FIC: Virgin Sacrifice (1/2)

rushlight75.livejournal.com /172783.html

Rushlight (rushlight75) wrote, 2007-01-07 09:59:00

28-36 minutes

This story is complete, but I had to split it up into two parts because it's too long for one post.

Title: Virgin Sacrifice
Author: Rushlight
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: incest, semi-consensual sex
Summary: Dean and Sam have to reenact an ancient Aztec ritual in order to stop a curse.
Acknowledgements: Many thanks to amothea for a thorough beta-reading and for helping me get over my angst about writing in a new fandom.

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Virgin Sacrifice (1/2)
by, Rushlight

"Shadow demons," Sam said, head bent over the screen of the laptop.

Dean looked up from where he was cleaning his gun at the small table by the window. Sam was sitting cross-legged on the nearer of the motel room's two beds, barefoot in jeans and a T-shirt with his hair still damp from the shower. The early morning sunlight spilling in through the window cast the room in an unforgiving light, illuminating every carpet stain and eye-wateringly ugly color in the bedspreads and walls.

"They're lesser demons," Dean said consideringly. "Not particularly powerful, all things considered."

"Yeah, but they're legion." Sam held down the arrow key with one finger, eyes flickering from side to side as he scanned the text on the screen in front of him. "It fits with the description the museum guard gave us."

Dean leaned back, thinking it over. "He said the shadows seemed to come to life, in broad daylight."

"And he heard what sounded like a thousand voices, all whispering and murmuring together as they moved in to kill the inspector. It fits, Dean."

It did. Sam was pretty awesome at this research stuff, Dean had to admit. "So where does that leave us? What the hell are shadow demons doing in Monmouth County, New Jersey?"

Sam's brow furrowed in concentration. "There are references to shadow demons in just about every major geographic area of the world, throughout different periods in history. Asia, Africa, South America, some parts of Europe... Usually they come up in tandem with references to old magic -- the really dark kind."

"High priests and black magic spells."

"Exactly. In most of the legends I've found, it looks like they're used mainly as attack dogs. Someone gets offended or challenged or wants to conquer the neighboring land, and they call on their pet sorcerer to summon the shadow demons and put the offender in his place."

"By gnawing the flesh off his bones."

"Hey, I didn't create the legend. Black magic generally tends to go in for overkill, you know?"

"Yeah. I know." Dean dragged a hand over his face, breathing out heavily. "Okay. So the two deaths we know of both occurred at the museum. So I'm thinking... what? Cursed artifact?"

"Could be." Sam tapped a finger on his bottom lip thoughtfully. "Maybe there was a new shipment of relics brought in. Something infused with protective charms of some kind, or some kind of warding."

"Maybe an effigy. Items used repeatedly in black magic rituals tend to absorb a lot of dark energy. The priest who cast the spell could have died a thousand years ago, and it wouldn't make a bit of difference. Once an object gets dark like that, it stays dark until someone breaks the curse."

"Right. So what we need to do is find out what new exhibits have been added to the museum recently."

Dean nodded, picking up his gun from the table. "What we need to do is find out what that inspector was inspecting when he died."

* * * *

"South America?" Sam said, jotting down notes in the notebook he held. "What region?"

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Their tour guide was twenty-something and scarily smart-looking, with long brown hair and eyes that looked sensuous even behind the round lenses of her glasses. Not his type but cute, in a virginal kind of way. She was a masters student at the local university, going after a degree in anthropology. What the hell kind of girl wanted to study dead people for her life's work, anyway?

Not two minutes after their tour had ended, and already Sam had learned that a new shipment of artifacts had been brought in this past week from a dig in South America. Minnie -- their guide's name was Minnie, honest to god -- was only too happy to open up to him and tell him everything he wanted to know once he flashed a smile and fluttered those baby blues at her.

"Venezuela," Minnie told him, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "There's a new dig outside Palo de Agua in Cojedes. We're not supposed to say much about it until the exhibit opens in the fall; right now they're bringing in some larger pieces and trying to work out the funding details."

"New dig," Sam echoed, nodding thoughtfully as he jotted this new information down. "That's really fascinating. What kind of site was it? Some kind of residential structure? Meeting place? Religious temple?"

"It was a temple of some kind, I think. I'm not too clear on the details." She leaned in and brushed elbows with him just a little too smoothly for it to be accidental. Maybe this was how geeks flirted, Dean guessed? "What kind of a paper did you say you were writing again?"

"It's, uh, for a history of ancient civilizations class." Sam glanced at Dean, his mouth pinching down in a frown. He always did hate lying. "And it's for half our grade this semester, so really, any help you can give us would really be appreciated."

"No problem." The smile she gave him was sincere. "Anything I can do to help out. It's not every day I meet a man who's interested in ancient civilizations."

Dean raised his eyebrows and jerked his head minutely, urging him to get on with it. Sam's eyes narrowed at him, but he turned back to Minnie dutifully. "You know," he said, glancing up and giving her a smile, "I'd really love to take a look at those artifacts."

It was amazing, Dean thought with reluctant admiration. You could actually see the girl melt under the wattage of that stare.

"Uh, sure." She composed herself with a visible effort, her smile deepening. Dean figured Sam could have asked for the keys to the place and she wouldn't have turned him down. "Follow me."

* * * *

"So," Sam said, collapsing into the chair in their motel room. "What do you think?"

"I think there was some serious fucking dark energy in that room, Sam." Dean paced across the room, too fidgety to stand still. Something was tickling at the back of his mind, some kind of memory, and he couldn't put his finger on it.

"Yeah. Did you get a look at that altar?"

"Yeah." Dean came to a stop in front of the window and stared out at the parking lot. The sun was starting to drop lower in the sky, its slanting rays turning dull and brassy.

"Aztec. Late 12th century." Sam was reading from his notebook now. "I didn't recognize all of the symbols engraved on it."

"There was something generic about warding and entrapments of power, but the rest of it... That's one seriously complicated spell."

The altar was what the funding sponsors' inspector had been examining when he died. It was made of stone, approximately four feet tall and six feet long. For all its mass, it was portable, with long poles sticking out of either end where slaves presumably could carry it on their shoulders. It was Minnie's assertion that it was most likely some kind of sacred relic the Aztecs had carried with them into battle.

Sam nodded. "If it's a spell, it can be broken." His voice was determined. He was already powering up the laptop. "All we have to do is figure out how."

Dean stared out the window for a minute longer before going to his duffel bag and rooting around inside for Dad's journal. He went to sit down in the chair across from Sam, tossing the book down on the table in front of him.

Sam looked up from the computer screen. "You got something."

"I don't know. Maybe." Dean opened the journal and began to flip through it, scanning the pages with increasing anxiety. He had a really bad feeling about this.

"Well, what is it? Don't keep me in suspense here."

Dean shrugged uncomfortably. "There was this thing Dad and I worked on a couple of years ago. Some kind of cursed Aztec medallion. Anyway, while we were researching the runes to counteract the spell, he compiled a list of other Aztec religious symbology, just in case we'd ever need it in the future."

