Fic: Hunting Lessons
Title: Hunting Lessons
Fandom: Supernatural/Dr. Horrible
Pairing: Sam/Dr. Horrible/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Genre: PWP
Warnings: Incest, double penetration
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: "Captain Hammer," Dean says, in the tone of voice Dr. Horrible suspects he usually reserves for things which live under beds, and routinely get dragged out and sliced into pieces
AN: Written for zeitheist , this is the extended, extra filthy version of the little snippet I wrote before. Also, the Impala's back seat is a magical Tardis-like place in which physically unlikely things can be done, so says the author!
"So, this is..?" Dean's fiddling, Dean is always fiddling. It's the reason Dr. Horrible makes most of his rays fiddle-proof, from both ends. Winchesters are naturally curious.
"A freeze ray," Dr. Horrible explains.
"Sweet." Dean looks very close to hugging his new found toy.
"It's actually more of a stasis field, that keeps the target locked in a state of suspended animation for roughly a minute and a half." Dr. Horrible has learned that Dean likes to experiment, but he's not all that fond of surprises.
"More than long enough to cut off its head," Dean says cheerfully.
"If that's what you're going for," Dr. Horrible allows, since he's never personally decapitated anything.
"Or to perform an exorcism," Sam reminds him.
"Sure that too, decapitation, exorcism whatever works." Dean is still fiddling with it, though Dean is not the type to accidentally shoot himself, which is encouraging. "Oh say, Can we have another flame cannon, we broke the last one."
"You broke the last one," Sam points out.
"We're a team, we break things together," Dean says firmly.
Sam throws his hands up.
"Sure, I could." Dr. Horrible nods. "I could do that, for you guys. Though I have to - I have to obviously work around some problems."
"Captain Hammer," Dean says, in the tone of voice Dr. Horrible suspects he usually reserves for things which live under beds, and routinely get dragged out and sliced into pieces.
"We're not allowed to kill heroes," Sam adds, just in case his brother was thinking about it.
"Dude he doesn't deserve that word."
"Still that kind of thing gets frowned upon," Sam pushes.
Dean shrugs. "Cursing is still an option, we know some people."
"Demons," Sam corrects.
Dean pulls a face, shrugs again. "Demons," he admits, then pulls another face, a face that says, though he isn't happy about making an exception for Captain Hammer, he isn't going to lose sleep over it.
Dean slides the freeze ray between the two front seats, business end not pointing anywhere where it's going to embarrass anyone. The Winchesters also know their firearms, no matter how unique. Dr. Horrible sits awkwardly between them in the sudden silence. He knows this is technically consorting with the enemy, but he's more than willing to better arm monster hunters, at least since he found out the monsters were real.
Superheroes and villains were epic drama. But monsters were monsters.
Also, they're the Winchesters. The Winchesters are hard to say no to.
"Dude, ask him," Dean says randomly, out of nowhere.
"Why do I have to ask him?" Sam's voice is unhappy.
"You're the emo one."
"Dean!"
"What? I'm not the emo one," Dean protests sharply. "He's more likely to say yes if you ask him."
"What because of my manageable hair, Jesus, Dean you're the one that brought the whole thing up, stop being a prick about it and just ask him."
There's a moment of silence, and Dr. Horrible isn't entirely sure whether it's his turn to speak or not. But he can't help himself.
"Ask me what?"
"Dean," Sam says meaningfully.
"Screw it."
Dean doesn't ask him - Dean kisses him. He drags him in with two handfuls of red fabric and kisses him, and there's nothing subtle to it. It's aggressive, and pushy, and then gone just as quickly, leaving him breathing into nothing, and watching Dean Winchester lick his lips from bare inches away.
"Smooth," Sam says over his shoulder.
"Say yes." It's more of a demand than a question. Dr. Horrible thinks - he thinks he's terrified, because if you end up in any back seat with the two best hunters in the country it seems likely you're not getting out again. Though at the moment 'getting out' is a relative term. Dean's fingers are holding his jaw still, as tightly as Captain Hammer has ever held him, though Dean's breaking him apart in a completely different way. Close and hot where he breathes against the edge of his jaw.
"Say yes," Dean says again, less fiercely this time, and he makes some sort of noise, something that probably means nothing at all. When Dean leans in further Dr. Horrible takes a breath, and then immediately loses it, because the kiss is hard. He doesn't need Dean to tell him when to open his mouth, and he gets a growl of approval for his enthusiasm. Dr. Horrible thinks maybe he wouldn't mind dying like this.
"We don't do supervillains," Dean tells him, as if he can hear the slam of his heartbeat and knows exactly what it's for. His hands are already halfway inside the fold of his coat, and they're cold where they've been outside, almost as cold as his brother's, where they dig in his hair, and steal his goggles in one smooth movement.
"Just monsters," Sam adds and they're so practised, all squeak of leather and push of denim. His coat's being dragged off his shoulders, then all the way down his arms. Dean's hands leave his face and drop to his waist, a slide of cold fingers against his bare skin, pulling him in, as Sam slides in tighter behind, until he can barely breathe at all. No, he wouldn't mind dying like this at all.
