Fic: Nothing To Lose But Everything (Sam/Dean)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 4,400
Warnings: sex!pollen (or, er, sex!venom... same concept), pwp, dirty talk (I like my Dean with a filthy mouth!)
Notes: It's been quite a while since I worte some over-the-age-of-consent Wincest - time to rectify that. Another of my "written awkwardly on a plane" fics.
Summary: Dean's bitten by a succubi. Seriously, guess what happens, I dare you (hint: it's porn)
"Sam, Jesus, just- just stay over there ok? That's, that's-" a continent and a half too close, but it's better than nothing.
Sam presses himself back into the cactus-and-tumbleweed-print wallpaper, shoved as far into the corner as his gigantic body will allow. His gigantic, gorgeous, perfect body, nothing but hard muscle and warm, scar-dappled skin, held together by pure, industrial-grade sex, as far as Dean can tell. Fuck, he can smell it, Sam's scent a thousand times more potent than it's ever been before; musky and masculine, gunpowder and weak diner coffee all overlaid with heady mix of clean sweat and a distinct darkness that Dean's passingly familiar with from years of living in each other's back pockets and unreliable showers - the smell of Sam's come.
It's fucking ridiculous because Sam hasn't come today as far as Dean knows - not that he would know of course, but they haven't had a lot of time on their hands with the latest case - and even if he has, there's no chance in hell that Sam's standing over there with a load of it in his shorts right now which means that Dean's smelling it from inside of his brother. Because all of this wasn't disturbing enough on it's own.
And yes, it's making his mouth water, his stomach clenching like he hasn't eaten in a week and Sam's the only item on the menu.
It would be the same with anybody right now, Dean knows that. The fucking succubus venom stripping through his veins like sex-laden acid doesn't discriminate that Sam's his baby brother or that Dean's not into guys or any of that perfectly rational stuff that his brain knows. The venom just wants, just surges and writhes and amps up all of his senses until he's swimming in a fog of need and Sam.
He wonders how the hell succubi ever manage to function long enough to suck somebody to a husk if this is what they walk around feeling like all the time.
The bite mark on his neck itches like fire - like the fire coursing through him - and he knows it's only going to get worse over the next few hours until the venom has burned itself out of his system. The phantom memory of Sam's mouth on him there, trying to suck the poison out like a snake bite, makes his now perpetually-hard cock twitch through the sludgy mess in his underwear from when he came to the sweet suction of his brother's mouth on his throat - came again when Sam had to shove him roughly inside of the motel room before he ran after that girl who had passed them on the sidewalk.
Sam should get out of here. Maybe if he weren't here, Dean could make his chest and arm stop tingling as a reminder of the feel of Sam's hands on him. But Dean can't be trusted right now; knows he'd find a way to sneak out the second Sam left him alone no matter how many wardings and runes his brother has set up around the room. Or possibly he'd just keel over and die from want, because as fucking soul-rending as it is to have Sam here and not be able to touch him, it's still better than those brief moments when Sam had run and gotten supplies out of the trunk. It was like having every last one of his nerve endings ripped out individually with hot tongs.
So Sam has to stay then, but if this is what it feels like before the venom's really taken hold, then there's no way Dean's going to make it through the night without raping his little brother. The thought alone brings Dean to his knees, a sickening mixture of bone-deep revulsion at the idea of ever doing anything to hurt Sam getting all mixed up with a shuddering jolt right to his dick at the image of Sammy bent over at his mercy, all that smooth, tight heat...
Dean dry heaves, his stomach long since bottomed out from exactly those kinds of ideas.
Sam's hovering one step out from the wall, afraid to get any closer since Dean had barely survived the drive back from that bitch's cave without molesting Sam; even though he'd strapped himself into the backseat and hung his head out the window to keep from hurling in his baby and maybe get some air that wasn't full of his brother.
Those long, spidery fingers that would look so right on Dean's skin are clenched at Sam's sides, shaking with the effort of not coming over to help him. Dean knows that feeling, knows he'd feel it too if the positions were reversed. Knows he probably wouldn't be able to resist, even with the consequences emblazoned like commandments in his mind.
He'd do it for Sam; lay down, spread like a whore and let his brother take him without a word of complaint if it was Sammy with this shit lighting him up from the inside out. He'd give up every last scrap of right or normal or good to make Sam feel better, if only for a moment. And he's scared shitless that Sam would do it for him too.
"Cuffs," Dean chokes out, forehead resting against the grimy, bleach-stained carpet. It should be sickening, the filth on it almost palpable, but his body refuses to acknowledge anything outside of Sam.
"What?" Sam says. Urgently? Earnestly? Panicked. That's it, panicked, Dean can scent the fear on him.
"Cuffs," he repeats heavily, trying to force the words to come out steady and not aching with the need that's clawing at his guts with sharpened steel claws, "Get the fucking handcuffs. Gonna strap myself down."
Sam doesn't question him for once, so that's something. He has to clamber across both of the beds to get to their bags, which is better because it means he doesn't get any closer to Dean, but worse because Dean's mind didn't really need any encouragement to put Sam and bed together in the same thought.
