Knowledge of Dead Secrets (7 of 10)
A pillow hits his face, and Dean grunts, picks it up and throws it somewhere else, it doesn’t matter where, just so long as it’s not on his face. There’s nothing, then the pillow lands on his face again a minute later, this time accompanied by an instruction to “Get up, you lazy fucker. Have you seriously been sleeping all day?”
“For being so smart,” Dean says, moving the pillow, curling up with it, still not opening his eyes, “you sure ask the stupidest fucking questions sometimes.”
There’s a snort, one that doesn’t sound like Sam, and Dean cracks an eye open, can almost make out the blurry figure of Kate, who blows a kiss at him when he groans and laughs when he covers his face with the pillow.
“We’ll wait downstairs for you,” Sam says, and drags a protesting Kate out of the room.
Dean rolls out of bed, sheet wrapped around his hips, and makes his way to the bathroom, takes a quick, hot shower, and walks back to the room for clothes. Once dressed, he goes downstairs and sees Sam and Kate sitting across from each other in the small sunroom, leaning towards one another, heads bent and close. Dean feels something twist in his stomach, but when he gets closer, they look up at him, no guilt or surprise on their faces, and he realises that they were just talking.
“’M up,” Dean says, rubbing one hand over his eyes as he sits down on the couch next to his brother, ignoring the way Sam’s presence, so close, makes his cock twitch, makes his blood pound heavy through his veins. “What’s going on?”
Sam exchanges looks with Kate, and says, “There’s a meeting tonight. A few people will be coming here. Miranda’s already offered us the back room to use.”
Dean looks back and forth between his brother and Kate, and finally says, “Okay,” slowly, missing what’s going on. “That doesn’t explain why Kate’s here. No offence,” he adds hastily. She waves a hand, almost imperious, and Dean turns back to Sam, ready for an explanation.
“It’s a strategy meeting,” Sam says.
Kate snickers, says something under her breath, and when Dean raises an eyebrow, she says, “War tribunal or something, right? Fucking ridiculous.”
Dean looks back at Sam, who shrugs and says, “Just five or six of us. You can’t be there,” and before Dean can argue, after Dean’s stiffened and opened his mouth to speak, Sam says, “That’s why Kate’s here. You two should get to know each other.”
“Why?” Dean asks, question popping out of his mouth before he can stop himself. He looks at Kate, whose eyes are gleaming, liquid brown and amused.
“She’ll be coming with us,” Sam says. “We’re leaving tomorrow. I need to talk to some people and go find Marinette. Kate’s coming with us.”
The tone of voice Sam’s using leaves no room for arguments, so Dean just leans back in his chair and asks, “Why?” The two exchange looks again, something that’s starting to piss Dean off a little, though Kate speaks up before he can say anything about it.
“I’m empathic,” she says, serious. “Fucking bitch’ll come after two of us, even if we’re with the poto mitan. One’s not enough, but an empath and a hunter? Yeah, she’ll fuck with the world if she can get us both.”
Dean blinks, says, “We want her to come after us?”
“When we’re good and ready,” Sam replies. “Then we’ll teach Marinette a lesson about messing with my family.”
Dean looks at his brother, sees Sam looking back at him, eyes deep, furious, but still as well, hunter outwaiting the prey. It makes him swallow, and when he looks at Kate, he sees that she’s seen the look in Sam’s eyes as well, except that she’s smiling, not at all nervous.
--
Sam’s apparently told Kate everything about all of the Winchesters, so when conversation turns stilted, both lost in thought about what might be going on downstairs, two Rada horses, three Petro horses, and Sam deep in planning, Dean mentions a prank Sam played on him, or some hunt they were involved in, and things smooth over.
His first impression of Kate still holds, that beach-bunny vibe, like she’s soaking in the heat that lingers around them, not letting it push on her and wring her dry, and his last one as well, her sharp angles, coarse energy, but she’s charming and has a razor-sharp wit.
She knows a lot about vodou even though she keeps herself away from it, and what she tells Dean chills him to the core, knowing that Sam’s involved in this. More than once, he’s caught himself gaping at her while she laughs at his shock or his amusement, but he doesn’t mind because he feels comfortable with her, like there’s something familiar about her.
