A Curse is Just a Curse, [NC17] Sam/Dean

[queenklu]

 

“GOD DAMN IT!”

“Don’t look at me, Dean,” Sam snarled, tearing at the buttons of his shirt, “You’re the one who grabbed that talisman like you’d never seen one before!”

“You’re the one who was too busy chatting up the sacrifice to stop me!”

“I was untying her! And you didn’t even look at the Latin before you threw it to me!”

“YES! Because it’s in Latin!” He stopped and actually took in what Sam was doing, then had to do it again because- “Wait, dude, what…?”

“Fuck or die curse, Dean,” Sam snapped, like he didn’t even know that, like it wasn’t scorching through him from shoulder blades to abdomen, as he yanked his shirt off his tensed and muscular forearms. “Half and hour, and we fuck or fucking die.”

“Your mom’ll fucking die,” Dean grumbled as everything in his body clenched, but his legs obeyed and yanked him to the phone next to Sam’s-no, a bed, just a random bed that wasn’t his.

Jesus Christ he wanted Sam. He wanted Sam like a limb that was about to be torn off.

When you know what to look for in the yellow pages, it’s a veritable cornucopia of um, whatever fills smutty cornucopias.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said to the sultry hello that answered on the second ring, and he completely ignored the fierce urge to flinch when Sam went still behind his back. “I need your two closest girls to room 16 at the High Pine Hotel-oh, really? …oh, well, that’ll have to do. Yep. Taffy? Gotcha. There’s a little something extra if she gets here in ten minutes.” He hung up.

“Her name is Taffy,” he told Sam as he dragged his shirt over his head (so Sam couldn’t see his face), which meant he was walking to the bathroom half-blind but c’est la fucking vie. “You’ll go first.”

He stayed in the bathroom (“Getting pretty, pervert!” when he was really trying to remember how to breathe and not think about what was going to happen in the next twenty minutes) until there was a knock at the door-exactly nine and a half minutes later, good girl-and then even longer until he heard Sam answer the door. He gave them exactly two minutes to get the party started and then forced eased himself out, jeans slung low, shirt discarded on the cracked tile floor.

A stick-skinny girl with badly dyed hair had Sam on the bed, pleated skirt riding high on her hips and her smallish breasts practically falling out of her top, appropriately taffy-colored skin glowing gold against Sam’s as she wriggled, gasping for air as he filled her just this side of two much. Not enough prep, didn’t have time, but she was a pro and turned to fucking putty in Sam’s huge hands. Her skirt was in the way of any actual sightseeing, and Dean was just-so irrationally grateful his back thumped against the wall when his knees gave out.

Sam’s eyes snapped to Dean’s over Taffy’s painfully thin elbow at the noise, and Dean thought he was going to be sick. Or faint. Or something, spontaneously combust, burst into flames because it’d actually feel better than what he was putting himself through now. Because Sam looked grateful. After the initial what-the-fuck-are-you-doing, he actually looked glad that Dean had his back, that Dean would be there if something went wrong. Just a split second, but it was there, and then Sam’s eyes fogged over with a dark sort of oh yeah and Dean had to look away as they rolled up in his baby brother’s skull.

Like he was really going to leave Sam in the clutches of some random hooker who, with their luck, would turn him into a My Little Pony the second she had him defenseless. That choked response played over and over in his head like a warped tape as he forced himself further and further into the corner, trying to simultaneously melt into the hideous wallpaper and get closer to Sam, swallowing a curse as Sam grabbed her hips and flipped them, riding into her from behind, teething at the back of her neck as he slammed home. So he couldn’t see Dean.

But Dean could see everything.

“Fuck…f-fuck,” Sam stammered on a gasp, nearly silent, one impossibly long arm looping around Taffy’s torso to grasp her shoulder and force her back onto his cock. She gasped and made a little mewling noise, and Dean suddenly wondered why she wasn’t spewing forth the filth hookers were famous for, and then he caught a glimpse of her tightly pinched lips and it clicked-Sam had asked her not to.

Oh fuck, Dean agreed silently, gulping back something that swelled in his throat, behind his eyes, desperately fighting to think about what the hell that could mean. It wasn’t so much about becoming one with the wall anymore; more like that flimsy ‘V’ of plywood was the only thing keeping him upright. Sam’s ass flexed every time he thrust, backs of his thighs teasing Dean, taunting him, whispering desperate and vindictive, Look what you can’t have, look what you can’t do…

Taking too long, Dean realized like an electric baseball bat upside the head. He wasn’t sure how much time they had but Too long, too long, rang in his head like a bell. Not so much for his own sake, just-he had to make sure Sam-

“Hurry it up, Sammy,” he rumbled, just loud enough to be heard, and simultaneously slid his hand down his belly and inside his jeans. Button gone, zipper undone with a flick of his other wrist, and he had to forcibly shove aside the part of him that he’d trained for stamina which…was probably Sam’s entire fucking hang up.