"Not that people don't sometimes become monsters too," Sam says into his hair, and all Dr. Horrible's breath lodges in his throat.
"Sam," Dean warns.
Dr. Horrible loses all his air in a groan seconds later, pulled free by the drag of Dean's teeth at his throat and the slide of fingers across skin that isn't used to being touched. He thinks they know it, he thinks maybe - because they stop pulling, stop crushing him. Though Dean can't seem to stop kissing him.
"What's your real name?" He's not expecting the question from Sam, it's thrown out easily, on the tail end of one long drag of palm down his side, warmer than Dean's hands, smoother, Dean's hands are greedy, fingertips rough over his skin. He breathes for a long minute under that skid of sensation and pretends Sam hasn't asked the question.
"You're not a monster." Dean's voice is hot against the side of his face. "You don't have to be."
Hands are untangling the zip and fastening of his pants, sliding them past the bare indent of his waist, over the curve of his ass, and Dean's hands slide free of material only for his brother to pull it the rest of the way, knuckles sliding down the back of his thighs. His pants are slipped over his knees and they fall almost silently, Sam slides back into him like he never left, all warm denim and large hands on Dr. Horrible's bare skin.
"You don't have to be anything else, not here, not if you don't want to," Sam's voice is softer still, though his hands are anything but. They're restless, if anything, they dare more than his brother, thumbs sliding across hipbones, and then down, trailing the edge of his shorts.
"Billy," Billy says quietly, it escapes on the end of a sigh, shivers out uncertainly. Because his suit is a collection of pieces scattered across the Impala back seat and floor. How can he be Dr. Horrible when they've stripped that from him in careful red pieces? And this is as perfectly vulnerable as he thinks he's ever been, shivering under the pull of stronger hands, two in front and two behind, careful over every inch of him, like they're measuring. But they clutch when he breathes, a hair away from making him stay. And that makes Billy shudder for a different reason. No one's ever wanted him to stay before. No one's ever touched him like this.
Dean catches the edge of Billy's jaw, thumb sliding over his mouth, pressing in to touch the slick whiteness of his teeth, before daring to go just a little farther.
Billy just opens his mouth and breathes while Dean drags his thumb over his tongue, and he thinks, oh he thinks he wants that. Though he doesn't know how he's supposed to do it when he can't stop shaking.
"You know what I want?" Dean's voice is quiet but hard at the same time, and Billy thinks if he had a voice like that he wouldn't need rays guns, and chemicals, and wireless remotes, people would just do what he wanted.
"Dean." Sam's voice is quieter still, a warning that it takes Billy a long second to decipher. Dean doesn't look at his brother, but the push of his thumb becomes a fraction softer.
"He wants it too," Dean says quietly.
There's a pause.
"Tell my brother you want it." Dean tips his head with the command, and his mouth is open, just a fraction, too soft for the rest of him. Heroes aren't supposed to have mouths like that.
"I -" He has nothing in his throat, and swallowing just makes Dean's thumb slide where it rests.
"Tell him."
"I do," Billy says shakily, dizzy and only half aware what he's just consented to, because all he knows is that he does want, he wants desperately, anything they want to give him.
Sam's touching him then, longer hair dragging over the shell of Billy's ear and Dean looks up, catches the eyes over Billy's shoulder, it's some perfect moment of communication that Billy is helpless to read, before Dean looks at him again.
"He wants everything, he just doesn't know how to ask."
Billy's nodding under the push of Dean's thumb and he can already feel Sam shifting back behind him, the bowed curve of his shoulders brushing against the roof, harsh and over-loud over the sound of his own breathing.
"You want to be the only one here losing their clothes?" Dean's voice is easy, and so is the amusement under it. But when Billy hesitates he beckons, takes his hands where they rest at his sides and pulls them up. Billy let's them lay there in Dean's, tries desperately to think of something to say.
"You get a say in this, you know," Dean says quietly after a second, face serious.
Billy lays uncertain hands on Dean's waist, fingers just edging under his shirt, and when that gets him nothing but an inhale and a nod of encouragement, he pushes at the fabric. His fingertips brush skin, muscle, a smooth, warm expanse of it, sliding into view the higher he pushes, and it's so much more than him. It's the sort of body heroes are supposed to have, and he can't help stalling, can't help slowing for that extra few inches, before dragging it over Dean's head, which bows under the Impala's roof.
He's still holding the warm length of Dean's t-shirt, when Dean catches his waist and draws him in again, and his warmth before is nothing compared to now, compared to the press and shift of skin against his chest, flexing under every arm movement. Billy's shivering now but it's the reckless, good shivering that comes from adrenaline and arousal, and the press of skin from both sides. It's the shivering that does almost nothing but want to be touched, fingers awkward and slow where they pull at the button and zip of Dean's jeans, knuckles pushing and sliding over where denim is stretched tight over the hard line of Dean's cock, and he's swallowing and pulling at the waistband.
