Dean managed to keep hold of the machete as he slammed back into the ground hard. Above him, the succubus shrieked as Sam body-checked her into a tree, pinning her wrists to the bark. "Dean!" he yelled, and Dean shoved himself up from the ground.
She snapped her teeth together in Sam's face, not nearly so pretty now, all yellow cat eyes and snarling and claws. She bucked against the tree and kicked him back with both feet, sent him sprawling to the ground. Sam jumped up and went for her again. Dean was already there too, the machete in motion; she lunged at them, and all three of them hit at once: Sam's punch slammed into her gut, her claws slashed deep into their shoulders, Dean's machete took off her head in one smooth stroke, and her blood spurted out all over them.
Her head thumped down somewhere off in the dark trees, and her body toppled a second later. They stood panting for a second, staring down at her, and then their heads jerked back up. "Quick, the holy water," Sam said, shedding his overshirt and yanking his tee up over his head, away from the cuts.
"You had it!" Dean said.
"What?" Sam said. He grabbed the flashlight out of his pants pocket and shone it back into the woods the way they'd come. Or vaguely the way they'd come. "Fuck, she knocked it out of my hands back there somewhere. What about your flask?"
Dean opened and shut his mouth.
"Dude," Sam said. "You didn't."
"Shut up, the guy left the whiskey bottle right there on the goddamn bar!" Dean said. "Come on, come on, there's more in the trunk—" and they ran for it, skidding on the old rotting leaves as they went down the hill, the tangle of branches and undergrowth slashing at their faces and their legs. "Ow, fuck!" Dean said, twisting his ankle, and Sam got slapped across the left nipple by something with thorns and yelled like a little girl, and then they were spilling out into the old dirt and gravel parking lot at the trailhead. The Impala was parked diagonally and nearly riding right up the ass of the succubus's car, a little red Mustang that had almost shaken them three times in the twisting roads before she'd ditched it to try losing them on foot.
"Give me the keys, get your shirt off, quick," Sam said, and caught Dean's toss, yanked the trunk open and flipped on the light—
"Sam," Dean said, swallowing, and he put his hand out to touch Sam's bare shoulder. The claw marks were four deep parallel gouges curving over the skin, already scabbed over. They looked days old, skin around them cool to the touch. His own shoulder wasn't stinging anymore either.
"Okay," Sam said, "okay, let's not panic, maybe it's not too late—" and they got the holy water out and poured it over the scabs anyway, but it didn't do a thing, didn't hiss or smoke, and only made the rest of their cuts sting like fire.
"Fuck," Dean said. "Fuck!" He threw the bottle into the trunk and grabbed his head. "How long have we got?"
"An hour," Sam said, sagging back against the rear of the car.
"God fucking dammit," Dean said. "Okay. There's got to be a town close enough, something—"
"Dude, we didn't see so much as a light on the road for the last two hours since we got off the highway," Sam said. "Never mind how we'd actually get someone to go for it. Fuck me or I'm going to die isn't the world's best pickup line."
"I've heard worse," Dean said.
"You've used worse," Sam said.
"So what, you want to just sit here and wait until our blood starts boiling and our dicks explode?" Dean said. "This is not how I am going out."
"Uh, no," Sam said. "I'm just saying we've got no choice. We're going to have to do it."
"Dude, that's what I'm saying!" Dean said. "You want to try coming up with something more helpful, like how we're going to make that happen?"
Sam stared at him. "Dean. We're going to have to do it."
"Huh?" Dean said, and then he got it. "Dude!" he yelled. "Dude, that's sick! No fucking way! Are you out of your mind?"
Sam spread his arms wide, comprehensively taking in the empty lot, the silence and dark of the forest and the mountains. "I'm looking around at all the other options we don't have, Dean."
"Then we haven't got any options, because that isn't one!" Dean said.
"Come off it," Sam said, rolling his eyes. "Are you telling me you'd rather die?"
"Yes!" Dean said. "Dude, what the hell is wrong with you!"
"Uh, okay, then," Sam said, in a fucking exasperated tone, "and you'd also rather watch me die?"
"Oh, you son of a bitch," Dean said.
"We're already down to fifty minutes by now," Sam said, rubbing his arm across his forehead wearily. "Let's just get it over with."
"Forget it," Dean said. "Get in the car, I've got a plan."
"Shut up!" Dean said. "I am not having sex with you, now get in the car!"
"Forty-five minutes," Sam announced, as the Impala came practically leaping off the dirt road onto the pavement, answering Dean's prayers and hitting the hundred-thirty mark on the odometer. "Forty minutes. Dean, does your plan involve driving so fast we approach relativistic speeds?"
