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FIC: Weapon of Choice: Chapter 9
Title: Weapon of Choice
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: xantissa
Summary: A case turning out to be a set up. Sam taken away from him. An enemy he can’t identify. Father that struggles to understand. Dean, alone, fighting to save his brother from power no one can really understand.
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: 18+
Warnings: incest, slash, demon possession, violence.
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all it’s characters belong to WB. I do it just for fun, no profit being made from my writing.
Spoilers: Mild for Asylum, Nightmare tiny ones for probably most of the first season.
Chapter 9
Dean leaned on his beloved car and took in a few deep breaths. The copy of a police report slid from his nerveless fingers to the dirty pavement.
Yeah, he knew Sam killed somebody before he came to him in the hotel, Sam still had marks to prove it. But... he never expected something like this. Stupid really. It was probably the obvious reason for this whole mess.
So that the guy in charge could have himself a perfect killer.
The gory pictures flashed through his mind and he had to swallow bile that rose in his throat.
A small but extremely well protected villa on the outskirts of the city. Eight, heavily armed security men, one stranger that came through the front gate.
Not a single camera out of twenty six in the house had captured the man’s face. Not a single bullet hit its mark as one guard after another was ripped to shreds. Cut with a strange, curved blade. Ruthlessly, efficiently. Messily.
One target. The owner of a bunch of highly successful, probably mob related, night clubs. He was cut open and vivisected on his own bed.
The only survivor was the maid but she was in too much of a shock to do anything else than cry. She probably hadn’t seen anything anyway.
When he got his Sammy back, he better not remember all this. Because his Sammy wouldn’t be able to survive knowing he did such things, killed so many people.
Right there and then, Dean decided to stop keeping score. It was best if neither of them knew the real number of victims. His only consolation was that they were armed. The only unarmed and probably innocent person in that house was the maid, and she survived without a scratch on her.
Suddenly he felt the now familiar sensation of the little hair on the back of his neck standing up and a gentle shiver that runs down his body only to settle down in his groin.
Slowly, already knowing what he will see, Dean turned around, his eyes scanning the alley he used to park his car in.
Almost directly behind him, leaning on the wall was Sam. Dressed like he was in the bar. Long, black leather coat, black jeans and some kind of long sleeved, dark shirt. It’s still strange to see Sam dressed in black from head to toe. He was never a cheery person, never one to wear sharp colors, but he preferred blue, light gray, green, white. This... this made him look pale, alien, so very different from his Sammy. And maybe that was the reason?
His head was lowered slightly, enough for the unruly mop of hair to fall over his eyes, obscuring them completely. There weren’t any lines on his cheeks as far as Dean could see.
Sam stood leaning back on the old, brick wall. Those ridiculously long legs spread enough that the dark cloth of his jeans stretched over his groin like a promise, or a threat maybe. The thumb of his right hand was hooked over his front pocket, the other flat against the crumbling bricks. His long, graceful fingers spread out on the wall, making Dean remember all those things he could do with those hands. In a flash, Dean became so blindingly hard it hurt, at the memory of those fingers inside him, stretching him, penetrating, owning, hurting, making him feel like he has never felt before.
Dean had to swallow, his mouth suddenly dry. And really, it was ridiculous just how turned on by Sam he was.
Sam finally moved, raising his head. His eyes were as black and terrifying as he remembered them. No pupils, no whites... nothing but liquid blackness. Flat and dead, but not empty. After what Dean saw in those eyes the night before, he could never think of them as empty. There was still his brother in there. He knew it now.
“Why are you doing this Dean?” Sam asked in his newly acquired, low, thick voice that did all kinds of things to Dean’s insides. “It’s only going to hurt you.”
Dean looked at the folder still lying on the ground and thought about the pictures inside.
“I needed to know.”
Sam moved them, pushing himself away from the wall and Dean couldn’t take his eyes of the way his muscles shifted under the dark cotton, how the cloth stretched over his beautifully defined body. He couldn’t stop himself from remembering how that body looked naked and wet, that perfect skin smooth and pale. Soft like nothing he had ever touched.
Moving quietly, gracefully like water, Sam approached the car. One of those long fingered hands reaching to the gleaming hood of the Impala; keeping Dean’s gaze captive, Sam circled the car, his hand trailing the shiny metal like a caress. And hot damn, but Dean always loved this car. And now, the obvious suggestion in Sam in connection to his beloved car made Dean hotter than ever.
He felt like a hormonal teenager, when even sneezing turned him on. At this rate he would die of a heart attack or exhaustion before any supernatural being had a chance to have a go at him.
Dean kept his place, resisting the urge to take a step back for every step Sam took. He stood his place and stared at Sam, defiantly, daring him to say something, do something.