Before he knew what the hell he was doing, his bare feet thumped against the worn carpet until he was (oh fuck) standing by the fucking bed where Sam was fucking some girl, and it felt like the weirdest, dirtiest wet dream in his entire life when he said, “Not a marathon,” and smacked Sam on the ass.

Holy shit, so apparently Sam hadn’t been going for the marathon at all, because he was already coming by the time Dean’s hand connected with the perfectly rounded mound of flesh and god damn it, Dean was right there when it happened. Had front row seats to his baby brother’s orgasm, the way it rippled down Sam’s spine to just above his cleft and turned inward, spread out until his entire frame was shuddering, bucking into the girl Dean found himself hating even as he felt sorry for her, and then went back to wanting Sam away from her like peeling off an old bandage before it got infected.

Self preservation, he told himself as his hand bit into Sam’s shoulder just a little too hard as he rolled his brother off their hooker. Time sensitive. But when he slid the rubber on and sank into this too tiny girl, fucked out and dripping from Sam’s cock teasing her higher and higher, it didn’t take more than a handful of thrusts before he completely lost it, sight going dark at the edges as his back arched and this girl clamped around him, and all he thought then was Sam was here, Sam felt this, and all he heard was Sam panting, and all he felt was the barest hint of pressure from Sam’s knee against his thigh.

But he did not sleep with Sam.

~*~

Dean didn’t sleep with Sam when he got smacked with a powder puff of sex pollen on their way back from the library, either. By the end of the day he kind of wanted it printed on a t-shirt to wear around town: I Did Not Sleep With Sam.

He did lock Sam in the bathroom, though, because 6’4” of horny, squirming, panting, grabby Sam was not conducive to any sort of research-and yes, he knew the word conducive, no matter what Sam says, same way he knew belligerent. And he knew how to research, too, got along fine without Sam (even though he’d spent the majority of the Stanford years feeling like he was missing a limb and most of his intestines, but you don’t need all your appendages to look shit up on the internet-Shut. Up.-Even with Sam crying out in near spontaneous orgasm behind the door.)

Dean flattened his ears to his skull, trying to will Sam’s computer to load faster with his brain, mouth open in a loud, wordless babble of sound to drown his brother out, and it might have been to the tune of Love You Madly but he’ll deny it. “I don't wanna think about it, I don't wanna talk about-Where the fuck is the fucking google?!”

“I-I...oh god, gonna-" Sam came with a shout that made Dean’s ears ring, just in time for the Mozilla fucking Firefox page to tell him it couldn’t find the fucking server, because the fox was too fucking busy BEING UNHELPFUL.

Do you even know how many viruses are designed specifically for Explorer? Sam’s voice asked in his head as the ringing faded, and Dean focused so fiercely on being pissed at Sam for being a prissy bitch (and reconnecting the internet chord) that he almost didn’t notice how quiet it was behind the bathroom door.

Almost.

“…Sam?” Dean asked after the silence started itching up his spine, which, lets be honest, was maybe two seconds of not being able to hear his brother breathe. The heater picked that exact moment to kick on with a death rattle that simultaneously sent Dean jerking out of his seat and drowned out any noise Sam might’ve made, so it was only smart to put his ear to the door and listen. “Sammy?”

There was a little hiccup of sound, strained and disbelieving, and then Sam whimpered, “Oh for fuck’s sake…”

Aaaaand Dean was back in the desk chair like he’d been glued there, shouting to cover up the-Jesus Christ-sex noises, as Sam-NO. No, no, no, no, not even going there, not even a little bit, eyes glued so hard to the computer screen they started to grey at the edges. “Sam, did you see if that plant had three leaves or two?”

The floor shook like Sam was shudder-bucking against the wall, and Dean shut his eyes so tight they hurt so he wouldn’t see the answering tightness in his pants. “Sam.” Barked. Order. Sam had to obey the Dad voice, and it was another blunt reminder, should’ve been, of who exactly Sam was in relation (literally) to Dean.