The metal jangles as Sammy finally finds the cuffs in one of the bags. Dean can't afford to look up - there's not even a chance his sex-slogged brain won't do something with the image of Sam holding handcuffs that will haunt him for the rest of his life - so he just motions for Sam to throw them and a couple of seconds later the restraints clunk to the floor beside him.
Crawling, Dean's crawling across the floor, his body cramping and shuddering with every inch of distance he adds between him and his brother. His hand feels like it should sizzle when it touches the cool bathroom tile, every fibre of him alight with a relentless throbbing heat that increases with each second that passes. He needs to move faster, close those last two feet to the sink and cuff himself around the pedestal.
His goddamn body won't work.
His cock is on fire, so hot he'd swear if he looks down his jeans will be in flame just from the contact. Dean's no stranger to injury; he's been stabbed, shot, clawed, burned, beaten and nothing has ever hurt as bad as this; the constant surge of blood pumping to each oversenisitized portion of him, filled with the insistent thud of need need need need need.
The air parts around Sam like it's a solid mass - he can feel the reverbs - and every step he hears is like sand in his own joints; Sam coming closer, so close, close enough that with Dean's reflexes, Sam caught unawares, he could catch him, pin him, make him his own. His mouth's so wet that when he opens it to gulp in another desperate breath, spit dribbles past his lips onto the powder blue tile. He's literally drooling over his baby brother. He'd give anything to have something in his stomach to throw up.
Dean means to say "Sam, don't," or "Sam, stop," but what comes out is "Sam, please," and it's not that same thing at all. He could tell down to the centimeter how much space is keeping them apart them now - he hates them all - every hesitant shuffle closer tickling his skin like licking over a live wire. It's a miracle he stays still as long as he does, but once the rubber soles of Sam's shoes are resting there next to him - one foot in the bathroom, one out, because Dean never made it through the damn doorway - he snaps.
There's a 'ugh' as Sam's breath rushes free under the weight of Dean's body shoving him up against the doorjamb. He's still on his knees, looking up at Sammy, fingers white-knuckled on the waistband of his jeans like a his life depends on it - right now he's not so sure it doesn't.
Dean doesn't hesitate, couldn't if he wanted to, just buries his face in the denim-clad V of his brother's legs, sucking in hard breaths of air so thick with with Sammy he can taste the richness of it coating his tongue like cream. It gets even better when he actually does taste, tongue scraping at the rough weave of denim. This isn't the first day Sam's worn these, the musk of his body ingrained in the fabric in a way Dean would probably never notice without the venom and can't get enough of now.
He catches the cloth between his teeth, the pliant softness of Sam's balls giving just underneath the surface, and sucks at the flavor of sweat until his eyes roll back in his head and the denim tastes like nothing but his own spit. One quick slide and he's got another mouthful , drinking down the taste inch by cottony inch.
Sam's not saying anything, not doing anything - his body absolutely still and locked rigid - but he's not trying to get away either, his little, broken gasps worming under Dean's skin like a drug.
"I'm sorry. Sorry. So sorry," keeps pouring out of Dean's mouth, clashing with the obscene noise of him lick-sucking at his brother's crotch. He doesn't mean it, though; should mean it, wants to mean it, but even the part of his brain that's screaming 'wrong' and 'brother' and 'protect Sammy' doesn't regret this, and hell if Dean knows why.
The weight of Sam's balls on his tongue, even maddeningly separated by fabric, is ecstasy, the venom riding him making just that feel better than every lay he's ever had rolled into one. His own draw up tight, ready to spill again.
The air's sticking in his throat, gumming up his lungs like day-old oatmeal and there's only the scent of Sam cutting through it, sharp and clear like the last vestige of Dean's admittedly tenuous sanity. And he needs more, needs it all, can't do anything but go for it, using the raw energy vibrating out from his marrow.
The tab of Sam's zipper, is body-warm, hard between his fingers, every molecule of his awareness tightened down to the feel of it sliding down. He's raw, like his flesh has been peeled off, leaving nothing but a seething mess of open nerve endings, but it must still be there because he feels his skin prickle and draw tight as he yanks Sam's pants down his hips, boxers with them, exposing dark curls and the perfect curve of Sam's flushed, - oh thank fuck - hard cock.
The smell of sex hits him like a wall, hot and musty and purely masculine in a way that dives straight for his dick. He has milliseconds to figure out what's happening before he loses it all over again, his cheek grating against wiry curls, lips sticking to the moist-tacky skin of Sam's sac.
The world flips, tumbles and won't seem to resolve itself, Dean's limbs too heavy with the fleeting moment of relief to do anything but flop uselessly as Sam arranges him - sneaky bastard. The shock of cold metal is almost burning on his wrists, porcelain blessedly cool on his cheek as Sam handcuffs the circle of Dean's arms around the pedestal sink, whispering, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Dean," over and over. It's kind of nice that it's Sam's turn to say it.
Dean shushes him like when he was little, rolling his own sweaty face against the chilly sink. It's good for now, so good, pleasure humming along inside of him like someone flipped the switch on his blood, turned it on so it's tingling and quivering through every inch of him. In a few minutes the burn will come back, same as it did before, but for now it feels like he just might survive this after all.
