The Apple Tree, Sam/Dean, NC-17
The Apple Tree
Sam/Dean, brief Sam/OCs, 4255 words, NC-17
Title from the Peter and the Wolf song of the same name.
When Dean realizes he can read minds, the first thing he does is double check that the waitress he's pretty sure is eyeing him isn't into any funny business. Dean's had one too many aborted bondage experiences to do anything but the normal shit with chicks he picks up for a one night thing.
She totally is checking him out, which is awesome, except then he catches her thinking about her period cramps and backpedals hastily.
The second thing he does is go to the bathroom and splash some water on his face, because what the fuck.
The great thing about being the older Winchester brother (well, among many great things) is that he's not supposed to be the one dealing with all the mystical shit on a very personal level. He's supposed to be rubbing Sam's back and offering him aspirin, not reading people's freaking thoughts, and Dean swallows down the guilt at momentarily wishing this on Sammy.
Though he does feel better after drying his face, when he walks out of the bathroom he's immediately confronted with the man in the back booth's overwhelming urge to pick his nose. Dean's own nose starts to feel itchy, of course, so he passes the guy a napkin as he walks by him on the way back to his abandoned breakfast.
When he slides into his seat, Sam is still picking at his toast. They're taking the morning off, since they wasted that jikininki last night, so Sam isn't scouring the newspaper for cases or anything. It was gonna be a really nice morning, Dean thinks, until this whole ESP thing happened. Nothing like hunting a flesh-eating ghost to really make you appreciate the little things.
Sam's quiet mental bitching about this diner's lack of marmalade is so familiar, Dean barely even notices it.
Why's Dean looking at me funny, Sam interrupts, Something on my face? Probably.
When Sam wipes at his mouth with his napkin, it's almost a shock to Dean- that's really what's going on in Sam's head, right now. Holy crap.
Seriously, why is Dean- Sam's unease is deepening with every second, coiling thick and heavy, so Dean digs into the remains of his bacon and hash browns with an exaggerated moan. That gets Sam going on Dean's disgusting table manners. Dean lets Sammy's whining fade into the pleasant hum of background noise.
He's pretty much got the hang of it by the time they pay the check. Unless it's a really strong feeling, like Back Booth's snot problems- and god, would the guy fucking blow his nose already- Dean can mostly block it all out. He just has to think really hard about how awesome his pancakes are, and how great it's gonna be to roll down the windows and drive this morning, and how they wasted that sucker with barely a scratch between them.
Yeah, it's a good morning.
By early afternoon, though, Dean is ready to blow his brains out. Being subjected to the constant flow of Sam's internal monologue is like the slowest kind of torture- and the worst part is, the more irritated he gets, the less he can block it out. The thing is, it's not like a constant list of Sam's darkest, most interesting secrets- it's more like a combination of Sam's observations on the landscape- YES, SAM, MORE COWS, WELL SPOTTED- and daydreams. Eating a real meal instead of diner food, swimming in a cold lake- and in the muggy heat of the Impala, Dean sympathizes- and one about hanging out with Jess and his Stanford friends, playing soccer in the bright California sunshine, that's more like a memory than anything else. That one leaves a sour pit in Dean's stomach.
By half past three, Dean's so desperate to get out of the car that he makes a quick decision and takes the next exit.
"What the fuck," says Sam, when the tower comes into view.
Dean beams over at him. "Check it out," he says. "Big Peach Water Tower." He's not really sure what it is, or why there were four hundred signs advertising it coming up on the I-65, but if he doesn't get out of the car, he's going to strangle Sam to death. And that would be a waste of twenty-odd years of babysitting.
They pull over and park at the Big Peach Restaurant, and amble over to the tower.
It's a giant peach on a pole, basically, but there's something kind of mind-blowing about the sheer size of it. Dean shoves his hands in his pockets and marvels up at it, nudging at Sam with his shoulder.
"Awesome, Dean. So glad we came," says Sam wryly, but Dean hides his grin, because inside his head Sam really is.
There's a sign nearby, really more like a plaque. Sam heads over to read it, because of course Sam can't just appreciate the sight. He's gotta do research on it, still a dorky twelve year-old on the inside.
"It's only the second biggest," Sam hollers over. The only other people there, a elderly couple, glare at him.
Dean gazes up at the giant peach. "Man, who the fuck you think looked at this and said yeah, need one of these back home?"
Sam shrugs. They look at it for another minute, Dean's mind blissfully clear. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, he nudges Sam in the direction of the restaurant. "While we're here?"
"Yeah," Sam says. "Gotta take advantage of the whole Big Peach experience."
The restaurant itself is Dean's favorite kind of kitsch, totally over-the-top. Peach napkins and plates and all, and a special on peach cobbler that Dean think he'll take advantage of after a real meal. It's pretty empty, probably cleared out after lunch, which means Dean can relax and ignore the few drifting thoughts of the lone waiter, the hassled-looking father with three young kids.
Dean knows he has to tell Sam about this, knows it's ridiculous that he hasn't yet, that Sam will be furious when he finds out. It's inevitable- the way their luck runs, in two days he'll lose to ability to block it out and go fucking nuts from millions of other people's voices, all the time. He needs to tell Sam, so they can fix this.
