Fic: Sacramentum (Sam/Dean, NC-17)
I...I porned. I think. *facepalm* Because, uh, I don't know. bloodquartz made me do it.
Title: Sacramentum
Author: smallcaps
Pairing: Sam/Dean (assorted Dean/anything-with-a-pulse, because, well, Dean)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Dean starts digging into a mysterious virgin sacrifice. With porn.
(A wee AHBL spoiler/reference.)
There were certain truths, universally acknowledged...
Yeah, Dean Winchester's read Pride and Prejudice. Three different schools assigned it and he watched a few movie versions because, hello, Elizabeth? Smart and feisty? There was nothing not to like.
And there were universal truths. Like, fratboy cults tended to summon the snake-type demons, sorority girls went for spooky caves. Sometimes with teeth, just in case Dean had gone long enough without a bad case of 'vagina dentata' stuck in his brain to the tune of the Lion King.
So. Freud? A nutcase in general, but on some things, not so far off-base.
He'd done his share of busting up screwy college cults - Dean, that is, not Freud - mostly during a certain period of time in which he was trying to prove that Sammy wasn't the only one who could do the college thing. Also, varsity cheerleaders. Which lead to sitting in on other people's lectures and getting a stealthy handjob in a full class while discussing, believe it or not, Pride and Prejudice.
This time, he and Sam had just wound up a simple salt-and-burn and were kicking back, cooling their heels for a bit - damn, but business was slow, and what was with that? - and between flirting with the dimestore girl and prowling the co-eds, Dean was starting to overhear a few too many dropped whispers about virgin sacrifices.
He was going to say something to Sam, honest he was, but then he clued in that these whispers were about the fun kind of virgin sacrifice and he didn't feel like having that conversation again because business and pleasure? Not only did they totally mix, but in his finely honed opinion, enhanced the hell out of each other. Full on "go together like a horse and carriage" deal. So he passed off wanting to hang around with the conveniently true story that they should really hustle up some spare cash before picking a road at random for the all-important drive off into the sunset.
Step one: hustling.
Step two: sex.
Step three: information.
Steps two and three turned out to be pretty interchangeable. Her name was Cait; she was a religious studies fan, bigtime, and somewhere inbetween Dean coming on her tits and her blowing him with two fingers up his ass, it was suggested that if he was into kinky things some of the girls wanted to do this kind of voyeur thing.
Dean gave a sharkish grin, rolled his hips so that the short bristles of his pubes rubbed her clit right while his dick rocked inside her. Damn right he trimmed, because if you're gonna ask a girl to deep-throat, you have the courtesy not to be suffocating her in rug. Anyway, Cait made some little mewling noises and scrabbled at him in a way that stalled the conversation for a while, but after she got hers, and after the blowjob and her soft little fingers rubbing at his prostate *just right*, and after he ate her out so she came a few more times--
Well, let's just say, eventually the virgin sacrifice thing came up again.
Cait told only half the story, but she told it well, and Dean could fill in the rest. Sounded like your basic creepy-crawlie-summoning sex ritual. He wondered if Cait knew, or if she thought it was just a kinky sorority game. "But, ah, honey, I'm not exactly a virgin."
She gave him a sideways grin out of slitted eyes that said everything about how pleased she was of that. "Don't I know it. ...Have you ever been with a guy?"
Dean paused, getting the ritual now, why the sorority girls were keen. He considered fingers in his ass, tried to imagine cock. "Huh. Well, like I said. I'll try anything once...twice if I like it."
Cait's eyes went kinda dark, stormy ocean grey. He figured she was imagining cock in his ass too. "Do you like me?"
He flicked the corners of his mouth up in a smile, pulled her onto him again. "Maybe more than twice."
All universal truths considered, it was hardly a surprise that Dean wound up in a yonic cave with a bunch of sorority cultists, wearing a satiny blindfold and a whole lot of massage oil. Cait's roomies had helped oil him up, with a lot of giggles, and then with a lot of breathless, pleading girl-noises, and if this place didn't erect a statue of him or something then he was misreading his talents.
And...heh. 'Erect'.
He could smell burning kerosene, feel the warmth of the flaming torches. He was cosy and sated and relaxed; not a bad state of mind to be in, for this. Being naked in front of hot chicks didn't exactly bother him, and they'd laid him out on pillows and promised maybe later when he cracked pillowfight jokes.
So. Blindfold, check. Anointed, check. No speaking, check. Same old same old; the watered down lore said the ritual would be disrupted by the name of God, and what was the first thing that came out of a person's mouth in the middle of business? It was garbage, of course; most people didn't speak the name of God in Latin, with appropriate blessed incantations. Dean Winchester wasn't most people, but he figured he'd at least try something a little new before he derailed this wannabe-summoning.
The drumming started, a plain, steady beat that sounded like it was cheap-ass store-bought bongos. They'd have done better just dragging in a stereo and pumping up the techno, like that group back in...aw, hell. Atlanta? Maybe. And, okay, no, techno wasn't real music, but that was the point, it had the primitive beat thing going on that a ritual needed and not much else. Besides, Dean had a soft spot for that one song ever since he heard somewhere that the chick in it had been screwing in the recording studio so she sounded the right kind of breathless. If it was true, that was...five kinds of awesome. Really.