A tiny grin tugged at the corners of Sam’s mouth. Just a curve of his lips, but it was enough for Dean to know that Sam received the message. The challenge.
Finally Sam stopped, barely inches from him, invading his personal space. So, the game was on.
“I don’t want you hurt.” Whispered Sam in that low, husky voice that seemed to bypass Dean’s ears and mind and go straight to his cock, making it twitch and leak a little.
Dean leaned back on the car, his body relaxed, a cocky smirk on his lips as he tilted his head back. He was a good looking man and he knew it dammit. Dozens of women and men told him that enough. He also knew how to look even better. He exposed his throat; the same one Sam couldn’t leave alone just few hours before, the flesh bruised and marked with his teeth, his tongue, his lips.
Like magic, Sam’s black eyes focused on those bruises almost instantly, trailing each shape, each ridge and purple mark with such intensity it felt as if he wanted to see right through Dean. And maybe he did.
“I don’t believe you.” Dean said. Low and husky, one of his hands reaching to Sam’s neck and fingers sliding into the silky hair. “I think you want to hurt me, mark me. Make sure everybody sees I’m yours. You want to own me, don’t you?” Dean couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop pushing. He needed to know just how far will this Sam let him go before he snapped. For a demon possessed person, he was incredibly patient with Dean.
Sam licked his lips and let loose a low, almost growling sound. He caught Dean’s hair with his left hand and pulled back, making him arch even more, to the verge of pain and then his lips closed over one of the bruises. Hot, wet and hard as he sucked and mauled the delicate skin there, making the bruise red and angry again. Marking Dean.
He couldn’t quite stop the groan that left his throat as Sam worried on the already oversensitive skin. Sam’s fingers were digging into his scalp, scratching a little and his other hand closed on his hip, hard, fingers covering the bruises hid under the denim and cloth. In almost the same exact places, making him remember, relieve the night before.
“Yes.” It was almost a hiss.
“Jesus,” Murmured Dean as Sam pressed into him, his jean covered cock rubbing against Dean’s belly hard and hot and insistent. Sam was going to fuck him right here and now and Dean didn’t have a single brain cell working that could protest that somebody might see them.
And then the knowledge came that Sam knew it. Sam probably wanted it. Wanted somebody, everybody to see Dean like this, aroused, horny, hot beyond all reason. Just another way to make Dean his, just like the bruises and bites from the night before.
Sam’s hands were working on the fastening of his jeans now and his teeth were still on his neck, and Dean was sure he was going to start begging now. His cock was so hard, leaking already that he needed just a bit more stimulation to come like a fucking freight train, here, in the middle of a street.
Still it took him by surprise when Sam slid to his knees in one abrupt yet still graceful movement. His hand made quick work of tugging Dean’s jeans down to his knees along with his underwear. There was no teasing, no preamble, no warning at all. Just hot, moist heat closing over the head of his cock almost immediately after it was freed.
Dean had to shove his own fist into his mouth to stop himself from screaming and attracting attention. Jesus, but Sam was taking no prisoners here. His tongue stabbed repeatedly into the slit. The strangely soft-hard sensation making Dean shiver all over, the wet suction bringing him closer to the edge.
He slapped his hands flat on the Impala’s door. The feel of sun warmed steel under his palms, the incredible pleasure of wet mouth on his cock and the slight pain of Sam’s fingers digging into his naked hips was sending him into a strange zone, filled with only pleasure, power and senses. He could smell the leather coat Sam wore, could hear the almost obscene slurping sounds he made as he bobbed his head up and down, could smell the faint scent of gasoline and this unique scent only car’s had. Heat, dirt and metal. His naked ass was pressing into the door handle of his car, his face was warmed by the L.A. sun and his balls were drawing up already. With barely a whimper, he came, biting hard on his fist and pulsing spurt after spurt of come into Sam’s mouth. He swallowed, the sensation almost too much on his not really recovered from last night cock and Dean whimpered brokenly.
Sam however wasn’t going to stop anytime soon. As soon as Dean stopped twitching in post orgasmic tremors, he stood up, his hands still keeping iron hold on Dean’s hips, and kissed him. Hard, all teeth and tongue, and spit. Thrusting his tongue inside, he made Dean taste himself on his tongue. He stroked his tongue, almost petted it with his, explored every part of Dean’s mouth like a starving man, hungrily, impatiently. Simultaneously his fingers moved, sliding into Dean’s crack and then lower to the still very tender, sore opening. It was sensitive and swollen, and Dean mewled helplessly when Sam’s finger rubbed over the furled ring of muscle. He wasn’t asking, just letting him know, letting him feel.
When one of those slender, long fingers slid inside, Dean broke the kiss with a choked off moan. It was too much. He was sore from the night before and already over sensitive from his orgasm just now.