Instead, he digs into his pile of fries, just slightly soggy, and lets only the barest edges of Sam's thoughts trickle over. I should have asked for tabasco. I wonder who built the other Big Peach. We do should more stuff like this.
Dean retreats from Sam's mind, sprawling his boots out and grinning. God, he wishes he'd had this after Jess- could have known what his stoic little brother was feeling underneath that blank mask, still unfamiliar after four years apart. Could have said more, done more than get Sam up and moving every day. Still, hey, Sam made it- and, by the way his eyes are tracking the two girls walking in with miniskirts, found his peace with his memories.
The girls are flirting with the waiter, despite his pimply chin and watery eyes, and as one bends over to pick up a dropped bracelet, Dean cuts his eyes towards Sam. Sam's biting his lip, face glazed over, and Dean just can't resist the temptation to see what he's thinking. Just a peek, to reassure himself that Sam really does have a sex drive. His whole priggish attitude must be a fake- no one can go this long without getting laid and just ignore the sight of that girl's ass.
Sam is totally checking her out- is more than checking her out, is full-on fantasizing. This has got to be good, Dean thinks, and digs in just slightly deeper.
Sam's thinking about flirting a bit, first, but not for too longer because there's no way Dean's gonna be patient enough to wait through coffee or drinks. Sam thinks about resting a hand on her wrist, just barely touching, until she leans into him. Then he'd fold long fingers around her skinny wrist and guide her outside, under Dean's approving eyes.
There's an alley around back of the building- in Sam's dream it's much less disgusting than it looked when Dean passed it coming in- and he'd lean against it, pulling her in between his spread legs, knocking her off balance so that she falls into his chest. When he's leaning, though, he barely has to bend down at all to bite at her lower lip, smearing the gloss. He's still got one hand wrapped around hers, and that makes it easy to bring her palm to his dick, painfully hard in his jeans-
"More coffee?" the waiter asks, clearly impatient to return to the table of girls.
Dean snaps out of Sam's daydream and takes a second to collect himself, then asks for the check. Alley sex, Jesus. Who knew Sammy had it in him?
An hour later, Dean is seriously regretting ever slipping into Sam's mind, because now he notices how Sam spends the whole rest of the drive staring with glazed eyes out the window and adjusting in his seat to hide his boner. Seriously, it's like Sam's just hit puberty and discovered what his dick's for, which was a phase Dean was happy to see end the first time around. He'd always thought Sam spent all these car rides brooding or something. Reviewing old cases or maybe mooning over his tragic, tragic man-bangs.
He's not. He's thinking about how long it will be before he can slip into a gas station restroom and jerk off, a constant nagging at the back of Dean's mind. Hell, Dean's getting horny just in fucking sympathy. He pulls over at the first bar he sees after it gets dark.
"Shouldn't we get a room first?" Sam asks, and how he's managing to think logically when he's been squirming in his seat for over two hours is a mystery to Dean.
Dean ignores him in favor of stretching his legs out the open car door and cracking his back. This makes him feel better and distracts Sam, so, successful plan. Sam sighs heavily- That's so gross- and gets out as well, slouching his way towards the bar.
By the time Dean gets inside, Sam's at the bar ordering a couple of beers. He's also checking out the bartender. Dean nudges up against him at the bar and concentrates, just long enough to catch a flash of naked, sweat-slick skin, and smirks into his drink. Sam escapes to a table in the far corner while Dean's distracted, leaving him to grumble and dig out his wallet.
It's pretty empty, and Dean considers trying to hustle some cash, but as he skims the room no one looks like an easy target. Instead, he just grabs the bottles and heads Sam's way. Sam's distracted, though, hands splayed over his thighs as he watches the group of young guys at a table near the bar.
Sam's watching one guy in particular. He's probably just out of college, preppy hair and well-worn but expensive jeans. Quieter than his buddies, picking at the label on his beer. He's nothing special, so Dean figures he's justified in checking out why Sam's so interested.
He closes his eyes, to help concentrate, and holy shit. Sam is- fuck, Sam's imagining getting it on with that dude.
And heck, Dean's always suspected his little brother swung that way- caught him in some pretty suspicious positions with good-looking 'study partners' back in the day- but he's never asked Sam to confirm it one way or another. Guess so, though, 'cause Sam's definitely imagining pressing that guy back onto a bed slowly, and then there's a quick flash of images, like Sam can't decide between a million tempting options, and when he settles on one- Jesus, Sam's got the guy's dick trussed up in black straps that look like they're digging in painfully, and Dean bets the guy's hands are chafing against the belt looped around his wrists, and he's panting and drooling into the thin motel pillow like he can't even form the words to beg, and finally that's enough to make Dean yank himself out, momentarily, to take deep breaths of stale bar air. He can't look at Sam's face. Then the temptation's too much, and Dean slides back into Sam's thoughts.
Sam's got one hand on the guy's upturned ass and another sliding 'round the guy's hips to cup dick against belly, feeling the straps with just the edge of his pinky finger, letting the guy try to fuck up into his palm for a tortuous minute before pulling away. Sam strokes himself- once, twice- letting the muted pleasure tingle up his spine before he climbs up on the bed and drags his dick along the guy's exposed ass, nudging up against the guy's balls, the rough leather of the straps, before sliding in, and it's slick and easy without any kind of lube or anything. No condom, either, and if Sam ever pulls this shit outside a fantasy Dean will kill him, but he'll let it slide inside Sam's head.