The drumming was slow enough that between the beats he could make out footsteps; one set bare feet, whispering on the rough ground, and a couple of sets of rubber soles, maybe track shoes.
Because track shoes and cult robes were totally 'in' this season. Goddamn amateurs had no appreciation.
Well. Dean mentally revised that thought, stretching out langourously on his pillows. He could hear a low wolfwhistle from somewhere around his four o'clock, a couple of snickers. They had some appreciation.
He waited as the girls in track shoes lowered his new fuckbuddy down to him. The guy crawled over him, settled kneeling between his thighs, slid both hands up the sides of his ribcage. And, yes, guy. Those were not girl hands. Dean knew girls with hands that were rough, hands that were firm and callused and knew hard work the way these hands obviously did, but...these were not girl-sized hands. These were massive fucking jock hands. Probably some gridiron-playing fratboy all naked and oiled up with him. Jeez.
The jock touched his chest, his throat, finding his face; cupped his chin in warm, slick fingers and leaned down for a kiss. The girls started chanting, soft schoolgirl Latin, opening invocations and the basic introductory crap. Dean opened his mouth, licked inwards. He was pretty comfortable, spread out on soft pillows being kissed in front of a bunch of hot chicks, and then he realised that, uh, yeah. This dude was going to fuck him in the ass.
He twitched without thinking, aware of his pulse in his throat, of the rhythm quickening. The jock let go Dean's face as if he knew, brushed knuckles down Dean's neck, so close to the stirring blood.
'You fucking pussy, get on with it,' Dean wanted to say, but didn't; probably the jock had never fucked a guy either, was wrestling with manly homophobic confusion. 'Look,' Dean could have told him, 'it's not gay if there's hot chicks getting off on it,' but he didn't say that either, because these girls were so amateur they probably didn't even know why they had a no-talking rule, and they'd wig out at their pretty ritual getting busted, and probably cry. Dean wasn't really good with crying women unless it was the exploded-pleasure-centre kind of crying that came from drowning in endorphins and multiple orgasms.
Instead of saying any of the brilliantly scathing quips he could have tossed off, he found one of fratboy's hands and, like the very soul of modesty, pushed the callused fingers at his conveniently oiled ass.
Fratboy started to make a sound that might have been "Oh--"; cut it short just in time as a huff of breath. Dean felt the push, smooth and easy, thicker than Cait's clever fingers. No pain, no problem, and he rolled his head back against the pillows, skull pressing against the soft knot of the blindfold. He made a contented hum and, well, if the feel of another finger easing in happened to make his mouth water, there was nothing weird about associating fingering with the taste of pussy. Cait's roomies certainly hadn't been complaining.
The jock seemed to decide that this was okay, the heat of one hand coming down on Dean's right hip as those two fingers pushed in deeper, seeking. With a little twist, Fratboy even managed to hit the sweet spot, and Dean grunted, pushing his hips up willingly. What, did this guy think he was some kind of girl? On with the show.
There was a breathy growl from above him. The pressure in his ass slid, thrusting in and out, wet and sure. Dean reached up blindly, traced the solid curves of the stranger's triceps, over firm deltoids, and hell, this guy was built. He palmed the jock's shoulders, curled the tips of his fingers over the blades, digging into the flesh near the spine. If he could see, it would probably be all Harlequin romance -- oiled skin gleaming in the light of flames, probably suntanned as hell, maybe a big black athlete type with a flash of white teeth. He opened his eyes against the blindfold, felt his lashes press under it, saw the dark slightly shift hues.
Something wet touched his thigh, the soft inside part, and it took him a moment to realise that he had some other dude's hard-on rubbing on his skin. Another to realise why that was strangely hot, which would be because it seemed accidental. Some chick rubbing her strap-on up against him, that was all for his benefit, reminding him he was about to be fucked good and then some. This was just a little: oops, hey there, looks like I'm kinda hot for you.
Dean dug his fingers a little harder into the guy's back, nails and all, grinning. Bring it on.
Fratboy let out a heavy breath, shifting between his thighs again. Dean's pulse was dancing now, all through his chest and throat. He let his mouth fall open at the sweetness of those big fingers pulling out of him, panted as he tried to relax himself for the push of dick.
Oh. Sweet Jesus.
He closed his mouth on a hiss, sharpness stabbing at his ass. He let go the jock's shoulders because he needed to relax, needed to--oh, damn, and it was slow but it just wasn't stopping and the guy made a low groan, familiar sex sounds rumbling in another man's throat. It just pushed on in and Dean started panting again, filling up inside. He loved this, truly; it felt like taking the world's greatest dump, stinging with the heaviness of it but so damn real and so good to be wrapped around.
The other guy was breathing faster too, just pushing steadily, and then there were honest-to-god balls touching Dean's ass, damp hair pressed to him, and he felt like he was pinned on a damn spear or something, so fucking deep. The jock moved, and he made a sound that was too short to be a moan but way too manly to be a whimper, fingers clenching briefly on the soft pillows under him.
No speaking, no voice, so the sound he made next was totally not a breathy 'yeah', just a slightly noisy exhale. He felt the pillows dip to his left, the fratboy leaning over him, using a hand for balance. The other hand still clutched his right hip, fingers tight on bone. He was sweating into the oil he wore; could smell the same off the stranger, salt and some woodsy-scented crap. At least it wasn't, like, rose oil or something.
