Chapter 4

They're packed as if they're driving across the country, as if they might be away from the bunker for weeks, moving from job to job, motel to motel.

Their first stop, though, is less than half an hour drive away. Dean's heart is pounding in his chest, and he can't keep still, stamping his feet on the floor while he waits for Sam to gather the last of the books they need.

Sam zips his bag up, and pulls it up off the table, slings it onto his shoulder. He looks up and meets Dean's eyes.

Dean swallows hard as he stares back, and then he's got to look away. It's too much, staring into Sam's eyes like that, all concern and grave intensity, and it hurts, where his jaw is clenched and his lungs are tight. "You ready for this, Sammy?" He drops his eyes and takes a couple of aimless steps across the floor.

"Dean."

Sam's not moving. He's just standing there, bag over his shoulder, but he's not going anywhere. Even without looking, Dean knows what's going to come out of his mouth next, knows the way his face shifts into this self-sacrificing frown, all furrowed brow and 'do the right thing' and 'lets talk' and shit and Dean just can't.

"Dean, we should talk about this. Now, while we still can."

Dean lifts his head, shoots him a look that's supposed to convey 'seriously?' but which Sam tends to ignore. Then he looks wistfully up toward the stairs. "Times ticking, Sammy."

Sam lets out a soft laugh, drops his head, shakes it. "It's really not." He looks back up. "Fine. You don't want to talk. I get that, I do. But I'm gonna talk, Dean, and you're going to listen because there's some stuff I need to say."

Dean groans, drops his bag back onto the floor, and sinks down onto the step. "Whatever, Sam. Get it done, man. Some of us want this over."

Sam flinches, but he puts his bag back down on the table and takes a deep breath. "You know what's going to happen when we leave here."

Dean looks up at him, lifts his eyebrows. "Duh, Sammy." They've been locked up in the bunker for close to two weeks, or at least Dean has been. It's taken that long just to find the information they need, to find a way to get the witch who did this to him and stop her. Nothing's happened in that time, but Dean still thinks about it every day, thinks about it when he lies in his bed at night, he thinks about it when he showers, he thinks about it when he jerks off. He thinks about having Sam inside him, how good it feels to have Sam's big hands on him, those long, thick fingers inside him, and then his cock, stretching him open, filling him so right, so good, easing the desperation.

And he just wants it over. He wants to gank the bitch doing it, end it once and for all, because knowing it's going to happen again? That's the worst. It's the anticipation that's killing him, the wanting it as if this curse or hex or spell or whatever affects him all the time, not just when someone's watching. Because he knows it's not. Right now? Not under the influence. But he wants Sam like he's never wanted anyone before, and it's crazy, and it shouldn't be real, but he knows it is.

Sam's still staring at him, all puppy dog eyes and martyr complex, and that's supposed to be Dean's deal, and he frickin hates it when Sam does it because that's not Sam's job. It's not right Sammy looking out for Dean like this, it's not right that Sam should have to do this.

Then Sam's face shifts, twists into anger, hopelessness, desperation, and that's supposed to be Dean's deal, too, at least lately, so what the fuck is going on here?

"I don't know what I'm supposed to feel," Sam whines, and that's more like it. "There's some things I should have told you a long time ago, back when this first started, because every time it happens, every time I have to—" All the color drains out of Sam's face, and Dean looks away, wishes he could shove his fingers in his ears so he didn't have to hear it. "Every time, Dean, it just gets harder."

Dean picks at the seam of his jeans. "Fuck you, Sam," he mutters, and then lifts his head, stares right at Sam, glares with all the accusation he can muster. "Fuck. You. You couldn't have waited 'til it's over?" And then he flinches, because no, Sam should have said something at the beginning, because then Dean never would have known what it felt like to have his brother inside him, and he wouldn't be feeling like such a sick fuck right now for forcing his baby brother to degrade himself like that. He shakes his head, grinds his teeth and chokes on bile. He knew what Sam was thinking the whole time, but now he has confirmation, and it's going to be awful doing it again, because it's got to happen, they can't do the spell they need to do until they know she's watching and they only know she's watching when Dean starts getting like he needs to be fucked. It's going to hurt, knowing that Sam's doing something that disgusts him. It's going to hurt so much, and Dean'll still be begging Sam to fuck him.