"Back up, Sam," Dean says throatily and oh God, oh God. Sam's fingers curl round his waist and Billy's bare knees are sliding on leather. Sliding all the way back while his spine bends, one hand skidding on the seat with a wet indecent noise. He can't wait, he can't, because the air is thick enough to be stifling, and he can smell the shifting weight of arousal, crushed between the two of them in that hot, cramped space.
Sam's hand is in his hair, tilting his head back while his brother pushes his jeans down just far enough, and he can't do anything but open his mouth around the head of Dean's cock, let it push across the flat of his tongue, and when he closes his mouth around it he makes a noise, like this is what he wanted all along. His mouth is indecently full, and it's awkward and it's the dirtiest thing he's ever done by a factor of ten, and he's still working out how to breathe when Dean pushes. One smooth half-movement, that slides him in, and there's a solid thump in his gut that aches, and Billy thinks he could come like this, and he wouldn't care at all. Sam makes a noise, something short and grating, fingers catching the material of his shorts, and dragging them down at the back. Billy has never been quite this vulnerable before. Something slams into the roof of the car, and Sam's hand is in his hair, then one of Dean's.
There are three hands in his hair, and he has barely any choice at all where his head goes, fingers shifting and pulling, he makes a noise in his throat that shivers down Dean's cock, something smacks against the roof again, and then there's the sound of material sliding whisper quiet over leather. When Sam leans into his back again he's a warmer, smoother push of skin against the curve of his ass and the back of his thighs. All naked skin and the unexpected press that is the thick, hard line of Sam's cock.
Billy drags a breath through his nose.
Sam moves behind him, a quiet rustle of fingers in denim and then the over-loud click of plastic.
Sam's fingers come back wet, painting lines on his skin, then dipping and pressing in. Billy swallows under the push, quick and expected, all the way inside, in one easy slide. It takes barely a minute for Sam to add another, other hand curled round Billy's hip, pulling him back, and the slide of movement from one end of the seat to the other seems to have suddenly make his spine liquid. He's helpless not to move with it.
Sam increases the movement with one quick press, that pushes him onto Dean's cock.
Dean makes a soft noise, head bumping the roof when he moves.
"Jesus, Sam what are you doing?"
"Dean." There's a sharp, impatient quality to Sam's voice, a touch of demand smothered under query. The steady push of fingers isn't so steady any more. Two fingers become three, a flat uncomfortable ache that pushes him all the way open and Billy groans in the only way he can, one flare of heat, and sound that makes Dean swear and push fingers into his hair. He uses them to catch, to press in. It's one quick, aggressive movement, that presses his cock briefly against the back of Billy's throat. It's so quick he only has time to register the push, to ache under it and want it back -
But Dean's shifting his hips back. Cock sliding free in one long movement that looks obscene. It leaves Billy breathing with his mouth open, open and empty, lips aching and he doesn't know what he did, doesn't know why Dean has pulled away.
Until Sam moves him, eases him forward until he's leaning on one of Dean's thighs, and there's pressure against the back of his knee, until he moves that too, a squeak as it shifts on the leather.
Then Dean's tipping his head up. "Have you ever done this before?"
Billy tries to make his mouth work, it feels utterly numb.
"Yes," he clears his throat and repeats the word, makes it sound less ragged than before. Though he can't quite meet Dean's eyes.
Dean frowns, one brief moment of tension between his eyes.
"Do I need to break someone?"
Sam stills at the words, fingers no longer pressing where they rest.
Billy shakes his head. "No," he says awkwardly. "It wasn't, it wasn't like that."
Dean grunts in the back of his throat, like maybe he doesn't quite believe him, which is worse. Any attempt to explain what it actually was gets lost in Billy's throat, held there by something that's probably shame.
But then Dean's fingers are sliding across the length of his mouth, pressing and shifting in a way that clearly wants and Billy exhales relief, and lets them push his mouth open while Sam moves behind him.
"Easy Sam."
"I know." There's a pause for the wet, slightly obscene, sound of Sam making sure he's slippery enough, then the sound of cap snapping shut and tumbling to the seat.
Billy is barely breathing when Sam wraps an arm round his waist and positions himself. But a groan shudders out of him when he presses inside. One long stretching ache that hurts in a way he never quite gets used to.
Sam Winchester is heavy, one endless curve against his back, knees dug into the seat as far apart as the car will let him, and the leverage behind that is still fierce enough to have Billy groaning.
"Move Sammy."
"Where?"
"Back, I need a leg -" Jeans and shorts are kicked all the way out of the way, and Dean is slithering down far enough to slide into the warm space on the leather that Billy's hands left, to catch the damp sides of Billy face and kiss him, kiss him while Sam pushes all the way inside.
But Dean's still moving. Billy can't quite work out -
Dean slips his fingers inside the next time Sam presses in, one slippery moment of extra stretch, that bites into the sensation he's already breathing hard under.
"Jesus Dean." Sam's voice falls apart. The push of his hips becomes more measured, more indulgent, but at the same time stutters out of him.
