Word count: 8.2k
Warnings: Wincest (first time), humor
Summary: Sam and Dean pose as a married couple to investigate the deaths of three couples who all went to the same marriage counselor. Business as usual, nothing to see here, all the lies and denial and Dean being kind of an ass sometimes. Nothing out of the ordinary.
A/N: Many thanks to onlythefireborn for the last-minute beta. I learn so much from you! The title is from a song by The Romantics. This was written for the 2017 spn_j2_xmas. I went with alexxkah’s first prompt, and tried to keep this light-hearted for the holidays. Hope you like it!
“Sam, there’s no way we’re doing this.”
Sam looks up from the marriage license he’s forging at the table in their motel room and rolls his eyes.
“Oh, come on, Dean. You know this is the only way. We have to get into that therapist’s office so we can figure out why her patients are dying. Posing as a married couple needing therapy is the obvious cover. It’s not like we can go in as FBI, patient confidentiality and all. Besides, it could be worse.”
“How could it possibly be worse?” Dean demands. He’s feeling trapped, and that’s never good. He’d rather hit something, kill anything, than go through with this.
“She could be a sex therapist,” Sam grins impishly. Oh no. Sam did not just make a suggestive comment. That’s Dean’s department.
Three couples have died under mysterious circumstances over the past three months. All were clients of the same marriage counselor. All died of apparent heart attacks shortly after beginning therapy. Although the deaths appear natural and the police have already ruled out foul play, the Winchesters see a pattern, and suspect something not-so-natural.
“Jesus, Sam, you’re so fuckin’ cheerful about it, why don’t you just go by yourself? I’ll interview the hot receptionist instead.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Because it’s couples therapy, moron. We have to be a couple.”
“Oh no we do not.” Dean shakes his head. “That is the line I will not cross, and you know it.”
“Why? What’s the big deal, Dean?” Sam looks genuinely perplexed now. Dean’s starting to hyperventilate. “I know you’re not homophobic, so what’s your issue?”
“My issue? My issue? Let me tell you my issue. Everybody already thinks we’re a couple, that’s my issue. Even when we say we’re not – because we’re brothers, damn it – they gotta give us these smirky little looks like they know better. Like they understand us better than we do. Assholes!”
Sam huffs out a breath, obviously disgusted with the whole conversation. “Just ignore it,” he says with a little shrug. “Don’t let it bother you. So what if they think we’re a couple? We know the truth. Just focus on the job.”
“Focus on the job,” Dean repeats snidely. “Sure. Okay. Fine. So do we need to prep for this, or what?”
“Prep for what?” Sam lifts his eyes, innocent and clueless, and Dean almost forgets what he was about to say.
Or maybe Sam was using the word “prep” and thinking something else entirely.
Damn. Get your mind out of the gutter, Winchester. He’s just being an asshole.
Stop thinking about assholes!
“Okay, you know what? I’m gonna go grab us some grub.” A breath of fresh air and a little distance from his overwhelming mountain of a brother is what he needs right now. To clear his head. “You want anything?”
“Nah, I’m good.” Sam shakes his head. “Just don’t get sidetracked at the bar. We’ve got an early appointment tomorrow.”
“Super,” Dean growls as he shrugs his jacket on. Sam knows him too well. When Dean’s uncomfortable or bothered by something, it’s easy to drown it in a few stiff drinks.
And the truth is, he doesn’t want to think too deeply about why this particular job bothers him so much. It’s not like they don’t go undercover and pretend to be people they’re not all the time. It’s just part of the job.
But their relationship usually doesn’t have anything to do with it. When they’re FBI agents, everybody can see they’re partners, even if they get called out sometimes for Sam’s long hair or for how un-FBI-like they look in their well-fitting suits. Sure, once in a while somebody hints or even asks them directly if they’re together, and it shocks Dean, every damn time. But then he chalks it up to the fact that the Winchesters are such a good team. Of course they give off a vibe of easygoing familiarity, over and above most workplace partners. It’s because they’re really brothers, something they rarely reveal.
Although most brothers don’t work as well together as Sam and Dean do. Dean knows that, too. He takes pride in that, to be honest. He and Sam know each other so well. They understand each other. Their relationship goes deep, and it makes them better at their job.
Married couples got nothin’ on the Winchesters.
And that right there is why this thing pisses Dean off so much. Or so he tells himself. It’s nobody’s business what the Winchesters mean to each other or how they make their relationship work. He definitely doesn’t want to get into it with some two-bit marriage counselor who just might be some kind of monster who’s murdering her clients on the side.
He leaves the bar after only two drinks, not even making eye contact with the hot blonde at the other end of the bar. He’s on a job, and he’s being oh so good.
Sam’s still researching on his laptop when Dean gets back to the motel. He barely looks up when Dean comes in. He can feel Sam relax a little, though, so he knows Sam was worried about him. He’s such a wife.
There, see? They can pull this off. They already have the husband/wife dynamic figured out perfectly. Dean smirks to himself as he dresses down and brushes his teeth for bed. When he comes out of the bathroom, Sam’s already dressed for bed, muscles bulging out of his t-shirt, soft pajama pants hugging his ass.
Dean’s noticed Sam’s body like that since forever. There’s nothing not-normal about it. It’s just practical. It’s part of what makes them good at their job, that they can recognize and work with each other’s assets. Dean’s proud that his working partner is a pumped-up beefcake who can handle himself in a fight. It’s comforting.
