FIC: Healing Cock Of Love
Title: Healing Cock Of Love
Author: deceptivemirror
Rating: R (cussing, sexual acts, grossness)
Genre: Gen, unadulterated crack
Characters: Sam, Dean, and a quickly dispatched OC
Summary: A witch's spell goes wrong. Or right. It depends on who you ask.
Author's note: this story is the product of a late-night discussion between myself and keep_waking_up about our general disgust with the trope of the "healing cock of love" that heals all hurts, including emotional and physical abuse. This is what happened when the idea became a bit more literal. Be warned; beyond the link lies crack beyond my wildest writing!
The first time it happened, it occurred a while after a witch had thrown some kind of spell over them, prior to Sam's bullets splattering her all over the walls. Dean thought, as he wheezed for air (he had been the one getting strangled up on a wall for once), that a witch's blood didn't look any different from a human's, but having it all over him wasn't a fashion statement he wanted either.
“Seriously, Sam?” Dean sighed, once he had his breath back. “You couldn't have killed her a bit more neatly than that?”
Sam snorted and did that bitchy little thing he did with his mouth at him. “Sure, Dean, no problem,” he drawled, the sarcasm thick enough to bathe in. “I'd be happy to kill someone more neatly when they're strangling you. I'll get right on it.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “See that you do it, bitch,” he grunted back, bending over to pick up his gun. The witch had knocked it out of his hand before indulging in what he was convinced was some kind of supernatural favored pastime, strangling people against walls. She had even had that creepy, getting-off-on-it vibe going.
Screw the neatness. Dean was covered in blood, guts, and what he was fairly sure was the witch-bitch's last meal, but as long as she wasn't perving on the asphyxiation anymore, he didn't care if he smelled like Pine Sol.
As inconspicuously as possible (and Dean sometimes wondered about their stealth abilities, considering they were both over six feet tall and not exactly average-looking, and that was before someone mentioned his precious car), they got back to the Impala, stripped naked, bagged their clothes, and casually set fire to the house before they went. They were nothing if not efficient by now.
Back at the hotel, they did their best to be equally sneaky getting back into the room, but they might as well not have bothered. Their usual talent for selecting the hotels no one else would frequent stood them in good stead; no one, not even the night manager or a stray animal, saw them get back into their Wild West-themed room with their blood-soaked bag of clothing and their recently-fired guns.
“Go grab the shower first, Sam,” Dean said once the door was locked, lined with salt (they had naturally done the windows already), and braced with a chair beneath the handle. He stood at an angle away from Sam, examining the guns he had placed on the table before securing the door. “Throw me a wet towel or so first, but go ahead.”
Sam, for his part, just nodded and did as Dean had asked, before the bathroom door shut behind him and the pipes started gurgling with water.
Once the room was filled with the sounds of Sam vigorously scrubbing himself, Dean sighed and looked at the tent in his underwear he had painstakingly been concealing from Sam. It wouldn't be the first time he had gotten wood after a hunt that had endangered his life, but it might have been the first time it had happened in such close proximity to Sam. Maybe that was why Sam had been so quiet earlier; he might have noticed it.
Oh well. Nothing to be done about it now. If his stiffy hadn't gone away, covered with blood and guts as he was and after a fifteen-minute drive back to this laughably-safe place, it wasn't going to without him rubbing one out. Fine. Wasn't the first time he'd jacked off after a hunt either. Stupid adrenaline.
He wiped himself down with the wet towel before he got started, though. Dean may have considered himself kinky, but not that kinky.
He leaned against the wall adjacent to the door, near the table, and slid his right hand into his relatively clean grey boxers. Dean was fully erect; he didn't get super-wet with precome the way some men did, but it was enough to ease the way so he didn't sandpaper his dick and add another complaint to what had already been a lousy day. One stroke, two, fondle his balls and sweep himself around the head, just the way he liked it, and his orgasm practically exploded from him. It happened fast, as it always did when he was hopped up on adrenaline and relief. He couldn't even feel ashamed for not lasting long enough; it wasn't like anyone was going to see or notice it anyway.