Above his head, the water turns on, the hollow sound of a cup being filled and Sam's right there, standing just inches away and so easy to grab if he wasn't bound. His clothes are pulled back up but his jeans are unfastened and just barely clinging to his hips. He still smells so damn good Dean could eat him - and, God, eat him, Dean could do that for hours right now, lay back and revel in the feel of Sammy filling up his throat. Not that he's actually done that before, from the way his dick jerks - hard as fucking steel, still - it's in favor of the idea. There's nobody he'd rather learn on.
Flimsy plastic presses to the fever-hot swell of Dean's lips and he opens his mouth just as lazily as his eyelids, letting the water stream onto his tongue in a slow trickle as his brother tips the cup for him. Obediently, Dean swallows, tilting his head back just a touch to make the bob of his Adam's apple obscene and Sam's eyes track the movement for a second before he blushes and pulls back.
"We should do it." Dean's voice sounds too clear, too calm for the onslaught of warmth flooding back into him like hot water on a fresh burn.
Sam mumbles a "What?" and stares at Dean like he's lost his mind. It's not entirely unfair, he'd probably be looking the same way if Sam was the one flip-flopping between guilty brother and sex-crazed fiend every few seconds. Dean lays his head to the side, leaning against the sink and using his hyper-aware fingertips to trace the imperfections of the ceramic.
"Inevitable, right?" he shrugs and he doesn't really know if it's the venom making these pieces fit into place or his own sick mind, "Got hours to go, only gonna get worse. Pretty soon I'm not gonna care about cuffs or anything else. I'd have broken my hands to get close to you a minute ago and I'll be right back there again soon. Then what? You're not gonna shoot me, Sammy. And maybe you could take me in a fight, but you're gonna hold back because it's me, same way I would if it was you. So then I get you and I knock you out or I hold you down or I cuff you to the fucking sink and I take what I want-"
"You don't want this, not really." It's not the snap he's expecting, not terse and self-righteous and 'we can't do this because it's wrong, Dean'. It's a plea, hardly even a whisper and it curls like silk around his frayed nerves.
Dean nods slowly, each motion grinding his skull against the hard sink in penance. "Shouldn't," he says flatly, "But do."
It's not even a lie. God help them both, it's not. He should never ever want this, but then Dean's always kind of sucked at the things he should do other than taking care of Sammy and killing monsters; he even sucks at that last part half the time. Sammy's all he's got, the beginning and the end, and maybe without the inferno of paranormal lust roaring through him he'd have never noticed his own underneath the protectiveness and the love, but it's there, rough and sizzling at the heart of all of it - always has been. He wants this, doesn't even know how not to.
Sam swallows hard enough for him to hear even with his little brother's back pressed against the bathroom wall two feet away, slowly sliding to the ground. There's a lot going on in Sam's eyes; fury and despair and fear. But no blame, no condemnation. And maybe underneath, a glimmer of hesitation.
It's not enough, not the same as Sammy saying he wants it too, but Dean's riding high on desperation and succubus venom, and he's got nothing to lose but everything.
"Let me," he urges inching as close as his bound arms will let him, shoulders complaining in their sockets. "Anything you want, Sammy. Any filthy, twisted thing you can think of, I'd do it right now; love it." His tongue flicks out, wets his lips, does it all over again in slow motion replay when Sam's eyes get stuck on the action. "You want my mouth, Sammy?" he bites at his lower lip, rolls his hips for emphasis - he's never had much shame anyway, no point getting prissy now, "Wanna feel these lips wrapped around you? Suck you dry and swallow, beg for more? Get them all wet and fucked red, then pump your wad all over my face?"
Sam's breath hitches in his chest, big hands scrabbling at the tiled wall behind him like he'll sink right through it if he works hard enough. But he wants it and Dean doesn't even need the oil-slick of lust rolling through Sam's scent to tell him that, not with the straining jut of his not-so-little brother's cock trying to force it's way out of his open fly.
"Could go kinkier," Dean goads, arms trembling with the way he can't seem to stop his body from straining toward Sam. "Could just jack it right there in front of me, tease me with what I can't have. Come all over the floor and make me lick it up. You know I'd do it. Wanna do it." His voice is wavering even in his own ears, cut through with an edgy kind of frenzy that's only underlined by the loud, shallow breaths he's sucking in. He feels too big for his skin, like there's too much juddering, shaky energy pinging around inside of him to contain and he's going to go out of his fucking mind if Sam doesn't do something right goddamn now. "C'mon, Sammy, this aint pay by the minute, gotta participate."
Sam's eyes are wide and shiny, glittering in the harsh light halfway between jumping Dean and bolting for his life and if that scale doesn't tip in his favor Dean seriously will break his fucking thumbs to get out of these cuffs. It would be awful, too much, this thing they could never come back from if Dean forced Sam to do it - Sammy has to make the choice on his own if they're ever going to be okay again. Doesn't mean Dean's gotta play fair.
He groans, high and ragged, pained, and that's not a lie either; his dick's so hot and hard in the sticky mess of his jeans it feels like every ear-splitting beat of his heart is going to break it, finally too swollen-full of blood, like a tick popping. "Please, Sammy, please. I can't do it. Not gonna make it without you. God, Sam, need you, please."
