Dean wakes up cold. He's shivering, and he's damp, and there's cold, wet stone beneath him. When he opens his eyes, it's dark.

"Sam?" he hisses. "Sammy?"

"Here."

Dean's eyes begin to adjust. He reaches for the outline of his brother, and he can't breathe or relax until he's got his hands on him.

"Thank god," Dean says. "What the fuck happened?"

They were in the middle of a job. Last he remembers, they were walking through a cemetery, and unless he lost a chunk of time as well as consciousness, dollars to doughnuts there's still a spook out there wreaking havoc on the unsuspecting populous of a small town in Washington State.

"We got jumped," Sam says, as if that much isn't obvious. "Dunno who by."

Dean pushes himself to his feet. The floor is slippery beneath his boots, some kind of moss or slime growing in the cracks that he knows would be green if he could only see.

"I'd like to know where we are." He reaches out, feeling for a wall or a door. He takes several steps before his fingers hit cold steel.

Bars.

"Who do we know has a dungeon, Sammy? Because that's the vibe I'm getting."

"Could be a crypt," Sam says. "The climate seems about right for Washington. At least we haven't left the state."

"I don't remember getting hit."

"I smelled chamomile," Sam says.

"Like the tea?"

"Flowers. Dried chamomile flowers."

Dean curses. "Witches. What the fuck do they want with us?"

"Nothing good," Sam says.

---

What feels like hours pass, but there's no way to tell. They've been stripped of weapons, phones, even Dean's watch is gone.

It gets lighter. It's still dark, but Dean can see his brother now, he can see the walls and the bars, and the room outside the cage they're in.

It's not a crypt. There are no alcoves where bodies would be interred, there is only stone. The walls are hewn from solid rock, the floors are paved with irregular stones, and moisture glistens as water seeps from cracks in the hollowed out cave that is their prison.

They're deep underground. Perhaps inside a mountain.

Dean's thirsty, but he's not yet ready to lick the walls. "Think they're planning on feeding us?"

"If they wanted us dead, they would have done it while we were out. They want us alive, Dean."

"Or they're waiting to see how long it takes before we go Donner Party. For the record, Sammy, I think you'd be stringy. Not remotely appetizing."

"Yuck, Dean."

"Shut up."

"You started it—"

"No, Sam. I think hear something."

They both go still. There's the eerie silence that's been there all along, and the occasional trickle of water...then Dean hears it again.

Distant footsteps. Boots on stone. Slow, unhurried.

Dean starts yelling.

"No need to shout."

Dean jumps. "Where the fuck did you come from?"

There's a man standing outside the cell. He's hard to make out in the gloom, and his voice doesn't give much away.

"I'm so pleased to finally meet you," he says.

"What do you want with us?" Sam demands.

"You're important to me. Necessary." The man moves close to the bars where Sam stands and Sam jerks back with a hiss of pain.

Before Dean can move, the man has his wrist in an iron grip. "Sam has his weapon," he says. "And now you have yours." He pushes something into Dean's hand, and when Dean looks down, he's holding a knife.

"What the fuck?" The man—the witch, because there's not much else he could be, with his sudden appearance and the chamomile sleeping spell—already too far from the bars for the knife to do Dean any good at all, but he holds it as if it might, and this man, this witch or monster or whatever he is can move faster than Dean's eyes can register so he's not dropping his guard. "What did you do to him?"

"I'm fine," Sam says. "It was just a...a prick. Like a needle." He sucks on the end of his finger. "Why are we here? What are you planning? Why does Dean need a knife?"

"To protect himself," the man says.

"From what?"

"From you, Sam."

"Don't be stupid. Even if Sam wanted to hurt me, he's not the one with the knife."

"Be on your guard, Dean." The voice and the man move away from the cell.

Dean slams his fists against the bars. "What the hell do you want?"

"A profane act." The voice is distant. "Rape or fratricide, it's all the same to me."

The footsteps fade into nothing.

"Well that was nice and ominous," Dean says. "How's that finger doing, Sammy?"

Sam shakes his hand, rubs his thumb over the pad of his middle finger. "I dunno. I feel kinda weird." His face, as much as Dean can make out in the low light, anyway, is twisted into a confused, concerned expression.

"Did that bastard poison you?" Dean grabs Sam by the wrist, tries to take a look, but he can't see anything. "Did you poison him, you bastard?" he yells into the darkness. "Goddammit. If I could just see—"

"Dean." Sam seems to have forgotten his injured finger. He grabs hold of Dean, fingers twisting into the front of Dean's shirt, the kind of thing Sam does when he's hurt, same as he's always done since he was a kid. "Dean, I—" He steps up into Dean's space.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean says, trying to reassure his brother, same as he always has. "I got you, you're gonna be—"

The words die in his throat, because Sam's hands start moving over Dean's chest, and at first he thinks Sam thinks he's hurt and he's looking for wounds but it's not like that, it's—

It's just a little too friendly. "Whoa, Sammy. What the fuck." Dean takes a couple good steps backward.

Sam follows, and he reaches out, and again, he twists his hand into the front of Dean's shirt, but this time he's not letting go. Threads break. "Dean, I need—" He's breathing hard, and the hand that isn't twisted in Dean's shirt wraps around the back of Dean's neck, sliding into his collar and touching skin. "Dean."

Speechless, Dean tries to twist away, but Sam slams him up against the back wall of the cell, punching the breath out of Dean and leaving him gasping.

With two hands, Sam tears open Dean's shirt. Buttons go flying, and Sam shoves his hands up under Dean's t-shirt.

Dean tries and fails to shove Sam away. He's only got one hand—the knife is still gripped in the other, and while on a normal day, he might have tossed it away, his subconscious won't let him. "Getting a little rapey there, Sam—" His brother's name dies in hist hroat. "Fuck. What'd he say? Rape?" Dean looks down at the knife in his hand. "Rape or fratricide." He tries to push Sam away when he starts sucking and biting at Dean's throat, but he fails. "Poisons you, so you force yourself on me unless I kill you. Whatever that bastard is summoning, I bet you anything it's nasty."

"I'm gonna fuck you," Sam says, as he kicks Dean's thighs apart and shoves his knee between them. He bites down on Dean's throat, and goddammit, it hurts, and Dean lifts his hands to shove him away once and for all—

But there's an knife in his hand. Sam's not with it. Dean could slide it between his brothers ribs and that would be that, game over. Witch gets what he wants and Dean gets not-raped by his baby brother.

But there's a third choice.

Maybe not a choice that even occurred to the witch, and it sure wouldn't have occurred to Dean on a normal day, but Dean makes fucked up choices all the time, split second decisions calculated to get the least number of people hurt or killed and this time it's them.

Dean drops the knife and kicks it away.

"Dean," Sam says, riding Dean's thigh at the same time as he yanks at Dean's belt. "I'm gonna fuck you."

Sam's hard through his jeans, and Dean hopes it only feels like his brother has a massive cock, or this endeavor is going to be more complicated than Dean would like it.

"You keep saying that," Dean says, and this time, he gives Sam a good shove with both hands and dances out of the way. "But I'm pretty sure that's not something you really want."

Mistake, perhaps, because the light falls on Sam's face and his expression is determined, and more than a little terrifying. Sam throws himself back at Dean. Dean's fast, but Sam's not Sam right now, he's got no sense of self-preservation and he's got a longer reach. He grabs Dean by the back of the shirt and dumps him onto the hard stone floor and for the second time in the space of five minutes, Dean's winded.

And his head is ringing.

By the time he shakes it off, Sam's on top of him. He's got Dean's arms pinned above his head with one hand and he's got Dean's belt undone and his hand is inside Dean's shorts, fumbling at Dean's soft cock.

Dean turns his head to the side. He can't look at his brother right now, he just wants to cringe until the ground swallows him up, but it's not going to happen.

Soft light shines on the knife blade.

It's about an arms length away. If Dean could get just one arm free—

It's not an option.

The state of mind Sam's currently in, he won't stop for a few cuts. It'll take something seriously damaging, perhaps mortal, to stop this.

Dean's just not willing to do it.

He makes his choice.

"Hey Sammy."

Sam grunts and tries to rip Dean's jeans off of him, but long arms or not, it's just not going to happen while he's got Dean pinned.

"So I'm guessing this is your first time with a guy?"

"I need to fuck you," Sam growls.

"I know." He doesn't even have to try to soften his voice. It just happens. This isn't Sam's fault, and Dean can almost feel his frustration, his desperation. "I can help you, Sammy. If you just let me loose."

"I'm not stupid," Sam says. He's managed to get Dean's jeans past his hips, and Dean's junk is just hanging out in the cold damp air now. "You won't help me."

Then he heaves, and flops Dean over onto his stomach.

Cold stone against bare skin makes Dean gasp. "I want to help you, Sammy. I know what you need."

"Need to fuck you." Sam fumbles behind him. If there's one benefit of being pinned like this, it's that it's slowing Sam down.

But if Dean can't convince him, it's gonna get very bad for Dean, very fast. "Sammy. Okay, you got me. It's not just for you. If you jam it right in there like I know you want to, you're gonna do a lot of damage, okay?"

Sam whimpers, but there's the sound of a zipper and he moves over Dean's body.

"I know you don't wanna hurt me," Dean blurts, panicked. "If you just let me go I can help you, I can give you what you need—"

Sam cries out, anguished, and then he lets Dean go.

Dean moves fast. His mind moves faster. He doesn't forget about the knife, or the fact that he could bash Sam's head against the floor. He makes another choice entirely, and kicks off his boots and his jeans. Sam's tugging on them as well, throws them behind him and then throws himself at Dean, between his thighs, pushing him onto his back.

"Holy shit." Sam's cock drags against the inside of Dean's thigh, huge and hot and dripping with precome. That, at least, might work in their favour, cos there's for sure no lube.

"Need to fuck you," Sam says, fast and high pitched and manic, as though the brief control he found cost him.

"Yeah, baby," Dean says, horrified at what just came out of his mouth, but too late, he's gotta own it. "But let me."

And then he rolls them, like he might get the upper hand in a fight, and that's not far off, that's what this is, a fight for control and Dean's the one who has to have it. "I got you," he says, coming down on top of his brother, gripping Sam's hips with his thighs.

Then he wraps his hand around his brother's cock.

