Man Enough, Sam/Dean, [NC17], 1/2
Oct. 19th, 2012 07:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
runedgirlFic title: Man Enough
Author name:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
runedgirl
Artist name:deadflowers5
Pairing: Dean/Sam, minor Sam/OFC
Rating: NC17
Summary: While the boys are trying to evade both Leviathans and law enforcement, Dean manages to get himself cursed with a particularly nasty sexual frustration spell. One that it seems only a pair of skimpy pink women’s panties – and Sam – can break.
Link to art: Art Masterpost
Sam probably would never have figured it out if Dean hadn’t gotten himself cursed… again. They were holed up outside Silverton, the Impala safely under wraps two towns over and a banged-up Chevy pickup truck outside the "We Rent By the Hour, Day or Month" motel. They’d paid for a month up front—cash, which left them strapped but anonymous—and then headed out to a bar a safe distance down the interstate to win some of it back at pool. The Lucky Six, it was called, and Sam figured luck was something they were due. All that was going fine until Dean decided tens and twenties weren’t all he wanted from the locals, and set about leaning over the pool table a little longer than necessary every time the woman in the barely-there skirt turned his way. Sam didn’t miss the way her eyes swept appreciatively over the curve of his brother’s ass, or the way she batted her eyes at him when he swaggered from one side to the other to take the next shot.
Can’t really blame her, Sam thought, and then looked away.
So Sam wasn’t surprised when Dean disappeared to “take a walk” with her; he was surprised, however, when Dean was back in under twenty minutes, looking surly and bitter and pretty fucking tense instead of loose-limbed and sated and lazy. He definitely didn’t have his just-got-laid face on; Sam knew that one all too well.
“Let’s get outta this dive,” Dean said, sounding even more surly than he looked. He reached down and adjusted his jeans with a grimace, and Sam cocked an eyebrow.
“I take it you didn’t exactly get lucky,” Sam said, watching Dean still grabbing at himself in the middle of the bar.
Dean grumbled something no doubt glaringly misogynistic about fucking teases and bitches or witches or something like that, and Sam downed his beer and started for the door so he didn’t have to hear it. He didn’t think Dean meant that last part literally.
Sam also wasn’t surprised when Dean headed straight for the bathroom when they got back to the motel, slamming the door like it was all Sam’s fault he hadn’t gotten laid.
“Hey,” Sam called after him, “Don’t blame me if you and your big mouth said something stupid and pissed her off.”
Dean cursed him from behind the door, and Sam hoped fervently that a good orgasm would improve Dean’s mood. “Hurry up and do it already,” he yelled. “I wanna take a shower.”
Another curse floated out from the bathroom, and Sam smirked. Dean was quick when he was riled up; shouldn’t be more than five minutes at the most. It probably should be disturbing that he knew that much about his brother’s masturbation habits, but it pretty much came with the territory. Sam knew a lot of things about Dean that he shouldn’t: how much Dean bled when a hellhound tore through his chest, what his green eyes looked like staring and lifeless. Knowing how Dean jerked off—what he sounded like, how he touched himself—Sam had no problem with that kind of knowledge. It was Dean alive and okay.
Sam sat down to wait, easily picturing the scene behind the bathroom door. Dean wouldn’t even take off his jeans, would just open them up and pull his dick out, stroke it hard and fast like Sam had accidentally seen him do more than once. When Dean got himself off late at night, the room dark and Sam wide awake in the other bed, he took his time, stretched it out and teased himself until he was making these little choked-back grunts that he couldn’t control, until he was breathless and straining to stay quiet and fucking frantic for it (and Sam was usually frantic too by then, but that was only natural). But tonight, he’d be all business, Sam figured. Which was a good thing because now Sam was half-hard himself, goddammit.
Sam checked the time. Twenty minutes, what the fuck?
“Dean, for godsakes, hurry the hell up!”
“Shut up, Sam,” Dean yelled through the door, and his voice sounded rough, a little desperate.
Sam smiled and pressed the heel of his hand against the bulge in his jeans. Wouldn’t be long now.
Ten minutes later, Sam was still horny and the door to the bathroom was still closed. Sam pounded a fist against it. “That’s it, I’m coming in,” he said as he turned the knob. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen Dean with his hand on his dick, and Sam was too desperate for the shower and his own private time to care.
The door flung open and Dean flung himself backwards, frantically trying to shove his obviously still rock-hard cock back into his pants. He was red-faced, sweaty.
“What the hell—“ Sam said, staring.
“Leave it,” Dean spat, and pushed by Sam and out the door. “Take your goddamn shower.”
“Dean—“ Sam said, because this was weird, but the bathroom door slammed in his face.
Sam took his goddamn shower and tried to think about nothing at all when he wrapped his fist around his dick. Especially not the desperate look on Dean’s face and how swollen his dick was. It didn’t take long. Dean was a formless lump in the bed by the door when Sam came out, and Sam figured he’d probably taken care of his not-so-little problem while Sam was in the shower. It had been a long, weird night; he fell asleep quickly, trying to forget it.
They got a call in the morning from Frank, telling them to lay low for a while. The Leviathans were looking for them, and so was human law enforcement. They paid for another month.
“Just stay put, don’t interact with anyone. Stay outta towns and restaurants and for chrissakes, stay outta bars. You know how to cook, don’tcha, sweetheart?”
Dean slammed the phone down with a curse. “Fuck,” he said, glaring at the cell like it had hit him.
“It’s just for a month or two, Dean,” Sam said. Dean only glared harder.
A week went by, then two, then three, then four. They watched TV and old movies and cooked…sort of… on the hot plate and microwave that made up the motel’s "kitchenette." Sam would almost have enjoyed it if Dean hadn’t been bitchier than when he was not-quite-fourteen and hitting puberty under Dad’s constant supervision and criticism. That year was the only time Sam could remember Dean giving Dad lip instead of closing his mouth and following orders. Sam hadn’t understood at the time, too young to know what it felt like to have a constant hard-on, every cell in your body screaming at you to get out there and do something about it. Dean had growled at Sam, too, easily annoyed when he’d always been patient.
Things got better when Dean started skipping classes to hang out with girls, taking the Impala whenever Dad was away and coming back smelling weird and looking flushed and rumpled. Sam didn’t care; Dean was in a good mood then, ruffling Sam’s hair and letting him stay up late, the two of them watching sci fi on tv curled up on some saggy rental-house couch. Later, when Sam hit puberty himself, he understood.
If anything, Dean had been more cranky for the last month than he’d been on the cusp of fourteen.
“Get your fucking dirty socks off the goddamn couch.”
