Preface

Fathomage
Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/8705275.

Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Fandom:

Supernatural

Characters:

Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Other(s)

Additional Tags:

Drama, Season/Series 01

Language:

English

Collections:

Sinful Desire

Stats:

Published: 2007-01-12 Words: 8,366 Chapters: 1/1

Fathomage

by calicokat [archived by sinfuldesire_archivist]

Summary

When Dean goes missing, Sam's left alone to search his big brother out. If where he finds him's unexpected, then even moreso's what it takes to get him out.

Notes

Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at Sinful-Desire.org. To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on Sinful Desire collection profile.

Fathomage

Title: Fathomage
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: 8,100+
Warning: Random acts of het, quasi non-con, incest.
Beta: black_regalia. Thanks Mar!
Notes: For undermistletoe. Inspired directly by my prompt. (Prompt at bottom.)

Unlike the first six chapters of inagadda where BR was my stealth co-author, this is actually written entirely by me and beta'd by black_regalia.

Fathomage
by calicokat

It was two weeks after the shtriga died that Dean disappeared.

Sam wasn’t surprised, at first. He hadn’t stopped talking about a brunette he’d met down at the police station. She’d been in to pay her ticket on a traffic violation, a 575M Superamerica and if Dean explained all day Sam wouldn’t understand the car, so Dean didn’t. And the girl was real fit, in what had to be five inch stilettos, legs six kilometers long, in this skirt hugging every dangerous curve and he had her phone number. Sam understood Dean’s excitement. Dean aimed for a lower caliber of woman. A dive bar caliber of women. So the Fortune 500 was looking for a kick, looking to slum it, and Dean drew the lucky number. Sam was sure that was very important to Dean in a way he was required, as Dean’s little brother, to belittle.

Except then it was two days, and Sam had to walk about six miles before he found the Impala in front of a Marriott. Keys weren’t on the tire, but in the exhaust pipe, which meant Dean had left the Impala behind, for some reason -- taken a ride in someone else’s care. (The likelihood of Dean ever leaving the Impala for Sam to find was not, in fact, remotely likely.)

It took him several days to acquire the woman’s identity from the hotel computers, through surreptitious hacking. It took him a day less to figure out she hadn’t signed in under her actual name.

It took him two months to hack a credit card company, something considerably more illegal and complicated than usual, and actually track the woman down -- still no other trace of Dean. Not a phone call, but Sam made sure his phone was charged and on him at all times. He even called their father. Twice.

Anja Omdahl. Not Fortune 500, but money enough. Club Casablanca, right in the heart of Las Vegas. The kind of old fashioned gentleman’s club that only barely let women set foot in it escorted. The club she’d inherited from her father, according to the magazines. Sam had traced the money back to the club’s account, but it only took one picture of its owner for him to know exactly who his brother had been last seen with.

Sam wasn’t exactly a gentleman. Nowhere near gentleman enough to hobnob in a place so exclusive. Sam was nothing if not an excellent liar, and with it, an excellent actor. He had the coolness under fire his brother lacked. So he drove the Impala to Las Vegas, and he counted cards. Dean had wanted to see Sam in Vegas telling the future, but Sam didn’t need a migraine’s worth of visions to steamroll a blackjack table. He needed money. A lot of money. He was only grateful Dean wasn’t around to see him win it. (There would be no end.)

Two weeks and he was used to the glitz, to the easy, upscale banter. To a drink in his hand besides a good American beer, martinis, as long as they weren’t fruity. (He could toss back a mocha gingerbread whipped cream latte, but damn if he couldn’t drink fruity liquor.)

When he got past the door at Club Casablanca, didn’t have to slip anyone money, just smiled, completely at his ease, leisure suit and his hair swept back with hair gel he’d pilfered from Dean’s bag, and the doormen didn’t give him a second glance. Even as acclimated as the most cunning of con artists, he hadn’t prepared himself for what was inside. The architecture was perfectly and distinctly Moroccan (Sam identified it easily from his higher education). Arches dominated, walls with many portals, a second story framed the gambling floor, high railing and many smaller arches, everywhere carved inlays, and the buttressed ceiling gold plated and patterned like the roof of some mosques.

Everywhere was low furniture and low tables, in the style. Only the women dressed off the theme, their clothing, though Eastern in flavor, unfit to be worn by any traditional Muslim.

Sam graciously bought two cigars from the woman at the door, and exchanged a couple thousand dollars for chips. The room was thick with smoke, the flavorful scent of cigar smoke permeating over the sharper smoke of the cigarettes.

Sometimes, Jessica had talked about driving to Las Vegas. Not to gamble. Their speed of Vegas was the Bellagio Gallery of Fine Art and Cirque du Soleil’s “O.” Sam had always argued he couldn’t let her take him to Vegas, because he barely made enough money to feed himself clerking at the courthouse. She had that New England old-money attitude that money really wasn’t an issue, but for Sam, who’d lived his whole life moving from one scam to another, it unmistakably was.

Sam played his cards carefully, literally and figuratively. He couldn’t win and move to another casino this time, but he didn’t have a lot of cash to spare at blackjack tables with a five hundred dollar minimum.