"That's Dad, always thinking." Sam's tone was dry. He pushed the laptop aside and leaned forward so he could get a better look at the journal. "You recognized one of the symbols, didn't you?"

"Maybe."

There. Dean pulled a folded piece of paper out from between two pages near the back of the book and smoothed it open on the table between them. Dad's sharp, slanted handwriting stared back at him, the stark black lines of the symbols he'd drawn standing out in sharp relief against the faded whiteness of the paper.

"There's one." Sam stabbed a finger at the page, leaning down closer to get a better look. "Some kind of sex magic?"

"Looks like it." Dean's mouth was dry.

Sam nodded consideringly. "Sex magic was very big back in those days. Very powerful. A lot of really nasty spells came out of it." He glanced down at his notebook, then back at the journal page. "What's this one mean?" He tapped at another symbol and twisted his head to one side, trying to read Dad's handwriting upside down.

Dean drew in a slow breath, his fingers curling on top of the table. "Brothers."

Sam blinked at him. "What?"

"Siblings, to be precise, but the additional marking to the right of it on the altar specified the male gender." Dean was surprised his voice was as calm as it was.

Sam glanced down at the notes he'd taken and nodded slowly. "Okay, I see it. So what are we talking about here? Incest?"

"Looks like it. Incest, homosexuality... those high priests must have been pervy old bastards."

Silence spread through the room as the sun sank lower in the sky outside the window. Dean didn't look up from the journal.

"Dean..." Sam said at last.

"What?"

"You know that one sure way to break a curse like this is to reenact the original binding ritual."

The corner of Dean's mouth curled upward, without humor. He couldn't believe Sam was even thinking of this. "Are you suggesting we start asking around New Jersey for a pair of brothers who want to have kinky naked sex together on an Aztec altar? I figure a search like that should take maybe three, four minutes before we get arrested for licentious propositioning."

"Dean."

"What the fuck do you want me to say, Sam?" He threw his hands up in the air, beyond frustrated. "I really don't know what you want me to do here."

"I'm not saying--"

"'Cause I gotta tell you, you're cute but you ain't that cute. All right?"

Sam's mouth pinched together in a thin line, his eyes closing off. He was pissed off now. "I'm not saying we should... god, Dean. What's wrong with you? I'm not the one who carved the symbols on the damn altar."

Dean drew in a deep breath and calmed himself with an effort. Sam was right. "I know. I know. This whole thing just kind of weirds me out, okay?"

The tension in Sam's face relaxed at that. "Yeah, it is weird. But we don't even know for sure what the ritual was. We have to do some research, piece together the rest of the symbols..."

Research. Yes. That was familiar, comforting. He could do this. Moving right along, nothing to see here. "Sounds like we need to hit the library. Maybe at the university; there's got to be some kind of Aztec linguistics text there."

"Right. They should still be open." Sam was looking at him consideringly. "You sure you're all right?

"I'm fine." He shoved the paper with the symbols back into the journal and closed it abruptly. "Let's go."

* * * *

Dean stood with his back against the side of the building, hands in the pockets of his jacket, and stared up at the darkening night sky. A cool breeze drifted in from the trees at the edge of the parking lot, slithering across the back of his neck. He shivered slightly, though not from the cold.

The door to the motel room opened beside him. "Dean? You've been standing out here for almost an hour."

Dean didn't say anything. What, honestly, could he possibly say?

The door closed, and there was a soft crunching of gravel as Sam came to stand at his side. "Dean. Talk to me."

"I'm not sure what you want me to say, Sam."

"I don't know. Anything?" Silence. "Those shadow demons are going to kill again, you know."

"Yeah." He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "I know."

Their afternoon at the library hadn't done anything to put his mind at ease. It turned out there was only one way they could find to break the curse -- to reenact the original binding ritual. Two male siblings related by blood would have to have sex on top of the altar; and not just sex, but actual goddamn intercourse.

He'd been right. Those high priests were pervy old bastards.

"We could always take a sledgehammer to the damn thing," he said, his jaw tightening.

"You'd never get within ten feet of it with a weapon like that, and you know it. Those creatures are murdering anyone who messes with the thing."

Violence begets violence. It was a common theme in Aztec magic. And Dean was willing to bet that the Aztec priests had made damn sure no one would ever be able to harm their sacred relic. The shadow demons would see to that.

After some more in-depth research, they'd learned that there had actually been four deaths connected to the thing so far. The truck driver who'd delivered the altar to the museum, the inspector, and -- this was the part that clinched it -- the two archaeologists in South America who had discovered the temple. Dean had had to use his NCIC connection to figure that one out; word hadn't made it back to the museum yet, but it was only a matter of time before it did. And then, grisly or not, it would be worked somehow into the exhibit's advertising campaign. Who could resist a "cursed" Aztec artifact, after all?

"There are going to be hundreds of people crowded around that altar every day," Sam continued, his voice soft. "Those shadow demons are going to be pissed, Dean. And you know as well as I do that once these kinds of creatures get a taste for blood, it's hard to rein them in. Without a high priest here to cast the proper containment charms on them..."

He trailed off, leaving the thought unspoken, but Dean could picture the end result of that scenario very well. The creatures were bound to the altar now, protecting it as they'd been charged to do, but how long was that going to last? How long was it going to be before they started turning their attention to anyone who was in the same building as the altar? The same neighborhood? The same city?

"They'll get stronger with every life they take." Sam's voice was roughening around the edges. "They're going to keep hunting, and killing, until maybe one day no one will be able to stop them."

Dean closed his eyes. "You think we should do this."

A pause. "I think we have to."

The quiet words slid like a knife in between Dean's ribs, cold and bitter-sharp. He kept his eyes closed, not daring to breathe, and refused to think about anything at all.

"You realize what this means, don't you?" he said hoarsely.

A ragged breath. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

He chewed hard on the inside of his cheek, tasting blood. The situation might have been funny if his brain hadn't been completely fucked into submission by the thought of what they were considering doing. "This is fucked up, Sammy."

"You're telling me?"

There was a faint wobble in Sam's voice that, perversely, made the situation seem not quite so overwhelming. Because up until now he'd been logical, been practical, stating the reasons why they had to do this in clear one-two-three bullet points, and here was the proof that he was as freaked out by this as Dean was. Sam was scared.

And Sam scared was impetus enough for Dean to turn his attention away from his own panic and focus on being the big brother again. He opened his eyes and looked up at his brother, seeing eyes that were as haunted as his own staring back at him.

"It's gonna be okay, Sammy. I promise."

The corner of Sam's mouth lifted slightly. "I've told you before, Dean. It's Sam."

Sam. Right. Dean cleared his throat and pushed away from the side of the building. "I'm still not convinced this is the only thing that will break the curse. What was that you said about containment charms?"

Sam shook his head. "Aztec containment spells always involved some kind of human sacrifice."

And it would only be temporary anyway. Damn it.

"We need to stop these things cold, Dean. Before they kill anyone else."

"Yeah." Dean looked up at the sky once more before turning to go inside. "I know."

