runedgirl | Bitten, (Sam/Dean), NC17

Title: Bitten
Author:

runedgirl
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 4,900
Warnings: prostitution
Summary: For the prompt: Fuck or die, anywhere, anyhow

A/N Written for

spn_j2_xmas as a gift for

oddishly. I tried to hit a bunch of your likes while avoiding your dislikes (If a teeny tiny bit of schmoop crept in there, it’s entirely Sam and Dean’s fault). Thanks to

without_me for the awesome beta.

They knew the risk when they went after the thing. It was clear enough that it was a sex demon of sorts and that its bite was deadly unless the victim could have the right kind of sex - and enough of it - to get the poison out. Two men and one woman were dead because they didn’t figure it out in time, or they were in too isolated an area to do anything about it anyway. The thing was smart like that, taking what it needed from someone vulnerable and leaving its victim with approximately five to six hours to find the right partner to fuck their brains (and the poison) out… or expire. One of the men had been a priest, which made Sam think the thing was a particularly evil type of creature, and the other was snowed in at a mountain cabin miles from another human being.

The woman who was bitten had staggered into a dive bar and propositioned every man in there. That was the one that caught the Winchesters’ attention. Seemed plenty of men took her up on it—the first in the bathroom, the second in a parked car, the third in the alley up against the wall—but each time she staggered back into the bar more desperate and, frankly, more frightening. The bar patrons said she had just grabbed a fourth guy right in the middle of the room. By then they were all more freaked out than turned on, and he tried to push her away, only to have her fall to the floor, eyes wide open and dead as a doornail.

It’s been half an hour since Dean threw himself in front of Sam as the same thing lashed out with hooked claws and gnashing fangs. Half an hour since it sank its teeth into the meat of Dean’s thigh and howled its death throes when he plunged the silver knife into its back. The blood is still splattered across Dean’s chest, dots of red on the back of hands that are clenched into fists on the Impala's leather seat.

Dean hasn’t said a word, not since his eyes met Sam’s across the thing’s back, full of horror.

He’s not silent, though. Sam can hear the harsh breaths he’s trying to measure, like even breathing hurts. Every now and then a strangled groan escapes him on an exhale, and his fingers clench and unclench at his sides. Already his legs are spread wide, the bulge of his dick obscene, tenting his jeans. Sam tries not to look, but it’s like Dean’s crotch is a magnet, drawing him back again and again.

“There’s got to be a bar in the next town,” Sam says, half to reassure himself. Dean flinches at the sound of his voice, then nods stiffly.

“Good thing you’re such a handsome sonofabitch,” Sam continues, trying to act as normal as possible under the circumstances. “You won’t have any trouble finding someone to take care of this little, uh, problem.”

There’s a joke in there about how Dean’s “problem” is not looking so little right now, but this isn’t funny. Sam is scared; he knows Dean is, too. The fact that the woman screwed three guys without breaking the venom’s spell is terrifying.

“Sam,” Dean grinds out, and Sam can see his thighs tremble with the tension of trying to talk… and maybe of trying not to push his hips up. Sam prays that won’t happen; doesn’t know how he’d unsee that. It’s been years and years since he and Dean allowed themselves to look at each other that way, but Sam has not forgotten.

“I’ll do the research while you’re… while you’re inside,” Sam says, trying hard to sound certain. “We’ll figure out what went wrong with that girl, make sure it doesn’t happen to you.”

Dean doesn’t answer; he’s flushed now, cheeks pink and the tips of his ears bright red. His freckles are standing out and his eyes are practically glowing, too green to be entirely human.

It’s been forty-seven minutes when they pull up to the Hitching Post Bar and Grill. It’s not quite as seedy as Sam was hoping, but it’s Friday night and they’re advertising karaoke.

Dean starts climbing out before the Impala has fully stopped, and Sam reaches over and grabs his brother’s arm.

Dean barks, like Sam’s fingers burnt a handprint into him.

“Sorry, sorry, but just hold on; you can’t go in there alone.”

Dean shakes his head, trying to break away, but Sam isn’t taking no for an answer.

“It’s not safe, Dean. Try to think, okay? We don’t know exactly how this works, and these are innocent people—I just need to make sure they’re okay. Yeah?”

He doesn’t say, "I just need to make sure you’re okay," because that wouldn’t work even if Dean weren’t half out of his mind with need right now.

Dean has a white-knuckled grip on the door handle, but he slows down long enough for Sam to put the car in park and scramble to follow his brother in.

