It's the third day out of Tulsa, and the third morning Dean has woken up in Sam's bed.
Worse, far worse, he's naked.
Oh, and in case they had any illusions that there's still a worse-case scenario somewhere off in the future, that this morning isn't it, well –
Sam's naked, too.
"What the hell?"
Sam's out of the bed so fast you'd think a hornet's nest was right there in that tiny little space between their naked bodies (because there really isn't room for much else, let's face it.)
"Okay, this is just – "
"Weird," Dean provides helpfully, turning over so he can find his boxers and tee-shirt, right there on the floor next to his side of the bed. The side closest to the door, just like he would've chosen if they were really sleeping together. Or if they had been forced to share, the way they had so many times in the past Dean can't possibly keep track.
This was definitely not one of those times.
Sam grabs a pillow and covers his privates as he backs away from Dean, toward the bathroom, holding it there as he puts one hand out in front of him, like he's afraid Dean might –
What? Jump his bones? In broad daylight?
"Yeah," Sam agrees, stooping down to sweep his sweatpants off the floor, keeping his eyes on Dean the whole time. "Really weird."
He frowns, confusion furrowing that big, strong brow of his as he backs toward the bathroom with one hand still clutching the pillow over his groin, the other extended toward Dean with the sweatpants dangling in it precariously.
"Just wait here," Sam orders as he reaches the bathroom door. "I've got an idea."
When he turns a little so he can crowd into the bathroom, fumbling awkwardly with the door since he's still trying to back up, Dean deliberately doesn't appreciate the glimpse of Sam's naked hip and the smooth curve of his ass just before he slams the door.
Dean needs coffee. There is no way he's ready to face Sam again without it. Besides, Sam had a helluva woody pressed up against Dean's bare ass not more than two minutes ago, and Dean's guessing Sam will be spending a little quality time in the shower before he comes out of that bathroom.
Sure enough, Dean's barely got his jeans and shoes on when the shower starts. He slips his jacket over his tee-shirt and grabs his keys, adjusting his own half-hard dick as he heads out the door, whistling a little to show how totally unconcerned he is about what just happened.
Because he is. Because it's perfectly normal to wake up with a stiffie, duh. Especially when there's a naked body pressed up against your backside. It's normal, for Chrissakes. A man's body knows what it needs, and Dean's body is always ready for a little action, any way he can get it.
Except with Sam, of course. 'Cause they're brothers, and that would be sick.
Not that he hasn't thought about it. Sam's a good-looking dude, and Dean isn't too homophobic to notice that. He was a cute kid, too. And maybe there were a few times when they were growing up together that Dean jacked off to thoughts of his little brother's pretty mouth wrapped around his dick. Maybe there were even a few times he teased Sam about his inappropriate hard-ons, encouraging Sam to think about Dean while he whacked off, if he felt like it. Dean understood the effect he had on people, and his brother was people, wasn't he? Maybe Sam and Dean even wasted a few rainy Saturday afternoons jerking off together while Dean regaled Sam with a detailed recounting of his latest sexual exploits, real or imagined.
But that's all in the past now, and they both know it.
And as much as Dean loves having Sam back at his side, he's pretty sure that whatever sexy times they might have inadvertently shared in the past don't have any place in their present lives. In fact, it's pretty clear that Sam wants what happened in the past to stay in the past. He pretty much said so when he told Dean, "Things can't be the the way they used to be between us."
Dean respects that. Really, he does. Cuz that was just kid stuff anyway, all that fucking around. It was just what kids do when they're too horny and bored and stupid to think with their heads instead of their dicks. They're grown men now, and of course that stuff doesn't happen to grown men. Especially grown men who are brothers.
So, here they are, a couple of months after they started hunting together again, and they both admit they make a helluva team, right? Sam's still getting over his poor dead girlfriend, and Sam and Dean are trying to learn to be brothers again, except it's different now because they're all grown up and Dad's not around so it's just the two of them all the time.
So why are they suddenly waking up in bed together?
Dean figures it's got to be some kind of curse. They must've run into a witch without even realizing it, and she thought it would be funny to curse them with a sleep-walking spell that made them strip and climb into bed together.
Either that, or Sam's resorted to playing practical jokes.
"This is not a joke, Dean," Sam insists when Dean gets back to the motel with breakfast burgers and coffee.
Sam's sitting at the rickety motel-room table, staring at his laptop screen. Dean makes his suggestions to Sam, but Sam shakes his head at the first one, then positively fumes at the second one.
"Oh come on, Sam," Dean pats his brother's shoulder, and when Sam pulls away like he's been burned, Dean tries not to let it hurt his feelings. He does. "You gotta admit, it's kinda funny. I mean, who else would hex us with getting naked together? Chicks have fantasy lives too, man."
"Are you kidding me?" Sam scowls. "You think some witch is doing this for kicks?"
Dean shrugs. "Hey, don't look so shocked. You're good-looking enough, in a sorta goofy, Shaggy and Scooby kinda way. And I'm totally smokin', man!"
"That's just – " Sam sputters, blessedly (and unexpectedly) at a loss for words. "That's idiotic. It doesn't make any sense. She's not even here to watch.
"Which brings me to my idea."
Dean raises his eyebrows as he bites into his breakfast burger, absent-mindedly but maybe a little deliberately brushing his leg against Sam's under the table.
"You wanna find the witch? Bring her here so she can watch?"
"What?" Sam stares, shocked. "No! Not what I was gonna suggest."
"What, then?" Dean takes a sip of his coffee, pushing the bag of food across the table. "You should totally eat. I got you a yogurt parfait thingy."
"You did?" Sam looks up from under his bangs, all wide-eyed and adorable, and Dean shrugs noncommittally and looks down at his burger. He waits till Sam's unwrapping his food from the bag before sneaking a glance at his dimpled grin. "Thanks, man."
