Title: a sin, so sweet and true
By: ruefulgirl
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: 3250 words
Summary: Sex pollen, Southern style.
Warnings for explicit sex full of teh angst. Title taken from "Black Velvet (LP Version)" by Alannah Myles. "Breath" by Breaking Benjamin for the second part. Beta'd by dysonrules.


Dean drags Sam through the bathroom door of their latest rundown motel room, sweating, cursing, and straining as he tries to hold his delirious brother upright. Sam feels feverishly hot to the touch.  His eyelids are drooping shut, and his limbs flop around weakly, practically useless.  His breath comes rapid and the pulse at his neck thumps like a jackhammer, too fast and too strong, and is it possible for a person's heart to explode?  God, he hopes not.

"Come on, come on," Dean hears himself chant, hears the worry and fear in his voice, but can't find it in him to conceal it. 

He slams the glass shower door aside so hard that he is sure for a moment it will jump the track, and manhandles Sam into the shower, clothes and shoes and all. 

Keeping Sam upright with one hand on his brother's chest, he uses the other to fiddle with the tap.  Water splutters out with a cough, an anemic stream impeded by years of calcification.  Dean stretches to angle the showerhead at Sam's face.  His brother jerks and makes a noise of protest when the cold water hits him full on. 

"Sorry," Dean murmurs and angles the showerhead down to strike him in the hollow of his throat.  The red powder that covers him in a fine, settled dust begins to run down his body in rivulets.  When Sam starts shivering under the icy blast, Dean curses himself and leans over to adjust the temperature of the faucets, hands shaking.

Sam seemed fine a few minutes ago, filthy and tired from the fight and the long night they'd spent scouting out Baton Rouge's seedy dives, just like Dean.  Fine.  He hadn't so much as taken a knock to the head while they had burned the succubus.  He even managed to bitch at Dean for parking down the street from the club they'd found the creature in, instead of in the parking lot. 

Then in the Impala on the way back to the motel, he had slumped in his seat, head hanging, moan slipping from between parted lips. 

"Sam, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Dean cried.

"I ... don't know," he mumbled.  "Feel bad, Dean.  Real bad ..."

Shit.  It had to be the dust.  Sam had been standing closer to the succubus than Dean, had gotten the blast of her bones and ash as she literally exploded in front of them, detonating from contact with the thrice-blessed throwing star that Bobby had secured for them.  Dean still heard her awful piercing shriek as the white-hot flames incinerated her.

Before that, though... 

That is even clearer in his mind, the echoes of it lingering there like the tendrils of a lethal gas. 

Strains of blues, the slow twang of bass guitar, the smoky rhythm of the old black singer on stage, telling his tale of sadness and heartbreak.  Clear brown brandy and white crisp vodka.  Smells of perfume, and cigar smoke, and the South, thick and humid and heavy with the past.

And her.

She caught his eyes from across the room.  Olive skin, sloe eyes, long dark hair that shone in the dim light of the crowded club.  Slow roll of hips when she moved.  Eyes over her shoulder meeting his, come hither. 

He grasped Sam's arm, tugged him along.  "It's her," he said and Sam took one look at the bare skin across her back, smooth and beautiful and begging for a man's touch, as she disappeared through a back door, and he didn't argue.  It was clear, oh so clear, that she was the one. 

The noise of the club – the hustle and people and heat of the late summer evening disappeared on the other side of the door as it slipped shut behind them.  She paused on the threshold of another door, this one leading to a set of old wooden stairs that let out into the basement. 

Lips full and red, plump and perfect, reminding him of molasses, sweet and strong-tasting, promising, promising ...

They followed. 

She waited for them at the foot of the stairs, her gaze a brand that kindled a deep burning fire in his groin.  Up close, he smelled the deliciously musky scent of her skin, felt the way her fingers trailed fire and sparks along the bare flesh of his arm as he passed her, looking around at the low sofas and private bar set up in this comfortable little hideaway .... no.


Sam paused behind him.  Her hand was on his neck, gentle and beckoning, her face leaning close to his, Sam's lips parting as if he couldn't help it.  Fear leapt up into Dean's throat, dissolving the want there.

"Get away from him, bitch," Dean ordered.