Sam stays on the other side of the place, watching out of the corner of his eye as Dean chats up a woman at the bar. It’s a damn good thing Dean’s as hot as he is, because he’s not exactly being smooth. He’s got a hand on her hip about two minutes into the conversation, and while Sam sees the woman glance down and raise her eyebrows, she doesn’t step away. Seven minutes and Dean is gesturing toward the restrooms, and the woman is laughing. She pushes his shoulder playfully, and Sam can see Dean tense at the touch, shifting his hips restlessly.

Come on, Sam thinks, you won’t be sorry. Sam should know. There was a time when Dean’s kisses were only for Sam; when Dean’s hands could make him forget his own name and never want to remember again.

Like she heard him, the woman laughs again, holding Dean’s hand as they make their way toward the back.

* * *

He doesn’t know when it started, not really. Not for him or for Dean. He remembers sitting next to Dean on that ratty old couch, on sweltering summer days in some rundown motel room, not really watching the reruns on television because who cared when his brother was right there. Dean was like a golden god that summer, skin tanned and freckled, shirtless all the time because it was too damned hot for clothes. Sometimes Sam would pretend to fall asleep, his head resting on Dean’s shoulder and his hand "innocently" falling to Dean’s bare thigh, right where his boxers gave way to soft skin and silky hairs that caught the sunlight coming through the window. He knew it was wrong and he knew it was cruel, could feel Dean’s muscles jump and twitch under his fingers when he moved them back and forth, pretending to be dreaming. Through slitted eyes Sam watched his brother’s cock harden, barely contained under the worn cotton. Dean never pushed him away, never woke him up. Sam would stay until his own need was too great, then yawn and stretch and say goodnight, jerking off frantically as soon as he fell into bed.

It only went further because of Stanford. He told Dean because he couldn’t not tell him, expecting anger or retribution but not the utter devastation he could see on his brother’s face. He tried to explain why, while Dean stood there shaking and mute, like Sam had broken him when nothing else could.

Sam only went over to shake him, to make him understand that Sam wasn't leaving him, would never leave him, would always want Dean with him. His hands on Dean’s shoulders broke his brother’s silence, and Dean sobbed then, saying “Sammy” over and over like it was the only word he knew.

That broke something in Sam in turn, or maybe they had broken each other years ago, but then Sam’s mouth was on his brother’s, his own pleas of “Dean, Dean” muffled there. There was never any hesitation; Dean kissed back immediately, as though he’d been waiting for Sam to make the first move forever, and maybe he had.

Sam remembers it like a fever dream now, how dizzy he was every time Dean’s tongue swept into him, every time he bit at Dean’s lips and Dean moaned for it. He could hear himself saying, “Dean, please,” like it was someone else, and Dean kept muttering, “Okay, okay, Sam, yeah”; letting himself be pushed down flat on the ratty old couch. They made out for a long time before Sam dared to open their jeans, reach inside and grip them both, and Dean sounded like he was dying when he came and Sam knew he would never forget that.

He had, though, or at least he’d tried. There had been two months of the two of them frantic for each other, Dad away most of the time and nothing to keep them from touching and kissing and licking and biting and sucking each other until they were sweaty and satiated. Sam remembers Dean bringing home a bunch of wild daisies and shyly handing them over when he came home from his job at the garage in town, the tips of his ears pink when Sam tackled him and covered him with kisses. It’s hard to reconcile that Dean with the man he’s hunted with for the past decade, who set the rule of "no chick-flick moments" early on and has never said the words, "I love you."

That summer they had said it, though. A million times they’d whispered it to each other as they walked into town, carved it into the big old maple tree behind the motel, screamed it with Dean’s legs clasped tight around Sam’s back while he fucked his brother so hard they both saw stars.

Sam was young enough then to think it might last forever. Dean probably wasn’t. When Dad gave them both an ultimatum and told Sam to get gone and stay gone if he was going, Dean didn’t say, “I’ll come with you.” It was Sam who broke, then, so he didn’t grab Dean’s hand when he got out of the car at the bus stop, and he didn’t say “I love you” as he took the envelope of money Dean gave him and put 3,000 miles between them.

That didn’t mean it wasn’t true, though.

* * *

Sam has put in calls to half a dozen hunters who might have some information on this thing—God, even a name would be a start—or give him a clue of where to look online to find out why that third victim still died. Sam tells himself Dean is probably already fine. It’s been ten minutes; that should be long enough considering the state Dean is in. He puts a few bills on the bar and starts back toward the restroom. Halfway there, the door swings open and the woman walks out, adjusting her skirt. She looks flustered but manages a chagrined smile at Sam, so he counts that as a win.

