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Filthy Mind
NC-17
Dean/Others, Sam/Dean
Warnings: Noncon. Be warned that Mely calls this “extreme even for SPN.” In other words: hello, Id Vortex, my old friend.
Summary: Dean acquires unwelcome nightly visitors. Set post-Hell, without details as to how that happens.
Thanks:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
astolat, who knows where a story starts. coffeeandink, geekturnedvamp and giandujakiss for helpful beta. This is so not their fault.
Read the first part under the cut, or read the whole story at my site.
Sam woke to the sounds of Dean fucking someone in the next bed. After the initial disorientation, he shoved his head into his pillow. How the hell had Dean managed that, anyway? He would have woken up if Dean had left, and he should have woken up if the waitress from dinner or the girl who’d sold them gas or the tired-looking woman who’d given them their key or the—whatever, if anyone had knocked on their door.
He considered asking for a break in the action so he could go out to the car. But even sneaky, stealth hookups deserved some dignity, and she might not have known that Sam was in the next bed, or Dean might have promised her that Sam slept like the dead and wouldn’t notice.
She wasn’t making much noise, which supported the theory that she didn’t want Sam to wake up. Either that, or Dean wasn’t performing up to his usual standards. Given the giggling and reluctance to let Dean go that Sam had seen on too many mornings after, that seemed unlikely. If anything, he would have expected the girl to need to jam her fist into her mouth, if it wasn’t otherwise occupied, to avoid crying out.
Whatever she was doing, all he could hear was the slap of flesh against flesh and Dean’s harsh breaths, cresting into grunts at the end.
He laid there in the darkness for a while, but he was asleep again before she left.
****
“Look, I sympathize with your burning desire to reaffirm your masculinity after last week's disclosures, but I didn’t appreciate last night’s performance,” he said the next morning as Dean was digging in to his disgusting ketchup-coated eggs.
Dean choked, long enough that Sam was halfway out of his seat before Dean managed to calm down and wave him off. “What the hell are you talking about?” Dean’s voice was still rough from coughing. He didn’t meet Sam’s eyes.
“Whatever girl you snuck in? I might not be twelve any more, but it’s still inappropriate.” Unwillingly, he flashed back to the last time he’d been forced to be up close and personal with Dean’s sexual gymnastics. Dean’s endurance had improved since he was sixteen, but that made it even less fun to hear. And without Dad around to complain to, he really needed to stop this behavior in its tracks before it became one of Dean’s tease-Sam habits.
Dean wasn’t fighting back; he was staring down, gripping his fork as if it were a socket wrench and the eggs a recalcitrant auto part. He was wearing the blank, unfriendly mask he used to confront ghosts, though it was aimed at his plate and not at Sam. “Dean?”
“You must’ve been dreaming,” Dean said flatly.
Sam blinked. Over the years, he’d had reason to distinguish between dreamstates and waking, and he would have sworn he’d been awake. But it did make a lot more sense of why he would have missed a woman coming in or leaving. “Oh,” he said, dumbly, then felt himself flush as red as the ketchup Dean was swirling on his plate.
Dean took a breath and glanced up, smiling. “That’s okay, Sammy. Who wouldn’t have sweet dreams about me?”
Sam grimaced and dug into his too-hot oatmeal.
The waitress came by just then, and Dean gave her his Standard Waitress Smile, the one with crinkled eyes and a tilted head. The one that said, “If you were on the menu, sweetheart, I’d definitely place an order.” She was a brunette, nothing out of the ordinary in the way she filled her uniform, but she had nice eyes. She almost overtopped Sam’s coffee cup, stopping only when Sam cleared his throat.
****
The rest of the day was devoted to research, not active hunting. Sam was grateful for the extra time. He was still a little sore from the last hunt.
That one had been grim. They’d come to the Boston suburb after the deaths of five preteen girls, and they hadn’t managed to prevent two additional deaths. Originally they’d thought it was witches, but it had turned out that the local coven was investigating, same as they had been, and they had managed to work together. After they’d killed the dragon—okay, it was only a miniature dragon, but still—the head of the coven had pulled Dean aside to talk about his bad attitude.
Three minutes later, Dean had been back, bespelled so that he had to talk honestly, and include information about his feelings. The look of outrage on his face had been more satisfying than any good grade had ever been, and then when he’d hurried back over to Sam, the spell itself had forced him to tell Sam what it was about. It had been the best revenge ever, and Sam had wanted to hug the witch, but had settled for a grin and a thumbs up from across the clearing. Powerful and with a good insight into human psychology—just the kind of person he wanted on his side.
Dean had been hurting from a second-degree burn on his leg and lesser burns over most of his forearms, and Sam had been pretty scratched up himself, so they’d stayed in town for a few extra days. That had started out awesome too: Dean had begun loading the car as soon as they got back to the motel, but Sam had complained, and Dean had said, “Yeah, I’d like a day off too, but I don’t want you to think I’m getting soft.” He’d given up packing while Sam was still convulsing with laughter.
“I don’t want you to think X” had turned out to be a big thing with Dean. That had not, in fact, been an enormous shock, but it had been hysterical. When the waitress at the diner had asked what he wanted for lunch, he’d told her that he really wanted a turkey sandwich, but felt like he ought to order something greasy just to gross out Sam. He’d ended up eating his turkey sandwich while scowling constantly, so it had been win-win for Sam.
Sam hadn’t abused his new powers. Much. He hadn’t wanted this interlude to leave Dean too pissed-off to be good company. Forcing Dean to talk about his major issues was like sparring with a sharpened machete.
Still, there had been moments, like getting Dean to admit that, yes, ABBA was catchy, that would be mockery fodder for a long time. The funniest incident had been all but accidental: Dean had stopped at a drugstore, and when Sam asked why, he’d been treated to an extended discussion of various hair gels and their subtly different effects on Dean’s carefully disarranged style. Sam was now convinced that Dean had used more different kinds of hair products than he had actual follicles.
Or maybe the best one was Dean’s admission, after he’d finished detailing the car, that he’d often prefer a good engine repair to a one-night stand, but would settle for the latter under time and/or resource constraints. (Not in so many words, but Sam liked his rephrasing better.)
In any event, while they’d been out buying food for their last dinner in town, the witch had popped up again, all smiles and flowing earth-tone clothes in the frozen foods aisle. Sam had smiled at her, so wide it hurt his face, but she hadn’t done more than glance his way. “So what do you think of witches now?” she’d asked, crowding into Dean’s personal space.
Dean had grinned like he was acknowledging a good prank of Sam’s. “Still don’t trust ‘em, but I think you know what you’re doing. And you’re really hot,” he’d added as an afterthought.
Sam had been surprised that Dean would ever think anything before “hot.” But it had sure seemed to work on the witch, Lacey.
“Mind if I borrow your brother?” she’d asked Sam, pulling Dean away.
Dean had flashed Sam a triumphant smile over his shoulder. “… No?” Sam had said as they’d passed the ice cream. He’d been glad that he wasn’t the one under the compulsion to talk: Jesus, Dean could trip in shit and come up smelling like pussy.
He hoped Dean knew what he was doing. It was one thing for Dean to tell Sam the truth. Sam didn’t much like the idea of Dean running his mouth to a near-stranger. Not that Dean was likely to get the chance to tell his life story.
He’d spent his remaining night in town eating microwave macaroni and cheese and doing desultory research on the next possible hunts. Dean had called Sam at a little after eight the next morning to come pick him up at Lacey’s house. He’d collected Dean under the furious glare of an older man who he’d figured was Lacey’s father. Sam had smiled sheepishly at the man while Lacey had given Dean a long, wet kiss and then pressed a wafer on his tongue to release the spell.
