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bigmouthlass · 4 months ago

Text

Title: Overdone

Author: BJ

Fandom: Supernatural

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Reader, Dean Winchester/You, Sam Winchester/Reader, Sam Winchester/You, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester/Reader, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester/You

Synopsis: Confinement plus stress plus strong drugs is a dangerous mix.

Tags: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Female Reader, Female You, Castiel, Surprise Cameo, If I Told You It Wouldn't Be A Surprise Would It? Wincest, Angst, Dubious Consent, S5, Offscreen CSA, Offscreen Rape/Non-con, Drug Use,

AN: Dubious Consent tag is in place because there are strong intoxicants involved and judgement is definitely impaired.

Be nice to me, I haven't written slash in a very long time. And I find it difficult to write something that's explicitly refuted, in plain language, in canon. But . . . @sam-is-my-safe-word told me @runawaydr3amerao3 was thinking of goat sacrifice to get me to write something Wincest.

I'm doing this for the goats.

All recognizable intellectual properties are owned by their respective creators and holders of any copyrights or trademarks. This is a not-for-profit work of fan art and protected by Fair Use.

---

It’s starting to snow again, driving day down into night. Ground lights beam up at the motel’s sign, making a point of light in the dark. The place itself is a block of standard rooms and a collection of tiny cabins. The one you’re splitting with the Winchester brothers is way in the back, Dean’s Chevy parked in front. Dim light shines through frost-etched windows.

You park your Cherokee under the bare skeleton of a tree. Without the engine noise the quiet is dense, a silence that only comes in deep winter. You’re in . . . where are you? Some half-dead bedroom community somewhere around Benton Harbor, you think. The world is all dirty, melted-then-refrozen snow and mud and gray road slush. Dean had spent a good ten minutes whining about what the salt must be doing to his car until you’d run out of patience and told him to shut up.

Sam lays his head back against the front seat headrest, tired eyes slipping closed and a tired sigh slipping from his lips. Dean had won the coin toss for the shower so Sam had come with you on a supply and supper run. Snacks, hot food, cold beers, medication, ammunition, and all that jazz. “You okay?” you ask him.

“Yeah,” he says, opening his eyes. One big hand makes a fist the size of a football, shakes out, contracts again. “Just bruised I think. You?”

“Same,” you say. “Grab the drinks would you please?”

In the outside air, your body contracts. Might just be bruises but damn they hurt. Plastic bags crackle in your cold hands. You’re getting too damn old for this, too many hard days dragging your ass all over Gaia’s muddy bloody earth. At least this shitshack’s got reliable heat. Some rest, some food, a good night’s sleep-- cures most ills.

“Took you long enough,” Dean grouches as you kick the door shut behind you. He tosses a grimy towel into the kitchen sink. The cabin smells of spent gunpowder and gun oil.

“After school crowd,” you grunt. “Got stuck behind a bus in the drive-thru.”

You spread out the hamburgers and everybody digs in. At least they’re hot, and your chilled insides seize the food with relief. All damn day guiding your Jeep to a disused graveyard in the middle of some neglected woods, plus finding the specific magicked tree activated by some idiot kids, plus botching the job of cutting the tree down, plus getting your asses kicked sideways when the original spellwork broke and knocked all three of you back ten yards. One of those hard and thankless days the job kicks your ass with sometimes.

“That’s better,” Dean sighs when he finishes his fries. “What a day. Spent ten minutes in the shower digging mud out of my ass crack.”

“Yeah, you keep on being classy Dean,” Sam says from the bathroom. The door thunks shut and you hear the shower start.

Dean stands, then pitches forward and practically falls in your lap. “Jesus!” you swear together.

“Sorry,” Dean says, levering himself off you carefully and hopping back a step. “Ankle seized up.”

“Well come here,” you say, grabbing the bag with the first aid shit. “Let’s get it wrapped.”

Dean sits and you lift his foot to rest between your knees. “Motherfucker,” you say at the sight of his ankle, swollen and starting to purple. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t think it was that bad. It didn’t-- ow! It didn’t swell up until I took my boots off.” Dean reaches and snags the bottle of Wild Turkey, yanking the cork with his teeth and spitting it on the table. “Thanks,” he says as you dump some Advil in his hand.

“Don’t thank me yet. This is gonna hurt like a twisted dick,” you say.

“Okay,” Dean says after throwing the pills down his throat and chasing them with the bourbon. “Okay, let’s do it.”

Dean’s pale and breathing hard by the time you’re done wrapping his foot and ankle. “You’re lucky your car’s an automatic. Working a clutch’d be murder.”

“Yeah, thank God that’s not my pedal foot,” Dean says, taking another gulp. He passes the bottle and you take a mouthful. The liquor settles into your full tummy.

You put Dean’s foot down on the floor. “Rest, cold, all that jazz,” you say. “Go sit up in the bed.”

“Wound service? I could get used to this,” Dean says as you get a cold gel pack out of the freezer.

“Don’t,” you say. Your hand shakes as you turn up the room’s little furnace. “Shit,” you sigh, feeling tension lingering throughout your body. Hard, cold knots untouched by heat or food or drink or safety.

“Hey-- could you bring me one of those Hostess pies?” Dean asks, pointing at the stack of snack pies.

“Where would you put it?” you ask, tossing him the wrapped treat.

“We skipped lunch, remember?”

“I know, I was there,” you say.

Dean sits up against the bed’s headboard and hands you a pillow. You elevate his leg and drape the blue gel pack over his wrapped ankle. “What’s with the snacks?” Dean says, eyeing the piles of grocery bags.

“Mother always told me never go grocery shopping hungry. You always buy too much,” you say. “Besides, with the snow coming we might be stuck here a couple days-- oh wait, one of us has four-wheel drive and all-weather tires and a winch--"

“Shut up,” Dean growls.

Sam emerges from the bathroom, wearing a pair of sweatpants and toweling his hair. You swallow. Sam presents a feast for the eyes, bruises and all. It’d be downright sacrilegious to not take a nibble, vision-wise. “Shower’s free,” he grunts.

“How’s the hot water?” you ask, grabbing your bag.

“Okay,” Sam lies.

You make it quick and finish your hair just as the hot water runs tepid. Oh well, your mother also told you that hot water is bad for the hair. Not that you care. Your hair covers the top of your head, your face covers the front, and that’s about all you expect from those two things.

Your hands shake as you rinse off your toothbrush. “Shit,” you repeat from earlier. It gets like this, sometimes, after a hard day or on the tail end of . . . of too much. Some human bodies thrive under stress. Yours doesn’t. Everything just keeps building until your psyche disintegrates into seething ragefits or utter shutdown. You don’t know how the Winchesters do it, honestly, cranking out case after case after case with barely a night off in between.

You pull on some soft pajama pants and a tank top, covering up with an oversized fleece. You emerge from the bathroom to see Sam mending a hole in some jeans and Dean flipping listlessly through an issue of Car and Driver magazine. The TV chatters. “What’s on?” you ask, enthroning yourself in the cabin’s big lounge chair.

“Just the news,” Sam says.

The three of you watch the weather report. Snow, snow, and more snow. And as an extra middle finger from the fates-- “Aw, fuckersnackle,” you growl at the sight of a gushing water main. “Look-- US-12’s shut down. With 94 all torn up good luck getting through Indiana tomorrow . And Chicago at rush hour in the middle of a snowstorm? Eat my fuck.”

Dean watches the footage of snow-covered road and cusses. “Let me guess. The next best route is through Indianapolis or whatever.”