* * * *

Standing outside the back window of the museum, waiting for Sam to wriggle in through the narrow opening ahead of him, Dean couldn't believe they were actually doing this. It had the false, glassy atmosphere of a dream, right before it turns into a nightmare. Which was weird, because he'd fought all kinds of creatures and spirits and supernatural nasties over the years, and it hadn't shaken him. This was just another job, after all.

Which was absolute bullshit, and he knew it. There was nothing routine about any of this. He grunted as he levered himself inside the window after Sam, flicking on his flashlight and shielding the lens with one hand to make the beam as small as possible.

He glanced at Sam, holding his gaze briefly. Sam's eyes were the ones to slide away first, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

Sam was frightened. That knowledge filled Dean with a rage that made him want to go out and kill something. Sam was putting on a stoic face about the whole thing, acting like it was just another hunt, just another banishing, but Dean could tell he was scared. Dean would have done anything to take this burden away from him.

Knowing what they had to do, Dean would have offered to be the one on the bottom, as it were -- he'd do anything for Sammy, this included -- but the cleansing ritual specifically stated that the elder sibling had to be the one on top. Which was absolute bullshit, but according to the engravings on the altar, that was how the original spell had been cast. The thought made him lightheaded. He wondered fleetingly if the brothers who had helped the priests cast the original spell had done it willingly, or if they'd been coerced.

"This way," Sam said, whispering. Dean nodded and followed him.

It was beyond creepy, walking through the museum after it had closed for the night. The halls were huge and dark, the archways toothed by barred metal doors that hadn't been there when the museum was open to the public. The skin at the back of Dean's neck prickled. He looked around anxiously as he walked beside Sam, feeling the sheer empty loneliness of the place press in on him.

"What about the guard?" Sam asked, keeping his voice low.

Dean smirked, trying to inject some kind of normalcy into the situation. "While you were schmoozing Minnie during the tour earlier, I learned that there is but one night guard. He's about eighty years old, and he spends each night camped out at the front desk reading Playboy magazines."

Sam grinned, thankfully looking -- for the moment -- as if he'd forgotten why they'd come here. "We'd still better keep quiet, though." His face closed off again abruptly, and he turned away.

Damn Sam for trying to be so brave about this, anyway. Dean clenched his fist at his side and followed him.

They were nearing the storage room now where Minnie had shown them the new Venezuelan exhibits. Dean slowed, glancing at the walls warily. The shadow demons shouldn't manifest unless they felt the altar was in some kind of danger, but there was a sense of menace infusing the shadows in this corridor that kept his nerves on edge. He hoped it was just his imagination.

Still, he reached for the flare hanging from his belt with his free hand and closed his fingers around it, pulling it up into a ready position. There wasn't anything they could do that would hurt the damn demons, but if nothing else, shadow demons didn't like light. It wouldn't hurt them, wouldn't do more than startle them for a few seconds, but a few seconds might be all they'd need.

Sam was standing in front of the storage room door now. He glanced over his shoulder, refusing to meet Dean's eyes -- and that was just one of a million reasons why this job was so very wrong. Sam shouldn't be afraid to look at him, damn it.

Sam rested a hand lightly on the door knob, the other hand holding his own flare. "Ready?" he asked.

Dean nodded tersely, stepping up beside him. The door was locked; Minnie had had a key to get them in, but fortunately he and Sam didn't have need of one. He could hear the low huff of breath Sam let out when he juggled his flare under his arm and went after the lock with a set of slim metal picks. The years of college life didn't seem to have dulled his breaking and entering skills any; in less than a minute, he had the door open.

Dean held his breath and shone the thin beam of the flashlight inside.

Most of the artifacts were draped in dustcloth, just as they'd been that morning. The altar alone stood uncovered, tucked away in a large open space at the far end of the room. It was a large, blocky thing, rough hewn from solid granite with veins of volcanic rock running through it. Even from this distance, he could see the etchings that covered its surface.

The air seemed colder in this room, but that might have just been Dean's imagination. He gave the shadows to either side a cursory swipe with the flashlight as he stepped inside and saw nothing but angular shapes and dust. The room was so quiet he could hear himself breathing.

"Well," Sam said, his voice little more than a whisper. "Let's get on with it, shall we?" The words were strained. He didn't look at Dean as he stepped forward toward the altar.

Skin crawling, Dean hurried to follow him. He had a bad feeling about this. A really, really bad feeling about this. And not just about the obvious. There was something wrong here. Earlier, when they'd come here with Minnie, they'd been careful not to touch the altar, not to approach it closer than they had to in order to copy down the runes in Sam's notebook. Shadow demons wouldn't be as active in the daylight, but here, at night, with the two of them drawing closer to the thing...

"Sam," he said hoarsely, lifting the flare in his hand.

One of the shadows detached itself from the wall and seemed to melt through the air toward Sam, twisting into a shape that Dean couldn't see the edges of. Heart pounding, Dean moved his fingers away from the lens of the flashlight to let its full light spear into the room, and the shadow backed off with a low hissing sound.

The rest of the shadows around them were moving.

"Move!" Dean ordered sharply, igniting his flare with a sharp flick of his wrist. Red light sprang to hissing life around him, making him squint. The temperature in the room seemed to drop about twenty degrees, and something sharp like needled teeth sank into the flesh at the back of his leg.

Sam's face was pale in the uneven light, his own lit flare making a broad sweep around him as he launched himself for the altar. Dean followed fast on his heels, cursing out loud when another invisible bite lanced through the back of one wrist. He waved the light of the flare over top of it, and the pain vanished abruptly. Blood was smeared dark against the skin there.

His breathing was fast and short as he scrambled up onto the altar's flat surface, banging his shins in the process. Wincing in discomfort, he struggled up onto his knees and whirled around, holding the flare out in front of him.

"Shit," Sam said, all motion and mass and harsh breath beside him. He was panting, a thin edge of panic rising in his voice.

This had been a stupid idea from the start, goddammit. There were too many of them to fight -- dozens of them, hundreds, maybe more than that -- and the flares he'd brought weren't going to do jack shit to save them. He could see them now, hovering there at the edge of the light. Indistinguishable from the shadows around them, formless, faceless, with a suggestion of eyes glinting dark in the light. The soft sweep of a black cowl, there and then gone, but mostly they were just darkness, whole and complete, so dark they seemed to suck the light out of the entire world.

Pain like sharp teeth sinking into his skin stabbed into Dean from a half dozen places now as the bravest of the demons moved forward to feed. It was a minor pain now, trivial, but growing steadily worse as the demons got bolder. He thought about the previous victims and blanched, not at the thought of his own death but at the thought of Sammy's. They were going to die here.

He was just considering the wisdom of lighting the rest of their meager stash of flares and making a break for the exit when Sam cupped a hand around the back of his neck and kissed him.

Shock slammed into him at the suddenness of it, so that it took a moment to realize the invisible teeth latched onto his flesh were retreating. A low murmuring of voices started up around them, too soft to make out the words, making the hairs stand up along the back of his neck. Slowly, it occurred to him that he was no longer being eaten alive.

Sam pulled back after a moment, his eyes wide and shocking in the light of the flares. There was a smudge of blood on his cheek, but no other wounds that Dean could see. The hand on the back of Dean's neck was shaking.

"They know," Sam whispered. "They know we're brothers."