It's been a while since he's held another man's cock in his hand. It's been a little longer since he last got fucked, but it really is just like riding a bike. "You gotta let me, okay?" he begs, as Sam starts to buck beneath him. "I've got you. Gonna look after you, you hear me?"

Sam seems to settle at his voice, so Dean keeps talking. "I got you, little brother. You want in, I know, and I'm gonna let you in, but it's gotta be when I say." He lines up his brother's cock, grips Sam's hips harder with his thighs so Sam can't shove himself up Dean's ass before he's ready.

And then he lowers himself onto his brother's cock.

"Oh god." He can't help letting out a moan. He grinds himself onto the thick, hard, slick tip of his brothers dick, and it feels good, even though it really shouldn't. His dick twitches and starts to stiffen.

"Dean."

Sam sounds so shocked that Dean's gotta look, and Sam's wide-eyed and his mouth hangs open, and he's breathing hard, and his hands fall onto Dean's thighs but he's not pulling or thrusting and the manic desperation has eased so Dean figures he's doing something right.

"You good, Sammy?" Dean moves his hips, using his brothers cock to open himself up, nice and slow. "You okay? This good for you?"

Sam moans and his body writhes. "Dean. Why?"

"Because you need it," Dean says. There's only one possible answer. "I'll always make sure you get what you need, little brother."

Sam screws his eyes shut tight, but not before tears well up and run down over his temples. He gives an anguished sob and Dean's heart breaks.

"Hey, hey," Dean says, and he grabs Sam's hand and squeezes it tight. "It's okay. I picked this, you know? Could'a knocked you the fuck out and you know it. I chose this. And this ain't my first rodeo, Sammy. You ain't taking my virtue or any of that shit. This was my choice."

He sounds convincing. He is convincing. But it's still a lie. There was never any choice.

Throughout it all, the talking, the tears, the comfort, Dean slowly works himself open, and then finally, finally, his body gives way and the head of Sam's cock slips inside him.

The moans they both let out meld together into one. Still a long way to go, but it's a big step in the right direction.

"Feel that?" Dean says, rocking his hips, backward and forward, sinking down the tiniest fraction at a time. "You're inside me, Sammy. God, you're so big, you're fucking huge." His whole body is on fire, so full. It's fucking delicious and so, so wrong. "You feel good, Sammy. You feel so good inside me."

The sounds Sam makes are intoxicating. Sobbing, desperate, anguished. Hands clenched hard on Dean's thighs and hips twitching, rolling up to meet Dean as he inches his way down Sam's thick cock.

"I'm sorry," Sam whimpers. "Dean I'm so sorry, so fucking sorry."

"You got nothing to be sorry for," Dean says. He moans, because every nerve in his body is on fire. "Don't be sorry, Sammy. You held on, you gave me a chance, and now look." He slides another fraction of an inch onto his brothers cock, and he curses, because having his brother inside him feels better than it has any right to. "You're so good, Sammy. Feel so good." He lifts himself, just a little, because he wants to feel it again, the friction, the drag of Sam's thick cock inside him. "So fucking good."

Sam moans and writhes and his hands tighten on Dean's thighs, and he rises up to meet Dean, and maybe Sammy's got a bit of a praise kink, and they both start moving faster, moving together, and then Dean's ass hits Sam's thighs and Sam grips Dean tighter and starts thrusting up into him.

Dean's not even surprised when he realises he's gonna come. He hasn't even touched himself yet, but Sam's cock feels like it was made for him, hits all the right places, and fills him so full and so right and—

" Oh god, Sammy, oh fuck." Dean's back arches and all he can do is hold on tight to Sam's wrists as every cell in his body bursts into flame and Sam fucks up into him like his life depends on it. "You're making me—Sammy, fuck—I'm coming."

Ropes of come paint Sam's chest, his neck, and then Sam goes tense and the look on his face is like shock, like disbelief, and Dean can feel him pulsing inside, throbbing, and then all the friction is gone and Dean's slick inside, and Sam keeps fucking him, even as Dean collapses forward onto his brothers sticky chest.

Sam wraps his arms around Dean and holds him tight, keening as he continues to fuck up into his body, slowing, and then finally, he stills.

His cock, softening, slips out, followed by a trickle of fluid.

Dean never let anyone come inside him. Never let anyone fuck him bareback. Never would have dreamed about letting anyone fuck him without lube. It's all new, and okay, maybe that's why Sam felt so damn huge, but he's still bigger than anyone Dean's ever been with and goddammit, despite the cold stone floor and the fucked up situation it might be the best fuck Dean's ever had.

Maybe it's the afterglow talking, but—

Sam's crying. He's shaking, and he smells like salt, and Dean's hardwired to fix it. He pushes himself up. "It's okay, Sammy. I'm okay, see? You didn't hurt me. You didn't do anything wrong."

"Yeah, Dean. I did," Sam says, and his chest contracts in a heartbreaking sob. "I liked it."

Awkward doesn't even cover it. They're as clean as they can get, they're both more or less properly dressed, but Sam hasn't spoken a word since they finished.

It's getting dark again. Dean can barely see his hand in front of his face.

He clings to the bars in silence and strains his ears to listen for footsteps. There's nothing but the cracking of rock and the trickle of water.

Then he hears them. Distant. Far away, but there all the same.

"Sammy," he hisses. "He's coming."

Sam freezes. Then he bends over, grabs the discarded blade from the floor of their cell, tucks it into his sleeve, and approaches the bars, taking his place next to Dean.

They wait in silence as the footsteps come closer, closer, and finally, the witch comes into view.

He's smiling like the Cheshire cat.

"Fuck," Dean mutters, because that doesn't bode well.

"You got what you wanted," Sam spits. "Now let us the fuck out of here."

"I did, didn't I?" the witch says. He seems different than before. More pleased with himself, inordinately smug. "Of course I'll let you out, Sam. After all, you did give me exactly what I needed."

The witch looks down at himself then, holds his arms away from his body, clenches his fists as though he's admiring himself.

It's weird.

"Go on then," Dean says, rattling the door of his cage. "Unlock the damn door."

"Alas," the witch says, pulling out his pockets. "I don't have the key."

Sam throws himself at the bars. "You bastard. Let us the fuck out."

The witch doesn't flinch. He glances at Dean. "Beautiful when he's angry, isn't he?"

"You're a sick fuck, you know that?" Dean says.

The witch beams and approaches the bars.

Dean takes a wary step back.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Dean." The witch puts his hands on the bars and gives the door a swift tug, and it breaks right off it's hinges. He tosses it behind him like it weighs nothing, but Dean checked, it's solid steel.

Dean hangs back, but Sam knocks him out of the way, and he's already got the knife in his hand, and he gets a grip on the witch and he's about to plunge the knife into the witch's heart—

The witch disappears. Poof. Gone. Sam's momentum carries him forward and he ends up sprawled on his hands and knees.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Come on, Sammy," he says, pulling Sam to his feet. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

He doesn't wait for his brother, just starts walking in the direction of the light.

---

It's a long dark corridor, with loose stone on the floor and an arched ceiling. Dean can almost touch the roof, he's pretty sure Sam could if he could be bothered, but Sam still seems tense.

Hell, Sam should be tense, the shit they've both been through, but for some reason Dean's not.

He's relaxed, even. Like he usually is after good sex. His brain, his body, has decided Sam was just another good lay. Fantastic, even.

Dean doesn’t bother trying to convince himself that Sam somehow feels the same way.

The light gets brighter, slowly, as they move along the tunnel, until finally, the exit appears around a bend.

"Look, Sammy," Dean says. "The light at the end of the tunnel."

Sam doesn't so much as groan in response, but he quickens his pace. His strides are longer than Dean's, and Dean has to skip to catch up to him before Sam beats him out of the tunnel and into the light.

They exit the tunnel into a roughly circular area, with more openings like the one they just came out of spaced around it.

In the center, there is the evidence of some kind of ritual. Candles, sputtering as they burn down to nothing, copper bowls at the ordinances, entrails, sigils drawn on the floor in what looks like blood...

And there's a body, half-covered with a ragged piece of cloth.

Dean hurries over to check, though he doesn't hold much hope. He can't find a pulse, so he turns the dead man over to see if he can find I.D.

He stumbles back when he sees the face.

"It's the witch," Dean says. "Who the hell let us out of the cage?"

"The demon he summoned."

"That wasn't a meat suit, Sammy," Dean says. "The meat suit is right here."

"Then it's something else. Something that can assume another form. Like a ghoul, they look like the last person they ate. Maybe this guy looks like the last person he kills."

Dean drags the piece of cloth off the witch's body. "Or the last person he fucks."

The witch's pants are around his knees. There's blood. A lot of blood.

Sam stumbles away and vomits.

Dean covers the man up again. "Well that's karma for you."

---

One of the tunnels leads them out the side of a mountain. The moon tells them it's around midnight, and the distant sound of vehicles send them hiking through dense woods toward civilization.

It's dawn before they get back to town—thankfully the same town where they left the car.

They both fall into their beds in the motel, and sleep, because they've still got bones to burn and they can't dig them up until dark.

When Dean wakes, the sun is setting and Sam isn't in his bed. The car keys aren't on the bedside table and Dean's just about to start freaking out when he hears the impala pull in outside.

"You scared the shit outta me," he says when Sam appears in the doorway, with a carrier bag from the gas station and two cups of coffee.

"You thought I'd left?"

"Wouldn't blame you." Dean rummages in the bag, pleased to find a slice of pie and a bottle of whiskey. "You get anything for yourself?"

"The booze is for me," Sam says. "After this job's done, I'm planning on getting drunk."

"Not that I blame you, but, where's mine?"

"I got you pie."

Dean rolls his eyes. "We get these bones burned, then we'll find a bar."

"I'm not feeling even a little bit sociable, Dean. I thought we could get as far away from here as possible. You can drive."

"And you'll drink?"

"That's the idea."

"Where are we going?"

"Anywhere. Once we're settled, we can start tracking it."

"It's not our problem, Sammy."

"It's my problem. It's my fault it's here."

"No, it's not. The witch—"

"I could have stopped it."

"How, Sam? How? You barely slowed down long enough to let me get my fucking jeans off, and if you hadn't done that, I might have looked like that guy back there—"

Sam goes pale, like he might hurl again.

"Yeah," Dean says. "So let it go, okay? I'm fine, I'm not hurt, and that's a good thing—"

"You didn't have to go through with it." Sam drops his eyes, and all the anger that has been leaking out of him since it happened just melts away, and now all he puts out is shame.

