SPN Fic: For They Are Yet But Ear-Kissing Arguments
So, um, Kris. I guess it's a couple weeks late. But that's about par for the course around here! Happy Birthday. :)
Title: For They Are Yet But Ear-Kissing Arguments
Author: deirdre_c
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: The Winchesters belong to Eric Kripke and the CW.
Word Count: ~6,100
Summary: One week after certain events in Athens, Georgia, Sam and Dean are revisited by an interesting aspect of Puck’s curse: Dean wakes up with donkey's ears. Takes place during the summer of Season 1.
A follow-up to On Midsummer Nights I Dream of Winchesters. If you haven’t read that, all you need to know is that one night Robin Goodfellow bespelled the brothers to act out scenes from Shakespeare and they ended up getting their Wincest on. Once again, this one was supposed to be crack. What the hell, Sam?!?!
Author's Note: Written as a belated birthday gift from a prompt (and actual blurbs about donkeys she whipped out with mad google-fu) given to me by the magnificent krisomniac. In truth, it was supposed to be written for LAST year’s birthday, so I figure two weeks late isn’t so bad this time around. Boundless thanks to missyjack and audrarose for the beta reads in the middle of such a hectic time!
Title from a line in King Lear.
~~~
“Mmmmmph.”
It’s morning and Sam’s wandering toward consciousness when he feels something skitter across his cheek.
“Dean,” he mumbles, swiping absently across his face, trying to decide which was worse: some enormous spider crawling over him or Dean starting the latest prank war with a wake-up call. The way his luck is running, it’s probably both.
His eyes slit open, then he shoots straight up, head banging sharply against the Impala’s low ceiling. “Dean! Holy Shit!”
This isn’t a response to waking up with his brother draped all over the front seat, snoring on his shoulder instead of safely over against the driver’s side window. It’s a response to the fact that Dean-- between the time they’d bunked down in the car after a long night of grave desecration and now-- has sprouted himself a new pair of ears.
Perky, grey, fuzzy donkey’s ears.
~~~
“Man, I thought we were done with this.” Dean keeps craning his neck, trying to get a good look in the tiny mirror on the back of the sun visor.
“Me, too,” Sam replies.
It’s the last thing he says for the next forty miles toward civilization, or what passes for it in the Nebraska flatlands. Dean fills the silence with a running commentary that alternates between bitching and complaining, with a few detailed threats of imminent retribution thrown in. Sam thinks that if Dean would just shut up, it would be much easier to pretend this isn’t happening again.
He thinks how easily a week’s worth of hard-won denial and restraint and repression of anything resembling unbrotherly attraction gets stripped clean away. Not by something provocative like an accidental brush of legs under the table or accidentally tripping and tumbling together onto the bed-okay, not that this was a remotely likely scenario, but it could happen-- but triggered by the least sexual part of the whole encounter with Puck: the ears.
Sam also thinks he’s the one who should be driving, because Dean really ought to be hiding from view rather than showcasing those things to every passing car. Not that they ever passed any other cars out here, but driving might help with the not thinking. It certainly seems to help Dean.
“Dude, there’s a motel. If there’s internet, get us a room,” Dean says, pulling them into the parking lot, then muttering under his breath and slouching down practically into the footwell, knees sprawled wide and jacket rucked up over his head, framing his face like a nun’s wimple. “And, for fuck’s sake, no speaking in rhyme.”
Sam throws open the door and walks stiffly to the motel office.
~~~
Sam sits in the semi-darkness of their room, thick, partially-closed curtains blocking out most of the morning sun, staring over at Dean kicked back on the other queen bed. He’s got all the appearance of ease, but those ears of his are pinned back and angry. For a minute, this new method for getting an easy read on Dean’s emotional state makes Sam want to grin, but then he’s back to worrying and chewing on his thumbnail.
If the ears are back, there’s no telling what else might be coming back as well.
Sam has spent some time-- a lot of time, really-- analyzing what happened to them down in Georgia. He’s almost managed to convince himself that it wasn’t his fault: the form the curse took, how it affected them. Dean had certainly forgiven and forgotten and settled right back into their normal-so to speak-lives. But the small matter of Sam’s inability to completely regret what he did and how he can’t seem to stop staring at Dean’s hands or lips or the curve of his spine and how he’s avoiding even the most casual of touches, well. If anyone’s to blame for bringing down on them a new round of…. of cursed behavior, it’s Sam.
He tastes copper and peers down at the tiny drops of blood welling along his cuticle.
Dean digs into the bedspread viciously with his heels and snarls, “I’m going to find Puck and kick his scrawny ass so hard my boot’ll come out of his mouth.”
“So you’ve said.” It’s then Sam decides that, since Dean’s now reduced to repeating hypothetical threats, perhaps it’s time to get his act together, approach this systematically, and find a solution. “So, what makes us certain it’s Puck?”
Dean gives him a “duh!” look and points sharply with both index fingers to either side of his head.
“Okay, okay. Occam’s razor. I get it.” Sam pauses. “So… are you feeling, you know… anything else?” He looks intently down at a long, black scuff on the toe of one shoe.
It’s not like they’ve talked about it in so many words-- or any words, actually-- but nevertheless the decision had been reached, the verdict resolutely determined that whatever went on during the cursed night in the theater was an aberration. Out of their control. What happened in Athens, stays in Athens.
Since then they’ve been going out every night, hitting the bars, ostensibly looking to hustle some cash or gather some intel on this last hunt. As it turned out, Dean also managed to hook up five out of the past seven nights-not that Sam’s counting. Hey, Sam himself even worked up the nerve last Thursday to make out with a girl who’d been coming on to him, right there at the bar over tequila shots. Strategically positioned her where he knew Dean could see the action from the pool table. Felt Dean’s eyes on him the whole time.
It was as if they both had something to prove, to themselves and each other, using soft curves and ponytails and other decidedly non-masculine, non-familial body parts.
“Nope, other than the ears, nothing’s different. No Shakespeare or anything. Feeling fine and dandy.” Abruptly, Dean hops up off the bed and strides over to the mirror on the worn laminate dresser for another look.
Sam takes advantage of the excuse to stare. It’s been getting harder and harder-um, so to speak-- to keep his eyes off of Dean, but at least now he’s got the ears as a legitimate reason.
They’re mostly light grey, shading to brown where they blend into Dean’s hairline. They’re not long or floppy like a rabbit’s, but stand straight up, reaching maybe three or four inches above Dean’s head. The hair on their outsides lies flat and sleek, but there’s downy fur lining the insides, short and velvety-soft just like Dean’s hair when he’s not wearing his stupid, trendy, vanilla-scented hair wax.
Sam realizes Dean’s returning his stare in the mirror, expression unreadable. Then he turns and smirks, hip cocked against the dresser, and says, “Who’s the bigger freak now, Freakboy?”
Sam sighs, deadpans, “You’re right, Dean. It’s you. I’ve never been able to compete with you.”
“Damn straight. Hey, you know what they say about guys with big ears.” Right on cue, one eyebrow shoots upwards.
“Whatever,” Sam replies. Trust Dean not to let a little thing like awkward issues of incest stand between him and a salacious joke. “Listen, we need to make a plan. The way I see it, we have two options. One, we can go back to Athens-“
“No,” Dean says, quickly.
“Two…” Sam presses on, “We can stay here, hunker down, do some research. See what we can find out about breaking the curse. Maybe some other options’ll open up from there.”
Dean nods brusquely, setting the ears bobbing. Ever-active, he turns away and busies himself with scoping out the room, opening random drawers, grabbing the salt from one bag to start lining the windows.
“’Two’ it is then.” Sam runs a hand over his face and mutters to himself, “Yeah, trapped in a hotel room with you. Just what I need.”
Dean’s ears kind of… swivel around. Like satellite dishes or sunflowers following the sun. “I heard that!”
“Great.” Sam grabs his kit out of his duffle and retreats, willing himself not to blush or clarify how that was really a kind of twisted compliment or throw something or puke. “I’m going to take a shower.”