Dean shuddered at the words, at the feel of Sam's thumb tracing a soothing stripe over the side of his neck, breath panting out light and quick over the skin of his face. Everything about this was wrong, making his breath catch painfully in his chest.

Around them, the demons were silent now, watching. Sam waited a moment, his expression solemn, and then leaned in to kiss him again. It was a slow brush of lips, warm pressure and soft breath, more tentative than any kiss Dean could ever remember getting before. Chaste and questioning, offering permission and apology both.

Slowly, Dean shifted his weight on his knees and leaned into it, making the conscious change from being kissed into actual kissing. He felt dizzy with the knowledge that this was Sam -- Sam -- and that they were here, now. Doing this. The realization just about knocked him cold.

But this wasn't about him. He pulled back to look into Sam's eyes, needing that connection, and didn't know whether to laugh or cry when he saw Sam smile.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam said, even though it wasn't.

It was enough for Dean to collect himself and turn his attention to the business at hand. Lowering his gaze, he shrugged out of the backpack he was wearing and pulled out the blankets he'd packed inside. He'd be damned if he was going to screw his brother on cold, hard stone without some kind of padding for him. Sam scooted off to one side while Dean mechanically laid the blankets down, then slid forward again, kneeling in front of him and waiting.

The shadow demons were starting to murmur again, a slow ululation of whispers that reminded Dean of rustling leaves. He breathed in harshly, clenching his fists on his thighs.

"Dean," Sam said, hoarsely, and Dean jerked as if he'd been slapped.

"Yeah," he whispered.

Sam's eyes were wide in the flarelight, anxiety flickering in their depths as the reality of what they were about to do settled over him. It broke Dean's heart to see it -- that fear -- and he felt a startlingly fierce lance of hatred for these creatures tear through him, for what they were forcing him to do. But he swallowed his own fear and turmoil because he had to be strong for Sam, always.

He urged Sam with subtle pressure on his shoulders to lie back against the blankets, and Sam did, trusting him as he always did, in everything. Dean could feel the steady vibration of Sam's shivers passing up through his hands, echoing his own. He hesitated a moment before stretching out beside him.

He went slow, trying to calm them both. Despite everything, he could feel a curl of arousal licking deep inside his belly as he leaned down to touch his mouth to Sam's. It made him feel vaguely nauseated, taking advantage of Sam this way, but he told himself it was nothing to be ashamed of. He'd react the same way if there were any warm, semi-willing body beneath him, and the fact that it was his brother made no difference to his libido. Besides, he understood how necessary it was, just like Sam did. That they both be aroused, involved, as this farce played itself out. It was their mutual arousal that was holding the shadow demons at bay.

Closing his eyes, Dean sat back on his heels and pulled his jacket off, laying it carefully on the stone beside him. Then he reached up to slide his shirt off over his head. The ritual, of course, demanded that they both be naked.

Stupid pervy-ass Aztec priests.

Beneath him, Sam shifted and shimmied out of his own T-shirt, tossing it onto the floor beside the altar. Dean tried not to look at him, but he couldn't help himself. Sam's body was trim and muscular, not slender like Dean was but lean. In the flarelight, it looked like he was painted in blood.

"Sam." He waited until Sam looked at him before continuing. "Have you ever done this before? I mean, not with me, obviously. But the rest of it." Seeing the reflexive tightening of Sam's mouth, the familiar stubbornness building in his eyes, he insisted, "I have to know, Sam."

It was the closest he would ever come to outright begging. Sam hesitated a moment longer, then shrugged. "I'm not a virgin, if that's what you mean."

Was he being deliberately stupid? "With guys? That's what I'm asking, Sam. Have you ever done this with a guy before?"

For a moment it seemed like Sam wasn't going to answer him, but then he let out his breath in a ragged sigh. "No." The admission sent a spear of guilt slamming into Dean's chest. Not that there'd been any signs, but he'd been hoping he wasn't going to be the one to take Sam's virginity in this way. "What about you?"

Dean hesitated, wondering how much he should reveal. Seeing the sudden annoyance spark in Sam's eyes, he abruptly decided that his brother deserved nothing less than the honest truth tonight, no matter what the cost of it was. "Yeah, I might have done this a couple times before. A few times."

He waited for the expected flash of uncertainty to cross Sam's eyes, but Sam only looked relieved, the set of his shoulders loosening. Dean realized that Sam trusted him, that the fact that Dean was experienced meant this might not hurt as much as he'd probably been expecting.

Part 2

rushlight75.livejournal.com /173014.html

FIC: Virgin Sacrifice (2/2)

Rushlight (rushlight75) wrote, 2007-01-07 10:00:00

34-43 minutes

This story is complete, but I had to split it up into two parts because it's too long for one post.

-----------------------------

Virgin Sacrifice (2/2)
by, Rushlight

Part 1

The shadows around them were getting restless, their low whispering taking on an agitated edge that rasped along Dean's nerves. Swallowing hard, he touched a palm to Sam's hip and nudged him, urging him to turn over. He knew from experience that this would be less painful with Sam lying on his stomach.

"Dean..." Sam set his jaw and refused to turn, looking up at him with pleading eyes. And okay, if Sam wanted to be fucked by his brother while lying on his back, seeing full well who was doing it to him, then by god that's what Dean would do. As much as Dean's hands sweated and his body chilled at the thought, it was what Sammy wanted that mattered tonight.

He stretched out on his side again, his heart pounding, and tentatively leaned down to touch their foreheads together. They lay like that for a long minute, just touching and breathing, and then Sam's eyes fluttered closed as he tipped his face up toward Dean's, parting his lips as Dean's mouth closed over his.

Dean clenched a hand in the blanket beside them as they kissed, slow and easy, trying to shake off the disturbing impression that he was ransacking a church. Sam seemed fragile now without the cloth of their shirts between them, more vulnerable, and oh god, skin. Sam's chest felt fever-hot where it pressed against him, the rapid thudding of his heart echoing through Dean's ribs.

"It's okay," he breathed, brushing light kisses over Sam's jaw, "if it feels good. It's supposed to feel good. It doesn't matter if... if it's me." Which was a pretty stupid fucking thing to say, now that he thought about it. Of course it mattered that it was him.

Sam's eyes were so wide, filled with emotions Dean couldn't read, and Dean refused to look at his face now, because doing that would break him. Another pause, and then he slid his hand down Sam's side to brush his fingers across the button of his jeans.

The murmuring of the shadow demons rose in volume abruptly, then settled down into its previous frenzied whisper. Sam bit into his lower lip briefly before setting his jaw and reaching down to yank his fly open, nudging Dean's hand out of the way. Dean jerked his hand back as if it'd been slapped and turned his attention to shedding the rest of his own clothes. The room had been cold earlier, but he felt hot now, feverish, like he was burning up from the inside out.

Seeing Sam naked was nothing new to him. They were brothers, after all, and they'd spent their childhood growing up in a variety of motel rooms that didn't offer a lot in the way of privacy. But this -- seeing Sam naked and lying on top of a cursed altar, waiting for Dean to do things to him -- was so beyond Dean's experience that he didn't even know where to start dealing with it.