"What, you think that was hard?" Dean says. "Shit, Sammy, that wasn't hard." He should shut up, but it just comes tumbling out. "Location could've been better, but that was so far from the worst sex I've ever had it's not even on the same planet."

Sam looks up, and his eyes are wide with shock.

"Yeah," Dean says. "I said it. Sex. We had sex. But you know what it wasn't? Rape. What we did, what happened between us? That was sex, and it was good sex, and you can stop beating yourself up over it, because you weren't the first, you didn't take my virtue, and I knew exactly what I was doing."

A vein in Sam's temple twitches. "You've slept with guys?"

Dean shrugs. "You gonna bail?"

"I'm not leaving."

"Good. Right." Dean checks the light. "Now, can we go burn some bones?"

---

They're on the road for half an hour when Dean realizes Sam's halfway through the bottle already. "Slow down," he says. "I'm not stopping every ten minutes just so you can piss once that catches up with you."

"I liked it," Sam says. The booze is already catching up with him, from the slur to his words.

Dean doesn’t have to ask Sam what he means. "That's good," he says. "It was good for you. It was good for me. We don't gotta think too hard about the circumstances."

"But the ritual worked," Sam says. "It needed a profane act, and it worked."

"We're brothers," Dean says. "Sounds pretty profane to me."

"Incest isn't profane." Sam tips the bottle back and it glugs as whiskey pours down his throat. "Just ill-advised."

Dean cringes. He's been trying very hard not to think that word.

"And we're grown consenting adults. Consent." Sam spaces the syllables out, like he's tasting it. "Consent is important, Dean."

"Yes, it is, Sammy. What are you getting at?"

"You taught me that."

It's true. John was never going to give Sam the talk. Dean had to do it. Taught him about consent and condoms and all that shit when Sam was way overdue because that's one hell of an awkward conversation to have with your 14yo brother when you're barely doing it yourself.

"You couldn't possibly consent when you didn't have all the facts."

"What?"

"You broke the curse."

"It was gonna break either way Sam, once you got what you needed. I just made sure you got it without tearing me apart."

"You always look out for me. But I never look out for you."

"Okay,that's enough." Dean snatches the bottle out of Sam's hand as he tips it up again, and he pulls over onto the shoulder, because he can't drive and wrestle the cap off Sam to close the bottle and hide it in the trunk. "I'm cutting you off."

As soon as the car stops, Sam pops open the door and rolls out. Dean finds the cap on the seat where Sam left it and caps the bottle, stashing it under his seat for safe keeping.

Then he climbs out of the car to make sure Sam doesn't do anything stupid.

Sam does something stupid.

He pushes Dean up against the car, and he presses his mouth to Dean's in a sloppy, drunken kiss. "I wanted to do that," he says. "I wanted to kiss you."

Dean shoves Sam away and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Well, you've done it. Now can we get back on the road?"

"You can't trust me," Sam says. "I won't look out for you."

"Then it's a good thing I can look out for the both of us." Dean opens the passenger side door and manhandles his drunk brother back into the car. "Now do us both a favor and sleep until the next town. Because that's where we're stopping."

---

The motel manager in the next town is bleary-eyed and wrapping a threadbare robe around his ample belly when he lets Dean into the office.

"Sorry about the hour," Dean says. He glances at the clock on the wall behind the desk. It's half two, but feels closer to dawn. Sam gets chatty when he's drunk, and he just wouldn't shut up. "My traveling companion needs somewhere to sleep it off, know what I mean?"

The manager glances through the office window at Sam, leaning against the car, clearly drunk, and grunts. He mutters something about a surcharge for vomit and slides a key across the desk in exchange for Dean's credit card.

"Sleep well," Dean says as he pulls the door closed behind him. "Come on, Sammy. Get back in the car, I gotta park it."

---

Dean turns the key in the lock and swings the door open. He feels inside for the light as he turns to pull Sam in with him, and shuts and locks it behind him.

Then he turns back to the room. "Oh, for fucks sake," he says, because there's one king size bed and no couch.

"We're sharing?" Sam asks. "Do you think that's a good idea?"

"Not with you in your current state it isn't. Goddamn it." He thinks briefly about waking the manager up again to change rooms, but he doesn't like his chances. Sure, it would serve the guy right for making assumptions, but to be quite honest, the guy could just as easily turf them out, and there's not another motel for miles. "Keep your hands to yourself, and we'll be fine."

Sam starts stripping off, tripping over his jeans as he makes his way to the bed. "We haven't shared since we were kids, remember?"

They were teenagers. Too old to be sharing really, but it never seemed like that big of a deal.

If this had happened last week it might not have seemed like a big deal, either, but things are different now.

Now Dean knows what it feels like to have his brother inside him.

Sam is drunk, and booze drags things out that are simmering under the surface.

Sam falls on top of the blankets, and within moments, he's snoring.

Dean leaves him there while he slips beneath the sheets on the other side of the bed. At least there's a barrier between them. It's as good as separate beds.

---

Dean wakes to the sound of birdsong. He's vaguely aware of another body beside him, warm bare skin and hot breath on the back of his neck and strong arms holding him close and a hard cock pressed against his ass.

He swims, barely conscious, in a smooth, fuzzy comfortable space before it hits him that it's not some guy he picked up, it's his brother.

He tries to slither out without waking Sam, but it's not to be.

"Don't go," Sam says. "I don't want to wake up."

"You're already awake," Dean says, and shoves Sam's limbs away from him. "What gives?"

"I woke up cold," Sam says. His eyes are still closed. "My head hurts."

"Serves you right."

Sam sighs, and he slowly opens his eyes. "Sorry about last night."

"What for? Molesting me on the side of the road or molesting me in my sleep?"

Sam cringes, and he looks like he did yesterday again, ashamed.

Dean sighs. "I'm yanking your chain, Sammy. We're good, okay?" It seems like that's all Dean's been saying to his brother since they got out of that cell. "Come on. Get up and get showered. We gotta get back on the road. Hole up somewhere, remember? Figure out what that dead witch raised up so we can gank it."

Sam nods. Self-disgust still sits heavy on him, but it's eased at least a little. The hunt was Sam's idea, anyway. Giving him that is the least Dean can do for him right now, and giving him something to research should keep his mind off other things.

---

Dean was right about Sam needing something to research, because when he gets out of the shower he finds Sam sitting on the bed with his laptop.

"Thought we were hitting the road," Dean says.

"Yeah, I know," Sam says, and he's weirdly animated, in fact, this is the best mood he's been in since they got yanked out of that graveyard. "But I think I know what we're dealing with."

He turns the laptop around so Dean can see the screen, but it's just a whole bunch of tiny text, so Dean lifts an eyebrow.

Sam rolls his eyes. "You've hunted succubus before, right?"

"Yeah." Dean shrugs. "A few years back. Messy."

"Messy like fucked to death messy?"

Dean pulls a face, remembering the state of the dead witch back in the cave. "Yeah, but not like that. Tends to be more of a 'over a long period of time' thing with them. Anyway, Sammy. That thing was a dude."

That's when Sam gets excited. "So get this. Succubus, Incubus—not the band, Dean, the monster—they're the same thing. Succubi, Incubi, they come from the latin, succubare, incubare, respectively 'to lie beneath', 'to lie upon', but should more accurately be named Concubi or Concubus from the latin concubare, 'to lie with'."

"What?" says Dean.

"Dean. They're the same monster. Concubi take the form of whatever their victim finds attractive, their dream sexual partner—"

"The perfect lay?"

"Yeah. If their victim likes women, succubus. If their victim likes men, incubus. See what I'm getting at?"

"So our witch wanted to fuck himself?" Dean gives Sam a look of disbelief.

"He didn't come off like a raging narcissist to you?"

Dean lifts one shoulder in a shrug of concession. "So we're hunting a—what did you call it? Concubine?"

"Concubus."

"Isn't that another name for a hooker?"

Apparently not, because Sam just sighs. "So we know what we're hunting. Still gotta figure out how to track it." Sam pulls the laptop back onto his thighs and starts tapping at the keyboard.

"Sam? Are we checking out, or not?"

Sam looks up. "Oh. Um. What if we end up driving away from it? We started in the same spot he did, we could end up going in the opposite direction."

Dean would like to give the bed a pointed glance, but it would likely fall flat considering Sam's sitting in the middle of it, so he doesn't bother.

Instead, he grabs his wallet and heads for the door. "I'll let the manager know," he says. "And get us a proper fucking room."

---

If they were gonna stick around, Dean figured, they were gonna need a kitchenette, and a proper table—Sam can't be sitting on the bed all the time with the laptop—and two goddamn beds, because if he's gonna end up in bed with his brother, it's gonna be because they both decide that's how things are gonna go, not because there's no other option.

So there are two beds, and there's a fridge with beer in it, and Dean's duffel is on the end of the bed closest to the door, and the weapons bag has been kicked under it...and Sam's still sitting on his goddamn bed with the laptop.

"Comfy?" Dean says as he opens a beer.

"No." Sam closes the laptop and puts it aside. "Near as I can figure, we're just gonna have to hope we get wind of it. I can't find any lore on concubi sign."

"That's cos there isn't any. There wasn't when I hunted that succubus either. Just kinda...stumbled across it."

"How did you kill it?"

"Pretty standard, silver blade to the heart. It's catching them that's the challenge. They're slippery suckers. Gotta get 'em mid-fuck, it's the only time they're preoccupied."

"We've gotta find it, Dean."

Sam's really, really intense about this one. More than usual, almost as bad as he got over the yellow-eyed demon. Obsessed. Like Dad.

"I get that you want to get the job done, Sammy. But we can't get too wound up about this thing. It's not on us, remember? The witch is to blame for whatever it does, whoever it hurts. We gotta be professional, or we'll miss our shot."

Sam's face shifts, twists again, and Dean could kick himself. He really doesn't want to have to give Sam his 'we're good' speech again.

"You haven't been listening to me," Sam says. His words are clipped, hissed from between clenched teeth. "It's my fault the ritual worked. No, it's not on us. It's on me. Me, Dean. I'm the one who gave it what it wanted."

"Why, because you're the one the witch pricked with his sex needle?"

"No. Because I'm the one who had sex with you when you couldn't possibly consent." Sam stares at Dean, unblinking. Waiting.

