Fic: Bringing The Walls Down 3/3
Title: Bringing The Walls Down, 3/3
Fandom: Supernatural/Dr. Horrible
Pairing: Dean/Billy/Sam, Sam/Billy, Dean/Billy, Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 20,900
Warnings: Incest
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: They had names now, the men in the 1967 Chevy Impala were Sam and Dean Winchester, and they were trying to save the world.
Billy turned the light on in the bathroom, and it was just a little past comfortably bright.
He very carefully pushed his goggles off, slid his coat down his arms and his shirt over his head. The movement twisted and pulled something, which protested angrily, and he very carefully lowered his arm again. His whole arm, and his shoulder, hurt like hell, a bone deep ache and there was a redness that suggested his bruises tomorrow were going to be spectacular.
He'd almost forgotten what it was like to see his own skin in shades of purple, green and brown. Like some strange echo reminder of another life. When the world was different, when he was different.
He hadn't broken anything though, hadn't fractured anything, or torn a muscle. It would just be a ragged palette of colour on his skin, and he breathed relief, heavy, soft relief, leant on the sink and blinked tiredly at his own reflection.
He started when Sam appeared over his shoulder.
"Easy," Sam said under a soft laugh, that was more apologetic than amused.
For someone so tall Sam was very good at sneaking up on people.
Billy met his eyes in the mirror, then lowered them, to the red smear of pain across his chest and shoulder. And Billy felt immediately, painfully, self-conscious. His arm twitched, unpleasantly, when he stalled it from trying to put his shirt on again.
"That's not gonna be pretty tomorrow." Sam's voice was soft. But he didn't touch, he did nothing but stand there.
When he finally looked up again he was frowning.
"You keep saving us," he said quietly. "We weren't anything to you, and yet you're still doing all of this." His voice was soft, like he didn't, in any way, still suspect some sort of agenda. Like he simply wanted to know why.
"You're the good guys," Billy told him, and it should have come out sounding simplistic and ridiculous. Because he'd always fought against exactly that.
Instead it was just the truth, and that was all it sounded like, and all the emotion that laid underneath it.
"I saw you, I saw you travelling across the country, killing things, saving people when everyone else was falling apart." Billy shrugged, awkwardly. "I thought I could help. I thought I should help."
"So this is your redemption?"
Billy met Sam's eyes in the mirror again.
He wanted to say yes, he wanted to ask if it was enough, but he said nothing, because he couldn't get anything else out.
Sam took another step.
"I didn't mean it like that," he said softly. "I don't mean it badly at all, I just-. We appreciate it, we appreciate you, sometimes I think you don't know that, and Dean doesn't really...." Sam shook his head. "I just thought you needed to know that."
The words jumbled together, into something that made absolutely certain Billy couldn't speak at all. Staring at Sam's face, all softness and honesty, it was almost impossible to not believe.
Sam reacted to his silence in a way he wasn't expecting. He came closer still, close enough that Billy could feel his warmth against his bare back, a startlingly unexpected sensation, that his skin reacted to. And he moved away on reflex, before-
Sam's hands caught his waist, and Billy was so surprised by fingers on bare flesh that he stilled completely. The hands very slowly slid to his hipbones, settled there, as if to keep him in place. Sam's fingers were still shifting, almost imperceptibly, though Billy could feel it, he could feel every minute twitch, could feel the way his skin tingled on every tiny slide.
And suddenly his heart was beating much too fast, and he was sure he was reading the situation completely wrong.
Billy was briefly, horribly lost without sharp red line of his coat. Because he couldn't do this on his own, he'd never been able to do this, and though Dr. Horrible almost certainly didn't know how to do it either, Billy thought he'd make it not matter so much.
Sam's hands moved, ever so slowly, on the bare edge of him, as if to find a better place to grip. The thought was brief, but sharp, and warmth pooled low in his stomach. Long fingers trailed over the smooth edge of his hipbone...almost uncomfortable in their intensity, fingers on skin, on his skin. And though Billy thought that maybe he should have some frame of reference for that, he couldn't find it.
"Breathe," Sam said quietly, so close to his ear. He took a startled breath on reflex, almost choked on it.
He could feel the heat of Sam's chest through the thin cotton of his shirt, where it pressed in, and then pulled away, on every breath.
"It's ok," Sam said simply. "If you want me to stop just tell me."
Billy shook his head, one rough, jerky movement that he didn't intend, but he meant, god he meant it, no matter how much it terrified him.
Because he wanted this tall smiling man to keep touching him, and he thought he'd do anything, anything at all. He pushed that neediness down so hard, didn't want it felt, didn't want it seen, but it was hard, it was so hard.
Sam took his mute, uncoordinated clumsiness for assent, and Billy thanked him for it, because he couldn't speak, could only look in the mirror, at the strange narrow awkwardness that was him, outlined everywhere by Sam Winchester, coloured in streaks of lean and tan, where he was just unfilled lines.
He looked away, eyes down to where Sam's hand had gone still on his waist.
Everything was still, and Billy thought that in a second he would feel horribly, uselessly awkward. He'd find his shirt, and would leave the bathroom, cursing all the things he didn't say, didn't do. All the ways in which he was wrong. And the helpless frustration of it nearly killed him.
He was so busy staring at Sam's hand on his waist, that he missed the other lifting, and catching his face, pulling his jaw round and up, turning him. There was a squeak of skin on damp porcelain, before he was pressed back into it.
Sam was kissing him then, one hand on his jaw, sliding up to hold his face, tipping his head up. The hand kept moving, until it was dug in his hair, and then Sam pushed the kiss open. He made it something heavy and fierce; controlled it with quick, almost angry, pushes of his tongue, that drew stunned, helpless noises out of Billy. But he was sure he didn't care.
His height was strangely overwhelming, and he was holding just a little too tight, which made it better in a way Billy couldn't quite name. All weight against his own skin, and he couldn't think at all, because he'd never prepared himself for anything like this. Never thought that Sam would touch him like this, in the chill of the bathroom, never like this, half-naked and close, and too sensitive under his hands.
He was pulled almost helplessly into hardness, pressed there and held under Sam's weight. Until every push and shift of skin felt like it was done purely to torment him. He thought, hazily, dizzily, that he might come just from being here, from being kissed like Sam had just been waiting for the chance. He groaned, when thinking it shoved him harder towards exactly that, and he was sure it would be humiliating. But he wanted it, wanted it so badly.
He caught Sam's arm, held it, breathed, hoping for more air, but getting nothing.
Sam's fingers stretched against his skin, and he found air then, a great stunned gasp that shivered out of him just as quickly.
"I can't, please-" the rest caught in his throat, three words, barely there at all.
Sam exhaled, roughly, surprised, his hands slid off of Billy's skin.
"It's ok," he said, voice shaky, he stepped back, stepped away. "It's ok, I'm sorry."
And then he was gone, and the space behind the mirror was empty.
Billy turned awkwardly, dizzily, wrapped his hands round the cold of the sink, and his knuckles went white there.
Because he thought he'd just given Sam completely the wrong impression, pressed him back out of the bathroom with his own uncertainty, his own muddled fear.
It left a pit in his stomach that felt full of lead.
~~~
Billy thought the Winchesters were probably used to him taking up all the space on the table by now, or, if it was full of guns, one of the beds, or half the floor. Bits and pieces of plastic, metal and circuitry.
At the moment it was all laid out on the bright red of his coat on the bed. Which wasn't so dramatically imposing now, because twice he'd laid the soldering gun down on it, and made tiny burnt holes in the fabric.
He was using science as a defence mechanism, to quiet his brain from its hyperventilating, pretending quietly, impossibly, that nothing strange had happened. That the twinge in his shoulder every time he reached for a piece of wire didn't make him think of bright light, and Sam's mouth.
Dean was on the other side of the room, fingers flipping through the many-thumbed pages of his fathers journal. Looking for answers, or just re-treading old paths. Billy didn't ask.
He didn't think it was his place to ask.
Dean looked over at him every once in a while, expression curious. But, contrary to what the both of them thought, he wasn't always building astonishing things. Sometimes he was just checking the circuits, replacing the batteries, or cleaning dust out of the cases.
Sam was out, making sure they didn't starve again. Billy honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten without Sam, or Dean, Winchester pushing something under his nose.