Dean's mouth is red, heavy over Billy's, restless and ragged and needy, and he can't seem to stop. His eyes when they flick open are impossibly dark.
Billy can't breathe.
"I'm going to fuck you too," Dean says throatily, and for a long second Billy doesn't get it, he doesn't get it at all. But he's nodding, he's nodding desperately between one breath and the next.
"Dean," Sam warns, and Billy thinks it's meant to come out sensible and chastising, but it's a dry croak.
Dean is already sliding down, shoulders pressed against the door, legs slithering between them in a way which nudges Sam's leg perilously close to the edge of the seat, and Billy is carefully dragged upright, knees sliding open round Dean's waist while Sam leans over, presses down, all the way down, heavier than before and for a second so deep inside Billy that he can't breathe at all.
"Oh God," Sam's voice cracks and there are sharp fingers on his thighs, opening them until it aches and Billy can no longer tell whose they are, just what they want, and then they're pushing inside again, along the slide and shift of Sam's cock. Not so strange now, a phantom edge to each thrust that pushes and stretches and hurts, but he can't help nudging down into the contact.
Dean kisses him with an open mouth, hands tilting his hips up just enough, and then the fingers are gone and the steady push is replaced by a much more insistent pressure, bigger and far stranger but determined.
Billy thinks it's too much, he's sure it's too much. The dizzy heights that seconds earlier were trying to tip him into orgasm are now almost entirely discomfort. He's afraid that he can't do this, that he's not...enough, that it will break him. Sam's breathing erratically in his ear, all heat and whispers that make his skin feel three sizes too tight, large hands open on his waist, holding him there, right there, thumbs dragging across his skin in a way that's soothing, and maddening, and possibly holding him together and stopping him from cracking down the middle.
Dean moves just a little, a push that opens him all the way, and Billy take a quick, startled breath. Sam touches him, cups him in one long hand while Dean slowly work's his way inside, and it's a flicker of need in that moment of pain that has him groaning quietly against the side of Dean's neck.
Dean winds an arm around his waist and just holds on to him for a second.
"You ok?" he whispers eventually. Voice vibrating all the way through him and Billy thinks maybe he is, though if they move he's going to feel everything.
He nods, shakily, a barely there movement. Sam drags a hand through his hair, long fingers in damp strands, and it's a curious sensation that Billy can't help leaning in to.
"I'm going to move," Dean says, too soon, far too soon, his fingers tighten, just a little, and his hips rock once.
The world disappears in a fractal of colours, and when Billy comes back his head is tipped back against Sam's shoulder, and Sam is twitching, pushing uncertainly after every cautious press in from his brother.
"Jesus Dean."
They can't move apart, they have to move together, have to push together and Billy feels stretched all the way open, in a way that's terrifying and fascinating, and so far beyond anything he ever thought about, anything he ever knew about.
Dean has one hand in Billy's hair and one in Sam's, he's dragged them all so close there's barely any room left to thrust, they're all just pushing into each other, slide of sweat-damp skin everywhere they press.
Dean kisses him every time he has the breath to, bites at the edge of his jaw when he doesn't, and Billy's hands are just holding on wherever they can, the edge of Dean's arm, the wet slippery back of the leather seat, the hard shifting length of Sam's thigh. Though he knows better than to think he's holding himself up. That he's the one taking the weight, and Sam is heavy, he's so heavy, but Billy wouldn't change that for anything.
Finger's pull at his waist, slide into the gap they've made and just like that Sam and Dean's hands are tangled round his cock, pull of callused fingertips and smooth skin, sliding too fast, and too slow and then just right. Until he's shifting past the ache, pressing down and coming, nails dug in Dean's skin, gasping against the warmth of his neck, into the wet ends of his hair.
Dean follows him over, all aggressive push of hard fingers in his skin. While Sam is left broken by them both, gasping and wrecked, face pressed into Billy's hair, strong thighs twitching while Billy groans through the aftershocks from all of them.
He ends up slumped over Dean's chest, breathing into the too hot skin of his throat and listening to the creak of leather.
He makes a noise, quick, quiet pain when Sam withdraws, though he makes little effort to move otherwise.
Dean seems fine where he is, and Billy feels...incredibly fragile. If there are going to be awkward repercussions to this he doesn't want to face them quite yet. He doesn't feel quite like himself any more.
He has to move eventually, carefully and that's not as much fun, not nearly as much fun.
The seat is warm but he's aware of the fact that it's technically vintage, and the other Winchester will be...unhappy -
Sam hands him his coat, which he smiles at, grateful, though with not a clue what to say.
"Hi," Sam says, and it's almost awkward, almost.
"Hi," Billy says, and then wonders if that's ok.
Billy never actually kissed the younger Winchester -
Oh.
And now he has. Sam's surprisingly gentle, he's careful where he puts his hands, where he pushes, he's warm and damp and there really isn't enough room in the back seat for Sam Winchester to do much of anything.