Dean can't help the warm flush that spreads across his chest as he watches Sam enjoy his nerdy food. Dean's been doing it a lot lately, finding little ways to bring out those tiny expressions of happiness on his brother's face. Sam's skin is still tan from his years in the California sun, and the way his smile lights up his eyes, making his teeth and dimples show, is something Dean can't seem to get enough of.
Totally normal, Dean tells himself.
Sam's idea is a video camera. They should set it up in the room before they go to sleep, make sure it records everything that happens in the room before they wake up the next morning.
"That's kinky as all fuck, Sam," Dean snickers. "I didn't know you were such an exhibitionist."
Sam shoots him a bitch-face to end all bitch-faces. "Dean. Nothing happens, remember? I mean, something happens, that's why we're gonna film it, but it's not like anybody's having sex or anything."
Dean considers this. "What about the witch?" he asks, and Sam frowns, confused.
"You know, the witch that hexed us. Maybe she comes in every night and – I don't know – has her way with us or something."
Sam's expression flickers from confusion to amusement in under five seconds flat. He starts to say something, then apparently decides that whatever he says will just make it worse, so he shakes his head instead.
"We'll just have to find out, right? That's what the camera's for."
Dean takes a last bite of his burger, crumples the bag and makes a perfect hole in one, except of course it's really a basket so why does he keep day-dreaming about golfing again?
Oh yeah, because Sam's so tall now and would totally whup his ass if they tried a little one-on-one, the way they did in the old days.
"Right," he chuckles ruefully as he gets up from the table. "Let's get going. We got work to do."
He claps Sam on the shoulder as he passes behind him and takes some small satisfaction from the fact that Sam doesn't flinch away from his touch this time.
They're on a fairly routine salt-and-burn case, so purchasing the camera is just one of the items on their list of things to do that day.
When the job is done they stumble back to the motel and take turns showering off the sweat, grave dirt and ash, then collapse into their beds with barely a word. Dean's almost asleep when he hears Sam pulling out the video camera and setting it up. He's definitely too tired to make a crack about making a sex tape, even though he suspects such a comment would get a satisfying rise out of Sam.
The word "rise" makes him snicker, and of course Sam knows what he's thinking anyway and huffs out an irritated breath as he stalks over to his own bed.
"Shut up," he mutters as he folds his stupidly long body into his ridiculously tiny bed.
Not that Dean's watching or anything.
"Oh, come on!"
Sam sits straight up in bed the next morning, scooting out from under Dean's naked body like it's covered in open sores or something. Like Sam's afraid Dean's going to infect him with whatever this is that keeps making them take their clothes off and climb into bed together.
Like Sam's the innocent party here.
Which is so unfair because he's just as naked as Dean is, and there's no way Dean could've undressed his sasquatch of a brother in his sleep.
The fact is, Dean's feeling a little guilty because he's been awake for a while now, aware that he's wrapped around his brother's bare furnace of a body, one leg tangled comfortably between both of Sam's, arm draped across Sam's chest, morning wood wedged tight against Sam's bare hip. When he woke up, his head was on Sam's shoulder, and he could swear Sam's arm was around him, or had been at some point. As it is, Dean has to admit it felt good, waking up snuggled against Sam's warm body in that sleepy, aroused state before full wakefulness.
Dean'll never admit it to Sam, but the truth is, he likes to cuddle. He likes falling asleep curled up with another person, and he likes waking up in his lover's arms. It's comforting. Makes him feel safe and loved.
In fact, if he's being totally honest with himself, he likes it that Sam's so big now. He likes being the little spoon for once, although this morning they've woken up with Sam on his back and Dean draped all over him like a lovesick newlywed.
Never mind how tingly his lips feel.
"Okay, that's it," Sam says as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, turning his back on Dean while he bends down to pick up his sweatpants. He doesn't bother to get dressed in the bathroom this time, just pulls the sweatpants on right there, standing up to pull them up over his hips, flashing his ass and scowling at Dean when he catches Dean watching.
Then Sam's eyes fall to Dean's mouth, and Dean's suddenly sure his lips look as swollen and used as they feel because Sam's cheeks flush pink and his eyes sparkle with a film of tears and it's kinda glorious.
"Let's see what we got," Sam says hoarsely, then clears his throat and tears his eyes away so he can cross the room to the video camera. He fiddles with it while Dean grabs his boxers and heads into the bathroom.
Dean stares at his reflection in the mirror, not too surprised to see he looks as debauched as he feels. There's what looks like a ripe hickey on his collar-bone, and his arms are aching in a way he recognizes, and it's not from grave-digging. He takes a piss, washes his hands and face, finds slightly disturbing evidence of having washed himself earlier, sometime after the shower he took last night before he went to bed.
When Dean returns to the main room, Sam has the video camera hooked up to his laptop. He's squirming a little in his chair, and Dean's suddenly as sure of what's on that video as he's ever been sure of anything. He pulls another chair around and sits beside his brother, bare shoulder bumping Sam's almost accidentally.
"Oh my God, Dean, put a shirt on." Sam scoots his chair away just an inch and flushes pink again, not meeting Dean's eyes.
"You put a shirt on," Dean counters without much heat, then turns his attention to the screen as Sam sets his jaw stubbornly.
Sam's silent, grim, and Dean doesn't even suggest getting coffee first. He dreads what's coming with a kind of horrified fascination, and he knows Sam feels it too, just as keenly as he's apparently feeling the soreness in his ass that tells him exactly what happened last night while he was too unconscious to know it was happening. It doesn't matter that Dean was unconscious too, because there wasn't anyone else in the room, and that means Dean did something unforgivable, whether he remembers doing it or not.
