishment. Several of the sources mentions sheep, she didn’t say anything about sheep, did she?”
Dean shakes his head mutely.
“Dogs then? We could work with dogs.”
Dean’s head snaps back, but Sam isn’t even smiling. He’s looking sincere and damned near desperate.
“Jesus,” Dean mutters.
“So it was dogs then? I think maybe we could figure something out with a cat too, but then it would have to be dead, but really you won’t have any troubles getting it up so I suppose…”
“It’s you,” Dean half whispers, hoping that Sam won’t hear him because he’s not going to say it again.
“I really think… Oh.”
The silence stretches out between them and Dean dares to sneak another look. Sam’s mouth is hanging open and he’s blinking stupidly, like he for once can’t think of something to say. Then he snaps out of it and licks his lips.
“Well, it’s not unheard of. There was this one guy who had to fuck his grandma, but he opted to shot her instead so his dick fell off, or I mean it didn’t fall off… it just… Are you sure?”
“Do you think I would say that if I wasn’t? Jesus, Sam.”
Sam nods, looks down on his hands, up to Dean and back to his hands. “I’m hungry. Are you hungry? I could really use something to eat.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Dean gets dressed in silence, making a pitiful little noise when his cock once again gets trapped against his stomach, ignoring Sam who is still fidgeting with the laptop. The ball, ha ha, is in Sam’s court now, and Dean isn’t going to push him. Sick, twisted longing fills him when he thinks of having Sam’s hands on him, Sam’s mouth against his, Sam buried balls deep within him.
Dean’s no stranger to gay sex, even though he plays at being arrow straight, and he can all too vividly imagine what it would be like with Sam. He would like to think that it’s only because of the curse and the desperation that comes with the constant ache, but he knows he’d be lying to himself. He’s been thinking about it for more years than he cares to count.
Breakfast is an uncomfortable affair, filled with furtive looks and stilted conversation. It feels like the last few days before Sam took off for Stanford all over again, and Dean finds himself ripping his napkin to shreds. Sam’s as jittery as he is, shoveling food into his mouth to hide the fact that his hands are trembling.
They walk back to the motel in silence, Dean bow-legged and slower than usual, getting winded even though it’s no more than a couple of blocks. When Sam suggests they find another place he doesn’t argue, just sits in the car and waits while Sam packs up their stuff and pays for the room.
Sam makes a pit stop at the drugstore, throwing a bag into the back before driving them to a new motel, a much classier place than their last. A much classier place then they usually frequent, with bungalows and a pool that isn’t full of dry leaves. Dean stays in the car as Sam gets them a room and he silently traipses after Sam after he parks the car in one of the allotted spaces.
He’s all out of words, energy and will. All he can think of is the way his clothes chafe against his cock and how good Sam’s ass looks in his jeans. They’re not even a pair of good jeans, old, worn and too baggy. Dean can still sense his ass underneath the clothes as he moves and it’s enough to make his mind wander.
He isn’t surprised to find that the bungalow has two rooms, one general living area with an L shaped couch, wide screen TV and a kitchenette, and one bedroom with a huge king-sized bed. One bedroom, one bed and the mere sight of it makes his cock throb dully.
Sam dumps their bags inside the door, all but the drugstore bag that he brings into the bedroom. Dean trails after him, unsure of what to do with himself. It’s like his higher brain functions have been turned off and he exists in a vacuum where only imitation remains.
“So,” Sam says, sitting down on the bed. “Did she… Do you have any idea of what you need?”
Dean shakes his head, unable to wrap his mind around the thought that this is going to happen, that Sam will do this for him. For the first and only time he will get a taste of the one thing he thought he could never have.
“I’m sorry,” Dean says, looking down on his feet and the plush carpet he’s violating with his dusty boots.
“It’s not your fault,” Sam says, sounding calmer than Dean thought he would. “Someone out there wants us to have a fall out over this, which means we need to stick together more than ever. It’s okay. It really is.”
Dean looks up and a surge of pride that nearly overpowers the desire washes through him. This is the Sam he loves, the strong confident one, who faces down demons even when he’s scared shitless. The one who never backs down on a fight and who will never ever fail to surprise him.
“This is awkward,” Sam says with loop-sided grin. “Luckily for us, I bought supplies.”
The sudden hot flash almost brings Dean to his knees and he’s slightly disappointed when all Sam procures from the secret bag is a bottle of good whiskey. He notices the bag isn’t empty though, so he supposes there might still be nice surprises in there.
Sam twists the cap off and takes a swig directly from the bottle; apparently his penance for romance didn’t include actual glasses. He hands the bottle over and Dean takes a mouthful, grimacing slightly as the amber liquid burns its way down to his stomach. Sam takes the bottle back and Dean watches his throat move as he swallows.
Dean takes the bottle when Sam offers it, but he doesn’t drink again. He just curls his hand around the neck, hoping that the cool glass will help him focus.
“I can’t do this if you’re drunk,” he says, looking at Sam’s knees. “I can’t… I have to know you can say no.”
”I understand,” Sam says and hands the cap to Dean, who screws it on with fumbly fingers.
“So… how do we… do this?”
Dean shrugs. He doesn’t want to think anymore, doesn’t want to make decisions or force Sam into a situation where he is clearly not comfortable. Sam stands up suddenly and Dean flinches, sure that Sam has changed his mind.
“Come here,” Sam says, opening his arms.
Part Two