Casey679 Doesn't Write Fanfiction

Fic: Strong as the Weakest Link

2023-07-30T09:23:21Z

Title: Strong as the Weakest Link
Artist: OutofNowhere82
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural/Wincest
Rating: Explicit
Length: 4.6k
Warnings: None
Community: Wincest Reversebang 2023
Tags: D/s, angst, dom Dean, sub Sam, cock-warming

Summary: Sam has always wrestled with his anxiety. BDSM gave him an outlet in college, but now he and Dean are finding a new normal.

The leather cord feels warm against Sam's neck – it's just a strap of leather, barely half an inch wide but deceptively strong, with a simple snap at the end to hold it in place. Sam could rip it off his neck at any time – but he won't.

The leather is a comforting contrast to the fine links of the chain that had rested there in the past, and he prefers that, even though he hadn't thought he would. The day collar had been from Jess.

-Links of chain scattering as the werewolf's claws missed his neck by centimeters, tinkling as they hit the ground like hail on the pavement, the last thing he had of Jess (shh,it'sallright,you'regood,baby,you'resogoodforme) fractured beyond repair and it only sinks in a few seconds after that, that it could have been his blood on the ground instead. The wolf's body hits the ground, already shrinking back into the figure of the poor doomed security guard who'd been bitten, and Sam's suddenly on his knees, scrabbling to gather up the broken pieces of metal as Dean impatiently tells him they need to go-

The leather cord feels like a new start.

Dean's hand rests on his shoulder, calming him, grounding him. "You ok?"

Sam licks his lips and smiles, banishing the dark thoughts. Dean's eyes narrow slightly, which means that Sam's expression is a little more apprehensive than he'd like, more nervous than he'd intended, so he bobs his head just a bit, a nod. Yes, I do, he thinks, I do want this, I want-

-"I lose words sometimes, when I'm, y'know, when it's good. It doesn't mean anything's wrong, it's like the opposite? But I know that makes some people uncomfortable and-"

"It's fine, Sammy. I got you."-

"Okay then."

Dean grins warmly and then stands back, muscles rippling as he reaches down and pulls his black t-shirt off, over his head. It's one of Sam's favorite things to watch. Fortunately, Dean has no rules about keeping his eyes lowered or anything like that, so Sam keeps his head up and drinks in every bit of skin that is unveiled with the shirt's ascent.

Whenever they'd stayed in one place long enough for Sam to have the opportunity, he'd been a track-and-soccer kid in school. Dean had preferred weights and wrestling, and it still shows. He's got the kind of strong core that only comes about from hard work that trains all the body equally. His waist will never be as thin as Sam's, but what's there is almost all muscle, with just a hint of softness from the beers that he loves to knock back during down time.

Dean's chest is a work of art. The hairs on it are fine and blonde, enough to remind you how much of a man he is, but not so much that Sam can't run his tongue across it, kissing and worshipping as he goes. It smells faintly of sweat and salt and last night's cologne – it's hot in the south, even this early in the morning, and Dean hasn't showered yet. There are a few more scars now than there used to be, and Sam no longer holds the roadmap to each one. It doesn't matter. Dean's body will always be perfect to him.

Dean lets the t-shirt drop to the ground, preening a little under Sam's admiration. He makes a point of flexing as he grabs his long-sleeved red flannel shirt and tosses it on, not bothering to button it up. It's better that way, framing Dean's body and directing Sam's eyes down to his abdomen and the little fuzzy treasure trail that disappears into the V of his unzipped jeans. No underwear, of course – Dean goes commando a lot more often these days now that he knows he can get Sam to drop to his knees with the snap of his fingers. Easier access, he says.

The shirt leaves Sam just a little bit conflicted, as always. One the one hand, it's the one thing Dean routinely likes to wear when he tops, the same way Sam always wears his collar, and Sam's developed a Pavlovian reaction to seeing it: one glance and he's hard and aching.

On the other hand, anything that covers up Dean's body in any way is a crime in itself.

"Here's how it's going to go, Sammy." Dean adjusts his jeans slightly, his cock hard but tantalizingly just out of Sam's view, its outline thick and tantalizing through the denim. "I'm gonna sit right here at the table and enjoy the delicious breakfast I got for us-" he gestures at the white paper bag on the counter that smells like bacon and butter and eggs "-and you're gonna kneel between my thighs like a good boy while I do. We'll have us a nice, relaxing morning. Can you do that?"

Yeah, Sam thinks, his head a little floaty already at the thought. I can do that.

* * *

It takes Dean a while to understand the chain. He's downright dismissive of it the first time he sees it – "You get another dog when you ran off to Stanford?" and confused the first time Sam wears it – "No offense Sammy but it just doesn't seem like your thing." But he shuts up pretty quick when Sam says tersely that it was a present from Jess.

Of course, that only lasts until he finds out what exactly it signified between them.

"How is this thing you and Jess had any different than what we already do? You like it rough in bed, I'm happy to oblige, you wanna be held down, I'm right there with you, no stupid collar needed. You wanna be told what to do? I used to do that, and you ran off across the country to get away from it, remember?"

"It's not the same." Sam knows he's sounding churlish. Good. He's feeling damn churlish, too. "See, THIS is why I didn't tell you. Because I knew you wouldn't get it!"

Dean runs his fingers through his hair in frustration. It's a habit he picked up right after John caught him trying to smoke cigarettes – something to keep his hand busy so it doesn't think about smoking. Sam's not even sure Dean's aware he's doing it sometimes.

"Okay, Sammy, so tell me what I'm not getting. I'm listening." He sighs. "I promise. I really am."

Sam looks out the window. Somehow it's easier to say to Dean's reflection than to him in person. "It's like, it's not just the orders, it's the person doing the orders, and them knowing how they'll affect you."

Dean stays silent, so Sam pushes forward. "You and Dad – you'd say what you wanted, and I'd do it, but it never mattered if it wasn't what I wanted, it was ONLY what you wanted. And if I didn't want that, well, too bad." He tries to laugh, but it sticks in his throat, more a choked off cough than anything. "And of course the last thing I wanted was Dad giving me orders in bed."

Dean's got his hands on the wheel at three and nine, his eyes staring straight and not at Sam, but Sam can tell it's an act. His fingers are clenched tight enough that they're white around the leather, and his jaw is jutted forward the way it always is when he's gritting his teeth.

"It was different with Jess, though, because she got it. When she took over, when she told me what to do, what she wanted was what made me happy. She thought about what I needed and what she needed and made mutual decisions based on what was best for both of us – what made us both happy."

Dean turns and stares at him, eyes dark with jealousy. "I used to make you happy."

Sam wants to tell him about the rest of it, about how terrified he was every time he had to follow his family's orders. The overwhelming fear that welled up at night that he wasn't going to be good enough to keep them alive. That he'd make the wrong call, or fire a second too slow, that their blood would be on his hands- but Jess wanted simpler things. Stand. Kneel. Crawl. Worship. (goodboy,Sam,sogood) He wants to tell him, but he doesn't, because he wants Dean's respect and trust even more. He can't be weak. Not in front of Dean.

"…It's not the same thing."

* * *

"Down," Dean commands, and Sam drops to his knees.

Dean's bigger than Jess – taller, wider – which is perfect. Sam feels a little like he's betraying Jess by comparing anything about her to Dean (but then again he felt like a traitor all those times in college when he did the opposite), but kneeling by Dean, he doesn't feel like an awkward hulking giant, the way he sometimes did at Jessica's feet, even when she was wearing her stilettos.

Kneeling by Dean feels… right.

Sam drops to all fours and follows behind as his brother takes his sweet time walking to the table. Sam makes sure to place his hands and feet just so to make his ass sway enticingly as he goes, even though Dean's in front of him and can't see it. (goodboysarestillgoodwhennoone'slooking,Sam) Besides, you never know what mirrors might reveal.

Dean drops into the chair indecorously and pats his thigh, legs sprawled wide apart. Sam's grateful for the pillow Dean's dropped there for him, since unlike Dean, he's naked, and the hotel's rug has seen better days.

The position's nothing new – Sam's been here between Dean's legs tons of times – but it feels different now with the collar on. More. Up close, he can smell that heady scent that's unmistakably Dean, the musky smell of sweat and denim and balls that makes Sam want to drive his nose into his groin like an addict and huff. But Dean hasn't given permission, so-

Dean's hand comes down gently on Sam's head, fingers tangling in his curls. The touch is electric, sending shivers cascading down Sam's back.

"Just like that, Sammy." Sam loses himself in the feeling of Dean's fingers as they twirl through his hair before trailing down lower. He closes his eyes, heart racing as he savors the feel of skin-over-skin. Dean's thumb traces the ridge of his brow down to the curve of his jaw, and then up to the bow of his lips before pressing gently in. Sam opens his mouth obediently, suckling gently. Dean's fingers curl under his chin, tilting his head up slightly before withdrawing.

Sam's eyes flutter open just as Dean's hand returns with a bite of buttery croissant.

He presses it to Sam's lips. "Open up, baby."

He does.

* * *

Sam has never understood how the urges he'd wrestled with for years came so easy for Jess. One minute they're at a party – "I'll go get us drinks. In the meantime… Sit! Stay!" "Oh, that's how it is, is it?" "…It could be, baby, you wanna be my good boy?" – and the next minute she's buying books, dragging him up to San Francisco to check out the sex shops, learning how to walk in four-inch stiletto heels and threatening to get him his own pair so she can put him to work on the stripper pole. Even when Sam didn't know exactly what he liked or had trouble talking about it out loud, she always had a way of figuring it out. And sometimes when he was asleep next to her, he wondered if he'd ever had the guts to say anything to Dean, would Dean have done the same?

"..."

"What?"

Sam's not really paying attention to Dean, sorting their laundry while his brother fucks around on the computer, but he can always tell when Dean's not saying something. Even so, he's not prepared for what follows.

"…I'm not peeing on you."

"What?!" Sam's voice goes so high it cracks at the end as he whips his head around to stare at Dean. "What on earth made you think-"

Dean tilts the laptop screen forward so he can stare at Sam over it. "I'm just saying. It says here that setting limits are important, so I'm setting them. No pee. That's just weird."

"…Didn't I tell you not to go checking out all those websites on your own?" Sam concentrates on keeping his voice even and turns his attention firmly back to folding the clothes piled in front of him. "Half of what you're going to find there isn't pleasurable – or even possible – for a lot of people who aren’t porn stars. And even so, I can tell you, with absolute 100-percent surety, I do not and will never find any erotic satisfaction from having your urine anywhere near me."

…"What? Why? Is my pee not good enough for you?"

Sam doesn't respond. In fact, he pointedly turns his back to Dean and holds up a sock, trying to decide if the hole in the toe is too bad to keep.

It is.

Dean's on a roll. "I mean, your pee is no picnic either, especially after one of your asparagus binges. Stinks up the whole bathroom!"

Sam tosses the sock. It's a Walmart special, five pairs for $10. They can always get more.

"It's a little weird that you pay so much attention to mine, don't you think? Are you sure-"

"-damn sure, Sammy. No pee."

"Fine by me."

The other sock is fine. Sam debates keeping it, but it doesn't seem right to separate it from its brother. Probably something Freudian going on there.

"Hmm… okay, so… what about, let's see, fisting?"

Sam picks up another sock and sighs, all drawn out and suffering, hoping the tone of it can convey exactly how little interest he has in having someone's hand lodged in his intestines. "Again, no."

"Sounding?"

Something shoved up his dick? "No."

"Uh, lessee, liquidophilia?"

"N- wait, what? Uh… I don't even know what that is."

"Dipping your balls in liquid, Sammy, don't you know anything?" He can hear the smirk in Dean's voice. "Man, you are behind the times."

For god's sake. "You JUST read that word right now!"

"Don't be jealous because I'm better educated than you, college boy. It's not a good look."

Sam rolls up the socks in his hand and tosses them at Dean instead of into the basket, enjoying the way they bounce off his head. "I'm sorry to disappoint, but like I told you, I'm just… not into most of the stuff on that website. Not that there's anything wrong with it, it's just – it's not really about kinks and fetishes for me, so much as the power dynamic. I like having someone to please, being able to follow orders, making someone else feel good. Being held down, or tied down – at the mercy of someone I can trust – that's top ten for me, no, make that even top five."

Dean laughs. "Is that why you always sucked at wrestling?"

Sam can't resist smirking back at him. "Pretty sure I got exactly what I wanted out of 'losing' those training sessions with you."

"Okay, so bad wrestling, checkmark. What else?"

The words come a little easier now.

"I dunno, huh. I mean, really, bondage, blindfolds, that's about as kinky as I get. Maybe spanking, or like, flogging, but for the fun of it, not as punishment. Mostly like I said, though, it's having someone else in control, calling the shots, but only if it's really my choice. It only counts if I can say no and walk away, no harm no foul – otherwise…" Jess's words echo in his ears as he says what it took her so long to help him understand. "Otherwise, it's not consent, it's coercion."

He closes his eyes, relieved to have it all out there, but terrified now that it is.

Terrified that this is something Dean doesn't want.

Dean, the bastard, chuckles and closes the laptop. "See, Sammy, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

He stands up and retrieves the socks Sam had thrown, walking over and pressing them gently into his hands.

"For the record," his breath is warm against Sam's skin as he leans in, fingers tightening just slightly around Sam's to hold him firm - but not so tightly he can't get away - as he whispers, "everything you said sounds good to me, too."

Telling Dean what he likes is hard, Sam realizes, but yelling at him about it when Dean has pushed him a little too far… that's easy. Dean knows that; the bastard even planned for it.

And Sam has his answer.

* * *

After the food is gone, Dean hands Sam a glass of water to sip, then tilts his head up until their eyes meet. "You good?"

Sam nods, enjoying the slide of the leather cord against his neck, the way the callouses on Dean's fingers feel against his skin. Dean touches him all the time now, now that he knows how much it grounds Sam, how he can make Sam's muscles relax and breathing calm just by a hand on his shoulder, fingers in his hair.

"You need to stretch? Or are you okay sitting down there a while longer?"

Sam nods again.

"Man, you are gone right now, aren't you? No words, huh?"

A third nod.

"That's okay, baby. How about we give your mouth something else to do instead?"

Words may be nonexistent for Sam, but other things are easy, especially under the glow of Dean's approving smile. It's easy to sit back and slide into a sitting position while Dean pulls himself free from his pants. It's easy to watch, mouth watering, as Dean's cock flops out, thick and already half-hard as it bobs in front of Sam, its head slick with little pearls of liquid. It's easy to wait for Dean's signal before leaning forward and begin to suck.

Everything's easy like this because it's Dean.

Dean lets Sam do what he likes at first, which is nice and uncomplicated, because when it comes to Dean and his dick, there's very little Sam doesn't like. He starts by sucking Dean's cock down to the root, all growing eight inches of it. He breathes through his nose and lets it bump against the back of his throat, long expert in knowing how to avoid triggering his gag reflex. Once it's wet and glistening with his saliva, he bobs his mouth up and down a few times, then pulls back far enough that the cock pops free from his lips and slaps against Dean's stomach. Like a cat, he rubs his face against it, deliberately smearing precum and saliva across his skin, savoring the way it feels against his cheeks and eyelids. Then he licks his tongue up the underside from base to tip before slipping it back into his mouth and starting all over again.

Finally, before he can come, Dean wraps his fingers in Sam's hair and pulls him back. "Don't suck now," he says, "just keep it warm for me, okay?" He guides Sam's head forward then, not stopping until his pubic hair is tickling Sam's nose and his cock sits heavily on Sam's tongue.

Sam nods, carefully using his nose to breathe so he won't choke on the cock filling his mouth. Ever since Dean first proposed this – I was reading about this thing, it's called cock-warming – Sam has loved it. It's almost like meditation to him, a way for him to let all the anxious thoughts slip away, to empty his mind and just be.

Time passes, and Sam's world narrows down to the cock in his mouth and his own rock-hard penis between his legs. It takes a few minutes for Sam's dick to get the message that nothing exciting is going to be happening and settle down, although it never flags below a half-chub. Above him, he can hear the telltale sound of rustling pages as Dean settles in to read the paper, one hand slipping back down to pet Sam's hair. Normally he'd be sitting across from Dean, doing the same thing on his laptop, but mornings like this – on mornings like this, he doesn't have to do anything but feel and smell and taste and obey.

It's bliss.

* * *

"Dad knows about the anxiety," Dean says while they're on the road, the way someone might say, "The sky is blue" – like it's no big fucking deal instead of the secret that had haunted Sam's adolescence.

"Anxiety? What?" Sam says dumbly, because this conversation is out of left field and all his clever lies have gone out the window. "I don't-"

"You really think he didn't do a drive-by or five while you were in California?" Dean asks pointedly. "He saw you coming out of the school clinic and that was all she wrote. Took him about a week to figure out how to break in and read your records."

It's like all the air is sucked out of Sam's lungs. "All of it?" he asks faintly.

Dean snorts. "He wasn't too thrilled to be painted as a gang lord, so yeah, all of it. Don't get me wrong, he thought it was bullshit for the first year or two, but he said he got it in the end." Sam steals a glimpse at Dean, trying to gauge if he's lying, but no, he's serious. "Kinda like shellshock, he said."

Not entirely, Sam thinks, but also not entirely wrong. "Something like that," he agrees finally.

The pause that follows is excruciating. Then, almost reluctantly, Dean says, "It took Dad less time than it took me, if I'm honest. I mean, I was there to keep you safe, why wouldn't you be okay, y'know? But there was never – we were always – it wasn't until Dad was gone and I had no idea what had happened to him that I got it, that being the one left behind on a hunt is a whole different ballgame."

Sam lets out the breathe he's been holding. "I think I had like 30 heart attacks each time you guys went out. I mean, like, full-on panic attacks, the school nurse thought I had asthma because I couldn't breathe when it happened."

Dean glances over at the chain around Sam's neck. "And that thing really helps? Because I mean, if you need it, I could-"

Sam's hand reaches up instinctively to touch the metal links that ground him even now. "I don't know. I mean... not now, but maybe-?"

Maybe someday.

* * *

Sam surfaces to the soft touch of Dean's fingers under his collar, the shift of his hips as he slouches down more in the chair, spreading his legs a little further apart. It's an obvious invitation, one Sam's happy to accept with a flick of his eyes to Dean's face for approval.

The blowjob is fast and a little sloppy – not one of his absolute bests, but they're both worked up. Sometimes Dean likes to hold him still and fuck his face, but days like these, it's the opposite. Other than the fingers clenching his hair, Dean's content to let Sam do all the work, flicking his tongue over the sensitive spot under the head of Dean's cock while he jacks him off. Sam's own cock is harder than ever, but Sam knows better than to touch it, not without permission. He'll never admit it to Dean – not yet anyway – but it's always hotter for him not to touch it. The longer he goes without getting off, the better it feels when he finally does.

Sam drags the act out as long as he can, but they don't have all day – the coroner's office will be opening soon, so they've got places to go. When it's over, when Dean's finishing bucking into his mouth and tugging his hair (sogood,Sammy,sogood), he pulls Sam carefully to his feet, then yanks him in close for a kiss, his tongue chasing the taste of his own come in Sam's mouth.

"Good boy," he murmurs. "You were perfect." Then he slaps him on the ass with a grin. "First shower's yours, but no funny stuff – I've got plans for that later on!"

The languid, dreamy feeling in Sam's head dissipates halfway through the shower, but the sense of peace it brings will carry him all through the day.

* * *

Sam knows that what they've got isn't what could be considered healthy. Brothers aren't supposed to be THAT close. But their lives have never been normal.

Growing up in constant close quarters, it never seemed anything less than right when their individual nocturnal explorations into masturbation – "I can hear you, Sammy, you're not exactly being quiet" – turned into parallel explorations – "look, masturbating is normal, how about I do it too, then you won't be embarrassed about it" – and then into mutual explorations – "that spot you said I should press with my fingers, Dean, the one under my balls, I can't find it, can you show me?" – and more.

Sam was never jealous about the girls Dean went with because he always knew who Dean would come home to. It's funny that that's the one area his anxiety never tainted, because Dean was the exact opposite. He'd push Sam to go out with girls, then sabotage it by showing up at the same school dance, dragging Sam away for a furtive kiss under the bleachers that left him too hard to return to his date. Maybe part of Dean knew even then that Sam was thinking about leaving.

They both should have known better. Sam will always come home to Dean.

The cord helps with that. Sam didn't always wear Jess's chain, only when they were going to play that day, but Sam wears Dean's cord all the time, and Dean's more relaxed now. He doesn't shove Sam at women any more in some fucked-up game of chicken to see if Sam will turn them down. And he doesn't bitterly bark orders at him, expecting a fight. Instead, there's a look of surprised delight as Dean tells him his plans, and checks in to see if Sam is okay with them, and Sam agrees. Even their regular lovemaking has lost that slightly desperate tinge that he can now see it had. They're not both silently counting down to some apocalyptic moment when someone does or says the wrong thing and everything falls apart.

They're both exactly where they want to be. He'll always mourn Jess. But he'll never regret this.

* * *

Half an hour later, suits and hair perfectly in place, there's no sign of how they spent their morning. The leather cord is still taut around his neck, safely hidden behind the pinstriped tie. Sam can feel Dean's eyes on it sometimes, when he thinks no one's looking. But Sam can tell.

When they were younger, when they were training, John loved to tell them to work harder – every chain is only as strong as its weakest link. Sam thinks of the collar Jess gave him and knows better now. No matter how beautiful or strong, some chains are just destined to break.

He looks at his brother and feels the bonds between them, stronger now than ever before. Feels the weight of the hidden leather on his neck and how its presence counteracts the tightness in his lungs. He's got this. They've got this.

John was wrong, Sam thinks. Chains can be reinforced. There doesn't have to be a weak link. He never had to carry the weight alone.

Dean looks at Sam and smiles. "Ready?"

I could do this for the rest of my life, Sam thinks.

"Let's go."

~fin~

Fic: Fire at Midnight

2023-07-30T06:57:34Z

Title: Fire at Midnight
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural RPF
Rating: PG13
Length: 5.4k
Warnings: None
Community: SPN J2 Xmas Exchange 2022
Tags: Grief, healing, pagan themes

Summary: It's Jared's first Yule since his gran passed on, and it's harder than ever for him to believe that the light will return. It might just take a little bit of a yuletide miracle to find his faith until the sun returns.

The solstice is meant to be shared. Jared's gran had been fond of saying that. "The light comes from our hearts as much as the sun, Jay. When it's darkest, that's when we need the most light. We share it with each other to keep the fires burning until the sun returns."

Jared's gran wouldn't have approved of him spending the solstice alone, not in the slightest.

But that was kind of the point, wasn't it? Jared's gran wasn't there, and she wouldn't ever be there again. He'd set the Yule bonfire in her memory, but when it came to arranging the party that should have accompanied it, he just couldn't. The very idea of it seemed interminable. Hours of small talk, countless people telling him how sorry they were, awkward pagan hippie songs about nature and the goddess and the horned man that he wasn't sure he even believed in anymore – he just couldn't face it.

No, this year the vigil would just be him and the darkness, a sole flickering hope for the light to return. It felt appropriate.

Well, mostly him and the darkness. Honey and Bear, his grandmother's dogs – his now – were there to keep him company. When he'd called the circle around the clearing earlier, they'd followed him dutifully from point to point, just as they'd done for her. Now they were curled up on the blanket he'd brought for them, dozing next to his chair and the small cooler of cider. Well into their golden years, the mutts would spend most of the night like they did every night – napping, occasionally waking up to snuffle after some scent or sound that caught their attention.

He hadn't originally planned to be alone. His brother Jake and Uncle Tim were supposed to have flown in that morning, but it had all been pointless. Their flight had been delayed, cancelled, rescheduled and then delayed again. And even if they'd managed to catch a late flight like Tim swore up and down they would, none of the car rentals would be open. The best they could do is grab a hotel room near the airport and come over the next day, weather permitting.

Which was fine. He'd be okay.

Jared was used to being alone. When he was twelve, he'd been alone for two months after the terrible accident, the car crash that had taken Jared's mom and dad and unborn sister. Finally, Gran had swooped in like a rebel angel and rescued him from the foster home where the social workers had stashed him, and taken him home to live with her and Uncle Tim in the mountains of Vermont.

In the ten years that followed, she'd been more of a parent to him than either of his biological ones ever had. For one thing, Jared hadn't even known he'd had an uncle until then. Tim had just laughed and said that his dad wasn't fond of the company he kept. Men, Gran had explained later, because Tim was "that way" and Jared's parents, rest their souls, hadn't been the most understanding. Jared soon came to the traitorous conclusion that his dad must have been an asshole, because Uncle Tim was brilliant, and funny, and so were his friends. And besides, Jared thought sometimes, he might be a little "that way" himself.

Five years later, Jared got proof that his dad was an asshole when Uncle Tim got called away in the middle of the night, only to show up two days later with Jake in tow. Jake was a snotty ten-year-old who hated Jared on sight, and the feeling was mutual. He was apparently the result of his dad stepping out on his mom not one night, or one week, but every month, right up to the day when he just stopped coming entirely, When Jake's mom tried to call him, she found the phone had been disconnected. Then she found the obituary and realized that Jared's dad had had a whole other life, with a wife and a child and everything, and washed her hands of the whole thing. And then she'd caught cancer, stage 4, and there was no one she could find who could take Jake in except for his deadbeat dad's family.

It had taken him and Jake the better part of a year to bury the hatchet. Jared had resented Jake because their dad had set up a trust fund for him, which meant that Jake got to go to a fancy private boarding school. Meanwhile Jared went to a public school – which he didn't hate but still, it was the principle of the thing – because his dad had mismanaged his real family's money enough that they'd had to sell off the furniture and car just to pay for the funeral. Jake was angry because even without the furniture and the car, Jared still had all kinds of keepsakes of their father – clothes, pictures, golf clubs and everything, while all Jake had was one framed photo of them at a ballgame. Jared had days, weeks in a row of having time with their dad. Jake had one day a month.

One day Gran had had enough and sat them both down one day and told them it was okay to be upset at their dad, but she wasn't about to put up with a second set of brothers who wouldn't talk to each other. Family was important, and all they had was each other. And things hadn't been exactly okay afterwards, but they got better. Jared started looking forward to Jake coming home at the end of the semesters, and Jake started being happy to see him. And Gran's smile made it all worthwhile. There were more bonfires, and parties, and friends, and even college.

And then she had died.

Jared hadn't been there when she'd passed. His friends had invited him out on an overnight trip, and she'd pushed him to go – "it's a gardening weekend, Jay, just me and the grass. I'll cut a little, smoke a little, maybe have dinner down at the diner. Go have fun. It's fine."

Except when he'd returned, it hadn't been.

It'd been fast, the authorities said. She probably never even woke up when her heart gave out. Small mercies, they said, a kindness to go so peacefully and so quickly.

It didn't feel kind or merciful from where Jared was standing. It just felt… cold.

Jared tossed another log on the fire vengefully, enjoying the way the flames sparked angrily back at him. The ferociously flickering orange-and-red beacon jumped higher in response, forcing back the winter's biting cold even further. He took off his parka and tossed it carelessly nearby, shuffling his chair a little bit closer to the fire. The heat would leave him a little bit sunburnt tomorrow, but right then, he didn't care.

He reached into the cooler and retrieved one of the ciders he'd brought, popping off the lid and raising it in a toast.

"Here's to you, Gran. The greatest woman I've ever known. May your next adventure return the love you gave me threefold. I'll keep you in my heart until we meet again, and look for you when the veil grows thin." He took a sip of cider, enjoying the way the alcohol warmed his system. "One for me" – he took another sip – "one for you" – and then poured the rest of the bottle onto the ground, just like Gran would have done – "and one for the horned man."

Around the clearing, the shadows pressed in, even more oppressive under the dark of the new moon. Somewhere in the woods an owl hooted, and the weird yattering barks of a fox rang out in response. Honey's ears perked up, contemplating the chase, but the cry didn't repeat. A few minutes later, she drifted back off to sleep.

It seemed like a good idea, Jared thought. Maybe he'd just close his eyes for a second, too.

Just for a second.

* * *

*snap*

He woke to the break of a twig.

It shouldn't have been enough to wake him, not with the fire still crackling away, but somehow the sound of it shot through his dreams like a bolt of electricity, sending him scrambling out of his chair. Beside him, Honey and Bear clambered to their feet, staring across the bonfire at the stag that stepped into the clearing.

It was majestic – almost as tall as Jared himself when he stood, with broad antlers that spread out to the sky. Its coat shone a pure, brilliant white like freshly fallen snow, a sharp contrast to its eyes, which gleamed red in the firelight. It must have been drawn in by the warmth, he thought absently.

The stag's gaze met Jared's. It felt deep and wise and somehow sad, as if it had been drawn in by Jared's mourning. For a moment, the world froze–

-and then, moment over, the stag pivoted with a bounding leap and bolted back into the darkness. Bear and Honey immediately gave chase, baying and barking like they were puppies as they pursued it into the woods.

Jared stood there, gormlessly blinking until his brain confirmed that yes, he was awake and yes, that had really just happened – and yes, the dogs were gone.

Shit. The dogs were gone.

"It's not safe," he murmured to himself. It wasn't deer hunting season, but still – there were dangers in the woods. Hunters sometimes left traps behind in the mountain, and there were places where the trail suddenly gave way to rocks and a ravine. They could be hurt- or worse-

It wasn't safe.

And then he was chasing after them, the bonfire a flickering light behind him before he'd even realized that he'd left without his jacket. He could go back… but the dogs were just ahead…

"Bear!" he called out. "C'mon boy, get back here!"

