Your mouth was made to suck my kiss (Sam/Dean, nc-17, 6828 words)
Your mouth was made to suck my kiss
(Sam/Dean and kind of Dean/omc, nc-17, 6828 words)
Dean's got SOME. This is crack-fic of the mildly icky kind. RHCP are to blame for the title, and this has not been beta'd.
Time in the bathroom is about the only time Sam and Dean regularly don't have to be with each other. Sam likes it that way. It reminds him that they're still separate, distinct people - not some single entity with a split personality. Not that he doesn't like being around Dean. He's had enough experience of not being around Dean to make him pretty damn sure that, obnoxious, piggish behaviour aside, he'd take being with Dean than not any day of the week and twice on Sundays.
And he figures, co-dependency and abandonment issues aside, Dean likes it that way too. But not so much that he usually takes hour-long vacations in the bathroom.
Whatever Dean is doing in there, Sam thinks he's been doing it long enough. And it's not like he has to worry about intruding on Dean's privacy; Dean has shared more details about his bowel movements, jerk-off fantasies and that one time he tried shaving off his pubes than Sam has really ever wanted to know.
So Sam hammers on the bathroom door and says, "Dude, zip it up already. Time for breakfast."
There's nothing but silence. Confused frustration bleeds into concern. Something might have happened. Sam's brain unhelpfully immediately supplies him with fifty scenarios of Things That Could Go Wrong In The Bathroom.
Steeling himself for whatever mundane, disgusting activity is actually taking up Dean's time and attention - because there was that one time when Dean didn't answer his cellphone for like an hour and Sam was convinced something dire had happened, and instead had found Dean watching zit-squeezing videos on youtube with a look of open-mouthed fascination - Sam slowly pushes the door open. He edges his head just far enough through the doorway that he can see into the room, but not so far that he can't manage a hasty retreat.
Dean is wearing nothing but his shorts and is sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, staring at the sink, with wide, horrified eyes. Definitely more horrified than the zit-squeezing video marathon had left him.
"Dean?"
Dean's gaze slides to him, still disconcertingly blank with shock. It's contagious, the silent terror, and Sam feels a chill go down his spine. Long years of training keep him still and unmoving, keep his voice low and calm.
"Dean. Talk to me."
Dean doesn't talk, just lifts a wavering finger and points at the sink. Sam frowns, glances over at the sink, which appears perfectly normal, situated beneath a mirror still slightly steamed from Dean's shower, and droplets of water clinging to its smooth enamel rim, a squooshed tube of toothpaste lying discarded by the side.
Flicking another glance at Dean, and wondering if maybe he needs his gun, Sam approaches the sink… and then recoils in disgust.
"Eww! Dude! That's nasty! What the hell were you doing jerking off into the sink, you freak?"
In two quick strides, Dean is standing right there in front of him. He grabs a fistful of the front of Sam's shirt and uses it to haul him even closer, his face tilted right up into Sam's. There's something a little hysterical in his eyes but his voice comes out quiet and steady and deadly.
"It came out of my mouth."
Sam raises an eyebrow and offers a tentative, "Oh." Gently, he disentangles Dean's fingers from his shirtfront. "It's okay," he says, reassuringly, and turns the faucet on, hard and fast. The stream of water quickly swallows the globs of semen down the plughole. Sam flashes Dean a soothing smile. "All gone. Next time, use a tissue or something? Don't… don't put it in your mouth, 'kay?"
Something snaps in the set of Dean's face and the sudden appearance of an irritated frown makes him look comfortingly like himself. Sam isn't used to Dean getting freaked out by his own games with come, he's not even used to Dean having games he apparently plays with his own come, so he has an excuse. Dean does not.
But Dean just slaps Sam in the arm and snarls, "It wasn't mine!"
Sam blinks and then feels an embarrassing rush of heat over his cheeks. Later, he might want to explain to Dean why it's not acceptable for him to be blowing guys in the bathroom while Sam is just in the next room, and he might want to ask how Dean smuggled a guy in and out of the room without Sam noticing, and also maybe when exactly Dean decided he liked any cock other than his own. Right now, he just wants to escape and do his best to forget all the traumatising mental images of his big brother's sex life this conversation is creating.
"You should put some clothes on," Sam suggests, in the kind of high, strangled voice that his vocal cords haven't produced since puberty.
He tries to get out of the room but Dean's a cruel bastard and won't let him. He grabs hold of Sam's arm and stubbornly refuses to let go, no matter how hard Sam tries to shake him off. And there's something in his eyes that makes Sam stop fighting.
"There was spunk in my mouth and I don't know where it came from." Dean's voice wobbles slightly, taking on a mournful tone as he adds, "And my mouth tastes like dick."
It's hard not to feel sorry for him with his face all scrunched up like that.
:::
Since reaching the diner, Dean has not had anything to eat but has inhaled six cups of black coffee. Sam is mildly concerned. Part of him wants to point out that it could have been a lot worse. He doesn't want to go into detail but there are perhaps worse bodily excreta to mysteriously turn up in Dean's mouth. It's sheer tact, and the unwillingness to provoke Dean into ranting, that have kept him from mentioning this.
"I'm sure it won't happen again," says Sam, reasonable to the same degree that Dean is currently not. "In fact, we don't even know that… that was what it looked like. Could've been… phlegm. Do you feel phlegmy?"
Dean gives him a long, unimpressed look.
"No. No, Sam, I do not feel 'phlegmy'."
"Spontaneous come manifestation is a pretty unprecedented phenomenon, as far as I'm aware, Dean." Sam doesn't mean to sound so snarky. He also doesn't mean to say it so loudly.
Given enough time, Sam might possibly have been driven to feel guilty by the betrayed light in Dean's eyes. Clearly, Dean is counting on Sam to come up with some explanation for the bizarre things happening in his mouth. But before Dean has chance to properly guilt-trip Sam, he's interrupted.
Leaning forward over his cup, Dean delicately allows a long string of come to dribble past his lips, glisten sickly-white in the mid-morning light, then disappear silently beneath the surface of what's left of Dean's coffee. Wordlessly, Dean shoves his coffee cup across the table away from himself.
With wide eyes, Sam considers the slick sheen left on Dean's mouth.
"Hmm," Sam says. "Well, this is new."
:::
"You're sure it wasn't happening yesterday?" Sam says, fingers poised ready over the laptop's keypad.
You think this is the kinda thing I could'a missed?" Dean snarls back at him. "You don't think I might'a mentioned it earlier? Wait! Now that you mention it, you're right! My mouth has been filling up with come of its own accord since I was six-fucking-teen!"
The situation has, justifiably, put Dean on edge. Sam reminds himself to stay patient and be understanding of the fact that Dean can't help being snarky and bad-tempered right now.
"I'm just trying to find out when precisely the problem started so I know where to start looking for answers." He pushes the laptop off his thighs and turns around on the bed to face Dean. Or at least to try to - Dean is pacing the length of the room, with a stack of napkins in one hand and a cup for spitting in in the other. "Something must have triggered this. Something you did, or someone you met, or-"
He breaks off and sighs because he's not got the first clue what might trigger what he's decided to refer to as Spontaneous Oral Manifestation of Ejaculate. But Dean seems to have taken some comfort from the fact Sam thinks they can research an answer out of this. He's stopped pacing at least.
The bed rocks gently as Dean sits down on the end beside Sam. His hand around the napkins is a fist and Sam carefully keeps his gaze averted from the contents of the cup.
"I feel like my freaking mouth's been hijacked. My mouth tastes like cock, Sam. Cock. In my mouth."
He might have been going somewhere further with this but Sam will never know, because it's right then that Dean makes a soft, distressed noise, and empties another mouthful of come out into the cup. Lips slightly parted, come seeping from the corners of his mouth and dribbling down his chin. Sam watches with uneasy fascination. Something tugs low down in his belly.
:::
Before Dean unexpectedly started suffering from Spontaneous Oral Manifestation of Ejaculate, they weren't doing anything particularly exciting, just enjoying some downtime following the successful hunting of a wendigo.
Sam researches wendigos thoroughly in case there's some lesser-known lore about them possessing arcane come-cursing abilities. No such luck.
Reluctantly, and without making Dean aware of it - which is easy enough considering Dean is totally distracted by the copious amounts of come appearing in his mouth - Sam tries calling Bobby for help.
"Am I hearing you right?" says Bobby, after a long silence.
Sam's cheeks burn and he shifts the phone to the other ear. "Semen. In his mouth. We… uh, we don’t know how it's getting there."