Sam stared incredulously at Dean’s equally dirty socks, which until a minute ago had also been propped up on the sofa.
“You’re kidding, right?”
Dean scowled at him like Sam was the anti-Christ and his dirty socks were about to cause the apocalypse. “No, I’m not kidding, bitch—get ‘em off!”
Sam swung his feet down. Dean continued to glare.
“What is your problem, man?”
“You!” Dean yelled, and Jesus, his face was red. “You and your goddamn dirty socks and your goddamn stupid taste in TV shows and the way you chew your food and—"
“The way I chew my food?” Sam gaped. “Did you really just say that?”
“It’s disgusting!” Dean insisted, and Sam started to think it might be worth getting caught by Leviathans just to get out of this way-too-small motel from hell.
Even sleep wasn’t an escape from Dean and his suddenly infuriating ways. At least once or twice a night, Sam woke to the sound of his brother pacing, muttering to himself under his breath.
“Can’t sleep?” Sam asked the first time, kindly.
“Fuck off.”
“Will you fucking go to sleep and stop pacing like a caged animal?” Sam asked the tenth time, not so kindly.
“FUCK OFF!”
Dean took long showers—like, hours long. At first, Sam hoped that would cheer him up. Instead, Dean usually emerged even bitchier than when he went in. Sam learned to stay absorbed in the laptop for a while to avoid insults—or shoes—thrown at him.
At the end of the fourth week, they’d run out of everything but a half box of Lucky Charms, a can of baked beans and a bag of pretzels.
“Safer if just one of us goes to the grocery store,” Dean said, in the same bitchy tone he’d been stuck in ever since they’d been stuck in.
“Fine, I’ll go,” Sam said, eager to be somewhere his brother wasn’t. He grabbed the keys and took off in the pickup, feeling like he could breathe again as he took the first turn and the motel faded from view. If Frank didn’t give them the all-clear to get out of this damn motel soon, Sam was pretty sure he and Dean were gonna kill each other.
He took the long way to the store, and perused the shelves for so long that the clerk started to side-eye him from behind the register. He bought Grape Nuts and oatmeal because he knew Dean would hate them, then found himself inexplicably tossing four different kinds of beef jerky into the basket at the last minute. Maybe it would cheer Dean up.
By the time Sam got back, the sun was setting in the pickup’s rearview as he eased the old truck around the potholes in the parking lot. He sighed as he turned the key in the door, ready to pull out a package of jerky and toss it at his brother if he was met with curses and insults as usual. Instead, the room was empty. Sam breathed a sigh of relief. There was a sliver of light under the bathroom door and the sound of water running.
Sam was halfway through unpacking the first bag of groceries when he heard it: a moan of sorts, louder than Dean would usually be if he knew Sam was on the other side of the door. Sam shook his head, pulling out a few more cans and trying not to listen too closely. In the bathroom, Dean groaned again, even louder this time, and Sam put a can of baked beans down on the counter. There was something off about the sound, something that made a frisson of anxiety run down his spine. He knew, even if he shouldn’t have, Dean’s sex sounds. He knew the way Dean's breath hitched; the low, stuttered almost-whimpers; the deep, desperate groans when he was so close he couldn’t stifle them anymore. This was different. Dean sounded more like he was in pain than in the throes of pleasure.
Sam was in motion before he realized what he was doing, almost all the way to the bathroom with his hand nearly on the doorknob before he stopped. What the hell was he thinking? He couldn’t barge in there and interrupt his brother jerking off; that was—it just wasn’t done. What would his excuse be? Gee, Dean, I thought you were in trouble because your sex sounds weren’t the same as the ones you usually make—you know, the ones I’ve listened to clandestinely for half my life and maybe get off on just a little. Yeah, no.
Now that he was closer, Sam could hear even more clearly. Not only was Dean moaning, he was cursing up a storm. That wasn’t entirely new; Dean tended to get colorful when he got close to coming, but it was usually some sort of appreciative language, jesusfuck and ohhellyes and other stupid shit that Sam shouldn’t find hot at all. This time, Dean sounded pissed off—at his hand, at his dick, at the universe, at something.
“Fuckfuckfuck c’mon c’mon,” he panted, and his voice was wrecked, like gravel over glass, deep and desperate. Sam bit his lip and leaned closer.
“Almost, yeah, just a little more, oh, oh,” Dean gasped, and Sam was sure this was it, it was gonna be all over in seconds.
“Shit fuck goddamn whyyyyy,” Dean moaned instead, and Sam could hear the rattling of the plumbing fixtures; Dean must have been gripping the side of the sink, rocking it half out of the floor as he stripped his dick. “Please,” Dean started begging, and his voice cracked, raw and broken. “Please, please, can’t stand it, can’t, fuckin’ witch, fuckin’ kill you, please, shit, shit, ohgod….”
Dean seemed to lose the ability to form words after that, sobbing and gasping and shaking the sink on its foundation, and Sam thought, what the fucking fuck, and flung open the door.
That’s when the world as Sam knew it turned itself inside out and upside down and left him completely and utterly speechless.
Dean was standing at the sink just as Sam had pictured it; nothing like Sam had pictured it. His shirt and boots and jeans were in a heap on the floor. He was wearing a pair of pink silk panties—girl’s panties—that rode low on his slender hips, and a matching pink-and-black camisole, stretched tight across his broad back, his muscled shoulders looking even wider beneath the lacy spaghetti straps.
Time seemed to stop as Sam stared. Dean had one hand on his dick, which was still tucked mostly inside the panties, an obscene hard line that strained the material, the swollen head poking through the black lace band at the top, the silk below soaked through in a dark blotch. Dean’s hand moved up and down over the material, rubbing and squeezing as he grimaced, his breathing heavy. He had one foot propped up on the side of the tub; his other hand was stretched awkwardly behind him, down the back of the panties and gripping something—jesusfuckingchrist, a dildo? His hand moved rhythmically, pumping it in and out of his ass. It looked like he’d been at it for a while; the back of the camisole was soaked with sweat down the long line of Dean’s spine, his skin damp with it where the camisole ended inches above the rise of his ass. The back of the panties was even wetter, sweat and whatever Dean had used to open himself up leaving a dark stripe up the middle. It dribbled down the backs of his thighs in streaks, the fine blond hairs there glistening.
Dean was so intent on what he was doing, mouth open and eyes closed, his long lashes fluttering, that he didn’t even see Sam standing behind him in the doorway.
“Ohgod, please,” Dean whined, his voice coming rough and strained. He sounded desperate—too desperate. “PleasegodfuckPLEASE,” Dean gasped, and something about all this—beyond the whole panties thing—was off. Something was wrong.