The video starts and the brothers watch, Sam scowling, Dean holding his breath. He can see himself, already curled up asleep in his bed, facing the door, one arm tucked up under his pillow and with his back to Sam, just like always. He watches Video Sam back away from the camera, checking to be sure the recording light is on before crossing to his own bed, muttering "Shut up" when he hears Video Dean snickering. Video Sam slides into his own bed, turns out the light, curls onto his side away from Video Dean in the exact opposite mirror position, and lies still.
Sam runs the video forward an hour, then two. Both brothers appear to be sound asleep in the video, both still and unmoving until hour three, when they both shift onto their backs, then onto their other sides, almost simultaneously. Now they're facing each other, but still sound asleep. Another hour passes, and Sam runs the video forward again till the four-hour mark, running it back a little when there appears to be some movement from one of the beds.
The brothers watch with more than a little trepidation as Video Sam turns onto his back, folding one arm beneath his head and laying the other hand flat on his chest. He takes a couple of deep breaths and moves his legs under the blanket. It's too dark and far away to see his face, but Dean's pretty sure Video Sam is waking up. He lies still for a moment, looking up at the ceiling maybe, then his head turns toward Video Dean and he appears to say something. Video Dean shifts, clearly fighting the urge to wake up as Sam turns up the volume, but the brothers can already tell there isn't going to be much to hear.
Video Sam hisses, "Dean! You awake?"
Video Dean grunts, shifts around but doesn't answer, so Video Sam hisses again, louder this time. "Dean!"
Video Dean grunts and shifts again, turning onto his side, facing Video Sam. "Sammy? Can't sleep?" he asks hoarsely.
"Yeah," Video Sam sighs. "Can I sleep with you?"
Video Dean scoots over and throws back the covers in invitation. "Always welcome, little brother," he murmurs.
Video Sam slips out of his bed, pads the couple of steps to Video Dean's bed, and climbs in under the covers next to his brother.
"I don't remember this," Sam shakes his head, sucking in a breath.
Dean glances between the screen and his brother's tortured frown. "Me, nether," he agrees.
They watch as their video selves settle in, Video Dean doing his best to spoon his massive little brother on the narrow bed. Dean watches as his video self rubs his brother's bare forearm, runs his fingers through Video Sam's hair, nuzzles his face into the back of Video Sam's neck, little gestures of reassurance and comfort as he presses against Video Sam's strong, sweaty back.
Dean knows how that feels, can almost feel Sam's heat and smell his sweat, knows that the only way to spoon comfortably this way is to end up with his face smashed into Sam's back, between his shoulder blades. He watches his video self with envy. Video Sam asking for comfort, needing it from his brother, allowing Video Dean to give it to him, feels like a privilege that was rescinded when Sam left for Stanford. Sam's made it clear he doesn't need Dean that way anymore, and it hurts, even if Dean won't admit it to himself.
He glances at Sam to see how Sam's reacting to what he's seeing, but gets Sam's clenched jaw and deep frown as his only reward. Sam won't return the glance, although Dean's sure he feels it. Sam watches the screen with the grim determination of a prisoner assured of a life-long sentence. Dean sees love and comfort, but Sam sees weakness and criminal behavior. Sam sees himself giving in to what Dean's offering as a kind of crime, and forcing himself to watch it is his punishment.
Dean sighs and looks back at the screen. Video Sam moves restlessly in Video Dean's arms, at first appearing to try to settle comfortably. Then his movements become rhythmic and intent, and Video Dean's hand moves down his chest, over his tee-shirt, rucking it up a little when he reaches Video Sam's belly. Video Sam is definitely bucking back against Video Dean now, tipping his head onto Video Dean's shoulder and exposing his throat, long and pale in the dim light. When Video Dean's hand disappears under the waistband of Video Sam's sweatpants, the younger man gives a long, low moan.
"Okay, that's a wrap!" Dean scrambles for the lid of the laptop, his instinct to slam it closed taking over any other conscious thought.
"No!" Sam grabs Dean's wrist, yanks him back, and Dean tries not to think about how good it feels when Sam touches him.
"This is porn, man," Dean exclaims, incredulous. "Dudes don't watch porn together. Especially brothers."
"It's us, Dean," Sam huffs out an exasperated breath. "This is a case. We treat it like any other case. We look for clues, try to figure out what happened. Right now, this is our only clue. So we watch."
Dean shakes his head, licks his lips. "It's pretty obvious what happened, Sam," he grouses, crossing his arms as he sits back to allow Sam to start the video again.
"No, actually, it's not," Sam protests. "So like I said, we watch."
"Why couldn't it be two hot chicks?" Dean grumbles. "Sisters, maybe."
"Without the commentary," Sam admonishes sternly, and Dean shuts his mouth, shifting uncomfortably on the hard kitchenette chair.
At least Video Sam is awake, he reminds himself. At least it looks like Sam wasn't sleeping when Dean did what he did.
Thank God for small favors.
On screen, Video Sam is getting a serious reach-around, and Dean can't pretend he's not jealous. And turned on. The way Video Sam moans and arches his neck and back makes it pretty clear he consented to this and is enjoying the hell out of it. Video Dean mouths at his brother's long neck and sinks his teeth into the meaty muscle at the juncture of his shoulder, and Video Sam cries out, cradles the back of Video Dean's head with one huge hand, just holding it. Encouraging. Dean imagines the way Sam's fingers feel on the back of his neck, sliding into his hair, and it makes him shiver. Makes his dick fill. The sounds Video Sam is making as he comes apart make Dean cross his legs, desperate to get a hand on himself but not daring to do it while sitting next to his brother.
Dean glances at Sam again as Video Sam loses it, shooting his load into Video Dean's hand with a keening sound that makes Dean's dick twitch. He shifts again in his chair, letting out a long, slow breath in sympathy with Video Sam's sigh of relief as he comes down, turning toward his brother so they can kiss.
Sam clenches his jaw, turns away for a moment, like he can't stand watching. Apparently the sex is tolerable, but the kissing is too intimate, too private.