"Boy, did your fool-brother put you up to this? You don't think I got better things to do with my time than play with you?"
"Bobby, I'm totally serious! We need help- Oh, you know what, just forget it. I'll fix it myself. Just forget it!"
"I'm gonna try and do just that."
Bobby hangs up, leaving Sam feeling embarrassed and uncomfortable, like the time he'd mentioned to John about those weird noises he'd heard Dean making in the night. That had resulted in an excruciating conversation with John, and then ridiculously exaggerated moaning from Dean the following night, broken up by a lot of obnoxious laughter, and which had only stopped when John had complained about the noise.
Sam sits there, feeling a little miserable, while Dean gargles with Jack Daniels in the bathroom.
:::
Naively, Sam had nursed hopes of waking up to find the Spontaneous Oral Manifestation of Ejaculate completely gone, as inexplicably and totally as it had first appeared. Sometimes, things just fixed themselves and, seeing as Sam didn't have the first clue in hell how to stop come from appearing in his big brother's mouth, he'd optimistically believed that this could be one of those things.
He wakes before Dean, in the soft buttery wash of early morning sunlight. He rolls over on his sheets, and stares across the small distance between their beds, to where Dean is asleep. A drop of spunk shines in the dip at the corner of his lips. As he watches, Dean snuffles, rubs his stubble-rough cheek against the pillow. And then his tongue comes out, flicks pink and wet over his lips, leaves them glistening. Sweeps up the spunk.
Sam whimpers.
:::
They try going out to take Dean's mind off it. It's not the greatest idea Sam's ever had. While Dean brings up an obscene amount of come, splatters it all over the sidewalk and ends up looking like he's just had a facial, Sam tries to pretend he doesn't know him and industriously examines the local history brochure he picked up in the diner.
:::
"I… have found something," says Sam grandly, sounding more confident and self-assured than he feels.
"Will it stop the come-fountain in my mouth?" says Dean. His cheeks are flushed and his voice is slightly slurred. Sam thinks he might be just a little drunk from the amount of Jack Daniels he's poured down his throat since this began. Coffee, apparently, just wasn't strong enough.
"Uh… possibly," Sam says. "Now, I'm gonna need… a sample."
Dean stares at him warily. A string of come seeps over the fullness of his lower lip and plops onto the tabletop between them. Sam nods.
"That'll work," he says.
:::
See, Sam's idea is crazy, but it might be right. But just in case it's not, he doesn't wanna go putting mental images in Dean's head that might upset him. So he's going this one alone and leaving Dean to watch some cheesy horror movie in the motel room. Strangely enough, Dean doesn't seem to have the same appetite for porn he did before he developed Spontaneous Oral Manifestation of Ejaculate.
He's still watching Robot Monster from Outer Space or whatever the hell it is when Sam gets back later that night. The room smells thick and hot, smells like sex. There's a pile of damp tissues on the floor and Dean's missed a dribble on his chin, the smear of come glistening on his skin.
In the bathroom, Sam carefully deposits the bone fragments in an envelope, then sets about showering the sweat and grave-dirt off his body.
:::
"Bet it's witches," Dean says. "Fucking witches. Always fucking cursing me."
"And yet you keep hitting on them in the sleaziest ways imaginable," says Sam, keeping his gaze fixed on the laptop screen. "I'm thinking you must'a taken one too many knocks to the head and are probably brain-damaged. It's the only reasonable explanation I can come up with why you keep antagonising them."
"I'll brain-damage you in a moment," Dean mutters.
There's a comfortable silence, broken only by Dean coughing up several long, thick strings of semen, which dangle lewdly from his slick lips until he can open the napkin up wide enough. An email pops up on the screen of the laptop. Sam clicks it open, reads it, then wonders how to break the news to Dean.
This cannot end well.
"It's not witches," he says. He clicks a few links and then points at the screen. "It's this guy."
Dallas Michaels had starring roles in such movies as Missiles of Meat, C is for Cocksucker and Bucking and Fucking: Tales of the Cowboy 3. There are a couple of photos of him on the fansite Sam's brought up on the screen: one of him lounged out on a bed, legs sprawled wide and his hand wrapped around his cock, another one that's a close-up on his face. He's a good-looking guy, slim and blond, wide blue eyes and high cheekbones.
"Am I s'posed to know who the hell that is?" says Dean, leaning over his shoulder.
"Uh, no," says Sam. "He's dead. Died three years ago. He's buried in the town, kind of the local celebrity."
"He die bloody?"
"No, actually. Just… complications during surgery."
They're not touching exactly, but Sam's perfectly aware of Dean's proximity and their bodies are close enough that he can feel the sudden stillness that tightens in Dean. He tries not to make this any worse than it already is, so he waits until he thinks Dean might be ready to hear the rest. Then he realises that he might be waiting some time and just goes for it.
"I exhumed his remains and took a sample of the bone. Sent it off with the… uh… the sample, I took from you. I got Detective Ballard to have them analysed and… they matched."
Another pause, and then Dean speaks in the kind of voice that is so very calm and reasonable that Sam knows to expect him to have some kind of nervous breakdown in the next few minutes.
"I have a dead gay pornstar's come in my mouth, is that what you're saying? Is it? Just, I need you to tell me, is it… Sam, just tell me. Is that what you're saying to me?"
"It's an apport. You remember the haunted house in Milton, the dead woman who kept making cookies appear out of nowhere for her kids? Same principle."
Dean hisses in a breath and shakes his head, sharp and angry. "No. It's not. The dead mom was trying to look after her kids. She knew they liked cookies. I don't like come. Not dead pornstar's and not in my mouth."
He jerks away from the laptop as if even being close to the pictures of Dallas Michaels is causing him physical pain. Sam watches in mute sympathy, tries not to pay too much attention when Dean has to stop and hack up some more come. There's still a string of it dangling between his lips and the napkin when he turns back around to face Sam, and it's hard for Sam to keep his eyes locked on Dean's.
"We are going to burn that mouth-hijacking asshole's bones to ashes," Dean says, his voice thick and choked. "You hear me? He's gonna think fucking twice before coming in my mouth again!"
Massaging his temple, Sam tries to come up with a diplomatic way to explain the situation. He's given some extra time to think it over when Dean has to pause to swap over to a new napkin, because the one he has been using is now totally soaked in come.
"I don’t think it's that simple." At the furious glare Dean shoots him, Sam shrugs but doesn't relent. "I don't think he's all that interested in his earthly remains."
Dean wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, and Sam can see a sheen of slipperiness over the fragile little bone in his wrist. It's odd how his eyes just seem to catch on the traces of come on Dean's skin. He's too busy contemplating the weirdness of it, to notice immediately when Dean gets up in his space. The look on Dean's face is pretty brutal, but his plump, come-wet lips kind of detracts from it.
"We are burning that sonofabitch's bones."
Sam nods and decides to go along with it, because it's not like Dean is going to listen to anything Sam has to say until they've tried it this way.
:::
They dig Dallas Michaels back up again. Sam's rhythm is machine-like and steady. He's already dug Dallas up once and he thinks there's even less pointing digging him up this time than there was before. But Dean is digging like a crazy man, dirt going everywhere and a constant muttered monologue of curses streaming from his lips - along with the occasional gush of semen.
Digging gives Sam's thoughts too much opportunity to wander and he has no choice but to consider the effects of Dean's Spontaneous Oral Manifestation of Ejaculate on himself. Because it's really getting to be impossible to ignore the fact that he's started getting hard whenever Dean suffers a nasty attack and ends up looking like the target of some hardcore bukkake.
Sam really doesn't want to get turned on by his brother, for all the obvious reasons about morality and fucked-upness and social taboo. But also, because it's Dean. And yeah, Dean's an attractive guy, but he farts like he's on a mission to wreck the ozone layer, thinks the difference between fucking and making love is whether he leaves the TV on during or not, and honestly believes Spinoza is a type of pasta.
If Sam was ever gonna go gay, he always thought he'd find someone to crush on who wasn't… Well, who wasn't quite so Dean.
It's just seeing Dean all mussed-up and sticky with come, flushed and obscene, and
"Goddamn goatfucking bastard!" Dean snarls. "Let's see you come in my mouth when you're on fucking fire!"
Sam sighs and concentrates on digging.
:::
As expected, burning the bones does absolutely nothing. They're halfway back to the motel when Dean pulls over, falls out onto the side of the road, and slurps and groans wetly through the flood of come leaking from his mouth.