“What?” Sam catches him noticing his ass and lifts an eyebrow. “I got something on my pants?”
“Nah.” Dean smirks wider as he climbs into his own bed. “I’m just thinking about this marriage thing we gotta pull off tomorrow.”
Sam frowns. “What about it?”
“You’re the wife.” Dean grins, and Sam rolls his eyes.
“Dude, with two guys it’s husbands. We’re both husbands.”
Dean considers this for a second, then shakes his head. “Nah, you’re definitely the wife. Bitch.”
“Jerk,” Sam snaps back automatically as he pulls the blankets up and switches off the light.
In the dark, Dean smiles to himself, and he’s pretty sure Sam’s doing the same thing.
The marriage therapist (who just might be a brain-sucking supernatural creature) is a petite, dark-haired woman with a warm smile and a firm handshake. She welcomes them into her office without waiting for the receptionist to announce them, and Dean shoots a sympathetic smile at the hot red-head he talked to yesterday. He’d definitely rather spend his time interviewing her.
But somehow Sam seems to have taken charge of this investigation. Dean’s not too happy about that, except he does get a little tingly when Sam takes charge. Besides, they’re here now. Might as well make the best of it.
“So tell me about your relationship,” Dr. Somers says after directing the Winchesters to chairs in front of her desk. She takes a third chair, rather than sitting behind the desk. She leans forward with her hands clasped loosely in her lap, a pad of paper and a pen on the desk next to her. It’s designed to make them feel comfortable, Dean supposes, but of course it has the opposite effect, and he’s grateful to Sam for speaking first.
“What do you want to know?”
Sam sounds a little defensive, and Dean glances sharply at him.
“Well, for example, when did you meet?”
“A long time ago.” Dean takes over. They’ve talked about this part. It’s easy.
“When we were kids,” Sam adds.
Dr. Somers nods sagely. “And when did your current relationship begin?”
“Ten years, six months, twenty-two days, and about ten hours ago,” Sam says.
“Not that we’re keeping track or anything.” Dean rolls his eyes.
Dr. Somers nods and notes something on her writing pad. “So you were in college at the time, Sam?”
Sam nods. “We hadn’t seen each other in a couple of years, then one day Dean dropped by my apartment and we uh – we went out, and we just clicked.”
“Been together ever since,” Dean finishes. “Never separated. Willingly, anyway.” He says that last bit as an afterthought, and he can feel Sam shoot him a warning glance. They really don’t want to talk about those separations. They haven’t rehearsed that part, and they can’t tell the truth, for obvious reasons.
On impulse, Dean reaches over, squeezes Sam’s knee, and winks. He can feel Sam’s laser-beam glare, and it makes him smirk.
“Uh-huh.” Dr. Somers nods, frowning a little as she glances between them. “And how long have you been married?”
“Three years,” Sam answers quickly.
“As soon as it was legal, we tied the knot,” Dean adds. “No sense in waiting another minute, right, honey?”
“Right.” Sam’s voice is tight, his jaw clenched. He’s acting the part of the beleaguered spouse, the partner who had to be dragged to therapy, even though they’d already agreed that Dean would play the reluctant one.
Dean can tell Sam’s pissed at him for switching roles, and it makes him a little giddy. It’s payback time for making Dean do this in the first place.
“All right.” Dr. Somers nods. “I think I get the picture. So what brings you here today?”
They’d talked about this, too, which is why Dean can’t resist.
“It’s the sex,” he blurts out. “Sam thinks I’m cheating.”
Sam’s reaction is perfect because it’s so honest and unrehearsed. “What? No, I don’t!”
“You totally do,” Dean insists. “You think I go out to bars to get laid. You’ve stopped putting out because you think I’d rather fuck some stranger in a bar than have comfortable, healthy sex with the love of my life.”
“Well, that’s because it’s what you do!” Sam huffs indignantly.
Dean’s got to hand it to Sam, he’s managed to switch gears on a dime. It’s impressive.
“No, I don’t,” Dean scoffs. “I go out because you don’t put out. I flirt a little, maybe, just to be sure I’m still attractive to somebody. A man’s got needs, Sam. You act like you don’t want me anymore, and that’s hard on the ego.”
“Good, good,” Dr. Somers murmurs encouragingly. “That’s it. Talk to each other. Tell him how you feel, Sam, when he tells you this.”
Sam blinks, chest heaving with emotion, and Dean almost feels sorry for him. This isn’t the way they planned this. They’re both winging it, making it up.
Nevertheless, it feels real. These are things they might actually say and feel if they were in a real marriage. Dean waits with bated breath as Sam collects himself, eyes sliding back and forth on the floor as he thinks. Then he raises his eyes to Dean and there’s real pain in them. He looks hurt.
“Of course I want you,” Sam breathes, sucking in deep lungfuls of air, like he’s afraid he might drown. “I can’t believe you would ever think I didn’t.”
“Maybe because you have such a funny way of showing it.” Dean’s breath quickens. He’s starting to hyperventilate. “Working all the time, late into the evening, like you can’t be bothered to notice when I’m wishing you would stop and come to bed.”
“You could just ask,” Sam says, voice soft. “Did you ever think of that?”
“But that’s just it, Sam! I shouldn’t have to ask. You’re supposed to know!”