He's actually breathing hard when someone knocks into his arm and he's yanked out of Sam's fantasy. It's kind of embarrassing, the way his dick is pressing up against the inside of his jeans and he's curled over the table.
There's really only one thing Dean can do in this scenario. Draining the last of his beer, he dusts off his jeans and ambles past the guy's table, 'accidentally' bumping into the guy so that he spills his drink. Dean's quick to apologize, clapping the guy on the back and waving at the bartender for a refill.
Ten minutes later, Dean's kicking call-me-Jim's ass at darts and is just barely resisting the temptation to smirk over at Sam. Jim's definitely checking him out, too, which is flattering and all but Dean doesn't- Dean's not going to- Dean's been picking up Sam's crushes for as long as Sam's been bringing them home, and that's all there is to it. Still, when Jim starts cracking jokes about his psychotic boss, Dean laughs a little harder than is really warranted and throws three perfect darts in a row.
It's hard to look at Jim and not imagine him face down in dirty bedding, rocking his dick into Sam's fist.
Dean's gotten all distracted, so Sam's hand on his elbow makes him jump. For all that Sam's looking calm on the outside, Dean barely has to brush his thoughts to realize he's pissed. Sam starts talking about heading home, half-heartedly apologizing to Jim while firmly meeting the guy's eyes. Pretty fucking ballsy, considering Sam's still half-thinking about Jim's dick strapped up in a cock ring. Sam huffs out, and Dean doesn't want to think of himself as whipped, but he's so hasty to follow Sam that the last dart Dean throws isn't even on the board.
The search for a motel with a vacancy is long and tense. Sam's still pretending not to be pissed but Dean can feel it, would have been able to feel it even without the new mind-reading mojo. He keeps getting pieces of Sam's thoughts drifting by, like goddamnit Dean and does he know? Fuck, does he know? and it's not like I'm- like him, with a bitterness that makes Dean's hands tighten on the steering wheel. Dean can't look at Sam's composed face. Dean was just messing with him.
Once they find a room, Dean heads for the shower, hoping the pounding of the water will drown out Sam's inevitable resentment. He jerks off, letting the water beat down on his face, feeling small and stupid and a little bit angry, because it's not his fucking fault that Sam never gets laid.
When he crawls into bed, still damp from the crappy motel towel, he turns his back to Sam, who's lying silently in the other double bed. It's hard to get to sleep without the rhythm of Sam's deep breathing, but the last thing Dean remembers is blinking through blurry eyes at the clock, red lights beaming 2:56.
At 4:12, he bolts upright, palm flattened over the quick, violent beating of his heart. Sam was- Sam was sucking at the Peach Diner girl's clit, holding her trapped against the bricks, and then he had leaned back to accept an open-mouthed, hungry kiss from Jim, and then Sam had been fucking his way into Jim in short, powerful little thrusts, broad fingers digging into Jim's hips-
Sam's been looking at him funny for days by the time Dean lets it slip, answering a question that definitely wasn't posed out loud.
"What the fuck," Sam says, "How did this happen?"
"I dunno," Dean says defensively. "Just, ever since the jinik- jiki- jinkin?"
"The jikininki...?" Sam trails off, and then snaps, "Aw, fuck, Dean, did it say anything to you?"
"Who the fuck could tell?" Dean hastily rewinds the fight in his mind. "I mean, it was mumbling or groaning or whatever near the end, but those definitely weren't, you know, words." He winces. "Probably."
Sam's lunging for his laptop already, shouting something about a 'farewell curse'.
"You knew this could happen?" Dean says, and firmly ignores how shrill his voice has gotten.
"Yeah, but I figured you would tell me if-" Sam yells back, over the top of his computer.
"And you didn't think to mention this-"
"We were in kind of a rush, if you don't remember-"
"This is kind of a big deal, Sam, I could have used some fucking warning-"
And he's still waiting for Sam to cut him off when suddenly Sam slows down, puts the laptop aside, and looks at him, eyes serious and intent. "Since the jikininki-," he drawls.
Dean huffs. "Yeah." He's acutely aware of his hands all of a sudden, and shoves them in his pockets just to have something to do with them. He can't meet Sam's eyes, and he can feel his face flushing.
"You're been invading my mind without telling me. Since the jikininiki." And when Sam puts it that way, in that serious tone, it does sound pretty bad, but Dean doesn't get the chance to start apologizing before Sam is standing up and yanking him forward by the belt. Dean's taken off balance, has to catch himself with a hand on Sam's shoulder- and everything's all messed up, because he can feel Sam's dick nudging up against his through two layers of thick denim, but he can also feel Sam feeling his dick against Sam's own, and the way Sam's chest is catching, like he can't get enough breath, and the way his own chest feels too tight.
It's way too much sensation, and for a second Dean thinks he's going to blow his load right in his jeans, which he hasn't done since he was frigging thirteen or whatever.
"What've you been looking at?" Sam asks, voice rough, and Dean knows his face is answering for him.
Sam walks him back onto the bed, pushing him down, and Dean's not going to stand being manhandled like that. He's gonna tell Sam in a minute, but first he has to wait to watch while Sam bites at his lower lip.