~~~
Twenty minutes later, Sam’s standing in the misty bathroom, working up the nerve to go back out there.
Normally, he wouldn’t bother jerking off in the middle of the day. A short and uncomfortable night’s sleep in the car combined with the stress of this new… development should’ve squelched any urges in that direction. But the minute he’d gotten under the pounding spray of the shower, his hand had been circling his dick and not long after he’d had to bite down on the other fist just to stifle a shout from the force of his orgasm. He wonders whether Dean’s new auditory prowess picked up some stray noise he hadn’t been able to muffle, whether Dean’s wondering about the extra ten minutes he’s spent in here.
He needs to stop thinking about Dean and orgasms at the same time.
Sam slips out of the bathroom, head down, both hands gripping tightly to the towel around his waist, and makes his way over to his bag for some clean clothes. Of course he’d been so distracted he hadn’t thought to bring clothes in with him, although that would’ve been so abnormal as to be a dead giveaway.
Dean appears not to notice his entrance; he’s sitting at the little table by the door, looking intently at something online. But his ears keep moving, keep making these tiny, quick twitches like a horse shooing away a fly. Flick. Sam doesn’t think Dean’s aware he’s doing it, so he’s determined not to read anything into it.
Sam rummages around in his duffle for boxers and sweats. Then he drops the towel. Flick. He leans over to step into his shorts. Flick. He’s so distracted by the ears’ little movements that he’s a bit slow about easing his pants over his hips. Flick.
Sam nearly jumps out of his skin when Dean snarls, “What is this, Sam, a strip show in reverse? Because I gotta tell you, I know stripping, and you’ll need to work on your act if you want to bring in the big bucks.”
“Shut up, asshole,” Sam snaps and flips him off without turning around, thanking God for the fact that he’d just taken care of business five minutes ago, so his body doesn’t betray how the teasing-hell, just the sound of Dean’s voice-- hits home. Otherwise, his dick would probably be twitching as madly as Dean’s ears.
He throws on a shirt as Dean announces, “Fine, Gypsy Rose Lee. You can take over on the laptop. I’m going to make some calls.”
He walks over and snatches the computer out of Dean’s hands. “Well, that certainly sounds more productive than you surfing for porn all day.” Nice, Sam thinks, mentally kicking himself. Might as well write “stupidly jealous” across his forehead in marker for Dean to read.
Dean doesn’t retort like Sam’s expecting. His face as he turns away reveals nothing, but his ears are drooping, just slightly, giving him a sweet, pitiful air like a dog banished to the back yard. Sam’s hands tingle and he can barely restrain himself from reaching over, smoothing his palm along the soft curves until they spring up again, taut, upright… Oh.
Sam runs his hand through his own damp hair instead. Hoo-kay. Research.
~~~
He starts out combing through some likely sites about the lore on Robin Goodfellow and then the Fae in general, searching for potential tracking techniques, precedents for bargaining or counteracting their works, casting a wide net for topics he hasn’t even thought of yet. He’s got a dozen or more tabs open, but he keeps getting distracted by Dean, who’s in the space between the beds, pacing as he talks, cellphone suddenly tiny and odd-looking held up to one elongated ear. After awhile, Sam finds himself surfing through data of a different sort.
Donkeys are the pack animals that go where nothing but mountain goats would dare. These pack animals were prized for their hardiness in arid country. They are sure-footed, can locate food in barren terrain and can carry heavy burdens for days through hot, dry environments. Wild Burros can tolerate a water loss as much as 30% of their body weight, and replenish it in only 5 minutes drinking. Many of these burros survive, even though their owners perish under the harsh desert conditions.
Dean’s ears really should be grotesque, unsettling, ridiculous. Instead, he wears them easily; they fit as if Dean was born to them. Sam tries to figure out why, thinks they soften him, emphasizing the almost inhuman beauty of the sharp lines of cheek and jaw, the lush swoop of lash and mouth.
Dean snaps the phone shut and Sam snaps his attention back to the screen.
Although formal studies of their behavior and cognition are rather limited, donkeys appear to be quite intelligent, cautious, friendly, playful, and eager to learn. They are many times fielded with horses due to a perceived calming effect on nervous horses. If a donkey is introduced to a mare and foal, the foal will often turn to the donkey for support if separated from its mother.
Sam knows he’s being selfish, his strained silence and snappishness making Dean even more self-consciousness and unhappy. Against all good intentions, Sam always closes himself off like this-- before Stanford, after Jess-- burying secrets behind pursed lips and averted gaze. If it weren’t for his own lingering issues, he could… would be supportive, reassuring.
Dammit, what he needs to do is rally himself to start cracking jokes, making light of the whole situation, asking if he should stop at the pet store for Mane ‘n Tail shampoo, calling Dean variations of “mulish” and an “ass” and…
The ass was a symbol of the Greek god Dionysus, particularly in relationship to his companion, Silenus.
For as much guilt as he felt over what happened in Georgia, it’s even worse this time around as Dean suffers the brunt of the curse alone. Yes, the ears aren’t exactly painful or debilitating-although Sam knows being trapped hiding out in the hotel room for any length of time will be excruciating for his brother-and, yes, they’re pretty much a bed of roses compared to the whole possession, compulsion, enacting-romantic-moments thing from before. But he doesn’t understand why Dean’s the one who’s been targeted when Sam’s the one who keeps reliving the moment he lay helpless across Dean’s lap, tasting the salt of Dean’s skin on the tip of his tongue, remembering the sounds Dean made when Sam made him come.
He glances over at Dean who’s off the phone, now propped up on pillows stacked against the headboard, pouring over Dad’s journal. As if it’s the most ordinary thing in the world, Dean’s got one ear in his hand, folded over in half, absent-mindedly rubbing the tip back and forth against his brow and cheek and lips, like he does sometimes with a pen. It’s so unconsciously sensual, Sam bites the inside of his cheek, blood rushing hot and low to his groin. Sam can imagine the soft swipe of it against his own face.
Dean runs his thumb slowly along one plush edge and shivers slightly. Sam swallows a gasp and tears his eyes away.
Donkeys have a reputation for stubbornness, but this is due to some handlers' misinterpretation of their highly developed sense of self preservation. It is difficult to force or frighten a donkey into doing something it sees as contrary to its own best interest, as opposed to horses who are much more willing to, for example, go along a path with unsafe footing.
Once a person has earned their confidence they can be willing and companionable partners and very dependable in work and recreation.
~~~
Two days of dead ends and warm six-packs and a Gilligan’s Island marathon on TV and Dean’s climbing the walls. Sam’s no better off and they’re both sniping at each other non-stop.
Dean’s gotten to the point where can hardly stand to look at him. Sam must’ve done something to give himself away, because Dean’s begun to constantly shy away as if he’s scared Sam’s going to tackle him and ride him into the floor. Or something.
Sam’s got to get some air. “I’m going to run up to Kearney. The university library there has a book that might be helpful.”
Dean huffs. “Great, Sam. And what am I supposed to do while you’re gone? Can’t go do laundry. Can’t go get food. Can’t check out whether the place down the street has a hot bartender or not.” His ears are thrown straight back, parallel to the floor, practically vibrating. “Jesus!”
Sam placates him by offering, “I could pick up something for you before I go?”
“Oh, gee, thanks a ton, but don’t go out of your way on my account. I’ve managed to fend for myself for a long time now.”
“Look, I was just trying to-“
“Better get going, Sam. Traffic’s a bitch this time of day.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.” Dean folds his arms across his chest, determined to get in the last word.
“This could take awhile.”
“How long is awhile?”
Sam knows he’s being unfair, but he spits the words out anyway. “Guess you’re going to have to wait and find out.”
Keys in hand, he stomps out into the parking lot and hears something that sounds suspiciously like a boot thunk into the door behind him.
~~~
No luck at the library and on the way home-- back to the motel, that is-- Sam tries to get his head on straight. Only a week ago, his course had seemed so clear-cut: find Dad, avenge Jess, and get on with life. Until things with Dean had gotten… well, complicated to say the least, and Sam realizes that what he wants now is to fix Dean and fix things with Dean and that nothing else is more important for the foreseeable future.
