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stephanometraTitle: Turn You Out in Kind
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC17, but it's the plotty kind of porn, not the filthy shameless RPS phone-sexin' kind.
Summary: In which Sam is a werewolf. AU after "Hollywood Babylon."
Warnings: Incest, certain consent issues specific to fuck-or-die scenarios, whatever fractional bestiality is involved in having sex with a changed werewolf. GEE, THIS FIC SOUNDS AWESOME.
Notes: Once upon a time, my darling![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
vanitymachine started this comm called ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_lyrically, which put forward lyrics challenges to be written into fics. I, being a dutiful internet girlfriend, signed up for this challenge. And then I promptly got much, much more than I bargained for with regard to this little prompt:
got a curse we cannot lift
shines when the sunshine shifts
there's a cure comes with a kiss
the bite that binds
the gift that gives
The song is "Wolf Like Me" by TV on the Radio, and based on it (or rather, based on that little snippet of it, as I've never actually heard the damn song), I have written a were!Sammy fuck-or-die AU. 8500 words, guys! MY MIND IS BLOWN. And much love tokatjad and muchniat, who were there to beta this monster for me. ♥
***
"God bless Abita Brewing Company," Dean says, twisting the cap off his second beer.
Sam snorts. "More like God bless middle-aged barmaids trying to charm their way into your pants with free alcohol."
And yeah, okay, maybe that's fair, but Dean punches Sam's shoulder anyway. "She was a nice lady, man. Don't talk about her that way."
"You think any chick who gives you beer is a nice lady, Dean."
"Yeah, and? We wasted the poltergeist breaking her glassware. She was grateful." He looks meaningfully at the bottle in Sam's hand. "If you don't want your half of the take, just say the word."
Sam twists, cradling his beer protectively when Dean reaches over to swipe it. "Hey, you've got your own!"
"Yeah, that's what I thought," Dean laughs.
"It's Abita Turbodog," Sam says, like that's explanation enough.
Dean grins. He takes a long pull from the bottle and turns his attention back to the sun setting over the lake.
There isn't a whole lot in Lake Charles besides chemical plants and a run-down state college; the woman's bar was one of the only decent places to get a drink in town, and it's currently got a quarter of the wiring ripped out of the walls and shattered glass everywhere. So instead of sitting on their laurels at a bar, they're sprawled on the hood of the Impala and pulling bottles of lukewarm beer from the case, parked down by the waterfront like high school kids. It's nice, as far as post-hunt unwinding goes. Tomorrow they'll head up to Arkansas -- one of Dad's Corps buddies called in a favor -- but tonight, they can just relax a little, drink their free beer like civilized human beings.
The air is heavy with humidity and whatever crap the petrochemical plants are putting out; it's almost too thick to breathe, but the sunset's gorgeous. Reminds Dean a little of L.A.
A bottle breaks.
"Hey, what's with the alcohol abuse?" He turns to his brother, notices Sam's white-knuckled grip on his thighs. Shit. A vision is the last thing they need right now. Deacon, their contact in Little Rock, needs them right away; he'd been pretty adamant about that on the phone. "Sam?"
And Sam gradually straightens, looks back at him, and freakishly it's not Sam at all: something feral and ancient and pissed-off is looking out at him through Sam's eyes.
Then Dean notices the teeth, and the claws, and the full moon just clearing the horizon.
"Oh, shit," he says, and ducks out of the way a split-second before Sam (it's not Sam; it's a werewolf, oh fuck Sam's a werewolf) rakes a hand through the air where his right shoulder had been.
He dives for the driver's side of the car as Sam lunges for him again. Dean throws open the door, smacking Sam with it in an attempt to throw him off-balance (which doesn't work) and then cringing at the strident cry of pain when Dean catches a long-clawed hand in the door in his haste to slam it shut.
"Fuck," Dean mutters under his breath, fumbling in his pocket for his keys. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." Sam swipes at the windows, gouges ragged scratches on the windshield, and if that isn't un-fucking-fair, Dean doesn't know what is -- there's a monster inside his brother, and it's going to destroy his car. That's just perfect, is what it is, and he doesn't even have a useful weapon because all the silver's in the trunk. There's a twelve-gauge in the backseat and a box of shells in the glovebox, but lead shot will just piss the werewolf (oh God, Sam) off, unless he can pump it full enough of lead to bleed it out.
He imagines pulling out the shotgun, sees the creature wearing Sam's face lying in a pool of Sam's blood, and distracts himself from the sudden urge to hurl by smacking his forehead against the steering wheel.
Christ.
Dean takes stock of the situation. Eventually it's going to get through the werewolf's thick animal head that 6'4" of beast is no match for a ton and a half of chrome and steel, and it'll run off in search of other prey. He can't let that happen, but the only weapons he has are useless without hurting Sam way, way worse than Dean ever could. Essentially? It's Dean and the Impala against were-Sammy.
He stares at the wheel. Winces as Sam tries to punch through the hood, because that dent won't come out easy.
Well, at least Dean's got his girl.
He throws the car into reverse and stomps on the gas; Sam tumbles off the hood to the sound of bottles breaking on the pavement.
The werewolf rolls over, shaking his head wildly, while the Impala shoots backwards and then screams to a halt.
Biting his lip, Dean kicks her into drive and hopes like hell he'll only have to do this once.
***
Dean breathes a sigh as he rolls back into the motel's parking lot, thankful that the worst fifteen minutes he's ever spent on the road are behind him.
He loves driving, really he does, but ten miles of shitty Louisiana highway, a trunk full of unconscious wolfed-out little brother (little my ass, Dean thinks, feeling the strain in his shoulders), and a backseat full of blades and ordnance he'd rather not have to explain to a cop even if he weren't already on the FBI's hot list are enough to stress anybody out. If he didn't love his car so much, he'd probably have driven off the road half a dozen times just from nerves.
The motel is deserted, thank God, so nobody sees him dragging the weapons into the room or opening the trunk to check on Sam.
He looks again to make sure he's grabbed all of the silver, leans down to slide a paperclip onto the cuff of Sam's filthy shirt. Sam's wrists are cuffed behind him, his ankles wrapped with inch-wide steel chain. Dean figures that when the werewolf wakes up, that should be enough to keep him from tearing the shit out of the trunk, but Sam would make short work of the cuffs and the lock when he came back to himself, same as he'd been able to do since he was in junior high.
Dean shuts the trunk before he's overpowered by the urge to pull Sam out and get him inside, tend to the gash on his forehead and the obvious sprain in his left ankle -- Dammit, Dean, focus.
The best thing he can do for Sam right now is make sure that he doesn't hurt anyone.
It's a long night, and he spends it cleaning every gun they own, because he had to take all of them out in order to make room for Sam in the trunk. It's a good thing he can do it without looking, because he can't tear his eyes away from the Impala, except to glance at the pearl-handled pistol -- the first one he cleaned -- loaded up with silver and sitting within easy reach on the bed, and at the horizon for signs of dawn.
***
When he finally goes to open the trunk, the sun's already been up for half an hour. He takes the gun anyway.
Sam is awake, curled into a defensive posture that anyone but Dean would mistake for sleep, and as soon as the trunk is all the way open, he rolls over with a knife poised to strike, eyes widening confusedly when he sees Dean pointing a gun in his face. Sam blinks into the pale light of the early morning, looking almost tragically bewildered, and lowers the blade. "Dean?"
"Morning, princess," Dean says, stowing the pistol and extending a hand to help Sam up.
Sam reaches up and grasps his wrist. "What the hell happened last night?" He kicks off the chains and leaves the cuffs and the padlock in the trunk.
"Funny story, actually," Dean says, watching Sam settle on his feet; he doesn't favor the ankle Dean knows was sprained not ten hours ago, and the cut at his hairline has closed up completely. Weird.
"Start talking," Sam says, wincing as he shakes the stiffness from his limbs.
"Um." Dean runs his hand through his hair. "I'm not sure I can do this on an empty stomach."
Sam just stares.
Great, Dean thinks. "You're apparently a werewolf now."
And Sam keeps staring, his face falling as the gears in his head turn. "No," he says. "No, it's not possible."
Dean sighs. "Did you notice that there was no silver left in the trunk?"
Sam is silent for a long time, looking down at the pavement. "Why am I still breathing, Dean?" he finally asks, looking betrayed.
"Oh, fuck this," Dean says. "I definitely can't have that conversation until after breakfast."
"Dean."
"Half an hour isn't going to make that big a difference, Sam, I promise. Just get in the damn car."
***
Dean manages to make it halfway through his waffles before caving to Sam's stony silence and accusatory looks. The kid can sulk with the best of them, especially when he's got a legitimate excuse.
"Are you done yet?" Sam asks Dean, again.
He isn't.
"We need to talk about this, Dean. Don't you think that's just a little more important than stuffing your face?"
Dean takes a sip of his coffee. "Most important meal of the day, Sammy," he says mildly, but the muscles in his jaw are already sore and tight from his clenching them.
Sam clenches his hands into white-knuckled fists, and for a second Dean thinks Sam might actually punch a hole in the table. "What the hell is your problem, man? This is -- how can you possibly act like this? Like it's all a big joke?" He gestures wildly at Dean's plate, at their surroundings. "Like everything is just normal, like you're not going to have to take me out back and --"
"Sam," Dean says, calmly laying down his fork. "Shut the fuck up."
And Sam's jaw hardens, but he obeys, glaring at Dean sullenly through his bangs. "You promised, Dean. You promised."
"We are not going to talk about this here." He pulls a crumpled ten out of his wallet and drops it on the chipped laminate tabletop. "Come on."
Sam gets up and follows him out of the diner.
***
They ride back to the motel in silence. Sam is apparently too pissed even to look at him, and Dean drives as if he's on autopilot, like nothing matters but the speedometer and the stop signs on the way.
"What the hell are we supposed to do now, huh?" Sam asks as soon as the door to the hotel room shuts behind him, shoving at Dean's shoulder angrily.
Dean shoves back, fingers spread against the center of Sam's chest. "We figure something out!"
"How, Dean? Just what, precisely, do we know now that we didn't know a month ago that makes you think this is all going to be fucking okay?"
"Nothing," Dean admits, the truth feeling toxic and sharp on his tongue.
"Then you know what we have to -- what has to be done."
"Yeah, I do. But there is no fucking way that is happening until we've got a little more information."
Sam throws up his hands, makes a pained sound of exasperation, and Dean wants to scream. Jesus, it's not like Sam's the only one who's angry and scared.
He gentles his tone a little, tries to sound reasonable. "We don't even know how the hell this happened, Sam. I mean -- she didn't bite you while you were..." He gestures inelegantly. "Did she?"
"No, she didn't." Sam is still glaring at him, wretched and accusatory, but Dean's willing to call a straight answer progress.