Sam was muttering something about consent last night. Dean didn't listen to much of it, Sam's a chatty drunk, and Dean tends to tune it out.

Dean shakes his head. "You got that twisted, Sammy. I knew exactly what I was doing, and I didn't do it to stop the ritual, I did it to make sure I didn't end up like that witch back there. You're the one who had no say in the matter. If anything, I took advantage of you. You couldn't say no."

"I could have," Sam says. "But I didn't."

Dean sighs and looks up at the ceiling, as though there's a deity up there somewhere that could save him from this, but as expected, no help comes. "What are you saying? Because it sure seemed like you were hell-bent on raping your big brother at the time."

"I was," Sam says. "The curse took, and I had to fuck something warm. And I was going to do anything to do that, anything. I was prepared to bash your head against the floor if you fought me."

"Then what the hell are you on about, Sammy?"

"You broke the curse," Sam says, so quietly it's almost a whisper. "You broke the curse before I ever got inside you, but I didn't say anything, I didn't stop it, because I wanted it. I let you believe I wasn't in control because I wanted to fuck my brother."

Dean shakes his head. "I don't understand." He tries to pick through each moment from that night, to see if he ignored any signs, but he can't find any cues that what Sam is saying might be true. "How could I have possibly broken the curse if I hadn't given you what you needed yet?"

"Soon as I realized you were going to do it, I felt it go. It just...broke. Probably knew it was going to get what it needed, I didn't need to be cursed anymore, there was no point to wasting the energy because you were just going to give it to me."

"Maybe?" Perhaps it makes a kind of sense, but the thought that spells and curses might be sentient disturbs Dean more than many things he's seen over the years. "But that doesn't make the incubus your fault, Sam. None of this is—"

"I didn't give you the option to back out. You didn't consent to sex with me under those circumstances. The ritual got the rape it required and it's my fault."

Fuck."Sammy." Dean reaches out, but Sam flinches away. That's where the shame is coming from, Sam was conscious. Dean would be—should have been—tearing himself up over the same thing, but he hasn't. Maybe that proves that Sam's the better man. "Then we're even," Dean says. "Ever think that maybe I did it because I wanted to fuck my brother? I could have bashed your head in too, you know. I didn't. I went for the sex. With my brother. Because when was I ever going to get the chance again?"

Sam blinks at him in disbelief.

"I forgive you, if you'll forgive me. If we can't get past this we'll both be off our game and we'll end up dead or worse."

"You forgive me?"

"Course, Sammy. It was a clusterfuck, for sure. But I mean it when I say we're good. And we've got a job to do. However he got out, we gotta gank the sex demon, because you're right, it's out because of us."

"And then?"

Dean sits down on the edge of his brothers bed. Some instinct needles at him, a heat that burns his lips and makes him think only Sam's skin might soothe it.

But Sam was right. He was drunk, but he was right. This is ill-advised. It's insane, and it's wrong.

But fuck if it doesn't feel right. What happened in the cave, in that cell, they just...fit. They moved together like one being, like they each knew exactly what the other needed—

The air is thick, heavy. It's difficult to breathe. He's hard. So fucking hard.

It's like they can read each others minds. Sam won't look away, and Dean can't. Somehow Dean knows Sam's thinking the exact thing he is, but neither of them move.

Heavy breaths. The aborted tick of the broken alarm clock between the beds. Distant traffic.

"And then?" Sam repeats.

Silence stretches out between them. The air between them is a physical thing.

"We get past this," Dean says. "First we gotta get past this."

It's by chance they catch wind of the job. Dean's getting fresh towels from the office and the manager is listening to one of those phone in radio shows. There's a guy on the line insisting that his girlfriend isn't his girlfriend.

The host treats him like he's insane, but there are details that make it most definitely their kind of thing, so instead of the towels, Dean checks them out of the motel.

It feels good to be back on the road.

More like normal. More like before.

Except that the tension between them is insane. Dean's never felt anything like it, not without acting on it. Sam touches him and he feels like he's on fire, looks at him and he feels stripped naked, says his name and—to Dean's ears—it sounds dirty.

Yeah okay. This isn't normal at all. But it feels a little closer to it.

---

Dean sprinkles holy water onto the palm of his right hand, then nods at his brother.

Sam knocks on the door.

It's a crappy house, on a worn-out street, in a small town like a thousand other small towns. The man that comes to the door is young, but tired-looking. Still, he gives them a bright smile.

Dean thrusts out his hand. "Tom Scholz," he says. "Weekly World News. We spoke on the phone?"

For a moment, the man seems confused.

"You are David Good?" Dean asks. His hand is still held out in front of him. A breeze cools his skin as the liquid still clinging to it evaporates.

"Oh. Yes," the man says, and takes Dean's hand, shaking it forcefully. "I'm sorry, I clean didn't expect you so soon."

No reaction. Dean throws a glance Sam's way. "My photographer, you can call him Brad."

Sam adopts a fake smile and nudges the crappy point-and-shoot camera hung around his neck. It's for show as much as anything.

"Come in," David says, and shows them inside.

He pauses in the kitchen to put on a fresh pot of coffee, and then ushers them through to the living room.

"You said on the phone you couldn't get hold of your girlfriend?" Dean says as he sinks into a threadbare, but deceptively comfortable couch.

"Oh, well," David says. "I'm sure she's just upset. After all, she did walk in on me with another woman."

"Another woman that you believed was your girlfriend?"

"She looked similar, that's all."

Dean throws Sam another look. "When we spoke on the phone, you gave me the impression they were identical."

The coffee machine in the kitchen gurgles.

David stands up. "How do you take it?"

Dean reluctantly pulls himself out of the cushions. "I'll help," he says. "Brad here is a bit fussy." He gives Sam a pointed look, jerking his head in the direction of the hallway, and follows David into the kitchen.

"I'm easy," Dean says. "I like my coffee dark and bitter. Like my soul." He winks. "Brad, though, oh my god. So much sugar you can stand the spoon up and just a drop of cream—"

Sam comes tearing around the corner. "David's tied up in the bathtub," he says. "Dean, that's not David."

Not-David was ready for them. He's got a kitchen knife in his hand, and he rushes forward. Dean deflects him, but all he succeeds in doing is sending him—and the knife—into Sam.

They both go down in a heap, and Dean's quick about hauling not-David up off of his brother, leaving Sam with a knife hilt-deep in his belly.

Dean yeanks the silver blade from his inside jacket pocket and plunges it deep into not-David's heart. He doesn't care that the lore says a concubus can't be killed unless they're vulnerable, he just stabs, and he stabs again as the monster goes down, until Dean's sure he's dead.

Then he turns back to Sam. Blood wicks into the fabric of Sam's shirt from the wound. "You good?" Dean asks. "Tell me, did he get anything vital?"

"We'll know when you pull it out."

"Goddammit." Dean looks back at the dead monster on the floor. "He gonna get back up again? What'd the lore say? I thought it said—"

"It's not the concubus, Dean. It's just a shapeshifter. It left its last skin in the bathroom. Dean, you gotta get David out."

"You didn't cut him free?"

"I was more interested in making sure you were okay."

Dean nods. He would have done the same thing. "Hold on, Sammy."

He finds the bathroom by following the sound of muffled yells, and he pulls out his pocket knife. "David, I assume," he says, as he cuts the man free. "You're gonna be okay."

"Who are you?" he says, when Dean rips the duct tape off his mouth.

"My name's Dean," Dean says, dropping the pretense. "We spoke on the phone, but I'm not a reporter. Sorry about the dead monster in your kitchen."

---

Dean doesn't breathe again until Sam's sewn up and comfortable, but the oxygen doesn't come easy. He had his hands on his brother, just like he's had his hands on his brother a hundred times before, a thousand times before.

He mopped up Sam's blood and stitched his wounds and remembered the times he put a band-aid on a skinned knee and kissed it better.

He wants to do that again, but it's different now. He wants to kiss Sam on the mouth, wants to take off his clothes and touch Sam everywhere. He wants to reassure himself Sam's still breathing, that Sam's heart is still beating, that he's alive.

He wants to celebrate that life. Wants to make Sam sigh, and gasp, and moan, and cry out in want, and desperate need, and in pleasure.

"Fuck." Dean rubs his hand over his face, through his hair. It's a good thing Sam passed out after Dean fed him the good painkillers, because Dean's so goddamned close to breaking.

He's tempted to pass out himself, but they're all out of booze, so he grabs the keys and goes looking for the nearest bar.

---

He stumbles back to the motel on foot in the early hours of the morning. The parking lot is silent, but there's light behind the curtains and Dean stops for a moment before he slots the key into the door.

At first, he thinks the sounds coming from beyond the door are cries of pain, and he fumbles the keys in his panic.

Then there's another moan, and he realises that's not it at all.

Dean knows what his brother sounds like when he's coming.

Fuck. The desire to see, to be there for it, is overwhelming. But even drunk off his ass, Dean knows what a betrayal that would be. Sam's been violated enough for a goddamn lifetime, having Dean walk in on him while he's jacking it would be too much.

Dean needs Sam to trust him.

He waits until it's quiet inside. Gives Sam the time to clean up, and finally, when Dean's sure it's safe, he slots the key in the door and slips inside.

Sam's sitting up against the headboard with the sheet rumpled in his lap and he's flushed and sweaty and there's a pink tinge to the bandage covering the wound on his belly.

Dean takes all this in in less than a moment because immediately his eyes are drawn to the other man in the room.

He's standing beside the bed and he's bent at the waist and as Dean watches, he straightens as he pulls up his jeans. His back is to the door, and his bare shoulders are peppered with freckles.

"What the fuck—" Dean breathes.

The same sentiment is clear on his brothers face. Shock, even horror as he stares into Dean's eyes.

The other man in the room looks over his shoulder, and there's a malicious twist to his lips as he smirks, and it's an expression Dean's never seen in the mirror, but otherwise, it's clearly his own face looking back at him.

"Oh hey," says that other Dean, the incubus, or concubus, or whatever they're calling it. "Good to see you again, Dean."

"Motherfucker," Dean spits, pulling the pistol from the back of his pants and aiming as he advances on the monster. "What the fuck did you do to my brother?"

The concubus turns, and a great force hits Dean in the chest, throwing him back against the wall. He drops the gun, all the breath in him punched out in one great gasp.

"What the fuck, indeed," the concubus says, as he stalks toward Dean. "Me and Sammy had a little fun, didn't we, Sam?"