They had just started being brothers again. He wasn’t going to screw that up because he couldn’t keep these new fucked-up desires in check.
Sam walks in on Dean trying to stuff his ears up under a black knit cap, without success. The hat bulges and pokes unnaturally, no matter how Dean tugs and prods, making the top of his head look like a cauliflower.
“Dean, you aren’t Spock visiting 20th century Earth. Those things are massive, no way are they going to fit under there. Besides,” he jerks a thumb over his shoulder, “it’s like ninety degrees outside. That’s not exactly inconspicuous summer headgear.”
Dean’s eyes widen comically at Sam’s sudden appearance and he hastily yanks the cap off, frowning down at it in his hand. Then he looks at Sam, his whole face lighting up with glee. “Dude, did you just make a reference to Star Trek? You? Sam Winchester? I don’t believe my ears!”
There’s a moment of stunned silence as the both take in what Dean said and simultaneously they burst out laughing. Sam leans against the table, whooping and holding his stomach, while Dean half-sits on the dresser, head thrown back in a full-out cackle.
As they ease down, still snickering, Sam announces, “I brought Subway.” He holds up a bag of sandwiches like a white flag of truce.
“All is forgiven.” Dean snatches it out of Sam’s hand and plumps down on the bed. “I hope you’re hungry,” he mumbles around a mouthful of meatball sub. “I just ordered pizza, too. Wasn’t sure when you’d be getting back.” Down go the ears again, and Sam rubs guiltily at the back of his neck.
“Yeah. Sorry about that.”
“That’s why I was messing with the hat. Wasn’t sure how I was actually going to, you know--” He waves vaguely toward the door, “Pay the guy.”
Sam unwraps his own sandwich and they munch away in contented silence until there’s a knock on the door. Dean doesn’t move other than to make an exaggerated after you gesture and Sam makes a face at him, then hauls himself to his feet.
The kid at the door looks all of fourteen, pimply and lanky, holding the bright red pizza-warming box aloft. “That’ll be $17.50, sir.”
Sam pulls out a twenty, then grabs two more. He steps just through the doorway, causing the delivery guy to back up a step, wary. Sam holds up the cash at eye-level and pitches his voice low, “Hey. I’ll give you an extra forty bucks if you throw in your hat.”
“My hat?” The kid’s wearing a navy baseball cap with the local pizza joint’s slogan--“Hot and Ready”-written in yellow across the front. He looks at Sam like he’s lost his mind, but after a minute he snatches the money, pulls the pizza out of the warmer, then reaches up and takes off the hat, placing it on top of the box in Sam’s hands.
“Enjoy,” the kid smirks, pocketing the cash.
“Oh, I will,” Sam calls. He turns back into the hotel room, pizza in one hand, cap hidden behind his back in the other.
~~~
“Ow. Fuck.” Dean’s impatiently trying to shove the ball cap on. His ears are all scrunched up and sloppy, little wisps of fur poking through the fabric. It doesn’t look any better than it did under the stocking cap and probably feels even more uncomfortable. Dean’s expression resembles a five-year-old on the verge of a tantrum. A five-year-old with really, really large ears.
“Here. Let me see if I can--” Sam whips the hat off of Dean’s head.
Dean yelps, “Watch it!”
“Sorry,” Sam says. “Sorry,” he repeats, voice barely above a whisper. He’s standing so close to Dean he can see his breath feather through the fur in the closest ear. He wets his lips nervously, then sets the back of the cap against the back of Dean’s head and carefully takes hold of an ear. It’s the first time Sam’s touched one; it’s warm and soft and trembling slightly beneath his fingers. So much for restraint.
He smoothes the ear down against the top of Dean’s head, careful not to bend it painfully, then holds it in place with his thumb as he slides along the other one with his index and middle fingers, positioning it flat too, using his free hand to slowly slide the brim of the cap over them and down onto Dean’s forehead. The tip of one ear peeks out and Sam tucks it gently back in.
“There.”
Dean holds himself perfectly still throughout the procedure, hands balled in fists at his sides. As soon as Sam is done, he scoots half a step away, eyes averted, jerking back and forth at the brim of the cap, adjusting the fit.
He checks the look in the mirror, clears his throat. “Awesome, Sam. Thanks.”
“No problem.” There’s a moment of awkward silence, then Sam suggests, “What do you say we hit the bar? I think you’ll pass.”
The tension that’s been sitting in Dean’s shoulders finally relaxes. “Best idea I’ve heard all day.” He gathers up his wallet and tucks the ever-present gun in the back of his waistband. His hand hovers over the keys to the Impala, but the bar’s just up the block, no reason to drink and drive, so he leaves them on the side table.
Sam says, “I guess it’ll be nice to have a little freedom after the past few days stuck in here.”
“Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose, Sammy.”
“Dude. What does that even mean?”
“I dunno. I’m just trying to impart some wisdom of the ages onto my little brother.”
Sam wants to string along Dean’s sudden good humor, so he deliberately takes the bait. “So, who exactly are you implying is Bobby McGee in this picture?”
“Do I even need to answer that question?”
“Jerk.”
“Janis.”
Sam barks out a laugh. “C’mon. If we’re going, let’s go.”
“Okie dokie.” Dean snags a couple of slices of pizza for the road and they head out the door.
~~~
They stumble back in hours later, Sam feeling slightly buzzed and loose-limbed. They’d played some darts and traded a couple shots in between beers and Dean hadn’t even looked twice at the barflies circling around them all night. Not that he could’ve exactly picked up some girl in his condition, but Sam still felt gratified at being the focus of Dean’s full attention after a week’s worth of avoidance.
It takes him only a moment to register how dark and close the room is. Compared with all of the noise and crowd at the bar, it’s shockingly intimate. In the stillness, Sam toes off his shoes, feeling more than seeing Dean brush past him to cross the room. He’s shaky and lightheaded, hot like he’s got a fever.
He hadn’t even realized he’d closed his eyes, but when he opens them, Dean’s staring at him, fingers motionless halfway through unbuttoning his shirt, hunger written plain on his face. The minute Sam meets his gaze, his eyes shift away. Sam’s so sick of this, and there’s just enough alcohol in his system to make an issue of it.
“Dean,” he says, voice laden with threats and promises.
“Go to bed, Sam. Just… I’ll see you in the morning,” Dean replies, pulling off the hat and letting his ears spring upright.
Sam feels the last fragments of his resistance swept away like a sandcastle at high tide. He tried, he honestly tried, but what happened to him-- to them-- last week cracked him open. He’s irrevocably damaged and he can’t deny it any longer.
“No.” Sam strides forward, Dean stumbling back until his shoulders meet the wall. Sam looms and Dean huffs, pressing his lips into a thin line and the muscles of his jaw flex and his chest rises intolerably close, brushing Sam’s shirt as he inhales.
“No curse, no spell this time.” Sam leans in, burying his face in the downy fur of Dean’s left ear, nuzzling. “No one to blame for this but me.” He slides his nose and cheek in a barely-there caress up the ear’s sensitive inside rim.
Dean shudders, violent tremors coursing through his whole body. Sam likes that so much he traces the same path with the tip of his tongue. Dean makes a small noise in the back of his throat and grips Sam’s arms painfully. Not pushing him away, but not drawing him nearer either.
“Sam... Sam, you don’t want this.”
“I do. I want it.” He pulls back, searching Dean’s face for signs of disgust and disappointment. “I want you. I’m sorry. I’m so… I don’t know what to do about it. What do you want me to do?” He doesn’t mean to put it all on Dean, but he has to know he’s not in this alone. When Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t answer, Sam starts to turn away.
Then Dean’s hold on Sam’s biceps tightens, holding him fast. “Please,” he groans, like it’s killing him, like he’s dying. He takes one hand off of Sam’s arm and grabs him around the back of the neck, pulling their foreheads together. He whispers into Sam’s lips, “Don’t make me say it.”