Billy's not quite sure...how they managed all that.
Fandom: Supernatural/Dr. Horrible
Pairing: Sam/Dr. Horrible/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Genre: PWP
Warnings: Incest, double penetration
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: "Captain Hammer," Dean says, in the tone of voice Dr. Horrible suspects he usually reserves for things which live under beds, and routinely get dragged out and sliced into pieces
AN: Written for zeitheist , this is the extended, extra filthy version of the little snippet I wrote before. Also, the Impala's back seat is a magical Tardis-like place in which physically unlikely things can be done, so says the author!
"So, this is..?" Dean's fiddling, Dean is always fiddling. It's the reason Dr. Horrible makes most of his rays fiddle-proof, from both ends. Winchesters are naturally curious.
"A freeze ray," Dr. Horrible explains.
"Sweet." Dean looks very close to hugging his new found toy.
"It's actually more of a stasis field, that keeps the target locked in a state of suspended animation for roughly a minute and a half." Dr. Horrible has learned that Dean likes to experiment, but he's not all that fond of surprises.
"More than long enough to cut off its head," Dean says cheerfully.
"If that's what you're going for," Dr. Horrible allows, since he's never personally decapitated anything.
"Or to perform an exorcism," Sam reminds him.
"Sure that too, decapitation, exorcism whatever works." Dean is still fiddling with it, though Dean is not the type to accidentally shoot himself, which is encouraging. "Oh say, Can we have another flame cannon, we broke the last one."
"You broke the last one," Sam points out.
"We're a team, we break things together," Dean says firmly.
Sam throws his hands up.
"Sure, I could." Dr. Horrible nods. "I could do that, for you guys. Though I have to - I have to obviously work around some problems."
"Captain Hammer," Dean says, in the tone of voice Dr. Horrible suspects he usually reserves for things which live under beds, and routinely get dragged out and sliced into pieces.
"We're not allowed to kill heroes," Sam adds, just in case his brother was thinking about it.
"Dude he doesn't deserve that word."
"Still that kind of thing gets frowned upon," Sam pushes.
Dean shrugs. "Cursing is still an option, we know some people."
"Demons," Sam corrects.
Dean pulls a face, shrugs again. "Demons," he admits, then pulls another face, a face that says, though he isn't happy about making an exception for Captain Hammer, he isn't going to lose sleep over it.
Dean slides the freeze ray between the two front seats, business end not pointing anywhere where it's going to embarrass anyone. The Winchesters also know their firearms, no matter how unique. Dr. Horrible sits awkwardly between them in the sudden silence. He knows this is technically consorting with the enemy, but he's more than willing to better arm monster hunters, at least since he found out the monsters were real.
Superheroes and villains were epic drama. But monsters were monsters.
Also, they're the Winchesters. The Winchesters are hard to say no to.
"Dude, ask him," Dean says randomly, out of nowhere.
"Why do I have to ask him?" Sam's voice is unhappy.
"You're the emo one."
"Dean!"
"What? I'm not the emo one," Dean protests sharply. "He's more likely to say yes if you ask him."
"What because of my manageable hair, Jesus, Dean you're the one that brought the whole thing up, stop being a prick about it and just ask him."
There's a moment of silence, and Dr. Horrible isn't entirely sure whether it's his turn to speak or not. But he can't help himself.
"Ask me what?"
"Dean," Sam says meaningfully.
"Screw it."
Dean doesn't ask him - Dean kisses him. He drags him in with two handfuls of red fabric and kisses him, and there's nothing subtle to it. It's aggressive, and pushy, and then gone just as quickly, leaving him breathing into nothing, and watching Dean Winchester lick his lips from bare inches away.
"Smooth," Sam says over his shoulder.
"Say yes." It's more of a demand than a question. Dr. Horrible thinks - he thinks he's terrified, because if you end up in any back seat with the two best hunters in the country it seems likely you're not getting out again. Though at the moment 'getting out' is a relative term. Dean's fingers are holding his jaw still, as tightly as Captain Hammer has ever held him, though Dean's breaking him apart in a completely different way. Close and hot where he breathes against the edge of his jaw.
"Say yes," Dean says again, less fiercely this time, and he makes some sort of noise, something that probably means nothing at all. When Dean leans in further Dr. Horrible takes a breath, and then immediately loses it, because the kiss is hard. He doesn't need Dean to tell him when to open his mouth, and he gets a growl of approval for his enthusiasm. Dr. Horrible thinks maybe he wouldn't mind dying like this.
"We don't do supervillains," Dean tells him, as if he can hear the slam of his heartbeat and knows exactly what it's for. His hands are already halfway inside the fold of his coat, and they're cold where they've been outside, almost as cold as his brother's, where they dig in his hair, and steal his goggles in one smooth movement.
"Just monsters," Sam adds and they're so practised, all squeak of leather and push of denim. His coat's being dragged off his shoulders, then all the way down his arms. Dean's hands leave his face and drop to his waist, a slide of cold fingers against his bare skin, pulling him in, as Sam slides in tighter behind, until he can barely breathe at all. No, he wouldn't mind dying like this at all.