Sam seems frozen, whether he's pinned like Dean is or just in shock, it's impossible to tell.

The concubus reaches Dean, and as he leans close, something about him shimmers, shifts, and then Dean's looking into his brother's face.

"I got lucky when he picked you," this fake, and yet utterly convincing, version of Sam says. "You're perfect. You released me. I'm never going to get tired of you two."

"We released nothing," Dean says, but he doesn't believe it. It's their fault, both of them essentially chose to do what they did, it's on them. "The witch—"

"The witch summoned me," the concubus says. "You released me. You and Sam, your lovemaking set me free."

"We were raped," Dean spits. It's a contradiction, but he believes it. "And you've just done the same to my brother, and I'll kill you for that."

This time the twist sits on his brother's face, and it's a tell Dean files away for later. "He needed a profane act, and you refused it. He needed a profane act to bind me to him, to make me his servant, and you didn't give it to him. You made love to your brother, Dean, and he to you, and in so doing set me free, and for that I'm grateful. For that I'll take only what you're willing to give—"

"Sam wasn't willing," Dean says. "You tricked him."

"But he wanted it, Dean. He wanted you."

It's not new information. It's not a revelation.

"And you want him." The concubus slides a hand up Dean's thigh, and against his wishes, Dean's cock twitches. "He felt so good inside me. So thick, so warm, so loving, Dean. I can't understand why you'd deny yourself that."

"He's my brother," Dean breathes. Pressure builds in his chest, chokes him. "I'm supposed to protect him, not—"

There's movement behind the monster, but Dean's careful not to let it show on his face, not to let it show in his body, though his muscles are screaming out to coil, to prepare.

"I'm not supposed to fuck my brother."

"Bullshit," the monster says. "You two were made for each other."

Sam creeps up behind. Tears stream down his blotchy, stricken face, but his hand is raised to strike and there's a silver blade clutched in his fist.

"We're going to kill you," Dean hisses, and then curses himself for giving it away after all, either in his words, or his face, or his body, because the monster turns and flings back an arm. Sam flies across the room to fall in a crumpled, unconscious, naked pile in the corner. "Sam!"

"We're not done," the concubus says, as he slips out the open door.

Moments later, Dean slides down the wall to his knees, and he scrambles across the room to his brother on the floor.

"Sam," he says, patting his brother's face to rouse him. "Sammy, wake up."

Sam's eyelids flutter, then open. They stare up at his brother, and it's clear when he remembers, because fear slips into them and he flinches back away from Dean.

"It's me," Dean says. "It's just me, Sammy. He's gone. You're safe."

Sam didn't argue when Dean packed up the car. He just slipped silently into the passenger seat and dropped his head against the window as Dean pulled away from the motel and headed for the interstate.

"He'll follow us," Sam says, an hour into the journey. They're the first words he's said since it happened.

"I know." Dean taps his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking. "We thought we were chasing him. But he was chasing us. I figure he'll keep at it. But I needed to get you outta that room, Sammy."

"I'm okay, Dean."

Dean scoffs. "Right. Okay, good." He understands the need to shove it down. "But he's not getting near you again. I won't let him. He'll keep chasing us. But it'll be me he goes after. You saw it, Sammy. He was you when he came after me. He wants the full set. I'm gonna give it to him."

"Dean." There's pain in Sam's voice, but resignation, too. "Don't do this for me."

"I'm not," Dean says. "It's the only way I can think of to end it. We gotta get him when he's vulnerable? The only time he's vulnerable is when he's distracted." Dean hesitates, unwilling to make Sam dredge up what happened, but he needs to know. "You think it'll work? He get lost enough when it counts?" He glances at Sam, quick, furtive. "You know, during."

Sam's fists are bunched on his thighs. His knuckles are white, like he's barely clinging on. "Yeah," he chokes. "I thought he was you, Dean. I swear to god I thought he was you."

"I know, Sammy. It's okay."

"I had the blade." Sam's voice is flat, forced. "I could have put it in his heart and he wouldn't have had a chance. I should have—"

"It's okay," Dean says, but it's not. If Dean hadn't been drunk off his ass, if he'd kept it together... He should have been there. He should have been with Sam. It should have been him Sam was with, him losing control, losing time, getting lost while his baby brother fucked him. "I'm gonna kill him," he says. "I'm gonna end it, Sammy."

"You're gonna let him fuck you," Sam says.

"That's what it's gonna take." This time Dean's fingers tapping at the wheel are relieving the tension. "Yeah, I'm gonna let him fuck me, and when he's coming, when he's completely fucking lost I'm gonna stab that fucker in the heart, Sam. I'm going to kill him."

This time, Sam's voice breaks when he speaks. "I don't want him to touch you."

"I didn't want him touching you, either, but he did."

"I'm sorry." Sam's voice breaks on a sob.

"Jesus christ." Dean pulls the car over to the side of the road, turns off the engine. "Sammy, this wasn't your fault." He reaches out, gets his hands on his brother. "This isn't on you. I went out and got drunk, I should've been there." He doesn't mean to say it, but it slips out. "It should've been me."

Sam freezes, his eyes locking with Dean's. "I wish it had been you. You don't know how much I want it to be you, Dean. You."

All the oxygen seems to get sucked out of the car. Dean can't breathe, and Sam is gasping, too. Dean slides across the seat, and Sam doesn't need this, Sam shouldn't want this, but Dean can't help himself when Sam pulls him close.

Then they're kissing. On the side of the road, traffic flying past them, teeth and tongues and sharing spit like it's the only way either of them will ever be able to breathe again.

You two were made for each other the monster said, and Dean can believe it, there's no one Dean's ever felt more right kissing.

---

They should keep going, make the monster think they're on the run, but after the makeout session in the car, without either of them needing to say a word, Dean pulls into the first motel they reach, and it's about the shadiest-looking place they've seen in years. It looks like it hasn't been updated since the 60's, and it's right on the outskirts of some tiny nowheresville town where the streetlights don't reach. The neon is just a collection of fizzing, buzzing lines, parts of letters that spell out nothing at all.

As soon as the door closes behind them, Sam shoves him toward the bed, lips already on Dean's. There's a desperation in the way Sam kisses, in the grasp and tug of Sam's hands as they pull at Dean's clothes.

"You sure 'bout this?" Dean says, gasping for breath he can't seem to catch. He feels raw, torn open and lightheaded. There's an unreality to this moment, as though they are existing out of time, in some kind of liminal space, like a dream or alternate world.

Sam sucks a bruise into Dean's throat and shoves the shirt off of Dean's shoulders, stretches the neck of Dean's t-shirt to expose more flesh. "I need this," he growls, and bites down. "I need you."

In reality, it's less than 24 hours since Sam fucked the other Dean, the fake Dean, the monster. They shouldn't be doing this at all. "Maybe it's too soon," Dean says, and makes an move to push Sam away, but the attempt is feeble, his muscles betraying him.

"I don't wanna think about it," Sam says. "About him." He pulls back, just enough to lift Dean's tee by the hem and rip it off, and Dean just lets him, lifts his arms like a child.

"We don't know when he'll catch up to us." Sam yanks his own shirt off over his head and starts on the fly of his jeans. "Could be weeks from now, or it could be tomorrow. And I know what you're going to have to do when he does." He stands there, his fly undone, jeans still hanging off his hips. "But right now, Dean?" Sam's eyes track the length of Dean's body, settle on his crotch. "I know you're you. Really you. And I want you. I want you before he can have you. I want as much of you as I can get." He lifts his eyes, stares at Dean, pleading, intense. "Tell me to stop. If you don't want this, just tell me to stop."

Dean lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding and shakes his head. "No," he says, and he drops his hands to his fly and unbuttons his jeans. "Just tell me what you want. I'll give you anything, Sammy. Anything you want."

Sam's eyes drop again, and he watches as Dean lowers his zip, tucks his hand into his open jeans, slides his palm over his cock, hard and straining and leaking into his shorts.

He looks as though he's about to speak, but then licks his lips like his mouth is too dry, bites down on his lower lip and pulls it through his teeth. "Fuck, Dean," he says, and then sinks to his knees. "I need to taste you."

"Oh, shit," Dean says, and his knees go weak. Sam tugs Dean's jeans and shorts down to his knees, and Dean loses his balance. Sam gives him a gentle shove, and he falls back onto the bed.

Then Sam's mouth is on him, and it's hard to think. There's a flicker of wonder, if Sam did this to the monster, but Dean pushes it away. It doesn't matter what they did together, it wasn't real, but this, this is real, his brothers wet, hot mouth around his cock, this brothers agile tongue, pressing, exploring.

Dean can't keep his hands out of his brothers' hair, fingers combing through the strands, fisting bunches and desperately trying not to hold Sam's head so he can thrust into Sam's throat.

Sam moans around him, and the vibrations travel through Dean's body and he makes an echoing sound. Sam tugs the denim and fine cotton off Dean's legs, tosses them away and manouvers himself between Dean's thighs.

Dean falls back, then Sam's gone and Dean's cold and exposed and there's a brief moment of panic, but Sam's reaching for Dean's duffel.

"Lube," Sam says. "Tell me—"

"Side pocket—yeah that one—holy shit, Sammy." Dean's fingertips are numb, he can't breathe, and then Sam pushes Dean's knees up into his chest and with slick fingers, circles his hole.

"I don't know what I'm doing," Sam says, and he sounds timid, hesitant.

"Suck me," Dean begs. "Suck me again and I won't fucking care what you do."

Sam's mouth is on him again and Dean's head falls back and his eyes close and when Sam's fingers slide inside him they go in easy. Dean can't keep his mouth shut, wordless sounds of want and need and more more more until Sam finds it, while exploring Dean's insides, the trigger.

Dean's prostate has always been a slut. It's why he fucks guys, why he likes to be fucked, and it's why he came without being touched that night in the cave, because he was on top and he was driving things, and he fucked Sam's big cock into his prostate again and again and again until it was all over.

Now it's Sam's thick, agile fingers. Sam's not stupid, when Dean starts yelling he notices, and he lets Dean's cock slip from between his lips, and he starts talking.