They dive into each other so rapidly their teeth click together. For a few ferocious moments they battle for position, then Dean’s dry, soft lips yield under Sam’s assault.
He wedges one leg in between Dean’s, trapping him against the wall, ruthlessly pushing him onto the balls of his feet and deepening their kiss. Sam licks inside Dean’s mouth greedily, can’t get enough. He’s been starving for this for so long. He glories in the feel of Dean’s cock, rigid and hot through the seam in his jeans as Dean gives a series of jerky thrusts against the flat of Sam’s thigh.
Dean pulls away, pressing his mouth wet against Sam’s neck, under his jaw. The fine fur of his ear catches and drags in the unshaven stubble on Sam’s cheek. “You taste...” His hands are tugging Sam's t-shirt out of his jeans, scrabbling for skin “…even better than I remember.”
He pushes Sam away just far enough to strip off Sam’s shirts and then his own, before surging back into Sam, chests sliding together smooth and breathtaking, Dean’s frantic touches at his shoulders, waist, over his ass, through his hair.
Sam remembers doing this before, getting his brother stripped, spread out naked and salt-scented underneath him, and wants to do it again, this time without coercion to hide behind or surrender to, but with full knowledge that it’s him-them- alone. It was easier that first time, more graceful, more certain, but this… this is infinitely better. Wanted. He feels wanted.
Head buzzing, blood thrumming, Sam fumbles for the buttons of Dean’s fly, goes to sink down in front of him.
“No.” Dean pulls him up and something in Sam’s chest twists with fear that Dean’s having second thoughts, until he continues, “It’s my turn.”
Dean shifts his grip and shoves Sam down sitting on the edge of the bed. He slides to his knees in the space between Sam’s wide-spread legs, hands steady and quick at Sam’s belt and zipper. Looking up, he growls, “Pull the ears and you’re a dead man.”
Sam’s answering snort turns into a gasp as Dean reaches down the back of Sam’s pants, skimming jeans and shorts down in one smooth motion.
Dean leans in but doesn’t put his mouth on Sam, just breathes over his cock, warm and damp. His hands trace Sam’s legs, palms wide, slowly skimming up until they come to rest in the bend of thigh and hip, thumbs brushing in gentle circles over his balls, over the secret patch of skin just behind. Sam can’t help it, bucks up towards Dean’s heat, but Dean clamps down on his hips and continues to tease. Every maddeningly light touch has Sam’s toes curling into the carpet a little; he has to get more friction but he can’t, and it’s making him nearly sob in short hitching breaths.
Finally, finally, Dean swallows him down. He takes his time, slow movements up and down the shaft, tongue rasping and swirling. As Dean moves, Sam feels the velvet slide of the ears along the thin skin of his inner thighs. It’s hot and wet and perfect, but goddamn it also tickles. He can’t help it. He giggles.
Dean glares up at him, but instead of stopping, Oh God, don’t stop, he raises one eyebrow, his lips stretched round and red and obscene, and takes Sam deeper than ever before, thrusting his tongue along the ridge under the head of Sam’s cock, making him throw his head back and shout. It’s like an electric shock, every nerve in his body lights up. Thigh muscles tense and burn as he struggles not to thrust up into Dean’s slick rhythm.
Sam’s hand slides up to cup Dean’s head and his fingers work their way into the bristle of hair where one long, tender ear joins the skull. Without conscious thought-he’s so far beyond that now-his index and middle fingers brush in quick, desperate strokes around the ear’s base.
Dean stiffens and pulls off for a moment. “Oh, Christ!” He digs his forehead into Sam’s thigh. “Again! Please. Sam…. Sammy, do that again.”
He does and Dean gives a small cry, curses, then wraps his lips once more around Sam, speeding up the pace and sucking and stroking and, fuck, stroking his own cock with his free hand, until it’s all Sam can do to keep strumming his thumb along the rigid edge of Dean’s ear. Dean squirms, putting more and more pressure on Sam’s cock, until Sam does tug on the ear he’s holding, urgently trying to get Dean to pull off before Sam comes. Dean simply hums encouragement and buries his nose all the way to Sam’s belly and Sam feels his orgasm hurtling up his spine, through his body, flowing out into the heat of Dean’s mouth.
Sam’s boneless and weak, aftershocks still thrilling through him as Dean stands and strips the rest of his own clothes off. He pushes Sam backward onto the bed, manhandling him onto his stomach and covering him, pressing him into the mattress. “Want this so bad, Sammy. So bad,” Dean moans, sharp nips at the nape of his neck and under his ear.
Sam rouses and tenses. He whispers, “I’ve never… I don’t-“
“Shhh,” Dean straddles Sam’s hips, running soothing hands up and down his flank. “Shhh, don’t worry. Just let me- Just this.” Dean licks his palm and slicks his cock once, twice, then slips it into the cleft of Sam’s ass. He begins to move, rutting slowly against Sam’s body, easing back to almost touch Sam’s entrance before sliding upward again. Over and over and Sam imagines what it would be like to have Dean actually thrust up inside him instead, to be split open and filled, and the thought of it makes his cock twitch and start to rise again.
Dean rears back on hands and knees, leaning down to glide his tongue, flat and slow and drenched, up the already slippery groove, soft fur of his ears easing up along Sam’s back at the same pace. The unfamiliar sensations overload his senses, making him jolt and writhe and nearly rip the sheets in his fisted hands. Then Dean is covering him once more, hips plunging and grinding down into Sam’s again. Sam reflexively matches Dean’s rhythm and rocks up into the quickening thrusts, his ass and the small of his back slick with Dean’s spit and precome.
Dean’s groaning now and babbling as his movements turn erratic. “Fuck, Sam. Feel-ah-feel so. Perfect. God, please. Sam! Yes.” He knots one hand in Sam’s hair, the other grips Sam’s hip and he shoots, messy-hot and thick, everywhere over Sam’s back and ass and thighs.
After a moment, Dean rolls off and Sam turns onto his side, heart galloping, to face him. Dean’s still gasping for breath, one arm over his face -- a position so reminiscent of last time. Without a word, Sam gently moves Dean’s arm, pulls it down and looks his brother in the face. His lips are red and swollen, the ears limp and relaxed, his eyes heavy-lidded and… twinkling.
“You know,” Dean rasps out, “things could be worse. I could’ve had a tail instead.”
Sam buries his head in the pillow and crows with laughter.
~~~
When he wakes a few hours later, it’s morning. Dean’s still sleeping, his face mushed into the pillow, all soft and boyish. His left hand lies heavy in the middle of Sam’s chest.
The ears are gone.
Not daring to move, Sam stares for a long, long time. He can’t summon up any of the doubt and remorse and shame that have ridden him this last week, but there’s a lingering fear that turns his hands numb and his gut cold. A fear of what will happen when Dean opens his eyes.
He runs through a dozen scenarios in his head, strategies for keeping Dean from freaking out, running off, shutting down. He systematically imagines all the ways this could go, all the things he could do, everything from pleading to logical reasoning to guilt-trips to handcuffing Dean to the headboard. He files away that last one for future reference.
But in the end, when Dean’s eyelids crack open and he lifts that hand slowly off of Sam to check his ears, Sam says, “If I’d known that was all it took, I’d’ve had you on your knees days ago.”
Dean’s eyes widen in surprise for a moment, then he closes them and flips onto his back, lips twitching with laughter. He stretches, naked and unabashed, and something in the vicinity of Sam’s stomach does somersaults.
“Um.” Dean gives a little cough and looks at Sam sidelong. “Perhaps I should change my plans for kicking Puck’s ass?” He smiles a bit tentatively.
Sam mouth stretches wide in an answering grin. “Yeah. Sounds good to me.”
“Why does that little fucker care so much about our sex life anyway?”
“I have no idea,” Sam replies. “But I say we err on the side of caution for awhile.” He takes a chance and leans over to suck sharply on the lobe of Dean’s perfectly human ear.
Dean gives what some might characterize as a squeak and swiftly rolls on top of Sam, pinning him. He leans down to murmur hot into Sam’s neck. “How long is awhile?”