It bowled Sam over, some of the people he met. They were Fortune 500, senators, men who were unmistakably made, and high rollers willing to bet at the thousand dollar minimum tables Sam skirted carefully away from. Outside, he had a role to play, a brother to find, but inside, he’d never been more intimidated by a con. The possibility remained that someone would spot him for a plant, a phony. He’d made up his back-story, rehearsed and memorized it, but it wouldn’t stand up to any vaguely stringent background check. He had never felt more explicitly born-in-rural-Kansas, more explicitly a drifter of back roads and an imbiber of two dollar beer.

On the fourth day, he saw Dean.

Dean stood out tacky from the polished crowd, flirting with a cocktail waitress in a three piece herringbone tweed suit that looked expensive enough, but wasn’t kept straight, his tie just a hair too loose for propriety. They stood at the edge of betting floor, Dean leaning against one of those tall arches, the waitress blushing and laughing and shaking her head, backing her retreat while Dean dropped a wink and wagged his fingers saying Call me.

The sight struck Sam dumb. Here was Dean, in one of the richest clubs in one of the hardest-on-the-wallet cities in the world, flirting with waitresses like down at Bubba Jo’s, clearly, obviously well kept. The possibility that Dean had run away with a Ferrari 575M Superamerica and a hot pair of legs appeared, at this moment in time, completely plausible.

Sam choked on bile and vitriol and pushed himself up from the blackjack table, waving away the dealer telling him to keep the chips on the table. By the time he’d stormed to where Dean had been, Dean had disappeared. But if Dean was sleeping with the club’s owner, then Dean didn’t have to stay on the club floor. Sam sought out the nearest back way off the gambling floor, and knowing full well the cameras were on him, followed where he hoped his brother had gone.

It wasn’t security who came to catch him, when his search ended in frustration at two card-keyed elevators. It was Anja Omdahl, in those high stilettos and a little black dress cut low on her bosom: blue eyes, a strong nose, and a clean cut jaw, brown hair swept into a messy bun.

He hadn’t even heard her behind him.

“Looking for someone?”

Sam had the self control not to swallow.

“A man, he just came through here.”

“Does he owe you money?” Her voice was that sultry purr Sam had only heard out of women in movies.

“…something like that,” he confirmed.

“I’ve been watching you, these past four days,” she informed him, with a smile that cut like diamonds. Sam didn’t feign his surprise. “At the tables, counting cards…And you watch the slot machines out of the corner of your eye, and you move in for the small payoffs. We don’t call that gambling.”

“Can’t gamble on a sure bet,” Sam replied smoothly, and disconcertingly caught. The question hung in the air: Why am I still here?

“I’m waiting to find out what you’re up to. You wouldn’t believe it, but none of the people I hire have caught you.”

“…and you don’t care enough to point me out?”

“I’m gambling,” she exclaimed, with a look of childlike delight Sam had only seen elsewhere on his big brother. “Because I catch everyone, Mister Morce. And I can’t even play the tables.”

Sam’s anger at Dean began to subside, as he suspected, for the first time, that this might be a job. (Or maybe after Jessica he’d started to suspect everything was a job.) He tried to encourage saliva back in his dry mouth.

“Then, you’ll let me stay.”

“Mmmm…” She laughed, a giggle, and shook her head. “Right now, I’ll let you stay. But only because you’re such a handsome boy.”

It was twenty minutes later, led by the hand into the underground passages of the casino, in a blind spot between two cameras, that Anja Omdahl had Sam on his knees with her little black dress around her waist and her little zebra-striped panties around one ankle. Sam harbored the kind of fuming resentment he reserved for people that really deserved it. The last time he’d had his nose in a woman’s crotch and was lapping at her come, it had been the woman he’d been ready to marry, Halloween night with that candy stripper nurse costume discarded on the floor. Anja’s fingernails scraped his scalp, her hands rough on his hair. She came with a gasp like a squeak like a chirp, going boneless against the wall, petting his hair and telling him what a talented boy he was…and then she was gone, leaving him wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, furious, and if Dean didn’t have a damn good excuse Sam was fully prepared to take it all out on him.

He caught up with Dean after two more days, interposed himself forcibly between Dean and the two rows of slot machines, and his brother backpedaled, but the only expression on his face was relief.

He offered no explanations, just grasped Sam by the wrist and they made themselves scare in the back of the opulent club. Dean had a card to get into those elevators. Sam raised an eyebrow going up. Dean answered with a slight shake of his head. Above the club, there were apartments.

Sam guessed most of them were reserved for the most exclusive clientele, with those cocktail waitresses in their push up bras.

It was no prison cell Dean was living in. The room was posh, the bed was plush, and a TV stood on top of the dresser that had to be at least forty inches diagonal. Sam’s eyebrows drifted up appreciatively. He’d always known people lived like this, somewhere, but the room didn’t say Winchester. Nothing said Winchester and looked this ritzy.

“You’re serious -- you didn’t just forget to call me?”

Dean scoffed.

“I’ll be the first guy to tell you, I wish I could be happy here.” There was an easy chair next to the iron wrought, glass topped side table, but the Winchesters sat on the edge of the bed together, and close, so their voices didn’t carry.

“What happened?” Sam cut to the point. He watched Dean’s eyebrows inch up and his mouth make an ‘o’ and knew whatever Dean said, everything had been completely Dean’s fault. It was a damn lucky thing his brother had so much natural charisma. He was a lousy liar.

“I met back up with the chick from the police station. We went out, had a couple of rounds at this bar about three miles from the hotel…Stilettos and that skirt. Man, I shoulda known a woman like that wouldn’t go down to freakin’ ‘Lucky’s’ to shoot whiskey.”