“No,” Sam whispered, cried out, “no, no, I-fuck, oh holy fuck, Dean, I-Ahhhh…” He broke off on a keen and the floor shuddered again. “Didn’t-fuck-didn’t see, can’t remember, oh god-"

“Sam!” Dean yelped, voice strained and harsher than he meant, choking on the jolt through his blood at the sound of his name coming from Sam’s-just from Sam, okay? “Put a sock in it!”

The thing was…alright, there were many things in this twisted little mind fuck that were wrong but Sam was quiet, alright? Normally. Sam…fuck, Sam could be completely silent when he came, nothing but nearly soundless shudders of breath as his fist worked under the covers when he thought Dean was asleep. And Dean didn’t want to know, couldn’t help it-but when one sardine in the can gets a hard on, it’s not like there’s room to not know about it, right?

But now? Now with Sam cursing up a blue streak and moaning like a porn star? What the fuck could do that to his baby brother?

He used that indignation and furious worry to tune Sam out like a one hit boy band, had the (two-leafed) plant’s website up in ten minutes (two and a half orgasms), potion blended and chalk in hand when Sam rounded off number three.

“Dean…” Just the barest hint of voice, Sam’s voice, in a hoarse whisper, and Dean’s hand shook so hard he almost dropped the chalk. “Please, oh god, Dean, please…can’t…can’t go again, hurts…”

There was a shallow thump, thump, thump as Sam’s elbow tapped against the door, and Dean felt it vibrate through his cerebellum when he let his head fall against the door. “Have to,” he ground out, felt like he was chewing glass. “Have to, Sammy. One more for the ritual to work. Come on…”

“Can’t,” Sam snapped with all the force of a new born rabbit, and then Dean felt him slump against the door, arm still working of its own free will. “Fuck, can’t…can’t stop, but it won’t, Dean, it…”

“It’s okay,” Dean soothed, not sure why they were both barely audible. He coughed, forced his voice louder so it wouldn’t-couldn’t-be so intimate. Like teaching Sam to shoot a gun, he thought, then cringed at the imagery. “Just. Tease it up. Don’t have to stop, just...coax it.”

“There’s nothing left, Dean,” Sam almost-laughed, almost-cursed, strangled and frustrated, “I don’t-"

“You do,” Dean cut off, because this was so high on the list of things he wasn’t allowed to hear it was disappearing in the clouds. “You can. Come on, Sam, there’s more to play with than-the sword,” he stumbled, not sure which word to use and flat out refusing to call it Sam’s anything, “Got the family jewels too, give them a shine.”

“You-suck, s-so bad,” Sam breathed, shaky on a laugh until it turned into a groan. “F-fuck, Dean…”

Dean grit his teeth and pulled back, cheek reddened by the rough wood as he forced Latin between his molars, hand sure and deft until the chalk pentagram gleamed white in the dim light.. He ignored the short lived scrabbling sound behind the door and the long, loud groan as Sam…did something, ignored it so hard it felt like his ears were bleeding. “Omnis spiritus, omnis vegetatum, felicita imundus…”

“Fuck-fuck, god Dean-fucking hell, uh, uhn, ah-"

The chalk seared white against the doorframe as Sam dragged another orgasm out of his raw, used cock, and the flash of light seared that mental image in Dean’s brain so hard it was like he was right there, inches from Sam, could feel him and smell him and taste-

All Dean did was shift his weight from one foot to the other, and the rough rasp of denim against his cock shoved him blindly over the edge. His whole body shook as he stumbled back another step, and the briefest touch of his jeans just sent him higher until he couldn’t stand, had to sit down before he fell down. Imfuckingpossible, he thought in a ringing daze as he watched the stain of come spread on his jeans, and he forced himself up and into another pair as fast as his limbs would work, trembling like a newborn colt.

Sam opened the door a good ten minutes after Dean got his fly buttoned, then slumped against the doorframe with legs that were visibly shaking, cheeks flushed red and hair in a tangled, sweaty halo around his face. He only had one button done on his shirt and the holes didn’t match up, and his jeans showed a spurt of darkened fabric along one leg which Dean did not look at.

“Hey…” Sam whispered, flushing just a little darker as he tried to smile and absolutely could not find the strength to. “Lets never do that again.”

“Okay, Sammy?” Dean asked in a voice that wasn’t anything but gruff.

Sam flinched, or tried to, before he stumbled forward enough to collapse on Dean’s bed. He mashed his face into the pillow, but if he thought Dean couldn’t translate sleepy pillow-face Sam talk he was very wrong. “I’ll buy you a new toothbrush.”