The trees seemed to press in around him as he ran, dodging left – no, right – to follow the sound of the barking.

"Honey!" he tried again. "Leave that deer alone! He's got as much right to be here as you!"

Pine needles crunched underfoot as he ran, their aroma crisp and sharp on the breeze. Somewhere ahead of him a fox barked out a territorial warning as small eyes stared up at him from the bushes before scattering.

No matter what he did, he couldn't close the distance to the dogs. In fact, he was falling behind. Their barking faded away, along with the yip of the fox and all the other nightlife Jared had undoubtedly frightened with his passage. His lungs burned from the cold night air.

A stitch seared through his side, and he pulled up short, panting.

It was pointless. The dogs would find their way back, but if he went any further, the same couldn't be said of him. And all the things he was worried about, like the traps – those could hurt him, too. What had he been thinking?

He looked back the way he thought he'd come, and realized something worse: He couldn't see the bonfire or his camp.

That was okay, though, he wasn't lost in the dark woods under a new moon on the longest night of the year, he just had to retrace his steps and… He shivered, sweat chilling against him as he turned around and to backtrack his path.

Nothing seemed familiar. He wasn't certain – no, it was… he changed direction and walked for a bit, only to second guess himself a minute later and stop before he could get himself any more lost.

Before things could get any worse.

As if on cue, a large snowflake drifted lazily down in front of him, followed by another, and another.

Gran would have had some choice words for the predicament he was in right now. Take your time, she'd always said. Listen and look before you act. Don't go running off half-cocked like a hen on market day. And what had he done? Cluck, cluck, cluck.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, slowly holding and then releasing it. Then he opened them and turned in a circle, looking for any sign of his clearing.

There!-

He could see his bonfire. He hadn't gone as far as he'd thought.

The light flickered again in the distance, hidden behind three pines. He hoped it wasn't going out.

He tugged his shirt closer around him and headed in that direction. It was funny how much thicker the trees seemed from this side of the clearing. He could barely see the fire, even as its light grew brighter and closer. Right before he passed through the trees, the wind shifted sharply, carrying with it a cloud of smoke so thick he had to feel his way forward. It was weird, now that he thought about it, that he hadn't smelled the smoke before this, he-

And then the smoke was gone, and the first thing he felt was relief – there were Honey and Bear, sitting next to the fire, tails wagging, like they hadn't just led him on a wild goose chase.

The second thing he felt was confusion, because this wasn't his bonfire.

His bonfire was weird, and a little lopsided, because he'd built it out of the wood gran had gotten to rebuild the porch and then forgotten to tarp before a rainstorm, and by the time it had dried out again there'd been a strange fungus on it she didn't like the look of.

This bonfire… this bonfire was like the platonic ideal of a what a bonfire should be. It was made out of logs – actual logs, birch his mind supplied – some with moss still growing on the bark. It was perfectly shaped, low enough that you could jump the fire if you wanted to but high enough that you'd want to take a decent run at it first. It was hot, he thought gratefully, huddling closer to its warmth, but not like a real fire, more like standing in a perfectly lit and heated clearing that never got too hot or too cold.

A perfectly lit, heated and inhabited clearing.

There were birds here, he realized – crows, blinking sleepily, and owls, and cardinals. A small family of foxes rested under one of the pine trees, maybe even the ones he had startled earlier on his frantic run, and across from them, a huddle of rabbits, placidly chewing on fern fronds. On the other side of the rabbits, he could see a small pack of wolves, tongues lolling out like they were nothing more dangerous than huskies. And facing him, from the other side of the fire, was the stag.

Only it wasn't the stag anymore. It was a man, tall and muscular and… objectively smoking hot, with green eyes and brown hair streaked with hints of blonde and green. Ivy wrapped around his broad shoulders and chest, trailing down his sides and across his abdomen to become a makeshift kilt around the man's thighs, which in turn became bow legs with… with hooves, Jared thought absently, hooves and furry calves and- And antlers, his brain supplied helpfully. Eyes up top, now, mustn't forget the antlers. They were large, impossibly larger than the stag's had been, taller than they were broad, and coated with ivy and moss and holly berries.

He should- he should say something, Jared thought, and then just stood there gawking, because really, what do you say when you meet a honest-to-god god? Hiya, Herne, howzit hanging? A little to the left I see.

"Hi," he finally managed. "I'm Jared."

The man smiled then, and it was the most beautiful smile in the world.

"I'm Jared," he said again, "And you're… Herne? Cernunnos?"

The man nodded. "Well met," he said in a baritone rich and thick like honey. "Come, share my fire."

"Thanks," Jared said dumbly, stepping closer. "I, uh, got turned around a bit, I think."

The man cocked his head, sending a flurry of petals adrift from his antlers. Somehow, despite the smoke, Jared could smell their gentle perfume in the air, blended with the rich loam of turned earth and melting ice. "It's a cold night to wander so far from your light, Jared."

Jared huffed out a half-laugh, nodding at the dogs. "Well, these two decided to take off on a chase, and I- I just followed after." He lifted his hands to the fire, letting the last of the icy cold melt away from his joints.

"You have a kind heart." The man smiled, walking forward. "She would not want to see you alone tonight, you know."

Jared shrugged. "She'd understand." Gods, he sounded like a petulant child.

"Yes, she would," the horned man agreed, walking around the fire until he stood face to face with Jared. He smelled like newly mowed grass and wind and honeysuckle. "But she'd rather see you surrounded by people who love you."

"It's just – I hate it," Jared said, almost relieved to say the words out loud. "If I had to hear one more person tell me it was good she died so quickly, I'd-" he sighed, hugging his arm to himself. "She's always been here for me and now she's just – gone. I wish she'd taken ages and ages to die, I wish it had been something slow that would take years, and I hate how selfish it makes me, I should be glad she died peacefully and happy but I- I just want her here. With me. And she's gone."

And it hurt, he thought, to turn around to say something and remember she wasn't there. To pour two glasses of water for dinner and realize he only needed one. To see her boots by the door and not be able to give them away yet, even though she'd never wear them again.

"Grief is a part of the natural order, too." The horned man crossed his arms solemnly, and a breath of falling leaves and wood fires drifted past. "But remember – nothing under the heavens is ever really, truly gone. It may change state, become part of the earth, or the water, or even another living creature, but it is still here, waiting until you change, too." He touched his palm to Jared's temple. "She is still here." His palmed moved down to Jared's chest, over his heart. "She is here, too. And she will always be there. You are never really alone."

Jared swayed suddenly, his exhaustion suddenly catching up with him. Instantly Honey was at his side to steady him, licking his hand in a guilty apology for running off. He wanted to sit down, he thought, so he did.

"On the days when everything seems darkest," the horned man continued, "that's when you need the light the most. You just need to have faith that it will return. It always does."

Jared yawned and curled an arm around Honey. Behind him, Bear curled anxiously against him. He wanted to talk more – he had so many questions – but he was also so, so tired-

"Will you do that for me?"

"Do what?" Jared asked sleepily.

The man reached up to his antlers and plucked a sprig of green from it. Tiny white buds poked out between the leaves. Mistletoe. He handed it to Jared, who took it with clumsy fingers.

"Keep your faith in the light. Let your fires burn bright."

Jared tucked the flowers into his shirt pocket. "Reckon I always have."

"That's good." The man – god – stood up again, leaving the crisp smell of snow and bark and moonlight in his wake. He paused for a second, then smiled. "Your gran asked me to pass on a message from her."

Jared yawned again. He was so sleepy, and the fire was low now, the man's face and antlers the only source of light. "Y-yeah?" He closed his eyes, just for a second he thought-

Gentle lips brushed a kiss against Jared's forehead. "She says hearts are like the sun. They may go dark for a while, but the light will return if you let it. You've just got to take a leap of faith and believe that it will."

"Oh," Jared said, "that's nice."

The man chuckled. "And she also said you're an idiot, and you need to wake-"

* * *

"JARED!"

Someone was calling his name.

"Wha-?" Jared said muzzily, looking around. He was… he was under a tree, why was- where was-

"Hey, fucker, where'd the fuck you wander off to?!"

Chad. That was Chad. Wait-

"That's right, Bear, go find your idiot owner. We'll get everything set up here."

Genevieve.

Where was the bonfire- what had-

The bonfire. The man. Antlers. Except there was no clearing here, no wolves – just Jared, who had apparently gotten himself lost and passed out from the cold so he could nearly die of hypothermia under a goddamn tree.

"I'm over here!" he yelled. A second later, Bear came barreling up to him, Honey just a second behind.

"THERE you are, fucker." Steve and Danni showed up a moment later, walking behind the dogs at a more sedate pace and holding hands. "You had us worried."

Danni took his hand, pulling him all the way to his feet as she yelled back a triumphant, "FOUND HIM!"

He could hear the sound of cheers in the distance.

"You good?" Steve asked quietly as they made their way back to the clearing.

Jared thought about it for a second, before realizing, "Yeah. I wasn't but I- I am now."

It was a madhouse back by the fire. There were chairs and people everywhere, laughing and smiling. Tom and Mike were dragging a huge green cooler over to dwarf Jared's tiny cooler, and Aldis was staking tiki torches into the ground at the edges of the clearing, with Lisa trailing along behind him to light them once they were secure. Chad and Chris were having some kind of serious argument over the boombox, probably the same one they had every year that never mattered because – yes, that was Genevieve swooping in and stealing the tape player and slipping in the tape that Jared's gran always preferred, and he'd never been so grateful to hear Jethro Tull singing about songs from the wood in his life. Kim and Briana were allegedly getting out marshmallows to cook over the fire for s'mores, but there was a lot more kissing than cooking going on.

He staggered over to the fire, the journey taking twice as long because everyone apparently had to hug him when they saw him – and then lecture him.

"Jesus, your hands are like ice." Chad, always the diplomat. "Where the fuck were you, anyway? We gonna need to put a leash on you to keep you from wandering out into the ice?" His smile was bright, but his eyes were sharp.

"Hopefully not," Jared smiled, grateful that he had friends who cared what happened to him. "I stepped away from the fire for a moment and just got turned around." It was probably better to skip the whole nearly-freezing-to-death-and-hallucinating-a-religious-experience thing.

"Good," Chad said decisively. "You know your gran would kick your ass otherwise."

Jared laughed. "Yeah, she would." He looked around. "Where's Sophia?"

Chad's face fell. "Yeah, about that… she kinda dumped me. But I deserved it. And I just met this new chick, Sarah-"

And that was Chad, all over.

And even if Jake and Uncle Tim couldn't make it – this was good.

Stop being an idiot.

As always, gran was right.

By midnight the clearing was overflowing with of the scent of mulled cider and burnt marshmallows. Jethro Tull had given way to a singalong full of rock, country, and even Christmas songs. Jared was ready when the infamous Fairytale of New York verse came around, stomping on Chad's foot at the right moment so it went "-you scumbag you maggot you cheap lousy-" *stomp* ow! while Gen and Danni drowned him out with "braggart!"

He grinned unrepentantly when Chad scowled at him – "Happy Christmas you ass" – and then smiled back at him and joined in – "I pray god it's our last!"

"The boys of the NYPD Choir still singing Galway Bay, and the bells are ringing out for Christmas Day." A deep baritone that Jared had never heard before but thought that maybe he had heard just a few hours ago rolled out over the chorus.

Jared's head whipped around to find the newcomer, his heart leaping as he saw – a complete stranger. Tall and well-built, with a warm smile, his brown hair lit with a flickering light from the tiki torch behind him. For just a second, he thought he saw antlers. But that was just a trick of light, it had to be-

A second later, a more familiar face stepped out into the clearing with a cheeky grin. "Don't look at me, asshole, you know I don't sing."

"JAKE!" Jared was up out of his seat like a shot, arms wrapped around his brother and spinning him around in a bear hug before he could squirm out of his grasp.

"Sorry for the delay, Jared." Uncle Tim was last into the clearing, his grey hair dusted with white speckles from the snow, looking ridiculously dignified despite leaning heavily on the cane he'd had to use since a minor stroke two years back. "We thought we'd be shut at the airport, but we found a good samaritan!"

"Hi, I'm Jensen."

Jared shook his hand. The man had a good grip, and very green eyes, the kind you could get lost in. Almost like-

"Not that good a samaritan," Jensen said. "I was getting off shift when I saw these two, and they promised me drinks and a bonfire if I could get them up the mountain. That sounded a hell of a lot better than going back to my lonely hotel room and drinking a beer while I looked at rental listings."

"So," Jared said, "you just moved here."

"Yep," Jensen smiled.

"And we've never met before."

Jensen raised an eyebrow as he popped the top off the cider he'd just been handed. "I don't think so, no."

"Are you sure?" Jared asked. "Because you look really familiar to me."

"That's funny," Jensen took a swig of the cider, "because you look like someone I'd like to get familiar with."

Jared blushed bright red. But he didn't disagree.

* * *

As the hours passed, the party died down to a fond murmur. Jake helped Uncle Tim into bed – "rheumatism's a bitch, lads, I don't recommend it" – and not long after, Danni and Steve headed inside. Then it was all the couples in turn – Tom and Mike, Kim and Briana, Lisa and Aldis, Gen and Sandy. Chris was passed out in his own chair by the fire, a thick patchwork quilt on top of him spilling down to cover Chad as well, who'd fallen asleep leaning against his shoulder only a half hour after he'd drunkenly protested that he would stick with Jared "until the sun came up and beyond!"

And then it was only him and Jensen awake, sitting and talking as the night slowly turned into morning. Somewhere along the way, Jensen had wound up sitting on the log by the fire, gently plucking out notes on Chris's guitar while Jared lounged in his chair nearby. They talked about one thing after another – his gran, and Tim, and Jake, and Jared's friends and Jensen's new job and how the last three places he'd looked at to rent had turned out to be less than habitable – and then suddenly the sky over the trees was lightening into the dawn.

"I need to thank you," Jared said abruptly. "I thought this was going to be my loneliest solstice ever, even with my friends around, and then you just came waltzing in and brought my family back to me. It wasn't until you walked in here with them in tow that I realized how much I needed them here."

Jensen paused. "Until I ran into your uncle, it was fixing to be the same for me. I really wasn't joking about not knowing anyone here yet, and now-" he gestured around him.

Jared laughed. "And now a whole mess of reprobates and troublemakers have attached themselves to you and you'll never be able to escape them. They'll hunt you down even if you get lost and almost freeze to death in the woods!"

"That's… oddly specific," Jensen said. "But if I'd had to endure another night of late-night talk shows and heating up hot pockets in my microwave, that might have sounded pretty tempting."

They watched the shadows recede in companionable silence.

"You know," Jared said finally, "this might be the dumbest thing I've ever done, but – if you're looking for someplace to live, gran and I – I've got a spare room, you see, gran always kept one hand in case someone was in trouble, and I might be nuts, but I think she'd approve if I kept that tradition going."

"I don't know," Jensen said with a smirk. "You might be nuts for offering a place to someone you just met, but then again, I might be nuts for turning you down-"

Jared's heart fell.

Jensen stropped strumming, "Don't get me wrong, this place is awesome." He leaned forward. "But you see, what I'd really like is to ask you on a date, and if I have to choose between the room or the date, well, I reckon the hotel's not so bad."

It was Jared's turn to smile then. "Who knows? If the date goes well, you might not have to choose." He poked at the remnants of the bonfire, watching the embers fly. "I have it on good authority that some risks are worth taking."

"Oh yeah?" Jensen leaned forward, and for a moment Jared thought he was about to kiss him, and then-

"WHO WANTS COFFEE?!?!" Gen yelled from the house.

"GODDAMN IT GENEVIEVE IT'S TOO EARLY FOR THAT CRAP" Kim bellowed back.

They both pulled back like guilty kids caught in their room with the door shut.

"Reprobates and troublemakers," Jared shrugged. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

"Hey, look," Jensen pointed at the horizon. "The sun came back."

"Yay, the Hogfather made it," Chris muttered blearily. Then he sat up straight. "Wait, did someone say coffee?!"

Next to him, Chad waved vaguely in the direction of the shouting. "Gen- house- murrrglebleh."

"Is he still asleep?" Jensen asked, a little in awe.

Chris chuckled. "It's one of his talents." He carefully extricated himself from Chad's arm and draped the quilt fully over the sleeping blonde man. "Coffees all around, yeah?"

"Sounds good," Jared agreed, watching him stagger back towards the house. Then he hopped out of his chair and sat down right next to Jensen. "Hey, don't stop playing. Night's not over yet. You gotta play back the sun with your music."

"Oh, is that how it works?" Jensen smiled. He ran his fingers idly across the strings. "Let's see, you like Jethro Tull, right?"

"Yeah." Jared wove his arm loosely through Jensen's, careful to leave him room to play. "They were one of gran's favorites."

"Okay, I can work with that." He strummed a set of chords and began to sing.

"I believe in fires at midnight when the dogs have all been fed.
A golden toddy on the mantle, a broken gun beneath the bed.
Silken mist outside the window, frogs and newts slip in the dark.
Too much hurry ruins a body. I'll sit easy, fan the spark."

Jared listened to Jensen's rich baritone and thought about the house, imagining his friends slowly coming to life inside. He thought about the porch swing gran had loved and how Jensen would look sitting on it with a guitar of his own. How it would feel to sit on it with him, the way gran had done with her husband for many years.

"Kindled by the dying embers of another working day
Go upstairs, take off your work clothes, fold your things nearly away
Me I'll sit and write this love song, as I all too seldom do
Build a little fire this midnight, it's good to be right here with you"

"You changed the words," Jared said.

"You didn’t seem like the make-up wearing type," Jensen smiled back.

"You changed the end, too," Jared said, snuggling a little closer.

"It felt a bit presumptuous, singing about being back home with you," he said, "seeing as how we just met and all."

"Who knows?" Jared took a breath and a leap of faith. "Maybe next year it won't."

Inside his shirt pocket, a forgotten gift of mistletoe agreed.

~fin~

For the curious, Jensen's song is Jethro Tull's Fire at Midnight.

2019 SPN Cinema Challenge: His Man Friday

2022-10-29T12:05:07Z

Title: His Man Friday
Author: casey679
Rating: PG-13 / Warnings: None
Word Count: 27K
Summary: ...Chaos had nothing on star reporter Jared Padalecki, formerly Padalecki-Ackles, walking in the door on the arm of someone Jensen Ackles didn't recognize, a big burly blond man who screamed money and looked at Jared like the stars shone out of his ass. Jensen would know, too; he'd looked at Jared the same way once.

Read this fic on: AO3!

Author's Notes: This fic is part of the 10th Round of the SPN Cinema challenge, and is inspired by the classic comedy His Girl Friday by Howard Hanks.

Fic: I Got a Bad Feeling About This

2022-10-29T11:36:49Z

Title: I Got a Bad Feeling About This
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural RPF/J2
Author: casey679
Rating: Explicit
Length: 1.7k
Community: Saturday Night Specials (2021 Spookfest)
Tags: bad breakups
Summary: "And if there's two things that everyone in this bar knows," Jared says, still with a smile, "it's that I make a great mojito, and Jensen's got a mighty fine cock-" to Jensen's satisfaction, there are more than a few cheers and catcalls to that- "and I'm not gonna stand here and let a second-rate twink cast aspersions against either of them."

"Jesus, Jensen, don't get your panties in a twist. It's not like you couldn't have just joined in, you know."

Honestly, this is what Jensen gets for not trusting his instincts: fighting with his boyfriend at the bar of the Castro's biggest Halloween party when he should be out on the dance floor having fun with their friends.

Even better, somehow he's the bad guy for being angry about walking in on Alex getting dicked down on someone else's lap in one of the bathroom stalls.

Honestly, he should have known it wasn't going work out the minute Alex showed up that night. What kind of self-centered asshole agrees to match costumes for Halloween, but decides at the last minute to show up as Anakin even though his partner's dressed as Han?

"Fuck," Jensen says. He's already so done with this conversation. "Were you even wearing a condom?"

Alex huffs. "AIDS is so eighties, Jenny. Haven't you heard of Prep?"

Jensen counts to ten, or at least he starts to. He hasn't quite reached six yet when Alex sneers, "Jesus! The dick you're giving me isn't worth putting up with the dick you're being."

"You gotta be insane if you think you're ever seeing this dick again," Jensen snarls. "I'm out."

"You can't dump me!" Alex's voice is getting close to histrionics now, and people are starting to stare. Great.

"Oh yeah? Watch me." Jensen says. "You're an inconsiderate asshole and I'm done putting up with it."

He's just grabbing his beer and turning around to leave when Alex shrieks, "Yeah?! Well, you were a lousy lay with a tiny dick!" and raises his mojito like he's about to fling it at him. Just then, a mass of brown fur appears between them, and a very familiar, very welcome tenor voice with just a hint of a Texan twang starts to laugh. Jared.

Jared's been Jensen's friend since the very first night he discovered this bar. The bartender had yelled out a welcome the minute he walked in and that hint of home had made him cozy up to the bar just to hear more of it. When it turned out the accent came with a smart mind and a generous personality, it was the start of a mighty fine friendship – never more than that, they've never both been single at the same time.

"See," Jared says, taking off his Chewbacca head and tossing a grin over his shoulder to Jensen, "I figured it was just normal fighting at first when you called him a dick, cause everyone knows that's the truth, but then you had to go insulting his cock and threatening to waste a perfectly good mojito." He puts the Chewbacca head down on the bar and takes a step closer, looming over the shorter man.

Alex takes a half-step back.

"And if there's two things that everyone in this bar knows," Jared says, still with a smile, "it's that I make a great mojito, and Jensen's got a mighty fine cock-" to Jensen's satisfaction, there are more than a few cheers and catcalls to that- "and I'm not gonna stand here and let a second-rate twink cast aspersions against either of them."

By now the whole area by the bar is quiet – a pretty amazing feat for a Saturday night, but that's Jared for you – and his next words ring out loud and clear. "So Alex… if somehow despite all that you still think Jensen's got a tiny dick, then your asshole's gotta be such a gaping black hole that we're all lucky it hasn't sucked the bar right up in it."

The mojito goes flying.

Jared's not even fazed. He lets his fur soak the drink as he gestures to the bouncers.

"All right," he says firmly, "Alex, you're done here. Go throw your tantrum someplace else, the adults are busy." Like magic, Tom and Mike appear on either side of him to make sure the twink doesn't argue on his way out. They mostly succeed, although he does manage a final "Fuck you!" before they manhandle him out.

Jared looks over at Jensen as he grabs a bar cloth and lifts up his bandolier to dab at the wet fur underneath. "Well, that was something. Are you okay?"

Is he okay? Of course he's okay. Good fucking riddance to-

Jensen's knees buckle a little as the adrenaline fades, and suddenly Jared's vacating a bar stool for him to sit on and hopping behind the bar to get him a glass of water, which he takes gratefully. And obviously he's missed something, because all of a sudden Steve's there to help out at the bar while Jared sees to their friend.

"Am I okay?" Jensen laughs ruefully. "Man, I should be asking you that. You're the one who got soaked."

Jared scoffs and grabs a bag of trail mix from behind the bar, sliding it in front of Jensen. "The good thing about Wookies is that we're washable."

Jensen smiles. "Yeah, but I still feel bad."

Jared looks over at Jensen with a twinkle in his eye. "Tell me it wasn't worth it, though."

Jensen downs a mouthful of peanuts and laughs. "Oh, no, if you're fine with ending up soggy and wet, it was totally worth it." He gives Jared a measured look. "Mighty strange coincidence, though, us both ending up here in matching costumes."

Jared blushes, lets his gaze skitter away from Jensen's eyes as he gathers different mixers and liquors and begins combining them into some kind of vibrant, neon-blue cocktail. "Well, I might have overheard you talking to Chris about it last week and figured I'd never have a better chance to dust off my Wookie costume. Figured you wouldn't mind the backup." He stabs a toothpick through two pieces of pineapple and a cherry and adds it as a garnish on top. "You were shackin' up with Darth Vader, after all."

Jared's lighthearted flirting is a balm on Jensen's soul after Alex's non-stop, high-maintenance neediness. He'd found it charming at first, being the overwhelming center of someone's world, but it was a lot easier now after the fact to see that Alex had been playing him for a fool the whole time.

"Hey, don't take it so hard. You were hurting after Misha and he knew how to play on that," Jared says softly, leaning in to be heard over the crowd. "He got what he had coming to him, and you can have your pick of pretty much any man in here tonight to get him out of your mind."

"I can, can I?" To his surprise, Jensen finds he doesn't really miss Alex. There's nothing like the heartache he felt when he and Mish didn't work out. In fact, there's just a sense of overwhelming relief that he'd always insisted on being safe with Alex because clearly that was a bullet dodged. No, he wasn't really even sad, just a little relieved. Relieved and… excited?

Yeah, excited, because he's standing here dressed like Han Solo with a man who gave a damn enough to sweat his ass off in a Wookie costume just to make a friend smile.

Jensen cocks his head at Jared. "I do have one question, though." As Jared leans in close to hear, he drops his voice down into the sexiest range and asks, "For a man I've never slept with, you sure had a lot to say about the quality of my dick."

Jared licks his lips and smiles impishly, then whispers, "That wasn't a question."

The little shit. Jensen laughs and tries again. "Maybe not, but this one is: Wanna get some first-hand experience?"

Jared smiles. "I thought you'd never ask. But…" he looks down, blushing slightly. "I do have a confession to make."

"Yeah?" Jensen's pretty sure Jared could confess that he was secretly the Pope right now and he'd still want to rail him.

Jared's smile turns into a sly grin. "This isn't my actual costume for the night." He fidgets with the zipper on the suit.

"Oh yeah?" Jensen says. "You got something naughty on under there?"

Jared bats his eyes, and pushes the neon-blue drink across the counter at him. "I'll give you one hint," Jared says, indicating the drink. "My costume comes with a thermal detonator."

Jensen sits upright. "You didn't-" just as Jared bends over and pulls down the zipper on his Wookie suit. The fur hits the floor, right along with Jensen's jaw, as Jared steps out of the furry legs with surprising grace and stuffs the costume behind the bar.

And then he stands up tall, his burgundy Slave Leia skirt falling down into place between his long shaved legs, and Jensen's got just enough presence of mind to wonder if that means he's shaved all over. He's got the green-and-gold bra on as well, and even the collar with the chain hanging down. There's a cheer from the men near the bar as Jared spins around, revealing what's either a thong or a jock under the skirt. It doesn't really matter to Jensen; if he has his way, it'll be on the floor as soon as they get somewhere private.

Jared picks up the drink in one hand and the chain in the other, then hands the chain to Jensen and yells over his shoulder, "Hey Steve! I'm going on break."

With a grin, Jensen wraps the chain around his fist and reels Jared in for a kiss. Just as their lips touch, though, Jared starts laughing uncontrollably.

"I'm trying to be smooth here," Jensen says. "I got food in my teeth or something?"

"Sorry," Jared giggles, "it's just – I just realized I had the perfect opportunity to unleash my ultimate in-character insult about Alex and I missed it."

"Oh really?" Jensen raises an eyebrow. "The perfect one, huh?" He pretends to sigh. "Okay, let's hear it."

Jared straightens up, summoning his best Carrie Fisher impression as he looks back in the direction where Alex left. "You came in that thing?" He tosses his head. "You're braver than I thought!"

"Jared," Jensen is laughing despite himself. "Jared, that's terrible. You're horrible. You should be ashamed of yourself."

"Oh yeah?" Jared says. "Got you to smile, didn't it?"

"Yeah, well…" Jensen tightens the chain so Jared's got nowhere to go but in his arms. "Laugh it up, fuzzball."

Jared places his lips right next to Jensen's ear and whispers, "There's nothing fuzzy about me tonight, above or below."

Jensen shuts him up with a kiss.

Jared lets him.

Two years later, when Jared tells him "I love you" at the altar, Jensen's ready and waiting to say, "I know."

~fin~

Author's Notes: This was posted as part of the 2021 SNS Spookfest.

Fic: Pirates and Piercings

2022-10-29T11:24:59Z

Title: Pirates and Piercings
Fandom/Pairing: Ten Inch Hero/Gilmore Girls, Boaz Priestly/Dean Forester
Author: casey679
Rating: Explicit
Length: ~1k
Community: Saturday Night Specials (2021 Spookfest)
Tags: frottage, public sex, piercings kink
Summary: He's not sure what draws his eyes to the guy who came dressed up like a punk - maybe it's the bright red wedge cut, or the obnoxious "SURF NAKED!" t-shirt paired with a kilt and combat boots, or the cool fake tattoo on his neck. Or maybe it's the ludicrous sideburns and the way they form a runway to his lips, making it impossible to wonder what it would feel like to have them wrapped around his cock.

Dean's buzzed, flying high on the feeling of finally escaping Star Hollow and all of the mess that was his life back there. But he got out, and sure it's not a fancy Ivy League college, it's just State, but it's out.

(It's out, and so is he, little purple-pink-and-blue button proudly pinned to the collar of his jacket, because the minute he saw Star Hollow in the rear-view window of his car, he finally felt like he could breathe and that had led to all kinds of unexpected revelations about how he might have been more into Jess than Rory at the end there.)

The feeling of freedom is intoxicating… and so is whatever the hell was in the drink he was handed on his way into this house party that his roommate's dragged him to, and likewise the weed he was smoking about 15 minutes ago. He's a happy, cloudy haze of good feelings and intoxication, dressed in a pirate hat and a poofy white shirt he borrowed from his roommate's girlfriend – the closest thing he could cobble together for a costume on short notice.