"Well, at least we know why we ended up in your bed," Dean suggests wryly.
Sam glances at him, frowning and giving a little shake of his head that tells Dean he has no idea what idiotic thing Dean could possibly mean.
"Wet spot," Dean nods toward his bed with its crumpled sheets, and Sam grimaces but says nothing.
He's just watched himself get a hand-job from his own brother, so Dean understands if the kid's feeling a little freaked. Dean glances at the screen again, where their video selves are moving on from kissing to heavy petting. They're wiggling out of their clothes now, mouths all over each other. Video Dean kisses down Video Sam's neck to his collarbone, sucks what Dean's just sure will be one hell of a hickey. He glances at Sam and yep, there it is. Then Video Sam rolls onto his back, exposing his broad chest, and Video Dean starts kissing there too, licking up the spunk while Video Sam sighs and spreads his legs, letting his eyes drift shut as his brother suckles one of his nipples while pinching the other, rolling it into a perfect pink nub.
Video Sam's naked body is toned, tan, and hotter than any porn actress Dean's ever seen, and Dean has seen a lot of porn. It makes him proud, the fact that his little brother has the body of a porn star. Of course he does. And it's perfectly normal for Dean to make that particular observation. Nothing wrong with recognizing Sam's assets. None at all. In fact, it's important. In their line of work, they need to know what they've got; they need to be sure they put any available talent to good use, and having the body of a porn star? That could be useful, no doubt about it.
Video Dean clearly agrees with him, because the dude is going to town on that gorgeous body like there's no tomorrow. Like he might never get another chance to get his mouth and hands on someone as hot as Video Sam ever again and he's sure as hell not wasting a minute of it.
Video Dean is on his knees between Video Sam's wide-spread legs now, lapping at his balls as he pushes Video Sam's knees back to expose his pink, puckered hole. The way Video Sam keens as Video Dean runs his tongue over his hole, the way he pulls his knees back in clear invitation, makes Dean's already full dick throb. He slides his hand along his thigh, hoping Sam doesn't notice what he's doing as he carefully palms himself through his boxers. It feels so good, and what he's watching and hearing on the screen is so hot, he almost loses it, has to bite back a moan and let his legs fall open just to ease the strain a little because he knows if he doesn't he'll blow his wad for sure.
Sam shoots him a look that might wither an ordinary hard-on, but Dean's is special. Dean's hard-on is the kind only sick fucks who get turned on by videos of their own brothers get, and it's not going anywhere soon because said brother is sitting right next door with his fucking shirt off for Chrissakes.
"Uh, you need a break, Dean?" Sam snarks, glancing pointedly at Dean's crotch.
Dean really has to grab himself tight now, because Sam's looking at him. Sam saw. He closes his eyes, bites his bottom lip, squeezes the base of his dick and shakes his head.
"Jesus, Dean! We're in the middle of a case here!" Sam hits the pause button and the screen freezes on Video Dean with his tongue in Video Sam's ass and Dean can almost taste it. Fuck.
"You're making me watch porn, man," Dean complains, growling a little to hide the whine threatening to burst out of him.
"This is not porn," Sam snaps. "This is us being roofied or spelled or – This is – This is wrong, Dean!"
"I know, I know, we're brothers, I know," Dean gasps, keeping his eyes closed because the image on the screen is making his dick leak again.
"No, that's not it!" Sam wails. "You don't get it! It's not about being brothers, damn it!"
"It's not?" Dean opens one eye, raises an eyebrow, trying to keep his mind on what Sam is saying. Something about not being brothers.
"No," Sam huffs in obvious disgust. With Dean, probably. He's definitely pissed, that much Dean can see. "Oh, fuck it." He reaches out and slams the laptop shut, then pushes back his chair suddenly. "I'm gonna take a shower. Then I'm going for a run."
"Oh. Okay," Dean squeaks, relieved and disappointed at the same time now that the porn is off and Sam is leaving.
Once Sam's in the bathroom, Dean considers just getting dressed and going out for coffee, but he doesn't. He's a pervert with a hard-on for brother-porn – of himself and his brother! – and he might as well finish what got started, through no conscious fault of his own, damn it. Won't take long, he reasons as he flips the laptop open, keeping an ear on the sounds from the bathroom as he gets a hand on his dick and presses play.
Video Dean is resourceful. He reaches for some lube in the bedside table – motel hand-lotion, probably, since when did Dean go out and buy the fancy stuff? Unless Sam... Nah, it's definitely lotion. Video Sam's holding himself wide open, and his hole looks wet and shiny from Dean's tongue. He's got his head thrown back and his eyes closed and his body like that is unbelievably sexy, vulnerable, needy. He makes little whining moans as Video Dean slicks his fingers up with the lotion, presses one finger inside Sam's hole slowly, then starts moving it around, stretching him open just a little.
"Doin' good, Sammy," Video Dean praises, low and dark so Dean can hardly hear him. "That's it. Doin' so good."
When Video Dean slides in another finger alongside the first Video Sam gasps. Video Dean slides a soothing hand up Video Sam's stomach, avoiding his sensitive dick, and leans down to kiss him as he works him open, gentle and thorough and slow. The squelching sounds on the screen combine with Video Sam's gasps and moans and Video Dean's soothing praises, providing a soundtrack to Dean's impending orgasm that is just about the most intense thing he's ever experienced. He practically whites out with it, shivering and probably making sounds that are at least as obscene as the ones on the screen. When he opens his eyes again he's covered with jizz, and there's jizz on the –
Dean scrambles up with as much haste and coordination as his post-orgasmic haze will allow, grabbing his tee-shirt off the floor so he can wipe off the laptop. Then he slams it shut on an image of Video Dean getting in position to ram his dick up Video Sam's ass and he knows that happened. He can still feel it. Knows Sam can feel it too.