“Sam’s right, Dean,” Dr. Somers interjects, and Dean jumps, looking away from Sam with real effort. He’d almost forgotten she was there. Their acting skills must be improving. Their conversation felt almost real. “In a good marriage, partners communicate their needs and desires openly and straightforwardly to each other. Non-verbal cues can be easily misinterpreted, and it sounds like you two do a lot of non-verbal communicating.”
“I’ll say.” Dean smirks. “It’s more fun that way.”
“But it also makes it more difficult to be honest with each other,” Dr. Somers comments. “It leaves more room for misunderstanding.” She closes her notebook and leans forward in her chair, smiling at them. “I think we’ve made a good start here today,” she says. “Usually, the first session is just a chance to get to know each other, to recount the history of the relationship and assess what state things are in between you. But I feel like we’ve already made progress.”
Sam and Dean exchange glances. “Okay,” Sam nods. “So what’s next?”
“If you agree to more counseling, then I’ll give you an assignment and we’ll book another appointment for next week.”
“What kind of assignment?” Dean doesn’t expect to be here next week, so it doesn’t matter, but he’s curious.
“When you go home tonight, have a nice quiet dinner. Be romantic together,” Dr. Somers says. “Use your words to express what you really want from each other. Phrases like ‘I want’ and ‘I need’ are key. Don’t assume or expect the other one to guess. If you want something, ask for it.”
“Uh-huh,” Dean nods. “Sounds easy.”
“It’s not hard, Dean,” Sam agrees.
“The point is to focus on each other,” Dr. Somers continues. “Put aside the work, really listen to your partner and pay attention to his needs.”
“Yeah, Sam,” Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes.
Dr. Somers gives them a copy of a book that Dean just knows he won’t read. It’s got chapters on “How to Be Honest With Yourself So You Can Be a Better Partner” and “The Ten Top Things Couples Do to Undermine Their Relationship.”
In the lobby, Dean flirts with the red-haired receptionist and Sam scowls.
“Does it make you jealous?” Dean asks as Sam grabs his arm and drags him away.
“Do you do it to make me jealous?” Sam counters, and Dean realizes they’re still within hearing of the receptionist. Sam’s just putting on an act.
“Maybe,” Dean admits, surprising himself because it’s true. He flirts with women partly to get a reaction from Sam, not that he’s ever admitted that to himself before. He can’t think why he would need to get a reaction from Sam. It’s not like they’re in an actual romantic relationship. But it gives Dean a little thrill whenever Sam scowls at him for hitting on a hot chick. It does.
“So what did you think?” Sam asks when they’re in the car. They’ve still got most of the day left and had planned to interview the families and friends of the deceased. “You think Dr. Somers is our monster?”
“Well, we know the victims were in counseling with her when they died.” Dean shrugs. “Whatever it is that killed them, it feeds on troubled relationships. If I were a monster who needed to feed on angsty, unhappy people, I might become a marriage counselor.”
“Dean, most marriage counselors help people,” Sam reminds him.
“You think she helped us?” Dean frowns. “All that crap about being honest about what you want. You think that stuff really works? The divorce rate is over fifty-percent in this country.”
“Never mind.” Sam rolls his eyes. “Let’s focus on the interviews.”
They spend the rest of the day talking to bereaved family members and friends, all of whom say the same thing. The victims had been unhappy in their marriages until they started counseling. Then their relationships improved dramatically, so much so that they were at their happiest when they died.
The Winchesters finish their day at the morgue, where the medical examiner has just completed his report on the latest victims. His reports indicate that all three couples died of heart attacks.
“And there’s no medical reason for these people to have heart attacks,” Sam clarifies. They’re in their FBI duds, ostensibly investigating the deaths of six young, healthy people, and the coroner is clearly stumped.
“Nothing,” he admits, shaking his head. “Other than an abnormally high level of serotonin in their bloodstreams, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with them. Except that they’re dead, of course.”
“Serotonin,” Sam repeats. “Isn’t that a brain chemical?”
“It’s a neurotransmitter, yes,” the coroner nods. “It’s usually associated with feelings of happiness or well-being. People who are depressed or unhappy tend to have low levels of serotonin in their systems, which is why they’re often prescribed serotonin uptake inhibitors to boost their feelings of self-worth.”
“Okay, so these folks were pumped full of some chemical that made them feel good.” Dean smirks. “They were high.”
“You could say they died happy,” the coroner agrees.
“So they were roofied to death.”
The coroner shakes his head. “It’s not like a drug overdose. Serotonin is naturally occurring.”
“In your opinion, what could cause their brains to produce such high levels of serotonin?” Sam asks, and the coroner shrugs.
“Well, they were having sex at the time of their deaths,” the coroner speculates. “I guess you could say it was probably the best sex they’d ever had in their lives. Also the last, of course.”
“Of course,” Dean mutters, not daring to look at Sam. Having great sex is not a thought he figures he should share with his brother, even if it’s just part of the job.
Also, how inappropriate is it to be horny in a morgue with your brother standing right there looking incredibly hot in a suit?
Dead bodies, Dean reminds himself. Focus.
Back at the motel, Sam goes right to work.
“According to the lore, the Tibetan yakshini is a succubus that feeds on the energy released when two people who have been at odds with each other reconcile, usually by having mind-blowing sex,” he says, matter-of-fact as usual.
“So we’re looking for a make-up-sex succubus.” Dean smirks. “Awesome.”