Right now, he's sitting on the railing on the back porch, one foot braced against the floor to keep from topping over as he watches all the pretty people dancing in the back yard below. It's college, so there are a lot of pretty people, boys and girls alike, and thank god for that. You can tell the straight boys –sports heroes, zombies, clowns, bad drag, or something vaguely racist or sexist. Fortunately, there's much better eye-candy from the girls, who have gone for the sexy costumes – sexy nurse, sexy cop, sexy firefighter, sexy… body bag? – and all the boys that aren't straight – vampires, pirates, elves or goths.

Or punks.

He's not sure what draws his eyes to the guy who came dressed up like a punk - maybe it's the bright red wedge cut, or the obnoxious "SURF NAKED!" t-shirt paired with a kilt and combat boots, or the cool fake tattoo on his neck. Or maybe it's the ludicrous sideburns and the way they form a runway to his lips, making it impossible to wonder what it would feel like to have them wrapped around his cock.

The guy must be psychic, then, because for just a minute he looks up, and his eyes are the prettiest green Dean's ever seen. Caught perving on him, Dean can't help blushing and looking away, and when he looks back, the guy's gone. Damn.

"See something you like?"

The guy's not gone. He's the opposite, in fact. In the time it took Dean to look away and back, the guy has scaled the porch, climbing up the support and clinging to the railing right next to him.

If Dean were cool, he'd say something flirty and suggestive, something that will keep a guy like this talking to him. Instead, all he manages is an "Eep!" as he jumps in surprise and loses his balance, slow motion style, and falls off the railing.

Or almost falls, anyway, because the punk has one leg over the balustrade and one hand wrapped around the porch post, and the other wrapped around Dean's waist as he hauls him back into place.

"Wow," he says, licking his lips as he hops into place behind Dean, arm still around his waist, "Pirate or no, I think that's the fastest anyone has ever fallen for me before."

And the only thing Dean can think to say in response is, "I'd fall even faster, but I'm afraid I'll knock some of those fake piercings off if I try to kiss you right now, and that'd be a shame, because they look really cool."

The guy grins. "They do, do they? Well, I guess it's good that they aren't fake, then."

"Really?" Dean asks. "That's fucking hot." He gives the guy a once-over – as much as he can from this position, anyway – and if they're real, then the tattoo is probably also real, and…

"Here, I'll prove it to you." And the guy leans down and kisses him.

It's a great kiss. One of the best he's ever had. It's sweet, with just enough pressure to let him know how much the punk is into it. And it's different being the one getting held right now instead of the one doing the holding… but he thinks he could really get used to it.

Dean opens his mouth then and deepens the kiss because a kiss like this deserves tongue. He can't help but get hard when realizes the punk has a tongue-piercing, too!

That's when the punk pulls back and says, "If you think that's fun for kissing, you should see what else I can do with it." He looks pointedly down at Dean's crotch, then kisses him again.

Dean takes a breath and thinks about being out, and free. "Wanna show me?"

As they walk out of the party, hand-in-hand, his roommate catcalls after him. "Go get it, Dean!" His roommate's girlfriend giggles and yells that they won't be back tonight.

"Dean, huh?" the punk says as they leave the house. "My name's Priestly."

"Good thing you told me," Dean says. "I'd hate to not know what name to call out later tonight."

The punk slams him up against a tree at that, kissing him hard and passionately, tongue and hands roaming. After a few minutes of passionately making out, he pulls back long enough to say, "Damn straight you'll be calling it out." Then he winks at him. "I'll tell you another secret – you still haven't seen all the places I'm pierced. If you think the tongue is great…"

Later, when they're lying there sweaty and satiated, and Priestly's peeling off the condom as Dean wipes his own cum off his abdomen, Dean thinks that Priestly was absolutely right.

His tongue piercing is pretty great… but his Prince Albert is fucking amazing.

~fin~

Author's Notes: This was posted as part of the 2021 SNS Spookfest.

2020 SPN Reversebang: The Devils of Truth

2022-10-29T10:53:12Z

Title: The Devils of Truth
Author: casey679/ Artist: darklittleheart96
Rating: Explicit / Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, noncon, bondage, body modification, mpreg
Word Count: 12.6K
Summary:
"Don't open your eyes you won't like what you see
The devils of truth steal the souls of the free
Don't open your eyes take it from me
I have found / You can find / Happiness in slavery"
– Nine Inch Nails

Read this fic on: AO3. And check out DarkLittleHearts's awesome artpost for this fic on Tumblr!

Author's Notes: This was a pinch-hit, so I'll probably return to this in the future and flesh out a bit more of their time on the other earth, and maybe an epilogue on their return! Thanks to DarkLittleHeart for the artistic inspiration - I hope it hits all the right notes for you!

Fic: Most Floods Are Caused By Man

2022-10-29T09:35:33Z

Title: Most Floods Are Caused By Man
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural/Wincest
Author: casey679
Rating: Explicit
Length: 1.6k
Warnings: Noncon
Community: Every Time We Touch: A First-Time Wincest Fest
Summary: Sam's in the panic room, and Dean's along for the ride. Or is he? DTs can be Hell.

When Sam wakes up, he's not on the floor, which is simultaneously a comfort (anything is better than hard, uncomforting concrete) and a pity (it was also cold, and his blood is still simmering with the fires of hell).

If he's not on the floor, where is he?

He's... on some kind of cot or table, it feels like, laid out on his back with his legs bent, feet flat on the cot, arms dangling over the sides, and his head turned to one side in some half-assed attempt to keep him from choking to death on his own vomit. He's probably being uncharitable, but from the taste in his mouth and the way his abdomen aches like it did after he got bronchitis when he was 8 and coughed for two weeks straight, he's pretty sure that's already happened a few times. The vomiting, that is. Not the death.

He can't remember it happening.

He also can't remember the next thing he notices either.

He's not wearing pants.

He's not naked, at least; he's still got a t-shirt on and... boxers, he thinks?

Except he doesn't wear boxers.

There's a faint memory he doesn't want to think about - pain scorching its way through him like lightning, muscles contracting, body contorting like plastic in an oven - crying, limbs flailing, stomach heaving, eyes rolled up. His bladder must have let go somewhere in the middle of it all.

The room doesn't smell like vomit or urine anymore, so it must have happened a while ago, and someone cleaned it up. Someone cleaned it up, and left him here, and it hasn't happened since.

When he goes to sit up, he notices the other other thing: He can't.

He tries to swing his legs off the cot, but can't, because something's tied them in place. He tries to sit up and see what it is, but he can't, because his arms aren't just dangling off the sides of the cot, they're tied there. And his torso is strapped down, too.

He flails against his bonds, trying to wrest his limbs free, but whoever tied him here knew what he was doing.

"We had to," Dean says suddenly from behind him. "The demon blood was flinging you all over the room, all Linda Blair style. And right after that, you had some kind of seizure and shit yourself like a back-alley junkie." He laughs bitterly. "Man, that's some great stuff, huh, totally worth dying for, right?"

He remembers Dean locking him in. Walking away. Leaving him there.

Dean's foot shoots out and kicks the cot, just above where Sam's ankle is strapped down, sending it and Sam skittering a few inches sideways. "Totally worth fucking away your soul for, because my brother, man, my brother makes all the best life choices."

"You were dead, Dean." Sam yanks at his wrists. "What were you expecting me to do?" The cuffs won't budge, the metal edges biting into his wrists.

"Let me go, Dean," he hates how weak his voice sounds now, how unsure of himself, with the blood seeping out of his system moment by moment. "I can kill Lilith, you know I can. Let me up." A cool breeze curls down and around his body and he's suddenly aware of just how undressed and exposed he is.

Dean walks out of Sam's immediate view. "Sure thing, bro. Just as soon as you're clean." There's a slow scrape of metal on cement as Dean pulls a folding chair in front of the cot and plops it down, facing backwards. "Then again, it's not like you can really get clean, can ya?"

He tosses the sentence out like a throw-away line. It lands like a hand grenade.

Dean straddles the chair, arms resting across the top of its back, chin resting on his arms. It's almost a familiar pose, except for the bitter sneer of contempt on his face, the hatred in his eyes.

That's okay. When this is all over, Sam's sure he'll hate himself, too. He steels himself and looks away, resolutely staring up at the ceiling. He doesn't deserve anything more, anyway, because-

"You're always gonna be unclean, Sam. Cas knows it, Zach knows it - hell, even Alistair told me that when I was downstairs. It's just like Azazel said - you got a little hell inside you. It's in your soul and it ain't ever coming out. Hell, I bet we could bleed you dry and you'd still have it in you. That's why you just keep. fucking. things. up." His voice drops to a low growl. "It's why you didn't save me."

"That's not true!" he yanks at his bonds again - tries to kick his feet our or flip on to his side, get off this goddamn cot, if Dean's here the door should be open, it's not too late - heart beating wildly as his brother sneers at him. But there's nowhere to go - the only thing that gives is the muscle in his left shoulder, which pulses with a sudden twang that Sam knows isn't good. "I did everything I could."

"Like hell you did." Dean laughs hollowly. "You wanted me to die."

When Dean lies, his eyes do this little dip to the left, just for a second. They don't dip this time. It's Sam that looks away.

"C'mon, Sam, the jig's up, admit it." Dean's arm shoots out, grabbing Sam by the chin and forcing his head back to look at him. "You wanted me to go to Hell. Wanted me sinful... unredeemed... corrupted..." His lips curls back in distaste. "You wanted me to be like you."

He drops Sam's chin and stands up, kicking his chair away. "You think I don't know why you started drinking that blood? Think I don't know you were planning on going downstairs to find me once you put Lilith down?" He stalks closer to whisper the final blasphemy in Sam's ear. "Did you really think Hell wouldn't tell me all the dirty, dirty things you wanted to do to me when you found me?"

Dean's breath is hot, moist against Sam's skin, and his tongue is honeyed sandpaper as it licks down his neck. He fits his teeth against his neck, canines pressed against Sam's jugular, and Sam's heart stops, breath caged in his chest. He didn't- He wouldn't-

Dean bites down, gently, and to his horror Sam's cock springs to attention, the boxers leaving nothing to the imagination.

"Well, wouldja look at that." Dean laughs meanly again. "You wanted to go darkside? Drink a little blood, kick a lotta ass, be the hero your big brother was too weak to be?" Inky darkness slinks over his eyes. "Kid, you don't know what dark means. But I'm gonna teach you."

Someplace outside of Sam's field of vision, there's the familiar snikt of Dean's favorite pocket knife opening.

"I'm gonna give you everything you've been begging for."

The blade presses against Sam's ankle and slides its sinuous way up his calf and thigh.

"I'm gonna cut these boxers right off you, and then I'm gonna fuck you dry, the way you've been begging me to do ever since I came back."

This isn't Dean, Sam thinks, it's not possible- but his traitorous cock isn't with the program. With every inch that Dean moves the blade north, his dick hardens even more, threatening to spring free before Dean can even enact his threat.

"And you know what then?" The blade slips under his boxer leg and travels up, up, up until it's nestled against the deep femoral vein, and for a wild moment, Sam wants him to do it.

He wonders how he will taste.

Dean wrenches the knife up and out, neatly bisecting Sam's underwear, which falls away in tatters. Dean picks up the remnants, balls them up, and shoves it in Sam's mouth.

"And then I'm gonna carve a couple new holes in you for me to fuck, one for every single time you opened up that bitch's veins, drank her down and lied to yourself that it was for me."

The knife clatters to the floor behind him.

"This is what you wanted, Sammy."

A zipper pulls down.

"Is it everything you dreamed of?"

Boots step coldly forward.

"Do you love me better now?"

The feel of denim pressing against his thighs wakes Sam out of his daze, and he flails again, looking for a weak point in his bonds but there's nothing except the feel of Dean's hands on Sam's thighs, pulling his ass flush against the edge of the cot, and pressing his knees far apart as they can go until his muscles are screaming and his arms are taut against the edge of their sockets, and then he presses in, and in, and in, and Sam screams and screams and screams.

* * *

The window in the panic room door slides open, and a pair of familiar green eyes peers in at Sam, flat and unmoving on the cot inside, eyes and lips screwed shut and a look of agony on his face. But his breath is coming regular and steady. He'll be okay, Dean tells himself. Whatever he's going through now, it can't be worse than what that demon bitch was putting him through.

He'll be okay.

~fin~

Fic: In Sanguine, Veritas

2022-10-29T09:12:30Z

Title: In Sanguine, Veritas
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural/Sastiel
Rating: Explicit
Length: 2.2k
Warnings: Noncon, torture, bondage, voyeurism, gore, violence, choking, asphyxiation, pain play, blood play, unsafe sex
Community: SPN Masquerade

Summary: Sam and Castiel get trapped trying to rescue Jack, and now Asmodeus wants to film his very own snuff film starring them. Castiel's not into it at all, but they don't have any other option except holding out until rescue can arrive. Sam, on the other hand... despite what he says, Sam may be a little too into it.

"Sam, this thing they are asking of us - I cannot do it. To you. It - it is too much."

Sam reaches up to the Enochian collar that's been welded around the angel's neck and pulls him in close. "We just have to keep them occupied until..." he trails off, Cas knows, because people might be, no, scratch that, definitely are listening. "-until we can figure out how to get free and get out of here."

Castiel shakes his head, reaching his own hand up to stroke the collar sealed around Sam's neck. "It should-" He tries to press the knife into Sam's hand. "I am an angel of the lord, Samuel. I will survive the damage much better than you." He tosses a spiteful look at Asmodeus. "You cannot ask this of me."

Sam leans his forehead against Cas's, and he wishes uselessly again that he could rewrite time, correct the missteps that had led them right into Asmodeus' trap. "I have to ask this of you. What they want - I can't do it," Sam says. "Literally, physically, can't do it," his eyes glance down to his stubbornly limp cock. "I don't care about the sex - I saw so much worse in the Cage that even on a bad day, getting forced to have sex is just - it's preschool."

Cas's eyebrows furrow. "I do not believe human children have-"

Despite the situation, Sam chuckles. "I mean it's - it's no big deal. Fuck or be fucked, man, woman, demon, angel - I just don't care."

"Tick-tock, tick-tock, gentlemen!" Asmodeus yells. A round of jeers erupts from the demonically possessed film crew surrounding the erstwhile porn set he has set up to make his would-be snuff film.

But Dean is coming. Sam holds fast to that. Dean will get here, just as soon as he can find out where they're holding Jack and get him free. They just have to survive until then.

"That is no reason why you should be the one to suffer, Sam," Castiel says gently. "In fact, it is the precise reason why you should never have to suffer again." There's a look in his eyes, gentle, almost tender. The grace of heaven's love. Sam could die happy having seen it.

No. No one's dying today. He presses the blade back into Castiel's hands.

"It not about anyone deserving it, Cas. It's just," he sighs and broaches the topic that he's clearly never wanted to talk about. "I can't do it. Literally." He glances downward again. "Gadreel fixed me up enough that I could survive the damage from the trials, but there are some things he didn't think were worth fixing. I know you can control your body's functions."

Castiel nods. "I can create a need for an erection in this body, yes, and make it respond accordingly."

"Exactly," Sam laughs deprecatingly. "I can't. At all. So it's got to be you." He runs his fingers along the blade of the knife, staring in fascination at the bloody slits that open in its wake. "You can heal me once we get that collar off you."

Castiel glances back at Asmodeus, then at Sam. "This is not... not how I foresaw my first experience occurring."

Sam looks away, absently smearing the blood over his fingers. "I know." I'm sorry I'm not Dean. He doesn't say it. It doesn't need to be said. Cas can read it in his eyes.

"Time is money," Asmodeus yells, his Foghorn Leghorn-lie accent cartoonishly out of place. "Places, everyone, and action."

Sam smiles up Cas softly and caresses his cheek with his hand, leaving bloody smudges behind. "Don't worry, I'll talk you through it." He falls backward against the bed, naked flesh lushly exposed for Castiel to wonder at. Then he wraps a hand around Castiel's collar and pulls him down on top of him. "I remember enough to make it look good."

Castiel doesn't have to try to get hard - the press of their bodies together is more than enough to make his penis stiffen and grow, excited by the friction and the closeness.

We just have to make it until Dean, Cas thinks. He has never prayed to a human before, although he has prayed over many of them. Dean, get here fast, before-

His prayer cuts off suddenly as Sam wraps his legs around Castiel's waist, pulled him close. He hikes his hips up, lining Castiel's cock up with his opening at the same time he guides the blade up to his scalp.

"Cut along the hairline to begin," he whispers. "Make it a long cut, but not deep, forehead down to jaw. Scalp wounds bleed a lot. They'll like that."

Then he tightens his legs, forcing Castiel to penetrate him without warning.

Sam is warm, and tight, but dry. He makes a slight gasp as Castiel's penis slides home, full of pain but also something else, that Castiel doesn't have words for.

"Now," he says, pulling Cas down so he can make the cut. The blade slides easily across Sam's flushed flesh, and for a moment, he thinks he's done it wrong. Then a thin line of blood wells up, flowing along Sam's temples like a crown. He flinches when the blade begins, but then holds perfectly still, not even breathing, a slight clench in his sphincter the only sign that Castiel's act has affected him.

"Sam," Cas begins, "are you okay?"

Sam swallows and nods. "Keep going. Draw the knife along the jawline - don't worry, you won't peel my face off, but they'll think-" his breath catches "-think that it might."

Castiel is glad, then, for his control over his body, because it is the only thing that keeps him hard inside Sam. He does as he is bid, though, carefully avoiding as many blood vessels as he can until Sam scoffs and says, "No, Cas, harder."

And something breaks in Cas, inside. "Sam, I- I cannot-" He drops the knife then, but Sam picks it up and presses it back into his hand almost angrily.

"You can, and you will because there is no other choice." He spits the words through gritted teeth, scowling up at Cas, then sighs. "Hold on."

A second later, their positions are somehow suddenly flipped. Castiel is on his back with Sam straddling him, knife pressed against Sam's chest while he forces himself hard enough down onto his cock again that Cas is sure he feels something in the hunter tear. Sam takes Cas down to the root, then guides Cas's hand with the knife in it down the center of his chest, then to the side of his abdomen. The blood is flowing freely down his face now, his skin and neck bathed a hellish red. It meets and mingles with the new lines of blood running practically the full length and breadth of Sam's chest.

"Here," he says, pressing the blade lightly against his skin as he rises up and settles back down upon Castiel's cock. "Make a cut slightly wider than your hand, here, in the Longinus spot." He hikes his hips up and slams back down onto Sam's cock, face screwed into a rictus grin from the pain. Something trickles down onto Castiel's balls that he doesn't want to think about, warm and wet.

The blade parts Sam's flesh easily, cutting through layers of skin and the little fatty tissue he has managed to cultivate. "That's- that's good," Sam grits out, fucking himself onto Castiel's cock. "Now take your hand and- slide it inside the skin. Like your hand is on my waist, only- only inside."

His eyes are distant.

This is a memory, Cas thinks, and then realizes- no. This is just Sam.

"There we have it," Asmodeus crows. "There's Azazel's beloved boy king, riding his throne just like he's been taught."

"Please," Sam whispers, eyes closed, broken, needy, desperate.

Castiel can't do anything but comply.

Below his hand, the sliced-open flaps of Sam's flesh part like the flaps of a vulva, and Sam's thrusts become more desperate. Castiel's fingers slide under the fascia over his muscles like a hand into a glove. He grips down slightly, digging the fingers into Sam's tissues like a lover might caress his beloved, and Sam moans as blood wells out around the wound. Then he takes the knife from Castiel's other hand and guides it up to his neck, into a gentle chokehold made harder to control with all the slippery blood.

"Please, Cas," Sam whimpers. "Harder."

There's something behind that whimper... It makes Cas glance down to realize that despite all of Sam's protestations to the contrary, the hunter is hard. More than hard, his cock pulsing almost an angry purple with blood.

No matter how fucked up the situation is, this is turning Sam on.

Cas tightens his grip on Sam's neck. "Touch yourself for me, Sam." The hunter shakes his head, no, but no is not an option anymore, not as far as Castiel is concerned. He understands now.

Sam's fingers flex around Castiel's on his neck, an unspoken plea on his lips, but Castiel knows how to read him now.

"Did I say you could say no?" He clenches his fingers incrementally harder. "Touch your cock for me now, Samuel." He watches as Sam's fingers twitch and takes a risk. "Show me how much you love this. Show me how you like it touched. Slap it, pinch it, make it feel good - make it hurt."

With a broken, keening wail, Sam does. He lets the blade clatter to the ground and leans back, one hand propped on Castiel's thigh, the angel's hand still rooted in his flesh. He drops the other hand down to his dick, fingers wrapping around it like a vise as his fingernails dig in and claw down along its length. New trails of blood well up in the gouges they leave behind as he strips his cock fast and angrily, drawing new furrows with each stroke.

Cas uses the opportunity to fuck up into Sam, ignoring how the path is easier, wetter now, twisting the muscles in his fingers and clenching down because he can feel how Sam tightens up around him with every breath he fights to take, with every incremental tear inside his skin.

With an expression halfway between heaven and hell, Sam wraps his other hand around his balls and squeezes until the flesh is white under his fingertips.

In response, Cas digs his fingers deeper into Sam's abdominal wall, deep enough to almost touch his organs, at the same time that he presses down hard on Sam's throat, stopping all air from reaching his desperate lungs.

And Sam cums. Wordlessly, pearly translucent spurts that spatter against his chest, coloring making the blood trails a milky pink. And to his eternal shame, Castiel follows right after, seed spurting up uncontrollably inside of Sam. And then-

"Down!" Dean yells, and the unmistakable grace of Heaven fills the air as Jack arrives. It's all Castiel can do to roll on top of Sam, sheltering him with his body and the air is filled with the brightest of lights as Jack obliterates the demons that have been taunting them. Castiel's collar shatters under the impact, and his grace floods back into place. He pours it into Sam, instantly healing wounds that should never have been made.

Wounds he will never be able to look at Sam now and not see.

Underneath him, Sam's face flattens out, emotions disappearing behind a passive facade. He twists his hips and Cas's cock slips free, like nothing had ever happened.

"Sam-" he tries, but the hunter won't meet his eyes. "I am so sorry-"

"It wasn't your fault," Sam says softly. "This- none of this is on you. It's not your fault."

There's combat happening around them - Asmodeus, Castiel suspects, but he doesn't look away to find out, keeping his eyes trained on Sam. "The fault was not yours, either."

Sam scoffs. "Does it matter?" He glances over where the combat is fading. "Don't worry, I won't tell Dean."

If there's one thing Castiel can get right tonight, let it be this. "When I said first experience - Sam, I have had sex before." He touches his fingers to Sam's now-pristine cheek. "By first experience... it was you I meant. Not Dean." He presses their foreheads together so Sam can't avoid his gaze, willing him to understand. "It has always, always been you. And this changes nothing. I am grateful - privileged - to have seen this side of you, and I will accept you any way I can."

Sam's eyes are red. "Even broken? Even-" he gestures weakly at himself- "this?"

Cas rests his hand on Sam's neck, placed casually but carefully over the collar that he could remove, but hasn't, and squeezes. Slightly. Carefully. Never looking away from Sam's eyes, willing him to understand.

"A porcelain dish, once broken, is still beautiful, even though its edges are sharp enough to cut. I will accept you, Sam Winchester, in any way I can."

The look in Sam's eyes is distrusting, but Cas thinks he can see a glimmer of hope, buried under aeons of pain.

And that's enough.

~fin~

Fic: The Truth in His Bones

2022-10-29T08:41:25Z

Title: The Truth in His Bones
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural/Wincest
Rating: Explicit
Length: 5.3k
Warnings: Non-consensual everything, body modification, blood drinking, rough sex, violence
Community: SPN Masquerade

Summary: Sam doesn't use the knife in Soul Survivor. Dean does use the hammer. But Dean's not ready to let his brother go - not when he's got a much better idea for how to rebuild their relationship.

The blood pooling under Sam's head looks almost black in the eerie red light of the bunker's lockdown alarm.

"Well, shit." Things have gone a little further a little faster than he's intended to take them.

Dean lets the hammer clatter to the floor. "I barely clocked you, bro. Didn't even use the claw end. We're not done here yet, so wake up." He stomps down on his brother's right knee to get a reaction, enjoying the satisfying crack. "Don't be such a little bitch. I said-" he stomps down again- "get the fuck up."

Sam whimpers, but he doesn't wake up.

The pool of blood gets incrementally larger.

"This is all on you, y'know." Dean stares down at him resentfully. Hard to believe he'd ever gone to hell for the kid. What a waste. "I told you to let me go."

The pool spreads.

"I told you-" he's yelling now- "I was gonna rip your throat out with my teeth. I told you-" He paces back and forth, irrationally angry at Sam for making him do this. "None of this would have happened if you'd been a better brother. If you hadn't made me have to stuff an angel inside you just to keep you alive. If you hadn't made me-"

"D'n-" There's a wet gasp, and the figure below him stirs slightly, slurring out, "don't- don't-" One hand raises up limply and paws at his boot, leaving a red smear down the side of the boot as it flops down again right after.

Dean traces the path of Sam's fingers with his heel, contemplating how it would feel, all those delicate bones cracking underneath as he stomps downward…

And then he thinks about those long, delicate fingers, wrapped around his cock instead.

Well. That's new.

Dean squats down, rice paddy-style, and watches his brother's chest struggle to rise and fall.

I should kill him now, he thinks. And then that little perverse part of his brain adds, I should never let him go.

If he doesn't nip this thing in the bud, the kid'll be a buzzkill on his heels forever.

Already did the job halfway. Fuck it, just finish him.

He can always just leave him to die in the hallway, let some other unlucky bastard find his rotting corpse a year or two down the road. The place would make a great tomb.

(It could also make a great cage.)

He turns and stalks back toward the doors, but only gets a few yards away before some damn part of him protests.

Mine.

He walks back and looks down at Sam one more time. Killing him is kind of a waste, isn't it? The kid had made a hell of a demon, once upon a time. Seems a shame to ignore that potential.

Dean thinks about Sam with coal black eyes, fighting side-by-side with him, a pair of black-souled bastards who could go anywhere, do anything, and never have to worry about saving a goddamn thing.

Blood is trailing out away from the pool, little red rivulets reaching out towards Dean's boots the way the kid has always turned towards him, like a flower in the sun. No, scratch that, that's a terrible metaphor. He hates it.

He imagines Sam looking at him the way he'd looked at Ruby – desperate, half-mad, addicted, trapped. Helpless. Not a demon, that would give him a little too much power. But a thrall, an addict, like Ruby had made him…

Yeah, that gets the old blood pumping.

The kid moans in pain, a wet gurgling sound that shouldn't get Dean as hard as it does. His breaths are coming shallower now.

Shit or get off the pot. If he doesn't make his mind up soon, it's not gonna matter what he chooses.

Yeah. He's made up his mind – he's not gonna kill Sam. He's gonna show him once and all for all who's the boss. Teach him that his place is what it always should have been – by Dean's side, following Dean's lead… obeying Dean's orders.

He kneels down then, letting the green fade back into his eyes while his brother's blood seeps into the threads of his jeans, staining the knees a sticky purple.

"Sammy," he whispers, trying to remember the way he used to sound. "Hey, stay with me." He angles his voice a little lower, a little rougher, a little more desperate. "Oh, god, Sammy, look at me, it's gonna be okay, it's gonna be okay."

"D'n?" Sam's head tilts in his direction, but his eyes are unfocused. "Izzat you?"

"Yeah," Dean lies, lips trembling to hide the smirk that wants to break free. "It's me. I'm back." He holds his fingers over Sam's throat, counting out his pulse even as he fights the urge to press down even harder. "Fuck, kid, you don't look so good." Did he sound smug there? Dammit. He tries again, adding a bit more sincerity. "It's gonna be okay. Cas'll be here any minute, he'll fix you right up, you'll see."

He cradles Sam's head in his hands, resisting the urge to dig his fingers into the fractures in the bone that he himself put there. "Don't leave me. I've got you."

"m tired, Dean, I can't, I can't see you. It hurts-" Sam whimpers and damn if that doesn't do things for him. He shifts his crotch to give his suddenly rock-hard erection room to breathe under the pretense of pulling Sam closer to him.

"I'm right here, Sammy." He makes a show of patting the kid down. "Oh man, this is – I'm not gonna lie to you, it's bad, but you- you've lived through worse."

Sam smiles lopsidedly, one half of his face not working quite right. "It's okay, D'n, if you're okay, I can- I knew you-"

"Sammy, no, fuck, I'm so, so goddamn sorry." Dean lays it on thick, choking out each word. "Why didn't you stop me? You had the knife. You could have just stabbed me. I woulda deserved it."

Sam's hand grasps weakly at Dean's. "'s always been you, Dean. I'd do anything-"

"Don't say that," Dean says, meaning exactly the opposite. Time to drive the sale home. "I'd do that too, you know. I'd give anything to make this better, Sam, you get that, right?"

Say it, he thinks. C'mon. Do it.

And so help him, the kid does.

"Me too, Dean. Y'r m' broth'r, an I, I love you." He fades out at the end, so Dean shakes him. Just a bit. "'d give anything to make it bett'r too."

"Heart, soul, the works, right?" His smile is entirely sincere this time, as Sam hands him everything he wants.

Sam smiles wanly, eyes staring off at nothing. "Anythin' n' everythin', Dean. You know that."

He can't keep the eagerness out of his voice, but the kid's too far gone right now to notice. "All right then. Your heart and soul… and I'll make you better… in every possible way."

