A Love That Lasts
bloodwritesIt was waiting for them outside the Bunker.
They haven't seen a hellhound in years. Not since the Brits were using them, and Dean's pretty damn sure it wasn't them that stationed a hellbitch at their front door, but someone must have.
Dean groans and slides down the bathroom wall.
"Goddammit, Dean," Sam says, dropping to his knees, sloshing cheap whiskey everywhere. "Keep still and let me do this." Stabilized, he pours the alcohol over Dean's chest.
Dean hisses as it sinks into the diagonal tear bisecting his chest, narrowly missing his right nipple, and that would have made a good story. Maybe he would have ended up with three nipples. Maybe only one. "Just sew me up," he says. "We gotta go after that bitch."
"Are you nuts? Unless you made a deal I don't know about, there's a rogue hellhound on the loose and you're already messed up." Sam grabs the needle and thread and starts sewing. His hands are fluid and practiced as he pulls the edges of the wound closed and makes small, fine stitches.
"Exactly," Dean says. "Rogue hellhound. Maybe it was bad luck. Wrong place, wrong time. But that thing could attack anyone next. We gotta go after it. That's the job, Sammy."
Sam ties off the last stitch and sighs. "Then let me. You need to rest."
"I'll rest when I'm dead. I'm coming." Dean pulls himself to his feet and looks down at himself. His jeans are blood-soaked, and his socks feel squishy. "After a shower."
"Good idea," Sam says. "And some sleep." His tone is definite. He's not budging.
"Whatever," Deans says, and kicks off his boots, tugging at his jeans fly. "Now fuck off and give me some goddamn privacy."
There's no trail to follow. Dean expected a spate of 'animal' attacks in the area, but there's nothing. "I dunno," he says the next morning, over a generous plate of bacon he insisted on cooking up, even if Sam won't help him eat it all. "We might have to go to the source."
Sam looks up sharply from his bowl of cereal. "You want to go to Hell?"
Dean shrugs. "We got no leads. I figure Rowena at least would want to know what's going on."
It's disturbing how easy it is for them to stroll through the hallways of Hell these days. Demons nod at them as they pass. Shit, for some of them it even seems like a nod of respect, rather than grudging acknowledgment.
The doors open to Rowena's throne room with great fanfare, and they're announced like they're visiting royalty. Which, Dean reminds himself, they are. She is the Queen of Hell, after all.
"Hello, boys," she says, and then shoos away the hovering demons. "How nice it is to see you. Tea?"
"This isn't a social call," Dean says. "One of Crowley's mutts paid us a visit." He yanks the neck of his t-shirt down to expose the wound it left. "Gave me a little souvenir. I'm lucky to be alive."
Rowena stands gracefully, and moves across the floor with tiny, tapping steps. She peers closely at Dean's wound. "Exquisite stitches, Samuel. Very nice work."
"There's a rogue hellhound on the loose," Sam says. "We can't track it. We need your help."
"It's not rogue," Rowena says. "I sent it to fetch you."
Dean shoots a glance at Sam, and his face shows all the emotions Dean feels. Surprise, concern... Not quite panic, they're too old and jaded for that, but they're both sprung, ready for action.
"We do something to piss you off?" Dean asks, sliding his hand into his jacket, because they're not so stupid that they don't carry weapons into Hell.
"Put it away, Dean," Rowena says, swirling back to her throne. "I don't quite have the control over the beasts my son had, I'm a little embarrassed to admit." Her hand flutters to her temple, smoothing a strand of hair away from her face. "I sent it to fetch you, not kill you. In hindsight, the creature lacks subtlety. And discipline." She rolls her eyes.
"We've been summoned?" Sam asks. "You summoned us?"
"Yes," Rowena says. "I need your help."
Dean sighs. "Not with the mutt, I'm guessing."
"No," Rowena says. "There's a book—"
"There's always a book." Dean rolls his eyes. "What's in it for us?"
"A very dangerous book," Rowena says.
"Another Book of The Damned? Any reason you can't just send your droogs to get it?"
"It's worse," Rowena says. "Much worse. The individual in possession of the book turned the demons I sent for it inside out—"
"Doesn't sound so bad to me," Dean says.