“Pretty much. You guys’re planning on South Dakota next, right?” Consulting your mental map, you say, “Well it’s either hang out here until MDOT gets the roads open or you could go north, cross the bridge, and kick west across the UP.”

“Minneapolis in February? Pass,” Dean says.

“Give my regards to Ishpeming, Michigan,” you remark.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Sam grumbles as he thumbs the remote. “Snow must be messing with the signal,” he states the obvious, as channel after channel of pixelated mess flips by. All that comes in clear is, God save us, Inside Edition.

Somehow these two overgrown toddlers make an argument out of it.

With just the two beds, you’ve been making do with a recliner and some blankets. You curl up in the chair and close your eyes. They open right back up again. So, sleep isn’t happening tonight despite being so tired your eyes are crossing. If you try, you’re just going to lie awake listening to Sam and Dean snoring. In harmony.

You run down your options far as relaxing. Booze? Not reliable, and hangovers suck. Sex? So not advisable. Exercise? Not with snow falling in bushels outside and the wind starting to pick up.

Dean shucks off his shirt and your heart skips a beat. Easy to miss because he layers up but goddamn, the man looks pretty fucking good in just a T-shirt. “That’s better.”

“How are you not roasting?” Sam demands as you shift and stretch.

You actually are, yet you’re still shivering.

The hell with it. If these two have a problem they can go sleep in the car. You dig in your first aid kit and find the little green box you got for your birthday one year. Metaphor for how bad habits shift as you age you suppose-- instead of Magic cards the box holds a mini Bic lighter, a small pipe with rainbows banding the stem, and a Baggie holding some shredded greenery.

So much for the hypnotic power of tabloid news; you look up from your hands and meet two sets of wide eyes. “What? Either of you allergic?” At the harmonized No, you go back to packing your pipe.

“Um . . .” Dean says, “is that--"

“Yes,” you cut him off, impatient for relief now that the decision’s been made. The green box is always your last resort when you get like this; bud’s too damn expensive to be your go-to chemical relief. “Any opinions either of you have on the subject, speak now so’s I can tell you to shut up and go fuck yourself. It’s been a very hard few weeks.”

“Yeah, heard that,” Sam says.

Dean’s head whips around. He looks shocked. Hell he looks horrified. “No.”

Sam shrugs. “Couple times around finals. Didn’t do much for me. It was probably just lawn clippings anyway.” He studies you for a moment as you pack the bowl. “Actually . . . is--is it okay if I share some?”

“Sammy!”

You bust out laughing. Dean’s voice had jumped into a total mom-squeak.

“Two words Dean-- doublemint twins,” Sam snaps, and he sounds pissed.

“All right all right all right, unknot your boxers, calm down. I’m just saying . . . y’know, maybe someone fresh off of a,” Dean’s eyes flick to you, “situation, should maybe avoid drugs.”

Scratch pissed, Sam looks homicidal. He gets to his feet. “If I can be trusted around booze I can be trusted around weed,” he says, dragging over one of the dining chairs and turning it backwards to sit straddle. “Pass it over.”

“Ah, yes kýrios, I obey kýrios, not like it’s my weed or anything,” you snark. A tremor fouls your grip and the pipe slips through your fingers. Clunk back into the card box. “Fishshit!” you snap as you repack the spilled shreds.

“You okay?” Dean asks, and you’re too busy lighting the bowl to answer.

Smoke rasps your throat as you pull down from the diaphragm, scratches at the delicate blood-lined tissues deep within. Holding the smoke, you hand your pipe to Sam. He takes a shallower draw. Smart guy.

Another big hand shoves blocks Sam’s handoff. “Give it here,” Dean orders, snapping his fingers.

You flick a little help yourself gesture at him. Maybe getting nice and baked will make him dial back the dipshit behavior a bit. Sam too. The both of them, they’ve been snide and antagonistic all day.

Your lungs run out of oxygen and you release the smoke nice and slow. Beside you Dean sets your pipe to his lips and pulls. Slow, deep, and smooth. “Mmm,” he grunts, handing the pipe back to you. “Good stuff.”

It is. You pay good money and you’ve got a friendly connection. “Life’s too short for shitty weed,” you say, setting the pipe to your lips and taking another hit.

The pipe makes another round. The drugs settle into your blood and over your ragged nerves. Like a warm, heavy blanket. The static in your brain quiets, tension eases.

“Wait,” Sam says as he watches his big brother take a hit smooth and easy. His eyes pop open wide. “You’ve done this before!” he says, bold and accusing.

“Ding ding ding! Tell him what he’s won Vanna-- wow it’s an all expenses paid trip to ObviousLand,” Dean says, glowering.

“Jesus Christ-- you’re such a fucking hypocrite, you know that? Getting on my case for experimenting a little in college when you’re toking up on hunts--”

“Okay, one, never on hunts. And two, the last time I got high I got paranoid and almost shot Dad.” Dean holds up his right hand. “Dad broke two of my fingers getting the gun out of my hand, then he kicked my ass so hard I was pissing blood for a week. Any other fucking questions?”

“HEY!” Both brothers glare at you and your heart stutters. Angry Winchesters are fucking scary. “My pipe, my weed, my rules. Anyone else behaving like a bitchy titwillow gets to sleep in the snow.”

They both lift empty hands. Then Dean’s eyebrows drop. “’Bitchy titwillow’?”

“Gimme the damn pipe.”

Another round and finally, you can feel the tightness in your body coming loose. Fatigue becomes a pleasant lingering on empty, instead of lead in your muscles and poison in your blood. Sam’s posture is starting to loosen. Paradoxically, he looks even bigger when he’s not being all tense and controlled. Dean’s eyes are coming over red and one of his hands is twitching a little beat on his thigh.

“How’re you guys feeling?” you say.

“Good,” Sam says, his head resting on his folded arms. “Real good, actually.” He sniffles, wipes under his nose with a finger. “Dean’s right, this is good stuff.”

“Blow your nose Sammy,” Dean says. He gropes for the remote control. “Think maybe The Wall’s on?”

“Aw hell naw,” you say. “That’s like, number five of Movies Not To Watch Stoned unless you like dreaming about vagina mantis monsters coming to eat you. Which now that I think about it--” you start giggling.

Sam snort-giggles. Sounds weird coming from him. “He probably does. He watches Japanese cartoon porn.”

“Uck!” you say, setting your pipe on the table. “Like Bible Black and shit like that?”

“Shut up,” Dean tells both of you. Sam giggles and Dean turns red to match his eyes.

Wow. Sam laughs, and Dean blushes. Truly a night for revelations, you think.

Thanks to the heavy snow and the wind whipping it around, the TV reception’s still shit. “We could always make fun of his technique,” Dean says, pausing on a grainy video of some dipshits in orange-splotch hunting gear holding rifles like they think they’re badass.

“Just turn it off,” you say. “Sam would you grab the radio out of the bathroom please?”

“Sure.” More feasting for the eyes, watching Sam uncurl himself to his feet and walk to the bathroom. Down girl, you think to yourself, that ass is way out of bounds.

“Grab us some beers while you’re up,” Dean calls. “I’m thirsty.”

“Nice to meet you Thirsty,” you introduce yourself. You and Dean share a chortle.

Sam fetches the radio and fishes a fresh sixpack out of the fridge. Two cans snap free of their rings. Unconscious as a sneeze, the Winchester brothers tap their beers together and salute the sky.

The radio crackles to life. You fiddle with the dial until you find some acceptable background noise, something Bach you think. “There,” you say. “That’s better.”