"Damn right she didn't. I would have seen it, anyway." He paces the room, tries to shake off the feeling of Sam's eyes boring into him. "Then how did it get in you? You need direct contact, man."
Sam goes silent, and when Dean whirls around, Sam won't meet his eyes.
"What?" he asks.
Taking a deep breath, Sam says, "We kind of ignored certain...precautions."
"You did what?"
"She's allergic to latex!" Sam shoots back, collapsing in on himself a little bit when he realizes he used present tense. "Was. Whatever. And I'm -- we just weren't worried about it."
"Yeah, well, seems to me that maybe you should've been." He wants to punch something so badly that he's practically shaking with it. "Dammit, Sam, I taught you better than that."
"We don't even know if it's possible to transmit it that way."
Dean glares. "I got a huge friggin' dent in my hood says it is."
"Oh, great, now you're going to yell at me about the car."
Sitting down in one of the rickety wooden table's rickety wooden chairs, Dean grabs for Dad's journal and flips it open. "No, now I'm going to figure out what the hell we're supposed to do."
But of course Dad is just as silent now as he was last month on the pressing topic of what to do with a werewolf you don't particularly want to shoot full of silver. Dean honestly didn't expect anything else.
"Fuck," he says.
Sam nods, his mouth a tight line. "Dean," he says, and they just don't have time to go around in circles like this.
"Shut up, Sammy." He looks stupidly at the open journal, like his father's stark, close handwriting will start making sense if he stares hard enough. "There's an answer somewhere. We've just got to find it."
"You know as well as I do that there's only --"
"I said shut up." He shoves Dad's journal across the table and buries his face in his hands. "Couldn't have put something useful in here, oh no. Because six pages of Navajo skinwalker lore is so much more crucially important than the tiny little fact that apparently lycanthropy is a fuckin' STD. Goddamn."
Sam's lips quirk a little at that. "We would've had a hard time with that bitch in Utah without those pages, though."
"That's not the point, Sam." Frowning, he fumbles in his pocket for his phone.
"Who are you calling?"
"Bobby."
"He already told us everything he knows."
"I'm not so sure of that." Dean sighs. "Besides, we need advice at least as much as we need information."
Sam laughs, short and mirthless and brutal. "Yeah. Sure."
***
"What's the problem, Dean?" Bobby asks as soon as he picks up the phone.
Dean blinks. "You know, the fact that you know us so well and are still taking our calls is probably grounds for sainthood in at least three major world religions."
"Don't I know it. What do you need?"
"Well." He scratches the back of his neck, tries to think of the best way to say it. Realizes there is no best way to say something like this. "We've got another werewolf problem."
"Again? Does Sam want to screw this one, too?"
"Oh, God," Dean groans. "About that. Any particular reason nobody saw fit to mention that fucking a werewolf is practically equivalent to having one take a chunk out of you?"
"What? Sam is -- what the hell was he thinking?"
"Yeah, well, that's what I'm saying."
Silence. "I can be there in two days to help you take care of the body, if you need the help. If you want me there," Bobby finally says.
Dean goes very, very still. "That is not gonna happen, Bobby. We'll figure something out. But not -- not that."
Gently, patiently, Bobby says, "Look, son, I know how much --"
"You don't know a damn thing," Dean cuts in, wishing he could unsay the words even as he finishes grinding them out. He takes a deep breath. "Bobby, I -- please just tell me what to do."
Silence hangs on the line for a tense moment, and then Bobby sighs resignedly. "You can't fix this one, Dean. There's just no way."
"I'm not asking how to fix it. I just need to keep it under control for two more nights, alright? Then we've got almost a month to figure out something more, uh. Permanent." He rubs at the bridge of his nose, suddenly exhausted. God.
There's another long pause, and Dean can practically hear the argument Bobby's having with himself in his head. Hell, it's the same one he'd be having with himself, if he had the luxury of anything approaching a choice where Sam's concerned.
But Bobby always comes through for them. Always has.
"You're going to have to keep him isolated," he finally says.
And always will. Dean just about sags with relief. "Well, yeah, I pretty much figured that one out on my own."
Bobby harrumphs. "Smartass," he says, but there's no force behind it.
"Sorry." Dean swallows. "So what, do I tie him up? Cuff him to the headboard, keep the silver on standby?"
"You can't stay with him, Dean. Keep watch outside, yeah, but it's too dangerous to be near him when he changes, especially if you're packing. Weres respond to perceived threats pretty violently."
Dean thinks of ripped-open throats and torn-out hearts, thinks of asshole bosses and creepy ex-boyfriends. Thinks of inch-deep gouges carved in drywall. "Yeah. So I hear."
***
Once he accepts that Dean isn't going to shoot him (and Dean makes it perfectly clear that he's more than willing to break every one of Sam's fingers if that's what it takes to keep him from doing it himself), Sam has a hard time sitting still. All Dean wants to do is crawl into bed and stay there until dusk, but Sam is in full-on geek overload trying to figure out what to do.
Their motel room's bathroom is windowless and square with a door that opens inward. Sam figures that's good.
"I won't be able to open it," he says, long fingers ghosting over the doorknob. "Even if I could manage to turn it, I'd be too stupid to pull instead of push." He smiles weakly at Dean, inviting the obvious joke, trying to act like everything's okay, and it kind of makes Dean want to shoot something. Repeatedly.
"Yeah, whatever," Dean says, and he sits down heavily on one of the beds with his head in his hands.
***
Half an hour until sunset; Sam has stripped down to his boxers and a t-shirt, and he keeps unfolding and refolding his jeans. He won't meet Dean's eyes, but his glance keeps flicking tensely to the gun on the nightstand. "You sure about this?" he asks.
And Dean isn't sure, not by a long shot, but given a choice between shooting Sammy in cold blood and the prospect of killing a werewolf to save lives, he'll take the latter any day.
Besides, he's planning on spending the night behind the wheel of the Impala, pistol at the ready and keys in the ignition, just in case. And there's no reason to tell Sam that he'd wreck his girl a hundred times mowing down a rampaging were-Sammy if it meant never having to pull that trigger.
Dean plasters on a cocky, reassuring grin. "You'll be fine, Sam," he says.
Sam gives him a pained smile. "You are so full of shit." He ducks into the bathroom and shuts the door, engages the lock. "Get out of here, it's almost time."
***
For the record? Staying up all night in one's car with just a silver-loaded semiautomatic and three massive cups of lukewarm coffee for company sucks, even when the car is as awesome as Dean's baby.
He stumbles back into the motel room twenty minutes after sunrise, exhausted, starving, and jumpy with apprehension. There hadn't been a sound from the room all night -- at least not one he could hear in the parking lot -- and he's honestly torn as to whether or not that's a good thing.
Dean hoped to find Sam sacked out in one of the beds, but the room is empty and the bathroom door is still closed.
"Sam?" he calls, knocking. "Hey, man, it's morning." He turns the doorknob, but it's locked, and Sam isn't responding from the other side.
"Come on, Sammy, let me in!" Dean tries to keep the panic from his voice, but it's so fucking quiet in the room. Fuck.
Tense, he waits another thirty seconds for Sam to make his presence known. Then he kicks in the door.
His automatic first thought is that he must have missed one of the silver knives when he inventoried their gear earlier. He thought he had all of them, but he must have been wrong.
Fast on its heels is I'm going to fucking kill Bobby.
***
"You said he'd be okay if he was isolated," Dean accuses as soon as Bobby picks up the phone.
"Did he get out? Hurt anyone?" Bobby sounds tired and worried.
"No, it's --" Dean pauses in his agitated pacing, looks at Sam's still form on the bed. A neat line of sutures, hidden by a bandage, closes a long, deep cut curving up Sam's side to his left pec. Dozens of smaller slashes crisscross his torso, his neck. "Jesus Christ, Bobby, I've never seen so much blood." That's almost certainly a lie, but it feels like the truth.
"Dean, calm down. Whose blood is it? Do you know?"
He takes a deep breath, squashes the irritation at being talked to like he's an amateur; he knows he probably sounds hysterical. "It's Sam's. All of it."
"He cut himself up?"
"Forty fucking stitches' worth, Bobby. Room's a goddamn disaster."
Bobby whistles low. "Shit."
"Yeah, tell me about it."
Sam shifts on the bed where Dean laid him, moaning softly. "He's coming around. I'll call you back." He drops the phone on the carpet, not bothering to end the call, and crouches next to Sam's bedside.
"Dean?" Sam blinks sleepily and presses a hand to his temple, wincing.
Dean immediately grabs for the amber bottle he placed on the nightstand earlier, fumbles it open and forces a Demerol past Sam's lips. "It's okay, it's a painkiller, just swallow. You're cut up pretty bad."
Sam struggles to get the pill down dry before Dean helps him take a sip of water. "Did I -- oh, Christ." He reaches for the cut on his side, but Dean grabs his wrist before he can touch the gauze-covered stitches.
"I took care of it, Sam. Leave it alone, you need to sleep."
Sam shakes his head and then immediately looks like he wishes he hadn't. "Tell me I didn't hurt anybody. Dean, you -- you promised."
Dean's stomach lurches painfully. "You didn't leave the room all night, Sammy."
Befuddlement crosses Sam's face. "What the hell?"
"I don't know, but I'll find out. Now go back to sleep, I'll bring you something to eat later."
***
"How is he?" Bobby asks when Dean steps out of the room and calls him back.
"Asleep," Dean says. "Confused and in pain, but sleeping now."
"Yeah, well, thank heaven for small mercies."
"He lost a shitload of blood, Bobby. He shouldn't be breathing, it was so bad. Almost took him to the hospital, werewolf or not."
Bobby snorts. "You know better than that."
"Yeah." Dean is quiet for a moment. "Tell me why this happened. Is it something to do with the demon?"
"Could be. Hard to say for sure, but demons and weres don't generally get on." Bobby says. "And the only thing good as silver at killing a were is another werewolf."
"Fuck."
"Yeah."
"I can't let this happen again," Dean says after another uncomfortable silence. "If he tears himself up tonight, he's going to be recovering from those injuries for weeks, and we've got a gig in Arkansas." He clears his throat, tries to sound like that's the only reason he's worried, like he's not maniacally grateful that Sam managed to pass out from blood loss before he could get to his own heart. Like he's sure that's always what will happen when the moon makes Sam turn his rage in on himself.
"You aren't still thinking of taking that job at the prison?"
"It's a debt, Bobby. You understand."
"Oh, of all the." There's a rustling on the other end, like Bobby's rubbing his temples in exasperation. "It was a crap idea before your circumstances changed. Now I think it's about the dumbest idea I ever heard."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, man. I really appreciate it."
"Mind your tone." Bobby pauses. "There's only one thing I can think to try that might work."