Dean eventually shut the diary, and wandered over to sit on the end of the bed.
He picked up one of the canisters laying by Billy's knee, shook it slightly.
"What's this?"
"Liquid nitrogen."
Dean pulled a face, and very carefully set it down again.
"It won't explode," Billy promised, which was true. Sometimes he wasn't quite sure exactly how smart Dean was, not stupid by any means, Billy thought he just didn't collect information easily. Not if he wasn't interested, or he didn't need it.
"Got anything here that does explode?" Dean sounded half-way between chastising and curious.
Billy thought about it.
"A little bit."
Which startled Dean into laughter. One brief moment of amusement, that Billy couldn't help but feel proud to put there.
"A little bit, huh?"
"It depends on how hard you shake it, or if you heat it up."
"Then I think I'm going to be careful what I poke," Dean told him, and it was Billy's turn to laugh.
He wasn't expecting it when Dean reached over, lifted his hand out from the scatter of circuit boards.
"Who broke your wrist?" he asked, in a voice that was calm and conversational, but so much more underneath. His hand wasn't tight around Billy's fingers, certainly not tight enough to hurt. But it was strangely intimate, having his hand held.
His mouth went dry for a long second. He wanted to ask how Dean knew his wrist was ever broken. But the Winchesters had probably broken more bones than him, especially between them. Faced more dangerous things than Captain Hammer, who was really just a bully with super strength.
Dean was still looking at him, and he remembered that he hadn't said anything yet.
"No one," he said awkwardly, and immediately realised that that sounded stupid. "I mean, Captain Hammer."
Dean didn't ask what he was doing at the time, didn't ask if he deserved it.
Billy was grateful for that.
He let his hand go, and Billy was briefly lost for where to put it.
"When you're over here, making things, I have to admit, it's pretty cool, the way you just randomly come out with things from...a pile of stuff."
"Sometimes it really is just a pile of junk that I couldn't do anything with," Billy admitted. Which was true. They had cannibalised more than a few electronics on the road, to feed Billy's need for parts.
"But mostly it's not," Dean tipped his head towards Billy's lap. "I'm always wondering what we'll get next."
"I'll make you whatever you want," Billy said simply. Because he'd never thought people this strong could help but be cruel, but he'd been wrong.
Dean didn't reply, he just looked at him, face almost impossible to read.
The silence dragged on, though Billy didn't think it was uncomfortable.
"Sam said he kissed you," Dean said eventually, it was more of a quiet question than a statement.
Billy swallowed, rubbed at the long length of wire he was holding. Because Dean had given no indication of what he thought about that. He forced himself not to ask if he thought that was wrong.
It hurt to think about it, when he was the one that had pushed Sam away, though he'd never meant to, would never have, and he thought it was something he'd regret for a long time. Replaying that scene over and over, he sometimes lost track of when it became something confusing, and just remembered what it had felt like.
Other times it was pushed down, shut off, with everything else he'd had to regret.
"I wanted to know why things were weird between you too," Dean continued when Billy didn't speak. "He told me he kissed you, spent the whole time wearing his guilty face. He thinks he upset you."
"He didn't," Billy said stiffly, awkwardly.
"He thinks he got the wrong impression, that you didn't want to?"
There was a strange intensity to the words.
"I wasn't expecting, I don't..." Billy floundered for something, anything, because he couldn't explain what had actually happened.
"Did you?" Dean's face could be strangely intense, and Billy found, terribly hard to look away from.
"What?"
"Want to."
Words stuck fast in Billy's throat, and there was no way in hell any of them were coming out, not while Dean was looking at him like that. Close, and careful and attentive. There were a million other things he could say, but none of them would answer the question.
He looked at Dean, as if he might have the answer, as if, perhaps, he could help.
He didn't know what he saw in his face. But Dean very slowly lifted a hand, pushed his goggles through his hair and off, dropping them with the rest of his equipment, and when Billy blinked a question at him he leant forward, found his mouth with his own.
It was warm careful pressure that Billy didn't, couldn't have expected.
When Billy didn't move away Dean's hand pushed into his hair, tilted him into it. A strange echo of the same movement he'd felt before, different hands, a different mouth. This time he kissed back, the pieces in front of him clattered and clinked, when he shifted his legs, tried for all the world to get closer.
Dean made a noise against his mouth, long, wet vibrations of sound, which went straight through him. He was already pulling at the coat, dragging it free from where it was laid out between Billy's thighs, and sending pieces of metal and wire to the floor. Before Billy really registered that there was intent behind the kiss. Behind the determined way Dean touched him, leaving his skin tingling under his hands, with nowhere to put his own save for the smooth curves of Dean's shoulders. Dean seemed to take that as encouragement, though there was almost no conscious thought in the gesture, no conscious thought but maybe quiet desperation. Billy was just holding on, shivering in a way that had nothing to do with cold.
Then Dean was moving, pressing Billy down into the bed, while his thigh slid over his own, Hands moving from his jaw to his waist, until Billy's head hit the pillow, and Dean was a living, breathing weight on top of him, solid, and needy in a way his brother hadn't been, and Billy was thrown, completely, to feel that edge of the familiar in Dean's hands.
To feel Dean's hands, in a way he'd never, ever expected. Breathing too hard and moving wherever Dean pushed him, opening under the roughness of his mouth.
Billy wondered how much this was about him, and how much it was about Sam. He felt awful for thinking it, felt worse when, instead of making him feel uncomfortable, it made his breath catch in his throat.
Dean pushed hands into his hair again, drew his head back, and he was kissing him again, wet, greedy open-mouthed kisses that seemed designed to drag his attention back. Like Dean knew he was lost. Like he knew he was thinking about Sam, and he needed to push himself into that space instead.
Once Dean had him his hands slid free, fell away, and then pushed into the waistband of his pants and shorts, sliding them over his hips and down. They tangled, before Dean's foot pushed them all the way off. Making it perfectly clear that Dean wanted more than kisses. Billy didn't have the breath to protest, if he'd even wanted to. The noises he was making were anything but, hoarse little groans of encouragement that had Dean slipping between his thighs, pressing down into him, solid hardness against the curve of his hip.
One hand rose, and Dean dragged his mouth open with his thumb, and kissed him again. Rough, wet, and with little attempt at grace or finesse. Billy thought he could quite happily be kissed like that forever.
He didn't resist when Dean pulled his hands down, coaxed him into touching, into sliding his hands under the waist of his jeans, fingertips moving over bare flesh. Dean dropped his hand long enough to tug open the button, and the zipper, then pushed Billy's hands back inside. It was easy, far too easy, to push at the denim, heartbeat loud enough to drown out the sound of Dean breathing. Billy pushed it low with his palms, until he had the warmth of Dean's hips under his hands. Until the smooth hard length of Dean's cock was bare against his skin, pushed into his own, in one rough roll of hips.
It was hard to catch a breath, when he was all but breathing in Dean, every exhale sounded broken, and every inhale sounded like desperation. His hands found Dean's waist, almost without his permission, pulled him in, pulled him down in one urgent dig of fingers. He was half startled that he'd dared, but once he was touching he couldn't stop. He was aware that things like this didn't happen, didn't happen twice, and determined this time to take everything, everything Dean gave him. Without questioning.
He couldn't look away, couldn't meet Dean's eyes, the low pool of heat in his groin was a fierce ache, that had him shivering and breathless.
"Please." Billy's voice didn't even sound like his own, he bit down on everything else, half afraid he'd chase Dean away as well. Half afraid his mouth would make a mess of this, whatever it was. And that would kill him, because he thought he'd never wanted anything this much before.
Dean felt almost angry under his hands, and though he never once held too tight, or pushed too hard there was a desperation, that felt like fury and adrenaline under the skin.
Dean's hips pressed in harder, a long drag of cock against his own, an unsteady push that had him gasping. Heavy, and real, and Billy wanted it, wanted all of it. He couldn't help but wonder what Dean would feel like under his hands, sliding between his fingers- or in his mouth, the weight of him slip-sliding across his tongue, then pushed in deep, if Dean's fingers would tangle in his hair, if he'd hold him there.
The images were too much, they broke what little control he'd been hanging on to, and he was coming. Pulling Dean down into him, and gasping, under waves of heat that made his skin too hot, and too small, and it was almost too much. Dean paused, for just a handful of heartbeats, fingers tight on his skin.