“What, you don’t feel like enjoying the peace and quiet?” Dean asks.

“What peace and quiet?” you ask back. “You two,” you motion between the guys, “are purely fuckin noisy. Worse’n my nieces and nephews and they have an excuse-- they’re kids.”

“He’s the one lipping off all the time,” Sam says.

“Oh please, you never met a smartass comeback you didn’t like,” Dean snaps back.

Oh it’s gonna be a loooooong night. “Proving my point,” you say as you repack the bowl, “and doing it elegantly.”

“You’re elegantly,” Dean mumbles, underlining the whole thing. It’d be funny if it weren’t so goddamned irritating.

Mid-growl you get an idea. “Watch this,” you say, pulling a deep lungful. Under Sam and Dean’s focused attention -- and wow they got pretty eyes -- you slowly let the smoke plume up from your lips. You suck air through your nostrils and the smoke disappears up your nose. Party trick your connection taught you. Always a show-stopper.

“Oh yeah?” Dean takes the pipe from you. “Check this out.” He takes a hit, and with a tiny huff blows a perfect smoke ring.

“Okay,” you say, “but can you do this?” You stick out your tongue and curl the sides up.

“Careful, your face could stick that way,” Dean says in perfect solemnity. So perfect it hits the collective funnybone and all three of you start giggling.

“Feels good,” you say as the pipe comes back to you. “Good laugh is better than sex.”

“Oh you poor thing,” Dean laments through fresh snickering. “You poor, poor thing. Laughing is not better than sex.”

“Unlike you,” you say, handing the pipe to Sam who’s watching the conversation with bug-eyed absorption, “I can live without sex. I cannot live without a good belly laugh every now and then.”

Dean takes the pipe from Sam and studies you as he takes a hit. “This is the part where we pretend you weren’t petting the kitty in the shower earlier.”

“EW!” you shriek. “I was not!”

“No, Dean’s right,” Sam says.

Dean blinks. “I’m sorry, can I get that in writing? You thing I’m right about something?”

“Shut the fuck up. I mean,” Sam says, “are we talking about sex as in ‘with another person intercourse’ sex or ‘just an orgasm’ sex?”

You feel yourself turn red. “Shut up Sam.”

Dean’s expression turns thoughtful. “That’s a good point dude. How often do you get yourself off?”

“Shut up Dean!”

“I bet you flick the light switch a lot more often than you laugh.”

“I’m not even gonna answer that!”

“Truth, or Dare,” Sam says, like he’s pronouncing a sentence of life imprisonment.

“Right,” Dean says. “Isn’t it true you come more often than you laugh?”

“Fuck both y’all, I ain’t playin,” you say, shoving the universal communicator in their faces.

“Answer the question or take the dare. Those’re the rules,” Sam says, stern in the eyes and giggly around the lips.

The notion of a dare from these two is fucking terrifying. “Fine,” you growl. “It probably is true, and how fucking sad is that?”

“Very, actually,” Sam says, the smile dropping from his lips.

Oh God, not a morose silence. Morose silences equal pouty stoners. There will be no pouty stoners on your watch. “My turn!” you say, taking the pipe from Dean and taking a hit. Oh that’s better. With the release of tension, blood’s flowing under your skin and you can feel warmth passing through you. All kinds of warmth, you think, studying the breadth of Sam’s shoulders and the sheer size of his hands. Your pipe looks like a toothpick in his fingers. A weird, lumpy toothpick. “Okay,” you say. “Sam.”

Sam breathes crosswise and coughs out a cloud of white smoke. “Me? Why me?”

“Cuz life ain’t fair that’s why,” you say and Dean busts out laughing. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” Sam says without hesitation.

“Okay,” you say. After a moment’s thought, you say, “I dare you, to go stand out in the snow, for one full minute, iiiiiinnnnnn . . .” you draw out because drama, “nothing but your pants.”

“Is that all? Gimme something difficult,” Sam says, getting to his feet and shucking his shirt. “One full minute. Starts when the door opens.”

“Nope,” you say. “Your ass is climbing on top of that snowpile in front of Dean’s car and standing like Christ The Redeemer for sixty Mississippis-- sixty Mississippis,” you repeat, giggling as you stand.

“You’re mean,” Sam says. “And tiny,” he adds, peering down at you as you shove your bare feet into your boots. “You’re a tiny, tiny thing.”

“Means I don’t have to reach to twist your sack off like it’s a lump of pizza dough,” you snarl at him, still giggling.

Outside, snow’s falling in thick clumps. It’s a snow globe scene, very pretty for those into winter wonderlands. You are not one of those, and from the way he’s scowling neither is Sam. “Gimme a hand,” he says, bare feet crunching on the frozen-over bump of plowed snow sitting in front of Dean’s front bumper.

“Yeah, careful,” you say, letting him use your shoulder to brace himself, “careful.”

“Eat me.” Wobbling a bit as he feels for his center of gravity, Sam straightens to his full six-four.

“Okay, arms out,” the muscles in Sam’s bare torso pop and shift as he holds his arms wide. It’s a body to dream on, all right, all long bones and essential muscle. A gust of wind blows some fresh snow off the roof of the cabin to dust his hair. Your voice is husky from more than the weed when you say, “Sixty seconds starts,” you check your watch, “now.”

Cursing you through clenched teeth, Sam holds the pose. He didn’t tie off his sweatpants, they’re hanging low on his hips, showing a flat plane below the navel. An itty-bitty tug is all it would take and there’s the jewels at the end of the treasure trail, and that thought makes you want to knock your head against a wall because fucking tacky.

“Having shrinkage issues Sammy?” Dean yells from the open door. “Bet you’re down to a cocktail weenie and a couple jellybeans.”

“Fuck you Dean,” Sam chatters.

“Almost there,” you say as the second hand ticks. “Four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . done!”

All at once Sam comes over in shivering. You reach to help him climb down but Dean beats you to it, wrapped ankle and all. “You suck,” Sam declares as he ouchie-walks over snowy ground and pads back in the cabin.

“You wish,” you retort. Dean hands Sam a towel and takes his phone back. “Did you get pictures?” you ask him as you plop back in your chair.

“Yeah,” he says, still focused on Sam. “How’re your feet? Any numb spots?”

“For God’s sake I’m fine.” Sam shakes Dean’s concern off and grabs a spare blanket, wrapping himself up as he sits down. “See?” He kicks up a foot the size of a toaster oven. “Still got all my toes.”

“Fine fine fine,” Dean says, looking a little hurt. “Excuse me for giving a fuck.”

“You’re excused,” Sam says curtly. “My turn.”

You spread your hands. “Hit me with your best shot babe, I can take it.”

“Not you.” Sam points at Dean as Dean gets himself settled back on the bed. “Dean.”

“Well bring it dickweed, I can take it. Truth.”

Sam grins and your blood goes cold. That’s not a nice grin. “Isn’t it true you got kicked out of school for screwing the vice principal?”

Like flicking a light switch all the good humor and giggles disappear. “No,” Dean says flatly. “That was the time Dad took me on a job and the spirit we were hunting jumped me. Dad shot me with a salt gun.” Sam’s eyes go wide, and you can feel yours doing the same. “That asshole gym teacher saw me bleeding and called the cops.”

Sam’s at a loss for words, a condition you suspect doesn’t happen often. “I-- I didn’t know, I’m sorry dude, I didn’t--”

“Forget it. My turn.” Saying your name, Dean says, “Truth or Dare?”

Throwing caution to the winds, you say, “Dare.”

