Sam and Dean scramble backwards, through the door of the warehouse where they had just killed the succubus-like thing that was infecting and killing people by making them want what they couldn't have. Unlike most succubi, this one fed off its victims' sexual frustration until they died, horribly and in agony.
"No, no, I don't think so," Sam gasps, spitting just to be sure. The thing literally exploded when they shot it with silver, which they did not see coming. "You?"
Dean's so busy checking Sam for signs of infection he almost forgets he was closest to the creature, probably has bits of it all over him.
"Nah, I'm fine," he lies, because he's got a sinking feeling one of the creature's claws managed to break skin. He can feel it, now that the adrenaline rush is starting to dissipate. It burns. "We should clean up."
"Dude, I don't think there's anything left to clean up." Sam shakes his head. "Except you. It's all over you."
Dean has to admit Sam's right. He's also anxious to get back to the motel, scrub the ever-loving hell out of his own skin in the hottest shower of his life.
Sam doesn't even protest when they reach the motel and Dean claims first shower. In the bathroom, he strips off his jacket and pulls off his boots as the water warms up. Then he strips in front of the bathroom mirror.
As soon as he pulls his shirt off, he sees it. Four long, horizontal gashes across his shoulder and left pec, not deep enough to need stitches, but definitely more than mere scratches.
"Shit," Dean mutters, closing his eyes against a sudden wave of dizziness. The skin around the gashes burns like a brand, getting worse by the minute.
Dean clenches his teeth and manages to get his jeans off, then steps into the shower and does his best to wash. When he touches his genitals he feels a burning pain shoot straight from his dick down his left leg, making him stagger and cry out before he can stop himself.
He pounds his fist into the tile wall, fighting the pain and his sudden erection, all hope that he was somehow spared the monster's horrible infection gone right down the drain.
"Dean?" Sam pounds on the door, sounding concerned. "You all right in there? Dean?"
"Yeah – " Dean grits his teeth, manages to growl out a response, panting with the effort. "I'm fine!"
"You sure?" Sam calls, obviously not convinced. "You don't sound fine."
"Leave me alone, Sam! I said I'm fine! Argh!"
Another shooting pain rips through Dean's body, forcing him to double over. His head feels like it's being squeezed in a vice and his balls – fuck. He can't remember ever being this turned on and in pain at the same time. How is that even possible?
"Dean!" Sam's banging on the door and he sounds more and more frantic. "Dean! Open the door!"
Dean's hunched over in a corner of the shower, probably moaning loudly except he can't really hear a thing over the pounding in his head and the increasing discomfort in his groin.
Then Sam's there and everything gets about a million times worse.
"Dean? Jesus, what's wrong? Oh my God, Dean, you're infected. Oh my God!"
Dean's cowering naked on the floor of the shower, and the water's still running and Sam's reaching in to help and Dean screams because Sam's touching him and it's – it's –
It feels so good it makes Dean's whole body tremble. He looks up in shock because suddenly he can control his movements again, suddenly he's not overwhelmed with shooting, burning pain. Sam's hands on him are like a salve on his burning skin. Everywhere he touches Dean the pain ebbs away, replaced by the most intense pleasure he's ever experienced. He's never been so turned on in his life. And the longer Sam touches him, the more turned on he feels. It's like – it's as if Sam's his –
"S–Sam," Dean shivers convulsively, eyes sliding closed as wave after wave of pure lust wash over him. "P–please..."
"Dean? What's wrong? Oh God."
Sam jumps back like he's been electrocuted, and Dean's almost immediately in anguish again, his entire body wracked with sharp, burning pain that seem to center in his dick and his balls. He screams because he can't help himself; the pain is even more intense than before, making it impossible to think straight or even to understand what the hell is happening to him.
Then Sam's hands are blessedly back, rubbing up his arms, cupping his face, sweeping along his brow.
"Okay, you're okay, Dean. We're gonna fix this," Sam soothes. "It's gonna be okay."
Well now it is. Now that Sam's touching him. His eyes flutter open and Sam's right there, worried little frown creasing his brow, and Dean's never seen anything so beautiful. He's panting, shivery with pleasure, so hard it almost hurts.
"Okay, so I'm your – okay, Dean, I can deal with that," Sam murmurs, rubbing up and down Dean's arms. "It makes a kind of weird sense, actually."
"You're my wh–what?" Dean gasps, his voice hoarse with screaming. He wants Sam to keep touching him, but he wants more, too. He needs more.
"I'm your 'forbidden fruit,'" Sam says, then rolls his eyes. "I can't believe I just said that. Fuck."