He’s kicked off his shoes and loosened his tie, and he’s sitting on one of the beds with a beer and his laptop, pretending to do research. Sam’s at the table, actually doing research, of course. His shirt pulls across his broad shoulders and makes his waist look tiny. His long, long legs go on for miles in his sleek black suit pants.
“The lore doesn’t say anything about brain chemicals or sex hormones,” Sam muses. “But of course it wouldn’t. It’s not like that kind of science was understood very well in ancient China.”
“You think she injects her victims with some of that Saratoga stuff?” Dean asks. “Maybe enough to fry their brains, make them go into cardiac arrest?”
“Serotonin is naturally-produced,” Sam reminds him. “It’s not a drug you can take. It’s more like their brains were overproducing the stuff. Like the coroner said, these people were having the best sex of their lives. Their pleasure levels were through the roof.”
“Huh.” Dean shifts subtly to hide his suddenly-raging boner with his laptop. He really wouldn’t mind having some of that mind-blowing sex Sam’s talking about. The problem is, Sam’s talking about it. “So how do we stop her?”
“The succubus in the lore looks more like a he than a she,” Sam notes. “It’s got horns and the feet of a goat, and in most of the pictures it’s half man with male genitalia. Kind of resembles common depictions of the Greek god Dionysus, or – “ He stops, flushing uncomfortably, and Dean’s instantly on high alert.
“Or what, Sam?” He can see that Sam’s disturbed, and that’s never okay.
Sam looks up with that haunted, terrified expression he used to get after his soul got back from the Cage. Dean knows it too well, remembers feeling that way himself when he got back from Hell.
“Or Lucifer,” Sam finishes with more than a little effort. “Satan is often depicted as a horned goat.”
“Well, it’s not Lucifer!” Dean barks. He’s as certain of that as he is of the need to take Sam’s mind off his torturer. His rapist.
“No, I know.” Sam nods. “It’s just that so many sex monsters are associated with Satan. It’s just coincidence.” He shakes his head as if to clear it, and Dean wants to wrap him up in his arms and make it all better, like he could do when they were kids.
“Hey, why don’t we call it a night,” he suggests instead. “We’ve been at this all day, maybe it’s time to take a little break. Follow the good doctor’s orders.”
Sam’s eyebrows go up. Way up. “Dean?”
“Yeah.” Dean shuts his laptop, swings his legs over the side of the bed. “How about you and me go out? Have a couple of beers, watch a game, you know. The brotherly equivalent of that romantic evening Dr. Somers was talking about.”
“Really?” Sam seems genuinely surprised. “You want me to come out with you? To a bar?”
Dean shrugs. “Well, it’s not like I’m looking to get laid tonight.”
Still, Dean’s a little surprised when Sam agrees. It’s not like Sam to take time off, especially when they’re on a case. They find a sports bar with big screens and spend the next few hours sipping beer and munching pretzels, cheering along with the rest of the crowd and enjoying each other’s company. They sit side by side at the bar, shoulders rubbing every time one of them takes a drink, and it’s nice. Comfortable.
Dean ignores his half-hard dick, the little tingle of arousal when Sam touches him, the way Sam’s dimpled smile turns Dean’s insides to mush. He’s just feeling good, that’s all. He’s always a little turned-on around Sam. Sam represents everything good in his life, including the exciting parts. Sam’s home and family, sure, but he’s also Dean’s hunting partner, and Dean loves to hunt. It gives him a thrill. Being with Sam gives his body that adrenaline rush he associates with being on a hunt. That’s just how his body responds. It’s normal.
He totally ignores the way Sam’s thigh is pressed against his under the bar. He doesn’t think about how much he hopes Sam leaves it there.
They’re both nicely buzzed when they leave the bar, and it’s absolutely normal for them to lean on each other. Sam’s a lightweight, so he obviously needs Dean to slip an arm around his waist and let Sam drape one of his tree trunk arms across Dean’s shoulders. Sam needs the support of Dean’s body pressed into his side, just to be sure he doesn’t fall as they walk back to the motel.
Dean doesn’t think about how good it feels or how horny it makes him. That’s just the beer and their general happiness at how well the job’s going, how much they enjoy working together. Right now they’re in perfect sync, finishing each other’s sentences, laughing at each other’s jokes. When they stumble into the motel room and Sam turns to close the door, he pushes Dean up against it, pressing their bodies together in a way that gives Dean’s dick some friction. It’s awesome. Dean closes his eyes against the sudden need to rub against Sam’s thigh, which Sam has pushed up between Dean’s legs because he’s thoughtful that way.
Dean’s eyes flutter open. Sam gazes down at him with hunger in his eyes, so Dean doesn’t hesitate. He pushes his hands into Sam’s thick, soft hair and pulls his head down so he can reach his mouth. Sam lets out a surprised moan as his lips meet Dean’s, then he devours Dean’s mouth like it’s all he ever wanted. Sam’s big hands push and tug at Dean’s clothes, seeking bare skin under his jacket as he presses his thigh against Dean’s erection, rubbing his dick against Dean’s hip. They grind against each other desperately, and Dean’s never wanted to be naked so bad. Except he wants Sam naked even more.
“Dean,” Sam moans when he finally comes up for air, mouthing along Dean’s jaw to his ear.
“Yeah.” Dean tips his head back, giving Sam his throat.