They’d hit the road after that, because God forbid Dean stay within two states of a girl he’d just slept with, but the next job on the list was an as-yet-unidentified ghost, which meant libraries instead of shovels. Contrary to Dean’s constant verbal jabs, Sam had nothing against the latter, but he did like a good mix of brain- and brawn-work, so all in all, he appreciated a day spent in an archive basement, surrounded by the raisin-bread smell of rotting paper.
****
After a dragon, a routine haunting should have been cake, but the first day of legwork in New Paltz turned up only a few leads; they’d need another day before they could set something on fire. Dean was the one who bitched about lack of progress, but Sam privately agreed with him. They sparred for an hour after dinner to work out some of the frustration, using a grassy patch of land between the motel and the highway offramp. At least that was enough of a workout to make sleep appealing.
A low noise woke Sam. He put his hand on his gun, slitted his eyes open and saw from the bedside clock that it was well after midnight.
The sound from the next bed repeated. The bleed of light from the parking lot outside was enough to reveal Dean lying splayed out and naked.
“Dean--?” he began, releasing the gun as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. But Dean didn’t look like he was playing chicken with Sam’s sense of decency. He looked—surprised, maybe? If he was having a bizarre sex dream, Sam was never going to let him live it down.
Unwillingly, Sam’s eyes dropped to Dean’s cock, which was moving in a way that made absolutely no sense: up and down, but not naturally. He was half-hard, and Sam could see the skin around the head bunching up and relaxing like—
Holy fuck.
Adrenalin hit him like a hammer, catapulting him into full awareness. Without thinking about it, he leaned over towards Dean, bracing his hands on the edge of his bed to get a better look.
He couldn’t take his eyes off of Dean’s dick, darkening with blood as he watched, swaying a little as it thickened. It was almost possible to believe that Dean was doing this on his own, but something else was responsible for the side-to-side jerks and the continued slide of skin up near the head. As Sam watched, the middle of Dean’s dick just sort of spread out a little, as if it was being compressed by invisible fingers. A sick shudder went through Sam, bringing him back to himself.
Every succubus they’d ever heard tell of was visible, so this had to be something different. A poltergeist?
Well, he did have someone to consult: “What the hell is that?”
Dean managed to push his head and shoulders up off the bed, propping himself up with his elbows. “Looks like a—oh—handjob.”
Sam’s stomach flipped over. God, Dean wasn’t even covering himself with a sheet. Of course Dean would have an over-amorous exhibitionist ghost attach itself to him; Dean had probably dreamed about this sort of thing for years.
Dean’s eyes fluttered closed. Sam watched him as he tilted his head back and swallowed, the tendons and hollows of his neck arrowing down to his naked chest. “Dean!”
“I guess I’m just that sexy,” Dean gritted out. His hips were jumping up and down now, little thrusts that should have looked sillier than they did. “Not really used to an audience,” he said after a moment. “But hey, if it’s working for you—”
Sam opened his mouth to deny it, then realized that if Dean bothered to check, he’d be able to see Sam half-hard in his boxers. He’d been sleeping, it was natural, but explaining that would only lead to further humiliation.
“I’m going to the car,” he snapped, and jumped out of bed, looking for his sneakers. The spring night was warm enough that he could get away with boxers and a T-shirt, but when this was over, he was going to get Dean for fucking up the salt lines so that a spirit could get in, even a horny spirit. Come to think of it, that must have been what happened last night.
Dean picked up girls like pennies, and there was no reason they had to be alive for him to do it.
He was in a foul mood by the time he stomped out of the room, not improved any by Dean’s soft noises. And he was still steaming when he knocked on their door half an hour later. There was no answer; when he cracked the door, he saw Dean passed out on his stomach. At least he’d dragged a sheet over his ass.
Sam considered waking Dean up, but his own eyes felt like they’d been shoveled full of sand, he had a backache from trying to doze in the car, and in general he’d rather chew Dean out in the morning. He staggered around resetting the salt lines. In his zombielike state, he couldn’t tell where Dean had left the break. Then he collapsed back into his bed.
****
When he woke up, Dean was already gone, and there was a bag of donuts on the table by the door. Sam checked his messages and learned that Dean was visiting one of the two graves that they’d identified yesterday as potentially connected to the latest haunted house.
Sam stared at the donuts with suspicion. Dean didn’t do peace offerings that didn’t involve some heavily masculine activity like engine repair, or at least the use of the word ‘bitch.’ But the coffee next to the bag was still hot, and Dean had even remembered real sugar.
Thinking about Dean’s guest last night led to remembering how Dean had looked, stretched out and pliant under invisible caresses, and so he put it off in favor of eating breakfast and doing work that could produce useful, manageable results.
The second gravesite was within walking distance. Sam showered, left a note, and headed out.
The grave next to their suspect had recently been disturbed. Sam pretended to be a reporter working on a feature on funny stories from the graveyard, and the caretaker was happy to explain: Apparently the dead man’s brother-in-law had held him responsible for the death of his wife, and now that the dead man was no longer in a position to object, the brother-in-law had gotten his sister disinterred and reburied in the family plot. As it happened, the dead man was not pleased with this turn of events, which explained the recent paranormal shenanigans at the brother-in-law’s house.
Given that the poltergeist had started with breaking glass and had moved up to throwing knives, Sam was going to guess that the brother-in-law had been right all along.
By the time Sam got back the motel, he was more relaxed. He read a little of a rare demonology book Bobby had sent him. And when the door opened to let Dean in, he didn’t start yelling at Dean first thing for exposing him to Dean’s own supernatural groupie.
Instead, he slapped the book closed and stood up, advancing on Dean. “Why did you let me think it was a dream? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Dean smirked at him. “I didn’t know there’d be a repeat engagement. Don’t worry, this time I told her I’m not exactly a keeper.”
“If you’ve picked up a ghost stalker—”
Dean shook his head. “I got it covered,” he said, with all the easy confidence that used to make Sam feel perfectly safe no matter what was happening. “I spent the morning doing the basic ghost-cleaning rituals, and—” he pulled his collar down so that Sam could see he was wearing a new charm just under his amulet. “Ghost repellent. Tells a spirit that you’re satisfied, that there’s no debt left between you and it.” Sam vaguely recognized the shape of it; because they only hunted dangerous ghosts, they’d never had much use for the magics that allowed communication with more benign or indifferent spirits, but he’d seen similar things in books.
“I figure that oughta tell her I’m just not that into her,” Dean continued.
Sam nodded slowly, considering. There was always the chance—given their lives, the probability—that the spirit would go Fatal Attraction on Dean once he rejected it, but they had plenty of shotguns in that event.
Chances were she was connected to the motel room somehow. Maybe she was the ghost of some horny former housewife who’d had an affair here once, and who’d seen a chance to recreate the experience with Dean, who after all regularly emitted sex vibes that had to be visible from space. Probably he’d been jerking off while Sam slept, and that was what invited her in.
“Fine,” Sam said shortly. “Meanwhile, I found the right grave.”
****
They started digging not long before eleven. What they really needed, he told Dean, was to swap the Impala for a backhoe. They could drive it around the country; it would have extra storage space, and it couldn’t possibly get worse gas mileage.
Dean’s sputtering passed the time. Digging up graves was not the most exciting part of the job. He dreaded Dean’s bragging about his most recent, ghostly conquest, but, probably because Dean wouldn’t be able to testify to her physical attributes in any detail, Dean didn’t bring it up. Sam considered that a personal favor.
They’d just cracked the top of the coffin when Dean made a surprised sound; Sam dropped his shovel and had his shotgun aimed by the time Dean’s shoulders hit the side of the grave.
Sam couldn’t see anything other than Dean being pulled upwards and back onto the grass. Sam fired a round into the air above Dean’s head on general principles, then jumped out of the hole, looking around for the poltergeist.