If Dean hadn’t just come, he would’ve done it all over again. Instead he grumbled, “Knew there was a reason I hated nature,” and stayed just long enough to make sure Sam wasn’t about to die before he made a mad dash for burgers. And pizza, and beer.

He fucking earned that t-shirt..

~*~

Five days later, Dean got turned into a dog.

He was a mongrel, of course, with a blue tongue that Sam said meant he was part Chow. “Which sounds about right too, the way you’re eating,” Sam sighed and poured him some more kibble.

Dean growled at him, because he couldn’t say, “Shut up, bitch,” with his larynx. Then he ate Sam’s cheeseburger.

Sam didn’t understand why he was so pissed, why he wouldn’t let Sam pet him for more than a second without moving away, why when Sam patted the space he’d made for Dean in his own bed and said, “C’mon boy,” Dean got sick on Sam’s shoes.

Alright, that was due more to the cheeseburger than any emotional reaction, but Sam took it personally, and Dean slept in his own bed that night, thank you very much, and woke up with all his human limbs and no wistful longing for Sam to stroke him behind the ears.

~*~

When Sam woke up in Dean’s body and vice the fucking versa, he did not jerk off with his brother’s dick. Hell, he didn’t even touch his equipment-he just stood over the toilet and leaned.

He was doing just that, arms folded over his chest, glaring down at his cock when he suddenly realized it was SAM’S, that’s what Sam looked like up close and really personal, and then Sam’s cock started to twitch and fill and Sam’s cock had no fucking decency, and he still didn’t touch it, zipped it up behind Sam’s stupid jeans and walked out of the bathroom half hard.

“Took you long enough,” his own voice reproached, and Dean jumped when Sam-Dean-Sam shut his laptop and stood, stretching up high and lithe and catlike, which was an utterly Sam thing to do. Dean watched his own shirt rise up against his belly, flashing a little goody trail and flushed, because Sam was so damn girly he blushed at the drop of a hat.

“Dean, the no sex rule was your idea,” Sam pointed out, and Dean’s brain about short circuited.

“What?” he blurted, indignant and stung and stunned and just fucking-what?

“You’re wearing your favorite shirt,” Sam pointed out, like that was supposed to mean anything. Sighing through his teeth at the blank look Dean shot him, Sam continued. “It’s the shirt you wear when you haven’t got laid in a while.”

Oh, so many things he wanted to ask Sam-like, Why are you keeping track of my hookups? and How would you know its my favorite?-but he killed them all, and the only thing left to say was the truth.

“It’s my comfort shirt, Sam, got a problem with that?”

Sam blinked but Dean stared him down, which was so much easier to do when he was a giant freaking sasquatch like Sam. He honestly hadn’t noticed any pattern when it came to wearing this shirt, he just…liked how it made him feel. Easy. Casual. Just a little too big, which mean it was a little tight in the shoulders on Sam’s body, but it still… Whatever. Sam didn’t need to know he’d worn the shirt for months on end while Sam was off at Stanford. (Sam also didn’t need to remember it was the shirt he’d accidentally worn a couple times the week before he'd left.)

“I do not wear this shirt to get laid,” he retorted finally, and swiped the last doughnut like Sam had made a grab for it. “Fuck off.” Powdered sugar sprayed across the smattering of his own freckles, and Sam wrinkled his nose but didn’t wipe it away.

“’M just saying. Don’t.”

“It’s my rule, Sam,” Dean reminded, not quite a snap.

“Yeah, and sometimes you make up rules just so you can break them.”

“I haven’t even touched your dick!”

“Really?” Sam blinked again, this time shocked, and then blushed. Dean hadn’t seen himself blush since Ellen Mackey sucked him off in eighth grade. There was a reason. “Uh,” Sam added eloquently, “I’ve touched yours.”

Not like that not like that not like that, Dean screamed in his head as he schooled his (Sam’s) face to remain impassive. “Of course,” he said just a second behind, “How could anyone keep their hands off me?”

“Watch me keeping my hands off you,” Sam growled (and hot fuck no wonder chicks dug that sexy slide of baritone), holding his arms out and away from himself. Only…

“No, that’s you keeping my hands off me. See?” He wiggled Sam’s fingers. “I have your hands.”

Right then, following that warped and twisted fucked up logic, Dean would have let his (Sam’s huge long lean) hands touch Sam’s (no, Dean, Dean, Dean’s) chest, just to prove his point. And he almost did…then he didn’t.