“What are we doing?” Sam gasps as he kisses down the column of Dean’s throat, suckling at his Adam’s apple.
“Making out,” Dean mutters, yanking Sam’s hair to reach his mouth.
“Pretty sure we never did this before,” Sam pants, sliding his hands over Dean’s ass, kneading the tight muscles.
“Why the hell not?” Dean gasps as Sam yanks their hips together, making his dick leak. “It’s awesome!”
“Maybe because — we’re brothers?” Sam’s voice sounds ragged and hitched. Dean’s pretty sure his brain is about as mushy as Dean’s right now.
Just then, Dean feels a little tickle at the back of his mind. Something’s not quite right. He might be inebriated, but he’s definitely not stupid drunk, and right now his brain doesn’t seem functional at all. And there’s something about that idea that bothers him.
“Something’s wrong,” Sam pants as he kisses behind Dean’s ear, making him shiver. “We should stop.”
Dean doesn’t want to stop. Dean wants to undress Sam and spread him out on the bed. He wants to lick every inch of Sam’s skin and swallow his dick. Dean wants to come untouched with Sam’s dick down his throat, listening to Sam’s glorious, wrecked sounds as he writhes and trembles on the bed under Dean’s mouth and hands.
Dean wants to fuck his brother so bad it hurts.
“Sam!” Dean throws his head back and roars, pushing against Sam’s chest for all he’s worth.
It’s literally the hardest thing he’s ever done. That includes burning his father’s body, carrying Sam’s dead body into that house in Cold Oak and laying him on the old bed there, and assisting Alastair in Hell for ten years after suffering under his knife for thirty. All of that.
Sam stumbles backwards, panting, chest heaving gloriously. He’s so beautiful it makes Dean gasp.
Then everything happens fast. With a swoosh, something huge, possibly winged, definitely horned, rises up behind Sam, out of a dark corner of the room. Perhaps it was there before they came in, or maybe it followed them in silently while they were too drunk or high on each other to notice. Dean’s protective instincts kick in as the thing looms over Sam and he’s got his gun in his hand before he can blink. But Sam’s too quick; he spins, faster than such a mountain of a man should be able to move, and Dean can almost feel it as Sam’s arm arcs up hard, slicing deep into the creature’s body, splitting it open. As it falls it makes a terrible sobbing cry, and for a moment Dean’s sure he sees the face of a beautiful woman, eyes round with shock and sorrow.
Sam jumps back as the creature collapses to the ground between then, clearly dead, and Dean’s absurdly grateful he didn’t have to use his gun. He reaches over to the wall and flips on the overhead light, and the Winchesters stare down at the body of the red-haired receptionist from Dr. Somers’ office. In death, her green eyes are at half-mast, the gaping wound in her sternum leaving a pool of blood on the thin motel carpet.
“Housekeeping’s gonna love this,” Dean remarks, and Sam frowns.
“Not what I expected,” he mutters, shaking his head.
“Yeah, whatever.” Dean shrugs, stepping over the body to retrieve a box of plastic garbage bags from the table. “Let’s wrap her up and get rid of the body. Might as well hit the road tonight. This case is closed.”
“Dean?” Sam raises a look that’s half lost, half terrified, and Dean’s protective big-brother instincts go into overdrive.
“Let it go, Sam,” he says gruffly. “We were infected. Not acting like ourselves.”
“But – “
“I said, let it go! We’ve got work to do.” Dean’s being a dick and he knows it, but there’s just no way they’re talking about what just happened. Not now.
Maybe not ever.
The problem is, Dean can’t stop thinking about it. In the car after burning the monster’s body, Dean’s mind wanders as it usually does on long drives and, also as usual, he’s aroused. He knows the combination of adrenaline, exhaustion, alcohol, and the after-affects of whatever poison the succubus infected them with made them so horny that they were willing to fuck anything, even each other. He also knows he shouldn’t let it get to him. It’s not like he lusts after his brother for real or anything.
The thing is, Dean’s go-to driving fantasy has always featured his brother. It’s a pleasant pastime, making up sexy scenarios in his head, riding the arousal to keep himself awake and buzzed at the same time. It’s totally Sam’s fault, since he’s always sitting next to Dean, giving off that warm, sweaty, musky smell that turns Dean on like a light bulb. But Dean doesn’t really blame him for it. He’s grateful just to have Sam sitting next to him. Fantasizing about him feels normal to Dean, since Sam’s everything Dean needs. It’s not something he’s ever thought about very deeply. Dean drifts on a daydream of Sam’s body, often gloriously naked and spread out on a bed, or face down with his back muscles rippling. He thinks of Sam’s big hands, imagines them touching him everywhere. He thinks of Sam’s mouth, a warm, wet heat on his swollen dick as Sam looks up at him with those mesmerizing fox-shaped eyes. Dean imagines Sam’s flushed cheeks, his powerful thighs. Sam’s musk wafts over Dean in the enclosed space of the Impala, making his dick throb while Dean drives and drives. It’s good.
It’s been like this for so long Dean can’t even remember the first time. Maybe all the way back when he picked Sam up from Stanford. He’s never given it much thought. It’s just something he does to relax. To keep his mind off other, less pleasant things.
Until now. Now, for the first time, it’s weird. He’s self-conscious. He keeps glancing at Sam, wondering if Sam’s ever had the same kinds of fantasies. About Dean.