"Not that people don't sometimes become monsters too," Sam says into his hair, and all Dr. Horrible's breath lodges in his throat.
"Sam," Dean warns.
Dr. Horrible loses all his air in a groan seconds later, pulled free by the drag of Dean's teeth at his throat and the slide of fingers across skin that isn't used to being touched. He thinks they know it, he thinks maybe - because they stop pulling, stop crushing him. Though Dean can't seem to stop kissing him.
"What's your real name?" He's not expecting the question from Sam, it's thrown out easily, on the tail end of one long drag of palm down his side, warmer than Dean's hands, smoother, Dean's hands are greedy, fingertips rough over his skin. He breathes for a long minute under that skid of sensation and pretends Sam hasn't asked the question.
"You're not a monster." Dean's voice is hot against the side of his face. "You don't have to be."
Hands are untangling the zip and fastening of his pants, sliding them past the bare indent of his waist, over the curve of his ass, and Dean's hands slide free of material only for his brother to pull it the rest of the way, knuckles sliding down the back of his thighs. His pants are slipped over his knees and they fall almost silently, Sam slides back into him like he never left, all warm denim and large hands on Dr. Horrible's bare skin.
"You don't have to be anything else, not here, not if you don't want to," Sam's voice is softer still, though his hands are anything but. They're restless, if anything, they dare more than his brother, thumbs sliding across hipbones, and then down, trailing the edge of his shorts.
"Billy," Billy says quietly, it escapes on the end of a sigh, shivers out uncertainly. Because his suit is a collection of pieces scattered across the Impala back seat and floor. How can he be Dr. Horrible when they've stripped that from him in careful red pieces? And this is as perfectly vulnerable as he thinks he's ever been, shivering under the pull of stronger hands, two in front and two behind, careful over every inch of him, like they're measuring. But they clutch when he breathes, a hair away from making him stay. And that makes Billy shudder for a different reason. No one's ever wanted him to stay before. No one's ever touched him like this.
Dean catches the edge of Billy's jaw, thumb sliding over his mouth, pressing in to touch the slick whiteness of his teeth, before daring to go just a little farther.
Billy just opens his mouth and breathes while Dean drags his thumb over his tongue, and he thinks, oh he thinks he wants that. Though he doesn't know how he's supposed to do it when he can't stop shaking.
"You know what I want?" Dean's voice is quiet but hard at the same time, and Billy thinks if he had a voice like that he wouldn't need rays guns, and chemicals, and wireless remotes, people would just do what he wanted.
"Dean." Sam's voice is quieter still, a warning that it takes Billy a long second to decipher. Dean doesn't look at his brother, but the push of his thumb becomes a fraction softer.
"He wants it too," Dean says quietly.
There's a pause.
"Tell my brother you want it." Dean tips his head with the command, and his mouth is open, just a fraction, too soft for the rest of him. Heroes aren't supposed to have mouths like that.
"I -" He has nothing in his throat, and swallowing just makes Dean's thumb slide where it rests.
"Tell him."
"I do," Billy says shakily, dizzy and only half aware what he's just consented to, because all he knows is that he does want, he wants desperately, anything they want to give him.
Sam's touching him then, longer hair dragging over the shell of Billy's ear and Dean looks up, catches the eyes over Billy's shoulder, it's some perfect moment of communication that Billy is helpless to read, before Dean looks at him again.
"He wants everything, he just doesn't know how to ask."
Billy's nodding under the push of Dean's thumb and he can already feel Sam shifting back behind him, the bowed curve of his shoulders brushing against the roof, harsh and over-loud over the sound of his own breathing.
"You want to be the only one here losing their clothes?" Dean's voice is easy, and so is the amusement under it. But when Billy hesitates he beckons, takes his hands where they rest at his sides and pulls them up. Billy let's them lay there in Dean's, tries desperately to think of something to say.
"You get a say in this, you know," Dean says quietly after a second, face serious.
Billy lays uncertain hands on Dean's waist, fingers just edging under his shirt, and when that gets him nothing but an inhale and a nod of encouragement, he pushes at the fabric. His fingertips brush skin, muscle, a smooth, warm expanse of it, sliding into view the higher he pushes, and it's so much more than him. It's the sort of body heroes are supposed to have, and he can't help stalling, can't help slowing for that extra few inches, before dragging it over Dean's head, which bows under the Impala's roof.
He's still holding the warm length of Dean's t-shirt, when Dean catches his waist and draws him in again, and his warmth before is nothing compared to now, compared to the press and shift of skin against his chest, flexing under every arm movement. Billy's shivering now but it's the reckless, good shivering that comes from adrenaline and arousal, and the press of skin from both sides. It's the shivering that does almost nothing but want to be touched, fingers awkward and slow where they pull at the button and zip of Dean's jeans, knuckles pushing and sliding over where denim is stretched tight over the hard line of Dean's cock, and he's swallowing and pulling at the waistband.