"I know what you're thinking, Dean," Sam says, and he's moving toward Dean now, but he stops, too far away. "I'm sick. There's something wrong with me. It wouldn't be the first time, and I remember the way you used to look at me, and how much it hurt, and I just want you to know, it's okay. You don't have to pretend, Dean. I'm not going anywhere. You can say what you like to me, and I'll take it. I know how wrong this is."

What the actual fuck? Dean stares, like he can figure out what Sam's saying from the look on his face, but for once, Dean can't read it. The expressions are familiar, but they don't match the words, they don't match what's stuck in Dean's head. "Huh?" he says, stupidly, completely unable to parse what Sam's trying to say.

Sam comes a bit closer, but stops, still too far away. "I like what we've been doing," he says. He glances back at his bag, the one with all the books and equipment and arcane thingies inside. "When I found that spell, Dean? You know what I thought about first? Not that we could end this, not that we could finally find her. I thought about the fact that we would have to leave. That we'd have to find somewhere and wait for it to start again. That I would get to be inside you again."

He's incredibly pale, head hung low, and that's not hard to read. It's shame. Sam's ashamed.

Dean's in shock. His mouth opens and closes like a fish, but no words come out. When he can finally form a thought, he speaks slow, careful. "You only did what I asked you—repeatedly—to do, Sam."

Sam shakes his head. "It was my idea. You gave me options, and I chose something else. I chose something I wanted, not what was best for you. I took what I wanted. And I liked it. I liked it every single time, and I wanted more." He lifts his head, and his eyes are wet and shining. "I still want more."

Dean pushes himself to his feet, drags himself up the steps, and he slowly crosses the space between them, like he's afraid Sam's going to spook. When he's close enough, he reaches out for Sam's shoulder.

Sam flinches away, like he's been doing since this started. Between fucks, he always flinches away when Dean gets close. "You can't even look at me," Dean says, and he knows he's a hypocrite, because he can't look at Sam, either, and he pulls away when Sam gets too close, too. "It should be gross, right? Having to fuck your brother, literally having to? We've done some fucked up shit for each other, Sam. We've made deals, we've become monsters, we've killed and we've died. But this? This is where you're supposed to draw the line."

Sam gives his head a shake, and then he drops it into a nod. He looks as though he's going to hurl. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Dean says, and he grabs Sam's face in his hands and he forces Sam to look him in the eye. "This ain't your fault, man. It ain't any of our faults. You like this?" He drops his eyes, lets them fall over his own body. "So what. I like it too. And not just when she's watching, Sammy. You think I'm grossed out by my baby brothers cock in my ass?" Sam's eyes go wide. "I'm not. Should be, but I'm not. It's good, Sam. We're both freaking out because we think we're doing something bad. Hell, I thought you were grossed out having to do it. But it's good. You like it, I like it—"

"We're brothers," Sam hisses out through his teeth.

Dean shrugs. "So? We've fucked with the natural order, over and over and over again. This is nothing. Right now, all I'm pissed about is the pervy bitch getting off on watching us, taking away my fucking ability to make my own fucking decisions about when I wanna get fucked by my brother."

Sam's face, when he looks up at Dean, is scandalised. "But that's just it, Dean. You couldn't possibly consent, and I fucked you anyway."

"Pretty sure you heard me say yes about a hundred times, Sam. 'Sides, who's to say I wouldn't, if I had the choice? If it was something that had actually crossed my mind before she put it in there, anyway."

"You said I was the last person on earth it should be, Dean."

"I didn't want you to do something you didn't want to do."