And zing, there it is, just like Crowley had described it. The minute the erstwhile contract clicks into place, power flows into him, the power of having a soul – Sam's soul – tethered to him. "Souls are what let us work the magic," Crowley had said. "Make the lame walk, heal the dying, give John Travolta a career – it's like a little battery full of wonders… for ten years, anyway."

It comes with another surprise, the real surprise – even on the brink of death, Sam's soul isn't just a battery. It's a fucking nuclear powerhouse. No wonder Azazel had such a hard-on for him.

The green in Dean's eyes fades back to inky black pools. He kisses Sam's forehead, licking the blood off his lips afterwards. It tastes like fireworks under a summer moon. He's almost sorry to see the skin begin to knit back together – then again, it's not like he can't tap a vein now and then for old time's sake when he feels like it.

Sam's his now.

Sam's breathing loses its torturous gasping quality, evening out into deep sleep as his brain tissue reknits itself and his arteries sew themselves back together. His knee crunches and shifts as the broken fragments realign.

Dean thinks about the freedom those words give him – anything to make it better – and chuckles darkly. Just as well the kid never became a lawyer. Traumatic brain injury or no, he's given Dean a loophole big enough to drive a semi through.

"I'll show you 'better', kid." He smiles and pushes Sam deeper into sleep. "I'll make you so much better – for me – that you won't even recognize yourself."

If Sam wants to get the band back together? So be it. But this time, he's going to play the tune Dean wants, and nothing else. Dean will make sure Sam lives up to his potential – his real potential. He'll make sure nothing will ever come between them. He'll make Sam his, and his alone, and no one will be able to even look at his little brother without knowing that fact.

Dean isn't the man who once sold his soul for his family, not any longer. If Sam had looked at Dean during all that hogwash with the blood and the chanting and the trying to turn him back into a pathetic, guilt-ridden human… if he had looked at him, really looked at him, not that puppy dog half-look-glance-away bullshit – he wouldn't have recognized him in the slightest.

And when Dean's done with Sam, he won't recognize himself, either.

* * *

"I'm the king of hell, Dean. Why on earth am I lowering myself to help you move bodies again?"

"A body," Dean corrects, lifting Sam's knees higher.

"A body," Crowley agrees, "although one – unf – as large and – oop – heavy as your brother's really ought to count as three."

Sam shifts and whimpers a little in Crowley's arms, head lolling to one side, revealing the still-healing wound. "Nice job driving the point home, squirrel. Honestly, I didn't think you had it in you. But why not go for the home run? Why leave the job half-done?"

"I got my reasons."

"You'd bloody well better." Crowley shifts his arms to get a firmer handhold on the unconscious hunter as they near the corner of the hallway. "Thanks to you, I've got blood and brains smeared all over my suit, and it's going to totally put me off my lunch."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch." Dean scrambles as Crowley almost drops Sam as he turns the corner. "You're the King of Hell, you've got suits coming out of your ass and twice on Sundays. Besides, I said I'd make it worth your while, didn't I?"

The demon sighs. "It had better be. We could have already been on our second pitcher of mimosas with those blonde triplets by now."

"Trust me, it will be worth it. I just need to get Sam down to the room where we stashed you after the whole gate thing went south."

"Oh yes, jolly good." Crowley rolls his eyes. "What could possibly top carrying your mostly dead brother on a tour through my least-favorite residential experiences?"

"Shut up and help." Dean wonders if Crowley has always been this much of a little bitch. Suddenly his plans are sounding better and better.

Crowley sighs dramatically. "Fine, fine, as long as you aren't expecting me to heal Moose here. I can't do any of that without a soul to power it."

"I got that covered." For some reason Dean wants to keep that little detail to himself right now. "Don't worry, you're gonna love this. Half an hour from now, you're gonna be singing my praises."

* * *

The thing about angels, Dean thinks gleefully, is how damn predictable they are. When Crowley calls Castiel to come heal Sam, pretending to have just found him, the angel immediately rushes to his side. He's so busy fixing the last of Sam's injuries that he doesn’t even notice Dean moving in with the Men of Letters' binding manacles until it's too late and they're around his wrists.

And without his powers… it doesn't take him and Crowley very long to deck him out with a nice little crown of nails through his head.

Crowley looks over at Dean. "Well, you're right, this is exciting. My very own pet angel. I like the way you think."

Dean looks over at Castiel and his blanked-out zombie look. "He'll do whatever you want him to do as long as you've got those nails in place, right?"

Crowley nods. "Absolutely. What are you thinking of doing?"

Dean smirks evilly. "Cas carved a whole buncha Enochian onto Sam's and my ribs once to hide us from Heaven and Lucifer. Let's just say I've got plans for the other 190 or so of his bones. Feel like a little existential surgery?"

Crowley raises his eyebrows, glancing between Castiel and Sam. "You're right. I wouldn't miss this for the world."

* * *

Everything hurts.

That's the only thing Sam can process when he wakes up. Everything aches, like his bones have been pulled out of his body and scraped clean. Skin, muscles, tendons, bones – it feels like someone's been using him as a punching bag for days. It feels wrong. His head is pulsing with the worst migraine he's ever had, worse even than the ones he used to get with his visions. He opens his eyes, but the light hurts so much he immediately clenches them shut again, waiting for the nausea to pass.

The quick glimpse he did get looks like his room in the Bunker, or one of the bedrooms, anyway. He's never really bothered to add anything too personal to his room, a fact he regrets now. If it's not his room, it'll be harder to orient himself, but if it is… he reaches out a shaking hand, eyes still tightly closed, and fumbles for the nightstand, tracing his hand over it until he finds the lamp and turns it off.

The light behind his eyelids flickers and darkens, and he sighs in relief. But the feeling of fear, of un-rightness – that remains.

It takes half an hour or so before Sam's headache retreats to something close to manageable, before he can do more than lie perfectly still and wait for the pain to ebb so he can try to figure out what's happened to him.

He remembers the knife.

Panic washes over him – his brother, where is he? He was so close, so nearly cured-

He remembers the hammer.

He remembers-

He remembers-

No. He doesn't want to think about that.

He remembers that Dean was almost human again. He tries to cling onto that as his skull begins to pound again.

* * *

The next time Sam wakes, his head feels better, but that feeling of not-rightness is even more pervasive. His body feels unnatural, there's no other word for it. He's naked underneath the covers, and he doesn't know when that happened. His feet are stiff and he can't wiggle his toes. His hips ache, and so do his wrists. His head is too heavy, and his neck feels… different. Denser. He tries to stand up and nearly falls off the bed. His center of gravity is off, and there's a sheet or something still dangling off of him. His head – there's something-

"Shhh," Dean says from the doorway, all black-eyed and smug. "Look at you, Sammy, taking your very first steps all over again. Shh, don't rush it, you've got time."

Sam's stomach drops when he sees the streaks of dried blood spattered across Dean's arms and shirt. "Dean, what did you do?" It's almost a whisper. Almost a prayer. "Cas-"

"-ain't gonna help you," Dean says, "but there's a mirror over there so you can see for yourself." He nods towards the far corner.

It's a trap, Sam knows it is. He goes anyway, wobbly and woozy, but he gets there. Only a few seconds after, he's staggering back, recoiling from the mirror in horror.

"Dean – what did you do?" he repeats, uselessly. "What did you do to me?"

And then Dean's there, pressed up against Sam, hips grinding his hard cock up against Sam's ass, one arm wrapped around his waist, the other around his neck, propelling him back to the mirror.

"I improved you, Sammy," Dean says cheerfully, pulling Sam's hips back against his cock. "I made you all better."

And Sam knows. There's no coming back from this.

* * *

Sam was tall before – he's taller now, almost seven feet from hooves to horns.

The horns are a work of art, modelled after the big, curly kind you find on a ram. They curve up from his forehead and curl down to his jawline before twisting back upwards and out to the side. He grew them from the bones of Sam's skull itself, stained red with blood that darkens red-brown to complement his hair.

"Cas helped," Dean says, "with the horns, I mean. Couldn't have you anything but healthy while I did frickin' brain surgery, could I? They're hollow, so your neck doesn't snap, and blunt, so you don't accidentally hurt yourself, and check it-" he moves the hand on Sam's neck up and grips one of the horns. "-perfect handlebars, just like the joke goes!" He drops his voice into the low, flirty tones that have gotten him laid time and time again. "And don't think we won't be trying them out later."

Below the horns, his body looks relatively unaltered, in shape, anyway. Two arms, two hands, his genitals – it's all normal. There are tattoos across his shoulders and chest, down his neck, but he can't even think about those now because-

Sam's always had large feet. Size 13, shoes big as boats to fit them in. He doesn't need size 13 shoes anymore.

He doesn't even need shoes anymore.

Under his knees, his legs bend sharply back, the short brown hair that's always coated them turning thicker and darker and fuller until it culminates in hooves. Black, split-toe hooves, like he's a satyr, or… or a demon.

"Fun fact," Dean says, blithely unconcerned with the way Sam's trying not to throw up, "that second knee there is actually your heel. We just extended your foot downwards and used the ball of the foot to grow it into your hooves."

"Why-?" Sam croaks out, and Dean sneers.

"Why? Because I could, bitch… and because I got tired. Tired of lying to you and saying you weren't a monster when we both know better. Tired of having no one else see you for the freak you really are. Tired of having you run off to college, or Jessica, or Becky, Amelia, or whoever was going to come along next. Tired of having you not listening when I asked you to respect my fucking life choices."

It's true, if Sam had looked like this from the start, he never would have even thought about leaving Dean behind for college. It would have been inconceivable. Then again, if Sam had looked like this from the start, his father would have smothered him in his crib. There's no place for this Sam except right at Dean's side, and there never will be. Which is undoubtedly what he wanted.

Dean tightens his grip on Sam's waist, and Sam realizes the legs his brother has given him force his hips to tilt, pushing his ass back and up so anyone could-

"Oh and hey, check this out, too," Dean continues like Sam's not having a complete breakdown. He steps back and wraps his hand around – around something that sits right above Sam's tailbone and yanks at it.

Sam yelps. That hurt- what-

He has a tail.

It's exactly the kind of devil tail you see in the cartoons, long and slender and pointed at one end, although it doesn't look much like an arrow, it looks more like a – like a stylized cock.

"Like it?" Dean says. "I think it's pretty handy, myself. Just think of the possibilities… 'cause I know I did."

The tail is the final straw, the final cue for Sam's body and brain to check out because this is not happening. It isn't. It just isn't. His knees wobble one second, and then next he's slumping down to the ground. It's a strange position – the second bend in his leg means it's more like he's squatting on his hooves. It takes him a moment to figure out how to fold them back again underneath him until he's actually sitting on the ground.

"You should be thanking me," Dean says sharply, stepping back and frowning down at him, hands crossed disapprovingly over his chest.

And that's just-

"Thanking you?!" Sam bursts out incredulously. "For what? This?! Turning me into some kind of freak?!"

"Hey," Dean says mildly, "Crowley was all for turning your hands into hooves, too, but I held off until I could see whether you could behave." His voice grows harsher and louder with every word. "It's not too late for you to be walking around here like a fucking goat with no way to scratch your ass, so fucking thank me for my restraint."

Sam bites back his bile. "Thank you for not making me even more of a freak," he mutters sullenly.

"There," Dean pats him on the head. "Was that so hard?"

"Fuck you," Sam snarks back.

"Why don't you go take a closer look, Sammy? You're missing some of my best work."

Sam just glares at him. "No thanks, I've seen enough."

Dean's voice drops, low and dangerous, and a hint of sulfur permeates the room. "Did I say it was optional?" He mutters something in Enochian then, spitting each syllable out with bile, and Sam's brain barely has time to translate it as I command you before his legs, his body are moving of their own accord, unfolding and standing up and moving closer to the mirror with a grace Sam will never feel. This isn't him, this is Dean somehow –

He tries to twist his head to look at Dean, but he can't. His head, his eyes remain resolutely forward, staring into the mirror. From this close, barely a foot away, Sam can see all the little glittering adornments that Dean has added to his body. Rings glitter in both ears, in his eyebrow, from his septum, even two evenly spaced snakebite piercings on his lips. Chains hang down from the ones on his ears, jingling whenever he moves.

"Tongue, Sam," Dean says, and his body obediently sticks its tongue out, displaying the dual barbells pierced through it.

His nipples are pierced, too, he realizes, and his belly button as well. He doesn't dare look lower. Not yet.

Following his hairline, his face is framed by slender, light-and-dark colored tattoos that are surprisingly flattering. They swirl along his face in abstract tribal patterns that - no, he realizes, not patterns. Sigils.

He looks closer.

Sigils of ownership, sigils of possession, sigils of control. Scrawled aesthetically in Enochian, Theban, Aramaic, Latin – a declaration and challenge to all other supernatural creatures that might witness it. A death sentence to any hunters who do the same.

"Whaddaya think, Sam?" Dean says cheerfully. "You wanted my undivided attention, so I gave it to you. Aren't you happy now?"

The sigils continue down and around his neck, where they shape a virtual collar, inscribed in ink but a collar nonetheless, and then flow down over his shoulders and arms. The colorful, full sleeve design is full of more sigils, intermingled with thorns, roses, flames, occult symbols and fucking little pitchforks. Mocking images of his anti-possession tattoo, purposely marred with a slash through them. A pair of eyes, black as night but rimmed in green - Dean's eyes. The initials they'd carved in Baby's dash. A statement in Aramaic declaring him Azazel's successor, the Crown Prince of Hell. A statement in English declaring him Property of Dean Winchester. A beautiful cursive rendering across his shoulder blades in front that simply reads, Dean's Bitch.

His chest is mostly bare, undoubtedly for the aesthetics of it, but more designs adorn the sides of his torso. The further down the tattoos go, the closer they get to his groin, the bawdier they get. Instead of lofty declarations in Enochian, there are obscene phrases in English: Cocksucker. Brotherfucker. Demon whore. Dean's fuck toy. Cunt boy. Worthless slut. And so many more. He's pretty sure there are obscene phrases in Enochian and Latin sprinkled in there, too.

He risks a look at his cock, blanching when he sees what Dean has done. Above his dick, there's an arrow pointing down next to the word, Useless. Underneath it, his dick is crammed into a cock cage, the metal kind with rings, and every ring of the cage is held in place with a piercing. His balls hang fat and heavy beneath it, pushed down and separated by their own metal rings. There's a prince albert through the end of his cock, and the final indignity, the cherry on top, is the tattoos that run down along it. It's in Enochian, and he can't quite make it out through the rings –

His wrists move of their own accord, lifting the cage up so he can see the tattoos more clearly.

"It says, 'Sam Winchester is never touching this cock again'," Dean explains helpfully. "The sigil on the back is to keep it nice and soft, so you won't get hard and hurt yourself by straining the piercings. Nobody hurts you except me-" he lowers his voice like a lover's murmur- "and believe me, I will hurt you enough for the both of us."

Sam believes.

"You should be flattered," Dean says. "Crowley found a tattoo artist willing to sell his soul for fame and talent, just for you. After we closed the deal, he did all the aesthetic work for me, piercings and all – except for your wrists and ankles, of course. That was all me."

Wrists and ankles? Sam lifts his wrist up to examine it, relieved when his body doesn't fight him. That's when he notices the ring in it, running directly through his wrist itself. He lifts his other wrist up, and there's another ring through it. He looks down at his- at his hooves, and sees a ring running through the flesh on the back of each ankle, hanging down above the hoof.

Sam's stomach lurches. "Dean- what- this isn't you-"

"This is exactly me." Dean says angrily. "You were always supposed to be by my side, but you left. Over and over again, you left. But you're mine now, Sammy. Those sigils go straight down to the bone, and that means you'll do whatever I tell you to, when I tell you to do it, and I'll always know exactly where you are. Those rings on your arms and legs go right through the bones in your joints and they're fuckin' fused there, they ain't ever coming off, so when I chain you up, you'll stay exactly where I want you to be."

Sam's head swims. "How…"

The compulsion to look at the mirror finally stops, and Sam whirls around as best he can, to find Dean standing by the door. Then he steps to one side. In the hall beyond, Crowley waggles his fingers in a devilish hello. Next to him, Cas stands impassively, with a collar around his neck and a circlet of nails pounded into his forehead. His face is slack, his eyes unfocused.

"Yeah, that's right, Cas ain't coming to save you," Dean says. "Matter of fact, he's the guy who helped me do your bones and your horns. Turns out, he's downright useful once you get his head on straight. Man, can you imagine how the apocalypse woulda gone if we'd known this then?"

I'm sorry, Cas, Sam thinks. Whether the angel can hear him, he has no way to tell.

"Eyes on me," Dean commands, and Sam's gaze refocuses on his brother. His pants are unzipped now, his erect cock bobbing free in front of him. Above it, he's holding a knife in one hand, blade poised over the palm of his other.

"I've been giving you a little boost of juice every day to help move things along, but now that you're awake and everything's been tested, there's no reason to take it slow. Gonna get you back up to speed and watch those pretty hazel eyes turn black, and you won't ever use your powers against me, because you're mine."

He draws the blade across his palm, rich sulfuric blood pooling to the surface in its wake. Small droplets splatter to the floor as they drip off the blade.

Sam's mouth waters at the sight.

Enjoying the way Sam is staring at him, Dean slowly rubs the blood across the head and shaft of his cock, masturbating himself to even greater hardness.

"On your knees, Sammy. Crawl over here and lick up the mess I made. If you make it good, I might even give you a reward."

Sam can't tell anymore whether it's the sigils or just his own weakness at the sight and smell of Dean's blood that make his knees fold under him. Mesmerized, he crawls across the floor to Dean on his hands and knees, rings jingling as he goes. Behind Dean, he can see Castiel on his knees as well, as Crowley begins to fuck his face with a wicked, victorious grin.

When Sam reaches Dean, he crouches down low, kissing his brother's boots as if he had done so his entire life. Carefully, meticulously, he licks up every glistening drop from the floor, ignoring the squirming feeling that grows in his stomach from the act and Dean's resultant, "Good boy." Then, gingerly, worshipfully, he rises and takes his brother's glistening red cock into his mouth and begins to flick his tongue over the drops of blood, loving how they burn in his mouth.

"Burns, I know." Dean says consolingly. "But that's what you get for sanctifying your blood. You were all pure from the Trials when we started, but not for much longer, hey? When I get done with you, there won't be anything pure about you."

Dean grasps his horns then, using them like handlebars to push his cock even further into Sam's mouth, forcing him to swallow it all down to the root. The scent of Dean's musk, sulfuric and pungent and male, seeps into his nose, filling it until he can think of nothing other than the cock in his mouth and the (brother) (owner) (master) to whom it and he belongs.

Sam lets his mouth and throat go limp so Dean can fuck into him, enjoying the way his throat constricts and his eyes water every time his oxygen is cut off by his brother's cock. It feels good to be of use, feels right to be on his knees like this before his brother.

He's vaguely aware of his tail twisting and turning behind him, seeking some kind of-

"You're mine, Sammy. Always have been, always will be."

Like it's possessed, Sam's tail finds its target and sinks home, tickling his sphincter and then pushing through, fucking in and filling up Sam's ass more than he'd ever thought possible. Without his conscious intent, his feet shift further apart to give it easier entrance as it shifts in and out inside him without his control, insistently rubbing over his prostate.

"Can't even tell where your will ends and mine begins, can you?" Dean laughs, grinding his hips against Sam's face. "Just give in, Sammy. Let it happen."

Sam's caged cock twitches as precum begins to dribble out of it, and Dean's cock swells even larger in his mouth.

"I tried to let you go. I told you to let me go. But that's all behind us now. Now, you're mine for good. Forever."

As Dean's cum spurts into his mouth and throat, and Sam's soft cock begins to spurt cum from the way his tail is incessantly milking his prostate, Sam can't deny the truth of that anymore. He's Dean's. There's no escaping that fact now. His soul belongs not to God, or Lucifer, or even himself. It belongs to Dean, now, always, and forever.

And that fact is carved into his soul now…

Into his very bones.

~fin~

Masterpost: Wild Times at the Impala

2022-10-29T08:00:40Z

Dean's a wild child with a motorcycle and a bar called The Impala. Sam's half-feral, maybe half-demon, and all Dean's.

Saturday Night at the Impala: (LJ) (DW) (AO3)
Nothing got Sam hornier than the endorphin rush he got from getting tattooed. And nothing got Dean hornier than watching Sam get marked up permanently with his designs.

In the Dark of Night: (LJ) (DW) (A03)
There were only two periods of time in Sam's life that mattered to him: before and after Dean.

Copper and Ash: (LJ) (DW) (A03)
There were no rules that governed waking up with the coppery taste of blood coating your tongue, and more of it dried and flaking down your jaw. No hard-and-fast rules for realizing that the gash in your side that you thought might just kill you was now pink and scarred like a few days had passed with a few short hours of sleep, even the holes around the small, neat row of stitches looking healthy and healed. And there were definitely no guidelines for handling the foggy memory of a man writhing above and underneath you, his hands and mouth sticky and red, hot and passionate, almost too pretty to be real and too wild to be human.

Fic: Caged Heat

2022-10-29T06:18:00Z

Title: Caged Heat
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural/Wincest
Rating: Explicit
Length: 1.9k words
Series: Caged Desires
Community: Saturday Night Specials

Summary: Of course it's not right. Dean would be the first person to admit that indulging in kinky chastity sex games with your brother is the furthest thing from right. But it's hot as fuck. And what's the worst that God's gonna do to them? Send them to hell? Been there, done that, buddy.

There's a short list of things Dean would have loved to be if he hadn't been a hunter.

Bounty hunter.

Firefighter.

Stuntman.

Racecar driver.

Bronco buster.

Yeah, especially that last one.

Bronco buster. Just thinking about it is enough to get Dean's dick hard: the hat, the jeans, the chaps, the spurs, the lasso, the feeling of taking something skittish and powerful and dangerous and making it bend under your hand. In fact, there's nothing about it that doesn't turn Dean on – except the horse, maybe. Then again, Dean's never imagined dealing with horses when he daydreams about it. After all, the thrill of breaking in a horse has got nothing on the thrill of breaking in Sam Winchester.

Sam's always been a lot to handle. High-strung, John had called him once, but high maintenance is really more like it. It's not his fault, Dean knows now – Sam's had angels and demons whispering in his ear his whole life, telling him to want what he shouldn't want and then making him hate himself for listening to them.

What this translates to, practically, at this particular moment, is a complex tango of two steps forward, one step back. Sure, when Dean gets Sam worked up and desperate and horny, he'll beg to suck Dean's cock, keep it warm for hours like a good little whore. But the minute Dean lets him come, suddenly he's all skittish and guilty and moaning about how this isn't right, Dean and we should just stop, Dean and what if Cas is out there watching somehow, Dean.

And of course it's not right. Dean would be the first person to admit that indulging in kinky chastity sex games with your brother is the furthest thing from right.

But it's hot as fuck. And what's the worst that God's gonna do to them? Send them to hell? Been there, done that, buddy.

The irony is that even with all of Sam's weird bursts of morality, Dean still comes out on top – literally, even. Oh no, Sam gets weird after he gets an orgasm? Well, then, I guess it just means more days in chastity for little Sammy. More desperate moans and glassy-eyed stares. More Sam being pliant and willing to do whatever Dean says. More Sam being so desperate and horny that he'll let Dean talk him deeper and deeper into depravity.

It's a win-win situation.

Dean would have been an amazing bronco buster.

* * *

Dean used to think there was nothing better than waking up in his motel room and getting a little morning sunshine from the hot waitress-slash-nurse-slash-teacher-slash-whoever he'd picked up in town on a hunt. But now Dean wakes up in the comfort of his own bed, with Sam's warm, wet mouth gently cradling his cock, and that's a hell of a lot better way to wake up, in his opinion.

"Hey Sammy…" Dean winds his fingers through Sam's hair, tugging it gently until his eyes flicker open, sleepy and devoted, and he blinks the sand out of his eyes. "Remind me now, how many days has it been?"

Sam pulls his head back slightly, Dean's dick falling out of his mouth with a gentle plop as he focuses on swallowing down all the saliva that's pooled in there while he was warming Dean's cock.

"Four…?" he says uncertainly after a few moments. Then he blinks again and shakes his head. "No, five."

Seven, Dean thinks to himself triumphantly, but doesn't correct him. It's all he can do to keep his face from showing the glee he's feeling at the fact that Sam's been caged up for seven days and plugged for half of every day, and he's so far down that he's letting it all blur together. Even though they'd only agreed to five days this time.

"You ready to stop, Sammy?" Dean asks gently. "Five's nothing to sneeze at. But if you're feeling good about things, we can go longer." He lets his fingers tighten in Sam's hair, loving the way it makes Sam whimper just so.

"Longer," Sam pants out a moment later, grinding his cage lightly against Dean's calf. It's against the rules – Sam's supposed to ask about that sort of thing first, but Dean's inclined to forgive him right now.

Dean tugs Sam up and kisses him on the forehead. "Seven," he agrees. "We'll go for seven." And then he slides him back down in the bed and presses his hips up until Sam gets the hint and sucks him down enthusiastically.

Nine, Dean thinks smugly, enjoying the rapid improvements in his brother's blowjob technique since they started. It doesn't take him long to come after that, and when he does, it's the thought of how many orgasms he's had and how many orgasms Sam hasn't that tips him over the edge.

* * *

Truth be told, they don't take on may cases outside the bunker these days. Sam needed a lot of time to recover after the trials, and Dean wasn't inclined to leave him. He'd kept busy those early days by getting Charlie to help him install a phone bank like Bobby'd used to run, and things had spiraled from there. It was easy to park Sam in front of a book or a laptop looking up information while Dean played FBI operator, and they never really got out of the habit of it. Too many hunters relying on them being there to answer questions and provide support.

Dean likes it now for other reasons… they couldn't play the kind of games they're playing out in the field. Too easy to get distracted and mess up during the hunt.

And out in the field, Dean couldn't ask Sam to spend the day reorganizing the library and scanning some of the books they don't have as PDFs while wearing nothing but a pair of tight red-and-black spandex boy boxer panties with a clear mesh front and back that leave nothing to the imagination. The mesh perfectly frames Sam's chastity cage and the neatly trimmed bush above it – Sam had refused to shave completely but like Sam agreeing to wax his legs, Dean knows it's only a matter of time.

The hornier Sam gets, the more he stops thinking about looking and acting all proper. Seven days in means Sam's brain is pickled in a fog of lust practically 24-7, which is why he's not even embarrassed to be walking around in the panties and bending over from the waist when he drops something, giving Dean a perfect view of his hole and the way it glistens and gapes ever-so-slightly open these days as Dean uses incrementally bigger and bigger plugs.

He waits until Sam's back bent over the library table before he strikes, though. The minute he gets a hand on the back of Sam's neck, his brother practically melts into the table below him. It's easy work then to tug the boxers down lower, elastic biting into the flesh below Sam's ass, and slip his cock into the hole that's still lubed up and ready for him.

Sam's a dream of a fuck these days, tight and always willing, always welcoming, always willing to take whatever Dean's planning on dishing out. Dean lets his weight press Sam down into the table, head just inches from the rare tome he was about to scan in.

"Such a good boy," Dean whispers, fingers wrapping around Sam's throat, pressing just-so-slightly against his windpipe. "This is what you love, isn't it? Being useful… being such a good hole for me." His other hand is busy playing with Sam's nipples, enjoying the moans he can wring out of him. "Just taking what I give you, letting me use you, knowing you can't come even if you want to?"

He slams himself home to the base and swivels his hips, grinding his cock against the spot that he knows will make Sam's dick drool, and Sam whimpers again.

"That's right, Sam, you're such a good little slut for me, such a good little fucktoy." Dean hikes Sam's hips up a bit so he can slide a hand under him, let it run down over the smooth metal of the cock cage. The hole at the tip is dripping with precum, like a faucet that never quite got turned off. Now that's a good metaphor for Sam, he thinks.

"Gonna plug you up again after this," he murmurs. "Let you walk around with my jizz inside you, load after load after load. Would you like that?"

Sam gasps and squeezes, milking Dean's cock.

"Words, Sammy," he says, fucking his brother even harder. "You gotta tell me it's okay if you want me to do that, not gonna do anything without your permission."

Like Sam's gonna say anything but-

"Yes," he gasps out, and for a minute Dean almost thinks he's learned how to come despite his cage. Sam's never accomplished it yet, but Dean knows it's possible. Frankly, The thought's hot enough to tip him over the edge. Just to be on the safe side – and to be a bit of a bastard – he clamps his hand down hard behind the base of the cage, squeezing hard enough that any sperm travelling through his tubes are going to get shot right back into his testicles.

By the way Sam clenches around him, Dean's pretty sure that's exactly what happened. He squeezes again for good measure. "Careful, Sammy. Wouldn't want you to get any of those books dirty, would we?" He slaps him on the ass as he pulls out. "Keep those cheeks squeezed closed, babe. We don't want anything dripping out and making a mess you could slip in."

Good boy that he is, Sam's still in position when he comes back five minutes later with the plug. He can see Sam's legs trembling from the effort of keeping everything tight and secure.

The plug slides in without any difficulty. This one's a little more special – it's got a hose at the end, with a squeeze bulb on it.

"Got a surprise for you, Sammy." As soon as the plug's seated firmly in Sam's ass, Dean squeezes the bulb, enjoying Sam's gasp as the plug expands. He gives it a few more squeezes for good measure, then slides Sam's underwear back up over it all, making sure the bulb sits right outside the elastic. He's curious how big he can get it by the time the afternoon ends – a pump here, a squeeze there, and Sam will be walking more bowlegged than Dean ever did.