Dean's fully prepared to keep going - hell, he'd stand out in the town square and beg for it if that's what Sam wants; loud and shameless for the whole damn world hear him pleading for his baby brother's cock. But he doesn't need to, because this is already enough for Sam; Dean can see him cave, face crumpling with want and disgrace and Dean's determined to make that second one go away if it kills him. He may never have been with a guy before, but he knows what feels good and venom or not, for Sam he really would do anything. Whatever it takes, he'll be the best goddamn fuck Sammy's ever had.
His brother doesn't bother about the handcuffs, just slips underneath Dean's arm to press him back further under the sink and ease the ache in his arms. He's there, so close, and Dean can't even consider do anything but dip his head just right to bring their lips together and get his first real taste of Sam.
There's a low, whimpery groan that could be either of them when his tongue finds it's way into Sam's mouth almost immediately, the flavor sharp and intense with his enhanced senses. Sammy doesn't pull back anymore, just opens right up for it and lets Dean plunder him, biting and sucking, licking along the slick line of teeth and the smooth curve of tongue. He could do this until the world comes crashing down around them.
Want and satisfaction bleeds together, feeds on itself in an endless loop and if he thought he was coming apart before, now it's like he's crawling out of his skin. "Let me out," he demands, clanking the cuffs against porcelain, overwhelmed by a dire need to get his hands on Sam's skin.
Sammy fumbles in his pocket for something - it would probably help if Dean would let him have his mouth back so he could maybe look at what he's doing, but that's seriously just not going to happen - then there's the familiar click of thin metal picking the handcuff lock, the key long since lost. He doubts this is what Dad had in mind all of those hours he made them spend practicing to pick a lock with their eyes closed, but Dad's not around anymore - never really was, even when they were all in the same room - and Dean doesn't think there's ever been a better use for Sam's skills.
The metal gives and Dean's got them flat out in under a second, his body sprawled out on Sam's, grinding and moaning and humping down like the eager slut he is right now. It feels so damn good.
Sam's hands clamp down on his ass, bucking up against the friction of Dean's hips and just like that, he's at the edge all over again. A noise that's not even a noise works its way out of his throat and he tugs at Sam's t-shirt, tearing at the protesting seams until he's got it low enough to latch his mouth onto Sam's collar bone, sucking hard enough to mark for days.
"Gonna fuck me, Sammy?" Dean pants, rolling his hip into the hot line of Sam's dick, shuddering all over at the feel of it. "Gonna make me suck you? Take me, use me? Need it, baby."
Sam silences his increasingly high-voiced pleas with his own mouth, swallowing down the sounds Dean makes like cool water.
"Christ, the way you talk," Sam mumbles against his lips, one hand skidding up Dean's back to cradle the base of his skull and hold him in the kiss. Like Dean has anywhere better to be.
He whines like a puppy into Sam's mouth, body restless with the need for more - for everything and then some - steaming him in his skin. And Sam gets it, of course he does. He pulls at Dean's jeans, fingers fumbling with the fly when Dean can't make himself hold still and the finally - ohgodjesussweetholyfuck - Dean's dick is free, jumping at the startling rush of cool air.
It's fucking purple with hunger underneath the half-dry globs of come and just seeing it makes it hurt more, makes him impossibly more aware of how much he wants, the heat of his own private sun radiating out from his balls. Then Sam wraps one of his huge paws around it, the sticky mess pulling at his tender skin just shy of painful, and Dean fucking wails until his throat aches, a meager load on come spurting across Sam's long fingers.
"That's four," Sam murmurs against the shell of his ear once he's collapsed. Dean can barely make the sound out over the whitenoise of his blood rushing, "how many you figure you have before your coming dry for me?"
If it was physically possible to swallow his own tongue, Dean would have just done it. He sputters something that approximates a question, leaning up on his elbows to take in his brothers flushed, grinning face. Doesn't that fucking figure - hold out on him to the very end and then dive into the deep end head first, little fucker. Dean can feel himself grinning right back.
"Always been mouthy in bed," Sam shrugs, "Just didn't know it was genetic."
A laugh, bordering on hysterical, barks out of Dean, Sam's body shaking in silent amusement under him. It's just so fucked up and so, so them that it really is funny. Sam rolls them to the side so their facing each other, legs tangled up, feet bumping the shower.
"How long have we got before the next round?" Sammy asks, the slow caress of his hand leaving a trail that burns Dean all the way down to his bones. Dean nods down to the head of his attentive dick still leaking greedily against his belly. He can't miss the echoing, untouched bulge in Sam's pants either and runs the back of his hand up it lovingly just to watch his brother's eyes roll back.
Sam smirks, "Good," but his voice is a little breathless - might have something to do with the little patterns Dean's fingertips are tracing out over distended denim. "Got something I need you to take care of for me." Sam's hips buck forward into his touch and the now-familiar heat soaks through Dean right down from his fingertips.
Fast as that, Sam's up, scrambling into bed, kicking off his pants as he goes. Magnet to lodestone, Dean follows, pausing for half a moment to blindly snatch at the cup of water Sam left sitting on the floor. He has a feeling they're going to need it - it's gonna be a long night.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 4,400
Warnings: sex!pollen (or, er, sex!venom... same concept), pwp, dirty talk (I like my Dean with a filthy mouth!)