Billy was left gasping into his mouth, too wrung out to turn his head, still shivering under every push. When Dean moved again he was sliding through the slickness of his come, mouth wet and open, eyes dark, but stunned, like they didn't see anything at all. Then Dean pushed in hard enough to hurt, hard enough to ache, a bright shiver of blunt pain that somehow made everything better, exhale long and hot. Billy felt him come against his skin, his own breath shaking out over Dean's throat.
Then there was nothing between them but slippery wet skin, and the push, thump of Dean's breathing and heartbeat.
His forehead pressed in hard against the curve of Billy's own. Mouth so close, so very close, and Billy thought, if he was braver, he'd fist a hand in his hair and kiss him, kiss him until his mouth was numb.
Instead he breathed into the silence, until Dean moved away, took his skin, and his warmth, and slid to the edge of the bed, head bent forward in the darkness.
Billy was drawn up too, sitting awkwardly in the warm sheets, skin prickling almost lazily in a way it hadn't done for a very, very long time.
The silence dragged on, growing strangely heavier.
"I'm sorry," Billy started, and Dean went very still on the bed, the sort of stillness that hurt. Billy knew because he'd seen it from both sides. "If I made you angry, I'm sorry."
Dean made a noise, something deep in his throat that felt like disgust, and ran his hand over his face.
He looked hurt for a moment, before it was covered, fiercely, almost protectively, with something else.
Billy went cold, wondered if he'd broken something again, promised himself he would never speak again, not ever.
But Dean surprised him by leaning over, catching his jaw in one hand, and kissing him. One messy, rough press of mouth, before he disappeared into the bathroom.
Billy thought he could breathe again.
~~~
Billy would have taken the time to worry about what had happened between him and Dean, but the world didn't give him a chance. Werewolves were terrorising Pennsylvania, and these ones didn't turn back into people, ever. Some new strain, some ruthless brutal demonic poison, turning the woods into a suicide run for hundreds of towns.
They ran the roads, rescuing stragglers where they could.
All Billy got for a week were snatches, in the quiet moments before he fell into an exhausted sleep, in a too soft motel bed, or swaying uncomfortably through nightmares in the back of the Impala. Nightmares that were no longer about Penny, though sometimes she was there too, all pale skin and bright hair in the darkness. And she always looked sad.
They felt like the only moments Billy had to himself.
Though more often than not he fell asleep to quiet conversation.
To the sound of Winchesters still hunting.
At the moment he was making the best use he could of a college science lab, in a small town that he'd forgotten the name of.
Silver bullets were inefficient, there needed to be a faster way, a better way. Billy had been running through calculations all the way, but they were too widely spread, and there was no way to eradicate them all, without harming the public, or burning whole areas to ash.
The level of silver that needed to enter the bloodstream to kill them was too difficult to manage over a large area. So, at the moment, Sam and Dean were doing their best in a series of endless, brutal hunts.
But the probabilities for their survival went down every day, curve dropping more sharply the less sleep they had.
Volunteers that went with them came back too often as simply bloodstains.
Science was refusing to help him. Werewolves were, frustratingly, more of a biological problem, and Billy's knowledge of biology wasn't up to the task.
He felt honestly useless, for maybe the first time.
He dumped his gloves on the bench, and wandered out into the main office.
Dean had fallen asleep sprawled over the desk, gun shining against the wood, and Billy didn't have to look to know there were silver bullets in there. He wasn't sure how many though. Dean had already been out twice tonight.
He touched the cold metal, felt it through his fingers, didn't stray close enough to touch Dean's hand.
He remembered the way those hands felt on his skin, remembered being so overwhelmed that he'd never really gotten the chance to touch back, like he'd wanted to. He'd never come close to asking why, to asking what it had meant. Though he wasn't sure he ever would have had the courage. He was fairly certain Dean wouldn't have answered.
And if Billy had had trouble meeting his eyes for days now it didn't matter. It didn't matter because there'd been a constant stream of survivors, or maybe refugees was a better word? Faces changing every day, and there was no way Billy could remember them all.
Dean took a breath, there was no fuzzy edge between sleeping and awake, he was just there
Dean looked at him, then rubbed a hand over his face.
"Where's Sam?"
"Still talking to Sheriff Roberts," Billy told him. "They were going to set up the floodlights, make sure nothing gets into town, without them noticing.
"He shouldn't be out there-" Dean put his hands on the bar, pushed himself upright on a groan of discomfort.
"The sun's already up," Billy gestured towards the windows.
Dean settled, though he'd clearly already woken the restlessness in himself. The need to see where Sam was.
Billy thought that Dean would dearly love to put a GPS tracking device in his brother, so he knew where he was-
Billy stared through the window.
Drones, tracking drones.
The whole world slowed, and came to a point.
The sun fell through the glass of the window, and Billy was briefly fascinated by the way it managed to stream through, and turn Dean's hair gold.
"Billy?" Dean said sharply, and Billy shook his head.
"Werewolves, their body temperature runs higher than ours doesn't it?"
"Yeah, why?"
"I think I know how to kill them- I think I know how to kill all of them," Billy told him, and he could hear the tentative hope in his voice.
"What do you need?" Dean's expression had shifted to intense in an instant.
"Silver, lots of it, and maybe half an electronics store?"
Dean stood in the sunlight, reached over far enough to pull Billy's goggles down over his eyes.
"Done!"
Tiny heat seeking drones that would punch into anything living that had a body temperature consistent with an angry werewolf, if the silver didn't kill them than the explosives packed inside the shell would. It had been a long time since he'd done remote control. A lifetime ago.
The plans flowed open on the whiteboard in the lab, dimensions and quantities.
Faceless people flowed in and out with boxes, stacked them against the far wall. Billy set a group of them to melting the silver. They were less efficient than they could have been, but then they weren't scientists, and it was their homes on the line.
He started making the drones as soon as he had all the parts. They sat in gleaming silver rows, dart-like and threatening, on the benches.
When the sun dropped below the horizon he sent them all out.
Then he pushed the whiteboards aside, and started making more.
...
They spent all the next day dragging the bodies in, dozens, some corpses with holes blown in their chest or head, some simply in pieces. They came piled in trucks, in trash bags, wrapped in plastic sheet.
But they kept coming.
And the woods were silent.
~~~
Billy didn't really remember coming back to the motel. He was fairly sure the Sheriff had brought him...probably.
Somehow he'd managed to get his clothes off, because he vaguely remembered standing in the shower, though he didn't really remembering getting out of it. He certainly didn't remember drying himself, or putting on- he looked down- a t-shirt that wasn't his, and pants that he was fairly sure were...because they fit.
It was dark through the windows, but, for the first time in a month, there were no monsters out there.
He was exhausted, but the blood in his veins kept rushing, rushing in a way that wouldn't let him sleep.
He was left just lying on the bed, listening to every tiny noise.
He fell asleep when he wasn't paying attention.
...
A hand in his hair startled him awake.
"It's me," Dean said quietly. Like that didn't make his heart beat even harder.
Billy was left breathing while Dean slowly pushed a hand back and forth in his hair, in a way that was restless, in a way that sent sensation shivering down his spine.
He could feel the slow trail of his breath across his shoulder, but that was all Dean was doing, he wasn't touching him anywhere else, and Billy wasn't sure- didn't know what that meant. Or whether he wanted...whether he wanted what Billy wanted. Waking to find him behind him in the bed had stolen all higher brain functions, and Billy was just left with confusion, and want.
Whatever Dean wanted, he could have it.
He was swallowing in the dark, forced to stillness by Dean's fingers, afraid that the slightest movement would break whatever this was, would make Dean stop; he didn't want that.
He could still hear Sam shifting among their bags in the dark, packing things away.
He didn't know whether he was supposed to notice, or whether he was supposed to stay quiet.
"Sam?" Dean's voice was warm, and over-loud across Billy's skin, it was a question, called out into the dark.
Billy held his breath. The quick tread of feet came close, hesitated.
"Say his name," Dean whispered in his ear, and the words forced him to inhale, dizzy confusion and warmth. "Say it," Dean encouraged.