The salt should have dissipated the ghost for a moment, but Dean was still flat on his back, struggling with—
Sam stopped and blinked. Dean’s fly was open, and his overshirt had been ripped, buttons scattered across the grass where they’d landed. As Sam watched, Dean’s boots flew off his feet. Dean yelped a protest and swatted his arms in the air, and then his wrists hit the ground over his head. His fists clenched and his muscles strained, from his forearms down to his now-exposed stomach, but he didn’t manage to move.
This wasn’t an attack by John Bateman, their target. It was the sex ghost. Except that salt hadn’t done anything to slow it down, which meant that it wasn’t a standard ghost. That meant the other kind of spirit, a demon, and that meant that orgasms weren’t its endgame.
The helpless anger on Dean's face hit home like a baseball bat to the stomach. He'd laughed at what had happened last night, because who'd ever imagine Dean turning down sex?
Dean looked up at him, furious. “Burn the fucking bones,” he said.
Which was a hell no. Sam advanced on Dean and his attacker.
“Behind you!” Dean yelled. Sam ducked and rolled, bringing the shotgun up; the ghost was halfway through the barrel when he fired, but it still worked. Sam reloaded frantically, rushing back towards the grave.
Even if the demon wanted to keep toying with Dean, the homicidal ghost was unlikely to have the same opinion, and Dean was in no condition to defend himself. Sam grabbed for the gasoline.
Sloshing the liquid over the open coffin took an eternal half-minute, the noise obscuring any sounds Dean might be making, and then the damned Bic wouldn’t go on, Sam’s fingers clumsy and forgetful of all his training. At last the wheel clicked under his thumb, and he threw the flaming lighter down. The ghost of John Bateman rematerialized long enough to scream in rage and rush the coffin; Sam snatched up the shotgun and blasted his incorporeal ass.
Sam barely waited long enough to make sure the bones had caught fire before he was running back to Dean. He'd started chanting in Latin before Dean was even in view, hoping the exorcism would work just as well on a succubus as on a greater demon. He skidded to his knees, still chanting. Dean was all but naked now, his jeans crumpled around his ankles and his gray T-shirt wadded into a rope over his collarbone, but the demon wasn't inflicting any physical damage: Dean's skin was unmarked, even his old scars blurred in the bad light.
Dean groaned and put his forearm over his eyes. "Get out of here," he ordered Sam. Sam ignored him, finishing the exorcism. It hadn't done any good. Dean's body was still twisting involuntarily, and his arm was quickly shoved back up to where it had started. Dean’s eyes were shut tight, his face screwed up with effort, but his limbs only trembled where they were fixed. He looked like a teaser ad for a rough trade porn site, clenched fists and upthrust cock, offering himself to anyone who could pin him down.
Sam gave up on words and reached out to the space just above Dean’s body to grab the thing away. There was nothing; his fingers closed on nothingness, and he nearly overbalanced and came crashing down on Dean, whose hips were jerking up, pushing his erection into empty air. Sam reared back: Dean’s cock was right there, blue-veined, the skin looking as soft and vulnerable as Dean’s lips, the head as wet as if someone had been licking at it.
Sam tried again, more carefully, to shove at the demon. He could feel the heat rising from Dean’s skin, could even feel the tickle of the sparse hairs on Dean’s thighs, but nothing else. No ghost-cold, no invisible entity pushing aside the air, nothing.
Sam couldn’t make sense of the attack. The demon was manifesting physically, so it should have had a reaction to Sam’s intervention, even if just to smack him away. Of course, a succubus should have been visible, too.
Dean was breathing hard as his ass ground further into the grass, as if the thing were riding him. There was a line, a slight indentation, at the tops of his thighs, where a human-shaped weight might have been resting.
Sam swallowed and looked at his brother’s chest, heaving and beginning to shine with sweat. Dean was curling up a little with each thrust, his abs contracting, grunting with effort each time. His arms were still pinned, his fingers clenching and unclenching, twisting as if he were trying to work his way out of unseen ropes.
Sam concentrated and reached deep inside himself to where his powers had been anchored. He’d promised not to do this any more.
No matter how he strained, he couldn’t make his mind wrap around the thing any more than his fingers had been able to. It was like it was on a completely different plane than the rest of existence, only intersecting reality where it touched Dean.
“Sam,” Dean said through gritted teeth, “get the fuck away. I’m’a make her happy and then we can work on it.”
That wasn’t a bad idea, since obviously he wasn’t equipped to combat the thing just yet. Except that if he left, he wouldn’t know if the thing was killing Dean. Demons didn’t do this kind of thing without a happy ending, demon-style.
Dean squirmed and then, shockingly, managed to bring his arms down long enough to grab the demon’s invisible hips, pulling her higher on his body. Dean panted harshly and bit his lip, his eyes still closed. He started to thrust up in a real rhythm, his palms smoothing over empty air, curling in as if squeezing his partner’s ass.
Sam’s heart shuddered in his chest; it was like being fourteen again, every nerve exposed to the world, feeling every inch of his skin catch fire and being sure that death by embarrassment was only a minute in the future. Except this time his embarrassment might get Dean killed, not make him laugh.
His paralysis broke and he rabbited to the car. Dean was doing the only thing he could: trying to make it last, trying to be such a wildcat in the sack that even a demon would hesitate to kill him. Since Sam had just proved himself absolutely useless, he had to hope that Dean’s plan would buy them enough time to figure out how to kill it.
After tossing a bunch of crap out of the trunk, he found Dad’s journal and ran back towards the gravesite. He found a headstone about ten feet away from Dean, one that would hide him from Dean’s line of sight while still allowing him to get there fast, and slumped down against it. He could hear Dean murmuring filthy things and tried to ignore the words, simultaneously straining to hear that Dean’s voice didn’t falter. Then he stuffed his flashlight in his mouth, flipped the journal open and began to read.
****
Sam was parsing his father’s more-than-usually-cryptic notes on African sex demons when Dean groaned, long and pained, and fell silent. Sam stood up so fast that he lost the journal in the darkness.
Dean was spread out on his back in the dirt like a pornographic Vitruvian man. Something dark and slick uncoiled in Sam’s stomach. Come streaked Dean’s groin, his cock still hard and red, lying along one thigh as it spat out a few last times. Panting, his muscles highlighted by the still-flickering firelight, he looked debauched but not damaged.
Dean blinked up at Sam, and for a moment Sam could see uncertainty. Then the blast doors slammed down. Dean casually sat up and began tugging at his clothes.
Sam’s brain started de-icing. The light from the flashlight in his hand was wobbling; he looked curiously down at his hand until it stilled. Then he remembered the journal. “I’ll be right back,” he told Dean, who had no reaction. He had to root around to find it, a black rectangle on the close-cropped green-white grass where it had fallen.
For a moment, Sam hated his father as much as he ever had, for making the choices that put them in a graveyard, alone, beset by every evil thing that crossed their path. Dad had raised a standing army of two, and the one thing history proved about armies was that they found things to fight.
They just didn’t always win.
His every muscle knotted with anger, a thick black feeling that formed a protective seal over the fear.
“Hey,” Dean said from behind him. Sam turned and saw that Dean had shoved his feet back into unlaced boots; his overshirt flapped loose around him, little strings hanging from where the buttons had been ripped off. Dean rubbed the back of his neck, looking down at Sam’s feet.
Without another word, they went back to the car. Sam resented the way that they both knew, without saying, that it made sense to get the hell out of a desecrated graveyard before dealing with their pending problem. They were so fucking professional it made him sick.
While they were driving, Dean kept opening his mouth as if he were going to say something—something flip and reassuring and utterly stupid, Sam figured—but he never managed actual words. Sam’s own brain was malfunctioning; he couldn’t concentrate on a single thought long enough to pin it down. His hands felt weak and his breath came too fast.