"So you've been peeking at my fantasies, huh?" Sam says, mouth a short, tempting distance away. Dean nods, throat too tight to speak.
Sam leans in, then, speaking right against Dean's mouth so that their lips barely touch. "You see these ones?" And then Dean has to look, because Sam is picturing- oh, fuck- his mouth around Dean's dick, a thumb running along the seam of Dean's balls, spit and precome easing the way, and then it's all switched around so that Dean's got Sam's dick rolling over his tongue too, both of them curled around each other on a plush bed, and then they're in the shower and Sam is pressing Dean against the tiled wall, the confined space limiting the length of Sam's thrusts so that he just moves soft and slow, in and out, as the water beating down stays warm and steady-
When Dean opens his eyes again, his legs are splayed out obscenely over Sam's thighs, where Sam kneels between them, and even though Dean's still got all his clothes on he still feels really fucking exposed.
Sam's gloating down at him, probably smug about the way Dean can feel the pounding of his heartbeat right in his dick. "Shoulda known that's what you'd focus on," Sam says.
"Yeah," Dean says, because Sam's waiting for a response.
Sam hesitates, because Dean doesn't know how he does it but Sam always sees right fucking through him.
"What," Sam says, uncertainty bleeding through.
"Nothing, Sammy," Dean says. Sam's mouth tightens, but he just smoothes his hands over the inside of Dean's spread thighs, and presses a kiss against Dean's stomach through layers and layers of flannel.
The sex is great. More than great, actually, kind of mind-blowing, so when Sam shoves Dean over and crawls out of bed, shrugging on his jeans and aiming for his phone, Dean is kind of surprised.
Dean sits up against the headboard and pulls the covers up over his chest, feeling stupidly bashful. "Who you calling?" he tries to grunt out, but he has to clear his throat before he can speak properly.
"Bobby," Sam says, hunting for his cell under a pile of dirty clothes. They should find a laundry later, Dean notes absently.
"How come?" Dean says, picking up his watch from the bedside table.
Sam turns around and gives Dean a weird look. "Um, cause you can see into people's heads, Dean? Have you seriously forgotten?"
Dean nods, looking around for his socks. Sam's hand on his shoulder is a jolt, and Dean ends up clutching one sock to his chest like a fucking Victorian maiden protecting her virginity.
"Are you-" Sam starts, and then turns his attention sharply to the phone next to his ear. "Yeah, Bobby, hi."
Dean finds his jeans lodged between the mattress and the headboard. By the time he tucks himself in carefully and pulls up the zipper, Sam's snapping the phone closed and rummaging through his duffel again.
"So apparently Bobby's friend Carla dealt with this same thing a couple years back," Sam says. "We just need-" Sam gives up and empties the duffel onto the bed, sorting through it rapidly, "salt, a Tibetan purbu, and some yarrow seeds- hey, did you leave the purbu in the car?"
If the purbu is the triangular blade Dean's thinking of, then yes.
"I don't know," Dean says, playing with the clock radio.
"Wow, Dean," Sam says, "Could you be less helpful please? I mean, what the fuck, don't you want this curse removed?"
"Of course," Dean says.
"Then get up and find that knife," Sam says. When Dean brushes by him on the way to the car, Sam stops him with a hand on his wrist.
"Hey," Sam says, smiling. "Morning."
Dean can't stop himself from lunging in for a quick bite at Sam's mouth- that ends up with Sam pressed against the wall and panting- and then he heads out to the car.
Turns out the ritual- hell, it's barely a ritual, Dean just has to choke down half a glass of salt water mixed with yarrow and then slice open a finger- has to be done at night, so they wait out the day. Dean lets Sam go down on him in the meantime, and nearly yanks out half Sam's hair at the roots when Sam takes him in all the way into his throat. Then Sam decides they have to do this thing that takes half the rope in the car, and when Sam's in him, over him, moving achingly slow, Dean has to stop and breathe for a minute.
It's late afternoon, and the room is sweltering and hushed except for the whirring of the AC as it clicks on and off. Dean's breathing heavy- more than heavy, breathing like it's a full-body process, hands over his head and knees bent funny. He can't look at Sam and he can't not look at him- Sam, who's got big hands clasped around Dean's thighs, slowing down to pant in time with Dean.
Sam, whose emotions are bleeding out into Dean's awareness every time Dean's concentration slips for even a second, drowning Dean in love and want and unabashed need.
Dean comes, shaking so hard he's going to have serious rope burn on his wrists. Sam collapses down on him a minute later, throwing splayed limbs over Dean and pulling him in, even though they're both sweating like crazy and the room's too hot by far.
Dean closes his eyes as Sam buries his face against Dean's damp neck, letting Sam's drowsy contentment brush the fringes of his awareness. In two hours he won't be able to feel it anymore, no more quick and easy access to Sam's thoughts- in two hours Dean will have wasted what's probably going to be his only chance to see- to find out what Sam really thinks of him- if Dean backs off now, he's never going to get the guts to do it, so Dean plunges fully into Sam's unguarded thoughts, terrified-
"Ready?" Sam asks, already ripping open their last packet of yarrow seeds.
"Yeah," Dean says, leaning into his brother and grinning. Their hands touch as Sam gives him the glass.