The realization hit Sam with certainty, and instead of backing out the door and closing it surreptitiously, he stepped forward instead.
“Dean,” Sam said, and that’s all he got out before his brother’s eyes opened and caught his reflection in the mirror. Dean froze, his mouth wide and his eyes wider.
“Sorry,” Sam began, wondering how he could head off Dean’s inevitable embarrassment. Dean took his hand off his dick and reached for Sam—to shove him out of the bathroom, Sam presumed—but instead of being pushed away, Sam found himself grabbed by the wrist and pulled forward.
“Mmph,” he managed as he collided with Dean’s sweat-damp back and the elbow he had crooked behind him.
“Sammy,” Dean croaked, and God, his voice was wrecked. “Sammy, please, you gotta help me, you gotta, please.”
“Okay,” Sam agreed immediately, with no idea what that meant. “What can I do?”
Dean didn’t answer; he pressed Sam’s hand to the front of his panties instead, right over the hard line of his dick. Jesus, Sam thought. Like fucking iron.
At the touch of Sam’s palm to his cock, Dean groaned like he was dying, his back bowing as he bucked up. He threw his head back violently against Sam’s shoulder as he thrust his hips, and Sam had to wrap the other hand around his chest just to steady him. Now that they were pressed together, Sam could feel how wet Dean was all over, slick with sweat, messy with lube. His legs were shaking; it felt like they might go out from under him if Sam didn’t hold him up.
“Christ, Dean, how long have you been at this?”
“Dunno,” Dean panted, “I can’t, God, Sam, I can’t—"
“Okay, yeah, I can see that,” Sam said, trying not to watch his own hand in the mirror as it started stroking up and down his brother’s silk-covered cock like it had a mind of its own. “Is this—Dean, has it been since that—was it that fucking Lucky bar?”
Dean moaned in answer, twisting his hips and writhing against Sam desperately.
“But that was—that was months ago!”
The arm Dean had twisted between them flexed, muscles trembling with exhaustion, and the toy he’d been holding clattered to the tile floor. “Fuuuuck,” Dean groaned, and pushed his ass back against Sam instead.
That was the moment when Sam realized Dean wasn’t the only one with an erection.
“Fucking months ago,” Dean echoed, grinding his hips into Sam’s crotch and then pushing forward into his hand. He was leaking like crazy, his panties slick and soaked beneath Sam’s fingers.
“Is it—it’s a curse?” Sam asked, and his voice sounded almost as wrecked as Dean’s.
Dean managed a nod, and Sam cursed his asshole brother and whoever thought this was a fitting punishment, and wondered why the universe had somehow managed to curse him too.
“What did she say?”
Dean shook his head, his eyes closed so he wouldn’t see Sam in the mirror.
“Dean,” Sam said sharply, “You gotta tell me. What’d she say?”
Dean started to shake his head again. Sam’s hand on his dick stilled, and Dean’s eyes snapped open, bright green and wild with something like panic.
“What. Did. She. Say.”
“Sh-she-Sammmm,” Dean moaned, and Sam was shocked to see the pained expression on his face.
“Dean, c’mon,” Sam urged, tightening his fingers around Dean’s swollen shaft. He felt it jerk under his palm, still hard as steel, and Dean whimpered.
“She said I—it would only work if I in—indulged in my—my most secret—forbidden fan—fantasy,” he finally stammered, and if his face was red before, it was scarlet now. Tears glittered in his eyes as he stared at Sam in the mirror, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he panted for breath.
“The panties?” Sam asked, and Dean bit his lip, but he kept staring at Sam.
It hit Sam like a lightning bolt. The panties were only part of it. Him. It was him. The panties hadn’t worked, because Dean’s most forbidden fantasy was Sam.
“I’m sorry,” Dean whispered, agonized. He was trembling hard all over, one hand in a death grip on the edge of the sink and the other unconsciously rubbing over his own chest, brushing back and forth across the stiff points of his nipples under the sheer material.
“It’s okay,” Sam said, and he meant it, even if he knew he shouldn’t. He gripped Dean’s trapped cock more firmly, holding it angled out from his belly but keeping it in its silky sheath as he rubbed up and down the stiff length to the swollen and slippery tip.
“Sammy,” Dean groaned, and threw his head back again to rest on Sam’s shoulder.
“I’ve got you,” Sam said, and replaced Dean’s hand on his chest with his own. At the first brush of Sam’s finger over a nipple, Dean jerked in his arms and keened, his cock blurting out a fresh burst of slick.
“OhgodyespleasepleaseSam,” Dean babbled, and Sam pinched the hard little nubs through the lace, rubbing the rough texture of the material across them until they were red and sore and Dean was writhing and cursing a blue streak and begging for more.
Then Sam remembered the toy. He figured that must be part of the secret forbidden fantasy, too, but he didn’t want to stop what he was doing to retrieve it from where it had rolled to the far corner of the bathroom. Instead he gave Dean’s nipples a break and got a hand in between their bodies and down the back of Dean’s panties.
“Fuck,” Sam swore, his fingers sliding easily down the crack of Dean’s ass and over his hole. “You’re so wet…like a girl, fuck.”
Dean’s muscles clenched and spasmed, and Sam pressed a finger inside, slipping in so damn easy, Dean hot and slick and tight around him. He got two in all the way, and Dean made a sound like a wounded animal, his head thrashing back and forth on Sam’s shoulder as Sam prodded and pressed and tried to remember where the hell the prostate was.
“FUCK!” Dean yelled, and practically sat back on Sam’s hand, gasping and groaning. Sam pushed the ruined panties down and took Dean’s bare cock in one hand and jerked him in earnest, using every trick he’d use on himself while he tried to keep his fingers where Dean needed them.
“C’mon,” he rasped in Dean’s ear, and Dean twisted to get closer. Sam could smell him—salt and sweat and sex. “C’mon,” he urged again, his mouth pressed to the pale skin behind Dean’s ear. Dean shuddered, and in the mirror Sam could see his eyes roll up as his head fell back. Sam leaned in, kissed the side of Dean’s throat, then lower, more firmly.
“Dean,” he murmured, and licked at the sweat-slick freckled skin. Dean gave a stuttered moan and turned his head trying to find Sam’s mouth, his Adam’s apple working as he gasped for breath, as Sam licked up to his jaw, over the slight stubble there.