He finally asks about the empathy, and Kate shrugs, says, “Sam figured it out, I guess. I don’t fucking know.” At Dean’s look of inquiry, she says, “Keeps things too fucking close sometimes. I said something about my fucking stepmother,” and she stops, seeing Dean’s face pale.
“Your mother died in a fire,” he says.
Kate frowns, says, “How the fuck’d you know that? You and Sam both, it’s fucking freaky. Yeah, she died in a fire, in my own fucking nursery.”
The children. What the demon said about the children, the kids with gifts-Kate’s one of them, can sense emotions, that’s what Dean’s been sensing about her, that connection to them, to Sam, more than just what happened with her and the loa.
“Bet you won’t fucking tell me anything either,” she says, half question.
Dean shakes his head, says, “If Sam hasn’t, I won’t,” and then Dean pauses. What if Sam doesn’t know about the demon? What if he doesn’t know that there are more like him? But that’s not right, can’t be possible, because Sam wrote the charm, knew what Dean was going to do, even knew where everything was going down. “Keeps things too fucking close,” he mutters, and Kate nods in agreement.
--
The conversation turns light after that, nothing too serious, and it’s nearly sunrise when Sam finally walks into the room, closes the door behind him and leans on it like he needs help holding himself up. Dean jumps up immediately, moving to help his brother, and Sam takes it, lets Dean guide him to the sofa. Sam grunts in thanks, sits down and tips his head back, eyes closed.
Something’s different, though it takes Dean a minute to realise that there’s a lump on Sam’s arm, under the long-sleeved shirt. He takes Sam’s hand, rolls up the sleeve, and sees bandages covering the skin on the bottom of Sam’s arm from elbow to wrist.
“Sam?” he asks, quiet, and Kate moves next to Dean, peers down at Sam.
Sam doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, so Kate peels one edge of the tape off and lifts the bandage off, eyes widening.
Dean shakes his head, stares at the red and inflamed skin, the curling black lines of a vévé tattooed right onto Sam’s arm, and asks, “Why the new tattoo?”
“It’s not just one,” Kate says, voice hushed. She lifts Sam’s other arm, mirrors her actions from before, and reveals another tattoo, one that’s different, sweeps over Sam’s skin and dips into the curve of his elbow. “There’re two. One for Karrefour and one for Ti-Jean.” She pauses, shakes her head, and asks, “Sam? Why do you have vévés for the black magic Petro on you?”
It’s bad enough just hearing the names of those two loa after everything Kate’s told him, worse when Dean digests what she called them, black magic loa, but she didn’t swear, not once, and that means something, means something bad.
“Sam?” she whispers, before reaching up, stroking his cheekbone and asking, “Poto mitan?”
Like an invocation, Sam shudders, blinks, comes out of whatever trance he was in. Dean doesn’t like it, doesn’t like that the vodou title is the thing Sam responded to, but he’ll take what he can get.
“Tell us what happened,” Dean orders, pushing Kate aside gently and kneeling at his brother’s side, one hand on Sam’s thigh.
“We have to leave,” Sam murmurs. He tries to push himself up, but Dean places his hand on his brother’s chest and holds Sam there. “Dean, we have to leave.”
Dean shakes his head, says, “Why? You’re not in any shape to travel, Sam. We’ll stay, you can sleep.”
“I’ll sleep in the car.” Sam looks at Kate, briefly, who lowers her eyes, and then he looks back at Dean.
Dean’s taken aback; he’s never seen anything other than determination or the loa in Sam’s eyes, but now he sees fatigue, fear, the need for an ending, either to the war or to life, and that scares Dean enough to have him stand up, say, “We’ll pack. You can sleep in the backseat. Where are we heading?”
Kate narrows her eyes, eyes flipping back and forth between the two brothers, but doesn’t say anything as Dean motions for her to start packing their things up.
“Biloxi first,” Sam murmurs. “Then north to St. Louis and Chicago.”
“And the final showdown?” Dean asks, putting weapons into their bags and duffels with practiced efficiency.
Sam shakes his head, closes his eyes. Dean’s eyes are drawn to his brother’s arms, red and aching, and he clenches his teeth as he turns away, meets Kate’s eyes.