His voice startled her, flooded those beautiful brown eyes with brilliant red color, revealed teeth gleaming in a hideous smile.  Dean palmed the throwing star, saw her realize what it was.

"Don't do it," she warned, voice a slow hiss, tongue darting out like a snake's.  "I'll ruin you, boy.  I'll snatch the most precious thing you have away.  Twist it and bend it and destroy it.  Deform it so that it will never be the same."

Her muscles coiled, fingers flexed into claws, and she started chanting with her filthy mouth, Latin or Greek or some such ancient language.  And Sam was too close, stumbling back, but not fast enough and Dean couldn't wait, couldn't risk her completing whatever foul spell she was conjuring.

So he threw. 

And now, Sam is looking at him. Sam, slumping against the shower wall, head thrown back to reveal the long vulnerable line of his neck, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows.  A look of pain and smoldering need in his eyes.  Lips parted, hair damp and curling around his temples and at his neck.  Steam rising about him, seeming to rise from him.  Blue-checkered western shirt soaking wet, plastered to the fine planes and valleys of his chest, hard nipples rising in tiny obvious ridges, jolting Dean because they remind him of sex, hot and dirty and something he never associates with his beloved brother.  Something he keeps away and apart and shut tight from his pure good innocent Sam. 

Even demon blood can't sully Sam.  Sex and death and the horrors of hell don't touch him.  Cannot, because he's innocent and good, pure in a way Dean can never pretend to be.  He's the one truly good thing in Dean's life.  The one thing he will move heaven and hell to keep.

And now Sam's eyes brim with want and heat.  Dean feels his skin burning, feels her presence in the burning, feels it consuming him.  It makes him tense, causes his heart race and his dick harden and his hands rise of their own volition to touch Sam, to lean forward to lick him and suck him and ...


He flings himself back, stumbles over the tub wall and onto the slick wet linoleum.  This distance from Sam hurts.  Hurts so bad that he cries out. 

He tries to make it out the door, can't do anything but fall to his knees, cold air on his soaked clothing making his skin goosepimple, strange counterpoint to the molten lust burning underneath that skin.

"Dean?" Sam says, his voice throaty and cracking on Dean's name.  "I can't ... I need ..."

And Dean can't help but look, can't help but see Sam spread out against the shower wall, hands clenched, the bulge of his dick clearly outlined in the wet denim.  Dean's eyes fix on the sight of his brother's arousal.  Feels his own cock thrumming with an urgency he's never experienced before, a painful need that he sees mirrored in Sam's face.

Their eyes meet, hold.  A moment later Dean finds himself slamming against the wall, Sam's elbows on either side of his head, Sam's hips pressed tight against his, the whole hard long wet length of him, his erection an insistent jab against Dean's hip.  And that shouldn't feel so fucking good.  Dean stifles a groan.

Sam tilts his head downward, lips too close to Dean's ear, voice low and rasping, oozing sex and longing.  "Stop me, Dean," he pants.

Dean's fingers clench in Sam's shirt, but he honestly doesn't know whether he means to push Sam away or pull him closer.  He can't think past the roar of blood in his ears and the jet fuel of lust rocketing through his veins. 

Sam's body is straining, fine tremors shivering along his limbs.  His cheeks are flushed, his eyes wide and deep, pulse beating at his throat, fast and strong.  The lethargy that seized him earlier has transformed into feverish strength.  He grinds his hips against Dean's, slide of hard hot length against his own, notching up the incendiary blaze of want he's trying—failing—to contain.

"Sam ..." he says helplessly, unable to move, to fight this.  It's like drowning in a tsunami of sensations, sweet and terrible, and he knows it's a curse but he can't stop himself, wants to live in this moment, let himself go to a place where there's no right and wrong, no terrible painful burden of existence.  Just sensation, need.  Pure and visceral.

Sam presses his hot lips to Dean's neck, tongue tracing a path upward until he pauses at Dean's earlobe, tugging gently with his teeth, drawing a low moan from Dean.  And now his hand is splayed wide on Dean's chest, strong fingers sliding upward, curling around Dean's neck and urging him to turn his head, to part his lips to meet the slow traverse of Sam's soft mouth as he licks his way across Dean's chin to take Dean's lips in a scorching kiss.  It's Sam, Sam, Sam, everywhere, all scent and sound and motion, every labored heartbeat and gasp, every twitch of muscle and slide of bone. 