“You are still slick inside” Sam panted darkly, his lips brushing over Dean’s ear, moist breath fanning over his overheated skin. “I could just slip inside. You’ll still be open and hot.”
“Oh God, Sam!” He yelped, as Sam’s finger found his prostate and pressed, over and over again, making his cock raise again, already partially hard. It was so good, hurt so good that before he even had the time to think he was already kicking one leg loose of his pants while his hands fisted in Sam’s too long hair and pulled him into a kiss. Just like before, a thrill ran through his body when he felt Sam comply, just let himself be manhandled into position. He also let Dean control the kiss for a moment. It exhilarated Dean to know, just how much deadly power he was holding in his hands right now.
When he felt his leg slip free from the restraining denim, he broke the kiss and said directly against Sam’s lips:
“Now, do it now.”
Sam, again, gripped his hips and lifted him up. And shit, but he was a strong motherfucker to do that without even a grunt. Dean wrapped his legs against Sam’s hips but it was Sam holding him up, pressing him into the driver’s door of the Impala.
Dean didn’t even notice when Sam got his prick out, but he definitely noticed when the blunt head nudged at his opening. It was a strange rush to be manhandled like that, lifted into position and then when Sam used his own weight to enter Dean.
Sweet mother of God but it hurt like Hell. Yet under the stretch and burn that made his eyes water, was something familiar, something so very fulfilling in the way Sam pushed his way inside, rearranging him on the way.
Dean’s hands closed on Sam’s shoulders, holding on for dear life as Sam pushed himself even deeper inside his brother’s body. He didn’t give Dean much time to get used to the painful sensation, to the incredible stretch before he started thrusting. Quick, sharp jabs of his hips that tore muffled screams from Dean, only Sam’s mouth stopping the sounds from escaping.
With each move of his hips, Sam brushed against Dean’s prostate, making him whimper and scream, pain and pleasure twisted together so tightly, they became indistinguishable. Dean’s now hard member rubbed over Sam’s shirt, smearing precome. The friction was a little too harsh, a little painful but it made Dean all the hotter, made him squirm in his brother’s grasp and when he felt Sam slam inside him once, and then stay there with his body arched into a tight bow, he came also. His eyes closed tightly, fingers digging into Sam’s neck with brutal force and whole body spasming in a painfully strong orgasm.
For long moments, Dean was perfectly okay with simply leaning on his car, with Sam pressing him into the Impala, keeping him upright. Because his legs were like noodles. His whole body felt achy and boneless.
Even before he opened his eyes, strangely content to stay in this position with Sam panting hotly onto his neck, his mind registered something. Something important.
He opened his eyes and focused his eyes on his fingers, still on Sam’s neck. Fingers that were under the silver chain.
And Sam didn’t react at all.
Dean felt a smile tugging at his lips. Yeah. Things were looking up for once.
“Dude, get off me. I’m bare assed in the middle of a fucking street!” He pushed Sam back, trying out his own legs. “And if you come back tonight? You ain’t getting anywhere near my ass, got it?”
* * *
Dean was cursing Sam and his possessed libido all the way back to his hotel. He hissed with each bump on the road, swore each time he had to move to reach the pedals. He was exhausted, lack of sleep and too much sex finally catching up to him. And he could barely believe it. Him? Using a phrase ‘too much sex’? If this situation continued for much longer, he would totally lose respect for himself.
Waiting for the green light, Dean remembered the rush he felt when he saw his fingers under the thin, silver chain. Sam didn’t react at all this time. That made Dean think that he could get a chance at cutting that pendant off. He didn’t know how or when yet, but he knew it had to be soon.
He also remembered the way Sam touched him. All hard, possessive touches. But he was careful to bring Dean pleasure also. And Dean noticed that. Somehow he never pegged demons as considerate lovers before.
Shifting again, Dean remembered the gentle, almost reverent touches when Sam helped him dress. He acted so... normal, so much like he would have normally that it made Dean wonder. For the first time, he wondered if Sam was possessed at all?
He drove to the hotel not using his mirror. He opened the window all the way down and preferred to look back, even through it wasn’t really safe way of driving. But he couldn’t use the mirrors.
He was very proud of himself, throughout the whole ride, he managed to completely ignore the silent presence on the back seat, staring holes into him. If he ignored her long enough, maybe she would go away and leave him alone. He was too tired and sore to deal with this shit right now. Maybe not ever. He just. He had too much on his hands already, without a fucking *ghost* to boot. One that didn’t have anything to do with him.