“I dare you,” Dean says, grabbing a fresh beer, “to shotgun this beer. We got anything that’ll punch a round hole?”

“Hang on,” Sam digs in a duffel bag and comes up with a Philips head screwdriver.

“That’ll do it,” you say, getting up and putting the can down on the kitchen counter. A hard stab down and you got your borehole. Sucking in some deep breaths, you lean over and put your lips to the hole, lift yourself up straight, and crack the can.

“Go, go, go,” Dean starts and Sam joins, chanting as the foamy liquid slams down your throat, “go! go! go!--" just as the can runs empty so do your lungs. Dregs run down your neck and dampen the front of your tank top as you crush the can and throw it in the trashcan. You hold up your hands and take a bow as your audience applauds and whistles.

“Woah,” you say as you take a step and your knees wobble. “Floor’s got a slope to it.”

“Yeah I know,” Sam says, chuckling. His hand lands on your back and yours lands on his shoulder. “Woah, you okay?”

“Nope,” you inform him cheerfully. “I’m stoned, I’m drunk, and I’m still not fuckin sleepy. Gonna make driving really fuckin fun tomorrow.” Gravity sways to the left a bit and the next thing you know you’re sitting on Sam’s lap. “Ope! Sorry.”

“It okay I gotcha,” Sam says, letting you squirm yourself stable.

“Hey,” Dean says, “you’re giving out lapdances, I wanna turn.”

“Go suck a dead man’s cock, Winchester. Truth or dare?”

“Two turns in a row? That’s not fair!” Dean says.

“Tough shit. Pick or I pick for you shitkitten.”

“Can I just say,” Sam says, turning you to sit slantwise. It’s the most natural thing in the world to drape your arm around his shoulders. “I love your way with words.”

“Why thank you!” you beam at him, pinching his cheek and giving him that mob boss smack.

“Hey!” Dean snaps. “Dare, dare, I take dare.”

Okay, what to dare? You need to be careful. You get the idea Dean’s the type to do anything on a dare. In the background the radio’s playing-- “Oh!” you got it. “I dare you toooooo . . . sing a showtune.”

Dean blinks. “Seriously? Is that all?”

“Yep. Favor us with a song. And ya gotta belt it, like blow the roof off. Broadway is not for pussies.”

Something harsh congeals in Dean’s eyes, something way too sober considering how much drinking and smoking he’s done. He takes a swallow of beer, clears his throat, and starts . . .

A vague memory of dusting furniture with your Mom on Saturday afternoon floats through your brain as a quick anecdote about a Minnesota man and a Mississippi girl trips off Dean’s tongue, light and easy. Then about a guy who bought his wife a ruby with money he didn’t have-- Dean darts a poisonous look your way and Sam stiffens. The overheated air in the cabin goes icy. “Love is just another thing that licked ‘em, and it looks like Sammy’s just another victim,” Dean snaps, and if his glare was poisonous before it’s fucking radioactive now.

“All right that’s enough--” Sam tries to out-chill him.

Dean’s volume climbs until your ears ring. “When you see a guy, reach for stars in the sky, you can bet he’s doin it for some dooooooll. When you spot a John waitin out in the rain, chances are he’s insane as only a John can be for a Jane.”

And on it goes, Dean’s surprisingly sure and steady baritone belting out an ode to stupid things done by stupid men to please the women taking advantage of them. A glance at Sam’s face and you cringe yourself down as small as you can. Speak of mutually assured destruction-- the glares they’re giving each other would reduce lesser men to ash.

“There,” Dean says, holding the final Doll so long his face turns scarlet. “Happy?”

“You got something you wanna say to me Dean?” Sam asks.

“Like you’d listen if I did.” Snapping your name before Sam can get a word in edgewise, Dean says, “Truth or Dare sweetheart?”

“Truth,” you say. That you’ve misread the depths of the unresolved hostility between these two is beyond denying at this point. You need to get this back on funny ground before things deteriorate further.

“Isn’t it true you’ve slept with another woman?”

Oh thank God, here’s something to get everybody distracted. “Sure,” you say, shrugging.

Dean blinks. “Seriously? Just like that?”

“You want me to draw you a diagram or something?” A moment of recall and you say, “She was a friend of my roommate when I got out of high school. I was going through an experimental phase at the time--"

“For science,” Dean notes and you crack up.

“So what conclusions did you draw from your data-gathering?” Sam asks, snickering.

“That I am definitely straight,” you say. “I mean, no regrets or anything and it was nice, but my life didn’t change or anything. What can I say? Cocks are more fun to play with. I mean,” you say, becoming aware all over again how warm you are, how sensitive your skin’s become. Sam’s lap is a nice place to sit. Dean’s eyes on you, those are more than just nice. “I mean-- I mean,” you say, “they hop up and say Howdy if you give’em an itty-bitty tickle in the right spot--” you hold up a hand and wiggle your fingers, like scritching under a cat’s chin, “you know the spot, underside, right near the tip? It’s adorable. Then I give ‘em a teensy little kiss, then maybe an itty-bitty little lick.” You demonstrate on your upper lip. “And balls? Those’re fun too. Pussy ain’t nearly so . . .” you grope for the right word, “interactive. With a dick there’s plenty of feedback to let you know you’re doing it right.”

“Jesus,” Dean swears.

You laugh, low and wicked. “You cannot embarrass me Winchester,” you say as you get up off Sam’s lap. Sam shoves at his crotch, making the boner he’s trying to hide that much more obvious. “Remember it.”

“Oh, while you’re up, grab me some of those bullshit Cheetos,” Sam says.

“I thought you only ate bark’n’rabbit food,” you say. You contemplate the logistics of digging that one specific bag out of the pile of bags, say fuck it and start grabbing handles. When the munchies hit you they tend to hit hard and may the fates forgive anyone who gets between you and the Little Debbies.

“Bad diet when I was a kid. Fucked my metabolism,” Sam says. “Everything goes straight to my gut.”

“What gut?” you ask, shooting a pointed look at Sam’s ripply tummy. It’s a very nice tummy, the abdominals making neat little rounded-off squares and the vee between torso and thigh all nice and clear.

The smile’s gone from Dean’s face again. “You never missed a meal bitch. Shut up.”

“Dean I didn’t mean--"

“Forget it, never mind-- seriously how are you not fucking frying in that thing?” Dean asks as you waddle back with your hands full.

Now that he mentions it, you are way overheated. You put the bags of snacks on the bed next to Dean’s hip and unzip your fleece. Shuck and you stretch to hang it on the coathooks by the door. You take a minute to stretch, lifting your arms high and keeling out your sternum. Your backbone pops and resettles. “Ah. That’s better.”

It doesn’t occur to you that you’re down to a tank top and no bra until you come down from your stretch and see Sam and Dean, staring at you like they want to eat you. “What?”

“Maybe you should put that back on?” Dean asks, and the flirty slant he’d normally put on the words isn’t there. Instead he sounds . . . nervous?

Between the beer and the weed and the heat and the stress, your sense of propriety’s gone with no forwarding address. So is your sense of danger, leaving naught but a little note on her chair saying I TRIED TO WARN YOU DUMBASS. “Oh please. I ain’t pretty, I ain’t rich, and considering you flirt with anything that wears tits, your attention ain’t flattering.” With that sentiment delivered, you plop back in your chair and pull your legs up to sit crisscross. “Gimme that box with the cake rolls.”

“Didn’t know you were a closet cocktease,” Sam mutters.

If you were in arm’s reach you’d slap his jawbone off for that. Instead you snap, “Truth or Dare Sam.”

