Chapter 3

"Beer," Sam calls, standing at the bottom of the stairs with a six-pack in each hand and a bad feeling. "Dean? Where the hell are you, man?"

He heads for the kitchen, dumps the beer on the table, and checks his phone. He would have heard it if it had rung, but there's not even a text message. He heads down the hall toward their rooms. "I'm starting to freak out, Dean. Where are you?"

Five days have passed since they stopped the car in the woods. When the third day came and went, the theory that these 'attacks' went on a regular schedule went out the window. Dean was ecstatic. Sam was a little more pessimistic. If they didn't know when it was going to happen, they could hardly hunt. What if it happened in the middle of a job? Something like that could take Dean out of the hunt completely, if not put his life in danger.

Sam was even reluctant to leave to get much needed supplies, but Dean without beer is unpleasant at the best of times. Dean locked up in the bunker without beer is intolerable.

Dean's door is closed. Sam knocks, and stands close so he can speak through the solid wood. "Dean?"

Bed springs squeak, and there's a muffled thump. "Sammy?" He sounds breathless and panicked, and Sam's moving before he gets his next words out: "Don't come in."

Sam bursts through the door, two things in his mind. Either Dean's suffering from the effects of the spell again, or there's something in there with him and he's been attacked. By the time Dean's final words have registered in his brain, it's too late, and he's halfway across the room, his gun raised.

Then he drops it, because it's pointed right at Dean, and there's no one else in here. He frowns, tries to make sense of the scene before him. "Dean? What's going on?"

Dean's backed up against the wall, a sheet hastily pressed against his apparently naked body, sticking to his belly in a spreading patch of wetness. "I told you not to come in, man. Come on."

Sam quickly turns around and tucks the handgun back into the back of his jeans. "I thought you needed help. Or...ahhh...something."

"Well, I did." Dean sounds pissed. "Figured I could wait 'til you got back, because beer runs? Sure don't take me that long. And then you didn't come back, and I'd left it a little long to be able to deal with making a phone call. I thought I was dying, Sammy."

Sam almost turns back, but stops, when, from the corner of his eye, he catches Dean wiping his stomach down with the corner of the sheet. "What happened?"

Dean comes further into his field of vision, waves his hand around in a gesture that means 'turn the other way'. "It just stopped. Don't know why, don't know how, but just before you turned up, it stopped."

"Stopped?" Sam turns his head, and Dean's pulling on his jeans, so he turns his whole body. "Why would it just stop?"

"Hell if I know, Sammy, but I'm not going to complain about it." Dean pulls a clean t-shirt over his head and heads for the door.

Sam's been watching Dean a lot more than usual lately. Watching the way he moves, the way he walks. After the first time, in the warehouse, he moved stiff, like he was in pain, and that didn't surprise Sam at all. As far as he knows, that was the first time Dean had ever been fucked, and Sam did it without any preparation. Left behind in Dean's room, he shivers thinking about it. Dean was so hot and so tight and so damn hungry for it. Sam shouldn't have enjoyed fucking his brother so much, but in the days that came after, he couldn't stop thinking about it, and while he, along with Dean, hoped that it was over, he knew he wouldn't hesitate to do it again if Dean needed him.

He'd like to try and tell himself that he's just helping his brother, saving him, but it's not all of it. Not by a long shot.

After the night they stopped in the woods, Dean still moved different, but he didn't seem to be in pain. Sam enjoyed opening Dean up slowly, bit by bit, had been planning it just like that in his head since the first time. There are things that have been going through his head since then, other ways of getting Dean ready to take his cock. There's a part of him that feels disappointed at the fact he didn't get the chance to do those things this time.

Dean's moving different now, not entirely relaxed, just a little more bow-legged than usual. Sam wonders if he had his own fingers up his ass before Sam got back, before it all just stopped. He wonders if Dean was getting himself ready to take his brother's cock.

Sam's eyes flick to Dean's bedside table. There's a bottle of lube there, and the cap is off, and it's squeezed, the bottle buckled, and the outside of the bottle is slick and shiny where Dean's gotten lube all over the outside. There's wet smudges on the bottom sheet that Sam didn't notice before. Sam closes his eyes, imagining what Dean might have looked like fucking himself with his fingers, and he lets out a soft moan as his cock, hard in his jeans for some time now, pulses and jerks.