Until Dean bursts out a few steps behind her.

His eyes are wild, his clothes disheveled. His jeans still taut over his crotch.

“Sam!” he gasps, and stumbles right into Sam’s arms, then jerks himself upright, leaning against the wall instead. “Sam, it didn’t… it didn’t work.”

“I see that.”

Dean tries to cover himself and only succeeds in pressing his hand against his erection, trying to stifle a groan. “Ohgod,” he says, and he’s still breathing heavy, “Ohgod, ohshit.”

“Okay, okay, I’ve got calls in to everyone we know; we’ll figure this out. Think, Dean. What does it—what does it feel like you need?”

Dean’s eyes are comically wide and his eyebrows fly up to nearly his hairline. “What does it look like I need, Sam? I need to fucking fuck someone, that’s what I fucking need!”

“I know, but who? It wasn’t her, right? Why not? Try to think, Dean, okay?”

Dean closes his eyes, clearly trying to calm himself down. “I can’t think with you staring at me,” he says, which makes no sense.

Sam checks his watch. It’s been almost 90 minutes.

Finally Dean clears his throat. “I think… I think it might have to be… it might have to be a guy.”

“A guy?” Sam blurts out, because that’s… unexpected.

Obviously Sam knows Dean has had sex with guys, or one guy at least, but as far as he knows Dean’s gone back to being all about the ladies since then.

“Sam!” Dean moans, sounding so pained that it snaps Sam out of his own reaction.

“Okay, okay, let me think. The nearest city is about an hour away, but I’m sure we can find a gay bar there, or there must be a place to pay for it. Okay, let’s go, come on, I’ll drive fast.”

Sam googles while he drives, Dean hunched over on the seat beside him, panting. Every now and then he bangs his head against the window, the pain of that obviously preferable to what else he's enduring.

“Got it! Sansom Street, south of 13th—just 20 minutes away. Hang on, okay?”

Dean doesn’t answer, and Sam drives faster.

It’s possibly the most awkward thing Sam’s ever done when he flags down the first guy they see and asks him how much.

“For both of you?”

The guy looks like’s torn between thinking he won the lottery and worrying this is too good to be true and maybe thinking the big black car has a very large trunk. He hasn’t noticed the blood splatters on Dean’s shirt yet.

“No, no. Just for my… um, just for him. I’ll just—I’ll be right here. Close by, I mean.”

The guy nods. “You wanna watch. Sure, 100 bucks for a blow…”

“I need you to fuck me,” Dean interrupts, at the same time Sam says, “No, I don’t wanna watch!”

The guy ignores Sam and answers Dean. “Two hundred, with a rubber,” he says, and Dean nods, already starting to tear his flannel shirt off. Buttons go flying, ping against the pavement, and the guy’s eyes go wide.

“Whoa,” he says, and starts to back up, but Dean is having none of it.

“Pay him, Sam,” he growls, and Sam fumbles in his wallet to find the cash they earned a few weeks ago hustling pool.

“Where?” the guy starts, but Dean’s got him by both arms now, menacing as he walks the guy backwards toward the Impala’s open door.

“In the car,” Sam says, trying to sound totally calm. “It’s got… a large backseat.”

The guy yelps with surprise as Dean shoves him through the door and down on his back. Dean unzips his fly so fast Sam’s worried for his junk; kicks his boots away and strips off his jeans right there in the alley. A few other men working the block are watching from the far corner, mouths quirked as they get a free show.

When Dean is naked except for his tee shirt, he climbs in and goes for the guy’s zipper, pulling him out and groaning when he doesn’t find him hard.

“Christ, come on, come on,” he hisses, then ducks his head and swallows the guy down in one gulp.

Sam can’t close the door—the guy’s legs are too long—so he stands in front of it, trying to block the view at least a little. The other guys soon lose interest; it’s probably not the first time they’ve seen something like this.

“Ohgod,” the guy is saying, and Sam has a rush of inopportune sense memory: the feel of Dean’s mouth hot on his dick, sucking hard, those full lips closed around him. He has to literally pry Dean off the guy’s cock to roll a rubber onto him, Dean swatting at his hands to try to get him away the whole time.

Dean doesn’t waste any time once he has a dick stiff enough to sit on, just straddles the man and sinks right down. It must hurt like a bitch, and he sobs as he does it, but it’s half pain and half relief.