Notes: It's been quite a while since I worte some over-the-age-of-consent Wincest - time to rectify that. Another of my "written awkwardly on a plane" fics.
Summary: Dean's bitten by a succubi. Seriously, guess what happens, I dare you (hint: it's porn)
"Sam, Jesus, just- just stay over there ok? That's, that's-" a continent and a half too close, but it's better than nothing.
Sam presses himself back into the cactus-and-tumbleweed-print wallpaper, shoved as far into the corner as his gigantic body will allow. His gigantic, gorgeous, perfect body, nothing but hard muscle and warm, scar-dappled skin, held together by pure, industrial-grade sex, as far as Dean can tell. Fuck, he can smell it, Sam's scent a thousand times more potent than it's ever been before; musky and masculine, gunpowder and weak diner coffee all overlaid with heady mix of clean sweat and a distinct darkness that Dean's passingly familiar with from years of living in each other's back pockets and unreliable showers - the smell of Sam's come.
It's fucking ridiculous because Sam hasn't come today as far as Dean knows - not that he would know of course, but they haven't had a lot of time on their hands with the latest case - and even if he has, there's no chance in hell that Sam's standing over there with a load of it in his shorts right now which means that Dean's smelling it from inside of his brother. Because all of this wasn't disturbing enough on it's own.
And yes, it's making his mouth water, his stomach clenching like he hasn't eaten in a week and Sam's the only item on the menu.
It would be the same with anybody right now, Dean knows that. The fucking succubus venom stripping through his veins like sex-laden acid doesn't discriminate that Sam's his baby brother or that Dean's not into guys or any of that perfectly rational stuff that his brain knows. The venom just wants, just surges and writhes and amps up all of his senses until he's swimming in a fog of need and Sam.
He wonders how the hell succubi ever manage to function long enough to suck somebody to a husk if this is what they walk around feeling like all the time.
The bite mark on his neck itches like fire - like the fire coursing through him - and he knows it's only going to get worse over the next few hours until the venom has burned itself out of his system. The phantom memory of Sam's mouth on him there, trying to suck the poison out like a snake bite, makes his now perpetually-hard cock twitch through the sludgy mess in his underwear from when he came to the sweet suction of his brother's mouth on his throat - came again when Sam had to shove him roughly inside of the motel room before he ran after that girl who had passed them on the sidewalk.
Sam should get out of here. Maybe if he weren't here, Dean could make his chest and arm stop tingling as a reminder of the feel of Sam's hands on him. But Dean can't be trusted right now; knows he'd find a way to sneak out the second Sam left him alone no matter how many wardings and runes his brother has set up around the room. Or possibly he'd just keel over and die from want, because as fucking soul-rending as it is to have Sam here and not be able to touch him, it's still better than those brief moments when Sam had run and gotten supplies out of the trunk. It was like having every last one of his nerve endings ripped out individually with hot tongs.
So Sam has to stay then, but if this is what it feels like before the venom's really taken hold, then there's no way Dean's going to make it through the night without raping his little brother. The thought alone brings Dean to his knees, a sickening mixture of bone-deep revulsion at the idea of ever doing anything to hurt Sam getting all mixed up with a shuddering jolt right to his dick at the image of Sammy bent over at his mercy, all that smooth, tight heat...
Dean dry heaves, his stomach long since bottomed out from exactly those kinds of ideas.
Sam's hovering one step out from the wall, afraid to get any closer since Dean had barely survived the drive back from that bitch's cave without molesting Sam; even though he'd strapped himself into the backseat and hung his head out the window to keep from hurling in his baby and maybe get some air that wasn't full of his brother.
Those long, spidery fingers that would look so right on Dean's skin are clenched at Sam's sides, shaking with the effort of not coming over to help him. Dean knows that feeling, knows he'd feel it too if the positions were reversed. Knows he probably wouldn't be able to resist, even with the consequences emblazoned like commandments in his mind.
He'd do it for Sam; lay down, spread like a whore and let his brother take him without a word of complaint if it was Sammy with this shit lighting him up from the inside out. He'd give up every last scrap of right or normal or good to make Sam feel better, if only for a moment. And he's scared shitless that Sam would do it for him too.
"Cuffs," Dean chokes out, forehead resting against the grimy, bleach-stained carpet. It should be sickening, the filth on it almost palpable, but his body refuses to acknowledge anything outside of Sam.
"What?" Sam says. Urgently? Earnestly? Panicked. That's it, panicked, Dean can scent the fear on him.
"Cuffs," he repeats heavily, trying to force the words to come out steady and not aching with the need that's clawing at his guts with sharpened steel claws, "Get the fucking handcuffs. Gonna strap myself down."
Sam doesn't question him for once, so that's something. He has to clamber across both of the beds to get to their bags, which is better because it means he doesn't get any closer to Dean, but worse because Dean's mind didn't really need any encouragement to put Sam and bed together in the same thought.
