Chapter 2

The trail is going cold three days after Dean begged his brother to fuck him in an abandoned warehouse. All they've got on the witch is a description and her M.O., and their meager sources of information have all but dried up.

Dean wants his revenge, wants the bitch to get what she deserves, and he wants that fucking hex bag, but they've got nowhere to go from here. He fumes into the tumbler of whiskey in his hand and tries to make peace with it.

It hasn't happened again. All systems normal. He can clean the pipes without being desperate for a cock up his ass. There's a lingering awkwardness, the way he can almost feel Sam inside him whenever their eyes meet, but he can live with that. It'll fade, Dean figures. They've done worse things to each other and gotten past it, they'll get past this.

Dean throws back the finger of whiskey in the bottom of the glass and pushes himself to his feet. He sways a little, and the rickety motel table lurches. The bottle tips over, and amber fluid spreads across the surface. Dean grabs for it, just as the door handle rattles and the door swings open.

He looks up, the bottle in his hand, his fingers dripping, and finds Sam in the open doorway. There's a crease between his brows, and he looks worried and confused. "Bad table," Dean says in explanation, and puts the bottle back down. On second thoughts, he lifts it again and is about to pour more into his glass when Sam's hand covers his own and tugs it away.

"I think you've had enough." Sam stoops to find the cap on the floor and screws it back on. "That last lead? Nothing. She's not there, man. Hell, I don't know if she was ever there."

"Bitch," Dean slurs. He collapses on one of the beds and throws his arm over his eyes. "I fucking hate witches."

Sam huffs out a soft laugh. "Yeah." There's the sound of shoes scuffing the floor as he moves around the room. "We've done all we can, Dean. Maybe it's time to call it." He drags something out from under his bed, and the next sound is a zipper. "How are you doing, anyway? No signs it's coming back?"

Dean gives him a non-committal grunt, and rolls over onto his stomach. "I'm good."

Sam is ominously still and silent for a moment, then he pulls his bag off the floor and dumps it on the end of his bed. Ancient springs squeak in protest. The muffled thuds of folded cloth reach Dean's ears as Sam stuffs his clothes in. "We need to get out of here," Sam says, every word measured and careful. "We need to get back to work."

"You mean you need to take my mind off the way I begged you to do me," Dean mumbles into the pillow. He pushes himself up on his elbows, turns his head to look over his shoulder. "Sam. I'm fine, seriously."

Sam stares back at him, a look of horror on his face. "Dean—"

Dean rolls onto his back, keeps rolling until his feet are on the floor. "Sam. I said I'm good." He grabs the keys off the nightstand, and he's about to shove them into his pocket when Sam swoops in and hooks them right out of his hand.

"I'm driving," Sam says, lifting an eyebrow when Dean sways towards him when he tries to get them back.

---

Dean wakes with a sore neck and a boner that threatens to break the zipper of his jeans. He squirms and groans, and before he's fully cognizant, presses the heel of his hand into his crotch.

Sam glances away from the dark road stretching out in front of them. "Dean? Are you okay?"

Dean moans and shakes his head, clawing his fingers into his thigh because it's the only way he's going to stop himself from whipping it out and jerking it right here. "Where are we?"

"'Bout an hour from home."

"Damn." The word is low pitched, drawn out on a harsh breath. Dean's fingernails scritch audibly along the denim of his jeans, and he whimpers. "I'm sorry, man. We're gonna have to stop."

"It's okay." Sam's breathing hard, and Dean doesn't know why he's focusing on that, on Sam's face, the curve of his jaw as it works, when there's an empty ache inside that has to be filled right fucking now. "So it's happening again," Sam says, glancing quickly at Dean before he pulls off the road and onto a dirt track that'll take them into the woods. The brief glimpse Dean gets of his eyes, they seem bright with excitement, and Dean can't parse it, not now.

Sam stops the car in the middle of the track, and the engine doesn't finish rumbling to a stop before Sam pops the door and dives out into the night.

Seconds later, the passenger door flies open, and Sam hauls Dean up and out of the car. "How much time we got?" He grabs Dean's face in his hands, forces his head up, because Dean's eyes are stuck on the bare patch of skin at Sam's throat, the desire to lean in and lick almost irresistible.

"Some," Dean whispers, as he looks up from beneath his eyelashes and licks his lips. He aches, needs, but right now he'd be okay with a hand or a mouth on him. It's not going to last forever, though. Pretty soon he's going to climb Sam like a tree and try to impale himself. Pretty soon he's going to beg for it. "Shit, Sammy." He looks around, and they're surrounded by trees and darkness, the whole place smelling of decomposing leaves and dirt. "Find something to shove in my mouth, man. You gotta shut me up this time, please."

Sam shakes his head, slow and careful. "I don't care what you say."