"You're so fucking beautiful, Dean," he says. "Like this, like you were in the cave, riding my cock like you wanted it, like you hadn't been forced into it. I wanna see you come—"

"Fuck me," Dean chokes, barely holding on because he wants to come, he's going to come, his balls tight and aching like they might explode, his cock twitching and leaking a thick, viscous puddle on his belly, his spine fused and every single nerve on fire. He tries to strain away but Sam's still working his prostate with thick fingertips and Dean can't, can't, his body fighting him at every turn. "Fuck, inside me, wanna come on your cock, Sammy, please."

Sam moves like a blur, Dean's left open and gasping in shock for just a moment and then Sam drives his cock inside in one thrust and Dean's full, and stretched, and complete.

"Fuck me," Dean says. "Fuck me, Sammy, like you fucking mean it, don't you fucking hold back, I wanna feel it, come in me, come inside me I want—"

His words are cut off when Sam kisses him, hard, all teeth and tongue and spit. He wraps one long arm around Dean's waist and drives his cock into him, long, swift thrusts that reach deep inside, all the way up inside him, over, and over, and over again.

All Dean can do is hold on, arms wrapped around Sam's shoulders, fingernails digging into the muscle, mouth going slack and breathing in Sam's guttural grunts as every one of his solid, punishing thrusts hit Dean's prostate like he's trying to destroy it, destroy Dean, beat him into a bloody, wet mass of flesh and sweat and bone.

Sam falters, thrusts stuttering. "Coming," he growls, and one final, deep, violent thrust sinks him deeper than ever and Dean's entire body bursts into flame and all that heat, like lava, pours out of him until there's nothing left.

Then it's gone, fading, and Sam's softening inside him, and the sweat on their skin makes Dean shiver, and a flood of something, feeling, emotion, fear and relief, bursts out and there are tears on his face and he's sobbing, desperately clinging to his brother and begging, "don't leave, stay inside, please, please don't pull out."

"I'm here," Sam says. "Not going anywhere, Dean, fuck, you're so beautiful, love you so much, you're so good to me, so fucking good."

A fresh flood of tears come, like they're never going to stop, and Dean can't stuff it down, wants to stuff it down but it's out now and it's never going to go back in.

"I love you, I've got you." Sam pulls Dean tighter into his arms, and with the movement, his cock slips out of Dean's body, and Dean whimpers at the loss but curls into Sam's embrace and eventually he can breathe again.

---

"I don't know how I could ever have thought he was you," Sam says, later, when they're showered and clean and tucked naked together in between the crisp, coarse motel sheets. "He was nothing like you. It was just sex. There was nothing else. I didn't know it would be like this between us."

It finally makes sense. The demon said 'their lovemaking' released him. Finally, Dean understands.

"So that's how we'll know," he says. "That's how I'll know, when he catches up to us."

They get back on the road. They drive for days, stopping for the night in nondescript motels or parked up on side roads. They fuck in king sized beds and in the back seat of the Impala.

It's kinda like a honeymoon, if Dean's honest with himself. But it's a honeymoon flavored with existential dread and the desperation that forces them to get as much of each other as they possibly can before the inevitable happens.

They're running, avoiding the end. Stretching out the time they have together. It's irresponsible, really, because who knows how many people the demon is preying on when he can't get to them.

So when they cross the border into Kansas, a place that, at least for Dean, will always feel a little more like home, they stop running.

They pick a decent motel. Windows that aren't covered in a grimy film, bathrooms clear of mold and other people's pubes. High thread count sheets and pillows that don't smell like dust.

As luck would have it, they pick up a job. Nothing major, restless spirits in the local high school. It's a well known and almost benign haunting, years of documented mischief passed off as student pranks, until the week before Sam and Dean arrive, when the bleachers in the gym fold up by themselves, liquefying a group of students standing beneath.

Then they’re in another cemetery armed with shovels and salt and flame, but this time they burn the bones and warm their hands over the fire and head back to the motel.

"Here," Dean says, as Sam comes out of the shower. "I bought you something." He reaches up to fasten a solid chain, made of real silver, around Sam's neck.

"I didn't get you anything," Sam says, only half joking.

"Nah," Dean says. "I'm covered. Every time you leave, when you return, I'll do this." He reaches out, and he touches the chain where it sits at the base of Sam's throat.

"I thought you said you'd know anyway."

"I wanna know before it happens. I don't want to be surprised, Sammy."

"So we're ready, then. You're gonna let it happen."

Dean walks over to the bed. He reaches beneath the mattress, and he pulls out a shining silver blade, shows it off, then puts it back. "We're ready."

Sam goes for beer and burgers.

Dean waits.

---

Sam returns, having taken just a little too long. He doesn't say a word, just gives Dean a look that's part frustration and part relief as he puts the beer and the fast food bags on the small table in the kitchenette.

Dean shrugs. "I guess tonight's not the night." He eyes the chain at Sam's throat as he approaches, and he brushes his fingers along the gleaming metal and sighs. The links are the same temperature as Sam's skin. "Upside, I get to eat and drink and go to bed with you."

"I won't lie," Sam says. "I know it's only delaying the inevitable, but I'm grateful he hasn't caught up with us yet."

Dean nods and hurrumphs through the burger already in his mouth. Sam smiles fondly. "You're disgusting," he says.

"Uh huh. " Dean grins as he chases the food he's still chewing with a fistful of fries.

---

When they hit the hay, Dean is lightly buzzed. They sleep naked now, no point in pajamas when they're just gonna get wriggled out of anyway, and the feeling of Sam's warm body wrapped around him is like nothing Dean's ever experienced before.

Sam's arm tightens around Dean's chest, and Sam presses soft, tender kisses to the back of Dean's neck, across his shoulder.

It invokes a kind of Pavlovian response, an all-over shiver of anticipation, and Dean's dick gets hard and he rolls forward and spreads his thighs in anticipation.

"Ahh," Sam breathes. "You're so easy," He slides his hand between the cheeks of Dean's ass. Feather touches over Dean's hole, along his perineum, just a tease.

"Fuck you," Dean says, without malice.

Sam chuckles. "I thought I might fuck you." He shifts, rolling away, then he returns, a snap of plastic, squirt of liquid, and his fingers are back.

Dean gasps at the cold lube on his hot flesh, moans as Sam's finger works its way inside.

"Maybe I'll make you come like this first."

"No. Wanna ride you."

Sam groans. "You're so bossy. Like being on top, don't you?"

Yes, he is, and yes, he does, but not so much in bed, and Sam knows it. Dean doesn't flinch, but he wants to know how this Sam faked the necklace. Fucking shapeshifters.

He's fucking a monster.

Fucking a monster was the plan. He's ready. He spares a thought for his Sam, the real Sam, wherever he is, if he knows, if he's safe, if he's ready.

"I'm ready," he says, the double meaning of his own words stark. He moves, shivering as he's left empty, and rises up to his knees, the sheets falling away from his body.

There's a sliver of light passing over the bed where the curtains don't quite meet. Flickers of green neon paint Sam's skin with an otherworldly glow, heightening the effect of other, of alien in Dean's mind. He straddles this alien Sam, blocking the green, and sinks down on his cock, and this is the first time since the cave that they've done it like this, and there's a reason for that, and it worked.

Sam's large hands grip Dean's waist, and he fucks up into Dean's body, hard and deep, and a flash of memory hits Dean like a freight train, the witch, in the cave, crumpled and bleeding and dead.

That won't happen to him.

Dean leans forward, presses his hands to the mattress, braces as the demon drives into him with punishing thrusts. Who does he think he's fooling? He's been watching them—he must know that Sam doesn't fuck like this—doesn't fuck Dean like this.

He knows. He knows Dean knows.

Dean gasps and stiffens, and he clenches down on the monster inside him, and instead of passively taking, he starts riding the creature's cock, forcing this fake version of Sam back into the mattress. "Who do you think you are?" he spits. "I'm on top."

This monster is a perfect copy of his brother and Dean knows by now how to make his brother come, and that's what he's going to do, if it kills him.

Maybe it will.

"Fuck, Dean," the monster groans. "You are glorious. I knew you would be."

"And I knew you weren't Sam before you even got inside me."

"What made you think—oh, fuck—I was trying to fool you?" The demon gasps for air, his fingers digging bruises into the soft flesh at Dean's waist. "You wanted this, Dean. I know you wanted this, just like Sam did, though he won't admit it. I could have him again, I will have him again, if you don't fight me—fuck, Dean, don't stop, don't stop—"

The monster is close, Dean has to be quick, to be prepared, but he's in desperate danger of coming himself, untouched, riding a demons cock. He shifts, just enough so the facsimile of his brothers cock isn't stabbing his prostate, not so much that the monster won't come, and he focuses on hastening that outcome and the motions he'll go through the moment it does happen.

Then "Come for me, Dean," the monster says. "Come for me, and then I'll give you what you need so badly."

Dean's heart skips and his movements falter, and the monster grips him hard, forcing him still. "What do I need?"

"You need me to come, you've done your research. Where is it? There's a silver blade nearby. Under the pillow? Behind the headboard? You need me to come so you can kill me."

Dean's blood runs cold. Slowly, he reaches down, pulls the knife from under the mattress. "So what now? You're gonna kill me?"

"No, Dean." The creature takes his hands from Dean's waist, wraps them around Dean's wrists. "I'm going to make you come, because that's what I need."

Dean thanks god that he had the forethought to stash a blade of pure silver, handle and all, so the demon can't take it from him. "Then you'll kill me."

The eyes that roll back are Sam's, the look of exasperation is Sam's, too. "I don't want you dead." Then, without pulling out of Dean's body, he rolls them over so Dean's on his back and the monsters cock sinks deeper into his body. "I want you alive, and Sam, too. Imagine, Dean, you could be the meat in a Sam sandwich. Two of us, pleasure like you've never felt before." He pulls back, Dean's wrists pinned to the mattress, and thrusts back inside, grazing Dean's prostate and making him keen.

"Sam," Dean says. "He's alive? What did you do with him?"

The demon does it again. "He's safe. He's in the car. He'll be waking up soon, just in time to join us."

Dean stiffens and, for the first time, fights the hold the monster has on him. "Don't want him to see this."

The monster starts to thrust in earnest. "But he will. I can keep you on the edge for as long as it takes, and when he opens the door, the first thing he'll see is you coming hard on my cock. It'll be perfect."

"No," Dean moans. "Please." He opens his hand and drops the silver blade. "I fucking surrender. Make me come. Just make me come, now, I'll give you what you want—"

"You'll give it to me anyway." The monster’s eyes flick toward the door, and his thrusts falter. "He's awake." He releases his grip on Dean's wrists, and he shoves Dean's knees into his chest, and starts fucking, hard, stabbing his cock into Dean's prostate again and again.

