Chapter 1

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."