"Good boy," Dean murmurs, like a jockey talking down a horse after a race. He strokes his arm down Sam's flank, wiping away the sweat, until the muscles relax under his touch.

Two days from now, Dean'll lie back in his bed and let Sam climb on top and ride him. And maybe – maybe – he'll even let him come. Until then…

"Up," he says, and Sam stands up, eyes still glazed and focused on Dean.

Dean smiles at him, then looks down at the table, at the incriminating pool of pre-cum Sam's left behind, slowly oozing towards the books.

He taps his fingers on the table next to it authoritatively. "Clean it up." And Christ, the sight of Sam obediently bending over and extending his tongue like a kitten lapping up milk is enough to make his dick try to harden despite having just come.

Dean thinks about that collar he's still got stashed in Sam's underwear drawer. Thinks about how pretty it would look around Sam's neck.

Wonders how long it'll take before Sam lets him put a lock through the ring on that, too.

He's pretty sure it won't be long.

~fin~

Fic: Heaven, After All

2022-10-29T04:32:29Z

Title: Heaven, After All
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural/Wincest
Rating: Explicit
Length: 2.4k
Warnings: Post-finale, so they're both already dead
Community: Saturday Night Specials
Tags: public sex

Summary: They get on the road and just – go. The map in the glove compartment has just two locations, "here" and "there". Dean's doesn't need anything more than that. Destinations mean monsters and cases and killing. "There" means anywhere they feel like going. "There" means freedom.

Sam gets better in Heaven.

It sounds like it should be obvious, like, that's what Heaven's for, right? A lifetime of righteous service rewarded, et cetera, et cetera.

But this – this is more than Dean could have hoped for. This isn't just "Sam, at peace and out of danger". This is the disappearance of that infinitesimal hunch that Sam always carried around with him, the need to make himself smaller, lesser out of some mistaken belief that he should be. This is the way Sam's face gradually looks younger, more innocent as wrinkles recede, brows unfurrow, lips lose that slight bit of constant tension. This is the way Sam slowly stops flinching at loud noises, sudden movements, raised voices. At Dean's hand, voice, movement. The way he smiles more, laughs longer, and lets himself indulge in living the way he never would while he was actually alive.

This is Sam healing.

It's Dean healing, too.

The more they heal, the more the armor comes off. They dress like any other couple now, none of the multiple layers that hide weapons, bibles, salt, flasks of holy water. Dean's rocking the rebel-without-a-cause look he's always loved but never wore because it attracted too much attention, white tee and biker jacket and everything. Sam – well, today Sam's wearing swear-to-god actual denim shorts, half-unlaced high-tops and a black tee that looks like someone painted it on his abs and Dean can't get enough of it.

Dean will never get enough of Sam.

They get on the road and just – go. The map in the glove compartment has just two locations, "here" and "there". Dean's doesn't need anything more than that. Destinations mean monsters and cases and killing. "There" means anywhere they feel like going.

"There" means freedom.

Jack's heaven reads their mood as they drive and shifts around to match them. Trees and mountains give way to hills give way to freeways and towns and cities full of people they will never have to save, never have to wonder what they could have done differently. People who will never be their responsibility or their fault.

About two hours before dusk, they're ready to stop. Not five minutes after that, they pass a sign announcing a fair set up just past the next exit.

"What do you think?" Dean asks. Sam looks over and gives him a sunny smile.

They take the exit.

* * *

The fair is exactly two lefts and a right at the traffic light away from the freeway. Long before that last light, the evening breeze already carries hints of cotton candy and fried food, and the traffic noises slowly vanish under the swelling sounds of people having fun – the rumble and roar of rollercoasters, the canned music of the merry-go-round, and the constant murmur of people talking and laughing and squealing with excitement.

The fair itself isn't so much your standard travelling fair with the cracked-out carnies and subtly rigged games – it's closer to the platonic ideal of your standard travelling fair, carnies and games and all. A few crying kids, never too long, never too loud. A little litter that didn't make it into the can. Travelling fairs are special; in order to be perfect, they have to be imperfect. And so is this one.

It's heaven, after all.

They find parking just five rows from the entrance – a spot opens up right as they turn down that aisle, because of course it does. Five rows is just enough time to spend looking for a spot to feel lucky when you find one, and just far enough back that you don't have to worry about being stuck behind all the other cars when you leave.

The night is warm but not stuffy, just a shade over 70 degrees. Sam tries to pay for their tickets but Dean bats his hand away. "It ain't a date if the lady pays." Sam rolls his eyes but can't stop grinning as Dean comes back with a pair of all-you-can-ride wristbands. They'd gotten those once, back when Dean was 16 and Sam was 14 and dad had been away for three weeks. They'd mowed lawns all around the neighborhood to earn the money, just so Dean could tell dad honestly that they hadn't wasted any of the grocery money on something as frivolous as a fair. It had been worth it, even when Sam threw up after his third time around the Ferris wheel with the spinning compartments.

Dean links his fingers in Sam's as they walk, thrilled at the easy way Sam lets him. There's no more hesitation or furtive glances to see who's watching. Now he just smiles and holds on tightly, pulling Dean forward by their clasped hands, like any other couple at the fair.

They go on the Ferris wheel with the spinning compartments, and Sam doesn't throw up this time. So they go on it again, and again. Sam doesn't complain; he's too busy grinning and throwing his hands up in the air as they topple end-over-end in midair.

Five rollercoasters, two bumper car rides and a tilt-a-whirl later, even Dean's ready to take a break to get something to eat. He pigs out on everything fried and greasy – hot dogs, hamburgers, fried Oreos, fried Twinkies, even fricking fried zucchini. Sam tries them all, laughing, and never once mentions cholesterol or listeria, even if he can only manage a bite of the Twinkie before it's too sweet for him. Sam comes back with garlic fries and a pastrami sandwich that's so tasty Dean's almost sorry to be full. He can always get his own later, anyway. There's no food like fair food.

On their second pass around the midway, Dean realizes the one thing that the fair is missing – there are no clowns. Not a single smidge of greasepaint, bulbous red nose or big squeaky shoes is in sight. He almost thinks he sees one once, when Sam is distracted losing at ring toss – but the minute Sam turns back to look at him, the clown shimmers and turns out to be an older woman with maybe a smidge too much makeup.

That's the genius to Jack's heaven. You see what you want to see, who you want to see, when you want to see them. If you don't want to run into someone, they'll never show up at your door. They won't even remember that they might want to, too busy doing other things that they enjoy. You'll never see that awkward ex, or that old boss you hated, or a clown. Heck, some of the other folks at the fair here are probably laughing their asses off at a clown show right now – but Sam's heaven is clown-free, and so for them, the fair is too, and that won't change until and unless Sam decides differently. Who knows? Maybe someday he won't be afraid of them. Stranger things have happened.

"Let's go on the merry-go-round next," Sam says, breaking Dean's train of thought, and nods his head towards the gigantic carousel ahead of them.

Dean makes a token protest – merry-go-rounds are kid stuff, after all – but gives in easily enough when he sees the twinkle in Sam's eye. A minute later, they're stepping up onto a colorful herd of wooden horses and unicorns and zebras.

Sam drags Dean over to the biggest horse he can find, some kind of an oversized black Clydesdale, and fidgets impatiently until Dean has hoisted himself up and gotten comfortable. And then he hauls himself up into the same horse, straddling Dean's lap facing him.

"I always wanted to try this," Sam says mischievously. Then he presses even closer to Dean until they are plastered chest-to-chest and kisses him, deeply and passionately.

They never kissed this way in front of anyone back on earth. They rarely kiss any other way now.

Dean wraps his arm securely around Sam's waist as the ride starts up, enjoying the way their crotches grind together as the horse goes up and down to a song Dean's mind absently identifies as by the Bachman-Turner Overdrive.

I met a devil woman, she took my heart away

Sam's arms go up around Dean's neck, lips parting eagerly as Dean's tongue probes inside.

She said I've had it coming to me, but I wanted it this way

After a minute, he pulls back far enough to grin at him.

"They would totally have kicked us off the ride for this," Dean says with a laugh as the singer croons about good loving, then paraphrase-sings the next lyrics back at Sam, "Then he looked at me with those hazel eyes and said-".

Sam raises an eyebrow mischievously and then grinds his hips down over Dean's cock as he sings the lyrics right back, "You ain't seen nothing yet, b-b-b-baby, you just ain't seen nothing yet-"

Holy hell, his baby brother is giving him a fucking lap dance. On a carousel-fucking-horse.

It's Dean's turn to glance around, just on reflex – but there's no kids around them on the merry-go-round, and no one even giving them a second glance. Fuck it.

Sam's wicked with his hips, swiveling them in a maddeningly slow motion as he runs his hands down Dean's chest and then back up, under his jacket, all the while mouthing the words to the song. It's sexy as hell, but truth be told, all Dean can think of is the two thin layers of denim separating his cock from his brother's sweet, sweet ass.

As if reading his mind, Sam raises his hands up above his head and holds onto the carousel pole, obligingly lifting his hips up and looking pointedly down until Dean unbuttons the fly on his shorts. It's a frenzy of movement after that – Sam's cock pops free and then Dean's scrabbling at his own zipper, pulling out his cock with one hand as his other dips down the back of Sam's shorts, sliding them down just far enough to reach his ass, and-

His fingers come back slick with lube.

Sam's prepped for this, like the good little boy scout he never was.

Dean squeezes Sam's ass and slides his hands under Sam's thighs, lifting him up even higher, just so he can drop him down, impale him, on his cock. Sam's skin slaps against Dean's as his hole just opens up and sucks him in, soft and warm and slick. He throws his head back and moans, hands still firmly wrapped around the pole to keep himself in place.

Dean waits. This is Sam's show.

At first, Sam stays as perfectly still as he can, Dean's hands clamped on his hips as the motion of the horse itself drives them together and apart. It feels like it's not just Dean fucking Sam, it's the carousel itself. Like they're cogs in some greater machine whose only purpose is pleasure. It's slow. Torturous. Glorious.

Sam licks his lips and leans in for a kiss. "Do you know how many hard-ons I had to hide on this as a teen, fantasizing about us doing this?"

Dean likes the thought of that, the idea of desperately horny and virginal fifteen-year-old Sam riding this and imagining it was Dean below him. "How's it stack up against the reality?"

Sam clenches around him and arches his back, pure joy on his face. "Better than I imagined, that's for sure."

"That's right," Dean thrusts up just a little and nibbles on Sam's neck, making him shiver. "And don't you forget it."

They make love like that, slowly, inexorably, until the desperation rises and Sam can't help himself. Then Sam's hands drop down onto Dean's shoulders to steady himself and it's all Dean can do to passively let Sam just take his pleasure. Public sex on a merry-go-round – not the way he'd planned to end the evening when he'd suggested stopping at the fair, but he should have expected it, should have remembered that Sam was once full of nothing but questions and imagination and love.

Was, and is, and will be, forever and ever, A-fucking men, and thank you Jack.

Sam plunges himself down on Dean's cock over and over again with abandon, moving opposite to the horse's motion so Dean almost slides out entirely before shoving himself down to the root. Twice, he takes them to the brink of coming before backing off, until finally, Dean can't take it any longer.

"Stroke yourself," he growls. "Let me see those fingers wrapped around that beautiful cock of yours." Almost shyly, Sam obediently licks his right palm and drops it his lap, biting his lower lip as his fingers curl and stroke. Dean braces his feet in the carousel horse's metal stirrups and leans forward, tilting Sam's hips up so his back is against the horses neck and his knees are pointed towards his chest. His leans forward to kiss Sam's face, jaw, neck, driving them both over the edge until he spurts inside Sam and Sam spurts all over his black t-shirt.

Then Dean slows, stops, keeping himself firmly inside Sam until he can feel Sam's muscles stop spasming. "Look at that," he slips his hand free and scoops some of Sam's cum up with his fingers, then licks it off them, never dropping his gaze. "Better clean this up or everyone's going to know what we've been up to."

"Good. I want them to." Sam squirms then, seemingly only just noticing how the wooden ripples of the horse's mane dig into his back. Luckily, the merry-go-round has slowed with them at the back, hidden from view by the column in the center, so Dean's got a little privacy as he awkwardly dismounts first Sam and then the horse. By the time he's put himself to rights, Sam's shimmied his shorts back up and wiped the worst of his cum off the shirt so it just looks like streaks.

Dean kisses him tenderly. The ride may have stopped, but Sam can still make his head spin.

"C'mon," he says, taking Sam's hand and leading him off the merry-go-round. "There's still time for cotton candy, and then I've got an idea for the Ferris wheel."

"The one with the spinning carts?" Sam asks with a grin.

"Yeah, that's the one."

Sam throws his head back and laughs, and Dean realizes he hasn't once looked around worried to see if anyone saw them on the ride. Hasn't even given it a second thought. "Fuck it," Sam says. "What's the worst that can happen?"

And for once, the answer is – nothing. The worst that can happen is nothing.

This is heaven, after all.

~fin~

Fic: Breathing in Sulfur

2022-10-29T04:17:14Z

Title: Breathing in Sulfur
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural/Wincest
Rating: Explicit
Length: 2.9k
Warnings: Non-con but Sam is at least a little into it
Communit: Saturday Night Specials, Salt-Burn-Porn

Summary: "Dean finds Sam in Pontiac, holed up in the Astoria Hotel. Room 207. It doesn't take more than a few minutes of surveillance before he knows coming back was the right decision." Dean comes back from Hell after Lilith's hellhounds rip him to shreds. He doesn't come back human, but that's just part of the plan. And the rest of the plan is just: Sammy.

Dean finds Sam in Pontiac, holed up in the Astoria Hotel. Room 207. It doesn't take more than a few minutes of surveillance before he knows coming back was the right decision.

It takes everything he's got not to interrupt as the bitch in the hooker skinsuit fucks his baby brother and then offers to fuck him up even more, dripping her blood into a flask like it's some fine vintage scotch instead of the two-dollar bottom-of-the-barrel skunk water that it is. Then she leaves, but not before running her goddamn hand down his neck and chest, right over the necklace that – Dean's necklace, like she has any right – like he shouldn't just take her hand and peel the skin away from her flesh just for daring to-

No. Sam comes first. Sam always comes first.

After Ruby leaves, Sam gets a call – Dean's too far away to hear it, doesn't want to risk tipping his hand, not until he knows exactly what she's been doing to Sam. Whatever the caller is saying, it's clear Sam doesn't want to hear it. He does that thing he always does, where his lips get all thin and his cheekbones more angular, like he's biting back on the world's most pissy comeback. A minute after that, he hangs up, tosses the phone angrily onto the bed and picks up the half-full bottle of whiskey and what looks like the remains of a day-old pizza.

Dean waits until his brother starts snoring before he pours himself down from the grate, floating around the ceiling like a little black rain cloud. Even though the room is dark, the anti-possession tattoo on Sam's chest glows brightly to Dean's eyes. Fuck off, motherfucker. No fucking entry here.

And yet…

Dean's smoke unfurls across Sam's body, wispily caressing every inch of his skin that the blanket has left exposed. It feels warm, welcoming… something under the skin, running through his veins feels like sulfur and fire. Her blood is in Sam's veins.

Two can play that game.

Five minutes later, Dean wears the acne-scarred clerk from the front desk into the room and slices open two fingers, inserting them gently between Sam's lips. As if on reflex, Sam's head tilts toward him and he sucks on them, tongue lapping at the blood. The kid always did have an oral fixation.

Dean lets him keep going until he feels a little lightheaded, then walks the clerk back to his office. He doesn't bother arranging the scene – the guy was so boring, he could use a little mystery spicing up his night.

Then he floats back to Sam, and bingo – he was right. The tattoo is meaningless against him. Dean curls his smoke across Sam's lips, and just like before, they part to welcome Dean in.

Entering Sam has never felt so much like coming home.

* * *

Dean makes himself at home while Sam sleeps the whiskey off. He spreads into every corner of his brother, every crevice, saturating every cell until there is no piece of Sam that he does not possess. Then he sets about figuring out everything else.

Keeping Sam asleep isn't hard. Sam all but nestles into Dean's gentle pressure in a way that makes him wonder exactly how little sleep the kid has gotten since Dean left.

Walking around is a little harder – those four inches of height make a bigger difference than he thought. For a little while, it's like he's thirteen again, all wobbly legs and clumsy hands. It's a learning curve as he methodically cleans the room, packs away the clothes and the weapons, tosses the garbage, and gets Baby loaded up. The last thing he does is empty out that flask that Ruby so-carefully filled, gleefully rinsing every last poisoned drop down the drain, and then send her a text – "News on Dean. 10pm Budget Motel Farmer City tonight. IMPORTANT."

He doesn't let Sam wake up until Ruby is walking in the door asking what the big news about Dean is and flinging herself at Sam in fake sympathy. He thinks about keeping Sam asleep, but it's impossible for Dean to resist the idea of drinking in the delicious cocktail of Sam's fear and horror as Dean opens their mouth and says, "Dean's back, you bitch." And then slides the handy little demon-killing knife she gave them up between her ribs, into her heart.

For shits and giggles, Dean lets Sam take the reins.

Oops, looks like we made a mess, Sammy.

Dean? Sam thinks back incredulously. Dean can feel his mind whirring as it connects the dots that Dean's a demon, not a ghost or some kind of psychic phenomenon – then again, it's not like it's the kid's first rodeo when it comes to possession.

Guess not all of those Stanford smarts leaked out of your ears. I was beginning to wonder, what with Ruby and all.

Sam's guilt is delicious. She was helping me-

She was using you.

You were gone! Sam thinks, and Dean almost feels bad at the despair that lurches forward.

And now I'm not. Never gonna leave you, neither. I'm here for good this time.

Fear again, now. Dean, you can't-

Dean doesn't bother arguing. He just pushes Sam back into the mental passenger seat and runs the blade under the sink.

Dean-! Sam's fear colors with anger. Get out of me.

Dean looks in the mirror and smirks at Sam. Really? Cause I remember a time when you were all, oh Dean, get in me, I can't-

Sam surges forward, and the knife clatters out of Dean's hand. Out! He roars, fist flying towards the mirror. But not fast enough. Dean twists his smoke deeper into Sam's brain and clenches, stopping their fist inches away from the mirror.

Then they pick up the knife with their hand and hold it up to their neck.

Go ahead, Sammy, Dean thinks. Send us both to hell and I'll be happy to show you the ropes, cause that's the only way you're getting me out of you. He presses the blade into their skin, enjoying the sizzle and sting of the knife's hate for him and his kind. Or take a gamble. Who knows, maybe I'll slip up and you'll find some way to exorcise me. Maybe I'll get bored. Maybe you'll figure out a way to get my body back and I'll leave on my own. A brilliant red drop of blood forms right under their Adam's apple and begins to trickle down their throat.

After a moment, the hand holding the knife drops back down to their side.

Good boy, Dean thinks. As a reward, he puts Sam away, so at least one of them doesn't have to watch as he strips Ruby's body down and rolls it up in a sheet to stash in the trunk. Then he takes their body out to Baby for a quick drive over to the sex store he found in nearby Champaign – a sketchy-as-fuck establishment that's open until 3am, with a ludicrous wooden fence around the parking lot protecting a shabby building with no windows or external decorations other than a small sign that says, "Lover's Playground".

What- Sam says, waking up as Dean walks them inside.

Just doing a little shopping, Sammy. The man at the desk leers at Sam, and Dean thinks about slitting his throat for looking at Sam that way. But who can blame him? Sam's a keeper.

Don't you think we have more important things to think about? Sam asks, mortified as Dean makes them carefully pick up each sample anal plug and consider it from multiple angles.

No, Dean says firmly. There is nothing on earth more important right now than the things I'm planning on doing to you.

Dean finally selects two for the basket – a medium-sized, normal-shaped one with a remote vibrator function and a terrifying conical "anal expander" that measures almost three inches in diameter at the base – before moving on to cock rings, and from there to lubricant, and bondage gear, and even negligees.

Dean walks Sam around the store, browsing through every category of sex toy they have and noticing which ones make Sam the hottest. He alternates with what he chooses for the basket – something for Sam, something for him, another thing for Sam, something more for him, and another for him, and another-

Sam's pilfered credit card is as empty as the basket is full by the time Dean's done.

The clerk whistles when he rings it up. "Got some night planned for yourself, huh?"

Better answer him, Dean thinks. Unless-

Sam flushes bright red. "Uh, yeah, it's going to be – uh – really something."

It sure is, Dean promises Sam.

He lets the clerk live.

* * *

Dean puts Sam back in his nice, padded cave in his mind after they leave. He maps out his plans for the night on the drive back, only taking a detour into a closed-down industrial park to roll Ruby's body under an overgrown hedge and ditch the sheet in the garbage can in a nearby gas station that's closed for the night.

Once they're back at the Budget Motel and all of their purchases are out of the packaging, Dean lets Sam come out again.

Don't do that, Sam thinks, and thinks of days he can't remember when Meg took his body for a joyride.

I'm not like her, Dean thinks back. I'm doing all this for you. For us.

Sam rolls their eyes and says, "I bet you are." And then starts, like he wasn't expecting Dean to let him up.

See? Dean says. The effect is immediately undercut, however, when Sam tries to make a break for the phone and Dean has to take control again.

Do that again and I'm getting your dick pierced.

Fuck you.

Dean thinks about how it used to feel, putting Sam over his lap and spanking him until his ass was bright red. Don't push your luck, Sam.

Dean walks them to the mirror. Fuck I missed you, baby brother. He imagines standing behind Sam, wrapping his arms around his waist, his head against Sam's shoulder.

But Dean's arms are Sam's arms now, so he does the next best thing, and lowers their hand so he can press it firmly over Sam's crotch, rubbing it sensually until their cock begins to stiffen.

Nice and sexy now, he thinks, raising their hands up to the buttons on their shirt and beginning to undo them, give us a show.

Then he steps back and lets Sam take over.

The first thing he notices is how Sam immediately blushes. Even as Dean's black eyes recede, Sam's pupils are still blown wide from desire.

Strip.

Eyes fixed on a point just beyond him in the mirror, Sam does. He runs his fingers through his hair, then down to his shirt buttons, slipping it off his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor, where he kicks it off to one side. His t-shirt follows, leaving Sam's chest bare. There are a few more scars than Dean remembers – he'll have to investigate them later, learn the new topography of Sam.

Jared runs his hands across his chest, up over his pecs and then down below the waistline of his jeans, fingertips following the slant of his hipbones down into the fuzzy V between his legs, then back up to undo the buckle with fumbling fingers. He's hard, blisteringly so – the underwear come down with the jeans, and then the shoes and socks.

Dean reaches out with Sam's right hand, grabbing the lube from the side table where he'd stashed it. He leaves the left hand in Sam's control, entertained as it at once returns to stroking their cock.

Then Dean leans Sam forward, raising their leg so he can reach down and slide their fingers into their ass. The lube is cool to the touch as Dean pushes forward, feeling their muscles give way.

Missed you, he thinks. Missed this.

He adds a third finger, impatient.

You don't actually need- Sam thinks.

Do you have any idea how hot you look standing here fingering yourself? Dean thinks. Trust me, I need this.

Sam stops complaining.

Dean fingers Sam a little longer, enjoying the look that spreads over his face after the first few times he runs Sam's long fingers across his prostate. When Sam feels like he might be getting a little too close, though, Dean pulls his hand free and marches their body over to the far bed, where the dildo is set up.

Or rather, the ominously titled anal expander.

Predictably, Sam balks. It's too big, Dean. I can't-

You can. Dean lets his voice get sharper. Sam needs to remember who's boss. Now march your ass over to it and kneel down or I'll do it for you.

Fuck you, Sam thinks.

And suddenly Dean understands just a little bit of how good Meg must have felt shutting up that smug, defiant little tone in Sam's voice as he walks them over to the dildo he's got set up and sits down, forcing it up into their ass in one go, sphincter catching on it just shy of screaming agony and dilating wide, wider, widest until Sam is panting through his teeth, trying to catch his breath and stuffed so full it feels like his ass will never close again.

You fight me again, Dean thinks, and this will be the smallest thing I ever shove up your ass again. He raises their body up, driving Sam down onto it again and again, rolling the hips as he figures how to make sure it scrapes across his prostate with each thrust.

Sam's cock, gone limp after that first painful descent, begins to take a renewed interest in the proceedings. Dean seats the dildo fully in his ass and humps his hips forward, stroking it. He thinks about how nice a Prince Albert would look crowning the end of it, a permanent ring that says mine. Maybe even get his initials carved in the ring. Yeah, perfect.

Dean-

Sam's uncertain, turned on but scared. He doesn't want this, but deep down, Dean can sense that he'll settle for it if he has to. He hates what Dean's doing – hates it, but loves it, because the only thing worse than this is him being alone.

Oh Sammy, Dean thinks. You're never gonna be alone again. I'm never letting you out of my sight. Out of my control.

He grabs another one of his finds from the sex shop, a masturbation sleeve that promised an ultimate experience, and slides it over Sam's cock. It feels amazing – not as great as it would if he had his own body, his own cock to slide into Sam's velvety soft ass – but damn good all the same. Maybe even better since Dean really can have it all. He knows exactly what Sam's feeling, exactly how to make him scream, exactly how to tell when and where to push to make him give in to what Dean wants.

He tells Sam to hold the sleeve in place and concentrates on the feeling of fucking it, the way Sam's ass wants to clench closed but can't around the huge plug he's forced him onto. Forward – Dean's fucking Sammy – and backward – Sam's getting fucked by him.

He thinks about the rest of the toys he bought, how they could just be the starting point. Thinks about the collar he's going to put on Sam after this, after he's had time to carve in sigils to protect them from anyone who might try to separate them. Thinks about how pretty Sam would look with a ring in his dick, and two more in his nipples, and a tattoo on his ass that reads Property of Dean Winchester just in case anyone's not clear on the concept and-

Sam comes.

Dean's caught entirely by surprise as the thick, ropey streams of white droplets shoot out of the end of the sleeve to spatter across the rug, and realizes the little shit was listening in on all his thoughts.

Well. That changes a few things.

I missed you, Sam thinks, and Dean can hear everything that's unspoken behind the words. How lost and angry and hurt Sam's been since Dean died. How terrified he is about Dean being back, being a demon – but also, deep down, how part of him is glad for it. Glad to know that Dean would claw his way out of hell for Sam. That not even death can keep them apart.

Dean lets Sam's body relax, sitting back on the ground unmindful of the way it presses the plug even further inside him, of the ache in his ass that Sam suspects is going to become a constant reminder of Dean's presence. He contemplates the days to come, finding that bitch Lilith and taking her out of the equation, feeding Sam his own blood as a power-up that's better than anything Ruby could offer.

Thinks about finding someplace to settle down after that where he can do whatever he wants to Sam and Sam will let him.

Thinks about how Sam was born to be the perfect vessel, and how there's no way in hell he'll ever let him be the vessel for anyone but Dean.

Finally, finally, Sam stops resisting Dean and settles down, accepting that he's not getting moving until Dean says he is. And then all at once, his muscles just – relax.

Promise? His thoughts are wistful, scared, but – hopeful? You and me? Forever?

Dean smirks. Out of all the things Sam could have asked him for, that's the one thing he can promise.

Fuck yeah, kid. You're the only one for me.

-End-

Fic: A Little Filthy

2022-06-26T13:35:01Z

Title: A Little Filthy
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural (Dean/Sam)
Author: casey679
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Hand Jobs, Public Sex
Length: 1.1k words
Community: Saturday Night Specials, BroBoneBang2022
Summary: Sam recognizes the tone in Dean's voice a minute too late. By the time the protests are lodged in his throat – this place is disgusting and there are people not even thirty feet away from us and Sam's favorite, we're on the fucking clock Dean and I'm not going to die on a hunt with my dick in your hand – Dean's got Sam's collar locked in his fist, trapping Sam close enough to smell the whiskey and hamburger on his breath.

"Relax," Dean says, like anyone could do it and Sam's just an idiot or something.

Sam snorts and flips his coat collar up a little higher. Relax - yeah, right.

Relax, like it isn't barely 55 degrees in the alley where they're lurking, waiting to see if the creature they're hunting bothers to show up. Like it isn't 2 a.m. and the only people they've seen are club kids drunk off their asses and a homeless guy who stopped to piss against a dumpster and tried to bum a cigarette off them. Like they didn't eat hours ago and Sam's stomach isn't growling, despite the fact that the alley smells like the grease left in the deep-fryer for far too long at the Jack-in-the-Box around the corner. Grease and ash, his mind corrects, because the business around the other corner is a mortuary and you can never quite escape the faint-but-ubiquitous smell that always surrounds a crematorium.

Trapped between French fries and a funeral - if that isn't a metaphor for Sam's life. But sure, he should just relax.

"What, you think I'm joking?" Dean takes a step closer to Sam and pokes him in the chest. "You're so uptight, you're scaring the monsters away. You look like the world's worst undercover vice cop at a New Jersey hookers' convention."

Sam scowls right back, trying to ignore the hypnotic pull in his chest that makes him want to sway close enough to lose the scent of the alley in his brother's cologne. "The fact that you know what that looks like says more about you than me."

He settles for slouching down instead, trying to look like it's totally his idea and not the result of his brother's instigation. It's not Sam's fault that Dean was apparently born to effortlessly fit in among the dregs of society. That's a good line, he thinks, good enough that he actually says it out loud, just to watch Dean roll his eyes.