Removing his hand from his boxers with a sigh of relief, he felt relaxed enough to sleep after he'd had his own shower. Dean decided he would also fill the tub with ice-cold water and try to soak some of the blood out of their clothes after he had bathed.
He reached for the second towel to wipe the semen off his hand, but he got distracted when Sam exited the bathroom, clad in jeans and wincing as he touched his side. Dean trotted to him, not even bothering to conceal the damp spot on his underwear. Dean winced, seeing the bruise taking up the majority of Sam's left side. “Dude, was that from the witch?”
“Yeah,” Sam got out, hissing out a breath and letting go of his side. Dean immediately reached out with his hand and touched Sam, carefully exploring the horrible bruise. He had completely forgotten that the witch-bitch had been using Sam as her own personal rag-doll before she'd decided to get off on strangling him.
Sam sighed then, and straightened up, his mouth losing that pained frown. “Dean, what's going on?”
“What do you mean?” Dean looked up at Sam (something he would never get used to until the day he died for real) with curiosity.
“My side,” Sam said with wonder. “It's stopped hurting. How are you doing that?”
Dean was clueless. He wasn't some kind of psychic-voodoo healer. Unless Sam really liked the fact that Dean's hands were warm (and they usually were), Dean had no freaking clue what about Dean was making him feel better.
Then he actually looked at Sam's side. The bruise, which had stretched from Sam's hipbone to his chest, was fading and leaving healthy-looking skin behind. Idly, and not for the first time, Dean wondered when Sam found time to get an even tan, before he realized something he probably should have remembered before.
He was touching Sam's side with the hand that was covered in his jizz.
Some of it was slowly sliding down Sam's skin, blending with the water that still clung after Sam's lousy toweling job (the guy never did take the time to do it properly, the way Dean did), and soaking into the waistband of Sam's jeans.
Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. How the fuck was he supposed to explain this?
---()()---
Dean hated Sam. He did. Honestly, truly, deeply, and from the bottom of his Hell-scarred soul.
Of fucking course the bastard would want to test of this theory of his. Thorough, repeated testing. After he had finally gotten his shower, no less.
Dean didn't like to brag (often) about his prowess or his recovery time, but even he was starting to feel a bit tender and fucked out after orgasming three times in the space of two hours. It didn't help that, immediately after returning to the main room (because he sure as hell wasn't going to do this where Sam could watch), when he should have been basking in the afterglow, Sam had either casually cut himself on the arm, or Dean on some other available part of his body.
Each time, both of them grimacing in disgust, they had rubbed some of Dean's semen on the injuries, only to watch them close up without so much as a scar.
“You do realize what we have here, right?” Sam asked in a low, hushed voice, after watching the latest cut on his arm seal over.
“I think I do,” Dean replied, voice equally hushed. “Does yours do this too? Only thing I can think of that caused this was that witch's last spell, and it hit you too.”
From the look on Sam's face, the thought hadn't even occurred to him. He ran for the bathroom, fumbling with his jeans. Out of respect for Sam's privacy, Dean turned the TV back on to whatever game show happened to be playing, knowing that Sam had tried to afford him the same courtesy.
Dean hadn't had the easiest time listening to a background track of Wheel of Fortune when he was trying to get off, but it did make it easier to conceal the sounds he made.
A few minutes later, Sam came out and nodded. “Mine does it too.”
Dean swallowed. “This must be a case of being careful what we wish for,” he murmured slowly, still trying to make sense of it. “How many times have we wished for an instant cure for whatever hurt us--”
“--and now we have it?” Sam finished for him. “This isn't something we should be keeping to ourselves, Dean.”
Dean looked up in surprise, then a slow grin spread over his face when he realized where Sam was going with this. “I'm behind you one-hundred percent, Sammy.”