"Sam," he said obediently, uncertainly. There was a slow exhale, and cloth moving in the dark, dropping to the floor.
The sheets moved, and Billy didn't quite believe it until Sam slid against him, warm skin and length, large hands on his face, pulling his head up and kissing him, like he'd kissed him in the bathroom. Only this time Sam was with them in the dark, and everything was closer; this time Billy wasn't sure anyone was going to say stop.
He could feel Dean's hands on his waist, pressing him into Sam as he slid in behind, fingers tightening, then moving to catch his hips, the loose, low edge of his shorts. Dean hooked his thumbs in, and started pulling. Billy inhaled sharply and let him.
Sam could feel the movement where he was pressed in tight, and he made a noise, low in his throat, before dropping one of his hands to help. He moved out of them, registered the slide of legs between his own, a lazy mixture of both brothers, and Billy couldn't quite believe that both of them were touching him, for all that he could feel the warmth of their hands.
Dean's hand strayed to his hip, then slid in further, as if to test his reaction. Billy couldn't hold the breathless noise he made when Dean's fingers slid over him, he was already hard, then harder still under the press of his palm. Dean's breath flared hotly over the back of Billy's neck, the hand slid back to his waist, held him still while both of them shifted in tighter. And then Sam was breathing into his mouth, pressing him back into Dean's body, with weight and enthusiasm, before crushing him there, hands slipping down to his waist, where Dean still held him.
Their fingers skimmed over each other, never lingering, but always coming back, brushing, awkwardly, aggressively.
Billy realised that maybe heroes needed to pretend too.
He raised a hand, in some moment of desperation that was all his own, touched Sam's hair, felt the way it dragged through his fingers, but Sam moved into him like he'd pulled.
He was hard too, against Billy's thigh, the long length of him hot against his skin. And it was a struggle for breath every time the younger Winchester pushed into him, throat so full of 'Sam' and 'Dean,' but all that escaped was air.
When Dean pressed in behind, push of cock into the curve of his ass he did make a sound, something quiet and overwhelmed, and he thought he said yes, though it could have been dragged away by Sam's mouth. It made fingers dig into his skin, but he could no longer tell exactly whose hands were where.
Until Dean leant away from him, warmth stolen from his skin, and Billy inhaled, he could hear Dean digging through the bag by the bed, in the dark, searching by touch.
Sam's kiss tipped into something more fierce, drawing his attention away from the cold space at his back.
It didn't stay cold for long, before skin was laid against him again. Pressed in, one long line of warmth that ended in Dean's hands, one of them slid down, caught on the skin and pushed his thigh up into Sam's grip.
A pause, just long enough to breathe through, before Dean pressed one wet finger inside him, other hand sliding into his hair, tilting him up, and back, so Sam could kiss him again.
Dean's mouth opened, hot and then sharp, onto the side of his neck and one finger became two. Billy felt pushed all the way open, groaning helplessly into Sam's mouth.
"Please," he said, though the dryness of his throat made it sound hoarse, gravelly.
Sam pulled back far enough to watch him, eyes dark over his half-open mouth. His fingers were sliding, almost mindlessly, up and down the back of Billy's thigh, encouragement and restless arousal
"Dean," Billy's voice sounded broken in the dark.
Dean made a helpless noise, fingers sliding free, he shifted forward on the sheets, pressed up, pressed in.
It was a low burn that felt like it went all he way through him, every breath ached, and Billy dug his fingers into Sam's skin while Dean slid in, and in. One long endless push under a hiss of desperate restraint.
A long taut heartbeat of stillness, and then Dean moved, though Sam was the one that made a soft shaky noise that sounded urgent. Dean's hand caught Billy's wrist, moved his hand, spreading his fingers with his own and reaching down. Sam's cock pushed into his fingers, pushing into their fingers greedily, and Sam made a hot, broken noise head tipping forward so his hair hid his face. Dean guided the slow shift of his hand, fingers still half slippery, and it felt, it felt incredibly indecent, but not wrong. Billy refused to believe it was wrong when Sam was making noises like he ached inside, Dean's breath had gone rough, and lost in his ear, and Billy was left trying to catch a breath between them. Feeling like a raw nerve, balanced so precariously that every push threatened to shove him over the edge.
When Sam caught his hair roughly, and pulled his head forward he lost himself completely. There was nothing at all, but them in the darkness, shoving him towards release. Pulling him into pieces. His hand tightened every time Dean pressed in, but Sam didn't seem to mind. His own hand moved, pressed briefly, hotly, against Billy thigh before it shifted up, folded round his cock; left him briefly shaking, and swallowing, under the low deep stab of too-close arousal his touch brought.
Billy was almost certain that he was lost, losing any sort of coordination against Sam's mouth, and he thought he was going to fall-
But Dean was the one who swore, and pressed him into Sam, so hard.
His hand tightened to a stop on Sam, Dean's fingers twitching where they were still folded round Billy's own, and he was groaning into Billy's hair, a rush of warmth that wasn't even close to a word.
Sam pushed into their hands, lost and ragged, and then wet, and there was no way Billy could feel that without all the breath shaking out of him. Unravelling under the rhythmless pull of Sam's fingers, fingers digging in where they rested, all the way into skin while the brothers twitched and gasped around him, and inside him.
There was a long, hot moment of stillness, before Dean grumbled something that made no sense at all, and very carefully pulled out.
Billy made a noise he never intended to, though it made Sam shift the hand over his head, fingertips fidgeting in his hair, his breathing was loud against the side of Billy's face, but he thought that was more reassuring than it should have been.
Dean cleaned them up in the dark with a handful of tissues, though he didn't say a word.
The stillness went on for longer then, a sleepy edge of looseness behind Billy's eyes. He waited, waited for...something, between one held breath and the next. Though he wasn't sure what.
Neither of them moved, Billy eventually relaxed.
~~~
Billy woke up breathing brown hair, he shifted away just far enough to see the long curve of Sam's neck.
He didn't move for a long moment. Because being this close to another person, eyes closed, just breathing against the skin of his cheek, was as close as Billy had ever been to something safe. He pretended it was real for a while, pretended he could have it.
When he couldn't stand it any longer, he rolled his head round.
Dean had slithered out, without him noticing, the long length of bed at his back had only the echo of warmth.
He relaxed again, half of him wanted, desperately wanted to stay pressed into Sam Winchester's hair. Didn't care if the world made sense or not.
But the room was light now, and Billy thought, if he listened, he could hear the low sound of water running in the bathroom.
He slipped out of bed, legs strangely uncooperative, and uncomfortable in strange places. He dressed in the quiet, feeling over-stretched and strange. Dizzy edge of quiet disbelief still shaking everything.
By the time the bathroom door opened Billy had found something appropriately distracting to do at the table.
Dean huffed laughter when he saw him. Hand passing over his hair in a brief, but pointed gesture, and something inside Billy relaxed without him even knowing it had tightened.
Sam eventually got up, reluctantly, with much complaining, and went out to hunt for breakfast.
It came in suspicious paper-wrapped packages, but smelled delicious. Neither of them seemed to mind Billy's silence. They both folded over their maps, leant together in a way that was easy, in a way that was comfortable.
Billy made himself useful at the table, piecing together a smaller, more manageable freeze ray, that Dean could shove into the back of his jeans if he wanted to.
Dean thought he'd found one of the main hubs for the supernatural activity. A hole that had opened up not long before the whole mess started. A mess of demon activity that ran thick like blood across the map.
They were using some of Billy's maps to check the patterns.
Though Dean's desire to head that way had made Sam's face tight and unhappy.
"If we could get close enough-"
"You'd need a nuclear bomb to shut that hole up." Sam said fiercely, which made Dean's face twist up into frustrated anger.
Which there was really no reason for.
"I could build a nuclear bomb," Billy told them absently, over the edge of his burger. It was disappointingly squashed on one side, though it still managed to be delicious.
He was halfway through chewing before he realised that both Winchesters were looking at him, with stunned expressions on their faces.
But then Dean's expression changed, slid into the sort of happy that was an inch away from crazy. He reached over, caught Billy's jaw in what seemed to be a fit of madness. Then he tapped his cheek, smartly, like he was the most impossibly brilliant thing he'd ever seen, and Billy was smiling, helplessly, so hard his face hurt.