"They've been turning people inside out, Dean. Yes, I thought that might get your attention. It's my book, but I don't want it for myself. I want to lock it up, here in Hell, where it cannot ever be used. This book could destroy the world, and I know you boys are all about saving the wretched thing."
Woodbury, Minnesota
The local high school is a pile of rubble. A path of destruction leads away from it. Overturned cars and lamp posts twisted into knots and buildings smashed. Smears of blood across the pavement.
Locals pick through the detritus like survivors of a natural disaster. In the distance, sirens wail.
Dean drives slow, turning the wheel to avoid obstacles, like the police cruiser they pass that somehow ended up squashed completely flat.
The trail leads them to a suburban house. It's entirely unscathed, but for the mass of blood and entrails on the front doorstep.
"I'm guessing these are the inside out demons," Dean says, poking at one of the bodies with the toe of his boot. "Ew."
Sam pulls his 'gross' face and picks his way around the mess. He raises his hand to knock.
"Dude," Dean says, and kicks the door in, handgun already out of his jacket and raised as he barrels through the door.
Sam's right behind him.
"We're here for the book," Dean calls, making his way cautiously through the entryway and into the hall. "That's all. Hand it over, and we leave you alone. No one else has to get hurt."
He rounds a corner. There, in a bedroom lined with posters of people and things Dean's never seen nor heard of, is a kid. A stupid, scared teenage boy, all of about fifteen, acne and nerd glasses and floppy black hair and jeans that are far too tight, and he's got the book in one hand and an aluminum baseball bat in the other.
"I'm really strong," the kid says, and the bat slides through his hand so he's holding the thick end, and it crumples in his fist. "See?" His voice is high and reedy. He's fucking terrified.
"I get it," Dean says. He turns his gun up, holds his free hand palm up, and tucks the gun into the back of his pants. "It got away from you, didn't it? Lost your temper? Smashed the school, tripped over a few things on the way home, exploded the last two guys who came to take it from you. You don't want this. You didn't want to hurt any one, not really."
The kid's chin quivers, and he shakes his head. "I tried to make it go away. But it won't go away." His posture slumps as he lowers his guard.
Sam swoops in, and Dean shouts his name, because it's stupid, is he trying to get himself killed? Predictably, the kid, in his panic, flails his arms and Sam goes flying.
So does the book. It lands open on the floor, and Dean makes a split second call. He goes for the book instead of his brother.
So does the kid.
The kid reaches it first, and reads from the open page.
"Fire and blood and peacock feather, true love respond and last forever."
"What the fuck?" Dean says. "Did you just put a love spell on me? Cos, one, I'm far too old for you, and two, you're really really not my—"
"I'm sorry," the kid says, scrambling out of Dean's grasp, and darting away. "I'm really, really sorry." He grabs the book, fumbles, and drops it before he runs right through the wall.
Not like a ghost, though. No, this kid punches through the wall like it's made of paper, a cloud of drywall dust slowly settling behind him.
The house creaks. "I think that was load bearing," Dean says. "We should probably get out of here."
"No, no," Sam says, pulling himself to his feet. "I'm really fine, don't worry about me."
"Sam?" It's not like Dean forgot Sam was there. He always knows where Sam is, he's always aware of his brother.
Still, it feels like he's just remembered Sam exists, because the level of awareness is just so much more.
So much it's like a punch in the chest. Dean can't breathe, there's a band around his lungs, squeezing, tightening.
Sam's expression mirrors the way Dean feels. Shock, panic, maybe a little horror.
"Oh, shit," Dean says, right before the house starts crumbling around them.
He tore a couple stitches escaping from the rubble. Sam fusses, too much for just the wound. He's tense, nervous.
So is Dean.
They haven't said it out loud yet, but they both know what's happened. "At least we didn't end up inside out," Dean tries to joke, but it falls flat. "You know, it could have been worse."
Sam replaces the stitches, but he gets distracted easily. His hands seem to linger over Dean's skin, and his eyes keep flicking away from his work, to Dean's face. He's afraid, there's fear in his expression, and Dean can understand it because it's everything he's feeling as well.
"It's okay," he says. "We're okay. We're gonna be okay. Rowena will fix us up, you'll see."