"What the fuck are you babbling about, you freak?" Dean said, and there it was, thank God, there they were, big dark eyes shining in the headlights, the tires going thump-thump as he pulled the car over onto the grassy shoulder. "There we go, come on, come on," he said, killing the engine and the lights, and he shoved the car door open and headed for the fence.
"Are you insane?" Sam yelled at him over the hood of the Impala. "I am not fucking a horse!"
He came around the car and grabbed Dean's other leg before he could swing it over the fence. Dean glared down at him and kicked loose of his grip. "Oh, but you'd fuck me?"
"Instead of a horse?" Sam said. "Yes!"
"You're a sick perverted bastard, you know that?" Dean said.
"I'm not the one who wants to go fuck a horse!" Sam said, clinging on to his leg. "Bestiality trumps incest!"
"Does not!" Dean said.
"Bestiality sure as fucking hell doesn't trump gay incest!" Dean said.
Sam stopped, staring up at him with his mouth open and wobbling on a disbelieving laugh. "You did not just say that."
"What?" Dean demanded.
"This is about the gay thing?" Sam said.
"It is not!"
"You'd rather fuck a horse than have gay sex," Sam said. "Yeah, and I'm the pervert."
"I'd rather fuck a horse than have gay sex with you!" Dean put his heel to Sam's shoulder and pushed him back.
Sam staggered back a few steps and caught himself, straightening up. "Right," he said, with a wealth of scorn.
"Just shut up and get your ass in here," Dean said.
"Forget it." Sam folded his arms. "I'm not doing it."
"Fine, then I guess you're going to hang out here and die." Dean swung his leg the rest of the way over the fence and dropped down into the field. His boots squished in something, but he resolutely ignored it and marched on towards the horses.
Behind him, Sam folded his arms against the fence and put his forehead down on them. "Come on, Dean, we've only got thirty-one minutes left," he called.
"Hey, horsey," Dean said, ignoring him. Wow, horses were big up close. It lifted its head and looked at him out of one dark liquid eye.
"Is that even a girl horse?" Sam said.
Dean stopped. He groped his flashlight out of his pocket and bent down to check. "Yes!" he said. He didn't see anything like a dick, anyway. He started edging around behind it. Her. Her.
"Dude, do you have any idea where it is on a horse?"
"If a guy horse can figure it out, so can I," Dean said. Except the horse had gotten interested now and was turning to follow him. "Come on, stay still," he muttered, trying to push on her shoulder. Instead she pushed him two steps back with one shove of her nose and started snuffling at his pockets. "Goddammit, will you come on and help me already?" he snapped at Sam.
"Yeah, no," Sam said. "I'm going to wait out here and watch her kick you in the head and then at least I'll get to die laughing. Seriously, dude, we're running out of time."
"Fuck you, Sam, get in here!" Dean yelled at the top of his lungs, and suddenly lights came on in the big farmhouse on the hill. Dean turned and saw the door open, a bright rectangle of light with a guy standing silhouetted against it, a shotgun in his hands. Sam was laughing so hard he was on his knees in the grass clinging to the fence for support as Dean scrambled back over, the farmer yelling furiously behind him and firing off rounds of buckshot.
Dean grabbed Sam by the collar, hauled him up and shoved him through the driver's side door so hard he nearly slid headfirst into the footwell on his side. "Get your ass in, move, move!" and peeled out without turning on the lights.
He pulled over again just a few miles down the road, onto a dark shoulder where the road curved, and pounded the wheel. "Son of a bitch!" he yelled. Sam had his head pressed against the dashboard, shaking with wheezy hiccuping laughter. Dean punched him in the arm, hard.
"Ow, fuck!" Sam said, still laughing, and shoved Dean back against the door. "Come on, back seat, we've only got nineteen minutes left."
"I'm going first," Dean said bitterly, and got out. He cleared off the back seat by sweeping all the crap onto the floor while Sam went to the trunk and rummaged for a minute before coming back. "What is that?"
"Lubricant," Sam said, tossing it to him. He braced himself against the side of the car and started pulling his boots off.
It was a big industrial-sized squeeze tube of the stuff. "What the fuck, Sammy," Dean said. "There something you want to tell me about?"
"Quit being such a homophobe, man," Sam said. "It works for girls too."
"Come on, Sammy, I taught you better than that, you go down on them for at least ten minutes until they're all warmed up," Dean said.
"Uh, yeah," Sam said. "That... doesn't really do the trick." He shoved his jeans and boxers down and straightened up naked.
Dean stared in horror. "Oh, you are fucking kidding me."
"It's proportional," Sam said defensively.