"You okay there, Sammy?"

Sam's eyes snap open, to find Dean leaning around the edge of the open doorway. "Yeah," he chokes, and then clears his throat. "Hey Dean? If it'd been me who touched the hex bag, would you have...?"

Dean's eyes go wide, and he swallows hard as he moves back into the doorway. "Honestly? I don't know. Maybe not. And I don't know whether that makes me the good brother, or a crap one."

After the first time, Sam had waited for Dean to tell him that no matter what, he didn't want Sam to do it again, if it happened again. Dean never did.

---

Another week goes by and nothing happens, so they find a case. Sam leaves piles of books, spell books, some Men of Letters research on love spells, on sex magic, he leaves them all out in the library and they leave for some hick town in Nebraska.

Dean might be convinced it's all over, but Sam's not so hopeful. He knows there's little difference between Nebraska and all the way across the country, but he'll feel better if they're not too far from home.

When they get there, he checks them into a motel, just so they have somewhere to go if everything goes sideways.

Technically, it's a routine haunting, and they could easily be in and done and gone again in the space of a day, but he's not taking any chances.

As hauntings go, it's as routine as they get. They get a positive ID on the ghost within an hour of getting into town, but then they've got a couple hours to kill before dark, because it's no fun digging graves in broad daylight.

So they head back to the motel.

Sam's reading, and Dean's chucking back beers in front of the television, when the laughter directed at the screen fades. Sam watches him from the corner of his eye as he starts to squirm on the couch.

"You okay, Dean?" he asks, when Dean's been shuffling back and forth as though he can't get comfortable for the last five minutes.

Dean glances up quickly, then back to the television. He goes stock still, looking rigid and uncomfortable. He clears his throat. "Fine," he says, and his voice is low, rough and deep, but lilts up at the end of the word. He stares for another few minutes, then suddenly leaps off the couch and heads for the bathroom. "Taking a shower," he says, without giving Sam so much as a look.

Sam gives him a good ten minutes before he stands outside the bathroom door and knocks. He raises his voice, so that Dean can hear him over the running water. "What do you want me to do, Dean? When it gets bad, what do you want me to do?"

Long moments pass in which Sam listens to the running water, and then it abruptly shuts off. "Dean? Are you okay? I need you to tell me—"

"I'm good," Dean says, and he's right on the other side of the door. "For now. Just... I gotta do this on my own, Sam. If it stops..." His heavy, labored breaths travel through the thin layers of wood. "If it doesn't, man. You'll know."

"Dean." Sam presses himself against the door, palms flat against the surface, cheek pressed against the wood. "What do you want me to do?"

Dean's quiet for a long time, silent but for his rasping breath. Then, finally, he speaks, and it's a pained growl through the door. "Wait 'til I call you. If I call you, you can take that as a yes."

The door moves under Sam's hands, flexes as Dean pushes away from it. There's movement inside, the slap of Dean's bag hitting the counter, the rip of the zipper as it opens. Other sounds that paint a picture in Sam's mind, the snap of a plastic cap and the creak of cheap carpentry and the sudden soft gasping moan from inside.

Time passes, and Sam's still pressed to the door, eyes closed and hard as a rock inside his jeans. The scene plays out in his mind, Dean bent over the counter with his fingers up his ass and he must be up to three by now if the sounds from inside are any indication. Sam can even hear the soft squelching of too much lube, playing counterpoint to Dean's grunts as he fucks himself like that. Interspersed with the sounds of sex are wordless cries of frustration and helplessness and it's all Sam can do to stay where he is instead of bursting through the door and giving Dean what he needs.

It feels like hours have passed, and Sam's getting desperate, unable to bear the sounds Dean is making any longer. He's about to burst in anyway when the call finally comes.

"Sammy," Dean groans, his name drawn out, long and low and wrecked, and Sam's through the door before his name has even faded on the air.

The scene before him is almost exactly as he imagined it. Dean's completely naked, both hands on the edge of the sink as he bends over, legs spread wide, his asshole open and dripping and red and used-looking. Dean's head hangs down, and Sam can't see his face, but he can see his own reflected in the mirror. He looks away from the mirror quickly, because he looks scary; hungry and mad with lust and terrified all at once. "Dean," he says, voice breaking. "Oh, god. Dean."