“Jesuschrist, take it easy,” the man pleads, but Dean doesn’t even hear him. He raises himself up and then slams back down, brutal in his desperation.

There’s no way Sam won’t remember what Dean looks like right now. Sweat trickles down his temples and darkens the cotton under his arms as he rides the stranger like he’s trying to win the Derby. He’s biting his lip so hard it’s bleeding, while he strips his own dick at a furious pace. From where Sam’s standing, he can see the cheeks of his brother’s ass clench every time he sits down and takes that cock deep, and the knowledge of what that must feel like is almost enough to get Sam hard, too. Then he remembers this may not work.

“God, slow down, I’m gonna blow, man, I can’t… ohgod,” the guy beneath Dean says, and that spurs Dean to even more frantic contortions. Sam can see his thighs shaking every time he rises up, and his fist is so tight around his dick it must be painful.

Come on, come on, Sam says silently, praying to Chuck or God or whoever the hell is out there. Come on, Dean, this has to work.

Like he heard Sam, Dean cries out and comes, jerking himself hard all through his orgasm. He doesn’t stop until he’s wrung every drop from himself, then slumps forward.

“Dean? Dean, you okay?”

Dean sits up and lets the stranger slip free. When he turns to Sam, his eyes are blown black and the whites are showing. Shit.

Between his trembling thighs, his cock is red and raw… and still hard.

Shit.

It’s been almost four hours.

“You must have taken a shit-ton of Viagra,” the man lying on their backseat says, and Sam wants to kill him for not being a good-enough fuck to save his brother’s life.

Sam's cell rings and they all jump. Dean is fumbling at the guy’s spent dick, trying to bring it back to life.

“Hey, the 200 was only for once, man, lemme go,” the guy is protesting. Dean is too dazed to hear him. His movements are sluggish, like he’s drunk. Or dying.

“Jason, what’d you find? We don’t have much time.”

Jason’s a hunter; he knows exactly what that means. He doesn’t even say hello.

“Has to be what you most want to do with the person you most want to do it with, so you climax so hard it breaks the venom’s spell. At least that’s the hypothesis. Nobody’s proved it because nobody’s been able to do it. They were all too far away from whoever that was, even if they had figured it out. Sam? You hear me?”

It’s a gamble, a horrible gamble. The consequences will be awful either way. Sam hangs up.

“Get out.” Sam doesn’t mean to shout at the stranger, but it comes out forceful.

“Huh?” the guy says, Dean still pawing at him ineffectually.

Sam reaches in and grabs an arm and hauls the guy up off the seat and out of the Impala, his pants still open.

Dean whines, reaching for the guy and crawling across the seat to try to get to him. The man glares at Sam as he walks away, zipping his jeans and muttering, “Crazy motherfuckers.”

Half true, Sam thinks.

Sam gets in the car and undoes his belt.

Dean stops short and stares, then shakes his head. His breathing is labored and he’s shaking and Sam doesn’t think he has much time left, but the stubborn idiot is still trying to say no.

“Forget it,” Sam says, tugging down his zipper.

Dean’s eyes are riveted to his crotch even as he’s shaking his head, and Sam could swear his mouth is watering.

“If you think I’m letting you die from this, you’ve got another think coming, you stupid fuck,” he says, crawling across the seat and advancing on Dean.

“S-sam,” Dean manages, “I-I don’t, I can’t…”

“Yes, you can, and you know it.”

Sam’s jacking himself now, and Dean’s watching him, licking his lips as Sam starts to harden. His body gets back on board fast, the sight of Dean turned on and desperate more than enough. It’s Sam’s most forbidden fantasy, the one he rarely lets himself indulge in, and he feels almost as desperate as Dean by the time he’s ready.

Dean hasn’t moved, but he’s no longer shaking his head. He’s breathing even harder, and his cock is so hard it’s bobbing with every panting breath.

“On your back,” Sam says, and he remembers the way Dean used to like it when Sam would wrestle him to the bed and have his way, muttering over and over again, “So fucking big, Sam, fucking Sasquatch, god, can just take what you want.”

What Sam wanted then was Dean, and they both knew it; things haven’t changed all that much. Dean isn’t moving fast enough, so Sam grabs both bare feet and pulls, dragging him across the seat until he’s flat on his back with Sam between his legs. Sam pushes his knees up, folds Dean in half and pushes a spit-slick finger inside him. Dean keens, spreading his legs wide and opening up easily.