He thought, just maybe, Dr. Horrible had a destiny after all.
Fandom: Supernatural/Dr. Horrible
Pairing: Dean/Billy/Sam, Sam/Billy, Dean/Billy, Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 20,900
Warnings: Incest
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: They had names now, the men in the 1967 Chevy Impala were Sam and Dean Winchester, and they were trying to save the world.
Billy turned the light on in the bathroom, and it was just a little past comfortably bright.
He very carefully pushed his goggles off, slid his coat down his arms and his shirt over his head. The movement twisted and pulled something, which protested angrily, and he very carefully lowered his arm again. His whole arm, and his shoulder, hurt like hell, a bone deep ache and there was a redness that suggested his bruises tomorrow were going to be spectacular.
He'd almost forgotten what it was like to see his own skin in shades of purple, green and brown. Like some strange echo reminder of another life. When the world was different, when he was different.
He hadn't broken anything though, hadn't fractured anything, or torn a muscle. It would just be a ragged palette of colour on his skin, and he breathed relief, heavy, soft relief, leant on the sink and blinked tiredly at his own reflection.
He started when Sam appeared over his shoulder.
"Easy," Sam said under a soft laugh, that was more apologetic than amused.
For someone so tall Sam was very good at sneaking up on people.
Billy met his eyes in the mirror, then lowered them, to the red smear of pain across his chest and shoulder. And Billy felt immediately, painfully, self-conscious. His arm twitched, unpleasantly, when he stalled it from trying to put his shirt on again.
"That's not gonna be pretty tomorrow." Sam's voice was soft. But he didn't touch, he did nothing but stand there.
When he finally looked up again he was frowning.
"You keep saving us," he said quietly. "We weren't anything to you, and yet you're still doing all of this." His voice was soft, like he didn't, in any way, still suspect some sort of agenda. Like he simply wanted to know why.
"You're the good guys," Billy told him, and it should have come out sounding simplistic and ridiculous. Because he'd always fought against exactly that.
Instead it was just the truth, and that was all it sounded like, and all the emotion that laid underneath it.
"I saw you, I saw you travelling across the country, killing things, saving people when everyone else was falling apart." Billy shrugged, awkwardly. "I thought I could help. I thought I should help."
"So this is your redemption?"
Billy met Sam's eyes in the mirror again.
He wanted to say yes, he wanted to ask if it was enough, but he said nothing, because he couldn't get anything else out.
Sam took another step.
"I didn't mean it like that," he said softly. "I don't mean it badly at all, I just-. We appreciate it, we appreciate you, sometimes I think you don't know that, and Dean doesn't really...." Sam shook his head. "I just thought you needed to know that."
The words jumbled together, into something that made absolutely certain Billy couldn't speak at all. Staring at Sam's face, all softness and honesty, it was almost impossible to not believe.
Sam reacted to his silence in a way he wasn't expecting. He came closer still, close enough that Billy could feel his warmth against his bare back, a startlingly unexpected sensation, that his skin reacted to. And he moved away on reflex, before-
Sam's hands caught his waist, and Billy was so surprised by fingers on bare flesh that he stilled completely. The hands very slowly slid to his hipbones, settled there, as if to keep him in place. Sam's fingers were still shifting, almost imperceptibly, though Billy could feel it, he could feel every minute twitch, could feel the way his skin tingled on every tiny slide.
And suddenly his heart was beating much too fast, and he was sure he was reading the situation completely wrong.
Billy was briefly, horribly lost without sharp red line of his coat. Because he couldn't do this on his own, he'd never been able to do this, and though Dr. Horrible almost certainly didn't know how to do it either, Billy thought he'd make it not matter so much.
Sam's hands moved, ever so slowly, on the bare edge of him, as if to find a better place to grip. The thought was brief, but sharp, and warmth pooled low in his stomach. Long fingers trailed over the smooth edge of his hipbone...almost uncomfortable in their intensity, fingers on skin, on his skin. And though Billy thought that maybe he should have some frame of reference for that, he couldn't find it.
"Breathe," Sam said quietly, so close to his ear. He took a startled breath on reflex, almost choked on it.
He could feel the heat of Sam's chest through the thin cotton of his shirt, where it pressed in, and then pulled away, on every breath.
"It's ok," Sam said simply. "If you want me to stop just tell me."
Billy shook his head, one rough, jerky movement that he didn't intend, but he meant, god he meant it, no matter how much it terrified him.
Because he wanted this tall smiling man to keep touching him, and he thought he'd do anything, anything at all. He pushed that neediness down so hard, didn't want it felt, didn't want it seen, but it was hard, it was so hard.
Sam took his mute, uncoordinated clumsiness for assent, and Billy thanked him for it, because he couldn't speak, could only look in the mirror, at the strange narrow awkwardness that was him, outlined everywhere by Sam Winchester, coloured in streaks of lean and tan, where he was just unfilled lines.
He looked away, eyes down to where Sam's hand had gone still on his waist.
Everything was still, and Billy thought that in a second he would feel horribly, uselessly awkward. He'd find his shirt, and would leave the bathroom, cursing all the things he didn't say, didn't do. All the ways in which he was wrong. And the helpless frustration of it nearly killed him.
He was so busy staring at Sam's hand on his waist, that he missed the other lifting, and catching his face, pulling his jaw round and up, turning him. There was a squeak of skin on damp porcelain, before he was pressed back into it.
Sam was kissing him then, one hand on his jaw, sliding up to hold his face, tipping his head up. The hand kept moving, until it was dug in his hair, and then Sam pushed the kiss open. He made it something heavy and fierce; controlled it with quick, almost angry, pushes of his tongue, that drew stunned, helpless noises out of Billy. But he was sure he didn't care.
His height was strangely overwhelming, and he was holding just a little too tight, which made it better in a way Billy couldn't quite name. All weight against his own skin, and he couldn't think at all, because he'd never prepared himself for anything like this. Never thought that Sam would touch him like this, in the chill of the bathroom, never like this, half-naked and close, and too sensitive under his hands.
He was pulled almost helplessly into hardness, pressed there and held under Sam's weight. Until every push and shift of skin felt like it was done purely to torment him. He thought, hazily, dizzily, that he might come just from being here, from being kissed like Sam had just been waiting for the chance. He groaned, when thinking it shoved him harder towards exactly that, and he was sure it would be humiliating. But he wanted it, wanted it so badly.
He caught Sam's arm, held it, breathed, hoping for more air, but getting nothing.
Sam's fingers stretched against his skin, and he found air then, a great stunned gasp that shivered out of him just as quickly.
"I can't, please-" the rest caught in his throat, three words, barely there at all.
Sam exhaled, roughly, surprised, his hands slid off of Billy's skin.
"It's ok," he said, voice shaky, he stepped back, stepped away. "It's ok, I'm sorry."
And then he was gone, and the space behind the mirror was empty.
Billy turned awkwardly, dizzily, wrapped his hands round the cold of the sink, and his knuckles went white there.
Because he thought he'd just given Sam completely the wrong impression, pressed him back out of the bathroom with his own uncertainty, his own muddled fear.
It left a pit in his stomach that felt full of lead.
~~~
Billy thought the Winchesters were probably used to him taking up all the space on the table by now, or, if it was full of guns, one of the beds, or half the floor. Bits and pieces of plastic, metal and circuitry.
At the moment it was all laid out on the bright red of his coat on the bed. Which wasn't so dramatically imposing now, because twice he'd laid the soldering gun down on it, and made tiny burnt holes in the fabric.
He was using science as a defence mechanism, to quiet his brain from its hyperventilating, pretending quietly, impossibly, that nothing strange had happened. That the twinge in his shoulder every time he reached for a piece of wire didn't make him think of bright light, and Sam's mouth.
Dean was on the other side of the room, fingers flipping through the many-thumbed pages of his fathers journal. Looking for answers, or just re-treading old paths. Billy didn't ask.
He didn't think it was his place to ask.
Dean looked over at him every once in a while, expression curious. But, contrary to what the both of them thought, he wasn't always building astonishing things. Sometimes he was just checking the circuits, replacing the batteries, or cleaning dust out of the cases.
Sam was out, making sure they didn't starve again. Billy honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten without Sam, or Dean, Winchester pushing something under his nose.
