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apocalypsosTitle: I'm Not Touching You (And Other Annoying Games Little Brothers Play)
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Spoilers for: "Nightmare"
Warnings: Incest
Disclaimer: Dear![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
trollprincess's gym teacher, please excuse her from class, as she has borrowed these characters without permission and with no intention of making money off this so she can make them do the naughtybrothersex with one another.
Summary: It's all about how you train with it, just like any other weapon.
Author's note: So following the events of "Nightmare", I had an urge for really smutty telekinesis-training!Wincest, and this is what resulted. And thanks bunches tochaneen for the beta. :)
*****
I'm Not Touching You (And Other Annoying Games Little Brothers Play)
*****
Truth the first was something they just knew, that the Winchester family was irreversibly fucked-up and always had been.
Truth the second was something they had to learn after years of hunting, that the distance between being fucked-up and being fucked in any situation was barely measurable.
Truth the third was something they'd always suspected, at least a little bit, that the distance between being fucked and actually fucking wasn't all that far, either.
*****
It's like suddenly finding out he's grown a tail, is what it's like, as if he woke up one morning and stretched all of his appendages and knocked over a motel room lamp with something that was neither an arm nor a leg.
And three weeks after the Millers, that's exactly what it is. Some puke-green porcelain monstrosity with a pair of woodpeckers on pine branches painted on it, a garish eyesore of ghastly proportions. Breaking it can probably be best viewed as putting it and a thousand future motel room guests out of their misery.
Sam awakens with a jolt that night, not spotting the broken lamp for a long moment. He drags the back of his wrist across his forehead, sweat mingling and cooling in a thin sheen on his skin, and it's only when he sees Dean sitting up with his knife in his hand that he notices the shattered remnants of the lamp scattered all over the floor.
"You all right?"
The question is all habit, Sam realizes, just Dean asking out of reflex. He nods, equally out of reflex.
This is the third time it's happened since Michigan, a window cracked here, a television screen scarred there. Somewhere in Sam's mind is a spot he tries to pretend isn't there that aches like crazy, soaked in soreness. If it were a muscle, he'd be positive he sprained it.
Dean's expression fixes on him, cold and hard in the dim moonlight filtering into the room. Sam drags slightly trembling fingers through his hair and tries to calm his breathing.
A minute later, the knife slips back under Dean's pillow and Dean falls back into that deceptively deep sleep of his, and Sam's left alone to literally pick up the pieces.
*****
When Sam comes to the next morning, there is a coffee cup hovering in his line of sight, and he reaches for it without question. Dean's fully dressed before him, five in the morning according to the travel alarm clock on the nightstand, and Sam just can't let one pass by without comment. "You're up early," he says.
Dean makes a face, takes a deliberate sip of his own cup of coffee. "Yeah, thanks for noticing, Captain Obvious." He gives the bed a good thump with his boot and says, "Come on, get dressed. We're going out."
"Where to?" Sam says, but Dean's already halfway across the room, car keys in hand as he heads for the door.
"You'll find out when we get there, Sammy."
*****
"There" turns out to be a field in the middle of nowhere, not a house to be seen for miles even though the pungent scents of a dairy farm float past on the breeze every time it picks up. Sam gets out of the car in a bleary-eyed daze and stares at Dean in confusion, ready to wait all day for an explanation until he sees the plastic bag of empty glass bottles Dean's lugging out of the trunk.
Oh, he can't possibly be serious.
"Dean, I can't," he says, and it sounds way too much like pleading.
But Dean cuts him off with a slash of his hand through the air as he walks over to the old fence circling the land, the bottles clinking a playful beat at his side. "Oh, you will," he says in a determined tone of voice. "I'm not sleeping in the same motel room with a guy who goes to bed with a loaded gun and doesn't know how to use it."
Dean lines up the bottles along the fence, giving Sam plenty of time to come up with a good argument. These powers might be as dark and sinister as anything else they've fought. They might just get them into deeper trouble then they've ever gotten into in their lives. Plus, Sam's not stupid enough to think the whole situation isn't spooking the hell out of Dean on some very fundamental level.
The problem is, Dean's got a point. It isn't the best idea in the world for him to be letting this thing run wild between them, and they both know it.
Dean's stomping back through the high damp grass when Sam finally finds his voice again, when he forces himself to say, "It was just an adrenaline thing, Dean, I don't know how to --"
And that's when Dean walks right up to him and punches him in the face.
Sam stumbles backward, hand immediately reaching up to work his jaw as he gives Dean a look that could melt glass. "What the hell did you do that for?" he snaps. The fingers of his free hand tighten and uncurl, squeeze and loosen as if silently begging for payback.
"Well, you're the one arguing it's an adrenaline thing," Dean says, and his fist snaps out again.
Sam doesn't know where it comes from, what happens next, why he doesn't just block the shot and punch Dean back. He's got years of self-defense training and practice under his belt but something in his head clicks into place like a gear shifting, like tumblers in a lock falling into line like good soldiers. That spot in his brain that aches and burns flexes anyway, an atrophied muscle coming back to sharp, desperate life and trying too damn hard in the process.
It whips out without warning, even to him, and Dean goes flying backward into the brush as if swatted away with a giant hand. He slams down to the ground on his back about fifteen feet behind him with a loud groan, at the same time that Sam sways and clutches his head for reasons other than Dean's fist connecting with his jaw.
Adrenaline as fuel fades fast, leaving behind a new appendage frantic to show off. Inside Sam's head is a dark spot that flares with dull pain, a low hurtful roar in his mind. Sam imagines that if you held his head up to your ear and listened, you'd think you hear the ocean.
What the hell am I?
The voice is traitorous and frightened, Sam realizes, but it's got a damn good point.
Shaking it off, Sam takes a deep breath, winces at the agony that settles in his head at even that small movement, and calls out, "You okay?"
There's a long silence before a choked cough rises from the depths of the tall grass. A moment later Dean's arm lifts up in the air, his pointer finger extended as he says, "Lesson one. Not so fucking hard."
*****
Ten minutes later, the collapsed section of fence tilts in broken pieces towards the ground below the empty space where the bottles had been, their shattered remnants somewhere underneath the brush. The brothers both stare for a long moment before Dean clears his throat pointedly and says, "You know that thing I said about not doing it so hard?"
A sigh, then ...
"Shut up, Dean."
*****
Training on a weapon with Dean as your teacher is like some sadistic form of punishment, especially when he can't actually play with the weapon in question and he makes it blatantly obvious he's just making stuff up as he goes along.
Abandoned buildings become targets Sam's allowed to practice on, breaking out windows and knocking off shutters. He stops letting Sam carry weapons on hunts, patting him down just in case and ignoring Sam's rolling eyes. At diners, Dean tries to convince him to make the tips from other tables float over to their booth when the waitress isn't looking, and at a rest stop he pounds his fist against the broken vending machine and gives Sam a pointed look.
"All right, kiddo, your next lesson --"
"I'm not using my powers to get you Doritos."
"Aw, come on, Sammy --"
"Shut up, Dean."
For weeks, the time between jobs is like hardcore telekinetic boot camp. Dean gets him to do everything from open a lock to flush the toilet with only the power of his mind. The long stretches in the car from one town to another become valuable training time they can't waste.
"I'm not seeing any bending."
"I'm trying to be gentle here."
"If you want, we can stop at a Walmart and get something bigger. Maybe a ladle?"
"Shut up, Dean."
And if Sam gets a little frustrated, he figures it's only fair.
"Dean, if you don't lay off, I'm going to snap."
"And do what?"
*click*
A pause, then, "Sam, did you just lock my keys in my car?"
Sam flashes Dean a smile and whistles as he walks away. Sometimes ... okay, so maybe a lot of times ... all right, all of the time, Dean is really, really asking for it.
After a while the muscle in his mind infuses with strength, toned and perfect from some fucked-up combination of practice and use. What started as blunt force turns into deft control. Sam keeps his mind on locks that don't need picks and otherwise unreachable weapons that fly across the room into his hands with a thought and tries not to think about what happens if he gets possessed by the wrong demon one of these days.
And in the end, what was something creepy and strange and possibly maybe a tiny bit evil becomes your garden-variety level of just plain annoying.