Sam waits for him in the car. Maybe it seems a little cold of Sam to just sit and watch, but he doesn't think it's a good idea to get any closer when Dean is on all fours, making those kind of noises, and stinking of sex.
:::
Also as expected, Dean is more willing to hear what Sam has to say after the failed salt 'n' burn. Sam knows getting Dean to listen is half the battle. Well, technically, it's a third. After making him listen, is making him comprehend, because whereas Dean doesn't really do disobedience, he does have a habit of wilfully misunderstanding when he doesn't like what he's being told. Lastly is compliance, which Sam isn't even going to think about right now.
Sam has rehearsed a few explanation speeches in his head in order to find the least traumatising way to deal with this. He's not exactly sure why he's bothering because, if this were happening to anyone else, Sam would be absolutely fascinated and Dean would be making one shitty, bad-taste joke after another at his or her expense.
He gets Dean sat down on the end of his bed, makes sure he's properly supplied with tissues, and then puts some space between them, because he thinks there's a good chance Dean may turn violent when he hears what Sam's thinking.
"Y'know how, sometimes, spirits can be resting in peace until something disturbs them," says Sam. "Like… demolition of the family home or something."
Dean stares at him blankly, and Sam sighs and kind of wishes Dean would at least try to work with him here. The thought must show on his face because Dean's expression becomes severely irritated.
"Sam, in case you didn't notice, I was too busy hunting down a wengido to demolish a goddamn thing in this stinking asshole of a town. This town started picking on me, not the other way round."
It's easier to keep calm and rational, despite the subject matter of the conversation, when Dean gets wound up and defensive.
"It's not the town," Sam says patiently. "I told you, it's Dallas Michaels. And nobody's accusing you of demolishing anything. I'm trying to explain that… Dallas Michaels was resting peacefully until you came along."
"Until I came along?" Dean echoes sharply. "He keeps coming in my mouth, and considering I don't swing that way and he's fucking dead, I think it's pretty clear who's being the fucking unreasonable one here!"
Somewhere through Dean's little rant, Sam's attention slipped to the string of come dribbling from the corner of Dean's mouth, shiny and suggestive. In the sudden heaving silence, Dean's tongue swipes over it, and Sam's lips part, like he's going to say something, but nothing but another sigh comes out.
Snapping back to himself, Sam clears his throat and fixes his gaze back on Dean's eyes.
"Look, there's something you should know about the way Dallas Michaels died, okay?"
"You said it wasn't a violent death," Dean says accusingly. "Died in surgery, you said."
"Yeah, but it was cosmetic surgery." The look on Dean's face is so suspicious, and the situation so ridiculous, that it's nothing but a finely honed survival instinct that keeps Sam from busting out in maniacal laughter. "He was… well, he was having collagen injections. In his lips."
Sam concentrates on the ugly motel curtains (orange and pink paisley) instead of looking at Dean, because there's no way he'll be able to get the words out otherwise.
"But there were complications, some kind of freak accident, and he died. He died in the pursuit of cocksucker lips, Dean. And you have to admit that your lips are… well, they're very… Very."
When there's nothing but silence, Sam's gaze tentatively creeps back to Dean. Dean is sitting very still and very silent.
"I want to burn his bones again," says Dean.
"It won't do any good."
"I want to burn his bones again," says Dean.
Sam sighs, because this is a very sigh-worthy situation, and scrapes his fingers through his hair. Dean's expression is blank, his eyes staring at nothing in particular. He wonders if Dallas Michaels appreciates the irony of having chosen someone as apparently heterosexual as Dean as the focus of his attention.
"Look," says Sam, "Dallas Michaels has unfinished business with your mouth-"
"What kind of unfinished business?" Dean interrupts, and Sam is at least mildly grateful that Dean is willing to discuss it, even if he's not especially enthusiastic about this part of the conversation himself.
Sam contemplates his fingers and the bedspread and the tiny little tear in the bedsheet, rather than look at Dean.
"I think… I think he thinks you should use your mouth for... I mean, he was kinda famous in the industry for these really long, extensive blowjob scenes," says Sam, waving a hand in the vague direction of the laptop, which has been displaying the fansite, complete with the pictures of Dallas, cock in hand, for the last three hours. "And… uh… I think he thinks your mouth has potential."
For a moment, Sam thinks about showing Dean the clip of Dallas Michaels in Boy-Toy's First Blowjob, which he'd downloaded from the net, in order to properly demonstrate Dallas's specialty. Then he decides Dean might not find it helpful. Or he maybe might find it a little upsetting.
He waits in sensitive silence until Dean feels strong enough to speak again.
"I want to burn his bones again," says Dean.
:::
It's incredible really that Sam has managed to get Dean this far. It's probably due to Dean being incapacitated by the sheer amount of come flooding his mouth, which effectively prevented him from arguing as Sam steered him out to the Impala. While it could just be coincidence, Sam takes it as a sign of Dallas's approval.
Since recovering, Dean has at least not tried to escape from the bar. It's about as much cooperation as Sam expects from him. He sits, sullen at Sam's side, and leaves Sam to inspect the meagre pickings in the bar.
It's a Wednesday night and it's a small town. If Sam has to pick a guy, or, more accurately, a cock, for Dean to suck off, he's not exactly got the greatest selection.
"How about him?" says Sam, nodding towards the only guy in the room who looks to be within ten years of Dean. He's a scrawny skinhead and, just at the moment Dean turns to look in his direction, he sticks his finger in his ear and hooks out some wax, which he wipes off on his jeans. Sam immediately drops him from consideration.
"I bet Dad never had to put up with this kind of crazy shit," Dean mutters.
Sam frowns, tries to remove all trace of any mental images involving John Winchester and cocksucking from his brain, and appraises the next guy for blowjob potential. There's a guy who has a passing resemblance to John Malkovich, (if Malkovich were a middle-aged trucker with a lot of facial hair), who Sam supposes isn’t entirely unattractive. But the idea of Dean getting down on his knees for him doesn't sit right with Sam, so he moves on to the next guy for consideration.
"Look, this place ain't exactly a shining light of tolerance. I go up to any of these guys and offer to blow them, and I'm gonna get my ass handed to me," says Dean.
"I'm sure you can persuade them somehow," says Sam, not paying as much attention to the conversation as maybe he should. There's a long silence and Sam wonders if Dean is choking on come again - in which case, it's really not a good idea for Sam to look.
Then he hears the scrape of Dean's barstool, and he realises Dean is leaving. He supposes he's lucky he's had Dean's cooperation as long as he has. Making a note of the bartender guy who's just come in from out back who is kind of cute in a 'stuck in the eighties' kind of way, Sam follows Dean out and prepares to lecture him until he gives in and just sucks some guy's dick to shut Sam up.
:::
As in all times of emotional crisis, Dean has retreated to the Impala. He's gripping the steering wheel and his lips are pressed into a line. Sam climbs in beside him and sits there quietly, watching the reflection of the moon shudder in the shallow puddle in the parking lot as a truck drives by on the road.
"Performing oral sex on a guy in order to shake off a spirit doesn't say anything about your sexuality, Dean," says Sam. "It's not gonna make you gay, if that's what you're worrying about. And I know this has to be really awkward for you, but the sooner you get it done, the sooner it's over. And we can just forget all about it."
Dean draws a breath to speak but cuts off around a sudden mouthful of semen. Sam listens to the wet, sticky sounds of his mouth moving - his throat working not to swallow, and his tongue slipping over his lips.
"C'mon, you can pick someone up, and… this'll all be over in less than fifteen minutes, 'kay?" Sam says, all cajoling and reassuring. And he's eager to have this fucking thing fixed because it's messing with his head and he doesn't like it.
"No," says Dean, at last.
"Dean-"
"No! No, I can't! Not… not like this." Dean's eyes are wide and panicked, his mouth - his stupidly pretty mouth that is the reason they're in this fucked-up situation - twitches and flutters. "I don't care about Dallas fucking Michaels and his crazy-ass fixation on my mouth! I'm not sucking any of those guys in there off! I fucking won't!"
There's a breathlessness to his voice that makes Sam think he's winding himself up for a full-on panic attack. And Sam knows that this is seriously getting to Dean, but he can't understand why Dean can't just man up and freaking do it already. Because he's pretty sure that Dean could get a guy off with his mouth in three seconds flat if he really put his mind to it and then this would all be over and Sam wouldn’t be cruising bars, looking for guys for his brother to blow, while nursing an inappropriate, unwanted crush on him.
"Dean," he says, ready to be the voice of logic.