"My – my what?" But Dean remembers. "Forbidden fruit" had been their nickname for the object of the victim's desire, the one that killed them. It was usually a celebrity, or someone completely impossible for the victim to have a real-life relationship with, thus ensuring that the victim literally died of unrequited lust. The other victims had died screaming in agony for someone they couldn't have while the succubus fed on their particularly spicy brand of frustrated desire.
"All right," Sam nods, biting his lower lip in a way that makes Dean's dick throb. He suddenly wants to kiss Sam's lip, to suck it between his teeth and taste the chapped skin. It's something Dean needs like oxygen, as if he'll die without it. "So we'll just have to test the theory."
"Wha–what theory?" Dean's brain on pleasure is almost as foggy as it is on pain, but at least he can speak, however shaky his voice sounds.
Sam sighs. He's still rubbing Dean's arms, but now he's blushing, his nose and cheeks a lovely shade of dark red, his eyes sparkling.
Damn. How has Dean never noticed just how beautiful his brother is before? He's fairly certain he'll never close his eyes again, just so he can gaze at this gorgeous sight till he dies.
"The theory is, if the victim actually gets whatever they're pining for, then the poison neutralizes and the victim survives."
Sam's not looking at him, and Dean really wishes he would, but it's okay. He can do enough looking for both of them.
"Okay, okay, let's get you out of here," Sam says, carefully keeping one hand on Dean's arm while he reaches to grab a towel with the other. He's wearing just his tee-shirt and jeans, obviously caught in the process of undressing when Dean started screaming. Sam's arms are long, and Dean fixates on the extended one because there's a bulging vein running up the front of it and Dean really wants to lick it.
Shame shoots through Dean's body, immediately subsumed by the erotic fog that seems to be leeching his brains out.
"Sam, I can't – we can't – I shouldn't – " he stammers, trying to remember what he was thinking a moment ago, remembering the shame and trying to focus on that. "It's wrong."
"I know, I know," Sam mutters as he wraps the towel around Dean and helps him to his feet. He still isn't looking at Dean. "We'll make it quick. It'll be okay."
Dean stumbles, his legs trembling with the heady cocktail of remembered pain and lust, and Sam catches him. Sam holds him close with one arm as he reaches in to shut the shower off with the other, and Dean buries his face in Sam's neck, breathing deep.
"Hmmm," he moans as his dick rubs against rough denim. He starts humping Sam's leg because it feels incredible and he can't help it. He needs more friction. He needs more Sam.
"Okay, okay," Sam's muttering as he tries to dry Dean off, then tries to wrap the towel around him as Dean rubs against him. They stagger toward the bedroom, Sam keeping an arm around Dean to guide him. "Okay, we can do this. Just let me get us over to the bed..."
"Sam..." Dean opens his mouth against Sam's skin and he can taste him. Sam's sweaty, dirty skin tastes like salt and copper and something dark and bitter and it's the best thing Dean's ever tasted. Better than whisky. Better than fuckin' apple pie, for God's sake.
Dean's so far gone at this point he can barely breathe. He's got Sam's skin in his mouth and he's lapping at it like a dog and he's forgotten the shame, forgotten everything but the need to have more. To never stop. He feels the bump as Sam backs them up against the edge of the bed, and when Sam sits down Dean crawls into his lap, rutting against Sam shamelessly, seeking more friction.
"Okay, okay, Dean, just let me lie down," Sam gasps. "Maybe you can just rub off on me, would that work? Maybe that's all it needs."
Sam reclines onto his back, legs still hanging off the edge of the bed, and Dean crawls over him, tucking himself along Sam's side so he can rut against his hip.
"Need you, Sam," Dean gasps as he ruts. "Need you to touch me."
"Okay, okay, sure, Dean, okay," Sam murmurs. He scoots further up the bed while getting his arm under Dean's body, chucking the towel in the process. Dean grabs Sam's other hand, guides it to Dean's bare hip, and Sam gets it. He strokes Dean's hip, his thigh, his back as Dean ruts against him, moaning in mindless ecstasy. Dean pushes his free hand under Sam's tee-shirt, needing Sam's bare skin, needing Sam to respond to him.
Sam shivers under his touch and Dean smiles against his shoulder.
"That's it," he murmurs. "That's it, Sam. Need you to want it, too."
"Fuck," Sam gasps as Dean tweaks his nipple. "That's not part of it, is it? The victim's feelings are supposed to be unrequited, right? Unreturned? Isn't that the deal?"
"Take your shirt off," Dean pants, ignoring Sam's words because they don't make sense to his oversexed brain. All he wants is more Sam, the nakeder the better. "Need to see you."