Sam snatched the last half of the doughnut from him on his way pirouetting into the bathroom, the fucking girl, calling back over his shoulder in that same low growl, “No promises.”

By the time that whole mess was straightened out Dean was fully prepared to kill himself and haunt Sam’s ass if the punk didn’t carve it in his headstone: I DID NOT SLEEP WITH SAM.

~*~

Dean got slipped an honest-to-god truth spell for swiping some dweeb’s library card to look at porn while Sam did research on their next hunt. This did not mean he was speaking every thought that came across his mind, thank god, or there would’ve been a hell of a lot more said about wanting to bend Sam over every available surface.. All it meant was when Sam started licking the taco sauce off his fingers at dinner, all Dean could really talk about was his secret love for Bono.

~*~

“I feel like I should get a bra,” Sam muttered under his breath as he reached up to cup his breasts in his petite well-manicured hands. Then, “Huh. These aren’t nearly as sensitive as I thought they'd be.”

Dean was kind of glad he was so nauseated by girl Sam because it meant he had something to distract him from the ever growing need to bash his head against the wall.

“Dean?”

“What?” he snapped..

Sam let his hands fall but the offending mounds were still there, lurking under his humongous t-shirt like…lurking things that lurked. “You’re being very quiet.” And it’s freaking me out went loud and unsaid in the tense stretch of this strange girl’s smile. “No girl jokes? No calling me Samantha or asking to feel my boobs? Not even a little pouting because you don’t have a pair your own to grab?”

“Oh I’ve got a pair,” Dean growled, with that same I-just-got-back-from-hell-don’t-fuck-with-me lip curl that made Sam’s eyes, huge in his smaller face, blink in shock.

He did not want to feel Sam’s boobs. (He did not want them, Sam-I-Am-shut up.) Dean actually threw up a little in his mouth looking at them. It-wasn’t Sam.

“Wh… Dean, are you sick?”

Dean tried to focus on drinking his drink but couldn’t focus his gaze anywhere else in the bar for more than a second. “You’re still my brother.”

“Yes but now I’m your brother with tits!” Sam wasn’t-doing anything weird, wasn’t actually trying to get Dean to feel him up. But he was hitting that no-quite-loud stunned space right before a freak out. “I’m a girl.”

“Dude,” Dean said with a pasted on smirk, because Sam apparently needed him to, “I’ve been saying for years.”

It wasn’t exactly right, but it was close enough that Sam seemed to relax a little, or get sidetracked by how not-quite-right it was to distract himself from the meltdown.He looked down at the v-neck top of a shirt Dean had found wedged in the backseat from some long lost waitress and sighed.

“…You sure you don’t want to-”

“No, nope.” Gagging. Gagging. “I’m fine.”

“I’ll give ‘em a feel,” the patron behind Sam leered, falling against his brother’s back for a full body rub.

He had a black eye, a broken nose, a cracked rib and two shattered fingers before Sam hauled Dean off him, shouting like an irate Barbie.

“Touch my brother again and I’ll kill you!” Dean roared, clutching bleeding knuckles in one hand so he wouldn’t be able to feel the hot press of Sam’s around his middle.

“Oh, fuck,” the bleeding man wailed through the hand holding what remained of his nose, “that chick was a dude?”

“Strictly speaking I’m transgendered,” Sam, Mr. (now Miss) PfuckingC, called just before he girlhandled Dean out the door.

“I want my brother back,” Dean grumbled through his clenched teeth, freezing at the look he received when he shook off Sam’s grasp-hurt but more honestly surprised. “…and a whole lot more Jack Daniels.”

It took a counter-curse to break that bitch, not their regular wait-it-out. Or it might have been a wait-it-out, but the only thing keeping Dean from murdering puppies was whiskey and the fact that there was a serious lack of canines in town, and then Sam started his period, and Dean was willing to switch to kittens. It was unreal. So unreal that when Bobby called with an obscure incantation they both leapt on it like two hobos at a steak feed.

And hallelujah, it worked.

Dean was so fucking relieved that he couldn’t talk, just clapped a stunned Sam-Sam, boy Sam-on the back and stumbled to the parking lot to clean his pipes. His baby’s pipes. The Impala’s pipes, fucking hell.

How was he supposed to know the curse ricocheted Sam’s consciousness into his car?

43 minutes and 28 seconds later, Dean was clinging to the steering wheel, absolutely still as he tried to remember how to breathe. Sam locked the doors. The rest of him was presumably a vegetable inside the motel room. Deep breath in, deep breath out. They weren’t in motion, everything was fine.