“Ah, home sweet, smelly motel room.” He murmured sarcastically before shrugging off his jacket. He kicked his boots off, shrugged the over shirt off and fell face down on the bed, his eyes closing almost instantly. Normally, he would have put sigils or at least salt on the door and windows, but not this time. He was waiting for Sam, consciously inviting him. He didn’t know if salt would deter him or only anger him, but he wasn’t going to try and find out. That was not the goal.
Tired he exhaled, long and slow, feeling the tension leave his body and sleep take him into it’s embrace. Warm and sweet. He succumbed without a fight, without a thought to the spirit standing over him. Watching him. Touching him.
He was dreaming; he knew that. It was the kind of inane knowledge that was so obvious and normal, that it had to be dreamed.
He swore. Just what he needed, another dream.
This time when he saw her, it wasn’t a surprise.
Dean opened his eyes, only to find himself in an unfamiliar room. She was standing in front of him. In tiny shorts and a tee with smurfs on it. The same she was wearing the first and only time he saw her alive. Her long hair were loose, soft and very inviting. There was a sense of warmth and sensuality about her that just forced him to look. In moments like these, he didn’t have a problem imagining why Sam fell for her.
It took him a moment to realize that he had seen this room before. Once. Only then it was filled with smoke and fire, her body was pinned to the ceiling, and Sam was screaming on the bed, unable to move. It was a bad memory, the horror of seeing her die like this, knowing that Sam was in danger. Seeing it happen *again*.
Jessica just stood there, staring at him with those soft, gentle eyes.
“What?!” he snapped, irritated. “I’m sore and I’m tired and I just want to sleep!”
She didn’t even blink at his outburst, but well she was a ghost, a fucking dream. He couldn’t expect her to behave like a living person would.
Tired of this stalemate and unsettled by the ease with which she penetrated his dreams, which were his sanctuary for all those years, he huffed and scrubbed his face with his hands. He had to figure out what she wanted, because he really, really wanted to go to sleep. Without interruptions.
Dean remembered what Sam once said in the Roosevelt Asylum, to that girl that was caught in a room with a ghost. Communicate. Hell, he could try it. Maybe he owed her that much.
He looked up at her, still soft and patient, standing in front of him barefoot.
“What do you want?” He asked calmly this time, watching her for any response.
She didn’t make a sound, but she moved to one of the closed door behind her. She opened it. There was only darkness behind it. She looked back at him, her hair falling softly over her shoulders.
“You want me to go there?”
She didn’t answer, but she stayed where she was, one hand still on the door knob, eyes watching him calmly. He wondered about this. About her silence. Maybe she wasn’t deliberately cryptic. Maybe she just lacked the strength to communicate with words?
Now curious, he stepped through the door. It was only a dream after all. What could happen to him?
As it turned out, his mind was a scary place to be sometimes.
“I love you, Dean. Tell Dad... tell Dad that I forgave him a long time ago. He was wrong, but I understand.”
Closing his eyes, cutting himself off from Dean, Sam reached into the chest and withdrew a strange, yet beautiful blade. It was curved, elegant, reminding Dean of a claw and looked positively deadly. For a few moments nothing happened and Dean started to think that it was all a huge fucking mistake, when suddenly Sam screamed. Lightning after lightning burst out of the deadly looking weapon, striking the floor, ceiling, walls with earsplitting noise, filling the room with the sharp scent of ozone. The strands of electricity crawled over Sam’s body, forcing him to his knees, still screaming in pain and terror.
And shit, shit, shit, shit! He just couldn’t look at it again, couldn’t stand the sight of Sam’s ace, twisted in pain, pure agony. Couldn’t stand the sight of his strong brother on his knees. Couldn’t stand the terror of watching it all happen again, knowing that his brother was *dying* there and he was do fucking helpless to do anything. Useless. Broken. A failure.
He could sense Jess there, her presence a shadow from the corner of his eye but at this moment he didn’t care. All he could do was remember the pain, the sheer fucking terror of watching his brother reach for that cursed weapon. His face, twisted in pain. Mouth open in desperate screams and it was too much suddenly, the memory ten times worse than the first time he saw it.
He jerked back, forcing himself to wake up. Above all, he needed to get away from this memory, to fucking *stop* it before something inside him broke, shattered into a million pieces that could never be put back together again.
With his eyes tightly closed, not wanting to see her again, Dean curled on his side, pressing his face into the pillow. He forced his breath to even out. Slow deep inhales and exhales. He ignored the shivers that wracked his body and kept his mind very carefully blank. He was not going to break down over a memory. He did that enough in the last three weeks. Now when things were finally looking up, he was not going to break.
He felt a cold breeze on his back, making goose bumps appear on his arms. With his eyes still closed and hands clenched tightly into fists, he screamed enraged and hurt.
“Go away, go the fuck away or I will exorcise the shit out of you!”