The metal jangles as Sammy finally finds the cuffs in one of the bags. Dean can't afford to look up - there's not even a chance his sex-slogged brain won't do something with the image of Sam holding handcuffs that will haunt him for the rest of his life - so he just motions for Sam to throw them and a couple of seconds later the restraints clunk to the floor beside him.
Crawling, Dean's crawling across the floor, his body cramping and shuddering with every inch of distance he adds between him and his brother. His hand feels like it should sizzle when it touches the cool bathroom tile, every fibre of him alight with a relentless throbbing heat that increases with each second that passes. He needs to move faster, close those last two feet to the sink and cuff himself around the pedestal.
His goddamn body won't work.
His cock is on fire, so hot he'd swear if he looks down his jeans will be in flame just from the contact. Dean's no stranger to injury; he's been stabbed, shot, clawed, burned, beaten and nothing has ever hurt as bad as this; the constant surge of blood pumping to each oversenisitized portion of him, filled with the insistent thud of need need need need need.
The air parts around Sam like it's a solid mass - he can feel the reverbs - and every step he hears is like sand in his own joints; Sam coming closer, so close, close enough that with Dean's reflexes, Sam caught unawares, he could catch him, pin him, make him his own. His mouth's so wet that when he opens it to gulp in another desperate breath, spit dribbles past his lips onto the powder blue tile. He's literally drooling over his baby brother. He'd give anything to have something in his stomach to throw up.
Dean means to say "Sam, don't," or "Sam, stop," but what comes out is "Sam, please," and it's not that same thing at all. He could tell down to the centimeter how much space is keeping them apart them now - he hates them all - every hesitant shuffle closer tickling his skin like licking over a live wire. It's a miracle he stays still as long as he does, but once the rubber soles of Sam's shoes are resting there next to him - one foot in the bathroom, one out, because Dean never made it through the damn doorway - he snaps.
There's a 'ugh' as Sam's breath rushes free under the weight of Dean's body shoving him up against the doorjamb. He's still on his knees, looking up at Sammy, fingers white-knuckled on the waistband of his jeans like a his life depends on it - right now he's not so sure it doesn't.
Dean doesn't hesitate, couldn't if he wanted to, just buries his face in the denim-clad V of his brother's legs, sucking in hard breaths of air so thick with with Sammy he can taste the richness of it coating his tongue like cream. It gets even better when he actually does taste, tongue scraping at the rough weave of denim. This isn't the first day Sam's worn these, the musk of his body ingrained in the fabric in a way Dean would probably never notice without the venom and can't get enough of now.
He catches the cloth between his teeth, the pliant softness of Sam's balls giving just underneath the surface, and sucks at the flavor of sweat until his eyes roll back in his head and the denim tastes like nothing but his own spit. One quick slide and he's got another mouthful , drinking down the taste inch by cottony inch.
Sam's not saying anything, not doing anything - his body absolutely still and locked rigid - but he's not trying to get away either, his little, broken gasps worming under Dean's skin like a drug.
"I'm sorry. Sorry. So sorry," keeps pouring out of Dean's mouth, clashing with the obscene noise of him lick-sucking at his brother's crotch. He doesn't mean it, though; should mean it, wants to mean it, but even the part of his brain that's screaming 'wrong' and 'brother' and 'protect Sammy' doesn't regret this, and hell if Dean knows why.
The weight of Sam's balls on his tongue, even maddeningly separated by fabric, is ecstasy, the venom riding him making just that feel better than every lay he's ever had rolled into one. His own draw up tight, ready to spill again.
The air's sticking in his throat, gumming up his lungs like day-old oatmeal and there's only the scent of Sam cutting through it, sharp and clear like the last vestige of Dean's admittedly tenuous sanity. And he needs more, needs it all, can't do anything but go for it, using the raw energy vibrating out from his marrow.
The tab of Sam's zipper, is body-warm, hard between his fingers, every molecule of his awareness tightened down to the feel of it sliding down. He's raw, like his flesh has been peeled off, leaving nothing but a seething mess of open nerve endings, but it must still be there because he feels his skin prickle and draw tight as he yanks Sam's pants down his hips, boxers with them, exposing dark curls and the perfect curve of Sam's flushed, - oh thank fuck - hard cock.
The smell of sex hits him like a wall, hot and musty and purely masculine in a way that dives straight for his dick. He has milliseconds to figure out what's happening before he loses it all over again, his cheek grating against wiry curls, lips sticking to the moist-tacky skin of Sam's sac.
The world flips, tumbles and won't seem to resolve itself, Dean's limbs too heavy with the fleeting moment of relief to do anything but flop uselessly as Sam arranges him - sneaky bastard. The shock of cold metal is almost burning on his wrists, porcelain blessedly cool on his cheek as Sam handcuffs the circle of Dean's arms around the pedestal sink, whispering, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Dean," over and over. It's kind of nice that it's Sam's turn to say it.
Dean shushes him like when he was little, rolling his own sweaty face against the chilly sink. It's good for now, so good, pleasure humming along inside of him like someone flipped the switch on his blood, turned it on so it's tingling and quivering through every inch of him. In a few minutes the burn will come back, same as it did before, but for now it feels like he just might survive this after all.