Sam/Dean, brief Sam/OCs, 4255 words, NC-17
Title from the Peter and the Wolf song of the same name.
When Dean realizes he can read minds, the first thing he does is double check that the waitress he's pretty sure is eyeing him isn't into any funny business. Dean's had one too many aborted bondage experiences to do anything but the normal shit with chicks he picks up for a one night thing.
She totally is checking him out, which is awesome, except then he catches her thinking about her period cramps and backpedals hastily.
The second thing he does is go to the bathroom and splash some water on his face, because what the fuck.
The great thing about being the older Winchester brother (well, among many great things) is that he's not supposed to be the one dealing with all the mystical shit on a very personal level. He's supposed to be rubbing Sam's back and offering him aspirin, not reading people's freaking thoughts, and Dean swallows down the guilt at momentarily wishing this on Sammy.
Though he does feel better after drying his face, when he walks out of the bathroom he's immediately confronted with the man in the back booth's overwhelming urge to pick his nose. Dean's own nose starts to feel itchy, of course, so he passes the guy a napkin as he walks by him on the way back to his abandoned breakfast.
When he slides into his seat, Sam is still picking at his toast. They're taking the morning off, since they wasted that jikininki last night, so Sam isn't scouring the newspaper for cases or anything. It was gonna be a really nice morning, Dean thinks, until this whole ESP thing happened. Nothing like hunting a flesh-eating ghost to really make you appreciate the little things.
Sam's quiet mental bitching about this diner's lack of marmalade is so familiar, Dean barely even notices it.
Why's Dean looking at me funny, Sam interrupts, Something on my face? Probably.
When Sam wipes at his mouth with his napkin, it's almost a shock to Dean- that's really what's going on in Sam's head, right now. Holy crap.
Seriously, why is Dean- Sam's unease is deepening with every second, coiling thick and heavy, so Dean digs into the remains of his bacon and hash browns with an exaggerated moan. That gets Sam going on Dean's disgusting table manners. Dean lets Sammy's whining fade into the pleasant hum of background noise.
He's pretty much got the hang of it by the time they pay the check. Unless it's a really strong feeling, like Back Booth's snot problems- and god, would the guy fucking blow his nose already- Dean can mostly block it all out. He just has to think really hard about how awesome his pancakes are, and how great it's gonna be to roll down the windows and drive this morning, and how they wasted that sucker with barely a scratch between them.
Yeah, it's a good morning.
By early afternoon, though, Dean is ready to blow his brains out. Being subjected to the constant flow of Sam's internal monologue is like the slowest kind of torture- and the worst part is, the more irritated he gets, the less he can block it out. The thing is, it's not like a constant list of Sam's darkest, most interesting secrets- it's more like a combination of Sam's observations on the landscape- YES, SAM, MORE COWS, WELL SPOTTED- and daydreams. Eating a real meal instead of diner food, swimming in a cold lake- and in the muggy heat of the Impala, Dean sympathizes- and one about hanging out with Jess and his Stanford friends, playing soccer in the bright California sunshine, that's more like a memory than anything else. That one leaves a sour pit in Dean's stomach.
By half past three, Dean's so desperate to get out of the car that he makes a quick decision and takes the next exit.
"What the fuck," says Sam, when the tower comes into view.
Dean beams over at him. "Check it out," he says. "Big Peach Water Tower." He's not really sure what it is, or why there were four hundred signs advertising it coming up on the I-65, but if he doesn't get out of the car, he's going to strangle Sam to death. And that would be a waste of twenty-odd years of babysitting.
They pull over and park at the Big Peach Restaurant, and amble over to the tower.
It's a giant peach on a pole, basically, but there's something kind of mind-blowing about the sheer size of it. Dean shoves his hands in his pockets and marvels up at it, nudging at Sam with his shoulder.
"Awesome, Dean. So glad we came," says Sam wryly, but Dean hides his grin, because inside his head Sam really is.
There's a sign nearby, really more like a plaque. Sam heads over to read it, because of course Sam can't just appreciate the sight. He's gotta do research on it, still a dorky twelve year-old on the inside.
"It's only the second biggest," Sam hollers over. The only other people there, a elderly couple, glare at him.
Dean gazes up at the giant peach. "Man, who the fuck you think looked at this and said yeah, need one of these back home?"
Sam shrugs. They look at it for another minute, Dean's mind blissfully clear. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, he nudges Sam in the direction of the restaurant. "While we're here?"
"Yeah," Sam says. "Gotta take advantage of the whole Big Peach experience."
The restaurant itself is Dean's favorite kind of kitsch, totally over-the-top. Peach napkins and plates and all, and a special on peach cobbler that Dean think he'll take advantage of after a real meal. It's pretty empty, probably cleared out after lunch, which means Dean can relax and ignore the few drifting thoughts of the lone waiter, the hassled-looking father with three young kids.
Dean knows he has to tell Sam about this, knows it's ridiculous that he hasn't yet, that Sam will be furious when he finds out. It's inevitable- the way their luck runs, in two days he'll lose to ability to block it out and go fucking nuts from millions of other people's voices, all the time. He needs to tell Sam, so they can fix this.