Sam’s fury—that was what it was, this feeling—needed to be aimed at the right target. That wasn’t Dean, no matter how much of a—no matter what had triggered this latest trouble. What had happened was brilliantly calculated to mix sex with humiliation and helplessness, and Sam wasn’t going to let his natural reactions interfere with saving Dean.
****
Back in the room, Sam went to check the salt lines on the windows and doors. They were intact.
“They were all fine last night, too,” Dean said from where he was sitting on the bed.
Sam still felt half-frozen, like a side of beef hung too long in a meat locker. His own body was twitching in reaction to what had been done to Dean. He should suggest a shower. No, that would just make Dean pretend he was totally happy with what had happened. Sam desperately wanted a shower, wanted to wrap Dean up in ten layers of clothes.
He shook his head, forcing himself to work the case like it was any other. The spirit had gotten inside the salt, and the exorcism didn’t do anything. So Dean’s attacker couldn’t be an ordinary spirit or demon. “Al Basti would leave you with a fever and isn’t invisible besides. All the other succubus-like creatures I know about are more about draining energy than sex.”
He stopped to take a breath. Dean gave him a transparent version of his usual smile, one that had the threat of violence hovering around it. “Maybe I’m just that tasty,” he suggested.
Sam reminded himself that Dean needed his bullshit macho posing more than ever right now. “In the morning we should call that witch. She already spelled you once, who knows what she could have done on your way out.”
Dean actually looked hurt. “Lacey? She wasn’t mad at me any more.”
Dean thought that making a girl come was some sort of get-out-of-jail-free card; this was because he’d never been in a long-term relationship. Sam scowled at him. “She’s a witch. Who knows what she thought would be good for you? Or maybe she was trying to do you a favor and screwed up a casting.”
Even without the honesty spell, Sam could feel the moment when Dean decided that Sam was right enough that pulling his chain wasn’t worth the effort. “Fine, but you make the call. I call a girl back, she starts to get ideas.” Slowly, as if he wasn’t entirely aware he was doing it, he was rubbing his T-shirt against his stomach, as if he were cleaning himself off even though the come had to be long dried. Sam forced himself to keep his eyes on Dean’s face and not the movement of his shoulders.
Sam took a deep, calming breath. “And I’m calling B--.”
“No way,” Dean said.
“I won’t tell him—”
“The fuck you won’t. You gotta describe the background or he can’t help. How long you think it’ll take him to figure out you’re talking about me?”
Sam looked up at the ceiling, trying to gather his strength for another round of Dean’s bullshit. Then he strode forward until he was only a few feet from where Dean was sitting at the edge of his bed and dropped to his knees so their eyes were almost at a level. Dean twitched back, just an inch or so, as if Sam had pulled a gun on him. “A succubus drains her victims until they die, Dean. So, yeah, if I have to take out an ad in The New York Times explaining that my brother is under attack, I’m gonna.”
“It’s not a succubus,” Dean said, his voice as steady as his hands on the wheel of the car.
“And you know that from the extensive research you’ve done.”
Dean watched him, rubbing his fingers over his mouth. Then his eyes flickered closed, as if he were thinking something through. “I don’t feel ‘drained,’ and I didn’t feel drained last night or the night before. And a succubus is a demon, which means that the exorcism should’ve worked. Before you go makin’ me a joke to Bobby and every hunter he talks to, let’s work on it ourselves.”
That … was about an order of magnitude more rational than he would have expected Dean to be. Maybe it was the lingering aftereffects of orgasm, Sam thought, and then wanted to cover his face in shame. “Okay,” he said, and he probably said it too softly, because Dean scowled at him like he thought Sam was just pandering to the assaulted guy.
****
Lacey worked at an accounting firm. She was a CPA, which sounded like something out of a sitcom (number-cruncher by day, wacky Wicca by night!) but made a lot of sense. Being good at witchcraft required a good memory and a passion for detail, not to mention the ability to make judgment calls quickly.
If he had to go kill her, he’d need a tight plan.
He’d scoured his more obscure written sources bare by the time nine o’clock rolled around. Dean, showered and shaved closer than was his habit, had gone out to grab breakfast when Sam made the call.
Her secretary put him straight through. “I didn’t think I’d be hearing from you,” she said. Sam couldn’t tell if there was any extra emphasis on the ‘you.’
“Did you leave any spells on Dean?” he asked.
“No,” she said. It sounded natural. Sam looked at the two candles he could see, points of a triangle that intersected the circle he was sitting in. The flames didn’t flicker. He wasn’t confident the truth-detecting spell would work wirelessly, but it was worth a try.
“You’re sure, not even a blessing or something?” The law of return didn’t guarantee good results, just enjoined witches to act with beneficient intent. There was always the chance that a well-meaning gesture had gone horribly awry.
“What’s the matter with him?” Lacey sounded honestly concerned. “If he’s still talking a lot, it might be that he’s figured out that he was causing himself and others unnecessary pain—”
Sam gave a bark of unwilling laughter. “This isn’t about caring and sharing, Lacey. And no—” he spoke over her inquisitive sound—“I can’t tell you what’s going on.”
She sighed. “I didn’t do anything but the first spell, I swear to you. If you’d like, I can scry, though it would help if you told me more.”
How would she be able to focus a scrying on Dean, he wondered. Then he realized that she probably did have access to some material from Dean’s body, and felt newly awkward. “Thanks, but if you aren’t involved, it’s probably a bad idea for you to get involved.”
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. “All right,” she said slowly. “But if you do need help, let me know. You two did a good job with the drake.” Because they weren’t face-to-face, Sam rolled his eyes; no matter how wicca she was, he still thought it was pretentious to call a dragon anything other than a dragon.
“Thank you,” he said, not letting any of his impatience spill into his voice, and hung up.
Then he called Dean. “Where are you?” he said as soon as Dean answered.
“On my way to Disneyland,” Dean said. The candleflames bounced up and down like they were doing squat thrusts, which at least answered the question of whether the spell worked with modern technology. “Parking, what do you think?” He didn’t wait for Sam’s reply, which was fine, since Sam had to clean up before Dean got back to the room. Dean might be getting softer on the topic of witches, but he was still likely to object if he thought Sam was performing rituals without him.
****
Dean spent the rest of the morning protesting that there was nothing wrong with his situation except that he couldn’t tell whether the girl was hot. It had been so nice to believe that this was just a matter of super-sexy Dean, chick magnet even on the spiritual plane. But Sam knew their luck wasn’t that good.
Sam was almost grateful when Dean begged off of research before lunch, claiming to need to visit a guy in town who sold good knives. He wouldn’t meet Sam’s eyes, which meant he knew he was putting it all on Sam, making it Sam’s fault if tonight went badly. It didn’t get less shitty because Dean knew he was being a dick.
“I wish you wouldn’t go,” Sam said right as Dean was standing in the doorway. Dean froze like he’d just been caught by the cops. The sunlight coming in from outside turned Dean into a black shadow, outlined by blazing yellow. Dean dipped his head, even as his shoulders rose. His overshirt was rolled up, exposing his forearms, and his loose jeans highlighted the bowing of his legs.
Dean put his hand on the doorknob. The light made his ring shine white.
“Sammy,” he said, his voice so tired that Sam’s protest curled up and died in his throat, “you spent the last half hour telling me not to throw pencils at you. You really think me sitting here saying I’m okay is what you need?”
There was so much he wanted to say: ‘Dean, you did hunts on your own, you’re not just the guy who shoots things.’ ‘Dean, you don’t have to stop pretending, just maybe not so hard.’ But the best he could manage was, “We need to restock the herbs. And get some charcoal sticks, I’ve got an idea for a protective sigil.”
“Sure thing,” Dean said.
