Chapter Text
It is, Dean discovers, very difficult to keep his hands off Sam.
He’s still getting over the newness of this fragile thing grown between them – Sam saying yes, you can touch, and I want to too, the knowledge still raw as a new bruise, and Dean wants to dig and dig his fingers into it so it won’t ever fade. When he sees Sam he holds him close and strokes his fingers through his long-ass hair because it’s just them in this huge, empty house, no one to pretend in front of. Five whole days and they haven’t seen anyone, no demons, no Crowley, nobody at all save each other, and he’s beginning to believe that maybe, actually, the house had been intended as a gift. There were strings attached somewhere, probably, but right now, it’s only them.
So when he sees Sam sitting studious and frustrated in the library, half-rotted book in hand, Dean can’t help but swing himself onto his lap.
“Off,” Sam says, holding the book out of the way. “M’trying to work, Dean. Go be irritating somewhere else.”
“Not irritating,” Dean complains, rolling his hips. “Seductive.”
Sam doesn’t even look up over his book. What an asshole. “Really. That’s what this’s supposed to be, huh?”
Dean scoots in closer, crushing the book in between the two of them, and gets his lips right up next to Sam’s ear.“S’too bad, Sammy,” he says, “’cuz I was gonna let you fuck me.”
Underneath him Dean can feel Sam jerk, full-bodied and electric. “Seriously? You sure?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, a little dismayed at the surprise in Sam’s voice. He hasn’t offered to play catcher before, sure, but that was only because Sam seemed so damn eager to feel Dean inside him, get stuffed full and wide with everything he’s got to offer (which, Dean thinks, is a considerable amount).
But fuck, yeah, he wants Sam to return the favor, tease him open until he’s sobbing for more and then slide into him slow, hold him down and make him take it – .
“If you – I don’t want you to do this just ‘cuz you feel obligated,” Sam says, which is probably the least-sexy thing he’s ever heard.
“Dude. Do you really think I’d do that?” Dean complains.
“Uh, yes?”
Dean glowers at him. “If I don’t want something, you’ll know it, okay? I ain’t just doin’ this for your sake, got it?”
He takes Sam’s hand in his, tugs it back and around until he’s got it cupped over his ass.
“Uh,” says Sam. “Uh, uh, um – ”
“G’won,” Dean says.
Sam shifts his hand to rest at the cleft of his ass and strokes down gentle, like he’s testing the water, figuring out just how much he can get away with, which, in Dean’s opinion, is pretty much near anything. He lifts his hips into the motion, tries to get more pressure through the fabric of his sweats, and Sam’s long fingers halt just above the edge of his hole. He whines and shoves up for more and Sam just lifts his hand right along with him, neither gaining nor losing any ground.
“You really like this,” Sam says, taking in Dean’s flushed face, the growing bulge at the front of his sweats.
“Fucking, I told you,” Dean says, fingers clenching and unclenching in the meat of Sam’s shoulders. “Wouldja touch me, already.”
Sam hums and obliges, follows the tight ring of his rim with the tips of his fingers with a touch that’s barely a whisper, barely any pressure at all, but enough to make Dean shiver under his hands. The drag of the cotton is alien and unexpected but it’s nice, too, soft and stinging at the same time, still not enough, not enough.
“More, Sam,” he says, and it comes out a little whiney, but Sam’s looking enraptured all the same, focused intensely on every start and twitch in Dean’s face, the preoccupied tilt of his brow.
“Yeah, Dean – up, lemme – yeah,” Sam says, nudging down the elastic waist of his sweats.
“Fuck’s sake,” Dean says, and kicks them off. Sam stares at his bobbing erection for a beat and Dean rolls his eyes, tugs his hand back where it belongs.
“Holy shit,” Sam says. “You’re – okay, fuck, I can – . I can feel your – ”
He begins to attempt and press the first joint of his index finger inside and Dean scoots away.
“Dude!” he says. “Lube. C’mon, thought I taught you better than that.”
“Sorry, man,” Sam says, and he’s got the grace to look contrite, at least, though he keeps his finger stubbornly stroking against Dean’s delicate skin. “Where’d you, uh. Where is it?”
“Um,” Dean says, moving against his brother’s hand. “Fuck, ah –. Where’d we last – ”
“Kitchen? No, shit – dining room. Yeah.”