“Guess you’re going to have to wait and find out.”
~end~
Title: For They Are Yet But Ear-Kissing Arguments
Author: deirdre_c
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: The Winchesters belong to Eric Kripke and the CW.
Word Count: ~6,100
Summary: One week after certain events in Athens, Georgia, Sam and Dean are revisited by an interesting aspect of Puck’s curse: Dean wakes up with donkey's ears. Takes place during the summer of Season 1.
A follow-up to On Midsummer Nights I Dream of Winchesters. If you haven’t read that, all you need to know is that one night Robin Goodfellow bespelled the brothers to act out scenes from Shakespeare and they ended up getting their Wincest on. Once again, this one was supposed to be crack. What the hell, Sam?!?!
Author's Note: Written as a belated birthday gift from a prompt (and actual blurbs about donkeys she whipped out with mad google-fu) given to me by the magnificent krisomniac. In truth, it was supposed to be written for LAST year’s birthday, so I figure two weeks late isn’t so bad this time around. Boundless thanks to missyjack and audrarose for the beta reads in the middle of such a hectic time!
Title from a line in King Lear.
~~~
“Mmmmmph.”
It’s morning and Sam’s wandering toward consciousness when he feels something skitter across his cheek.
“Dean,” he mumbles, swiping absently across his face, trying to decide which was worse: some enormous spider crawling over him or Dean starting the latest prank war with a wake-up call. The way his luck is running, it’s probably both.
His eyes slit open, then he shoots straight up, head banging sharply against the Impala’s low ceiling. “Dean! Holy Shit!”
This isn’t a response to waking up with his brother draped all over the front seat, snoring on his shoulder instead of safely over against the driver’s side window. It’s a response to the fact that Dean-- between the time they’d bunked down in the car after a long night of grave desecration and now-- has sprouted himself a new pair of ears.
Perky, grey, fuzzy donkey’s ears.
~~~
“Man, I thought we were done with this.” Dean keeps craning his neck, trying to get a good look in the tiny mirror on the back of the sun visor.
“Me, too,” Sam replies.
It’s the last thing he says for the next forty miles toward civilization, or what passes for it in the Nebraska flatlands. Dean fills the silence with a running commentary that alternates between bitching and complaining, with a few detailed threats of imminent retribution thrown in. Sam thinks that if Dean would just shut up, it would be much easier to pretend this isn’t happening again.
He thinks how easily a week’s worth of hard-won denial and restraint and repression of anything resembling unbrotherly attraction gets stripped clean away. Not by something provocative like an accidental brush of legs under the table or accidentally tripping and tumbling together onto the bed-okay, not that this was a remotely likely scenario, but it could happen-- but triggered by the least sexual part of the whole encounter with Puck: the ears.
Sam also thinks he’s the one who should be driving, because Dean really ought to be hiding from view rather than showcasing those things to every passing car. Not that they ever passed any other cars out here, but driving might help with the not thinking. It certainly seems to help Dean.
“Dude, there’s a motel. If there’s internet, get us a room,” Dean says, pulling them into the parking lot, then muttering under his breath and slouching down practically into the footwell, knees sprawled wide and jacket rucked up over his head, framing his face like a nun’s wimple. “And, for fuck’s sake, no speaking in rhyme.”
Sam throws open the door and walks stiffly to the motel office.
~~~
Sam sits in the semi-darkness of their room, thick, partially-closed curtains blocking out most of the morning sun, staring over at Dean kicked back on the other queen bed. He’s got all the appearance of ease, but those ears of his are pinned back and angry. For a minute, this new method for getting an easy read on Dean’s emotional state makes Sam want to grin, but then he’s back to worrying and chewing on his thumbnail.
If the ears are back, there’s no telling what else might be coming back as well.
Sam has spent some time-- a lot of time, really-- analyzing what happened to them down in Georgia. He’s almost managed to convince himself that it wasn’t his fault: the form the curse took, how it affected them. Dean had certainly forgiven and forgotten and settled right back into their normal-so to speak-lives. But the small matter of Sam’s inability to completely regret what he did and how he can’t seem to stop staring at Dean’s hands or lips or the curve of his spine and how he’s avoiding even the most casual of touches, well. If anyone’s to blame for bringing down on them a new round of…. of cursed behavior, it’s Sam.
He tastes copper and peers down at the tiny drops of blood welling along his cuticle.
Dean digs into the bedspread viciously with his heels and snarls, “I’m going to find Puck and kick his scrawny ass so hard my boot’ll come out of his mouth.”
“So you’ve said.” It’s then Sam decides that, since Dean’s now reduced to repeating hypothetical threats, perhaps it’s time to get his act together, approach this systematically, and find a solution. “So, what makes us certain it’s Puck?”
Dean gives him a “duh!” look and points sharply with both index fingers to either side of his head.
“Okay, okay. Occam’s razor. I get it.” Sam pauses. “So… are you feeling, you know… anything else?” He looks intently down at a long, black scuff on the toe of one shoe.
It’s not like they’ve talked about it in so many words-- or any words, actually-- but nevertheless the decision had been reached, the verdict resolutely determined that whatever went on during the cursed night in the theater was an aberration. Out of their control. What happened in Athens, stays in Athens.
Since then they’ve been going out every night, hitting the bars, ostensibly looking to hustle some cash or gather some intel on this last hunt. As it turned out, Dean also managed to hook up five out of the past seven nights-not that Sam’s counting. Hey, Sam himself even worked up the nerve last Thursday to make out with a girl who’d been coming on to him, right there at the bar over tequila shots. Strategically positioned her where he knew Dean could see the action from the pool table. Felt Dean’s eyes on him the whole time.
It was as if they both had something to prove, to themselves and each other, using soft curves and ponytails and other decidedly non-masculine, non-familial body parts.
“Nope, other than the ears, nothing’s different. No Shakespeare or anything. Feeling fine and dandy.” Abruptly, Dean hops up off the bed and strides over to the mirror on the worn laminate dresser for another look.
Sam takes advantage of the excuse to stare. It’s been getting harder and harder-um, so to speak-- to keep his eyes off of Dean, but at least now he’s got the ears as a legitimate reason.
They’re mostly light grey, shading to brown where they blend into Dean’s hairline. They’re not long or floppy like a rabbit’s, but stand straight up, reaching maybe three or four inches above Dean’s head. The hair on their outsides lies flat and sleek, but there’s downy fur lining the insides, short and velvety-soft just like Dean’s hair when he’s not wearing his stupid, trendy, vanilla-scented hair wax.
Sam realizes Dean’s returning his stare in the mirror, expression unreadable. Then he turns and smirks, hip cocked against the dresser, and says, “Who’s the bigger freak now, Freakboy?”
Sam sighs, deadpans, “You’re right, Dean. It’s you. I’ve never been able to compete with you.”
“Damn straight. Hey, you know what they say about guys with big ears.” Right on cue, one eyebrow shoots upwards.
“Whatever,” Sam replies. Trust Dean not to let a little thing like awkward issues of incest stand between him and a salacious joke. “Listen, we need to make a plan. The way I see it, we have two options. One, we can go back to Athens-“
“No,” Dean says, quickly.
“Two…” Sam presses on, “We can stay here, hunker down, do some research. See what we can find out about breaking the curse. Maybe some other options’ll open up from there.”
Dean nods brusquely, setting the ears bobbing. Ever-active, he turns away and busies himself with scoping out the room, opening random drawers, grabbing the salt from one bag to start lining the windows.
“’Two’ it is then.” Sam runs a hand over his face and mutters to himself, “Yeah, trapped in a hotel room with you. Just what I need.”
Dean’s ears kind of… swivel around. Like satellite dishes or sunflowers following the sun. “I heard that!”
“Great.” Sam grabs his kit out of his duffle and retreats, willing himself not to blush or clarify how that was really a kind of twisted compliment or throw something or puke. “I’m going to take a shower.”
~~~
Twenty minutes later, Sam’s standing in the misty bathroom, working up the nerve to go back out there.