“So you asked her where she was staying,” Sam prompted. He didn’t want to hear about her sign, or know if she enjoyed sports that demanded flexibility.

“Told her I didn’t have a place for the night. Drove her back to hers. Hell, I don’t know when we got there but we musta been at it til’ four…five in the morning.” The spark in Dean’s eyes and the grin tugging at the corners of his lips told Sam his brother hadn’t started to learn from this experience. “She’s a wildcat, Sammy. And into that spankin’, callin’ her a ‘bad girl’ stuff. Now, I don’t usually--”

“Guess how much I don’t care, Dean.”

“--…right. But this is important. I couldn’t even move after all this, and then those lips are up against my ear and she lays a…what’d she call it--…a geese on me.”

“What?”

“Like a curse.”

“A geis?”

Dean’s fingers snapped Sam’s way.

Sam tried to remember what he knew about geise, geasa. He searched his brother’s eyes, but Dean was waiting on his explanation.

“Do you remember exactly what she said?”

“I’ve seen the word before and everything. Some kinda curse, right?” Dean’s brow furrowed in a determination to remember the words.

“More than a curse. An injunction.” Sam saw in Dean’s face Dean clearly didn’t know the term. “In law, when a judge makes an injunction, a person either has to do one thing, or avoid doing something. Like…when a child molester can’t get in three hundred feet of a school.”

“Dude, when I say I was tired I mean I was wiped.” Sometimes Dean got a pathetic It’s not my fault expression on his face that made Sam want to--…

Sam just looked exasperated. Dean pressed the issue: “Not like I knew she’d just laid her voodoo on me.”

“It’s fine,” Sam said, but his eyes rolled, and then he gave his complete attention to the problem. He couldn’t believe Dean hadn’t been thinking about this. But he patiently chalked that up to the spell. “We just have to figure out exactly what it is you haven’t been able to do the past two months.”

“Seems like--…!!” Dean’s consternated expression broke into a teeth-flashing smile, eyes fixed over Sam’s shoulder. “Learn to knock, babe.”

“If I knocked, you could tell me not to come in.” Anja paid no attention to Sam. He might as well not have been there, that clear gaze honed on Dean. “Imagine all the things I wouldn’t know about you.”

“What don’t you know about me?” Dean flirted. But Dean knew how to play women. Sam marked honesty off the symptoms of the geis.

The question surprised Anja.

“I never knew you liked to tumble boys,” she demurred.

Dean didn’t miss a beat, slid his hand over the back of Sam’s and twined their fingers intimately.

“There are men out there so hot you gotta taste the rainbow.”

Sam’s blush burned in his cheeks, eyes flickering over Dean’s face to grasp the vindication that Dean hadn’t played that off without a tinge of pink. Anja fixed Sam under her rapacious gaze and Sam smiled, but shyly, and he shrugged, played it off like You caught me instead of That maniac, because their lives (probably) depended on it.

Anja smiled, visibly delighted, surveying the room imperiously before taking her seat in the easy chair.

“Don’t stop on account of me. I love to watch.”

Sam heard Dean murmuring something evasive, about how skittish Sam was and how he didn’t want to lose him. Sam had the good sense to duck his head, but his mind was too busy with possibilities to worry about making out with his brother. What commanded with a word? Was she a succubus laying sway over Dean now that she’d fed off his soul? That seemed feasible but it wasn’t a usual symptom. Geis was a Northern European term, Gaelic. The woman didn’t look traditionally Irish, and her name was definitely from somewhere around Norway, but she looked Northern European enough for anyone.

Anja insisted. Dean’s lips brushed his ear. Whatta you think, stud?

Sam slowly turned to cup Dean’s rough jaw in one hand, slanted his lips, and kissed his brother. (A Sídhe. A kind of fairy. Not one of those gem colored prints with sparkling wings in an elementary school girl’s sticker set. Real fairies were fearsome and terrible. Petty and powerful when they weren’t dangerously malicious like murderous goblin Red Caps. Now, how did you test that hypothesis?) Dean’s lips slid slick and hot against Sam’s mouth, and all Sam’s most pertinent thought was that Dean tasted like pizza.

Sam hadn’t eaten since lunch.

He sucked in a sharp breath as Dean’s teeth dragged over his lower lip, stretching it slow until he let it pop, saliva cool, against Sam’s jaw. This was deeply preferable to Dean being ordered to kill him (Sam still had the nightmarish memory of a dirty asylum, staring at Dean down the barrel of a gun with his finger pumping on the trigger), but Sam turned his resources towards finding a solution to their current predicament that didn’t end with having sex with his brother.

(A day for old experiences. Suddenly they were tongue kissing, that strong organ sweeping between Sam’s lips. A stolen kiss with a preacher’s daughter, and otherwise Sam had been alone with his hand for what had drawn on towards a year. It wasn’t, specifically, nice, in the way that kissing his brother couldn’t, specifically, be nice, but it reminded him of Quyen, the Vietnamese art student in his art history class, and more bittersweetly of Jess.)

They matched mouths like sparring, neither one of them willing to be put in some awkwardly subordinate emasculated position, sharing that power, instead, giving when they had to and taking as much as they gave. They kissed until kissed breathless, and Dean brushed his thumb over Sam’s cheek in a reassuring gesture that took Sam back to being six.

“Take your shirt off,” Dean told him, voice husky like Sam had never heard it, and it dropped lower, still. “Nobody here but us.”