Dean remembers begging for his brother's cock, the words echoing in his mind like they have been for the last few days. Dean lifts his chin, stares up into Sam's eyes like he's daring him to look away, to flinch. "Gonna do me down in the dirt, Sam? Like a dog?" He draws out the word, makes it as dirty and confrontational as he can. "Like I'm a bitch in heat? Like you just can't help yourself when I'm all bent over and whining for it?"

To Sam's credit, he doesn't blink. "No." He leads Dean around to the front of the car. "You're getting up close and personal with your Baby tonight. And it doesn't matter what comes out of your mouth, as long as it's yes, okay?"

Dean swallows hard, but can't shift the sudden lump in his throat. "It's always gonna be yes, Sammy." He bites hard at his lip to stop it quivering, and turns his eyes away so Sam can't see them shine in the moonlight, so he can't see the fear.

"Always?" Sam's fingers on his jaw force him to look, and there's confusion in the shape of Sam's brow.

"Until this is done, Sam." Dean wets his lips, remembers the taste of Sam in his mouth, the wet heat of Sam's tongue as it slid past his teeth. "Tonight. 'Til we're done tonight."

There's a hint of disappointment in the set of Sam's jaw, but the observation is gone before it can stick. Dean drags his gaze down and reaches out, slides his palms over the front of Sam's shirt. "Which we should totally get moving on, by the way." It's getting harder to breathe, and he really wants to get out of his jeans. He glances back over his shoulder. "Up close with my best girl? Won't be the first time."

Sam drops his eyes on a soft laugh. "Always knew you two would get together eventually." When he lifts them, they're darker somehow, almost black in the darkness. He steps forward, almost predatory, and slides his hand into his pocket as he crowds Dean up against the hood of the car.

His hand comes out of his pocket with a tube of lube. He looks down at it, shrugs, like an apology. "I was ready. Just in case." With his eyes still downcast, he reaches for the front of Dean's jeans with the other hand. "I'm gonna do it properly this time, Dean." Dean's jeans open, and loosen, and Dean lets out a whimper of relief. Sam lowers his voice. "I'm gonna need you to turn around and get your jeans off for me."

There's uncertainty in Sam's voice, something like fear, but Dean's far enough gone that he turns and kicks off his jeans. With only a little shame tugging at the back of his mind, he spreads his feet apart and leans forward, presses his palms down on the smooth hood.

She's still warm, and as if he can see the future, a scene plays out in his head, one where he's pressed naked against the curved steel, and Sam is a solid weight on his back, and Dean's ass is full and stretched and it's exactly what he needs. "Sammy," he rasps. "Yeah, Sammy. Yes."

"Good, Dean." Sam's hand slides up Dean's back, underneath his shirt, over his bare skin. "That's good." There's a snap and a squelch, and then slick fingers slide over his hole.

Dean chokes back a moan and leans back into the touch, bending a little lower, spreading his thighs a little wider. "Sammy, please."

"Shh. You gotta hold on a little while for me, Dean." There's pressure as Sam's fingertip pushes against him, sliding, circling. "Can you do that?"

Dean nods, lets his head hang down. "Long as you quit wasting time back there."

Sam takes a step forward, and Dean can feel the denim of his jeans against the back of his bare thighs. Sam's breathing is audible, rough and quick, but he doesn't hesitate when he breaches Dean with a fingertip.

Dean gasps at the initial shock and weirdness of having something inside him again. It's different this time, he's not as far gone, not near mindless with lust and need like he was then. All he can remember from that moment before was a searing pain, but a sense of relief that kept him from stopping or pulling away. This time he could pull away, if he wanted. This is good, a little bit at a time, and when he doesn't care anymore, hopefully he'll be able to walk the next day without wincing. Hiding that from Sam was a bitch.

He gets used to it quick, and he wants more. "Come on, Sammy."

"Okay." Sam's voice is low and wrecked already. The hand still laying flat on Dean's lower back clenches as Sam slowly pushes that finger in all the way, and Sam leans into him more.

Dean moans, long and just a little too high pitched for his liking, and the sound only fades when Sam's hand stills. Dean breathes hard. "I can feel every knuckle, Sammy," he rasps. "Do it again."

Sam lets out a choked off groan. "Jesus, Dean." He slides his finger out again, slow, and this time he works it so every single knuckle on the digit stretches Dean for just a little bit longer. "God." He leans into Dean more, and that's definitely his cock pressing hard and thick against Dean's left ass cheek.

"What?" Dean sucks air into his lungs in shallow gasps. "Not enough yes for you? Yes. Yesyesyes, Sam, come on."

"It's fine." Sam sounds like he's talking through his teeth. The finger slides in, out, torturously slow. Again and again, until Dean's panting and about to demand more, or faster, or something, when Sam presses another fingertip to his hole on the outstroke, and without missing a beat, slides two into Dean's ass.

"Holy fucking god." Dean's rim burns like it's on fire, but inside, it's so good. Sam twists on the outstroke, comes in different, grazes over a place inside that makes Dean cry out as perfect tingles spread out from the base of his cock, all the way to the tips of his fingers and the tips of his toes and the tips of his ears. He tries to ask for more, tries to beg Sam to never stop but all that comes rumbling up out of his throat is a guttural groan.