*****
Ten hours in a car means that conversation gets tired and childish road trip games get old and sometimes a guy just has to resort to playing with the toys at his disposal.
"Dude, if you don't knock it off, I'm pulling the car over and kicking your ass."
"Dean, I've already told you ten times that I am not touching you."
"I know you're not," Dean snaps, and glares at an empty spot in the air next to his right shoulder. "You're right there, not touching me."
"I am not."
That sense that there's an invisible finger two inches away from his arm ready to poke him at any second doesn't go away, and Dean's grip on the steering wheel tightens. "Mom and Dad should have gotten a dog instead," he grumbles.
Sam says nothing in response as he focuses on the Indiana road map, but his laughter is soft and his smile mischievous, and that's response enough.
*****
In Heaton, Indiana, there is a haunted house with the kind of word-of-mouth legends attached to it you'd expect. If you go in with someone you love, they say, it will tell you if you really love each other, if you can't live without one another or if that feeling you're having's just hardcore lust you really need to get over.
Music will play, they say, something old and jazzy that filters into the air like sex on a melody.
Of course, you'll never make it out of the house alive, but at least you'll have confirmation you couldn't have lived without one another if you'd gotten a chance.
*****
"Okay, so here are the most recent victims," Sam says, and they're off.
The sheets of paper and news clippings that litter the tabletop can be summed up in a few punchy sentences, none of which either one of them really like grouped together the way that they are. Seven couples over the last forty years, dead at the height of passion, their hearts ruptured as if they'd melted, and all of them found in or near the same creaking old house. Dark rumors of the last owner, Olivia Barlow, that she was a black widow, that she'd practiced black magic, that she'd been a deviant who'd gotten her thrills watching forbidden lust be slaked.
Rumors may grow in small towns like untamed weeds, but that doesn't make them any less true if you squint.
Or sometimes, even if you don't.
Sam slides one of the papers over to Dean, his soda forgotten in the enthusiastic excitement of research. The photo is grainy for something so recent, but Sam wasn't the only one who saw the library's pathetic excuse for a copy machine and Dean's pretty sure there was a hamster in a wheel powering that thing. The picture shows a trio of teenagers, a blonde and a brunette waving at the camera and a boy standing behind the blonde with his arms around her waist.
Dean leans over to get a better look as Sam points to the brunette and the boy. "Shannon Entwhistle and Daniel Davies. Seniors at the high school. They were found dead two weeks ago in the house exactly the same way as the others."
Dean nods. "Stacy said she heard some old big band song was playing when the cops showed up."
"Stacy?"
"That chick at the library, remember?"
"You mean, the one you spent the entire time flirting with when we were supposed to be researching the job?"
"It was research," Dean says defensively. "Learned something, didn't I?"
Sam rolls his eyes at that, just as the waitress saunters up to the table, hips swinging and eyes twinkling. She's another one of those waitresses, the ones that beg for Dean's charming smile and teasing winks with every move they make. Sam shakes his head and accepts the plate she slides in his direction, watching Dean's gaze follow her as she heads back to the kitchen again.
"Aw, man, the things that little parlor trick of yours could do to a girl like that," Dean mutters, turning back around with a wicked grin.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Dean gives him a look that indicates his low opinion of just how dirty Sam's mind can get. "You can't tell me you never had any ideas about what you could do to a girl you couldn't touch."
Sam shakes his head, a wry grin crossing his face as he tugs the photo back over to his side of the table. "I've been too busy bending spoons, remember?"
"Oh, come on, dude. You're telling me the same College Joe who's been threatening to poke me with invisible fingers can't come up with some creative sexual maneuvers?" Dean wiggles his fingers in midair with this skeptical twist to his lips, as if that's supposed to encompass every erotic trick he could make up if he really thought it out, then reaches for his drink with a sarcastic "tsk, tsk."
It's almost enough to make a guy do something crazy, is what it is.
The waitress glances over her shoulder at Dean's back, flashing him a come-fuck-me smile that Sam knows he would have run with if he'd seen it, and Sam's fingers clench around his napkin. He stares at Dean and thinks about what he said, about invisible fingers and phantom lips teasing a girl within an inch of her life, stroking, licking, biting, about driving a girl wild without even touching her.
His eyes narrow, and he pictures full lips like that waitress's pressing a hot wet kiss on the back of Dean's neck, a tongue tracing along his spine and teeth nipping at his skin.
Dean chokes on his soda and whips around in his chair, slapping a hand over his neck and glaring at Sam as soon as he realizes what he felt. "Dude, what is wrong with you?" he hisses.
Sam could swear Dean's eyes have glazed over somewhat, like Sam's little display hit every nerve it touched and soaked through his bloodstream like liquid wildfire. "Nothing," he says in his defense, trying not to laugh and holding up his hands in surrender.
But there's something odd in Dean's expression, something dark and shuttered, and he rubs at the back of his neck as if the ghostly kiss left a searing mark on his skin. His shoulders roll as if he's shaking off tension like a dog shaking water off its fur, and suddenly he's himself again, flirting with the waitress and finishing off his burger in record time.
If Sam feels a wave of disappointment when the moment passes, they've got worse things to worry about anyway.
*****
"They used to date, you know."
Sam nods and offers Annie Winston his most sympathetic puppy-dog smile, the one that Dean's not sure he could ever pull off, the one that could persuade strangers to hand over their wallets or run in the opposite direction without argument. A smooth lie to Annie's parents on Sam's part and Annie reluctantly comes downstairs to talk to a pair of grief counselors sent by a local charity or something. Not that she needs much counseling, apparently.
Annie turns wide blue eyes welling with tears on Dean and Sam and forces a weak smile. "Two weeks after Shannon broke up with Daniel, he started going out with me. I sort of thought they still had a thing, you know? It's not like I'm surprised or anything. I'm just ..."
She makes a choked sound before her entire body stiffens, like she's had practice bucking up in the face of everything she's gone through. "They were my best friends," she says, her voice wavering. "If they wanted to get back together, all they had to do was tell me. I would have been upset, but I could have handled it."
Tears spill down her cheeks as she sniffles, and Dean and Sam share a concerned look over her head.
Fifteen minutes worth of comforting words and sincere condolences later, Sam's got that distracted air to him as they walk back to the car, like his mind is a million miles away analyzing the hell out of something. The keys dangling from his fingers, Dean says, "You've got that I've-got-a-theory look on your face, Sam."
Sam startles at the sound of Dean's voice as if jolted awake, then sighs. "Whatever is in that house is making people sleep together when they have some reason not to -- significant others, social mores, whatever -- but still want to, deep down. And then it kills them."
Dean stops walking, twirls the keys lazily around his finger. "That's your theory, College Boy?"
"And I'm sticking to it," Sam says with a nod.
Dean stares hard at him for a minute, that tilt of his chin that's always made Sam feel like he's being silently judged. It fades quickly enough, and the next thing Sam knows, Dean's got that charming whip-crack grin of his working overtime.
Sam's muscles tense at the sight of it, and he has to clench his teeth to keep from making a sound he really doesn't want to identify.
"Better than anything I can come up with," Dean says. "You ready to head in?"
A foreboding chill settles in that dark space in Sam's mind and he nods, because that's got to be a better answer than, Not if this is going to end the way I think it will.
*****
Olivia Barlow's house sits in the shadowed depths of a heavily wooded area, far enough from the more populated areas of town for most people to forget about it when it's not right in front of them. The police tape is long gone, but the "Condemned" signs remain, taped to the crumbling bricks as if they'll actually keep people away.
Sam takes in the all-encompassing gloom of the place, the sensation of energy being sucked into it like a vacuum pulling at them, and wonders what it'll take for someone to finally just tear the thing down. Two more bodies? Four more? A dozen?
Dean lets the Impala rumble in front of the house for a moment too long, staring at the place as if that far-too-quiet warning alarm that's going off in Sam's mind is going off in his head as well.
"The music?" he says.
Sam nods. Olivia Barlow had been cremated long ago, it turned out, but in the early forties she'd been arrested for murdering her husband and best friend. A strange altar had been found in the home, but there didn't appear to be any other medical cause for the condition of the couple's hearts -- disintegrated in their chests as if by spontaneous explosion -- that couldn't be attributed to anything other than the intimate position they'd been found in.