There was lube in his jacket pocket (he'd come prepared, of course, like a fucking boy scout). Keeping his gaze down, he reached for the tube with a shaking hand and popped the cap with his thumb. Sam twitched at that, his eyes pinching shut, and Dean froze, feeling once again that he was defiling something sacred. After a moment's hesitation, he leaned down to kiss Sam on the mouth, dipping in lightly with his tongue.

"Don't be afraid," he whispered, and yeah, this was something he knew how to do. A touch here, a caress there, light scrape of teeth along the collarbone, testing to see which touches made Sam's body tense the hardest, made him squirm and twitch and sigh in ways that made it near impossible for Dean to think straight.

He squeezed some lube onto his fingers and reached down between Sam's legs, the constriction in his chest easing slightly when Sam's thighs parted for him. Dean's heart was thundering now; it shouldn't be as hot as this, feeling Sam's body move beneath him, seeing Sam's legs open for him, and god, what the hell was wrong with him?

He couldn't meet Sam's eyes when he slid the first finger inside, and Sam clenched up around him. "You've got to relax," he instructed, his voice breaking, and Sam made an obvious effort to do just that, trusting him even in this.

He prepared Sam slowly, using just the one finger, while Sam's eyes fluttered closed and his breath hitched and his hips began to move in a slow rise and fall that matched the achingly careful strokes of Dean's finger into his ass. Dean whispered to him again to relax, to just accept it, not knowing if it was making things better or worse for him to keep talking like this, if maybe Sam wouldn't prefer to have this happen in silence, and pretend it was someone else doing this to him.

There was a tight line between Sam's tightly closed eyelids that cut into Dean's heart because he didn't know if it meant Sam was in pain or what. "Sam," he said in a whisper, his voice shaking, "talk to me. Tell me if I'm hurting you."

Sam bit hard into his lower lip before peeling open his eyes and looking up at Dean with a dazed expression. "Doesn't hurt," he whispered, his voice dry. "Keep going."

Dean didn't know whether to believe him or not, but he kept going. Two fingers now, and damn, Sam was tight in there. This was a familiar rhythm for him, even though it'd been over a year since he'd done this. He was so hard it hurt now, his cock apparently unable or unwilling to tell the difference between his brother and any other warm, naked body. Three fingers, and that was obviously uncomfortable for Sam but he just closed his eyes and rode it out, nodding jerkily when Dean whispered again that everything was going to be okay.

Dean was sweating now, and aching, and he wished he'd taken off the amulet hanging around his neck because it was starting to itch him, right where the knot sat at the back of his neck. He blinked the burning out of his eyes that had to be sweat (couldn't be anything else, couldn't possibly) and took comfort from the fact that Sam was hard too, dammit. So it couldn't be all bad for him.

Finally Dean reached the point where he couldn't take anymore, and he reluctantly pulled his fingers out of Sam's body. Reluctantly because he knew what had to happen next, and Sam seemed to know it, too, because he made a small sound in the back of his throat when Dean's hands left him. His eyes were closed again.

Dean shushed him gently, his whole body vibrating like he'd stuck his thumb in a light socket. He felt charged, he felt fucking wired, like he wanted to leap off this rock and start shooting at anything that looked even vaguely like one of those shadow bastards, screaming at the top of his lungs until they tore him down. He held himself still for a moment, trembling, his eyes squeezed shut, fighting the urge to go down in a blaze of fucking glory rather than turn into this, his brother's rapist. He couldn't do this. He'd thought he could but he couldn't.

The feel of a hand on his thigh made him open his eyes again with a low gasp. Sam was looking up at him, his eyes large and liquid in the lamplight, his expression so impossibly tender it made Dean's chest cramp even more than it already was. Neither one of them said a word, but slowly, the panic in Dean's chest unfurled. He saw what he needed to see, there in his brother's eyes -- forgiveness, and permission, and love.

Love. It was odd, feeling this much emotional connection to someone he was having sex with. Sex had always been about bodies to him, warm mouths and tight asses and slick pussies, frenzied gropes grabbed in the dark. Maybe that was what was shaking him, making him lose his resolve. Because this wasn't about sex anymore -- at least not any kind of sex he'd ever known. It was more than bodies. This was Sam lying underneath him, waiting for his touch. Sam the dweeb, Sam the dork, Sam the kid brother always fighting against the obvious and making life so much more difficult than it had to be. Sam who stood with him against the darkness and fought with him, struggled with him, who hurt when he hurt and went against every fucking odd to save him, over and over again. His partner and confessor and confidant and savior, every day of their lives.

He leaned down to kiss Sam again, slow and deep, and went on instinct as he hooked his elbows under Sam's knees. He felt Sam tense at that, but he smoothed a hand over Sam's belly, calming him, and Sam let out a deep, shuddering breath and just let it happen. Dean squashed the feverish whisper of accusation singing through his mind and moved into position, still kissing Sam with light whisper-licks across his mouth, keeping them both on edge, feeding the fire he'd stoked in them both. Around them, a deep, near-subliminal hum was starting up from the shadow demons, so low and dark it was more vibration than sound, trembling deep in his bones. He ignored that, too, tuning out their audience, forcing himself to forget everything but Sam.

It hurt when he first pushed inside -- he knew it did, could tell from the way Sam's eyes pinched tighter shut, a low hiss escaping from between his teeth. Dean felt clammy now, numb, and he froze, his heart thundering. He crumpled down to rest his forehead on Sam's and breathed out heavily, feeling ill. He didn't want to hurt Sammy -- would rather tear out his own heart than hurt Sammy -- but he couldn't stop now or else the spell they were building would be broken.

He could feel a cold breath on the back of his neck, a suggestion of icy lips pressing against one of his vertebrae -- the demons were around them, and they were hungry. Worked up as they were now, they might not be content merely to kill them if the spell were broken. The other deaths connected to this altar hadn't been clean by any means, and Dean knew -- the way he knew his own name -- that if they stopped now his and Sam's death would be a thing of nightmares, even compared to the other deaths he'd seen in his lifetime. And it was that thought -- of Sammy naked and bleeding and dying and screaming for Dean to help him, god help him, that made him reach for Sam's cock and stroke it slowly, determinedly back to full erection.

Sam sighed against his lips and relaxed in stages, the skin between his eyes smoothing. Dean slid in just a little bit more, and Sam gasped, but it sounded more like surprise than pain.

"That's it, Sammy," Dean whispered, unable to help himself. "Just breathe for me." And whatever was going on in Sam's head, it worked, because the words acted like a talisman, easing the knot of tension between them. Sam pulled in a slow, shuddering breath and opened his eyes to look up at Dean's face from just inches away, his lips parting.

Dean was trapped now, lost, as he stared into his brother's eyes. There was no hiding from this, no pretending it wasn't happening, and he realized Sam was right, that they had to do it this way. Facing one another, accepting full responsibility for what was being done, as he flexed his hips -- carefully, so fucking carefully -- and slid the rest of the way inside.

"Dean," Sam said, curling one hand over Dean's knee. The word sounded pained, but his face was calm, open now for perhaps the first time since they'd climbed up onto this altar.

