FIC: Every Wolf's Howl, Part 2
Every Wolf's Howl
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Art Post | Master Post
It was nothing like Madison. Nothing at all.
Dean woke up after what must've been at least half a day. It was dark outside, the moon a few shades past full in the sky, stars bright and strong without the clogging city lights to blanket them in blur.
Sam was still asleep, still stretched on the bed exactly how Dean had left him. Dean rolled off the bed, propping himself up against the wall just for a moment, afraid his legs wouldn't hold him. He wanted to say, I told you so. He wanted to say, I knew this was a fucking bad idea. But Sam was unconscious, sick and probably dying, gouged by an Alpha because Dean was too fucking clumsy and too fucking slow, and because Sam was a stupid fuckface who thought for some reason it made sense to jam himself between Dean and the wolf when all Dean was trying to do was keep this exact bullshit from going down.
Dwelling on it wouldn't solve anything. Dean shuffled to the shower and peeled of his sweaty, bloody mess of clothes and left them in a rank pile on the floor. He let the water run down over his face, his body, in between his toes, and soaped up like a robot. He was in and out in just a couple of minutes, throwing on a pair of Sam's grey sweats and one of his own black t-shirts. Sam's hoodie was over the chair by the door, and there was a constant chill gripping Dean's spine, so he pulled that on too, zipping himself into the smell of Sam.
He didn't know what to do. He figured Sam probably needed a bath as much as he had, but he didn't want to get the wound wet, and Sam would kill him if he woke up to Dean giving him a sponge bath. The crazy idea of taking Sam to the hospital fluttered through Dean's head, but he dismissed it just as fast. Even Dr. Robert and his off-the-grid surgery wasn't a safe bet, considering.
A few hours later and a hectic run to the nearest 7-11 (get back to Sam, get back to Sam, get back to Sam on constant loop in his head- what if Sam woke up and he wasn't there? What if Sam fucking died while he was gone?), it was clear that he couldn't wait any longer to give Sam a bath. He smelled ripe and was soaked in cold sweat, his clothes caked in blood and dirt.
Dean managed to wrangle him to the bathroom without jarring Sam's shoulder too badly. He stripped him down and unwound the tight, precise bandages until Sam's wound glistened in the watery flourescent light, skin and muscle and fluid still raw and angry and unhealed. Dean filled the tub with hot water, not scalding, but hot enough that Sam would want to have a bath in it if he were conscious. He didn't let his eyes linger at all on Sam's body: not on the broad line of his chest or the narrow taper of his hips, not on his long legs or big feet and not on his dick, uncut, still so strange to Dean, tucked soft and pink between his thighs. "Hey, Sammy," Dean muttered, listening to the splashes and ripples as he got Sam into the bath, his own muscles straining as he lowered him in, carefully and slowly. He tucked Sam's arms into the water, supporting his head against the back of the tub. "You owe me so fuckin' big for this, man." Sam's knees stuck knobbily out of the bath, too big for the tub by far.
Dean grabbed a washcloth and soaped Sam up, wiping him down and rinsing him like he was a little kid again. "You're okay," Dean said again, Sam's slack mouth and closed eyes making him wish for a smart comeback or a smack upside the head. "You're gonna be fine." It was all Dean could do not flashback again, to Sam's cold waxen face on the bed.
He avoided the gash at Sam's shoulder as he washed his little brother, but after he was done, he inspected it closely. It wasn't looking much better, the sutures pulling and infectious-looking ooze seeping up from between them. Dean didn't know what else to do to it, if it would ever heal. All the werewolf bites he'd seen up until now healed and scarred almost immediately. Sam's just looked angry and painful. It stretched in a jagged line from the fold of his left armpit all the way up to the web of meaty muscle pulled across his collar bone. It was possible some of the bones in there were fractured; probable, even, but Dean couldn't set them without tearing a bigger gash in Sam's muscle and skin. The puncture wounds went all the way through to Sam's back, more ripped skin marring his shoulder blade. He'd never look the same. His tattoo was rent completely asunder, barely even recognizable anymore. The shredded edges of the symbol didn't meet at all. He'd have to get a new one over all the scar tissue.
If he even lived long enough to need another one. Dean closed his eyes and rested his head on the side of the tub, trailing his fingers in the bloody water. There wasn't anything to do.
*
It was a week before Sam was conscious again. A torturous week where Dean didn't do much of anything except choke down convenience store food and stand vigil by Sam's bedside. He had to swipe an IV pole and drip bags from the nursing home two towns over to keep Sam hydrated and fed. He had to roll him to make sure he didn't get bed sores-Dean had no idea how long it was supposed to take for those to form, but he wasn't going to risk his luck. He watched a thousand hours of the Discovery Channel and at least a season's worth of Law and Order: SVU, not that he actually paid attention to any of it.
Finally, when it happened, Dean was asleep. "Dean?" Sam said, and Dean thought it was part of his dream. They were fishermen on the Mediterranean coast, wearing linen pants and huge stupid beards.
"Reel in the nets, Sam," Dean mumbled, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth he realized he was saying them with his face mushed into the polyester comforter of a motel bed, and Sam was lying next to him with a hand on the back of his neck.
It was like a shock to Dean's system, the weight of Sam's hand; the shape of it felt like it was wrapped around his whole body. "Sammy?" Dean breathed, bolting upright. "You awake?" He reached out automatically, his hand finding Sam's. Sam's fingers were damp but warm for the first time since he'd been bitten. In fact, they were feverish-hot.
"Yeah," Sam said, dry lips and dry voice crackling like twigs under a boot. "I'm awake."
"It's about fucking time," Dean said, and gave Sam's hand a squeeze, pressing his face into it stupidly before he rolled off the bed and went around to Sam's side, kneeling up by his head. "What do you need, buddy?"
"Just hurt," Sam said, a moue of pain pulling his mouth tight. "All over. And so hot..."
Dean nodded and went off to get a cold compress. "I gotcha, you're gonna be fine." He came back and pressed it gently to Sam's forehead. "You remember anything?"
Sam sighed, eyes fluttering closed. "Yeah. You should have just left me, Dean," he said, barely audible.
"Shut the fuck up," Dean said. "Like I would. You know me better than that."
"Doesn't change the fact that you should've left me. You know what's going to happen. How long was I out?"
"A week," Dean said, voice strained. The longest week of his life.
"We don't have long, then," Sam said.
Dean set his jaw stubbornly. "You don't know that."
"I do," Sam said, coughing weakly. "You can believe what you want for now, Dean, but I can feel it. I'm going to have to die eventually, so you might as well just stop this shit now. If I die of infection I won't have to put a bullet in myself. Or-you. If I die now you won't have to do it."
"If you weren't a god damn invalid, I'd punch you right now, Sam. I worked so damn fucking hard to get that stupid soul back in you. I'm not just going to shoot you in the face and kiss it goodbye like it wasn't a damn thing."
"If you want me to do it myself, I will-" it sounded like there was more coming, but Sam made a pained grimace and his breaths grew shallow and labored.
"Hey, hey," Dean said, hand pressed against Sam's cheek. "Never mind. We won't talk about it now, there's plenty of time to figure out what we're going to do if you're-you know. Changed. It'll be fine. We'll work it out." Sam's breathing grew deeper, easier. "We always do."
*
Sam was awake for a few hours a day pretty much every day, now that he'd snapped out of it. He graduated to big boy food, being able to chew and feed himself, so Dean could take back the IV pole and stop stealing lure-lock bags of LR from the nursing home. They didn't talk much that first day and several days after, Sam's voice not really up to it. Dean did read Sam the front page headlines, though, because even if he was dying or a werewolf or both, he was still a geek, and Dean would do anything to help keep his mind off what was happening. When Dean wasn't looking, Sam would steal the paper and flip straight to the weather section-Dean pretended he didn't know Sam was checking the phase of the moon.
Sam had fevers on occasion, leaving him weak and delirious and sweaty. Sometimes Dean would just lie down next to him when he was like that, pretending like the mumbles coming out of Sam's cracked mouth were actually words that made sense, and he'd fall asleep to the sound of his voice.
Dean dressed Sam's shoulder every day, often when Sam was only half-conscious. He was pliable and obedient, sitting up gingerly when Dean coaxed him forward. He'd give a pained hiss or moan in soft little whines when Dean flushed out his jagged wound with wolfsbane and washed the tender, puffy pink skin around his stitches, but Dean kept his hands gentle and got it over with as quickly as he could. He never got used to it, the wound always as bad as the very first day. It seemed like his heart never stopped pounding, even after another week of watching over Sam's slow recovery. There was always the overwhelming feeling like there was something more Dean should be doing for him, some way he should be protecting Sam that he just couldn't.
Sam's metabolism was changing, it seemed like: he was ravenously hungry a lot more often, and then there'd be times where he would just pass out, sleeping so long Dean freaked and thought he might've slipped back into a coma.
The reality of their situation was never more apparent than when Dean was face-to-face with the bite, though, his hands on Sam's hot skin. He prayed often like that, for Sam not to wake up while he was hurting, that he wouldn't have nightmares while he was asleep, or that there was something out there that would fix this and make everything okay again-that he'd find it as soon as Sam was doing better and he could spend time looking.
"You should just end it now, Dean," Sam said one morning while Dean was reading the funnies at the table by the window. He was probably going to die of stir crazy, but that was preferable to any other way of going at the moment. He couldn't handle it if Sam finally came back to him just to get himself killed like an idiot mere months later.
"Shut the fuck up, Sam," he grumbled. "I'm not going to. You'll have to do it yourself."
"I will," Sam said, propping himself up against the headboard. "As soon as I can move again."
"As soon as you can move again you'll be too busy defending yourself from the ass-whupping I'm going to give you, man," Dean said. He scoffed, trying to lighten the mood. "I can't believe what a stupid dick you are. You purposely got that bite to the neck."
"Only 'cause if I didn't, you'd have gotten it," Sam murmured. "I was the one that alpha was going for, not you. I couldn't let you take that for me. The whole point was that I fucked up and I had to set it right."
"You call this setting it right?" Dean said, eyes wide and brow cocked. "You're putting me through a hell of a lot worse shit this way than by letting me be the one who gets hand-fed and bathed and who sleeps twenty hours a day. If you were taking me to the bathroom and giving me baths, I don't see how that's worse for me."
Sam rolled his eyes, a sure sign he was on the road to recovery. "Fine, I'm a selfish asshole. It's not-" he took a deep breath. "I know we're laughing about it, but Dean, I can feel it in me. It's-cloying. It feels like molasses on my bones."
"Feel what?" Dean asked, closing the paper and going over to the bed. He sat down on it with a creak, meeting Sam's eyes. There was a strange light glint in them, almost silvery, though they were worn.
"Feel it inside me. Whatever a wolf's bite does to you. I can feel it-changing me. It's like it's dragging me underwater, almost. Suffocating my human body."
Dean took a shaky breath. He nodded, at a loss for words. "Are you noticing any other-changes?" Dean asked, awkward and tight.
"I'm not ten," Sam said, clearly fending off a blush. "This isn't the Miracle of Life."
"Hey, I sort of know what it's like, okay? I got turned too, remember? It wasn't by an alpha, but it was fucking weird as shit and there was all sorts of craziness going on with my body." Dean gave Sam an expectant look-they had to talk about this if they were going to get through it, as much as it pained him to admit it. "I started hearing your heartbeat, feeling it in my veins. And the smell-Jesus, Sam, you smelled like. I don't even know what. There's no comparable smell for me now. Better than a double bacon cheeseburger, okay? And you probably don't remember that stuff because you had no soul and it got wiped, but it's true. You wanted to come into the nest with me and I couldn't let you come. It was torture just being near you."
Sam's nostrils flared, and he looked down at his feet, shoulders slumping. "I-yeah, Dean. It's kind of like that. I can smell you."
"Like a double bacon cheeseburger?" Dean asked, raising his eyebrows, trying to make it a come on, you can talk to me about anything sort of voice. Like he was coaxing twelve-year-old Sammy to tell him about kissing Hillary Peterson after Algebra with all the gory details. There was even that same shameful heat in the pit of his stomach, remembering the feel of Sam's heart and the smell of his blood.
"Not-not really," Sam said, sort of sheepish.
"Then what is it like?" Dean asked.
"I don't know." Sam just shook his head, rolling his shoulders. "I don't want to change. Dean, I was bitten by the alpha. Whatever's happening to me-we might not be able to control it. Ever. This isn't Madison leaping out of a three-story window and catching hold of a concrete ledge with her fingernails. This is ancient power, something that turns into a giant beast with fur and a maw. I'll be twice your size. Probably won't even be able to think like a human."
"The alpha could talk," Dean said, grasping weakly for some excuse, something to grab onto.
"Maybe I will keep my mind," Sam said, looking resigned. "But we have to prepare for the worst. And if I don't, I'll rip you in two as soon as look at you."