--
Dean doesn’t know who Sam talks to in Biloxi, doesn’t know what happens or why they’re there.
He and Kate wait in the car outside of a small hardware store for fifteen minutes before Kate turns to him and asks, “You’re his fucking brother, man.”
Dean gives her a quick look, fixes his eyes back on the store door, shrugs as if to say, ‘Yeah, so?’
“So why do you fucking look at him as if you’d like to fucking eat him?”
Dean swallows, turns to Kate, and says, “What?” The protest sounds weak to his own ears and he holds back a flinch.
“It is all-fucking-over you, Dean. Everything you do, every time you look at him or touch him or, fuck, every time you’re in the same fucking room. It’s like you wanna fuck him so bad, you can’t think straight.” She pauses, glances at the store, and says, “So why don’t you?”
Dean chokes on his breath, sputters and turns wide eyes to Kate. “What?” he asks, once he finds his voice. “Dude, he’s my brother. That’s incest, that’s illegal, that’s, just. No.”
“Methinks the man doth protest too fucking much,” Kate says dryly, before looking over Dean’s shoulder and saying, “You done, Sam?”
Dean turns around too fast and hits his knee on the steering wheel, seeing Sam peering in the window.
“Yeah,” Sam says, giving Dean a funny look before opening the back door and sliding in, stretching out. “We’re ready to move on. St. Louis next. It shouldn’t take long.”
--
They’re in and out of St. Louis, on their way to Chicago, in a week. Sam was right, it didn’t take long, but it feels longer, dragging Kate along with them. She’s giving Dean over-the-top looks every chance she can get, which makes it pretty damn impossible for Dean to try and ignore the way watching his brother makes him feel. Sam must know what’s going on because he never asks, just watches them both and smiles, unless he’s out doing something with vodouisantes or whoever he came here to see. Dean hates it, hates that Sam won’t tell him what’s going on, hates more that Sam doesn’t let Dean into these meetings or rituals or whatever he’s doing.
Sam takes off, half the time leaving Dean and Kate in a motel room or restaurant, half the time making them wait in the Impala outside of a house or a business, and disappears inside for fifteen minutes, half an hour, sometimes longer. He never looks happy going in and he always looks tired coming out, and by the end of the third day in St. Louis, Dean puts his foot down.
“Three meetings a day, no more,” he says, over dinner at some kind of dingy suburban bar, peanut shells on the floor, unexpectedly good burgers on the table. “You’re running yourself ragged, Sam.”
“Your brother’s fucking right,” Kate adds, before slamming back a shot of whisky with a grimace. “And you being so fucking tired means I might as well sleep in the same fucking room; you’re too fucking tired to fuck. We could save our fucking money.”
Dean swallows wrong, ends up choking on his beer, and Sam and Kate watch him, both smiling, as he recovers, though her smile is fondly exasperated and Sam’s is pointed, hot.
“No need to worry,” Sam says, and Dean hates his brother in that second, for the way Sam’s calmly eating, hasn’t responded at all, either way, to Kate’s words. “We’re done here. We can leave tomorrow and go on to Chicago.”
--
They sit and talk for a while, nothing too serious, stories of when Sam and Kate first met, of when Sam was in Louisiana visiting and nearly got his arm bitten off by a gator, when Kate got thrown out of a library for foul language. It’s a good time, lots of laughs, Dean learning a little bit more about what happened to Sam in the three years his brother was gone, and his guard’s down, he’s relaxed.
Kate smiles at him when they get back to the motel, and before Dean can say anything, before he can ask about the look in her eyes, she says, “I’ll sleep in the extra room tonight,” and leaves, shutting the door, locking Dean in with Sam, just the two of them.
“I don’t know what she,” Dean says, but then he turns to face Sam and stops, mid-sentence.
Sam’s sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at Dean with resignation in his eyes, and Sam looks so tired, so defeated, it’s almost enough to make Dean nauseous.
“You want me,” Sam says, and with the truth out there, so blunt, so plain, Dean just stares. “You want to fuck me, I want you to fuck me. If you want to ignore that, focus on everything else, that’s fine and I’ll accept it. But I’m tired of watching you watch me, and if you’re never going to make a move, let me know so I can stop wondering, okay?”