His arms are free, but Dean can't move. His hands scrabble for purchase but all they find is the posts of the headboard, and he clings, desperately, as the demon drives into him with punishing thrusts.

Sam doesn't fuck him like this, Sam never fucked Dean like this. Sam has done things to Dean's body that he can't even describe, pulling his orgasm out of him, slow and inevitable, but he's never done this.

He hears the rattle of the door, and he feels the breeze on his skin, and he fights it but that's the moment when the demon forces his orgasm out of him in a burst of explosive violence.

Dean screams his throat raw, and his vision whites out, like someone just turned a blinding light on him, and his balls pulse until there's nothing left.

And as the room fades back in, the first thing he sees is Sam.

His Sam. The real Sam.

Dean tries to cover himself. He can't move. "Sam," he whimpers.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam says, but he's not looking at Dean. He's looking at the monster.

"Sammy," the monster says, but his voice has changed. Dean looks up, and he flinches, because he's looking at his own profile. The monster, still balls deep inside Dean, looks like him.

The demon moves, pulling out, leaving Dean clenching and moaning. It climbs off the bed, and it seems to weave a little, like it's intoxicated, and finally it makes sense.

It's feeding. Now is when it's vulnerable. Dean's fingers brush the cold silver of the blade, still lying where it fell, and as the monster reaches his brother and reaches for him, Dean finds he can move.

Dean pulls himself up to sitting as the demon drags Sam toward the bed by the hand.

"It's your turn," the demon says to Sam, as he deftly removes Sam's clothing, piece by piece. "You're gonna fuck me, Sammy. You're gonna come inside me, give me what I need."

It's almost slurring, drunk on Dean's orgasm. Imagine how impaired he might be with Sam's come inside him—

"Do it, Sam," Dean says. "Do to him what he just did to me."

Finally, Sam's eyes flick toward Dean, then back to the monster. "Yeah," he says, and then gives the monster a shove, pressing him down into the mattress and dropping his jeans so he's as naked as everyone else in the room.

Sam shoves the demon's knees into his chest and drives his cock inside, violently, unceremoniously. The monster arches and throws his head back and looks at Dean with glazed, unfocused eyes and a look of ecstasy on his face and its now or never.

Dean strikes.

The blade slides between the monsters ribs. Dean feels the resistance of hard muscle, and keeps pushing, and the surprise on the monster's face—Dean's face—is frozen there as silver pierces its heart.

Sam heaves and pulls out of the dead thing lying on the bed, and stumbles away only to vomit on the floor.

Dean slumps sideways, pulling the corner of a sheet over himself, using it to wipe, ineffectually, at the mess of his own come on his chest and belly.

Eventually, Sam stops heaving, and Dean feels him come closer. "Come on," Sam says. "Let's get you in the shower."

Dean let's himself be led, like a child, stumbling and shivering. He's in shock, and that's a wonder, because he's a hunter, he's seen and done things most people can never imagine, but this, this is what makes him crumple.

He doesn't hear the words, but the sound of Sam's voice soothes him, centers him, and he clings to his brother under the hot water.

Dean wakes in a clean bed, in a different motel. The drive away from where they killed the concubus is a blur.

"Where are we?"

"Nebraska," Sam says. He's sprawled on a small two-seater couch, a half-drunk bottle of whiskey on the coffee table in front of him. "I kept driving until I realized we weren't actually running from anything."

Dean nods. He can understand the feeling. "You drunk?"

"Not yet. Maybe a little." Sam lurches up off the couch that's too close to the floor for his legs and snags a paper takeout bag off the counter in the kitchenette. He passes it to Dean. "There's food. I didn't know when you'd be awake."

Dean opens the bag and stuffs a handful of cold fries into his mouth. "I'm fucking starving."

"You should be. You've been out for almost a whole day."

It's dusk. There's neon flickering behind the thin curtains. The hours between last night and tonight are a blur. Everything from the moment he plunged the knife into the shapeshifter's heart is foggy and indistinct.

Dean finishes the food, then drags himself out of bed. He's bruised, and stiff, and sore, all over, like he's been in a fight, but he doesn't want to think about what hurt him. It's done.

He collapses beside Sam on the couch, reaches for the bottle. Enough booze will make it better. The whiskey burns his throat but he keeps chugging until Sam takes it off him.

"It's over," Sam says.

Dean nods. "Yeah, and I want to get drunk."

"You were in shock, Dean. Maybe you should—"

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"No, I know. But I figure maybe it's not the best idea to chase it with alcohol poisoning."

"I'm not gonna get alcohol poisoning from half a bottle of Jack."

Sam sighs, but hands the bottle back. "I reserve the right to say 'I told you so' in the morning."

"Deal," Dean says, and tips the bottle up again, then hands it back to Sam.

"I was so afraid I'd find you like the witch," Sam says, after the bottle has been passed back and forth between them a few more times. "Broken and bleeding."

Dean really doesn't want to talk about it. "Well I wasn't." Beat up, bruised, but not bleeding, not broken.

"Not on the outside, sure." Sam reaches out, and maybe he's just going to brush a hair off his cheek or lint off his collar, but Dean flinches away.

"I'm sorry," Sam says, and shifts sideways, putting space between them on the couch.

"Don't worry about it," Dean mutters, and sets his mind to getting as numb as he can on what's left in the bottle.

---

They stay on the road, work jobs when they find them. Dean starts booking rooms with twin beds again, because it's clear that Sam's determined to stay as far away from Dean as he can.

Logically, Dean knows Sam's giving him space. That Sam's doing it because of that moment Dean shrank away from Sam's raised hand. And it's gonna stay that way, unless they talk about it.

Dean doesn't want to talk about it.

Inside, he feels dirty. Tainted. Like Sam has every right to stay away.

They're always together. Sam sleeps in the next bed over. He's right there in the passenger seat. Still, there's something missing, and it hurts.

Another week goes by, and they're hiding out in a cabin in the woods. They spent too much time on a demon job. The poor smuck who got possessed ended up dead and his disappearance was noticed. Now the cops are looking for the drifters driving an Impala that were asking too many questions.

There's plenty of booze and food and hot running water and a TV so they're gonna lay low for a while but there's one bedroom with one bed so Dean claims the couch.

"Don't be ridiculous, Dean," Sam says.

"Fine. You take the couch." On the inside, Dean cringes. He's such a fucking idiot. Sam's handing him what he wants on a platter, but he still feels filthy, and there's no way Sam wants that, right?

"That's not what I mean."

Dean's so twisted up inside his stomach hurts. He pulls a bottle out of his duffel and twists off the cap because its the only thing that softens the ache.

"You're drinking too much."

Dean gulps down the burning liquid and scoffs. "Have you met me? Drinking too much is at least 50% of my personality."

"Well, now its like 98."

Dean shrugs one shoulder and takes another drink. "I ain't arguing."

Sam sighs. "We can share the bed."

Dean grinds his teeth and stares at the label on the bottle, picks at it with his thumbnail, peeling it away at the corner.

"I miss you," Sam says, and the words sound lumpy in his throat.

Dean can't help himself. He looks at Sam, stares. God, he's so fucking afraid, he can't even let himself believe it.

"Dean."

Sam's eyes are glistening and there's so much emotion in his voice and Dean's gonna crumble, and he really wants to break.

Slow, really slow, he reaches out and grabs his brothers hand. He's shaking, scared and hopeful, and his heart is pounding and the hair on his head starts to prickle and he squeezes real tight and shuts his eyes before the tears can escape.

Sam makes a gulping noise that might be a sob and Dean can't open his eyes yet.

"I thought," Sam says, and holy shit, his voice is so thick and tortured, "I thought maybe it was him. Maybe there was something about him that made you want me." Sam chokes back a sob. "Was that it, Dean? Now he's gone, has it all changed?"

Dean shakes his head. The tears escape his eyes, and he still can't open them. He tries to speak, but the words get stuck in his throat.

"Please come to bed with me," Sam begs. "I just want you beside me again. I won't touch you—"

Dean fumbles, blind, gets hold of Sam's collar and pulls him close because he wants to feel the heat of his brother's body again. Its been too long. "I want— I mean— You can. You can touch me. I just—" He loosens his grip, releases his brother. "I just feel—" Stomach acid rises in his throat. "Dirty."

"You're not." Sam touches Dean's face, wipes wetness away with the pads of his thumbs. "You're so beautiful, Dean. You're perfect, there's nothing wrong with you."

Dean can't speak. His throat is choked up and if he opens his mouth everything will come spilling out, all the emotion, all the need he's been shoving down for far longer than he needed to.

So he just nods his head.

---

The bed is big and rustic and the mattress is like a warm fluffy cloud. Outside, crickets chirp and in the distance an owl hoots.

"Go to sleep," Sam whispers.

Dean's exhausted. Dodging the law, drinking too much, then the overwhelming emotion has sapped all of his strength and will. But he fights. With the warmth of his brother's body against his back, Dean wants to savor the moment, soak in it for as long as he can.

"Sleep," Sam repeats.

Dean sleeps.

---

Dean dreams.

He dreams of Sam, but not Sam. A demon. An archangel. A version of Sam that didn't have a soul.

A monster wearing his brother’s face, pressing down on him, moving inside him—

Dean wakes screaming. Thrashing, drowning, tangled in blankets and pillows and fighting the grip it has on him—

"Dean," Sam says. "You were dreaming, Dean. It's me, I'm here, it's Sam."

"Sam?" Dean stops fighting. It's dark, but he can hear the crickets and he can feel the warmth of his brother's body. "Sammy?"

"You were calling my name," Sam says, releasing the grip he has on Dean's wrists.

"I couldn't find you." Dean reaches out in the dark, puts his hands on his brother. He needs to know it's really him. "Every time I thought I'd found you, it wasn't you."

"You found me," Sam says. "It's me, Dean. I'm right here."

Dean's still swimming in that dream world, where every Sam was an impostor, a monster. "Prove it."

Proving they're human isn't foreign to them. It's not unusual, but Sam doesn't reach for a blade, or holy water.

He reaches for Dean. Sam kisses him, almost chaste at first, as if waiting for a reaction, waiting for Dean to pull away.