"No," says Dean again. He sounds a little more resolved this time, calmer, and Sam knows he's gonna have a fight on his hands. "No, if I gotta put some guy's dick in my mouth, then it's gonna have to be yours."
Sam stares at him, jaw unhitched. Even through the shadows, he can see the bright red glow of Dean's cheeks. But Dean's stubbornly looking right back at him.
"That's not- uh," says Sam. "I don't think…"
"I don't like cock but if I've got to… ? Only one guy's cock I think I could stand putting in my mouth," says Dean. "And that's yours." And Sam's thought-processes shiver to a halt because, weirdly, he thinks it's the most significant declaration of affection he's ever had from Dean.
"Oh God," Sam mumbles, and gives in.
:::
They go back to the motel and it's all awkward silence between them. Sam busies himself by clearing out the browser cache on his laptop, because even having Dallas Michaels and his cock in the laptop memory is uncomfortable, and Dean arranges his guns in alphabetical order, and then in order of preference, before finally packing them away.
Eventually, they have nothing left to distract them from the fact that Dean has to give Sam a blowjob.
Sam pulls the chair out from by the desk and sits down on it. Dean stands in front of him. They watch each other for a dubious moment.
Then, moving decisively, Dean picks up one of his discarded shirts from off the bed, and puts it over Sam's head.
"Easier if I don't have to look at you, dude," says Dean.
Sam would agree except he's too busy staring at red flannel and breathing in the warm, heavy scent of his brother's body, which clings to the material. He hears Dean move and his heartbeat picks up, just a little, a harder throb in his chest.
He sits there and waits, and then jerks when he feels Dean tugging at his fly. Dean's not exactly gentle and Sam has a second of panicking about letting Dean near such a sensitive part of his anatomy. Then Dean's hand is gone, Sam's sitting there, his fly open, and Dean's shirt over his face.
Nothing happens.
"Dean, I swear to God, if you're taking pictures of me like this, I will kill you."
A pause, and then Dean says, "No, man… was just…" He lets out a breath, like laughter, then says, "Yeah, right. Cocksucking."
There's a hot, sudden twist low down in Sam's belly. His voice dries up. His face feels flushed and he tries to tell himself it's just wearing Dean's shirt over his head that's doing it, because there's no proper ventilation in this stuffy little room. He can only make out the blurred shape of Dean through the thick flannel of his shirt, but he knows he's close.
The next time he's sure of where Dean is, it's because Dean's hand is on his thigh, and the other is reaching into the spread v of Sam's lowered fly. He can't help a stupid, sudden squeak as Dean's fingers wriggle into the slit in his shorts and curl about his cock.
Dean just holds Sam, and Sam stiffens into his touch, the calloused pads of Dean's fingers achingly perfect against his over-heated, over-sensitive skin.
He's pretty sure he hears Dean breathe out, soft and shuddering.
"Jeez, Sammy, you're fucking huge." His voice is warm and low, unsettlingly intimate while being so unmistakeably Sam's big brother. There's a flexing of his fingers and, helpless, Sam's slides forward in his seat, pushing into Dean's grip as he gets harder still. "Gonna dislocate my jaw letting you fuck my mouth. Think I should practice on something smaller first? Like maybe a fucking horse?"
Sam swallows, something sticking in his throat. He just keeps getting harder and Dean's not even - oh God - Dean's not even put him in his mouth yet. His slutty, pretty mouth that he only wants Sam's cock in.
Sam squeezes his eyes shut, even the friction of the flannel of Dean's shirt on his cheeks registering as too much.
"What do I-?" Dean's voice catches, and he stops, starts again, more gruff this time. "Don't expect this to be any good, yeah? Just gonna stick it in and suck."
"Okay," says Sam, his voice strangled and too high. "Yeah. Fine. I'll just… uh…"
There's an abrupt rush of cool air over Sam's dick when Dean pulls him out and takes his hand away. He can't help a small, abortive twitch of his hips, but then Dean's hands are on his knees, spreading his thighs wider, and settling between them.
He's on his knees, between Sam's legs, and Sam claps a hand to the shirt over his face, clamping it in place, because he cannot see Dean do this.
Sam's still taking in the sensation of Dean's breath shivering over his skin, when Dean's lips bump against his cock, light and uncertain. The hand holding the shirt in place curls into a fist. It takes a whole lot of willpower for Sam to keep perfectly still.
The second time Dean's mouth touches Sam's dick, Dean's lips close around him. Then Dean's suckling on the head of his cock, like he's tasting Sam, getting used to him, tongue flickering over him. And it's fucking incredible.
A surprised groan escapes Sam's lips, thankfully muffled in the shirt, but it's still enough to push Dean further. There's an uncomfortable scrape of teeth before Dean figures out what he's doing, then he's taking Sam deeper into his mouth, into all that hot, slippery tightness. His tongue slides under the length of him, like he's not sure what to do with it, but just that, exactly what he's doing, is right.
He just keeps taking more and more of Sam's cock, deep and dirty, his lips all soft and plush and fucking whorish around him. And then Sam's dick is hitting the back of his throat, and before Sam can stop him, Dean's trying to swallow him down, too fucking hung up on being awesome - even at sucking cock - to realise he can't deep-throat a cock like Sam's - which is fat and thick and so goddamn hard.
He gags, and even as Sam's gripping a handful of Dean's hair to drag him off his dick, he can feel the delicious quivers of Dean's throat clenching him, can hear the hitching, desperate noises Dean's making that just make him want to fuck. Facefuck Dean hard.
Dean's mouth comes off his cock with a squelching sound, and then there's just the sudden heave of Dean breathing, and the heavy pulse of hot want still going through Sam's whole body.
"Don't," Sam mumbles. "Don't, you'll fucking hurt yourself. Idiot."
"Don't fucking tell me how to suck cock," Dean says, his voice hoarse and fucked out. "I'm the one with the cocksucker lips, dude."
Sam laughs, breaks off into a groan as Dean drags him back into his mouth, all slick heat and tongue and lips. He sucks Sam with a stubborn insistence, like he's trying to show Sam just how good he can be at this. And yeah, his teeth catch Sam more than once, but his hands are tight on Sam's knees, holding his legs spread, and the sound of him fucking his mouth on Sam's dick is filthier than Sam's ever imagined a sound could be.
Hand moving like a blind man's, Sam finds his way to the back of Dean's neck and grips it tight. He doesn't dare try for a handful of Dean's hair, because he knows he'll end up doing something completely fucked-up like trying to ride Dean's face and this whole experience is going to require years of therapy as it is.
Dean's shirt is bundled against Sam's mouth, and Sam's sucking in breath through it. He rolls his head back, hips arching upwards to meet Dean. Dean's head just keeps bobbing away between his legs now he's found a rhythm that works for him, angle of each downward stroke changing as he works his mouth sloppily over Sam's cock.
And Sam hates to admit it but Dallas Michaels was so so right. Sam knows he's gabbling words at Dean, hates to think he might be telling Dean just how right Dallas is and how fucking beautiful Dean's mouth is but he can't shut the hell up.
When he comes, his whole body shaking, he tries to wrench Dean away, but Dean's a stubborn bastard, and Sam opens his eyes, drops Dean's shirt, and sees his cock spurting come all over Dean's face, painting his brow and cheekbones and his fucked mouth. And he's staring at Sam like he's seeing the face of the true god, a dark patch growing at the front of his jeans.
There's Sam's come on Dean's lips, which has to be an improvement on a dead gay pornstar's.
:::
Before they leave town, Dean insists on visiting Dallas Michaels' grave. Sam wonders if maybe Dean's gonna try burning his bones again - just out of spite, because the last time there was come in Dean's mouth it was Sam's - but they go during daylight hours and Dean usually saves grave desecration for the cover of darkness.
It's a nice, sunny day and they stand by the grave in silence for a long moment.
Then Sam says, "We should'a brought flowers."
Dean looks at him and pulls a face.
"The fuck would we do that for?"
Sam pulls a face right back at him.
"Because it'd be a nice thing to do."
Dean goes quiet, considering this. The sunshine is warm on Sam's back and the only sound in the cemetery is birdsong. It's all unexpectedly pleasant and serene. Then Dean undoes his fly, hooks his cock out, and Sam has to resist the urge to facepalm.
"What the hell are you doing, you freak? Put it away," he hisses.
"Guy doesn't want flowers," Dean grunts, wrist snapping as he fucks his fist. "Gonna give him something he'll appreciate."
