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Goddamn fucking witches.
Dean cursed their dirty rotten luck the moment he and Sam had realized the sudden influx of mysterious statues in town, all with a suspiciously similar likeness to the recent spate of missing persons, was the work of a coven. He hates dealing with witches, with their obsession with bodily fluids and insatiable need to fuck around with shit best left alone. But the job's the job, and he doesn't get to punk out just because witches give him the willies, so he's done his best to grimace and bear it. Though, he can admit, not without a heavy dose of complaining that's given even Sam on his bitchiest day a run for his money.
Sam gets his geek on and figures out the spot where the coven's been meeting to cast their freaky statue spells for who-the-fuck-knows-what reason, and Dean comes up with a sophisticated plan involving kicking down the door and lighting them up with a witch-killing Molotov cocktail. Simple, but effective, and Sam doesn't have a better idea so he can shut the hell up.
The first part of the plan goes off without a hitch. The door's helpfully unlocked and doesn't even need kicking down, and the three witches—hippy-dippy types in their forties, the kind that seem more likely to be into crystals and patchouli than demon-harnessed powers—are distracted enough by their chanting that he and Sam are able to free the two college-aged kids bound in chairs in the center of the room. They send the kids running, and not a moment too soon, because the Woodstock trio has finally caught wise to the interruption and are turning towards Dean and Sam with murderous intent.
The Janis Joplin look-a-like—the leader, Dean assumes—flicks her hand and the witch-killing cocktails go flying, smashing against the cement floor, which is a non-ideal scenario. But Dean's willing to bet these three are new enough to the witch game that they'll die like regular humans if he can get a shot off.
"Plan B," he yells at Sam. They never actually discussed a Plan B, but they've been hunting together long enough for him to trust that Sam will figure it out. He makes his way towards the leader, leaving Sam to battle it out with Burning Man and Flower Power.
Janis looks mean as hell, but Dean's easily got a hundred pounds on her, and he's spent his life fighting monsters way scarier than this chick, so he's pretty sure he can take her in a fair fight. Of course, Dean forgot the cardinal rule of witches, which is that they never fight fair. He's barely within spitting distance when she shouts out some mumbo jumbo and dramatically flicks her fingers at him, hitting him with droplets of Dean-doesn't-want-to-know-what. A sudden, searing pain splits through Dean's skull, sending him to his knees. It's only for a second, but it's long enough for the witch to get the upper hand. She grabs a fistful of Dean's hair, jerking his face towards Sam and the other two witches, and Dean's stomach drops, because it's the kind of move the baddies like to use when they've got their hooks in his brother and want to make him watch.
Except Sam seems to be holding his own—one witch is on the floor cradling what looks like a broken arm, and the other's circling Sam warily, their rapidly blinking eyes and the large, bloody gash on their forehead making Dean think they're having difficulty thinking up a spell to hit his brother with. The relief that Sam's okay is followed swiftly by a rush of blinding anger, and the adrenaline is enough to break the witch's hold. He whirls on her, reaching for his gun, and prepares to make some witty statement before pumping her full of lead. He doesn't get the chance.
"Oh, fuck," the witch says as she meets his eyes. And then she promptly turns to stone.
Dean blinks. "What the fuck?"
"Candy!" one of the other witches calls out in despair. And what the fuck?
"Seriously?" Dean says, turning towards the voice. "Her name was Candy?"
He looks towards the witch lying on the floor near Sam, still clutching their arm, and the moment their eyes meet, Flower Power turns to stone.
"What is happening!?" Dean shouts, whirling towards Sam.
"Dean, don't!" Sam calls, but it's too late. He faces Sam, who's come to a dead halt, his eyes screwed shut. Witch #3 is not so lucky.
"You killed my—" the witch shouts, eyes spitting fire only long enough to meet Dean's gaze, before they, too, turn to stone.
Dean blinks again.
"Uh… Sammy?"
"Yeah, Dean?" Sam replies, his eyes still firmly closed.
"I think I might be cursed."