Dean blinks, stands there, and holds Sam’s gaze until Sam stands up, turns away and heads for the bathroom. The door clicks closed, but not locked, and when the shower switches on a moment later, Dean huffs, goes to leave, opens the front door and freezes, sees Kate sitting on the small sidewalk, smoking.
“You’re a fucking pussy, Dean Winchester,” she says without turning around, blowing smoke rings into the air.
Dean slams the door, can hear her laughing, and he feels trapped, Kate and her too-knowing eyes on one side, Sam and his open invitation on the other. Dean sits down, bounces one foot on the floor, and then stands up again, opens the bathroom door and goes inside, puts the toilet lid down, sits on it.
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but he knows that Sam knows he’s in there, and his question breaks the silence between them. “Why’d you leave?”
There’s a sigh from the other side of the shower curtain, and Sam says, “I told you both I was going to. Showed you the acceptance letter and everything. You can’t tell me you forgot the argument.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, “but you didn’t leave for months, just glared at Dad and stopped talking to me.”
The sound of shampoo being squeezed out of a bottle, followed by Sam speaking, and it’s as if Dean’s body has finally figured out that Sam’s on the other side of that thin curtain, silhouette almost visible, wet and naked, because he almost misses what Sam says in the sudden rush of absolute need and want coursing through Dean’s veins.
“Dean, I got my letter in April. School didn’t start until August, and we were in Tennessee. I couldn’t leave just like that; I had nowhere to go and the country to cross by myself. When I left, it was three days before the dorms opened and we were in Colorado. That’s a hell of a lot closer.”
“Did you mean it?” Dean asks, half-wondering just how he and Sam are related, because even Dean didn’t consider the dorm issue, where Sam would have lived, and the thought of Sam having to fend for himself in San Francisco, eighteen and alone and penniless, gives him chills. “After you and Dad.”
Sam pulls the curtain back enough to look at Dean, serious even with his hair slicked back and sudsy, water tracking out channels on his shoulders and chest, tattoos gleaming. “When I asked you to come with me, or at least visit me? Fuck, Dean, you think I would’ve said something like that if I didn’t mean it? But you didn’t say anything, so I guess I figured you wouldn’t. It’s not like I was trying to disown you and Dad, I just, I needed something more solid, something more consistent. I never even changed my phone number.”
Dean holds Sam’s gaze, can’t hold it, looks away and hears the curtain close, hears Sam rinsing out his hair, scrubbing at his scalp.
“Okay,” Dean says, breathing out through his nostrils. “Okay,” and he gets up, leaves the bathroom, sits on one of the beds and leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers rubbing his eyes.
It’s almost painful to consider, that he could’ve gone to see Sam any time he wanted, that Sam was going to keep talking to his family while he was at school, maybe even hunting, he just needed a home base, something more permanent than the back seat of the Impala and state highways. That he and John were so stubborn, so hurt, when they should’ve called, should’ve done something, anything, it makes Dean feel uncomfortably guilty, especially when the thought pops up that, if he or his father had been there, Sam wouldn’t be in the mess he is now.
The shower shuts off and Sam walks out of the bathroom a couple minutes later, clean pair of jeans unbuttoned but zipped up, hanging off of Sam’s hips, showing the top edges of a white pair of boxer-briefs. Sam’s not wearing a shirt, and his tattoos shift and writhe in the awful motel light as he stands in front of the table and makes a pot of motel coffee.
Dean studies his brother’s back, the long clean lines of muscle, the broad shoulders, the curling lines of ink that cover almost every square inch. His eyes settle on the scar, that knife wound, and he says, “Tell me about the hunter who gave you that.”
Sam turns around, cocks his head and leans against the table, shoves his hands in his pockets.
“I was visiting a houngon outside of New Orleans,” he says, eyes trained on Dean. Dean shifts under his brother’s gaze, skin prickling, but he doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t dare pull his eyes away from Sam’s. “He was a horse for Simbe and had the gift of second sight. I needed to learn some things about fortune-telling, some of the aspects of being ridden by Baron La Croix. We were walking home from his hounfor one night, after dark, and it was as if his gift and my lessons kicked in at the same time. The hunter shot at us but we knew the bullets were coming, managed to drop before they hit us. He came at us with a knife after that, and I was careless.”