Although it shouldn’t matter, he tells himself. They’ve always lived in each other’s back pockets. Fantasizing about each other is probably just a way of comforting themselves, of calming down after a particularly tough hunt. It’s a coping mechanism, like humming Metallica when he’s stressed. It’s probably good for them.
At least, it’s always been good for Dean. And not in a sexual way. Not at all. It’s emotionally satisfying, that’s all it is. It makes him feel better.
Because Dean is one-hundred-percent sure he’s not gay, and he’s one-hundred-and-ten percent sure he’s not sexually attracted to his brother.
That would be creepy.
Okay, maybe their relationship isn’t the most healthy, although Dean would bust the nose of anyone who tried to tell him that Sam was bad for him. He’s pretty sure Sam would agree. So what if they’re a little co-dependent? After all they’ve been through? After the way they were raised? It would be weird if they weren’t.
But now Dean can’t stop wondering if Sam fantasizes about him. He sure acted like he enjoyed what they did in the motel.
What they did.
What happened between them in that motel room doesn’t count, Dean tells himself. It wasn’t real. They were roofied. That son-of-a-bitch succubus ruined a perfectly decent daydream, damn her.
Dean lets out an involuntary whimper, and Sam notices.
Just hearing Sam’s voice makes Dean’s dick throb. Has that happened before? Has it always happened?
Sam’s frowning at him with that worried, mother hen look he gets when Dean shows a little weakness, when Dean’s shell cracks and some of the soft stuff leaks out. It makes Dean feel guilty right away. He straightens his shoulders and shoots Sam a reassuring glance, shaking his head a little.
This isn’t Sam’s fault. Sam needs his big brother to be tough and strong. Sam needs Dean’s guidance and courage, his moral compass. He doesn’t need Dean to fall apart over this thing. Dean needs to man up right the hell now and get over himself, get over whatever happened back there in that motel. He needs to stop letting it get to him.
For Sam’s sake.
“I’m fine,” Dean growls, jaw clenched. He shifts on the bench a little, just to ease the tightness in his jeans. “I might still be a little high, that’s all.”
He says it through gritted teeth, disgusted with himself but determined to stay in control and reassure Sam at the same time. Piece o’ cake.
Sam raises his eyebrows, glances at Dean’s lap and sucks in a quick breath. Out of the corner of his eye Dean can see Sam’s face flush pink as he looks away.
“That’s the thing, Dean.” Sam sounds breathless. “There was no drug, remember? She had some way of psychically enhancing her victims’ feelings so she could feed off them, but those feelings were already there. They were naturally-occurring.”
“Yeah, I heard the coroner!” Dean snaps. “I was there, remember?”
“So.” Sam huffs out a breath, pulls up a knee like he wants to kick something. He shakes his head. “So those feelings were real, Dean. Are real. That’s all I’m saying.”
“What’s your point, Sam?” Dean shoots a glare at the passenger seat. “You want me to admit that my feelings for my brother might be a little complicated? There, I admitted it. Doesn’t change anything. It’s not like it’s new information, either, so don’t act all shocked. Pretty sure it’s always been this way between us, since we were kids. But feeling something is one thing. Acting on it’s another. You get me?”
Sam’s silent for a moment, but Dean can feel him thinking. He can hear Sam breathing.
“Since we were kids, Dean?” he says finally. “Really?”
“Oh for God’s sake, shut up,” Dean growls. “The point is, you lock that shit up inside, for years if you have to. You stuff it down and maybe let it come out in a little fantasy once in a while...”
“You fantasize about me?” Sam’s full-on staring at him now. Dean can feel it.
“Oh, like you don’t know!” Dean snaps. “Like you don’t do the same thing. What? Do you think I can’t hear you when you jerk off in the middle of the night? You think I don’t hear you moaning my name when you come? Really?”
Dean’s going out on a limb here, truth be told. He’s heard plenty of things Sam probably wishes he couldn’t, but he’s never thought about it before. He’s never referred to it out loud. It shocks him to realize he paid attention at all.
“Jesus, Dean,” Sam breathes, chest heaving, and Dean can feel how round Sam’s eyes are, how flushed his cheeks, even though Dean’s keeping his eyes on the road. “You were never supposed to know...”
“Welcome to the club, little brother. Repression, denial, call it whatever you want, whatever that doctor calls it. We’ve got it in spades, Sam, and you know it. That’s just the way we are.”
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Dean mutters. “It doesn’t mean anything. Probably makes us better hunters, is all.”
“What?” Sam stares. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Sure,” Dean shrugs. “All that unresolved sexual tension, all coiled up inside all the time, keeping us on our toes. Stimulated. You know. Ready for anything.”
“What, that never occurred to you? Why do you think we work so well together, huh?”
“I – I mean, I guess I never thought about it,” Sam confesses, and Dean nods.
“That’s right,” he says, smug. “That’s my boy.”
“But how do you deal with it?” Sam asks. “I mean, how do you just live with it all the time?”
“Same way you do, Sammy,” Dean says. “Don’t think about it. Leave it boiling under the surface, fueling the fire that drives us, makes us good at what we do. Just bury it down deep and leave it there.”
They’re silent for a while, driving through the darkest part of the night without passing a single car. There’s something surreal about it, a dream world where it’s just the two of them. The car rumbles all around them, the headlights hit the asphalt in front of them and the road rolls away beneath them. It’s as if they’re on a cosmic conveyor belt, moving them through time and space as they cross the distance to their next conversation. It’s almost peaceful.