The case had been dismissed for lack of evidence, and Olivia Barlow went home a free woman only to die six months later of cancer.
A year to the day later, slow and haunting big band music poured from the house, cutting off only after the police came in to find the second set of bodies.
Whatever's playing the music, Sam theorizes, is exactly what they need to destroy, and salt and fire should work well enough.
The front porch screams and groans in agony as Dean and Sam step onto it, the shotgun loaded with rock salt at the ready in Dean's hands as he catches Sam's attention and darts his gaze towards the door. Sam knows what he wants by reflex now, the doorknob turning and the door swinging open before he can even turn his head to look at it.
The second it opens, a woman's deep, husky laughter comes from upstairs.
Dean's lips tug upwards in that confident grin he always gets on hunts like this, and he peers into the dark interior of the house and says, "Looks like the lady's inviting us in."
Yeah, Sam thinks, and I'm guessing the first one of us that mentions it's a trap loses.
Dean goes in first with the shotgun raised, Sam following close behind with eyes wide open that take in everything. He doesn't need to see what he wants to move to use his powers, but at least he has to know it's there first, and part of Dean entering first anymore is Sam getting time to inventory their surroundings.
They head upstairs without having to discuss it, that throaty laughter pouring down the stairs like smooth molasses. The steps creak under their weight but somehow hold. If Sam exercises caution by telekinetically keeping the wood from cracking, he figures it's worth the lost energy.
There are only a few doors at the top of the stairs, all but one either wide open or hanging from a single hinge. Dean takes a step forward on the weatherworn rug running down the hall just as the single closed door swings open with a high-pitched wail.
"Sammy, that you?" Dean says.
Sam doesn't get the chance to answer, not after they hear something that sounds ominously like a record scratching.
They both move into the bedroom, pristine and clean as if it's never been touched by anyone or anything. The furniture is all antique, a huge four-poster bed taking up the most space, and on the other side of the room there's a perfectly preserved phonograph so shiny and new it throws Sam out of his frame of mind for just long enough.
And that's when the needle touches down on the vinyl of the record on it before they can do anything, before Sam can do so much as bat an eyelash. The music pours through the phonograph with a scratch that jolts through him -- something by Glenn Miller, he realizes in the distant part of his brain still capable of coherent thought -- and the next thing he knows, he's flicking his power at Dean's back like a hard but playful shove.
The shotgun's on a side table and Dean's on the bed a second later, as if he made himself land there on purpose, like he knows damn well what Sam's trying to do and thinks it's the best damned idea the kid ever came up with.
Everything goes hazy as if seen through a winding thread of smoky incense and the shimmer of heat off pavement during a sweltering summer day. Sam doesn't notice he's made it onto the bed until his lips press against Dean's harshly like a starving man tasting his favorite food for the first time in ages. Dean's hands latch onto his belt and tug it loose in a frantic movement, and he kisses Sam like a biting accusation, his tongue thrusting into Sam's mouth as if silently complaining that they could have been doing this long ago. His hands move everywhere and nowhere all at once, migrating over Sam's body until they finally decide that getting Sam's shirt off has to be the first thing on their agenda.
Sam feels out of it in all the best ways, like he's been doused from head to toe in something spicy and dizzying and wonderful. But that dark pocket in his brain must still be working right, because he knows he's yanking down Dean's zipper and wrapping fingers around Dean's cock in a wave of desperation but his hands are both busy shoving that goddamn leather jacket off Dean's shoulders the entire time.
Sam's jacket and T-shirt disappear, and he'd almost think he's being literal if he actually gave a damn, something that's hard to do with Dean's mouth leaving a potent trail across his skin and his hand slipping into Sam's jeans.
His heart pounds wild and insistent in his chest, his body telegraphing him an urgent message he's not all that sure he wants to listen to. He thinks in a dreamy fog, Something's not right here, right before Dean's thumb drifts over the head of his cock and he really couldn't give a damn anymore about whether it's right or not.
Dean bucks under Sam's body, pressing his hips up against Sam and startling the hell out of him. They brush against one another, breath hitching and hissing as the sensation rides over them.
Sam clutches his brother's hips, fingers gripping the denim of his jeans tightly as he tugs at them, trying to get them off. But Dean keeps making these noises, hot perfect whimpers that go straight to Sam's cock and hit him right where he lives, and in his mind, phantom fingers stop jerking off his brother just long enough to wave at him in a silent, Hi, remember us?
Fuck, Sam thinks, because he can barely remember anything at this point, except that Dean must have rolled him onto his back at some point in the immediate past. There's Dean's breath teasing across his stomach and then something hot and wet engulfing his dick, and if he could ever think straight before now, he can't re--
A sudden burst of fiery pain flares in Sam's chest, shooting agonizing tendrils through his body, and between that and Dean's tongue trailing up the underside of his cock, the hiss that passes his lips is half in heated pleasure and half in indescribable pain.
"Dean," Sam says in this pleading tone, like he can't decide whether to ask Dean to stop whatever the hell's making them do this or to keep teasing Sam with his lips and tongue and hands.
Dean doesn't even seem to hear him, not even when something invisible reaches into Sam's chest and squeezes.
Both of them wince at the same time, and Sam startles out of his daze. Not completely, though, not with Dean shaking it off and going right back to what he was doing.
"Dean, wait," he says.
Dean continues sucking him off, and over by the phonograph this woman flickers briefly in the air, wearing this exotic red dress and a wicked knowing smile.
Sam can't get up, not with his arms and legs limp and languid like this, not even if Dean were to back off. But these days he doesn't have to.
He narrows his eyes at the phonograph and whips out his power like the smash of a sledgehammer.
The phonograph shatters, shards of wood and metal flying everywhere, the music cutting off in a heartbeat. There's salt and matches in Dean's jacket pocket like always, Sam remembers, and he closes his eyes and flexes not long before the scent of smoke grows in the room.
The pain in Sam's chest and the untamed heat in his blood cease at the same time a disappointed dying wail tears through the entire house.
Dean's off him in an instant, halfway across the room so fast it's like he was there all along. The back of his hand presses against his mouth, his entire body shivering as if shaking off the spell. "What the fuck," he says, and his eyes glint like cold green glass in the darkness as he gives Sam this odd look that's equal parts confused and accusatory.
Sam waits for him to say something else -- God, anything else -- but a second later, Dean stops looking at him and starts looking for his clothes and that's the end of that.
****
Neither one of them says anything in the car back to the motel. Sam's too busy to worry about it, rubbing at the sore spot on his chest as if he'll be able to scrub the pain away with mere force of will. It feels like someone left a hole there, a gaping chasm in his ribs so that anybody who passes by could squeeze the life out of him if they wanted.
It's a disconcerting sensation, sickening and cold like an open door letting in a draft in January.
Sam wonders if Dean feels the same way, but can't bring himself to break the silence.
****
Four in the morning, and they're both still drifting around the motel room in complete silence. Any other job and they'd already be asleep, hibernating for a day or so before moving onto the next town like a pair of traveling bears.
But neither one of them is getting to sleep anytime soon -- Sam because he's too busy thinking, and Dean because he spread out his gun collection as soon as they returned from Olivia Barlow's house and is just getting to the end of cleaning every gun he owns until they all gleam.
Sam can't sit down, though, can't stop looking at Dean as if waiting for the conversation they have to have to start. Every nerve in his body tingles like he gripped a live wire with both hands. And maybe I did, he thinks, shaking his hands as if trying to make the sensation vanish into thin air.
Dean's loading the guns back into his duffel when Sam decides he's had enough and says, "We need to talk about this."
He doesn't look up from the bag. "No, we don't."
"I can't go to sleep until we talk about this," Sam says, and moves across the room until there's no damn way Dean can't not acknowledge him.
"Great," Dean says. "You can go wash and wax the Impala while I sleep."
"Dean, she was only going after couples with underlying desires they couldn't acknowledge --"
There's a sigh, and then, "Sammy ..."
"-- people who wanted to sleep together but had their reasons not to. She got off on it."
Dean zips the duffel closed, avoiding Sam's gaze. "Maybe we were wrong," he says.
"We weren't wrong, and you know it."
He turns on Sam, eyes blazing with annoyance or anger or something even worse. "And what do you expect us to do about it, Sam? Just go with it?"