“C’mon, do it,” Sam urged, and it was almost a growl. He kissed what he could reach of Dean’s mouth then, their lips sliding together, messy and open-mouthed. He could feel Dean’s dick swell even more in his fist, the muscles in his ass tightening like a vise around Sam’s fingers. “Come for me, big brother,” Sam whispered, and Dean’s body went strung tight in his arms, muscles rigid and locked as he finally lost control.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Sam said as Dean shot all over the place, gasping and twitching in Sam’s arms as the spasms rocked him again and again. It seemed to go on forever, until Dean was sobbing with what sounded more like pain than pleasure. There were tears streaking his face; the camisole was splattered and Sam’s hand was sticky and wet.
Dean whimpered when Sam slid his fingers out, and Sam blushed at the squelching sound, loud and obscene in the now-silent bathroom. He let go of his brother to grab some tissues, and Dean slumped to the floor, barely conscious.
“C’mon, dude, let’s get you to bed.”
Dean made no protest when Sam caught him under the arms and pulled him to his feet; he leaned against Sam’s side as they stumbled to the bed and he fell gracelessly onto it as soon as Sam released him. In ten seconds, he was snoring.
Sam stood there a long time, taking in the improbable sight of his thoroughly debauched brother sprawled on the bed in a sweat-soaked camisole and silk panties. The line of his spine was a dark shadow down his back, the cami twisted and pushed up to expose his narrow waist and the cut of his hips. The panties were twisted, too, only half covering the curve of his ass and riding high up one thigh where Dean had bent his leg up. They were still wet where Sam’s fingers had been, a dark shadow on the silk. Sam thought about what it would feel like to slide his dick in there. How hot and tight and wet Dean would be; how he’d moan and whine for Sam to push deeper.
He fisted his cock in the bathroom, thinking about it. There were a few droplets on the mirror, Dean had come so damn hard. Sam wiped himself off with a handful of tissues after, and cleaned off the glass before brushing his teeth and going to bed.
It was the first time either of them had slept through the night since the Lucky Six.
Sam woke first. By the angle of the sunlight streaming through the crack between the curtains, it was already late, and Sam tensed, muscles already twitching in readiness, cataloging where he’d left his gun. His eyes flickered across to Dean’s bed, and Sam tensed in an entirely different way.
Dean.
His brother was still out cold, eyes darting back and forth under closed lids as he dreamt. Dean was on his back, one arm under the pillow and the other outstretched on the bed. His bare legs looked miles long, naked against the dark bedspread, but it was the part of Dean that wasn’t naked that made Sam’s breath catch. The stained pink panties were still more or less in place, and Sam could see the outline of Dean’s cock underneath. The camisole was twisted so far to the left that half of Dean’s chest was exposed, and Sam bit his lip at how red Dean’s nipples still were, surrounded by scratches. The fabric had ridden up high, baring Dean’s flat stomach and abs. The thin trail of hair beneath his navel looked out of place disappearing under the lace at the top of the panties. Somehow that just made it hotter.
Sam shut the bathroom door a lot harder than was strictly necessary and made sure to drop the shampoo bottle three times in the tub, flush the toilet twice, and clear his throat three times before he finally opened the door and emerged from the steam-filled room.
Dean brushed past him immediately, naked except for a towel around his waist as he headed for the shower. He didn’t meet Sam’s eyes, just talked over his shoulder.
“Gonna take a shower and then run out for some supplies,” he said, closing the bathroom door.
Sam didn’t say that he’d just done that yesterday. Whatever Dean needed to bounce back from this was probably not at the local grocery store.
Dean was gone three hours, long enough for Sam to start to worry in earnest. Had he done something to make things worse? Stupid question; of course he had. He’d jerked Dean off, fingered his ass, made him come. He’d kissed his brother—and he’d liked it. Dean was under a curse, but Sam… Sam was just Sam.
Sam lamented a universe that wouldn’t even let him keep his own twisted fantasies to himself.
“Talked to Frank,” Dean said matter-of-factly as he finally barged in the door, carrying a bag of groceries that they didn’t need.
“Uh, yeah?” Sam managed, trying not to show his relief.
“He thinks another week or so will do it, and we can get the fuck out of this godforsaken place.”
“Oh, okay. That’s good.” Sam cleared his throat and tried to get with the program and not notice the bruise on Dean’s neck.
“So find us a case,” Dean said, and sat down to clean his guns. It was as clear an order as any that John Winchester had ever uttered. We’re not talking about it. Didn’t happen. Back to the Winchester version of normal.
Sam felt oddly disappointed.
He stuck to the plan, though. What was there to say, anyway? Hey Dean, I thought you were really hot in those panties; can you put them on again so I can fuck you into next week?
Instead of talking, they took turns scouring the Internet for a case, keeping their eyes on the screen and not on each other. They kept the bathroom door closed instead of talking through it constantly like they had all their lives. Dean jerked off a lot—presumably to make sure that the curse hadn’t returned—but only behind that door, and a lot more quietly than he ever had before. Sam did the same.
At the end of the week, they slammed the door to Number 17 for the last time and headed the old pickup down the interstate. Four states over Dean's head was starting to nod, but he kept driving.
“Pull over,” Sam said, yawning and stretching as he uncurled himself from the corner of the passenger seat. “I can drive for a while.”
Dean jerked his head up and glared at Sam. “What? You think I’m such a pussy that I can’t stay awake?”
Sam gave him the finger. “Jesus, Dean, I was just offering. What the hell is your problem?”
“You’re my problem,” Dean snapped, his hands clenched on the wheel. “Shut up and let me drive.”
“Fine,” Sam snapped back, and turned to stare out the window. Dean was always a stubborn bastard; worse when he was exhausted. But there was something about his response that niggled at Sam, keeping him wide awake and frowning as Dean drove into the night much faster than necessary.
Dean finally pulled to the side of the road somewhere in Iowa, five hours and a few lurches onto the shoulder later.
“Gonna catch a few,” he announced gruffly, not looking at Sam. “We don’t have money for a motel, so you should sleep, too.”
“Whatever,” Sam said, because they were still in one piece and Dean was finally going to sleep.
There was a haunted mountain lodge in Aspen, and they headed there next. Frank gave them the okay to pick up the Impala, and Dean smiled for the first time in what seemed like forever as he settled behind the wheel, his hands gentle on her.
“Missed you, baby,” he said, and turned to catch Sam’s eye.
“Don’t say it,” Dean warned, but Sam didn’t have anything to say. He grinned, and slowly Dean’s scowl faded, the corners of his mouth curving up as he turned the key and the Impala obediently rumbled to life.
“That’s my girl,” Dean crooned, and Sam laughed out loud. There was no meanness in it, and Dean smiled as he flipped Sam off, turning the big black car onto the dirt road and heading for the highway.