Sam shakes his head. "You think she'd want to lock the book up so bad if it was easy to fix what it did?" He ties off the last stitch, puts the needle aside, and then, almost reluctantly, pushes Dean's shirt back at him. "That kid. He said he couldn't undo it." He looks over at the book, wrapped in a piece of clothing—probably one of the kid's hoodies—for safety. The last thing they want is for the damn thing to fall open again, and for one of them to inadvertently read one of the spells.
"The kid was an amateur. Rowena will figure it out. It's not the end of the world, Sammy."
Sam looks up at Dean sharply. "You're okay with this, Dean? I love you. It's all I can think about."
He said it. He said it out loud.
Dean goes out for booze. Stretches out on the bed closest to the door and starts in on the bottle with the express goal of passing out cold.
"Not a good idea," Sam says. "Getting drunk? People do stupid shit when they're drunk, Dean. Right now we need to be sober."
"You can be sober for the both of us." Dean tips the bottle back and gulps whiskey. It burns his throat. "I trust you with my virtue."
"Don't," Sam says. His face is blank, stark. Serious as a heart attack.
Dean puts the bottle down on the side table, the tiny shared cube between two single beds. It's a marvel he doesn't miss, because he can't take his eyes off his brother.
What's Sam thinking?
What is going through Sam's head, right now? Is it anything like the thoughts running through Dean's mind?
Sam's too far away. All the way over there on the other bed. Dean can't smell him, can't feel the warmth of his body, and he craves those things.
He's like a junkie, jonesing for a fix. He can't quite grasp what he needs, but it's right there, just a few feet away.
Dean's feet hit the floor.
"Where are you going?" Sam asks.
"Um," Dean says. "I dunno," he lies. "Fuck. I do. I was coming over there."
Sam's throat bobs as he swallows. His nostrils flare, then he leans forward, and reaches out.
Dean's eyes drop to Sam's hand, bridging the space between the two beds. He watches as it covers his own.
Static electricity buzzes, and Dean gasps. He turns his hand beneath Sam's, links their fingers together.
Sam's hand is damp and warm. Dean inhales, brings their linked hands close to his face. He closes his eyes, breathes in.
Sam's skin smells like gun oil and cheap bar soap. Like earthy, masculine sweat. Dean drags the back of Sam's hand over his lips and tastes salt. Makes a soft sound, because this is what he's been craving, this is what he needs.
But it's just a small part, a tiny part. It's not enough. He wants to drown in it, in Sam. Wants to press against the warmth of Sam's entire body, surrounded by it, breathing in the scent of his brother like oxygen.
Sam's panting like he's run a marathon. Dean opens his mouth over Sam's knuckles, licks the sweat off his skin.
"Dean," Sam croaks. "What are you doing?"
Dean opens his eyes, looks up at Sam. Dips his tongue between Sam's fingers, to get more of the salt collected in the warmth, watches Sam's eyes roll back in his head.
He drags his tongue down the length of Sam's middle finger, and he sucks it into his mouth.
Sam gasps, twitches. Maybe he's trying to get away. He's not trying very hard.
Sam's fingers are long. The tip presses against the back of Dean's tongue and he wonders what Sam's cock would taste like. Salty. Musky. Hard and leaking and—
Sam whines. He sounds desperate, fearful. Dean pulls off, still holding tightly to Sam's hand, looks up into his brother's eyes. He pushes forward, off his own bed, and he climbs into his brother's lap.
"I just gotta—" he says, shoving his face into the curve of Sam's throat, sucking in the scent of him, warm and real, with a hint of drywall dust where it settled in his hair. "I need it."
Sam holds Dean close. He's shaking. Oh, god, he's hard. Dean can't help but grind against his brother, realizes he's hard, too, has been for a while.
He needs more skin. Dean shoves at Sam's shirt and snaps pop open, exposing bare flesh. Dean's hands roam, over sparse, wiry hair and peaked, hard nipples.
Sam makes another sound, but deeper this time. He holds Dean tighter and his hips jerk up. Dean shoves the shirt off Sam's shoulders, and then pulls away, just long enough to peel the t-shirt off over his own head, and then he's back, skin pressing against skin, sliding on sweat, tipping his head down to find Sam's lips, covering them with his mouth, dipping between them with his tongue.
Oh crap. He's kissing his brother. He didn't have a chance to get drunk, can't blame it on the booze. No, he wants this, this dragging of tongues, wet and slippery, teeth clacking as they devour each other. He grips tight to Sam's shoulders and rises, falls, riding his brother like a mechanical bull.