It’s way too far away. They tumble through the sitting room and into the room behind it, stumbling over each other in their haste, and Dean’d probably feel a little silly about dashing through the house naked if he wasn’t so goddamn horny.
“Where, where – ” Sam says when they bust into the room. There’s a huge long table down the middle, surrounded by a bevy of chairs and topped with a row of ugly three-pronged candelabras, empty of actual candles. There is not, at first glance, any lube, but he notices the hem of his jacket peeking out from under a chair, and remembers, pocket. He bends over to reach for it and behind him Sam lets out a sharp gust of air, like he’s been kicked in the gut. Dean can’t see him draw near but he feels his large, warm presence settle up right behind him, groin about level with his ass.
“Thanks for helping,” Dean says, reaching for the fabric. He’d like to get closer, but Sam’s got his goddamn gargantuan hands on his hips – and now they’re sliding around to his ass, gripping him tight on either side and tugging.
“Jesus,” Sam breathes, pulling him apart. “Look at you. You’re so fuckin’ little, Dean. Shit.”
“Nothing – little – about me – aha! Gotcha,” Dean says, straightening up with the jacket in his hands.
Sam wraps his arms around his waist and shifts closer, close enough that Dean can feel his erection pressing at the small of his back and along his ass. He begins to press heavy kisses against Dean’s neck, suck at the curve of his jawline, fingers traveling up to pluck at his brother’s pert, pink nipples. Dean, determined, roots around in his pockets, finds the little bottle with the tips of his fingers, and – .
“We…” Dean says, with the air of an executioner. “We’re out.”
“What?” Sam says, withdrawing from his neck. “Of lube? Fuck.”
“Yeah. Fuck.”
Sam whines and shifts his hips. “Dean,” he says. “Isn’t there, like, any? At all?”
“Not enough to get in my ass,” Dean says. “Sorry, man.”
“God, shit, I wanna fuck you,” Sam growls against his neck. “Wanna fuck you so fucking bad, feel you – fucking, gonna ruin you, Dean – ”
“C-can’t,” Dean says, a little terrified but also a lot turned on, his brother huge and immovable behind him, his hips grinding away like he can’t even help himself, hard on poking insistent against his ass. “Lemmee – fuck, Sam, lemmee blow you instead, okay?”
Sam fucking bites him, and hard, not quite enough to break the skin but assuredly enough to bruise, the imprint of his brother’s teeth burnt onto the skin of his shoulder in purple and green.
He thinks this is a refusal – and if the jerkoff actually tries to fuck him dry, he’s gonna break his fucking jaw – but then he’s being tugged around and kissed, hard.
“Won’t hurt you,” Sam says, and, okay, Dean could beg to differ, but whatever. “Promise, I – like this, just like this – .”
Sam’s fumbling with his pants – he’s wearing jeans, like they were planning on going somewhere, like he had to dress up for someone even though it’s been just the two of them in this too-large house for five days now – and Dean has to slap his hands away and take care of the zipper himself, because Sam’s too worked up and flustered to do it fast enough.
He whimpers when he’s exposed to the open air. Jeans, but no underwear, Dean observes, and he shoots his brother an incredulous eyebrow even as he goes to stroke him root to tip, roll his heavy balls in his palm.
“Dean,” Sam pants, oblivious, tossing his head forward. His hands stroke down from the small of Dean’s back to his ass, and then back up again, over and over, leaving a trail of molten heat that Dean shivers into happily.
And now Sam’s batting his hands away, sinking down and down and Dean’s staring at the top of his head and confused and Sam’s placing shuddery little kisses on his stomach and oh.
“Holy shit,” Dean says, his voice gone horse. “Holy shit, Sam, Sammy – ”
“This good?” Sam says, looking up at him with bright, kind eyes, still in his shirt, jeans tugged halfway down his thighs. He’s on his knees, on his knees for Dean, and it’s halfway to incomprehensible already, Sam on his knees. Dean cups his face in nervous hands, slides his palms against the rasp of stubble, the bony jaw.
“Yes,” he rasps. “Please, Sam, fuck.”
Sam lowers his eyelashes and, looking at him the whole time, drags his tongue down the cut of his hip, mouths at his inner thigh.
“Sam – ” Dean starts to say, and Sam sinks his canines into his thigh and sucks. Dean cries out and bends over him, hands clutching uselessly in his hair, underbelly crushing into his cheek. It hurts but it hurts good, like a bee sting or a slap, and he doesn’t know if he’s trying to tug Sam away from him or closer in, offer more of himself up to mark.