Part Two
Author name:
runedgirlArtist name:
deadflowers5Pairing: Dean/Sam, minor Sam/OFC
Rating: NC17
Summary: While the boys are trying to evade both Leviathans and law enforcement, Dean manages to get himself cursed with a particularly nasty sexual frustration spell. One that it seems only a pair of skimpy pink women’s panties – and Sam – can break.
Link to art: Art Masterpost
Sam probably would never have figured it out if Dean hadn’t gotten himself cursed… again. They were holed up outside Silverton, the Impala safely under wraps two towns over and a banged-up Chevy pickup truck outside the "We Rent By the Hour, Day or Month" motel. They’d paid for a month up front—cash, which left them strapped but anonymous—and then headed out to a bar a safe distance down the interstate to win some of it back at pool. The Lucky Six, it was called, and Sam figured luck was something they were due. All that was going fine until Dean decided tens and twenties weren’t all he wanted from the locals, and set about leaning over the pool table a little longer than necessary every time the woman in the barely-there skirt turned his way. Sam didn’t miss the way her eyes swept appreciatively over the curve of his brother’s ass, or the way she batted her eyes at him when he swaggered from one side to the other to take the next shot.
Can’t really blame her, Sam thought, and then looked away.
So Sam wasn’t surprised when Dean disappeared to “take a walk” with her; he was surprised, however, when Dean was back in under twenty minutes, looking surly and bitter and pretty fucking tense instead of loose-limbed and sated and lazy. He definitely didn’t have his just-got-laid face on; Sam knew that one all too well.
“Let’s get outta this dive,” Dean said, sounding even more surly than he looked. He reached down and adjusted his jeans with a grimace, and Sam cocked an eyebrow.
“I take it you didn’t exactly get lucky,” Sam said, watching Dean still grabbing at himself in the middle of the bar.
Dean grumbled something no doubt glaringly misogynistic about fucking teases and bitches or witches or something like that, and Sam downed his beer and started for the door so he didn’t have to hear it. He didn’t think Dean meant that last part literally.
Sam also wasn’t surprised when Dean headed straight for the bathroom when they got back to the motel, slamming the door like it was all Sam’s fault he hadn’t gotten laid.
“Hey,” Sam called after him, “Don’t blame me if you and your big mouth said something stupid and pissed her off.”
Dean cursed him from behind the door, and Sam hoped fervently that a good orgasm would improve Dean’s mood. “Hurry up and do it already,” he yelled. “I wanna take a shower.”
Another curse floated out from the bathroom, and Sam smirked. Dean was quick when he was riled up; shouldn’t be more than five minutes at the most. It probably should be disturbing that he knew that much about his brother’s masturbation habits, but it pretty much came with the territory. Sam knew a lot of things about Dean that he shouldn’t: how much Dean bled when a hellhound tore through his chest, what his green eyes looked like staring and lifeless. Knowing how Dean jerked off—what he sounded like, how he touched himself—Sam had no problem with that kind of knowledge. It was Dean alive and okay.
Sam sat down to wait, easily picturing the scene behind the bathroom door. Dean wouldn’t even take off his jeans, would just open them up and pull his dick out, stroke it hard and fast like Sam had accidentally seen him do more than once. When Dean got himself off late at night, the room dark and Sam wide awake in the other bed, he took his time, stretched it out and teased himself until he was making these little choked-back grunts that he couldn’t control, until he was breathless and straining to stay quiet and fucking frantic for it (and Sam was usually frantic too by then, but that was only natural). But tonight, he’d be all business, Sam figured. Which was a good thing because now Sam was half-hard himself, goddammit.
Sam checked the time. Twenty minutes, what the fuck?
“Dean, for godsakes, hurry the hell up!”
“Shut up, Sam,” Dean yelled through the door, and his voice sounded rough, a little desperate.
Sam smiled and pressed the heel of his hand against the bulge in his jeans. Wouldn’t be long now.
Ten minutes later, Sam was still horny and the door to the bathroom was still closed. Sam pounded a fist against it. “That’s it, I’m coming in,” he said as he turned the knob. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen Dean with his hand on his dick, and Sam was too desperate for the shower and his own private time to care.
The door flung open and Dean flung himself backwards, frantically trying to shove his obviously still rock-hard cock back into his pants. He was red-faced, sweaty.
“What the hell—“ Sam said, staring.
“Leave it,” Dean spat, and pushed by Sam and out the door. “Take your goddamn shower.”
“Dean—“ Sam said, because this was weird, but the bathroom door slammed in his face.
Sam took his goddamn shower and tried to think about nothing at all when he wrapped his fist around his dick. Especially not the desperate look on Dean’s face and how swollen his dick was. It didn’t take long. Dean was a formless lump in the bed by the door when Sam came out, and Sam figured he’d probably taken care of his not-so-little problem while Sam was in the shower. It had been a long, weird night; he fell asleep quickly, trying to forget it.
They got a call in the morning from Frank, telling them to lay low for a while. The Leviathans were looking for them, and so was human law enforcement. They paid for another month.
“Just stay put, don’t interact with anyone. Stay outta towns and restaurants and for chrissakes, stay outta bars. You know how to cook, don’tcha, sweetheart?”
Dean slammed the phone down with a curse. “Fuck,” he said, glaring at the cell like it had hit him.
“It’s just for a month or two, Dean,” Sam said. Dean only glared harder.
A week went by, then two, then three, then four. They watched TV and old movies and cooked…sort of… on the hot plate and microwave that made up the motel’s "kitchenette." Sam would almost have enjoyed it if Dean hadn’t been bitchier than when he was not-quite-fourteen and hitting puberty under Dad’s constant supervision and criticism. That year was the only time Sam could remember Dean giving Dad lip instead of closing his mouth and following orders. Sam hadn’t understood at the time, too young to know what it felt like to have a constant hard-on, every cell in your body screaming at you to get out there and do something about it. Dean had growled at Sam, too, easily annoyed when he’d always been patient.
Things got better when Dean started skipping classes to hang out with girls, taking the Impala whenever Dad was away and coming back smelling weird and looking flushed and rumpled. Sam didn’t care; Dean was in a good mood then, ruffling Sam’s hair and letting him stay up late, the two of them watching sci fi on tv curled up on some saggy rental-house couch. Later, when Sam hit puberty himself, he understood.
If anything, Dean had been more cranky for the last month than he’d been on the cusp of fourteen.
“Get your fucking dirty socks off the goddamn couch.”
Sam stared incredulously at Dean’s equally dirty socks, which until a minute ago had also been propped up on the sofa.
“You’re kidding, right?”
Dean scowled at him like Sam was the anti-Christ and his dirty socks were about to cause the apocalypse. “No, I’m not kidding, bitch—get ‘em off!”