The more Sam takes, the more Dean gives, the stronger the spell weaves.  Somehow, they're moving, stumbling out the bathroom door, hands clutching one another's bodies, separation an unimaginable agony.  Sam urges them backward and they tumble to Dean's bed, and now Dean has caught Sam's fever, and he's pulling at his brother's shirt, hearing the pop pop pop of snaps as they release, shoving the shirt over Sam's smooth muscled shoulders, dragging his wet cotton undershirt over his head, tossing the clothes away.  And Dean's half-naked already, Sam's clever fingers undoing the buttons on his jeans, hot fingers shoving pants and briefs down and away, legs tangling as he kicks his way free of the barrier to Sam's skin.

His dick is hard and thick.  Sam wraps his hot hand around it, pumping and squeezing, and a growl rumbles in Dean's throat.  They're tussling for control now, rolling and shifting, and Sam's pinning his wrists down, leaning on them above Dean's head.  And God, this is so incredibly hot.  Dean's arching up to take Sam's mouth, to kiss down his neck and tongue his nipple, drawing a whine from Sam, and the sound sends a spike of pure lust to his cock. 

He doesn't think about what he's doing.  Can't.  Won't.  It's not like he can control it, anyhow. 

Sam thrusts his erection into the soft skin of Dean's hips, pre-come smearing a glistening trail, muscles bunching and swelling.  Dean shifts his hips, swings a leg around to throw Sam off balance, making Sam land on his back on the pillows, startling a whuff of a laugh out of him.  Dean smiles in response, catches his breath, and murmurs,  "Wanna taste you."

Then he takes Sam's hips in his hands and holds him down, makes a space for himself between Sam's legs, slides down Sam's body, full skin on skin contact, desperate to taste and touch.  He takes Sam's cock in his mouth, sucking and licking, can't get enough.  Sam's got his head thrown back, the line of his throat exposed, eyes closed, fingers spasming on the upstroke of Dean's tongue.  His breath comes raggedly and he's moaning, the sounds torn from him.  Dean can't really blame him.  He's just on this side of rough, teeth skimming the skin, suction hard, tongue skimming the ridge, fast and hard just the way he likes it himself.

Sam clutches at Dean's chin, urges him up.  "Dean ... God ... Don't wanna come yet."

He squeezes Dean's biceps, hisses as Dean kisses his belly, pauses again at a nipple.  Sam's rolling him over now, hand on Dean's cock, the other hand pushing a finger into Dean's ass.  And hold on!  That feels ... weird.  But good, so good.  Intense.  And for a minute he's not sure what's going on, why Sam's doing this. 

Sam fumbles for a small bottle of conditioner that somehow appeared on the bedside table.  Heat pours off his skin, from his eyes as he looks at Dean, full on and smoking.  "Gonna fuck you deep," he says.

Then Sam is scissoring him open, grunting and sweating, his huge beautiful cock red and curving toward his flat belly.  He's shuddering, shaking.  His eyes are dark, flecked with need like the need for air, desperate and uncontrollable.  And when he breaches Dean's ass, it hurts because he's so huge, but Dean doesn't care.  He needs the rhythm, needs to feel Sam's dick thrusting, hard and punishing and desperate, because release is the only drug that will save him from the fever spiking through his body. 

Soon the pain is pleasure and Dean fists his cock as he watches Sam pounding into him.  The burning is so strong that he's fusing and melting, and when Sam cries out and comes inside of him, it's only two more strokes before he's coming as well. 

He feels his eyes rolling into his skull, and it seems that he comes forever, and he's riding waves of the most intense pleasure he's ever experienced. 

Sam collapses on top of him, heavy and sweaty, and they breathe together. Dean's come is a warm, wet, intimate seal on their bellies.  In a moment Sam rolls off, lays on his side, breathing hard, and looks at Dean, who throws his arm over his face, his heart galloping. 