Sam releases his teeth and licks over the concave red welts he’s left behind, warm and steady like Dean isn’t dying in front of him, threatening to rattle apart, to beg. He takes Dean in his hand and steadies him (fucking finally, and it’s hardly much at all, that loose fingered calloused palm, but it’s Sam’s hand, Sam’s long, damp fingers, and the jolt of relief and lust makes his hips jerk forward), maneuvers his face in close, nudges the head of his cock against his kiss-wet lips. He teases it against his bottom lip and then pulls away until they’re connected by just a thin, tremulous strand of pre-come, and it wavers and breaks and lands, shining, on his chin.
It’s sappy and stupid but Goddamn Sam’s beautiful, sloppy-faced and tousled as he is, and Dean would do fucking near anything for this kid, keep him breathing, and he knows this is fucking it for him. He can’t ever go back, not after this, not when Sam’s peeking his tongue out tentative to swipe the pre-come off his chin, not when he’s looking up at him with all the trust and comfort in the world, all the devotion. And then Sam takes him into his mouth and he can’t fucking think for all the soft warm wet around him, the pulse and slide of a busy tongue on his frenulum, around the head of his cock. He can’t force himself more than halfway down his shaft but it’s okay because he’s sucking at him firm and even, insistent clinging pressure from the pursed O of his lips, the plush pull of his mouth dipping and receding and dipping again.
“Sam,” he chokes.
Sam hums around him and he can feel it all the way down in his ankles, sweet shivery vibration, and he gasps and tries not to tug his brother’s hair, tries to keep his hips still. Sam is bobbing faster now, his hand working everything he can’t quite fit in his mouth, and it’s good, fuck, so good – his legs are gonna give out if he doesn’t, if he doesn’t –
“I’m gonna,” he gasps, folding over again, and it’s restricting Sam’s movement but it hardly matters anyway because God and all his angels couldn’t stop him from coming down his little brother’s throat, pulse after pulse until Sam’s gagging on it, until come’s leaking out from between his lips and down his chin, rivulets of the stuff dripping onto his shirt and wetting Dean’s twitching, oversensitive cock.
His knees do go weak, then, and he sinks down onto his ass on the cold, bare floor, splays his legs akimbo around his brother, who is coughing and sputtering into his sleeve.
“Fuck, sorry, man,” Dean says, leaning forward. He’s warm and fuzzy and sated all over and it’s hard to concentrate on much else other than the warm, glowing feeling he’s got lighting up his chest, but he still feels bad. Even though it’s a) kinda funny and b) kinda hot.
“You’re a jerk,” Sam says, wiping his mouth on his shirt.
“Sorry, dude – hey, c’mere, lemme – yeah – ”
He shoves Sam back until he’s sitting back on his ass, legs spread, and settles chest-down between them, holding himself up with his forearms so that Sam’s dick is about eye level. He’s straining and dripping like crazy, slippery pre-come leaking down his shaft, and Dean spares no preamble whatsoever, just lunges up and swallows down as much as he can.
“Oh,” Sam says, and starts forward, snares one large hand in Dean’s hair. He’s tugging a little but Dean doesn’t mind, doesn’t protest it, because he figures he owes him at least this. Plus he likes it, maybe, Sam manhandling him just a little, holding him close so he can fuck up into his mouth in short, sharp jerks, fabric of his open jeans dragging against Dean’s chin on every thrust. Sam is big, mouth-splittingly big, and Dean’s jaw’s already going sore, lips puffy and stretched.
Sam’s also very worked up, and it’s hardly any time at all before he’s pulling out and blowing hard all over Dean’s face, striping his lips and the bridge of his nose.
“Aw, dude, gross,” Dean complains, obligingly staying still until Sam’s all the way done and he falls back, cock softening outside his jeans.
“Deserved it,” he says.
Dean wipes his face off in Sam’s shirt, and he doesn’t even complain about it, which is probably a first.
“Still wanna fuck you,” Sam says, and Dean snorts.
“’Course you do,” he says. “I’m irresistible.”
“Y’know what?”
“Nn? What?”
“How ‘bout we go down to that sex shop? The one next to the, uh. The thing. You know. So we can pick up supplies.”