Sam wants to think it's wrong, wants to tell himself it's wrong and can't argue that, wants to say that's a good enough reason not to and has more arguments against that than he cares to admit. They're grown men. They can't knock each other up. They wouldn't be hurting anyone. They deserve this. I really am a goddamn lawyer, aren't I?, Sam thinks derisively, and when the words, "Why not?" tumble past his lips, he's not all that sure he wants to take them back.
"Maybe you really are out of your goddamn --"
Sam kisses him then, and maybe it's because he wants to and maybe it's because he wants to shut Dean up, but he catches Dean at the right moment with his lips parted. His tongue slips along Dean's in a vicious tease, Sam's hand moving to the side of his brother's neck through force of habit.
Dean shoves him away, not nearly soon enough, and stares up at Sam with shocked, sheltered eyes. "What the hell was that?"
Sam tries to think of an answer, something that doesn't sound as ridiculous as it does in his head, and finally just blurts out, "Me, going with it."
"Yeah, well, knock it off."
He lets out a ragged breath and rubs at the back of his neck, sounding like he can't decide whether to punch Sam or something else entirely. The skin of Sam's palm burns from where he touched Dean's neck, and there's a crazy part of his mind that stares Dean down as if trying to figure out if he felt it, too.
That hand's still massaging the same spot, right where the curve of Dean's neck meets his shoulder, and before he can stop himself with anything remotely resembling rational thought, Sam's flicking out his power and licking a heated trail right there without even touching him.
Dean takes a step backward at that, retreating even as a strangled sound rips from his throat. "Sam!"
But Sam can't bring himself to give it a rest, too busy taunting Dean with invisible swipes of his tongue. Dean's fingers grip the edge of the bureau behind him, his knuckles white and the air rushing past his lips in a quickening staccato beat. And suddenly a common-sense part of Sam's brain kicks in, not to tell him to stop but to tell him he's got to be an idiot to stand five feet away when he could be --
There.
The phantom kisses don't disappear, just move like Sam does, reappearing as the featherlight pressure of lips dancing over Dean's chest under his shirt. Sam thinks Dean's hands are on him but can't be sure, because the taste of that spot is a sweet addiction that blocks out everything else.
Sam leans the length of his body against Dean's, shivering at the sensation of Dean's erection still hidden behind denim. Dean feels pressure there at that moment, and it might be Sam's hands and it might not be but he doesn't really give a damn so long as it stays.
"You really want me to stop?" Sam says.
Dean's breath hitches as his eyes slam shut. "Fuck, Sam," he chokes out, and his grip on Sam's T-shirt tightens.
Sam's feeling reckless and loose, energy coursing through his veins in a thrilling maelstrom. When he hears himself chuckle softly and say, "Sure, why not?" before he trails kisses over the slope of Dean's neck, he starts to wonder how he can be going crazy and dangerous and enjoy every damn minute of it.
It's easy to blame the half-reluctant, half-desperate noises Dean keeps making, the way one of his hands pushes Sam away while the other latches onto Sam's shirt and pulls at it as if a hard enough tug will make the whole thing fall apart. He blames the way Dean's too far gone for rational decisions and the urge to find out if every spot on Dean's body possesses as addictive a taste as that spot by his collarbone. He blames the way the temperature in the room's amplified past the point of reason and how easy it is to slip Dean's jeans down his hips, the sudden weakness in his knees that makes him slip to the floor and the tightening of Dean's fingers in his hair as he replaces the invisible fingers he's been using to stroke Dean's cock with his lips.
But later on, when they come in the midst of sweat-soaked sheets and dawning sunlight, Sam is finally convinced the fault is all on him.
*****
Sam wakes up a few hours later to Dean's taste still sharp and smoky on his tongue and Dean's body sprawled out beside Sam as he takes up half the bed, arms and legs everywhere. It's strategic chaos, everything else scattered haphazardly around so Dean can casually leave one hand near his pillow in his sleep and not look like he's about to reach for the gun tucked behind the bed or the knife hidden under the pillow.
He's never been able to do that like Dean can, close his eyes and drift off with a weapon pressing against his head through a few inches of cotton batting or down feathers. He wonders sometimes if it drives Dean's dreams, if somewhere in his sleep his brother's stalking through the woods with a Bowie knife and a target in sight.
Sam's pretty sure if he is, they're not nightmares.
Hazy and heavy's the best description of how Sam feels, like he drank a bottle of tequila and ran the Boston Marathon. His muscles throb and his mind's fuzzed over, and somewhere underneath it all is the sneaking suspicion that he's not going to like what Dean has to say when he wakes up.
Call it a hunch, Sam thinks with a trace of sarcasm, and takes a moment to stare down at his brother's sleeping form, to pretend things haven't gone straight to hell and his family's not twice as fucked-up as he's always known.
He darts a glance at the curtains and they slide shut with a low rustle, then closes his eyes and forces himself to go back to sleep.
Some things, Sam realizes, he does not want to be awake for.
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Spoilers for: "Nightmare"
Warnings: Incest
Disclaimer: Dear
trollprincess's gym teacher, please excuse her from class, as she has borrowed these characters without permission and with no intention of making money off this so she can make them do the naughtybrothersex with one another. Summary: It's all about how you train with it, just like any other weapon.
Author's note: So following the events of "Nightmare", I had an urge for really smutty telekinesis-training!Wincest, and this is what resulted. And thanks bunches to
chaneen for the beta. :)I'm Not Touching You (And Other Annoying Games Little Brothers Play)
*****
Truth the first was something they just knew, that the Winchester family was irreversibly fucked-up and always had been.
Truth the second was something they had to learn after years of hunting, that the distance between being fucked-up and being fucked in any situation was barely measurable.
Truth the third was something they'd always suspected, at least a little bit, that the distance between being fucked and actually fucking wasn't all that far, either.
It's like suddenly finding out he's grown a tail, is what it's like, as if he woke up one morning and stretched all of his appendages and knocked over a motel room lamp with something that was neither an arm nor a leg.
And three weeks after the Millers, that's exactly what it is. Some puke-green porcelain monstrosity with a pair of woodpeckers on pine branches painted on it, a garish eyesore of ghastly proportions. Breaking it can probably be best viewed as putting it and a thousand future motel room guests out of their misery.
Sam awakens with a jolt that night, not spotting the broken lamp for a long moment. He drags the back of his wrist across his forehead, sweat mingling and cooling in a thin sheen on his skin, and it's only when he sees Dean sitting up with his knife in his hand that he notices the shattered remnants of the lamp scattered all over the floor.
"You all right?"
The question is all habit, Sam realizes, just Dean asking out of reflex. He nods, equally out of reflex.
This is the third time it's happened since Michigan, a window cracked here, a television screen scarred there. Somewhere in Sam's mind is a spot he tries to pretend isn't there that aches like crazy, soaked in soreness. If it were a muscle, he'd be positive he sprained it.
Dean's expression fixes on him, cold and hard in the dim moonlight filtering into the room. Sam drags slightly trembling fingers through his hair and tries to calm his breathing.
A minute later, the knife slips back under Dean's pillow and Dean falls back into that deceptively deep sleep of his, and Sam's left alone to literally pick up the pieces.
When Sam comes to the next morning, there is a coffee cup hovering in his line of sight, and he reaches for it without question. Dean's fully dressed before him, five in the morning according to the travel alarm clock on the nightstand, and Sam just can't let one pass by without comment. "You're up early," he says.
Dean makes a face, takes a deliberate sip of his own cup of coffee. "Yeah, thanks for noticing, Captain Obvious." He gives the bed a good thump with his boot and says, "Come on, get dressed. We're going out."
"Where to?" Sam says, but Dean's already halfway across the room, car keys in hand as he heads for the door.
"You'll find out when we get there, Sammy."
"There" turns out to be a field in the middle of nowhere, not a house to be seen for miles even though the pungent scents of a dairy farm float past on the breeze every time it picks up. Sam gets out of the car in a bleary-eyed daze and stares at Dean in confusion, ready to wait all day for an explanation until he sees the plastic bag of empty glass bottles Dean's lugging out of the trunk.
Oh, he can't possibly be serious.
"Dean, I can't," he says, and it sounds way too much like pleading.