Dean felt that heavy weariness in his heart, like when Sam was soulless and said he would sell Dean for a buck as soon as look at him. That he'd let him be turned into a vampire on the off chance that maybe he could be useful.
"Hey," Dean said, turning to face Sam, sitting Indian style on the bed. "There was a cure, when you-when I got turned into a vampire. A cure no one had known about before. The Campbells, maybe they-?"
"Dean, they're dead," Sam said, voice flat.
"But they have a library. There's pretty good odds there's something in there on the alpha wolf, and maybe even some sort of antidote to a werewolf bite." Hope was bubbling up shamefully in Dean's chest. He couldn't count on anything, couldn't let himself be certain, but maybe. Just maybe.
"Great, you book it god-knows-how-many miles to the Campbells' and I'll try not to die until you get back. Sounds good to me," Sam said, humorless smile on his lips.
"I'm not going to leave you, idiot," Dean said. "When you're better. Because you are getting better. As soon as you’re ready, we'll both head there."
"What if it's like the vampire antidote, and there's some sort of clause-maybe it has to be before the first moon. Maybe it has to be before I first-I don't even know. Taste blood as a wolf? Change? There's probably something. We need to know what it is now," Sam said. There was a week to the full moon, not much time at all.
"I called Bobby," Dean said, dejected. "He’s still out in Fresno. He’s gonna be tied up a while, and he’s got fuckall with him that will help us. He said he’d never heard of a cure, though." Dean cleared his throat. “He said he was real sorry.”
"You could get me in the car like this," Sam said, "get me to the Campbells’. I can handle it. I basically feel like death warmed over right now, but that means I can't really feel much worse. If all my organs are rotting and transmogrifying from the inside out or whatever, it's going to feel just as shitty in the car as it does right now on this truly abysmal motel bed."
"Okay. Okay. Whatever you say, princess," Dean said, thinking about Sam right there next to him, just an arm's length away. He could keep an eye on Sam in the car better than just about anywhere. There was a bounce in his step as he packed up all their stuff and set about trying to get Sam comfortably situated in the passenger seat.
*
By the time they got the squatting, martial shadows of the Campbell compound, Sam seemed like he might even be doing better, not worse.
"Feels like I can actually breathe," he said, taking a deep, full breath. His chest pushed out under the t-shirt he was wearing, and it looked like a little color was coming back into his cheeks.
"That's a good sign," Dean said, and patted Sam on the thigh. Sam looked at him skeptically, an eyebrow raised. Dean could feel the hot blush in his face. He was just used to touching Sam more, now, such long stretches of tending to him and dressing his shoulder and sleeping with his forehead pressed against the smooth skin of Sam's bicep or on the worn cotton of the t-shirt stretched over his solid chest. He forgot that Sam being conscious meant that he really couldn't just do that, anymore. Shouldn't need to.
They crowded down through the trap door into the library, everything suddenly feeling so much smaller and more humid even with only two people instead of three. The ceiling seemed to slope lower with Sam next to him, the corners of the room drawing in closer. Dean was hyper aware of every move Sam made, every page he turned. It made him stupidly inefficient, but he didn't know how to turn it off. He'd been so tightly wound for so long, praying for even the slightest stirring, dying without knowing what was going on in Sam's head, if the fever was frying his brain or if he was dreaming of what it would be like to be a werewolf, or if he might know somewhere in there what was going to happen.
"You need a haircut, man," Dean said, apropos of nothing. It was true, though. Sam's hair was long and curling wetly at the ends in the humidity. It reminded Dean of when Sam was still a little kid, that head full of baby-soft brown curls.
"All the better to shed on your upholstery, my dear," Sam said, and barked out a dry laugh. Dean just swallowed thickly and pretended he hadn't said anything. "You know, the big bad-yeah, never mind," Sam said. "Too soon."
They kept their noses in their books for another hour before Dean heard the gentle sounds of snoring and peered over to see Sam with his head down on the table, fast asleep. Dean suspected that if he could, Sam would've turned in a circle three times first.
It wasn't long before Dean found something promising. It looked like it was written in Aramaic, and he certainly had no idea what the hell it said, but there were clear illustrations of men and women turning into huge wolves, and that was good enough for him. He stuffed the crumbling, leather-bound book in his duffel along with a couple other promising ones, smaller and less ominous-looking, before waking Sam up. "C'mon, Fido, we gotta jet."
Sam was up quickly, not too groggy, but he winced and moved slowly when he stood up, like his body was riddled with aches and pains. "Want to take a look at my shoulder when we get back?" he said, not much more than a mumble.
"Sure, man," Dean said. "I'll help you with the dressing."
"Thanks," Sam said, and his eyes were warm and soft.
*
Dean unwrapped the bandages and peeled off the thickly soiled gauze gingerly, peering under it at the red, puffy, pus-oozing skin underneath. "Eugh," he said, the smell clearly one of infected flesh. "I don't get it, I'm flushing this shit out three times a day. How can it still be so gross?"
Sam shrugged with his good shoulder, eyeing the damage awkwardly with his head craned around and neck pulled back so he could see. "It's ancient magic, we don't know what kills that kind of infection. It looks like bacteria, just no bacteria that die in antiseptic ointment."
"Demon bacteria?" Dean said, huffing a laugh.
"If they were demon bacteria, it probably wouldn't affect me," Sam said, eyebrows creased in thought. "Or you, for that matter. Croatoan doesn't."
"I was kidding," Dean said, rolling his eyes.
"You should probably cut the sutures," Sam said, biting on his lip as he pressed gently at the puffy skin around them. "They're blessed, right? Salt and soaked in wolfsbane and the whole nine yards?"
"Of course they are," Dean said. "I'm not an idiot."
"I don't know," Sam said. "You might be." Dean was about to scoff when Sam continued, "If I'm-you know. A werewolf. If I'm turning, then having that stuff in my skin might be irritating it. Thinking maybe you should cut it out and we should start cleaning it with regular water, no salt, no silver, none of the wolfsbane stuff."
Dean was about to protest, but snapped his mouth shut with a click instead. "Oh," he said, and went for the surgical scissors and some tap water.
Pulling the sutures out was disgusting, and the smell of the puss and the ragged edges of the werewolf bite were absolutely unpleasant. Sam breathed a sigh of relief as the last suture came out and Dean flushed the whole wound with tap water. "Seriously, Dean, it's feeling better already. Like, massively better."
Dean turned to pick up a towel off the vanity and when he turned back, Sam's hand was frozen half way up to his shoulder and he was staring at the wound, gobsmacked. Or rather, he was staring at the place the wound used to be.
"Shit," he said, and Dean's jaw dropped. It was nothing but a benign-looking scar, long and raised but not even all that gnarly, no keloid mess or infection or redness. Just the shiny, perfect jagged line of healed flesh. "It was-it was itching. I was just going to press on it, see if there was anything more to drain, but it-"
"It's healed," Dean said stupidly, rubbing his mouth with one hand. "How do you feel, Sam?"
"I feel-kind of good, actually," Sam said, and his eyes were brighter than Dean had seen them in weeks. Dean blinked, fist clenched tight around the towel in his hand. He wished he could be relieved, but his stomach sank hard and fear clutched at his chest. Sam was right.
*
There was something frantic about the way they researched after that. Sam was awake and alert enough to parse through some Aramaic with the help of the internet, and while Dean was grateful-there was no fucking way he could have figured it out on his own-it was one more sign that Sam was really changing. And the last thing he wanted was to be reminded of that all the time, when they still had to find the long list of weird herbs Sam had come up with, along with something he’d only managed to translate as “wolf life.” It was starting to get to him, how little Sam seemed to get Dean’s perspective.
"Look, Dean, just because I don't feel like dying doesn't mean we're out of the woods, here," Sam said, and Dean clapped his hands over his ears. He didn't care if he was acting like a three-year-old; Sam was testing his last nerve.
"Why can't you just let things be good for a little while, Sam?" he asked, petulant and annoyed. They were working on the cure, making slow progress on the ingredients they needed.
"Because we have five days until the full moon, Dean, and you have to be ready to put me down then if you refuse to do it now," Sam said.
"Can't you shut the hell up about that? I'm not shooting you. Not now, not at the full moon, never. We have fought too goddamn hard to stay alive, Sam. I'm not losing you now, not by my own hand, or yours, or anyone else's. I-I need you too much, okay?" Dean spun on Sam, angry and determined. He'd punch Sam in the face if that's what it took.
"No, that's not-" Sam started, and Dean snapped. He swung his fist fast and hard, straight at Sam's stupid stubborn face. It should've been a clean hit, a sucker punch straight to the jaw.
But it wasn't. Sam caught his fist in mid-air, arm up by his own chin, muscles corded and thick but barely straining.
"What the-" Dean breathed, lowering his fist.
Sam was nonplussed, just as confused as Dean. "I don't know, man. I just-I didn't do that on purpose. I guess my reflexes-"
Dean was silent for a long moment, the chirping of frogs outside in the summer night the only sound. "Think it's a wolf thing?" he asked, hesitant.
"I don't know what else it could be," Sam said, despondent. "I can hear things, too. Things I couldn't hear before. And-well, there's some other stuff too.. We have to think about it. If there's no cure, that's it. The end of the line. You're not going to be able to keep me on a leash if I wolf out like the alpha does."
"Maybe you won't," Dean said. "You don't have wolf eyes like he did."
"Maybe not. Or not yet." Sam shrugged, his wounded shoulder no worse for wear. It moved as smooth and easy as everything else-in fact, Sam's body was moving smoother and easier now than it had in years. "But do you really want to risk finding out?"
"That's a fucking stupid question," Dean said, and that was the end of that.
*
As much as it had been torture for Dean, nursing Sam and taking care of him and watching him be sick and possibly dying, now that he was getting better-and better than ever, in fact-it still sucked. Just in different ways. That kind of miraculous recovery didn't afford him any time to wean himself off of all that caretaker business. He fell into it like he would into any role, like being a PA or a prisoner or Lisa's partner. But just like leaving Lisa as soon as Sam came soullessly storming the gates, this couldn't be a clean break. Sam was fine now, but Dean still wanted to get him ready for bed and tuck him in, and he would sometimes head for the empty side of Sam's bed instead of for his own, just like how he accidentally almost called Lisa a dozen times a day when he first left.
He couldn't tell Sam, obviously. He'd never in a million years live it down. But every time Sam grabbed the hem of his shirt and started to pull it off there in the middle of the motel room, Dean wanted to rush up to him and tell him wait, buddy, hang on, you're gonna pull your stitches. Lemme do that for you, huh?
They picked out a couple local hunts, easy one-shots just to get Sam used to the werewolf differences in his body, boosted metabolism and reflexes and muscle mass and all. He sometimes overshot, had to learn to aim, to block out all the sounds and smells that assaulted him with his newly heightened, wolfed-up senses.
Dean was just thinking that maybe he could get used to things when he woke up one morning and stumbled into the bathroom, brushing his teeth next to Sam at the sink. He looked up to inspect the pillow creases on his face when he saw it: wolf eyes staring at him in the mirror. Icy blue- silver with slitted pupils. Dean choked on toothpaste and had the crazy, split-second thought that another werewolf had been following them, had snuck in when they were asleep. The adrenaline didn't wane even when he realized it was Sam. It was creepy and unnerving, those eyes fixed on him.
"It just happened," Sam said, nostrils flaring. "All the first aid supplies that kept me from healing must've also kept the rest of-this-from developing as quickly as it should. Like all the abilities." His face was weirdly unreadable, just looked wrong, and Dean couldn't parse what Sam was thinking. That was even more unnerving than the cold glint of his eyes.
*
A poltergeist ended up being what tipped Dean into dangerous territory. This one was a nasty one, had Sam trapped up against the wall with silver cutlery, and Dean was practically frantic, torn between getting the satchels shoved into the purifying corners and getting Sam out of the silver trap before the poltergeist sliced his head off, neat and clean and a million times easier than when they'd dispatched the alpha. It was only because Dean couldn't be sure the poltergeist wouldn't just slice through him to get to Sam that he ended up scrambling upstairs to the last corner instead of keeping his eye on his brother. When the house lit up with the pure, holy glow that meant the poltergeist was burned through and sent straight to hell, Dean flung himself down the stairs to the kitchen wall where the silverware was jammed into Sam's skin.
Sam panted shallowly, sheened all over with sweat, pale and weak just like he had been after the alpha's bite. Dean ran to the pantry and grabbed some paper towels, spreading a few around the floor at Sam's feet. He put the others on the counter behind him and started in on the silverware, pulling it painstakingly slowly out of the wall, out of Sam, trying to jostle it as little as possible, because every small move was telegraphed as agony on Sam's wan face.
The skin crackled, black-veined and burnt-smelling as Dean removed the silver, and as the knives and forks came out one by one, Sam's breaths starting getting deeper, and his muscles started spasming. Finally, with the last fork in Dean's hand - he pulled it out of Sam's Achilles tendon, where it was buried deep and twisted hard and it was a bitch to remove, making Sam whimper and shake above him, turning Dean's face hot and his groin tight and pulled in that adrenaline fear response to seeing Sam hurt. Sam slumped to the floor, voice wrecked as he tried to suck in breaths but not sob out.