Sam shrugs, turns to check the coffee as if that’s his entire answer, but Dean shakes his head, says, “You aren’t careless with knives. You like them too much. What really happened?”
Sam sighs, moves to pour a cup of coffee, speaks with his back to Dean. “The hunter went after the houngon first. I pushed him out of the way and took a strike that was meant for him. The knife didn’t go in too deep, but the hunter wasn’t expecting me to fight back. I got the knife and slit his throat, and Simbe rode the houngon and healed me so I didn’t bleed out.” A short, sharp laugh, and Sam adds, “Loa couldn’t take away the scar, though.”
Dean shivers, hearing Sam talk so dispassionately, so matter-of-factly, about killing a hunter with his own weapon, but he has to ask, “Who was it?” because he needs to know, and he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Sam took the time to find out the hunter’s name.
Its not someone Dean’s ever heard of before, not that he knows a lot of hunters apart from the few that John let them visit with when they were kids, but Dean thinks he’ll never forget the name again.
Sam turns back around, offers Dean a cup of coffee, and Dean takes it with a silent nod, sipping and grimacing at the taste, but drinking it down nonetheless. Sam looks at him over the rim of his own cup, eyes dark, focused, the way Dean’s used to them seeming now, rather than the defeated, worn-out look he saw just half an hour earlier.
Dean lets his eyes fall, lets them linger on Sam’s tattoos, and as his gaze drops lower, he sees a bulge in Sam’s jeans, can practically see Sam’s cock harden. Dean swallows, looks up, sees heat in Sam’s expression, heat and control, as if Sam knows what he wants but won’t let himself take it.
“Sam,” Dean says, almost surprised to hear how hoarse his voice is, to feel how dry his mouth and throat are.
Sam raises an eyebrow, as if he’s saying, ‘Yes?’ waiting for Dean to carry on.
“In California, Pierre said,” Dean begins, then stops, unsure how to say what he wants to. Finally he just rolls his eyes at himself, and says, “Pierre said he fucked you, when some of the loa rode you. Did you. I mean, when Erzulie rode you and we were. How much do you remember? How much control do you have?”
“I remember everything,” Sam says, taking his cup of coffee and sitting down on one of the chairs at the rickety table. “It’s not like demonic possession. It’s more like a, like a conversation. The loa use my voice, use my body, but I’m there every step of the way. Pierre’s a bokò, he and Ti-Jean got along well. I wasn’t ridden by Ti-Jean a lot, but when I was, the two of them would talk about magic and then fuck. It didn’t disturb Sophie or Théo, it didn’t disturb the other loa, it didn’t disturb me.”
Dean nods, clears his throat and licks his lips, and asks, “And Erzulie? With me?”
Sam smiles, faint change of expression, and looks down at the floor, at his feet, bare and peeking out from the frayed hem of his jeans. “She likes you, strange enough. Felt sorry for what happened to you and pissed off, too, until she had your cock. Then she was just enjoying herself.”
It’s strange enough to hear Sam say the word ‘cock,’ even stranger to have it be in reference to Dean’s. “And you?” Dean asks, once he’s worked up the courage.
“I said I want to do it again, this time with me in control of my body,” Sam says instantly. “If that doesn’t answer your question, I don’t know what the fuck will.”
Dean snorts, trying to ignore how much his heart’s racing, how his stomach’s turning somersaults, how much blood just flew south to his dick. Just the fact that he’s considering it, he’s setting himself up to be hurt, Dean knows that. Once this mess is all taken care of, Sam’ll go back to San Francisco, to Théo and Sophie, will leave Dean alone again.
Sam’s hand is on his cheek, and Dean blinks, because he didn’t realise he was that deep in thought, to miss Sam moving, kneeling between his legs and taking the Styrofoam cup out of his hand.
“Sam,” Dean says, voice ragged.
The hand on his cheek moves, until Sam’s finger is pressed against Dean’s lips, stopping Dean from saying any more. “You never used to think this much, did you?” Sam asks, leaning up, brushing his lips against Dean’s jaw. “I was always the thinker, remember? And while I was thinking.”