The feeling receded leaving him alone again in the room.
TBC
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: xantissa
Summary: A case turning out to be a set up. Sam taken away from him. An enemy he can’t identify. Father that struggles to understand. Dean, alone, fighting to save his brother from power no one can really understand.
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: 18+
Warnings: incest, slash, demon possession, violence.
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all it’s characters belong to WB. I do it just for fun, no profit being made from my writing.
Spoilers: Mild for Asylum, Nightmare tiny ones for probably most of the first season.
Chapter 9
Dean leaned on his beloved car and took in a few deep breaths. The copy of a police report slid from his nerveless fingers to the dirty pavement.
Yeah, he knew Sam killed somebody before he came to him in the hotel, Sam still had marks to prove it. But... he never expected something like this. Stupid really. It was probably the obvious reason for this whole mess.
So that the guy in charge could have himself a perfect killer.
The gory pictures flashed through his mind and he had to swallow bile that rose in his throat.
A small but extremely well protected villa on the outskirts of the city. Eight, heavily armed security men, one stranger that came through the front gate.
Not a single camera out of twenty six in the house had captured the man’s face. Not a single bullet hit its mark as one guard after another was ripped to shreds. Cut with a strange, curved blade. Ruthlessly, efficiently. Messily.
One target. The owner of a bunch of highly successful, probably mob related, night clubs. He was cut open and vivisected on his own bed.
The only survivor was the maid but she was in too much of a shock to do anything else than cry. She probably hadn’t seen anything anyway.
When he got his Sammy back, he better not remember all this. Because his Sammy wouldn’t be able to survive knowing he did such things, killed so many people.
Right there and then, Dean decided to stop keeping score. It was best if neither of them knew the real number of victims. His only consolation was that they were armed. The only unarmed and probably innocent person in that house was the maid, and she survived without a scratch on her.
Suddenly he felt the now familiar sensation of the little hair on the back of his neck standing up and a gentle shiver that runs down his body only to settle down in his groin.
Slowly, already knowing what he will see, Dean turned around, his eyes scanning the alley he used to park his car in.
Almost directly behind him, leaning on the wall was Sam. Dressed like he was in the bar. Long, black leather coat, black jeans and some kind of long sleeved, dark shirt. It’s still strange to see Sam dressed in black from head to toe. He was never a cheery person, never one to wear sharp colors, but he preferred blue, light gray, green, white. This... this made him look pale, alien, so very different from his Sammy. And maybe that was the reason?
His head was lowered slightly, enough for the unruly mop of hair to fall over his eyes, obscuring them completely. There weren’t any lines on his cheeks as far as Dean could see.
Sam stood leaning back on the old, brick wall. Those ridiculously long legs spread enough that the dark cloth of his jeans stretched over his groin like a promise, or a threat maybe. The thumb of his right hand was hooked over his front pocket, the other flat against the crumbling bricks. His long, graceful fingers spread out on the wall, making Dean remember all those things he could do with those hands. In a flash, Dean became so blindingly hard it hurt, at the memory of those fingers inside him, stretching him, penetrating, owning, hurting, making him feel like he has never felt before.
Dean had to swallow, his mouth suddenly dry. And really, it was ridiculous just how turned on by Sam he was.
Sam finally moved, raising his head. His eyes were as black and terrifying as he remembered them. No pupils, no whites... nothing but liquid blackness. Flat and dead, but not empty. After what Dean saw in those eyes the night before, he could never think of them as empty. There was still his brother in there. He knew it now.
“Why are you doing this Dean?” Sam asked in his newly acquired, low, thick voice that did all kinds of things to Dean’s insides. “It’s only going to hurt you.”
Dean looked at the folder still lying on the ground and thought about the pictures inside.
“I needed to know.”
Sam moved them, pushing himself away from the wall and Dean couldn’t take his eyes of the way his muscles shifted under the dark cotton, how the cloth stretched over his beautifully defined body. He couldn’t stop himself from remembering how that body looked naked and wet, that perfect skin smooth and pale. Soft like nothing he had ever touched.
Moving quietly, gracefully like water, Sam approached the car. One of those long fingered hands reaching to the gleaming hood of the Impala; keeping Dean’s gaze captive, Sam circled the car, his hand trailing the shiny metal like a caress. And hot damn, but Dean always loved this car. And now, the obvious suggestion in Sam in connection to his beloved car made Dean hotter than ever.
He felt like a hormonal teenager, when even sneezing turned him on. At this rate he would die of a heart attack or exhaustion before any supernatural being had a chance to have a go at him.
Dean kept his place, resisting the urge to take a step back for every step Sam took. He stood his place and stared at Sam, defiantly, daring him to say something, do something.