Normally, he wouldn’t bother jerking off in the middle of the day. A short and uncomfortable night’s sleep in the car combined with the stress of this new… development should’ve squelched any urges in that direction. But the minute he’d gotten under the pounding spray of the shower, his hand had been circling his dick and not long after he’d had to bite down on the other fist just to stifle a shout from the force of his orgasm. He wonders whether Dean’s new auditory prowess picked up some stray noise he hadn’t been able to muffle, whether Dean’s wondering about the extra ten minutes he’s spent in here.
He needs to stop thinking about Dean and orgasms at the same time.
Sam slips out of the bathroom, head down, both hands gripping tightly to the towel around his waist, and makes his way over to his bag for some clean clothes. Of course he’d been so distracted he hadn’t thought to bring clothes in with him, although that would’ve been so abnormal as to be a dead giveaway.
Dean appears not to notice his entrance; he’s sitting at the little table by the door, looking intently at something online. But his ears keep moving, keep making these tiny, quick twitches like a horse shooing away a fly. Flick. Sam doesn’t think Dean’s aware he’s doing it, so he’s determined not to read anything into it.
Sam rummages around in his duffle for boxers and sweats. Then he drops the towel. Flick. He leans over to step into his shorts. Flick. He’s so distracted by the ears’ little movements that he’s a bit slow about easing his pants over his hips. Flick.
Sam nearly jumps out of his skin when Dean snarls, “What is this, Sam, a strip show in reverse? Because I gotta tell you, I know stripping, and you’ll need to work on your act if you want to bring in the big bucks.”
“Shut up, asshole,” Sam snaps and flips him off without turning around, thanking God for the fact that he’d just taken care of business five minutes ago, so his body doesn’t betray how the teasing-hell, just the sound of Dean’s voice-- hits home. Otherwise, his dick would probably be twitching as madly as Dean’s ears.
He throws on a shirt as Dean announces, “Fine, Gypsy Rose Lee. You can take over on the laptop. I’m going to make some calls.”
He walks over and snatches the computer out of Dean’s hands. “Well, that certainly sounds more productive than you surfing for porn all day.” Nice, Sam thinks, mentally kicking himself. Might as well write “stupidly jealous” across his forehead in marker for Dean to read.
Dean doesn’t retort like Sam’s expecting. His face as he turns away reveals nothing, but his ears are drooping, just slightly, giving him a sweet, pitiful air like a dog banished to the back yard. Sam’s hands tingle and he can barely restrain himself from reaching over, smoothing his palm along the soft curves until they spring up again, taut, upright… Oh.
Sam runs his hand through his own damp hair instead. Hoo-kay. Research.
~~~
He starts out combing through some likely sites about the lore on Robin Goodfellow and then the Fae in general, searching for potential tracking techniques, precedents for bargaining or counteracting their works, casting a wide net for topics he hasn’t even thought of yet. He’s got a dozen or more tabs open, but he keeps getting distracted by Dean, who’s in the space between the beds, pacing as he talks, cellphone suddenly tiny and odd-looking held up to one elongated ear. After awhile, Sam finds himself surfing through data of a different sort.
Donkeys are the pack animals that go where nothing but mountain goats would dare. These pack animals were prized for their hardiness in arid country. They are sure-footed, can locate food in barren terrain and can carry heavy burdens for days through hot, dry environments. Wild Burros can tolerate a water loss as much as 30% of their body weight, and replenish it in only 5 minutes drinking. Many of these burros survive, even though their owners perish under the harsh desert conditions.
Dean’s ears really should be grotesque, unsettling, ridiculous. Instead, he wears them easily; they fit as if Dean was born to them. Sam tries to figure out why, thinks they soften him, emphasizing the almost inhuman beauty of the sharp lines of cheek and jaw, the lush swoop of lash and mouth.
Dean snaps the phone shut and Sam snaps his attention back to the screen.
Although formal studies of their behavior and cognition are rather limited, donkeys appear to be quite intelligent, cautious, friendly, playful, and eager to learn. They are many times fielded with horses due to a perceived calming effect on nervous horses. If a donkey is introduced to a mare and foal, the foal will often turn to the donkey for support if separated from its mother.
Sam knows he’s being selfish, his strained silence and snappishness making Dean even more self-consciousness and unhappy. Against all good intentions, Sam always closes himself off like this-- before Stanford, after Jess-- burying secrets behind pursed lips and averted gaze. If it weren’t for his own lingering issues, he could… would be supportive, reassuring.
Dammit, what he needs to do is rally himself to start cracking jokes, making light of the whole situation, asking if he should stop at the pet store for Mane ‘n Tail shampoo, calling Dean variations of “mulish” and an “ass” and…
The ass was a symbol of the Greek god Dionysus, particularly in relationship to his companion, Silenus.
For as much guilt as he felt over what happened in Georgia, it’s even worse this time around as Dean suffers the brunt of the curse alone. Yes, the ears aren’t exactly painful or debilitating-although Sam knows being trapped hiding out in the hotel room for any length of time will be excruciating for his brother-and, yes, they’re pretty much a bed of roses compared to the whole possession, compulsion, enacting-romantic-moments thing from before. But he doesn’t understand why Dean’s the one who’s been targeted when Sam’s the one who keeps reliving the moment he lay helpless across Dean’s lap, tasting the salt of Dean’s skin on the tip of his tongue, remembering the sounds Dean made when Sam made him come.
He glances over at Dean who’s off the phone, now propped up on pillows stacked against the headboard, pouring over Dad’s journal. As if it’s the most ordinary thing in the world, Dean’s got one ear in his hand, folded over in half, absent-mindedly rubbing the tip back and forth against his brow and cheek and lips, like he does sometimes with a pen. It’s so unconsciously sensual, Sam bites the inside of his cheek, blood rushing hot and low to his groin. Sam can imagine the soft swipe of it against his own face.
Dean runs his thumb slowly along one plush edge and shivers slightly. Sam swallows a gasp and tears his eyes away.
Donkeys have a reputation for stubbornness, but this is due to some handlers' misinterpretation of their highly developed sense of self preservation. It is difficult to force or frighten a donkey into doing something it sees as contrary to its own best interest, as opposed to horses who are much more willing to, for example, go along a path with unsafe footing.
Once a person has earned their confidence they can be willing and companionable partners and very dependable in work and recreation.
~~~
Two days of dead ends and warm six-packs and a Gilligan’s Island marathon on TV and Dean’s climbing the walls. Sam’s no better off and they’re both sniping at each other non-stop.
Dean’s gotten to the point where can hardly stand to look at him. Sam must’ve done something to give himself away, because Dean’s begun to constantly shy away as if he’s scared Sam’s going to tackle him and ride him into the floor. Or something.
Sam’s got to get some air. “I’m going to run up to Kearney. The university library there has a book that might be helpful.”
Dean huffs. “Great, Sam. And what am I supposed to do while you’re gone? Can’t go do laundry. Can’t go get food. Can’t check out whether the place down the street has a hot bartender or not.” His ears are thrown straight back, parallel to the floor, practically vibrating. “Jesus!”
Sam placates him by offering, “I could pick up something for you before I go?”
“Oh, gee, thanks a ton, but don’t go out of your way on my account. I’ve managed to fend for myself for a long time now.”
“Look, I was just trying to-“
“Better get going, Sam. Traffic’s a bitch this time of day.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.” Dean folds his arms across his chest, determined to get in the last word.
“This could take awhile.”
“How long is awhile?”
Sam knows he’s being unfair, but he spits the words out anyway. “Guess you’re going to have to wait and find out.”
Keys in hand, he stomps out into the parking lot and hears something that sounds suspiciously like a boot thunk into the door behind him.
~~~
No luck at the library and on the way home-- back to the motel, that is-- Sam tries to get his head on straight. Only a week ago, his course had seemed so clear-cut: find Dad, avenge Jess, and get on with life. Until things with Dean had gotten… well, complicated to say the least, and Sam realizes that what he wants now is to fix Dean and fix things with Dean and that nothing else is more important for the foreseeable future.