Next part.
NC-17
Dean/Others, Sam/Dean
Warnings: Noncon. Be warned that Mely calls this “extreme even for SPN.” In other words: hello, Id Vortex, my old friend.
Summary: Dean acquires unwelcome nightly visitors. Set post-Hell, without details as to how that happens.
Thanks:
astolat, who knows where a story starts. coffeeandink, geekturnedvamp and giandujakiss for helpful beta. This is so not their fault.Read the first part under the cut, or read the whole story at my site.
Sam woke to the sounds of Dean fucking someone in the next bed. After the initial disorientation, he shoved his head into his pillow. How the hell had Dean managed that, anyway? He would have woken up if Dean had left, and he should have woken up if the waitress from dinner or the girl who’d sold them gas or the tired-looking woman who’d given them their key or the—whatever, if anyone had knocked on their door.
He considered asking for a break in the action so he could go out to the car. But even sneaky, stealth hookups deserved some dignity, and she might not have known that Sam was in the next bed, or Dean might have promised her that Sam slept like the dead and wouldn’t notice.
She wasn’t making much noise, which supported the theory that she didn’t want Sam to wake up. Either that, or Dean wasn’t performing up to his usual standards. Given the giggling and reluctance to let Dean go that Sam had seen on too many mornings after, that seemed unlikely. If anything, he would have expected the girl to need to jam her fist into her mouth, if it wasn’t otherwise occupied, to avoid crying out.
Whatever she was doing, all he could hear was the slap of flesh against flesh and Dean’s harsh breaths, cresting into grunts at the end.
He laid there in the darkness for a while, but he was asleep again before she left.
****
“Look, I sympathize with your burning desire to reaffirm your masculinity after last week's disclosures, but I didn’t appreciate last night’s performance,” he said the next morning as Dean was digging in to his disgusting ketchup-coated eggs.
Dean choked, long enough that Sam was halfway out of his seat before Dean managed to calm down and wave him off. “What the hell are you talking about?” Dean’s voice was still rough from coughing. He didn’t meet Sam’s eyes.
“Whatever girl you snuck in? I might not be twelve any more, but it’s still inappropriate.” Unwillingly, he flashed back to the last time he’d been forced to be up close and personal with Dean’s sexual gymnastics. Dean’s endurance had improved since he was sixteen, but that made it even less fun to hear. And without Dad around to complain to, he really needed to stop this behavior in its tracks before it became one of Dean’s tease-Sam habits.
Dean wasn’t fighting back; he was staring down, gripping his fork as if it were a socket wrench and the eggs a recalcitrant auto part. He was wearing the blank, unfriendly mask he used to confront ghosts, though it was aimed at his plate and not at Sam. “Dean?”
“You must’ve been dreaming,” Dean said flatly.
Sam blinked. Over the years, he’d had reason to distinguish between dreamstates and waking, and he would have sworn he’d been awake. But it did make a lot more sense of why he would have missed a woman coming in or leaving. “Oh,” he said, dumbly, then felt himself flush as red as the ketchup Dean was swirling on his plate.
Dean took a breath and glanced up, smiling. “That’s okay, Sammy. Who wouldn’t have sweet dreams about me?”
Sam grimaced and dug into his too-hot oatmeal.
The waitress came by just then, and Dean gave her his Standard Waitress Smile, the one with crinkled eyes and a tilted head. The one that said, “If you were on the menu, sweetheart, I’d definitely place an order.” She was a brunette, nothing out of the ordinary in the way she filled her uniform, but she had nice eyes. She almost overtopped Sam’s coffee cup, stopping only when Sam cleared his throat.
****
The rest of the day was devoted to research, not active hunting. Sam was grateful for the extra time. He was still a little sore from the last hunt.
That one had been grim. They’d come to the Boston suburb after the deaths of five preteen girls, and they hadn’t managed to prevent two additional deaths. Originally they’d thought it was witches, but it had turned out that the local coven was investigating, same as they had been, and they had managed to work together. After they’d killed the dragon—okay, it was only a miniature dragon, but still—the head of the coven had pulled Dean aside to talk about his bad attitude.
Three minutes later, Dean had been back, bespelled so that he had to talk honestly, and include information about his feelings. The look of outrage on his face had been more satisfying than any good grade had ever been, and then when he’d hurried back over to Sam, the spell itself had forced him to tell Sam what it was about. It had been the best revenge ever, and Sam had wanted to hug the witch, but had settled for a grin and a thumbs up from across the clearing. Powerful and with a good insight into human psychology—just the kind of person he wanted on his side.
Dean had been hurting from a second-degree burn on his leg and lesser burns over most of his forearms, and Sam had been pretty scratched up himself, so they’d stayed in town for a few extra days. That had started out awesome too: Dean had begun loading the car as soon as they got back to the motel, but Sam had complained, and Dean had said, “Yeah, I’d like a day off too, but I don’t want you to think I’m getting soft.” He’d given up packing while Sam was still convulsing with laughter.
“I don’t want you to think X” had turned out to be a big thing with Dean. That had not, in fact, been an enormous shock, but it had been hysterical. When the waitress at the diner had asked what he wanted for lunch, he’d told her that he really wanted a turkey sandwich, but felt like he ought to order something greasy just to gross out Sam. He’d ended up eating his turkey sandwich while scowling constantly, so it had been win-win for Sam.
Sam hadn’t abused his new powers. Much. He hadn’t wanted this interlude to leave Dean too pissed-off to be good company. Forcing Dean to talk about his major issues was like sparring with a sharpened machete.
Still, there had been moments, like getting Dean to admit that, yes, ABBA was catchy, that would be mockery fodder for a long time. The funniest incident had been all but accidental: Dean had stopped at a drugstore, and when Sam asked why, he’d been treated to an extended discussion of various hair gels and their subtly different effects on Dean’s carefully disarranged style. Sam was now convinced that Dean had used more different kinds of hair products than he had actual follicles.
Or maybe the best one was Dean’s admission, after he’d finished detailing the car, that he’d often prefer a good engine repair to a one-night stand, but would settle for the latter under time and/or resource constraints. (Not in so many words, but Sam liked his rephrasing better.)
In any event, while they’d been out buying food for their last dinner in town, the witch had popped up again, all smiles and flowing earth-tone clothes in the frozen foods aisle. Sam had smiled at her, so wide it hurt his face, but she hadn’t done more than glance his way. “So what do you think of witches now?” she’d asked, crowding into Dean’s personal space.
Dean had grinned like he was acknowledging a good prank of Sam’s. “Still don’t trust ‘em, but I think you know what you’re doing. And you’re really hot,” he’d added as an afterthought.
Sam had been surprised that Dean would ever think anything before “hot.” But it had sure seemed to work on the witch, Lacey.
“Mind if I borrow your brother?” she’d asked Sam, pulling Dean away.
Dean had flashed Sam a triumphant smile over his shoulder. “… No?” Sam had said as they’d passed the ice cream. He’d been glad that he wasn’t the one under the compulsion to talk: Jesus, Dean could trip in shit and come up smelling like pussy.
He hoped Dean knew what he was doing. It was one thing for Dean to tell Sam the truth. Sam didn’t much like the idea of Dean running his mouth to a near-stranger. Not that Dean was likely to get the chance to tell his life story.
He’d spent his remaining night in town eating microwave macaroni and cheese and doing desultory research on the next possible hunts. Dean had called Sam at a little after eight the next morning to come pick him up at Lacey’s house. He’d collected Dean under the furious glare of an older man who he’d figured was Lacey’s father. Sam had smiled sheepishly at the man while Lacey had given Dean a long, wet kiss and then pressed a wafer on his tongue to release the spell.