With another quick groan, the fratboy pulled back a little, and pushed in, short thrusts staying mostly deep. Dean reached up again, found the guy's face and stroked it, slipped his fingertips under the guy's blindfold to trace the tops of his cheekbones. He felt that face lower to his, finding his mouth for another soft kiss.
Oh, fuck this, the guy was fucking balls-deep into his ass and was kissing like something out of a goddamn chick flick? The hell with that. Dean grabbed a fistful of hair and satiny blindfold, and shoved his tongue in the fratboy's mouth. No point being squeamish about a kiss at this point, really, what with the buttsex and the sorority cult drumming and chanting Latin around them while they were naked.
Something about the chanting was weird, actually, it wasn't the usual thrown-together evil-thing summoning that the wannabes so often stumbled across. On the other hand, Dean was exploring new sexual experiences, and so long as he threw a little name-of-God incantation in at some point before the fireworks it didn't really matter what the chicks were trying to do.
Unless what they were trying to do was make amateur gay porn, in which case he wanted distributing rights and profit share. Obviously.
Fratboy managed to deal with the tongue thing, and then they were kissing seriously, like, dick-in-ass serious. Dean tightened his grip in the soft mess of the other guy's hair; it was a good length for burying his hand in, almost as long as the dangling ends of blindfold.
A low dread clutched him suddenly and he pressed tighter, demanding the stranger's mouth as he inhaled deeply through his nose. Sweat and guy-smell and-- the hair, and--
Come on. He had always counted Lady Luck as one of his favourite women; always been good to her, treated her right. She wouldn't do this to him.
He lifted his other hand, acted like he just wanted to run his palm down the other guy's back to grab some ass, and yeah, that scar right on the spine that no-one should survive, that could not be coincidence. The sounds and the smell and the hair, sure, but that scar. Just.
Luck was a fucking bitch.
Dean twisted his head, panting so it seemed like he was just breaking for air. Oh, and Sam's ass, he should get his hand off Sam's ass. Okay. Fuck. They'd stumbled on the same hunt, no big deal, explained why Sam hadn't bitched about staying in town longer. All he had to do was just finish up here, escape before Sam took his blindfold off, and never let him figure out that the two of them had fucked.
Hmm. They were fucking. His little brother was fucking him. In the middle of a circle of hot chicks. Who were totally getting off on it. Dean quirked an eyebrow under his blindfold, because that was rounding the corner back into actually-kind-of-hot territory. It was too late to stop now, because Sam would find out who he was, although even if that happened then he was guaranteed never to get ribbed about experimenting with guys because this? Never going to be mentioned again, ever.
He used his grip on Sam's hair for leverage, lifted his head to lick a wet, teasing stripe along the crease of Sam's neck. Tasted like massage oil, which kinda sucked, but Sam went all squirmy and clutched his hip tighter and moved his hips just--yeah, there was that sweet spot again.
Dean had the presence of mind not to moan, at least, because the last thing he needed was for Sam to recognise him in return. He put his teeth at the crook of Sam's neck and shoulder; bit down lightly and flicked his tongue over the slick skin, ignoring the funky taste.
Sam grunted or panted or something in between, fucking faster now, rubbing against that sweet spot more often than not. Dean shuddered, aching to express some appreciation, some sound that said 'fuck yes -- good!' but there was no chance he was going to let himself get busted with this. No fucking chance.
Damn, how could he interrupt with the name of God without Sam hearing his voice? But, if Sam was on the same hunt, Sam would do it, Dean could seize the distraction to escape before, you know, the whole accidental incest thing came out into the open. It only counted if you got caught, right?
This was so damn naughty, he ought to buy Cait and her weirdo cult an entire dorm built out of flowers and candy.
No flowers. No candy. No noises. Dean buried his face in Sam's shoulder, screwing his eyes closed under the folded satin. He revelled in the slick, heated thrusting of Sam's dick in his ass. Totally only counted if he got caught. Risk, exhibitionism, and prostate stimulation? It was like three Christmases all in one.
He set his fingernails on Sam's shoulders and raked down, hard, grinning at the gasp that elicited. He was gonna leave marks. He was going to leave Sam feeling this tomorrow and then torment his little brother with innocent questions about college girls.
It sucked at least a little that he wouldn't be able to make fun of Sam for screwing another guy, so he comforted himself by biting oily flesh again, sucking long and hard so there'd be a good, conspicuous mark there tomorrow. Probably for a while after. Sam grunted, wrapping strong arms around him and rocking backward abrubtly; Dean grabbed at his brother to steady himself, wound up straddling Sam's lap with a sound of surprise, Sam's harsh breathing in his ear.
Sam hadn't slipped out during that little maneouvre. Nice. Dean made a little note of mental approval.
Sam's hands moved down to his hips, lifted him with what was surely superhuman strength, although to be fair Dean braced himself to help a little. For a moment he was just hanging there, aching and hollow, aware of the head of Sam's cock just barely still inside him.
Softer than a whisper, softer almost than a breath came the smug question, "...dirty enough for you, Dean?"
Dean gaped.