They had just started being brothers again. He wasn’t going to screw that up because he couldn’t keep these new fucked-up desires in check.
Sam walks in on Dean trying to stuff his ears up under a black knit cap, without success. The hat bulges and pokes unnaturally, no matter how Dean tugs and prods, making the top of his head look like a cauliflower.
“Dean, you aren’t Spock visiting 20th century Earth. Those things are massive, no way are they going to fit under there. Besides,” he jerks a thumb over his shoulder, “it’s like ninety degrees outside. That’s not exactly inconspicuous summer headgear.”
Dean’s eyes widen comically at Sam’s sudden appearance and he hastily yanks the cap off, frowning down at it in his hand. Then he looks at Sam, his whole face lighting up with glee. “Dude, did you just make a reference to Star Trek? You? Sam Winchester? I don’t believe my ears!”
There’s a moment of stunned silence as the both take in what Dean said and simultaneously they burst out laughing. Sam leans against the table, whooping and holding his stomach, while Dean half-sits on the dresser, head thrown back in a full-out cackle.
As they ease down, still snickering, Sam announces, “I brought Subway.” He holds up a bag of sandwiches like a white flag of truce.
“All is forgiven.” Dean snatches it out of Sam’s hand and plumps down on the bed. “I hope you’re hungry,” he mumbles around a mouthful of meatball sub. “I just ordered pizza, too. Wasn’t sure when you’d be getting back.” Down go the ears again, and Sam rubs guiltily at the back of his neck.
“Yeah. Sorry about that.”
“That’s why I was messing with the hat. Wasn’t sure how I was actually going to, you know--” He waves vaguely toward the door, “Pay the guy.”
Sam unwraps his own sandwich and they munch away in contented silence until there’s a knock on the door. Dean doesn’t move other than to make an exaggerated after you gesture and Sam makes a face at him, then hauls himself to his feet.
The kid at the door looks all of fourteen, pimply and lanky, holding the bright red pizza-warming box aloft. “That’ll be $17.50, sir.”
Sam pulls out a twenty, then grabs two more. He steps just through the doorway, causing the delivery guy to back up a step, wary. Sam holds up the cash at eye-level and pitches his voice low, “Hey. I’ll give you an extra forty bucks if you throw in your hat.”
“My hat?” The kid’s wearing a navy baseball cap with the local pizza joint’s slogan--“Hot and Ready”-written in yellow across the front. He looks at Sam like he’s lost his mind, but after a minute he snatches the money, pulls the pizza out of the warmer, then reaches up and takes off the hat, placing it on top of the box in Sam’s hands.
“Enjoy,” the kid smirks, pocketing the cash.
“Oh, I will,” Sam calls. He turns back into the hotel room, pizza in one hand, cap hidden behind his back in the other.
~~~
“Ow. Fuck.” Dean’s impatiently trying to shove the ball cap on. His ears are all scrunched up and sloppy, little wisps of fur poking through the fabric. It doesn’t look any better than it did under the stocking cap and probably feels even more uncomfortable. Dean’s expression resembles a five-year-old on the verge of a tantrum. A five-year-old with really, really large ears.
“Here. Let me see if I can--” Sam whips the hat off of Dean’s head.
Dean yelps, “Watch it!”
“Sorry,” Sam says. “Sorry,” he repeats, voice barely above a whisper. He’s standing so close to Dean he can see his breath feather through the fur in the closest ear. He wets his lips nervously, then sets the back of the cap against the back of Dean’s head and carefully takes hold of an ear. It’s the first time Sam’s touched one; it’s warm and soft and trembling slightly beneath his fingers. So much for restraint.
He smoothes the ear down against the top of Dean’s head, careful not to bend it painfully, then holds it in place with his thumb as he slides along the other one with his index and middle fingers, positioning it flat too, using his free hand to slowly slide the brim of the cap over them and down onto Dean’s forehead. The tip of one ear peeks out and Sam tucks it gently back in.
“There.”
Dean holds himself perfectly still throughout the procedure, hands balled in fists at his sides. As soon as Sam is done, he scoots half a step away, eyes averted, jerking back and forth at the brim of the cap, adjusting the fit.
He checks the look in the mirror, clears his throat. “Awesome, Sam. Thanks.”
“No problem.” There’s a moment of awkward silence, then Sam suggests, “What do you say we hit the bar? I think you’ll pass.”
The tension that’s been sitting in Dean’s shoulders finally relaxes. “Best idea I’ve heard all day.” He gathers up his wallet and tucks the ever-present gun in the back of his waistband. His hand hovers over the keys to the Impala, but the bar’s just up the block, no reason to drink and drive, so he leaves them on the side table.
Sam says, “I guess it’ll be nice to have a little freedom after the past few days stuck in here.”
“Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose, Sammy.”
“Dude. What does that even mean?”
“I dunno. I’m just trying to impart some wisdom of the ages onto my little brother.”
Sam wants to string along Dean’s sudden good humor, so he deliberately takes the bait. “So, who exactly are you implying is Bobby McGee in this picture?”
“Do I even need to answer that question?”
“Jerk.”
“Janis.”
Sam barks out a laugh. “C’mon. If we’re going, let’s go.”
“Okie dokie.” Dean snags a couple of slices of pizza for the road and they head out the door.
~~~
They stumble back in hours later, Sam feeling slightly buzzed and loose-limbed. They’d played some darts and traded a couple shots in between beers and Dean hadn’t even looked twice at the barflies circling around them all night. Not that he could’ve exactly picked up some girl in his condition, but Sam still felt gratified at being the focus of Dean’s full attention after a week’s worth of avoidance.
It takes him only a moment to register how dark and close the room is. Compared with all of the noise and crowd at the bar, it’s shockingly intimate. In the stillness, Sam toes off his shoes, feeling more than seeing Dean brush past him to cross the room. He’s shaky and lightheaded, hot like he’s got a fever.
He hadn’t even realized he’d closed his eyes, but when he opens them, Dean’s staring at him, fingers motionless halfway through unbuttoning his shirt, hunger written plain on his face. The minute Sam meets his gaze, his eyes shift away. Sam’s so sick of this, and there’s just enough alcohol in his system to make an issue of it.
“Dean,” he says, voice laden with threats and promises.
“Go to bed, Sam. Just… I’ll see you in the morning,” Dean replies, pulling off the hat and letting his ears spring upright.
Sam feels the last fragments of his resistance swept away like a sandcastle at high tide. He tried, he honestly tried, but what happened to him-- to them-- last week cracked him open. He’s irrevocably damaged and he can’t deny it any longer.
“No.” Sam strides forward, Dean stumbling back until his shoulders meet the wall. Sam looms and Dean huffs, pressing his lips into a thin line and the muscles of his jaw flex and his chest rises intolerably close, brushing Sam’s shirt as he inhales.
“No curse, no spell this time.” Sam leans in, burying his face in the downy fur of Dean’s left ear, nuzzling. “No one to blame for this but me.” He slides his nose and cheek in a barely-there caress up the ear’s sensitive inside rim.
Dean shudders, violent tremors coursing through his whole body. Sam likes that so much he traces the same path with the tip of his tongue. Dean makes a small noise in the back of his throat and grips Sam’s arms painfully. Not pushing him away, but not drawing him nearer either.
“Sam... Sam, you don’t want this.”
“I do. I want it.” He pulls back, searching Dean’s face for signs of disgust and disappointment. “I want you. I’m sorry. I’m so… I don’t know what to do about it. What do you want me to do?” He doesn’t mean to put it all on Dean, but he has to know he’s not in this alone. When Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t answer, Sam starts to turn away.
Then Dean’s hold on Sam’s biceps tightens, holding him fast. “Please,” he groans, like it’s killing him, like he’s dying. He takes one hand off of Sam’s arm and grabs him around the back of the neck, pulling their foreheads together. He whispers into Sam’s lips, “Don’t make me say it.”
They dive into each other so rapidly their teeth click together. For a few ferocious moments they battle for position, then Dean’s dry, soft lips yield under Sam’s assault.