"Sam!" Dean shouted, kneeling hard at Sam's side, knees thunking painfully into the stone floor. "Sammy-"
It was getting to be an uncomfortable habit, driving frantically back to their motel with Sam prostrate in the back seat. He should've stopped this, he should've kept Sam safe - why did he even let him into a kitchen with silver utensils in the first place? Was he insane?
Sam moaned and stirred, and it was a reassuring sound. Dean threw the car into park, catawampus across two spaces in front of their room, and hauled Sam inside, shoulder under pit as Sam's feet dragged half-uselessly on the asphalt. Dean spread him on the bed just like before. "You with me, Sammy?" he said, sitting on the mattress next to Sam's hip. He took one of Sam's hands, the ugly wound from the silver fork that had stabbed clear through his flesh still raw and painful-looking. Silver wounds wouldn't heal in the superhuman way Sam's shoulder had healed; there was no way. Dean went to get their medical supplies from under the sink in the bathroom, and when he came back, Sam was sitting up against the headboard, gingerly surveying his wounds.
"Don't lick 'em, Spot, or I'll have to get you one of those big plastic cones," Dean said, trying to keep it light even though his heart was about to beat out of his chest, fingers cold on the roll of bandages.
Sam rolled his eyes, tired but exasperated- a good sign. It was pretty quick work to doctor up the wounds with poultices made of herbs from the stash in the trunk, soothing Sam enough and dulling the pain so he could drift off to sleep. None of their medications worked on him anymore, instantly burned up by his supernatural metabolism. Luckily, he seemed to have his own biological pain-killers now.
And that's when habit kicked in, Dean Winchester was powerless to fight it. He was sitting back on his knees, checking Sam over, making sure he'd wrapped everything tight enough and hadn't missed anything. It was just natural to sink down next to Sam on the bed, close like he would've been a couple weeks ago, forehead pressed to Sam's bare arm just to feel his warm skin. And now he was warmer than ever. Even if Dean was freezing and dressed in three layers, Sam was pleasantly toasty, practically radiating it. It was kind of enticing, in a weird way, probably some sort of werewolf prey thing. Dean just wanted to be close to that warmth, to curl up and go to sleep in it.
So here he was, on Sam's bed, doing just that. Except this time, Sam wasn't in a coma, and he woke up before Dean.
"Dean," Sam asked, voice thin and confused around the peripheries of Dean's awareness. He opened his eyes blearily. "Hey man, you okay?"
"What?" Dean said, yawning, sitting up. It took an awkward silence for Dean to realize two things: a, he was in Sam's bed, pressed right up next to his brother, and b, he was hard.
With an audible gulp, Dean rolled off the bed and stumbled two steps to the bathroom, slamming the door gracelessly behind himself. He propped himself up on the vanity with locked arms, peering at his pinked face in the mirror.
Shit.
He splashed his face with water, as cold as he could stand it, and willed his dick down, embarrassment and the frantic coursing of adrenaline through his body making it harder instead of easier.
He knew it was some warped fear response; he'd seen enough Discovery Health and TLC shows to last anyone a lifetime. A cold shower was the way to go, so he stripped down and jumped in, ignoring Sam's raps on the door. He rinsed all over with blisteringly cold water and hopped back out, pulling on Sam's sweatpants that he had pretty much just adopted as his own. He wasn't even sure where his were.
Dean held his t-shirt clutched to his chest as he poked his head out into the room. Sam was reading in the easy chair next to the TV on the other side of the room. He studiously didn't look up when Dean came out, and he didn't ask any questions. He looked pretty pink too, though, and his nostrils were flaring, head tilting just a little bit towards the rustling noises Dean made as he swapped out his t-shirt.
He probably smelled like a cheeseburger. Sam could probably hear his heartbeat racing. Embarrassing.
He couldn't help it; he'd gotten used to napping like that, sometimes even waking up half-hard, content knowing Sam was alive and okay and that he, Dean, would be there if anything happened. Sam may have been healthier than he'd ever been, but he was also warmer, something strange and enticing rolling off his body in waves. Even the consistency of his skin was a little different, softer. His muscles were-impossible but true- more defined, more solid, matching his increased strength and speed. Nothing off-the-charts Superman astounding, but it was certainly a clearly unnatural ability. The ways he looked when he moved, the shapes his body made, were totally new and not something any human could do. The way Sam-
Dean had to nip that strange thought process in the bud. He wasn't going to let whatever weird drug Sam's supernatural body was emitting get to him. He wasn't. He hadn’t ever given in to his weird too-close feelings about his brother before, and freaky wolf pheromones weren’t going to undo a lifetime of restraint.
"Dean," Sam said, and as soon as he said it, low and quiet, like he wanted to say something serious, Dean felt the tell-tale twitch of his dick. There was no escaping it.
"What?" he shot back, grumpy.
"It's okay," Sam said. It was soft, but there was something behind it. Dean didn't know if it was the wolf, or just something he'd never heard from Sam before. His eyes were dark in the overcast shadow from his brows, the light washing down over him from the hanging lamp straight above. It was almost like they weren't the piercing wolf-blue anymore, back to looking like just Sam.
"What is? Napping?"
"No, Dean," Sam said, cutting him off. "You know what I mean. You next to me like that. The effect it had on you. Is having on you. It's okay. We don't have to pretend it didn't happen."
"Well maybe not," Dean said, rubbing the back of his hand over his lips self-consciously. "But we're going to, because there's nothing else to do, Sam."
"I can think of a couple things," Sam said, mouth twisting up.
"This isn't a fucking joke," Dean spat.
"Never said it was," said Sam, surging up out of his chair with that weird inhuman motion, rolling, almost a lope. Dean's mouth went slack and he suddenly felt that radiating warmth melting into his skin. He was definitely popping a boner. Sam reached out to Dean's face, one big, warm hand with that stupidly, weirdly soft skin under Dean's chin. "C'mere," he said, and Dean leaned forward, following Sam's pull like it was the only place he could go.
When Sam kissed him, it was like nothing else. Sam lips were soft and warm and strong against Dean's, his hands cradling Dean's head and coaxing him closer. Every fiber of Dean's body felt like it was straining towards Sam, growing towards him like a fucking flower following the sun. That's what it felt like. Sam's light and his warmth and the broad planes of his body, his arms fitting around Dean and drawing him in close. Sam's tongue licking gently at Dean's mouth, inside it, tasting completely irresistible even though technically Dean knew it was just the taste of spit.
Dean shuddered all over even though he wasn't cold, something intoxicating making his skin twitch. Sam pulled back, the tip of his tongue between his teeth for a second before he said, "Dean?"
"What?" Dean managed, just barely, voice almost completely gone. He realized at some point he'd lost his shirt, either because Sam pulled it out of his arms or he'd chucked it away himself. It was sitting in a sad pile on the floor by his feet.
"Are you okay?" Sam looked a little freaked, a little unsure. It was jarring after that smooth criminal act he'd been pulling mere moments earlier.
"Y-yeah? I guess? What do you mean, 'okay'? I was just making out with my little brother, and my dick's about to tear a hole in my pants, so I'm not-"
"You look messed up," Sam blurted. "Did I do that?"
"What? Messed up?" Dean said, starting to panic. His hands flew to his face. He had no idea what the hell messed up meant. He tripped over his own feet on the way to the bathroom, knees sort of jelloid, but he made it in one piece.
What Sam apparently meant by "messed up" was "on an E trip". Dean knew people's pupils dilated when they were aroused, but his looked like he'd been popping pills for hours. His skin was flushed and pale at the same time, and he was still shivering even though if anything he felt overheated. "Uh," he called, unsure, from the bathroom. "I think you did."
Sam rushed in after him, looking horrified. "I didn't mean to, I'm-I'm so sorry, I didn't even know I was doing it. I'm. What the hell even is it that I'm doing, exactly?"
Dean shook his head, peeling back his eyelids to give himself a better look in the mirror. "God, I dunno, man. I don't feel bad. I feel amazing, actually. It's like you're-juicing me up or something. I feel all. Tingly."
"Tingly?" Sam said, voice raised with a note of panic.
"Not like foot asleep tingly," Dean said, reigning in his own impending freakout. They couldn't both lose it at once. "Like." He cleared his throat. "Like I wanna, uh-" Dean trailed off, moving his hand vaguely to suggest the end of the sentence. It shook, betraying the clenching nervousness in his gut.
"So I'm-what, exuding roofies out of my skin?" Sam said, higher pitched still.
Dean shrugged, trying to take deep breath. "I don't know, man, but don't freak out, okay?"
Sam didn't look appeased. "How could I possibly not freak out! What if I'm-" he made the same kind of vague gesture, but his meaning was much less apparent to Dean.
Dean put down the lid of the toilet and sat on it with a thunk, head in his hands, the heels of his palms pushed to his lips. "Look, I don't think you're making me do anything, Sam. You're just-warm. When I get near you. And it's-I don't know, god. Sort of-good. And maybe it's a werewolf thing, but I couldn't stop being near you even when you were a clammy half-dead mess, so." The words kept spilling out, halting but he couldn’t stop them, didn’t want Sam to go away now. He had to
Sam shifted nervously. "So you're saying this isn't-new."
"No! Yes!" Dean groaned, curling his toes against the tile. "I don't know, I'm just saying whatever it is, I think it's not gonna kill me." Dean rested his chin on his hands and tried to will away the blush he was sure made him pink from cheeks to chest.
"So now what?" Sam asked, biting his lip. He looked tense and kept twitching.
It took a minute for Dean to come up with something over the hammering of his heart. "If you want me to drive a couple miles away and then text you if I still want to make out with you when I come back, I'd be willing to do that, okay? So you know it’s not just-" He jutted his chin at the space between them.
"Okay," Sam said, nodding too fast, leaping on anything Dean could give him. "Go do that. I'll tell you if it feels any different to me, too. Because I don't look like some sort of drugged bunny rabbit, but I still feel like one."
Dean managed to stumble out to the parking lot still in Sam's sweatpants, and get the Impala down the road a mile or two without any incident. He pulled off in an abandoned strip mall and turned off the engine, then counted slowly to sixty. He closed his eyes and took stock of his body like he would after a hunt. He felt-good. Still. Not like he was about to jizz in his pants quite so much, but like he wanted to get back to the hotel and press right up next to Sam and kiss him some more, get his tongue right on in there, feel Sam's hands on his body, maybe even Sam's teeth -
Woah. He grabbed his phone and texted Sam:
still want to pick up where we left off. not your mojo unless its permanently burned in my brain. even if it is im down with that.
He put the phone down on the seat next to him and took a deep breath, letting his hand slide into the waistband of Sam's pants. He thought about Sam wearing these pants, about the way they hung on him. About the outline of Sam's dick, uncut, generous. He'd never seen it hard before, or even thought about it-not really. Not in any conscious way. He didn't want to think about anything else, now.
Precome slicked his hand as he rubbed himself, tentatively letting himself picture Sam in the shower, soaping his dick, his crack. Dean had seen plenty of gay porn before, even fucked around with some guys. But putting Sam in situations like that-he was blowing his own mind. It was good.
Dean jerked out of his reverie as the phone vibrated impatiently on the seat next to him. He grabbed it, thumbed it on, and read:
get your ass back here, then.
He grinned and threw the car into gear, gunning it until he fishtailed and sprayed gravel against the side of the post office he was parked in front of.
Sam was waiting just inside the door when Dean walked in-ran in more like it, panting and dying just to get his mouth on Sam again. Sam grabbed him up, an arm around his waist and an arm around his back, pulling him so close Dean had to tilt his head back so Sam could lean down and kiss him, lips perfect and warm, everything slotting into place as Dean heated up from the inside out, slipping into that perfect, thrumming lull.
"You're shivering again," Sam murmured, mostly into Dean's mouth. His fingers tightened, digging into Dean's muscles.
"Can't help it," Dean mumbled back, sucking in air that sounded embarrassingly like a gasp as Sam nipped at his bottom lip, trailing down to kiss and nibble at Dean's neck. "Just makes me do that, whatever it is you're doing to me."
"I can hear you breathe," Sam said again Dean's throat, "and smell the blood in you. Your dick. God, Dean, your dick. Smells like-I don't even know. I can smell it when you get hard."