A tiny grin tugged at the corners of Sam’s mouth. Just a curve of his lips, but it was enough for Dean to know that Sam received the message. The challenge.
Finally Sam stopped, barely inches from him, invading his personal space. So, the game was on.
“I don’t want you hurt.” Whispered Sam in that low, husky voice that seemed to bypass Dean’s ears and mind and go straight to his cock, making it twitch and leak a little.
Dean leaned back on the car, his body relaxed, a cocky smirk on his lips as he tilted his head back. He was a good looking man and he knew it dammit. Dozens of women and men told him that enough. He also knew how to look even better. He exposed his throat; the same one Sam couldn’t leave alone just few hours before, the flesh bruised and marked with his teeth, his tongue, his lips.
Like magic, Sam’s black eyes focused on those bruises almost instantly, trailing each shape, each ridge and purple mark with such intensity it felt as if he wanted to see right through Dean. And maybe he did.
“I don’t believe you.” Dean said. Low and husky, one of his hands reaching to Sam’s neck and fingers sliding into the silky hair. “I think you want to hurt me, mark me. Make sure everybody sees I’m yours. You want to own me, don’t you?” Dean couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop pushing. He needed to know just how far will this Sam let him go before he snapped. For a demon possessed person, he was incredibly patient with Dean.
Sam licked his lips and let loose a low, almost growling sound. He caught Dean’s hair with his left hand and pulled back, making him arch even more, to the verge of pain and then his lips closed over one of the bruises. Hot, wet and hard as he sucked and mauled the delicate skin there, making the bruise red and angry again. Marking Dean.
He couldn’t quite stop the groan that left his throat as Sam worried on the already oversensitive skin. Sam’s fingers were digging into his scalp, scratching a little and his other hand closed on his hip, hard, fingers covering the bruises hid under the denim and cloth. In almost the same exact places, making him remember, relieve the night before.
“Yes.” It was almost a hiss.
“Jesus,” Murmured Dean as Sam pressed into him, his jean covered cock rubbing against Dean’s belly hard and hot and insistent. Sam was going to fuck him right here and now and Dean didn’t have a single brain cell working that could protest that somebody might see them.
And then the knowledge came that Sam knew it. Sam probably wanted it. Wanted somebody, everybody to see Dean like this, aroused, horny, hot beyond all reason. Just another way to make Dean his, just like the bruises and bites from the night before.
Sam’s hands were working on the fastening of his jeans now and his teeth were still on his neck, and Dean was sure he was going to start begging now. His cock was so hard, leaking already that he needed just a bit more stimulation to come like a fucking freight train, here, in the middle of a street.
Still it took him by surprise when Sam slid to his knees in one abrupt yet still graceful movement. His hand made quick work of tugging Dean’s jeans down to his knees along with his underwear. There was no teasing, no preamble, no warning at all. Just hot, moist heat closing over the head of his cock almost immediately after it was freed.
Dean had to shove his own fist into his mouth to stop himself from screaming and attracting attention. Jesus, but Sam was taking no prisoners here. His tongue stabbed repeatedly into the slit. The strangely soft-hard sensation making Dean shiver all over, the wet suction bringing him closer to the edge.
He slapped his hands flat on the Impala’s door. The feel of sun warmed steel under his palms, the incredible pleasure of wet mouth on his cock and the slight pain of Sam’s fingers digging into his naked hips was sending him into a strange zone, filled with only pleasure, power and senses. He could smell the leather coat Sam wore, could hear the almost obscene slurping sounds he made as he bobbed his head up and down, could smell the faint scent of gasoline and this unique scent only car’s had. Heat, dirt and metal. His naked ass was pressing into the door handle of his car, his face was warmed by the L.A. sun and his balls were drawing up already. With barely a whimper, he came, biting hard on his fist and pulsing spurt after spurt of come into Sam’s mouth. He swallowed, the sensation almost too much on his not really recovered from last night cock and Dean whimpered brokenly.
Sam however wasn’t going to stop anytime soon. As soon as Dean stopped twitching in post orgasmic tremors, he stood up, his hands still keeping iron hold on Dean’s hips, and kissed him. Hard, all teeth and tongue, and spit. Thrusting his tongue inside, he made Dean taste himself on his tongue. He stroked his tongue, almost petted it with his, explored every part of Dean’s mouth like a starving man, hungrily, impatiently. Simultaneously his fingers moved, sliding into Dean’s crack and then lower to the still very tender, sore opening. It was sensitive and swollen, and Dean mewled helplessly when Sam’s finger rubbed over the furled ring of muscle. He wasn’t asking, just letting him know, letting him feel.
When one of those slender, long fingers slid inside, Dean broke the kiss with a choked off moan. It was too much. He was sore from the night before and already over sensitive from his orgasm just now.