Dean’s lips, those pouty lips Sam never told him made him look like girl when he was sulking, were kissed full and flush, Dean’s eyes bright but not bright enough to be called aroused. Dean’s tongue flickered across the quietly panting divide between those lips and that was all Sam needed to see to know Dean was going to suck him off. That same synergy that carried them through life and death complications, telling Sam all he had to do was make believe something that got it up.

Sam stripped his shirt off over his head. There were a lot of fates he’d prefer to ‘getting fellatio from his brother in front of the stranger he’d eaten out in a conference room maybe two hours ago (it wasn’t not rape when both parties were unwilling)’, but maybe they could have the room alone for the rest of the night if Anja would go away. (Lamia. Mostly ate children, but sometimes seduced men. Known for long sex sessions…and sucking the blood out of a man’s body after wiping them out. Didn’t fit.)

Sam’s eyes trailed down to his older brother kissing his chest. Eight months of chastity and it’d be difficult not to respond to somebody licking his nipple. He did respond, skin stiffening to a hard nub as Dean lapped at his skin, that other nipple, unattended, just starting to pebble up. Something instinctively anti-traumatic maintained his detachment from facts of his reality like, My brother is about to go down on my wood. Dean’s white teeth nipped at that punctuated bud of flesh before his slick, pink tongue found another nipple to attack and Sam wondered over the surreality of having his breasts sucked and bit at like a woman while his body submitted to an inevitable arousal.

Sam remembered a time when he’d been as carnal as he’d been cerebral. A beautiful woman in his bed, her fingernails raking over his skin, her body so small and fragile eagerly, wantonly sheathing the heat of his pounding erection, and his strength the strength of a killer of things worse than men and holding her to his body as they rocked together in the bed they shared, or in the armchair in their living room, or up against their wall.

Sam banished those memories as rapidly as they spilled over him, too precious for Anja and her hungry smile, for those lewd eyes tracing his flinching muscles, and Dean’s searching lips. Anger roiled in Sam’s stomach, anger that this woman had been using his brother, a fierce and possessive protectiveness. Dean played too eagerly and handed his body out easier than he deserved to, but that sex was consensual. Sam didn’t approve of Dean lying to women about who he was or where he came from, but the kind of women Dean went for lied right back: No, I’m not seeing anybody (Sam had seen her pocket that ring), and I’m nineteen or I’m twenty-two (Clearly: no). If anybody was getting used like a piece of meat, everybody was getting used like a piece of meat. Not this. Not Dean, so confident with is body, studded out like a piece of property to some stinking rich bitch.

“Come on,” Sam growled, easing his way back onto the mattress, guiding Dean with his fingertips as his brother slunk after him, oozing a sensuality practiced over a thousand one night stands. Sam rested his big body against the headboard of the bed, spread his legs, and Dean crawled up between them, and when Dean kissed his stomach Sam’s hand lingered at the back of Dean’s head and if Sam could take the heat of that woman’s eyes that’d be the smallest of victories, maybe enough. Dean didn’t have any of that elusive quality of honor left to protect. Sam had shielded Jessica’s from the roving eyes of men with the kind of chivalry she laughed off as cute and antiquated, but Dean was already debauched. Just…the idea of Dean reduced to nothing but his dick and for months disgusted Sam, really turned his stomach.

Nobody but me, he told his brother, just his touch and the posture, glaring sidelong at Anja, at her bubbly smile and how she bit the lacquered nail of her index finger. Dean understood, must have been sick of it all, because he didn’t reject it, only fumbled with Sam’s belt buckle and dipped his tongue into the dimple of Sam’s belly button.

“Dean. Slow down,” Anja insisted. Sam thrilled vindictively at the concern clouding her Nordic features. Her inability to connect with her pet. “You don’t want him coming before you have him.” She sounded petulant, like a child. Sam’s stomach dropped at the implication, the expectation.

Dean sat back slowly, extricating himself from Sam’s embrace. He chuckled, green eyes incredulous.

“Had him? I didn’t plan on puttin’ him on his back, darlin’,” Dean shrugged, and if they both flustered, Anja wrote it off to their heavy make out session. “I don’t even have the stuff,” Dean continued. It took Sam several seconds to place what ‘the stuff’ could be.

“You don’t let a catch like this go with oral sex,” Anja scolded, and concern flashed through Sam about his own future. “Stay right there. I’m coming back.”

She unfolded her graceful body from the chair’s deep cushions, flashed a smile, all pearly teeth, and excused herself to parts unknown.

“What is she, Dean?” Sam prompted lowly as the door closed behind her. “Lilitu? Succubus? Some kind of revenant?”

Dean shook his head, cutting Sam off.

“I remembered what she said.” Sam’s expression encouraged him to go on and spit it out. Dean got that irritated look on his face like he was about to come out with something he considered patently lame. “Do what you must to stay by my side” -- words grit through clenched teeth -- “until you have given me my first child.”

Sam’s eyebrows reached for his hairline, and his eyes dropped to what he pretended wasn’t his brother’s hard on.

“What’s wrong with the boys, Dean?”

“Dude! Shut up! There is nothing wrong with my boys.”

Sam laughed in his throat, grin breaking at the corner of his lips like it only did when Dean fucked something up.

“Look, we’ll just explain to her she picked the wrong Winchester,” he offered, reasonably.