Just like he knows he'll be thinking about it later, knows it'll be fodder for many jerk-off sessions to come because who is he kidding? He's a sick fuck who gets off on videos of himself fucking his brother, which means –
"Not thinking about it," he mutters out-loud to himself, like a mantra, as he quickly wipes himself off. He's dressed by the time the shower turns off, and he's almost out the door before Sam comes out, towel wrapped around his waist, dark bruise on his collarbone so obvious it's like a goddamn neon sign.
"Goin' out for coffee," Dean announces as Sam stares at him, all wet dripping hair and soft open mouth and those goddamn pecs...
Sam sounds relieved to see him, like he expected Dean to be gone by now. Maybe skipped the country. He doesn't look mad anymore, just young and vulnerable, like he spent the past twenty minutes worrying about how this whole thing was gonna affect their relationship because they just started being brothers again and Sam's still missing Jessica and it's all so fuckin' weird, man...
Leave it to Sam to think this all through so carefully, to be about a million miles ahead of Dean in the figuring-shit-out department.
"Just goin' for coffee, Sam," Dean assures him. "Not goin' anywhere. I'll be right back. You want anything?"
Sam shakes his head, manages a small smile, and his eyes are wet, for Chrissakes. And those damn dimples...
Dean nods and leaves before he does something stupid like crossing the room to gather his brother into his arms and kiss all that ridiculous self-doubt away.
Because really, how could Sam think that Dean would ever let something like this come between them? They're brothers, first and foremost. Family. Dean would chop off his right foot before he'd see Sam suffer for even a minute if he could help it, if he could stop it. There is nothing Dean wouldn't do for Sam; he needs Sam to see that.
Just – coffee first.
When he gets back with the coffee, he can tell Sam's been watching the video. He's sitting in the same chair he was in before, fully dressed this time, and he's got his hoodie pulled down over his crotch but Dean can tell he's turned on because his cheeks are flushed. Sam scrubs a hand over his jaw, glances up but doesn't make eye contact as Dean closes the door and sets the bag of breakfast sandwiches on the table next to the laptop, which off course has multiple tabs open, like Sam's been doing research.
"You're sure you don't remember – any of it?" Sam asks tentatively as he accepts the coffee Dean hands him. Dean shakes his head.
"Maybe it's a cursed object," he suggests, taking his seat – the one he jerked off in earlier – and pulling a wrapped breakfast sandwich out of the bag. But they've already turned everything upside down, searched everywhere for a possible hex bag, so he knows that's a long shot.
"Maybe we should get separate rooms," he says. "Just until we get this sorted out."
It hurts him to say it; he missed Sam desperately over the past four years, and now to finally have him sleeping in the same room again, riding next to him in the car – His whole body sings with it. Needs it like he needs air. Can't remember how he even survived without it.
"Let's try that," Sam agrees with a sigh, like he's already doubting whether even that will keep them apart.
It doesn't. After spending the day in the car, driving as far away from the other place as they can, then getting separate rooms that aren't even next to each other at a motel in Nebraska that night, they still wake up in Sam's bed the next morning.
"Maybe it's mass psychosis," Sam says over breakfast at a diner that morning. "Only it apparently just affects us, and only about this one thing."
Dean takes a bite of his sandwich. "You think we're psychotic?" he asks as he chews.
Sam makes a face. "Kind of," he agrees. "We repress a lot, Dean. It's what we do. And when the mind doesn't deal with trauma consciously, it handles things unconsciously. Through dreams. Or sleep-walking."
"You think we're sleep-walking in that video?" Dean scoffs. "Together?"
"Kind of," Sam says again. "I don't know exactly. It's a theory."
"So it's not a spell," Dean clarifies. "Or a hex."
Sam shakes his head. "Or a cursed object," he adds. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slow, avoiding Dean's eyes. "It's us."
"Huh," Dean says as he takes another bite, chews thoughtfully. "So what do we do? To – to stop it, I mean. You got any bright ideas?"
"I do," Sam admits. "But you're not gonna like it."
Dean frowns. "Okay, why don't you let me be the judge o' that and share with the class, professor?"
Sam takes another deep breath, looks down at the table, at his uneaten bowl of soggy oatmeal. He pushes it away before he responds, and his face is all scrunched up like he's in pain, so Dean knows it's not gonna be good.
"I think we need to try waking ourselves up," he says.
Dean's frown deepens. "Waking up while we're sleep-walking, you mean?" he suggests. "How do we do that? We're not even asleep! I mean, it's one thing when it's a dream and you can just tell yourself in the dream to wake up. This is actually happening."
"Yeah," Sam mutters, shaking his head. "Yeah, it is. But no, I don't mean like waking up in the middle of a dream." He lifts his eyes to Dean's, and he looks scared, damn it. Like the little kid he used to be. "I mean, we need to go into it wide awake this time. Conscious."
Dean stares; his mouth works but no sound comes out. He looks away, at the table, at the window, at the waitress serving coffee at the next table – anywhere but at those beautiful, pleading eyes gazing helplessly at him, making him feel like he needs to fix something.
"So you want us to – " he gestures helplessly between them, and Sam glares, clearly growing sick of his cluelessness.
"Have sex," Sam nods. "On purpose. Yeah."
"Jesus, Sam, keep your voice down," Dean chuckles nervously, glancing around the diner where everyone is paying them exactly zero attention. "This is deep red-state territory. Gotta watch what you say."
Sam rolls his eyes, jaw clenching. "It's not like we haven't thought about it," he grits out. "Not like we haven't already fooled around."
"Yeah, but... We were kids, Sam!" Dean protests. "We're grown men now, and grown men just don't do that. Especially grown men who are brothers. Besides, you said we can't be like that anymore. You made that pretty clear, in fact, if I recall."