"Yeah?" He starts pacing the parking lot, not caring if he looks totally insane. "Tell me."
"No guarantees, though, and you're not gonna like it."
Dean stops short, gesturing wildly for Bobby to continue, as though his wild handwaving were visible over the phone. "So?"
"He needs to, uh, recognize you as pack."
He laughs, harsh and bitter. "Bobby, we're all we've got. I don't know how know he could ever think I was anything else. Even if he's, y'know, wolfed out."
"You're a hunter, Dean. Sam is always gonna know that you're a threat to him when he changes. Family comes second to survival, here. Only way he's not going to attack you is if he's got a...visceral reason not to. Sense memory."
"Oh." Dean ponders for a second. "So, what, does he need to piss on me, or something? Mark his territory? Because, well, that's --" It's gross, actually, but it's the doable kind of gross. Like a jellyfish sting, or something.
Bobby takes a deep breath, the kind Dean knows he always takes when he's trying to decide whether to laugh or cry. Not that he's ever seen Bobby cry. "Dean."
"What? Come on, man, I'm not fucking around here."
A long pause -- funny how common those are getting to be, lately. "Madison didn't attack Sam when she turned that last time, did she?" Bobby's tone is low, carefully controlled, like he expects Dean to freak out.
And, well. Maybe if Dean weren't so damned tired, and maybe if he hadn't already exceeded his freakout quota for the entire fucking month, then he'd be happy to oblige. But he is, and he has, so he just blinks. "Did you miss the part about weresexin' passing on the contagion, Bobby? That's no good, there's got to be something else."
Bobby clears his throat. "No, you don't have to -- he's just got to -- you know. On you."
Dean blinks again. "That would work?"
"Weres don't attack their mates. Lore's pretty clear on that."
"Huh."
Okay, so maybe Dean's got just enough energy left for a little freaking out.
***
The best cures for a Dean Winchester freakout, Sam would probably be happy to tell anyone who felt like asking, are sleep, pie, and sex. In that order.
Somehow Dean doubts that that last is going to do him much good, given the current circumstances. But he catches a few fitful hours of sleep and then ventures out in the afternoon to grab dinner. Since it's a special occasion (well, kind of, Dean thinks, suppressing the urge to laugh hysterically), he hits a steakhouse instead of a diner, and James Page buys them twelve-ounce ribeyes, baked potatoes, and cheesecake. The waitress just gives him a bored nod when he asks her to box it all up to go, which is good; if she'd said anything about a romantic dinner for two, he probably would have punched her out, and then he'd have to feel bad about it later. Dean Winchester does not hit girls.
Well, human ones, anyway.
Sam stirs when Dean walks in with the food. He looks stronger, not as pale or pathetically injured as he had earlier.
"Hungry?" Dean asks, and Sam nods, sits up.
"What'd you bring me?" He reaches for the bag and digs out one of the styrofoam boxes, moving gingerly at first and then with a little more surety.
Dean hands over a hunting knife and a plastic fork and watches Sam eat. He frowns a little when he notices that Sam is demolishing Dean's own bloody-rare steak rather than the one he ordered medium (because Sam is a huge girl and foolishly believes that meat actually has to be cooked in order to be edible), but he doesn't say anything because, well, he probably should have seen that coming.
"How's your side?" he asks around a mouthful of overcooked steak.
Sam gently prods the bandaged wound. "Hurts less than it should, I think," he says in between bites.
"Is that just the narcotics talking?"
"Could be. I don't know."
"Well." Dean swallows, suddenly uncomfortable. "If you need more, we've got 'em."
"It's fine," Sam says, looking away.
They finish their dinners, both poking holes in the bottoms of the take-out boxes with their knives and getting grease all over the bedspreads.
"I talked to Bobby," Dean says as Sam licks the last of the cheesecake off his fork.
"What'd he have to say?"
"He's got an idea."
"And?"
Dean hesitates. "It's...weird."
Sam just looks at him like he's an idiot, and okay, Dean probably deserved that.
Scowling, he continues: "You need to be supervised so you won't tear yourself up again. The wacky healing factor thing you've got now should take care of the shit from last night, but any new injuries won't have the moon to help 'em heal up faster."
"Huh." Sam sets down the fork and closes up the takeout box. "And how do you propose we keep me from eating whomever we get to supervise?"
"Well. Apparently werewolves won't attack their mates."
"Their mates." Sam is still looking at him like he's a retard, and it makes Dean distinctly uncomfortable.
"Well, think about it. If the disease is sexually transmitted, then presumably anyone sleeping with a were is either already one themselves, or going to become one the next month. It's like a reproductive instinct, right?"
Sam's mouth opens and closes a few times. "You want me to infect somebody?"
"No! No." Dean rubs at the bridge of his nose, thinking that on a scale of one to awkward, this has to be one of the most stupidly uncomfortable conversations he's ever had. "There are other...things. You don't have to put anybody at risk."
"And by anybody, you mean...?"
He shoots Sam a patronizing look. "Me, dumbass. Who else?"
Looking down at his hands, Sam can't quite hide his smile. "Okay. What are we doing, then?"
"Um." Dean takes a deep breath. "It requires semen."
He watches from under his lashes as Sam considers this for a moment, nods. "That makes sense, I guess. What do we need to do with it?"
"It's, uh, more you doing it. On me."
Sam raises an eyebrow; Dean makes the universally recognizable emblematic gesture for jerking off. Then both of Sam's eyebrows make a run for his hairline, his eyes widening almost comically.
"That's safe?"
"As long as I don't have any open wounds, yeah. I know it's not ideal, but..." Dean trails off and looks away, concentrating on a stain on the hideous carpet instead. He can hear Sam thinking on the other bed -- geek brains are frigging loud -- but neither of them says anything for a minute.
Finally, Sam says, "Okay."
Dean looks up. "So how do you want to do this, then?"
Sam doesn't answer -- or rather, Dean doesn't get a verbal warning before Sam answers by moving onto Dean's bed, curling a hand around the side of Dean's neck, and sticking his tongue down Dean's throat.
"Mmph!" Dean says, flailing his arms for a second before remembering oh yeah, he actually knows what to do when a psycho attacks him in close quarters.
Sam is obviously surprised to end up face-down in a submission hold on the bed. Dean thinks that's kind of dumb of him (and completely ignores the fact that Sam could break the hold in his sleep, if not for that surprise).
"The hell are you doing?" Dean demands.
"What the hell did it look like? Jesus." Sam bucks him off, rolls them so Dean's flat on his back on the mattress.
"I didn't say a damn thing about kissing, dude."
"Dean, we have to have sex. Kissing is, uh, really kind of not a big deal at this point."
"Yeah, it kind of fucking is! Fuck, I was thinking you'd just beat off in the bathroom like a normal human being!" Dean squirms his way out from under his brother, gets up and starts agitatedly pacing the room.
Sam just stares at him. "What is your problem, man? Why are you freaking out about this?"
Dean laughs, low and bitter. "I don't know why you're not, Sam!"
"Dean, you're my brother --"
"Who's going to be wearing your come as cologne --"
"-- and fine, maybe it's weird --"
"Maybe?"
"-- but there's no reason to be, like, ashamed of it."
Gaping, Dean chokes out, "Sam, I'm pretty sure that there is every reason to be ashamed of having sex with your werewolf brother. Fuck, listen to yourself. How can you be so -- I don't know, nonchalant about all of this? What's the matter with you?"
Sam looks stricken, swallows hard. "I don't want to die," he says quietly.
Then he gets up and walks out the door.
Dean doesn't follow him; he just sits there staring at the door, paralyzed by the realization that he is the world's biggest tool.
***
Sam is only gone for ten minutes, but it feels like hours.
Dean starts and turns when he hears the click of the key in the lock, and Sam looks grim and determined when the door swings open.
"Call Deacon," he orders, and of all the things he could have said, Dean wasn't expecting that.
"Why?" Dean asks, brow furrowing.
"Tell him we can't take the job."
"Sam, we have to take that job. You know that."
Sam shakes his head. "I won't be able to go with you, and you can't do it alone."
"Of course you're going with me, Sammy!"
"I'm going to be injured, Dean; I'd only slow you down." He touches his side as if suddenly reminded of the wound there, wincing when he presses against the stitches over his hip.
Dean glares. "Were you not listening when I told you there was a way around that? Because I very clearly remember saying it."
And Sam clenches his jaw, looks away. "Yeah, I was listening. And that's why I can't ask you to do it, alright?"
"The hell you can't!"
"It freaks you out!"
"Sam, you have always freaked me out! Just --" Dean scrubs at his forehead. "Okay, fine."
Sam slumps a little, the tension going out of his shoulders, which means that he's completely unprepared when Dean closes the distance between them, grabs the back of Sam's neck, and hauls him down into a kiss.
It's messy and weird; their teeth click when Sam grunts and tries to pull away, but Dean doesn't go until Sam relaxes, breathes out through his nose.
"Why are you doing this?" Sam asks softly against Dean's mouth when they break apart.
"Because you're my brother," Dean says without hesitation, only realizing how ludicrous it sounds after Sam starts to snicker. Then they're both shaking with laughter, foreheads touching, breathing each other's air, and despite how desperately fucked up the whole situation is, Dean kind of feels like everything's going to be okay.
Sam leans down again, fitting their mouths together, and hooks two fingers in Dean's waistband. "Can I," he murmurs, popping the button on Dean's jeans without waiting for an answer.
Dean stills, grasps Sam's wrist. "You don't have to. I'm not even sure -- I might not be able to."
Sam just steps forward, pressing their hips together, and holy shit, Sam is hard.
Dean blinks, trying to make sense of that information, and Sam takes advantage of that moment of confusion to slip a hand into Dean's boxers, curl his fingers around his cock.
"I want you to," Sam says in a low tone.
"But I don't have to. It's not...required."
Kissing him again, Sam says, "If I'm getting off, so are you."
"You always this much of a gentleman?"
Sam smiles against his mouth. "Yeah, I am."
And then Sam's hand moves on his dick, and hell, Dean's had way worse handjobs in his life. Heat pools in his belly, and he feels himself getting hard in Sam's hand as Sam continues to rub up against him through their jeans. "My hero," Dean chokes out, giving in, thrusting up into Sam's fist and gasping.
Sam lets out a breathy little moan. "I've been -- nngh, God, I jerked off twice today."
"You were supposed to be sleeping!"
"Couldn't help it," he pants. "Tonight, I -- I got hard as soon as you said 'mate.' It's completely ridiculous."
Dean grins. "Man, you're easy."
"Oh, that's awesome, coming from you." Sam pushes Dean towards the nearest bed, tugging at Dean's shirt and then pulling off his own. They tumble onto the bed together, and Sam hisses, buries his face in Dean's neck as his hips press Dean's into the mattress.