“It’s her!” Dean protested, manhood in the balance. “It’s her witch uterus on the fritz!”

“Or your little men don’t swim upstream,” Sam offered, perversely delighted.

Dean punched him in the knee.

“You ever knocked up a girl? Yeah. I didn’t think so.”

“You’ve had a lot more chances.” Sam winced at his aching kneecap. It was still funny. Woman: not pregnant. This, apparently, was their problem.

Not, however, their most urgent problem.

They lapsed into silence, frowns in their bows in place of their surfeit of brilliant inspirations.

The problem, the real key problem, remained that they didn’t know what this woman, or creature, could do. Binding men with her words wasn’t a real promising start.

“If she’s just a witch we can’t shoot her in the head,” Sam admitted reluctantly. “That’s still homicide.”

“You’re telling me,” Dean groused.

It irritated Sam that this problem had a certain, easy resolution. Always explicit, Sam felt the need to impart that information.

“If you’d be more careful who you jumped in bed with, we wouldn’t have this kind of problem, Dean.”

“Son of a bitch, you’re not doing this now.”

“As opposed to when? Not only do you probably have HIV, or hepatitis, which I’m about to get if nobody comes up with a condom, but obviously, it’s not working out for you.” Sam gestured broadly to the room that, while well accoutremented, was also Dean’s prison.

“For fuck’s sake, Sam,” Dean snapped. “I’ve got condoms--…Stop makin’ that face!”

“What face?”

“You know what face.”

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Sam tenuously attempted to imagine getting hot and heavy with the brother he’d respected since before he could remember. A few disembodied thoughts and his mind stopped short. He’d seen Dean naked. But sharing motel rooms and skinny dipping when they were fourteen, spooning in a bed for so many early years, when Sam had a cold or was some-other-reason miserable, had nothing to do with the kind of skin on skin proposition they had in front of them.

Dean’s head craned back over his shoulder as Anja sauntered back in. He caught a black bottle of some unidentifiable lubricant and Sam didn’t have the heart to ask if it was oil based and would tear up a condom. Dean’s diseases, perhaps inevitably, were his.

“Sugar,” Dean drawled, all apologies, to Sam’s surprise. “Sam and I here were talkin’, and I didn’t get the feelin’ he was real into this plan of yours.”

Anja’s lower lip pouted her disappointment, and she glanced from Dean to Sam.

“That’s such a shame. I’d hate to see him have to go.” The way she formed those final words set off a shiver up Sam’s spine. “And I thought this was who you were here to meet,” she said, to Sam alone, denim blue eyes so sympathetic. “I’d hate to think it was some sort of…accomplice.”

Dean shot Sam a paranoid look that said explain. now., but Sam couldn’t, with Anja feet away.

“Who I was meeting,” Sam confirmed, having the showmanship to look abashed. “Not exactly what I was expecting.”

“Tell you what’ll make everybody more comfortable here,” Dean purred, reeling all eyes back towards him. “Gods were kind enough to give me a place for Sam to hole up.”

Sam’s widened eyes pleaded, No. Dean. Shit. No., but Dean was smoozing up Anja and didn’t spare him a look. There was something different about that proposition. Something dehumanizing. Dean giving up every last vestige of control over his body, to this hateful stranger, struck Sam as sickening as it struck him impossible. How did Dean even expect him to keep it up? (And even as he thought that he felt his pulse plummeting to his crotch. The sheer novelty of the goddamn thing, he told himself. Nothing incestuous. But it only made it worse to know their Dad would have already thought of a way out of this.)

Then Dean was sneaking up Sam’s body and Sam sneered and pulled him forward, crushing their lips together, an angry protest. Dean only rolled, crashed, up against him, dragging their hips together, shocking sensations through Sam’s hips that Sam only wished turned him off.

“Slut much?” Sam hissed at Dean’s cheek. His anger fell apart at the hurt flashing across his brother’s eyes. Oh, god, he thought achingly. Dean. They hovered there breathing suddenly hard with Anja making herself comfortable back in that chair and Sam nuzzled an apology against the stubble of Dean’s jaw, pressed one chaste kiss, his stomach fluttering. Years away at college, and Sam came back the little brother. Still the little brother; still expecting Dean to have some magical panacea to mend his world back together. Still expecting Dean to bust down a door with a last minute rescue…but he was supposed to be rescuing Dean.

“Alright,” he murmured audibly, pushing his hips against Dean’s body, a body gone weak and gone cold. “Like that,” he encouraged, calloused thumb tracing the ridge of Dean’s ear. He pressed a kiss against the corner of his brother’s mouth, and then slowly urged Dean’s lips apart with small laps of his tongue, feeling Dean’s whole body come to life, again.

Eyes. Always Anja’s blue eyes, on his skin, cheapening him even as memory invoked the taste of her cunt. The place his brother had been leaving himself, over and over, with no traction. Sam couldn’t change any of it, but he could make Dean forget it. He told himself he could make Dean forget it.

“I’ll take care of you,” Sam promised, hoarse but adamant. Dean’s strong body shuddered under his hands. The words meant more than Anja could know, and Sam swore to himself he’d make good on them. Dean always put on cocksure, so in control, even when he wasn’t, and he could kick Sam’s ass in a fight…but Dean was smaller, slighter, and always intensely emotional. Sam tried to imagine himself in Dean’s position, where he usually pushed and judged like the younger sibling had no other obligation than to do. Sam imagined Dean coming to that decision to open his thighs while Sam reproached him about his sex life. Sam didn’t necessarily feel bad about reproving Dean. Dean needed that, and Sam never opened his mouth without the ambition that Dean would blow him off but actually, somewhere internalize it (and always the stubborn hope that, someday, Dean would talk to him). Deserving of reprimand or innocent, Sam knew how hard that decision had to be for Dean, so fiercely priding himself on his masculinity, and after his virility had been called into question.