“THIS IS RIDICULOUS!” Dean screamed, jerking in his seat and shaking the wheel like it was Sammy’s not so scrawny shoulders. The horn honked without him touching it and he smacked it for good measure. “SHUT UP. YOU’RE A FUCKING CAR, SAM, YOU DON’T GET A SAY.”

And then he did something he planned never ever forgiving Sam for, and shattered his driver’s side window with a tire iron.

Two minutes later he had a cut on the back of his thigh from the glass and his hands on the hood of the Impala, or Sam, and he wasn’t going to speculate about what part of Sam’s spectral body it was, or even wonder if Sam could actually hear him outside of the cab.

“I cannot fucking do this any more.”

He shoved off the hood, backed off, then rounded on the black sheen of his baby (and yes, in some sick way the term still fucking applied). “You wanna know what I think?” he snapped, loud enough that he was actually turning heads at the end of the block. Woot, some crazy tourist yelling at his car. “This is your fault. Don’t lie to me! This is your doing. Somehow. And I don’t care how you’re doing it, I don’t even care why, but cut it the fuck out, Sam! I can’t-I can’t. I’m losing my fucking mind, here! Because if you don’t stop… Jesus, Sam, I’m…I’m gonna do something that’ll fuck us up forever. The kind of thing that there ain’t no going back from. Worse than hell. So just…stop, okay? Go back to your body and stay there, stay Sam and I’ll stay me and maybe-maybe we’ll get out of this unscathed, alright?”

All Sam stayed was silent.

“Nothing in the history of the entire world has made as little sense as every fucking curse falling on our heads in six months!”

“Dean?”

He whirled, still in mid-flail, and almost fell over at the sight of Sam standing in the doorway, pale and blotchy all at once and shifting awkwardly from foot to foot like he did when they’d pulled a twelve hour day of driving. “What?” he asked, low and full of dread and shocked disbelief that Sam hadn’t heard a word he’d said.

“I…” Sam gulped, blotches going darker. “I, uh…I have a tail.”

There was a stunned moment of silence, and then Dean forced out, “What kind?”

~*~

“It’s a curse curse.”

“…A what?”

“Did he say couscous?” Dean hissed trying to lean in closer to the phone. Of course, that relied heavily on invading both their personal spaces, but after his blow up it was a little bit easier to accept he was insane and go with it. Sam’s comically demonic tail had fucked up his back so bad it was almost impossible to move, even after endless sessions of knuckle-cracking massages and almost a whole bottle of aspirin.

(And countless hours spent straddling Sam’s hips while he rubbed oil onto his brother’s skin. Yeah. That was fun.)

The point was, no way was Sam doing that to himself for kicks. The Winchesters got enough pain without being fucking masochists.

“Curse curse,” Bobby enunciated in his idjit voice. “One of you boys pissed off someone so powerful that they slapped you with every clichéd curse in the book. The good news is that the spell'll run out after ten.”

“Wait, Bobby, that doesn’t make sense,” Sam protested, shoulder bumping against Dean’s as he shifted. “The dog curse was definitely something to do with the demon chew toy you sent us after.”

“Yeah, and the girl curse was that witch in Tallahassee-she wanted Sam to join her lesbian love cult.”

Sam gave him a look Dean literally shrugged off. Maybe he had enjoyed saying that a little too much.

“Are you saying we went to all the trouble of burning that witch’s black magic crap and exorcising that scrap of leather for nothing?”

“The curse curse doesn’t cause the curses, it just makes them want to happen. Odds are the witch would’ve found Sam a tad less attractive or Dean would have finally remembered to use gloves when handling magical objects.” Idjit idjit idjit. “So when did these start?”

“April,” Dean blurted instantly, but managed to bite back the exact day and time. “With, uh, with the fuck-or-die.”

“…I don’t wanna know,” Bobby said after a silence that suggested he had a pretty good idea (even if it was wrong). “What was the job before that?”

“Fairy ring in Ohio,” Sam said in almost the same way as Dean, which snagged his attention like a son of a bitch.

“Yep, that’ll do it.”

“What’ll do it?” they chorused, then exchanged mildly annoyed glances.

“Fairies. They’ll use the curse curse if you look at ‘em wrong, let alone destroy their people traps.”

“So…what do we do?”

“Well,” Bobby sighed, “it ain’t terminal, usually.”