And as quick as that, Sam was pulling his hips down, thrusting up into him. Dean choked off a sob, heat bursting under his skin with a fresh prickle of sweat all over. His eyes burned with jolted tears as the air was driven from his body. Oh -- oh, fuck, Sam knew, when had Sam worked it out, and oh god, Sam was holding him on his lap and fucking up into him like the world depended on making Dean's brain explode out of his own dick.
His body still wanted to sob, but he reined himself in, struggling to hear the faint words Sam's lips were pressing to his ear, too quiet to disturb the chicks. Half of them were probably too into the show to care, anyway; there was a line between chanting and moaning that was becoming finer and finer.
"What turns you on more, Dean? Getting fucked in front of an audience, hoping your brother doesn't realise it's you?" Sam nuzzled in, making his sweet spot spark with every thrust, and fuck, Dean was getting way too fuzzy for this shit. Sam tightened his grip, emphasising his words with his thrusts, or his thrusts with his words, or something, or both. "Or. Your little brother. Fucking you. Audience. You wanna beg. You wanna. Come."
Dean opened his mouth to curse, but Sam seized his mouth in a clumsy kiss, no tongue, just lips bumping each other, shushing him. Right. No talking. No idea how Sam was managing to get out those teeny tiny whispers, stay in control. There was a wildly confused part of him that just wanted to pump the air in brotherly approval, 'Sam, you dog--' but. But. That was...if this was...well, to someone other than him.
Sam's mouth strayed back to his ear, tongue flicking wetly over the curve of it. Single syllables now, thrusting. "Those. Girls. Are. So. Damn. Wet."
He could imagine it, burying his mouth in pussy, feeling juices run down his chin as any one of those chicks came apart under his tongue. Any or all. He gasped into the air, trying desperately to focus--one of them should, they should invoke the name of God soon, stop whatever was going to happen. He wet his lips, swallowed painfully, wet his dry lips again.
Sam stopped suddenly, buried deep in him; the next words were almost audible enough to qualify as a hiss. "No. Trust me."
Dean was starting to think maybe Sam had done a lot more research than he had, and that maybe jumping straight in hadn't been the smartest approach -- but, dammit, lots of fine sex had been had by all. And now, apparently...by all. Jesus.
Sam slid a hand up his spine to cradle the back of his head, other hand still holding his hips in place. Again, his brother's voice dropped below a whisper. "They're so wet, Dean, all hot and syrupy between their thighs. You could pour them on waffles. They're all worked up and you haven't even touched them. Just let them watch you like this," he kissed Dean's ear, "getting fucked," kissed Dean's blindfold, "by your little brother," Dean's jaw, "and loving it."
Dean had about had enough. He wrapped a slick hand around his dick, pumped it slowly, because, yeah, dammit, loving it. He couldn't even mouth a plea for Sam to start moving again because damn fucking blindfolds and he just really should have paid more attention to what this whole thing was for, but who the hell knew it was going to turn into this?
Well, Sam, apparently, because Sam had bothered to do the research.
Sam huffed a laugh, and fuck him for being so damn smug, then one of those firm guy-hands came and wrapped around Dean's, sliding up and down his cock with him. He leaned his forehead down on Sam's shoulder, and never mind what that did to his neck, because his brother was jerking him off, and Sam's dick was wedged so far up his ass it probably needed caving equipment or something.
Sam pulled at his grip, faster and firmer, and Dean let himself groan, felt his ass twitching, half-clenching around Sam's stiff cock. The backs of his knees itched with trapped sweat and he couldn't get enough air, Sam's damn body heat was sucking it all in, burning it up. Just a little more, just a little, and damn, those fingers sliding wetly over the head of his dick, and--
"Say my name," Sam gasped in his ear, "you can say my name, nothing else, it's okay--"
and, "ohfuckSam," Dean blurted, flicking his wrist faster, just a little more, and finally, finally coming, into his hand and Sam's, his whole body going tight and hot and wet like a kettle on the boil.
His stomach lurched abrubtly as he was rolled backwards; Sam landed them onto the pillows again, growling hungrily and pinning Dean down. Dean gave a yelp that twisted into a sob as Sam attacked his throat, biting and licking; Sam's hips thrust, grinding deep into his still-trembling body, Sam all hot and musky-smelling.
Dean grunted, pulling Sam in tight, raking nails over his back again. Fists in hair and blindfold knots, Sam's teeth at him, the two of them pushing and pulling and wild. The chanting got louder, sped up to a - heh - climax; Sam made a feral, strangled sound and slowed abrubtly, rocking into him a couple more times and then easing off altogether.
Dean sprawled on the pillows bonelessly, trying to get his breath back. Sam had the decency to collapse mostly off of him so that he had a shot at not being crushed to death. Dean's bones buzzed and he blinked blearily, a crack of light coming into his vision from where the blindfold was coming askew.
"What the..." He stopped, let himself breathe a little longer before trying again. "Sam, what's...I don't..."
Sam gave a contented chuckle. Dean felt fingers grope at his forehead, then the blindfold was pulled off him and he blinked into the light. Sam pulled his own blindfold off then, eyes glinting satisfaction at him.
"We didn't--" Dean wiped his face, confused. He whispered, "Sam, we didn't stop the sacrifice."
"Dean."
Sam reached out a hand to gently lift his chin. His little brother's smile was dangerous and content and more than a little hot. The words that followed made the pit drop out of his stomach while simultaneously being even hotter.