“Aaaaah, fuck, more, more,” he pleads, and Sam doesn’t waste time. Dean’s still stretched and a bit slick from the hooker's lubed condom, Sam’s fingers sliding in and out and god, Sam had forgotten how hot and tight he felt.

His dick is throbbing by the time he lines up, and Dean wraps his legs around Sam’s waist just like he used to as Sam pushes in, both of them groaning.

Dean holds onto Sam’s biceps as Sam sets a pace way faster than he would like, half panicked that this won’t be enough and half out of his mind with the blinding pleasure that’s spreading through his belly and making his rhythm stutter already. He doesn’t know what they need to do, but it’s easy to just do what he wants; he bites at Dean’s lips until he opens up and lets Sam in, and then they’re kissing like they won’t ever get enough of each other, bodies locked together.

He curls over Dean, driving in deep, trying to find the spot that used to make his brother go crazy. They’re sweating, slippery against each other, the Impala rocking as two heavy bodies pitch forward and rock back, again and again and again, and Dean’s sobbing now, tears tracking down his cheeks.

“Dean, come on, please, come on, you gotta let go, let it go,” Sam’s urging, nonsense and he doesn’t know what the magic word is, why there never is one.

“Sam,” Dean cries out, the sound full of pain, and Sam holds himself up on one arm and reaches down to wrap his other hand around Dean’s tortured dick, slick and hot and impossibly hard.

“I gotcha. Come on, you’re gonna do it, you hear me? You’re gonna do it for me, Dean, you’re gonna come for me, right fucking now, whether you want to or not, you’re gonna come for your little brother, all over my hand, you hear me? Do it.”

Dean’s ass clenches up so hard when he does that Sam cries out, too, more in pain than pleasure, but it doesn’t matter when his hand is wet and Dean’s convulsing beneath him, splattering his own chest with spurt after spurt until he’s drained and breathless.

Sam thinks about pulling out, that this shouldn’t be about him getting off. That they can just make it about Dean and saving his life and…

“Sam,” Dean breathes out, and his eyes are back to their normal mossy green and his mouth is swollen from Sam’s kisses and his expression is awed and Sam comes just like that, his hips driving in deep and stilling as he empties himself inside his brother’s tight ass.

He falls forward then, trying to catch his breath. He can feel Dean’s heart racing, his limbs still trembling.

“Are you—did it break?” he manages, raising his head enough to look at his brother.

Dean still looks half in shock, but he nods. “Yeah, I think so. Yeah.”

“Oh thank god.” Sam is suddenly shaking as much as Dean, adrenaline and terror replaced with overwhelming relief.

Dean’s hands come around his back and stroke over his shoulders. “Hey, you okay?”

Ridiculously, Sam starts to giggle. “That’s supposed to be my line.”

Dean holds him tighter. “You’re the one who’s cackling like a crazy man.”

That just makes Sam laugh harder.

“Jesus, Sam, you’ve got a sick sense of humor.”

“It’s not funny,” Sam protests, and he thinks he might be half sobbing. “I thought… I thought you were gonna die, Dean!”

Dean doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, just lets Sam calm down little by little.

“We should probably get out of this alley,” he says once Sam isn’t shaking anymore.

“Such a romantic,” Sam mutters, but he’s already pulling out and getting up.

They’re a mess. Sticky with sweat and come. Sam’s pants are at his knees and Dean’s naked from the waist down. Sam has never been so happy to see Dean’s dick spent and soft.

“Stop starin’ and throw me my pants,” Dean orders, but there’s no heat behind it. Not yet, anyway.

Dean falls asleep in the passenger seat almost as soon as Sam shifts into drive, and Sam spends half an hour wondering what his life-and-death decision has done to his relationship with his brother.

“So, are you pissed at me?” he finally asks when he's found them a motel and they’ve both showered and changed.

Dean considers. “For saving my life?”

“When you put it that way, it sounds stupid.”

“Then it probably was,” Dean says, smirking. That’s normal, at least.

“So we’re just gonna forget it happened?” As soon as he says it, Sam’s acutely aware he doesn’t want to.

Dean doesn’t answer for a minute that seems like an hour. “You don’t want to,” he finally says.

Now or never, Sam thinks. What the hell, he already fucked his brother. “No.”

There’s another long pause. Dean flops down on his bed and closes his eyes. “Don’t expect flowers, bitch,” he says.

Sam lies down on his bed and turns off the light so Dean can’t see him smile. “Jerk,” he says as he closes his eyes.