Instead, he digs into his pile of fries, just slightly soggy, and lets only the barest edges of Sam's thoughts trickle over. I should have asked for tabasco. I wonder who built the other Big Peach. We do should more stuff like this.
Dean retreats from Sam's mind, sprawling his boots out and grinning. God, he wishes he'd had this after Jess- could have known what his stoic little brother was feeling underneath that blank mask, still unfamiliar after four years apart. Could have said more, done more than get Sam up and moving every day. Still, hey, Sam made it- and, by the way his eyes are tracking the two girls walking in with miniskirts, found his peace with his memories.
The girls are flirting with the waiter, despite his pimply chin and watery eyes, and as one bends over to pick up a dropped bracelet, Dean cuts his eyes towards Sam. Sam's biting his lip, face glazed over, and Dean just can't resist the temptation to see what he's thinking. Just a peek, to reassure himself that Sam really does have a sex drive. His whole priggish attitude must be a fake- no one can go this long without getting laid and just ignore the sight of that girl's ass.
Sam is totally checking her out- is more than checking her out, is full-on fantasizing. This has got to be good, Dean thinks, and digs in just slightly deeper.
Sam's thinking about flirting a bit, first, but not for too longer because there's no way Dean's gonna be patient enough to wait through coffee or drinks. Sam thinks about resting a hand on her wrist, just barely touching, until she leans into him. Then he'd fold long fingers around her skinny wrist and guide her outside, under Dean's approving eyes.
There's an alley around back of the building- in Sam's dream it's much less disgusting than it looked when Dean passed it coming in- and he'd lean against it, pulling her in between his spread legs, knocking her off balance so that she falls into his chest. When he's leaning, though, he barely has to bend down at all to bite at her lower lip, smearing the gloss. He's still got one hand wrapped around hers, and that makes it easy to bring her palm to his dick, painfully hard in his jeans-
"More coffee?" the waiter asks, clearly impatient to return to the table of girls.
Dean snaps out of Sam's daydream and takes a second to collect himself, then asks for the check. Alley sex, Jesus. Who knew Sammy had it in him?
An hour later, Dean is seriously regretting ever slipping into Sam's mind, because now he notices how Sam spends the whole rest of the drive staring with glazed eyes out the window and adjusting in his seat to hide his boner. Seriously, it's like Sam's just hit puberty and discovered what his dick's for, which was a phase Dean was happy to see end the first time around. He'd always thought Sam spent all these car rides brooding or something. Reviewing old cases or maybe mooning over his tragic, tragic man-bangs.
He's not. He's thinking about how long it will be before he can slip into a gas station restroom and jerk off, a constant nagging at the back of Dean's mind. Hell, Dean's getting horny just in fucking sympathy. He pulls over at the first bar he sees after it gets dark.
"Shouldn't we get a room first?" Sam asks, and how he's managing to think logically when he's been squirming in his seat for over two hours is a mystery to Dean.
Dean ignores him in favor of stretching his legs out the open car door and cracking his back. This makes him feel better and distracts Sam, so, successful plan. Sam sighs heavily- That's so gross- and gets out as well, slouching his way towards the bar.
By the time Dean gets inside, Sam's at the bar ordering a couple of beers. He's also checking out the bartender. Dean nudges up against him at the bar and concentrates, just long enough to catch a flash of naked, sweat-slick skin, and smirks into his drink. Sam escapes to a table in the far corner while Dean's distracted, leaving him to grumble and dig out his wallet.
It's pretty empty, and Dean considers trying to hustle some cash, but as he skims the room no one looks like an easy target. Instead, he just grabs the bottles and heads Sam's way. Sam's distracted, though, hands splayed over his thighs as he watches the group of young guys at a table near the bar.
Sam's watching one guy in particular. He's probably just out of college, preppy hair and well-worn but expensive jeans. Quieter than his buddies, picking at the label on his beer. He's nothing special, so Dean figures he's justified in checking out why Sam's so interested.
He closes his eyes, to help concentrate, and holy shit. Sam is- fuck, Sam's imagining getting it on with that dude.
And heck, Dean's always suspected his little brother swung that way- caught him in some pretty suspicious positions with good-looking 'study partners' back in the day- but he's never asked Sam to confirm it one way or another. Guess so, though, 'cause Sam's definitely imagining pressing that guy back onto a bed slowly, and then there's a quick flash of images, like Sam can't decide between a million tempting options, and when he settles on one- Jesus, Sam's got the guy's dick trussed up in black straps that look like they're digging in painfully, and Dean bets the guy's hands are chafing against the belt looped around his wrists, and he's panting and drooling into the thin motel pillow like he can't even form the words to beg, and finally that's enough to make Dean yank himself out, momentarily, to take deep breaths of stale bar air. He can't look at Sam's face. Then the temptation's too much, and Dean slides back into Sam's thoughts.
Sam's got one hand on the guy's upturned ass and another sliding 'round the guy's hips to cup dick against belly, feeling the straps with just the edge of his pinky finger, letting the guy try to fuck up into his palm for a tortuous minute before pulling away. Sam strokes himself- once, twice- letting the muted pleasure tingle up his spine before he climbs up on the bed and drags his dick along the guy's exposed ass, nudging up against the guy's balls, the rough leather of the straps, before sliding in, and it's slick and easy without any kind of lube or anything. No condom, either, and if Sam ever pulls this shit outside a fantasy Dean will kill him, but he'll let it slide inside Sam's head.