“You are still slick inside” Sam panted darkly, his lips brushing over Dean’s ear, moist breath fanning over his overheated skin. “I could just slip inside. You’ll still be open and hot.”
“Oh God, Sam!” He yelped, as Sam’s finger found his prostate and pressed, over and over again, making his cock raise again, already partially hard. It was so good, hurt so good that before he even had the time to think he was already kicking one leg loose of his pants while his hands fisted in Sam’s too long hair and pulled him into a kiss. Just like before, a thrill ran through his body when he felt Sam comply, just let himself be manhandled into position. He also let Dean control the kiss for a moment. It exhilarated Dean to know, just how much deadly power he was holding in his hands right now.
When he felt his leg slip free from the restraining denim, he broke the kiss and said directly against Sam’s lips:
“Now, do it now.”
Sam, again, gripped his hips and lifted him up. And shit, but he was a strong motherfucker to do that without even a grunt. Dean wrapped his legs against Sam’s hips but it was Sam holding him up, pressing him into the driver’s door of the Impala.
Dean didn’t even notice when Sam got his prick out, but he definitely noticed when the blunt head nudged at his opening. It was a strange rush to be manhandled like that, lifted into position and then when Sam used his own weight to enter Dean.
Sweet mother of God but it hurt like Hell. Yet under the stretch and burn that made his eyes water, was something familiar, something so very fulfilling in the way Sam pushed his way inside, rearranging him on the way.
Dean’s hands closed on Sam’s shoulders, holding on for dear life as Sam pushed himself even deeper inside his brother’s body. He didn’t give Dean much time to get used to the painful sensation, to the incredible stretch before he started thrusting. Quick, sharp jabs of his hips that tore muffled screams from Dean, only Sam’s mouth stopping the sounds from escaping.
With each move of his hips, Sam brushed against Dean’s prostate, making him whimper and scream, pain and pleasure twisted together so tightly, they became indistinguishable. Dean’s now hard member rubbed over Sam’s shirt, smearing precome. The friction was a little too harsh, a little painful but it made Dean all the hotter, made him squirm in his brother’s grasp and when he felt Sam slam inside him once, and then stay there with his body arched into a tight bow, he came also. His eyes closed tightly, fingers digging into Sam’s neck with brutal force and whole body spasming in a painfully strong orgasm.
For long moments, Dean was perfectly okay with simply leaning on his car, with Sam pressing him into the Impala, keeping him upright. Because his legs were like noodles. His whole body felt achy and boneless.
Even before he opened his eyes, strangely content to stay in this position with Sam panting hotly onto his neck, his mind registered something. Something important.
He opened his eyes and focused his eyes on his fingers, still on Sam’s neck. Fingers that were under the silver chain.
And Sam didn’t react at all.
Dean felt a smile tugging at his lips. Yeah. Things were looking up for once.
“Dude, get off me. I’m bare assed in the middle of a fucking street!” He pushed Sam back, trying out his own legs. “And if you come back tonight? You ain’t getting anywhere near my ass, got it?”
* * *
Dean was cursing Sam and his possessed libido all the way back to his hotel. He hissed with each bump on the road, swore each time he had to move to reach the pedals. He was exhausted, lack of sleep and too much sex finally catching up to him. And he could barely believe it. Him? Using a phrase ‘too much sex’? If this situation continued for much longer, he would totally lose respect for himself.
Waiting for the green light, Dean remembered the rush he felt when he saw his fingers under the thin, silver chain. Sam didn’t react at all this time. That made Dean think that he could get a chance at cutting that pendant off. He didn’t know how or when yet, but he knew it had to be soon.
He also remembered the way Sam touched him. All hard, possessive touches. But he was careful to bring Dean pleasure also. And Dean noticed that. Somehow he never pegged demons as considerate lovers before.
Shifting again, Dean remembered the gentle, almost reverent touches when Sam helped him dress. He acted so... normal, so much like he would have normally that it made Dean wonder. For the first time, he wondered if Sam was possessed at all?
He drove to the hotel not using his mirror. He opened the window all the way down and preferred to look back, even through it wasn’t really safe way of driving. But he couldn’t use the mirrors.
He was very proud of himself, throughout the whole ride, he managed to completely ignore the silent presence on the back seat, staring holes into him. If he ignored her long enough, maybe she would go away and leave him alone. He was too tired and sore to deal with this shit right now. Maybe not ever. He just. He had too much on his hands already, without a fucking *ghost* to boot. One that didn’t have anything to do with him.