He hits the cooling hood of the car when Sam starts to pump his fingers. "Do that, Sammy," he gasps, with his cheek pressed to cold steel and the fuzzy shape of Sam towering above him in the corner of his eye, "do what you just did, and you won't need a hex to make me come looking for it."

Sam falters and chokes. "Fuck, Dean." The words come out broken and mangled, and he stops to clear his throat.

Dean closes his eyes. "Could've shut me up, but no." He grinds back on Sam's fingers and thrusts his cock against Baby's hood. "Get on with it, we don't have all night."

"Okay, okay." Sam lines up another finger and twists three in. It's different this time, Sam's not going as deep, but the further he gets in, the wider Dean's ass stretches open. It's kind of filthy to think about, but all it does is send a sick kind of thrill through Dean at the thought of his baby brother slowly working his way inside him.

Dean would like to believe that he'll regret this in the morning, but he won't. Not for the reasons he should, anyway. Truth is, these last few days there's been a disturbing absence of horror in regards to being fucked by his brother. All his discomfort has been worry, fear, that Sam is disgusted by what they did, what they're doing. The things he said, the things he's saying. He'll never forget asking his brother to fuck him, for as long as he lives.

Sam's gotta do it because that's what they do. They save each other. Dean's given up on any chance that either of them would—or could—live on without the other. It's never going to happen. They'll check out together or not at all.

Sam's obliged to do this, but Dean wants it. Wants it so bad he'll die if he doesn't get it. "Fuck me," he croaks, bitten down fingernails scraping at the hood with no thought for the paint job. Yeah, the shame is going to hit him when he comes out of this, but right now he needs more, more than the fingers of Sam's right hand, because even with the stretch burning his hole, inside he feels empty, open, gaping, and there's a searing pain licking at his insides that only cock will ease. "Now, Sammy, right now."

He sounds freaked, his voice rising in pitch, and Sam moves fast. He pulls his hand free, there's the sound of a zipper, then the blunt head of Sam's cock presses against Dean's hole. Before he can blink, there's a flash of pain, nothing like last time, and then he's full, Sam's dick going deep, bottoming out on the first thrust.

Dean lets out a sound that's halfway between a moan and a scream, like a wild animal or one of the monsters they've hunted, and it hangs in the air for long after his throat stops vibrating. Sweat slicks his cheek where it's stuck to the hood of the car, and he pulls it away, looks back at Sam over his shoulder.

Big mistake. Sam's mouth hangs open and he breathes hard. Shock, maybe. Or horror. Or disgust. His eyes are wide and staring, and his dick is twitching deep inside Dean's body. Dean closes his eyes tight. "Sorry, Sammy," he whispers, and he fights his body's betrayal, but he can't stop himself from clenching down on Sam's dick, like he can milk the come right out of him.

Sam whimpers. "No, Dean." He drops down over Dean's body, pinning him to the car, and they're joined from knee to shoulder. "Don't say you're sorry about this." Every single word is a rough growl hissed out from between clenched teeth. He rocks his hips, forcing a moan from Dean's throat. "You think this is hard for me?" He moves again, a solid thrust this time, and Dean slides up the hood. "This isn't hard."

Sam's hot breath washes over Dean's face as Sam starts to move, slow thrusts, deep inside Dean, never pulling out far as though he can't bear to leave. Dean opens his eyes, and Sam's blurry up this close, and his eyes hurt with the effort it takes to just catch the edge of Sam's face. Sam's arm slides around his chest and pulls him up, twists Dean while his cock is still buried deep inside. Then Sam's kissing him, kissing him like he's the one out of control here, and all Dean can do is take it.

He's gotta not think, because if he does he'll go insane. He can't think about how strangely right it feels to be kissing Sam out here in the woods, Sam's cock right up inside him. He can't think about how he's breathing his brothers breath, how even their hearts seem to beat in time. And when they can't kiss anymore, and Dean turns back to the car, plants his palms and locks his elbows so Sam can pound into him hard and fast. Definitely can't think about the fact that his orgasm crashes down on him out of the blue and he comes in thick white ropes over the black paint without a single touch to his dick.

He can't allow himself to think when he's still crying out as aftershocks roll over him and Sam's fingers are digging into his hips while he grunts with every hard thrust, and Dean swears he can feel it go warm and slick inside when Sam comes.

He can't think when Sam pulls out of him and come drips down the inside of his thigh, and he can't think when Sam pulls him around and pulls him close and kisses him again.

---

It all crashes down on him, all those thoughts, when they're back on the road and he's behind the wheel this time, but they're coming too hard and too fast and he can't make sense of it all. He can't stop it enough to talk, and every time Sam asks him if he's okay and he turns to answer, all the words get stuck in his throat.