"Who the hell did you think you were being sacrificed to?"
Title: Sacramentum
Author: smallcaps
Pairing: Sam/Dean (assorted Dean/anything-with-a-pulse, because, well, Dean)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Dean starts digging into a mysterious virgin sacrifice. With porn.
(A wee AHBL spoiler/reference.)
There were certain truths, universally acknowledged...
Yeah, Dean Winchester's read Pride and Prejudice. Three different schools assigned it and he watched a few movie versions because, hello, Elizabeth? Smart and feisty? There was nothing not to like.
And there were universal truths. Like, fratboy cults tended to summon the snake-type demons, sorority girls went for spooky caves. Sometimes with teeth, just in case Dean had gone long enough without a bad case of 'vagina dentata' stuck in his brain to the tune of the Lion King.
So. Freud? A nutcase in general, but on some things, not so far off-base.
He'd done his share of busting up screwy college cults - Dean, that is, not Freud - mostly during a certain period of time in which he was trying to prove that Sammy wasn't the only one who could do the college thing. Also, varsity cheerleaders. Which lead to sitting in on other people's lectures and getting a stealthy handjob in a full class while discussing, believe it or not, Pride and Prejudice.
This time, he and Sam had just wound up a simple salt-and-burn and were kicking back, cooling their heels for a bit - damn, but business was slow, and what was with that? - and between flirting with the dimestore girl and prowling the co-eds, Dean was starting to overhear a few too many dropped whispers about virgin sacrifices.
He was going to say something to Sam, honest he was, but then he clued in that these whispers were about the fun kind of virgin sacrifice and he didn't feel like having that conversation again because business and pleasure? Not only did they totally mix, but in his finely honed opinion, enhanced the hell out of each other. Full on "go together like a horse and carriage" deal. So he passed off wanting to hang around with the conveniently true story that they should really hustle up some spare cash before picking a road at random for the all-important drive off into the sunset.
Step one: hustling.
Step two: sex.
Step three: information.
Steps two and three turned out to be pretty interchangeable. Her name was Cait; she was a religious studies fan, bigtime, and somewhere inbetween Dean coming on her tits and her blowing him with two fingers up his ass, it was suggested that if he was into kinky things some of the girls wanted to do this kind of voyeur thing.
Dean gave a sharkish grin, rolled his hips so that the short bristles of his pubes rubbed her clit right while his dick rocked inside her. Damn right he trimmed, because if you're gonna ask a girl to deep-throat, you have the courtesy not to be suffocating her in rug. Anyway, Cait made some little mewling noises and scrabbled at him in a way that stalled the conversation for a while, but after she got hers, and after the blowjob and her soft little fingers rubbing at his prostate *just right*, and after he ate her out so she came a few more times--
Well, let's just say, eventually the virgin sacrifice thing came up again.
Cait told only half the story, but she told it well, and Dean could fill in the rest. Sounded like your basic creepy-crawlie-summoning sex ritual. He wondered if Cait knew, or if she thought it was just a kinky sorority game. "But, ah, honey, I'm not exactly a virgin."
She gave him a sideways grin out of slitted eyes that said everything about how pleased she was of that. "Don't I know it. ...Have you ever been with a guy?"
Dean paused, getting the ritual now, why the sorority girls were keen. He considered fingers in his ass, tried to imagine cock. "Huh. Well, like I said. I'll try anything once...twice if I like it."
Cait's eyes went kinda dark, stormy ocean grey. He figured she was imagining cock in his ass too. "Do you like me?"
He flicked the corners of his mouth up in a smile, pulled her onto him again. "Maybe more than twice."
All universal truths considered, it was hardly a surprise that Dean wound up in a yonic cave with a bunch of sorority cultists, wearing a satiny blindfold and a whole lot of massage oil. Cait's roomies had helped oil him up, with a lot of giggles, and then with a lot of breathless, pleading girl-noises, and if this place didn't erect a statue of him or something then he was misreading his talents.
And...heh. 'Erect'.
He could smell burning kerosene, feel the warmth of the flaming torches. He was cosy and sated and relaxed; not a bad state of mind to be in, for this. Being naked in front of hot chicks didn't exactly bother him, and they'd laid him out on pillows and promised maybe later when he cracked pillowfight jokes.
So. Blindfold, check. Anointed, check. No speaking, check. Same old same old; the watered down lore said the ritual would be disrupted by the name of God, and what was the first thing that came out of a person's mouth in the middle of business? It was garbage, of course; most people didn't speak the name of God in Latin, with appropriate blessed incantations. Dean Winchester wasn't most people, but he figured he'd at least try something a little new before he derailed this wannabe-summoning.
The drumming started, a plain, steady beat that sounded like it was cheap-ass store-bought bongos. They'd have done better just dragging in a stereo and pumping up the techno, like that group back in...aw, hell. Atlanta? Maybe. And, okay, no, techno wasn't real music, but that was the point, it had the primitive beat thing going on that a ritual needed and not much else. Besides, Dean had a soft spot for that one song ever since he heard somewhere that the chick in it had been screwing in the recording studio so she sounded the right kind of breathless. If it was true, that was...five kinds of awesome. Really.
The drumming was slow enough that between the beats he could make out footsteps; one set bare feet, whispering on the rough ground, and a couple of sets of rubber soles, maybe track shoes.