Sam swung his feet down. Dean continued to glare.
“What is your problem, man?”
“You!” Dean yelled, and Jesus, his face was red. “You and your goddamn dirty socks and your goddamn stupid taste in TV shows and the way you chew your food and—"
“The way I chew my food?” Sam gaped. “Did you really just say that?”
“It’s disgusting!” Dean insisted, and Sam started to think it might be worth getting caught by Leviathans just to get out of this way-too-small motel from hell.
Even sleep wasn’t an escape from Dean and his suddenly infuriating ways. At least once or twice a night, Sam woke to the sound of his brother pacing, muttering to himself under his breath.
“Can’t sleep?” Sam asked the first time, kindly.
“Fuck off.”
“Will you fucking go to sleep and stop pacing like a caged animal?” Sam asked the tenth time, not so kindly.
“FUCK OFF!”
Dean took long showers—like, hours long. At first, Sam hoped that would cheer him up. Instead, Dean usually emerged even bitchier than when he went in. Sam learned to stay absorbed in the laptop for a while to avoid insults—or shoes—thrown at him.
At the end of the fourth week, they’d run out of everything but a half box of Lucky Charms, a can of baked beans and a bag of pretzels.
“Safer if just one of us goes to the grocery store,” Dean said, in the same bitchy tone he’d been stuck in ever since they’d been stuck in.
“Fine, I’ll go,” Sam said, eager to be somewhere his brother wasn’t. He grabbed the keys and took off in the pickup, feeling like he could breathe again as he took the first turn and the motel faded from view. If Frank didn’t give them the all-clear to get out of this damn motel soon, Sam was pretty sure he and Dean were gonna kill each other.
He took the long way to the store, and perused the shelves for so long that the clerk started to side-eye him from behind the register. He bought Grape Nuts and oatmeal because he knew Dean would hate them, then found himself inexplicably tossing four different kinds of beef jerky into the basket at the last minute. Maybe it would cheer Dean up.
By the time Sam got back, the sun was setting in the pickup’s rearview as he eased the old truck around the potholes in the parking lot. He sighed as he turned the key in the door, ready to pull out a package of jerky and toss it at his brother if he was met with curses and insults as usual. Instead, the room was empty. Sam breathed a sigh of relief. There was a sliver of light under the bathroom door and the sound of water running.
Sam was halfway through unpacking the first bag of groceries when he heard it: a moan of sorts, louder than Dean would usually be if he knew Sam was on the other side of the door. Sam shook his head, pulling out a few more cans and trying not to listen too closely. In the bathroom, Dean groaned again, even louder this time, and Sam put a can of baked beans down on the counter. There was something off about the sound, something that made a frisson of anxiety run down his spine. He knew, even if he shouldn’t have, Dean’s sex sounds. He knew the way Dean's breath hitched; the low, stuttered almost-whimpers; the deep, desperate groans when he was so close he couldn’t stifle them anymore. This was different. Dean sounded more like he was in pain than in the throes of pleasure.
Sam was in motion before he realized what he was doing, almost all the way to the bathroom with his hand nearly on the doorknob before he stopped. What the hell was he thinking? He couldn’t barge in there and interrupt his brother jerking off; that was—it just wasn’t done. What would his excuse be? Gee, Dean, I thought you were in trouble because your sex sounds weren’t the same as the ones you usually make—you know, the ones I’ve listened to clandestinely for half my life and maybe get off on just a little. Yeah, no.
Now that he was closer, Sam could hear even more clearly. Not only was Dean moaning, he was cursing up a storm. That wasn’t entirely new; Dean tended to get colorful when he got close to coming, but it was usually some sort of appreciative language, jesusfuck and ohhellyes and other stupid shit that Sam shouldn’t find hot at all. This time, Dean sounded pissed off—at his hand, at his dick, at the universe, at something.
“Fuckfuckfuck c’mon c’mon,” he panted, and his voice was wrecked, like gravel over glass, deep and desperate. Sam bit his lip and leaned closer.
“Almost, yeah, just a little more, oh, oh,” Dean gasped, and Sam was sure this was it, it was gonna be all over in seconds.
“Shit fuck goddamn whyyyyy,” Dean moaned instead, and Sam could hear the rattling of the plumbing fixtures; Dean must have been gripping the side of the sink, rocking it half out of the floor as he stripped his dick. “Please,” Dean started begging, and his voice cracked, raw and broken. “Please, please, can’t stand it, can’t, fuckin’ witch, fuckin’ kill you, please, shit, shit, ohgod….”
Dean seemed to lose the ability to form words after that, sobbing and gasping and shaking the sink on its foundation, and Sam thought, what the fucking fuck, and flung open the door.
That’s when the world as Sam knew it turned itself inside out and upside down and left him completely and utterly speechless.
Dean was standing at the sink just as Sam had pictured it; nothing like Sam had pictured it. His shirt and boots and jeans were in a heap on the floor. He was wearing a pair of pink silk panties—girl’s panties—that rode low on his slender hips, and a matching pink-and-black camisole, stretched tight across his broad back, his muscled shoulders looking even wider beneath the lacy spaghetti straps.
Time seemed to stop as Sam stared. Dean had one hand on his dick, which was still tucked mostly inside the panties, an obscene hard line that strained the material, the swollen head poking through the black lace band at the top, the silk below soaked through in a dark blotch. Dean’s hand moved up and down over the material, rubbing and squeezing as he grimaced, his breathing heavy. He had one foot propped up on the side of the tub; his other hand was stretched awkwardly behind him, down the back of the panties and gripping something—jesusfuckingchrist, a dildo? His hand moved rhythmically, pumping it in and out of his ass. It looked like he’d been at it for a while; the back of the camisole was soaked with sweat down the long line of Dean’s spine, his skin damp with it where the camisole ended inches above the rise of his ass. The back of the panties was even wetter, sweat and whatever Dean had used to open himself up leaving a dark stripe up the middle. It dribbled down the backs of his thighs in streaks, the fine blond hairs there glistening.
Dean was so intent on what he was doing, mouth open and eyes closed, his long lashes fluttering, that he didn’t even see Sam standing behind him in the doorway.
“Ohgod, please,” Dean whined, his voice coming rough and strained. He sounded desperate—too desperate. “PleasegodfuckPLEASE,” Dean gasped, and something about all this—beyond the whole panties thing—was off. Something was wrong.
The realization hit Sam with certainty, and instead of backing out the door and closing it surreptitiously, he stepped forward instead.
“Dean,” Sam said, and that’s all he got out before his brother’s eyes opened and caught his reflection in the mirror. Dean froze, his mouth wide and his eyes wider.