"I did. I wanted to do it."

For the first time in a long time, the two of them maintain eye contact for an extended period. Dean's not going to be the one to break it. "Good," he says, never looking away, and sliding his hands down the sides of Sam's throat. "Now, can we please get this frickin show on the road? I'd like to be making my own fucking decisions by morning, you know?"

---

An hour later they're sitting on opposite sides of a table in a gaudy motel room. The legs are uneven, and Sam carefully folds a sheet of plain white paper before bending to shove it under one leg. It stops rattling.

Spread out on the table is another, larger sheet of paper. This one's parchment, kind of a sandy dirt color, with ragged edges, and Sam moves to place items on the corners to keep it from rolling back up. There's a silver knife, the blade so sharp it'll cut through human skin like butter. There's a small pottery bowl that Sam found on a shelf in the archives. There's a wooden box, carved with arcane symbols and full of a mixture of evil smelling herbs and powders. And there's a bottle of whiskey, because it's the heaviest thing Dean could find in his bag and he wants it close to hand in case everything goes sideways.

"Anything?" Sam says, as he smooths down the edges of the parchment with his fingertips. His eyes are on the paper, on his hands, but he licks his lips and lifts his head. "Dean?"

Dean keeps getting lost in his mind. The things they said to each other before they left the bunker, some of the things they've said to each other since this whole thing started, they're all echoing in his mind and he can't concentrate, and it doesn't help when Sam goes and does that to his lips. "What? Oh." To be honest, he's been half-hard since they got in the car, and he could pretend it's being back behind the wheel of his baby for the first time in two weeks, but that's not it at all. "Maybe? Though it could be the little talk we had back there."

Sam chokes on nothing, coughs to clear his throat. "We've gotta be sure she's watching."

"Right." Dean clears his throat as well. "Yeah, we should wait."

---

Dean's taking swigs out of the whiskey bottle whenever Sam's attention is elsewhere. Dean's still at the table, Sam wandered off, and he's playing with his phone, stretched out on one of the beds. Dean thinks they should have got a double, but it must be habit them getting two. He's completely hard in his jeans now, but it doesn't feel quite the same. There's no urgency, not like the other times, not yet, at least, and he doesn't know whether it's the hex, or if it's just Sam.

He passes the time thinking about getting Sam's clothes off and taking small sips out of the bottle, because if this works, they're going to have to bounce from here fast in order to catch her. He distracts himself by imagining what they might do, how they might do it, once this is over and Dean can choose again.

He'd like to bend Sam over the edge of the bed. Make him press his hands flat to the mattress, hold him by his hips and slide in, nice and slow. He never really thought much about fucking a guy before, but he bets Sam would be really fucking tight and— He moans at the thought of fucking his brother, presses the heel of his hand against his crotch to ease a bit of the pressure.

Sam's head jerks up. "Dean?"

Dean shakes his head. "Nope. Thinking about something else."

Sam's eyes darken. "Like what?"

Dean stares back for a long time as he debates sharing his thoughts with Sam. He's got to tear his eyes away when he decides to spill, he can't say it out loud with Sam staring like he is. "When this is over," he says, and his voice has gone thick and rough. "I'm gonna fuck you."

He can actually hear it when Sam swallows hard. He doesn't look up, though, because otherwise, Sam's silent.

Then there's a low, breathy moan, a word slipping out with it. "Yeah," Sam says. "Yeah, Dean."

Dean lets out the breath he's been holding, can't stop the smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. "Yeah," he echoes.

Bed springs creak as Sam puts his feet on the floor. Dean looks up as he crosses the room, almost chokes on his tongue when Sam drops to his knees at Dean's feet and looks up into his eyes. There's so much there, and the pupils of Sam's eyes are blown wide with lust and he blinks away a glistening wetness. Then he reaches for Dean's waist, and gentle fingers slip under his shirt.