“That’s real romantic of you, Sammy,” Dean says, fluttering his eyelashes. “I’m shocked. This an anniversary or something? You never take me out anymore.”
“Aw, fuckoff,” Sam says. “You coulda just said no.”
“Why would I say no? Hell yeah, let’s go loot a sex store. Have ourselves a post-apocalyptic Valentine’s day.”
They drive, and it’s a balm on Dean’s soul. He sees why the house is necessary, sure – probably less so now that there aren’t leviathan dicking around everywhere, but whatever – but he doesn’t like being stationary. He isn't built for it anymore, not really.
They don’t encounter a single leviathan on the way there, or in the pit of a parking lot. It’s not really a surprise, since they’d watched the bastards fuck off back to Purgatory in living color, but it’s nice to have their success confirmed.
They pile out of the car nonchalant, Dean only kinda keeping his hand hovering over the handgun holstered at his thigh. He’s got the sword, too, just in case. You never know.
“Hey!” he says, and stops Sam short. “None of that cherry shit this time, got it? We’re getting normal, no-frills lube.”
“Tastes weird,” Sam says.
“Yeah, well, suck it up, bitch. You wanna pick the lock, or should I?”
“Be my guest,” Sam says, and Dean shuffles forward, bends just enough at the waist to get at it.
It’s a little surreal to do this in broad daylight, right next to a major highway. Sam’s not even doing his usual nonchalant don’t mind me, I’m just standing exactly here in order to shield my brother, nothing to see.
It’s good there isn’t anyone watching, because it takes him about twenty seconds too long to get the lock popped, and it’s not even a complicated one. He’s a little out of shape. Sam, bless his soul, doesn’t comment.
It’s very pink inside, lots of glittering plastic and fake gemstones, and it’s not quite to Dean’s taste but he’ll take what he can get at this point. The back wall is a sea of dildos and there are little display stands set up everywhere for the merchandise, blank-faced mannequins modeling lingerie and strap-ons and jiggly silicone breasts. There is a whole lot of shit, none of it arranged in any particular order save the Great Wall of Dildos, and no signs to maybe hint at which direction they should be heading.
“Uh,” Dean says. “You take that half? I’ll take this one?”
Sam shrugs. “Lemmee know when you find something,” he says, and wanders off. He’s head and shoulders over most of the shelves and, also, more-or-less eye level with a bunch of mannequin crotch, which is fucking hilarious.
Dean begins to peruse the aisles, alternately poking and giggling at the things he finds. He kinda regrets splitting up with Sam, because he’s sure he’s missing a whole smorgasbord of horrified, prudish, lemon-sucking expressions. Maybe he ought to call him back over.
He digs aimlessly through a basket of body paints (both edible and not), lets himself moon over a rack of cheap-looking lingerie for a hot second before he moves on. There are the inflatable sex dolls, of course, with their unappealing printed-on faces, but he’s actually taken by surprise by the store’s enormous selection of butt plugs with tails of varying lengths attached to them. He grabs a long one by the furry end, gives it a few swings in the air, and launches it directly into the back of Sam’s head like a bola.
“Fuck!” Dean hears Sam holler, and then a raucous clatter that can only be his gangly, uncoordinated moose limbs thrashing around and knocking shit onto the floor. “Motherfucker! Dean!”
Dean cackles.
“The fuck is this?” Sam says, holding it away from himself. “I mean, I know what it is, but – why’s it so furry?”
“Upholstered for her pleasure?” Dean suggests.
“Ew,” Sam says. “Ew. Please, just – do not.”
Dean cackles again, and dodges neatly to the side when Sam lobs it back. It slams into the shelf behind him and knocks over a row of creepy, O-faced decapitated doll heads.
“Goal!” Dean says, and Sam pretends not to hear him.
There is still a whole goddamn lot of store to get through.
“Lube,” he mutters to himself. “Lube, lube – oh, hey. Heh. Sam!”
Sam ducks instinctively.
“Ain’t gonna throw anything at you, shit for brains. Just wanna show you what I found.”
Sam peeks out over the top of the shelf. “What?”
“It’s a gag, see?” Dean says, waving it. It’s small, and strappy, and black. “Except for, like, a ball, there’s a dick!”
“Oh,” Sam says, sounding way less freaked out than Dean’d been anticipating.