Sam goes to wait in the car until Dean has finished jerking off over Dallas Michaels' grave.
~end
(Sam/Dean and kind of Dean/omc, nc-17, 6828 words)
Dean's got SOME. This is crack-fic of the mildly icky kind. RHCP are to blame for the title, and this has not been beta'd.
Time in the bathroom is about the only time Sam and Dean regularly don't have to be with each other. Sam likes it that way. It reminds him that they're still separate, distinct people - not some single entity with a split personality. Not that he doesn't like being around Dean. He's had enough experience of not being around Dean to make him pretty damn sure that, obnoxious, piggish behaviour aside, he'd take being with Dean than not any day of the week and twice on Sundays.
And he figures, co-dependency and abandonment issues aside, Dean likes it that way too. But not so much that he usually takes hour-long vacations in the bathroom.
Whatever Dean is doing in there, Sam thinks he's been doing it long enough. And it's not like he has to worry about intruding on Dean's privacy; Dean has shared more details about his bowel movements, jerk-off fantasies and that one time he tried shaving off his pubes than Sam has really ever wanted to know.
So Sam hammers on the bathroom door and says, "Dude, zip it up already. Time for breakfast."
There's nothing but silence. Confused frustration bleeds into concern. Something might have happened. Sam's brain unhelpfully immediately supplies him with fifty scenarios of Things That Could Go Wrong In The Bathroom.
Steeling himself for whatever mundane, disgusting activity is actually taking up Dean's time and attention - because there was that one time when Dean didn't answer his cellphone for like an hour and Sam was convinced something dire had happened, and instead had found Dean watching zit-squeezing videos on youtube with a look of open-mouthed fascination - Sam slowly pushes the door open. He edges his head just far enough through the doorway that he can see into the room, but not so far that he can't manage a hasty retreat.
Dean is wearing nothing but his shorts and is sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, staring at the sink, with wide, horrified eyes. Definitely more horrified than the zit-squeezing video marathon had left him.
"Dean?"
Dean's gaze slides to him, still disconcertingly blank with shock. It's contagious, the silent terror, and Sam feels a chill go down his spine. Long years of training keep him still and unmoving, keep his voice low and calm.
"Dean. Talk to me."
Dean doesn't talk, just lifts a wavering finger and points at the sink. Sam frowns, glances over at the sink, which appears perfectly normal, situated beneath a mirror still slightly steamed from Dean's shower, and droplets of water clinging to its smooth enamel rim, a squooshed tube of toothpaste lying discarded by the side.
Flicking another glance at Dean, and wondering if maybe he needs his gun, Sam approaches the sink… and then recoils in disgust.
"Eww! Dude! That's nasty! What the hell were you doing jerking off into the sink, you freak?"
In two quick strides, Dean is standing right there in front of him. He grabs a fistful of the front of Sam's shirt and uses it to haul him even closer, his face tilted right up into Sam's. There's something a little hysterical in his eyes but his voice comes out quiet and steady and deadly.
"It came out of my mouth."
Sam raises an eyebrow and offers a tentative, "Oh." Gently, he disentangles Dean's fingers from his shirtfront. "It's okay," he says, reassuringly, and turns the faucet on, hard and fast. The stream of water quickly swallows the globs of semen down the plughole. Sam flashes Dean a soothing smile. "All gone. Next time, use a tissue or something? Don't… don't put it in your mouth, 'kay?"
Something snaps in the set of Dean's face and the sudden appearance of an irritated frown makes him look comfortingly like himself. Sam isn't used to Dean getting freaked out by his own games with come, he's not even used to Dean having games he apparently plays with his own come, so he has an excuse. Dean does not.
But Dean just slaps Sam in the arm and snarls, "It wasn't mine!"
Sam blinks and then feels an embarrassing rush of heat over his cheeks. Later, he might want to explain to Dean why it's not acceptable for him to be blowing guys in the bathroom while Sam is just in the next room, and he might want to ask how Dean smuggled a guy in and out of the room without Sam noticing, and also maybe when exactly Dean decided he liked any cock other than his own. Right now, he just wants to escape and do his best to forget all the traumatising mental images of his big brother's sex life this conversation is creating.
"You should put some clothes on," Sam suggests, in the kind of high, strangled voice that his vocal cords haven't produced since puberty.
He tries to get out of the room but Dean's a cruel bastard and won't let him. He grabs hold of Sam's arm and stubbornly refuses to let go, no matter how hard Sam tries to shake him off. And there's something in his eyes that makes Sam stop fighting.
"There was spunk in my mouth and I don't know where it came from." Dean's voice wobbles slightly, taking on a mournful tone as he adds, "And my mouth tastes like dick."
It's hard not to feel sorry for him with his face all scrunched up like that.
:::
Since reaching the diner, Dean has not had anything to eat but has inhaled six cups of black coffee. Sam is mildly concerned. Part of him wants to point out that it could have been a lot worse. He doesn't want to go into detail but there are perhaps worse bodily excreta to mysteriously turn up in Dean's mouth. It's sheer tact, and the unwillingness to provoke Dean into ranting, that have kept him from mentioning this.
"I'm sure it won't happen again," says Sam, reasonable to the same degree that Dean is currently not. "In fact, we don't even know that… that was what it looked like. Could've been… phlegm. Do you feel phlegmy?"
Dean gives him a long, unimpressed look.
"No. No, Sam, I do not feel 'phlegmy'."
"Spontaneous come manifestation is a pretty unprecedented phenomenon, as far as I'm aware, Dean." Sam doesn't mean to sound so snarky. He also doesn't mean to say it so loudly.
Given enough time, Sam might possibly have been driven to feel guilty by the betrayed light in Dean's eyes. Clearly, Dean is counting on Sam to come up with some explanation for the bizarre things happening in his mouth. But before Dean has chance to properly guilt-trip Sam, he's interrupted.
Leaning forward over his cup, Dean delicately allows a long string of come to dribble past his lips, glisten sickly-white in the mid-morning light, then disappear silently beneath the surface of what's left of Dean's coffee. Wordlessly, Dean shoves his coffee cup across the table away from himself.
With wide eyes, Sam considers the slick sheen left on Dean's mouth.
"Hmm," Sam says. "Well, this is new."
:::
"You're sure it wasn't happening yesterday?" Sam says, fingers poised ready over the laptop's keypad.
You think this is the kinda thing I could'a missed?" Dean snarls back at him. "You don't think I might'a mentioned it earlier? Wait! Now that you mention it, you're right! My mouth has been filling up with come of its own accord since I was six-fucking-teen!"
The situation has, justifiably, put Dean on edge. Sam reminds himself to stay patient and be understanding of the fact that Dean can't help being snarky and bad-tempered right now.
"I'm just trying to find out when precisely the problem started so I know where to start looking for answers." He pushes the laptop off his thighs and turns around on the bed to face Dean. Or at least to try to - Dean is pacing the length of the room, with a stack of napkins in one hand and a cup for spitting in in the other. "Something must have triggered this. Something you did, or someone you met, or-"
He breaks off and sighs because he's not got the first clue what might trigger what he's decided to refer to as Spontaneous Oral Manifestation of Ejaculate. But Dean seems to have taken some comfort from the fact Sam thinks they can research an answer out of this. He's stopped pacing at least.
The bed rocks gently as Dean sits down on the end beside Sam. His hand around the napkins is a fist and Sam carefully keeps his gaze averted from the contents of the cup.
"I feel like my freaking mouth's been hijacked. My mouth tastes like cock, Sam. Cock. In my mouth."
He might have been going somewhere further with this but Sam will never know, because it's right then that Dean makes a soft, distressed noise, and empties another mouthful of come out into the cup. Lips slightly parted, come seeping from the corners of his mouth and dribbling down his chin. Sam watches with uneasy fascination. Something tugs low down in his belly.
:::
Before Dean unexpectedly started suffering from Spontaneous Oral Manifestation of Ejaculate, they weren't doing anything particularly exciting, just enjoying some downtime following the successful hunting of a wendigo.
Sam researches wendigos thoroughly in case there's some lesser-known lore about them possessing arcane come-cursing abilities. No such luck.
Reluctantly, and without making Dean aware of it - which is easy enough considering Dean is totally distracted by the copious amounts of come appearing in his mouth - Sam tries calling Bobby for help.
"Am I hearing you right?" says Bobby, after a long silence.
Sam's cheeks burn and he shifts the phone to the other ear. "Semen. In his mouth. We… uh, we don’t know how it's getting there."