But Dean cuts him off with a slash of his hand through the air as he walks over to the old fence circling the land, the bottles clinking a playful beat at his side. "Oh, you will," he says in a determined tone of voice. "I'm not sleeping in the same motel room with a guy who goes to bed with a loaded gun and doesn't know how to use it."
Dean lines up the bottles along the fence, giving Sam plenty of time to come up with a good argument. These powers might be as dark and sinister as anything else they've fought. They might just get them into deeper trouble then they've ever gotten into in their lives. Plus, Sam's not stupid enough to think the whole situation isn't spooking the hell out of Dean on some very fundamental level.
The problem is, Dean's got a point. It isn't the best idea in the world for him to be letting this thing run wild between them, and they both know it.
Dean's stomping back through the high damp grass when Sam finally finds his voice again, when he forces himself to say, "It was just an adrenaline thing, Dean, I don't know how to --"
And that's when Dean walks right up to him and punches him in the face.
Sam stumbles backward, hand immediately reaching up to work his jaw as he gives Dean a look that could melt glass. "What the hell did you do that for?" he snaps. The fingers of his free hand tighten and uncurl, squeeze and loosen as if silently begging for payback.
"Well, you're the one arguing it's an adrenaline thing," Dean says, and his fist snaps out again.
Sam doesn't know where it comes from, what happens next, why he doesn't just block the shot and punch Dean back. He's got years of self-defense training and practice under his belt but something in his head clicks into place like a gear shifting, like tumblers in a lock falling into line like good soldiers. That spot in his brain that aches and burns flexes anyway, an atrophied muscle coming back to sharp, desperate life and trying too damn hard in the process.
It whips out without warning, even to him, and Dean goes flying backward into the brush as if swatted away with a giant hand. He slams down to the ground on his back about fifteen feet behind him with a loud groan, at the same time that Sam sways and clutches his head for reasons other than Dean's fist connecting with his jaw.
Adrenaline as fuel fades fast, leaving behind a new appendage frantic to show off. Inside Sam's head is a dark spot that flares with dull pain, a low hurtful roar in his mind. Sam imagines that if you held his head up to your ear and listened, you'd think you hear the ocean.
What the hell am I?
The voice is traitorous and frightened, Sam realizes, but it's got a damn good point.
Shaking it off, Sam takes a deep breath, winces at the agony that settles in his head at even that small movement, and calls out, "You okay?"
There's a long silence before a choked cough rises from the depths of the tall grass. A moment later Dean's arm lifts up in the air, his pointer finger extended as he says, "Lesson one. Not so fucking hard."
Ten minutes later, the collapsed section of fence tilts in broken pieces towards the ground below the empty space where the bottles had been, their shattered remnants somewhere underneath the brush. The brothers both stare for a long moment before Dean clears his throat pointedly and says, "You know that thing I said about not doing it so hard?"
A sigh, then ...
"Shut up, Dean."
Training on a weapon with Dean as your teacher is like some sadistic form of punishment, especially when he can't actually play with the weapon in question and he makes it blatantly obvious he's just making stuff up as he goes along.
Abandoned buildings become targets Sam's allowed to practice on, breaking out windows and knocking off shutters. He stops letting Sam carry weapons on hunts, patting him down just in case and ignoring Sam's rolling eyes. At diners, Dean tries to convince him to make the tips from other tables float over to their booth when the waitress isn't looking, and at a rest stop he pounds his fist against the broken vending machine and gives Sam a pointed look.
"All right, kiddo, your next lesson --"
"I'm not using my powers to get you Doritos."
"Aw, come on, Sammy --"
"Shut up, Dean."
For weeks, the time between jobs is like hardcore telekinetic boot camp. Dean gets him to do everything from open a lock to flush the toilet with only the power of his mind. The long stretches in the car from one town to another become valuable training time they can't waste.
"I'm not seeing any bending."
"I'm trying to be gentle here."
"If you want, we can stop at a Walmart and get something bigger. Maybe a ladle?"
"Shut up, Dean."
And if Sam gets a little frustrated, he figures it's only fair.
"Dean, if you don't lay off, I'm going to snap."
"And do what?"
*click*
A pause, then, "Sam, did you just lock my keys in my car?"
Sam flashes Dean a smile and whistles as he walks away. Sometimes ... okay, so maybe a lot of times ... all right, all of the time, Dean is really, really asking for it.
After a while the muscle in his mind infuses with strength, toned and perfect from some fucked-up combination of practice and use. What started as blunt force turns into deft control. Sam keeps his mind on locks that don't need picks and otherwise unreachable weapons that fly across the room into his hands with a thought and tries not to think about what happens if he gets possessed by the wrong demon one of these days.
And in the end, what was something creepy and strange and possibly maybe a tiny bit evil becomes your garden-variety level of just plain annoying.
Ten hours in a car means that conversation gets tired and childish road trip games get old and sometimes a guy just has to resort to playing with the toys at his disposal.
"Dude, if you don't knock it off, I'm pulling the car over and kicking your ass."
"Dean, I've already told you ten times that I am not touching you."
"I know you're not," Dean snaps, and glares at an empty spot in the air next to his right shoulder. "You're right there, not touching me."
"I am not."
That sense that there's an invisible finger two inches away from his arm ready to poke him at any second doesn't go away, and Dean's grip on the steering wheel tightens. "Mom and Dad should have gotten a dog instead," he grumbles.
Sam says nothing in response as he focuses on the Indiana road map, but his laughter is soft and his smile mischievous, and that's response enough.
In Heaton, Indiana, there is a haunted house with the kind of word-of-mouth legends attached to it you'd expect. If you go in with someone you love, they say, it will tell you if you really love each other, if you can't live without one another or if that feeling you're having's just hardcore lust you really need to get over.
Music will play, they say, something old and jazzy that filters into the air like sex on a melody.
Of course, you'll never make it out of the house alive, but at least you'll have confirmation you couldn't have lived without one another if you'd gotten a chance.
"Okay, so here are the most recent victims," Sam says, and they're off.
The sheets of paper and news clippings that litter the tabletop can be summed up in a few punchy sentences, none of which either one of them really like grouped together the way that they are. Seven couples over the last forty years, dead at the height of passion, their hearts ruptured as if they'd melted, and all of them found in or near the same creaking old house. Dark rumors of the last owner, Olivia Barlow, that she was a black widow, that she'd practiced black magic, that she'd been a deviant who'd gotten her thrills watching forbidden lust be slaked.
Rumors may grow in small towns like untamed weeds, but that doesn't make them any less true if you squint.
Or sometimes, even if you don't.
Sam slides one of the papers over to Dean, his soda forgotten in the enthusiastic excitement of research. The photo is grainy for something so recent, but Sam wasn't the only one who saw the library's pathetic excuse for a copy machine and Dean's pretty sure there was a hamster in a wheel powering that thing. The picture shows a trio of teenagers, a blonde and a brunette waving at the camera and a boy standing behind the blonde with his arms around her waist.
Dean leans over to get a better look as Sam points to the brunette and the boy. "Shannon Entwhistle and Daniel Davies. Seniors at the high school. They were found dead two weeks ago in the house exactly the same way as the others."
Dean nods. "Stacy said she heard some old big band song was playing when the cops showed up."
"Stacy?"
"That chick at the library, remember?"
"You mean, the one you spent the entire time flirting with when we were supposed to be researching the job?"
"It was research," Dean says defensively. "Learned something, didn't I?"
Sam rolls his eyes at that, just as the waitress saunters up to the table, hips swinging and eyes twinkling. She's another one of those waitresses, the ones that beg for Dean's charming smile and teasing winks with every move they make. Sam shakes his head and accepts the plate she slides in his direction, watching Dean's gaze follow her as she heads back to the kitchen again.
"Aw, man, the things that little parlor trick of yours could do to a girl like that," Dean mutters, turning back around with a wicked grin.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Dean gives him a look that indicates his low opinion of just how dirty Sam's mind can get. "You can't tell me you never had any ideas about what you could do to a girl you couldn't touch."
Sam shakes his head, a wry grin crossing his face as he tugs the photo back over to his side of the table. "I've been too busy bending spoons, remember?"
