They've seen some crazy shit over the years, but the dude running down the road, stripping off pajamas, with a crowd of people chasing after him is new.

Dean pulls up alongside, Sam leans back to pop open the door. "Get in," Dean yells, and the guy does, leaving his shirt flying away behind them as Dean tears down the road.

"You okay?" Dean asks. Sam stares into the back seat.

"No." the guy says, and then, "Oh no, not again. Stop the car."

Sam unbuckles his seat belt, like he's about to throw himself at the guy. "Hey, whoa," Dean says, slams on the brakes. "Sam, what the hell?"

The guy tumbles out onto the street, runs off, leaving his pajama pants in the car.

Sam slumps back down into his seat. "What happened?"

"You got whammied," Dean says. "Love spell gone wrong?" He looks back at the striped pajama pants draped over the seat, then up at the distant glow of bare ass behind them. "Huh."

They look like some of the stuff left behind in the bunker. Vintage, but crisp, brand new. Sam reaches over.

"Don't," Dean says. "Could be cursed. We'd better go back for the shirt."

---

There's a pair of cursed old man pajamas laid out on a motel bed.

"How'd it feel?" Dean says.

Sam looks uncomfortable. "I had to have him."

"Sex pajamas? That's new."

"Yeah. Wrap them up, Dean."

"Guaranteed to get laid pajamas."

"Dean."

"Sammy was hot for a dude."

Sam huffs. "They're dangerous."

Dean wraps them in a motel towel and stuffs them in his duffle.

---

In the morning, Dean rummages in his bag for clothes and comes out with a handful of pajamas. He's compelled to strip and put them on. "Sam," he says, as he buttons up the shirt. "A little help?"

Sam's in the shower. The water shuts off.

"I need your help, Sam." Dean straightens the collar, stands and ties the cord at the waist. "I fucked up."

The bathroom door opens, a cloud of steam pours into the room. Sam's still rubbing his hair with a towel. When he lifts his head, he drops it. "Oh my god."

"I know," Dean says. "I'm an idiot. Help me get them off."

"Dean," Sam says, crossing the room. He's got a towel wrapped around his waist, and he tugs it free. It falls.

Dean puts his hands over his eyes. "Sam, what the hell. Put some pants on." It's too late. Sam, naked, hard, seared into his brain. "Sammy, I'm your brother, I'm Dean."

"Shh, it's okay," Sam says, gripping the sides of Dean's neck. Sam tries to kiss him. "I'm gonna take care of you."

Dean tries to pull away, but can't make himself move. It doesn't make any sense. The guy last night, he was taking them off, he was running away. Dean can't.

"Sam," he says. "Stop. You can stop, right?"

"No." He kicks Dean's legs apart, gets between them. He gets his mouth on Dean's, and Dean should be disgusted, but he's not.

Sam's mouth is warm and soft, and tastes like mint, and Dean feels like he's melting inside.

Sam moves against Dean's body. He's strong and hard and his cock is leaking through the cursed pajamas. Sam lifts him, throws him down onto one of the beds, crawls up over him.

Dean can't fight it. He can't fight Sam. Not while he's wearing these pajamas.

"Okay, Sammy," he says. "But we can't do it while I've got these on. Take 'em off me."

Sam bites his lip and growls. As he slips each shirt button through the holes, he drops kisses all the way down Dean's chest.

The shirt goes flying, lands draped over the TV. Sam's fingers fumble with the tie at Dean's waist. It loosens, and he tugs the pants down.

Dean's hard. He's been hard since Sam lifted him off the floor. Okay, so he's got issues. What's new. But Sam isn't in his right mind, he doesn't really want this. It's not right. "No, Sam," Dean says, as Sam stops with the pants around Dean's thighs and drops his head to lick up the length of Dean's cock.

He shivers and his throat goes dry. "Stop," he rasps. "You really don't want this."

"I want it so much," Sam groans, long fingers wrapping the base of Dean's cock right before he takes it into his mouth.

Dean arches up off the bed. He should push Sam off. He can't. "It's not right," he says, but Sam just moans and lifts Dean's knees. "This isn't you."

Sam pulls the pajama pants off Dean's legs. The fabric grazes Dean's thighs, brushes his calves. Sam pulls them over Dean's feet and drops them. He pushes Dean's knees into his chest and gets to his feet.

He stands at the foot of the bed, cock in his hand. It's dripping with pre-come.

Dean sees the moment the curse falls away, the widening of Sam's eyes, the contraction of his pupils to tiny dots, the horrified jerk of his body, right before he turns away.

The only sound in the room is the ominous tick of the clock on the wall and their heavy breaths.

---

Dean wishes it was the kind of curse that undid the evil when the object was destroyed, but there's no fixing this mess. Sam sucked his cock. Dean let him.

"It's over," Sam says, as he backs away from the motel trash bin, smoking and smelling of burnt cellulose and zippo fluid.

He doesn't say 'we should talk about what happened', he doesn't give Dean the look. He grabs his bag and heads out to the car and the door swings shut behind him.

The guy wearing the pajamas last night, he ran from the people that wanted to fuck him. He took the pajamas off. Hell, Dean could have knocked Sam out if he really wanted to.

Instead, he let it happen. And Sam knows it.

fin