Chapter Text
The place was like a museum. A twisted, dusty museum filled with artifacts that came out of hunts and archeological digs spanning the last fifty years.
"Don't touch anything." Their father turned, shining his light directly at Dean. "I mean it."
Dean held up his hands and made his "I wouldn't dream of it" face, but the minute their father's back was turned, he was lifting a funny looking statue.
"We're here to get the hex box and nothing else. Joe's son's coming to clean the place out tomorrow."
"Dean." Sam hissed at him as John Winchester moved into the next room and Dean turned to face him, shining his flashlight in Sam's eyes. "Stop touching things. For god's sake, we don't even know what half this stuff is."
"Everyone knows the old man was nuts, Sammy, don't be a stick in the mud. Check this out."
He lifted a small figurine of a squatting man with a very, very large phallus, waggling his eyebrows at Sam.
"Got it." John's voice boomed back into the room and Dean tossed the statue at Sam before turning back to grin at their father.
Sam hid the thing in his hands, shoving them behind him.
John looked suspiciously at Dean, then Sam, but shook his head. "Let's get out of here before either one of you ends up cursed with some horrible disease or the ability to see things or some shit. Last thing I need is one of you bitching about your dick falling off."
Dean's face paled visibly and Sam did his best to set the figurine down without drawing attention to himself or the stupid thing, then punched Dean in the arm. They rough housed all the way out to the car where John cuffed them both upside the head. "Stop. Neither one of you is so big I couldn't put you over my knee."
It started as an itch. Sam rubbed at his crotch absent-mindedly while he was trying to study for his history exam. All that managed to do was get him hard. He huffed, disgusted with himself and made sure his bedroom door was closed before he reached a hand inside his sweats to beat off. He couldn't concentrate when he was hard.
When he came, it almost hurt and his cock didn't exactly go limp. He huffed again and wiped his hand clean and headed down the hall, figuring a nice, cold shower should do the trick.
Only when he got there, Dean was in the shower, singing some damn mullet rock anthem punctuated with sounds Sam didn't want to think about.
John appeared at the end of the hallway. "Bobby called, he's got a hunt for me and I need to get this hex box to Jim. You boys sit tight. There's money on the kitchen table for food."
Sam nodded. "Yeah, Okay. Be careful."
John smiled at him. "Always am Sammy. Keep your brother out of trouble."
"Right. Like he'd let me."
Sam headed back to his room, tried to concentrate on history. However, history wasn't exactly on his mind. To his dismay all he could think about was his brother in the shower. Naked. Wet. His cock seemed to like the image.
He did everything he could think of to make it stop. He jacked off again, coming hard with the image of Dean in his mind. He groaned and shook his head. It was ridiculous, thinking of Dean like that.
"Hey, Sammy." Dean was in his doorway. Sam turned away to hide his erection, pulling the elastic waistband back up and over himself. He dragged in a deep breath. He couldn't look. Not with Dean right there. Dean who was probably only in a towel. Dean still wet.
"Go away Dean." Sam growled.
"Something's wrong, Sammy." Dean said, his voice edging toward desperate. Sam turned then, unable to not respond to Dean in pain. Dean held the door frame, white knuckled while his other hand held his cock through the towel. "It won't stop. I tried everything."
Dean was shivering with cold, his eyes wild with…Sam wasn't sure exactly what that was, but when Sam's eyes met Dean's there was fire in the room, burning his skin, sucking the oxygen from his lungs and before Sam could think he was across the room, pulling Dean's cold body up against his.
Dean tried to push him off, push him away, but Sam rubbed his hands over Dean's arms and that seemed to calm him some. Dean was panting as he let go of the doorframe, his hands reaching for Sam, cupping his face. "Sammy."
"We…um…we need to get you warmed up." Sam said, though his thoughts weren't on blankets and clothing.
He started them moving toward the bed, but Dean dragged his feet. "No, Sam you don't…I can't…." The towel fell, revealing Dean's red cock, hard and angry looking. "It's the damn…thing…the statue…the one with the cock." Dean gasped. "Fuck but I can't make it go away."
"Always gotta touch shit, Dean." Sam muttered, though he was edging toward pretty frantic himself.