He’s tempted to fling the damn thing at Sam’s dumb head, but then he takes in the way his eyes are flicking toward the gag, and then Dean, and back again, and he’s going a little red –
“You like that,” he says.
Sam sputters. “No! Why would you think – ? No way!”
“You mean,” Dean says, and he lets his voice slip down into its bedroomiest, dirty-talkingist growl. “You don’t like the idea of me sucking on this while you fuck me? You don’t wanna hear me gag around it – ?”
“Oh my God,” Sam says, skin from forehead to collarbones flushed a bright fuchsia.
“Well, okay,” Dean says, making as if to put it back on the shelf. “Not for everyone, I guess.”
“Wait – ” Sam says. “Don’t – I do, I do like it, I just – .”
“Awesome,” Dean says. “’Cuz so do I.”
“Oh,” Sam says. “What?”
“Uh. I, um,” Dean says, valiantly chasing after a diversion and finding none. “H-hey, if you see anything else you like, just grab it.”
“Anything?”
“Well – okay, not, like, a cat o’ nine tails. But if you want something, whatever. S’not like you’re gonna break the bank.”
“Yeah, uh – okay,” Sam says. He’s started to shift down the aisle again, eyes running over the shelves, but he’s still blushing all over, his hands gone nervous and fiddly at his sides. “I’ll, um. Look. I guess.”
“You do that,” Dean says, and winks.
“Oh my God, stop,” Sam says. “Hey – heh, here we go.”
“What?” Dean says, fumbling with a fleshlight. “Find something good? Vinyl catsuit? Handcuffs?”
“We already have handcuffs,” Sam says. “No, there’s a whole thing of lube here. Like, a crate. Damn.”
“Woah, okay, hang on,” Dean says, tossing the fleshlight over his shoulder. “Wait for me, wouldja?”
His path over brings him past the lingerie again, and he’s tempted to poke through it, grab a couple of his favorites, but he just – he can’t. He’d told Sam he was okay with whatever, and he meant it, but it’s, it’s different for him. This, especially. And it’s not like, you know, a thing. He doesn’t even like it that much. At all. Right? Right. Yeah.
By the time he shoulders over to Sam, the kid’s got an apothecary’s worth of bottles stacked up in his arms, all sorts of colors and sizes. Dean thinks he sees a heart-shaped one in there somewhere, and he lunges for it.
Sam dances away. “Nope – I found ‘em, I get to pick ‘em.”
“Sam – I told you – ”
“And I listened. None of ‘em are cherry scented, I promise. Not even one.”
“You are such a fucking bitch,” Dean says. “I meant all the gross flavored ones, not just the damn cherry.”
“You shoulda said,” Sam pouts. “I didn’t know.”
“Like hell you didn’t know. You try ‘n get anywhere near me with your smelly shit and I’m locking you outta the house.”
“I’m sure you will,” Sam says. “I’m gonna go find a bag. You can do whatever.”
Whatever turns out to be a stroll outside to the Impala. Dean leans against her and squints into the horizon, tries to make out Hartford through the stifling, permanent fog draped over it, leeching the color out of the buildings, blocking out the sun. It is silent – no cars, no distant city chatter, just the rise and fall of his breath, the smell of old gasoline.
He is – . Afraid.
He hears the door open and close behind him, heavy footsteps drawing near.
“Hey,” he says, staring out at the bleak cityscape. “I was thinking – maybe we oughta go see how Hartford’s doing.”
“Yeah, okay,” Sam says. “But dude, they might not – . You know.”
“Let us in? I ain’t lookin’ for a guided tour of the place, Pocahontas. Just wanna see if they’ve noticed any change.”
“No, I mean – they might not be there anymore.”
“Fuck,” Dean says. “You think – all this time – ?”
“Maybe – Dean, I don’t know. We can’t, until we go check it out. But we did what we could, okay?”
“Did we?” Dean asks. “’Cuz I remember sitting around a house for, like, a month.”
“Dean,” Sam sighs, with all the tired patience of the perpetually harangued. “We were under time constraints. We couldn’tve done it any sooner.”
“Still doesn’t mean we couldn’ta fought,” Dean mutters, and Sam frowns at him.
“Let’s just – let’s go and see, okay? C’mon, man. If we can help, we’ll help. If we can’t, then – . It’s okay.”
“Yeah, sure,” Dean says, tired already, sure of the worst. “Let’s go and see.”