Sam snorts. "Yeah, Dean, I think that's a safe bet. Why don't you face away from me, okay? And, uh… maybe close your eyes?"
Dean grumbles, but does as he's told. "Okay, done. You have any idea what's happening?"
He hears Sam move, then the rustle of pages as he thumbs through the coven's spellbook. "Well it seems like some kind of… A-ha! Yeah, it's a Medusa Curse."
"A Medusa Curse?" Dean's hands run nervously through his hair. "I'm not gonna sprout snakes am I? Cause long hair just isn't my thing."
He can practically hear Sam roll his eyes. It's not as satisfying when he can't see it, but Dean still grins.
"No, Dean, you won't grow snakes out of your head," Sam says, in a not-so-patient tone. "You just can't look anybody in the eyes, or they'll immediately turn into stone."
Dean lets out a breath. "Bummer."
"Yeah, I'd say so."
"But you're gonna fix me, right Sammy? Eyes like mine deserve to be stared into."
Sam grumbles something under his breath, too low for Dean to catch. Dean decides to assume it's something about how spectacular he looks from behind, and gives his ass a little flex to reward Sam. Sam sputters, clear evidence he was checking out Dean's ass, and Dean smirks.
"Actually, I think the spell should wear off on its own," Sam finally says.
"You think?"
"I'm pretty sure, yeah."
"Well why don't you get all the way sure before I turn your ass into the Statue of Liberty?"
Sam sighs heavily, fumbling with something before the familiar sound of a ringtone echoes through the warehouse.
"What did you boys do now?" Bobby says by way of greeting, which… is fair, so Dean figures he can't really get offended.
Sam clearly feels the same, because his tone is sheepish as he answers, "Dean got himself cursed."
Bobby lets out an aggrieved sigh. "Of course he did. Well okay then, let me have it."
Sam and Bobby spend the next several minutes nerding out over ancient Greek or whatever the hell language the spell was written in while Dean hums Stairway to Heaven once, all the way through. Somehow he manages to get properly into it, air guitar solo and all, so he completely misses when Sam gets off the phone with Bobby until he hears him shout his name in a way that makes Dean pretty sure it's not the first time Sam's said it.
Dean clears his throat. "What'd Bobby say?"
"He agrees with me. The spell will wear off on its own. Best guess is twenty-four hours."
"Well how the hell are we gonna test that for sure? Not exactly something an apology will fix if you're wrong."
A long pause. "It should work on anything living, so I guess I'll go to a pet store and get a rat or something."
Dean makes a face. "Aww, you're gonna make me ice a little Ratatouille?"
"Well hopefully Bobby and I know what we're talking about and you don't kill him with your stone cold good looks." Sam delivers the pun so evenly, Dean almost misses it. He's reluctantly impressed. "But that's beside the point," Sam continues. Right now we need to get you back to the hotel and away from all the unsuspecting people just waiting to be looked at."
Dean grimaces. "You got something to blindfold me with?" Sam's a little too quiet, and without being able to read his expression, Dean's totally in the dark about what's going through his mind, which frankly makes this whole thing even more annoying. "Come on, Sam. We can't risk me accidentally opening my eyes and turning all the poor townsfolk to stone. A blindfold's our best bet."
"Yeah," Sam agrees, startling Dean with how close his voice is. "I just thought I'd have to talk you into it."
The sound of cloth tearing, and then, "Here," as something soft brushes against Dean's cheek. Dean jerks away.
"What is it? I don't wanna put on something any of those hippy witches were wearing. You know I hate the smell of potpourri."
"Yeah, I know." Sam's voice is soft, fond. "It's mine, from my shirt. One of them tore a big hole in it while we were fighting, so it was done for anyway. That acceptable?"
Sam damn well knows it is. Like Dean would ever turn down the opportunity to get any part of Sam all over him.
"Yeah, I guess," he says, pretending to play it cool even if they both know the truth. He holds still as Sam slides the soft cotton over his eyes, pulling it taught and tying it securely.
"How's that?" Sam asks. "Not too tight?"