Dean eventually shut the diary, and wandered over to sit on the end of the bed.
He picked up one of the canisters laying by Billy's knee, shook it slightly.
"What's this?"
"Liquid nitrogen."
Dean pulled a face, and very carefully set it down again.
"It won't explode," Billy promised, which was true. Sometimes he wasn't quite sure exactly how smart Dean was, not stupid by any means, Billy thought he just didn't collect information easily. Not if he wasn't interested, or he didn't need it.
"Got anything here that does explode?" Dean sounded half-way between chastising and curious.
Billy thought about it.
"A little bit."
Which startled Dean into laughter. One brief moment of amusement, that Billy couldn't help but feel proud to put there.
"A little bit, huh?"
"It depends on how hard you shake it, or if you heat it up."
"Then I think I'm going to be careful what I poke," Dean told him, and it was Billy's turn to laugh.
He wasn't expecting it when Dean reached over, lifted his hand out from the scatter of circuit boards.
"Who broke your wrist?" he asked, in a voice that was calm and conversational, but so much more underneath. His hand wasn't tight around Billy's fingers, certainly not tight enough to hurt. But it was strangely intimate, having his hand held.
His mouth went dry for a long second. He wanted to ask how Dean knew his wrist was ever broken. But the Winchesters had probably broken more bones than him, especially between them. Faced more dangerous things than Captain Hammer, who was really just a bully with super strength.
Dean was still looking at him, and he remembered that he hadn't said anything yet.
"No one," he said awkwardly, and immediately realised that that sounded stupid. "I mean, Captain Hammer."
Dean didn't ask what he was doing at the time, didn't ask if he deserved it.
Billy was grateful for that.
He let his hand go, and Billy was briefly lost for where to put it.
"When you're over here, making things, I have to admit, it's pretty cool, the way you just randomly come out with things from...a pile of stuff."
"Sometimes it really is just a pile of junk that I couldn't do anything with," Billy admitted. Which was true. They had cannibalised more than a few electronics on the road, to feed Billy's need for parts.
"But mostly it's not," Dean tipped his head towards Billy's lap. "I'm always wondering what we'll get next."
"I'll make you whatever you want," Billy said simply. Because he'd never thought people this strong could help but be cruel, but he'd been wrong.
Dean didn't reply, he just looked at him, face almost impossible to read.
The silence dragged on, though Billy didn't think it was uncomfortable.
"Sam said he kissed you," Dean said eventually, it was more of a quiet question than a statement.
Billy swallowed, rubbed at the long length of wire he was holding. Because Dean had given no indication of what he thought about that. He forced himself not to ask if he thought that was wrong.
It hurt to think about it, when he was the one that had pushed Sam away, though he'd never meant to, would never have, and he thought it was something he'd regret for a long time. Replaying that scene over and over, he sometimes lost track of when it became something confusing, and just remembered what it had felt like.
Other times it was pushed down, shut off, with everything else he'd had to regret.
"I wanted to know why things were weird between you too," Dean continued when Billy didn't speak. "He told me he kissed you, spent the whole time wearing his guilty face. He thinks he upset you."
"He didn't," Billy said stiffly, awkwardly.
"He thinks he got the wrong impression, that you didn't want to?"
There was a strange intensity to the words.
"I wasn't expecting, I don't..." Billy floundered for something, anything, because he couldn't explain what had actually happened.
"Did you?" Dean's face could be strangely intense, and Billy found, terribly hard to look away from.
"What?"
"Want to."
Words stuck fast in Billy's throat, and there was no way in hell any of them were coming out, not while Dean was looking at him like that. Close, and careful and attentive. There were a million other things he could say, but none of them would answer the question.
He looked at Dean, as if he might have the answer, as if, perhaps, he could help.
He didn't know what he saw in his face. But Dean very slowly lifted a hand, pushed his goggles through his hair and off, dropping them with the rest of his equipment, and when Billy blinked a question at him he leant forward, found his mouth with his own.
It was warm careful pressure that Billy didn't, couldn't have expected.
When Billy didn't move away Dean's hand pushed into his hair, tilted him into it. A strange echo of the same movement he'd felt before, different hands, a different mouth. This time he kissed back, the pieces in front of him clattered and clinked, when he shifted his legs, tried for all the world to get closer.
Dean made a noise against his mouth, long, wet vibrations of sound, which went straight through him. He was already pulling at the coat, dragging it free from where it was laid out between Billy's thighs, and sending pieces of metal and wire to the floor. Before Billy really registered that there was intent behind the kiss. Behind the determined way Dean touched him, leaving his skin tingling under his hands, with nowhere to put his own save for the smooth curves of Dean's shoulders. Dean seemed to take that as encouragement, though there was almost no conscious thought in the gesture, no conscious thought but maybe quiet desperation. Billy was just holding on, shivering in a way that had nothing to do with cold.
Then Dean was moving, pressing Billy down into the bed, while his thigh slid over his own, Hands moving from his jaw to his waist, until Billy's head hit the pillow, and Dean was a living, breathing weight on top of him, solid, and needy in a way his brother hadn't been, and Billy was thrown, completely, to feel that edge of the familiar in Dean's hands.
To feel Dean's hands, in a way he'd never, ever expected. Breathing too hard and moving wherever Dean pushed him, opening under the roughness of his mouth.
Billy wondered how much this was about him, and how much it was about Sam. He felt awful for thinking it, felt worse when, instead of making him feel uncomfortable, it made his breath catch in his throat.
Dean pushed hands into his hair again, drew his head back, and he was kissing him again, wet, greedy open-mouthed kisses that seemed designed to drag his attention back. Like Dean knew he was lost. Like he knew he was thinking about Sam, and he needed to push himself into that space instead.
Once Dean had him his hands slid free, fell away, and then pushed into the waistband of his pants and shorts, sliding them over his hips and down. They tangled, before Dean's foot pushed them all the way off. Making it perfectly clear that Dean wanted more than kisses. Billy didn't have the breath to protest, if he'd even wanted to. The noises he was making were anything but, hoarse little groans of encouragement that had Dean slipping between his thighs, pressing down into him, solid hardness against the curve of his hip.
One hand rose, and Dean dragged his mouth open with his thumb, and kissed him again. Rough, wet, and with little attempt at grace or finesse. Billy thought he could quite happily be kissed like that forever.
He didn't resist when Dean pulled his hands down, coaxed him into touching, into sliding his hands under the waist of his jeans, fingertips moving over bare flesh. Dean dropped his hand long enough to tug open the button, and the zipper, then pushed Billy's hands back inside. It was easy, far too easy, to push at the denim, heartbeat loud enough to drown out the sound of Dean breathing. Billy pushed it low with his palms, until he had the warmth of Dean's hips under his hands. Until the smooth hard length of Dean's cock was bare against his skin, pushed into his own, in one rough roll of hips.
It was hard to catch a breath, when he was all but breathing in Dean, every exhale sounded broken, and every inhale sounded like desperation. His hands found Dean's waist, almost without his permission, pulled him in, pulled him down in one urgent dig of fingers. He was half startled that he'd dared, but once he was touching he couldn't stop. He was aware that things like this didn't happen, didn't happen twice, and determined this time to take everything, everything Dean gave him. Without questioning.
He couldn't look away, couldn't meet Dean's eyes, the low pool of heat in his groin was a fierce ache, that had him shivering and breathless.
"Please." Billy's voice didn't even sound like his own, he bit down on everything else, half afraid he'd chase Dean away as well. Half afraid his mouth would make a mess of this, whatever it was. And that would kill him, because he thought he'd never wanted anything this much before.
Dean felt almost angry under his hands, and though he never once held too tight, or pushed too hard there was a desperation, that felt like fury and adrenaline under the skin.
Dean's hips pressed in harder, a long drag of cock against his own, an unsteady push that had him gasping. Heavy, and real, and Billy wanted it, wanted all of it. He couldn't help but wonder what Dean would feel like under his hands, sliding between his fingers- or in his mouth, the weight of him slip-sliding across his tongue, then pushed in deep, if Dean's fingers would tangle in his hair, if he'd hold him there.
The images were too much, they broke what little control he'd been hanging on to, and he was coming. Pulling Dean down into him, and gasping, under waves of heat that made his skin too hot, and too small, and it was almost too much. Dean paused, for just a handful of heartbeats, fingers tight on his skin.