Above his head, the water turns on, the hollow sound of a cup being filled and Sam's right there, standing just inches away and so easy to grab if he wasn't bound. His clothes are pulled back up but his jeans are unfastened and just barely clinging to his hips. He still smells so damn good Dean could eat him - and, God, eat him, Dean could do that for hours right now, lay back and revel in the feel of Sammy filling up his throat. Not that he's actually done that before, from the way his dick jerks - hard as fucking steel, still - it's in favor of the idea. There's nobody he'd rather learn on.
Flimsy plastic presses to the fever-hot swell of Dean's lips and he opens his mouth just as lazily as his eyelids, letting the water stream onto his tongue in a slow trickle as his brother tips the cup for him. Obediently, Dean swallows, tilting his head back just a touch to make the bob of his Adam's apple obscene and Sam's eyes track the movement for a second before he blushes and pulls back.
"We should do it." Dean's voice sounds too clear, too calm for the onslaught of warmth flooding back into him like hot water on a fresh burn.
Sam mumbles a "What?" and stares at Dean like he's lost his mind. It's not entirely unfair, he'd probably be looking the same way if Sam was the one flip-flopping between guilty brother and sex-crazed fiend every few seconds. Dean lays his head to the side, leaning against the sink and using his hyper-aware fingertips to trace the imperfections of the ceramic.
"Inevitable, right?" he shrugs and he doesn't really know if it's the venom making these pieces fit into place or his own sick mind, "Got hours to go, only gonna get worse. Pretty soon I'm not gonna care about cuffs or anything else. I'd have broken my hands to get close to you a minute ago and I'll be right back there again soon. Then what? You're not gonna shoot me, Sammy. And maybe you could take me in a fight, but you're gonna hold back because it's me, same way I would if it was you. So then I get you and I knock you out or I hold you down or I cuff you to the fucking sink and I take what I want-"
"You don't want this, not really." It's not the snap he's expecting, not terse and self-righteous and 'we can't do this because it's wrong, Dean'. It's a plea, hardly even a whisper and it curls like silk around his frayed nerves.
Dean nods slowly, each motion grinding his skull against the hard sink in penance. "Shouldn't," he says flatly, "But do."
It's not even a lie. God help them both, it's not. He should never ever want this, but then Dean's always kind of sucked at the things he should do other than taking care of Sammy and killing monsters; he even sucks at that last part half the time. Sammy's all he's got, the beginning and the end, and maybe without the inferno of paranormal lust roaring through him he'd have never noticed his own underneath the protectiveness and the love, but it's there, rough and sizzling at the heart of all of it - always has been. He wants this, doesn't even know how not to.
Sam swallows hard enough for him to hear even with his little brother's back pressed against the bathroom wall two feet away, slowly sliding to the ground. There's a lot going on in Sam's eyes; fury and despair and fear. But no blame, no condemnation. And maybe underneath, a glimmer of hesitation.
It's not enough, not the same as Sammy saying he wants it too, but Dean's riding high on desperation and succubus venom, and he's got nothing to lose but everything.
"Let me," he urges inching as close as his bound arms will let him, shoulders complaining in their sockets. "Anything you want, Sammy. Any filthy, twisted thing you can think of, I'd do it right now; love it." His tongue flicks out, wets his lips, does it all over again in slow motion replay when Sam's eyes get stuck on the action. "You want my mouth, Sammy?" he bites at his lower lip, rolls his hips for emphasis - he's never had much shame anyway, no point getting prissy now, "Wanna feel these lips wrapped around you? Suck you dry and swallow, beg for more? Get them all wet and fucked red, then pump your wad all over my face?"
Sam's breath hitches in his chest, big hands scrabbling at the tiled wall behind him like he'll sink right through it if he works hard enough. But he wants it and Dean doesn't even need the oil-slick of lust rolling through Sam's scent to tell him that, not with the straining jut of his not-so-little brother's cock trying to force it's way out of his open fly.
"Could go kinkier," Dean goads, arms trembling with the way he can't seem to stop his body from straining toward Sam. "Could just jack it right there in front of me, tease me with what I can't have. Come all over the floor and make me lick it up. You know I'd do it. Wanna do it." His voice is wavering even in his own ears, cut through with an edgy kind of frenzy that's only underlined by the loud, shallow breaths he's sucking in. He feels too big for his skin, like there's too much juddering, shaky energy pinging around inside of him to contain and he's going to go out of his fucking mind if Sam doesn't do something right goddamn now. "C'mon, Sammy, this aint pay by the minute, gotta participate."
Sam's eyes are wide and shiny, glittering in the harsh light halfway between jumping Dean and bolting for his life and if that scale doesn't tip in his favor Dean seriously will break his fucking thumbs to get out of these cuffs. It would be awful, too much, this thing they could never come back from if Dean forced Sam to do it - Sammy has to make the choice on his own if they're ever going to be okay again. Doesn't mean Dean's gotta play fair.
He groans, high and ragged, pained, and that's not a lie either; his dick's so hot and hard in the sticky mess of his jeans it feels like every ear-splitting beat of his heart is going to break it, finally too swollen-full of blood, like a tick popping. "Please, Sammy, please. I can't do it. Not gonna make it without you. God, Sam, need you, please."
