Pollen
bloodwritesThe air in the vast glass building is tinted green, and it smells like one of those raw juice places Sam likes. The dust sticks in the back of Dean's throat until he can hardly breathe, stings his eyes until tears stream down his face, and still he keeps swinging. The machete in his hand slides through limbs and flesh with a sound like the ringing of a bell and the squish of a wet towel under bare feet.
Sam's covered in green goo. He sneezes. Thick, fleshy leaves and flower parts lay scattered around his boots.
Dean coughs and spits onto the ground. It, too, is tinted green. “That all the Audrey II's? Good. Let's get out of here. I need a goddamn shower.”
Sam grabs the rake that fell to the floor sometime during the fight, starts pulling the carnage into a pile. “Some plants regrow from the smallest bit of leaf. We have to get everything, Dean, and we have to burn it.”
It's three in the morning when they get back to the motel. Dean should be exhausted, but there's a kind of exhilaration flowing through his veins. “Did Bobby say anything about the plant being some kind of drug?”
Sam pulls a face and shakes himself. “He said there wasn't much detail. Anything is possible.” He looks at his bare arms, the skin covered in sap, and sneezes again. “And we're wearing it. We've been breathing it in. He never said anything about poison, though.”
“Cos it ate people, Sammy. It didn't poison them.” Warmth spreads from deep in Dean's belly, out to his fingertips, all the way to his toes. He can't help smiling. “Doesn't feel like poison. Sort of like being stoned. Maybe a little MDMA in the mix.”
Sam tugs at the crotch of his jeans. “I don't like it.”
“Of course you don't.” Dean grabs clean clothes from his duffle and heads for the shower.
Dean lies flat on the bed, magic fingers adding to the buzz as the bed rumbles beneath him. The shower shuts off, and Sam, damp and disheveled, emerges from the bathroom amid a cloud of steam.
“I feel good, Sammy,” Dean says. “Don't you feel good?”
“Too good,” Sam mutters. “It's not a high, though, Dean. This is something else.” He turns away and adjusts himself.
“What would you know?” Dean sits up as the magic fingers shudder and stop, the quarters he pumped into the machine run dry. “This is awesome. More like E than weed—” He stops, realizes that the way his hands rest on his thighs feels incredible, and it wasn't the magic fingers that made him hard. He pulls his hands away and rolls off the bed, sits facing away from Sam, hunching over to hide his erection. “Huh. Never mind.”
“The sap,” Sam says. “Or the pollen. Or both. I don't know. It's clearly some kind of aphrodisiac, but the effects are strong and getting stronger. I don't know how much longer I can—”
Dean twists around so fast it almost gives him whiplash. “Are you saying we got dosed with some kind of sex pollen?”
“Sex pollen? That's what we're going with?”
“Well, sex sap just sounds wrong.” Dean shudders, then he pulls himself to his feet. “Screw it,” he says, and turns to face his brother. “There's only one thing for it.” He rummages in his bag, reaches right down to the bottom, fishes out a tube of something he keeps hidden, because ordinarily, his brother does not need to know about his masturbation habits. “I'll be in the bathroom.”
Sam's at the door when Dean emerges, looming over him, wide-eyed and almost panicked. “It's not working,” Sam says. There's a towel balled up and dangling from his fist, and he grips it hard, knuckles gone white. “Twice, Dean. Twice, and I'm still—” He looks down, and Dean's eyes follow.
There's a large bulge in the front of Sam's jeans. Dean tears his eyes away, but they find their way back on their own. “Right there with you,” Dean says, and forces himself to push past his brother and into the room. “And I think it's getting worse.”
Sam's at the small table in the kitchenette, working his way steadily through a bottle of whiskey. He's as far away from Dean as is possible while still being in the room.
Dean's not drinking. The last thing he needs right now is to lose his inhibitions. He's a hair away from putting his hand down his jeans. “What time is it?”
“Quarter to six in the morning,” Sam mutters, and pours an entire glass of whiskey down his throat.
Dean groans and rolls onto his stomach, thrusts against the mattress, but it doesn't help. “I don't think I can last until the bars open.” He rolls off the bed, puts his wallet into his back pocket, and he heads for the door, grabbing the car keys off the table as he passes.
Sam's arm snaps out and grabs him by the wrist. “You can't leave.”