"Boy, did your fool-brother put you up to this? You don't think I got better things to do with my time than play with you?"
"Bobby, I'm totally serious! We need help- Oh, you know what, just forget it. I'll fix it myself. Just forget it!"
"I'm gonna try and do just that."
Bobby hangs up, leaving Sam feeling embarrassed and uncomfortable, like the time he'd mentioned to John about those weird noises he'd heard Dean making in the night. That had resulted in an excruciating conversation with John, and then ridiculously exaggerated moaning from Dean the following night, broken up by a lot of obnoxious laughter, and which had only stopped when John had complained about the noise.
Sam sits there, feeling a little miserable, while Dean gargles with Jack Daniels in the bathroom.
:::
Naively, Sam had nursed hopes of waking up to find the Spontaneous Oral Manifestation of Ejaculate completely gone, as inexplicably and totally as it had first appeared. Sometimes, things just fixed themselves and, seeing as Sam didn't have the first clue in hell how to stop come from appearing in his big brother's mouth, he'd optimistically believed that this could be one of those things.
He wakes before Dean, in the soft buttery wash of early morning sunlight. He rolls over on his sheets, and stares across the small distance between their beds, to where Dean is asleep. A drop of spunk shines in the dip at the corner of his lips. As he watches, Dean snuffles, rubs his stubble-rough cheek against the pillow. And then his tongue comes out, flicks pink and wet over his lips, leaves them glistening. Sweeps up the spunk.
Sam whimpers.
:::
They try going out to take Dean's mind off it. It's not the greatest idea Sam's ever had. While Dean brings up an obscene amount of come, splatters it all over the sidewalk and ends up looking like he's just had a facial, Sam tries to pretend he doesn't know him and industriously examines the local history brochure he picked up in the diner.
:::
"I… have found something," says Sam grandly, sounding more confident and self-assured than he feels.
"Will it stop the come-fountain in my mouth?" says Dean. His cheeks are flushed and his voice is slightly slurred. Sam thinks he might be just a little drunk from the amount of Jack Daniels he's poured down his throat since this began. Coffee, apparently, just wasn't strong enough.
"Uh… possibly," Sam says. "Now, I'm gonna need… a sample."
Dean stares at him warily. A string of come seeps over the fullness of his lower lip and plops onto the tabletop between them. Sam nods.
"That'll work," he says.
:::
See, Sam's idea is crazy, but it might be right. But just in case it's not, he doesn't wanna go putting mental images in Dean's head that might upset him. So he's going this one alone and leaving Dean to watch some cheesy horror movie in the motel room. Strangely enough, Dean doesn't seem to have the same appetite for porn he did before he developed Spontaneous Oral Manifestation of Ejaculate.
He's still watching Robot Monster from Outer Space or whatever the hell it is when Sam gets back later that night. The room smells thick and hot, smells like sex. There's a pile of damp tissues on the floor and Dean's missed a dribble on his chin, the smear of come glistening on his skin.
In the bathroom, Sam carefully deposits the bone fragments in an envelope, then sets about showering the sweat and grave-dirt off his body.
:::
"Bet it's witches," Dean says. "Fucking witches. Always fucking cursing me."
"And yet you keep hitting on them in the sleaziest ways imaginable," says Sam, keeping his gaze fixed on the laptop screen. "I'm thinking you must'a taken one too many knocks to the head and are probably brain-damaged. It's the only reasonable explanation I can come up with why you keep antagonising them."
"I'll brain-damage you in a moment," Dean mutters.
There's a comfortable silence, broken only by Dean coughing up several long, thick strings of semen, which dangle lewdly from his slick lips until he can open the napkin up wide enough. An email pops up on the screen of the laptop. Sam clicks it open, reads it, then wonders how to break the news to Dean.
This cannot end well.
"It's not witches," he says. He clicks a few links and then points at the screen. "It's this guy."
Dallas Michaels had starring roles in such movies as Missiles of Meat, C is for Cocksucker and Bucking and Fucking: Tales of the Cowboy 3. There are a couple of photos of him on the fansite Sam's brought up on the screen: one of him lounged out on a bed, legs sprawled wide and his hand wrapped around his cock, another one that's a close-up on his face. He's a good-looking guy, slim and blond, wide blue eyes and high cheekbones.
"Am I s'posed to know who the hell that is?" says Dean, leaning over his shoulder.
"Uh, no," says Sam. "He's dead. Died three years ago. He's buried in the town, kind of the local celebrity."
"He die bloody?"
"No, actually. Just… complications during surgery."
They're not touching exactly, but Sam's perfectly aware of Dean's proximity and their bodies are close enough that he can feel the sudden stillness that tightens in Dean. He tries not to make this any worse than it already is, so he waits until he thinks Dean might be ready to hear the rest. Then he realises that he might be waiting some time and just goes for it.
"I exhumed his remains and took a sample of the bone. Sent it off with the… uh… the sample, I took from you. I got Detective Ballard to have them analysed and… they matched."
Another pause, and then Dean speaks in the kind of voice that is so very calm and reasonable that Sam knows to expect him to have some kind of nervous breakdown in the next few minutes.
"I have a dead gay pornstar's come in my mouth, is that what you're saying? Is it? Just, I need you to tell me, is it… Sam, just tell me. Is that what you're saying to me?"
"It's an apport. You remember the haunted house in Milton, the dead woman who kept making cookies appear out of nowhere for her kids? Same principle."
Dean hisses in a breath and shakes his head, sharp and angry. "No. It's not. The dead mom was trying to look after her kids. She knew they liked cookies. I don't like come. Not dead pornstar's and not in my mouth."
He jerks away from the laptop as if even being close to the pictures of Dallas Michaels is causing him physical pain. Sam watches in mute sympathy, tries not to pay too much attention when Dean has to stop and hack up some more come. There's still a string of it dangling between his lips and the napkin when he turns back around to face Sam, and it's hard for Sam to keep his eyes locked on Dean's.
"We are going to burn that mouth-hijacking asshole's bones to ashes," Dean says, his voice thick and choked. "You hear me? He's gonna think fucking twice before coming in my mouth again!"
Massaging his temple, Sam tries to come up with a diplomatic way to explain the situation. He's given some extra time to think it over when Dean has to pause to swap over to a new napkin, because the one he has been using is now totally soaked in come.
"I don’t think it's that simple." At the furious glare Dean shoots him, Sam shrugs but doesn't relent. "I don't think he's all that interested in his earthly remains."
Dean wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, and Sam can see a sheen of slipperiness over the fragile little bone in his wrist. It's odd how his eyes just seem to catch on the traces of come on Dean's skin. He's too busy contemplating the weirdness of it, to notice immediately when Dean gets up in his space. The look on Dean's face is pretty brutal, but his plump, come-wet lips kind of detracts from it.
"We are burning that sonofabitch's bones."
Sam nods and decides to go along with it, because it's not like Dean is going to listen to anything Sam has to say until they've tried it this way.
:::
They dig Dallas Michaels back up again. Sam's rhythm is machine-like and steady. He's already dug Dallas up once and he thinks there's even less pointing digging him up this time than there was before. But Dean is digging like a crazy man, dirt going everywhere and a constant muttered monologue of curses streaming from his lips - along with the occasional gush of semen.
Digging gives Sam's thoughts too much opportunity to wander and he has no choice but to consider the effects of Dean's Spontaneous Oral Manifestation of Ejaculate on himself. Because it's really getting to be impossible to ignore the fact that he's started getting hard whenever Dean suffers a nasty attack and ends up looking like the target of some hardcore bukkake.
Sam really doesn't want to get turned on by his brother, for all the obvious reasons about morality and fucked-upness and social taboo. But also, because it's Dean. And yeah, Dean's an attractive guy, but he farts like he's on a mission to wreck the ozone layer, thinks the difference between fucking and making love is whether he leaves the TV on during or not, and honestly believes Spinoza is a type of pasta.
If Sam was ever gonna go gay, he always thought he'd find someone to crush on who wasn't… Well, who wasn't quite so Dean.
It's just seeing Dean all mussed-up and sticky with come, flushed and obscene, and
"Goddamn goatfucking bastard!" Dean snarls. "Let's see you come in my mouth when you're on fucking fire!"
Sam sighs and concentrates on digging.
:::
As expected, burning the bones does absolutely nothing. They're halfway back to the motel when Dean pulls over, falls out onto the side of the road, and slurps and groans wetly through the flood of come leaking from his mouth.