“I was doing,” Dean whispers. “Dad yelled at us so much.” Dean leans down, takes Sam’s cheeks in his hands and knocks his forehead against Sam’s. He takes a deep breath, then asks, “Is it bad that I don’t care whether or not this is right?”
Sam’s other hand slides up Dean’s thigh, thumb reaching out to brush Dean’s cock, hard and trapped in his jeans. “It’s a relief,” Sam answers, just as quietly, and then tilts his head, presses his lips against Dean’s.
It’s not a kiss, not really, just connection while Dean sorts through everything in his head, while Sam waits, but then Dean leans back, opens his eyes and smirks at Sam. Sam raises an eyebrow, then his expression changes as he goes sprawling on the floor, pushed backwards by Dean, who drops to his knees and crawls between Sam’s legs, hovering over his brother, staring at Sam’s eyes, which have gone deep and dark.
“Gonna fuck you, Sam,” Dean breathes, before he’s kissing Sam, really kissing him, with teeth and tongue and lips, hands scratching down Sam’s chest before sliding back up, tracing out patterns in the tattoos.
Sam’s arching, has his legs tight around Dean, is rubbing against Dean, fingers digging into Dean’s shoulders, and the noises he’s making, the ones that are all Sam, nothing and no one else, are the best sounds Dean’s ever heard.
“Fuck later, come now,” Sam mutters, breathing the words into Dean’s ear before biting down on Dean’s earlobe, just as rough with Dean as Dean is with him. “Got all night, remember? Tifi got a different room.”
Dean never would’ve pegged Sam for being loud and talkative during sex, but when he reaches into Sam’s underwear and curls his hand around Sam’s dick, the groan Sam makes, the sudden litany of words he lets loose with, they’re loud and lewd, accompanied by Sam fumbling with Dean’s jeans, yanking them open, shoving them down, clawing Dean’s underwear out of the way.
Dean hisses, can’t stop a thrust when one of Sam’s hands wraps around his cock in turn, tight and squeezing as Sam strokes. “Fuck, yeah, Sam, like that,” Dean says, more a moan than speech.
It’s fast and frantic, like both of them are teenagers again and like neither of them have had sex before. Dean comes first, practically fucking Sam’s fist, and he feels the sharp pang of teeth settling in the meat of his shoulder when Sam stiffens and comes, arching up into Dean again and again, riding out the waves of climax with his lips sucking bruises into Dean’s skin.
“Fuck,” Dean says, flopping next to his brother on the floor, staring at the ceiling, strange water patterns on the stucco.
“In a minute,” Sam says, trying to catch his breath, trying to reach over and find something to wipe the come off of his stomach and hand with. “Got all night.”
Dean hums, moves his head to the side, stares at his brother as he says, “’M tired, Sam.” He’s about ready to close his eyes, about ready to fall asleep right there on the floor, no matter how itchy the carpet’s going to seem under his back in about five minutes.
Sam moves, though, hauls Dean up and practically throws him on the bed. He lands face-first but Dean can’t be angry about it, not when Sam starts pulling Dean’s clothes off and there’s a pillow under his head, the bed dipping under Sam’s weight.
“Try not to fall asleep,” Sam says wryly, smoothing a hand down Dean’s back, cupping Dean’s ass before Sam shifts and Sam’s hands are holding Dean’s hips.
Dean’s got a smart-ass comeback on the tip of his tongue, but then he feels Sam’s nose against the small of his back a moment before Sam’s tongue flicks out and licks up the sweat gathered at the base of Dean’s spine, and all thoughts of words and questions flee his mind.
“What’re you,” Dean starts to ask, but then Sam’s nose is trailing downwards and Sam’s hands are moving, spreading Dean’s ass. Dean’s cock is trying to be excited about this, especially when Sam starts licking around Dean’s hole. The moment Sam actually starts tongue-fucking him, Dean’s spine stiffens and his dick starts to harden, fill with blood, because fucking hell, this is dirtier than Dean ever thought his little brother had the potential to be, and, better than that, Sam’s good at this.
“Wanna hear you,” Sam murmurs, teeth nipping at the curve of Dean’s ass, one finger circling Dean’s hole while he’s talking. “Come on, Dean. Wanna hear how good it is, tongue in your ass, rimming you like this.”