Except Dean's eyes don't roll. Instead, they light up with a strange intensity, flitting down to his lips and back up to his eyes. He opens his mouth to say something, but a door further down in the alley opens up, distributing a cloud of drunken twenty-somethings looking for a place to smoke. They're loud and giggly and don't seem to notice them at all. So much for standing out, Sam thinks self-righteously.

Which is when Dean hooks his fingers under Sam's collar and yanks him forward until they're cheek to cheek. His breath puffs out over Sam's cheek for a second, then-

"Ain't nothing wrong with getting a little filthy now and then, brother."

Oh no.

Sam recognizes the tone in Dean's voice a minute too late. By the time the protests are lodged in his throat – this place is disgusting and there are people not even thirty feet away from us and Sam's favorite, we're on the fucking clock Dean and I'm not going to die on a hunt with my dick in your hand – Dean's got Sam's collar locked in his fist, trapping Sam close enough to smell the whiskey and hamburger on his breath.

"Dean-"

Sam could pull away, sure, if he wanted to rip his shirt, but – ironically – this is Dean's Led Zeppelin shirt, threadbare and soft and comfy, and Sam only steals it because he likes wearing it so much. So instead he crowds in closer to Dean, angling his body and praying that the club-goers won't be able to see anything more than shapes in the darkness.

And meanwhile Dean that asshole is scrabbling at Sam's belt. The leather sags, buckle clinking as it swings this way and that, jolting into Dean's similarly dangling one. It would be a little disturbing, how expert Dean is at the art of unzipping two pairs of pants simultaneously with one hand if Sam wasn't the only one who knew about it. As it is, he can admit – to himself, anyway – that it's also kinda hot.

"Kiss me," Dean demands, pulling Sam down to mash their lips together. The kiss is relentless, Dean's tongue demanding entrance between Sam's lips the same way his left hand is reaching into Sam's jeans. Then somehow, miraculously, he's got Sam's cock out and pressed up against his own. Dean shoulda been a magician, Sam thinks, and then – oh-

The minute Dean's got both their dicks firmly in his hand, he drops his hold on Sam's collar and twines his fingers through his hair again. The kiss never stops, just intensifies. Sam's hands hit the wall on each side of Dean's head, like a perp waiting for the cops to frisk him, except all the frisking is happening right in front of him.

Dean breaks off the kiss, stubble sliding against stubble as he whispers, "That's better," in Sam's ear. "Now you look like you fit in with the rest of us filth." He twists his hand each time it slides up to the tip, collecting the fluids that have begun to gather there to ease the skin-on-skin-on-skin of each stroke. He yanks Sam's hair, forcibly tilting his head to one side, and sinks his teeth firmly into Sam's neck – not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to leave a mark. Hard enough to make Sam moan.

Sam's aware, vaguely, of the drunken conversation choking off, and a flurry of girls giggling. He should be embarrassed by this, but instead he's turned on, more than he's ever been before.

"That's right," Dean says, "no point in stopping now that everyone already knows." He licks his tongue across the indentations he's left in Sam's neck, fist flying faster as he jacks them off. "Go on," he croons, "give 'em a show." His breath is hot against Sam's neck, each word seared into his flesh as Dean continues. There's not quite enough liquid to keep the friction from adding the hint of an ache. They can't keep this up, or they'll both be rubbed raw.

Sam doesn't want to keep it up much longer, anyway.

"C'mon," Dean says, hand tightening in Sam's hair until he can't move his upper body, until he's trapped in Dean's relentless grip, the alley dropping away, onlookers forgotten, and-

"Make me filthy," he says, lips crashing back on Sam's to swallow the noises he makes.

And Sam does.

* * *

By the time the ghoul shows up, the clubs are closed, the drunks are gone, and Sam's gotten himself as un-filthy as a couple of wet-naps can make him.

It doesn't stop the ghoul from inhaling deeply and then leering at him. "I can smell y-"

Sam decapitates it in a single strike. "I don't care."

He looks back at Dean and clocks the look in his eyes. "No," he says sternly, like Dean is a misbehaving animal, because, yes, he is. "Not in this alley again, not next to a dead body, just – no."

"Next to a dead body," Dean says sunnily. "Kinky, Sam. I like it."

Sam ignores him and begins to prep the body for disposal.

His resolve lasts as far as the Impala.

~fin~

Fic: Night Out

2022-05-22T12:16:15Z

Title: Night Out
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural (Dean/Sam)
Author: casey679
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: BDSM, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Face Fucking, Dom Dean, Sub Sam
Length: 1.5k words
Community: Saturday Night Specials, BroBoneBang2022
Summary: The men on the dance floor part before him. They're all there looking to stoke their fire, but Dean's a simmering volcano ready to blow, even incongruously dressed in his FBI suit. Dean can see the minute Sam notices him. His eyes widen in surprise - and then he grins, licks his lips, and throws his head back unrepentantly. He'll be repentant soon enough, Dean thinks.

Sam would never be caught dead in a place like this - loud and dark, full of pulsating music, strobing lights and leather-clad men dancing far too close to each other. There's a pounding bass beat that reverberates down the spine, and a singer yowling about sex on wheels, and naked men in cages along the walls grinding against the bars while eager hands reach up to grope and fondle and touch. It's the kind of place that has bowls with condoms, packets of lube and wet wipes instead of peanuts on the tables, and benches along the walls filled with writhing bodies. It's not a place people go to think and research in quiet contemplation – it's a place they go to let loose and lose their inhibitions. To fuck and be fucked.

No, Dean thinks as he stalks towards the dance floor, Sam would never go to a club like this.

And even if he did, he definitely wouldn't have dared to strip down to a collar and a pair of jeans so tight they might as well be painted on. And he definitely, definitely wouldn't be letting men feel him up while he danced.

Men that aren't Dean.

Not without permission.

But it's Sam, so of course he would, and has, and is.

The men on the dance floor part before him. They're all there looking to stoke their fire, but Dean's a simmering volcano ready to blow, even incongruously dressed in his FBI suit.

Dean can see the minute Sam notices him. His eyes widen in surprise - and then he grins, licks his lips, and throws his head back unrepentantly.

He'll be repentant soon enough, Dean thinks. Then he stalks up to his brother and winds his hair in his fingers, grasping it tightly and yanking him close.

"Gone out?" he whispers. "Don't wait up?" He doesn't wait for Sam to answer – knows what the answer will be anyway. Sam wouldn't have left the note and his computer on with the club's address pulled up on it otherwise. Instead, he shoves his knee forward, nudging Sam's legs apart until he widens his stride and grinds down, his rapidly hardening cock pressed against Dean's thigh.

It's Sam's one saving grace – all these hard male bodies around, pressing up against him, and he's just now getting hard, because Sam only gets hard for Dean.

"I was only trying to be considerate," Sam smirks.

Dean twists Sam's hair around his fingers until he can touch skin under his knuckles and Sam is no longer smiling.

"Considerate, Sir," he corrects.

Sam's eyes glaze a little and his cock fattens even further. "Sir," he breathes.

Dean twists Sam around, hair still firmly wrapped around his fist, and uses his free hand to twist Sam's arm behind his back. Then he frog-marches him forward until he's pressed up against the edge of the stage, the spotlight giving him an almost angelic glow.

He pushes Sam's chest down against the stage with a hissed, "Stay." Then he stands back and strips off his suit jacket, folding it up carefully next to Sam's head. He leaves the shirt on – just rolls up the sleeves – but the belt and tie both come off. It's a moments work to twist Sam's other arm behind his back and wrap the belt around them, forearm to forearm, securing them in place. The tie goes between Sam's lips, tied behind his head.

Sam quivers under his touch as Dean wraps his hands around Sam's waist and unbuckles his belt, pulling it free. A lot of the floor is still dancing, but they've gathered an audience, fifteen or so men in a nice respectful half-circle around them. The music's changed now, harder and faster, a man and a woman moaning about pure sex, deep sex, hot sex, rough sex. He's sure the DJ has his eye on them because it's perfect for what Dean has in mind.

He folds Sam's belt in two over his fist, securing the buckle safely within his fist, then yanks Sam's jeans down around his ankles, forcing his feet as far apart as the stretchy denim will let them. The fact that Sam's decided to go commando tonight makes it all the sweeter. He doesn't mind showing off his boy's ass. They can look, just not touch.

He checks Sam's face, to make sure he's still calm, anticipatory, in the zone. And then he brings the belt down on Sam's ass. Sam jerks, sending his cock swinging, and then he relaxes back down onto the stage, like some little knot of tension in him has finally relaxed.

A cheer goes up from the audience.

And Dean gives Sam what he needs. Each of the first ten cries wrings a cry out of Sam. The next five send him moaning and arching back against the strap. The final five, he's flying high on endorphins, just taking each blow with a dreamy moan – exactly where Dean wanted him to be.

Which means it's Dean's turn now.

He almost tosses Sam's belt aside, but thinks better at the last minute. Instead, he threads it under Sam's collar and down around his bound wrists, buckling it into place – loose enough for safety, but tight enough that Sam can tighten the collar just enough to get the pressure on his throat that he enjoys if he wants it.

He thinks about fucking Sam; the audience would love it. But Dean's ultimately selfish; he's fine rolling a rubber over Sam's cock to keep him from making a mess, but he doesn't want to bother with one himself. With a hand on Sam's wrists and another on his hips, he tugs him off of the stage and removes his tie gag as he switches their positions – Dean's back to the stage, Sam's back to the audience, pants pooled around his ankles to give the club a great view of his bright-red ass.

Then he kisses Sam on the forehead and presses down on his shoulders.

Sam folds instantly, legs collapsing shakily into the kneeling position that Dean taught him so many years ago.

Dean knots the tie through the ring in the front of Sam's collar and reels him in, unzipping his pants to pull out his own rock-hard cock.

"Suck."

Everything about Sam is jumbo – height, cock, and mouth, a fact that Dean loves, especially at times like these when he just leans forward and swallows Dean down to the root. It's a gift, Sam's mouth, silky and wet and perfect for thrusting into. He doesn't know if it's raw talent or four years of practice at Stanford that taught Sam how to overcome his gag reflex, and frankly, he doesn't want to know. He's happy to assume it's the former and just reap the benefits of it.

Sam works him like a pro, swallowing him down entirely, then pulling off almost to the tip and flicking his tongue along the underside of the head. Dean keeps the tie in his hand but leaves it loose; they both prefer it when Dean grabs Sam's hair and yanks it to control the pace. The next time his brother's head brushes Dean's pubes, he does just that, fisting his hair and holding him in place. Sam takes a deep breath and relaxes his throat, magically finding another inch he can press in even further. He can see Sam discreetly lifting his arms behind him, tightening the belt.

Dean sets up a brutal pace then, fucking Sam's face with no concern for his breathing until Sam's wrists drop back down. Then he pulls out and holds, waiting for the infinitesimal nod that tells him it's all still green, before starting right back up again. It doesn't take him long to feel that pleasure welling up inside of him. He's not here to entertain the masses any longer than it takes him to get his rocks off.

He pulls back right before he comes, keeping his cock close to Sam so his fluids cover his cheeks, chin, lips, so everyone knows whose boy he is.

Mine.

He hauls Sam to his feet and wraps his hand around Sam's condom-covered cock. A few strips of his hands is all it takes. He leans in and whispers, "Come for me," and Sam groans and lets go. Someplace in the back of his mind, he can hear the applause from their watchers. But right now, his world is just him and Sam.

Just the way it should be.

Dean holds Sam until he's stable, his earlier smirk entirely gone in favor of a soft, lax grin. Then he zips himself away and pulls Sam's pants up, leaving them unbuttoned so his soft cock is on display – he'll throw the condom away once they find a place to sit – and grabs his jacket. A tug on the necktie-leash on Sam's collar gets him to follow as Dean leads him over to a table that's unoccupied, nodding to a waitress as he goes to meet him there.

"Don't think we're not talking about you coming here on your own," Dean says. The dopey, relaxed look on Sam's face tells Dean he might as well save the rest of the lecture for later, once Sam's come back down to earth.

Just in time, Dean thinks, for round two.

~fin~

Fic: Copper and Ash

2022-04-24T13:50:44Z

Title: Copper and Ash
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural (Dean/Sam)
Author: casey679
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Bloodplay, D/s
Length: 3.7k words
Series: Wild Times at the Impala
Community: Saturday Night Specials
Summary: There were no rules that governed waking up with the coppery taste of blood coating your tongue, and more of it dried and flaking down your jaw. No hard-and-fast rules for realizing that the gash in your side that you thought might just kill you was now pink and scarred like a few days had passed with a few short hours of sleep, even the holes around the small, neat row of stitches looking healthy and healed. And there were definitely no guidelines for handling the foggy memory of a man writhing above and underneath you, his hands and mouth sticky and red, hot and passionate, almost too pretty to be real and too wild to be human.

One of the first things John Winchester taught his son was that life could generally be divided into two categories: times when you could wing it, and times when you needed to follow the rules – not necessarily the law, mind you, just the rules to a particular situation. The key, John said, was figuring out which category applied to a given situation before you got too deep in the shit to dig yourself back out. Dean was two years into his deployment before he understood the biggest flaw with that philosophy: sometimes you didn't know the rules you needed to worry about until you were already waist deep in the shit without a shovel.

There were no rules that governed waking up with the coppery taste of blood coating your tongue, and more of it dried and flaking down your jaw. No hard-and-fast rules for realizing that the gash in your side that you thought might just kill you was now pink and scarred like a few days had passed with a few short hours of sleep, even the holes around the small, neat row of stitches looking healthy and healed. And there were definitely no guidelines for handling the foggy memory of a man writhing above and underneath you, his hands and mouth sticky and red, hot and passionate, almost too pretty to be real and too wild to be human.

A smart man would write the whole thing off as a wacky emo-vampire-Peter Pan-wannabe hallucination brought on by blood loss and the last bit of lucy working its way out of his system and high-tail it the fuck out of there. And Dean was a smart man. Usually, anyway.

If anyone asked him later why he hadn't done exactly that, why he'd instead stood and staggered further down the creepy and dark halls looking for a man who might or might not be a hallucination, he decided to blame it on the blood loss.

Walking through the place was an experience. He'd had no idea what the place was when he found it yesterday, just happened along the dirt path by accident when a tugging in his gut told him he could find a place to lick his wounds if he veered off the main road. At first he thought it was some kind of hospital, or maybe an asylum – it was the best explanation for the locks on the doors and the stains on the floors. Then he found the rooms full of tiny desks and beds and blackboards and didn't know what to think.

Whatever this place was, it wasn't good.

Dean had crashed – even hid out – in condemned buildings before. They were always dirty, unloved, forgotten places, decrepit and gutted out, like a weeks-old corpse carved down to tattered flesh and bones by animals and the weather. There was no soul left in places like that, just walls and a roof and busted up furniture.

This place, though, wasn't like that at all. It was a fucking crime scene. Closets with chains in them, and little tally marks carved in the wall, a foot off the floor. Dried brown stains on mattresses that had soaked through to the underside. A fucking pair of grates in the floor in one room, each with a busted padlock on top and a four-by-four fucking hole underneath. The atrocities just went on and on.

And ludicrously, right in the middle of it, there was a wall with a bunch of hatch marks like you'd see in any happy family home – Scott 2'10", Ava 3'2", Gina 3'2", Sam 3'3", Lily 4'11", Jake 4'7, Ruby 4'8", Max 5'1", Jake 5'8", Sam 6' – years of growth marked off. The names went on and on, 16 years' worth of names… only not all the names kept going.

Which one, he wondered, was his mysterious benefactor, and why was he the only one still here?

Dean cleared his throat. "Hey man, you here?" He had his gun out, cradled close to his stomach and pointed down in an attempt at being non-threatening. He didn't want to freak the guy out – assuming he existed – but there was no way in hell he was going to walk around this shithole unarmed. "That whole blood thing's not really my scene, but I got a feeling I oughta be thanking you for that, y'know?"

He nudged a door open and slipped inside, back to the wall. One quick glance told him it was the kitchen. There was an overly large refrigerator, the fridge side empty, freezer full of TV dinners and popsicles. The sink was clean, with a few dirty dishes in it, another argument for the man actually existing here. On the other side of the kitchen there was an oven, microwave, pantry, butcher's block – and oh yeah, a pair of fucking meat hooks on chains hanging down against the far wall, with a fucking drain underneath. Like it was totally normal and not something out of a nightmare.

Two doors down from that, he found what was left of the library. Someone had set all the books on fire, or tried to, anyway. Most of the titles were ruined, but about a third of them… weren't. They were sooty and smelled a bit like gas, like someone had tried to light 'em up and then changed their mind. Or maybe, like the books themselves had refused to burn.

He leaned forward, entranced, reaching out to pluck the nearest intact book off the shelf. It was some kind of strange leather, mottled peach-tan and weathered like it had spent too many days in the sun, with strange glyphs running down its spine. He needed to open it, needed to find out what was inside. He could almost feel it vibrate with excitement as his fingers neared, and then –

– and then he heard the sound of his motorcycle turning over outside.

"Motherfucker."

Dean sprinted back the way he came, book forgotten. "I don't care who you are. Steal my bike and I will hunt you down to the bowels of hell itself and end you!"

* * *

If Ruby and Meg were still there, Sam would never have lived down his behavior that morning. Letting the man stay in the orphanage – hell, letting the man live in the first place instead of slitting his throat – that was all bad enough. But avoiding the man, hiding out like a coward until he had wandered off down the hall simply because his heart started beating faster every time he looked at him… that was just embarrassing.

He pressed his hand down comfortingly on the bandana the man had wrapped around his left wrist. His skin itself was long healed, rendering it utterly unnecessary as a bandage. It wasn't even that comfortable, stiff and scratchy from the blood that had soaked through, more purple than blue from it all. But despite all that, he couldn't bear to take it off. It felt right there, knot sitting tightly over the place where the man's teeth had sunk into his skin.

One step away from a collar, Samuel, he imagined Lilith's smug voice in his head. He felt himself stiffen in his jeans at the concept.

Lilith wouldn't have judged him for it, though; all of his brothers and sisters were quite aware of Sam's proclivities. The Sisters had made sure that their education on the flesh and all of its vagaries was more than complete. Some were born to control and others were born to – be useful. It was the natural order of things. Submitting to another's will didn't make you less powerful in the slightest.

It made you a weapon.

If Father had loved all of his children equally… if Sam had not seen their graves… if Lily had not died… Sam would have been his weapon, willingly, happily. He know, objectively, he should care about the rest of the world, if only because Father and the Sisters had tried so hard to grind all of that out of them. And maybe if he'd actually gone out and seen the world, he would. For all of his life, though, his orphanage had been his world. Sam cared about the people who were his – his brothers and sisters. He'd foolishly included Father in that as well. All of the tests, all of the trials, the things that were endured rather than enjoyed… they were meant to make him stronger, and they had.

They'd made him strong enough to turn the weapon that he was against Father in the end.

He didn't need a new yoke around his neck now. It was just the blood talking, it had to be. Better to let time and distance sever the bond before it could solidify.

He grabbed the man's bloody shirt and jacket and slipped outdoors, stalking back to the shed where he'd hidden the bike. He rolled it back around to the front, stuffing the clothes into the leather bag on the back. Then he tilted his head.

He'd never ridden a motorcycle before. He swung a leg over it and rested on it, putting his hands on the handlebars. Imagined it thrumming between his legs, speeding down the highway, arms around-

That was enough of that. He found the key and turned the engine over, only fumbling it twice before it roared to life. And then he waited, enjoying the way the engine's roar echoed through the forest.

He was ready with a smirk when the man came bursting out of the orphanage, an outraged look on his face. And when the punch came, he didn't dodge.

It was better this way.

* * *

Dean couldn't figure the guy out. It wasn't like he hadn't seen him or his fist coming from yards away. He hadn't even tried to swerve out of the way, just shut the engine down and let the momentum from the blow knock him off balance, toppling him off the bike.

Dean grabbed the bike to stabilize it, glaring at the kid as he smirked at him from the ground where he'd landed. Something didn't add up, something about the kid's posture…

Damn, he needed to get his engine tuned up. There was a hitch in it, something rattling like- Keeping his eyes on the kid, he reached his hand towards the ignition to turn the bike off so he could think.

Wait-

Everything happened at once then. Dean realized that his bike was already off, and Sam's head whipped to the side, eyes growing big as they both realized they were hearing a second motorcycle, and a gravelly voice roared out with malice, "DEAN WINCHESTER!"

The kid was on his feet instantaneously. He looked at Dean, then at the bike, and mouthed the word, "Go."

"Fuck no," Dean said calmly. "That's the guy I threw down with last night. This is my fight. You go."

The kid – man – snarled at him and made some complicated gesture that Dean was pretty sure meant "Fuck no yourself and fuck you for not fucking listening because blah blah-" and Dean stopped paying attention at that point, turning away to rummage in his saddlebag for more ammo. This was his fight and matter what freaky things had gone down between them last night (the taste of copper warm and wet in his mouth) he wasn't going to run.

"Look this guy's bad news and a fucking card cheat but I can take him." He reloaded quickly, keeping watch on the direction the cycle sounded like it would appear. "He got the jump on me last night because I got cocky and didn't take him seriously, but-" he took a stance, gun stabilized in both hands, and thumbed the safety off- "that ain't gonna be a problem this time."

The kid dove to the side when the cycle burst through the trees, riderless, but Dean stood still. Another reason to take the guy down, treating his bike like that. Guy oughta be ashamed.

"I WANT MY MONEY WINCHESTER!"

Dean knew a guy like Clark wouldn't have jumped until the last second – the fucker loved playing things right up to the edge – so the moment he knew the bike wasn't going to him, he ignored it and kept his eye on the trees, looking for signs of something man-sized moving through them.

There.

Fool me once, Dean thought, remembering the lancing pain as he'd walked out of the men's room, straight into a knife sliding deep into his abdomen. The moment the trees parted, he lined up the shot, aimed, and…

Three clean shots – forehead, neck, chest – just like his dad had taught him. He could see the blood spray behind the guy as the bullets hit home.

And then the fucker kept on coming.

* * *

Behind Dean, Sam rolled his eyes as the bullets punched right through the man. He'd tried to tell Dean. Then again, Sam had smelled him coming and known that bullets weren't going to do much.

He let Ruby's knife fall into his hand and waited, running his fingers over the runes she'd painstakingly carved into it.

The demon wearing this Clark dude stopped when he got about 20 yards away from them and chuckled.

"Well, shit, Winchester, I just wanted my money back, but you just won me the jackpot." He kept his eyes firmly on Sam. "Samael, as I live and breathe. Where's your daddy, boy? Not like him to let the riff-raff in." He nodded his head at Dean. "Or is he just a snack?"

Sam gave him the finger.

"Whoops, sorry," the demon said, not sorry in the least, his eyes homing in on Sam's neck. "Nice necklace you got there, Sammy. Daddy got tired of you talking back?"

Another shot rang out, Dean's bullet piercing cleanly through the back of his mouth and on out the other side.

"All right, that one pissed me off." The demon threw his hand forward, and Dean went flying backward with a startled, "What the-"

Sam risked a glance to make sure that Dean was okay, which was exactly the wrong thing to do, because when he looked back, Clark was right in front of him, grabbing him by the wrist and twisting it until it cracked.

The knife fell from his suddenly numb fingers.

Pitch black eyes bored into his. "Oh, I see how it is. Daddy ain't home, is he? Devils away and the freaks will play." He twisted Sam's wrist again, smirking as another boned cracked. "You wanna play, I know all kinds of games to share with you." He clenched his jaw and grimaced, opening his mouth to show his tongue half-bitten through, and spit a mouthful of blood at Sam, who turned his face away just in time.

Ignoring the red rivulets dripping down his cheek, Sam leaned forward and whispered, "Daddy's dead. We drank him dry." And then he slammed his forehead into him, wrenching his wrist free and sweeping the demon's feet out from under him.

He raised his shoulder and rubbed his cheek against it, careful not to get any of the blood in his mouth. It smelled delicious, mouth-wateringly good – but not as good as Dean's.

He kicked the knife back towards Dean and held his left hand out, willing the power to come. His "special gift," as Father liked to call it. It had been months since he'd bothered using it – months since he'd needed to – but it curled up to his command like a cat wanting to be petted, lifting the man to his feet and holding him there, immobilized.

"I'm not going to be the last, you know," the demon said, his bitten tongue slowly seaming itself back together. "Anyone could find this place now – it's laid wide open."

Sam gestured with his hand and sent the demon flying sideways, slamming him into the closest wall. He felt something give behind his eyes, and blood trickled out of his nose. Okay, so maybe more like an angry cat resentful about being ignored.

He opened up his mouth to respond and-

"Fine by me," Dean said, stepping forward and plunging Ruby's knife into the man's side. "This place is a shithole anyway."

-eh, that was better than anything Sam was going to come up with.

The blade glowed white as smoke erupted out of the demon, trying to flee into the ground, but Sam was ready. He grabbed onto it and pulled, letting his powers shred it tuft by tuft until there was nothing left but ashes. Then he swayed once, twice, and fell back onto his ass.

* * *

Dean stared down numbly at the knife in his hand, trying to figure out what just happened. Then he pulled it out of Clark slowly and watched as the body slid to the ground, lifeless. A second later, holes opened up in his forehead and chest as the bullet holes Dean knew had to have been there seemed to materialize out of nowhere.

He realized his mouth was hanging open, and shut it with a clack. Clean-up first, freak out later.

Right. First things first. He leaned down and wiped the bloody knife against the man's jeans and went to toss it back to the kid but thought better of it and slipped it through his belt for the moment. Then he walked over to the man's motorcycle and turned it off, enjoying the sudden quiet.

The man – what had the guy called him, Samael? – was sitting on the ground, breathing heavily and clenching his right arm. It didn't look good – he wasn't sure but maybe that was bone sticking through? "Yeah, okay, let's get you upright. I don't make a habit of sitting around by dead guys as a matter of course."

He glanced over at the dead body, which was remarkably just getting deader by the minute. The throat was a mess of bloody tissue, and there were stains showing up all over his torso.

Sam looked up at him, grinning. His skin was worryingly pale, and his eyes were a little unfocused, like maybe he'd concussed himself – probably from that wicked headbutt he'd gotten in earlier. That was probably also the reason for the nosebleed, he reasoned. It had dripped down over his mouth and throat, making him look a little bit of a horror show vampire.

Memories of the night before surfaced at the sight, Sam pressing his wrist to Dean's mouth, Sam – fuck, now was not the time to be getting an erection, Dean thought – Sam perched on top of him, Dean's wrist to his mouth–

He wanted to lick it off Sam's jaw, wanted to run his tongue over every bright red drop and lap it up like it was wine. Wanted to smear it down his chest with his mouth, paint his cock with it and lap it up–

Well, if he was a vampire, maybe Dean was too.

It wasn't normal, this thing with the blood and the sex and all. It had never done anything for Dean before Sam, and some small part of Dean knew he should be freaking out about it, but he just – wasn't.

Instead, he stared back at the body, eying it suspiciously. "That guy ain't gonna stand back up again, is he?"

Sam shook his head and whispered, "No. He's gone."

"So you do talk." Dean smiled. It had seemed like the guy was having a conversation earlier, but Dean hadn't been able to hear any of it.

Sam held out his good hand and wobbled it in the universal symbol for eh, a little. "Hurts, sometimes."

"Then you can whisper in my ear and I'll do the talking for ya." He took Sam's good left hand in his and led him back toward the orphanage. "Let's get you patched up." He held the door open for Sam to pass through. "I wasn't lying, though. This place is a shithole. We're not staying here any longer than we gotta."

* * *

Dean looked up from the bandages he was wrapping around Sam's hand. "Don't think this gets you outta telling me what the fuck was up with all that smoke and shit." He taped the edge of the bandage into place. "I'm okay with us being far away from here before we have that talk, though. This place gives me the creeps. "

Sam thought of the way Father had forbidden them to talk about anything they learned, even with the other demons that came through sometimes. Then he thought about how nice it had felt fighting side-by-side with Dean. Thought about how willing Dean was to offer him up his blood, not even knowing what it would do if it meant that Sam would be in less pain. Answering his questions was the least Sam could do… and it wasn't like Father was around anymore to punish him if he did.

"Sure," he said lowly. "But… later."

Dean slapped the desk lightly. "Okay, you're good. You grab whatever you need, and I'm gonna go find a place to stash Clark's bike – you can't steer it until we can fix your wrist up better, but we can come back for it later. Not sure what to do about Clark, though."

Sam stood up and staggered to the kitchen, digging messily through the spices until he found the cannister of salt. He tossed it to Dean. "Salt it, then torch it."

Dean raised an eyebrow.

Sam shrugged. "Less ghosts."

Dean snorted and left – but he took the salt.

Sam sat down heavily, staring pensively at his wrists. The blue bandana was still tied around the left one, and brand new bandages were now wrapped securely around the right. both tied in place by Dean. One step away, Lilith's imaginary voice teased.

So? Sam mentally shrugged right back.

Dean had said Us. We. Like it was already a given that where he went, Sam would follow.

We. Sam leaned back, liking the sound of it. He thought of Meg and Andy meeting Dean. They'd like him. Max would bitch, but he'd like him too.

"Yeah," he whispered to himself. "Let's go."

The bond between them flared even brighter, wrapping itself a little tighter around his heart.

It felt right.