Dean knows Sam won’t let this go. He can feel Sam thinking and processing. It’s what Sam does. Dean’s feeling a little shocked at himself, to be honest. He wishes he hadn’t said anything, hadn’t confessed to the feelings he’s bottled up for so long. He’s managed to ignore them so far. Dean’s pretty sure he could have gone on ignoring them forever if that stupid succubus hadn’t attacked them.
But of course Sam’s a smart boy. He’d already figured it out. Besides, Sam’d been bottling up his own feelings for so long he didn’t even realize he’d been doing it, or at least that’s the way it seems to Dean. Dean hadn’t known for sure that Sam felt the same way until now. The incident in the motel was eye-opening because it proved that Sam was every bit as good at repression as Dean. Maybe better.
After more than an hour, Dean’s mind has started wandering again, returning to those familiar, barely-conscious thoughts of Sam that have sustained him in the past.
At the sound of Sam’s voice, Dean jerks in his seat, blushing to the tips of his ears. He shifts on the bench to adjust his swollen dick, aware that Sam’s watching him. Sam sees.
“What – what are you talking about?” Dean clears his throat, stumbling over his words.
Damn, he wishes he hadn’t said anything. Is Sam sure that succubus didn’t drug them? He’s not feeling like himself.
“You know what!” Sam snaps. “Us. You and me. What now?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Seriously?” Sam’s eyes widen, Dean can tell without even looking at him. He doesn’t need to see the bitchface to know Sam’s pissed off. “You’re just going to pretend it didn’t happen?”
“Sure.” Dean shrugs. “Why not? Doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means everything, you jerk!” Sam huffs out a breath. “It changes everything!”
“Doesn’t have to, Sam,” Dean shakes his head, a little tickle of terror at the back of his mind. This wasn’t supposed to happen. “We can go on like we always have. We’re good at doing what we do. This doesn’t have to change that.”
“Except it does!” Sam snaps. “You know it does. Damn it, Dean, pull over!”
“What?” Dean glances at Sam. Yep, he’s serious. “No!”
“Pull over now or I’m gonna pull us over myself,” Sam warns, and Dean can see he means business. Sam’s anger gets Dean’s hackles up and turns him on at the same time. Sam’s hot when he’s like this.
Who is he kidding? Sam’s always hot.
Dean pulls the car over onto the graveled shoulder of the road and turns off the engine.
This is a bad idea.
“Out of the car,” Sam barks, pushing his door open.
Dean obeys like a shot, doesn’t even question the order. He shuts his door carefully and leans on the roof, keeping the car between them, watching his brother warily. Sam slams his door and paces, barely glancing at Dean.
“Okay.” Sam breathes hard, big chest heaving with effort. He slides sweaty hands down his thighs and squeezes his knees, then stands up and places his hands on the roof of the car in a parody of Dean’s casual pose. “Apparently we’ve been hot for each other since we were kids. We’re only facing it now because we’re both stubborn assholes.”
“No, you’re the stubborn asshole,” Dean corrects. “I’m the awesome big brother who had everything under control until that fuckin’ red-haired monster decided she had to mess with us.”
“Right.” Sam rolls his eyes. “You’re also the jerk who kept a huge secret from me for – what? Twenty years?” Sam throws up his arms, takes a step backwards. “You never let on, Dean! Not once! You made me think I was the only one! You let me feel like an even bigger freak than I already was!”
“No, Sam, that’s on you.” Dean gestures with one hand, keeps the other on the car. “I told you I was a freak, too. I made it clear how I felt about you. I died for you! More than once. I would’ve let the world burn for you! All those monsters and things we kill, even Azazel, can take a pass, ‘cause I’d never put one of them ahead of you. There’s never been anyone but you for me, Sam. You know that. I’ve told you that!”
Sam paces again, shaking his head. “All the girls...”
“Fantasized about you every time.” Dean shocks himself. He’s never realized this before, at least not consciously. “With every one. Even Lisa. Especially Lisa.”
Sam runs both hands through his hair. “Why?”
“Why didn’t you ever just tell me?” Sam asks, plaintive. “All those years... All those random hook-ups... Why, Dean?”
Dean thinks for a moment. He knows there used to be a reason. Probably something to do with their dad, or maybe with Bobby, who would not have approved. Although now that he thinks about it, he suspects Bobby knew.
Which makes him wonder how many people could tell. He thinks about all those times the Winchesters got mistaken for a romantic couple. Maybe random strangers could see something Dean didn’t. Maybe they could see the very thing Dean thought he had hidden so well even he and Sam couldn’t acknowledge it.
Well, the secret’s out now. There’s no use trying to put the elephant back in the bottle, or however the hell that saying goes.
“I don’t know why, Sam,” he sighs. “Maybe I did, back at the beginning, but now it’s just habit, mostly. It’s like loading a gun or changing the oil in the car. It’s just something I know how to do. I don’t think about it.”
Sam lays his hands on the roof of the car and stares at Dean, but Dean can’t make himself meet Sam’s eyes. He just can’t. He’s angry with himself for letting the truth slip out so easily, but mostly he’s feeling guilty for making Sam feel bad about this in any way. He wishes he could take it back, just to fix that, just to make things easy between them again.
“You know what I think?” Sam says finally, cautious and slow. “I think we need to drive to a motel. I think we need to start something new.”