Sam tried to pretend he had more than three gears for emoting (detached, firmly invested, and in over his head). If he had some kind of ten speed transmission like his brother, how would he feel? (Like the Impala that first time before Dean beat “how to work the clutch” into him, lurching around with a terrific grinding noise.)

They found their rhythm, hips sliding together slow and comfortable, and Sam’s hands leaving Dean’s head to rediscover his brother’s body, Dean’s hand fisted in the messy hair at the nape of neck and Dean’s hand fisted against his bare chest, fingers splaying as Sam’s explorations invited his own, the lube resting on the comforter against Sam’s hip and little hope of getting Dean under that covering, with the voyeurism all of Anja’s pleasure.

Sam heard her sigh her arousal from feet away across the room and felt his anger against her redouble. His hand slipped down to steady Dean’s hips. Their eyes met, Sam’s full of intention, and Dean nodded, only slightly, before they changed their positions, Sam easing Dean onto his back as he slipped out from under him, swinging one leg over to straddle him as he clutched a fistful of Dean’s shirt and nosed his way down to nip at his brother’s neck.

Sam couldn’t make excuses about his arousal now, and he’d felt enough of Dean’s to rest easy that his brother wouldn’t be flaccid on his back through the whole thing, an idea more disgusting than incestuous intercourse. Maybe it was worse that they weren’t sisters, Sam entertained perversely. Girls could fake it, and men had to live with the fact that a little skin and friction and they were pretty much ready to commit to the full gamut.

It wasn’t until Dean had his shirt off that things became difficult. Sam glanced up at his big brother, his lips against Dean’s sternum, and Dean’s head was back, his eyes shut, his lips parted, that lower lip trembling, the small, stiff hairs on his jaw prickling upwards at this strange angle, and then those black lashes fluttered and Dean gazed down his body at him, a pretense of strength in his gaze but half his features betraying him, and Sam thought, I’m not supposed to see this.

He glanced away shyly, to where his fingers rested on his brother’s skin, the thin organ that housed that powerful body and everything Sam had come to know as brother. Dean’s boundless enthusiasm, his doggedly bawdy sense of humor, the panic and the concern when Sam went down on the job, the love when Dean pretended not to care about something that socked him right in his gut, or something that terrified him maybe more than it terrified Sam. And somewhere in there was that panicky, kittenish Dean who trusted Sam to talk him through riding on an airplane, who Sam half expected to grab his hand in the white noise of the boarding passage. Every facet of that man underneath a fingertip tracing the slight give of the skin of Dean’s ribcage, but Sam had all of his brother he could ask for, and knew Dean better than Dean could imagine. This, Sam didn’t want.

“Unwrap the goodies,” Anja cooed lasciviously, all anticipation. Sam had it in her to kill her where she sat, but the better nature not to.

“Are you going to touch yourself?” he demanded frigidly, with an iciness that surprised him, and must have startled Dean. Dean flinched under his hand.

“Do you want me to?” Anja was only coy, his temper fanning her amusement.

Sam shook his head. She didn’t, couldn’t understand the point.

“I’m not doing this for you,” he said, more softly, dropped his eyes to Dean’s and riveted those unsettled depths. Just you and me, his eyes promised, again.

“I’m waitin’, Sammy,” Dean whispered, sex a resolution, and he slipped a foil two pack of condoms out of his jeans pocket, offered them up, pinched sidelong between his index and middle finger. Sam plucked them away, held them in his teeth as he unfastened the belt Dean wore.

Dean had always considered underwear the providence of men less likely to lose their pants.

Dean’s penis was nothing Sam hadn’t seen before, but it looked different erect, stiff and flushed as he worked it up out of Dean’s jeans. Maybe smaller than he expected, until he realized again Dean was a smaller man than he was. Dean was definitely getting the raw end of the bargain.

Sam spit on his palm and closed his hand around that strange sex, as male and alike to his as any body’s could be. He’d never had his hand on another man’s cock before. Heterosexual circle jerks weren’t a part of his childhood, just like friends hadn’t been. Dean groaned as Sam worked his body, a sinful, pleading sound, but Sam only pumped his dick that much more firmly, the skin still too loose for Dean to be fully erect, and he wanted Dean distracted because he had the uncomfortable notion he might screw this up, or hurt Dean in some way.

“Your hand is fucking huge,” Dean grit. Sam slapped Dean’s thigh, like that wasn’t the worst comment Dean could come up with. Dean peered up at him through a haze of unwelcome pleasure, only two seconds, and his eyes widened. Sam gaped at Dean like Dean was slow. His shoulders twitched a helpless shrug. Little nuances of expression understood only between the two of them, a silent conversation Anja couldn’t be a part of. Sam thanked Christ for that, and Dean clenched his eyes shut, exasperated, and let his head fall back against the pillow, where another low moan eked its way from his throat.