“Jesus Christ!” Sam snapped, startling pretty much everyone in the conversation because it wasn’t Dean. “That’s-Dammit, Bobby, there’s got to be a way out!”

“I didn’t say it was permanent,” Bobby growled. “Once the tenth curse hits you’ll be home free, providing you don’t get killed or kill yourselves in the process.”

“What’s the tenth curse?”

“The order varies. And depending on the order, we should be able to predict the ones coming. You’ve already checked off fuck-or-die, whole and partial animal transformation, personification, genderbending, bodyswitching…what else?”

“Sex pollen,” Dean and Sam chorused..

“…Fun stuff,” Bobby said with a cough.

“And a truth spell,” Dean added, trying not to sound like the face he was pulling.

“Okay, well then, that’s eight.”

“Okay, so…that should give you enough of a sequence to tell what’s next, right?”

“Should do,” Bobby said, distracted by the turning of pages, which was fine. But then there was a long, pregnant pause, and that was really not fine.

“So what are the last two?”

Bobby stayed silent for a second too long. “Uh-oh.”

“What uh-oh?” Dean all but snarled, “Bobby, what uh-oh?”

“Cool your jets. I was just kind of hoping you’d got past this one.”

“Which one?” Sam asked, voice tight with such forced politeness Dean was such a tendon in his neck was going to snap.

“Male pregnancy.”

The sound Dean made completely destroyed any ability to notice Sam’s reaction.

“Don’t yell at me, boy! You think I really want to be spending my Saturday night asking who the hell was on top?”

The room. Went quiet.

Dean almost crushed the phone and two of Sam’s fingers ripping it from his grasp, half bending over as he pressed the piece of plastic to his mouth and roared, “I DID NOT SLEEP WITH SAM.”

The phone didn’t survive being thrown against the wall, but Dean really didn’t care about anything but getting outside before he pulled out his guns and started shooting the petals off their garish flowered wallpaper.

Sam came out sixteen minutes later (not that Dean was staring at his watch until his eyes hurt with counting the seconds), everything in him drawn up tight and annoyed, angry even, but who it was directed at was a little unclear. For someone used to knowing everything that kid even thought about thinking, even the jerky movement of Sam’s arm as he scratched the back of his neck kind of freaked Dean out.

“Well, no one’s having an ass baby.”

“That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Dean thought maybe he should feel relieved, but he’d kind of figured that without having sex with another man the process was pretty fucking impossible no matter what way you sliced it, so he kept his gaze on the horizon and his ass firmly planted on the hood of the Impala. Just…in case, you know, anyone got any ideas.

“Bobby says…uh.” Sam had to stop and clear his throat, which was never a good sign, but since Dean was refusing to look at him it didn’t really matter. “Since we never… Usually the curse curse-”

“I still say that sounds like couscous.”

Sam laughed, quietly, but not quite. “Yeah, well… Turns out that when two people get whammied with it, they’re usually-apparently the curses are an attempt to get them together. See, they secretly want to be together but can’t, for some reason. Or shouldn’t.”

“Then the fairies fucked up,” Dean cut in, on his feet and arms crossed as slowly as he could manage once he was aware he was doing it. He tossed a glance over his shoulder to show Sam he meant it, but unfocused his gaze so he wouldn’t see anything of his expression. Any sort of hint that Sam suspected…it’d be really, really bad. “Been not sleeping with y-my brother for my whole life, it’s not about to change because of some…fucking magic mojo.”

“…Well…”

Dean turned on Sam so fast and hard he pulled something, must have, because it suddenly hurt to breathe staring at his brother like he’d grown another head, because Sam looked like that time Dean had gotten drunk and professed loudly to the entire bar that Sam had to be the oldest virgin on the face of the planet at sixteen, and it turned out Sam had lost it to Kelly Finkton two schools back and hadn’t told him.

“Sam?” he forced out, voice choked, eyes wide, stomach tying itself into knots so tight his intestines were starting to tear.

Sam was pale but determined, eyes on Dean’s feet and his hands tucked into his pockets in an attempt at casualness (and so Dean wouldn’t see they were curled into fists), a small shadow of a smile tugging weakly at the corner of his mouth. “The good news is we’re down to one curse.”

Dean’s mouth made the motions but no sound came out for a very long time, and when it did his vision started to grey. “Wh…Wha…”

“Whoa, whoa!” Sam caught him when his knees gave, and Dean narrowly avoided chucking on his shoes. “Calm down, Dean! Nothing-nothing happened.”