~fin~

Fic: (un)Caged

2022-03-20T12:20:21Z

Title: (un)Caged
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural/Wincest
Author: casey679
Rating: Explicit
Length: 1.6k words
Series: Caged Desires
Community: Saturday Night Specials

There's never been a time when Dean wasn't aware of Sam. Even when Dean was so angry he could barely stand to look at him, or so ashamed he could barely stand to meet his eyes, he always knew where Sam was, like some tiny part of his brain was dedicated to constantly monitoring his brother's proximity and well-being. But this… this is a whole new level. Because now, Sammy is looking right back. Now, he can really feel that he is the center of Sam's world, the way that Sam's always been the center of his.

In the morning, a sleep-mussed Sam shifts nervously in place, eyes skittering up to look at him and then blushing away. "I have to-" stammering, remembering what Dean told him to ask. "D'youwantmeto-" a nod at Dean's crotch.

"Nah, it's too early for that." Dean smiles benevolently as he fishes the keys out of his pocket. "Let's get you sorted." He doesn't make a production of unlocking each lock, not exactly, but every touch of his fingers against Sam's body feels electric. "Go take care of things. I'll meet you back in your room to help put everything back into place afterwards." He looks pointedly back up at Sam. "And no touching yourself in the shower! Be good."

Sam ducks his head down, rolling his eyes a little but also looking shyly pleased.

Fuck. That smile is gonna kill him.

As soon as Sam is out of sight, Dean pinches himself – hard – and counts to ten as he holds it, grounding himself with the pain to get his rampaging erection under control. He really hadn't been sure that his brother would actually follow through – offer to suck him off just like he'd ordered him to, without even an argument.

It took everything Dean had not to go for it. He'd be cross with himself for turning down a blow job not once, but twice, except this new side of Sam is making it all worth it.

Just a week ago, Sam would have rolled his eyes and made a snarky comment if Dean said it was too early for a blowjob. He's walked in on Dean and his flavor-of-the-night-slash-morning more than enough times to know that Dean never thinks it's too early for sex.

But this Sam doesn't argue. This Sam wants his approval, wants to please him. Wants to submit. Dean thinks of all the toys he's got stashed in Sam's dresser and feels a little giddy, like a kid who's just been handed the keys to a Baskin Robbins and told to go wild. Like taming any wild animal, though, the trick is to get it domesticated before it even knows it's happened.

Sam won't even know what hit him.

* * *

Sam comes back 15 minutes later, freshly scrubbed and shaved and still unable to meet Dean's eyes entirely when he hands the cage and plug back over to him.

"Everything go okay? No problems?" Dean's still hard enough to pound nails, but he's playing it cool – concerned but dispassionate, with just a touch of a tone that suggests that Sam can't do this on his own. Sam likes it when he treats him that way, he's noticed – kinky, forbidden, toppy, with just a faint echo of humiliation.

"Y-yeah," Sam stammers out.

"You sure? No pain, discomfort, chafing?" He gives him a stern look. "And don't lie to me."

Sam shakes his head, no. "It's fine, see? Can we just- get on with this?"

Dean's eyes flicker between the chastity cage and Sam's flaccid, shrunken cock, and then to the ice pack he's obviously been using to shrink himself down for the cage. He nods approvingly. "Hands on my shoulders, ok? Let's get this back in place." The hands are unnecessary – they could be anywhere – but all Dean can think of is kneeling down in front of five-year-old Sam, letting him steady himself on Dean's shoulders while he helps him into his pants one leg at a time. From his bright red cheeks, it's obvious that Sam is thinking about that, too.

A less twisted man might try to play down the fact that they're brothers instead of leaning into it. But whatever this dirtybadgood thing is that's happening between them, it wouldn't feel half as hot if he didn't.

Dean's dick is trapped hard and throbbing against his jeans as he leans forward and inspects Sam's cock with his fingers. He flops the shaft of Sam's dick to one side and then the other – "looks good, nothing red, no bruising" – and then cups Sam's balls gently in his hand, rolling them back and forth while he glances up into his face – "no aches?" Then he threads Sam's balls through the ring and feeds his cock into the metal tube as he clinically as he can, like a doctor finishing up an examination, and clicks the lock shut.

Sam shudders.

"Everything okay?"

"It's fine," Sam says tersely. Then, "It's good. Just.. a little overwhelming. More than last night."

Dean nods, keeping one eye on Sam as he inspects the butt plug, noting with approval that it's been thoroughly washed and dried.

"Alright, kiddo, this plug is still pretty new, so we need to make sure everything's healthy back there, too, okay?" He inclines his head at the table, drizzling lube onto the fingers of his right hand. "Bend over, okay? This won't take long, I promise."

Sam's got a great ass.

It's not like he didn't know that already, but empirically, looking at his brother's glutes splayed out before him, it's easy to see that all that running and working out Sam does has paid off in spades. Speaking of which-

"What do you have planned for today, Sam?" He grabs Sam's hip with his left hand and gently circles his fingers over his rim with the right. Sam squirms at first, almost pulling away, but Dean just uses his leverage to push Sam firmly into the table and then presses two fingers in, enjoying Sam's little gasp of shock.

And then immediately has to pause, not for Sam but himself, he's on the verge of coming in his pants like a 15-year-old virgin and oh my god he's fingering him.

And he's gonna do so much more than that to him, too.

"R-research," Sam responds, hole hot and ready around his fingers. "Maybe finish scanning in that book on Babylonian curses." He keeps talking, but what Dean hears is, nothing important. Nothing that can't be interrupted.

The further inside Dean's fingers slide, the stiller Sam gets. His legs spread a little further, almost of their own accord, hips tilting up to let Dean plunge even deeper, not stopping until his knuckles are pressed up his entrance and there's no further to go.

"Seems good so far, Sammy. No tears or swelling – I think that base on the plug is working better than the last one, don't you?" Before Sam can answer, he pulls his fingers out and adds a third, reaching back in and feeling around for the little nub that- there-

Sam squirms again.

"Prostate feels healthy, too, Sam." He presses his fingers over it, back and forth, enjoying the way Sam's breath begins to catch and get ragged. He knows it's not unbearable for Sam yet – probably more uncomfortable, like a little buzzing that could grow into something mind-shattering if Dean let it go on that long. Sam's into it – there's a quickly growing pool of precum gathering on the table under his cage. Dean thinks about milking him, then thinks about how much more will leak out after a week in chastity, how heavy and swollen Sam's balls will be after spending seven days in a frenzy of sexual denial. How embarrassed he can make him while he does it.

He rubs his fingertips over the prostate again, using his thumb to press against it from the outside at the same time, and Sam keens.

Immediately, Dean chirps out a cheerful "All clear!" and withdraws his fingers, ignoring Sam's disgruntled whine. After liberally coating the plug in lube, he attaches it to the harness and slides it home – not slow, like the first time, but all at once.

Sam gasps, but stays in place, still as a statue until all the locks are back in place and the keys are safely out of sight in Dean's pocket. Then he slowly, unsteadily stands up and turns around, almost swaying a little. His eyes are blown, pupils so dilated that Dean can hardly see their beautiful hazel color.

He lurches forward, steading himself with a hand on Dean's knee. The touch is electrifying for both of them.

"Dean- I need- I need to…" There's a note of desperation in his voice as he drops to his knees in front of Dean like a puppet whose strings have been cut. "Please-" he shuffles forward and licks his lips. "Can I-?"

Can I suck your cock.

Moderation, Dean reminds himself. He has a plan. Stick to the plan. Stick to-

Fuck it. He's only human.

"I don't want you to make me come today," he says, trying to keep that stern tone in his voice as he's tossing all his carefully contemplated plans to the wind. "But if you need it, you can keep me warm while I finish checking the papers for cases." He slumps his hips forward to make it easier for Sam's fumbling fingers to unbuckle his belt and slide his pants down over his hips, letting his cock spring free.

dontcomedontcomedontcome

Sam licks his lips as Dean tangles his fingers in Sam's hair.

Then he opens his pretty, pretty mouth, and Dean slides home.

Masterpost: Caged Desires

2022-03-18T01:59:37Z

Sam's kinky secret is the key to unlocking Dean's darker desires.

Caged Curiosity: (LJ) (DW) (AO3)
Sammy's got a secret, and Dean's going to figure it out.

Caged Temptation: (LJ) (DW) (AO3)
What Dean wants is something darker, something that skitters down in his soul, something possessive and grabby. It's always been there, harder to ignore after he came back from Hell and that bitch Ruby had her claws in what was his. Harder still when he came back from Purgatory and Sam was another someone else's, and he knew he shouldn't be angry… but he was.

(un)Caged: (LJ) (DW) (AO3)
Dean continues to encourage Sam's descent into chastity and submission.

Caged Heat: (LJ) (DW) (AO3)
Of course it's not right. Dean would be the first person to admit that indulging in kinky chastity sex games with your brother is the furthest thing from right. But it's hot as fuck. And what's the worst that God's gonna do to them? Send them to hell? Been there, done that, buddy.

This series is complete!

Charity Offer

2022-03-01T07:01:55Z

There's a current SPN/SPN-RPF fanworks charity auction happening on Twitter - creators voluntering to make art, write words, or do other things as random draw prizes for people who have made charity donations. (Details below!)

I've volunteered to write words as prizes, but I've also offered up a different item for the auction: I can help turn your LiveJournal fanfics into ready-to-transfer documents for posting on AO3, either via Microsoft Word docs or Google docs. I do this kind of data formatting all the time for work, and for my own posts. If your fanfics only exist on LJ, this is a great option for moving them to a site dedicated to fan works and freedom of speech.

Auction details:

Timeline: (we may do another round if there is still interest!)
* Dates end at Midnight EST.
* Creator Sign Up by Wednesday, March 2nd
* Donations for raffle submitted by Friday, March 4th
* Raffle and assignments sent out by Sunday, March 6th

Participation: Please make donations to: SPNFamilyRelief@gmail.com on PayPal. All donations will go to Libereco's Emergency humanitarian aid fund. Alternately, if you're not comfortable donating to a PayPal account, you can 100% pick a charity of your choice to donate to directly and share that screen shot instead. If you need suggestions for a charity? Here's a wonderful thread.

Donate a creation: twitter.com/SPNFamilyRelie
Enter the auction: twitter.com/SPNFamilyRelie
See the creators: https://t.co/ba47vnOuo1

For more information, contact SPNFamilyRelief@gmail.com.

Fic: Romantic as Fuck

2022-02-22T02:16:51Z

I wrote this in 2020, for the Be Mine Valentine's Day prompt: "Much like Christmas, Sam and Dean have to make do with what they have on the road in order to celebrate Valentine's Day with each other. Gas station presents, takeout from the only restaurant near the highway, cheap candles that smell like vanilla." But it seemed like a good time to post it here as well. We could all use a little more love.

Title: Romantic as Fuck
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural (Dean/Sam)
Author: casey679
Rating: PG
Length: 2,290 words
Community: Be Mine Valentine's Day Prompt Challenge

"Okay," Dean said, "keep your eyes closed, I want this to be a surprise."

In the passenger seat, Sam laughed. "It's the middle of the night in Kansas. We can't have gone more than a couple miles outside of Lebanon. What exactly is there left to surprise me with here? Oh no," he mocked, "someone left the cows outside." But he pressed his eyes shut anyway.

"Don't be a bitch," Dean said fondly. "I'm trying to be all romantic and shit, and this is the thanks I get?"

Sam's lips curled up in a smirk. "Romantic? Dean, you dumped a bag of candy hearts out on the desk and covered my pillow with all the ones that said WANNA PARTY, DO ME, DREAM BIG, NETFLIX AND CHILL, and – and this was my favorite, by the way – YOU GO GURL, spelled with a 'u' of course for extra class."

"Hey," Dean said, playfully bumping his shoulder into Sam's, "there ain't no me if there ain't no u," and he could say that now, it didn't hurt, because they were back on the same page, back knowing that they'd kill God or anyone else who got in the way for each other if they had to, and even Sam couldn't not laugh at it now.

Then he turned the Impala's steering wheel slightly, pulling to the side of the road as he braked to a gentle stop. "Besides, hearts and candy are totally romantic as fuck. It's not my fault they didn't have any that said SEX GOD or RIDE ME on 'em, cause I totally woulda left them there too if they had."

"Yeah, I bet." Sam swiveled his head, eyes still closed. Dean watched him breathe in the cool night air, nostrils flaring as he tried to decipher where they were. But like he'd said, it was Kansas, so the smell of hay and manure and the chirps of crickets weren't exactly giving anything away.

"Can I open my eyes now?"

"Nope," Dean said smugly. "Just sit there and look pretty until I get everything ready. And no peeking." Then he grabbed the bag behind his seat, the one he'd hidden on the floor under his jacket earlier, and headed for the picnic area. He didn't try to be quiet about it, either, knowing the little clinking sounds it made were going to drive Sam nuts.

There wasn't a lot to set up, really, just a plastic tablecloth that he'd seen in the Alta and bought on a whim. It was covered in monkeys holding hearts, and a little too short to completely cover the table in the picnic area, but it would do. He shook it out and smoothed down the folds. The night's breezes threatened to blow it right back off the table, but that's what the clinking, vanilla-scented candles in little glass jars were for: cheap but atmospheric paperweights. There's no way he'd be caught dead using them inside – way too strong and artificial-smelling – but he was banking that the slight wind would carry the worst of it away. At least it wasn't too chilly, even with the wind; the evening was unseasonably warm for February, a practically balmy 52 degrees instead of the 20 or so it usually ran.

He was going to romance the hell out of Sammy.

He went back and grabbed the other bag from the back seat, retreating with a cheerful "Almost done!" before Sammy could get another complaint out. This bag held the rest of Dean's surprise – cheesy red plastic plates (with yet more monkeys, enigmatically pleading, "Don't ape my heart" or earnestly saying "I'm bananas for you!" in little cartoon balloons), with matching glasses and a handful of napkins that he stuffed under the plates to keep them from blowing away, followed by the food to weigh down the plates.

Dinner, such as it was, was footlongs from Subway – veggie for Sammy, spicy Italian for himself, the only takeout food he could think of that could sit in the car undetected for an hour or two and still taste good. There was also a cherry half-a-pie that he'd found at the Alta, with two forks to share it with, and last but not least, the pièce de résistance – a bottle of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill Wine and an only-very-slightly wilted long-stem rose wrapped in plastic.

He leaned against the table, stuffing his hands in his pockets and trying to look casual, then called out, "All right, Sammy, you can open your eyes now."

Immediately Sam's door swung open, and he stepped out, looking around and laughing. "Oh my god, Dean, this is adorable." He spun around, looking at the tiny little park and pausing at the hand-carved wooden sign.

"It's Valentine's Day, and you took me to…" he walked closer to the sign. "…the Geographical Center of the 48 States." He tossed a grin over his shoulder. "This has got to be the nerdiest thing you've ever done."

"You're the nerdiest thing I've ever done," Dean mock-grumbled. "Now sit down and eat the romantic dinner that I slaved over."

Sam held up a hand. "No, wait, there's a plaque here, it might be important." He walked over to the little stone monument and made a big show of bending down to read the sign.

Dean was pretty sure the real show was Sammy finding an excuse to show off his ass.

Dean rolled his eyes and huffed, pretending to be annoyed, but right as Sam was standing up to turn around, he noticed a price sticker clinging to the plastic around the rose and scrambled to scrape it off.

He was still flicking the gummy paper off his fingers surreptitiously when Sam walked over and threw an arm around him, bumping their foreheads together. "Seriously, though, this is amazing." He pecked him on the lips, then turned to the table to inspect it.

"A feast for kings!"

Dean ducked his head. "Kings of the road, you mean."

"Well, we'll dine like cheap royalty, then," Sam said, still grinning. He picked up the bottle of wine and grimaced. "I can't believe you remembered this."

"First wine we ever shared, Sammy, how could I forget?"

Sam screwed the top of the wine and pretended to sniff it. "Ah yes, 2020 was a very good year for wine." He poured it into the waiting glasses. "I can't believe we drank two bottles of this. God, I was so sick the next day."

Dean smiled and sat down. "Yeah, but it was worth it."

Sam slid into the bench opposite Dean. "You sure about that? My head hurt so bad I couldn't peel myself off the bathroom floor for hours."

"Me neither," Dean said, raising his glass. "But, y'know, it was the night of our first kiss, too, so it was worth it."

Sam tapped his glass against Dean's. "Well, when you put it that way…" He slammed the wine back, coughing a little and wrinkling his nose. "God, it still tastes like Kool-Aid."

Dean drained his glass. "Kool-Aid with a kick! But you hated any kinda sour booze back then, so what was I gonna do? Hell, you wouldn't even drink beer. Besides, it was cheap."

"You mean easy to swipe," Sam said affably.

"Yeah, I do," Dean agreed. "I had better things to do with my cash, like taking us to the movies."

Sam unwrapped his sub, smiling when he saw the vegetables. "Night Flier, right Dean? You didn't buy the tickets – we snuck in because I was underage."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch. I bought you popcorn, didn't I?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "My hero."

"Damn straight," Dean snorted. "God, that movie was terrible."

Sam chuckled. "It really was."

They ate in companionable silence, Sam looking pleased and blushing a little when their eyes met. When the wind picked up and it got a little chillier, Dean grabbed his plate and moved around to sit on the bench next to Sam, sides pressed together for warmth. If it made sharing the pie a little more romantic, well, that was an added bonus. Another glass of the wine later, they had both warmed up from the buzz of the wine, but he didn't move away.

Finally, when the pie was gone, Dean leaned over and kissed away the extra bit of cherry filling smeared across Sam's lips, then swiveled his legs around so he was sitting with his back to the table and burped. "See? Romantic as fuck."

Sam shook his head. "Sure, let's, uh… let's go with that."

"You don't believe me? I'm wounded," Dean said. "I bet that I can make this the most romantic night you've ever had in in two sentences."

Sam looked at him. "I'm not letting you blow me in the visitor's chapel here."

"That's a great idea, Sammy, but that's not what I'm talking about." Dean batted his eyes. "C'mon, what'll you bet?"

Sam looked at the tablecloth full of love-besotted monkeys and poured himself another glass of Boone's. "Dad taught us never to make sucker bets."

"Ha!" Dean said triumphantly. "So you admit it, it is romantic, then."

Sam hung his head, chuckling. "It's a little romantic." He examined his glass. "The monkeys are a nice touch."

"That's the language of love right there," Dean agreed with a smirk. "Plus, the bananas are clearly a metaphor." He waggled his eyebrows.

"A monkey metaphorically telling me it wants to deep-dick me isn't exactly romantic either, Dean."

"So c'mon then, what do you have to lose? Tell ya what, if I'm wrong, I'll go to one of those foreign films you always want me to go to, subtitles and everything, and I won't even fall asleep during it."

Sam rolled his eyes.

"And if I'm right…" Dean continued.

Sam gave in, finishing the sentence. "Fine, if you're right, then… I'll try having sex in the Impala again, despite the fact that you accidentally slammed my head into the roof last time we tried."

"Sold!" Dean crowed enthusiastically. "And for the record, we can totally have sex in the Impala, I figured it all out, it's just a matter of geometry–"

Sam held up a hand. "Proof of romance first, then you can argue angles with me."

Dean had this. He grabbed Sam's hand and pulled him away from the tables, over to the monument. "You know why I brought you here tonight, Sammy?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Because I'm the center of your world?"

Dean laughed. "Well, yeah, that's true, but it's not the reason." He laced the fingers on his left hand through Sam's right, pulling him in close. "I brought you here tonight because dad told me that he took mom here once on a Valentine's Day, just like this."

Sam's fingers tightened around Dean's.

Dean lifted his right hand and caressed Sam's face, pulling him in for a kiss. Then he turned and pointed at the monument. "Right here? This is where dad told mom that she was the center of his world, and that he wanted to spend the rest of their lives proving it to her. And I couldn't think of any place I'd want to be with you more than right here, right now." He looked up, willing himself to show all the love he kept locked down behind his smartass comments and very consciously cultivated attitude.

"And yeah," he said, looking away, "you are the center of my world. Just in case you hadn't figured it out."

When he looked back, Sam's eyes were glistening. He leaned in and kissed Dean, melting into Dean's arms a little as they both lost themselves in the moment.

A few minutes later, Sam finally pulled away, his hair and shirt disheveled. "Okay, fine," he said with a mock-pout. "We can try fucking in the Impala again."

Dean threw his arms up in the victory pose. "Yes!" He pumped his hips twice, fully aware of how ridiculous he looked.

Sam leaned back in and kissed him on the nose. "I'm still not blowing you in the chapel, though."

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "Yeah, yeah, you say that now…"

Sam grabbed Dean's hand. "And I'll still be saying it ten minutes from now. C'mon, let's go put out the candles before something catches on fire."

Dean chuckled. "Fine, it's getting cold, anyway."

The garbage, monkeys included, went into the trash bin. They made out for a minute while the candles' wax cooled down, then found a place to stash them in the trunk; you never knew when you'd need one.

Sam kept the rose. He held it to his nose as they walked to the car, smiling at its aroma, then rested it on Baby's dashboard.

Then he looked over at Dean fondly and reached into his jacket to pull out a – now slightly smushed – chocolate rose and a card, which he presented to Dean solemnly.

"You sly devil," Dean said, unwrapping the rose and taking a bite out of it. "I knew you didn't really need to stop at CVS like you said you did." He held the rose up for Sam to nibble at.

"Yeah, well, I couldn't let you make all the stupid romantic gestures, right?" Sam asked, a little embarrassed.

The card had a Ford Mustang on the front tearing up a freeway at night with hearts in place of headlights, and when he opened it up, a tinny recording wailed the opening verse to "Born to be Wild".

Dean leered at Sam. "I'll take your world in a love embrace."

Sam blushed red. "You already do."

Dean tossed the card over his shoulder into the backseat and grabbed Sam by the collar, yanking him forward for a passionate kiss.

"Damn straight."

~fin~

Fic: In the Dark of Night

2022-02-04T18:06:53Z

Title: In the Dark of Night
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural (Dean/Sam)
Author: casey679
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Bloodplay
Length: 1,688 words
Series: Wild Times at the Impala
Community: Salt-Burn-Porn Challenge

Summary: There were only two periods of time in Sam's life that mattered to him: before and after Dean.

If anyone asked Sam what year it was, he wouldn't have an answer. Days of the week, he could usually manage, but the rest of it kind of slid around in his head. Not that he really cared. There were only two periods of time in Sam's life that mattered to him: before and after Dean.

Before Dean

Like all of his brothers and sisters, Sam was born in a fire. It was how all demons like him were born on earth, at least according to the man who bore him out of the flames and carried him home, where his brothers and sisters were waiting for him. They were all fire-birthed, too.

Sam's childhood, he had come to learn in the years since, was not in the slightest bit normal, although it seemed so at the time. He and his siblings grew up at an orphanage, full of strict rules and uncomfortable clothing and nuns that rapped your hands with their rulers if they thought you deserved it. The nuns taught them all of the things they would need to be human: Reading and writing and arithmetic. The value of money. The history of man, etched across centuries of war and plague and disaster. The science of combustion and momentum, fission and fusion. The anatomy of the human body.

The importance of obedience.

As they grew older, their Father instructed them in more important things, things the nuns left out. Like haruspicy and death omens. Blood magic. Discipline. Violence.

Lust.

How the people you trust can hurt you and make you thank them for it.

How the things people do for your own good seldom are.

How hate and pain can be transformative.

How to kill people.

Why some people need to die.

When Sam was five, there were 20 other children at the orphanage. Over the years, some of them were adopted, or sent to other orphanages, or ran away, or so the nuns said. Only 12 other children still lived at the orphanage by the time Sam turned seventeen. That was same year he found the graves and learned that the missing children had never left.

Sam – and his brothers and sisters – learned a lot of other lessons that year. It cost him two of their number and his voice. It gained them their freedom.

It gained him Dean.

After Dean

His brothers and sisters scattered afterwards, although they all stopped by to check on him periodically. They brought him food, blankets, clothes, and news of the outside.

Sam stayed behind, moving like a ghost through the orphanage's dusty and abandoned halls. He didn't see the point in leaving - it wasn't like he had anywhere better to go. Mostly, though, he stayed to make sure that the things they'd buried remained just as dead as they had been when they'd buried them.

Dean Winchester changed all that when he showed up on his bike, bleeding and battered and half-dead in the middle of the night.

Sam heard him long before he arrived. The woods around the orphanage were quiet, and Dean's motorcycle was loud. He half-fell off the bike when he got there and staggered inside, but only got as far as the vestibule before he passed out.

Hidden in an alcove, Sam watched the whole thing. The man himself didn't worry him. Sam could take him if he needed to, especially with the way the blood was slowly pooling out of him. He was more worried that someone else would follow.

At first, Sam lurked in the alcove, waiting for the man to wake up. He didn't, not even when Sam slipped out of his hiding spot squatted down next to him. He sniffed him - blood and copper, but nothing spoiled or rotted. No infection.

Whatever had hurt the man must have taken place relatively recently.

Sam lifted up a corner of the man's leather jacket and found the sources of the blood – a shallow stab wound to his gut, and another, deeper one, to his shoulder. He leaned down and sniffed at the blood around his waist. It smelled clean. Then he dipped a finger in the man's blood and tasted it. It tasted of copper and salt, not sulfur.

Human.

For a moment, he was almost disappointed. He would have liked a new brother.

Sam took the man's gun and knife and left him there. Then he hid the bike in the gardener's shed. It wasn't the best hiding place, but it was the best Sam could do. Then he took a broom and swept the tire tracks out of the dirt all the way back to the road, scuffing leaves along the path as he went until it looked like no one had passed through.

The man still hadn't woken up when Sam returned. He twitched a little when Sam lifted him and brought him to the orphanage's infirmary, and whimpered when Sam dumped alcohol over the wounds before stitching them up as best he could, but that was it. Then he sat back and looked at his work.

He poked at the man, but there was no response, just a hitch in his shallow breathing. The man was still pale – too pale. He'd lost too much blood. Sam's fault. He should have taken care of his wounds before the motorcycle. He'd forgotten how fragile people could be.

There was nothing to do for that now, though. He was human. He would either live or die.

The smart thing would have been to hide and wait until one of the two things happened, but somehow, the more he looked at him, the more the idea of that was unthinkable.

Sam didn't know the man, and he certainly didn't owe him anything. He wasn't family, not like Sam's brothers or sisters. And Father had always told him the blood was a gift. A communion. A sacrament.

But their Father was gone now. Sam didn't have to follow his rules. Moreover, he didn't want to.

He was beautiful, Sam thought, but there was something there- something more-

He couldn't let him die. Not until he understood why.

He didn't even know his name.

The blood was a gift, Sam thought, but it was his gift, not Father's. That meant it was Sam's to grant.

Decision made, Sam straddled the man and held his wrist up to the man's lips. Then he bared his teeth and ripped into the skin, letting the blood drip down, down, down onto the man's face and into his mouth.

The effect was instantaneous. One minute the man was limp and unconscious. The next, he had surged up and buried his teeth in Sam's wrist, worrying the flesh back and forth like a man sucking on a marrowbone.

He understood implicitly why his Father had warned against it, because it was also exhilarating. Intoxicating. Arousing.

Sam lost track of what they were doing.

When he came to his senses, he felt light-headed and floaty, and their positions had somehow become reversed.

Now, Sam was the one lying on his back on the cot, and the man was straddling him. His legs were pressed down over Sam's knees, and his hands held Sam's wrists locked in place. The man looked down at Sam, the entire bottom of his face glistening dark red. He looked infernal.

Sam had never seen anything hotter in his life.

They were both hard – it was the blood, Sam knew. It was in both of them now, calling to itself across their bodies. It wanted to be reunited. Every ounce of his body surged with need.

Sam pressed his wrists back against the man, trying to break his grip, but the intruder just grinned down at him. Then he leaned down and kissed Sam, spitting blood into his mouth. It smeared across Sam's jaw like it wanted to sear into his skin.

Then he pulled back, green eyes boring into Sam. "Who are you?" he gasped. "What did you do to me? Why am I-"

Sam didn't bother answering. He knew the man could see the scar on his neck from his position. If he actually expected Sam to answer, he was stupid.

Instead, Sam bucked up, tired of resisting the urge to rub himself furiously against the man. The man's piercing eyes glazed over as the blood lust inside him caught fire, and he ground down hard in response, fingernails digging painfully into Sam's wrists. He could feel the man's length against him, firm and unyielding.

Sam opened his legs wider and tilted up his hips, giving the man more room to grind against them. It was a shame they were both dressed. Sam would have liked to feel it inside him.

Sam leaned up, lips parted for a kiss, and the man obliged. The kiss wasn't gentle, or tender – it was savage, possessive, full of teeth and tongue and promise. Sam hoped the man fucked like he kissed.

Sam felt himself slip back into the lust. They rutted like animals, desperate and feral, driving each other to a climax.

He was pretty sure they both passed out when they came.

* * *

The man was leaning against the headboard when Sam woke up. Sam's head was in his lap. One hand was playing with Sam's hair; the other was keeping a firm pressure on Sam's wrist, the wound covered neatly by a blue bandana.

Sam wanted to tell him it wasn't necessary. He was fine. On the other hand, if he did, the man might stop petting him, and Sam didn't want him to. What he wanted was to sleep until morning, just like this.

The man looked a lot better. The color had returned to his skin, and Sam couldn't smell blood seeping from his waist anymore.

With a thrill, Sam realized that the man knew Sam's wrist had stopped bleeding. He just didn't want Sam to move, either.

"If this isn't some kind of fucked-up fever dream," the man said, "you and me are going to have words about this in the morning."

Sam planned to be long gone by then.

Just... not yet.