Dean lifts his head. Reflected in the mirror, his eyes look black, pupils blown so wide as to eclipse the iris completely. His lower lip is red and swollen and bleeding from a cut, like he's been biting down hard in his failed attempts to stay quiet. "Need you to fuck me, Sammy," he groans, and his eyes roll back in his head as something shivers through him. "Now, Sammy, please."

The begging does Sam in completely, and he crosses the small room in one long stride, his jeans open before he really realizes what he's doing, and he lines up his cock and slides right in deep.

Dean grunts, hard and sharp, and he buckles over like he's been gut-punched. His ass clamps down on Sam's cock, pulses like he's coming already. Sam can barely think, too long spent hard and pressed up against the door listening to Dean finger himself, and he rides the knife edge even while he's stilled inside Dean's body.

He's got an arm wrapped around Dean's chest, holds him tight, looks over his shoulder into the mirror, right into Dean's eyes. And he sees his own, and they're the same, lust blown and dark, and he breathes hard, and so does Dean, and they're both wearing the same expression. Desperate, and hungry, and utterly shameless.

"You feel good, Sammy," Dean whispers, and Sam reads his lips because he can't hear a thing over the thundering of his own heart. "You always feel so good."

Sam moves his hips, rocks into Dean as he moans an affirmative. "Can't stop thinking," he grunts as he pulls out, long and slow, and then slides back in. "'Bout being in you." He pulls his arm tighter around Dean's chest and jerks into him, does it again. "I wanted this," he growls, and he hates himself for it, but he won't let himself look away from the mirror, from Dean's face, from Dean's eyes.

He expects to see betrayal there, expects something from his admission, but there's nothing. Nothing but Dean's eyes rolling up in his head as Sam starts to fuck him harder, his long drawn out moan and the tightening of his ass around Sam's cock until Sam doesn't think he's going to bear it, won't last.

He doesn't need to. Sam cries out when Dean starts to come, his body tightening until Sam sees stars. Spurts of come hit the mirror, drip down onto the countertop, then Dean slumps in Sam's arms, and only Sam holds him up. He fucks up into Dean's slack body, comes right behind him, fills him full of slick, then they both slump forward over the counter.

Sam can hardly breathe. It must have been over in seconds, too much, too fast, and his mind and his heart and his lungs are still trying to catch up. Then Dean moans and shifts beneath him, and Sam pulls back, and his cock slips out of Dean's body. It's followed by a trickle of fluid, Sam's come dripping down the inside of Dean's thigh. It's sick. It's fucked up. But he wanted it. God, he wanted it.

Sam stumbles back, gasping. Dean catches his eye in the mirror, and fear creases his forehead. "You okay, Sammy?" His voice is barely a rasp, his throat ruined by screaming.

"I—" Sam chokes on a sob and backs away on unsteady legs. "Dean, I—"

Dean drops his eyes from the mirror, shakes his head. "You wanna give me a minute, Sam?"

Sam backs out of the bathroom, and closes the door behind him.

---

They're standing on the edge of an open grave watching bones burn when Sam finally clears the blockage in his throat. "It's not over, Dean."

"You think I don't know that?" Dean drops his chin into his chest and shakes his head before he lifts his eyes to Sam's. "That bitch ain't done." He huffs out a laugh and turns his head away, and the glow from the grave lights his face on fire. "What the hell kind of game is she playing? Is she getting her kicks out of watching me—" He stops, and he looks back up at Sam. "She's watching," he says, and his face is blank. "She's fucking watching. You came back to the bunker last week, and it stopped. We leave, and it starts up again." He turns slowly on the spot, looks out into the darkness. "Where are you, you perv?" he yells out across the headstones. He turns back to Sam. "She can't see us in the bunker. It's warded in ways we've never heard of. No point to it happening there, right?"

Sam clears his throat. He still feels like he's choking on every word. "Must have hoped you'd follow me out. She doesn't know how stubborn you are." He looks around the cemetery himself, though he knows she'll never be found like that. "She's watching remotely, gotta be. And whatever she's doing she can't see into the bunker."

"Right." Dean groans, and he shoves his hand onto his pocket, pulls out the car keys. "Let's go. We can get this figured out once we're safe."

"Once you're safe," Sam says, and that lump in his throat is guilt. It's growing like a tumor, eating away at him until he'll have no voice left at all.