Dean shuddered, eyes sliding shut, and he tilted his head more, showing Sam more of his neck, feeling the flush spread down it, staining his chest. "God that sounds-Sam-"
"Feels so dirty," Sam said, and one of his hands was at Dean's dick, cupping and covering it through the fabric of Sam's pants, stretch cotton damp where Sam smeared it around the head of Dean's dick. "Christ, you're -"
Dean huffed, embarrassed but so fucking turned on. Sam was going to say wet; Dean could practically hear it in his head. He bit his lip on a moan, pushing his hips against Sam's big hand. "Yeah," he said, and rocked up on his toes to grab Sam's mouth in another kiss, the tingles still consuming him, the dizzy pleasure of just being near Sam eaten up ravenously by the complete intoxication of having Sam's hand on his cock and Sam’s tongue in his mouth. It was possible that Sam's mojo was making Dean into some kind of crazy incest slut, but he didn't even care. Just wanted more. "C'mon, Sammy," he said, and Sam pulled away just to stare right at Dean, at his eyes, probably strung-out crazy like they had been in the mirror, and to push him bodily toward the bed.
"If we're gonna do this, we're gonna fucking do this," Sam said. "I'm gonna jerk you and suck you 'til you shoot all over me, Dean, okay?"
The fact that the way Sam was talking suggested that he'd done this sort of thing before was not lost on Dean, but he couldn't spend the time to ask or wonder about it when Sam was pushing him until he was flat on the mattress and Sam was straddling him with his lean-muscled thighs pulling at the hem of his boxers. "Yeah," Dean managed.
"Good," said Sam, and he kneed down the bed until he was crouched over Dean's dick, obscenely jerking against the cotton of Sam's pants. There was a huge wet spot in the crotch of them, and Dean pulled his hands up over his face, feeling his cheeks burn hot. "Can't get over it, Dean," Sam said, and Dean could hear him sniffing, too, so fucking filthy. "How fucking wet you are, Jesus. And you call me the girl. If you're leaking this much now, how much jizz are you gonna have in there for me?"
Dean just whimpered, hopefully quietly enough that Sam couldn't hear it behind the meat of his palms.
And then, sudden like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head-except a million times better-Sam swallowed down Dean's dick. He had a slimy-wet hand around the base, but Sam's mouth was big enough that he could take most of Dean's not inconsiderable length and girth comfortably, dribbling spit and smearing it around with clever rubs and drags of his tongue. Dean panted as Sam sucked, lapping at his dick, under the head and around the crown, the knob half in his throat as he tried to slick up Dean's whole shaft with his tongue. He sucked hard at the tip, slipping his tongue straight into the slit and making Dean gasp, body bowing up off the bed. He grabbed Dean's balls, rolling them in his hand, deft fingers tracing softly, teasingly at Dean's crack. It was all so fucking much. Sam's free hand worked its way up Dean's chest, straight up to his nipples, pinching first one and then the other until Dean was whining, pushing his chest up against Sam's hand, nipples so fucking pink and hard, just desperate for Sam to suck on those next. "You like me playing with your tits, Dean?" Sam asked, voice gravelly and heavy with cock, the alpha in him flexing and holding Dean down just with his filthy words.
"Yeah," Dean breathed, and Sam rewarded with him with two pinches, and slow, wet rubs.
"Yeah you do," Sam said, and then he slid his dirty mouth back down Dean's dick, drooling and sucking until the slurp was ringing loud in the still of the room, only Dean's panting breaths and keening competing with it.
"Please," Dean said, knowing it hadn't been long at all, but he couldn't fucking hold out. His entire body was steeping in wolf pheromones or whatever, plus his little brother was watching him fall apart, saying crazy shit Dean never in a million years imagined him saying, and jamming Dean's cock so far in his mouth Dean didn't know how Sam wasn't choking on it. It was unreal, so crazy he could barely even believe it was happening, but as his balls drew up tight and he pushed his pelvis against Sam's mouth, that crazy good pull all through his hips and back and up his spine told him it was really fucking happening. "Sam, Sam, oh Jesus, Sammy," he said, words muttered as he pressed the edge of his hand to his mouth, just too fucking overcome to make sense.
Sam pulled off with a wet pop, hand still working Dean so good. "Fuck my mouth," he said. "Want you to." Dean thought he was about to come right then and there. Sam swallowed him down again and grabbed Dean's hips, working them in a fucking motion until Dean's brain came online and got with the program. He took Sam at his word and let himself go, jamming his cock deep, the wet knob of it somewhere in Sam's throat as Dean grabbed the headboard with one hand and Sam's thick hair with the other.
"Oh god," he said, practically sobbing. "Sammy, gonna-" And there was that rushing, clenching heat that pulled him inside out through his dick, the spinning thrill of it making his skin light up all over. He was making a ridiculous sound, he knew it, but Sam was humming as he sucked down Dean's come, and it felt so fucking amazing, it didn't matter what they sounded like.
Dean ran both his hands through his sweaty hair, body still wanting to writhe under Sam as Sam crawled up the bed to kiss the taste of Dean's come deep into his mouth. "Fuck," Sam said, panting at least as hard as Dean. "Jesus Christ, you taste good."
Dean hardly felt like he had any blood left in him to blush, but he was probably doing it anyway. He looked down at Sam, still in his boxers, but the head of his dick poked out thought the slit of them, completely unabashed and obscene, so fucking big and red and wet, Dean did a double- take. "Holy shit."
Sam looked down and did his own fair share of blushing, trying to clumsily jam his huge dick back in his boxers, but it looked even more ridiculous bulging out the cotton, pulling the waistband away from Sam's waist with the sheer solid hardness of it. Dean could still see it just fine. "It didn't always look like that," Sam said apologetically. Dean reached for it, but Sam smacked his hand away gently.
"You mean it -"
"Yeah, with the. You know, the changes. You probably shouldn't touch it."
Dean blinked owlishly at Sam, completely confused. "I - what?" He tried not to let it sting, but-
"Well, I just don't know about this werewolf thing," Sam said, sheepishly. "If you can get it from a bite, what if you can get it from-?"
Dean was silent for a long, dragging moment. "You think lycanthropy is an STD."
"We don't know!" Sam said, defensive. "Also, it's not lycanthropy, that's a mental illness where-"
"Your dick looks like it's about to fucking pop, and still you geek out on me," Dean said, unable to take his eyes off the tantalizing sheen on Sam's intensely red dick.
Sam cupped his dick self-consciously, not that it did much good, the wet red head was still visible over the heel of his palm.
"No, no," Dean said, crawling forward on the bed. He pulled Sam's hand away and got his own fingers into Sam's boxers, pulling them down and hooking the waistband under Sam's balls, weighty and calling out to get sucked on. "I want to see it."
It looked mostly normal, except redder and slicker and thicker at the base - weirdly thick, now that the boxers were out of the way and Dean could see the bulge in the shaft of Sam's dick where it used to be mostly the same girth all the way down. "Sorry," Sam said, trying to knock Dean's hands away again as Dean touched the bulbous base of Sam's dick. It was hard, like a knot, but smooth. The foreskin was drawn far back, gathered down over that bulbous base. "I know, it's fucking weird, I don't-"
"Fuck," Dean said, the breath practically punched out of him as the knot moved when he fiddled idly with the tip of Sam's dick. Sam was breathing fast and hard, strung tight all over and muscles twitching, like Dean held him dangling on the end of a thread. "What does it feel like?"
"Can't - ung-" Sam said, trailing off into a moan as Dean wrapped his whole hand around the shaft and started to jerk. "Can't even say. Fuck. Like I just wanna - Jesus, Dean, I just wanna fucking jam it in you right now. Taking everything I have not to flip you and just pry your ass open, stuff this thing right in you and just fuck you 'til you're crying." Sam panted and moaned, more keening than growling this time, hips working like crazy to fuck hard into Dean's palm. The knot moved up his shaft, thick and huge like a baseball under Dean's palm. "Want to just fucking flood you with jizz, Dean, it's this insane - I don't know, it's got to be the wolf. The wolf thing. Just want to pin you down and fucking-fucking breed you, Dean." He sobbed the last part, the word breed coming out broken and used, the filthiest, most insane thing Dean had ever heard. His dick jerked and his balls clenched tight, and he gasped as Sam started to come.
It wasn't anything like when Dean came, or in fact when any guy Dean had ever seen before came. It must've been part of the changes, the way Sam orgasmed. Dean gripped below the knot, working up over it and back at first, but Sam stilled Dean's hand with his own, squeezing them both tight around the knot and the base, his hips pumping shallowly but their hands not moving at all, except with the push and pull of Sam's body. His breaths were hitching, hiccupy, and he looked straight at Dean as he came, gouts of come, floods of it, like Dean had never seen. It was runnier than Dean's come, milky. Sam's cock kept jerking in Dean's hand, spurt after spurt gushing over his lap, soaking into Sam's pants and the comforter and everywhere.
It seemed to go on forever, Sam's panting, hitching breaths and the soaking mess of come, so fucking surreal and so fucking hot Dean was ready to go again, dick hard under the clingy wet come-soaked cotton of his pants. It got to be too much and he felt his cock and balls spasming, a second orgasm barely able to squeeze anything out, but ripping through him with a shuddering flash. He moaned through it, on the edge of pain, completely awed - he'd never come like that before, so soon - never.
Finally it seemed like Sam was done shooting his tsunami of a load - but he wasn't getting soft. The knot wasn't even moving. His hand was still clutched tight around Dean's hand, squeezing and holding around the heavy girth of the knot. "I don't uh - " Sam started, barely able to form words, "I don't know how long it takes to go down. I haven't tried this before."
"You haven't jerked off since the bite?" Dean said, shocked. It was easier to focus on that than on all the jizz soaking him and the bed and probably the floor, too.
"Didn't know what would happen," Sam said. "Didn't want to know, either, but I couldn't - Christ, couldn't help it. Watching you. I just wanted -"
"I know, you said," Dean murmured.
"Wanted to breed you," Sam finished, the words heavy and dark with promise. Dean couldn't help but picture that knot inside him. All that come, filling him up, leaking out of him, hot and ready for him to lick back up. He couldn't decide if he was terrified or desperate for it, his brain and dick a confusing muddle doused with wolf pheromones. Both, probably.
"But you're afraid you'll give me the werewolf clap," Dean said, trying on an embarrassed half smile.
Sam shrugged, suddenly looking a little down. "I just - it's bad enough that I've gotta deal with this, I couldn't handle it if you - "
"Hey, hey, Sammy, we've gotta deal with this, okay? You and me, buddy, no matter what comes out of your insane dick. Which got me going so bad I came again, by the way. In case you were too wrapped up in your aria of jizzing to notice."
"Seriously?" Sam said, wide-eyed. "And you didn't say anything? You let me miss that?"
Dean shrugged. "You were busy."
Sam blushed fiercely. "I can't-it just doesn't stop, I'm sorry. I know it's fucking g-"
"Shut up, Sam. It's hot, okay? I want-well. We need to figure out a way to see if condoms will work on that thing, or if I even can get the furry herp from your spunk or not, pronto," Dean said, starting to slide his hand along Sam's dick, wondering if he could coax the knot down. God, so fucking filthy. Wolves must have dicks like that; Dean remembered reading somewhere about how dogs tie off, stuck to each other after they-breed. So if they-well. He wouldn't short circuit his brain with it too much now. They might never be able to do that.
"Shower?" Sam asked, eyeing the disgustingly drippy pants Dean was wearing worriedly.
"At the very least," Dean said, standing to peel them off and leave them in a sopping puddle on the floor. Sam peeled off his boxers, too, and it was clear his dick was finally starting to soften, foreskin tucking back over it and the knot returning to fairly reasonable size, nestled against Sam's belly. Dean couldn't stop staring.
"Hey, pervert, my eyes are up here," Sam said, a wry grin on his face as he pointed to his eyes with his fingers in a V.
"I just can't get over it," Dean said, sighing gustily. "Come shower with me, I wanna touch it some more."
Sam laughed, cheeks pink and hair falling shyly over his eyes. He followed Dean into the bathroom, and seemed particularly interested in Dean's ass as Dean walked, glancing back over his shoulder. Dean couldn't blame him, really.
As the water rushed over them, Sam knocked Dean's hands away from the soap, smiling and almost sheepish as he grabbed it instead, lathering up his hands. "Lemme," he said, and started soaping Dean up. He started on Dean's chest and neck, fingers ghosting around Dean's throat and then rubbing firm down his arms. He dug his fingers into Dean's pits, mostly absently, but it still made Dean jerk and yelp. Sam washed his chest, his hips, gently soaped Dean's worn-out dick. He turned Dean around with a strong hand, Dean going obediently and resting his cheek on the cold tile. He shut his eyes and hummed as Sam kneaded at his back some, trailing down. Dean sucked in a little gasp when Sam's lathery hands found his hole, just brushing over it at first, but then pressing a little, then a little more, sort of curious, not insistently-like maybe Sam didn't even mean to be doing it.
Dean couldn't stop thinking about Sam's dick, then, the exploratory rubbing of his long fingers feeling so different than how his dick looked hard, how that would feel nudging at Dean's hole, what it would be like once he was in. Once Sam's hands fell away and cool air brushed against his back, Dean pushed off the wall with a start. "Wh-"
"You're done," Sam said with a sweet half-smile. He was rinsing off under the spray, dick striving valiantly towards half-hard again. He must've soaped himself up, too, while Dean was-thinking.