"Careful," Dean breathes when he feels the barest scrape of teeth against his throat.
Sam flushes, bites his lip. "Sorry."
"It's fine." Dean looks up at Sam through slitted eyes, and then noses under Sam's chin, tugging Sam's head back with a hand in his hair and nipping at the stubble-rough skin under Sam's jaw.
Almost instantly, Sam goes rigid, crying out and pressing hard into the hollow of Dean's hip. "Oh God," he moans.
"Hmm," Dean murmurs against Sam's throat. "Always knew you were a bitch, Sammy."
"Shut up and do that again."
The musky salt of Sam's skin fills Dean's mouth as he worries at Sam's throat and collarbone with his teeth, earthy and intoxicating, and the more bruises he sucks into Sam's neck, the more urgently Sam thrusts against him. Dean reaches down, feels soft cotton and hard flesh under his hands, and then unzips Sam's jeans and pushes them down his thighs. Sam freezes above him, dropping his head, mesmerized by his cock trailing precome over Dean's belly.
"Okay?" Dean asks, wrapping a hand loosely around Sam's dick, resting the other on Sam's hip, reassuring, when Sam draws in a sharp breath.
Sam nods shakily, hips jerking. "Yeah, just." He groans low in his throat as he watches his cock move through Dean's fist. "Close, so close."
"That's kind of the point," Dean says, and he starts to stroke.
And God, brother or not, Sam is gorgeous when he's coming undone, all trembling limbs and fever-bright eyes as he groans low in his throat, begs without words for what Dean's giving him. His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and Dean leans in close, licks delicately at the place where Sam's neck and shoulder meet before biting down hard, feeling the muscle jump between his teeth.
Sam gasps, presses an open-mouthed kiss to the side of Dean's throat, and then stills, shooting off thick and hot between them, painting Dean's hand and stomach with come.
The alkaline scent of it and the feel of it on his skin, marking him, are overwhelming, and Dean clutches at his cock, suddenly desperate to touch himself, desperate to come. "Sammy," he groans, one hand moving between them, the other tangling in Sam's hair.
Sam rouses, rolls halfway off of him, and gathers the sticky-white on Dean's belly in his hand. "Come on," he says, curling his hand around Dean's, thumbing the head of Dean's dick with come-slick fingers, and that's it, Dean is gone, his vision blurring as orgasm overtakes him.
They catch their breath, tangled up in one another, covered in sweat and come. "Goddamn," Dean breathes, and then he pushes at Sam's shoulders until Sam rolls off him. He fumbles to retrieve his boxers from the floor, frowns at the mess on his stomach as he pulls them on. Not being able to shower after something like that goes a long way towards killing the languorous post-orgasmic hum under his skin, and of course the fact that he just got off with his brother more than does for the rest.
Itchy and uncomfortable, he moves to the other bed, grabs the remote and turns on the television. Law and Order is on -- Law and Order is always on, a constant in a fucked-up crazy world where he can have sex with his brother, where he knows the way Sam's dick pulses when he comes. He may feel helpless and strange, but at least he's got Law and Order.
Dean can feel Sam pointedly not looking at him, which suits him fine because he's not looking at Sam, either, and the silence between them is a hell of a lot louder than the TV.
***
Two, maybe three episodes play -- there's a marathon going, or so the commercials say, although why USA feels the need to advertise a marathon that their viewers are already watching is completely beyond Dean -- before Sam gets up, still naked, and goes into the bathroom. He doesn't say a word, doesn't shut the door either.
"Sam?" Dean ventures.
"I'll -- I'll be out in a minute," Sam says, and Dean looks at the window, notices the orange glare of the streetlamps outside playing at the hem of the curtains, and he understands.
Dean turns off the TV, listens for the sounds of movement, cries, anything. He knows that Sam is probably just sitting in the tub because he doesn't want Dean to see him...change, but frankly Dean couldn't care less about Sam's modesty if Sam's in pain. He waits, hears absolutely nothing, which is, if anything, even more worrying.
Then Sam steps out of the bathroom cubicle, looking unsettlingly feral, and just stands there, unmoving.
"Sam?" Dean asks again. He stands up and takes a tentative step towards his brother, watching in horrified fascination as the bruises he left all over Sam's neck fade and shrink before his eyes.
All at once Sam moves, stalking past him. He brushes by Dean's shoulder and goes to the window, and Dean casts a panicked look at the loaded pistol on the bedside table -- six whole steps away, not enough time if Sam throws himself through the window, oh fuck what is he going to do if Sam gets out -- but Sam just bats at the closed curtains until they part, presses a wickedly clawed hand to the glass, and whines high in his throat.
Dean swallows hard. "No," he says firmly, calling up every lick of his meager knowledge of dog training, every remembered second of Dad's sharp drill-sergeant tone, in order to pour authority into the word.
Making that sound again, Sam looks out the window almost wistfully, but then he turns around, cocks his head at Dean like a seriously overgrown puppy.
Dean blinks and suddenly Sam's in his space, nosing at his jaw; Dean very clearly thinks, I am going to die now. But instead of tearing out Dean's throat, were-Sammy licks a long stripe up his neck, tongue raspy and wet, and then pushes him onto the bed.
Sam covers Dean with his body, but there's no threat in it; Sam seems to want to, well, play. Dean thinks it would probably be more fun if he weren't outweighed to begin with and seriously outclassed by were-Sam's supernatural strength. Then he remembers wrestling in the backseat of the Impala on long car trips, Sammy saying stop looking out my window and launching himself across the bench to pummel Dean's chest, even though Dean was twice his size.
His chest burns with the remembered innocence of it.
Dean can do this. He can.
They roll around on the bed, Sam making happy noises and Dean laughing, but then Sam ends up draped on top of him and Dean feels Sam's dick pulsing hard against Dean's thigh, rubbing in slow circles.
"Shit," he whispers, going still, and Sam takes advantage of his quiescence to lick his throat again, making a breathy, insistent noise. Sharp canines and hot breath ghost over Dean's skin, and he realizes that he has to move, now, or they're going to have a serious, serious problem.
He jerks to the side, away from Sam's mouth, and twists his legs around Sam's, just barely managing to flip himself over.
Sam seems suddenly confused to be face-down on the bed, but then Dean climbs on top of him, straddling his ass, forcing Sam's hips down into the mattress. He twists back to look at Dean with hot, wild eyes, licks his canines, and starts undulating against the bed.
Dean grinds down, lets Sam squirm under him. When he feels like he's going to be dislodged, he leans forward and bites the side of Sam's neck, salt under his lips, and Sam just kind of loses it under him, shaking and groaning, and Dean feels rather than smells the sharp tang of semen in the air when Sam comes.
He sits back on his heels, settling his weight on Sam's thighs as Sam pants into the pillow, rips into the bedspread with his claws. "Well," he says, surprised at the gravelly quality of his voice. "That was weird."
Then Sam heaves back, bringing his ass into contact with Dean's half-hard cock through his boxers and making that insistent noise again, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut. He gets a hand under Sam's hips, feels him hard again already or maybe even still, and fuck. Fuck, he doesn't think he can do this.
But he can smell the two of them, can hear Sam's low, sex-roughened voice saying mate, and he doesn't really have much of a choice, does he? Like it or not, this is what he signed up for.
He gets up on his knees, digs his fingers into Sam's hips.
It's going to be a long fucking night.
***
Dean knows the exact moment when the sun rises, even though he managed to get up and shut the curtain a few hours ago; one second Sam is pawing gently at him, hips jerking against his side even though there is no possible way that either of them could get hard again, and in the next the feral light in Sam's eyes is just...gone.
Sam blinks a few times, shaking his head as if to clear it. He lifts his head, sniffing the air, and then his cheeks color and his hips go still. "Dean," he says softly.
"Yeah, Sammy." Dean's so fucking exhausted he can barely keep his eyes open, relief washing over him the way adrenaline had all damn night. He wants to sleep for a year.
"What did -- what did I do?" Sam is pointedly looking away from him again, face still flushed with embarrassment.
"It's okay, it wasn't anything I couldn't, uh, handle." Dean wrinkles his nose. "Friggin' reeks of sex in here," he says, and mustering the last bit of energy he's got, he rolls out of bed and moves to the other, which is totally untouched except for the mussed pillows where Dean sat to eat his dinner, the tiny spot of grease on the coverlet.
Sam rolls over to face him, watches as he pulls his shorts back on and slides under the covers, and then moves as well. He snuggles up to Dean's side, totally unconcerned about the fact that he's still naked, and kisses the side of his neck. "I'm sorry," he murmurs against Dean's skin.
And Dean has a hard time relaxing into the touch, but he doesn't shy away from it, either. "Yeah, you fucking should be," he says, lips twisting in a half-smile.
Sam tenses against him but doesn't say anything, and Dean rolls his eyes, turns his head.
"I'm kidding, asshole. Now shut up and go to sleep, okay? We'll rest today, drive to Little Rock tomorrow."
Looking up at him, Sam nods and settles his head on the pillow -- Dean's pillow, the little bitch -- murmurs a sleepy, "Okay."
Dean settles his arm around Sam's shoulders and doesn't let himself fall asleep until he's sure that Sam is down for the count, watching the even rise and fall of his brother's chest.
***
He wakes to the afternoon sun streaming in through the cheap chintz curtains. Sam is still sacked out, one arm slung casually around Dean's waist.
Groping around the bedside table nets Dean his phone. He mashes Call twice to dial Bobby.
"Yeah?"
"It's Dean."
"Good to hear from you, son. I was, uh, worried when you didn't call this morning. Everything alright down there?" Bobby's voice is careful, guarded.
"Yeah, it's --" Sam snuffles in his sleep and nuzzles at Dean's shoulder, and Dean breaks off to roll his eyes for the second time that day. "It, uh. It worked."
"That's real good, Dean."
There's an incredibly awkward silence.
"So," Dean says brightly, "can we never talk about this again?"
"Fine by me," Bobby says too quickly, and Dean grins up at the ceiling. "Just promise me you'll keep an eye on the calendar."
"Done. And Bobby?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks, man."
He hangs up and tosses the phone back amid the detritus on the nightstand, shifting in bed so he can get an arm around Sam's back. He feels gently for the sutures down Sam's side -- the silk just brushes off Sam's skin, the wicked cut now a fresh ridge of scar tissue under Dean's fingers. He casts a critical eye on the rest of Sam's skin, looking for the scratches and cuts that had covered his brother's torso the morning before, but everything's healed up as far as he can see. If Sam would shift just a little, he could check out the rest of him, too, like he should've done before they fell asleep in the morning --
Fuck it, Dean thinks, and rolls over to go back to sleep. There'll be time for that later.