Dean feels himself flush hot at Sam’s low tone, at the command in his voice. He darts a glance at his brother. Sam’s just leaning over the roof of the car, staring at him with those slanted eyes, his lips curled up in a tiny smirk.
“Next town’s about ten miles down the road.” Dean nods. His heart pounds hard enough to hurst in his chest as he gets into the driver’s seat and reaches for the ignition. Sam slips in beside him and Dean can feel his gaze, knows without looking that his brother is openly checking him out.
Dean clutches the steering wheel like a lifeline as the Impala roars to life, and he can’t resist peeling out, making her tires squeal as he heads on down the road.
The motel only has one room left, of course. There’s a high school speech tournament in town, so the motel is booked solid.
“It’s just the one bed,” the clerk warns, and Dean scowls at him.
“Is it a king?” he asks, and the clerk nods, glancing behind him at Sam, who is thumbing through his phone as he waits in the car. “Then we’ll be okay.”
“We’re all out of cots, with those kids in here,” the clerk notes.
Dean glares at him as he snatches the key from his hand. “I said, we’ll be fine.” Why does the guy need to draw attention to the fact that the Winchesters will be sharing a bed? It’s not like it’s the first time.
As the brothers unload the car, their shoulders brush and their hands touch briefly. Dean’s body responds as it always does, arousal coursing through his veins, erotic chemistry sparking between them as usual. Dean knows this happens all the time, probably a hundred times a day, but he’s always ignored it before. He’s never allowed himself to think about it.
Now his heart pounds and his hands are sweaty and it’s just stupid. This isn’t one of his never-mentioned fantasies. This is real.
Dean’s shaking so much he can’t get the door open.
“I can’t do this,” he mutters, panic attack threatening to explode in his chest, making his vision blur.
“Yes, you can,” Sam snaps. He crowds up behind Dean so that Dean can feel his heat. He feels Sam breathing on his neck. “Apparently, you’ve been doing it in your head forever.”
“Yeah, but that’s different,” Dean mutters as he finally gets the door to open. “That’s in my head. This is – not that.”
“Something wrong with the room?” It’s that pesky clerk again, apparently spying on them.
Sam takes things in hand then, which is just as well. “No,” he assures the clerk. “No. We’re fine.” He grabs Dean and half-pushes him, half-pulls him into the room and slams the door. Sam pushes him back against the door and shoves his thigh between Dean’s legs, grabs his face in his big hands. Dean grunts, his eyes fluttering closed as Sam kisses him, and it’s just like it was earlier, in that other motel. Sam’s kiss is ferocious and hungry, just like before, and his hands are everywhere.
“Off,” Sam gasps as he tugs on Dean’s jacket.
“Yeah.” Dean pushes Sam, who backs up enough for Dean to shrug the jacket off. Sam’s eyes are blown almost black. His stone wall of a chest is heaving, and he’s the most beautiful thing Dean’s ever seen. He’s always the most beautiful thing Dean ever sees.
When Sam moves in for more furious kissing, Dean pushes him back again so he can kick off his shoes, shrugging out of his overshirt so he’s down to his jeans and t-shirt.
“Yeah.” Sam nods, gets with the program. He kicks off his boots, shrugs off his jacket, followed by his shirt, then pulls his t-shirt off as he reaches for his belt-buckle.
They’ve been naked in front of each other more times than they can count, but of course it’s a little different now. Now Dean doesn’t just want to devour every inch of bare skin he sees. He doesn’t have to daydream about it anymore. He can do it for real. He’s got Sam’s permission. He crowds up against Sam’s big chest, pushes his fingers into Sam’s soft hair, and tugs his mouth down where Dean can reach it. Sam’s hands slide down Dean’s back to cup his ass, and they grind their hips together, dicks trapped between them.
Sam’s bare skin pressed against Dean’s is almost overwhelming. It beats every fantasy he’s ever had. Sam smells like sweat and old soap and that musky scent that Dean associates with the car and home and family and everything he loves, and it’s almost too much. Sam’s kneading Dean’s ass and bending his knees; it’s so easy to let Sam lift him, carry him the last couple of feet to the bed. Dean wraps his legs around Sam’s waist and holds on, kissing down the column of Sam’s thick neck to his shoulder. Dean buries his face in the juncture of Sam’s neck and shoulder, breathing deep. Sam lays Dean down, climbs on top of him, and ruts into his hip.
Then Sam rolls off so he can reach down between them and grab both of their dicks in his big hand. Dean throws his head back and squeezes his eyes shut against the urge to come.
"It's okay, Dean. I got you."
Sam strokes their dicks and Dean keens, seeing stars behind his eyelids as his dick spills long and hard over Sam’s hand and his own belly.
“Fuck,” Sam gasps, then he’s coming too. Dean feels it, feels Sam’s dick throb against his, feels Sam’s body seize up as he comes.
Dean passes out with Sam draped over him, warm and a little sticky, one hand cradling the back of Dean’s head, Dean’s face smashed against Sam’s collarbone.
Sam presses his lips against Dean’s temple, kissing tenderly. "Better than fantasy?"
"Hmmmm," Dean answers. It's the best he can do. He feels Sam smile against his skin, so he knows he got it right.
Just before he falls asleep, Dean notices the early-morning sunlight peeking under the bottom of the window-blind.
It’s a new day.