“Truth,” he says, jaw set and angry dimples denting his cheeks.

“Isn’t it true that you’ve let another man fuck you?” Dean coughs around his mouthful of Funyons and starts choking. Unsympathetic, you clarify, “As in a male-equipped person has put that equipment inside your body.”

“It is not,” Sam says, decisive enough you know it’s the truth and with a tiny guilty glimmer that says he’s leaving something out.

“Were you the one doing the fucking?” you demand.

“Not answering that. This is Truth or Dare not an interrogation,” Sam says.

“Answer the question Sam.”

You and Sam look at Dean. That’s his Command Voice, the one he uses when he’s got a gun in his hand and something’s about to die bloody.

“None of your business, Dean,” Sam says. “Truth or Dare?”

“Truth,” Dean says.

“Have you ever had sex with a guy? Mister Overcompensation I’m So Straight I’m A Ladder--"

“Yes.”

Sam blinks. “What?”

“You want truth?” Dean laughs with no mirth. You wish to God you could rewind time and leave your card box in the car for the night. “The truth, is I lost my ass virginity to the guy who let us live over his garage for a month while Dad was laid up with a busted appendix. Where do you think I got the money for the antibiotics and the groceries? Oh right--“ Dean points a finger at Sam’s shocked face, “you were too busy whining about having to walk a mile through the snow to catch the bus.”

Sam’s face pales even further. “You were--”

“Fifteen. Right. And before you ask, Dad found out and broke the guy’s legs. We had to run when the asshole called the cops.”

“I thought Dad was just skipping out on rent again,” Sam says. “Dean I--"

“Forget it--"

“No,” Sam says, and holy shit he sobered up quick. “No, you don’t get to dump something like that on me, and tell me to forget it.”

“Well shit Sammy, when you spend your entire fucking life blaming me for how much it sucked not having a normal family, yeah, I’m gonna say, ‘Hey, I went hungry for you, I sucked cock for you, I turned bitch for you--'”

“And then you found out I was just a bloodsucking freak and regretted all of it,” Sam says, hard and hateful. “Bet you wish now you’d put a bullet in my head way back when Dad died.” Sam’s voice hitches, he gulps back tears. “Or left me to burn with Jess. Or with Mom.”

All the rage-- hell all the feeling-- wipes out of Dean’s face. “What?!?”

Sam reaches for his phone, shrugging the blanket off his shoulders. “Of course you’d forget leaving me that voicemail when I left to go kill Lilith. Selective memory must be genetic.”

“What, the fuck, are you talking about Sam?”

Sam doesn’t look up as he fingers his phone’s keypad. “I didn’t forget. I’ll remember it until the day I die. But here’s a refresher anyway.”

You revise yourself and wish you hadn’t taken this case at all. Anything to be at least a time zone away, as Dean’s voice plays from Sam’s phone. Cold as absolute zero and hard as granite.

“Listen to me you bloodsucking freak--"

“I’m done trying to save you--"

“There’s no going back.”

Silence hangs. Sam lets it hang for long enough to let the whole thing sink in, then whips his phone at Dean. Dean flinches and the phone lands beside his leg. “So!” he says, bright and brittle and hateful, “now that your memory’s been refreshed--”

“Shut up.” Dean’s eyes aren’t angry, or defensive, or even hurt any more. They’re distant, blinking unfocused like’s he’s working something out. “Just be quiet a second.” A flash of rage crosses his face and his eyes close. “Castiel, this is Dean. We need you here,” he recites off the address of the motel, “cabin number 6. Now.”

“Hello Dean.”

“FUCK!!!” you shriek at the sight of a man wearing a tan overcoat. He just . . . appeared. Wasn’t there, now he is. You snatch your pistol off the windowsill.

Before you can take aim Sam’s there wrenching it out of your hand. “Calm down! Calm down. He’s a friend.” He tosses your pistol at Dean, who plucks it out of the air and ejects the clip. You try to grab for your gun but Sam lassoes you with his arm and pins you to his body. Your heart does a stutter-stop, so hard you feel it deep in your sex. A very . . . vivid mental image of yourself hopping right up onto Sam’s thick dick flashes across your mind’s eye and you stifle a moan. “I said calm down,” he growls.

The man in the overcoat observes all this with an expression of mild interest, like he’s watching the birdies or something. “I can’t stay long, I’m being followed. What is it you need?”

“When you and Zachariah trapped me in that . . . that . . . Liberace dungeon, I called Sam.” Dean leans forward, his eyes hard with that bullshit-me-not glare. “Remember?”

“I was not there. How could I?”

You blink. “Are you a rotten liar.”

“I do not remember and this--”

“Talk, Cas.” That command voice again and the part of your brain that wanted to hop up on Sam’s dick flips to a fantasy of Dean yanking you down on his. You swallow and will your heart to quit pounding. “You were there, and you were listening. Tell Sam what I really said.”

The strangely lifeless man mimes taking a deep breath. He spies Sam’s phone and bends to pick it up, so slow and deliberate you expect to hear his joints creaking. He presses a fingertip to the screen and swipes, even though you can see it’s a flip phone and doesn’t have a touch screen. “This is the message you actually left.”

Dean’s voice, softer, apologetic:

“I’ll get right to it--"

“I shouldn’t have said--”

“No matter how bad it gets--"

The call ends with the last syllable of Sam I’m sorry getting cut off by the message timer.

Cas, you guess, looks around. Sam’s arms loosen further, but they don’t let you go. It’s like he’s using you for balance, like his knees are shaking or something. “If Sam had heard the message as intended, he might have missed the opportunity to kill Lilith. The message was intercepted and a different one was planted using phrases from an argument you’d had some months prior.”

“The first time I caught him with Ruby,” Dean says, and now he looks like he wants to collapse into nothing.

You were wrong, this Cas-creature isn’t lifeless, he’s . . . concentrated, like something atomic burns behind jewel-blue eyes. “The words themselves were not used but I believe Sam was intended to read that you love him. Between the lines.” Yep, Sam’s knees are definitely wobbling. “The lack of direct speech between you unless you’re being deliberately hurtful is concerning.”

“Okay, that’s enough Cas, thank you,” Dean says, making little owie noises as he scuttles to his feet.

“Hey stop you’ll--" You try to intercept Dean to help him walk but your feet get tangled in Sam’s and you plop down together into your chair. Sam just . . . he puts his forehead to your shoulder and weeps. You run your fingers into his silk-soft hair and shush him, the way you used to do with your nephew when he came home with black eyes and split lips.

The Cas-creature’s head snaps around, a look of panic on his face. “I need to go.” You blink and he’s gone with a quiet sound of displaced air.

You shut your eyes and concentrate on Sam. He’s a quiet crier, and an intense one. Big hard hands hold you so tight you can only breathe in sips. You press your fingertips hard against his scalp, so he can feel someone holding him back. Something barbed and ugly’s sat next to his heart a long time, you guess, and forcing it free’s tearing Sam apart inside.

Dean’s voice when he speaks is soft. Almost frightened. “Sam?”

Sam looks up from his hiding place against your neck, face cramped and twisted as he holds back more sobs.

“Isn’t it true, that you were thinking about that . . . that, when you told me you went to Ruby to get away from me?”

“N-n-no fair. I didn’t pick,” Sam says. For a second he looks like he might be calming down, until he shoves his face against your neck again, weeping and rocking like he wants to crawl inside you to hide.

All you can do is rock with him. “Sam?” you ask. “Sam, your brother wants to talk to you.”

“No he doesn’t,” Sam says, clear and flat and inarguable.