***
GUYS, I STILL CAN'T BELIEVE IT'S FINALLY FINISHED. HOLY CRAP.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC17, but it's the plotty kind of porn, not the filthy shameless RPS phone-sexin' kind.
Summary: In which Sam is a werewolf. AU after "Hollywood Babylon."
Warnings: Incest, certain consent issues specific to fuck-or-die scenarios, whatever fractional bestiality is involved in having sex with a changed werewolf. GEE, THIS FIC SOUNDS AWESOME.
Notes: Once upon a time, my darling
vanitymachine started this comm called spn_lyrically, which put forward lyrics challenges to be written into fics. I, being a dutiful internet girlfriend, signed up for this challenge. And then I promptly got much, much more than I bargained for with regard to this little prompt:shines when the sunshine shifts
there's a cure comes with a kiss
the bite that binds
the gift that gives
The song is "Wolf Like Me" by TV on the Radio, and based on it (or rather, based on that little snippet of it, as I've never actually heard the damn song), I have written a were!Sammy fuck-or-die AU. 8500 words, guys! MY MIND IS BLOWN. And much love to
katjad and muchniat, who were there to beta this monster for me. ♥"God bless Abita Brewing Company," Dean says, twisting the cap off his second beer.
Sam snorts. "More like God bless middle-aged barmaids trying to charm their way into your pants with free alcohol."
And yeah, okay, maybe that's fair, but Dean punches Sam's shoulder anyway. "She was a nice lady, man. Don't talk about her that way."
"You think any chick who gives you beer is a nice lady, Dean."
"Yeah, and? We wasted the poltergeist breaking her glassware. She was grateful." He looks meaningfully at the bottle in Sam's hand. "If you don't want your half of the take, just say the word."
Sam twists, cradling his beer protectively when Dean reaches over to swipe it. "Hey, you've got your own!"
"Yeah, that's what I thought," Dean laughs.
"It's Abita Turbodog," Sam says, like that's explanation enough.
Dean grins. He takes a long pull from the bottle and turns his attention back to the sun setting over the lake.
There isn't a whole lot in Lake Charles besides chemical plants and a run-down state college; the woman's bar was one of the only decent places to get a drink in town, and it's currently got a quarter of the wiring ripped out of the walls and shattered glass everywhere. So instead of sitting on their laurels at a bar, they're sprawled on the hood of the Impala and pulling bottles of lukewarm beer from the case, parked down by the waterfront like high school kids. It's nice, as far as post-hunt unwinding goes. Tomorrow they'll head up to Arkansas -- one of Dad's Corps buddies called in a favor -- but tonight, they can just relax a little, drink their free beer like civilized human beings.
The air is heavy with humidity and whatever crap the petrochemical plants are putting out; it's almost too thick to breathe, but the sunset's gorgeous. Reminds Dean a little of L.A.
A bottle breaks.
"Hey, what's with the alcohol abuse?" He turns to his brother, notices Sam's white-knuckled grip on his thighs. Shit. A vision is the last thing they need right now. Deacon, their contact in Little Rock, needs them right away; he'd been pretty adamant about that on the phone. "Sam?"
And Sam gradually straightens, looks back at him, and freakishly it's not Sam at all: something feral and ancient and pissed-off is looking out at him through Sam's eyes.
Then Dean notices the teeth, and the claws, and the full moon just clearing the horizon.
"Oh, shit," he says, and ducks out of the way a split-second before Sam (it's not Sam; it's a werewolf, oh fuck Sam's a werewolf) rakes a hand through the air where his right shoulder had been.
He dives for the driver's side of the car as Sam lunges for him again. Dean throws open the door, smacking Sam with it in an attempt to throw him off-balance (which doesn't work) and then cringing at the strident cry of pain when Dean catches a long-clawed hand in the door in his haste to slam it shut.
"Fuck," Dean mutters under his breath, fumbling in his pocket for his keys. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." Sam swipes at the windows, gouges ragged scratches on the windshield, and if that isn't un-fucking-fair, Dean doesn't know what is -- there's a monster inside his brother, and it's going to destroy his car. That's just perfect, is what it is, and he doesn't even have a useful weapon because all the silver's in the trunk. There's a twelve-gauge in the backseat and a box of shells in the glovebox, but lead shot will just piss the werewolf (oh God, Sam) off, unless he can pump it full enough of lead to bleed it out.
He imagines pulling out the shotgun, sees the creature wearing Sam's face lying in a pool of Sam's blood, and distracts himself from the sudden urge to hurl by smacking his forehead against the steering wheel.
Christ.
Dean takes stock of the situation. Eventually it's going to get through the werewolf's thick animal head that 6'4" of beast is no match for a ton and a half of chrome and steel, and it'll run off in search of other prey. He can't let that happen, but the only weapons he has are useless without hurting Sam way, way worse than Dean ever could. Essentially? It's Dean and the Impala against were-Sammy.
He stares at the wheel. Winces as Sam tries to punch through the hood, because that dent won't come out easy.
Well, at least Dean's got his girl.
He throws the car into reverse and stomps on the gas; Sam tumbles off the hood to the sound of bottles breaking on the pavement.
The werewolf rolls over, shaking his head wildly, while the Impala shoots backwards and then screams to a halt.
Biting his lip, Dean kicks her into drive and hopes like hell he'll only have to do this once.
Dean breathes a sigh as he rolls back into the motel's parking lot, thankful that the worst fifteen minutes he's ever spent on the road are behind him.
He loves driving, really he does, but ten miles of shitty Louisiana highway, a trunk full of unconscious wolfed-out little brother (little my ass, Dean thinks, feeling the strain in his shoulders), and a backseat full of blades and ordnance he'd rather not have to explain to a cop even if he weren't already on the FBI's hot list are enough to stress anybody out. If he didn't love his car so much, he'd probably have driven off the road half a dozen times just from nerves.
The motel is deserted, thank God, so nobody sees him dragging the weapons into the room or opening the trunk to check on Sam.
He looks again to make sure he's grabbed all of the silver, leans down to slide a paperclip onto the cuff of Sam's filthy shirt. Sam's wrists are cuffed behind him, his ankles wrapped with inch-wide steel chain. Dean figures that when the werewolf wakes up, that should be enough to keep him from tearing the shit out of the trunk, but Sam would make short work of the cuffs and the lock when he came back to himself, same as he'd been able to do since he was in junior high.
Dean shuts the trunk before he's overpowered by the urge to pull Sam out and get him inside, tend to the gash on his forehead and the obvious sprain in his left ankle -- Dammit, Dean, focus.
The best thing he can do for Sam right now is make sure that he doesn't hurt anyone.
It's a long night, and he spends it cleaning every gun they own, because he had to take all of them out in order to make room for Sam in the trunk. It's a good thing he can do it without looking, because he can't tear his eyes away from the Impala, except to glance at the pearl-handled pistol -- the first one he cleaned -- loaded up with silver and sitting within easy reach on the bed, and at the horizon for signs of dawn.
When he finally goes to open the trunk, the sun's already been up for half an hour. He takes the gun anyway.
Sam is awake, curled into a defensive posture that anyone but Dean would mistake for sleep, and as soon as the trunk is all the way open, he rolls over with a knife poised to strike, eyes widening confusedly when he sees Dean pointing a gun in his face. Sam blinks into the pale light of the early morning, looking almost tragically bewildered, and lowers the blade. "Dean?"
"Morning, princess," Dean says, stowing the pistol and extending a hand to help Sam up.
Sam reaches up and grasps his wrist. "What the hell happened last night?" He kicks off the chains and leaves the cuffs and the padlock in the trunk.
"Funny story, actually," Dean says, watching Sam settle on his feet; he doesn't favor the ankle Dean knows was sprained not ten hours ago, and the cut at his hairline has closed up completely. Weird.
"Start talking," Sam says, wincing as he shakes the stiffness from his limbs.
"Um." Dean runs his hand through his hair. "I'm not sure I can do this on an empty stomach."
Sam just stares.
Great, Dean thinks. "You're apparently a werewolf now."
And Sam keeps staring, his face falling as the gears in his head turn. "No," he says. "No, it's not possible."
Dean sighs. "Did you notice that there was no silver left in the trunk?"
Sam is silent for a long time, looking down at the pavement. "Why am I still breathing, Dean?" he finally asks, looking betrayed.
"Oh, fuck this," Dean says. "I definitely can't have that conversation until after breakfast."
"Dean."
"Half an hour isn't going to make that big a difference, Sam, I promise. Just get in the damn car."
Dean manages to make it halfway through his waffles before caving to Sam's stony silence and accusatory looks. The kid can sulk with the best of them, especially when he's got a legitimate excuse.
"Are you done yet?" Sam asks Dean, again.
He isn't.
"We need to talk about this, Dean. Don't you think that's just a little more important than stuffing your face?"
Dean takes a sip of his coffee. "Most important meal of the day, Sammy," he says mildly, but the muscles in his jaw are already sore and tight from his clenching them.
Sam clenches his hands into white-knuckled fists, and for a second Dean thinks Sam might actually punch a hole in the table. "What the hell is your problem, man? This is -- how can you possibly act like this? Like it's all a big joke?" He gestures wildly at Dean's plate, at their surroundings. "Like everything is just normal, like you're not going to have to take me out back and --"
"Sam," Dean says, calmly laying down his fork. "Shut the fuck up."
And Sam's jaw hardens, but he obeys, glaring at Dean sullenly through his bangs. "You promised, Dean. You promised."
"We are not going to talk about this here." He pulls a crumpled ten out of his wallet and drops it on the chipped laminate tabletop. "Come on."
Sam gets up and follows him out of the diner.
They ride back to the motel in silence. Sam is apparently too pissed even to look at him, and Dean drives as if he's on autopilot, like nothing matters but the speedometer and the stop signs on the way.
"What the hell are we supposed to do now, huh?" Sam asks as soon as the door to the hotel room shuts behind him, shoving at Dean's shoulder angrily.
Dean shoves back, fingers spread against the center of Sam's chest. "We figure something out!"
"How, Dean? Just what, precisely, do we know now that we didn't know a month ago that makes you think this is all going to be fucking okay?"
"Nothing," Dean admits, the truth feeling toxic and sharp on his tongue.
"Then you know what we have to -- what has to be done."
"Yeah, I do. But there is no fucking way that is happening until we've got a little more information."
Sam throws up his hands, makes a pained sound of exasperation, and Dean wants to scream. Jesus, it's not like Sam's the only one who's angry and scared.
He gentles his tone a little, tries to sound reasonable. "We don't even know how the hell this happened, Sam. I mean -- she didn't bite you while you were..." He gestures inelegantly. "Did she?"