"Apparently, my subconscious feels differently," Sam growls, looking almost as pissed off as he sounds. "Apparently, I can't even control my own psyche."
He glances at Dean then, and there's something so miserable and beseeching in his expression it makes Dean flinch. Makes Dean want to do whatever it takes to wipe that look off his brother's face.
"I could never make you do something you don't want to do, Sam," Dean says, fierce and protective all of a sudden for no reason he can figure. "I couldn't do that."
"I know," Sam nods, meeting Dean's eyes for the first time in several minutes, the tightness easing as he reads Dean's expression. "I know you couldn't, Dean. It's not you. It's – "
Sam closes his eyes, clenches his fists on either side of his cereal bowl, and Dean would've laughed if the moment wasn't so dire, if Sam wasn't suffering so much.
"What?" Dean prods. "What is it, Sammy? What's going on with you? Is there something you're not telling me?"
Sam's eyes open wide, and for a moment he looks so anguished Dean almost calls it quits, just tells him to forget it already. They'll deal, even if it means having unconscious sex with each other every night for the rest of their lives.
Which could get a little awkward if one of them brings an actual hook-up home, Dean considers, trying not to snicker because the look on Sam's face is putting all his protective big-brother instincts on high alert, and he really doesn't want to upset Sam any more. He doesn't.
"I can't – " Sam starts to say, then the waitress arrives and Dean's annoyed, despite the fact that she's hot and he was hitting on her earlier and now she's flirting with him. Now he just wants her to go-the-fuck-away, goddamn it, and leave him be with his angsty little brother who needs his attention. Sam needs him, and that's all he wants to think about right now, so fuck off, little miss truck-stop waitress who probably wouldn't be very good in the sack anyway because she doesn't have long, tan legs and a dick the size of Vesuvius.
Oh, fuck it.
They pay the check, leave the diner, brushing shoulders because how else are they supposed to move except as close to each other as humanly possible every fucking chance they get.
When they get in the car they drive, because that's what they do. They go, they go, they go.
They drive most of the day, stopping for gas and eventually for food because their young, strong bodies can only go so long without it. Dean tries not to consider how on edge he is, how his whole body is thrumming with Sam's nearness. He tries not to think about the night ahead, when they'll check into some nameless motel and not even pretend they can sleep in separate beds, much less separate rooms, when the inevitable will happen because it was somehow always meant to be, no matter how hard they've both been resisting and avoiding and denying since way before Stanford. Since they were both too young to know better, then old enough to know better but unable to stop it.
"We don't have to do this," Dean says finally, after the silence has grown so thick they could cut it with a knife. After Dean's guzzled an entire six-pack of beer by himself while Sam's nursed one beer over dinner two hours ago. Now it's late, they're tired, and Dean's watched three back-to-back episodes of "Holmes on Homes" on the motel cable.
Sam looks up from his laptop, where he's lost himself in reading some geeky news accounts of accidents and tragedies he couldn't possibly prevent, and takes a deep breath.
"Yeah, we do," he says unhappily, like it's a fucking life-sentence or something. He lays the laptop aside, stands up to stretch, and Dean watches him because how can he not? Sam's shirt rides up his torso when he lifts his arms over his head and he's tan and toned and Dean's already hard just looking at him, just anticipating what's coming.
But Sam's comfort comes first, and right now Sam's giving off serious signs of reluctance about this whole deal, which isn't exactly a recipe for good times. Dean's not particularly vanilla in his sexual tastes, but he definitely draws the line at anything non-consensual, and Sam's consent to this seems a little begrudging, to say the least.
Which isn't great for Dean's libido, he decides. It's never fun to make out with somebody who's not really into it, no matter how much they say they want it. Dean's always had pretty strict rules about that kind of thing.
"No, we really don't, Sam," he says sternly, and now he's got Sam's attention. "Not like this. No way."
Sam looks confused for a minute, then contrite, like a puppy who was so sure of the bone coming his way he never stopped to consider that somebody had to give it to him in the first place.
"We can keep doing what we've always done," Dean goes on. "We don't have to give in to this thing if we don't want to."
Sam shakes his head. "That's just it, Dean," he protests. "We already have. It's not like we can put the genie back in the bottle now, even if we wanted to. That video doesn't lie. What's done is done, even if we can't remember it. And I for one don't want to keep going on with no control over this thing. I can't keep living with myself that way. There's already too much that's happened that I couldn't stop. There's already too much wrong with me!"
Sam stands in the middle of the room with one hand on his hips, the other pushing his hair back, his jaw clenching, his eyes glistening. He's trembling, for godssake.
"Okay, okay, Sam," Dean's on his feet without even realizing it because Sam is hurting, he can see that. "Hey, buddy, look at me. Look at me, Sam. I'm here, okay? If you need me – whatever you need – "
He meant to approach tentatively, to give Sam plenty of time to decide if he wanted the comfort Dean was offering.
But Sam doesn't even hesitate. He crosses the space between them in two long strides, collapses into Dean's arms like the little boy he hasn't been for some time, tucking his face into Dean's shoulder. Dean pats his back awkwardly, struggling to get used to the feel of this giant boy against him, to reconcile the sounds and smells and sheer unfamiliarity of this Sam with the little boy he raised. Sam's body has muscle now, where before it was all skin and bones. And his new height means there's no way they can press flush against each other, even if Dean stands on tip-toe and Sam stoops a little.
But Dean's determined. He gathers his brother against him as well as he can, rubs strong hands up and down Sam's broad back as Sam snuffles into his neck.
"I couldn't save her, Dean," Sam chokes out, his big body heaving with sobs. "I loved her, but it wasn't enough. I should've told her. Should've warned her."
"Okay, Sammy, okay," Dean soothes, helpless in the face of Sam's grief. He remembers too vividly how his father grieved when his mother died, how helpless it made Dean feel then, too.