They’d hit the road after that, because God forbid Dean stay within two states of a girl he’d just slept with, but the next job on the list was an as-yet-unidentified ghost, which meant libraries instead of shovels. Contrary to Dean’s constant verbal jabs, Sam had nothing against the latter, but he did like a good mix of brain- and brawn-work, so all in all, he appreciated a day spent in an archive basement, surrounded by the raisin-bread smell of rotting paper.
****
After a dragon, a routine haunting should have been cake, but the first day of legwork in New Paltz turned up only a few leads; they’d need another day before they could set something on fire. Dean was the one who bitched about lack of progress, but Sam privately agreed with him. They sparred for an hour after dinner to work out some of the frustration, using a grassy patch of land between the motel and the highway offramp. At least that was enough of a workout to make sleep appealing.
A low noise woke Sam. He put his hand on his gun, slitted his eyes open and saw from the bedside clock that it was well after midnight.
The sound from the next bed repeated. The bleed of light from the parking lot outside was enough to reveal Dean lying splayed out and naked.
“Dean--?” he began, releasing the gun as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. But Dean didn’t look like he was playing chicken with Sam’s sense of decency. He looked—surprised, maybe? If he was having a bizarre sex dream, Sam was never going to let him live it down.
Unwillingly, Sam’s eyes dropped to Dean’s cock, which was moving in a way that made absolutely no sense: up and down, but not naturally. He was half-hard, and Sam could see the skin around the head bunching up and relaxing like—
Holy fuck.
Adrenalin hit him like a hammer, catapulting him into full awareness. Without thinking about it, he leaned over towards Dean, bracing his hands on the edge of his bed to get a better look.
He couldn’t take his eyes off of Dean’s dick, darkening with blood as he watched, swaying a little as it thickened. It was almost possible to believe that Dean was doing this on his own, but something else was responsible for the side-to-side jerks and the continued slide of skin up near the head. As Sam watched, the middle of Dean’s dick just sort of spread out a little, as if it was being compressed by invisible fingers. A sick shudder went through Sam, bringing him back to himself.
Every succubus they’d ever heard tell of was visible, so this had to be something different. A poltergeist?
Well, he did have someone to consult: “What the hell is that?”
Dean managed to push his head and shoulders up off the bed, propping himself up with his elbows. “Looks like a—oh—handjob.”
Sam’s stomach flipped over. God, Dean wasn’t even covering himself with a sheet. Of course Dean would have an over-amorous exhibitionist ghost attach itself to him; Dean had probably dreamed about this sort of thing for years.
Dean’s eyes fluttered closed. Sam watched him as he tilted his head back and swallowed, the tendons and hollows of his neck arrowing down to his naked chest. “Dean!”
“I guess I’m just that sexy,” Dean gritted out. His hips were jumping up and down now, little thrusts that should have looked sillier than they did. “Not really used to an audience,” he said after a moment. “But hey, if it’s working for you—”
Sam opened his mouth to deny it, then realized that if Dean bothered to check, he’d be able to see Sam half-hard in his boxers. He’d been sleeping, it was natural, but explaining that would only lead to further humiliation.
“I’m going to the car,” he snapped, and jumped out of bed, looking for his sneakers. The spring night was warm enough that he could get away with boxers and a T-shirt, but when this was over, he was going to get Dean for fucking up the salt lines so that a spirit could get in, even a horny spirit. Come to think of it, that must have been what happened last night.
Dean picked up girls like pennies, and there was no reason they had to be alive for him to do it.
He was in a foul mood by the time he stomped out of the room, not improved any by Dean’s soft noises. And he was still steaming when he knocked on their door half an hour later. There was no answer; when he cracked the door, he saw Dean passed out on his stomach. At least he’d dragged a sheet over his ass.
Sam considered waking Dean up, but his own eyes felt like they’d been shoveled full of sand, he had a backache from trying to doze in the car, and in general he’d rather chew Dean out in the morning. He staggered around resetting the salt lines. In his zombielike state, he couldn’t tell where Dean had left the break. Then he collapsed back into his bed.
****
When he woke up, Dean was already gone, and there was a bag of donuts on the table by the door. Sam checked his messages and learned that Dean was visiting one of the two graves that they’d identified yesterday as potentially connected to the latest haunted house.
Sam stared at the donuts with suspicion. Dean didn’t do peace offerings that didn’t involve some heavily masculine activity like engine repair, or at least the use of the word ‘bitch.’ But the coffee next to the bag was still hot, and Dean had even remembered real sugar.
Thinking about Dean’s guest last night led to remembering how Dean had looked, stretched out and pliant under invisible caresses, and so he put it off in favor of eating breakfast and doing work that could produce useful, manageable results.
The second gravesite was within walking distance. Sam showered, left a note, and headed out.
The grave next to their suspect had recently been disturbed. Sam pretended to be a reporter working on a feature on funny stories from the graveyard, and the caretaker was happy to explain: Apparently the dead man’s brother-in-law had held him responsible for the death of his wife, and now that the dead man was no longer in a position to object, the brother-in-law had gotten his sister disinterred and reburied in the family plot. As it happened, the dead man was not pleased with this turn of events, which explained the recent paranormal shenanigans at the brother-in-law’s house.
Given that the poltergeist had started with breaking glass and had moved up to throwing knives, Sam was going to guess that the brother-in-law had been right all along.
By the time Sam got back the motel, he was more relaxed. He read a little of a rare demonology book Bobby had sent him. And when the door opened to let Dean in, he didn’t start yelling at Dean first thing for exposing him to Dean’s own supernatural groupie.
Instead, he slapped the book closed and stood up, advancing on Dean. “Why did you let me think it was a dream? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Dean smirked at him. “I didn’t know there’d be a repeat engagement. Don’t worry, this time I told her I’m not exactly a keeper.”
“If you’ve picked up a ghost stalker—”
Dean shook his head. “I got it covered,” he said, with all the easy confidence that used to make Sam feel perfectly safe no matter what was happening. “I spent the morning doing the basic ghost-cleaning rituals, and—” he pulled his collar down so that Sam could see he was wearing a new charm just under his amulet. “Ghost repellent. Tells a spirit that you’re satisfied, that there’s no debt left between you and it.” Sam vaguely recognized the shape of it; because they only hunted dangerous ghosts, they’d never had much use for the magics that allowed communication with more benign or indifferent spirits, but he’d seen similar things in books.
“I figure that oughta tell her I’m just not that into her,” Dean continued.
Sam nodded slowly, considering. There was always the chance—given their lives, the probability—that the spirit would go Fatal Attraction on Dean once he rejected it, but they had plenty of shotguns in that event.
Chances were she was connected to the motel room somehow. Maybe she was the ghost of some horny former housewife who’d had an affair here once, and who’d seen a chance to recreate the experience with Dean, who after all regularly emitted sex vibes that had to be visible from space. Probably he’d been jerking off while Sam slept, and that was what invited her in.
“Fine,” Sam said shortly. “Meanwhile, I found the right grave.”
****
They started digging not long before eleven. What they really needed, he told Dean, was to swap the Impala for a backhoe. They could drive it around the country; it would have extra storage space, and it couldn’t possibly get worse gas mileage.
Dean’s sputtering passed the time. Digging up graves was not the most exciting part of the job. He dreaded Dean’s bragging about his most recent, ghostly conquest, but, probably because Dean wouldn’t be able to testify to her physical attributes in any detail, Dean didn’t bring it up. Sam considered that a personal favor.
They’d just cracked the top of the coffin when Dean made a surprised sound; Sam dropped his shovel and had his shotgun aimed by the time Dean’s shoulders hit the side of the grave.
Sam couldn’t see anything other than Dean being pulled upwards and back onto the grass. Sam fired a round into the air above Dean’s head on general principles, then jumped out of the hole, looking around for the poltergeist.