“Ah, home sweet, smelly motel room.” He murmured sarcastically before shrugging off his jacket. He kicked his boots off, shrugged the over shirt off and fell face down on the bed, his eyes closing almost instantly. Normally, he would have put sigils or at least salt on the door and windows, but not this time. He was waiting for Sam, consciously inviting him. He didn’t know if salt would deter him or only anger him, but he wasn’t going to try and find out. That was not the goal.
Tired he exhaled, long and slow, feeling the tension leave his body and sleep take him into it’s embrace. Warm and sweet. He succumbed without a fight, without a thought to the spirit standing over him. Watching him. Touching him.
He was dreaming; he knew that. It was the kind of inane knowledge that was so obvious and normal, that it had to be dreamed.
He swore. Just what he needed, another dream.
This time when he saw her, it wasn’t a surprise.
Dean opened his eyes, only to find himself in an unfamiliar room. She was standing in front of him. In tiny shorts and a tee with smurfs on it. The same she was wearing the first and only time he saw her alive. Her long hair were loose, soft and very inviting. There was a sense of warmth and sensuality about her that just forced him to look. In moments like these, he didn’t have a problem imagining why Sam fell for her.
It took him a moment to realize that he had seen this room before. Once. Only then it was filled with smoke and fire, her body was pinned to the ceiling, and Sam was screaming on the bed, unable to move. It was a bad memory, the horror of seeing her die like this, knowing that Sam was in danger. Seeing it happen *again*.
Jessica just stood there, staring at him with those soft, gentle eyes.
“What?!” he snapped, irritated. “I’m sore and I’m tired and I just want to sleep!”
She didn’t even blink at his outburst, but well she was a ghost, a fucking dream. He couldn’t expect her to behave like a living person would.
Tired of this stalemate and unsettled by the ease with which she penetrated his dreams, which were his sanctuary for all those years, he huffed and scrubbed his face with his hands. He had to figure out what she wanted, because he really, really wanted to go to sleep. Without interruptions.
Dean remembered what Sam once said in the Roosevelt Asylum, to that girl that was caught in a room with a ghost. Communicate. Hell, he could try it. Maybe he owed her that much.
He looked up at her, still soft and patient, standing in front of him barefoot.
“What do you want?” He asked calmly this time, watching her for any response.
She didn’t make a sound, but she moved to one of the closed door behind her. She opened it. There was only darkness behind it. She looked back at him, her hair falling softly over her shoulders.
“You want me to go there?”
She didn’t answer, but she stayed where she was, one hand still on the door knob, eyes watching him calmly. He wondered about this. About her silence. Maybe she wasn’t deliberately cryptic. Maybe she just lacked the strength to communicate with words?
Now curious, he stepped through the door. It was only a dream after all. What could happen to him?
As it turned out, his mind was a scary place to be sometimes.
“I love you, Dean. Tell Dad... tell Dad that I forgave him a long time ago. He was wrong, but I understand.”
Closing his eyes, cutting himself off from Dean, Sam reached into the chest and withdrew a strange, yet beautiful blade. It was curved, elegant, reminding Dean of a claw and looked positively deadly. For a few moments nothing happened and Dean started to think that it was all a huge fucking mistake, when suddenly Sam screamed. Lightning after lightning burst out of the deadly looking weapon, striking the floor, ceiling, walls with earsplitting noise, filling the room with the sharp scent of ozone. The strands of electricity crawled over Sam’s body, forcing him to his knees, still screaming in pain and terror.
And shit, shit, shit, shit! He just couldn’t look at it again, couldn’t stand the sight of Sam’s ace, twisted in pain, pure agony. Couldn’t stand the sight of his strong brother on his knees. Couldn’t stand the terror of watching it all happen again, knowing that his brother was *dying* there and he was do fucking helpless to do anything. Useless. Broken. A failure.
He could sense Jess there, her presence a shadow from the corner of his eye but at this moment he didn’t care. All he could do was remember the pain, the sheer fucking terror of watching his brother reach for that cursed weapon. His face, twisted in pain. Mouth open in desperate screams and it was too much suddenly, the memory ten times worse than the first time he saw it.
He jerked back, forcing himself to wake up. Above all, he needed to get away from this memory, to fucking *stop* it before something inside him broke, shattered into a million pieces that could never be put back together again.
With his eyes tightly closed, not wanting to see her again, Dean curled on his side, pressing his face into the pillow. He forced his breath to even out. Slow deep inhales and exhales. He ignored the shivers that wracked his body and kept his mind very carefully blank. He was not going to break down over a memory. He did that enough in the last three weeks. Now when things were finally looking up, he was not going to break.
He felt a cold breeze on his back, making goose bumps appear on his arms. With his eyes still closed and hands clenched tightly into fists, he screamed enraged and hurt.
“Go away, go the fuck away or I will exorcise the shit out of you!”
The feeling receded leaving him alone again in the room.
TBC