Dean grit his teeth and began to move, sinking his fingers into Sam's hip. He held Sam's gaze because Sam seemed to want it that way, seemed to need that connection between them. And he'd give Sam that -- he'd give Sam anything he wanted right now, even if it ripped his goddamn heart out -- because while it couldn't make up for what Dean was taking away from him, it had to mean something. Had to make this easier for him, somehow.

It shouldn't feel as good as this. Sam's body was tight around his cock, so damn tight and hot and god, he was sweating now and it wasn't from fear anymore. It felt good, like a warm, liquid hand had grabbed hold at the base of his spine and squeezed, sending pure pleasure vibrating through him. And how fucked up was that, that he could get any kind of pleasure out of this? He felt raw inside, aching and soiled and spun thin like glass, like the slightest breath of air might irretrievably shatter him. But he kept moving, kept fucking, because it was all he knew how to do. It was all he was good for, after all -- Dean Winchester, the gods' own whore, doling out his life in bits and pieces to save the lives of anonymous masses who most of the time never knew what he'd done for them, or cared. It wasn't just his body he sacrificed on a day to day basis; it was his whole fucking life, and how fucked up was it that he couldn't even care?

His face was wet when he felt Sammy's hand curl around the back of his neck. Sam pulled his head down, touching their foreheads together, and breathed out soft and warm across his face. "Dean," he whispered, just for the two of them. "It's okay."

Except it wasn't okay, not by any stretch of the imagination. How could any of this be any kind of fucking okay? He felt a sudden vicious urge to grab Sam's wrists and hold him down, to thrust in hard and deep without a care for who he was hurting, who he was wounding. To make Sam see once and for all who he really was, deep inside. A whore, a worn-out loser who spent his life saving others because he didn't have any kind of a fucking life on his own. The instant the thought crossed his mind it was gone -- do violence against Sammy? Never! -- but the damage had been done. He choked, feeling nauseous and afraid, disgusted by himself and ashamed to be living inside his own skin.

Dean finished first, unable to help himself -- and wasn't that the story of his life right there -- and he squeezed Sam's cock hard, stroking as fast as his wrist could move to make sure Sammy stayed right there on the edge with him. Then Sam was crying out and hugging him tight and pressing his heels so hard into Dean's back that Dean knew there would be bruises later, but he didn't care, didn't care, because the pleasure that rolled through him felt so wrong but so irresistibly right that it made him want to scream.

The shadow demons were spinning around them now, their voices raised in a subhuman howl of pleasure as if they somehow felt the echo of the brothers' shared orgasm. Dean covered Sam with his body, shielding him as an icy wind whipped up around them, spinning around and around with enough force to knock the flares off the altar. He curled an arm around Sam's head to shield both their faces as he groped for the mingled puddle of their come between Sam's legs and on his stomach and reached up to paint the warding symbols blindly on the stone of the altar over their heads.

As soon as he drew the last stroke, the wind died as if it had never been, the sudden cessation of violence leaving behind a silence so loud it echoed. There was a flare of white light so bright Dean half-believed he could see it inside his eyes, and then there was nothing.

He raised his head cautiously, still shielding Sam's face with his arm. The room around them was empty and still, lit only by the dimming glow of the flares. The sight of it made him feel suddenly exposed in a way he couldn't describe, and he pulled away from Sam's body as quickly as he could without hurting him.

"Dean..." Sam said hesitantly. His voice sounded lost and broken and vulnerable, and Dean just couldn't deal with this right now.

"It's over," he said shortly, pulling his shirt on over his head with a sharp, jerky motion. "Let's get out of here."

Sam lay unmoving for another moment before sighing, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Yeah," he said, and reached for his jeans.

* * * *

The drive back to the motel was silent and awkward. Dean stared hard at the road in front of them, his hand clenched so hard over the steering wheel his knuckles were white.

Sam didn't try to speak to him, which was a good thing, because if he had Dean was sure he'd break apart, just shatter into a billion fucking pieces right there in the seat of the Impala. And that would just be a mess, and he didn't want to leave that with Sammy on top of everything else.

He pulled into the parking lot in front of their motel room and shoved open the car door before the engine stopped idling. He snatched up his backpack and stalked inside without once looking at his brother.

It was several minutes before Sam followed him.

* * * *

"So," Sam said, leaning back in his chair and tapping a pen on the edge of the laptop. "There are some unexplained deaths at a theater in Hampton, a haunted house in Rockford, and what might be a hellhound sighting outside of Detroit."

Dean nodded without looking up from the gun he was cleaning. He'd just cleaned it that morning, but hell, he needed something to do with his hands. "That's good," he said, meaning it. "We can leave as soon as I'm finished with this."

Sam nodded absently, turning back to the computer screen.

Something inside Dean sat back on its haunches and howled at the façade of normalcy they were attempting to project. It had been three days now since they'd left New Jersey, and they hadn't said more than a handful of words to each other during that time. Dean could count the number of times Sam had looked at him on one hand.

He could count the number of times he'd looked at Sam on none.

"I'm going for a walk," he said abruptly, dropping the gun onto the mattress in front of him.

He didn't wait for a reply from Sam as he stepped outside, shrugging his jacket on as he went. The evening was overcast, and a thin fog twined around the trunks of the trees at the edge of the parking lot. He didn't even know the name of the motel they'd crashed in this time, but he liked the seclusion it offered them.

He wasn't in the mood to face anyone right now, unless it was on a hunt.

The sound of the door opening behind him made him scowl, his shoulders tightening. It was a few moments before he could gather up the courage to brace himself and turn around.

Sam was standing in front of the motel room door, looking at him through that ridiculous mop of hair he called his bangs. His jaw had the stubborn set Dean remembered all too well from when they were kids, equal parts determination and sheer mulish pigheadedness.

"We need to talk, Dean."

Dean smiled wryly, feeling anything but amused. "No, Sam. We really don't."

"How can you say that?" Sam's voice was incredulous. Whatever gift of fate had kept him from pressing the matter for the past few days, Dean's leeway had apparently found its end. To be honest, Dean was surprised it had lasted as long as it had.

"Because it's true." Dean shrugged. "I don't know what you want me to say here, Sammy. Now if you don't mind, we've got a hunt to start preparing for."

Sam wet his lips, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his eyes, and Dean curled his fists at his sides, feeling a twinge of bitter satisfaction at the pain that speared through him. This was it. This was the moment he'd been dreading, been expecting, for the past three days.

The moment when Sam was going to leave him.

He had to, after all. This thing between them was too weird, too complex. Sam had to leave for his own good, because Dean was fucked in the head and suspected he had been for a very long time.

"Dean," Sam said, and stopped there, like he didn't have anything else left to say.

Dean's chest hurt. His heart was pounding so hard he was half-afraid it might break right out through his ribs. He wondered if he was going to survive this, watching Sam walk out on him for yet another time. He wondered if there was a limit to the number of times he could be expected to endure it.

Sam's expression softened. "It wasn't your fault."

The absolution was unexpected, and entirely unwelcome. "Like hell," he breathed, forcing the words out through his constricted throat. "Like hell it wasn't my fault."