The salt should have dissipated the ghost for a moment, but Dean was still flat on his back, struggling with—
Sam stopped and blinked. Dean’s fly was open, and his overshirt had been ripped, buttons scattered across the grass where they’d landed. As Sam watched, Dean’s boots flew off his feet. Dean yelped a protest and swatted his arms in the air, and then his wrists hit the ground over his head. His fists clenched and his muscles strained, from his forearms down to his now-exposed stomach, but he didn’t manage to move.
This wasn’t an attack by John Bateman, their target. It was the sex ghost. Except that salt hadn’t done anything to slow it down, which meant that it wasn’t a standard ghost. That meant the other kind of spirit, a demon, and that meant that orgasms weren’t its endgame.
The helpless anger on Dean's face hit home like a baseball bat to the stomach. He'd laughed at what had happened last night, because who'd ever imagine Dean turning down sex?
Dean looked up at him, furious. “Burn the fucking bones,” he said.
Which was a hell no. Sam advanced on Dean and his attacker.
“Behind you!” Dean yelled. Sam ducked and rolled, bringing the shotgun up; the ghost was halfway through the barrel when he fired, but it still worked. Sam reloaded frantically, rushing back towards the grave.
Even if the demon wanted to keep toying with Dean, the homicidal ghost was unlikely to have the same opinion, and Dean was in no condition to defend himself. Sam grabbed for the gasoline.
Sloshing the liquid over the open coffin took an eternal half-minute, the noise obscuring any sounds Dean might be making, and then the damned Bic wouldn’t go on, Sam’s fingers clumsy and forgetful of all his training. At last the wheel clicked under his thumb, and he threw the flaming lighter down. The ghost of John Bateman rematerialized long enough to scream in rage and rush the coffin; Sam snatched up the shotgun and blasted his incorporeal ass.
Sam barely waited long enough to make sure the bones had caught fire before he was running back to Dean. He'd started chanting in Latin before Dean was even in view, hoping the exorcism would work just as well on a succubus as on a greater demon. He skidded to his knees, still chanting. Dean was all but naked now, his jeans crumpled around his ankles and his gray T-shirt wadded into a rope over his collarbone, but the demon wasn't inflicting any physical damage: Dean's skin was unmarked, even his old scars blurred in the bad light.
Dean groaned and put his forearm over his eyes. "Get out of here," he ordered Sam. Sam ignored him, finishing the exorcism. It hadn't done any good. Dean's body was still twisting involuntarily, and his arm was quickly shoved back up to where it had started. Dean’s eyes were shut tight, his face screwed up with effort, but his limbs only trembled where they were fixed. He looked like a teaser ad for a rough trade porn site, clenched fists and upthrust cock, offering himself to anyone who could pin him down.
Sam gave up on words and reached out to the space just above Dean’s body to grab the thing away. There was nothing; his fingers closed on nothingness, and he nearly overbalanced and came crashing down on Dean, whose hips were jerking up, pushing his erection into empty air. Sam reared back: Dean’s cock was right there, blue-veined, the skin looking as soft and vulnerable as Dean’s lips, the head as wet as if someone had been licking at it.
Sam tried again, more carefully, to shove at the demon. He could feel the heat rising from Dean’s skin, could even feel the tickle of the sparse hairs on Dean’s thighs, but nothing else. No ghost-cold, no invisible entity pushing aside the air, nothing.
Sam couldn’t make sense of the attack. The demon was manifesting physically, so it should have had a reaction to Sam’s intervention, even if just to smack him away. Of course, a succubus should have been visible, too.
Dean was breathing hard as his ass ground further into the grass, as if the thing were riding him. There was a line, a slight indentation, at the tops of his thighs, where a human-shaped weight might have been resting.
Sam swallowed and looked at his brother’s chest, heaving and beginning to shine with sweat. Dean was curling up a little with each thrust, his abs contracting, grunting with effort each time. His arms were still pinned, his fingers clenching and unclenching, twisting as if he were trying to work his way out of unseen ropes.
Sam concentrated and reached deep inside himself to where his powers had been anchored. He’d promised not to do this any more.
No matter how he strained, he couldn’t make his mind wrap around the thing any more than his fingers had been able to. It was like it was on a completely different plane than the rest of existence, only intersecting reality where it touched Dean.
“Sam,” Dean said through gritted teeth, “get the fuck away. I’m’a make her happy and then we can work on it.”
That wasn’t a bad idea, since obviously he wasn’t equipped to combat the thing just yet. Except that if he left, he wouldn’t know if the thing was killing Dean. Demons didn’t do this kind of thing without a happy ending, demon-style.
Dean squirmed and then, shockingly, managed to bring his arms down long enough to grab the demon’s invisible hips, pulling her higher on his body. Dean panted harshly and bit his lip, his eyes still closed. He started to thrust up in a real rhythm, his palms smoothing over empty air, curling in as if squeezing his partner’s ass.
Sam’s heart shuddered in his chest; it was like being fourteen again, every nerve exposed to the world, feeling every inch of his skin catch fire and being sure that death by embarrassment was only a minute in the future. Except this time his embarrassment might get Dean killed, not make him laugh.
His paralysis broke and he rabbited to the car. Dean was doing the only thing he could: trying to make it last, trying to be such a wildcat in the sack that even a demon would hesitate to kill him. Since Sam had just proved himself absolutely useless, he had to hope that Dean’s plan would buy them enough time to figure out how to kill it.
After tossing a bunch of crap out of the trunk, he found Dad’s journal and ran back towards the gravesite. He found a headstone about ten feet away from Dean, one that would hide him from Dean’s line of sight while still allowing him to get there fast, and slumped down against it. He could hear Dean murmuring filthy things and tried to ignore the words, simultaneously straining to hear that Dean’s voice didn’t falter. Then he stuffed his flashlight in his mouth, flipped the journal open and began to read.
****
Sam was parsing his father’s more-than-usually-cryptic notes on African sex demons when Dean groaned, long and pained, and fell silent. Sam stood up so fast that he lost the journal in the darkness.
Dean was spread out on his back in the dirt like a pornographic Vitruvian man. Something dark and slick uncoiled in Sam’s stomach. Come streaked Dean’s groin, his cock still hard and red, lying along one thigh as it spat out a few last times. Panting, his muscles highlighted by the still-flickering firelight, he looked debauched but not damaged.
Dean blinked up at Sam, and for a moment Sam could see uncertainty. Then the blast doors slammed down. Dean casually sat up and began tugging at his clothes.
Sam’s brain started de-icing. The light from the flashlight in his hand was wobbling; he looked curiously down at his hand until it stilled. Then he remembered the journal. “I’ll be right back,” he told Dean, who had no reaction. He had to root around to find it, a black rectangle on the close-cropped green-white grass where it had fallen.
For a moment, Sam hated his father as much as he ever had, for making the choices that put them in a graveyard, alone, beset by every evil thing that crossed their path. Dad had raised a standing army of two, and the one thing history proved about armies was that they found things to fight.
They just didn’t always win.
His every muscle knotted with anger, a thick black feeling that formed a protective seal over the fear.
“Hey,” Dean said from behind him. Sam turned and saw that Dean had shoved his feet back into unlaced boots; his overshirt flapped loose around him, little strings hanging from where the buttons had been ripped off. Dean rubbed the back of his neck, looking down at Sam’s feet.
Without another word, they went back to the car. Sam resented the way that they both knew, without saying, that it made sense to get the hell out of a desecrated graveyard before dealing with their pending problem. They were so fucking professional it made him sick.
While they were driving, Dean kept opening his mouth as if he were going to say something—something flip and reassuring and utterly stupid, Sam figured—but he never managed actual words. Sam’s own brain was malfunctioning; he couldn’t concentrate on a single thought long enough to pin it down. His hands felt weak and his breath came too fast.