Because track shoes and cult robes were totally 'in' this season. Goddamn amateurs had no appreciation.
Well. Dean mentally revised that thought, stretching out langourously on his pillows. He could hear a low wolfwhistle from somewhere around his four o'clock, a couple of snickers. They had some appreciation.
He waited as the girls in track shoes lowered his new fuckbuddy down to him. The guy crawled over him, settled kneeling between his thighs, slid both hands up the sides of his ribcage. And, yes, guy. Those were not girl hands. Dean knew girls with hands that were rough, hands that were firm and callused and knew hard work the way these hands obviously did, but...these were not girl-sized hands. These were massive fucking jock hands. Probably some gridiron-playing fratboy all naked and oiled up with him. Jeez.
The jock touched his chest, his throat, finding his face; cupped his chin in warm, slick fingers and leaned down for a kiss. The girls started chanting, soft schoolgirl Latin, opening invocations and the basic introductory crap. Dean opened his mouth, licked inwards. He was pretty comfortable, spread out on soft pillows being kissed in front of a bunch of hot chicks, and then he realised that, uh, yeah. This dude was going to fuck him in the ass.
He twitched without thinking, aware of his pulse in his throat, of the rhythm quickening. The jock let go Dean's face as if he knew, brushed knuckles down Dean's neck, so close to the stirring blood.
'You fucking pussy, get on with it,' Dean wanted to say, but didn't; probably the jock had never fucked a guy either, was wrestling with manly homophobic confusion. 'Look,' Dean could have told him, 'it's not gay if there's hot chicks getting off on it,' but he didn't say that either, because these girls were so amateur they probably didn't even know why they had a no-talking rule, and they'd wig out at their pretty ritual getting busted, and probably cry. Dean wasn't really good with crying women unless it was the exploded-pleasure-centre kind of crying that came from drowning in endorphins and multiple orgasms.
Instead of saying any of the brilliantly scathing quips he could have tossed off, he found one of fratboy's hands and, like the very soul of modesty, pushed the callused fingers at his conveniently oiled ass.
Fratboy started to make a sound that might have been "Oh--"; cut it short just in time as a huff of breath. Dean felt the push, smooth and easy, thicker than Cait's clever fingers. No pain, no problem, and he rolled his head back against the pillows, skull pressing against the soft knot of the blindfold. He made a contented hum and, well, if the feel of another finger easing in happened to make his mouth water, there was nothing weird about associating fingering with the taste of pussy. Cait's roomies certainly hadn't been complaining.
The jock seemed to decide that this was okay, the heat of one hand coming down on Dean's right hip as those two fingers pushed in deeper, seeking. With a little twist, Fratboy even managed to hit the sweet spot, and Dean grunted, pushing his hips up willingly. What, did this guy think he was some kind of girl? On with the show.
There was a breathy growl from above him. The pressure in his ass slid, thrusting in and out, wet and sure. Dean reached up blindly, traced the solid curves of the stranger's triceps, over firm deltoids, and hell, this guy was built. He palmed the jock's shoulders, curled the tips of his fingers over the blades, digging into the flesh near the spine. If he could see, it would probably be all Harlequin romance -- oiled skin gleaming in the light of flames, probably suntanned as hell, maybe a big black athlete type with a flash of white teeth. He opened his eyes against the blindfold, felt his lashes press under it, saw the dark slightly shift hues.
Something wet touched his thigh, the soft inside part, and it took him a moment to realise that he had some other dude's hard-on rubbing on his skin. Another to realise why that was strangely hot, which would be because it seemed accidental. Some chick rubbing her strap-on up against him, that was all for his benefit, reminding him he was about to be fucked good and then some. This was just a little: oops, hey there, looks like I'm kinda hot for you.
Dean dug his fingers a little harder into the guy's back, nails and all, grinning. Bring it on.
Fratboy let out a heavy breath, shifting between his thighs again. Dean's pulse was dancing now, all through his chest and throat. He let his mouth fall open at the sweetness of those big fingers pulling out of him, panted as he tried to relax himself for the push of dick.
Oh. Sweet Jesus.
He closed his mouth on a hiss, sharpness stabbing at his ass. He let go the jock's shoulders because he needed to relax, needed to--oh, damn, and it was slow but it just wasn't stopping and the guy made a low groan, familiar sex sounds rumbling in another man's throat. It just pushed on in and Dean started panting again, filling up inside. He loved this, truly; it felt like taking the world's greatest dump, stinging with the heaviness of it but so damn real and so good to be wrapped around.
The other guy was breathing faster too, just pushing steadily, and then there were honest-to-god balls touching Dean's ass, damp hair pressed to him, and he felt like he was pinned on a damn spear or something, so fucking deep. The jock moved, and he made a sound that was too short to be a moan but way too manly to be a whimper, fingers clenching briefly on the soft pillows under him.
No speaking, no voice, so the sound he made next was totally not a breathy 'yeah', just a slightly noisy exhale. He felt the pillows dip to his left, the fratboy leaning over him, using a hand for balance. The other hand still clutched his right hip, fingers tight on bone. He was sweating into the oil he wore; could smell the same off the stranger, salt and some woodsy-scented crap. At least it wasn't, like, rose oil or something.