"Oh, come on, dude. You're telling me the same College Joe who's been threatening to poke me with invisible fingers can't come up with some creative sexual maneuvers?" Dean wiggles his fingers in midair with this skeptical twist to his lips, as if that's supposed to encompass every erotic trick he could make up if he really thought it out, then reaches for his drink with a sarcastic "tsk, tsk."
It's almost enough to make a guy do something crazy, is what it is.
The waitress glances over her shoulder at Dean's back, flashing him a come-fuck-me smile that Sam knows he would have run with if he'd seen it, and Sam's fingers clench around his napkin. He stares at Dean and thinks about what he said, about invisible fingers and phantom lips teasing a girl within an inch of her life, stroking, licking, biting, about driving a girl wild without even touching her.
His eyes narrow, and he pictures full lips like that waitress's pressing a hot wet kiss on the back of Dean's neck, a tongue tracing along his spine and teeth nipping at his skin.
Dean chokes on his soda and whips around in his chair, slapping a hand over his neck and glaring at Sam as soon as he realizes what he felt. "Dude, what is wrong with you?" he hisses.
Sam could swear Dean's eyes have glazed over somewhat, like Sam's little display hit every nerve it touched and soaked through his bloodstream like liquid wildfire. "Nothing," he says in his defense, trying not to laugh and holding up his hands in surrender.
But there's something odd in Dean's expression, something dark and shuttered, and he rubs at the back of his neck as if the ghostly kiss left a searing mark on his skin. His shoulders roll as if he's shaking off tension like a dog shaking water off its fur, and suddenly he's himself again, flirting with the waitress and finishing off his burger in record time.
If Sam feels a wave of disappointment when the moment passes, they've got worse things to worry about anyway.
"They used to date, you know."
Sam nods and offers Annie Winston his most sympathetic puppy-dog smile, the one that Dean's not sure he could ever pull off, the one that could persuade strangers to hand over their wallets or run in the opposite direction without argument. A smooth lie to Annie's parents on Sam's part and Annie reluctantly comes downstairs to talk to a pair of grief counselors sent by a local charity or something. Not that she needs much counseling, apparently.
Annie turns wide blue eyes welling with tears on Dean and Sam and forces a weak smile. "Two weeks after Shannon broke up with Daniel, he started going out with me. I sort of thought they still had a thing, you know? It's not like I'm surprised or anything. I'm just ..."
She makes a choked sound before her entire body stiffens, like she's had practice bucking up in the face of everything she's gone through. "They were my best friends," she says, her voice wavering. "If they wanted to get back together, all they had to do was tell me. I would have been upset, but I could have handled it."
Tears spill down her cheeks as she sniffles, and Dean and Sam share a concerned look over her head.
Fifteen minutes worth of comforting words and sincere condolences later, Sam's got that distracted air to him as they walk back to the car, like his mind is a million miles away analyzing the hell out of something. The keys dangling from his fingers, Dean says, "You've got that I've-got-a-theory look on your face, Sam."
Sam startles at the sound of Dean's voice as if jolted awake, then sighs. "Whatever is in that house is making people sleep together when they have some reason not to -- significant others, social mores, whatever -- but still want to, deep down. And then it kills them."
Dean stops walking, twirls the keys lazily around his finger. "That's your theory, College Boy?"
"And I'm sticking to it," Sam says with a nod.
Dean stares hard at him for a minute, that tilt of his chin that's always made Sam feel like he's being silently judged. It fades quickly enough, and the next thing Sam knows, Dean's got that charming whip-crack grin of his working overtime.
Sam's muscles tense at the sight of it, and he has to clench his teeth to keep from making a sound he really doesn't want to identify.
"Better than anything I can come up with," Dean says. "You ready to head in?"
A foreboding chill settles in that dark space in Sam's mind and he nods, because that's got to be a better answer than, Not if this is going to end the way I think it will.
Olivia Barlow's house sits in the shadowed depths of a heavily wooded area, far enough from the more populated areas of town for most people to forget about it when it's not right in front of them. The police tape is long gone, but the "Condemned" signs remain, taped to the crumbling bricks as if they'll actually keep people away.
Sam takes in the all-encompassing gloom of the place, the sensation of energy being sucked into it like a vacuum pulling at them, and wonders what it'll take for someone to finally just tear the thing down. Two more bodies? Four more? A dozen?
Dean lets the Impala rumble in front of the house for a moment too long, staring at the place as if that far-too-quiet warning alarm that's going off in Sam's mind is going off in his head as well.
"The music?" he says.
Sam nods. Olivia Barlow had been cremated long ago, it turned out, but in the early forties she'd been arrested for murdering her husband and best friend. A strange altar had been found in the home, but there didn't appear to be any other medical cause for the condition of the couple's hearts -- disintegrated in their chests as if by spontaneous explosion -- that couldn't be attributed to anything other than the intimate position they'd been found in.
The case had been dismissed for lack of evidence, and Olivia Barlow went home a free woman only to die six months later of cancer.
A year to the day later, slow and haunting big band music poured from the house, cutting off only after the police came in to find the second set of bodies.
Whatever's playing the music, Sam theorizes, is exactly what they need to destroy, and salt and fire should work well enough.
The front porch screams and groans in agony as Dean and Sam step onto it, the shotgun loaded with rock salt at the ready in Dean's hands as he catches Sam's attention and darts his gaze towards the door. Sam knows what he wants by reflex now, the doorknob turning and the door swinging open before he can even turn his head to look at it.
The second it opens, a woman's deep, husky laughter comes from upstairs.
Dean's lips tug upwards in that confident grin he always gets on hunts like this, and he peers into the dark interior of the house and says, "Looks like the lady's inviting us in."
Yeah, Sam thinks, and I'm guessing the first one of us that mentions it's a trap loses.
Dean goes in first with the shotgun raised, Sam following close behind with eyes wide open that take in everything. He doesn't need to see what he wants to move to use his powers, but at least he has to know it's there first, and part of Dean entering first anymore is Sam getting time to inventory their surroundings.
They head upstairs without having to discuss it, that throaty laughter pouring down the stairs like smooth molasses. The steps creak under their weight but somehow hold. If Sam exercises caution by telekinetically keeping the wood from cracking, he figures it's worth the lost energy.
There are only a few doors at the top of the stairs, all but one either wide open or hanging from a single hinge. Dean takes a step forward on the weatherworn rug running down the hall just as the single closed door swings open with a high-pitched wail.
"Sammy, that you?" Dean says.
Sam doesn't get the chance to answer, not after they hear something that sounds ominously like a record scratching.
They both move into the bedroom, pristine and clean as if it's never been touched by anyone or anything. The furniture is all antique, a huge four-poster bed taking up the most space, and on the other side of the room there's a perfectly preserved phonograph so shiny and new it throws Sam out of his frame of mind for just long enough.
And that's when the needle touches down on the vinyl of the record on it before they can do anything, before Sam can do so much as bat an eyelash. The music pours through the phonograph with a scratch that jolts through him -- something by Glenn Miller, he realizes in the distant part of his brain still capable of coherent thought -- and the next thing he knows, he's flicking his power at Dean's back like a hard but playful shove.
The shotgun's on a side table and Dean's on the bed a second later, as if he made himself land there on purpose, like he knows damn well what Sam's trying to do and thinks it's the best damned idea the kid ever came up with.
Everything goes hazy as if seen through a winding thread of smoky incense and the shimmer of heat off pavement during a sweltering summer day. Sam doesn't notice he's made it onto the bed until his lips press against Dean's harshly like a starving man tasting his favorite food for the first time in ages. Dean's hands latch onto his belt and tug it loose in a frantic movement, and he kisses Sam like a biting accusation, his tongue thrusting into Sam's mouth as if silently complaining that they could have been doing this long ago. His hands move everywhere and nowhere all at once, migrating over Sam's body until they finally decide that getting Sam's shirt off has to be the first thing on their agenda.
Sam feels out of it in all the best ways, like he's been doused from head to toe in something spicy and dizzying and wonderful. But that dark pocket in his brain must still be working right, because he knows he's yanking down Dean's zipper and wrapping fingers around Dean's cock in a wave of desperation but his hands are both busy shoving that goddamn leather jacket off Dean's shoulders the entire time.