Dean's hands came back to his face, onto his shoulders. "Gotta touch."
"We should call Dad." Sam said, though he didn't really want that. He wanted Dean. He wanted Dean desperately…wanted to taste him, kiss him…wanted to feel him.
"No…god, no, Sam. We gotta deal with it." Dean took a deep breath and gathered himself, pulled himself away. He swallowed visibly and waved at Sam's computer. "You're the research wiz. Find something."
Sam didn't want to, but he turned away from Dean who was trying to cover himself up with the towel again. He opened the laptop, and pulled up the page of Dr. Joseph Mendon's work, which he'd had bookmarked since Bobby had introduced them to the old archeologist-turned-hunter. "It looked…what? African maybe?"
The old man hadn't been the best hunter, but he did have a collection of supernatural objects and he archived them with pictures and descriptions on his web page, sort of a reference tool for hunters looking for a particular kind of thing.
"I don't know Sammy, that's your geeky thing, not mine."
Sam clicked on the link to African artifacts and scrolled down a list. He tried a few of them, but none of them looked like what they'd seen. Dean was pacing behind him, pacing and moaning and…"Dean!" Sam exclaimed, exasperated as he realized his brother was jacking off.
"Dude….I gotta…if I don't…" He was shaking his head when Sam looked up. "Just find it, tell me how we fix it."
"I don't think it's here—Wait." Sam clicked on a link for objects used to attract a mate. "Here." He pointed, clicked and there it was, the same damn little figurine that Dean had thrown to him. "Okay…it's supposed to make you…oh. You give it to the person you want to mate with."
"As in sex?" Dean asked, suddenly leaning over his shoulder.
"Yeah…um…" Sam forced himself to concentrate on the screen, not on Dean beside him, hovering over him…holding his cock. "It makes the object of your desire return the desire." Sam skipped down the page a bit. "It is said to be so powerful that once both parties have touched the phallus of the god, there is no remedy but to engage in sexual intercourse, after which the two are bound by the gods, by tribal law."
"There's got to something about undoing it. Keep reading."
"That's all there is, Dean. Nothing else."
"Come on Sammy, keep looking."
Sam gestured at the screen. "Where? Where should I look? That's the end of the page. We should just call Dad. Or Bobby."
Dean looked horrified at the suggestion. "No! God, Sam…when did you get so…fuck! Make it stop."
Sam's own cock was being pretty damn insistent and he grabbed it as he turned to face his brother. "I don't know how." Except now he did know how. All they had to do was have sex.
Like it was that simple.
"Okay. Okay." Dean blew out and headed for the door. "I need a drink. And another cold shower."
"Dean." His voice came out with a whine and Dean stopped at the door, turning to look at Sam.
Sam couldn't control the way his hand moved over his cock, hard under the soft cotton of his sweats and Dean's eyes got big, as if just realizing he wasn't alone in the situation.
"Sammy?"
"You threw the damn thing at me Dean, what did you think?"
"Oh, Sammy…fuck." Dean was moving back into the room, back toward Sam.
"Yeah, Dean, I think maybe that's the point."
That stopped him. Dead in his tracks. "What?"
Sam gestured at the computer. "You heard what it said. We have to do something."
Dean groaned and shook his head. "We are so not doing that."
"Then what Dean?" Sam turned away, rubbing more frantically at his cock now. It hurt, but he couldn't stop. "Get out then…it's worse with you standing there."
Sam didn't look to see if his brother had listened, but a few minutes later he heard the shower come back on. He came again, a wet spot growing under his hand. He paced around his room, afraid to step outside it, afraid to run into Dean, because at least by himself he was only going to rub himself raw, not ruin his brother.
He heard Dean bang out of the bathroom, cussing a blue streak as he headed to the kitchen. He figured he might as well try the shower too. Though from the sounds of it, it wasn't helping Dean.
Still, Sam grabbed his towel and headed for the bathroom. He eased his sweats down over his still very hard cock and climbed into the shower, turning on the cold water and shivering as it flowed over him.
"Shit." Sam stood in the cold water for as long as he could stand it, but it wasn't helping and he was freezing. He wrapped in a towel and shivered all the way back to his room, sitting at his computer to see if there was anything else.