“Yes he does.” Visibly steeling himself, Dean lays a hand on Sam’s back. The touch gives Sam no comfort that you can see. “Sammy please,” Dean says. “Please. Answer me.”

Sam doesn’t. Instead he starts a disjointed monologue that makes you want to weep on his behalf. Trapped, restrained, seizing in pain, with the brother he loved more than anybody or anything tearing him down with language so vile it goes beyond mere swear words. Dean goes if possible even paler. He falls to his knees like gravity suddenly tripled.

Sam looks up and straight into Dean’s eyes, hot rage replaced with pure pain and horror. “Why didn’t you just kill me? None of this--"

“Never say that to me again,” Dean commands, and his lips are shaking. “Not ever.” He reaches out and cups Sam’s jaw. “You’re my brother, and I love you, and not a day-- not a fucking minute-- goes by I don’t want to take it back, what I said about us not being family any more. I was . . . fuck it, I was pissed and I was scared and you were leaving me again--”

Plop your ass goes on the floor as Sam shoves you off his lap. Grumbling you rearrange yourself and get to your feet.

What you see makes every scar on your heart from every heartbreak you’ve ever suffered flare up into an ache so profound it makes breathing hard. A couple of the toughest sumbitches to ever walk the Earth, and they’re on their knees clinging to each other and crying their guts out.

You go into the bathroom and close the door to give them some calming down time. And have a weep yourself. A word from a book you read a long time ago crosses your mind; heimthra, the heart’s hard longing for home. You don’t know if it’s a real word but the concept’s sure as fuck valid. You miss . . . fuck, you miss everyone you ever met.

You let your tears run out. A palmful of cold water on your flushed face and you stare at yourself in the mirror. Too sallow, too stressed, and the bleak look in your eyes adds ten years to your actual age. Thoughts of home try to rise and you shove them down with a little flutter of panic. It’s illogical to long for a home that doesn’t exist, you remind yourself.

The guys are calming down, still locked together and no longer weeping. You crack the fridge and ignore the beer.

“Water?” Dean demands.

“This is not a liquor situation, fish lips,” you retort as you bring the bottles. You set them on the table and offer your hands. “Take it from someone with experience, babies--” Sam and Dean damn near yank you off your feet when they each grab a hand and haul themselves upright. You gulp a little when they’re standing; on their own they’re big men, together they eclipse you. “You wanna hydrate right now.”

Sam squints down at you. “Have-have you been crying?” he asked. At your shrug, he cups your cheek in one big hand. “Are you okay?”

“The blues just sneak up on me sometimes,” you say. “It’ll pass.”

“Okay!” Dean snags a bottle off the table and cracks it. Plastic crackles as he sucks water down-- my goodness, how can he make guzzling water look fucking sinful, you wonder as your mood leaps nimbly from the blues to the hots. “From now on, no more chick moments-- ow!” he yelps as you sock him on the bicep.

“I’m not the one who brought,” you clap the back of your wrist to your forehead and toss your head back, “drama, to the Truth or Dare. I would’ve been fine with a little harmless ball-breaking but oh no,” you point, “you two nuts stuck in the same sweaty-ass ballsack had to bring more issues than the motherfucking Dee-troit fucking Free Press to the party.”

Sam and Dean look at each other, and just about fall over laughing. “She’s got a point,” Sam says.

“Fine, fine, fine.” Dean accepts an arm from Sam and help from you as he settles back on the bed and props his sore ankle back up on the pillow. “Do we have any licorice?”

“Uh, no,” you say, reclaiming your chair as Sam sits sidesaddle on the edge of Dean’s bed, “I buy real munchies. Licorice is what grandma gives you because she’s hoarding the chocolates.”

Sam snaps his fingers. “Thank you!”

“Yeah yeah,” Dean’s already digging through the bags, “ah-HA,” he says, digging out some beef jerky, “protein.”

Sam plucks the shrink-wrapped meat ribbon out of Dean’s hand. “Mine.”

“Relax,” you say into Dean’s whiny pout. “There’s more in the bag for growing boys.”

“Growing, right.” Sam reaches over and pokes Dean in the side, making Dean jump. “Wrong direction.”

“I can still outrun, outfight, and outfuck you any day of the week, shrimpy-wimpy,” Dean declares as he fishes out another piece of jerky.

“I believe in quality over quantity,” Sam says. You’re shoving a cake roll in your mouth and damn near inhale the whole thing laughing. Oh that’s better. Without the hard edge of antagonism, it’s just teasing.

There’s still a certain tension in the air, and you keep having to drag your eyes off Sam’s bare chest up to his eyes. “It’s your turn Sam. Unless you want to see what’s up in the world of Ginsu knives or whatever the fuck the infomercials are selling these days.”

“Airbrush makeup,” Dean says.

“Copper-clad-clook-- Clopper-cad-clock--" Sam pauses and punches out the syllables the way you do when you’re stuck on one, “copper-clad cookware.”

Dean laughs. “I forgot you do that! Remember when that secretary wanted to refer you to speech therapy?”

“Screw you. You were the one who taught me to lisp everything. Mrs. Durling thought I was nuts.”

“Anyway,” you call the meeting back to order, “it’s your turn unless you want to drop into informercial hell, or God save us fishing shows.”

“Ugh, no.” Sam thinks a minute. “Okay,” he points at you, “truth or dare?”

“Dare,” you say after a moment’s thought.

“I dare you,” Sam says, considering, “toooo . . . show us that scar.”

“Oh you bitch,” you say. Sam must’ve seen it when you were stretching. Not that you’re shy about it, it’s just . . .

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, “give us a peek, sweetheart.”

“You both suck donkey balls. One each,” you say, standing and lowering the waistband of your pants.

Dean hisses; Sam winces. You’ve lived with it so long it’s just a seam in your skin by now. The location is what makes it a little awkward; a long groove going from near your bellybutton and hooking down into a divot high on one thigh. Showing the whole thing means they can tell you shave down south. “Shittagoddamn, what happened?” Dean asks.

“Stupid shenanigans,” you say. “I was babysitting my cousins and they were playing hunter. I didn’t realize Suzy was using the knife from her daddy’s tackle box instead of her toy pirate sword. It looks worse than it is,” you add at their shocked looks.

“And you thought getting a handlebar ride with a broken arm sucked,” Dean says to Sam.

“It did suck,” Sam says. “You can pull your pants up now.”

“Oh,” you say as you raise your waistband, “right, sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says, giving you a small and deeply filthy smile. “Please do not.”

Dean clears his throat. “Your turn.”

“All right,” you say. “Truth or Dare, Sam.” At his answer, you say, “I dare you to hold still,” and you lean over and give him a kiss.

You let it linger a little, an invitation for him to take or leave. He takes. With a broad tongue and clever lips, making your heart pound and your skin burn.

Dean clears his throat. Five or six times. You’re not counting. You’re too busy revising certain assumptions you had about Sam in light of what he’s been letting slip. Some people’s sex drives fall asleep right along with the rest of them when they get stoned. You’re not one of them, and Sam isn’t either. His hands comes up to cup your jaw, his tongue slips between your lips and tangles with yours.

The kiss ends with a tiny farewell brush of lips. You lick your lips, tasting salt and smoke and Sam. “Goodness me,” you say, out of breath.

Dean’s expression is . . . hard to read. Arousal, sure, he’s got a nice semi going in his pajama bottoms. Lust. Also . . . jealousy? Your eyes drop to Sam’s shoulder. Red marks in the shape of fingers. Big, strong fingers. Someone holding on tight. Would you find matching marks on Dean, underneath his T-shirt? You’d guess so.