He's actually breathing hard when someone knocks into his arm and he's yanked out of Sam's fantasy. It's kind of embarrassing, the way his dick is pressing up against the inside of his jeans and he's curled over the table.
There's really only one thing Dean can do in this scenario. Draining the last of his beer, he dusts off his jeans and ambles past the guy's table, 'accidentally' bumping into the guy so that he spills his drink. Dean's quick to apologize, clapping the guy on the back and waving at the bartender for a refill.
Ten minutes later, Dean's kicking call-me-Jim's ass at darts and is just barely resisting the temptation to smirk over at Sam. Jim's definitely checking him out, too, which is flattering and all but Dean doesn't- Dean's not going to- Dean's been picking up Sam's crushes for as long as Sam's been bringing them home, and that's all there is to it. Still, when Jim starts cracking jokes about his psychotic boss, Dean laughs a little harder than is really warranted and throws three perfect darts in a row.
It's hard to look at Jim and not imagine him face down in dirty bedding, rocking his dick into Sam's fist.
Dean's gotten all distracted, so Sam's hand on his elbow makes him jump. For all that Sam's looking calm on the outside, Dean barely has to brush his thoughts to realize he's pissed. Sam starts talking about heading home, half-heartedly apologizing to Jim while firmly meeting the guy's eyes. Pretty fucking ballsy, considering Sam's still half-thinking about Jim's dick strapped up in a cock ring. Sam huffs out, and Dean doesn't want to think of himself as whipped, but he's so hasty to follow Sam that the last dart Dean throws isn't even on the board.
The search for a motel with a vacancy is long and tense. Sam's still pretending not to be pissed but Dean can feel it, would have been able to feel it even without the new mind-reading mojo. He keeps getting pieces of Sam's thoughts drifting by, like goddamnit Dean and does he know? Fuck, does he know? and it's not like I'm- like him, with a bitterness that makes Dean's hands tighten on the steering wheel. Dean can't look at Sam's composed face. Dean was just messing with him.
Once they find a room, Dean heads for the shower, hoping the pounding of the water will drown out Sam's inevitable resentment. He jerks off, letting the water beat down on his face, feeling small and stupid and a little bit angry, because it's not his fucking fault that Sam never gets laid.
When he crawls into bed, still damp from the crappy motel towel, he turns his back to Sam, who's lying silently in the other double bed. It's hard to get to sleep without the rhythm of Sam's deep breathing, but the last thing Dean remembers is blinking through blurry eyes at the clock, red lights beaming 2:56.
At 4:12, he bolts upright, palm flattened over the quick, violent beating of his heart. Sam was- Sam was sucking at the Peach Diner girl's clit, holding her trapped against the bricks, and then he had leaned back to accept an open-mouthed, hungry kiss from Jim, and then Sam had been fucking his way into Jim in short, powerful little thrusts, broad fingers digging into Jim's hips-
Sam's been looking at him funny for days by the time Dean lets it slip, answering a question that definitely wasn't posed out loud.
"What the fuck," Sam says, "How did this happen?"
"I dunno," Dean says defensively. "Just, ever since the jinik- jiki- jinkin?"
"The jikininki...?" Sam trails off, and then snaps, "Aw, fuck, Dean, did it say anything to you?"
"Who the fuck could tell?" Dean hastily rewinds the fight in his mind. "I mean, it was mumbling or groaning or whatever near the end, but those definitely weren't, you know, words." He winces. "Probably."
Sam's lunging for his laptop already, shouting something about a 'farewell curse'.
"You knew this could happen?" Dean says, and firmly ignores how shrill his voice has gotten.
"Yeah, but I figured you would tell me if-" Sam yells back, over the top of his computer.
"And you didn't think to mention this-"
"We were in kind of a rush, if you don't remember-"
"This is kind of a big deal, Sam, I could have used some fucking warning-"
And he's still waiting for Sam to cut him off when suddenly Sam slows down, puts the laptop aside, and looks at him, eyes serious and intent. "Since the jikininki-," he drawls.
Dean huffs. "Yeah." He's acutely aware of his hands all of a sudden, and shoves them in his pockets just to have something to do with them. He can't meet Sam's eyes, and he can feel his face flushing.
"You're been invading my mind without telling me. Since the jikininiki." And when Sam puts it that way, in that serious tone, it does sound pretty bad, but Dean doesn't get the chance to start apologizing before Sam is standing up and yanking him forward by the belt. Dean's taken off balance, has to catch himself with a hand on Sam's shoulder- and everything's all messed up, because he can feel Sam's dick nudging up against his through two layers of thick denim, but he can also feel Sam feeling his dick against Sam's own, and the way Sam's chest is catching, like he can't get enough breath, and the way his own chest feels too tight.
It's way too much sensation, and for a second Dean thinks he's going to blow his load right in his jeans, which he hasn't done since he was frigging thirteen or whatever.
"What've you been looking at?" Sam asks, voice rough, and Dean knows his face is answering for him.
Sam walks him back onto the bed, pushing him down, and Dean's not going to stand being manhandled like that. He's gonna tell Sam in a minute, but first he has to wait to watch while Sam bites at his lower lip.