The world is dark and smells like Sam—sweat and pine-fresh body wash. "Nope. Perfect."
Sam's hands slide down Dean's neck, thumbs briefly digging into Dean's shoulder in a quick massage that leaves Dean shuddering. "Good. Let's get you back to the hotel."
Dean reluctantly hands over the keys to his baby—despite his numerous assertions that he could drive her blindfolded and with one hand tied behind his back, he's not actually in the mood to prove that theory.
"Don't worry, Dean," Sam says as he guides Dean to the side of the car like some old lady needing help with her groceries. "The twenty-four hours will be up before you know it."
Dean sighs. Somehow, he doubts it.
"I'm bored."
Sam makes no reply, but even his silence sounds judgemental. Dean glares in what he assumes is Sam's general direction.
"How much longer?" he wheedles. There's only so much doing and seeing nothing that Dean can take before he loses it.
"About six hours, give or take."
Dean groans. "Sam. Sammy. I'm not gonna make it, man. I'm going out of my mind here."
Sam sighs, but this time he sounds more sympathetic than dickish. "Yeah, I know. But it's just a little longer…"
Dean pouts, collapsing back on the bed, staring up at nothing, because the goddamn blindfold is still wrapped around his head.
"Maybe I could take it off if I promise not to look at you. At least then I could watch some TV." He tried just listening to a slasher movie earlier, but it just wasn't as satisfying when he couldn't see the gory aftermath of Hatchet Man's latest slicing spree.
"Dude, I'm not risking my life because you can't be at one with your inner thoughts for a full day," Sam snarks before pausing, then continuing in a more conciliatory tone, "I could leave if you wanted? Spend the day at the library or something. That way there's no risk of you accidentally ganking me, and you can stay here and watch all the shitty network television you want."
It's a generous offer, Sam exiling himself for Dean's comfort, and it makes Dean's belly grow all warm and melty, even as he starts shaking his head. It's stupid, but Dean doesn't really want to be alone right now, even if it means he can't see a goddamn thing. "Nah, we probably shouldn't split up."
Dean can't really think of a good reason for them not to, other than he just wants Sam near him, so he doesn't bother giving one, and Sam doesn't push it. Instead, Dean hears Sam get up, come closer, his hand brushing over Dean's denim-clad leg in a way that makes Dean Jr. perk right up.
"Sam?"
"I know it's… hard," Sam murmurs, voice all low and smoky as his hand drifts closer and closer to Dean's dick. "But if you're looking for a way to pass the time…"
"Fuck, do you even have to ask?" Dean says, already reaching for the hem of his shirt to tug it off. Sam's been keeping his distance since Dean got cursed like it was sexually transmittable or something. But if Sam's down to bone, passing the rest of the time until the curse is lifted just got a whole lot easier.
"Woah, easy there, cowboy," Sam says with a laugh, reaching out to stop Dean from ripping off his shirt. "Remember you've got on a blindfold that absolutely can't be dislodged."
"Okay…"
"Which means we're taking this slow." Sam punctuates this by raising up Dean's shirt inch by inch, easing it up and off with shiver-inducing slowness, before leaning in and whispering in Dean's ear, "And I'm in charge."
Dean snorts. "What, are we pretending you're usually Mr. Easy-Breezy in the sack?"
"Oh fuck off," Sam replies lightly. "I'm saying that usually we've got a bit of give and take. But I don't trust you not to lose yourself in the heat of the moment and forget there's a very good reason you've got that blindfold on. So if we're doing this, your only job is to lay back and relax."
"Ugh, fine," Dean says, splaying himself out on the mattress and acting put upon, even though he's kind of intrigued. He's never had sex while blindfolded before—the idea of it is surprisingly hot.
Even without being able to see Sam, Dean can tell he's smiling as his hands slowly trail down Dean's throat. His fingers toy briefly with Dean's nipples before dancing across his abs and flicking open the button of his jeans, undoing the zip. Dean's already painfully hard, erection eagerly pushing through the provided opening, and Sam hums as he drags off Dean's jeans and boxers, leaving him totally naked.