"No, she didn't." Sam is still glaring at him, wretched and accusatory, but Dean's willing to call a straight answer progress.
"Damn right she didn't. I would have seen it, anyway." He paces the room, tries to shake off the feeling of Sam's eyes boring into him. "Then how did it get in you? You need direct contact, man."
Sam goes silent, and when Dean whirls around, Sam won't meet his eyes.
"What?" he asks.
Taking a deep breath, Sam says, "We kind of ignored certain...precautions."
"You did what?"
"She's allergic to latex!" Sam shoots back, collapsing in on himself a little bit when he realizes he used present tense. "Was. Whatever. And I'm -- we just weren't worried about it."
"Yeah, well, seems to me that maybe you should've been." He wants to punch something so badly that he's practically shaking with it. "Dammit, Sam, I taught you better than that."
"We don't even know if it's possible to transmit it that way."
Dean glares. "I got a huge friggin' dent in my hood says it is."
"Oh, great, now you're going to yell at me about the car."
Sitting down in one of the rickety wooden table's rickety wooden chairs, Dean grabs for Dad's journal and flips it open. "No, now I'm going to figure out what the hell we're supposed to do."
But of course Dad is just as silent now as he was last month on the pressing topic of what to do with a werewolf you don't particularly want to shoot full of silver. Dean honestly didn't expect anything else.
"Fuck," he says.
Sam nods, his mouth a tight line. "Dean," he says, and they just don't have time to go around in circles like this.
"Shut up, Sammy." He looks stupidly at the open journal, like his father's stark, close handwriting will start making sense if he stares hard enough. "There's an answer somewhere. We've just got to find it."
"You know as well as I do that there's only --"
"I said shut up." He shoves Dad's journal across the table and buries his face in his hands. "Couldn't have put something useful in here, oh no. Because six pages of Navajo skinwalker lore is so much more crucially important than the tiny little fact that apparently lycanthropy is a fuckin' STD. Goddamn."
Sam's lips quirk a little at that. "We would've had a hard time with that bitch in Utah without those pages, though."
"That's not the point, Sam." Frowning, he fumbles in his pocket for his phone.
"Who are you calling?"
"Bobby."
"He already told us everything he knows."
"I'm not so sure of that." Dean sighs. "Besides, we need advice at least as much as we need information."
Sam laughs, short and mirthless and brutal. "Yeah. Sure."
"What's the problem, Dean?" Bobby asks as soon as he picks up the phone.
Dean blinks. "You know, the fact that you know us so well and are still taking our calls is probably grounds for sainthood in at least three major world religions."
"Don't I know it. What do you need?"
"Well." He scratches the back of his neck, tries to think of the best way to say it. Realizes there is no best way to say something like this. "We've got another werewolf problem."
"Again? Does Sam want to screw this one, too?"
"Oh, God," Dean groans. "About that. Any particular reason nobody saw fit to mention that fucking a werewolf is practically equivalent to having one take a chunk out of you?"
"What? Sam is -- what the hell was he thinking?"
"Yeah, well, that's what I'm saying."
Silence. "I can be there in two days to help you take care of the body, if you need the help. If you want me there," Bobby finally says.
Dean goes very, very still. "That is not gonna happen, Bobby. We'll figure something out. But not -- not that."
Gently, patiently, Bobby says, "Look, son, I know how much --"
"You don't know a damn thing," Dean cuts in, wishing he could unsay the words even as he finishes grinding them out. He takes a deep breath. "Bobby, I -- please just tell me what to do."
Silence hangs on the line for a tense moment, and then Bobby sighs resignedly. "You can't fix this one, Dean. There's just no way."
"I'm not asking how to fix it. I just need to keep it under control for two more nights, alright? Then we've got almost a month to figure out something more, uh. Permanent." He rubs at the bridge of his nose, suddenly exhausted. God.
There's another long pause, and Dean can practically hear the argument Bobby's having with himself in his head. Hell, it's the same one he'd be having with himself, if he had the luxury of anything approaching a choice where Sam's concerned.
But Bobby always comes through for them. Always has.
"You're going to have to keep him isolated," he finally says.
And always will. Dean just about sags with relief. "Well, yeah, I pretty much figured that one out on my own."
Bobby harrumphs. "Smartass," he says, but there's no force behind it.
"Sorry." Dean swallows. "So what, do I tie him up? Cuff him to the headboard, keep the silver on standby?"
"You can't stay with him, Dean. Keep watch outside, yeah, but it's too dangerous to be near him when he changes, especially if you're packing. Weres respond to perceived threats pretty violently."
Dean thinks of ripped-open throats and torn-out hearts, thinks of asshole bosses and creepy ex-boyfriends. Thinks of inch-deep gouges carved in drywall. "Yeah. So I hear."
Once he accepts that Dean isn't going to shoot him (and Dean makes it perfectly clear that he's more than willing to break every one of Sam's fingers if that's what it takes to keep him from doing it himself), Sam has a hard time sitting still. All Dean wants to do is crawl into bed and stay there until dusk, but Sam is in full-on geek overload trying to figure out what to do.
Their motel room's bathroom is windowless and square with a door that opens inward. Sam figures that's good.
"I won't be able to open it," he says, long fingers ghosting over the doorknob. "Even if I could manage to turn it, I'd be too stupid to pull instead of push." He smiles weakly at Dean, inviting the obvious joke, trying to act like everything's okay, and it kind of makes Dean want to shoot something. Repeatedly.
"Yeah, whatever," Dean says, and he sits down heavily on one of the beds with his head in his hands.
Half an hour until sunset; Sam has stripped down to his boxers and a t-shirt, and he keeps unfolding and refolding his jeans. He won't meet Dean's eyes, but his glance keeps flicking tensely to the gun on the nightstand. "You sure about this?" he asks.
And Dean isn't sure, not by a long shot, but given a choice between shooting Sammy in cold blood and the prospect of killing a werewolf to save lives, he'll take the latter any day.
Besides, he's planning on spending the night behind the wheel of the Impala, pistol at the ready and keys in the ignition, just in case. And there's no reason to tell Sam that he'd wreck his girl a hundred times mowing down a rampaging were-Sammy if it meant never having to pull that trigger.
Dean plasters on a cocky, reassuring grin. "You'll be fine, Sam," he says.
Sam gives him a pained smile. "You are so full of shit." He ducks into the bathroom and shuts the door, engages the lock. "Get out of here, it's almost time."
For the record? Staying up all night in one's car with just a silver-loaded semiautomatic and three massive cups of lukewarm coffee for company sucks, even when the car is as awesome as Dean's baby.
He stumbles back into the motel room twenty minutes after sunrise, exhausted, starving, and jumpy with apprehension. There hadn't been a sound from the room all night -- at least not one he could hear in the parking lot -- and he's honestly torn as to whether or not that's a good thing.
Dean hoped to find Sam sacked out in one of the beds, but the room is empty and the bathroom door is still closed.
"Sam?" he calls, knocking. "Hey, man, it's morning." He turns the doorknob, but it's locked, and Sam isn't responding from the other side.
"Come on, Sammy, let me in!" Dean tries to keep the panic from his voice, but it's so fucking quiet in the room. Fuck.
Tense, he waits another thirty seconds for Sam to make his presence known. Then he kicks in the door.
His automatic first thought is that he must have missed one of the silver knives when he inventoried their gear earlier. He thought he had all of them, but he must have been wrong.
Fast on its heels is I'm going to fucking kill Bobby.
"You said he'd be okay if he was isolated," Dean accuses as soon as Bobby picks up the phone.
"Did he get out? Hurt anyone?" Bobby sounds tired and worried.
"No, it's --" Dean pauses in his agitated pacing, looks at Sam's still form on the bed. A neat line of sutures, hidden by a bandage, closes a long, deep cut curving up Sam's side to his left pec. Dozens of smaller slashes crisscross his torso, his neck. "Jesus Christ, Bobby, I've never seen so much blood." That's almost certainly a lie, but it feels like the truth.
"Dean, calm down. Whose blood is it? Do you know?"
He takes a deep breath, squashes the irritation at being talked to like he's an amateur; he knows he probably sounds hysterical. "It's Sam's. All of it."
"He cut himself up?"
"Forty fucking stitches' worth, Bobby. Room's a goddamn disaster."
Bobby whistles low. "Shit."
"Yeah, tell me about it."
Sam shifts on the bed where Dean laid him, moaning softly. "He's coming around. I'll call you back." He drops the phone on the carpet, not bothering to end the call, and crouches next to Sam's bedside.
"Dean?" Sam blinks sleepily and presses a hand to his temple, wincing.
Dean immediately grabs for the amber bottle he placed on the nightstand earlier, fumbles it open and forces a Demerol past Sam's lips. "It's okay, it's a painkiller, just swallow. You're cut up pretty bad."
Sam struggles to get the pill down dry before Dean helps him take a sip of water. "Did I -- oh, Christ." He reaches for the cut on his side, but Dean grabs his wrist before he can touch the gauze-covered stitches.
"I took care of it, Sam. Leave it alone, you need to sleep."
Sam shakes his head and then immediately looks like he wishes he hadn't. "Tell me I didn't hurt anybody. Dean, you -- you promised."
Dean's stomach lurches painfully. "You didn't leave the room all night, Sammy."
Befuddlement crosses Sam's face. "What the hell?"
"I don't know, but I'll find out. Now go back to sleep, I'll bring you something to eat later."
"How is he?" Bobby asks when Dean steps out of the room and calls him back.
"Asleep," Dean says. "Confused and in pain, but sleeping now."
"Yeah, well, thank heaven for small mercies."
"He lost a shitload of blood, Bobby. He shouldn't be breathing, it was so bad. Almost took him to the hospital, werewolf or not."
Bobby snorts. "You know better than that."
"Yeah." Dean is quiet for a moment. "Tell me why this happened. Is it something to do with the demon?"
"Could be. Hard to say for sure, but demons and weres don't generally get on." Bobby says. "And the only thing good as silver at killing a were is another werewolf."
"Fuck."
"Yeah."
"I can't let this happen again," Dean says after another uncomfortable silence. "If he tears himself up tonight, he's going to be recovering from those injuries for weeks, and we've got a gig in Arkansas." He clears his throat, tries to sound like that's the only reason he's worried, like he's not maniacally grateful that Sam managed to pass out from blood loss before he could get to his own heart. Like he's sure that's always what will happen when the moon makes Sam turn his rage in on himself.
"You aren't still thinking of taking that job at the prison?"
"It's a debt, Bobby. You understand."
"Oh, of all the." There's a rustling on the other end, like Bobby's rubbing his temples in exasperation. "It was a crap idea before your circumstances changed. Now I think it's about the dumbest idea I ever heard."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, man. I really appreciate it."
"Mind your tone." Bobby pauses. "There's only one thing I can think to try that might work."