"So you've been peeking at my fantasies, huh?" Sam says, mouth a short, tempting distance away. Dean nods, throat too tight to speak.
Sam leans in, then, speaking right against Dean's mouth so that their lips barely touch. "You see these ones?" And then Dean has to look, because Sam is picturing- oh, fuck- his mouth around Dean's dick, a thumb running along the seam of Dean's balls, spit and precome easing the way, and then it's all switched around so that Dean's got Sam's dick rolling over his tongue too, both of them curled around each other on a plush bed, and then they're in the shower and Sam is pressing Dean against the tiled wall, the confined space limiting the length of Sam's thrusts so that he just moves soft and slow, in and out, as the water beating down stays warm and steady-
When Dean opens his eyes again, his legs are splayed out obscenely over Sam's thighs, where Sam kneels between them, and even though Dean's still got all his clothes on he still feels really fucking exposed.
Sam's gloating down at him, probably smug about the way Dean can feel the pounding of his heartbeat right in his dick. "Shoulda known that's what you'd focus on," Sam says.
"Yeah," Dean says, because Sam's waiting for a response.
Sam hesitates, because Dean doesn't know how he does it but Sam always sees right fucking through him.
"What," Sam says, uncertainty bleeding through.
"Nothing, Sammy," Dean says. Sam's mouth tightens, but he just smoothes his hands over the inside of Dean's spread thighs, and presses a kiss against Dean's stomach through layers and layers of flannel.
The sex is great. More than great, actually, kind of mind-blowing, so when Sam shoves Dean over and crawls out of bed, shrugging on his jeans and aiming for his phone, Dean is kind of surprised.
Dean sits up against the headboard and pulls the covers up over his chest, feeling stupidly bashful. "Who you calling?" he tries to grunt out, but he has to clear his throat before he can speak properly.
"Bobby," Sam says, hunting for his cell under a pile of dirty clothes. They should find a laundry later, Dean notes absently.
"How come?" Dean says, picking up his watch from the bedside table.
Sam turns around and gives Dean a weird look. "Um, cause you can see into people's heads, Dean? Have you seriously forgotten?"
Dean nods, looking around for his socks. Sam's hand on his shoulder is a jolt, and Dean ends up clutching one sock to his chest like a fucking Victorian maiden protecting her virginity.
"Are you-" Sam starts, and then turns his attention sharply to the phone next to his ear. "Yeah, Bobby, hi."
Dean finds his jeans lodged between the mattress and the headboard. By the time he tucks himself in carefully and pulls up the zipper, Sam's snapping the phone closed and rummaging through his duffel again.
"So apparently Bobby's friend Carla dealt with this same thing a couple years back," Sam says. "We just need-" Sam gives up and empties the duffel onto the bed, sorting through it rapidly, "salt, a Tibetan purbu, and some yarrow seeds- hey, did you leave the purbu in the car?"
If the purbu is the triangular blade Dean's thinking of, then yes.
"I don't know," Dean says, playing with the clock radio.
"Wow, Dean," Sam says, "Could you be less helpful please? I mean, what the fuck, don't you want this curse removed?"
"Of course," Dean says.
"Then get up and find that knife," Sam says. When Dean brushes by him on the way to the car, Sam stops him with a hand on his wrist.
"Hey," Sam says, smiling. "Morning."
Dean can't stop himself from lunging in for a quick bite at Sam's mouth- that ends up with Sam pressed against the wall and panting- and then he heads out to the car.
Turns out the ritual- hell, it's barely a ritual, Dean just has to choke down half a glass of salt water mixed with yarrow and then slice open a finger- has to be done at night, so they wait out the day. Dean lets Sam go down on him in the meantime, and nearly yanks out half Sam's hair at the roots when Sam takes him in all the way into his throat. Then Sam decides they have to do this thing that takes half the rope in the car, and when Sam's in him, over him, moving achingly slow, Dean has to stop and breathe for a minute.
It's late afternoon, and the room is sweltering and hushed except for the whirring of the AC as it clicks on and off. Dean's breathing heavy- more than heavy, breathing like it's a full-body process, hands over his head and knees bent funny. He can't look at Sam and he can't not look at him- Sam, who's got big hands clasped around Dean's thighs, slowing down to pant in time with Dean.
Sam, whose emotions are bleeding out into Dean's awareness every time Dean's concentration slips for even a second, drowning Dean in love and want and unabashed need.
Dean comes, shaking so hard he's going to have serious rope burn on his wrists. Sam collapses down on him a minute later, throwing splayed limbs over Dean and pulling him in, even though they're both sweating like crazy and the room's too hot by far.
Dean closes his eyes as Sam buries his face against Dean's damp neck, letting Sam's drowsy contentment brush the fringes of his awareness. In two hours he won't be able to feel it anymore, no more quick and easy access to Sam's thoughts- in two hours Dean will have wasted what's probably going to be his only chance to see- to find out what Sam really thinks of him- if Dean backs off now, he's never going to get the guts to do it, so Dean plunges fully into Sam's unguarded thoughts, terrified-
"Ready?" Sam asks, already ripping open their last packet of yarrow seeds.
"Yeah," Dean says, leaning into his brother and grinning. Their hands touch as Sam gives him the glass.