Dean moves closer. Sam deepens the kiss, until their tongues are sliding together and Dean moans. He chases the breathless, dizzy feeling from not enough air that makes his head spin and his hands go numb, that desperate, dangerous passion that skirts the edge of madness.

The thing he's never had with anyone but Sam.

A dam inside him bursts. He's been too long waiting, wanting, missing the taste and smell and feel of his brother's skin against his own. "Show me," he says. "Show me, Sammy."

"How?" Sam pulls away, but not far. Even in the dark, Dean can hear the earnest honesty in his voice, knows exactly the expression he's wearing.

Dean takes deep breaths. He needs the oxygen, but each breath is unsteady, shaky. "Fuck me." Holy shit. He almost said 'Make love to me.' Who even says that? Not Dean Winchester, but it's what wanted to come out of his mouth, it's what he meant. Maybe Sam will understand.

The monster, he talked about lovemaking, but he wasn't capable of it. But it's what Sam does. Even when they're fucking in the back seat of the Impala or when Dean's bent over the hood, Sam still makes love.

That's how Dean will know. That's how Dean will always know it's really Sam.

"Sam?"

Sam sucks in a breath. "Yeah. Yes." He sits up in the bed, and he strips off the t-shirt and shorts he's wearing. He lies back down, beside Dean, and he touches Dean, feather touches, fingertips stroking the line of Dean's jaw, thumb pulling at Dean's lower lip.

"You're sure?" Sam asks.

They've already had this conversation, but Dean was on the other side of it then.

"So sure," Dean says. He wriggles out of his boxers, wrestles with his t-shirt to get it off over his head. The bed bounces beneath him as he collapses back down. "I need this, Sam. Please. Touch me."

Sam takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Yeah. Then he presses his palm, warm, slightly damp, to Dean's chest. Presses his lips to Dean's, tongue darting into Dean's mouth as his fingers drag over Dean's skin, tracing his nipple, raising goosebumps.

A shock of pleasure shoots straight to Dean's groin, and he gasps into Sam's mouth.

"I missed you," Sam says, then bites at Dean's lower lip, before moving further down, kissing his chin, his throat, swirling his tongue around Dean's other nipple. "I missed you so much."

"Guh," Dean says, as Sam teases at his nipple with his teeth, sucks it. Dean arches up off the bed. His cock is hard and leaking against the sheets, and his knees part, involuntarily. "Please."

"Yeah, Dean," Sam says, and his hand slides down Dean's side, making Dean squirm. His thumb traces Dean's hip, then slides over the soft, smooth skin between Dean's thighs.

Sam wriggles down, taking the blankets with him, leaving Dean exposed and chilled in the night air. Kisses his way down Dean's stomach, then breathes warm air over his cock.

"Fuck," Dean says. The anticipation is maddening, Dean's hips thrust as his body tries to get inside Sam, into his mouth, where Dean knows it's warm and wet and perfect.

Finally, Sam sucks Dean's cock into his mouth. His fingers press between Dean's cheeks to find his hole, brush lightly over it.

They came so far, since that first night, since even the second night they were together like this. Sam knows what's he's doing now, he knows how to touch Dean, how to get him ready. He knows that he can suck Dean's cock and open him up fast, get three fingers in him with little complaint and a liberal application of spit.

But he doesn't do that.

Dean whines, waiting, impatient. Spreads his legs wider, lifts his knees, begging without words.

Sam lets Dean's cock slip from his mouth. Pulls away.

Dean moans in frustration.

"Turn over," Sam says, using his hands to gently push Dean the way he wants him to go.

Dean's confused, but he does it, lies on his stomach, his cock sandwiched between his stomach and the soft, fluffy mattress.

"Up," Sam says, and pulls him to his knees. He uses his thumbs to spread Dean's cheeks, to brush over Dean's twitching hole, one after the other.

"Sam?" Dean's hips jerk as he humps thin air, desperate, wanting. "Sammy?"

"Shh," Sam says, as he lowers himself, pressing kisses to Dean's spine, trailing down from his waist, tongue dragging over Dean's tailbone, and into the crack of his ass.

"What the fuck," Dean gasps, as Sam drags his tongue, wet and warm, over Dean's hole.

"Let me," Sam says. "Please, Dean."

Dean sucks air into his lungs in big gulps. "Yeah," he says. "Okay." This is new. And there's a part of Dean that wants to shrink away, because he's tainted, spoiled.

Sam's tongue laps at Dean's hole, gathering spit, spreading it. "Wanted to do this to you for a while," he says, the words broken up between soft wet licks.

"Okay." It's all Dean can manage, with Sam's wide, warm, wet tongue, lapping at him where suddenly all the nerve endings in his body seem to be congregating. "Yeah, okay."

His cock twitches, leaks precome that drips onto the mattress beneath as Sam points his tongue and pushes. It's a muscle, the tongue, and Dean can feel the strength of it, forcing him open, demanding entry, and he moans, deep and primal.

"You okay?"

"Don't stop," Dean begs, falling forward onto his face, grabbing his own ass, opening himself for Sam to dive back in.

Dean can feel Sam's amusement as his tongue returns to stabbing into Dean's ass, doing the job his fingers usually do to get Dean ready for his cock.

No one's ever done this to Dean before. He's been with men, sure, and more than a few, but never the same one twice, and this? This is new.

It's intimate. Too intimate to do with a stranger. Somehow, it feels right that Sam's the one fucking into Dean with his tongue. Dean rocks back into it, grunting with every breach of Sam's tongue into his body.

Sam shifts, and holds Dean by the hips, and his tongue drives into Dean's body, long, slow thrusts that force all other thought from Dean's mind.

Beneath him, his cock is hard and steadily dripping precome onto the sheets below. When he looks back, Sam's is the same, except every couple of moments he reaches for it, gives it a squeeze or a stroke.

He feels so wet, so open, Sam's agile tongue plunging into him over and over, so easy. It's so good, so sweet, but it's not enough. When he comes, he wants to come full.

"I need your cock," he says. "Sammy, please."

Sam moves fast, and Dean braces, expecting him to come up over Dean's back and slide right in, but he doesn't.

"Turn over," Sam says, holding Dean by the hips, rolling him onto his back, and coming down between Dean's spread thighs.

Dean's head is spinning, already short of air, sucking in quick breaths between Sam's kisses.

"Inside me," Dean gasps, reaching, guiding Sam's cock.

Dean fights to push the last time he was fucked from his mind, but he can't. It's there. It'll be a long time before it stops tainting this, but he won't let it stop him. He won't.

It hurts, but Sam's the one keening as he inches into Dean's body on spit and precome. Tiny, barely controlled thrusts as desperate sounds spill from his lips and his fingertips press bruises into Dean's thighs.

"S'okay, Sammy," Dean breathes. "I'm good, do it."

Sam's hips jerk. Dean throws his head back and cries out as Sam's cock slams into him. Fire spreads over his skin, prickles of sweat everywhere.

"You're so fucking tight," Sam gasps. "Fuck, Dean. I can't—"

"Do it, Sammy." Dean scrabbles for purchase on his brother's neck, pulls him down into a messy kiss. "Just fucking do it."

Sam's moan is anguished, like he's fighting it.

"We got time to make up," Dean says. He writhes beneath his brother, taking as much control as he can, doing his best to fuck himself on his brother's cock.

"You're killing me," Sam says, and he grabs Dean by the hips and sits up, dragging Dean onto his thighs, driving his cock deep. He pulls Dean up into his arms, and he kisses him.

This is new. Dean's on top, but not like in the cave, and not like with the concubus.

They're both very still. Surprise, perhaps, maybe shock, maybe each of them just taking a moment to appreciate this new thing. Dean feels perfectly full, and his skin is still singing, stinging, but it's fading as he adjusts to Sam's girth. He clings to Sam's shoulders and huffs out hot, damp breath against his brothers skin as the pain eases.

"You're so tight," Sam says. "So hot. You okay?"

Dean moans and shifts, testing the new position. "Perfect," he says. "You're fucking perfect." He shifts again, rocking his hips, and his cock rubs deliciously against Sam's hard stomach. "I like it." He drags his lips over Sam's mouth, breathing hot and heavy. "This is sweet. So fucking sweet."

Sam opens his mouth, and his tongue slides past Dean's lips. He moans, and he rocks up into Dean, hips moving like rolling waves over a sandy, perfect beach. Slow, so slow, and softly sweet like strawberries and cream. Sam knows just what Dean needs, and this is it. Over and over he rolls into Dean, holding him tight around the waist, stealing his breath until Dean's fingers are numb and his head spins and he can't kiss back anymore.

The pressure builds. Like that wave, starting far out in the ocean, gathering energy and weight and purpose as it gets closer to shore. It builds, and it builds, until it crests, hanging suspended for a time, then finally breaks.

Dean's orgasm crashes over him, swirling violent white and noise and release. There's a sound, a high pitched moan, and as Dean fights for the surface he realizes its coming from him.

"I've got you," Sam says, as Dean goes limp in his arms and he lowers him back onto the mattress. Sam continues to thrust, long, even strokes, quickening, deepening, faster and faster until Sam quivers and stills, and Dean can feel the pulse of his brothers cock inside him.

Dean can't move. Sam's heavy on top of him. He's still inside, slowly softening, and Dean grimaces when Sam finally slips free, with the discomfort and mess that entails. "Urgh," he says.

Sam rolls away. "Want to get up? Take a shower?"

"Nah," Dean says. He's sleepy, sticky and warm and he feels like he's floating in a cloud. He reaches out, pulls Sam up behind him as he rolls to face the window. "Wanna be the little spoon."

He feels safe. Cocooned between worn blankets and thick mattress and wrapped in his brothers arms. Right now, he feels like he could stay here in this cabin forever. Soon enough, though, they'll both feel the itch, to find a job, to keep hunting.

---

Dean loads his duffel into the car, then, arms pillowed on the roof, looks back at the cabin they spent the better part of a week in. He'll never say it out loud, but it felt kinda like a honeymoon. The declaration they made was silent, but it was there. Then time, just the two of them, in which the only demands on them were each other.

"Ready?" Sam asks, as he tosses his own bag into the back of the car, and folds himself into the passenger seat.

Dean slides in behind the wheel, and smiles at the familiar creak as he pulls the door closed. "Ready." He grins at his brother, reaches out, resting his hand on the back of Sam's neck, fingers playing in strands of long hair. He starts the engine.

They've got work to do.

fin