They're warm on Dean's belly, but that's apparently not Sam's goal. He flicks the button of Dean's jeans open, tugs the waistband apart, and the well worn zipper slides right down. "Can I?" he asks, and he licks his lips, and his eyes are still on Dean's face, and they're hungry and questioning.

And all Dean can do is nod and gasp when Sam pulls his cock out of his pants, and slowly, tentatively, lowers his head and takes Dean into his mouth.

Dean's eyes roll back in his head. He's had plenty of blowjobs, never from a guy, and he wonders if guys are better at sucking dick simply from the virtue of having one of their own and knowing what feels good. So far, he thinks, yeah, maybe, or maybe Sam's just done this before. Sam would have kept that to himself, Dean figures, he's not one to kiss and tell, not one to shout his conquests from the rooftops.

Sam goes slow, like he's in no hurry. Dean's quite keen on coming, though, and he figures that will at least let them know if it's the witch making him crazy like this, or if it's just Sam. He links his fingers through Sam's hair, puts a little pressure behind the touch.

Sam lets Dean guide him. The suction is perfect, the way his tongue flicks beneath the head as he pulls off between sucking him in. Too perfect, and yeah, guys just know what they're doing, or Sam just knows what he's doing, because pressure starts building at the base of Dean's spine and he pulls Sam off him, grabs him by the hair and drags him up, until just the tip of Dean's cock is still in his mouth and his tongue wraps around the underside as though he can hold on like that.

"You like it, Sam?" Dean growls and bites at his bottom lip. "You like sucking my dick? Are you doing this because you like having your mouth full of my cock?"

Sam's eyes go wide and his head bobs in a quick, jerky nod, and he moans around Dean's dick and it feels so fucking good.

"I'm gonna come," Dean hisses, and he lets Sam go, drops his hands to his thighs, fingers clawing into the denim of his jeans. "Won't be offended if you move, man."

And Sam, his eyes still on Dean's face, gives his head a shake and sucks him back down deep.

When Dean comes, it's almost painful, his stomach clenching so hard he almost falls off the chair, but Sam catches him.

"Well, fuck," he says, when he can breathe again. "I guess that was all us."

---

Sam won't let Dean touch his dick. "I shouldn't have done that," he says, glancing down at Dean's crotch as they sit side by side on one of the narrow single beds.

"Awesome," Dean says, and then turns his head, glares at Sam's profile. "I thought we were past that, Sammy. 'Cause I wasn't feeling bad about forcing you to do me before our little talk. Which was your idea, by the way. Dude, I'm gonna get whiplash."

After he came in his brother's mouth, Sam dragged Dean up off the chair, practically threw him down onto the bed, and they were both stripped to the waist and Dean's hand was halfway down Sam's jeans, all in the space of about 30 seconds.

Then Sam froze. "We can't do this," he said, and pulled away, and Dean was left reeling.

"Is it the incest thing?" Dean says, shaking off the recent memories. "Because I think that ship has sailed, man."

"No." Sam turns to face him, and there's a hint of a smile on his lips. "It's definitely a thing, Dean, but that's not why." He pushes himself to his feet, shoves his hands deep into his pockets, and his jeans tug down to his hips, and Dean can't drag his eyes away from Sam's hips, the muscle, tight beneath the skin. He kinda wants to lick at the place it cuts in between his hard stomach and his hip bone.

"We're giving her a free show, Dean."

Dean's head jerks up. "Huh?"

Sam rolls his eyes, and his smile spreads wider, "If she's watching, she's getting it for free, but if she's not triggering the hex, we don't know for sure that she's watching, you know?"

"Ahh." Dean gets it now, and a wave of relief kind of washes over him at Sam's words. "And we can't do the spell until we know she's watching."

"Right."

"So no sex 'til I turn into a wanton whore again, check." Dean looks around the room, the spell set up and ready to go on the table, the small, crappy TV with no cable, and pretty much nothing else. "Well, do you want to go get some food, or shall I?"