With another quick groan, the fratboy pulled back a little, and pushed in, short thrusts staying mostly deep. Dean reached up again, found the guy's face and stroked it, slipped his fingertips under the guy's blindfold to trace the tops of his cheekbones. He felt that face lower to his, finding his mouth for another soft kiss.
Oh, fuck this, the guy was fucking balls-deep into his ass and was kissing like something out of a goddamn chick flick? The hell with that. Dean grabbed a fistful of hair and satiny blindfold, and shoved his tongue in the fratboy's mouth. No point being squeamish about a kiss at this point, really, what with the buttsex and the sorority cult drumming and chanting Latin around them while they were naked.
Something about the chanting was weird, actually, it wasn't the usual thrown-together evil-thing summoning that the wannabes so often stumbled across. On the other hand, Dean was exploring new sexual experiences, and so long as he threw a little name-of-God incantation in at some point before the fireworks it didn't really matter what the chicks were trying to do.
Unless what they were trying to do was make amateur gay porn, in which case he wanted distributing rights and profit share. Obviously.
Fratboy managed to deal with the tongue thing, and then they were kissing seriously, like, dick-in-ass serious. Dean tightened his grip in the soft mess of the other guy's hair; it was a good length for burying his hand in, almost as long as the dangling ends of blindfold.
A low dread clutched him suddenly and he pressed tighter, demanding the stranger's mouth as he inhaled deeply through his nose. Sweat and guy-smell and-- the hair, and--
Come on. He had always counted Lady Luck as one of his favourite women; always been good to her, treated her right. She wouldn't do this to him.
He lifted his other hand, acted like he just wanted to run his palm down the other guy's back to grab some ass, and yeah, that scar right on the spine that no-one should survive, that could not be coincidence. The sounds and the smell and the hair, sure, but that scar. Just.
Luck was a fucking bitch.
Dean twisted his head, panting so it seemed like he was just breaking for air. Oh, and Sam's ass, he should get his hand off Sam's ass. Okay. Fuck. They'd stumbled on the same hunt, no big deal, explained why Sam hadn't bitched about staying in town longer. All he had to do was just finish up here, escape before Sam took his blindfold off, and never let him figure out that the two of them had fucked.
Hmm. They were fucking. His little brother was fucking him. In the middle of a circle of hot chicks. Who were totally getting off on it. Dean quirked an eyebrow under his blindfold, because that was rounding the corner back into actually-kind-of-hot territory. It was too late to stop now, because Sam would find out who he was, although even if that happened then he was guaranteed never to get ribbed about experimenting with guys because this? Never going to be mentioned again, ever.
He used his grip on Sam's hair for leverage, lifted his head to lick a wet, teasing stripe along the crease of Sam's neck. Tasted like massage oil, which kinda sucked, but Sam went all squirmy and clutched his hip tighter and moved his hips just--yeah, there was that sweet spot again.
Dean had the presence of mind not to moan, at least, because the last thing he needed was for Sam to recognise him in return. He put his teeth at the crook of Sam's neck and shoulder; bit down lightly and flicked his tongue over the slick skin, ignoring the funky taste.
Sam grunted or panted or something in between, fucking faster now, rubbing against that sweet spot more often than not. Dean shuddered, aching to express some appreciation, some sound that said 'fuck yes -- good!' but there was no chance he was going to let himself get busted with this. No fucking chance.
Damn, how could he interrupt with the name of God without Sam hearing his voice? But, if Sam was on the same hunt, Sam would do it, Dean could seize the distraction to escape before, you know, the whole accidental incest thing came out into the open. It only counted if you got caught, right?
This was so damn naughty, he ought to buy Cait and her weirdo cult an entire dorm built out of flowers and candy.
No flowers. No candy. No noises. Dean buried his face in Sam's shoulder, screwing his eyes closed under the folded satin. He revelled in the slick, heated thrusting of Sam's dick in his ass. Totally only counted if he got caught. Risk, exhibitionism, and prostate stimulation? It was like three Christmases all in one.
He set his fingernails on Sam's shoulders and raked down, hard, grinning at the gasp that elicited. He was gonna leave marks. He was going to leave Sam feeling this tomorrow and then torment his little brother with innocent questions about college girls.
It sucked at least a little that he wouldn't be able to make fun of Sam for screwing another guy, so he comforted himself by biting oily flesh again, sucking long and hard so there'd be a good, conspicuous mark there tomorrow. Probably for a while after. Sam grunted, wrapping strong arms around him and rocking backward abrubtly; Dean grabbed at his brother to steady himself, wound up straddling Sam's lap with a sound of surprise, Sam's harsh breathing in his ear.
Sam hadn't slipped out during that little maneouvre. Nice. Dean made a little note of mental approval.
Sam's hands moved down to his hips, lifted him with what was surely superhuman strength, although to be fair Dean braced himself to help a little. For a moment he was just hanging there, aching and hollow, aware of the head of Sam's cock just barely still inside him.
Softer than a whisper, softer almost than a breath came the smug question, "...dirty enough for you, Dean?"
Dean gaped.
And as quick as that, Sam was pulling his hips down, thrusting up into him. Dean choked off a sob, heat bursting under his skin with a fresh prickle of sweat all over. His eyes burned with jolted tears as the air was driven from his body. Oh -- oh, fuck, Sam knew, when had Sam worked it out, and oh god, Sam was holding him on his lap and fucking up into him like the world depended on making Dean's brain explode out of his own dick.