When that too-soft skin was taut around Dean’s erection, Sam eased Dean’s pants off Dean’s long legs. His face beat red as they stretched carelessly over the bed, as if completely unaware of the impression that pale skin inside Dean’s thighs struck on Sam’s expectant erection (still looking for a woman), but it was just Dean, too casually sexual to meter his own impact.

Sam shed his own pants with unsteady hands, sparing a glance at Anja, completely still in her chair and paying no attention to their faces. She wouldn’t be, Sam admitted. Apparently her biological clock was off the hook. That primitive brain between his legs swore up and down if it had five minutes it’d fix her problem. Sam blushed deeper at that feral sexuality, the sudden element he recognized as competition, between himself and Anja for Dean’s attention, between himself and Dean, to prove unmistakably that he was the Winchester with the surplus virility she’d been seeking, and that was for Dean, too, but underneath it the most bestial of urges.

He reached up to rip the condoms open, foil tearing between his teeth and hands. The rubber rolled tighter than usual over his erection. It was comfort, not flattery, that had him and Jessica shopping for Trojan Magnums at the mini-mart down the street from their apartment.

Dean’s expression gawked Seriously? and Sam shot back with What am I supposed to do?

Dean fingers stumbled over the lube and then he pitched it towards Sam, shifting with new apprehensions against the mattress and Sam knew he was going to hell but that turned him on. (Which made the condom fit a little less comfortably, yet.) The sensation caught him by surprise. It could have been the vindication of finally showing Dean that yes, he was, in fact, a more than sexually capable man. And there was the element of Dean, because no matter how much Sam rolled his eyes and derided, Dean had shaped all of his sexual development, nicking a copies of Penthouse and slipping them to him behind Sam’s back, and teaching him how to find the porn on a motel television, and more importantly, how to discriminate. (Two women and a cucumber > Three men and one woman. Even Jess had agreed, on those slow nights when they’d taken her Acura down to the all night adult bookstore and she was hanging off his waist biting her lower lip and making important decisions.)

Dean left his thumbprint right in the middle of Sam’s sex life. (Apparently, Sam was about to put a little more than his thumb in the middle of Dean.)

Sam had never seen his brother’s face so red.

Sam believed firmly in going down on a woman before he took any liberties, unless she was in a certain mood. Sam found the clitoris the second time he was between his girlfriend’s legs. (It helped that he actually read the articles in girlie magazines.) Somehow, that didn’t carry over to this situation.

Anja was watching. Waiting. Sam popped the lube open before that salacious voice stole Dean’s attention from him. It slicked on smooth over the condom, and he massaged his fingers into that flesh and tried to ease the tension against it. Dean watched Sam, too, as Sam rolled that viscous fluid over those inches of skin he’d blustered his way into inviting inside him. Sam dropped his gaze, averted his eyes, just focused on lubing up everything Anja expected pushed inside his brother. The lube smeared across the covers as he crawled up between Dean’s legs, looked at him, firmly, because it would have been easier not to but it couldn’t be right to not be there with him. Dean adopted stoicism, no Please be gentle from that corner, but Sam wanted to be gentle, anyway.

The problem of Dean’s hips confronted Sam as he looked down. As a heterosexual man, Sam found himself sufficiently satisfied by the vagina. He could’ve been a lesbian, the way he loved that intimate skin. He aimed to please, but he’d never been asked for anything on the side.

So here were his brother’s hips, that erection still stiff up between them and his balls hanging exposed amidst dark curls of hair, that and the shadow of Dean’s thighs hiding what Sam set his sights on. Thighs that begged a whole new kind of sin. Sam touched them. Dean’s hips flinched involuntary, those impossible muscles rippling underneath skin a poet could go to town on. Scars riddled Dean’s tanned flesh, thin and white and one jagged and raised, but here the skin stretched unbroken and pale. Sam had the foolish, romantic notion of guarding this junction where everything sexual about his brother came together, but the reality was they were in Las Vegas, where prostitutes plied their trade, in a club where the rich got richer and other men threw their savings to the wind, with a dangerous woman sitting at the bedside, a woman who’d made Dean her slave.

Sam couldn’t protect Dean from anything. Not a damn thing. And he’d violate him worse.

He pushed up his brother’s thighs, rolled them back, Dean’s breath hissing between Dean’s teeth, and sure enough there was a pucker of flesh hidden away there, small and curling in on itself, looking so exposed and perversely inviting. Sam dolloped more lube onto his index finger, and on fire with shame, he pressed that digit against Dean’s skin and watched it part around it like he’d prayed it wouldn’t. Dean grunted, but cottoned to it, spreading his hips a little wider as Sam fucked him on his finger. The man Sam loved more than anybody alive, but not, never like this.

“Bite your thumb,” Sam warned, rough and no alternative, afraid Dean would split his lip with his teeth. He let himself pretend Anja wasn’t there, although anger still simmered in his breast. He let himself pretend this was something Dean wanted, needed, even, because Anja didn’t know Sam had come to break Dean loose, and Anja couldn’t know, because whatever her power, Dean was only a thing to her.

Sam nudged his erection against Dean’s body, then pushed, and Dean parted impossibly wide and Sam’s stomach dropped right into the heat of crotch. Dean choked a startled sound behind his thumb and Sam stopped up short, glanced up at the brother whose face he didn’t want to see. Dean’s face winced with something close to pain, but he nodded, no second thoughts, and Sam slowly and carefully buried himself inside him, sliding deeper and, when he thought surely he couldn’t go any farther, deeper still, until the full length of him was hot inside his brother.