Dean tries to glare. Instead, he's consumed by the way Sam's fingers feel, and a fresh wave of arousal flows through him, making his heart pump harder. Something flashes through his mind, a vision, or a fantasy, of being held by both wrists, of being pressed down into a mattress. He shakes it off, yanks his arm out of Sam's grip. “I have to,” he spits. “Sam, you don't understand.”
Sam stands up, a little unsteady on his feet after putting away half a bottle of hooch. He advances, step by step, until Dean's backed up against the motel door. “I understand perfectly,” Sam says, “and I know that if you go out there right now, you'll be adding Felony Sexual Assault to your rap sheet.”
“But if I stay… Sam, there's just you and me here. You know what's gonna happen.”
Sam drops his eyes. “Probably,” he says. “Better that than either of us go outside until it's over.” He flicks his gaze to the key in the door, then he turns it, takes it out of the lock and puts it in his pocket. “We can't leave this room, Dean. Do you understand that?”
“Fine,” Dean whispers, then reaches for the bottle. Sam's hand comes down over his own, hot, like burning, like a searing fire as it slides up Dean's arm, tries to pull him in.
Dean wrenches his arm away, and it takes a herculean effort to do it. “I'm not rolling over just yet, Sam. You're my brother. I might not be able to keep my hand off my dick, but the longer I can keep yours off of it, the better. Agreed?”
Sam's jaw tightens, and he breathes hard, like it's worse for him, like it's stronger in him, and Dean's never thought of Sam as sexually free, but he's caving. Dean's the one who's going to have to delay here, for as long as possible.
He turns away from Sam and lifts the bottle to his lips. Drinks a long swallow, winces as it burns his throat. Maybe if he just ignores it, eventually it'll go away. He keeps telling himself that, but his arousal tells him something different. It's not something he can quell by jerking off. He's got to touch, and be touched. He's got to fuck—and he can't stop thinking about being fucked. Having something—someone—inside him. Part of him.
He looks over his shoulder, wipes his mouth with the cuff of his shirt, bottle still in hand. Sam's eyes are on him, burning into him, the promise of the fulfillment of all of Dean's needs right there. Sam takes a step forward.
“No,” Dean says, as he looks away again. “No, Sam.”
Dean drinks and pretends not to see as Sam puts lube and a box of condoms on the nightstand between their beds. He's a fucking boy scout, prepared for everything, but Dean's determined that they're going to stay untouched.
If they just wait it out. Resist. Dean's never been good at either. Still, when he feels Sam looming tall behind him, when Sam's fingers slide down his arm from shoulder to wrist and grip tight, he ignores the flood of need that rushes through his body, and he keeps drinking.
Delay. If he can just get to the bottom of the bottle…
Sam doesn't loosen his grip on Dean's wrist. Allows him to lift the bottle, but never releases. “Dean,” he moans, desperation thick in his voice.
“Go and jerk off,” Dean growls, lifts the bottle again, swallows hard. He's got to empty the bottle. It's a new rule. Empty the goddamn bottle before he fucks his brother.
“I can't,” Sam says. “I need you. Gotta touch you.” Comes around behind Dean, takes hold of his other wrist, presses himself, hot, against Dean's back.
Dean's eyes go wide as he feels Sam's erection pressing into him from behind. He shudders as Sam's breath washes, warm, over his throat, whimpers as Sam moans and mouths at his jaw, hips thrusting against Dean's ass. Dean's resolve starts to crumble as the future plays out in his imagination. Held down as his brother fucks him, fills the aching hole inside him, as they rut together like animals because there's not much of them left that's human.
“Yes,” Dean gasps, and the bottle falls, spills amber fluid out on the table. It drips onto the cracked linoleum like a drumbeat matching time with the quick pulse of Dean's blood through his veins.
Sam is rough with him, pins him to the wall by his wrists. Outside, the sun rises and birds sing, and Dean notes the glow through the curtains through the fog of alcohol and lust. “Please,” Dean begs, as he struggles, but not to get away. He's got to touch, got to feel. “Please, just let me—”
Sam releases him, and Dean's hands immediately go to the front of Sam's shirt. He tears it open, finds skin, hot and damp, pushes Sam back.