Billy was left gasping into his mouth, too wrung out to turn his head, still shivering under every push. When Dean moved again he was sliding through the slickness of his come, mouth wet and open, eyes dark, but stunned, like they didn't see anything at all. Then Dean pushed in hard enough to hurt, hard enough to ache, a bright shiver of blunt pain that somehow made everything better, exhale long and hot. Billy felt him come against his skin, his own breath shaking out over Dean's throat.
Then there was nothing between them but slippery wet skin, and the push, thump of Dean's breathing and heartbeat.
His forehead pressed in hard against the curve of Billy's own. Mouth so close, so very close, and Billy thought, if he was braver, he'd fist a hand in his hair and kiss him, kiss him until his mouth was numb.
Instead he breathed into the silence, until Dean moved away, took his skin, and his warmth, and slid to the edge of the bed, head bent forward in the darkness.
Billy was drawn up too, sitting awkwardly in the warm sheets, skin prickling almost lazily in a way it hadn't done for a very, very long time.
The silence dragged on, growing strangely heavier.
"I'm sorry," Billy started, and Dean went very still on the bed, the sort of stillness that hurt. Billy knew because he'd seen it from both sides. "If I made you angry, I'm sorry."
Dean made a noise, something deep in his throat that felt like disgust, and ran his hand over his face.
He looked hurt for a moment, before it was covered, fiercely, almost protectively, with something else.
Billy went cold, wondered if he'd broken something again, promised himself he would never speak again, not ever.
But Dean surprised him by leaning over, catching his jaw in one hand, and kissing him. One messy, rough press of mouth, before he disappeared into the bathroom.
Billy thought he could breathe again.
~~~
Billy would have taken the time to worry about what had happened between him and Dean, but the world didn't give him a chance. Werewolves were terrorising Pennsylvania, and these ones didn't turn back into people, ever. Some new strain, some ruthless brutal demonic poison, turning the woods into a suicide run for hundreds of towns.
They ran the roads, rescuing stragglers where they could.
All Billy got for a week were snatches, in the quiet moments before he fell into an exhausted sleep, in a too soft motel bed, or swaying uncomfortably through nightmares in the back of the Impala. Nightmares that were no longer about Penny, though sometimes she was there too, all pale skin and bright hair in the darkness. And she always looked sad.
They felt like the only moments Billy had to himself.
Though more often than not he fell asleep to quiet conversation.
To the sound of Winchesters still hunting.
At the moment he was making the best use he could of a college science lab, in a small town that he'd forgotten the name of.
Silver bullets were inefficient, there needed to be a faster way, a better way. Billy had been running through calculations all the way, but they were too widely spread, and there was no way to eradicate them all, without harming the public, or burning whole areas to ash.
The level of silver that needed to enter the bloodstream to kill them was too difficult to manage over a large area. So, at the moment, Sam and Dean were doing their best in a series of endless, brutal hunts.
But the probabilities for their survival went down every day, curve dropping more sharply the less sleep they had.
Volunteers that went with them came back too often as simply bloodstains.
Science was refusing to help him. Werewolves were, frustratingly, more of a biological problem, and Billy's knowledge of biology wasn't up to the task.
He felt honestly useless, for maybe the first time.
He dumped his gloves on the bench, and wandered out into the main office.
Dean had fallen asleep sprawled over the desk, gun shining against the wood, and Billy didn't have to look to know there were silver bullets in there. He wasn't sure how many though. Dean had already been out twice tonight.
He touched the cold metal, felt it through his fingers, didn't stray close enough to touch Dean's hand.
He remembered the way those hands felt on his skin, remembered being so overwhelmed that he'd never really gotten the chance to touch back, like he'd wanted to. He'd never come close to asking why, to asking what it had meant. Though he wasn't sure he ever would have had the courage. He was fairly certain Dean wouldn't have answered.
And if Billy had had trouble meeting his eyes for days now it didn't matter. It didn't matter because there'd been a constant stream of survivors, or maybe refugees was a better word? Faces changing every day, and there was no way Billy could remember them all.
Dean took a breath, there was no fuzzy edge between sleeping and awake, he was just there
Dean looked at him, then rubbed a hand over his face.
"Where's Sam?"
"Still talking to Sheriff Roberts," Billy told him. "They were going to set up the floodlights, make sure nothing gets into town, without them noticing.
"He shouldn't be out there-" Dean put his hands on the bar, pushed himself upright on a groan of discomfort.
"The sun's already up," Billy gestured towards the windows.
Dean settled, though he'd clearly already woken the restlessness in himself. The need to see where Sam was.
Billy thought that Dean would dearly love to put a GPS tracking device in his brother, so he knew where he was-
Billy stared through the window.
Drones, tracking drones.
The whole world slowed, and came to a point.
The sun fell through the glass of the window, and Billy was briefly fascinated by the way it managed to stream through, and turn Dean's hair gold.
"Billy?" Dean said sharply, and Billy shook his head.
"Werewolves, their body temperature runs higher than ours doesn't it?"
"Yeah, why?"
"I think I know how to kill them- I think I know how to kill all of them," Billy told him, and he could hear the tentative hope in his voice.
"What do you need?" Dean's expression had shifted to intense in an instant.
"Silver, lots of it, and maybe half an electronics store?"
Dean stood in the sunlight, reached over far enough to pull Billy's goggles down over his eyes.
"Done!"
Tiny heat seeking drones that would punch into anything living that had a body temperature consistent with an angry werewolf, if the silver didn't kill them than the explosives packed inside the shell would. It had been a long time since he'd done remote control. A lifetime ago.
The plans flowed open on the whiteboard in the lab, dimensions and quantities.
Faceless people flowed in and out with boxes, stacked them against the far wall. Billy set a group of them to melting the silver. They were less efficient than they could have been, but then they weren't scientists, and it was their homes on the line.
He started making the drones as soon as he had all the parts. They sat in gleaming silver rows, dart-like and threatening, on the benches.
When the sun dropped below the horizon he sent them all out.
Then he pushed the whiteboards aside, and started making more.
...
They spent all the next day dragging the bodies in, dozens, some corpses with holes blown in their chest or head, some simply in pieces. They came piled in trucks, in trash bags, wrapped in plastic sheet.
But they kept coming.
And the woods were silent.
~~~
Billy didn't really remember coming back to the motel. He was fairly sure the Sheriff had brought him...probably.
Somehow he'd managed to get his clothes off, because he vaguely remembered standing in the shower, though he didn't really remembering getting out of it. He certainly didn't remember drying himself, or putting on- he looked down- a t-shirt that wasn't his, and pants that he was fairly sure were...because they fit.
It was dark through the windows, but, for the first time in a month, there were no monsters out there.
He was exhausted, but the blood in his veins kept rushing, rushing in a way that wouldn't let him sleep.
He was left just lying on the bed, listening to every tiny noise.
He fell asleep when he wasn't paying attention.
...
A hand in his hair startled him awake.
"It's me," Dean said quietly. Like that didn't make his heart beat even harder.
Billy was left breathing while Dean slowly pushed a hand back and forth in his hair, in a way that was restless, in a way that sent sensation shivering down his spine.
He could feel the slow trail of his breath across his shoulder, but that was all Dean was doing, he wasn't touching him anywhere else, and Billy wasn't sure- didn't know what that meant. Or whether he wanted...whether he wanted what Billy wanted. Waking to find him behind him in the bed had stolen all higher brain functions, and Billy was just left with confusion, and want.
Whatever Dean wanted, he could have it.
He was swallowing in the dark, forced to stillness by Dean's fingers, afraid that the slightest movement would break whatever this was, would make Dean stop; he didn't want that.
He could still hear Sam shifting among their bags in the dark, packing things away.
He didn't know whether he was supposed to notice, or whether he was supposed to stay quiet.
"Sam?" Dean's voice was warm, and over-loud across Billy's skin, it was a question, called out into the dark.
Billy held his breath. The quick tread of feet came close, hesitated.
"Say his name," Dean whispered in his ear, and the words forced him to inhale, dizzy confusion and warmth. "Say it," Dean encouraged.
"Sam," he said obediently, uncertainly. There was a slow exhale, and cloth moving in the dark, dropping to the floor.