"I never should've tried to fit in," Sam sobs. "I can never be normal; who was I fooling? And now she's dead because of me."
"No, Sam, no," Dean shakes his head, pulling back to grab hold of Sam's shoulders, to make him look Dean in the eye. "That was not your fault. You did not kill Jessica. Something evil did that. Something just like the thing that killed Mom. And we'll find it, okay? When we find Dad, we'll find it together, and we'll end that son-of-a-bitch once and for all, you hear me?"
Sam's shaking his head, looking so miserable and broken, and Dean's just had enough, damn it. No way his beautiful, talented brother deserves this. He should've had that girl, that bright future, all those things Dean can't provide –
"There's something in me." Sam's voice is hoarse with tears. "Something's wrong. I have these feelings, Dean, and I know they're wrong, but I've always felt this way about you. I thought they went away, I tried so hard to make them go away, but when I saw you that night in my apartment, it was like I'd never left. Like my feelings just grew stronger while I was away from you. And I couldn't love Jessica like that. She never really had a chance, no matter how much I wanted it to work. I was always gonna wish she was you, Dean. She died because I couldn't love her enough. Because my heart was already cheating on her from the minute I saw you again."
Sam's confession fills Dean with joy and triumph, which is so inappropriate when Sam is obviously suffering that Dean doesn't know what to do with it.
So of course he does the only thing that seems right and shuts Sam up at the same time. He kisses him.
Sam gasps with surprise as Dean's lips touch his, as Dean holds his head with both hands, fingers tangling in the silky strands at the back of Sam's neck. Sam's always been a messy cryer, and Dean should be disgusted by the snot and tears he's tasting, but he's not. He's sick enough to be turned on, even though all he's thinking about is making Sam stop talking, stop blaming himself, just stop.
Sam knows it, pushes him away with strong hands against his chest, soft mouth agape as he blinks at Dean, hurt and suspicion in his eyes.
"You don't have to pretend you want this, Dean, just to make me feel better," Sam accuses. "I know it's all me. I know it never meant anything to you. You said it yourself. We were just kids, just kids messing around. Grown men don't fuck around with their brothers. And that's all it ever was to you, I get that – "
"Sam, shut up!" Dean grabs fistfuls of Sam's shirts so he can shake him, willing Sam to just understand so that Dean doesn't have to spell it out, knowing that's a lost cause. "You're it for me, okay? Always were, always will be. End of story."
Sam blinks, flinching away from Dean's vehemence, still so hurt and uncertain, still disbelieving.
"Aw, fuck it, I'm no good at this, Sam," Dean complains, shaking Sam again in his frustration, with his desperation to make Sam understand. "You know I don't do feelings. But you are not alone in this, trust me. It's not just you. There's never been anyone else for me, never will be."
He shakes Sam again for emphasis, catches the moment Sam's eyes brighten a little, like he's seen something in Dean's eyes that he can believe in, something that gives him back some of the faith he never really abandoned.
Sam's mouth quivers and Dean's suddenly mesmerized by the way Sam's lips shine with spit, and it hits him that he did that. He kissed his brother.
It hits Sam, too; he flicks his tongue out, runs it along his bottom lip like he's tasting Dean for the first time.
Then Sam's hands are on him, holding his face as Sam leans down, closer, until they're breathing the same air, until Dean's vision is blurry and all he can see and smell and feel is Sam.
They crash together like a tidal wave, a train wreck, an out-of-control car accident that's been happening in slow motion all their lives. It's crazy and frantic and desperate, everything Dean always assumed it would be if they ever gave in to it. It's unstoppable as an avalanche, inevitable as death. It's lips and teeth and grasping hands, skin on skin as they struggle out of their clothing, ripping thin cotton tee-shirts, fumbling with buttons and zippers as they pant and curse, sucking bruises into each other's necks and shoulders and collarbones, licking over the old, unfamiliar bruises that are already there.
They tumble naked onto one of the beds, Dean with his hands in Sam's hair, Sam with his hands gripping new bruises into Dean's hips. They rut against each other as they kiss, as Dean licks all the tears off Sam's face and Sam sucks on Dean's lips until they're tingling and swollen. They moan and beg, gasping and panting each other's names. Sam gets one hand down between their heaving bodies, grabs both dicks in one of his huge hands, jacking them together as Dean throws his head back and squeezes his eyes shut, shaking with sensation, unable to stop the orgasm surging through him.
'"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he grits out as he comes, barely aware as Sam milks him through it, licks the underside of his jaw, nips at his adam's apple.
As Dean's upstairs brain blinks back on-line, he's aware of Sam kissing down his body, licking up the come on his chest and belly. He lies loose and languid as Sam's big hands slide down his ribcage, caressing slow and steady as his mouth latches onto one of Dean's nipples and sucks.
Sensation sparks up his spine like someone's just ignited a fuse. Dean arches up into Sam's mouth and moans wantonly as Sam's tongue flicks back and forth over his nipple. He feels Sam's mouth smiling against his skin.
"I knew it," Sam murmurs as he kisses across Dean's breastbone to the other nipple, gives it the same treatment, making Dean moan and writhe like a two-bit whore.
"J – Jeezus, Sammy," Dean stammers breathlessly, then gives up another involuntary moan, too far gone to be embarrassed, vaguely determined to return the favor later when he gets his chance to take Sam apart the way Sam somehow knows how to do to Dean.
How does he know how to do that? Dean's brain isn't too coherent at the moment, but it still amazes him. It's like Sam knows him intimately, like he's been paying way to much attention to Dean over the years.
Which, yeah, he probably has. It occurs to Dean that Sam was probably only too aware every time Dean brought a girl home. Even the times Dean thought he was asleep in the next bed or in the next room, Sam was probably lying awake, listening. Taking notes.
Kinky little bastard.