"Yeah?" He starts pacing the parking lot, not caring if he looks totally insane. "Tell me."
"No guarantees, though, and you're not gonna like it."
Dean stops short, gesturing wildly for Bobby to continue, as though his wild handwaving were visible over the phone. "So?"
"He needs to, uh, recognize you as pack."
He laughs, harsh and bitter. "Bobby, we're all we've got. I don't know how know he could ever think I was anything else. Even if he's, y'know, wolfed out."
"You're a hunter, Dean. Sam is always gonna know that you're a threat to him when he changes. Family comes second to survival, here. Only way he's not going to attack you is if he's got a...visceral reason not to. Sense memory."
"Oh." Dean ponders for a second. "So, what, does he need to piss on me, or something? Mark his territory? Because, well, that's --" It's gross, actually, but it's the doable kind of gross. Like a jellyfish sting, or something.
Bobby takes a deep breath, the kind Dean knows he always takes when he's trying to decide whether to laugh or cry. Not that he's ever seen Bobby cry. "Dean."
"What? Come on, man, I'm not fucking around here."
A long pause -- funny how common those are getting to be, lately. "Madison didn't attack Sam when she turned that last time, did she?" Bobby's tone is low, carefully controlled, like he expects Dean to freak out.
And, well. Maybe if Dean weren't so damned tired, and maybe if he hadn't already exceeded his freakout quota for the entire fucking month, then he'd be happy to oblige. But he is, and he has, so he just blinks. "Did you miss the part about weresexin' passing on the contagion, Bobby? That's no good, there's got to be something else."
Bobby clears his throat. "No, you don't have to -- he's just got to -- you know. On you."
Dean blinks again. "That would work?"
"Weres don't attack their mates. Lore's pretty clear on that."
"Huh."
Okay, so maybe Dean's got just enough energy left for a little freaking out.
The best cures for a Dean Winchester freakout, Sam would probably be happy to tell anyone who felt like asking, are sleep, pie, and sex. In that order.
Somehow Dean doubts that that last is going to do him much good, given the current circumstances. But he catches a few fitful hours of sleep and then ventures out in the afternoon to grab dinner. Since it's a special occasion (well, kind of, Dean thinks, suppressing the urge to laugh hysterically), he hits a steakhouse instead of a diner, and James Page buys them twelve-ounce ribeyes, baked potatoes, and cheesecake. The waitress just gives him a bored nod when he asks her to box it all up to go, which is good; if she'd said anything about a romantic dinner for two, he probably would have punched her out, and then he'd have to feel bad about it later. Dean Winchester does not hit girls.
Well, human ones, anyway.
Sam stirs when Dean walks in with the food. He looks stronger, not as pale or pathetically injured as he had earlier.
"Hungry?" Dean asks, and Sam nods, sits up.
"What'd you bring me?" He reaches for the bag and digs out one of the styrofoam boxes, moving gingerly at first and then with a little more surety.
Dean hands over a hunting knife and a plastic fork and watches Sam eat. He frowns a little when he notices that Sam is demolishing Dean's own bloody-rare steak rather than the one he ordered medium (because Sam is a huge girl and foolishly believes that meat actually has to be cooked in order to be edible), but he doesn't say anything because, well, he probably should have seen that coming.
"How's your side?" he asks around a mouthful of overcooked steak.
Sam gently prods the bandaged wound. "Hurts less than it should, I think," he says in between bites.
"Is that just the narcotics talking?"
"Could be. I don't know."
"Well." Dean swallows, suddenly uncomfortable. "If you need more, we've got 'em."
"It's fine," Sam says, looking away.
They finish their dinners, both poking holes in the bottoms of the take-out boxes with their knives and getting grease all over the bedspreads.
"I talked to Bobby," Dean says as Sam licks the last of the cheesecake off his fork.
"What'd he have to say?"
"He's got an idea."
"And?"
Dean hesitates. "It's...weird."
Sam just looks at him like he's an idiot, and okay, Dean probably deserved that.
Scowling, he continues: "You need to be supervised so you won't tear yourself up again. The wacky healing factor thing you've got now should take care of the shit from last night, but any new injuries won't have the moon to help 'em heal up faster."
"Huh." Sam sets down the fork and closes up the takeout box. "And how do you propose we keep me from eating whomever we get to supervise?"
"Well. Apparently werewolves won't attack their mates."
"Their mates." Sam is still looking at him like he's a retard, and it makes Dean distinctly uncomfortable.
"Well, think about it. If the disease is sexually transmitted, then presumably anyone sleeping with a were is either already one themselves, or going to become one the next month. It's like a reproductive instinct, right?"
Sam's mouth opens and closes a few times. "You want me to infect somebody?"
"No! No." Dean rubs at the bridge of his nose, thinking that on a scale of one to awkward, this has to be one of the most stupidly uncomfortable conversations he's ever had. "There are other...things. You don't have to put anybody at risk."
"And by anybody, you mean...?"
He shoots Sam a patronizing look. "Me, dumbass. Who else?"
Looking down at his hands, Sam can't quite hide his smile. "Okay. What are we doing, then?"
"Um." Dean takes a deep breath. "It requires semen."
He watches from under his lashes as Sam considers this for a moment, nods. "That makes sense, I guess. What do we need to do with it?"
"It's, uh, more you doing it. On me."
Sam raises an eyebrow; Dean makes the universally recognizable emblematic gesture for jerking off. Then both of Sam's eyebrows make a run for his hairline, his eyes widening almost comically.
"That's safe?"
"As long as I don't have any open wounds, yeah. I know it's not ideal, but..." Dean trails off and looks away, concentrating on a stain on the hideous carpet instead. He can hear Sam thinking on the other bed -- geek brains are frigging loud -- but neither of them says anything for a minute.
Finally, Sam says, "Okay."
Dean looks up. "So how do you want to do this, then?"
Sam doesn't answer -- or rather, Dean doesn't get a verbal warning before Sam answers by moving onto Dean's bed, curling a hand around the side of Dean's neck, and sticking his tongue down Dean's throat.
"Mmph!" Dean says, flailing his arms for a second before remembering oh yeah, he actually knows what to do when a psycho attacks him in close quarters.
Sam is obviously surprised to end up face-down in a submission hold on the bed. Dean thinks that's kind of dumb of him (and completely ignores the fact that Sam could break the hold in his sleep, if not for that surprise).
"The hell are you doing?" Dean demands.
"What the hell did it look like? Jesus." Sam bucks him off, rolls them so Dean's flat on his back on the mattress.
"I didn't say a damn thing about kissing, dude."
"Dean, we have to have sex. Kissing is, uh, really kind of not a big deal at this point."
"Yeah, it kind of fucking is! Fuck, I was thinking you'd just beat off in the bathroom like a normal human being!" Dean squirms his way out from under his brother, gets up and starts agitatedly pacing the room.
Sam just stares at him. "What is your problem, man? Why are you freaking out about this?"
Dean laughs, low and bitter. "I don't know why you're not, Sam!"
"Dean, you're my brother --"
"Who's going to be wearing your come as cologne --"
"-- and fine, maybe it's weird --"
"Maybe?"
"-- but there's no reason to be, like, ashamed of it."
Gaping, Dean chokes out, "Sam, I'm pretty sure that there is every reason to be ashamed of having sex with your werewolf brother. Fuck, listen to yourself. How can you be so -- I don't know, nonchalant about all of this? What's the matter with you?"
Sam looks stricken, swallows hard. "I don't want to die," he says quietly.
Then he gets up and walks out the door.
Dean doesn't follow him; he just sits there staring at the door, paralyzed by the realization that he is the world's biggest tool.
Sam is only gone for ten minutes, but it feels like hours.
Dean starts and turns when he hears the click of the key in the lock, and Sam looks grim and determined when the door swings open.
"Call Deacon," he orders, and of all the things he could have said, Dean wasn't expecting that.
"Why?" Dean asks, brow furrowing.
"Tell him we can't take the job."
"Sam, we have to take that job. You know that."
Sam shakes his head. "I won't be able to go with you, and you can't do it alone."
"Of course you're going with me, Sammy!"
"I'm going to be injured, Dean; I'd only slow you down." He touches his side as if suddenly reminded of the wound there, wincing when he presses against the stitches over his hip.
Dean glares. "Were you not listening when I told you there was a way around that? Because I very clearly remember saying it."
And Sam clenches his jaw, looks away. "Yeah, I was listening. And that's why I can't ask you to do it, alright?"
"The hell you can't!"
"It freaks you out!"
"Sam, you have always freaked me out! Just --" Dean scrubs at his forehead. "Okay, fine."
Sam slumps a little, the tension going out of his shoulders, which means that he's completely unprepared when Dean closes the distance between them, grabs the back of Sam's neck, and hauls him down into a kiss.
It's messy and weird; their teeth click when Sam grunts and tries to pull away, but Dean doesn't go until Sam relaxes, breathes out through his nose.
"Why are you doing this?" Sam asks softly against Dean's mouth when they break apart.
"Because you're my brother," Dean says without hesitation, only realizing how ludicrous it sounds after Sam starts to snicker. Then they're both shaking with laughter, foreheads touching, breathing each other's air, and despite how desperately fucked up the whole situation is, Dean kind of feels like everything's going to be okay.
Sam leans down again, fitting their mouths together, and hooks two fingers in Dean's waistband. "Can I," he murmurs, popping the button on Dean's jeans without waiting for an answer.
Dean stills, grasps Sam's wrist. "You don't have to. I'm not even sure -- I might not be able to."
Sam just steps forward, pressing their hips together, and holy shit, Sam is hard.
Dean blinks, trying to make sense of that information, and Sam takes advantage of that moment of confusion to slip a hand into Dean's boxers, curl his fingers around his cock.
"I want you to," Sam says in a low tone.
"But I don't have to. It's not...required."
Kissing him again, Sam says, "If I'm getting off, so are you."
"You always this much of a gentleman?"
Sam smiles against his mouth. "Yeah, I am."
And then Sam's hand moves on his dick, and hell, Dean's had way worse handjobs in his life. Heat pools in his belly, and he feels himself getting hard in Sam's hand as Sam continues to rub up against him through their jeans. "My hero," Dean chokes out, giving in, thrusting up into Sam's fist and gasping.
Sam lets out a breathy little moan. "I've been -- nngh, God, I jerked off twice today."
"You were supposed to be sleeping!"
"Couldn't help it," he pants. "Tonight, I -- I got hard as soon as you said 'mate.' It's completely ridiculous."
Dean grins. "Man, you're easy."
"Oh, that's awesome, coming from you." Sam pushes Dean towards the nearest bed, tugging at Dean's shirt and then pulling off his own. They tumble onto the bed together, and Sam hisses, buries his face in Dean's neck as his hips press Dean's into the mattress.