He was starting to climb out of his skin with need. At eighteen, he wasn't completely inexperienced, but this was more than he'd ever felt, an overwhelming need to come, to fuck someone. But not just any someone. Sam groaned and stood to pace, but it was hard to walk.
His door opened and Dean stood there, his eyes dark, smelling of their father's whiskey. "Sam." His voice was deep.
Before Sam could think twice about it, he was across the room, pulling Dean to him. Their lips crashed together painfully and Dean shoved him away. "Fuck, Sam." He wiped his mouth like it was dirty. "We can't."
"We have to Dean." Sam whined. "It fucking hurts."
"I know. I know." Dean moved out of the doorway, but didn't get close. He was panting and his eyes kept coming back to Sam's cock. "Sit…sit on the bed."
"Why?" Sam asked as he moved. "What are you going to do?"
Dean held up a hand to shut him up and took a knee on the floor next to him. "Maybe we can…" He reached for Sam's cock, but stopped short. "You got…um…lotion, maybe?"
"What do I look like Dean?"
"Okay…it's just…dry…it's…." Dean shook his head and spit into his hand before reaching for Sam again. It felt strange, a hand not his own around his dick. Dean licked his lips and nodded. "Okay. We'll just try this." His hand started slow, pulling up the length and sliding back down. It felt…hot and good and wrong in so many ways Sam lost count somewhere around "brother" and "not gay" and "brother" again.
Sam leaned back, his eyes closed as tight as he could get them. He choked on the sounds that wanted to come out, because Dean would never let him live that down…if they lived through this. "Fuck!" His hips thrust up involuntarily and his cock slid out of Dean's hands, but it didn't matter, he was coming anyway, hot and slick, it slid down his heated skin.
He panted and fell back on the bed, covering his face that he was sure had to be just as red as his cock. "Did…did it work?" Dean asked, his voice strained and cracking. Sam held up his hand while he tried to catch his breath.
"Give me a minute." And for a minute, Sam honestly thought it was enough. His cock lay flaccid and sore against his thigh while he caught his breath, but as he sat up, he could feel it, the deep need for more as soon as his eyes landed on Dean. "Oh, god." Sam covered his cock with his hand as it filled yet again. "Dean…"
Dean's horrified expression was almost more than Sam could take. "This is your fault Dean." Sam accused, trying to stand. Dean shoved him back down onto the bed, suddenly on top of him, skin to skin, breathing harsh against Sam's neck. Sam swallowed. "Okay…okay…we can handle this right?" Sam's breath caught in his throat as his brother's cock dragged against his. "It's okay Dean."
Sam inched back on the bed, spreading his legs as he got them free of Dean's weight. "We can do this." He pulled Dean with him, and to his surprise Dean let him, though he was silent, his face set and hard. A little help from him might be nice, because Sam really didn't know what he was doing here, just going on instinct. Dean hovered over him, his hard cock pressed into the crack of Sam's ass.
Neither of them moved.
"Dean?"
Dean's eyes closed. "I can't."
"You have to. Or you have to call Dad…and even then, you might still have to. I'd rather keep him out of this myself."
Sam kept his hands tight around Dean's arms, anchoring him, holding him. Dean wouldn't look at him. When he pulled away, Sam held on, until his eyes finally lifted and Sam could see the resignation in them. "I need to get something. I'll be right back."
Sam nodded and let him go, laying back and listening as Dean ran down the hall and into the kitchen. He came back with a bottle of cooking oil. "You'll thank me later, trust me."
Dean was back to not looking at him as he opened the bottle. "Roll over." His hands were shaking as he poured oil onto his hand and put his hand to his dick. Sam rolled over, his eyes never leaving Dean.
"Bend your knees."
Sam brought his knees up under him so he was kneeling on the bed, his face pressed into the pillows. He jumped when Dean's hand touched him and Dean pulled away. "Sorry…just…sorry."
Sam brought his hands up, fisting them in the pillow under him as Dean's hand lay against his naked ass cheeks, hot and slick. His first touch against Sam's hole was tentative and made Sam's cock twitch with need. "Dean."
"Relax…I don't want to hurt you."
"I'm pretty sure it's going to hurt no matter what you do, Dean." Sam said, starting to get exasperated.