"Back up, Sam," Dean says throatily and oh God, oh God. Sam's fingers curl round his waist and Billy's bare knees are sliding on leather. Sliding all the way back while his spine bends, one hand skidding on the seat with a wet indecent noise. He can't wait, he can't, because the air is thick enough to be stifling, and he can smell the shifting weight of arousal, crushed between the two of them in that hot, cramped space.
Sam's hand is in his hair, tilting his head back while his brother pushes his jeans down just far enough, and he can't do anything but open his mouth around the head of Dean's cock, let it push across the flat of his tongue, and when he closes his mouth around it he makes a noise, like this is what he wanted all along. His mouth is indecently full, and it's awkward and it's the dirtiest thing he's ever done by a factor of ten, and he's still working out how to breathe when Dean pushes. One smooth half-movement, that slides him in, and there's a solid thump in his gut that aches, and Billy thinks he could come like this, and he wouldn't care at all. Sam makes a noise, something short and grating, fingers catching the material of his shorts, and dragging them down at the back. Billy has never been quite this vulnerable before. Something slams into the roof of the car, and Sam's hand is in his hair, then one of Dean's.
There are three hands in his hair, and he has barely any choice at all where his head goes, fingers shifting and pulling, he makes a noise in his throat that shivers down Dean's cock, something smacks against the roof again, and then there's the sound of material sliding whisper quiet over leather. When Sam leans into his back again he's a warmer, smoother push of skin against the curve of his ass and the back of his thighs. All naked skin and the unexpected press that is the thick, hard line of Sam's cock.
Billy drags a breath through his nose.
Sam moves behind him, a quiet rustle of fingers in denim and then the over-loud click of plastic.
Sam's fingers come back wet, painting lines on his skin, then dipping and pressing in. Billy swallows under the push, quick and expected, all the way inside, in one easy slide. It takes barely a minute for Sam to add another, other hand curled round Billy's hip, pulling him back, and the slide of movement from one end of the seat to the other seems to have suddenly make his spine liquid. He's helpless not to move with it.
Sam increases the movement with one quick press, that pushes him onto Dean's cock.
Dean makes a soft noise, head bumping the roof when he moves.
"Jesus, Sam what are you doing?"
"Dean." There's a sharp, impatient quality to Sam's voice, a touch of demand smothered under query. The steady push of fingers isn't so steady any more. Two fingers become three, a flat uncomfortable ache that pushes him all the way open and Billy groans in the only way he can, one flare of heat, and sound that makes Dean swear and push fingers into his hair. He uses them to catch, to press in. It's one quick, aggressive movement, that presses his cock briefly against the back of Billy's throat. It's so quick he only has time to register the push, to ache under it and want it back -
But Dean's shifting his hips back. Cock sliding free in one long movement that looks obscene. It leaves Billy breathing with his mouth open, open and empty, lips aching and he doesn't know what he did, doesn't know why Dean has pulled away.
Until Sam moves him, eases him forward until he's leaning on one of Dean's thighs, and there's pressure against the back of his knee, until he moves that too, a squeak as it shifts on the leather.
Then Dean's tipping his head up. "Have you ever done this before?"
Billy tries to make his mouth work, it feels utterly numb.
"Yes," he clears his throat and repeats the word, makes it sound less ragged than before. Though he can't quite meet Dean's eyes.
Dean frowns, one brief moment of tension between his eyes.
"Do I need to break someone?"
Sam stills at the words, fingers no longer pressing where they rest.
Billy shakes his head. "No," he says awkwardly. "It wasn't, it wasn't like that."
Dean grunts in the back of his throat, like maybe he doesn't quite believe him, which is worse. Any attempt to explain what it actually was gets lost in Billy's throat, held there by something that's probably shame.
But then Dean's fingers are sliding across the length of his mouth, pressing and shifting in a way that clearly wants and Billy exhales relief, and lets them push his mouth open while Sam moves behind him.
"Easy Sam."
"I know." There's a pause for the wet, slightly obscene, sound of Sam making sure he's slippery enough, then the sound of cap snapping shut and tumbling to the seat.
Billy is barely breathing when Sam wraps an arm round his waist and positions himself. But a groan shudders out of him when he presses inside. One long stretching ache that hurts in a way he never quite gets used to.
Sam Winchester is heavy, one endless curve against his back, knees dug into the seat as far apart as the car will let him, and the leverage behind that is still fierce enough to have Billy groaning.
"Move Sammy."
"Where?"
"Back, I need a leg -" Jeans and shorts are kicked all the way out of the way, and Dean is slithering down far enough to slide into the warm space on the leather that Billy's hands left, to catch the damp sides of Billy face and kiss him, kiss him while Sam pushes all the way inside.
But Dean's still moving. Billy can't quite work out -
Dean slips his fingers inside the next time Sam presses in, one slippery moment of extra stretch, that bites into the sensation he's already breathing hard under.
"Jesus Dean." Sam's voice falls apart. The push of his hips becomes more measured, more indulgent, but at the same time stutters out of him.