"I'm going back to the horses," Dean said.
"Quit complaining," Sam said. "If you hadn't dragged this out to the last minute there'd be more time."
"If you weren't five minutes from dying you wouldn't be getting near me with that thing," Dean said. He yanked his belt buckle open and shoved his own jeans down while Sam climbed into the back seat and stretched out, face down, his feet sticking off the end. "Put your shirt down first! Don't you get your spunk on my car."
"Dude, like I didn't get it all over the place when I banged Katie Mitchell after the prom," Sam said, fishing his torn shirt off the floor and stuffing it underneath.
"Don't tell me that," Dean said, slicking his cock up, biting down on the whimper that wanted to climb out. The hard-on wasn't a problem, no matter how uninterested his brain was; with his hands on his dick, he could feel the unnatural heat of it radiating under the skin, his balls weirdly heavy and sore. He climbed onto Sam's back and slotted against him, easily as when they were kids, curled up in bed together. He groaned. "Jesus, this is so sick."
He lined himself up and started trying to shove in. "Hey, what about all those lectures on foreplay?" Sam said, squirming under him. Dean's cock approved in all sorts of disturbing ways.
"Shut up, we've got thirteen minutes, and I am not sucking your dick," Dean said. He gave a heave and managed to pop the head inside.
"Ow!" Sam said. "Dude, payback's in five minutes, maybe you want to slow down."
Dean clenched his jaw and slowed down. It was just—it was disgusting, that's what it was, all that, oh jesus, heat squeezing down on his cock, way too tight, nowhere near slick enough, so it had that little burn of friction going, and Sam under him making little hitching breaths and shivering and giving these little low breathy "oh" noises, glaze of sweat all over his back muscles, so Dean couldn't even brace himself easy without his hands sliding. It was vile. Dean stopped, swallowing air in gulps, trying to get his head back on straight. All right. He was in, he was going to go ahead and do it, get off, and he wasn't going to think about it while he was doing it, not at all, not even a little—
"You're not humming Stairway to Heaven while you do me," Sam said, bucking hard up against him, and Dean said "oh fuck yeah" before he could help himself, and Sam said "whoa" in a kind of strangled way. Dean's hips snapped forward again without him meaning them to, and fuck, oh fuck it was good, it was bliss, Sam panting in time with him, both of them going ragged and whimpering. Dean grabbed Sam's hips, fingers digging in hard to get a grip on his sweaty skin, fucked into him four times and shot like a pistol, all that heat surging up into his cock and out, pulse after pulse, until he felt drained hollow.
And then his hips started to move again, involuntarily, even though it fucking hurt because his cock was too sensitive. He couldn't stop, riding Sam easy now with all his own slick everywhere and still coming, almost sobbing down in his throat. Sam had his head buried down against one arm and his hand gripped on the meat of Dean's thigh like a brand, saying, muffled, "Yeah, yeah," and then he was shuddering all of a sudden underneath Dean, clenching around him and milking him clean.
Dean fell down over him like a cut-string puppet and moaned weakly. "Dude, tell me you didn't just come! You didn't do it yet!"
"Shut up," Sam said, deep as a mineshaft, and tipped Dean off against the back of the seat with a heave. Dean flopped limply. He couldn't even move his goddamn arms to punch Sam in the head. "Calm down, it's not going to be a problem," Sam panted, yanking him flat on his back and getting a leg over him, and Dean managed to lever his head up long enough to see that Sam wasn't kidding.
He let his head fall back and groaned. He tried to turn himself over, but Sam pushed his shoulder back down, and Dean's arms slid right out from under him. "Dude, I'm not watching this," Dean said, struggling to yank his leg free: Sam was hitching it up against the back of the seat, Dean's other leg hanging mostly off the edge.
"I need to know if it's hurting you, jerk," Sam said, in that pissy impatient way he got when he was in the middle of research and refusing to pay attention to whatever you were trying to tell him even if it was seriously fucking important. Also he was squirting out an entire handful of the stuff over his fingers. Dean threw his arm up over his eyes and started singing Peace of Mind under his breath.
Sam snickered and slid his fingers down. "Hey, hey, watch the nails!" Dean said, breaking off.
"I'm not even touching you yet!" Sam said. "Will you relax?"
"You're kidding, right?" Dean said.
"Dean, seriously!" Sam said. "You want me to do this or not?"
"Not!" Dean said, and covered his eyes up again. "Hurry up and just, ah, already," words scattering as Sam's finger slid right into him, and okay, that was just weird, and then Sam braced his thumb right behind Dean's balls and got in a second finger, and now it was really weird, really really fucking weird, the way it felt to have Sam's fingers just going in and out, pushing more of the stuff.