--()()--
They made a killing.
They advertised discreetly and mostly through word-of-mouth, since most of the hunter network communicated in person or by handwritten letter (or in the rare care of some wildcard, email). Advertised as “Dean's Love Juice” (Sam had flat-out refused to have his name anywhere near it), it sold like hotcakes online, and almost any hunter they ran across wanted at least one container of it.
For both of their health, Dean and Sam had experimented, and were fairly relieved to find that, not only could they sterilize their emission so people could use it safely, but it was possible to dilute it so they didn't have to ejaculate buckets just to create a few jars. Mixing it with regular cream at least masked what they were putting in, and they were sterilizing it.
Not like they bothered to put more than “lotion and love” on the ingredients list anyway, but it did pay to be sure.
There were, naturally, problems with the supply. As the admitted hornier brother, Dean often found himself providing the majority of the raw material, while Sam manned the UV light that allowed safe usage for whoever bought their product.
In their latest hotel room, Dean sat on the closed toilet in the bathroom, pants and underwear around his ankles, and sighed down at his dick. It refused to get up, no matter what he did, and he'd been trying for the past hour.
“Sam!” He called out, unsure whether to be relieved or horrified about his current case of impotence. He was feeling really drained and tired. “I don't think I can do this anymore! My balls are empty and dry!”
A harsh laugh that almost sounded like a sob came from the outer room, where Sam was trying to do the same thing Dean was. “Come on, Dean!” Sam yelled back hoarsely. “Ten more orders are supposed to go out tomorrow! Go look at some porn and get to work, dammit!”
Dean sighed and looked around the bathroom a bit. Unlabeled glass jars littered all the bare surfaces, all filled with unscented generic lotion they bought at whatever cheap drugstore they were frequenting that week, waiting for the latest admixture of semen and lavender oil (Sam's idea).
Saving people. Hunting things. The family business.
Dean just wondered how proud their dad would be if he could see what they were expanding the family business into now.
Author: deceptivemirror
Rating: R (cussing, sexual acts, grossness)
Genre: Gen, unadulterated crack
Characters: Sam, Dean, and a quickly dispatched OC
Summary: A witch's spell goes wrong. Or right. It depends on who you ask.
Author's note: this story is the product of a late-night discussion between myself and keep_waking_up about our general disgust with the trope of the "healing cock of love" that heals all hurts, including emotional and physical abuse. This is what happened when the idea became a bit more literal. Be warned; beyond the link lies crack beyond my wildest writing!
The first time it happened, it occurred a while after a witch had thrown some kind of spell over them, prior to Sam's bullets splattering her all over the walls. Dean thought, as he wheezed for air (he had been the one getting strangled up on a wall for once), that a witch's blood didn't look any different from a human's, but having it all over him wasn't a fashion statement he wanted either.
“Seriously, Sam?” Dean sighed, once he had his breath back. “You couldn't have killed her a bit more neatly than that?”
Sam snorted and did that bitchy little thing he did with his mouth at him. “Sure, Dean, no problem,” he drawled, the sarcasm thick enough to bathe in. “I'd be happy to kill someone more neatly when they're strangling you. I'll get right on it.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “See that you do it, bitch,” he grunted back, bending over to pick up his gun. The witch had knocked it out of his hand before indulging in what he was convinced was some kind of supernatural favored pastime, strangling people against walls. She had even had that creepy, getting-off-on-it vibe going.
Screw the neatness. Dean was covered in blood, guts, and what he was fairly sure was the witch-bitch's last meal, but as long as she wasn't perving on the asphyxiation anymore, he didn't care if he smelled like Pine Sol.
As inconspicuously as possible (and Dean sometimes wondered about their stealth abilities, considering they were both over six feet tall and not exactly average-looking, and that was before someone mentioned his precious car), they got back to the Impala, stripped naked, bagged their clothes, and casually set fire to the house before they went. They were nothing if not efficient by now.