"Dean..."

"Are you stupid, Sam? Do you have no idea at all what happened?"

"Yeah, I know what happened." Sam sounded annoyed now. "There were evil things killing people and we did what we had to do to stop it."

Oh, if it were only that simple. "You stupid prick."

"Sticks and stones, Dean. You're not getting rid of me that easily."

The comment made Dean pause, because he hadn't realized his fear that Sam would leave him had been so obvious. What else had Sam noticed about him? The thought was not a comforting one.

"Fine," he said simply, and turned around to head back inside.

Sam followed not half a second behind him, like a damn dog barking at his heels. "Why are you being such a jerk about this? You think any of this is easy for me? You're not the only one who's hurting here, Dean."

The words made Dean's jaw clench. "I know that," he said gruffly, tossing his weapons back into his duffel bag with sharp, angry motions.

"Bullshit." Sam's voice always shook when he lost his temper like this. "Just bullshit, okay? This isn't something you get to go through on your own. This isn't something you get to lock me out of. Because in case you haven't noticed, I'm a part of this, too."

That was too much. Dean shoved the duffel bag onto the floor and turned to face Sam, anger clawing at his chest like it was a living thing trying to dig its way out of him. "Don't you think I know that? Don't you think I know what I did?"

"What you did?" Sam looked honestly confused by the words. "It's what we did, Dean. Us. The two of us." He paused, his expression softening. "It wasn't just you."

"Fuck you, Sam," Dean said. He was shaking now, he was literally shaking, too numbed by fury to think straight. "You think you understand everything, but you don't."

It had all seemed simple enough at first -- screw his brother on top of a cursed altar -- seemed pretty straightforward, didn't it? But he'd forgotten that Aztec magic was always life-changing. There on the altar at the end of it all, after he'd stopped thinking about doing and was actually doing, what had felt so very wrong was that it hadn't felt wrong at all.

Only now, when it was too late, did he realize that the spell had never been about sex. It was about trust, and love, and betrayal, and need. What he was willing to take and what he was willing to give. He'd like to think that it was the spell that had awoken these feelings in him, but it wasn't. Oh god, it wasn't. These feelings were a part of him now, and some dark part of him wondered if maybe they hadn't always been there.

"Dean." Sam shook his head, his own anger gone. "It wasn't your fault."

"Like hell." His voice was hoarse. "I'm the older brother, Sam. It's my job to protect you. And I can't... I can't protect you from this."

"I consented to what happened, Dean."

"Because you had to."

"I gave you permission. You didn't do anything I didn't let you do."

"Because you’re a selfless fucking bastard who puts other people's lives in front of his own."

"So are you."

"But I'm not!" Why the fuck couldn't Sam understand? Dean felt strung out, stretched thin and so fucking brittle he wanted to scream. Folding in on himself, he started to turn away.

"Dean. Talk to me."

There was an entreaty in Sam's voice that Dean couldn't not respond to, no matter how much he wanted to. He raised his gaze reluctantly, feeling something hard and sharp settle down in the backs of his eyes.

"You don't want to hear what I have to say," he said quietly. And that, like everything else that had passed between them, was nothing less than god's honest truth.

Sam's jaw clenched. "I do, Dean. I really do. Whatever it is -- whatever you're feeling -- I need to hear it."

There was no way Dean could fight against that kind of heartfelt plea.

As if there were anything he'd be able to deny Sam tonight.

"I need you," Dean hissed, and stopped, because that wasn't entirely accurate. "I want you," he tried again, and that was closer, but still not quite what he wanted to say. He saw the questioning in Sam's eyes, the trust, and closed his eyes against it.

"What is it?" Sam said, his voice achingly soft.

Dean sighed. "Don't you understand, Sammy? I don't fucking exist without you."

And that was it, the shameful hard truth right there. Because Sam was all he had. Day in and day out he devoted his life to helping strangers, but none of it mattered so much as having Sam here by his side. Sam was the only family he had, now that Dad was missing. Sam was the only constant, the only thing that gave his life meaning, because Dean wasn't the type who could do more than go through the motions of living unless he had someone to live for.

Sam's eyes darkened, and Dean stood tautly in front of him, waiting for him to get it. Waiting for him to understand that this was all he could think about now -- the skin of his brother's chest glowing smooth and crimson in the fading flarelight, the way his ribs had shivered and jumped when Dean's hand touched him, the sharp exhalation of his breaths.

The tenderness in Sam's expression was so poignant it hurt. "It's all right, Dean."

"It's not all right. It's never going to be all right." He didn't know what he was saying, didn't know if Sam understood or if he was simply being naïve.

"It will. It is." Sam huffed in what might have been amusement, or frustration, or both. "You're my brother, Dean. I care about you. God... you think you're not the only good thing I have left, too?"

Dean stared at him, not understanding. He felt slow, stupid with shock and with lack of sleep. Sam's only good thing? Surely one of them had to be tripping.

"It wasn't your fault, either," he said, wishing he'd said it from the start.

Sam's mouth curled, more bitter than amused. "You sound so sure of that."

And that was just too much. That Sam would in any way feel responsible for what had happened between them was just unacceptable. "Damn it, Sam. If I'm not to blame, then you sure as hell aren't."

Uncertainty flickered across Sam's eyes again, like ripples chasing each other across a pond. "I was the one who suggested it."

Sam's sense of personal responsibility could power a small nation. "You said it yourself. You weren't the one who carved the damn symbols."

"No, but I was the one who suggested it." Sam's voice was strained, earnest, like he was trying to make a point that Dean just wasn't getting.

"Bullshit." Dean shook his head, annoyed. "This whole conversation is stupid."

"So it's your fault, then? How does that make sense? You think you're the one responsible for what happened just because you like guys?"

"And you don't, Sam." How could Sam possibly not understand the importance of that? "At least it was something I'd done before, but you... you never would have chosen that."

Something in Sam's eyes flickered, darkened. "Are you sure about that?"

The question brought Dean up short. "You told me--"

"I told you I'd never had sex with a guy before. Not that I never wanted to."

This revelation was unexpectedly flummoxing. Not that Dean cared one way or the other whether Sam liked girls, guys, or hell, fucking sheep, but this was something Dean had never suspected about him. There'd been no signs, which meant it was something Sam had felt the need to hide from him -- really hide from him -- and that just made no sense at all.

Dean stared at him, trying to read what he saw in Sam's eyes and failing. It made him nervous, not being able to tell what his brother was thinking. "That doesn't make it your fault."

"It doesn't make it yours."

"Dammit, Sam..."

"How can it not be my fault?" There was a strain in Sam's voice that Dean didn't know what to make of. "Because I wanted it. Because I'd thought about it..."

Dean hesitated before making another hot retort, struck by the uncomfortable impression that they were talking about two entirely different things. I wanted it, Sam was telling him. I'd thought about it...

For the first time, it occurred to Dean that maybe it wasn't just him. That maybe he hadn’t been the only one lying awake these past few nights remembering what it had been like to have his brother's naked body stretched out beside him... and castigate himself for not being as repulsed by the image as he should be. You're the only good thing I have left, Sam had said; how was that any different from Dean's own frenzied justifications?