"The real question is," Sam muses, rubbing his thumbs slowly against the inside of Dean's calves, "what do I want to do with you?"
"If you're looking for ideas, I've got a few suggestions," Dean says in his lewdest tone, gyrating his hips and making his dick sway in what he hopes is an enticing manner. Judging from Sam's burst of laughter, he may have missed the mark.
"Oh you do, do you?"
"Come on, Sammy. Put your mouth on my dick."
Sam hums, and Dean hears the sound of him undressing, briefly walking away from the bed before quickly returning. A moment later, something slick and tight wraps around Dean's dick, but it's not Sam's mouth.
"Fuck," Dean groans as Sam's hand works him over, perfect pressure born of years of practice. It's no blowjob, but Sam's got magical hands—Dean's not complaining. Besides, it feels even better than usual, more intense somehow, like not being able to see Sam's massive paw wrapped around Dean's cock has managed to heighten the pleasure.
Sam chuckles. "Damn, it's been a while since I've seen you so hot over a handjob."
"Whatever, dude. We haven't fucked since before the case—I'm desperate, sue me."
"Such a baby," Sam says, which is maybe a bit weird considering he punctuates his words with a slick twist of his wrist that has Dean's toes curling, but hardly the weirdest thing about having sex with his brother, so… "You want me to make you come like this?"
Dean pauses, thinks about it. "Depends on what else is on the menu."
Sam tsks. "Chef's choice." Sam jerks him harder, faster, and Dean begins to pant as his orgasm grows closer. "Better decide quick," Sam teases.
"Ugh, fine, door number two!" Dean practically shouts, and Sam immediately stops. The pressing need to come slowly recedes, leaving Dean still keyed up and desperately horny.
"Good choice," Sam all but purrs, self-satisfied in a way that makes Dean's stomach flip. He wonders what he's in for. Given the amount of lube Sam slathered on his dick, he has a feeling a blowjob is out. At least, Sam giving him one. Maybe Sam'll climb up and feed his dick into Dean's mouth. Or maybe he'll slide between Dean's legs, spread him open. It's been a while since they've done that, and Dean's dick throbs at the thought, blindfolded and helpless as Sam presses inside of him, makes him take it.
He loses himself for a moment in all the filthy possibilities, and it's not until Sam has climbed on top of him, straddling his waist, that he jolts back to the present. He licks his lips.
"You want my mouth?" he asks, his voice already sounding like he's gone a few rounds with Sam's monster dick.
Sam hums, his thumb sliding over Dean's lower lip in a soft caress, making Dean's mouth drop open.
"Tempting," Sam says sincerely. "But no. I had something else in mind."
Dean's brow furrows, but he doesn't have long to contemplate what Sam means, because moments later Sam's grabbed Dean's slick erection, nudging it up against what can only be his ass. Dean's mouth drops open.
"Sam?"
"Hmm?" Sam hums vaguely in response as he begins to sink down, slow and steady, until he's taken Dean all the way in.
"Oh, you bastard," Dean says with feeling as Sam squeezes him tight before beginning to rock leisurely on Dean's lap.
"Problem, Dean? I can stop if you'd prefer…?" He moves like he's about to get off Dean's lap entirely, and even though Dean knows it's a bluff, he can't stop himself from reaching out blindly, groping for Sam's hips and pulling him back down. Sam laughs, a little breathless.
"Don't you dare," Dean growls. "I just didn't think you'd be using your yearly butt-fucking allotment during the one time when I can't see."
"Don't be dramatic," Sam scoffs, continuing to slide and swivel his hips in a way that makes Dean's breath ragged and his eyes roll back in his head—not that it makes much of a difference, what with the blindfold at all. "I give you my ass at least twice a year."
"Well next time better be when I can see it." Dean means to sound stern and threatening, an effect somewhat ruined by the guttural moan he ends on when Sam braces his hands on Dean's chest, leans forward, and starts really moving.