Sam's pushing Dean's legs apart, lying between them as he kisses down Dean's chest and stomach, dipping his tongue into Dean's belly button for good measure. Dean arches up again, so Sam fucks his belly button with his hot, wet tongue and Dean moans, sparks going up his spine again like his body just can't help it, like it's built to respond to Sam this way.
Sam chuckles against his stomach, slips his big hands under Dean's ass, holding him open as Sam licks around Dean's over-sensitive dick to his groin. He suckles there for a minute, probably causing another bruise, breathing deep as he does it, and Dean understands. He has a sudden sense memory of Sam's musky scent, the dark and sweat-damp skin where his torso meets his long, tan legs.
Then Sam mouths along the inside of Dean's thigh, making him shiver. Sam buries his nose under Dean's balls and breaths again, lets his tongue dart out to touch the tender skin of Dean's perineum, just above his hole.
Dean gasps, reaches down and pulls his knees back, all the way to his chest, opening himself to Sam because it feels incredible and it's Sam and there's a playback loop in Dean's brain of the video in which Dean's doing this to Sam and it's making his brain explode. Slowly. In a good way.
When Sam's tongue touches his hole Dean makes an involuntary sound that reminds him a lot of the one he heard Video Sam make, except maybe a little deeper. Maybe. He pushes down on Sam's tongue, because he can and because it feels even more incredible being on the receiving end of this than Dean ever imagined. When Sam starts pushing a long, slender finger in alongside his tongue, it only burns a little, and Dean likes it. He's always on board with trying something a little different, and this is definitely different. It helps in ways it probably shouldn't that he watched that video, that being turned on by Video Sam just taking it so pretty has Dean's head in a really good place for this. He's definitely willing to try something that made Video Sam lose it like that.
Now Dean knows Sam watched the rest of that video, because Sam's found lube and he's using it, slicking up his fingers, opening him up slow and thorough. And if Dean had to take a guess, he'd have to bet on this being Sam's first time doing this. Sam's a little too eager, trembling and shaking and panting too much for this to be anything but virgin territory.
Which turns Dean way the hell on. Makes his dick twitch.
"Come on, Sammy," he growls, rocking down on Sam's fingers, gasping as Sam hits something in there that sends sparks shooting up his spine, makes him cry out in shock and pleasure.
"Is that okay, Dean?" Sam asks. "Did I do it right?"
"Fuck, Sam," Dean gasps. "What the hell was that? Do that again."
Dean's never paid much attention to the mechanics of gay sex. It's never been an issue before. Girls were too attractive, too available, and he'd never been interested enough in a guy to want to try this. But that – that thing Sam just did – okay, now he gets why guys do it with each other.
Sam hits his g-spot again and Dean keens and nearly blacks out. He's bucking against Sam's hand like a goddamn slut, begging for it with his body and the noises he can't help and suddenly Sam's face is looming over his, expression shy and awestruck, a film of tears glistening in his beautiful eyes, and Dean realizes he's been chanting, "Fuck me, Sam, oh my fucking god, just fuck me already!"
"Are you sure, Dean? Is this really what you want?" Sam asks, like he has to ask. Like he needs Dean's permission when Dean's already pleading with him to just do it, goddamn it.
"I'm not a girl, Sam," Dean grits out, legs trembling with the effort to keep himself bent it half, to keep himself as open as possible for Sam. "Not gonna break, damn it. Just do it!"
So Sam does, slow and careful at first, and Dean is a little shocked at how much it hurts. He sucks in breath after breath, adjusting as his body cramps and protests against the unfamiliar intrusion while Sam watches him carefully for any sign of discomfort. But Dean is good with pain, or at least he is when Sam's watching. It's an old habit, formed by years of schooling his features in the face of whatever triage procedure their dad performed after a hunt, ever admonishing Dean to, "Take it like a man."
When Sam finally stops, it takes a minute for Dean to realize he's balls deep. He's done it. Dean's taken his brother's monster dick up his ass. Not bad, he tells himself in the moment before Sam starts to pull out, then slams home. Sam's dick hits that place inside Dean again and he cries out as his entire body becomes a quivering bag of nerve endings, rippling waves of sensation just punching through him over and over as Sam fucks him. He loses track of time, of place, of every other thought but Sam moving relentlessly inside him, of Sam's face hovering above him as Sam watches him, kisses him, buries his face in Dean's neck and moans as he comes. Dean comes again with tears running down his cheeks as Sam pumps shallowly, gasping his name and cursing as he shoots warm fluid into Dean's body, arms wrapped around him, holding him tight against his chest.
As Dean recovers, he feels Sam's heart pounding against him, feels Sam's dick slip from his body with a wet squelch, knows he'll be good and sore tomorrow. Sam rolls to the side, still clutching Dean in his arms, and Dean goes with it, lets himself be cuddled and held as he listens to Sam's heart and breathing slow and even out as he falls asleep, lips pressed warm and sure to Dean's temple. When Sam's asleep, he scoots carefully out from under Sam's huge warm body and staggers to the bathroom to clean himself off, then limps back to bed, letting Sam spoon him because the kid's asleep anyway and can't possibly know what he's doing. Probably thinks Dean's his dead girlfriend.
As he starts to drift off to sleep he wonders vaguely if it worked, if they fixed it, if they'll remember this in the morning. He's pretty confident his body won't forget for some time to come. Plus, Sam's back may have a few scratches on it that he didn't have before, so there's that. Also, they'll always have that video, if they need to remind themselves how totally hot they are in bed together. If Sam hasn't already burned it, of course, the bitch.
Anyway, it really doesn't matter, Dean decides. If every time with Sam feels like a first, that'll be just fine with him. Sam is a vast, unexplored continent, an undiscovered country of experience and understanding and endless possibility. An everlasting adventure.
Sam is love and loyalty and family, everything familiar and right in the world. Everything Dean needs.
He lies still and waits for morning.