Sam waits for him in the car. Maybe it seems a little cold of Sam to just sit and watch, but he doesn't think it's a good idea to get any closer when Dean is on all fours, making those kind of noises, and stinking of sex.
:::
Also as expected, Dean is more willing to hear what Sam has to say after the failed salt 'n' burn. Sam knows getting Dean to listen is half the battle. Well, technically, it's a third. After making him listen, is making him comprehend, because whereas Dean doesn't really do disobedience, he does have a habit of wilfully misunderstanding when he doesn't like what he's being told. Lastly is compliance, which Sam isn't even going to think about right now.
Sam has rehearsed a few explanation speeches in his head in order to find the least traumatising way to deal with this. He's not exactly sure why he's bothering because, if this were happening to anyone else, Sam would be absolutely fascinated and Dean would be making one shitty, bad-taste joke after another at his or her expense.
He gets Dean sat down on the end of his bed, makes sure he's properly supplied with tissues, and then puts some space between them, because he thinks there's a good chance Dean may turn violent when he hears what Sam's thinking.
"Y'know how, sometimes, spirits can be resting in peace until something disturbs them," says Sam. "Like… demolition of the family home or something."
Dean stares at him blankly, and Sam sighs and kind of wishes Dean would at least try to work with him here. The thought must show on his face because Dean's expression becomes severely irritated.
"Sam, in case you didn't notice, I was too busy hunting down a wengido to demolish a goddamn thing in this stinking asshole of a town. This town started picking on me, not the other way round."
It's easier to keep calm and rational, despite the subject matter of the conversation, when Dean gets wound up and defensive.
"It's not the town," Sam says patiently. "I told you, it's Dallas Michaels. And nobody's accusing you of demolishing anything. I'm trying to explain that… Dallas Michaels was resting peacefully until you came along."
"Until I came along?" Dean echoes sharply. "He keeps coming in my mouth, and considering I don't swing that way and he's fucking dead, I think it's pretty clear who's being the fucking unreasonable one here!"
Somewhere through Dean's little rant, Sam's attention slipped to the string of come dribbling from the corner of Dean's mouth, shiny and suggestive. In the sudden heaving silence, Dean's tongue swipes over it, and Sam's lips part, like he's going to say something, but nothing but another sigh comes out.
Snapping back to himself, Sam clears his throat and fixes his gaze back on Dean's eyes.
"Look, there's something you should know about the way Dallas Michaels died, okay?"
"You said it wasn't a violent death," Dean says accusingly. "Died in surgery, you said."
"Yeah, but it was cosmetic surgery." The look on Dean's face is so suspicious, and the situation so ridiculous, that it's nothing but a finely honed survival instinct that keeps Sam from busting out in maniacal laughter. "He was… well, he was having collagen injections. In his lips."
Sam concentrates on the ugly motel curtains (orange and pink paisley) instead of looking at Dean, because there's no way he'll be able to get the words out otherwise.
"But there were complications, some kind of freak accident, and he died. He died in the pursuit of cocksucker lips, Dean. And you have to admit that your lips are… well, they're very… Very."
When there's nothing but silence, Sam's gaze tentatively creeps back to Dean. Dean is sitting very still and very silent.
"I want to burn his bones again," says Dean.
"It won't do any good."
"I want to burn his bones again," says Dean.
Sam sighs, because this is a very sigh-worthy situation, and scrapes his fingers through his hair. Dean's expression is blank, his eyes staring at nothing in particular. He wonders if Dallas Michaels appreciates the irony of having chosen someone as apparently heterosexual as Dean as the focus of his attention.
"Look," says Sam, "Dallas Michaels has unfinished business with your mouth-"
"What kind of unfinished business?" Dean interrupts, and Sam is at least mildly grateful that Dean is willing to discuss it, even if he's not especially enthusiastic about this part of the conversation himself.
Sam contemplates his fingers and the bedspread and the tiny little tear in the bedsheet, rather than look at Dean.
"I think… I think he thinks you should use your mouth for... I mean, he was kinda famous in the industry for these really long, extensive blowjob scenes," says Sam, waving a hand in the vague direction of the laptop, which has been displaying the fansite, complete with the pictures of Dallas, cock in hand, for the last three hours. "And… uh… I think he thinks your mouth has potential."
For a moment, Sam thinks about showing Dean the clip of Dallas Michaels in Boy-Toy's First Blowjob, which he'd downloaded from the net, in order to properly demonstrate Dallas's specialty. Then he decides Dean might not find it helpful. Or he maybe might find it a little upsetting.
He waits in sensitive silence until Dean feels strong enough to speak again.
"I want to burn his bones again," says Dean.
:::
It's incredible really that Sam has managed to get Dean this far. It's probably due to Dean being incapacitated by the sheer amount of come flooding his mouth, which effectively prevented him from arguing as Sam steered him out to the Impala. While it could just be coincidence, Sam takes it as a sign of Dallas's approval.
Since recovering, Dean has at least not tried to escape from the bar. It's about as much cooperation as Sam expects from him. He sits, sullen at Sam's side, and leaves Sam to inspect the meagre pickings in the bar.
It's a Wednesday night and it's a small town. If Sam has to pick a guy, or, more accurately, a cock, for Dean to suck off, he's not exactly got the greatest selection.
"How about him?" says Sam, nodding towards the only guy in the room who looks to be within ten years of Dean. He's a scrawny skinhead and, just at the moment Dean turns to look in his direction, he sticks his finger in his ear and hooks out some wax, which he wipes off on his jeans. Sam immediately drops him from consideration.
"I bet Dad never had to put up with this kind of crazy shit," Dean mutters.
Sam frowns, tries to remove all trace of any mental images involving John Winchester and cocksucking from his brain, and appraises the next guy for blowjob potential. There's a guy who has a passing resemblance to John Malkovich, (if Malkovich were a middle-aged trucker with a lot of facial hair), who Sam supposes isn’t entirely unattractive. But the idea of Dean getting down on his knees for him doesn't sit right with Sam, so he moves on to the next guy for consideration.
"Look, this place ain't exactly a shining light of tolerance. I go up to any of these guys and offer to blow them, and I'm gonna get my ass handed to me," says Dean.
"I'm sure you can persuade them somehow," says Sam, not paying as much attention to the conversation as maybe he should. There's a long silence and Sam wonders if Dean is choking on come again - in which case, it's really not a good idea for Sam to look.
Then he hears the scrape of Dean's barstool, and he realises Dean is leaving. He supposes he's lucky he's had Dean's cooperation as long as he has. Making a note of the bartender guy who's just come in from out back who is kind of cute in a 'stuck in the eighties' kind of way, Sam follows Dean out and prepares to lecture him until he gives in and just sucks some guy's dick to shut Sam up.
:::
As in all times of emotional crisis, Dean has retreated to the Impala. He's gripping the steering wheel and his lips are pressed into a line. Sam climbs in beside him and sits there quietly, watching the reflection of the moon shudder in the shallow puddle in the parking lot as a truck drives by on the road.
"Performing oral sex on a guy in order to shake off a spirit doesn't say anything about your sexuality, Dean," says Sam. "It's not gonna make you gay, if that's what you're worrying about. And I know this has to be really awkward for you, but the sooner you get it done, the sooner it's over. And we can just forget all about it."
Dean draws a breath to speak but cuts off around a sudden mouthful of semen. Sam listens to the wet, sticky sounds of his mouth moving - his throat working not to swallow, and his tongue slipping over his lips.
"C'mon, you can pick someone up, and… this'll all be over in less than fifteen minutes, 'kay?" Sam says, all cajoling and reassuring. And he's eager to have this fucking thing fixed because it's messing with his head and he doesn't like it.
"No," says Dean, at last.
"Dean-"
"No! No, I can't! Not… not like this." Dean's eyes are wide and panicked, his mouth - his stupidly pretty mouth that is the reason they're in this fucked-up situation - twitches and flutters. "I don't care about Dallas fucking Michaels and his crazy-ass fixation on my mouth! I'm not sucking any of those guys in there off! I fucking won't!"
There's a breathlessness to his voice that makes Sam think he's winding himself up for a full-on panic attack. And Sam knows that this is seriously getting to Dean, but he can't understand why Dean can't just man up and freaking do it already. Because he's pretty sure that Dean could get a guy off with his mouth in three seconds flat if he really put his mind to it and then this would all be over and Sam wouldn’t be cruising bars, looking for guys for his brother to blow, while nursing an inappropriate, unwanted crush on him.
"Dean," he says, ready to be the voice of logic.