Sam goes back to work, and Dean does his best to let Sam know how good it feels, how wrong this is and how much Dean doesn’t care, not so long as Sam’s tongue keeps twisting inside of him, going deeper with every stroke, finger sliding in next to tongue. Dean’s trying to move, trying to hump the mattress, because his cock’s aching, leaking, but Sam holds him still so all Dean can do is writhe, move backwards, fuck himself on Sam’s tongue and fingers, because there are two fingers in him now, coaxed in with saliva and sweat, and Dean’s never been on the bottom like this before, but he wonders why, wonders why he never wanted to, when Sam’s finger slides against something that has his mind blanking out and his cock spurting out helpless streams of come.
Dean gasps for breath, especially when Sam keeps going, keeps stroking until Dean’s done, like he’s milking Dean for everything Dean has. He turns Dean over then, hands wide and strong as they encompass Dean’s hips, roll Dean onto his back, gently. Dean looks at Sam with blown, uncomprehending eyes, as Sam dips his head and starts licking up the come smeared on Dean’s stomach, across Dean’s hips.
“Fuck,” Dean whispers, one hand tangling itself in Sam’s long, sweat-damp hair, feeling the slow rasp of tongue against hypersensitive skin.
When Sam’s done, he crawls up Dean’s body, presses a sleepy kiss to Dean’s forehead, and curls himself in on Dean. “Fuck later,” Sam mutters, yawning, and Sam’s snoring within minutes, gentle whuffs of air against Dean’s neck.
Dean smiles, wraps one arm around Sam, and he says, “Never letting go, little brother,” as Sam’s smell, coffee bean bitter and chocolate smooth, floods his nose, his senses, and tugs him to sleep.
--
“About fucking time,” Dean hears, and he opens his eyes, groans at the amount of light in the room. He shakes his head, turns and buries his face in something warm and smooth, and it takes an arm around his waist before he realises his eyes are pressed against skin.
“Aw, tifi, why’re you waking us up?”
Dean blinks, stiffens as he remembers what happened before he fell asleep, that he must be curled into Sam, that Kate’s in their room, looking, seeing. He sits up fast, lets the room swim in his vision for a moment before he glares at the girl and asks, “How the fuck’d you get in here?”
Kate laughs, holds up a key-card, and says, “The fucking spare, Dean. Though if you don’t fucking remember giving it to me before we went out last night, I assume Sam and you fucked like rabbits all night?”
“No fucking,” Sam murmurs, and Dean looks down, lets his eyes linger on his brother’s back before he looks up at Kate again. “Getting to it. Go ‘way.”
Kate laughs, sharp and short, and says, “We haven’t got the fucking time, Sam, remember? Gotta get to Chicago.”
Sam sighs, rolls over, and while Dean’s eyeing the morning erection Sam’s sporting, his brother says, “Fine. We’ll hurry. Go away.”
They don’t fuck, no time for it, though Dean thinks Sam resents that just as much as he does, even when they’re jerking each other off fast and dirty before taking turns in the bathroom, Sam going first. The room reeks of sex when they leave and Dean gives Sam a look that promises the next one will as well, if he has anything to say about it. Kate, who’d been in the room when Dean came out of the shower, snorts and keeps her mouth shut.
--
They were in Biloxi for a day, took three in St. Louis, but Sam ends up going to one place on the outskirts of the city, spending an hour inside, and coming out with a grimace on his face.
“We’re done here,” he says.
Dean looks at Kate, who shrugs back, and he says, slowly, “That’s it? Just an hour?”
Sam slides into the back seat, rubs his forehead, and meets Dean’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. “Hate this fucking city. We’re done here, and to hell with them all.”
Dean sees Kate shudder at Sam’s tone and he keeps from doing the same, just barely, because the venom in Sam’s voice sounds like liquid poison, and with the connection Sam has to the loa, Dean’s pretty sure he could damn someone to hell without a second thought.
“Where to next?” Dean asks, impressed that his voice doesn’t catch, doesn’t give away how terrifying his little brother can be now.
“We’re going to search out Marinette,” Sam replies, leaning back in the seat, closing his eyes and letting his legs fall open. “Drive south. She likes warm places.”
Part Eight