Sam took them out and shifted his weight, and Jesus, that was Sam's dick, and it was touching him. "Ready?"
"No! Dude, quit fucking asking me stupid fucking questions!" Dean yelled, and Sam rolled his eyes and said, "Okay, fine, just say something if I'm—" and pushed.
"Ow!" Dean said.
"Wuss," Sam said faintly, and Dean said, choked up, "You're getting the beating of your goddamn life for that when this is over, bitch." It was like being split open, and what kind of sick bastards did this for fun, Christ. No matter how slicked up he was, this wasn't fucking natural. Sam's dick felt so goddamn huge that Dean couldn't help it, he lifted his arm and looked, just to make sure it hadn't, whatever, grown to the size of the watermelon it felt like. Then he shut his eyes up tight and wished he hadn't, because Christ, that thing was going inside him, and there was a hell of a lot of it still left to go.
"Hey," Sam said, and stopped, even though he was gulping and hoarse, shivering between Dean's legs. "Come on, Dean, breathe." He rubbed his hand over Dean's stomach in circles.
Dean rounded his mouth and panted. "How long?" he said.
"It's fine, there's time," Sam said, and Dean snarled and grabbed for Sam's wrist and looked at the time: six minutes.
"Fuck you, come on," Dean said, and he lay back and made it happen, pushed all the tension out of his body on one long breath, gave in to the heavy weakness that wanted to take his limbs anyway, let himself go open. Sam bit his lip and pressed forward in one steady slow thrust that seemed to go on and on and reach impossible places, a staticky fuzzed-out sensation building at the back of Dean's skull, shiver running up and down his spine and into his legs.
Sam made this small broken noise like someone had just punched him in the gut and stopped again, trembling all over. Dean had to hit him in the shoulder to get him to start moving. The seconds were ticking down, and maybe they'd made a mistake or the clock had run fast and they were off by a few. He had his hand clenched on Sam's arm, trying to pull him on, then Sam's hips pumped, one short jerk.
Dean's hand slid right off Sam's skin and fell down nerveless. Sam fucked into him again, and by the third stroke he was sliding out some before pushing back in, maybe an inch. Sam stopped, panting, and then he pulled almost all the way out and squeezed more out of the tube, hands shaking and messy all over between Dean's legs and slathering his cock up. Dean lay with his head back, stunned and staring up.
Sam pushed his leg back some more, almost back towards his chest, and started giving it to him all the way, full length sliding out and in again on every stroke. "Fuck," Dean said, gasping. "Fuck."
"Dean," Sam said, dragging the word out long and drunkenly like a tape being played back extra slow, his mouth open and soft and helpless, and then he tipped forward like a train wreck about to happen, and started kissing Dean.
"No way," Dean said, struggling, except that just pushed him up harder into Sam's next thrust, and when he opened his mouth to gasp for air Sam caught him again, hungry wet kisses with tongue, suckling on his lip. Worse than that, Sam was talking, saying things, stupid fucking crazy shit like, "you're so," and "your mouth," and "love you," and fucking him the whole time, fast and hard.
Sam's body was curved over him like a bow with his hips working. His face looked like he was in pain. Dean cursed under his breath and slung his arm around Sam's neck and rocked into him, helped him, said, "Come on, baby, almost there, you almost made it, that's it," urging him on, and Sam gasped and gasped and sobbed against his shoulder and then went deep and still, and Dean pulled him close and held him while he shivered and moaned through the waves.
Sam deflated slowly down onto him, collapsing into a big heavy limp weight on Dean's chest, breath still coming in whimpering little gasps. Dean had his hand deep in Sam's hair, the curve of Sam's skull fitting into his palm, and he stared up at the roof of the car and didn't let go. Sam's cock hadn't slid out more than halfway yet. It kept twitching, trying to do more than it already had.
Finally Sam sighed, deep and satisfied, the little bitch, and eased the rest of the way out. The head of his cock made an loud, obscene sucking noise, popping loose.
"Dude," Dean said in protest, pained. "Gross." He shifted unhappily.
"You liked it," Sam said, in the tones of a man who'd just found his own personal holy grail.
"Fuck you, I did not," Dean said. "Get off me."
"You liked it," Sam repeated, groggily. He put his head back down on Dean's shoulder and snuggled down. His arms crept up and slid under Dean's shoulders.
"Don't you even think about it. We are not cuddling," Dean said, trying to shove him off. "You really are sick, you know that?"
Sam bit Dean in the soft flesh of the shoulder. "At least I didn't try to fuck a horse."
"Shut up," Dean said.
= End =
Read the sequel, Bad Company.
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