"Completely done," Dean said, and shook his head.
Part 3
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Art Post | Master Post
It was nothing like Madison. Nothing at all.
Dean woke up after what must've been at least half a day. It was dark outside, the moon a few shades past full in the sky, stars bright and strong without the clogging city lights to blanket them in blur.
Sam was still asleep, still stretched on the bed exactly how Dean had left him. Dean rolled off the bed, propping himself up against the wall just for a moment, afraid his legs wouldn't hold him. He wanted to say, I told you so. He wanted to say, I knew this was a fucking bad idea. But Sam was unconscious, sick and probably dying, gouged by an Alpha because Dean was too fucking clumsy and too fucking slow, and because Sam was a stupid fuckface who thought for some reason it made sense to jam himself between Dean and the wolf when all Dean was trying to do was keep this exact bullshit from going down.
Dwelling on it wouldn't solve anything. Dean shuffled to the shower and peeled of his sweaty, bloody mess of clothes and left them in a rank pile on the floor. He let the water run down over his face, his body, in between his toes, and soaped up like a robot. He was in and out in just a couple of minutes, throwing on a pair of Sam's grey sweats and one of his own black t-shirts. Sam's hoodie was over the chair by the door, and there was a constant chill gripping Dean's spine, so he pulled that on too, zipping himself into the smell of Sam.
He didn't know what to do. He figured Sam probably needed a bath as much as he had, but he didn't want to get the wound wet, and Sam would kill him if he woke up to Dean giving him a sponge bath. The crazy idea of taking Sam to the hospital fluttered through Dean's head, but he dismissed it just as fast. Even Dr. Robert and his off-the-grid surgery wasn't a safe bet, considering.
A few hours later and a hectic run to the nearest 7-11 (get back to Sam, get back to Sam, get back to Sam on constant loop in his head- what if Sam woke up and he wasn't there? What if Sam fucking died while he was gone?), it was clear that he couldn't wait any longer to give Sam a bath. He smelled ripe and was soaked in cold sweat, his clothes caked in blood and dirt.
Dean managed to wrangle him to the bathroom without jarring Sam's shoulder too badly. He stripped him down and unwound the tight, precise bandages until Sam's wound glistened in the watery flourescent light, skin and muscle and fluid still raw and angry and unhealed. Dean filled the tub with hot water, not scalding, but hot enough that Sam would want to have a bath in it if he were conscious. He didn't let his eyes linger at all on Sam's body: not on the broad line of his chest or the narrow taper of his hips, not on his long legs or big feet and not on his dick, uncut, still so strange to Dean, tucked soft and pink between his thighs. "Hey, Sammy," Dean muttered, listening to the splashes and ripples as he got Sam into the bath, his own muscles straining as he lowered him in, carefully and slowly. He tucked Sam's arms into the water, supporting his head against the back of the tub. "You owe me so fuckin' big for this, man." Sam's knees stuck knobbily out of the bath, too big for the tub by far.
Dean grabbed a washcloth and soaped Sam up, wiping him down and rinsing him like he was a little kid again. "You're okay," Dean said again, Sam's slack mouth and closed eyes making him wish for a smart comeback or a smack upside the head. "You're gonna be fine." It was all Dean could do not flashback again, to Sam's cold waxen face on the bed.
He avoided the gash at Sam's shoulder as he washed his little brother, but after he was done, he inspected it closely. It wasn't looking much better, the sutures pulling and infectious-looking ooze seeping up from between them. Dean didn't know what else to do to it, if it would ever heal. All the werewolf bites he'd seen up until now healed and scarred almost immediately. Sam's just looked angry and painful. It stretched in a jagged line from the fold of his left armpit all the way up to the web of meaty muscle pulled across his collar bone. It was possible some of the bones in there were fractured; probable, even, but Dean couldn't set them without tearing a bigger gash in Sam's muscle and skin. The puncture wounds went all the way through to Sam's back, more ripped skin marring his shoulder blade. He'd never look the same. His tattoo was rent completely asunder, barely even recognizable anymore. The shredded edges of the symbol didn't meet at all. He'd have to get a new one over all the scar tissue.
If he even lived long enough to need another one. Dean closed his eyes and rested his head on the side of the tub, trailing his fingers in the bloody water. There wasn't anything to do.
*
It was a week before Sam was conscious again. A torturous week where Dean didn't do much of anything except choke down convenience store food and stand vigil by Sam's bedside. He had to swipe an IV pole and drip bags from the nursing home two towns over to keep Sam hydrated and fed. He had to roll him to make sure he didn't get bed sores-Dean had no idea how long it was supposed to take for those to form, but he wasn't going to risk his luck. He watched a thousand hours of the Discovery Channel and at least a season's worth of Law and Order: SVU, not that he actually paid attention to any of it.
Finally, when it happened, Dean was asleep. "Dean?" Sam said, and Dean thought it was part of his dream. They were fishermen on the Mediterranean coast, wearing linen pants and huge stupid beards.
"Reel in the nets, Sam," Dean mumbled, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth he realized he was saying them with his face mushed into the polyester comforter of a motel bed, and Sam was lying next to him with a hand on the back of his neck.
It was like a shock to Dean's system, the weight of Sam's hand; the shape of it felt like it was wrapped around his whole body. "Sammy?" Dean breathed, bolting upright. "You awake?" He reached out automatically, his hand finding Sam's. Sam's fingers were damp but warm for the first time since he'd been bitten. In fact, they were feverish-hot.
"Yeah," Sam said, dry lips and dry voice crackling like twigs under a boot. "I'm awake."
"It's about fucking time," Dean said, and gave Sam's hand a squeeze, pressing his face into it stupidly before he rolled off the bed and went around to Sam's side, kneeling up by his head. "What do you need, buddy?"
"Just hurt," Sam said, a moue of pain pulling his mouth tight. "All over. And so hot..."
Dean nodded and went off to get a cold compress. "I gotcha, you're gonna be fine." He came back and pressed it gently to Sam's forehead. "You remember anything?"
Sam sighed, eyes fluttering closed. "Yeah. You should have just left me, Dean," he said, barely audible.
"Shut the fuck up," Dean said. "Like I would. You know me better than that."
"Doesn't change the fact that you should've left me. You know what's going to happen. How long was I out?"
"A week," Dean said, voice strained. The longest week of his life.
"We don't have long, then," Sam said.
Dean set his jaw stubbornly. "You don't know that."
"I do," Sam said, coughing weakly. "You can believe what you want for now, Dean, but I can feel it. I'm going to have to die eventually, so you might as well just stop this shit now. If I die of infection I won't have to put a bullet in myself. Or-you. If I die now you won't have to do it."
"If you weren't a god damn invalid, I'd punch you right now, Sam. I worked so damn fucking hard to get that stupid soul back in you. I'm not just going to shoot you in the face and kiss it goodbye like it wasn't a damn thing."
"If you want me to do it myself, I will-" it sounded like there was more coming, but Sam made a pained grimace and his breaths grew shallow and labored.
"Hey, hey," Dean said, hand pressed against Sam's cheek. "Never mind. We won't talk about it now, there's plenty of time to figure out what we're going to do if you're-you know. Changed. It'll be fine. We'll work it out." Sam's breathing grew deeper, easier. "We always do."
*
Sam was awake for a few hours a day pretty much every day, now that he'd snapped out of it. He graduated to big boy food, being able to chew and feed himself, so Dean could take back the IV pole and stop stealing lure-lock bags of LR from the nursing home. They didn't talk much that first day and several days after, Sam's voice not really up to it. Dean did read Sam the front page headlines, though, because even if he was dying or a werewolf or both, he was still a geek, and Dean would do anything to help keep his mind off what was happening. When Dean wasn't looking, Sam would steal the paper and flip straight to the weather section-Dean pretended he didn't know Sam was checking the phase of the moon.
Sam had fevers on occasion, leaving him weak and delirious and sweaty. Sometimes Dean would just lie down next to him when he was like that, pretending like the mumbles coming out of Sam's cracked mouth were actually words that made sense, and he'd fall asleep to the sound of his voice.
Dean dressed Sam's shoulder every day, often when Sam was only half-conscious. He was pliable and obedient, sitting up gingerly when Dean coaxed him forward. He'd give a pained hiss or moan in soft little whines when Dean flushed out his jagged wound with wolfsbane and washed the tender, puffy pink skin around his stitches, but Dean kept his hands gentle and got it over with as quickly as he could. He never got used to it, the wound always as bad as the very first day. It seemed like his heart never stopped pounding, even after another week of watching over Sam's slow recovery. There was always the overwhelming feeling like there was something more Dean should be doing for him, some way he should be protecting Sam that he just couldn't.
Sam's metabolism was changing, it seemed like: he was ravenously hungry a lot more often, and then there'd be times where he would just pass out, sleeping so long Dean freaked and thought he might've slipped back into a coma.
The reality of their situation was never more apparent than when Dean was face-to-face with the bite, though, his hands on Sam's hot skin. He prayed often like that, for Sam not to wake up while he was hurting, that he wouldn't have nightmares while he was asleep, or that there was something out there that would fix this and make everything okay again-that he'd find it as soon as Sam was doing better and he could spend time looking.
"You should just end it now, Dean," Sam said one morning while Dean was reading the funnies at the table by the window. He was probably going to die of stir crazy, but that was preferable to any other way of going at the moment. He couldn't handle it if Sam finally came back to him just to get himself killed like an idiot mere months later.
"Shut the fuck up, Sam," he grumbled. "I'm not going to. You'll have to do it yourself."
"I will," Sam said, propping himself up against the headboard. "As soon as I can move again."
"As soon as you can move again you'll be too busy defending yourself from the ass-whupping I'm going to give you, man," Dean said. He scoffed, trying to lighten the mood. "I can't believe what a stupid dick you are. You purposely got that bite to the neck."
"Only 'cause if I didn't, you'd have gotten it," Sam murmured. "I was the one that alpha was going for, not you. I couldn't let you take that for me. The whole point was that I fucked up and I had to set it right."
"You call this setting it right?" Dean said, eyes wide and brow cocked. "You're putting me through a hell of a lot worse shit this way than by letting me be the one who gets hand-fed and bathed and who sleeps twenty hours a day. If you were taking me to the bathroom and giving me baths, I don't see how that's worse for me."
Sam rolled his eyes, a sure sign he was on the road to recovery. "Fine, I'm a selfish asshole. It's not-" he took a deep breath. "I know we're laughing about it, but Dean, I can feel it in me. It's-cloying. It feels like molasses on my bones."
"Feel what?" Dean asked, closing the paper and going over to the bed. He sat down on it with a creak, meeting Sam's eyes. There was a strange light glint in them, almost silvery, though they were worn.
"Feel it inside me. Whatever a wolf's bite does to you. I can feel it-changing me. It's like it's dragging me underwater, almost. Suffocating my human body."
Dean took a shaky breath. He nodded, at a loss for words. "Are you noticing any other-changes?" Dean asked, awkward and tight.
"I'm not ten," Sam said, clearly fending off a blush. "This isn't the Miracle of Life."
"Hey, I sort of know what it's like, okay? I got turned too, remember? It wasn't by an alpha, but it was fucking weird as shit and there was all sorts of craziness going on with my body." Dean gave Sam an expectant look-they had to talk about this if they were going to get through it, as much as it pained him to admit it. "I started hearing your heartbeat, feeling it in my veins. And the smell-Jesus, Sam, you smelled like. I don't even know what. There's no comparable smell for me now. Better than a double bacon cheeseburger, okay? And you probably don't remember that stuff because you had no soul and it got wiped, but it's true. You wanted to come into the nest with me and I couldn't let you come. It was torture just being near you."
Sam's nostrils flared, and he looked down at his feet, shoulders slumping. "I-yeah, Dean. It's kind of like that. I can smell you."
"Like a double bacon cheeseburger?" Dean asked, raising his eyebrows, trying to make it a come on, you can talk to me about anything sort of voice. Like he was coaxing twelve-year-old Sammy to tell him about kissing Hillary Peterson after Algebra with all the gory details. There was even that same shameful heat in the pit of his stomach, remembering the feel of Sam's heart and the smell of his blood.
"Not-not really," Sam said, sort of sheepish.
"Then what is it like?" Dean asked.
"I don't know." Sam just shook his head, rolling his shoulders. "I don't want to change. Dean, I was bitten by the alpha. Whatever's happening to me-we might not be able to control it. Ever. This isn't Madison leaping out of a three-story window and catching hold of a concrete ledge with her fingernails. This is ancient power, something that turns into a giant beast with fur and a maw. I'll be twice your size. Probably won't even be able to think like a human."
"The alpha could talk," Dean said, grasping weakly for some excuse, something to grab onto.
"Maybe I will keep my mind," Sam said, looking resigned. "But we have to prepare for the worst. And if I don't, I'll rip you in two as soon as look at you."
Dean felt that heavy weariness in his heart, like when Sam was soulless and said he would sell Dean for a buck as soon as look at him. That he'd let him be turned into a vampire on the off chance that maybe he could be useful.