Sam lets go of him, but his hands are only changing location. They're at Dean's belt, rattle of steel as Dean's jeans fall open. Sam's hands slide into the back of Dean's jeans, grip tight to his ass, and jerks Dean against himself.
"Get them off," Dean says, tucking a hand between them, yanking at the waist of Sam's jeans. "Gotta get them off."
Sam moves so fast that Dean almost ends up on his ass. Sam lies back on the bed, breathing like he can't get enough oxygen, watching Dean's face like he's starving.
Dean stands and drops his jeans, toes off his socks. Waits, watches, staring back into his brothers eyes as Sam wriggles out of his jeans.
And then, both of them push down their shorts at the same time.
"Fuck," Dean says. Sam's erect cock is massive. Long and fat and red, swollen, wet at the tip. Dean's mouth waters and he licks his lips. He could taste it. He could choke on it. His eyes flick back up to Sam's face. Sam's wide-eyed and gasping. Like he makes a sudden decision he twists, reaching down over the side of the bed, rummaging in his bag.
Comes back up with a bottle of lube and a condom. Oh. There's a question on Sam's face, scared, afraid, but it stays.
Funny how Dean doesn't need to question how this is gonna go. How he just knows he just has to say the word and he could be full of Sam. A part of him, an extension. He nods, and he climbs back onto the bed, throws a leg over Sam's thighs, sits down on him and cups Sam's face in his hands.
"Yeah," he says, and then licks at Sam's lips until he opens up.
"I wanna be inside you," Sam says, grabbing hold of Dean's ass and shifting him, till his cock fits behind Dean, standing between Dean's cheeks, sliding on sweat and precome, dragging, catching on Dean's hole.
"Yeah," Dean grunts, and grinds back, lifting, coming down on the tip of Sam's cock, hard pressure against his hole, gasping, straining to hold back because he wants—needs—Sam inside him, now.
"Wait," Sam whines, and gropes for the condom. Behind Dean's back, he rolls it on, then smears lube over his cock. "I'm scared I'm gonna hurt you," he says. "We don't have to do this."
But they do. Dean needs it. "You wanna stop," he says, bearing down on Sam's dick, the pressure as the blunt tip pushes against him overwhelming. "You're gonna have to stop it. I can't— Oh fuck."
Sam's cock breaches him, and Dean moans as fire spreads over his skin. It's a lot, all at once, and everything he wants to say dies in his throat.
His thighs shake, the muscles fatiguing as he holds himself still with only the tip of Sam's cock inside him. "Hold on to me," he whines.
"I got you," Sam says, strong arms steadying Dean's hips and thighs. "Fuck, Dean, you're so hot, so tight." He tips his head up, captures Dean's lips, kisses him, slow and dirty.
Slowly, Dean's muscles relax. He starts to move, rocking his hips, sliding down his brothers cock a fraction of an inch at a time.
They move together, perfectly in sync, until they're a frenzied mass of sweat and limbs and wordless sounds. Sam's hand, splayed out firm in the small of Dean's back, guides him in a primal dance.
It's never been like this before. Not least, of course, because it's the first time in Dean's life he's ever had a gigantic cock stuffed up his ass. But it's more than that.
He's never felt a part of someone like this before.
Though that's not entirely new between him and Sam. When they're fighting monsters, sometimes it's like that. Like they know what the other is thinking, like Dean's hand is an extension of Sam's arm, Sam's blade an extension of Dean's thought.
Sam's hand on Dean's cock is the same, like Sam knows he only needs a little push to fall over the edge into oblivion, into ecstasy.
And when he does, Sam thrusts up hard, deep into his body, and Dean can feel each jerk of his brother's cock as his own spurts between them.
Dean hands the hoodie-wrapped book over to one of the demons, and steps back into place beside Sam. "The kid just dropped it and ran, in the end. But not before he did a little damage. We were kinda hoping you could help us out with that."
Rowena unwraps the book, stares at the weathered leather cover, purses her lips and covers it up again. "Bury this," she says. "In the deepest, darkest hole you can find." To the room, she says, imperiously, "Leave us."
When the demons are all gone, Rowena gathers the boys around her throne. "Tell me," she says. "You seem physically intact. What spell did he cast?"