Dean lets Sam sit up so he can yank his tee-shirt off, dropping it to the floor beside the bed. Dean moans as a fresh wave of lust overwhelms him at the sight of all that smooth flesh, all those tight muscles. He runs his hands through Sam's chest hair, watching as Sam's nipples bead into perfect, hard little nubs. He licks his lips, glancing up at Sam for his permission before he lowers his mouth over one peaked nipple.
Sam's eyes are dark and half-closed. He's watching Dean with his lips parted and his cheeks flushed that deep, dark rose color, and Dean doesn't even need to slide his hand down over the bulge in Sam's jeans to know he's hard. As Dean suckles Sam's pec, Sam lets out a soft moan of his own and pushes up into Dean's mouth.
'Fuck, Dean, your mouth," he exhales as Dean's tongue flicks back and forth. He alternates sucking with tongue-flicking, then adds a little teeth and Sam bucks up with another gasp, louder this time.
"Off." Dean tugs on Sam's belt loops, then slides his hand down over Sam's bulge and palms it, making Sam squirm. He's still humping Sam's hip, but it's not enough. He needs more skin. Needs to be skin-to-skin with Sam before he literally bursts into flame.
"Okay, okay, just give me a minute..." Sam unbuttons his jeans with shaking fingers, barely gets the zipper down before Dean's yanking on them, pulling them down over Sam's slip hips. Sam's erection bobs free, almost hitting Dean in the face. Sam kicks his jeans off and Dean shimmies down between Sam's long, long legs, rubbing himself into the groove of Sam's hip as he slides down.
"Commando," he murmurs as he buries his face in Sam's belly, breathing deep. "God."
"Jesus, Dean, what are you – oh fuck!" Sam's back arches off the bed as Dean grabs his dick and licks one long stripe up the length of it before swallowing it down, humming appreciatively. Sam's yeasty, sweaty smell is stronger here, the bitter salty taste making Dean's mouth water. He works a finger into his mouth alongside Sam's dick, gets it good and wet, then slides it down behind Sam's balls to his hole, circling and prodding gently.
Sam's legs fall open and his head falls back. As Dean gazes up his long body, Sam writhes and moans, his hands clutching the sheets convulsively. When Dean lifts off with a wet pop Sam glances down, catching Dean's eye as Dean throws him a quick smirk and a wink before swallowing his dick down again.
"Shit!" Sam cries out. His hand comes down on Dean's head, gentle at first, encouraging, then with more pressure, urging him on. Sam bucks up and his dick hits the back of Dean's throat, causing tears to fill Dean's eyes and spill down his cheeks. "Oh God, look at you. Fuck, Dean, look at you."
Dean lets his finger push into Sam's hole and Sam gasps, then starts fucking Dean's mouth in earnest, finding a rhythm that matches Dean's finger-fucking. Dean grabs his own dick with his free hand, strokes it a few times as he kneels between Sam's legs, then glances up at Sam again. His brother is watching him as he fucks shallowly into Dean's mouth, chest heaving with the effort to control the urge to come. Sam cups Dean's cheek, runs his thumb along Dean's lips where they're stretched around his dick. Dean pulls his mouth free, lets Sam's dick slide along his cheek as he looks up at Sam.
"Come for me, little brother," he says, voice hoarse, almost a whisper.
But Sam hears him. Sam sees. Sam clenches his teeth and closes his eyes; his neck muscles bulge and strain and his back arches as he comes.
Dean swallows it, or at least most of it. He can feel some of it on his cheek, on his lips, dripping down his chin.
"Fuck," Sam sobs as he collapses, beautiful and debauched and fucked out with his legs akimbo and his hair a loose halo around his head. His chest is damp and heaving, his powerful arms and large hands lying lax at his sides.
Dean kneels up between Sam's legs, stroking himself hard and fast to the sight, and he comes almost immediately, striping Sam's dick and balls, his thighs and belly.
"Mine," his sex-soaked brain grits out between clenched teeth. Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine.
He whites out afterwards, doesn't even remember collapsing on the bed next to Sam. When he wakes up, he hears the shower running and Sam's gone from the bed. Dean's mind is still foggy, but he feels good. Sam's not touching him anymore but he's not in pain, so he figures it worked, figures they won.
Dean drifts easily back to sleep on that thought and doesn't even hear Sam coming in from the bathroom. Sam stands over the bed for a moment, filling Dean's dreams with the comforting smell of brother and home. Then Sam slips quietly into the other bed.
Dean never knows how long it takes Sam to fall asleep that night, but when he wakes up the next morning and Sam is already gone, it only takes him a minute to guess why that might be.
Sam's been doing some thinking, and pretty soon Dean's going to get an earful.
Dean turns over and pulls his pillow over his head, determined to get just a few more minutes of shut-eye before the shit hits the fan.
It's going to be one of those days.