Sam's jacket and T-shirt disappear, and he'd almost think he's being literal if he actually gave a damn, something that's hard to do with Dean's mouth leaving a potent trail across his skin and his hand slipping into Sam's jeans.
His heart pounds wild and insistent in his chest, his body telegraphing him an urgent message he's not all that sure he wants to listen to. He thinks in a dreamy fog, Something's not right here, right before Dean's thumb drifts over the head of his cock and he really couldn't give a damn anymore about whether it's right or not.
Dean bucks under Sam's body, pressing his hips up against Sam and startling the hell out of him. They brush against one another, breath hitching and hissing as the sensation rides over them.
Sam clutches his brother's hips, fingers gripping the denim of his jeans tightly as he tugs at them, trying to get them off. But Dean keeps making these noises, hot perfect whimpers that go straight to Sam's cock and hit him right where he lives, and in his mind, phantom fingers stop jerking off his brother just long enough to wave at him in a silent, Hi, remember us?
Fuck, Sam thinks, because he can barely remember anything at this point, except that Dean must have rolled him onto his back at some point in the immediate past. There's Dean's breath teasing across his stomach and then something hot and wet engulfing his dick, and if he could ever think straight before now, he can't re--
A sudden burst of fiery pain flares in Sam's chest, shooting agonizing tendrils through his body, and between that and Dean's tongue trailing up the underside of his cock, the hiss that passes his lips is half in heated pleasure and half in indescribable pain.
"Dean," Sam says in this pleading tone, like he can't decide whether to ask Dean to stop whatever the hell's making them do this or to keep teasing Sam with his lips and tongue and hands.
Dean doesn't even seem to hear him, not even when something invisible reaches into Sam's chest and squeezes.
Both of them wince at the same time, and Sam startles out of his daze. Not completely, though, not with Dean shaking it off and going right back to what he was doing.
"Dean, wait," he says.
Dean continues sucking him off, and over by the phonograph this woman flickers briefly in the air, wearing this exotic red dress and a wicked knowing smile.
Sam can't get up, not with his arms and legs limp and languid like this, not even if Dean were to back off. But these days he doesn't have to.
He narrows his eyes at the phonograph and whips out his power like the smash of a sledgehammer.
The phonograph shatters, shards of wood and metal flying everywhere, the music cutting off in a heartbeat. There's salt and matches in Dean's jacket pocket like always, Sam remembers, and he closes his eyes and flexes not long before the scent of smoke grows in the room.
The pain in Sam's chest and the untamed heat in his blood cease at the same time a disappointed dying wail tears through the entire house.
Dean's off him in an instant, halfway across the room so fast it's like he was there all along. The back of his hand presses against his mouth, his entire body shivering as if shaking off the spell. "What the fuck," he says, and his eyes glint like cold green glass in the darkness as he gives Sam this odd look that's equal parts confused and accusatory.
Sam waits for him to say something else -- God, anything else -- but a second later, Dean stops looking at him and starts looking for his clothes and that's the end of that.
Neither one of them says anything in the car back to the motel. Sam's too busy to worry about it, rubbing at the sore spot on his chest as if he'll be able to scrub the pain away with mere force of will. It feels like someone left a hole there, a gaping chasm in his ribs so that anybody who passes by could squeeze the life out of him if they wanted.
It's a disconcerting sensation, sickening and cold like an open door letting in a draft in January.
Sam wonders if Dean feels the same way, but can't bring himself to break the silence.
Four in the morning, and they're both still drifting around the motel room in complete silence. Any other job and they'd already be asleep, hibernating for a day or so before moving onto the next town like a pair of traveling bears.
But neither one of them is getting to sleep anytime soon -- Sam because he's too busy thinking, and Dean because he spread out his gun collection as soon as they returned from Olivia Barlow's house and is just getting to the end of cleaning every gun he owns until they all gleam.
Sam can't sit down, though, can't stop looking at Dean as if waiting for the conversation they have to have to start. Every nerve in his body tingles like he gripped a live wire with both hands. And maybe I did, he thinks, shaking his hands as if trying to make the sensation vanish into thin air.
Dean's loading the guns back into his duffel when Sam decides he's had enough and says, "We need to talk about this."
He doesn't look up from the bag. "No, we don't."
"I can't go to sleep until we talk about this," Sam says, and moves across the room until there's no damn way Dean can't not acknowledge him.
"Great," Dean says. "You can go wash and wax the Impala while I sleep."
"Dean, she was only going after couples with underlying desires they couldn't acknowledge --"
There's a sigh, and then, "Sammy ..."
"-- people who wanted to sleep together but had their reasons not to. She got off on it."
Dean zips the duffel closed, avoiding Sam's gaze. "Maybe we were wrong," he says.
"We weren't wrong, and you know it."
He turns on Sam, eyes blazing with annoyance or anger or something even worse. "And what do you expect us to do about it, Sam? Just go with it?"
Sam wants to think it's wrong, wants to tell himself it's wrong and can't argue that, wants to say that's a good enough reason not to and has more arguments against that than he cares to admit. They're grown men. They can't knock each other up. They wouldn't be hurting anyone. They deserve this. I really am a goddamn lawyer, aren't I?, Sam thinks derisively, and when the words, "Why not?" tumble past his lips, he's not all that sure he wants to take them back.
"Maybe you really are out of your goddamn --"
Sam kisses him then, and maybe it's because he wants to and maybe it's because he wants to shut Dean up, but he catches Dean at the right moment with his lips parted. His tongue slips along Dean's in a vicious tease, Sam's hand moving to the side of his brother's neck through force of habit.
Dean shoves him away, not nearly soon enough, and stares up at Sam with shocked, sheltered eyes. "What the hell was that?"
Sam tries to think of an answer, something that doesn't sound as ridiculous as it does in his head, and finally just blurts out, "Me, going with it."
"Yeah, well, knock it off."
He lets out a ragged breath and rubs at the back of his neck, sounding like he can't decide whether to punch Sam or something else entirely. The skin of Sam's palm burns from where he touched Dean's neck, and there's a crazy part of his mind that stares Dean down as if trying to figure out if he felt it, too.
That hand's still massaging the same spot, right where the curve of Dean's neck meets his shoulder, and before he can stop himself with anything remotely resembling rational thought, Sam's flicking out his power and licking a heated trail right there without even touching him.
Dean takes a step backward at that, retreating even as a strangled sound rips from his throat. "Sam!"
But Sam can't bring himself to give it a rest, too busy taunting Dean with invisible swipes of his tongue. Dean's fingers grip the edge of the bureau behind him, his knuckles white and the air rushing past his lips in a quickening staccato beat. And suddenly a common-sense part of Sam's brain kicks in, not to tell him to stop but to tell him he's got to be an idiot to stand five feet away when he could be --
There.
The phantom kisses don't disappear, just move like Sam does, reappearing as the featherlight pressure of lips dancing over Dean's chest under his shirt. Sam thinks Dean's hands are on him but can't be sure, because the taste of that spot is a sweet addiction that blocks out everything else.
Sam leans the length of his body against Dean's, shivering at the sensation of Dean's erection still hidden behind denim. Dean feels pressure there at that moment, and it might be Sam's hands and it might not be but he doesn't really give a damn so long as it stays.
"You really want me to stop?" Sam says.
Dean's breath hitches as his eyes slam shut. "Fuck, Sam," he chokes out, and his grip on Sam's T-shirt tightens.
Sam's feeling reckless and loose, energy coursing through his veins in a thrilling maelstrom. When he hears himself chuckle softly and say, "Sure, why not?" before he trails kisses over the slope of Dean's neck, he starts to wonder how he can be going crazy and dangerous and enjoy every damn minute of it.
It's easy to blame the half-reluctant, half-desperate noises Dean keeps making, the way one of his hands pushes Sam away while the other latches onto Sam's shirt and pulls at it as if a hard enough tug will make the whole thing fall apart. He blames the way Dean's too far gone for rational decisions and the urge to find out if every spot on Dean's body possesses as addictive a taste as that spot by his collarbone. He blames the way the temperature in the room's amplified past the point of reason and how easy it is to slip Dean's jeans down his hips, the sudden weakness in his knees that makes him slip to the floor and the tightening of Dean's fingers in his hair as he replaces the invisible fingers he's been using to stroke Dean's cock with his lips.