~fin~

Fic: Saturday Night at the Impala

2022-01-23T14:37:36Z

Title: Saturday Night at the Impala
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural (Dean/Sam)
Author: casey679
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Breathplay
Length: 2.8k words
Series: Wild Times at the Impala
Community: Saturday Night Specials

Summary: Nothing got Sam hornier than the endorphin rush he got from getting tattooed. And nothing got Dean hornier than watching Sam get marked up permanently with his designs.

Saturday night at the Impala was loud, rowdy, and down and dirty – just the way Eli liked it. Nights like those, he loved working the bar, pulling drafts and pouring out shots for the bikers who had kept this bar afloat for as long as Eli had worked here.

The Impala was the kind of place that by all rights should have gone out of business long ago, the only night life in a town that had otherwise dried up and blown away. Only a handful of residents were left, along with one church, a double-long Kwik Shop with a built-in Burger King and Arby's, and a Motel 6 – and all of them except the church were located conveniently right off the highway, so that people could stop in and then keep right on going. There was also a sleepy little diner, a garage and a used goods store a little further away, and a Walmart a bit past that, and that was the lot of it.

It was the perfect place for the lost and forgotten, and for people looking to stay that way. Eli suspected a lot of the folks who drifted into town and then just never left had someone or something they were running from. Lord knew he had his own secrets.

And then there were the bikers. The Impala had been neutral ground ever since John Winchester took it over. It was home to the Hunters, the bikers that run under John's flag, back when they were still mostly a social club for him and his war vet friends. But anyone could stop in for a pint, regardless of the colors they flew. That's the way John wanted it, and since there wasn't shit but tumbleweeds for something like 70 in either direction, nobody had ever particularly felt like pressing the point – not if they were thirsty, anyway.

John had grown up in town before he'd gone away to war. Years later, he rode back into town on a Harley with a widower's wedding band on his finger and a young blond boy nestled in front of him on the bike, grinning in delight at everyone they passed by. John licked his wounds for a few months, then bought the bar, slapped a new name and a new coat of paint on it, and set up shop.

Like a lot of vets, John found a sense of familiarity and comfort in the power and danger that a motorcycle represented. And like homing pigeons, it wasn't long before more vets and motorcycles started showing up at John's bar. A few at first – Rufus and Bobby, a crotchety pair of old-timers who were a little more than friends and didn't care who knew it; then Gordon, dishonorably discharged for refusing to obey a superior officer who'd done something unspeakable and unthinkable. Victor, who'd lost a hand and his job defusing a bomb. Ellen, dragged into town by her drunkard husband Bill, who sometimes lost his temper. When sometimes turned to all the time, Bobby and John took him out on a hunting trip, and only the two of them came back. (Ellen runs the Motel 6 now, and her daughter waits tables at the diner down the road.)

Time passed, and the bar's popularity grew. It became neutral ground in more ways than one – word spread that John didn't mind the color of your skin, what was in your pants or who got your engine running, and it wasn't exactly like the town had a police force there to enforce any arbitrary rules of propriety. The 20 to 30 bikes parked outside the bar were enough to keep anyone else who might raise a moral objection away. Of course, there was always Pastor Jim, from the local parish, but where would he go for a quickie if he let the bar get shut down?

The point was, no one cared except for a handful of bigots and homophobes, and John and his friends made sure any of them that visited never came back again. The Impala was home to the outlaws and the unwanted, and that just got even more pronounced when John's son Dean came home.

Dean grew up at his daddy's knee, listening to the vets talk and watching them drink and riding out with John when they took the bikes on the road. When John's bad knee acted up in cold weather, Dean helped out at the bar, clearing glasses and carrying bowls of peanuts and sometimes even beers. When he turned 16, John gave him his first beer and let him learn how to mix drinks behind the bar. And just like his daddy, when Dean turned 18, he went off to the military to become a man.

Seven and a half years later, Dean came back home, wiser, tougher and with a limp of his own. And just like John, he didn't come back alone.

Dean's boy wasn't a kid, though. Sam was 20, tall and long, and he rode in on a secondhand bike that was half held together with duct tape and wire. He had big puppy-dog eyes and bangs that hung down over them, and a sunshine grin that he reserved for Dean and Dean alone. No one knew exactly where Sam had come from, and he couldn't say. All Dean would say was that Sam was his. That was all that mattered. That, and the equally possessive look that Sam got in his eyes at Dean's words.

Things changed then. Old Mrs. Milligan had died a few years past, and her daughter Kate came to town to close her house. Only she never left, and suddenly John was spending a lot less time at the bar and a lot more time helping Kate fix up her house. It wasn't much of a surprise when John handed the keys to the bar over to Dean and took up at the garage. Like a flock of crows, most of the old crowd took to hanging out there instead, leaving the bar to the younger generation.

That was just as well, because Sam wasn't the only person who followed Dean home. There was Pamela, who claimed to be psychic and worked the bar with Eli, and would tell your fortune for a fiver and a pint. Ruby and Lilith, a pair of pros who found bikers better company than the truckers they'd previously solicited, and Max, the barely-legal rent boy who'd followed their letter there. Billie and Tessa, who'd served with Dean. Jake, Patrick, Andrew and Anselm, and Meg, all of whom wore Dean's colors.

The bikers at the Impala got younger, and wilder, and louder. The bar got another coat of paint, a second pool table, and an extension for a couple of arcade games. The jukebox got songs that were only 20 years out of date, instead of 40. The bathroom got a glory hole that no one talked about but definitely saw its share of use – as did the Motel 6, whose proprietor was happy to look the other way at the steady stream of visitors. A few trailers sprouted up in the field a few miles past the church or so - first one, then three, then five, with never any less than seven bikes in front of them.

When Dean was working at the bar or presiding over the Hunters, Sam loomed silently nearby, muscles coiled like a snake, ready to strike in case danger attacked. When Dean was drinking, Sam could usually be found languorously sprawled over his lap, eyes half-lidded as Dean ran his fingers through his hair. And when Dean didn't need him at all – which was rare – he'd be over at John's garage, fixing up his bike and soaking up John's advice like he was his own dad.

Sam didn't talk much, and what he did say was only for Dean's ears – he couldn't have raised it much above a whisper anyway, with the old, ragged scar across his throat. That wasn't the only scar Sam had by far, none of them the kind you get falling out of apple trees. He also could also hit a bullseye with a knife from 30 yards away, and break a man's arm with a single twist. Whatever you could say about Dean's childhood, at least he'd had one. Eli wasn't sure you could say the same thing for Sam, which was okay. It wasn't like he'd had much of one, either.

A couple of months later, the only good thing about Eli's childhood caught up with him in the form of his older brother. Benny had come looking for him to let him know their dad has passed on and it was okay to come home. When Eli told him no, he had a new home at the Impala, Benny stayed a few nights watching all the custom passing through. Then he pulled Dean in the back to talk, and a while after that, the bar got a second extension and Snakebite Tattoos opened up. Dean sent Andrew and Anselm over to work the front for Benny, and could even be found sketching designs for him from time to time.

Eli stitched Dean's colors onto Benny's jacket himself.

These days, it wasn't unusual to see Benny giving someone a tattoo or a piercing in the bar itself on a Saturday night. At least one a month, that person was Sam. Little by little, he and Dean were replacing Sam's scars with a forest under a starry night sky across his back, each suspicious circular burn now a shining point of light in that sky. A flock of crows took flight along his left arm, and a cacophony of vines and flowers bloomed over his right. None of the tattoos were finished yet – some nights Benny worked on the line work, and other times he filled in a flower, whatever Sam or Dean felt was important that day. That week, Benny had been working on covering the scar on Sam's neck with a tattoo of a black leather collar. Eli suspected it was some kind of private therapy for them, a way to exorcise whatever demon was haunting Sam's eyes that week.

There was another reason the work only got done little by little, one that was infamous around the Impala. One that was about to happen again: Nothing got Sam hornier than the endorphin rush he got from getting tattooed. And nothing got Dean hornier than watching Sam get marked up permanently with his designs.

It always started out like this: Dean and Sam walked over, holding hands like it was some kind of date, which it kind of was. Or foreplay, which it also kind of was. Dean would point out the area that Benny was going to work on that day – Sam wants that flower purple, or Can you put a deer peeking out between those trees. Benny insisted on doing the initial linework in his actual shop, so Sam could approve the placement of it. Everything that happened in the Impala on a Saturday night, however, Dean got the final say on that.

Sam would settle in then, and Dean would hold his hand as Benny got to work. The longer the ink flowed, the more Sam's breath would start to hitch. Dean would lean down and whisper something in Sam's ear, and Sam would have to adjust himself, and Benny would yell at both of them to sit still and behave. Sometimes Dean would get a look in his eye and tell Benny to keep going, and Sam would bite his lip and maybe whimper. Other days, Benny would have to glare Dean into behaving to keep him from dragging Sam into the back room before Benny could even cover the art up.

They always ended up in the back room behind the bar, the office where Dean was supposed to conduct business. Eli preferred to keep the door shut, but Pam was on that night, and she always kept the door propped open just enough to appreciate the goings on. Eli let the new kid, Jack, take a turn making drinks. There wouldn't be trouble, but just in case, he preferred to be ready.

Tonight, Dean had Sam spread out across the desk, hips and thighs open wide, pants dangling down around one ankle. Sam had a dreamy look on his face, floating high on endorphins and sex and Dean. Both of his hands were pressed to his neck, fingers tight around the plastic protecting the black band that now circled the front of his neck. Dean's fingers, meanwhile, were pressed up inside Sam as he worked his mouth up and down Sam's cock.

A thin line of spittle followed Dean's lips when he leaned back and pulled off for a moment, and Sam whimpered. He kissed the tip and ran his tongue over it, making Sam grunt and buck up, hips trying to follow the path back to heaven.

"Look so good, Sammy," Dean said, "gonna let everyone know who you belong to, wearing my collar like that. That's my neck now, isn't it, Sammy?"

Sam nodded, his fingers trembling with the urge to tighten further.

"Just like your cock is mine-" he kissed the tip again- "and this is mine-" he twisted his fingers inside Sam, more urgently- "all of you, you're mine. Never his-" he swallowed Sam down and then pulled off slowly, running his teeth along the shaft until Sam keened. "MINE."

Something unlocked in Sam, his back arching further up off the desk, hands still pressed firmly around his throat.

"That's right," Dean said, tongue licking an apology along his length. "Just you wait 'til it's done. Gonna get Benny to pierce the bottom and hang my tags there so everyone knows it."

Sam murmured something that made Dean grin and twist his hand, fingers busy inside Sam.

"Damn straight, and if I think they need a reminder, I'm gonna give it to them."

The truth was, no one needed a reminder. Everyone knew Sam was Dean's. The one time a stranger had rolled through and dared to slap his hand across Sam's ass, Sam grabbed his hand and broke three of his fingers for his temerity. When Dean found out, he broke his other two fingers and his wrist, just to make sure the lesson stuck.

Back in the office, Dean stood up and unbuckled his pants, letting his own cock spring free. He licked his palm until it shined and wrapped it around both of their lengths.

"Keep those hands where I want 'em, Sam. I'm gonna get us off. You just squeeze like that, nice and tight-" he began to jack their cocks together, spitting down onto them when his palm got sticky- "keep those fingers on your carotids and your eyes on me. You can let go when I go, 'kay?"

Sam nodded, eyes dreamy. His face was flush now, whether from arousal or hypoxia Eli couldn't tell. The metal rings piercing his nipples glinted in the light as Dean leaned forward and twisted first one and then the other, making Sam writhe on the table.

Eli was glad that he'd had the foresight to make sure all the paperwork was piled elsewhere for the evening. He'd spent more than one Sunday reconstructing the office after the boys had destroyed any sense of order in the room.

"Press harder, okay?" Dean commanded, his strokes speeding up. "You can use your thumbs if you wanna, I'll get us both there, you just gotta lie there and take it." A few more moments and Dean's come spurted across Sam's chest. Sam followed just a moment later, Dean making sure to aim his cock so the come splattered up over Sam's hands and onto his neck. Sam's fingers dug into his neck one last time, and then his whole body relaxed as he passed out, arms falling back down onto the desk.

Dean looked over at Pamela, still panting slightly, and said, "Shut the damn door." He wasn't mad – Eli was pretty sure Dean actually enjoyed having the audience, even if they did make bets and catcalls sometimes.

When he looked around, sure enough, money was changing hands. Ruby and Max were both heading out of the bar with customers who'd found the show… inspiring. Benny had already cleaned up his kit and was relaxing with a pair of pints in front of him, waiting to catch up with his brother.

And that was Eli's cue. He turned to Pamela and nodded, and she laughed. "Go take your break. I'll make sure the kid doesn't fuck up the orders."

Just another Saturday night at the Impala, and Eli wouldn't have it any other way.

~fin~

2019 SPN/J2 Xmas Exchange: The Ghosts of Christmas, Present

2021-12-28T19:54:18Z

This is a gift for 0ntheroadsofar as part of the 2019 Supernatural & CWRPF Holiday Exchange. I hope you enjoy it! Thanks to @Phoenix1966 and @Nisaki for providing cheerleading, company and beta reads when my eyes were too tired to go on. It's a better story thanks to you two!

Title: The Ghosts of Christmas, Present
Gifter: casey679
Giftee: 0ntheroadsofar
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Sam
Word count/Medium: 11K
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Angst, but don't worry, I read your likes and dislikes :)

Summary: Sam should know by now: There's no such thing as a happy Christmas when you're a Winchester. He’s at Stanford, exhausted and alone and miserable, and it’s his own damn fault.

This fic is long-ish, so you'll have to read it on AO3!

Fic: Horns, Hooves and Holidays

2021-12-28T19:40:36Z

In the spirit of giving, I signed up as a pinch-hitter for the SPN/J2 Xmas Exchange, and was recruited to write a gift for zubeneschamali, whose likes included "unusual werecreatures" and "holiday schmoop". This fic is the result! Happy holidays to all!

Title: Horns, Hooves and Holidays
Gifter: casey679
Pairing/Characters: Jensen/Jared
Word count/Medium: 3047
Rating: Teen
Warnings: A very wee amount of blood.
Summary: It's a hell of a way to start off the day before Christmas, Jensen thinks. He'd had vague plans for a lazy blowjob in bed and helping Jared with chores around the ranch before heading over to the main house to enjoy the huge Padalecki pre-Christmas brunch that he's heard so much about it. Not… this. "It's really not as bad as it looks," Jared says defensively.

It's a hell of a way to start off Christmas Eve morning, Jensen thinks.

He'd had vague plans for a lazy blowjob in bed and helping Jared with chores around the ranch before heading over to the main house to enjoy the huge Padalecki pre-Christmas brunch that he's heard so much about it. Not… this.

"It's really not as bad as it looks," Jared says defensively.

Jensen narrows his eyes, wishing he'd thought to throw on a heavier coat before racing outside into the falling snow. "Oh good. Because where I'm standing, it looks like my boyfriend has somehow gotten himself strung up – face down and buck naked, I might add – on the bottom of a barbed wire fence, which has somehow embedded itself in his back. But since it's not as bad as it looks, I'll just turn around and go back inside."

Jared seems to shrink in on himself a bit with embarrassment. "Would you believe me if I said there's a perfectly rational explanation for this?"

For someone who is currently in danger of having his family jewels get frostbite, Jared seems far less freaked out than he should be. Then again, Jensen is currently freaking out enough for the both of them.

"No."

It's got to be the cold, Jensen decides; the cold must have numbed Jared's ability to feel pain somehow, even though he actually looks remarkably flushed for someone having been out in the snow for at least-

"How long have you been stuck out here?"

"I don't know," Jared says, his half-shrug turning into a wince as his skin tugs at the wires. "Half an hour before you came out maybe? I think?"

"You think?" Jensen squats down and looked at the ugly bits of metal, and is inordinately glad that he hasn't had anything heavier than coffee in his stomach. Somehow, the barbs and bits of wire are half-sunk under Jared's skin, like someone has somehow surgically implanted them there. Which is impossible.

It's strange, because there's a lot of blood – enough to have dripped down off his back and onto the snow, a splattering of red-and white that is decidedly not the festive decorations he'd had in mind. The worrisome thing – the one of many worrisome things – is that It's way more blood than you'd expect for such surprisingly small entry wounds.

Entry wounds, Jensen thinks, what the fuck. What he says aloud is, "I'm going to go call an ambulance. I don't want to risk moving you like this."

No!" Jared says anxiously, grabbing at his boot – the only part of Jensen currently close enough for him to reach. "Don't call anyone. It really isn't that bad."

Jensen starts to yank his foot away and then thinks better of it. "Stop moving, you're going to make it worse-"

Jared wraps his fingers firmly around Jensen's ankle. "Look, there's a simple, and stupid, explanation for all of this, and I promise I'll give it to you. Just don't call the ambulance." He tries to twist his head up to look at Jensen, but only succeeds in digging the wire in further. "I just – ah! - just – ow! – there's a pair of wire cutters in the – ack! shit! – in the garage." He pants for a minute, like he didn't just start shredding his back more with his flailing. "I just need you to snip the wires so I can get out from under here and stand up, and then I can explain everything."

"Seriously?!" Jensen's voice cracks on the end.

"Yeah," Jared says slowly, like he isn't currently impaled under a fence and Jensen is the irrational one. "Seriously." And then he gets a weird, sheepish look on his face. "Would it help if I told you this wasn't the first time?"

Jensen only realizes his mouth has been hanging open when the sheer ludicrousness of that statement makes it snap shut, and you know what? If his boyfriend is enough of a lunatic to think- well. If he can't be bothered to worry about himself, Jensen certainly can't be, either.

He focuses his haughtiest, most annoyed gaze on the ridiculous idiot with whom he has somehow managed to fall in love and says, sternly, "No. No, it does not help at all."

He does, however, fetch the wire cutters.

* * *

As it turns out, "it's not as bad as it looks" and "this isn't the first time" aren't the stupidest things to come out of his boyfriend's mouth that morning.

Per Jared's request, and against his better judgment, Jensen clips the barbed wire to either side of Jared's back and carefully lifts up the other wires so Jared can crawl out from underneath it and stagger to his feet. And then he just… watches Jensen, like Jensen's the one who's unstable.

Although, he's not wrong. Jensen is absolutely about to lose it, but he's pretty sure he's entitled. "So wait, that's it? We're just gonna ignore the fact that you're standing out here in your birthday suit with a chunk of metal in your back?"

And that's when Jared says it.

He looks at Jensen kind of out of the corner of his eyes with an expression that says he knows Jensen isn't going to like what comes next. And then says the absolute dumbest, least helpful thing that anyone in the history of ever has said, the god emperor of stupid things that have ever come out of Jared's mouth:

"Don't freak out."

And then Jared reaches back behind himself, grabs the severed fence wires in his hands and yanks the goddamn barbs out of his back.

There's a horrible ripping, squelching sound. Blood splatters against the snowy ground. Jared drops the wire, which is covered in- in- Jensen's mind refuses to comprehend. And then he lurches forward and hugs Jensen, as if he didn't just fucking maim himself like it was no big deal.

Jensen isn't too proud to admit that there's a moment where he thinks he might faint, where his pulse is pounding, and everything feels like it's going in slow motion. But then he remembers that Jared might be bleeding out, and that's all it takes. He promises his brain that he'll let it gibber all it wants later on if it will only focus on what's important right now.

"Jared, oh my god, what the fuck." He's aware he's babbling. He's fucking entitled. "We've gotta get you inside- is there a first-aid kit in the bathroom? There's got to be, right? This is a ranch, of course accidents happen, there's always a first aid kit-"

"Jensen," Jared says, stepping back and shrugging his shoulders like he's stretching out a sore muscle and not reopening the holes the barbed wire must have left in his back. "It's okay, I promise. I don't need a first aid kit. Look, see-"

And he turns around, and shows off a perfectly muscled, perfectly uninjured back with nothing other than some blood trails to show that anything ever happened.

Jensen puts his hand out unthinkingly, lets his fingers trail over uninjured skin. They come back sticky and red from the spaces where the holes from the barbed wire should have been, revealing unblemished skin underneath.

He might be freaking out a bit now, despite Jared's admonition. Honestly, he can't tell. Nothing makes sense anymore. He looks down at the incriminating barbed wire on the ground, and then back at Jared. Then he opens his mouth, and no sound comes out.

"See? I told you it would be fine." Jared turns around again, smile fading at whatever he sees in Jensen's expression. He tilts his head and runs his fingers through his bangs, scratching his head absently as he thinks.

"You must be freezing. Do you want cocoa?" he says abruptly, and Jensen giggles, because sure, that's a perfectly normal thing to say to someone who is fully dressed while you're standing around starkers in the snow doing impossible things. Then he nods, because yes, he could use some fucking cocoa. Chocolate, he remembers, is good for warding off shock, which is something he might in fact be experiencing.

"Let's get you inside and warmed up," Jared says, taking him by the elbow and steering him back inside the house. He pushes him gently down onto the couch and piles three blankets on top of him. "You just sit there and relax. I'll call mom and tell her we're going to be late, and be right back with the cocoa." Which is not what Jensen wants to hear, because Mama Padalecki's love for her family may be infinite, but the amount of food she makes for brunch is not.

"This explanation had better be worth missing her blueberry pancakes." Jensen reminds himself for the umpteenth time that morning that he loves and trusts Jared, so wanting to kill him is counterproductive. "I'll never forgive you otherwise!"

Jared has the nerve to be honest-to-god cheerful as he retreats to the kitchen, saying, "It'll all be okay!"

This situation is insane. His boyfriend is insane. Which is undoubtedly why all Jensen can think of to yell back is the equally insane and inane, "And put some pants on while you're at it!"

* * *

Given the remarkably weird and upsetting way that Jensen's day had begun and the incredibly weird and inept way that Jared had reacted to it so far, Jensen really shouldn't be surprised when his boyfriend – still barefoot, but at least now properly attired in jeans and a t-shirt – sits down across from him and launches into the world's most enigmatic explanation.

"Did you know," Jared says earnestly, "that the prong buck is the only antelope native to North America, especially Texas and the Southwest? Well, er, not really an antelope, it's a little closer to a giraffe, or maybe an okapi. But the point is the same."

Jensen pauses.

"What." It's not a question so much as just the sound one makes when one's boyfriend decides to start off his explanation of why he ended up nude and entangled in a barbed wire fence with a demonstration of his mastery of Strange Mammal Facts.

"Prong bucks," Jared says, like repeating it will somehow make it make more sense. "You know, prairie antelopes… pronghorns… American antelopes?"

"Oh, I know what a pronghorn is," Jensen says finally, once he can manage to find his equilibrium. He's a Texan; of course he does. "I'm just failing to see the point."

"I'm getting to that," Jared says.

"Not fast enough," Jensen counters, cutting off whatever Jared was about to say next. He leans back, spreading his arms across the back of the couch like he couldn't care less what the explanation is. It's a lie.

"The point is," Jared says, with a little bit of an edge that belies his calm exterior, "that prong bucks are built for speed. Not jumping. Put 'em on flat ground, they can outrun a cheetah. Vertical… not so much."

Jensen's still got no clue where Jared's going with this, but he'll play along. "Guess they're lucky there are no cheetahs in San Antonio, then."

"Heh." Jared laughs. "Maybe so." He inhales, holds his breath, and then exhales nervously. "Okay. So." Another deep breath. "Prong bucks are really fucking common around here, right? So there's a lot of them, but there's also a lot of genetic diversity, such as, uh, latent traits that can stay dormant for generations."

"Such as running around nude in the middle of the night in December?"

"Such as antilocaprinthropy." It sounds like a disease, AN-til-oh-CAH-prin-thrope-ee.

Jensen rubs his forehead then, feeling a headache coming on. "Antilo-whata-whaty?"

Jared coughs awkwardly. "Antilocaprinthropy. It, uh, runs in my family."

"I thought we were talking about antelopes."

Jared rubs the back of his neck. It makes his white t-shirt ride up just the tiniest bit above his waist, not that he deserves to experience any of Jensen's appreciation, no matter how appealing that thin sliver of skin it reveals is.

"We are. Kinda." He leans forward. "I'm an antilocaprinthrope."

"Gesundheit."

"No, for real." And then he does that thing where he scoots forward until he's on the very edge of his seat, all wide puppy eyes and earnest expression. "It runs in my family, but it skipped a couple generations. Surprised the hell out of my mom, though."

Jensen sips his cocoa and then places it neatly down on a coaster on the coffee table, pointedly looking away from the puppy eyes. "Translate that from science nerd to English."

Jared sits back and scratches his head. "I'm a… were-antelope."

It's not Jensen's fault that he falls off of the couch laughing. "Look, it's okay to just admit it was some kind of kinky, Jay. I'm not gonna judge – okay, maybe a little, but- you don't have to make up something ridiculous-" He giggles again when he realizes he's wedged himself in between the coffee table and the couch. There's no easy way for him to get up without spilling his drink, so he lifts his arm for a hand-up instead. "Help me up here."

The laughter chokes off in his throat, however, when Jared grasps his hand obligingly and pulls him to his feet, because his goofy and gangly, six-foot-five-tall boyfriend is probably now closer to seven-foot-tall… if you include the pair of six-inch pronged antlers emerging from his forehead, and the hooves that are now peeking out from the bottom of his jeans.

It's… a little weird, he's not gonna lie. The horns are hot, but the hooves are… not a dealbreaker, the hooves in particular are just funny, and… definitely a little weird, he decides, realizing that he might be hyperventilating a little.

He wheezes for a moment until he can finally catch his breath. Then he looks up at Jared and shakes his head. "Antilocaprinthrope, huh?"

Jared nods his head bashfully. "Yeah." He ducks his head down lower, rubbing it. "There's nothing particularly special about it – I mean, other than the antlers, and the hooves," Jared says. "And we heal really fast, too."

"When you're not strung up on barbed wire," Jensen says, a little waspishly. He'd been worried, damn it all.

Jared smiles and ducks his head agai. "That does tend to make a difference."

They are very nice horns, Jensen decides, doing his best to stay cross at Jared and not think about dirty jokes about handlebars.

He fails, pretty spectacularly, but it's a hell of a thought.

"So…" Jensen says finally. He runs a hand up over the sharp little pronged bend in Jared's antlers. It feels real – solid, connected. Then he steps back and crosses his arms. "Are all antilocaprinthropes nudists, or is that just you?"

Jared blushes. "Uh, no, but when I go full 'lope, the clothes don't come with me."

"Full lope?"

"You know, like a wolf, except less, uh," there's that bashful look again, "less cool."

"So this," Jensen waves at Jared's everything, "this is, what, half lope?"

Jared smiles. "Mostly." At Jensen's look, he leans his head back to look behind him. "There's a, a tail, too, but you can't see it."

A tail. Heaven help him.

Jensen sits down on the couch, aiming for casual but probably failing. It's not every day your boyfriend's big secret actually turns out to actually be big instead of something pedestrian like they're cheating on you… which, honestly, says something a little unfortunate about Jensen's choice of boyfriend before Jared, but he's not going to examine that too closely.

"So last night was, what, your regular full-lope evening constitutional, and you just somehow forgot the fence was there?"

"Not exactly." Jared sits down next to him, hooves suddenly shifting back into feet, which he tucks up under him. He leaves the horns, probably because he's noticed Jensen can't stop looking at them, and slings an arm around Jensen's shoulder. "Mom's been catching some signs of a mountain lion slinking around – most of 'em know to avoid our ranch, but sometimes one of the cubs that just turned adult gets some ideas. But they know I can kick their ass, so mostly I just have to mark up the territory to let them know where they're not wanted. I just hadn't refreshed them recently."

"Aaaaand…" Jensen looks at him expectantly.

Jared looks down. "So I figured I'd just slip out early while you were still sleeping and zoom back before you woke up – it doesn't take me that long to hit all ten acres, and it's really fun, you know, just tearing the ground up at full speed. I saw the fence, but I didn't feel like slowing down and-" he mumbles something.

"What was that?" Jensen says pointedly.

"Itseemedlikeagoodideaatthetime," Jared spits out, cheeks bright red.

"Even though you said it wasn't the first time?"

Okay, Jensen's maybe enjoying grinding this point home a bit more than he should.

"It always seems like a good idea at the time," Jared finally admits sheepishly. "Going full lope, you're a little closer to the animal brain. But it's always like it's the first time – you think, 'I can take that' and then suddenly you're hung up on barbed wire, and your skin's healing up faster than you can get the tangles out, so you shift back because you think thumbs might help, but they never do, and then you're stuck waiting until your boyfriend shows up looking for you." He smiles at Jensen. "Actually, that part's new. Usually it's mom. It's nicer when it's you, I think."

Jensen snorts and leans into Jared's shoulder. "Oh wow, I'm flattered." He swats at his shoulder affectionately.

"I was going to tell you about it all tonight, you know," Jared says. "I really didn't plan on just springing it on you like this."

"Oh no," Jensen says, "this is way better."

"Yeah?"

"Oh yeah. I'm gonna get so much mileage telling this story." He waves a hand in the air. "Much funnier than embarrassing baby photos."

"You wouldn't dare!" Jared squawks.

"Oh," Jensen snuggles in closer. "Watch me." He makes grabby hands at the cocoa mug until Jared leans forward to fetch it for him. "Hey, do I get riding privileges?"

"Anytime you want, baby."

Jensen sips his hot cocoa contentedly. "Damn straight."

~fin~

Moodboard: May All Your Christmases Be Tight

2021-12-19T10:19:42Z

While I keep working on the Christmas review fic, enjoy the moodboard I made for inspiration!