"Hey," Dean said, turning to face Sam, sitting Indian style on the bed. "There was a cure, when you-when I got turned into a vampire. A cure no one had known about before. The Campbells, maybe they-?"
"Dean, they're dead," Sam said, voice flat.
"But they have a library. There's pretty good odds there's something in there on the alpha wolf, and maybe even some sort of antidote to a werewolf bite." Hope was bubbling up shamefully in Dean's chest. He couldn't count on anything, couldn't let himself be certain, but maybe. Just maybe.
"Great, you book it god-knows-how-many miles to the Campbells' and I'll try not to die until you get back. Sounds good to me," Sam said, humorless smile on his lips.
"I'm not going to leave you, idiot," Dean said. "When you're better. Because you are getting better. As soon as you’re ready, we'll both head there."
"What if it's like the vampire antidote, and there's some sort of clause-maybe it has to be before the first moon. Maybe it has to be before I first-I don't even know. Taste blood as a wolf? Change? There's probably something. We need to know what it is now," Sam said. There was a week to the full moon, not much time at all.
"I called Bobby," Dean said, dejected. "He’s still out in Fresno. He’s gonna be tied up a while, and he’s got fuckall with him that will help us. He said he’d never heard of a cure, though." Dean cleared his throat. “He said he was real sorry.”
"You could get me in the car like this," Sam said, "get me to the Campbells’. I can handle it. I basically feel like death warmed over right now, but that means I can't really feel much worse. If all my organs are rotting and transmogrifying from the inside out or whatever, it's going to feel just as shitty in the car as it does right now on this truly abysmal motel bed."
"Okay. Okay. Whatever you say, princess," Dean said, thinking about Sam right there next to him, just an arm's length away. He could keep an eye on Sam in the car better than just about anywhere. There was a bounce in his step as he packed up all their stuff and set about trying to get Sam comfortably situated in the passenger seat.
*
By the time they got the squatting, martial shadows of the Campbell compound, Sam seemed like he might even be doing better, not worse.
"Feels like I can actually breathe," he said, taking a deep, full breath. His chest pushed out under the t-shirt he was wearing, and it looked like a little color was coming back into his cheeks.
"That's a good sign," Dean said, and patted Sam on the thigh. Sam looked at him skeptically, an eyebrow raised. Dean could feel the hot blush in his face. He was just used to touching Sam more, now, such long stretches of tending to him and dressing his shoulder and sleeping with his forehead pressed against the smooth skin of Sam's bicep or on the worn cotton of the t-shirt stretched over his solid chest. He forgot that Sam being conscious meant that he really couldn't just do that, anymore. Shouldn't need to.
They crowded down through the trap door into the library, everything suddenly feeling so much smaller and more humid even with only two people instead of three. The ceiling seemed to slope lower with Sam next to him, the corners of the room drawing in closer. Dean was hyper aware of every move Sam made, every page he turned. It made him stupidly inefficient, but he didn't know how to turn it off. He'd been so tightly wound for so long, praying for even the slightest stirring, dying without knowing what was going on in Sam's head, if the fever was frying his brain or if he was dreaming of what it would be like to be a werewolf, or if he might know somewhere in there what was going to happen.
"You need a haircut, man," Dean said, apropos of nothing. It was true, though. Sam's hair was long and curling wetly at the ends in the humidity. It reminded Dean of when Sam was still a little kid, that head full of baby-soft brown curls.
"All the better to shed on your upholstery, my dear," Sam said, and barked out a dry laugh. Dean just swallowed thickly and pretended he hadn't said anything. "You know, the big bad-yeah, never mind," Sam said. "Too soon."
They kept their noses in their books for another hour before Dean heard the gentle sounds of snoring and peered over to see Sam with his head down on the table, fast asleep. Dean suspected that if he could, Sam would've turned in a circle three times first.
It wasn't long before Dean found something promising. It looked like it was written in Aramaic, and he certainly had no idea what the hell it said, but there were clear illustrations of men and women turning into huge wolves, and that was good enough for him. He stuffed the crumbling, leather-bound book in his duffel along with a couple other promising ones, smaller and less ominous-looking, before waking Sam up. "C'mon, Fido, we gotta jet."
Sam was up quickly, not too groggy, but he winced and moved slowly when he stood up, like his body was riddled with aches and pains. "Want to take a look at my shoulder when we get back?" he said, not much more than a mumble.
"Sure, man," Dean said. "I'll help you with the dressing."
"Thanks," Sam said, and his eyes were warm and soft.
*
Dean unwrapped the bandages and peeled off the thickly soiled gauze gingerly, peering under it at the red, puffy, pus-oozing skin underneath. "Eugh," he said, the smell clearly one of infected flesh. "I don't get it, I'm flushing this shit out three times a day. How can it still be so gross?"
Sam shrugged with his good shoulder, eyeing the damage awkwardly with his head craned around and neck pulled back so he could see. "It's ancient magic, we don't know what kills that kind of infection. It looks like bacteria, just no bacteria that die in antiseptic ointment."
"Demon bacteria?" Dean said, huffing a laugh.
"If they were demon bacteria, it probably wouldn't affect me," Sam said, eyebrows creased in thought. "Or you, for that matter. Croatoan doesn't."
"I was kidding," Dean said, rolling his eyes.
"You should probably cut the sutures," Sam said, biting on his lip as he pressed gently at the puffy skin around them. "They're blessed, right? Salt and soaked in wolfsbane and the whole nine yards?"
"Of course they are," Dean said. "I'm not an idiot."
"I don't know," Sam said. "You might be." Dean was about to scoff when Sam continued, "If I'm-you know. A werewolf. If I'm turning, then having that stuff in my skin might be irritating it. Thinking maybe you should cut it out and we should start cleaning it with regular water, no salt, no silver, none of the wolfsbane stuff."
Dean was about to protest, but snapped his mouth shut with a click instead. "Oh," he said, and went for the surgical scissors and some tap water.
Pulling the sutures out was disgusting, and the smell of the puss and the ragged edges of the werewolf bite were absolutely unpleasant. Sam breathed a sigh of relief as the last suture came out and Dean flushed the whole wound with tap water. "Seriously, Dean, it's feeling better already. Like, massively better."
Dean turned to pick up a towel off the vanity and when he turned back, Sam's hand was frozen half way up to his shoulder and he was staring at the wound, gobsmacked. Or rather, he was staring at the place the wound used to be.
"Shit," he said, and Dean's jaw dropped. It was nothing but a benign-looking scar, long and raised but not even all that gnarly, no keloid mess or infection or redness. Just the shiny, perfect jagged line of healed flesh. "It was-it was itching. I was just going to press on it, see if there was anything more to drain, but it-"
"It's healed," Dean said stupidly, rubbing his mouth with one hand. "How do you feel, Sam?"
"I feel-kind of good, actually," Sam said, and his eyes were brighter than Dean had seen them in weeks. Dean blinked, fist clenched tight around the towel in his hand. He wished he could be relieved, but his stomach sank hard and fear clutched at his chest. Sam was right.
*
There was something frantic about the way they researched after that. Sam was awake and alert enough to parse through some Aramaic with the help of the internet, and while Dean was grateful-there was no fucking way he could have figured it out on his own-it was one more sign that Sam was really changing. And the last thing he wanted was to be reminded of that all the time, when they still had to find the long list of weird herbs Sam had come up with, along with something he’d only managed to translate as “wolf life.” It was starting to get to him, how little Sam seemed to get Dean’s perspective.
"Look, Dean, just because I don't feel like dying doesn't mean we're out of the woods, here," Sam said, and Dean clapped his hands over his ears. He didn't care if he was acting like a three-year-old; Sam was testing his last nerve.
"Why can't you just let things be good for a little while, Sam?" he asked, petulant and annoyed. They were working on the cure, making slow progress on the ingredients they needed.
"Because we have five days until the full moon, Dean, and you have to be ready to put me down then if you refuse to do it now," Sam said.
"Can't you shut the hell up about that? I'm not shooting you. Not now, not at the full moon, never. We have fought too goddamn hard to stay alive, Sam. I'm not losing you now, not by my own hand, or yours, or anyone else's. I-I need you too much, okay?" Dean spun on Sam, angry and determined. He'd punch Sam in the face if that's what it took.
"No, that's not-" Sam started, and Dean snapped. He swung his fist fast and hard, straight at Sam's stupid stubborn face. It should've been a clean hit, a sucker punch straight to the jaw.
But it wasn't. Sam caught his fist in mid-air, arm up by his own chin, muscles corded and thick but barely straining.
"What the-" Dean breathed, lowering his fist.
Sam was nonplussed, just as confused as Dean. "I don't know, man. I just-I didn't do that on purpose. I guess my reflexes-"
Dean was silent for a long moment, the chirping of frogs outside in the summer night the only sound. "Think it's a wolf thing?" he asked, hesitant.
"I don't know what else it could be," Sam said, despondent. "I can hear things, too. Things I couldn't hear before. And-well, there's some other stuff too.. We have to think about it. If there's no cure, that's it. The end of the line. You're not going to be able to keep me on a leash if I wolf out like the alpha does."
"Maybe you won't," Dean said. "You don't have wolf eyes like he did."
"Maybe not. Or not yet." Sam shrugged, his wounded shoulder no worse for wear. It moved as smooth and easy as everything else-in fact, Sam's body was moving smoother and easier now than it had in years. "But do you really want to risk finding out?"
"That's a fucking stupid question," Dean said, and that was the end of that.
*
As much as it had been torture for Dean, nursing Sam and taking care of him and watching him be sick and possibly dying, now that he was getting better-and better than ever, in fact-it still sucked. Just in different ways. That kind of miraculous recovery didn't afford him any time to wean himself off of all that caretaker business. He fell into it like he would into any role, like being a PA or a prisoner or Lisa's partner. But just like leaving Lisa as soon as Sam came soullessly storming the gates, this couldn't be a clean break. Sam was fine now, but Dean still wanted to get him ready for bed and tuck him in, and he would sometimes head for the empty side of Sam's bed instead of for his own, just like how he accidentally almost called Lisa a dozen times a day when he first left.
He couldn't tell Sam, obviously. He'd never in a million years live it down. But every time Sam grabbed the hem of his shirt and started to pull it off there in the middle of the motel room, Dean wanted to rush up to him and tell him wait, buddy, hang on, you're gonna pull your stitches. Lemme do that for you, huh?
They picked out a couple local hunts, easy one-shots just to get Sam used to the werewolf differences in his body, boosted metabolism and reflexes and muscle mass and all. He sometimes overshot, had to learn to aim, to block out all the sounds and smells that assaulted him with his newly heightened, wolfed-up senses.
Dean was just thinking that maybe he could get used to things when he woke up one morning and stumbled into the bathroom, brushing his teeth next to Sam at the sink. He looked up to inspect the pillow creases on his face when he saw it: wolf eyes staring at him in the mirror. Icy blue- silver with slitted pupils. Dean choked on toothpaste and had the crazy, split-second thought that another werewolf had been following them, had snuck in when they were asleep. The adrenaline didn't wane even when he realized it was Sam. It was creepy and unnerving, those eyes fixed on him.
"It just happened," Sam said, nostrils flaring. "All the first aid supplies that kept me from healing must've also kept the rest of-this-from developing as quickly as it should. Like all the abilities." His face was weirdly unreadable, just looked wrong, and Dean couldn't parse what Sam was thinking. That was even more unnerving than the cold glint of his eyes.
*
A poltergeist ended up being what tipped Dean into dangerous territory. This one was a nasty one, had Sam trapped up against the wall with silver cutlery, and Dean was practically frantic, torn between getting the satchels shoved into the purifying corners and getting Sam out of the silver trap before the poltergeist sliced his head off, neat and clean and a million times easier than when they'd dispatched the alpha. It was only because Dean couldn't be sure the poltergeist wouldn't just slice through him to get to Sam that he ended up scrambling upstairs to the last corner instead of keeping his eye on his brother. When the house lit up with the pure, holy glow that meant the poltergeist was burned through and sent straight to hell, Dean flung himself down the stairs to the kitchen wall where the silverware was jammed into Sam's skin.
Sam panted shallowly, sheened all over with sweat, pale and weak just like he had been after the alpha's bite. Dean ran to the pantry and grabbed some paper towels, spreading a few around the floor at Sam's feet. He put the others on the counter behind him and started in on the silverware, pulling it painstakingly slowly out of the wall, out of Sam, trying to jostle it as little as possible, because every small move was telegraphed as agony on Sam's wan face.
The skin crackled, black-veined and burnt-smelling as Dean removed the silver, and as the knives and forks came out one by one, Sam's breaths starting getting deeper, and his muscles started spasming. Finally, with the last fork in Dean's hand - he pulled it out of Sam's Achilles tendon, where it was buried deep and twisted hard and it was a bitch to remove, making Sam whimper and shake above him, turning Dean's face hot and his groin tight and pulled in that adrenaline fear response to seeing Sam hurt. Sam slumped to the floor, voice wrecked as he tried to suck in breaths but not sob out.