Sam hooks his shirt off the floor and pulls it on, then holds his hand out for the car keys. "I'll do it," he says.

---

Dean lies on the bed and listens to the rumble of the engine as Sam pulls out of the motel lot in search of food. He closes his eyes, tries to think about perfect burgers and warm apple pie instead of the other stuff that's filling his brain. He briefly wonders if whatever triggers his need for cock is inhibited by his own regular, garden variety arousal, because that would be a pain in the ass. He's not sure it's ever going to go away now. This day has been a whirlwind of upheaval. Two weeks of waiting, of not being able to get the thought of Sam filling him out of his head, despite the belief that Sam was only doing it out of duty, despite the belief that Sam wouldn't have done it otherwise, he couldn't stop thinking about it, couldn't stop wanting it.

His dick is hard again. Does it count as a free show if he just rubs one out before Sam gets back, just to take the edge off? Dean decides it doesn't, and he shoves his hand into his jeans and wraps it around his cock. He stays zipped up, just in case, and he starts to stroke. Hard and fast, using the recent memory of Sam's mouth on his dick.

But his thoughts drift to images of himself, lying back on this bed, his thighs pulled into his chest as Sam hovers above and slides inside him in one quick stroke.

Dean moans and jerks his dick faster, harder, denim pressing down, tight, on the back of his hand as he spreads his legs involuntarily. He needs something else, needs something in him before he can come and—

Oh, fuck.

Dean yanks his hand out of his jeans, wipes it on his thigh, and reaches for his phone, dialing quickly. "You need to get back here," he says, when Sam finally picks up. "Right the fuck now, Sammy."

---

When Sam bursts through the door ten minutes later, Dean's pacing the floor, only seconds away from stripping naked. "Too fast, Sammy," he says, the words tumbling out of him. "It's moving too fast, I can't—"

Sam dumps a whole pie and two take-out bags down on the kitchen counter, and then he's there, right there, smelling like cinnamon and leather and just what he needs and it's all Dean can do just to stay clothed when what he really wants to do is get naked and bend over. Sam's hands come down on his shoulders, and he ducks his head to look into Dean's eyes. "We gotta do the spell, Dean. We've got to do it now, can you hold on?"

Dean drops his head, shakes his head. "Then get the party started, Sammy, you gotta—" He lifts his head, and his lungs are too tight, and his eyes are focused on Sam's lips and he's kissed his brother before, but only while they were fucking, or after they fucked, never in between and not even today when they figured out they both wanted this and he really wants Sam to kiss him again. Preferably after he gets his dick inside him. "Fuck, Sam. Get it done."

Then Sam's moving, standing over the table as he opens the wooden box. "Get over here, Dean," he says, as he pulls out tiny twists of paper and empties them into the bowl. When he's done that, he picks up the knife, and he reaches out for Dean's hand.

Dean barely feels it when Sam drags the knife across his palm. "What am I gonna do, Sammy?" he pleads, because his body feels like it's trying to turn itself inside out. "This works, and you go after her, what am I gonna do?"

Sam holds Dean's hand over the bowl as blood drips down on the rest of the mixture. He looks up into Dean's eyes. "I thought of that. Look in my bag. I don't know if it'll work, but it might give you some time, at least." He gives Dean's hand one last squeeze, and then drops it, and picks up a tiny slip of paper with words written on it in hurried ballpoint.

"Et apertis oculis nostris, exigimus videre videntis. Ostendo qui videt nos!" Sam says, and then drops the piece of paper.

Purple flames shoot up from inside the bowl, and then drop down to cast a dull illumination over the table. Something starts to form on the surface of the parchment, a shifting of shade that is barely visible to the naked eye, but soon it's evident that something's changed.

Looking like it's been that way for a hundred years, there's a map now drawn on the sheet of parchment. Dean expected something different, something they'd have to get up real close to read, but it almost like those big text books they make for old people. Or babies. The map barely covers a couple of blocks, but of where he doesn't know and can't form enough of a thought outside 'fuck me' to figure it out.