The sheets moved, and Billy didn't quite believe it until Sam slid against him, warm skin and length, large hands on his face, pulling his head up and kissing him, like he'd kissed him in the bathroom. Only this time Sam was with them in the dark, and everything was closer; this time Billy wasn't sure anyone was going to say stop.
He could feel Dean's hands on his waist, pressing him into Sam as he slid in behind, fingers tightening, then moving to catch his hips, the loose, low edge of his shorts. Dean hooked his thumbs in, and started pulling. Billy inhaled sharply and let him.
Sam could feel the movement where he was pressed in tight, and he made a noise, low in his throat, before dropping one of his hands to help. He moved out of them, registered the slide of legs between his own, a lazy mixture of both brothers, and Billy couldn't quite believe that both of them were touching him, for all that he could feel the warmth of their hands.
Dean's hand strayed to his hip, then slid in further, as if to test his reaction. Billy couldn't hold the breathless noise he made when Dean's fingers slid over him, he was already hard, then harder still under the press of his palm. Dean's breath flared hotly over the back of Billy's neck, the hand slid back to his waist, held him still while both of them shifted in tighter. And then Sam was breathing into his mouth, pressing him back into Dean's body, with weight and enthusiasm, before crushing him there, hands slipping down to his waist, where Dean still held him.
Their fingers skimmed over each other, never lingering, but always coming back, brushing, awkwardly, aggressively.
Billy realised that maybe heroes needed to pretend too.
He raised a hand, in some moment of desperation that was all his own, touched Sam's hair, felt the way it dragged through his fingers, but Sam moved into him like he'd pulled.
He was hard too, against Billy's thigh, the long length of him hot against his skin. And it was a struggle for breath every time the younger Winchester pushed into him, throat so full of 'Sam' and 'Dean,' but all that escaped was air.
When Dean pressed in behind, push of cock into the curve of his ass he did make a sound, something quiet and overwhelmed, and he thought he said yes, though it could have been dragged away by Sam's mouth. It made fingers dig into his skin, but he could no longer tell exactly whose hands were where.
Until Dean leant away from him, warmth stolen from his skin, and Billy inhaled, he could hear Dean digging through the bag by the bed, in the dark, searching by touch.
Sam's kiss tipped into something more fierce, drawing his attention away from the cold space at his back.
It didn't stay cold for long, before skin was laid against him again. Pressed in, one long line of warmth that ended in Dean's hands, one of them slid down, caught on the skin and pushed his thigh up into Sam's grip.
A pause, just long enough to breathe through, before Dean pressed one wet finger inside him, other hand sliding into his hair, tilting him up, and back, so Sam could kiss him again.
Dean's mouth opened, hot and then sharp, onto the side of his neck and one finger became two. Billy felt pushed all the way open, groaning helplessly into Sam's mouth.
"Please," he said, though the dryness of his throat made it sound hoarse, gravelly.
Sam pulled back far enough to watch him, eyes dark over his half-open mouth. His fingers were sliding, almost mindlessly, up and down the back of Billy's thigh, encouragement and restless arousal
"Dean," Billy's voice sounded broken in the dark.
Dean made a helpless noise, fingers sliding free, he shifted forward on the sheets, pressed up, pressed in.
It was a low burn that felt like it went all he way through him, every breath ached, and Billy dug his fingers into Sam's skin while Dean slid in, and in. One long endless push under a hiss of desperate restraint.
A long taut heartbeat of stillness, and then Dean moved, though Sam was the one that made a soft shaky noise that sounded urgent. Dean's hand caught Billy's wrist, moved his hand, spreading his fingers with his own and reaching down. Sam's cock pushed into his fingers, pushing into their fingers greedily, and Sam made a hot, broken noise head tipping forward so his hair hid his face. Dean guided the slow shift of his hand, fingers still half slippery, and it felt, it felt incredibly indecent, but not wrong. Billy refused to believe it was wrong when Sam was making noises like he ached inside, Dean's breath had gone rough, and lost in his ear, and Billy was left trying to catch a breath between them. Feeling like a raw nerve, balanced so precariously that every push threatened to shove him over the edge.
When Sam caught his hair roughly, and pulled his head forward he lost himself completely. There was nothing at all, but them in the darkness, shoving him towards release. Pulling him into pieces. His hand tightened every time Dean pressed in, but Sam didn't seem to mind. His own hand moved, pressed briefly, hotly, against Billy thigh before it shifted up, folded round his cock; left him briefly shaking, and swallowing, under the low deep stab of too-close arousal his touch brought.
Billy was almost certain that he was lost, losing any sort of coordination against Sam's mouth, and he thought he was going to fall-
But Dean was the one who swore, and pressed him into Sam, so hard.
His hand tightened to a stop on Sam, Dean's fingers twitching where they were still folded round Billy's own, and he was groaning into Billy's hair, a rush of warmth that wasn't even close to a word.
Sam pushed into their hands, lost and ragged, and then wet, and there was no way Billy could feel that without all the breath shaking out of him. Unravelling under the rhythmless pull of Sam's fingers, fingers digging in where they rested, all the way into skin while the brothers twitched and gasped around him, and inside him.
There was a long, hot moment of stillness, before Dean grumbled something that made no sense at all, and very carefully pulled out.
Billy made a noise he never intended to, though it made Sam shift the hand over his head, fingertips fidgeting in his hair, his breathing was loud against the side of Billy's face, but he thought that was more reassuring than it should have been.
Dean cleaned them up in the dark with a handful of tissues, though he didn't say a word.
The stillness went on for longer then, a sleepy edge of looseness behind Billy's eyes. He waited, waited for...something, between one held breath and the next. Though he wasn't sure what.
Neither of them moved, Billy eventually relaxed.
~~~
Billy woke up breathing brown hair, he shifted away just far enough to see the long curve of Sam's neck.
He didn't move for a long moment. Because being this close to another person, eyes closed, just breathing against the skin of his cheek, was as close as Billy had ever been to something safe. He pretended it was real for a while, pretended he could have it.
When he couldn't stand it any longer, he rolled his head round.
Dean had slithered out, without him noticing, the long length of bed at his back had only the echo of warmth.
He relaxed again, half of him wanted, desperately wanted to stay pressed into Sam Winchester's hair. Didn't care if the world made sense or not.
But the room was light now, and Billy thought, if he listened, he could hear the low sound of water running in the bathroom.
He slipped out of bed, legs strangely uncooperative, and uncomfortable in strange places. He dressed in the quiet, feeling over-stretched and strange. Dizzy edge of quiet disbelief still shaking everything.
By the time the bathroom door opened Billy had found something appropriately distracting to do at the table.
Dean huffed laughter when he saw him. Hand passing over his hair in a brief, but pointed gesture, and something inside Billy relaxed without him even knowing it had tightened.
Sam eventually got up, reluctantly, with much complaining, and went out to hunt for breakfast.
It came in suspicious paper-wrapped packages, but smelled delicious. Neither of them seemed to mind Billy's silence. They both folded over their maps, leant together in a way that was easy, in a way that was comfortable.
Billy made himself useful at the table, piecing together a smaller, more manageable freeze ray, that Dean could shove into the back of his jeans if he wanted to.
Dean thought he'd found one of the main hubs for the supernatural activity. A hole that had opened up not long before the whole mess started. A mess of demon activity that ran thick like blood across the map.
They were using some of Billy's maps to check the patterns.
Though Dean's desire to head that way had made Sam's face tight and unhappy.
"If we could get close enough-"
"You'd need a nuclear bomb to shut that hole up." Sam said fiercely, which made Dean's face twist up into frustrated anger.
Which there was really no reason for.
"I could build a nuclear bomb," Billy told them absently, over the edge of his burger. It was disappointingly squashed on one side, though it still managed to be delicious.
He was halfway through chewing before he realised that both Winchesters were looking at him, with stunned expressions on their faces.
But then Dean's expression changed, slid into the sort of happy that was an inch away from crazy. He reached over, caught Billy's jaw in what seemed to be a fit of madness. Then he tapped his cheek, smartly, like he was the most impossibly brilliant thing he'd ever seen, and Billy was smiling, helplessly, so hard his face hurt.
He thought, just maybe, Dr. Horrible had a destiny after all.