They stumble to the floor. The metal edge that joins carpet to linoleum digs painfully into Dean's knee, but he ignores it. He grabs Sam by the hair and drags him into a kiss, a violent precursor with teeth that's just marking time until the main event.
He's past delaying, past ignoring the truth of what he wants. Pressure has built like a shaken beer, and now the cap is off, it releases in a violent rush. “Get your stuff,” he says, even though he's clinging tight to his brother. “Get the rubber on while you still can, because I need you to fuck me.”
Instead of breaking Dean's grip, Sam drags him up off the floor, throws him down onto the bed like it's nothing. His eyes never leave Dean's face as he reaches for the nightstand, finds the lube. “How long?”
Dean struggles with his jeans, tries to wriggle out of them with his boots still on. “How long what?”
Sam slides off the bed and drops his own jeans to the floor, throws off his shirt. His cock is long and thick and hard and dripping with pre-come. “Since you've been fucked, Dean. I need to know—”
Dean stares up at him like he's lost his mind. “Since never. You think I've done this before? Stop fucking around, Sam, I need—”
Sam freezes for a moment, breathing hard. Then he moves, fast. He comes down over Dean's still half-clothed body, presses his hips to Dean's, wraps a hand around the both of them. “I can't wait that long,” he says, and thrusts into the circle of his own fingers, rubbing his cock the length of Dean's. “Gotta take the edge off. Then I'll fuck you. But I'll do it slow. Make it good. And then…”
Dean moans and arches under the weight of his brother's body. “And then? Then what, Sam.”
“Then you can do the same thing to me.”
Sam holds him by the wrists like he might wriggle away, like he might try to run. There's no chance, now, Dean's surrendered completely. Spread his legs with come still smeared on his stomach, and let Sam push slick fingers into him. Grunted and growled and whimpered at the burn and stretch and still begged for more. Dean wouldn't run now, even if he could, but still, he struggles, twists beneath his brother, because the feeling of being impaled, of being pinned to the bed by his brother's cock, is heightened by the pressure on his arms as well. He can feel the pulse pounding in his wrists beneath Sam's grip, he can feel it in his ass, and it beats in his temples like it'll explode out his ears.
He twists, and he fights, and he growls and gnashes his teeth, but when words pass his lips it's only ever a plea for more.
Sam fucks him harder, faster, and Dean comes, untouched, with his brother's cock in his ass.
There's a red glow in the room as the sun sets that's the only indicator of time. Dean's stomach rumbles, and his throat is parched. His mouth tastes of rubber and semen, and his lips feel swollen and hot.
There's an ache inside him that he's going to feel for days.
Clothes are scattered about the room. Spent rubbers litter the floor. Dean counts them. He knows for sure that two of them are his, but there's a lot more than that.
Sam groans and shifts beside him. The blankets fell off the bed hours ago, and Sam's long, muscular body still looks incredibly good, but the urgency is gone. It had to be, for either of them to have been able to sleep.
Dean slides off the bed, careful not to wake his brother. He pulls a sheet up off the floor and drapes it over Sam's naked body, then finds his clothes, pulls them on, stifling a wince as his tortured muscles protest.
The regret will set in soon, he figures. He doesn't want it. It's the best sex he's ever had, and he doesn't know whether it was the pollen, or the fact that it was with Sam. He's a little afraid to find out.
Dean stopped coughing up green dust days ago, Sam hasn't blown the stuff out of his nose in at least that long. Sam called Bobby the day after the Little Shop of Horrors thing to clue him in on the new bit of lore on the plants, so future hunters won't go in unprepared. Somehow he managed to not clue Bobby in on how Sam and Dean managed the temporary condition.
They're in another town, working another job. This place has a werewolf problem. Nice and easy. Routine, even. They can do this with their eyes closed, and as Dean watches the way the muscles shift in Sam's back as he shrugs on the fake FBI jacket, he's beginning to think it might be a good idea.
The thing is, the pollen is gone. Worn off. There's no way he should still want what he wanted when he was under its influence.
Sam turns as he buttons his coat, and his eyes rake over Dean in his matching outfit. His pupils dilate, and he licks at his lower lip.
There's no way either of them should still want it, but they do. They'll gank this werewolf, and then they'll come back to this motel, to this room with the Queen size bed he let the manager assign them, pretending like he didn't notice, and they'll act like the stuff never wore off at all, just like they have every night since it happened.
fin