Dean pressed one finger into him and Sam bit his tongue. It slid in on the slick of oil, deeper and faster than Sam expected. "Shit. Fuck." Dean eased it back out, then in again, pressing it against the sides of Sam's ass, moving it around inside him. "Dean…" His cock was hot and full under him and he eased one hand back to hold it, to keep it from scraping against the bed, but the heat of his hand was worse and he came suddenly, spasming around Dean's finger.
"Sam?"
He nodded raggedly. "I'm okay…just come on already…I'm going to die from dehydration from coming before you get on with it."
Dean added a second finger, easing into Sam. It was filling and it didn't exactly hurt…but then came the third and Sam was biting into the pillow…and this wasn't even the main event. "Dean…please…"
Dean breathed something that might have been words, but Sam couldn't really hear anything over the roar in his head and the endless cacophony of needwantnowpleasenowwantneed bubbling in the corners of his brain. When Dean's fingers eased out, Sam may have moaned, but when something bigger, heavier replaced them, Sam's voice keened out.
The press and burn was too much and Sam wanted to pull away, wanted to yell and fight and flail until he escaped it. Dean eased out before he was half way in and Sam groaned in relief, but all too soon it was back, Dean's cock sinking into him. He felt the heat of his brother's body over his, the stretch of his cock buried inside him. "Sammy…you okay?"
"Just do it Dean. Get it over with." Sam spit out. Tears spilled from the corners of his eyes as Dean moved. It hurt so much and yet, his cock was still hard, still leaking come like it was never going to stop.
Dean's hips stuttered against him and heat flooded him, increasing the pain of fullness until Dean withdrew. He collapsed onto the bed panting and Sam curled up on his side, cradling his slowly deflating cock.
For several long moments, neither of them moved. "I think…I think that's it." Sam said finally, moving his hands away from his sore dick. "I'm okay. You?"
The bed moved as Dean stood. "No, I'm not fucking okay Sam, I just fucked my brother." He stormed out of the room and a few minutes later, Sam heard the shower come on. Somehow he knew that this time, the water would be scalding.
Sam told himself that he understood. He got out of the bed, moving slowly as his ass burned, muscles tight. He stripped the bed, found clean sheets and remade the bed. Dean slammed out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, slamming the door.
It was over. But as Sam climbed into the shower himself, he wondered if that would ever be true. As good as the Winchesters were at ignoring things they didn't want to see, Sam wondered if this would be the one thing that finally broke the bond that was formed the day his father had shoved him into Dean's arms and told him to run.
Dean wouldn't look at him the next morning when he came downstairs for breakfast. He sat at the kitchen table with sunglasses on, head hung over a cup of coffee.
"Are you hungover?" Sam asked as he sat with his bowl of cereal.
Dean groaned and stood. "I think this is technically still drunk, Sammy." Dean drained his coffee cup. "Get your ass to school. Come straight home. We got training."
So they were going to ignore that anything had happened. Sam wasn't surprised. He finished his cereal and grabbed his backpack, heading for the front door. "This isn't my fault you know, Dean." Sam said as he passed Dean on the broken down old couch. "And I'm okay." In fact, he was more than okay. After his shower, he'd slept better than he had in weeks. He was a little sore, but when he thought back to the night before, past the pain there was something else. His eyes flicked over Dean stretched out on the couch.
"You're going to be late."
Sam hitched the backpack up further and headed out. He supposed he should be grateful that they got through it without something worse happening. Maybe now Dean would learn a lesson and stop touching absolutely everything.
Then again, it was Dean.
Sam trudged to school, his head filled with Dean. Dean shooting. Dean walking. Dean touching. He stopped and blinked. No, that was wrong. Dean's hands on his skin. Dean's body close to his.
Sam shook his head and exhaled, willing his body not to react. He was almost to school. He really didn't want to be walking into class with a hard on. Then again, nothing like one of Mr. Harrigon's lectures to kill any form of arousal known to man.
He held his backpack in front of him and slinked into the room, easing into his seat without looking up. The class filled in around him and Sam relaxed a little. He bantered with Joe and Brian about the basketball game and the head cheerleader Andrea.