"Sam!" Dean shouted, kneeling hard at Sam's side, knees thunking painfully into the stone floor. "Sammy-"
It was getting to be an uncomfortable habit, driving frantically back to their motel with Sam prostrate in the back seat. He should've stopped this, he should've kept Sam safe - why did he even let him into a kitchen with silver utensils in the first place? Was he insane?
Sam moaned and stirred, and it was a reassuring sound. Dean threw the car into park, catawampus across two spaces in front of their room, and hauled Sam inside, shoulder under pit as Sam's feet dragged half-uselessly on the asphalt. Dean spread him on the bed just like before. "You with me, Sammy?" he said, sitting on the mattress next to Sam's hip. He took one of Sam's hands, the ugly wound from the silver fork that had stabbed clear through his flesh still raw and painful-looking. Silver wounds wouldn't heal in the superhuman way Sam's shoulder had healed; there was no way. Dean went to get their medical supplies from under the sink in the bathroom, and when he came back, Sam was sitting up against the headboard, gingerly surveying his wounds.
"Don't lick 'em, Spot, or I'll have to get you one of those big plastic cones," Dean said, trying to keep it light even though his heart was about to beat out of his chest, fingers cold on the roll of bandages.
Sam rolled his eyes, tired but exasperated- a good sign. It was pretty quick work to doctor up the wounds with poultices made of herbs from the stash in the trunk, soothing Sam enough and dulling the pain so he could drift off to sleep. None of their medications worked on him anymore, instantly burned up by his supernatural metabolism. Luckily, he seemed to have his own biological pain-killers now.
And that's when habit kicked in, Dean Winchester was powerless to fight it. He was sitting back on his knees, checking Sam over, making sure he'd wrapped everything tight enough and hadn't missed anything. It was just natural to sink down next to Sam on the bed, close like he would've been a couple weeks ago, forehead pressed to Sam's bare arm just to feel his warm skin. And now he was warmer than ever. Even if Dean was freezing and dressed in three layers, Sam was pleasantly toasty, practically radiating it. It was kind of enticing, in a weird way, probably some sort of werewolf prey thing. Dean just wanted to be close to that warmth, to curl up and go to sleep in it.
So here he was, on Sam's bed, doing just that. Except this time, Sam wasn't in a coma, and he woke up before Dean.
"Dean," Sam asked, voice thin and confused around the peripheries of Dean's awareness. He opened his eyes blearily. "Hey man, you okay?"
"What?" Dean said, yawning, sitting up. It took an awkward silence for Dean to realize two things: a, he was in Sam's bed, pressed right up next to his brother, and b, he was hard.
With an audible gulp, Dean rolled off the bed and stumbled two steps to the bathroom, slamming the door gracelessly behind himself. He propped himself up on the vanity with locked arms, peering at his pinked face in the mirror.
Shit.
He splashed his face with water, as cold as he could stand it, and willed his dick down, embarrassment and the frantic coursing of adrenaline through his body making it harder instead of easier.
He knew it was some warped fear response; he'd seen enough Discovery Health and TLC shows to last anyone a lifetime. A cold shower was the way to go, so he stripped down and jumped in, ignoring Sam's raps on the door. He rinsed all over with blisteringly cold water and hopped back out, pulling on Sam's sweatpants that he had pretty much just adopted as his own. He wasn't even sure where his were.
Dean held his t-shirt clutched to his chest as he poked his head out into the room. Sam was reading in the easy chair next to the TV on the other side of the room. He studiously didn't look up when Dean came out, and he didn't ask any questions. He looked pretty pink too, though, and his nostrils were flaring, head tilting just a little bit towards the rustling noises Dean made as he swapped out his t-shirt.
He probably smelled like a cheeseburger. Sam could probably hear his heartbeat racing. Embarrassing.
He couldn't help it; he'd gotten used to napping like that, sometimes even waking up half-hard, content knowing Sam was alive and okay and that he, Dean, would be there if anything happened. Sam may have been healthier than he'd ever been, but he was also warmer, something strange and enticing rolling off his body in waves. Even the consistency of his skin was a little different, softer. His muscles were-impossible but true- more defined, more solid, matching his increased strength and speed. Nothing off-the-charts Superman astounding, but it was certainly a clearly unnatural ability. The ways he looked when he moved, the shapes his body made, were totally new and not something any human could do. The way Sam-
Dean had to nip that strange thought process in the bud. He wasn't going to let whatever weird drug Sam's supernatural body was emitting get to him. He wasn't. He hadn’t ever given in to his weird too-close feelings about his brother before, and freaky wolf pheromones weren’t going to undo a lifetime of restraint.
"Dean," Sam said, and as soon as he said it, low and quiet, like he wanted to say something serious, Dean felt the tell-tale twitch of his dick. There was no escaping it.
"What?" he shot back, grumpy.
"It's okay," Sam said. It was soft, but there was something behind it. Dean didn't know if it was the wolf, or just something he'd never heard from Sam before. His eyes were dark in the overcast shadow from his brows, the light washing down over him from the hanging lamp straight above. It was almost like they weren't the piercing wolf-blue anymore, back to looking like just Sam.
"What is? Napping?"
"No, Dean," Sam said, cutting him off. "You know what I mean. You next to me like that. The effect it had on you. Is having on you. It's okay. We don't have to pretend it didn't happen."
"Well maybe not," Dean said, rubbing the back of his hand over his lips self-consciously. "But we're going to, because there's nothing else to do, Sam."
"I can think of a couple things," Sam said, mouth twisting up.
"This isn't a fucking joke," Dean spat.
"Never said it was," said Sam, surging up out of his chair with that weird inhuman motion, rolling, almost a lope. Dean's mouth went slack and he suddenly felt that radiating warmth melting into his skin. He was definitely popping a boner. Sam reached out to Dean's face, one big, warm hand with that stupidly, weirdly soft skin under Dean's chin. "C'mere," he said, and Dean leaned forward, following Sam's pull like it was the only place he could go.
When Sam kissed him, it was like nothing else. Sam lips were soft and warm and strong against Dean's, his hands cradling Dean's head and coaxing him closer. Every fiber of Dean's body felt like it was straining towards Sam, growing towards him like a fucking flower following the sun. That's what it felt like. Sam's light and his warmth and the broad planes of his body, his arms fitting around Dean and drawing him in close. Sam's tongue licking gently at Dean's mouth, inside it, tasting completely irresistible even though technically Dean knew it was just the taste of spit.
Dean shuddered all over even though he wasn't cold, something intoxicating making his skin twitch. Sam pulled back, the tip of his tongue between his teeth for a second before he said, "Dean?"
"What?" Dean managed, just barely, voice almost completely gone. He realized at some point he'd lost his shirt, either because Sam pulled it out of his arms or he'd chucked it away himself. It was sitting in a sad pile on the floor by his feet.
"Are you okay?" Sam looked a little freaked, a little unsure. It was jarring after that smooth criminal act he'd been pulling mere moments earlier.
"Y-yeah? I guess? What do you mean, 'okay'? I was just making out with my little brother, and my dick's about to tear a hole in my pants, so I'm not-"
"You look messed up," Sam blurted. "Did I do that?"
"What? Messed up?" Dean said, starting to panic. His hands flew to his face. He had no idea what the hell messed up meant. He tripped over his own feet on the way to the bathroom, knees sort of jelloid, but he made it in one piece.
What Sam apparently meant by "messed up" was "on an E trip". Dean knew people's pupils dilated when they were aroused, but his looked like he'd been popping pills for hours. His skin was flushed and pale at the same time, and he was still shivering even though if anything he felt overheated. "Uh," he called, unsure, from the bathroom. "I think you did."
Sam rushed in after him, looking horrified. "I didn't mean to, I'm-I'm so sorry, I didn't even know I was doing it. I'm. What the hell even is it that I'm doing, exactly?"
Dean shook his head, peeling back his eyelids to give himself a better look in the mirror. "God, I dunno, man. I don't feel bad. I feel amazing, actually. It's like you're-juicing me up or something. I feel all. Tingly."
"Tingly?" Sam said, voice raised with a note of panic.
"Not like foot asleep tingly," Dean said, reigning in his own impending freakout. They couldn't both lose it at once. "Like." He cleared his throat. "Like I wanna, uh-" Dean trailed off, moving his hand vaguely to suggest the end of the sentence. It shook, betraying the clenching nervousness in his gut.
"So I'm-what, exuding roofies out of my skin?" Sam said, higher pitched still.
Dean shrugged, trying to take deep breath. "I don't know, man, but don't freak out, okay?"
Sam didn't look appeased. "How could I possibly not freak out! What if I'm-" he made the same kind of vague gesture, but his meaning was much less apparent to Dean.
Dean put down the lid of the toilet and sat on it with a thunk, head in his hands, the heels of his palms pushed to his lips. "Look, I don't think you're making me do anything, Sam. You're just-warm. When I get near you. And it's-I don't know, god. Sort of-good. And maybe it's a werewolf thing, but I couldn't stop being near you even when you were a clammy half-dead mess, so." The words kept spilling out, halting but he couldn’t stop them, didn’t want Sam to go away now. He had to
Sam shifted nervously. "So you're saying this isn't-new."
"No! Yes!" Dean groaned, curling his toes against the tile. "I don't know, I'm just saying whatever it is, I think it's not gonna kill me." Dean rested his chin on his hands and tried to will away the blush he was sure made him pink from cheeks to chest.
"So now what?" Sam asked, biting his lip. He looked tense and kept twitching.
It took a minute for Dean to come up with something over the hammering of his heart. "If you want me to drive a couple miles away and then text you if I still want to make out with you when I come back, I'd be willing to do that, okay? So you know it’s not just-" He jutted his chin at the space between them.
"Okay," Sam said, nodding too fast, leaping on anything Dean could give him. "Go do that. I'll tell you if it feels any different to me, too. Because I don't look like some sort of drugged bunny rabbit, but I still feel like one."
Dean managed to stumble out to the parking lot still in Sam's sweatpants, and get the Impala down the road a mile or two without any incident. He pulled off in an abandoned strip mall and turned off the engine, then counted slowly to sixty. He closed his eyes and took stock of his body like he would after a hunt. He felt-good. Still. Not like he was about to jizz in his pants quite so much, but like he wanted to get back to the hotel and press right up next to Sam and kiss him some more, get his tongue right on in there, feel Sam's hands on his body, maybe even Sam's teeth -
Woah. He grabbed his phone and texted Sam:
still want to pick up where we left off. not your mojo unless its permanently burned in my brain. even if it is im down with that.
He put the phone down on the seat next to him and took a deep breath, letting his hand slide into the waistband of Sam's pants. He thought about Sam wearing these pants, about the way they hung on him. About the outline of Sam's dick, uncut, generous. He'd never seen it hard before, or even thought about it-not really. Not in any conscious way. He didn't want to think about anything else, now.
Precome slicked his hand as he rubbed himself, tentatively letting himself picture Sam in the shower, soaping his dick, his crack. Dean had seen plenty of gay porn before, even fucked around with some guys. But putting Sam in situations like that-he was blowing his own mind. It was good.
Dean jerked out of his reverie as the phone vibrated impatiently on the seat next to him. He grabbed it, thumbed it on, and read:
get your ass back here, then.
He grinned and threw the car into gear, gunning it until he fishtailed and sprayed gravel against the side of the post office he was parked in front of.
Sam was waiting just inside the door when Dean walked in-ran in more like it, panting and dying just to get his mouth on Sam again. Sam grabbed him up, an arm around his waist and an arm around his back, pulling him so close Dean had to tilt his head back so Sam could lean down and kiss him, lips perfect and warm, everything slotting into place as Dean heated up from the inside out, slipping into that perfect, thrumming lull.
"You're shivering again," Sam murmured, mostly into Dean's mouth. His fingers tightened, digging into Dean's muscles.
"Can't help it," Dean mumbled back, sucking in air that sounded embarrassingly like a gasp as Sam nipped at his bottom lip, trailing down to kiss and nibble at Dean's neck. "Just makes me do that, whatever it is you're doing to me."
"I can hear you breathe," Sam said again Dean's throat, "and smell the blood in you. Your dick. God, Dean, your dick. Smells like-I don't even know. I can smell it when you get hard."
Dean shuddered, eyes sliding shut, and he tilted his head more, showing Sam more of his neck, feeling the flush spread down it, staining his chest. "God that sounds-Sam-"
"Feels so dirty," Sam said, and one of his hands was at Dean's dick, cupping and covering it through the fabric of Sam's pants, stretch cotton damp where Sam smeared it around the head of Dean's dick. "Christ, you're -"
Dean huffed, embarrassed but so fucking turned on. Sam was going to say wet; Dean could practically hear it in his head. He bit his lip on a moan, pushing his hips against Sam's big hand. "Yeah," he said, and rocked up on his toes to grab Sam's mouth in another kiss, the tingles still consuming him, the dizzy pleasure of just being near Sam eaten up ravenously by the complete intoxication of having Sam's hand on his cock and Sam’s tongue in his mouth. It was possible that Sam's mojo was making Dean into some kind of crazy incest slut, but he didn't even care. Just wanted more. "C'mon, Sammy," he said, and Sam pulled away just to stare right at Dean, at his eyes, probably strung-out crazy like they had been in the mirror, and to push him bodily toward the bed.
