Sam found a way to get rid of them for almost a month at a time, a spell that lasted until the first night of the full moon. The problem was it took a good six pints of fresh Winchester blood, and Dean had seen enough of that by now to last him a few lifetimes.
"So what do you want to do?" Sam said, when Dean grabbed at his arm, ignoring the steady drip from his own.
"Not this," Dean said, pressing his thumb to the crook of Sam's elbow, sliding out the needle.
They called in some of the last ten years of favors, and ended up at an old half-converted barn on two hundred acres in Montana, with a thirty-foot ceiling, room to park the Impala inside, and no one around for miles. The goddamn things were still a pain in the ass, especially when Dean was trying to sweep the floor or make dinner or something. Although they were kind of handy for fixing the roof and painting the ceiling, putting in the big skylight Sam wanted, and for the first time in years, he could put things on shelves out of Sam's reach, which was pretty awesome.
But now they'd been here six months, they'd gotten the place livable, and Dean had enough free time to think more than he wanted to about how he was never going to get laid again, unless he wanted to watch Sam bleed himself white for it. Dean tried to get past it by just wearing himself out, building furniture, laying in plumbing, hauling in firewood, but it was hard, hard, and pretty much the only thing that worked was flying, going out at night and throwing himself into the air, the wings beating behind him like a storm, going and going until he came back to earth spent.
But his shoulders and back hurt like fuck the day after, every time, and the wings went dragging on the floor behind him limply. Sam watched him with worried eyes, and the next time he drove the hundred fifty miles to the nearest Wal-Mart for supplies, he came back with a heap of essential oils. He spread Dean out on the enormous bed they'd hand-made for him out of logs, two feet longer each way than a california king, and he heated up the oil and started slowly kneading the red, sore muscles around the wings. Dean started out groaning a lot, and then pretty soon he was really kind of moaning, and then it was seriously fucked up, but it felt so good he didn't care, except to say, "Hey, Sam, you get that this is fucked up, right?" a little desperately.
"Yeah, Dean, I noticed around the time you started calling me baby, ten minutes ago," Sam said, without taking his hands away. "You want me to stop?"
"Fuck no," Dean said, gratefully; as long as Sam wasn't going to freak out, he was good. And then in a few minutes he was better, and then he was even better than that, and then he had to slide a hand down and grab his own dick and finish it off, and it was a good thing Sam had put down a bunch of towels first.
Sam clapped him between the shoulderblades, breathing a little loud and uncomfortably himself, and left Dean limp and puddled on the bed. Dean didn't fall asleep, but he didn't even try to move for the rest of the afternoon, just lay there and baked in the sunlight slanting down on him, drowsily watching Sam puttering around the barn and pretending he was organizing the new bookshelves when what he was doing was reading in the middle of a big pile of books on the floor.
It happened a few more times, and then without them ever talking about it, all of a sudden it was their weekend thing. Friday night they cleaned the place, top to bottom, and put on a big pot of stew in the slow-cooker. Saturday morning they went out a little before dawn and spent almost the whole day out: Dean flying, Sam running on the ground; or sometimes they played paintball, with Sam using a sniper rifle from the ground. Once in a while Dean got ambitious and took Sam up with him, but that was risky, because having his arms wrapped around Sam, Sam holding on to him, both of them pressed up close and tight against each other, in the air—it made things weirder, and they would always come back down shaking.
They'd turned the old tack room into a giant shower, with a hand attachment; they rinsed, dried off, and went to the bed together. Dean lay down and let Sam work on him, slow and thorough and lazy, sometimes both of them stretched out and half asleep with one of Sam's hands just kneading idly around one wing. They made it last as long as they could, and then after a few hours, less if they'd gone flying together, Sam got up and went to his own bed, and they both finished up, showered again, ate the stew and crashed. Sunday morning Dean made pancakes, and afterwards they spent the rest of the afternoon lying in Dean's bed reading or playing video games or crosswords. Sam made dinner, and they talked about what they wanted to get done that week.
"Listen, I, uh, it might, if," Sam said, one day, while he was up there working on Dean's back. Dean cracked an eye to look up at him; he had no clue what Sam was trying to say. Sam's face was red. "It might not have to be blood," Sam blurted finally, even redder.
"Dude!" Dean said, propping himself up on his elbows to stare. "Six freaking pints?"
"It might not have to be the same amount—oh, God, just shut up and stop looking at me," Sam said. "You want to try it or not?"
"How's this going to work?" Dean said warily.
Sam didn't even try telling him, just pushed him back down flat and started the spell chant, and—Jesus, Sam was jerking off over him. Sam was panting over him, Sam's thighs were shivering, and Dean could feel Sam's body rocking with each stroke, the spell coming out almost stuttered, and then Sam was—in spurts, hot and wet across Dean's back, all over the sore muscles where he could feel, oh fucking god.
Turned out it didn't work, but after that, it seemed kind of stupid to bother going to their own beds.
Sam kept trying to find a way. One time he made Dean sit up against the headboard, straddled his lap, and—"We have to, together," Sam muttered. They worked at it for a while. Dean couldn't quit staring at Sam's cock, the big purpled head sliding in and out of Sam's fist, and he'd never been into dick before, but Sam had a gorgeous one, and he kept losing the rhythm, and then Sam put his hand around both of them, and that was it, goodbye. Sam came too. It still didn't work.
It didn't work when Dean sucked his cock, either, or the other way around. It also didn't work when Sam fucked him, nice and slow and perfect from behind, the wings curling up and mantling around him involuntarily. Dean could feel through the tips, stroking them up along Sam's back and ass and thighs while Sam fucked him, fucked him, thick demanding strokes into Dean's ass, and Sam was making these choked desperate noises in his throat, and Dean didn't even know what the fuck he was saying himself, but it was something like yes and god and i love.
The next week, Dean took Sam up with him into the wide wide spiraling blue. He landed them finally when it got dark, both of them dazed and sticky and breathless, but he still felt like he was flying.
= End =
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