"Careful," Dean breathes when he feels the barest scrape of teeth against his throat.
Sam flushes, bites his lip. "Sorry."
"It's fine." Dean looks up at Sam through slitted eyes, and then noses under Sam's chin, tugging Sam's head back with a hand in his hair and nipping at the stubble-rough skin under Sam's jaw.
Almost instantly, Sam goes rigid, crying out and pressing hard into the hollow of Dean's hip. "Oh God," he moans.
"Hmm," Dean murmurs against Sam's throat. "Always knew you were a bitch, Sammy."
"Shut up and do that again."
The musky salt of Sam's skin fills Dean's mouth as he worries at Sam's throat and collarbone with his teeth, earthy and intoxicating, and the more bruises he sucks into Sam's neck, the more urgently Sam thrusts against him. Dean reaches down, feels soft cotton and hard flesh under his hands, and then unzips Sam's jeans and pushes them down his thighs. Sam freezes above him, dropping his head, mesmerized by his cock trailing precome over Dean's belly.
"Okay?" Dean asks, wrapping a hand loosely around Sam's dick, resting the other on Sam's hip, reassuring, when Sam draws in a sharp breath.
Sam nods shakily, hips jerking. "Yeah, just." He groans low in his throat as he watches his cock move through Dean's fist. "Close, so close."
"That's kind of the point," Dean says, and he starts to stroke.
And God, brother or not, Sam is gorgeous when he's coming undone, all trembling limbs and fever-bright eyes as he groans low in his throat, begs without words for what Dean's giving him. His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and Dean leans in close, licks delicately at the place where Sam's neck and shoulder meet before biting down hard, feeling the muscle jump between his teeth.
Sam gasps, presses an open-mouthed kiss to the side of Dean's throat, and then stills, shooting off thick and hot between them, painting Dean's hand and stomach with come.
The alkaline scent of it and the feel of it on his skin, marking him, are overwhelming, and Dean clutches at his cock, suddenly desperate to touch himself, desperate to come. "Sammy," he groans, one hand moving between them, the other tangling in Sam's hair.
Sam rouses, rolls halfway off of him, and gathers the sticky-white on Dean's belly in his hand. "Come on," he says, curling his hand around Dean's, thumbing the head of Dean's dick with come-slick fingers, and that's it, Dean is gone, his vision blurring as orgasm overtakes him.
They catch their breath, tangled up in one another, covered in sweat and come. "Goddamn," Dean breathes, and then he pushes at Sam's shoulders until Sam rolls off him. He fumbles to retrieve his boxers from the floor, frowns at the mess on his stomach as he pulls them on. Not being able to shower after something like that goes a long way towards killing the languorous post-orgasmic hum under his skin, and of course the fact that he just got off with his brother more than does for the rest.
Itchy and uncomfortable, he moves to the other bed, grabs the remote and turns on the television. Law and Order is on -- Law and Order is always on, a constant in a fucked-up crazy world where he can have sex with his brother, where he knows the way Sam's dick pulses when he comes. He may feel helpless and strange, but at least he's got Law and Order.
Dean can feel Sam pointedly not looking at him, which suits him fine because he's not looking at Sam, either, and the silence between them is a hell of a lot louder than the TV.
Two, maybe three episodes play -- there's a marathon going, or so the commercials say, although why USA feels the need to advertise a marathon that their viewers are already watching is completely beyond Dean -- before Sam gets up, still naked, and goes into the bathroom. He doesn't say a word, doesn't shut the door either.
"Sam?" Dean ventures.
"I'll -- I'll be out in a minute," Sam says, and Dean looks at the window, notices the orange glare of the streetlamps outside playing at the hem of the curtains, and he understands.
Dean turns off the TV, listens for the sounds of movement, cries, anything. He knows that Sam is probably just sitting in the tub because he doesn't want Dean to see him...change, but frankly Dean couldn't care less about Sam's modesty if Sam's in pain. He waits, hears absolutely nothing, which is, if anything, even more worrying.
Then Sam steps out of the bathroom cubicle, looking unsettlingly feral, and just stands there, unmoving.
"Sam?" Dean asks again. He stands up and takes a tentative step towards his brother, watching in horrified fascination as the bruises he left all over Sam's neck fade and shrink before his eyes.
All at once Sam moves, stalking past him. He brushes by Dean's shoulder and goes to the window, and Dean casts a panicked look at the loaded pistol on the bedside table -- six whole steps away, not enough time if Sam throws himself through the window, oh fuck what is he going to do if Sam gets out -- but Sam just bats at the closed curtains until they part, presses a wickedly clawed hand to the glass, and whines high in his throat.
Dean swallows hard. "No," he says firmly, calling up every lick of his meager knowledge of dog training, every remembered second of Dad's sharp drill-sergeant tone, in order to pour authority into the word.
Making that sound again, Sam looks out the window almost wistfully, but then he turns around, cocks his head at Dean like a seriously overgrown puppy.
Dean blinks and suddenly Sam's in his space, nosing at his jaw; Dean very clearly thinks, I am going to die now. But instead of tearing out Dean's throat, were-Sammy licks a long stripe up his neck, tongue raspy and wet, and then pushes him onto the bed.
Sam covers Dean with his body, but there's no threat in it; Sam seems to want to, well, play. Dean thinks it would probably be more fun if he weren't outweighed to begin with and seriously outclassed by were-Sam's supernatural strength. Then he remembers wrestling in the backseat of the Impala on long car trips, Sammy saying stop looking out my window and launching himself across the bench to pummel Dean's chest, even though Dean was twice his size.
His chest burns with the remembered innocence of it.
Dean can do this. He can.
They roll around on the bed, Sam making happy noises and Dean laughing, but then Sam ends up draped on top of him and Dean feels Sam's dick pulsing hard against Dean's thigh, rubbing in slow circles.
"Shit," he whispers, going still, and Sam takes advantage of his quiescence to lick his throat again, making a breathy, insistent noise. Sharp canines and hot breath ghost over Dean's skin, and he realizes that he has to move, now, or they're going to have a serious, serious problem.
He jerks to the side, away from Sam's mouth, and twists his legs around Sam's, just barely managing to flip himself over.
Sam seems suddenly confused to be face-down on the bed, but then Dean climbs on top of him, straddling his ass, forcing Sam's hips down into the mattress. He twists back to look at Dean with hot, wild eyes, licks his canines, and starts undulating against the bed.
Dean grinds down, lets Sam squirm under him. When he feels like he's going to be dislodged, he leans forward and bites the side of Sam's neck, salt under his lips, and Sam just kind of loses it under him, shaking and groaning, and Dean feels rather than smells the sharp tang of semen in the air when Sam comes.
He sits back on his heels, settling his weight on Sam's thighs as Sam pants into the pillow, rips into the bedspread with his claws. "Well," he says, surprised at the gravelly quality of his voice. "That was weird."
Then Sam heaves back, bringing his ass into contact with Dean's half-hard cock through his boxers and making that insistent noise again, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut. He gets a hand under Sam's hips, feels him hard again already or maybe even still, and fuck. Fuck, he doesn't think he can do this.
But he can smell the two of them, can hear Sam's low, sex-roughened voice saying mate, and he doesn't really have much of a choice, does he? Like it or not, this is what he signed up for.
He gets up on his knees, digs his fingers into Sam's hips.
It's going to be a long fucking night.
Dean knows the exact moment when the sun rises, even though he managed to get up and shut the curtain a few hours ago; one second Sam is pawing gently at him, hips jerking against his side even though there is no possible way that either of them could get hard again, and in the next the feral light in Sam's eyes is just...gone.
Sam blinks a few times, shaking his head as if to clear it. He lifts his head, sniffing the air, and then his cheeks color and his hips go still. "Dean," he says softly.
"Yeah, Sammy." Dean's so fucking exhausted he can barely keep his eyes open, relief washing over him the way adrenaline had all damn night. He wants to sleep for a year.
"What did -- what did I do?" Sam is pointedly looking away from him again, face still flushed with embarrassment.
"It's okay, it wasn't anything I couldn't, uh, handle." Dean wrinkles his nose. "Friggin' reeks of sex in here," he says, and mustering the last bit of energy he's got, he rolls out of bed and moves to the other, which is totally untouched except for the mussed pillows where Dean sat to eat his dinner, the tiny spot of grease on the coverlet.
Sam rolls over to face him, watches as he pulls his shorts back on and slides under the covers, and then moves as well. He snuggles up to Dean's side, totally unconcerned about the fact that he's still naked, and kisses the side of his neck. "I'm sorry," he murmurs against Dean's skin.
And Dean has a hard time relaxing into the touch, but he doesn't shy away from it, either. "Yeah, you fucking should be," he says, lips twisting in a half-smile.
Sam tenses against him but doesn't say anything, and Dean rolls his eyes, turns his head.
"I'm kidding, asshole. Now shut up and go to sleep, okay? We'll rest today, drive to Little Rock tomorrow."
Looking up at him, Sam nods and settles his head on the pillow -- Dean's pillow, the little bitch -- murmurs a sleepy, "Okay."
Dean settles his arm around Sam's shoulders and doesn't let himself fall asleep until he's sure that Sam is down for the count, watching the even rise and fall of his brother's chest.
He wakes to the afternoon sun streaming in through the cheap chintz curtains. Sam is still sacked out, one arm slung casually around Dean's waist.
Groping around the bedside table nets Dean his phone. He mashes Call twice to dial Bobby.
"Yeah?"
"It's Dean."
"Good to hear from you, son. I was, uh, worried when you didn't call this morning. Everything alright down there?" Bobby's voice is careful, guarded.
"Yeah, it's --" Sam snuffles in his sleep and nuzzles at Dean's shoulder, and Dean breaks off to roll his eyes for the second time that day. "It, uh. It worked."
"That's real good, Dean."
There's an incredibly awkward silence.
"So," Dean says brightly, "can we never talk about this again?"
"Fine by me," Bobby says too quickly, and Dean grins up at the ceiling. "Just promise me you'll keep an eye on the calendar."
"Done. And Bobby?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks, man."
He hangs up and tosses the phone back amid the detritus on the nightstand, shifting in bed so he can get an arm around Sam's back. He feels gently for the sutures down Sam's side -- the silk just brushes off Sam's skin, the wicked cut now a fresh ridge of scar tissue under Dean's fingers. He casts a critical eye on the rest of Sam's skin, looking for the scratches and cuts that had covered his brother's torso the morning before, but everything's healed up as far as he can see. If Sam would shift just a little, he could check out the rest of him, too, like he should've done before they fell asleep in the morning --
Fuck it, Dean thinks, and rolls over to go back to sleep. There'll be time for that later.