"If we're gonna do this, we're gonna fucking do this," Sam said. "I'm gonna jerk you and suck you 'til you shoot all over me, Dean, okay?"
The fact that the way Sam was talking suggested that he'd done this sort of thing before was not lost on Dean, but he couldn't spend the time to ask or wonder about it when Sam was pushing him until he was flat on the mattress and Sam was straddling him with his lean-muscled thighs pulling at the hem of his boxers. "Yeah," Dean managed.
"Good," said Sam, and he kneed down the bed until he was crouched over Dean's dick, obscenely jerking against the cotton of Sam's pants. There was a huge wet spot in the crotch of them, and Dean pulled his hands up over his face, feeling his cheeks burn hot. "Can't get over it, Dean," Sam said, and Dean could hear him sniffing, too, so fucking filthy. "How fucking wet you are, Jesus. And you call me the girl. If you're leaking this much now, how much jizz are you gonna have in there for me?"
Dean just whimpered, hopefully quietly enough that Sam couldn't hear it behind the meat of his palms.
And then, sudden like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head-except a million times better-Sam swallowed down Dean's dick. He had a slimy-wet hand around the base, but Sam's mouth was big enough that he could take most of Dean's not inconsiderable length and girth comfortably, dribbling spit and smearing it around with clever rubs and drags of his tongue. Dean panted as Sam sucked, lapping at his dick, under the head and around the crown, the knob half in his throat as he tried to slick up Dean's whole shaft with his tongue. He sucked hard at the tip, slipping his tongue straight into the slit and making Dean gasp, body bowing up off the bed. He grabbed Dean's balls, rolling them in his hand, deft fingers tracing softly, teasingly at Dean's crack. It was all so fucking much. Sam's free hand worked its way up Dean's chest, straight up to his nipples, pinching first one and then the other until Dean was whining, pushing his chest up against Sam's hand, nipples so fucking pink and hard, just desperate for Sam to suck on those next. "You like me playing with your tits, Dean?" Sam asked, voice gravelly and heavy with cock, the alpha in him flexing and holding Dean down just with his filthy words.
"Yeah," Dean breathed, and Sam rewarded with him with two pinches, and slow, wet rubs.
"Yeah you do," Sam said, and then he slid his dirty mouth back down Dean's dick, drooling and sucking until the slurp was ringing loud in the still of the room, only Dean's panting breaths and keening competing with it.
"Please," Dean said, knowing it hadn't been long at all, but he couldn't fucking hold out. His entire body was steeping in wolf pheromones or whatever, plus his little brother was watching him fall apart, saying crazy shit Dean never in a million years imagined him saying, and jamming Dean's cock so far in his mouth Dean didn't know how Sam wasn't choking on it. It was unreal, so crazy he could barely even believe it was happening, but as his balls drew up tight and he pushed his pelvis against Sam's mouth, that crazy good pull all through his hips and back and up his spine told him it was really fucking happening. "Sam, Sam, oh Jesus, Sammy," he said, words muttered as he pressed the edge of his hand to his mouth, just too fucking overcome to make sense.
Sam pulled off with a wet pop, hand still working Dean so good. "Fuck my mouth," he said. "Want you to." Dean thought he was about to come right then and there. Sam swallowed him down again and grabbed Dean's hips, working them in a fucking motion until Dean's brain came online and got with the program. He took Sam at his word and let himself go, jamming his cock deep, the wet knob of it somewhere in Sam's throat as Dean grabbed the headboard with one hand and Sam's thick hair with the other.
"Oh god," he said, practically sobbing. "Sammy, gonna-" And there was that rushing, clenching heat that pulled him inside out through his dick, the spinning thrill of it making his skin light up all over. He was making a ridiculous sound, he knew it, but Sam was humming as he sucked down Dean's come, and it felt so fucking amazing, it didn't matter what they sounded like.
Dean ran both his hands through his sweaty hair, body still wanting to writhe under Sam as Sam crawled up the bed to kiss the taste of Dean's come deep into his mouth. "Fuck," Sam said, panting at least as hard as Dean. "Jesus Christ, you taste good."
Dean hardly felt like he had any blood left in him to blush, but he was probably doing it anyway. He looked down at Sam, still in his boxers, but the head of his dick poked out thought the slit of them, completely unabashed and obscene, so fucking big and red and wet, Dean did a double- take. "Holy shit."
Sam looked down and did his own fair share of blushing, trying to clumsily jam his huge dick back in his boxers, but it looked even more ridiculous bulging out the cotton, pulling the waistband away from Sam's waist with the sheer solid hardness of it. Dean could still see it just fine. "It didn't always look like that," Sam said apologetically. Dean reached for it, but Sam smacked his hand away gently.
"You mean it -"
"Yeah, with the. You know, the changes. You probably shouldn't touch it."
Dean blinked owlishly at Sam, completely confused. "I - what?" He tried not to let it sting, but-
"Well, I just don't know about this werewolf thing," Sam said, sheepishly. "If you can get it from a bite, what if you can get it from-?"
Dean was silent for a long, dragging moment. "You think lycanthropy is an STD."
"We don't know!" Sam said, defensive. "Also, it's not lycanthropy, that's a mental illness where-"
"Your dick looks like it's about to fucking pop, and still you geek out on me," Dean said, unable to take his eyes off the tantalizing sheen on Sam's intensely red dick.
Sam cupped his dick self-consciously, not that it did much good, the wet red head was still visible over the heel of his palm.
"No, no," Dean said, crawling forward on the bed. He pulled Sam's hand away and got his own fingers into Sam's boxers, pulling them down and hooking the waistband under Sam's balls, weighty and calling out to get sucked on. "I want to see it."
It looked mostly normal, except redder and slicker and thicker at the base - weirdly thick, now that the boxers were out of the way and Dean could see the bulge in the shaft of Sam's dick where it used to be mostly the same girth all the way down. "Sorry," Sam said, trying to knock Dean's hands away again as Dean touched the bulbous base of Sam's dick. It was hard, like a knot, but smooth. The foreskin was drawn far back, gathered down over that bulbous base. "I know, it's fucking weird, I don't-"
"Fuck," Dean said, the breath practically punched out of him as the knot moved when he fiddled idly with the tip of Sam's dick. Sam was breathing fast and hard, strung tight all over and muscles twitching, like Dean held him dangling on the end of a thread. "What does it feel like?"
"Can't - ung-" Sam said, trailing off into a moan as Dean wrapped his whole hand around the shaft and started to jerk. "Can't even say. Fuck. Like I just wanna - Jesus, Dean, I just wanna fucking jam it in you right now. Taking everything I have not to flip you and just pry your ass open, stuff this thing right in you and just fuck you 'til you're crying." Sam panted and moaned, more keening than growling this time, hips working like crazy to fuck hard into Dean's palm. The knot moved up his shaft, thick and huge like a baseball under Dean's palm. "Want to just fucking flood you with jizz, Dean, it's this insane - I don't know, it's got to be the wolf. The wolf thing. Just want to pin you down and fucking-fucking breed you, Dean." He sobbed the last part, the word breed coming out broken and used, the filthiest, most insane thing Dean had ever heard. His dick jerked and his balls clenched tight, and he gasped as Sam started to come.
It wasn't anything like when Dean came, or in fact when any guy Dean had ever seen before came. It must've been part of the changes, the way Sam orgasmed. Dean gripped below the knot, working up over it and back at first, but Sam stilled Dean's hand with his own, squeezing them both tight around the knot and the base, his hips pumping shallowly but their hands not moving at all, except with the push and pull of Sam's body. His breaths were hitching, hiccupy, and he looked straight at Dean as he came, gouts of come, floods of it, like Dean had never seen. It was runnier than Dean's come, milky. Sam's cock kept jerking in Dean's hand, spurt after spurt gushing over his lap, soaking into Sam's pants and the comforter and everywhere.
It seemed to go on forever, Sam's panting, hitching breaths and the soaking mess of come, so fucking surreal and so fucking hot Dean was ready to go again, dick hard under the clingy wet come-soaked cotton of his pants. It got to be too much and he felt his cock and balls spasming, a second orgasm barely able to squeeze anything out, but ripping through him with a shuddering flash. He moaned through it, on the edge of pain, completely awed - he'd never come like that before, so soon - never.
Finally it seemed like Sam was done shooting his tsunami of a load - but he wasn't getting soft. The knot wasn't even moving. His hand was still clutched tight around Dean's hand, squeezing and holding around the heavy girth of the knot. "I don't uh - " Sam started, barely able to form words, "I don't know how long it takes to go down. I haven't tried this before."
"You haven't jerked off since the bite?" Dean said, shocked. It was easier to focus on that than on all the jizz soaking him and the bed and probably the floor, too.
"Didn't know what would happen," Sam said. "Didn't want to know, either, but I couldn't - Christ, couldn't help it. Watching you. I just wanted -"
"I know, you said," Dean murmured.
"Wanted to breed you," Sam finished, the words heavy and dark with promise. Dean couldn't help but picture that knot inside him. All that come, filling him up, leaking out of him, hot and ready for him to lick back up. He couldn't decide if he was terrified or desperate for it, his brain and dick a confusing muddle doused with wolf pheromones. Both, probably.
"But you're afraid you'll give me the werewolf clap," Dean said, trying on an embarrassed half smile.
Sam shrugged, suddenly looking a little down. "I just - it's bad enough that I've gotta deal with this, I couldn't handle it if you - "
"Hey, hey, Sammy, we've gotta deal with this, okay? You and me, buddy, no matter what comes out of your insane dick. Which got me going so bad I came again, by the way. In case you were too wrapped up in your aria of jizzing to notice."
"Seriously?" Sam said, wide-eyed. "And you didn't say anything? You let me miss that?"
Dean shrugged. "You were busy."
Sam blushed fiercely. "I can't-it just doesn't stop, I'm sorry. I know it's fucking g-"
"Shut up, Sam. It's hot, okay? I want-well. We need to figure out a way to see if condoms will work on that thing, or if I even can get the furry herp from your spunk or not, pronto," Dean said, starting to slide his hand along Sam's dick, wondering if he could coax the knot down. God, so fucking filthy. Wolves must have dicks like that; Dean remembered reading somewhere about how dogs tie off, stuck to each other after they-breed. So if they-well. He wouldn't short circuit his brain with it too much now. They might never be able to do that.
"Shower?" Sam asked, eyeing the disgustingly drippy pants Dean was wearing worriedly.
"At the very least," Dean said, standing to peel them off and leave them in a sopping puddle on the floor. Sam peeled off his boxers, too, and it was clear his dick was finally starting to soften, foreskin tucking back over it and the knot returning to fairly reasonable size, nestled against Sam's belly. Dean couldn't stop staring.
"Hey, pervert, my eyes are up here," Sam said, a wry grin on his face as he pointed to his eyes with his fingers in a V.
"I just can't get over it," Dean said, sighing gustily. "Come shower with me, I wanna touch it some more."
Sam laughed, cheeks pink and hair falling shyly over his eyes. He followed Dean into the bathroom, and seemed particularly interested in Dean's ass as Dean walked, glancing back over his shoulder. Dean couldn't blame him, really.
As the water rushed over them, Sam knocked Dean's hands away from the soap, smiling and almost sheepish as he grabbed it instead, lathering up his hands. "Lemme," he said, and started soaping Dean up. He started on Dean's chest and neck, fingers ghosting around Dean's throat and then rubbing firm down his arms. He dug his fingers into Dean's pits, mostly absently, but it still made Dean jerk and yelp. Sam washed his chest, his hips, gently soaped Dean's worn-out dick. He turned Dean around with a strong hand, Dean going obediently and resting his cheek on the cold tile. He shut his eyes and hummed as Sam kneaded at his back some, trailing down. Dean sucked in a little gasp when Sam's lathery hands found his hole, just brushing over it at first, but then pressing a little, then a little more, sort of curious, not insistently-like maybe Sam didn't even mean to be doing it.
Dean couldn't stop thinking about Sam's dick, then, the exploratory rubbing of his long fingers feeling so different than how his dick looked hard, how that would feel nudging at Dean's hole, what it would be like once he was in. Once Sam's hands fell away and cool air brushed against his back, Dean pushed off the wall with a start. "Wh-"
"You're done," Sam said with a sweet half-smile. He was rinsing off under the spray, dick striving valiantly towards half-hard again. He must've soaped himself up, too, while Dean was-thinking.
"Completely done," Dean said, and shook his head.
Part 3