Sam’s fury—that was what it was, this feeling—needed to be aimed at the right target. That wasn’t Dean, no matter how much of a—no matter what had triggered this latest trouble. What had happened was brilliantly calculated to mix sex with humiliation and helplessness, and Sam wasn’t going to let his natural reactions interfere with saving Dean.
****
Back in the room, Sam went to check the salt lines on the windows and doors. They were intact.
“They were all fine last night, too,” Dean said from where he was sitting on the bed.
Sam still felt half-frozen, like a side of beef hung too long in a meat locker. His own body was twitching in reaction to what had been done to Dean. He should suggest a shower. No, that would just make Dean pretend he was totally happy with what had happened. Sam desperately wanted a shower, wanted to wrap Dean up in ten layers of clothes.
He shook his head, forcing himself to work the case like it was any other. The spirit had gotten inside the salt, and the exorcism didn’t do anything. So Dean’s attacker couldn’t be an ordinary spirit or demon. “Al Basti would leave you with a fever and isn’t invisible besides. All the other succubus-like creatures I know about are more about draining energy than sex.”
He stopped to take a breath. Dean gave him a transparent version of his usual smile, one that had the threat of violence hovering around it. “Maybe I’m just that tasty,” he suggested.
Sam reminded himself that Dean needed his bullshit macho posing more than ever right now. “In the morning we should call that witch. She already spelled you once, who knows what she could have done on your way out.”
Dean actually looked hurt. “Lacey? She wasn’t mad at me any more.”
Dean thought that making a girl come was some sort of get-out-of-jail-free card; this was because he’d never been in a long-term relationship. Sam scowled at him. “She’s a witch. Who knows what she thought would be good for you? Or maybe she was trying to do you a favor and screwed up a casting.”
Even without the honesty spell, Sam could feel the moment when Dean decided that Sam was right enough that pulling his chain wasn’t worth the effort. “Fine, but you make the call. I call a girl back, she starts to get ideas.” Slowly, as if he wasn’t entirely aware he was doing it, he was rubbing his T-shirt against his stomach, as if he were cleaning himself off even though the come had to be long dried. Sam forced himself to keep his eyes on Dean’s face and not the movement of his shoulders.
Sam took a deep, calming breath. “And I’m calling B--.”
“No way,” Dean said.
“I won’t tell him—”
“The fuck you won’t. You gotta describe the background or he can’t help. How long you think it’ll take him to figure out you’re talking about me?”
Sam looked up at the ceiling, trying to gather his strength for another round of Dean’s bullshit. Then he strode forward until he was only a few feet from where Dean was sitting at the edge of his bed and dropped to his knees so their eyes were almost at a level. Dean twitched back, just an inch or so, as if Sam had pulled a gun on him. “A succubus drains her victims until they die, Dean. So, yeah, if I have to take out an ad in The New York Times explaining that my brother is under attack, I’m gonna.”
“It’s not a succubus,” Dean said, his voice as steady as his hands on the wheel of the car.
“And you know that from the extensive research you’ve done.”
Dean watched him, rubbing his fingers over his mouth. Then his eyes flickered closed, as if he were thinking something through. “I don’t feel ‘drained,’ and I didn’t feel drained last night or the night before. And a succubus is a demon, which means that the exorcism should’ve worked. Before you go makin’ me a joke to Bobby and every hunter he talks to, let’s work on it ourselves.”
That … was about an order of magnitude more rational than he would have expected Dean to be. Maybe it was the lingering aftereffects of orgasm, Sam thought, and then wanted to cover his face in shame. “Okay,” he said, and he probably said it too softly, because Dean scowled at him like he thought Sam was just pandering to the assaulted guy.
****
Lacey worked at an accounting firm. She was a CPA, which sounded like something out of a sitcom (number-cruncher by day, wacky Wicca by night!) but made a lot of sense. Being good at witchcraft required a good memory and a passion for detail, not to mention the ability to make judgment calls quickly.
If he had to go kill her, he’d need a tight plan.
He’d scoured his more obscure written sources bare by the time nine o’clock rolled around. Dean, showered and shaved closer than was his habit, had gone out to grab breakfast when Sam made the call.
Her secretary put him straight through. “I didn’t think I’d be hearing from you,” she said. Sam couldn’t tell if there was any extra emphasis on the ‘you.’
“Did you leave any spells on Dean?” he asked.
“No,” she said. It sounded natural. Sam looked at the two candles he could see, points of a triangle that intersected the circle he was sitting in. The flames didn’t flicker. He wasn’t confident the truth-detecting spell would work wirelessly, but it was worth a try.
“You’re sure, not even a blessing or something?” The law of return didn’t guarantee good results, just enjoined witches to act with beneficient intent. There was always the chance that a well-meaning gesture had gone horribly awry.
“What’s the matter with him?” Lacey sounded honestly concerned. “If he’s still talking a lot, it might be that he’s figured out that he was causing himself and others unnecessary pain—”
Sam gave a bark of unwilling laughter. “This isn’t about caring and sharing, Lacey. And no—” he spoke over her inquisitive sound—“I can’t tell you what’s going on.”
She sighed. “I didn’t do anything but the first spell, I swear to you. If you’d like, I can scry, though it would help if you told me more.”
How would she be able to focus a scrying on Dean, he wondered. Then he realized that she probably did have access to some material from Dean’s body, and felt newly awkward. “Thanks, but if you aren’t involved, it’s probably a bad idea for you to get involved.”
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. “All right,” she said slowly. “But if you do need help, let me know. You two did a good job with the drake.” Because they weren’t face-to-face, Sam rolled his eyes; no matter how wicca she was, he still thought it was pretentious to call a dragon anything other than a dragon.
“Thank you,” he said, not letting any of his impatience spill into his voice, and hung up.
Then he called Dean. “Where are you?” he said as soon as Dean answered.
“On my way to Disneyland,” Dean said. The candleflames bounced up and down like they were doing squat thrusts, which at least answered the question of whether the spell worked with modern technology. “Parking, what do you think?” He didn’t wait for Sam’s reply, which was fine, since Sam had to clean up before Dean got back to the room. Dean might be getting softer on the topic of witches, but he was still likely to object if he thought Sam was performing rituals without him.
****
Dean spent the rest of the morning protesting that there was nothing wrong with his situation except that he couldn’t tell whether the girl was hot. It had been so nice to believe that this was just a matter of super-sexy Dean, chick magnet even on the spiritual plane. But Sam knew their luck wasn’t that good.
Sam was almost grateful when Dean begged off of research before lunch, claiming to need to visit a guy in town who sold good knives. He wouldn’t meet Sam’s eyes, which meant he knew he was putting it all on Sam, making it Sam’s fault if tonight went badly. It didn’t get less shitty because Dean knew he was being a dick.
“I wish you wouldn’t go,” Sam said right as Dean was standing in the doorway. Dean froze like he’d just been caught by the cops. The sunlight coming in from outside turned Dean into a black shadow, outlined by blazing yellow. Dean dipped his head, even as his shoulders rose. His overshirt was rolled up, exposing his forearms, and his loose jeans highlighted the bowing of his legs.
Dean put his hand on the doorknob. The light made his ring shine white.
“Sammy,” he said, his voice so tired that Sam’s protest curled up and died in his throat, “you spent the last half hour telling me not to throw pencils at you. You really think me sitting here saying I’m okay is what you need?”
There was so much he wanted to say: ‘Dean, you did hunts on your own, you’re not just the guy who shoots things.’ ‘Dean, you don’t have to stop pretending, just maybe not so hard.’ But the best he could manage was, “We need to restock the herbs. And get some charcoal sticks, I’ve got an idea for a protective sigil.”
“Sure thing,” Dean said.
Next part.
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