“Amnesia,” Dean croaked, unsure why Sam was staying so close (even though he had his fingers white-knuckling Sam’s jacket like he was dangling off a cliff). “Amnesia curse, Sam!”

“You just made a pass-or two-at me, and you-you said some stuff about my dimples, and my ass-but that doesn’t mean-”

“Sam…” Warning this time, grinding and pleading all at once.

“I just-All I meant was that…maybe you do want to? Really really deep down. I mean, god, Dean, we didn’t exactly have a traditional childhood-”

“Don’t you dare blame this on Dad,” Dean ordered, incensed enough (not incest, fuckwit) that he managed to refocus his eyes for a fraction of a second, long enough he hoped to stare Sam down.

“I just meant… Do you know how hard it was to turn you down?”

Something in the shape of Dean’s heart leapt up into his throat, but he wasn’t sure if it was…justified, considering.

He straightened up, still in the circle of Sam’s arms since he was holding on just as hard as Dean. He kept his eyes dead center on Sam’s collarbone, took a deep breath and tried not to think too hard about how his pulse was timed almost perfectly with Sam’s. This was it. This was either a one way ticket to hell or heaven, and no more middle ground.

“You said no,” Dean said after what seemed like the heaviest minute of his life. It didn’t-wasn’t quite right, but he doubted there was any sort of guidebook on how to talk to your baby brother about wanting to fuck him.

“I had to! Jesus, Dean, you weren’t yourself-you had amnesia! You didn’t even remember how to load a gun!”

But I remembered loving you. Dean’s eyebrows snapped together, but he kept his gaze where it was. Besides, as weird as it sounded, there were more important things to think about.

Like how Sam’s protest hadn’t been, “I had to, you’re my brother.”

Dean realized like a shotgun going off that he’d spent so much effort not sleeping with Sam that he’d never really considered Sam being open to the idea.

Oh fuck it.

There were probably better responses than hooking an arm around your brother’s neck and hauling him down for a kiss, but honestly? Dean didn’t know where to go from there.

Plus, kissing Sam? Fucking hell. Worth it.

His lips were dry and warm and gave under Dean’s like…like nothing that strong ever should, and for a long terrifying moment that's all it was-Dean taking and Sam giving. And then Sam took back.

Suddenly it was like they’d spent years doing it, like Sam had spent a lifetime practicing how to kiss Dean, like every time he’d kissed someone else had been a stepping stone to get to Sam. Nothing in the world tasted like Sam did, so strange and so strangely familiar, like curling up with a long lost childhood blanket or finding a tape you'd loved but forgotten you'd owned. If he’d had a cynical thought left it his body Dean might have spared a thought to wondering if he’d managed to mack on Sam under the amnesia whammy, but pretty much every last stain on his soul was evaporating under the fucking perfect rightness of Sam’s mouth on his.

When Sam pulled away to breathe it was less than an inch, hot panting exhale fanning across Dean’s lips and down his neck, steaming up his ribcage with the tiniest hint of a moan.

“God damn it,” he whispered, knocking their foreheads together. “God, that hooker in Denver-haven’t ever come that fast or hard since I first figured what my dick was for. Or when we switched bodies? Fuck, I could get off just thinking about touching you.” Sam’s hips rolled against his, a halting stutter of a grin like he still wasn’t sure it was okay.

“I didn’t mean to throw up on your shoes when I was a dog,” Dean blurted, first time he apologized for it and not sure why. “Just…didn’t want to wake up humping your leg.”

“I fucking hated when you couldn’t remember me,” Sam said, pulling back far enough that his eyes could burn into Dean’s like something molten. “So much worse than when you were dog, so much worse seeing you without you in there.”

Dean pulled him down again because he could, and started thinking really hard about how condoms were the best invention in the world when it came to preventing ass babies.

Turned out that neither one of them got pregnant, even though they took turns fucking each other into the mattress (and wall, and mini-bar, and backseat of the Impala) which probably had to do with the fact that they both fucking insisted on wearing two condoms apiece each time. So in the morning, instead of waking up to Dean’s distended stomach, Dean opened his eyes and, completely normal in the abs department, went to shower off some of the sweat and spunk-and couldn’t.

In the end, Dean decided, as far as curses go? Not physically being able to let go of each other for a week was something they could live through.

He got Sam up and dragged them both into the shower, where he woke up his sleep-groggy brother with a blow job and a kiss.

(Sam didn’t think it was that terrible either.)

THE  END!  Comments are love!!!

&heart;

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