Sam dropped his eyes with morbid fascination. He imagined he could see a faint bulge in Dean’s stomach. Only his imagination, but his whole body shuddered. He knew in that moment he could do this. Fuck his brother. And Dean could take it. The shame ran all through him but the lust ran molten. He slid out, all the way out, and he climbed over Dean, lowered his body, so that his elbows rested against those broad sides, his hands underneath. And then his knees pushed against the mattress and he thrust up inside him, staring right in Dean’s eyes, and Dean staring back, too much between them and the rapport all-powerful. Dean flinched at the corner of his eyes. Their breathing and Sam’s heart pounding bloodless in his ears muted that sexual squelching sound as Sam began to move.

Dean dug his nails into Sam’s shoulder, and Sam bit his lower lip. No kissing. Not sex for kissing. Not sex for lovemaking, however much love. Sex for the sake of a stranger’s pleasure, too much wrong, and Dean’s body too open, stretched too wide, Dean’s knees sharp against Sam’s sides and the condom too tight. Sam groaned at the sumptuous way Dean’s hips gave every beat he pumped against them, Dean, surrendered completely, a more profound surrender than Sam had ever asked from him in all his pushing and coaxing, so sudden Sam rolled to the brink of coming with only the profundity of it. Sam’s surged against him, no short thrusts from his hips but an unrelenting deluge, the thick muscles of his arms and the power of his thighs reducing his body to one undulation, an undulation that began and ended within Dean.

Dean’s mouth still hung open, and he moaned and he grunted and gasped, delving in Sam’s eyes for some kind of meaning, when his own eyes didn’t flinch shut, the force rutting inside him stealing every last vestige of thought. Sam devoured the sight of him, his headstrong brother coming undone, his own vulgar noises groaning from his throat.

No one else in the room but the two of them. No one else mattered.

Sam came thunderously inside the tight condom, and with a cry, so hard against it he hurt. He fumbled for Dean’s erection, pumped it brusquely, demanding Dean ease his perversity, let go and spill between their stomachs, his body still rolling against Dean’s body, his body still coming in a second spurt.

Dean obliged him, if he even had the choice to hold back, shuddering out an orgasm with a sound so helpless that Sam closed his mouth against it and swallowed it to save it from Anja, suddenly remembered’s, ears.

As their lips parted wetly, Sam’s eyes wandered down Dean’s trembling body, shocked at the extent of his own handiwork. He stroked Dean’s side, soothing, and shivering himself, ignoring the insult of Anja’s slow clapping.

“I came,” she whispered, and Sam hated her even more vehemently, but Dean was too much, too overwhelming, for that hatred to take precedent. Sam saw everything women wanted in Dean. Everything his body wanted in Dean. Dean gave himself away to an abandonment so total that any minute he lay in coitus was his partner’s, and that person’s alone. Sam’s hand rose from Dean’s shaking side to brush his thumb over that bruised lower lip. He slipped out of that deliciously tight entrance into the fathomage of his brother, guilty knowing he should be at least one person who didn’t see Dean as a warm body for sex, who didn’t encourage those lewd tendencies that reduced his brother to a slattern for any taker.

He kissed him gently on those lips, and Dean felt his guilt and resented it, glaring.

Anja rose once again from that comfortable chair, straightening her skirt over her legs.

“I need to masturbate, boys.” She left them there, bodies sweating, still recovering their breath.

Dean’s eyes said Don’t, and Sam didn’t. He only climbed off Dean and rolled the condom off his fading erection, threw it in the trash, disgusted with himself, and Dean’s sweat on his skin, but he let Dean take the first shower.

Anja let Sam leave the casino, go back to the cheapest hotel he could book in Vegas on short notice. He came back, waited leaning back against one of those arches and smoking a rum dessert cigar, the flavor repugnant, but nobody questioned his loitering.

When he stepped off the elevator with Anja Omdahl, he slammed her into the door of her suite, yanked the pins from her hair, all that anger pouring out, and his lips savage against her.

“What are you? Even human?” he snarled into her ear, still fuming with indignity, her naked body panting underneath him beneath red silk sheets stained with cum.

“Spá-kona,” she breathed, her eyes closed, and then she laughed: “Seið-kona.”

A black magic woman of the icy north.

Sam idled four weeks working at a convenience store, babysitting Dean’s precious car. Dean called Sam on a rainy Tuesday, Anja pregnant -- apparently, ecstatic -- the geis dissipated, and it didn't matter if Dean had given her sperm or given her Sam.

Sam picked Dean up out front of Club Casablanca, and they drove East. Two days together, and neither of them spoke, and on the third day, it wasn’t about Las Vegas. The seið-kona’s had left them with strong injunctions. There was no possible hunt behind them. Only the brothers Winchester left to live with each other, and their father still someplace unknown.

----

Prompt:

Club Casablanca—an exclusive gentlemen's club where exotic hostesses cater to the every need of high-stakes gamblers, politicians and big-business execs.

No rules apply. And no unescorted women are allowed. Ever. But Ally Danner has to get in—to rescue her sister from the club's obsessive owner, Jason Aragon. And undercover FBI agent Sam Sinclair is just the man to help her. In return she'll use her inside knowledge to get Sam the evidence he needs to put Jason away.

Only, once they get caught up in the club's hedonistic allure, the only favors they end up trading are sensual….

Afterword

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