He wedges one leg in between Dean’s, trapping him against the wall, ruthlessly pushing him onto the balls of his feet and deepening their kiss. Sam licks inside Dean’s mouth greedily, can’t get enough. He’s been starving for this for so long. He glories in the feel of Dean’s cock, rigid and hot through the seam in his jeans as Dean gives a series of jerky thrusts against the flat of Sam’s thigh.
Dean pulls away, pressing his mouth wet against Sam’s neck, under his jaw. The fine fur of his ear catches and drags in the unshaven stubble on Sam’s cheek. “You taste...” His hands are tugging Sam's t-shirt out of his jeans, scrabbling for skin “…even better than I remember.”
He pushes Sam away just far enough to strip off Sam’s shirts and then his own, before surging back into Sam, chests sliding together smooth and breathtaking, Dean’s frantic touches at his shoulders, waist, over his ass, through his hair.
Sam remembers doing this before, getting his brother stripped, spread out naked and salt-scented underneath him, and wants to do it again, this time without coercion to hide behind or surrender to, but with full knowledge that it’s him-them- alone. It was easier that first time, more graceful, more certain, but this… this is infinitely better. Wanted. He feels wanted.
Head buzzing, blood thrumming, Sam fumbles for the buttons of Dean’s fly, goes to sink down in front of him.
“No.” Dean pulls him up and something in Sam’s chest twists with fear that Dean’s having second thoughts, until he continues, “It’s my turn.”
Dean shifts his grip and shoves Sam down sitting on the edge of the bed. He slides to his knees in the space between Sam’s wide-spread legs, hands steady and quick at Sam’s belt and zipper. Looking up, he growls, “Pull the ears and you’re a dead man.”
Sam’s answering snort turns into a gasp as Dean reaches down the back of Sam’s pants, skimming jeans and shorts down in one smooth motion.
Dean leans in but doesn’t put his mouth on Sam, just breathes over his cock, warm and damp. His hands trace Sam’s legs, palms wide, slowly skimming up until they come to rest in the bend of thigh and hip, thumbs brushing in gentle circles over his balls, over the secret patch of skin just behind. Sam can’t help it, bucks up towards Dean’s heat, but Dean clamps down on his hips and continues to tease. Every maddeningly light touch has Sam’s toes curling into the carpet a little; he has to get more friction but he can’t, and it’s making him nearly sob in short hitching breaths.
Finally, finally, Dean swallows him down. He takes his time, slow movements up and down the shaft, tongue rasping and swirling. As Dean moves, Sam feels the velvet slide of the ears along the thin skin of his inner thighs. It’s hot and wet and perfect, but goddamn it also tickles. He can’t help it. He giggles.
Dean glares up at him, but instead of stopping, Oh God, don’t stop, he raises one eyebrow, his lips stretched round and red and obscene, and takes Sam deeper than ever before, thrusting his tongue along the ridge under the head of Sam’s cock, making him throw his head back and shout. It’s like an electric shock, every nerve in his body lights up. Thigh muscles tense and burn as he struggles not to thrust up into Dean’s slick rhythm.
Sam’s hand slides up to cup Dean’s head and his fingers work their way into the bristle of hair where one long, tender ear joins the skull. Without conscious thought-he’s so far beyond that now-his index and middle fingers brush in quick, desperate strokes around the ear’s base.
Dean stiffens and pulls off for a moment. “Oh, Christ!” He digs his forehead into Sam’s thigh. “Again! Please. Sam…. Sammy, do that again.”
He does and Dean gives a small cry, curses, then wraps his lips once more around Sam, speeding up the pace and sucking and stroking and, fuck, stroking his own cock with his free hand, until it’s all Sam can do to keep strumming his thumb along the rigid edge of Dean’s ear. Dean squirms, putting more and more pressure on Sam’s cock, until Sam does tug on the ear he’s holding, urgently trying to get Dean to pull off before Sam comes. Dean simply hums encouragement and buries his nose all the way to Sam’s belly and Sam feels his orgasm hurtling up his spine, through his body, flowing out into the heat of Dean’s mouth.
Sam’s boneless and weak, aftershocks still thrilling through him as Dean stands and strips the rest of his own clothes off. He pushes Sam backward onto the bed, manhandling him onto his stomach and covering him, pressing him into the mattress. “Want this so bad, Sammy. So bad,” Dean moans, sharp nips at the nape of his neck and under his ear.
Sam rouses and tenses. He whispers, “I’ve never… I don’t-“
“Shhh,” Dean straddles Sam’s hips, running soothing hands up and down his flank. “Shhh, don’t worry. Just let me- Just this.” Dean licks his palm and slicks his cock once, twice, then slips it into the cleft of Sam’s ass. He begins to move, rutting slowly against Sam’s body, easing back to almost touch Sam’s entrance before sliding upward again. Over and over and Sam imagines what it would be like to have Dean actually thrust up inside him instead, to be split open and filled, and the thought of it makes his cock twitch and start to rise again.
Dean rears back on hands and knees, leaning down to glide his tongue, flat and slow and drenched, up the already slippery groove, soft fur of his ears easing up along Sam’s back at the same pace. The unfamiliar sensations overload his senses, making him jolt and writhe and nearly rip the sheets in his fisted hands. Then Dean is covering him once more, hips plunging and grinding down into Sam’s again. Sam reflexively matches Dean’s rhythm and rocks up into the quickening thrusts, his ass and the small of his back slick with Dean’s spit and precome.
Dean’s groaning now and babbling as his movements turn erratic. “Fuck, Sam. Feel-ah-feel so. Perfect. God, please. Sam! Yes.” He knots one hand in Sam’s hair, the other grips Sam’s hip and he shoots, messy-hot and thick, everywhere over Sam’s back and ass and thighs.
After a moment, Dean rolls off and Sam turns onto his side, heart galloping, to face him. Dean’s still gasping for breath, one arm over his face -- a position so reminiscent of last time. Without a word, Sam gently moves Dean’s arm, pulls it down and looks his brother in the face. His lips are red and swollen, the ears limp and relaxed, his eyes heavy-lidded and… twinkling.
“You know,” Dean rasps out, “things could be worse. I could’ve had a tail instead.”
Sam buries his head in the pillow and crows with laughter.
~~~
When he wakes a few hours later, it’s morning. Dean’s still sleeping, his face mushed into the pillow, all soft and boyish. His left hand lies heavy in the middle of Sam’s chest.
The ears are gone.
Not daring to move, Sam stares for a long, long time. He can’t summon up any of the doubt and remorse and shame that have ridden him this last week, but there’s a lingering fear that turns his hands numb and his gut cold. A fear of what will happen when Dean opens his eyes.
He runs through a dozen scenarios in his head, strategies for keeping Dean from freaking out, running off, shutting down. He systematically imagines all the ways this could go, all the things he could do, everything from pleading to logical reasoning to guilt-trips to handcuffing Dean to the headboard. He files away that last one for future reference.
But in the end, when Dean’s eyelids crack open and he lifts that hand slowly off of Sam to check his ears, Sam says, “If I’d known that was all it took, I’d’ve had you on your knees days ago.”
Dean’s eyes widen in surprise for a moment, then he closes them and flips onto his back, lips twitching with laughter. He stretches, naked and unabashed, and something in the vicinity of Sam’s stomach does somersaults.
“Um.” Dean gives a little cough and looks at Sam sidelong. “Perhaps I should change my plans for kicking Puck’s ass?” He smiles a bit tentatively.
Sam mouth stretches wide in an answering grin. “Yeah. Sounds good to me.”
“Why does that little fucker care so much about our sex life anyway?”
“I have no idea,” Sam replies. “But I say we err on the side of caution for awhile.” He takes a chance and leans over to suck sharply on the lobe of Dean’s perfectly human ear.
Dean gives what some might characterize as a squeak and swiftly rolls on top of Sam, pinning him. He leans down to murmur hot into Sam’s neck. “How long is awhile?”
“Guess you’re going to have to wait and find out.”
~end~