“Dean,” Sam says. One of his arms goes around your waist, hand curling around your hip. How the hell did he get so big, were his grandparents giants or something? “Truth or Dare?”

“Truth,” he says. Is he staring at you or at Sam? His eyeline makes it hard to tell. You totally miss whatever it is Sam asks or Dean answers, only that it ends in laughing. If these two weren’t brothers you’d swear they were . . . flirting.

Before the Titans what the fuck have you kicked over here?

Dean snaps your name and you jolt. “Oh! Shit, sorry, stoner-zoned. What?”

“Truth or Dare, dweeb,” he says.

“Dare, shitpile.”

Dean makes a whole-ass production out of thinking it over. His tongue slips out over his lower lip, like he’s chasing a flavor. What? Whose? “Okay. I dare you, toooooo . . .” he shifts his legs apart, “sit right here,” he pats the mattress between his legs, “and hold still.”

“Is that all?” you ask as you plant yourself in the offered space.

“Yep!” Dean says, all bright and cheery.

You explode into giggles as he shoves his hands under your tank top and tickles your ribs. “Get her feet Sammy!” Dean says.

“Oh you bastards,” you wheeze through your giggles. Sam dodges your kicking feet and yanks off your socks. His hands are so big he can hold your ankles shackled together in one and fucking torture you with the other. You buck and writhe and they’re both laughing hard and free and through the weed haze it’s all--

Soft lips cover yours and you squeak into a kiss back, soft and wet. Dean’s kisses are delicious too, salty and sweet, a little acrid with the smoke on his breath. A hand slides up your ribs to cup a breast; you arch into the touch as a bolt of red hot need surges through you.

“I’m-- I’m gonna--” Sam’s shifting away, regret in his eyes and a massive erection in his pants.

You lunge for him and slam your mouth down on his. Sam grunts in surprise before he grabs your head and shoves his tongue down your throat. Dean’s right behind you, kissing up the back of your neck as he explores under your shirt. His hand take the weight of your breast, gentle fingertips close over your nipple.

You angle your head as Dean’s kisses wander up to your face, breaking Sam’s kiss and turning to Dean’s. The two of them blended together make a taste so heady-- who needs weed? You pull back a little, just to savor the taste.

The two of them, their lips meet.

Your heart stops as they pull back, just a little. Looking at each other with . . . it’s so much. Humans weren’t meant to feel so much, dense and tangled like wool that’s felted together.

Sam surges forward and presses his lips to Dean’s. Dean’s eyes pop open and you can see him fighting with himself, heart telling him two different things at once. His hands though, they come up and his fingers slot right into the marks they left behind earlier. Their kiss softens, deepens. Your heart pounds so you feel it in every inch. The heat between them, in this one simple touch-- it’s beautiful. An aura you can almost see, taste like the smoke hanging in the air.

The kiss ends. “Sammy,” Dean says, low and hoarse.

“Shut up,” Sam whispers. “Please Dean, please just shut up.” A brief kiss. “Let me. Please.” Sam ducks and nuzzles Dean’s neck, kissing the beard-shadowed skin as Dean’s head tips to give the skin to him. You want to help, God your hands are aching to touch. You keep yourself back. This is private, intimate. Bearing witness is a privilege.

Sam pulls Dean’s T-shirt off. Dean leans back on his elbows as Sam’s kisses wander down his chest. He chuckles a little as Sam’s hair trails over his flushed skin, sighs deep as Sam’s lips find a nipple. Sam flicks his head to get his hair out of the way and you gulp when you see him working the nub to a point with his lips and teeth.

As Dean’s pants slide off his legs, you swallow at what’s there at the apex. Long and plump, laying on Dean’s stomach, just begging for someone’s hand or mouth. Sam’s going slow but he’s not hesitating. A brush of his lips and Dean hardens to steel.

“Don’t,” Dean says as Sam licks a stripe up the underside.

“It’s okay,” Sam says. “I got you. Always.” He repeats it as he takes the crown into his mouth, suckling it soft and slow. An inch at a time, he takes more. Dean’s gasping, the cords standing out in his neck and all the muscles in his body tight.

You slide over. Dean starts as you squirm behind him, laying him back against your chest. The view is perfect, down Dean’s body to see Sam’s brown hair swaying as he deepthroats his brother’s cock. “You’re beautiful,” you whisper into Dean’s ear as he bites back moans. “You’re so beautiful.”

With a cry like something’s being torn out of him, Dean’s muscles unlock. His hips sway, chasing Sam’s throat. “Let go,” you say, meeting Sam’s eye as he glances up from his work. Dean’s cock, hard and thick, shining with spit and precome, points almost straight up. “It’s okay, Sam’s got you. Let go.” You slide your hand down Dean’s arm and he weaves his fingers with yours, holding on so tight it hurts.

“Oh my God please don’t stop, please don’t, Sammy please, please,” Dean pants, high and desperate. Fingers slide into Sam’s silk-fine hair. “Please, please, fuck.”

Gasping deep, all the way down to his toes, Dean’s body bows. Sam grunts, holding Dean sealed in his mouth. You can see his Adam’s apple bob as he takes what Dean gives. For a long beat Dean’s made of marble, one hand clamped on yours and the other clawed in Sam’s hair. His eyes are screwed shut and he’s not breathing, all his focus inward on the gift his brother’s giving him.

Dean’s body goes loose and he blows out his stale breath. Sam sucks him clean as Dean’s winces from overstimulation. You stroke your free hand into his sweat-spiked hair, kiss his flushed cheek. Dean barely notices, all his focus is on Sam.

Who’s gently taking his mouth away from Dean’s swooning cock. He wipes his lips with the back of one hand. He’s gazing at Dean, all hope and terror, love and need. Waiting for the rip that’ll carve out his heart. “Dean?”

A little weak, a little shaky, Dean sits up. You hold your breath, try to make yourself small. In the quiet inside your mind you urge-- come on Dean, come on.

Dean grabs his brother around the shoulders and pulls him close for a kiss. A tender kiss, no less the fierce for it. “Lie back Sammy,” he whispers, scootching around so Sam can lie prone. Sam’s eyes meet yours, shining and beautiful. You can’t help but steal a kiss.

Dean works Sam’s sweats carefully over and down, revealing another fine specimen of a cock. Nice and fat, perfectly in proportion to the rest of him. You can feel how wet you are, nectar soaking the soft fabric of your pajama pants. You ache to feel that cock inside you, fucking you until you explode into stars. At the same time, you feel content to just observe. The sight of Dean delicately nibbling up Sam’s cock is . . . you’re not watching some pallid pornography, bored actors mechanically replicating the motions. This feels like something sacred, beautiful.

“Hey.” You start out of your musings to see Dean studying you. Sam’s cock is so hard it’s turned dark red, striking next to Dean’s fair skin. “You don’t expect me to handle this monster all by myself do you?”

“Oh! Um . . . you don’t strike me as the sharing type,” you say.

“Wanna see,” Sam says. “Both of you. On my cock. Please.”

“Lose the clothes first,” Dean orders, eyeing you like he wants to fuck you in half as you strip off your tank and pajama pants. “Jesus that weed’s good stuff. I feel like I could go all night and up to lunchtime tomorrow.”

“Promises, promises,” you tease, making Sam laugh. You gesture to his erection. “May I?”