"A love spell," Dean mutters. "Sick little bastard. He cast a love spell on me and my brother."
"There are only true love spells in that book," Rowena says. "So there's nothing to worry about. They only take if the feelings are already there."
Dean resists the urge to shoot a panicked glance at Sam. "Okay. So if we were anyone else?"
Rowena brushes a non-existent hair away from her face with the back of her hand. "Only if they already had feelings for each other, it would have given them a wee push, is all. You were lucky. True love spells are about as innocuous as they come. No pesky obsession, no death, and they can be undone if you catch them early enough."
"A 'push'?"
"Yes, Dean," Rowena says. "A push. A nudge. In the right direction."
"And what's the 'right' direction?"
"Towards consummation, of course. It simply gives the lovers an increased drive to seal the relationship. And once that happens, well, it's forever."
Dean's heart stops beating. There's a lump in his throat he can't shift, and he's sure he heard Sam gasp.
"Oh dear," Rowena says. "Now that is awkward."
"Fuck yes it's awkward," Dean whines. "There's got to be something you can do. Some codex, or counterspell, or something."
Rowena pats Dean's arm. It's probably meant to be reassuring, but unsurprisingly, it's not. "If you've sealed the deal, poppet, I'm afraid not."
"How do you know?" Sam says. "We can... Research. There might be something in the Bunker, something you don't know about."
"How do I know?" Rowena says. "How do I know?" She sighs. "I told you the book was mine, and it was. But I wrote that bedevilled book, and I made sure nothing in it could be weaseled out of."
"So we're fucked," Dean says. "We're completely fucked."
"There's a silver lining," Rowena says. "At least you know you have a love that lasts."
They dump their bags at the bottom of the stairs. Dean heads straight for the kitchen.
When he comes back with two cold beers, Sam's sitting in the library, a stack of books at his elbow, one open in front of him.
There's a cut crystal decanter on the table, and two glasses. There's a good three fingers of whiskey in one, and Sam's draining the other.
Dean puts the beers on the table, and he slides into a seat, grabs his glass. "I guess it's that kind of night."
"Yep," Sam says, pouring more into his glass.
Dean looks at the stack of books. The usual suspects: counter spells and curse breaking. "You can still split. I know you never really considered this home, anyway. Hell, you can take the Impala—"
Sam stills, glass halfway to his lips. "Home is where you are, Dean."
"Oh." Dean can't argue with that. It's the same for him, and he can't say that he wouldn't be compelled to follow Sam, wherever he went. "Okay then."
Sam downs another glass. "If Rowena was being straight with us, I guess it's always been that way for me."
Dean nods. "Me too. But with all these books, Sammy, it's looking like you don't think she was."
"I believe her," Sam says. "I just— I gotta make sure. It'll bug me until I do."
Dean sighs and pulls the book off the top of the stack towards himself.
There's nothing. Every single book has been combed, and the decanter is empty, and the previously cold beer bottles are sitting, untouched, in matching puddles of condensation on the table.
"It's official." Dean nods. "We're fucked."
"Yep." Sam gets up, goes to the cupboard, pulls out another ancient bottle of booze, and brings it back to the table.
"Maybe if we hadn't... You know."
"Made love?" Sam says.
"What are you? Ninety? Jesus, Sammy."
"It's what we did, Dean. You can't tell me that was like any old one night stand for you. It was special."
Dean can feel the weight of Sam's eyes on him. He swirls the dribble of liquid in his glass, and finally looks up. "I ain't trying to tell you different."
Sam sighs. "Yeah. I know. She was right, you know. This is forever. That's something we'll never have to worry about."
Dean grabs the bottle and drinks straight from it. Gulping hard until Sam takes it off him.
"So," Dean says. "Are you moving in with me, or am I moving in with you?"
"We should probably keep separate rooms," Sam says. "For appearances."
"Right," Dean says. "Also, I don't want you messing with my stuff."
"I don't wanna be tripping over your porn collection either, Dean."
"Good." Dean gets to his feet. "So. How about tonight? Your place, or mine?"
"Yours," Sam says, as he rises to his feet, just a little unsteady. His eyes are on Dean, and the only description Dean can think of to describe the look in them is hungry. "It's closer."
fin