Then the door opened and a young man entered the room. He was not Mr. Harrigon. "Okay, settle in people. Mr. Harrigon is out sick today, I am Mr. Dean and I'll be filling in for him."
Sam closed his eyes and shook his head. Mr. Dean. It didn't help that he kind of looked like Dean, green eyes, light brown hair that ended in blonde spikes. This was unfair. Sam let his voice wash over him, tried to force himself to think about ghosts and vampires and other supernatural stuff, but that just led to him thinking about Dean hunting.
He growled in frustration and looked up at the clock. The hour crawled by with Sam doing his best to keep his head in the math and off of his brother's body. By the time the bell rang, he'd almost managed to subdue his erection. He booked between students, aiming for the locker room and his gym class. At least some physical activity couldn't hurt, right? Some exercise to get his mind off the way Dean had touched him the night before, the way his fingers had moved inside him…Sam groaned and ducked around two boys rough-housing.
"Winchester!" He pulled up short and turned, looking for the face that went with the voice. Mr. Collins waved him over to the guidance office, holding the door to let Sam in.
"I'm going to be late for class."
Collins smiled. "Sit, I think you'll agree this is worth it." He moved around his desk and sat, pulling an envelope out of his desk drawer. "This came for you Friday, but you were already gone when I came looking for you."
He handed the envelope across and Sam glanced at the logo in the corner before taking it. "Stanford?" His hand shook a little as he turned the elegant paper in his hands. It was rich stationary, creamy and thick, his name printed in bold letters on the front.
"Still not sure why you had all your college apps sent here, but I think you'll find that's the kind of envelope you want to be getting from someplace like Stanford."
Sam's eyes flicked up to those of his counselor and back to the envelope. He licked his lips and nodded. Inside this envelope were words that could change his life. Forever.
"Go on, open it."
"Yeah, okay." Sam slid a finger under the flap and ran it along the seal to open it, then pulled the papers out of it. He exhaled slow and opened the folded packet of papers.
His eyes scanned the page once, then again, flitting up to the counselor's briefly before taking them in a third time.
"Well?"
"I got in." Sam breathed, his heart pounding in his chest. "I got it. They sent me…" He sorted through the papers that accompanied the letter. His eyes caught on the phrase "full scholarship". "Oh my god, Mr. C." He handed the papers over, pointing to the line.
"Congratulations, Sam. I knew you were going to do great, with your SAT scores and your grades."
A full scholarship. To Stanford. Sam couldn't think, couldn't react. It was a way out, out of hunting, out of the crazy chaos of shotguns and salt and never knowing if he was going to live through the next one. Mr. Collins was talking to him, something about applications for dorm rooms and confirmation and Sam blinked to bring himself back to the moment.
"You want to wait and see where else you got in?" Mr. Collins asked, interpreting Sam's quiet to uncertainty.
"What? No. I just. I got in." He grinned and stood. "I didn't really expect to, you know? I don't know what to say."
"You can start by filling in the confirmation that you accept the scholarships and we should have the course catalog by the end of the week, so you can start figuring out what classes to take."
He handed the letter and the rest of the pages back to Sam, who tucked them into his backpack. He exhaled slowly. "Thank you."
He headed toward the boys’ locker room, his mind no longer on Dean. Stanford. It had been a dream. Despite Mr. Collins’ assurances, Sam never really thought it would happen, and certainly not like this. A full scholarship. He'd still need to figure out something for money so he could eat, but he had months to figure that out. It was almost the end of March. The more pressing concern was how he was going to tell his father. And Dean.
Dean avoided him. Even when they were in the same room. He didn't look at Sam, didn't talk to him, when he did have to say something, he said it to the room, not Sam.
The whole three days their father was gone, Sam tried, but Dean avoided. Sam came into the kitchen, Dean went to the living room. Sam sat on the couch, Dean went to his room. It was annoying.
More annoying was the fact that Sam couldn't stop the way his body reacted to the small glimpses he got of his brother. Of course, now that he thought about it, maybe that was why Dean was avoiding him. It wasn't like he could exactly hide the fact that Dean coming out of the bathroom in a towel, his skin still damp was enough to make him hard. Not when he was standing right there.