“Sorry,” Sam began, wondering how he could head off Dean’s inevitable embarrassment. Dean took his hand off his dick and reached for Sam—to shove him out of the bathroom, Sam presumed—but instead of being pushed away, Sam found himself grabbed by the wrist and pulled forward.
“Mmph,” he managed as he collided with Dean’s sweat-damp back and the elbow he had crooked behind him.
“Sammy,” Dean croaked, and God, his voice was wrecked. “Sammy, please, you gotta help me, you gotta, please.”
“Okay,” Sam agreed immediately, with no idea what that meant. “What can I do?”
Dean didn’t answer; he pressed Sam’s hand to the front of his panties instead, right over the hard line of his dick. Jesus, Sam thought. Like fucking iron.
At the touch of Sam’s palm to his cock, Dean groaned like he was dying, his back bowing as he bucked up. He threw his head back violently against Sam’s shoulder as he thrust his hips, and Sam had to wrap the other hand around his chest just to steady him. Now that they were pressed together, Sam could feel how wet Dean was all over, slick with sweat, messy with lube. His legs were shaking; it felt like they might go out from under him if Sam didn’t hold him up.
“Christ, Dean, how long have you been at this?”
“Dunno,” Dean panted, “I can’t, God, Sam, I can’t—"
“Okay, yeah, I can see that,” Sam said, trying not to watch his own hand in the mirror as it started stroking up and down his brother’s silk-covered cock like it had a mind of its own. “Is this—Dean, has it been since that—was it that fucking Lucky bar?”
Dean moaned in answer, twisting his hips and writhing against Sam desperately.
“But that was—that was months ago!”
The arm Dean had twisted between them flexed, muscles trembling with exhaustion, and the toy he’d been holding clattered to the tile floor. “Fuuuuck,” Dean groaned, and pushed his ass back against Sam instead.
That was the moment when Sam realized Dean wasn’t the only one with an erection.
“Fucking months ago,” Dean echoed, grinding his hips into Sam’s crotch and then pushing forward into his hand. He was leaking like crazy, his panties slick and soaked beneath Sam’s fingers.
“Is it—it’s a curse?” Sam asked, and his voice sounded almost as wrecked as Dean’s.
Dean managed a nod, and Sam cursed his asshole brother and whoever thought this was a fitting punishment, and wondered why the universe had somehow managed to curse him too.
“What did she say?”
Dean shook his head, his eyes closed so he wouldn’t see Sam in the mirror.
“Dean,” Sam said sharply, “You gotta tell me. What’d she say?”
Dean started to shake his head again. Sam’s hand on his dick stilled, and Dean’s eyes snapped open, bright green and wild with something like panic.
“What. Did. She. Say.”
“Sh-she-Sammmm,” Dean moaned, and Sam was shocked to see the pained expression on his face.
“Dean, c’mon,” Sam urged, tightening his fingers around Dean’s swollen shaft. He felt it jerk under his palm, still hard as steel, and Dean whimpered.
“She said I—it would only work if I in—indulged in my—my most secret—forbidden fan—fantasy,” he finally stammered, and if his face was red before, it was scarlet now. Tears glittered in his eyes as he stared at Sam in the mirror, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he panted for breath.
“The panties?” Sam asked, and Dean bit his lip, but he kept staring at Sam.
It hit Sam like a lightning bolt. The panties were only part of it. Him. It was him. The panties hadn’t worked, because Dean’s most forbidden fantasy was Sam.
“I’m sorry,” Dean whispered, agonized. He was trembling hard all over, one hand in a death grip on the edge of the sink and the other unconsciously rubbing over his own chest, brushing back and forth across the stiff points of his nipples under the sheer material.
“It’s okay,” Sam said, and he meant it, even if he knew he shouldn’t. He gripped Dean’s trapped cock more firmly, holding it angled out from his belly but keeping it in its silky sheath as he rubbed up and down the stiff length to the swollen and slippery tip.
“Sammy,” Dean groaned, and threw his head back again to rest on Sam’s shoulder.
“I’ve got you,” Sam said, and replaced Dean’s hand on his chest with his own. At the first brush of Sam’s finger over a nipple, Dean jerked in his arms and keened, his cock blurting out a fresh burst of slick.
“OhgodyespleasepleaseSam,” Dean babbled, and Sam pinched the hard little nubs through the lace, rubbing the rough texture of the material across them until they were red and sore and Dean was writhing and cursing a blue streak and begging for more.
Then Sam remembered the toy. He figured that must be part of the secret forbidden fantasy, too, but he didn’t want to stop what he was doing to retrieve it from where it had rolled to the far corner of the bathroom. Instead he gave Dean’s nipples a break and got a hand in between their bodies and down the back of Dean’s panties.
“Fuck,” Sam swore, his fingers sliding easily down the crack of Dean’s ass and over his hole. “You’re so wet…like a girl, fuck.”
Dean’s muscles clenched and spasmed, and Sam pressed a finger inside, slipping in so damn easy, Dean hot and slick and tight around him. He got two in all the way, and Dean made a sound like a wounded animal, his head thrashing back and forth on Sam’s shoulder as Sam prodded and pressed and tried to remember where the hell the prostate was.
“FUCK!” Dean yelled, and practically sat back on Sam’s hand, gasping and groaning. Sam pushed the ruined panties down and took Dean’s bare cock in one hand and jerked him in earnest, using every trick he’d use on himself while he tried to keep his fingers where Dean needed them.
“C’mon,” he rasped in Dean’s ear, and Dean twisted to get closer. Sam could smell him—salt and sweat and sex. “C’mon,” he urged again, his mouth pressed to the pale skin behind Dean’s ear. Dean shuddered, and in the mirror Sam could see his eyes roll up as his head fell back. Sam leaned in, kissed the side of Dean’s throat, then lower, more firmly.
“Dean,” he murmured, and licked at the sweat-slick freckled skin. Dean gave a stuttered moan and turned his head trying to find Sam’s mouth, his Adam’s apple working as he gasped for breath, as Sam licked up to his jaw, over the slight stubble there.
“C’mon, do it,” Sam urged, and it was almost a growl. He kissed what he could reach of Dean’s mouth then, their lips sliding together, messy and open-mouthed. He could feel Dean’s dick swell even more in his fist, the muscles in his ass tightening like a vise around Sam’s fingers. “Come for me, big brother,” Sam whispered, and Dean’s body went strung tight in his arms, muscles rigid and locked as he finally lost control.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Sam said as Dean shot all over the place, gasping and twitching in Sam’s arms as the spasms rocked him again and again. It seemed to go on forever, until Dean was sobbing with what sounded more like pain than pleasure. There were tears streaking his face; the camisole was splattered and Sam’s hand was sticky and wet.