Dean's fully prepared to keep going - hell, he'd stand out in the town square and beg for it if that's what Sam wants; loud and shameless for the whole damn world hear him pleading for his baby brother's cock. But he doesn't need to, because this is already enough for Sam; Dean can see him cave, face crumpling with want and disgrace and Dean's determined to make that second one go away if it kills him. He may never have been with a guy before, but he knows what feels good and venom or not, for Sam he really would do anything. Whatever it takes, he'll be the best goddamn fuck Sammy's ever had.
His brother doesn't bother about the handcuffs, just slips underneath Dean's arm to press him back further under the sink and ease the ache in his arms. He's there, so close, and Dean can't even consider do anything but dip his head just right to bring their lips together and get his first real taste of Sam.
There's a low, whimpery groan that could be either of them when his tongue finds it's way into Sam's mouth almost immediately, the flavor sharp and intense with his enhanced senses. Sammy doesn't pull back anymore, just opens right up for it and lets Dean plunder him, biting and sucking, licking along the slick line of teeth and the smooth curve of tongue. He could do this until the world comes crashing down around them.
Want and satisfaction bleeds together, feeds on itself in an endless loop and if he thought he was coming apart before, now it's like he's crawling out of his skin. "Let me out," he demands, clanking the cuffs against porcelain, overwhelmed by a dire need to get his hands on Sam's skin.
Sammy fumbles in his pocket for something - it would probably help if Dean would let him have his mouth back so he could maybe look at what he's doing, but that's seriously just not going to happen - then there's the familiar click of thin metal picking the handcuff lock, the key long since lost. He doubts this is what Dad had in mind all of those hours he made them spend practicing to pick a lock with their eyes closed, but Dad's not around anymore - never really was, even when they were all in the same room - and Dean doesn't think there's ever been a better use for Sam's skills.
The metal gives and Dean's got them flat out in under a second, his body sprawled out on Sam's, grinding and moaning and humping down like the eager slut he is right now. It feels so damn good.
Sam's hands clamp down on his ass, bucking up against the friction of Dean's hips and just like that, he's at the edge all over again. A noise that's not even a noise works its way out of his throat and he tugs at Sam's t-shirt, tearing at the protesting seams until he's got it low enough to latch his mouth onto Sam's collar bone, sucking hard enough to mark for days.
"Gonna fuck me, Sammy?" Dean pants, rolling his hip into the hot line of Sam's dick, shuddering all over at the feel of it. "Gonna make me suck you? Take me, use me? Need it, baby."
Sam silences his increasingly high-voiced pleas with his own mouth, swallowing down the sounds Dean makes like cool water.
"Christ, the way you talk," Sam mumbles against his lips, one hand skidding up Dean's back to cradle the base of his skull and hold him in the kiss. Like Dean has anywhere better to be.
He whines like a puppy into Sam's mouth, body restless with the need for more - for everything and then some - steaming him in his skin. And Sam gets it, of course he does. He pulls at Dean's jeans, fingers fumbling with the fly when Dean can't make himself hold still and the finally - ohgodjesussweetholyfuck - Dean's dick is free, jumping at the startling rush of cool air.
It's fucking purple with hunger underneath the half-dry globs of come and just seeing it makes it hurt more, makes him impossibly more aware of how much he wants, the heat of his own private sun radiating out from his balls. Then Sam wraps one of his huge paws around it, the sticky mess pulling at his tender skin just shy of painful, and Dean fucking wails until his throat aches, a meager load on come spurting across Sam's long fingers.
"That's four," Sam murmurs against the shell of his ear once he's collapsed. Dean can barely make the sound out over the whitenoise of his blood rushing, "how many you figure you have before your coming dry for me?"
If it was physically possible to swallow his own tongue, Dean would have just done it. He sputters something that approximates a question, leaning up on his elbows to take in his brothers flushed, grinning face. Doesn't that fucking figure - hold out on him to the very end and then dive into the deep end head first, little fucker. Dean can feel himself grinning right back.
"Always been mouthy in bed," Sam shrugs, "Just didn't know it was genetic."
A laugh, bordering on hysterical, barks out of Dean, Sam's body shaking in silent amusement under him. It's just so fucked up and so, so them that it really is funny. Sam rolls them to the side so their facing each other, legs tangled up, feet bumping the shower.
"How long have we got before the next round?" Sammy asks, the slow caress of his hand leaving a trail that burns Dean all the way down to his bones. Dean nods down to the head of his attentive dick still leaking greedily against his belly. He can't miss the echoing, untouched bulge in Sam's pants either and runs the back of his hand up it lovingly just to watch his brother's eyes roll back.
Sam smirks, "Good," but his voice is a little breathless - might have something to do with the little patterns Dean's fingertips are tracing out over distended denim. "Got something I need you to take care of for me." Sam's hips buck forward into his touch and the now-familiar heat soaks through Dean right down from his fingertips.
Fast as that, Sam's up, scrambling into bed, kicking off his pants as he goes. Magnet to lodestone, Dean follows, pausing for half a moment to blindly snatch at the cup of water Sam left sitting on the floor. He has a feeling they're going to need it - it's gonna be a long night.