His body still wanted to sob, but he reined himself in, struggling to hear the faint words Sam's lips were pressing to his ear, too quiet to disturb the chicks. Half of them were probably too into the show to care, anyway; there was a line between chanting and moaning that was becoming finer and finer.
"What turns you on more, Dean? Getting fucked in front of an audience, hoping your brother doesn't realise it's you?" Sam nuzzled in, making his sweet spot spark with every thrust, and fuck, Dean was getting way too fuzzy for this shit. Sam tightened his grip, emphasising his words with his thrusts, or his thrusts with his words, or something, or both. "Or. Your little brother. Fucking you. Audience. You wanna beg. You wanna. Come."
Dean opened his mouth to curse, but Sam seized his mouth in a clumsy kiss, no tongue, just lips bumping each other, shushing him. Right. No talking. No idea how Sam was managing to get out those teeny tiny whispers, stay in control. There was a wildly confused part of him that just wanted to pump the air in brotherly approval, 'Sam, you dog--' but. But. That was...if this was...well, to someone other than him.
Sam's mouth strayed back to his ear, tongue flicking wetly over the curve of it. Single syllables now, thrusting. "Those. Girls. Are. So. Damn. Wet."
He could imagine it, burying his mouth in pussy, feeling juices run down his chin as any one of those chicks came apart under his tongue. Any or all. He gasped into the air, trying desperately to focus--one of them should, they should invoke the name of God soon, stop whatever was going to happen. He wet his lips, swallowed painfully, wet his dry lips again.
Sam stopped suddenly, buried deep in him; the next words were almost audible enough to qualify as a hiss. "No. Trust me."
Dean was starting to think maybe Sam had done a lot more research than he had, and that maybe jumping straight in hadn't been the smartest approach -- but, dammit, lots of fine sex had been had by all. And now, apparently...by all. Jesus.
Sam slid a hand up his spine to cradle the back of his head, other hand still holding his hips in place. Again, his brother's voice dropped below a whisper. "They're so wet, Dean, all hot and syrupy between their thighs. You could pour them on waffles. They're all worked up and you haven't even touched them. Just let them watch you like this," he kissed Dean's ear, "getting fucked," kissed Dean's blindfold, "by your little brother," Dean's jaw, "and loving it."
Dean had about had enough. He wrapped a slick hand around his dick, pumped it slowly, because, yeah, dammit, loving it. He couldn't even mouth a plea for Sam to start moving again because damn fucking blindfolds and he just really should have paid more attention to what this whole thing was for, but who the hell knew it was going to turn into this?
Well, Sam, apparently, because Sam had bothered to do the research.
Sam huffed a laugh, and fuck him for being so damn smug, then one of those firm guy-hands came and wrapped around Dean's, sliding up and down his cock with him. He leaned his forehead down on Sam's shoulder, and never mind what that did to his neck, because his brother was jerking him off, and Sam's dick was wedged so far up his ass it probably needed caving equipment or something.
Sam pulled at his grip, faster and firmer, and Dean let himself groan, felt his ass twitching, half-clenching around Sam's stiff cock. The backs of his knees itched with trapped sweat and he couldn't get enough air, Sam's damn body heat was sucking it all in, burning it up. Just a little more, just a little, and damn, those fingers sliding wetly over the head of his dick, and--
"Say my name," Sam gasped in his ear, "you can say my name, nothing else, it's okay--"
and, "ohfuckSam," Dean blurted, flicking his wrist faster, just a little more, and finally, finally coming, into his hand and Sam's, his whole body going tight and hot and wet like a kettle on the boil.
His stomach lurched abrubtly as he was rolled backwards; Sam landed them onto the pillows again, growling hungrily and pinning Dean down. Dean gave a yelp that twisted into a sob as Sam attacked his throat, biting and licking; Sam's hips thrust, grinding deep into his still-trembling body, Sam all hot and musky-smelling.
Dean grunted, pulling Sam in tight, raking nails over his back again. Fists in hair and blindfold knots, Sam's teeth at him, the two of them pushing and pulling and wild. The chanting got louder, sped up to a - heh - climax; Sam made a feral, strangled sound and slowed abrubtly, rocking into him a couple more times and then easing off altogether.
Dean sprawled on the pillows bonelessly, trying to get his breath back. Sam had the decency to collapse mostly off of him so that he had a shot at not being crushed to death. Dean's bones buzzed and he blinked blearily, a crack of light coming into his vision from where the blindfold was coming askew.
"What the..." He stopped, let himself breathe a little longer before trying again. "Sam, what's...I don't..."
Sam gave a contented chuckle. Dean felt fingers grope at his forehead, then the blindfold was pulled off him and he blinked into the light. Sam pulled his own blindfold off then, eyes glinting satisfaction at him.
"We didn't--" Dean wiped his face, confused. He whispered, "Sam, we didn't stop the sacrifice."
"Dean."
Sam reached out a hand to gently lift his chin. His little brother's smile was dangerous and content and more than a little hot. The words that followed made the pit drop out of his stomach while simultaneously being even hotter.
"Who the hell did you think you were being sacrificed to?"