Word Count: 2,200
Notes: Written for blindfold_spn . The original post is here. Many thanks to the original prompter for the inspiration. (oh, god, the title. I should just own it. This is me, owning it.)
Summary/Prompt: Sam gets hit with an obedience spell.
They’re a couple hundred miles away from their last hunt and fifty miles away from the next one when Dean starts to think that something might be a little left of center.
Sam props a foot on the dashboard of the car, swamp mud clinging to the treads of his boots. It’s bad enough that the stuff is all over the floorboards. All four windows of the car are open and Dean can still smell the rotten stink of it.
Dean knocks his knuckles against Sam’s knee. “No feet, dude. You’re getting the crap everywhere.”
Sam drops his feet to the floor with a mumbled apology. Dean waits for the whiplash back mouth, for Sam to point out that Dean is basically sitting in a puddle of the muck himself. It never comes.
Sam’s just worn out. That has to be it. They both are, after the night they just spent trudging through swamp grass searching for a backwoods coven that had decided to impose its own brand of hinky morality on a nearby town.
They’d lit a match to the altar, scared the living shit out of some housewives, businessmen, and one surly gardener. Case closed.
Dean still feels ill at ease, though. There’s a kind of itch under his skin, and he can’t seem to keep his eyes off of the rearview mirror.
Things get a little weirder outside of Jackson. They’re in a truck stop diner a mile off of the interstate, and Dean is most of the way through the best chili dog he has ever wrapped his mouth around. He should know, he’s a bit of a connoisseur.
Sam’s distracted, cross referencing newspaper articles and some crumbling book on necromancy, his salad half-eaten.
Dean talks around a mouthful. “A man can’t live off nuts and berries.” He waves his greasy fingers dismissively at Sam’s plate. “You have got to try one of these.”
Sam’s face goes oddly blank. His fork, which had been half way to his mouth, drops with a clatter to his plate. He pushes it back and waves the waitress over. “I’ll have one of those,” he says with a nod toward the detritus of Dean’s dinner.
“It’s about time you started developing some taste,” Dean says.
Sam’s attention has already turned back to the front page of the newspaper. “Yeah,” Sam says, sounding not entirely there. “I guess so.”
By the time they get to Tupelo, Dean knows something’s off.
Dean’s head is ducked into the trunk, looking for the reporter’s badge he knows he left in there somewhere. “Do you really think it’s a black dog? You heard the woman. Grandma said the thing was wailing. Black dogs don’t wail. They growl and snap and drool all over the fucking place. My money’s on a banshee. End of discussion. Find me a way to kill it, Sam.”
Dean looks up, already planning a way to put a crack into Sam’s inevitable wall of logic. He’s surprised when Sam just circles the trunk and digs out a book on Irish lore.
“Aren’t you gonna argue?” Dean asks. “Hand me half a dozen cases of crying canines or something?”
“What’s the point?” Sam says, already paging through the book. “I’m sure you’re right. Wait...do you want me to argue?” He looks a little confused.
“Okay,” Sam says, and damned if he doesn’t sound a little relieved. “Good.”
Dean spits into the tall grass, trudging along the side of a back country road.
They’d knocked off the interstate, run out of gas and had to bribe a farmer out of a can full of low octane that would probably have the car sputtering and gasping for breath long before they can get another fill up.
Cows and corn as far as the eye can see, and Dean doesn’t know how the hell people can actually live this far away from the closest quickie mart.
“What kinda pissant, two horse town doesn’t have a fucking gas station?” Dean grumbles.
“This one,” Sam says, a hitch to his walk, weighed down by the rusty gas can.
“Blow me, Sam,” Dean mutters. “It’s your fault. You had the fucking map--”
Dean stops short when Sam cuts in front of him, the gas can falling from his fingers. Sam drops to his knees, road dust puffing up in small clouds around him. Dean sputters, doesn’t get his head wrapped around the situation before Sam works his pants open and is yanking them past his hips. Sam licks his lips, has his eyes fixed hard and fast on Dean’s dick. He curls his fingers around the waistband of Dean’s shorts. There’s a kind of heat in his expression that Dean’s never seen before, and it sends a shockwave straight through him. It curls somewhere low in his stomach, and then Dean is staggering backward, heels sending gravel out in a spray. “The fuck?” Dean stammers, his voice so high it hurts.
Sam drops his hands to the ground and starts crawling toward him, fucking crawling, his dark look growing more intense.
Dean throws his hands in front of him like some kind of insane traffic cop, and yells, “Stop.”
The expression on Sam’s face evens out, turns complacent. He settles back on his haunches and drops his hands in his lap. “Okay,” he says.
“Okay? What part of this is even remotely okay? We are light years outside of okay.” Dean’s toeing the line between control and hysterics, and in some lunatic corner of his mind he can’t believe that he just turned down a blow job. It’s a first.
“You told me to, so I had to do it. Seemed like a good idea.” Sam shrugs, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, like he’s talking about the weather and not the fact that he was hell bent on getting Dean’s dick in his mouth a few seconds ago.
Dean reels with it. It’s a curse. It’s gotta be a curse. Turns out that Dean’s dick doesn’t give a rat’s ass about who, what, when, why or how, and is starting to push uncomfortably against the front of his pants. Dean can’t think about that. “Work the problem, Sam.”
“What problem?” Sam asks, honestly confused.
Dean gives him the stink eye as Sam gets slowly to his feet and grabs hold of the gas can again like nothing happened. “What problem?” Dean repeats. “Oh, fuck me,” he says under his breath. Sam starts to turn toward him, and Dean shakes his head. “No. Don’t. Walk. Just...keep walking.”