Dean's mouth is red, heavy over Billy's, restless and ragged and needy, and he can't seem to stop. His eyes when they flick open are impossibly dark.
Billy can't breathe.
"I'm going to fuck you too," Dean says throatily, and for a long second Billy doesn't get it, he doesn't get it at all. But he's nodding, he's nodding desperately between one breath and the next.
"Dean," Sam warns, and Billy thinks it's meant to come out sensible and chastising, but it's a dry croak.
Dean is already sliding down, shoulders pressed against the door, legs slithering between them in a way which nudges Sam's leg perilously close to the edge of the seat, and Billy is carefully dragged upright, knees sliding open round Dean's waist while Sam leans over, presses down, all the way down, heavier than before and for a second so deep inside Billy that he can't breathe at all.
"Oh God," Sam's voice cracks and there are sharp fingers on his thighs, opening them until it aches and Billy can no longer tell whose they are, just what they want, and then they're pushing inside again, along the slide and shift of Sam's cock. Not so strange now, a phantom edge to each thrust that pushes and stretches and hurts, but he can't help nudging down into the contact.
Dean kisses him with an open mouth, hands tilting his hips up just enough, and then the fingers are gone and the steady push is replaced by a much more insistent pressure, bigger and far stranger but determined.
Billy thinks it's too much, he's sure it's too much. The dizzy heights that seconds earlier were trying to tip him into orgasm are now almost entirely discomfort. He's afraid that he can't do this, that he's not...enough, that it will break him. Sam's breathing erratically in his ear, all heat and whispers that make his skin feel three sizes too tight, large hands open on his waist, holding him there, right there, thumbs dragging across his skin in a way that's soothing, and maddening, and possibly holding him together and stopping him from cracking down the middle.
Dean moves just a little, a push that opens him all the way, and Billy take a quick, startled breath. Sam touches him, cups him in one long hand while Dean slowly work's his way inside, and it's a flicker of need in that moment of pain that has him groaning quietly against the side of Dean's neck.
Dean winds an arm around his waist and just holds on to him for a second.
"You ok?" he whispers eventually. Voice vibrating all the way through him and Billy thinks maybe he is, though if they move he's going to feel everything.
He nods, shakily, a barely there movement. Sam drags a hand through his hair, long fingers in damp strands, and it's a curious sensation that Billy can't help leaning in to.
"I'm going to move," Dean says, too soon, far too soon, his fingers tighten, just a little, and his hips rock once.
The world disappears in a fractal of colours, and when Billy comes back his head is tipped back against Sam's shoulder, and Sam is twitching, pushing uncertainly after every cautious press in from his brother.
"Jesus Dean."
They can't move apart, they have to move together, have to push together and Billy feels stretched all the way open, in a way that's terrifying and fascinating, and so far beyond anything he ever thought about, anything he ever knew about.
Dean has one hand in Billy's hair and one in Sam's, he's dragged them all so close there's barely any room left to thrust, they're all just pushing into each other, slide of sweat-damp skin everywhere they press.
Dean kisses him every time he has the breath to, bites at the edge of his jaw when he doesn't, and Billy's hands are just holding on wherever they can, the edge of Dean's arm, the wet slippery back of the leather seat, the hard shifting length of Sam's thigh. Though he knows better than to think he's holding himself up. That he's the one taking the weight, and Sam is heavy, he's so heavy, but Billy wouldn't change that for anything.
Finger's pull at his waist, slide into the gap they've made and just like that Sam and Dean's hands are tangled round his cock, pull of callused fingertips and smooth skin, sliding too fast, and too slow and then just right. Until he's shifting past the ache, pressing down and coming, nails dug in Dean's skin, gasping against the warmth of his neck, into the wet ends of his hair.
Dean follows him over, all aggressive push of hard fingers in his skin. While Sam is left broken by them both, gasping and wrecked, face pressed into Billy's hair, strong thighs twitching while Billy groans through the aftershocks from all of them.
He ends up slumped over Dean's chest, breathing into the too hot skin of his throat and listening to the creak of leather.
He makes a noise, quick, quiet pain when Sam withdraws, though he makes little effort to move otherwise.
Dean seems fine where he is, and Billy feels...incredibly fragile. If there are going to be awkward repercussions to this he doesn't want to face them quite yet. He doesn't feel quite like himself any more.
He has to move eventually, carefully and that's not as much fun, not nearly as much fun.
The seat is warm but he's aware of the fact that it's technically vintage, and the other Winchester will be...unhappy -
Sam hands him his coat, which he smiles at, grateful, though with not a clue what to say.
"Hi," Sam says, and it's almost awkward, almost.
"Hi," Billy says, and then wonders if that's ok.
Billy never actually kissed the younger Winchester -
Oh.
And now he has. Sam's surprisingly gentle, he's careful where he puts his hands, where he pushes, he's warm and damp and there really isn't enough room in the back seat for Sam Winchester to do much of anything.
Billy's not quite sure...how they managed all that.