"Yeah, sure," Sam pants. He's letting out all these hot little grunts as he slides up and down on Dean's dick, and Dean knows Sam's prostate isn't as sensitive as Dean's, that he doesn't experience quite the same level of enjoyment from getting dicked down the way Dean does, but fuck if he doesn't sound like it's really doing something for him now.
"How's it feel?" Dean moans, begs, desperate to hear about what he can't see. "Is it good?"
"Yeah, Dean," Sam murmurs, his thumbs brushing Dean's nipples, breath ghosting across Dean's lips as he leans in close. "Feels good. Full."
"Fuck," Dean grits out, before pushing his head up, offering himself for a kiss. He gets Sam's cheek at first, before Sam obligingly turns, their mouths finally meeting.
They both moan, and Sam seems to redouble his efforts, one hand slipping from its perch on Dean's chest to work over his dick. Dean can't see it, which is killing him, but he can feel as Sam's knuckles brush against Dean's stomach on every pass. Sam's getting close, hips and hand moving faster in tandem as he chases his peak, mouth growing increasingly uncoordinated against Dean's as the need to come apparently supersedes everything else. Dean's right there with him, his hips thrusting up, chasing Sam's clenching heat as his thighs tremble and his hands fist the bedsheets.
"Close," Sam grunts, and Dean can't tell if it's a question or a statement, but from the sound and feel of it, they're neck-in-neck.
Still, to Dean's shock, he's the one that crosses the finish line first, his hands flying to Sam's hips and holding him down as he empties himself deep in Sam's ass. They both moan, and Sam doesn't bother moving again, just clenches around Dean's sensitive dick as he jerks himself harder and faster, until he unleashes a fountain of jizz onto Dean's lower stomach.
They're both breathing hard in the aftermath, like they've just spent the last hour getting chased by killer zombies instead of the much more pleasurable activity that's occupied their time. Dean's fingers itch with the desire to rip off this stupid blindfold and gaze upon Sam in all his sweaty, post-coital glory—hair damp, expression hazy and satisfied, with heaving tits to rival any chick's. Sam in the moment after he nuts is one of Dean's favorite versions of his brother, and he doesn't care that this curse is only twenty-four hours, that he'll have plenty more opportunities to see Sam with his post-sex glow—he pouts.
"Aww, what now? That lake's worth of splooge you just fucked up into me not enough to lift your mood, sour puss?"
Sam climbs off him, and no it's not enough to lift Dean's mood, because now Sam's reminded him that Dean's come is leaking out of Sam's ass right now, a filthy, pearly sheen indicating Dean's claim, and he can't see it. He doesn't deign to answer, and a second later something warm and damp whacks him in the face. Dean lets out a manly squawk of outrage.
"What the fuck!?"
"Don't act like you can't tell that's a washcloth, Dean. Unless you want to lie there covered in come."
"Maybe I do," Dean retorts, but, well, he actually doesn't, and the washcloth is right there, so he furtively makes use of it.
Sam doesn't say a word, though his amused snort speaks volumes. A moment later Dean hears the shower start up, and he's filled with an outsized envy—the potential risk, while admittedly low, isn't worth waiting another who-knows-how-many hours before can clean up properly. Sam would probably say that only wiping off after sex has never been an issue for Dean before, and he's only fixating on taking a shower now because he can't have one. To which Dean would say, shut the fuck up, Sam, nobody asked you.
His imaginary argument with Sam lasts through the end of Sam's shower, pine-fresh steam wafting into the motel room as he exits the bathroom. Dean metaphorically twiddles his thumbs as Sam gets dressed, grabs his laptop, settles into the bed next to him. The sex was great, but Sam seems to think one orgasm each is the end of it. Dean thinks the curse isn't over just yet, and…
"I'm bored," Dean says as soon as it sounds like Sam's fully settled into bed.
Sam sighs, again, and Dean turns his head to look at him, hoping he looks as plaintive and pathetic as he feels, still buck-ass naked with only a blindfold for company.
"How much longer again?"