John coming back didn't make it easier. If anything it was worse. He didn't know and he just expected things to be the same.
Something heavy slammed into Sam's chest and he went over backward.
"Pay attention." John barked at him.
Sam pulled himself up, glaring at Dean. They'd been running training drills all afternoon and Dean was sweating, his skin wet and glistening, the smell of him strong as Sam pulled himself up off the ground. "Sorry," he muttered to his father.
"What are you thinking? If that had been an angry spirit or something, you'd have lost your head."
"I know. I'm sorry. I was…daydreaming." About Stanford. And Dean. About Dean at Stanford. Dean touching him, lying with him. Sam shook his head. He needed to get over himself. He needed some distance. "I have homework to finish."
He didn't wait for his father's permission, just turned and jogged back toward the old house they were renting for the time being. He slammed into his bedroom and threw himself across the bed. He was hard. Again. From thinking about Dean.
It had been nearly a month since the whole thing started. Sam pulled the letter out of his history book and opened it again, his eyes skimming over the words. He hadn't told anyone. He'd gotten at least three more offers, but Stanford was still the best.
There was a noise in the hallway and Sam put the letter away as his door opened. "Dad's pissed."
Sam didn't look up at his brother. "I know. Sorry."
"Don't apologize to me. It's you he's upset with."
"Whatever." Sam held his breath as Dean actually stepped into the room.
"You've been weirder than normal lately. You okay?"
Sam closed his eyes. "Yeah, Dean. I'm fine."
"No…lingering effects from the…you know…thing?"
Sam looked up at him sharply, wondering what he meant. "Um…like what?"
Dean shrugged, drinking from the water bottle in his hands. "Just…no feelings, no hard on that won't quit?"
Sam shook his head slowly, squinting now at his brother. "Why? You?"
Dean made a face. "Just checking in Sam. You've been acting weird around me."
"Me?" Sam sat up, covering his crotch with the book in his hands so Dean wouldn't see that he was, in fact, hard. "You're the one who darts out of the room every time I come in."
"See, that right there, I've been doing that for years, and you're just now noticing?"
Sam shook his head. "Dude, whatever. I really do have homework."
"Straighten up, or Dad's gonna kick your ass."
Dean left and Sam sighed in relief. Clearly something was wrong with him. He pulled the letter back out of his back pack and stared at it. It was the right thing to do. Way more right than sitting here pining over his brother of all things.
The next weeks got progressively worse, as their father started looking for where they would go next and Dean kept avoiding him, and when they were in the same room they fought. Still, he didn't know how to say it.
Not until his father showed up in his bedroom door one night the last week of school. "You packed up, ready to go?" His eyes skimmed the room that more than answered that question.
"I…was thinking." Sam said. "It's only one more week. I kinda want to do the graduation thing."
His father frowned at him. "We’ve got a hunt to get to."
Sam rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans. "Yeah, I was thinking that you and Dean could go, and I'll…catch up. It's just a week."
John frowned harder. "You want me to leave you here. Alone?"
Sam sighed and stood. "I am eighteen, Dad. Fully capable of taking care of myself for a week." He paced. "I can take a bus to Bobby's after, you can swing by and get me when the hunt's done."
John leaned up against the doorframe, his arms crossed as he watched him. Sam's head filled with a hundred arguments, trying to find one that had a chance of working.
"I mean, I'm top of my class, and it would look strange to not finish, right?"
"Okay."
"I could—wait, what?" Sam turned to see his father grinning.
"I said, okay. With a few conditions."
"Really?" Sam hadn't actually thought this would work. His eyes narrowed. "What conditions?"
"You check in every few days. You keep a loaded gun close. And when this is over you double up on the training you've been blowing off all month."
Sam nodded eagerly. "Yes sir."
"Get your ass out to the car, we'll go get you that bus ticket and some food to hold you over."
Sam scrambled out the door of his bedroom and out to the car. He had no intention of actually going to Bobby's when it was over. He had already planned on hitching his way to California, or maybe stealing a car, anything to get himself to Stanford. He hadn't actually thought about what he would do once he got there since school wouldn't start until September and he would have no money and no place to live, but if his father had taught him anything in the last eighteen years, it was how to survive.
He'd figure something out.