Sam, however, is pulling his gun, checking the clip, and tucking it back into his jacket. "It's close," he says, and then looks up. "My bag, Dean. I'll be back as soon as I can, and hopefully this will all be over."

---

An hour later, Dean's sitting on his bed, surrounded by the remnants of take-out burgers eaten cold. He's got a fork in the apple pie, and he fully intends to eat the entire thing. He figures he deserves it.

Sam bursts through the door when it's down to crumbs, stops in his tracks when his eyes fall on Dean, and they just kind of stare at each other for a while.

"I take it it went well," Dean mumbles around his last mouthful. He puts the pie plate aside and crosses one leg over the other.

"What happened?" Sam asks, closing the door behind him. He stands there, kind of stiff and awkward.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

Sam's eyes flick to his bag, lying open on the floor. "Did you—?"

Dean snorts. "Didn't need to. Don't get me wrong, I was ready to try anything, but then it just... Faded. I figured you killed her, or burned the hex bag. Anyway, it stopped. Good job, Sammy." He grins.

Sam looks halfway disappointed and halfway relieved. "I didn't kill her."

Dean looks up sharply. "Why the hell not?"

Sam drops his head, shakes it. "She was an amateur, Dean. I think that was the only spell she knew. I scared the crap out of her though, and she handed the hex bag over easy."

Dean grins. "So it's burned. It's over."

Sam swallows hard and drops his eyes.

"It is burned, right, Sammy?"

Sam's hand slides into his pocket, and when it comes out, he opens his fist to reveal the thing that's been torturing Dean for weeks. "She was stroking it when I found her," he says, and drags his thumb up the side of the tiny package.

Immediately, a shiver that starts at the base of Dean's spine moves up his back. "Sam," he growls.

Sam lifts his eyes, and there's a frown creasing his brow. He strokes the bag again, and Dean shudders. "I'm scared, Dean. You've been under a spell this whole time. But I'm just me. I've admitted that I want this. That I want you. What if I burn the bag, and it just stops for you. What if you can't look at me anymore after what I've done?"

Dean steps off the bed, and he slowly closes the space between them. He takes the bag out of Sam's hand, and Sam lets him. "I don't think that's going to happen, Sam. But if it does, do you want something that isn't real? I don't think you do."

Sam shakes his head, but his eyes are wet, and reddening around the edges. He puts his hand in his pocket again, and pulls out a lighter, hands it over.

Dean sets the hex bag on fire, drops it in the bowl on the table before the flames reach his fingers, and they both watch it burn.

"You got me a rubber cock," Dean says, when all that's left is ash. He looks up into Sam's eyes and lifts one eyebrow. "You went out, and you bought your brother a fake dick? What the hell, Sammy?"

Sam's eyes flick back to his bag on the floor. He looks mortified, like he'd like the earth to open up and swallow him. Again. "Dean, I— I thought—"

"You didn't think about the fact that I'd much rather have the real thing, did you, Sam?" Dean steps forward, right into Sam's personal space, and he can see it in the way his brother leans back that he hasn't quite caught up yet. Then something flickers across Sam's face, confusion, surprise, and Dean lets his lips curve into a smile. "Still want it," he says, and twists his fingers into the front of Sam's shirt.

Sam's eyes go wide when Dean pulls him down into a kiss, the one Dean's wanted all day, and as he slides his tongue into Sam's mouth, he thinks about the fact his cock slid between those lips just a few hours ago. "My turn," he mumbles against Sam's lips as his hands go to Sam's belt.

Then he drops to his knees.

The best thing ever, he thinks, as he takes Sam's dick as far into his mouth as he can manage, is the wondrous, blissed out look on Sam's face, and Dean's pretty sure he'd thank the witch that hexed him if he ever saw her again.

fin