Dean whimpered when Sam slid his fingers out, and Sam blushed at the squelching sound, loud and obscene in the now-silent bathroom. He let go of his brother to grab some tissues, and Dean slumped to the floor, barely conscious.
“C’mon, dude, let’s get you to bed.”
Dean made no protest when Sam caught him under the arms and pulled him to his feet; he leaned against Sam’s side as they stumbled to the bed and he fell gracelessly onto it as soon as Sam released him. In ten seconds, he was snoring.
Sam stood there a long time, taking in the improbable sight of his thoroughly debauched brother sprawled on the bed in a sweat-soaked camisole and silk panties. The line of his spine was a dark shadow down his back, the cami twisted and pushed up to expose his narrow waist and the cut of his hips. The panties were twisted, too, only half covering the curve of his ass and riding high up one thigh where Dean had bent his leg up. They were still wet where Sam’s fingers had been, a dark shadow on the silk. Sam thought about what it would feel like to slide his dick in there. How hot and tight and wet Dean would be; how he’d moan and whine for Sam to push deeper.
He fisted his cock in the bathroom, thinking about it. There were a few droplets on the mirror, Dean had come so damn hard. Sam wiped himself off with a handful of tissues after, and cleaned off the glass before brushing his teeth and going to bed.
It was the first time either of them had slept through the night since the Lucky Six.
Sam woke first. By the angle of the sunlight streaming through the crack between the curtains, it was already late, and Sam tensed, muscles already twitching in readiness, cataloging where he’d left his gun. His eyes flickered across to Dean’s bed, and Sam tensed in an entirely different way.
Dean.
His brother was still out cold, eyes darting back and forth under closed lids as he dreamt. Dean was on his back, one arm under the pillow and the other outstretched on the bed. His bare legs looked miles long, naked against the dark bedspread, but it was the part of Dean that wasn’t naked that made Sam’s breath catch. The stained pink panties were still more or less in place, and Sam could see the outline of Dean’s cock underneath. The camisole was twisted so far to the left that half of Dean’s chest was exposed, and Sam bit his lip at how red Dean’s nipples still were, surrounded by scratches. The fabric had ridden up high, baring Dean’s flat stomach and abs. The thin trail of hair beneath his navel looked out of place disappearing under the lace at the top of the panties. Somehow that just made it hotter.
Sam shut the bathroom door a lot harder than was strictly necessary and made sure to drop the shampoo bottle three times in the tub, flush the toilet twice, and clear his throat three times before he finally opened the door and emerged from the steam-filled room.
Dean brushed past him immediately, naked except for a towel around his waist as he headed for the shower. He didn’t meet Sam’s eyes, just talked over his shoulder.
“Gonna take a shower and then run out for some supplies,” he said, closing the bathroom door.
Sam didn’t say that he’d just done that yesterday. Whatever Dean needed to bounce back from this was probably not at the local grocery store.
Dean was gone three hours, long enough for Sam to start to worry in earnest. Had he done something to make things worse? Stupid question; of course he had. He’d jerked Dean off, fingered his ass, made him come. He’d kissed his brother—and he’d liked it. Dean was under a curse, but Sam… Sam was just Sam.
Sam lamented a universe that wouldn’t even let him keep his own twisted fantasies to himself.
“Talked to Frank,” Dean said matter-of-factly as he finally barged in the door, carrying a bag of groceries that they didn’t need.
“Uh, yeah?” Sam managed, trying not to show his relief.
“He thinks another week or so will do it, and we can get the fuck out of this godforsaken place.”
“Oh, okay. That’s good.” Sam cleared his throat and tried to get with the program and not notice the bruise on Dean’s neck.
“So find us a case,” Dean said, and sat down to clean his guns. It was as clear an order as any that John Winchester had ever uttered. We’re not talking about it. Didn’t happen. Back to the Winchester version of normal.
Sam felt oddly disappointed.
He stuck to the plan, though. What was there to say, anyway? Hey Dean, I thought you were really hot in those panties; can you put them on again so I can fuck you into next week?
Instead of talking, they took turns scouring the Internet for a case, keeping their eyes on the screen and not on each other. They kept the bathroom door closed instead of talking through it constantly like they had all their lives. Dean jerked off a lot—presumably to make sure that the curse hadn’t returned—but only behind that door, and a lot more quietly than he ever had before. Sam did the same.
At the end of the week, they slammed the door to Number 17 for the last time and headed the old pickup down the interstate. Four states over Dean's head was starting to nod, but he kept driving.
“Pull over,” Sam said, yawning and stretching as he uncurled himself from the corner of the passenger seat. “I can drive for a while.”
Dean jerked his head up and glared at Sam. “What? You think I’m such a pussy that I can’t stay awake?”
Sam gave him the finger. “Jesus, Dean, I was just offering. What the hell is your problem?”
“You’re my problem,” Dean snapped, his hands clenched on the wheel. “Shut up and let me drive.”
“Fine,” Sam snapped back, and turned to stare out the window. Dean was always a stubborn bastard; worse when he was exhausted. But there was something about his response that niggled at Sam, keeping him wide awake and frowning as Dean drove into the night much faster than necessary.
Dean finally pulled to the side of the road somewhere in Iowa, five hours and a few lurches onto the shoulder later.
“Gonna catch a few,” he announced gruffly, not looking at Sam. “We don’t have money for a motel, so you should sleep, too.”
“Whatever,” Sam said, because they were still in one piece and Dean was finally going to sleep.
There was a haunted mountain lodge in Aspen, and they headed there next. Frank gave them the okay to pick up the Impala, and Dean smiled for the first time in what seemed like forever as he settled behind the wheel, his hands gentle on her.
“Missed you, baby,” he said, and turned to catch Sam’s eye.
“Don’t say it,” Dean warned, but Sam didn’t have anything to say. He grinned, and slowly Dean’s scowl faded, the corners of his mouth curving up as he turned the key and the Impala obediently rumbled to life.
“That’s my girl,” Dean crooned, and Sam laughed out loud. There was no meanness in it, and Dean smiled as he flipped Sam off, turning the big black car onto the dirt road and heading for the highway.
Part Two
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Date: 2012-10-20 10:49 am (UTC)Now onto part 2!
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Date: 2012-10-28 03:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-03-04 07:42 pm (UTC)Also I love how blasé Sam is about the whole thing, yep just his brother in panties fucked out of his brains, I mean of course that’s hot 🤷🏻♂️ What?!
😂👍🏻