"No," says Dean again. He sounds a little more resolved this time, calmer, and Sam knows he's gonna have a fight on his hands. "No, if I gotta put some guy's dick in my mouth, then it's gonna have to be yours."
Sam stares at him, jaw unhitched. Even through the shadows, he can see the bright red glow of Dean's cheeks. But Dean's stubbornly looking right back at him.
"That's not- uh," says Sam. "I don't think…"
"I don't like cock but if I've got to… ? Only one guy's cock I think I could stand putting in my mouth," says Dean. "And that's yours." And Sam's thought-processes shiver to a halt because, weirdly, he thinks it's the most significant declaration of affection he's ever had from Dean.
"Oh God," Sam mumbles, and gives in.
:::
They go back to the motel and it's all awkward silence between them. Sam busies himself by clearing out the browser cache on his laptop, because even having Dallas Michaels and his cock in the laptop memory is uncomfortable, and Dean arranges his guns in alphabetical order, and then in order of preference, before finally packing them away.
Eventually, they have nothing left to distract them from the fact that Dean has to give Sam a blowjob.
Sam pulls the chair out from by the desk and sits down on it. Dean stands in front of him. They watch each other for a dubious moment.
Then, moving decisively, Dean picks up one of his discarded shirts from off the bed, and puts it over Sam's head.
"Easier if I don't have to look at you, dude," says Dean.
Sam would agree except he's too busy staring at red flannel and breathing in the warm, heavy scent of his brother's body, which clings to the material. He hears Dean move and his heartbeat picks up, just a little, a harder throb in his chest.
He sits there and waits, and then jerks when he feels Dean tugging at his fly. Dean's not exactly gentle and Sam has a second of panicking about letting Dean near such a sensitive part of his anatomy. Then Dean's hand is gone, Sam's sitting there, his fly open, and Dean's shirt over his face.
Nothing happens.
"Dean, I swear to God, if you're taking pictures of me like this, I will kill you."
A pause, and then Dean says, "No, man… was just…" He lets out a breath, like laughter, then says, "Yeah, right. Cocksucking."
There's a hot, sudden twist low down in Sam's belly. His voice dries up. His face feels flushed and he tries to tell himself it's just wearing Dean's shirt over his head that's doing it, because there's no proper ventilation in this stuffy little room. He can only make out the blurred shape of Dean through the thick flannel of his shirt, but he knows he's close.
The next time he's sure of where Dean is, it's because Dean's hand is on his thigh, and the other is reaching into the spread v of Sam's lowered fly. He can't help a stupid, sudden squeak as Dean's fingers wriggle into the slit in his shorts and curl about his cock.
Dean just holds Sam, and Sam stiffens into his touch, the calloused pads of Dean's fingers achingly perfect against his over-heated, over-sensitive skin.
He's pretty sure he hears Dean breathe out, soft and shuddering.
"Jeez, Sammy, you're fucking huge." His voice is warm and low, unsettlingly intimate while being so unmistakeably Sam's big brother. There's a flexing of his fingers and, helpless, Sam's slides forward in his seat, pushing into Dean's grip as he gets harder still. "Gonna dislocate my jaw letting you fuck my mouth. Think I should practice on something smaller first? Like maybe a fucking horse?"
Sam swallows, something sticking in his throat. He just keeps getting harder and Dean's not even - oh God - Dean's not even put him in his mouth yet. His slutty, pretty mouth that he only wants Sam's cock in.
Sam squeezes his eyes shut, even the friction of the flannel of Dean's shirt on his cheeks registering as too much.
"What do I-?" Dean's voice catches, and he stops, starts again, more gruff this time. "Don't expect this to be any good, yeah? Just gonna stick it in and suck."
"Okay," says Sam, his voice strangled and too high. "Yeah. Fine. I'll just… uh…"
There's an abrupt rush of cool air over Sam's dick when Dean pulls him out and takes his hand away. He can't help a small, abortive twitch of his hips, but then Dean's hands are on his knees, spreading his thighs wider, and settling between them.
He's on his knees, between Sam's legs, and Sam claps a hand to the shirt over his face, clamping it in place, because he cannot see Dean do this.
Sam's still taking in the sensation of Dean's breath shivering over his skin, when Dean's lips bump against his cock, light and uncertain. The hand holding the shirt in place curls into a fist. It takes a whole lot of willpower for Sam to keep perfectly still.
The second time Dean's mouth touches Sam's dick, Dean's lips close around him. Then Dean's suckling on the head of his cock, like he's tasting Sam, getting used to him, tongue flickering over him. And it's fucking incredible.
A surprised groan escapes Sam's lips, thankfully muffled in the shirt, but it's still enough to push Dean further. There's an uncomfortable scrape of teeth before Dean figures out what he's doing, then he's taking Sam deeper into his mouth, into all that hot, slippery tightness. His tongue slides under the length of him, like he's not sure what to do with it, but just that, exactly what he's doing, is right.
He just keeps taking more and more of Sam's cock, deep and dirty, his lips all soft and plush and fucking whorish around him. And then Sam's dick is hitting the back of his throat, and before Sam can stop him, Dean's trying to swallow him down, too fucking hung up on being awesome - even at sucking cock - to realise he can't deep-throat a cock like Sam's - which is fat and thick and so goddamn hard.
He gags, and even as Sam's gripping a handful of Dean's hair to drag him off his dick, he can feel the delicious quivers of Dean's throat clenching him, can hear the hitching, desperate noises Dean's making that just make him want to fuck. Facefuck Dean hard.
Dean's mouth comes off his cock with a squelching sound, and then there's just the sudden heave of Dean breathing, and the heavy pulse of hot want still going through Sam's whole body.
"Don't," Sam mumbles. "Don't, you'll fucking hurt yourself. Idiot."
"Don't fucking tell me how to suck cock," Dean says, his voice hoarse and fucked out. "I'm the one with the cocksucker lips, dude."
Sam laughs, breaks off into a groan as Dean drags him back into his mouth, all slick heat and tongue and lips. He sucks Sam with a stubborn insistence, like he's trying to show Sam just how good he can be at this. And yeah, his teeth catch Sam more than once, but his hands are tight on Sam's knees, holding his legs spread, and the sound of him fucking his mouth on Sam's dick is filthier than Sam's ever imagined a sound could be.
Hand moving like a blind man's, Sam finds his way to the back of Dean's neck and grips it tight. He doesn't dare try for a handful of Dean's hair, because he knows he'll end up doing something completely fucked-up like trying to ride Dean's face and this whole experience is going to require years of therapy as it is.
Dean's shirt is bundled against Sam's mouth, and Sam's sucking in breath through it. He rolls his head back, hips arching upwards to meet Dean. Dean's head just keeps bobbing away between his legs now he's found a rhythm that works for him, angle of each downward stroke changing as he works his mouth sloppily over Sam's cock.
And Sam hates to admit it but Dallas Michaels was so so right. Sam knows he's gabbling words at Dean, hates to think he might be telling Dean just how right Dallas is and how fucking beautiful Dean's mouth is but he can't shut the hell up.
When he comes, his whole body shaking, he tries to wrench Dean away, but Dean's a stubborn bastard, and Sam opens his eyes, drops Dean's shirt, and sees his cock spurting come all over Dean's face, painting his brow and cheekbones and his fucked mouth. And he's staring at Sam like he's seeing the face of the true god, a dark patch growing at the front of his jeans.
There's Sam's come on Dean's lips, which has to be an improvement on a dead gay pornstar's.
:::
Before they leave town, Dean insists on visiting Dallas Michaels' grave. Sam wonders if maybe Dean's gonna try burning his bones again - just out of spite, because the last time there was come in Dean's mouth it was Sam's - but they go during daylight hours and Dean usually saves grave desecration for the cover of darkness.
It's a nice, sunny day and they stand by the grave in silence for a long moment.
Then Sam says, "We should'a brought flowers."
Dean looks at him and pulls a face.
"The fuck would we do that for?"
Sam pulls a face right back at him.
"Because it'd be a nice thing to do."
Dean goes quiet, considering this. The sunshine is warm on Sam's back and the only sound in the cemetery is birdsong. It's all unexpectedly pleasant and serene. Then Dean undoes his fly, hooks his cock out, and Sam has to resist the urge to facepalm.
"What the hell are you doing, you freak? Put it away," he hisses.
"Guy doesn't want flowers," Dean grunts, wrist snapping as he fucks his fist. "Gonna give him something he'll appreciate."
Sam goes to wait in the car until Dean has finished jerking off over Dallas Michaels' grave.
~end