Back at the hotel, they did their best to be equally sneaky getting back into the room, but they might as well not have bothered. Their usual talent for selecting the hotels no one else would frequent stood them in good stead; no one, not even the night manager or a stray animal, saw them get back into their Wild West-themed room with their blood-soaked bag of clothing and their recently-fired guns.
“Go grab the shower first, Sam,” Dean said once the door was locked, lined with salt (they had naturally done the windows already), and braced with a chair beneath the handle. He stood at an angle away from Sam, examining the guns he had placed on the table before securing the door. “Throw me a wet towel or so first, but go ahead.”
Sam, for his part, just nodded and did as Dean had asked, before the bathroom door shut behind him and the pipes started gurgling with water.
Once the room was filled with the sounds of Sam vigorously scrubbing himself, Dean sighed and looked at the tent in his underwear he had painstakingly been concealing from Sam. It wouldn't be the first time he had gotten wood after a hunt that had endangered his life, but it might have been the first time it had happened in such close proximity to Sam. Maybe that was why Sam had been so quiet earlier; he might have noticed it.
Oh well. Nothing to be done about it now. If his stiffy hadn't gone away, covered with blood and guts as he was and after a fifteen-minute drive back to this laughably-safe place, it wasn't going to without him rubbing one out. Fine. Wasn't the first time he'd jacked off after a hunt either. Stupid adrenaline.
He wiped himself down with the wet towel before he got started, though. Dean may have considered himself kinky, but not that kinky.
He leaned against the wall adjacent to the door, near the table, and slid his right hand into his relatively clean grey boxers. Dean was fully erect; he didn't get super-wet with precome the way some men did, but it was enough to ease the way so he didn't sandpaper his dick and add another complaint to what had already been a lousy day. One stroke, two, fondle his balls and sweep himself around the head, just the way he liked it, and his orgasm practically exploded from him. It happened fast, as it always did when he was hopped up on adrenaline and relief. He couldn't even feel ashamed for not lasting long enough; it wasn't like anyone was going to see or notice it anyway.
Removing his hand from his boxers with a sigh of relief, he felt relaxed enough to sleep after he'd had his own shower. Dean decided he would also fill the tub with ice-cold water and try to soak some of the blood out of their clothes after he had bathed.
He reached for the second towel to wipe the semen off his hand, but he got distracted when Sam exited the bathroom, clad in jeans and wincing as he touched his side. Dean trotted to him, not even bothering to conceal the damp spot on his underwear. Dean winced, seeing the bruise taking up the majority of Sam's left side. “Dude, was that from the witch?”
“Yeah,” Sam got out, hissing out a breath and letting go of his side. Dean immediately reached out with his hand and touched Sam, carefully exploring the horrible bruise. He had completely forgotten that the witch-bitch had been using Sam as her own personal rag-doll before she'd decided to get off on strangling him.
Sam sighed then, and straightened up, his mouth losing that pained frown. “Dean, what's going on?”
“What do you mean?” Dean looked up at Sam (something he would never get used to until the day he died for real) with curiosity.
“My side,” Sam said with wonder. “It's stopped hurting. How are you doing that?”
Dean was clueless. He wasn't some kind of psychic-voodoo healer. Unless Sam really liked the fact that Dean's hands were warm (and they usually were), Dean had no freaking clue what about Dean was making him feel better.
Then he actually looked at Sam's side. The bruise, which had stretched from Sam's hipbone to his chest, was fading and leaving healthy-looking skin behind. Idly, and not for the first time, Dean wondered when Sam found time to get an even tan, before he realized something he probably should have remembered before.
He was touching Sam's side with the hand that was covered in his jizz.
Some of it was slowly sliding down Sam's skin, blending with the water that still clung after Sam's lousy toweling job (the guy never did take the time to do it properly, the way Dean did), and soaking into the waistband of Sam's jeans.
Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. How the fuck was he supposed to explain this?
---()()---
Dean hated Sam. He did. Honestly, truly, deeply, and from the bottom of his Hell-scarred soul.
Of fucking course the bastard would want to test of this theory of his. Thorough, repeated testing. After he had finally gotten his shower, no less.
Dean didn't like to brag (often) about his prowess or his recovery time, but even he was starting to feel a bit tender and fucked out after orgasming three times in the space of two hours. It didn't help that, immediately after returning to the main room (because he sure as hell wasn't going to do this where Sam could watch), when he should have been basking in the afterglow, Sam had either casually cut himself on the arm, or Dean on some other available part of his body.
Each time, both of them grimacing in disgust, they had rubbed some of Dean's semen on the injuries, only to watch them close up without so much as a scar.
“You do realize what we have here, right?” Sam asked in a low, hushed voice, after watching the latest cut on his arm seal over.
“I think I do,” Dean replied, voice equally hushed. “Does yours do this too? Only thing I can think of that caused this was that witch's last spell, and it hit you too.”
From the look on Sam's face, the thought hadn't even occurred to him. He ran for the bathroom, fumbling with his jeans. Out of respect for Sam's privacy, Dean turned the TV back on to whatever game show happened to be playing, knowing that Sam had tried to afford him the same courtesy.
Dean hadn't had the easiest time listening to a background track of Wheel of Fortune when he was trying to get off, but it did make it easier to conceal the sounds he made.
A few minutes later, Sam came out and nodded. “Mine does it too.”
Dean swallowed. “This must be a case of being careful what we wish for,” he murmured slowly, still trying to make sense of it. “How many times have we wished for an instant cure for whatever hurt us--”
“--and now we have it?” Sam finished for him. “This isn't something we should be keeping to ourselves, Dean.”
Dean looked up in surprise, then a slow grin spread over his face when he realized where Sam was going with this. “I'm behind you one-hundred percent, Sammy.”
--()()--
They made a killing.
They advertised discreetly and mostly through word-of-mouth, since most of the hunter network communicated in person or by handwritten letter (or in the rare care of some wildcard, email). Advertised as “Dean's Love Juice” (Sam had flat-out refused to have his name anywhere near it), it sold like hotcakes online, and almost any hunter they ran across wanted at least one container of it.
For both of their health, Dean and Sam had experimented, and were fairly relieved to find that, not only could they sterilize their emission so people could use it safely, but it was possible to dilute it so they didn't have to ejaculate buckets just to create a few jars. Mixing it with regular cream at least masked what they were putting in, and they were sterilizing it.
Not like they bothered to put more than “lotion and love” on the ingredients list anyway, but it did pay to be sure.
There were, naturally, problems with the supply. As the admitted hornier brother, Dean often found himself providing the majority of the raw material, while Sam manned the UV light that allowed safe usage for whoever bought their product.
In their latest hotel room, Dean sat on the closed toilet in the bathroom, pants and underwear around his ankles, and sighed down at his dick. It refused to get up, no matter what he did, and he'd been trying for the past hour.
“Sam!” He called out, unsure whether to be relieved or horrified about his current case of impotence. He was feeling really drained and tired. “I don't think I can do this anymore! My balls are empty and dry!”
A harsh laugh that almost sounded like a sob came from the outer room, where Sam was trying to do the same thing Dean was. “Come on, Dean!” Sam yelled back hoarsely. “Ten more orders are supposed to go out tomorrow! Go look at some porn and get to work, dammit!”
Dean sighed and looked around the bathroom a bit. Unlabeled glass jars littered all the bare surfaces, all filled with unscented generic lotion they bought at whatever cheap drugstore they were frequenting that week, waiting for the latest admixture of semen and lavender oil (Sam's idea).
Saving people. Hunting things. The family business.
Dean just wondered how proud their dad would be if he could see what they were expanding the family business into now.