“It was the gardener,” Sam says, and Dean rips his gaze away from some CGI pyrotechnic display on the television.
“In the library with the pipe wrench,” Dean responds, and is a little disappointed when it doesn’t earn him even as much as a frustrated huff.
“Remember when we interviewed him?” Sam asks. “He had that sign on his yard that said don’t step on the grass. And he was in the coven.”
“Well, I stepped on the grass,” Sam explains. “It’s stupid, petty, sure. But I think that maybe he wanted to teach me a lesson.”
“In obedience,” Dean finishes for him. “How do we break it?”
“Still working on that part,” Sam says and hides behind his laptop again.
“Work harder,” Dean says. It’s exhausting, trying to watch every word that comes out of his mouth. Besides, he’s been half hard all day and pissed off about it. Sam’s not making it any easier, hiding behind the screen of his laptop, and looking the way he looks, his tongue darting out to rub along his canine tooth in a thoughtful, nervous tic.
It’s not like Dean hasn’t thought about it. He has, in only the most abstract sense. He’s human, after all, and his right hand can only get him so far. They’ve spent most of their lives in a fox hole. Trench warfare through and through, and it’s only natural. It’s an any-port-in-the-storm mentality, and Dean can buy into that.
What he doesn’t know how to buy into is that look on Sam’s face back there, kneeling in the road grit and the dust. That look of pure want that flashed across his brother’s eyes. It wasn’t like the other times, when Dean dictated his diet or told him to get his shoes off of the bed or any other number of small things that Sam had done in the last few days that were, in retrospect, not at all like Sam.
So Dean’s spent the last couple of hours laying on the bed, trying to ignore the shape of Sam’s mouth and the size of Sam’s hands. A thought occurs to him, one of those light bulb moments that are usually Sam’s domain. It’s not a complete fix, but Dean figures it’ll buy them some time, at least. He sits up. “I got it. From here on out, do what you want to do. I’m giving you blanket permission. Carte blanche. It’s all you.”
He turns his attention back to the television, has about ten seconds of smug satisfaction before Sam’s slamming his computer closed and crossing the room, pulling his shirt over his head. Dean has the time to bark out a surprised, “What?” and then Sam is on top of him, hands pushing Dean’s shirt up and running rough over his ribs and across his chest. He pushes Dean’s legs apart with his body and settles in between them, his tongue circling Dean’s nipple and biting down hard.
Dean’s protests get lost in a groan as Sam slides down, his expression dark with intent. He feels fantastic, his narrow waist fitting just right between Dean’s thighs. The knowledge that Sam wants this makes it okay, and the way that he skims his teeth right above the waistband of Dean’s pants makes it even more so. Better yet are the sounds that Sam’s making, a low satisfied hum that shoots straight for Dean’s cock and makes him squirm under Sam’s weight. Dean’s been up to his ass for so long in ideas of free will and morality, and figures he’s at the point in his life that he just wants to know which direction to point his gun and how many bullets it’ll take to get the job done. And this right here is a step in the right direction.
“This is what you want?” Dean asks, his voice thready and thin.
“You have no idea,” Sam says. He yanks Dean’s jeans open and shoves at his shorts, pulling his cock free. Dean comes close to choking on his own tongue. He’s not sure if it’s the way that Sam wraps his hand around the base of his dick, or the sight of Sam’s tongue wetting his bottom lip like he’s starving, or the sound of Sam’s voice, so low and hoarse and fucking perfect.
Sam’s breath falls warm and wet on Dean’s flesh. He’s got the fingers of his free hand curled into the waistband of Dean’s shorts, and for some lunatic reason Dean finds that hot as hell. Dean bucks up, a pulse of precome gathering at the tip of his cock. Sam touches his tongue to it, almost tentative, his eyes closing as he curls his tongue into his mouth.
“Fuck, you taste so good,” Sam breathes. “I’ve wanted...” he trails off, wraps his lips around the head of Dean’s dick and sucks.
Dean digs his heels into the mattress and his fists into the blankets. It’s mesmerizing, watching Sam’s mouth stretch around him as he takes Dean in, his hand working at the base where his mouth can’t quite reach.
Sam’s good at this, fucking great at it, and Dean doesn’t want to know that hows or the whys behind that. Instead he gets lost in the swirl of Sam’s tongue and the slight graze of his teeth as he takes him in deeper. He hums when Dean tangles a hand in his hair, and the vibration rattles Dean loose. His hips jab forward, and Dean feels himself hit the back of Sam’s throat. Sam chokes, almost gagging, his throat clenching around Dean’s dick.
It’s the tipping point. Dean fucks into Sam’s mouth fast, his hand tight in Sam’s hair and his toes curling. Sam hollows his cheeks and lets it happen, dark eyes peeking through his bangs, fixated on Dean’s face. Sam reaches up and shoves two fingers into Dean’s mouth. He works them in and out, and that’s it. Dean comes hard, biting down on Sam’s fingers to stop the shout that wants to rip its way out of him.
The room spins a little, everything goes a little hazy, and Dean closes his eyes against it. When he opens them up again, Sam is still looking at him. He wipes at the mess of spit and come off of his mouth with the back of his hand, and damned if that isn’t the sexiest thing Dean’s seen in a very long time.
He crawls up along Dean’s body, presses his mouth to Dean’s in a slow wet kiss. He tastes like come, bitter and slightly salty, and Dean’s surprised that he doesn’t mind it all that much.
Sam gives him a sarcastic little smile. It reminds Dean of exactly why and how much he loves his brother. “Well,” Sam says, “that’s the best idea you’ve had all week."
Thanks for reading.