Without a word, Sam gently moves his arm, pulls it down and looks Dean in the face.  His lips are red and swollen, his eyes heavy-lidded and still burning.  He leans over and kisses Dean, slow and wet, tongue running along his teeth.  Dean's thighs are quivering from exertion, but he's still turned on, can hardly think straight.  He threads his fingers through Sam's hair.  Its softness surprises him, makes him moan.  Sam deepens the kiss and Dean gives into it, and it's good.  The best. 

They are both hard again in a matter of minutes, and this time Sam takes him from behind, fucking long, deep and slow, making Dean shudder and curse.  Sam smears Dean's come up and down his cock, fisting the sensitive skin until he's spurting again, crying out. 

They rest for a little while, not speaking, with Sam's thumb making lazy circles on Dean's chest.  Dean can still taste the succubus in the back of his mouth, bones and ash and darkness, wiping away all thought and reason, leaving bare raw need in its wake.  Dean closes his eyes, because if he doesn't he'll see the same need in his brother's eyes.  He dozes briefly, but when he wakes it is to reach out again.

It's a long night. 


They don't sleep.  By morning it's all over.

Dean is sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair, focusing on the beveled wood poking into his back.  The room lays wrecked around them.  It smells of sex and sweat, bedspreads rumbled, sheets tangled, clothes a twisted damp mass on the floor.  Dean makes a fist, flexing slowly, trying to keep the trembling from becoming too obvious.  His breath is hitching because his chest is tight, and his throat is squeezing shut like an unmovable metal band tightens with every passing moment.

Sam's sitting on the floor, back resting on one of the beds, hair mussed, eyes hooded and languid.  His arms are resting on his bent knees, muscles lax and spent, shoulders slumped.  He lets his head rest on the edge of the bed, face turned to Dean. 

Dean can only meet his eyes for a moment at a time, because he sees it all there in those eyes, the wild night and dark need, the betrayal and accusations.  He doesn't say any of it, doesn't need to.  

Dean thinks he'll have to leave, maybe for weeks.  Maybe for months, until the shame isn't so fresh and sharp.  He'll need to run far away, cover his tracks like the skilled hunter he is.  If he really cared about Sam's best interests, he'd leave and never come back.  Sam doesn't deserve to deal with the fallout from another one of Dean's spectacular fuck-ups. 

Just the thought of leaving, though.  It makes his eyes burn, makes the twisting inside too much to bear.  He should leave, but he can't, God, he can't.  Loves his brother too much, needs him, can't live – won't live without him. 

Dean steels himself, meets Sam's eyes even though it hurts.  Their passion and frenzy is there, hanging in the air like the scent of decay. 

A dozen tight breaths later he makes a decision to fix it, somehow.  What they did ... it doesn't have to break them.  Dean will work with the fucked-up situation.  He'll overcome it.  And Sam, he'll respond.  He'll forgive.  Maybe, he'll even forget. 

Tears spill, hot and wet.  He doesn't seem to be able to stop them.  Can't seem to care that he's falling apart in front of the one person he keeps it together for.  The one person who relies on him. 

He's done a bang-up job with Sam's trust, all right.  Yeah.  Banged it right out of him last night.   

Doesn't matter, he reminds himself.  This can be fixed.  Stranger things have happened.  Hell, strange is normal in their world.

Sam's still looking at him.  He's watching Dean's tears dribble down his face and drip off his chin to stain his wrinkled shirt.  He's quiet, impassive.  Just watching.  And his expression, usually so open, is closed now. 

Dean hasn't seen that look in his eyes before.  Shuttered.  Worn out. 

He remembers her voice, that low snakelike hiss laced with venom.  How she said she would ruin them. 

Sam's voice replayed in his mind: "Stop me, Dean."  He had pleaded for Dean to stop from perverting their brotherly bond into something carnal and unnatural ... 

Ruin.  Destruction. 

She didn't know shit.  If it's one person he knows, it's Sam.  Knows how good and kind he is, how much he loves Dean right back.  He's sure—pretty sure—that the two of them can get past this.  Time heals all wounds.  Right?  People say that all the time.  There must be some truth to it, a kernel somewhere like the myths they deal with every day.  And if Dad didn't exactly prove that one true, well, what of it? 

Thing is. 

Thing is, though, he's beginning to suspect that maybe she was right.