But later on, when they come in the midst of sweat-soaked sheets and dawning sunlight, Sam is finally convinced the fault is all on him.
Sam wakes up a few hours later to Dean's taste still sharp and smoky on his tongue and Dean's body sprawled out beside Sam as he takes up half the bed, arms and legs everywhere. It's strategic chaos, everything else scattered haphazardly around so Dean can casually leave one hand near his pillow in his sleep and not look like he's about to reach for the gun tucked behind the bed or the knife hidden under the pillow.
He's never been able to do that like Dean can, close his eyes and drift off with a weapon pressing against his head through a few inches of cotton batting or down feathers. He wonders sometimes if it drives Dean's dreams, if somewhere in his sleep his brother's stalking through the woods with a Bowie knife and a target in sight.
Sam's pretty sure if he is, they're not nightmares.
Hazy and heavy's the best description of how Sam feels, like he drank a bottle of tequila and ran the Boston Marathon. His muscles throb and his mind's fuzzed over, and somewhere underneath it all is the sneaking suspicion that he's not going to like what Dean has to say when he wakes up.
Call it a hunch, Sam thinks with a trace of sarcasm, and takes a moment to stare down at his brother's sleeping form, to pretend things haven't gone straight to hell and his family's not twice as fucked-up as he's always known.
He darts a glance at the curtains and they slide shut with a low rustle, then closes his eyes and forces himself to go back to sleep.
Some things, Sam realizes, he does not want to be awake for.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-02-24 07:00 am (UTC)I know you were concerned about the boysex, but you did it quite well. Realistic, hot and tasteful.
And I keep going back to the mental image of Dean sucking Sam off and oh there goes my mind again holy SHIT, is that hot. Damn. Just...damn.
no subject
Date: 2006-02-24 07:04 am (UTC)And yes, with the Dean doing pretty much anything to Sam, but that just ... I had to stop writing for a little bit to let myself savor that mental image.
(no subject)
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Date: 2006-02-24 07:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-24 07:22 am (UTC)You haven't seen the show yet? Oh, we need to work on you. ;)
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Date: 2006-02-24 07:56 am (UTC)*squee*
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Date: 2006-02-24 12:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-24 08:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-24 12:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-24 08:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-24 12:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-24 08:30 am (UTC)The scene in the haunted house? hot. I wished it kept on going and going.
I like how it ended right there but then it made me want more.
*thumbs way up*
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Date: 2006-02-24 12:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-24 08:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-24 12:22 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2006-02-24 09:03 am (UTC)Loved it, so so much. There should be more.
*nods* Lots more.
no subject
Date: 2006-02-24 12:22 pm (UTC)And thanks!
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Date: 2006-02-24 10:54 am (UTC)Thanks for sharing.
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Date: 2006-02-24 12:20 pm (UTC)And thanks!
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Date: 2006-02-24 11:55 am (UTC)There's a long silence before a choked cough rises from the depths of the tall grass. A moment later Dean's arm lifts up in the air, his pointer finger extended as he says, "Lesson one. Not so fucking hard."
Oh god. Killed me. Killed me dead, I tells ya, because it is just sooo Dean, my heart about exploded with love for it.
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Date: 2006-02-24 12:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-24 01:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-24 08:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-24 02:27 pm (UTC)Of course the brothersex was hottttt, but I really liked many of the other lines where you capture the boys so succinctly, like:
The question is all habit, Sam realizes, just Dean asking out of reflex. He nods, equally out of reflex.
or
It's strategic chaos, everything else scattered haphazardly around so Dean can casually leave one hand near his pillow in his sleep and not look like he's about to reach for the gun tucked behind the bed or the knife hidden under the pillow.
Such detailed observations. You really know and express these characters so well.
Of course, since I'm dirty-minded, I took this quite the wrong way:
Dean clears his throat pointedly and says, "You know that thing I said about not doing it so hard?" It. Hee!
Thanks for sharing!
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Date: 2006-02-24 08:03 pm (UTC)And thanks!
no subject
Date: 2006-02-24 02:49 pm (UTC)Sam's powers...I've never seen them used so well. Never ever. The training, the development, the way he'd use them once he had them under control...the way familiarity really does lead to contempt. The dance those two do around each other, and then the whole climax, with things forced out into the open that neither of them ever wanted to see the light of day. This story is a GEM. It's gorgeous and perfectly paced and amazingly crafted, it pulled me straight in and didn't let me go until the very last word.
I love it. I lovelovelove it. I stared at the ending for a good five minutes, hoping to force it to suddenly grow five new chapters. Using the force of my mind. Yes, that's how much I adore this story: I was willing to attempt psychic manipulation to get more. *grin*
Thank you so much for writing and sharing it. It's just an incredible treat to find and read today.
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Date: 2006-02-24 08:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-24 02:59 pm (UTC)Great job!! :)
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Date: 2006-02-24 08:12 pm (UTC)And thanks!
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Date: 2006-02-24 03:33 pm (UTC)I mean, that was interesting, and snarky, and plotty, and excuse me if I don't comment in depth on that at the moment, because my brain is all frazzled with the porn. The porn.
Dude, sam-with-freaky-powers. Sam with freaky powers used for sex. Combined with 'supernatural forces made us do it'.
But. Oh.
That kiss/lick to the back in the cafe? Incredibly hot, and I really, really, *really* felt for Dean. It's like, woo. That's just dirty tactics (even if unintended) on Sams part.
hit every nerve it touched and soaked through his bloodstream like liquid wildfire?
I don't think it classes as a kink, but my back is just that sensitive, that if someone were to do that to me? *shivers*
If I were a guy I'd have to be excusing myself to go bathroom. That's if I could get up.
But. Yeah. Hot.
Ahem, anyway, should sidetrack myself from my own almost kinks.
When they go into the house, you know what's going to happen, but it's still surprising how suddenly, furiously and obliviously horny they get.
Just. Woah. And Dean sucking Sam? Wait. Give me a moment just to savour that image... Oh yeah.
Um. I've obviously got a wee angst-cake streak a mile wide, because Dean's WTF? etc... Was painful. And yet I liked it.
Then, Sam kinda pushing it (but omg! Big ups to the kinktastic porno-psychic powers!), oooo... hot, but, woah. The fic is just so cool and good about their relationship that it's actually only slowley percolating exactly how fucked up that last part was.
See, even at the end it was interspliced with the little comment about Deans dreams which was just really sweet (well, er, if you count hunting with a bowie knife in your sleep as sweet, which I *totally* do ;) ).
But. Yeah. Leaving me wondering just how Dean will react. Anger? Guilt? Resignation? Just. It was fairly manipulative.
But. Beautiful. And beautiful (fucked up) ending.
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Date: 2006-02-24 08:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-24 03:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-24 08:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-24 03:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-24 08:25 pm (UTC)Heh. I think I spend a little too much time watching Dean move. *giggles*
And thanks!
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Date: 2006-02-24 04:40 pm (UTC)More please?
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Date: 2006-02-24 08:28 pm (UTC)*stares at your icon and watches Sam's O-face in fascination for a loooong time, really needs to find the disk with that promo again*
(no subject)
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Date: 2006-02-24 04:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-24 08:31 pm (UTC)And you haven't see the show? Oh, you definitely have to give it a chance. It's got its faults, but it's the most potent crack on TV right now, and the pretty is so very, very pretty.
no subject
Date: 2006-02-24 05:02 pm (UTC)I really liked Sam's insight into Dean with his weapons close by while he sleeps and such. It was really interesting to read.
*applauds* Job well done :)
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Date: 2006-02-24 08:32 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2006-02-24 05:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-24 08:35 pm (UTC)And thanks! :)
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Date: 2006-02-24 09:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-24 09:22 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2006-02-25 12:33 am (UTC)Incredibly well-written, right on spot characterizations, your beautiful language and imagery, the inventive ways you had Sam and Dean interact, the sex that made me shiver all over. This fic left me completely stunned. I will save it on my memories and return to it many times.
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Date: 2006-02-25 01:16 am (UTC)What do I have to do to get you to write this all the time? Oh, right. Win the lottery. Next time it hits $300 mil, it's all yours, I promise.
no subject
Date: 2006-02-25 02:00 am (UTC)