Sam stepped closer -- slowly, cautiously, like he sensed just how close Dean was to turning and bolting. He lifted a hand and touched Dean's shoulder, stroking lightly with his thumb.

"Sam..." Dean couldn't finish the sentence if his life depended on it, couldn't look away from his brother's ridiculously earnest eyes.

"Tell me if I'm reading you wrong," Sam said, his voice wavering. "God, Dean, tell me right now."

Dean stared up at him and didn't say anything, because honestly? He was beginning to suspect that Sam's evaluation of the situation was pretty much spot on.

The first brush of Sam's mouth over his was soft, fleeting, but nothing resembling chaste. Dean moved his lips under it, chasing the elusive taste he'd grown addicted to there on the altar. The kiss was exactly as he remembered it -- chapped lips, warm breath, stubbled chin brushing against his own. Only this time there was no guilt attached to the action because this was Sam kissing him -- Sam kissing him -- and Sam wanted it, too.

Sam's hand was heavy on his shoulder, fingers gripping tight to the leather of his jacket. "Dean," he breathed, right next to Dean's ear, and Dean slid a hand up his arm to cup the back of his neck and whispered, "Yeah. Yeah."

The next kiss was deeper, harder, growing more confident as their bodies moved closer together. Dean moved his hand up to tangle in Sam's hair, shuddering as the thick strands clung to his fingers. It felt good, it felt fucking hot, in a way that had him racing from zero to sixty in about two seconds flat.

Now that it was happening, now that it was here between them, and no longer hiding, Dean couldn't feel surprised by this at all. He thought that Sam had to feel pretty much the same way -- there was acceptance in the sigh he trailed along Dean's jaw, angling back to lap at the soft skin underneath his ear.

"God," Sam panted, hands tightening in Dean's shirt and holding him in place as if he honestly thought Dean might try to get away. Dean bucked against him, fingers digging into Sam's biceps, and wondered if he'd ever gotten hard this fast in his life. He sincerely doubted it; this might be all kinds of fucked up crazy, but it was Sam, and nothing in his life had ever felt as right.

Sam's hands were warm on his chest now, burrowing under his jacket and shirt until they found skin. Dean buried his face in Sam's shoulder and exhaled roughly when the pads of Sam's fingers brushed over his nipples, pinching as they went. "I've wanted..." Sam said unevenly. He pressed his face against the side of Dean's neck and breathed in raggedly, like he was memorizing the scent of Dean's skin. "God, Dean... can I...?"

"Fuck, Sam," Dean gasped, unable to come up with anything more coherent. "You can do whatever you want to me."

Sam's fingers tightened over his ribs, blunt nails digging into his skin, but then they softened, smoothing in long sweeps down Dean's sides until they found the clasp of his jeans. Dean grunted his approval and pushed his hips forward, biting down hard on his lip when Sam fumbled open the front of his jeans and shoved a hand inside.

This was what he wanted, what he'd been needing, for longer than he cared to admit to himself. This right here -- the feel of Sam's hand on him, Sam's hard body against him, breath panting hot and dirty next to his ear, the heat of it racing through his veins, burning him up from the inside out with the knowledge of Sam, Sam, Sam chanting like an incantation through every thought in his head.

Sam slid a knee in between Dean's legs and pressed him back against the wall, making a sound that Dean had never heard from him before but that he sure as hell wanted to hear again, as often as possible. Dean bit down on Sam's jaw, tasting stubble and sweat and Sam and god, he must have done something extremely right in a previous life to deserve this. He ground his hips hard against Sam's thigh, against Sam's hand, his own hands clenching tight in Sam's clothes, refusing to let him go. Sam held him just as tightly, clinging to him, shuddering as he whispered things like Go for it and Take it, Dean and It'll be all right and I've wanted this for so fucking long. Dirty words, necessary words, that hit Dean right in the gut and held on tight in a way he didn't think would ever let him go.

Dean came with a low gasp, muffling the sound against Sam's shoulder. Pleasure unlike anything he had ever known before, because this was more than sex, more than bodies, and he wasn't sure what it was but he knew he'd been hunting for it all of his life.

There were still tremors moving through him when he fisted his hands in Sam's shirt and spun him around, pressing him back against the wall. Sam looked startled for one amusing moment before his eyes darkened and his mouth curled upward, and he dipped his head to breathe out hard across Dean's face.

Dean kissed him, and Sam returned it with interest, all tongue and hot breath and teeth. Dean's nerves were still singing from the force of his orgasm, his head spinning as he gave Sam's lower lip a final sharp nip and sank down slowly onto his knees.

"Dean," Sam said shakily, staring down at him with a look of naked vulnerability that made Dean want to kiss him absolutely senseless.

"Shh," Dean said. "Let me do this."

Sam was achingly hard; Dean could feel it as he cupped him through his jeans. Sam let his head fall back against the wall as Dean opened his fly and pulled down his shorts and just went for it, taking him all the way in. Sam's hands clenched hard over his shoulders, scrabbling at the back of his head, grasping at his hair like they wanted to grab hold of it but it was too short, and Dean considered the thought that he might be willing to let it grow out a little in the future so Sam would have something to hold onto.

It didn't take long. Dean closed his eyes and concentrated on the feel of the cock sliding between his lips, hot and heavy on his tongue and damn, why hadn't they ever done this before? He was shaking as hard as Sam now, bracing one hand on Sam's hip while the other moved inside Sam's pants, fondling his balls and stroking hard across the smooth skin behind them, using every trick he'd ever learned to make this as good and hard and hot as he possibly could.

Sam shouted out loud when he came, the sound cutting off into a strangled whimper as Dean swallowed, coaxing the last trembling aftershocks of it out of him. There was a sound of Sam's head thumping against the wall behind his head, which made Dean grin with what he felt was well-deserved smugness as he rose up unsteadily to his feet.

"This is not normal, Sam," he said, resting his forehead against Sam's, open-mouthed and panting. "You know that?"

There was a low expulsion of breath against Dean's lips that sounded like laughter. "Yeah. Yeah, I really do."

Dean glanced up finally, meeting Sam's eyes. "One of us should really be freaking out about this right now."

"We've never been normal, Dean." Sam looked shaken now, apprehensive but resolute. "Our family... this is about as normal as it gets for us."

The comment made Dean laugh unexpectedly, because damn. When had the Winchesters ever been normal? Or wanted to be?

"I won't hurt you," was all he could think of to say.

Sam moistened his lips, looking anxious and determined and so fucking beautiful Dean wanted to drag him to the bed and start kissing him all over again. "You won't, Dean. You couldn't."

"Damn straight."

The corner of Sam's mouth curled upward. His thumb traced Dean's shoulder. "Are we okay, then?"

Dean wasn't sure he would ever be okay again -- or if he even knew the meaning of the word, or cared -- but he was reasonably certain it wouldn't matter so long as Sam kept touching him, just like this.

Because Sam wasn't afraid to touch him.

Wanted to touch him.

Wanted him.

"Yeah," Dean said with a wry smile. "We're okay."

He surprised himself by actually meaning it.

The End
1/4/07