A few minutes of you and Dean taking turns, then working in tandem licking from root to crown, then caressing Sam’s balls-- all of it has Sam moaning and writhing on the sheets. Dean stuffs his first two fingers down his throat, getting them good and wet. “What’re you doing?” Sam asks, high and tight.

Dean looks up from where he’s massaging just behind Sam’s balls. “Nothing you’re not okay with Sammy, okay? Can I? Just fingers. I don’t have any lube.”

“I do. Bag. Side pocket.”

Dean’s eyebrows pop up. “Are you serious? Do you want me to--"

Sam shakes his head. “N-not now. But . . . fingers? Fingers’re okay. Just go slow.”

“Won’t hurt you.” You’re busy getting the little travel bottle of SilkyGlide so you miss whatever Dean tells Sam next, only when you get back on the bed Sam looks even more naked than naked, his broken and stitched up heart in his eyes.

You slide Sam’s cock into your mouth and work him deep as Dean slicks up his fingers. You can tell when he’s inside, as Sam grunts and his belly goes tense under your hand. Dean’s free hand lands on the back of your head, guiding you up and down on Sam’s cock. It’s big and it’s hot. Tears run out of your eyes and drool slides from your mouth.

“Oh-- oh-- keep going keep going-- I’m--"

Dean pulls you off Sam and swallows Sam whole. Sam cries out as his body shudders. Dean chokes and come splats from his mouth onto Sam’s stomach. “Jesus Sammy,” he coughs, “you saving it for a special occasion or something?”

“It’s been a while,” Sam admits.

“I’m gonna go get a washcloth,” you say after a beat of awkward silence. “And some water.”

“Yeah, good call,” Sam agrees. Passing out the wet washcloths, you watch the Winchesters clean themselves up and drink some water. Your neglected arousal twists and pinches deep in your stomach. Oh well, a night of denied pleasure won’t kill you, and what you’ve just seen . . . you’re going to be getting off to these memories until the end of time. These beautiful men lost in their pleasure.

“Hey, come here,” Sam says, holding out a hand. He and Dean are side-by-side, reclined on a pile of pillows. He pats the channel of space between them and you wedge yourself there. Chuckling, Dean turns your head and gives you a soft kiss, Sam salty on his lips. Sam kisses your neck, down your chest, takes your nipple into his mouth. Dean mirrors him and you moan as they latch on and pull.

“Fucking beautiful,” Dean murmurs, your tit in his mouth and your pussy hot against his fingers. “All that just from watching us?” He chuckles at your moaned yes, grunts as you slip your hand around his cock. Sam sighs as your other hand finds his. A few minutes of gentle pulling and they’re both reared up hard in your hands.

“Shit that feels good.” Sam shoves his arm under your leg and you gasp as two long fingers slide between and inside. Dean’s fingertip strokes up your clit, like he’s turning you up inside. “On shit, that feels good.”

“Shh,” you soothe, writhing as they work together to make you insane, “shh, no rush. We have all night, agapimeni mu.”

---

Much later, you lie submerged in a sticky pile of muscle and bone. In his sleep Dean grunts. He shifts until he’s pressed up full length against his brother, chest to back and thigh to thigh. They’re both comely in their own ways. Together they are love in every form. You don’t just feel satiated in your own body. You feel blessed, to have seen them come together and to see them now in the aftermath. This . . . they’re . . . this feels meant. Not right or wrong, just meant.

“Oh-kay, that’s enough.”

Time locks and you step sideways, to Outside. Your mortal disguise stays in its deep sleep. You bring the image along. This one prefers to speak face-to-face, with actual faces the way mortals do. “What are you doing here?” you ask the fellow standing by the heater.

“What am I-- she wants to know what I’m doing here. I know you don’t exactly frown on this sort of thing--"

“Neither do you,” you counter, putting your hands on your hips. “And before you say anything else, you’ve broken the Compact at least twice. They’re fair game.”

“Look, I can respect the attempt, ‘Dite. Really, I can.” Loki ticks his head at the brothers sleeping tangled together, the eros between them so strong you can see the aura, taste it in all its wild beauty. “But there’s no way to sidestep what’s coming. There’s just not.”

You glower. “Why not? They don’t deserve it. We don’t deserve it.”

“Since when is destiny about what anybody deserves? Your kin didn’t deserve to get co-opted by a bunch of aqueduct building bureaucrats with delusions of grandeur, any more than mine deserved to get wiped out by followers of that bum from Judea.” Loki’s usual mortal form is a man of average size, but his eyes are burning with divinity and more. The conflict between Loki’s attitude of malicious whimsy and the power that leaks from him like heat from a forge furnace is one you’ve never totally reconciled. “This is beyond us. The best we can do is find another corner of the universe and pick up the pieces when it’s over.”

“If this unfolds the way destiny’s woven,” you say, voicing your greatest fear, “there won’t be any pieces to pick up, or us to do any picking. This isn’t just another plague or global conflict or continent sinking and you know it.” The fear you’ve been trying to fight leaks through and your image wavers into the one you had when you emerged from the sea, soft and strong and enticing.

“Stop that,” Loki says. “You’re adorable Aphrodite but you’re not seducing your way out of this.”

“I’m not trying to,” you say, and your voice wavers. Truth is, you’re terrified. No one will ever know how scared you were to even approach these men, these Godslayers. “I’m frightened Loki. We thought we could live without the mortals but we were wrong.” Olympus now is a pile of rock, and the great hall of the Olympians isn’t even a memory. So many of your family are gone. Torn away by murder, or simply faded away with despair.

“You had the chance to sign up with the Heavenly brigade along with the rest of us, Aphrodite.”

“Like Annubis? Like Hades?” you spit. “No. We are Gods, Loki, not animals to be put in pens to serve an infantile shred of divine energy who mistakes obedience for duty.” You wave a hand at the vessels, the brothers, bone of bone and blood of blood. “They will be bound in love to bind their hands. They will not be the instruments of this world’s destruction, not whilst I live.”

Loki snatches your wrist.

He isn’t Loki.

---

Gabriel catches Aphrodite’s soft true self and lays her down inside the flesh of her mortal disguise, like a sleeping baby into the cradle. “I’m sorry honey,” he says, because he needs to say it even if she’s not awake to hear it. “When it comes to destiny, all fighting does is make it worse.”

His attention turns to the vessels, laying intertwined. Peaceful. Mary of Nazareth had looked like that, sleeping her innocent sleep as the Holy Spirit used her innocent body. Fear not, for I come with glad tidings that will totally fuck your life. “One more, Gabe,” he says to himself as he takes them in his hands. A moment’s work to cut out memory and paste in a night spent drinking, no different from any other night. That done, he spreads his wings to take them to the place appointed. “One more, then it’s over.”

---

You wake up to snow, snow, and more snow. You slept hard, it’s past noon. Long day yesterday, destroying that stupid tree with no help. “Crap out that hard it’s because you needed the rest,” you say as you groan your way out of bed.

Oh well, the cabin’s paid for another few days. Wouldn’t hurt to take a little R’n’R, spend some time with peace and quiet. You put on some coffee and head to take a shower.

---

Somewhere very far away, Dean Winchester is waking up with a gun in his face.

---

AN2: Greek: Master. Greek: My beloved. The song Dean’s Dared into singing is “Guys and Dolls” from the musical of the same name. Heimthra is, I think, an Anglicized version of the Icelandic word heimþrá, meaning homesickness. The concept used here is taken from 'The Last Light Of The Sun,' by Guy Gavriel Kay, “’Heimthra’ was the word used for longing: for home, for the past, for things to be as they once had been. Even the gods were said to know that yearning, from when the worlds were broken.”

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