dysonrules (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dysonrules) wrote2010-01-10 04:18 pm
dysonrules) wrote2010-01-10 04:18 pm
Entry tags:
The Spell (Sam/Dean) Oneshot
OMG, I wrote Wincest? NOWAY! Okay, I was bribed. And the bribe was so good. SO SO GOOD. SOFA KING GOOD. *drools a little*
*ahem* On to the porn. I mean the fic.
The Spell
It had to be a spell, didn’t it? A spell cast by some sort of witch or demon, or ancient god or pissed-off spirit. It was always something like that. Such as the ridiculous fear that had overcome him in Rock Ridge. Dean still remembered the terror, although it was hazy, thankfully, but the memory of running from a football-sized yappy dog was something he preferred to forget.
This, though, seemed different. More insidious and less of a major personality change. Almost like tapping into something that was already there. He shied away from that idea abruptly and popped the cap on a cold one, flipping the metal across the room with an annoyed snap.
It bounced off the wall, of course, and earned an irritated glare from Sam, whose nostrils flared slightly at he glanced at Dean. Sam’s lips thinned into that pissy, pouty look that Dean knew too well. He waited to see if his brother planned to spout off. In his current mood, Dean was ready for a fight. It would take his mind off of… things.
Sam rolled his eyes and looked away. Dean frowned and took another swig from the beer bottle. He wondered what it would take to provoke Sam. Pushing his laptop off the desk would probably do it. Sam practically lived in that fucking thing. Sometimes Dean hated it. Sam paid far more attention to the moving bits of pixilated coding than he ever had to Dean.
Dean snorted and turned away, irritated at himself for being jealous of a piece of metal and plastic. He swallowed hard. Jealous. He sneaked a glance at Sam, who was now watching him with an enigmatic expression.
“What?” Dean asked with just the right level of provocation.
“You’re acting weird,” Sam said.
Dean sneered at him. “How would you know?”
Sam’s eyes narrowed as he took the bait. Hook, line, and sinker, Dean thought with a flare of satisfaction. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you spend so much time with your face buried in that thing that you haven’t even noticed something is obviously—” Wrong with me. Dean choked it back.
“Obviously what, Dean?” Sam asked, except he didn’t say it like that, he said it with that irritating break that he knew Dean hated. Obviously what. Dean. His hand clenched around the bottle, which was getting wet and slippery with condensation. He thought about clenching his hand around something else wet and slippery and his mouth went suddenly dry, because Sam was glaring at him with that superior-not-quite-smirk that made Dean want to smack him one.
“I’m going out,” Dean snapped and took two steps toward the door. He fumbled for the keys in the pocket of his jacket. They weren’t there. Dean stopped in puzzlement and checked the other side.
“Looking for these?” Sam asked in a smug tone and Dean fixed a frosty glare on him. The Impala keys dangled from Sam’s long fingers.
“Toss ‘em,” Dean said and lifted his hand expectantly.
“I don’t think so.” Sam stood up and shoved the keys into the right front pocket of his jeans. “You always leave me to research everything myself, but not this time. I need your help.”
Dean blinked at him, hardly able to believe Sam had just done what he had done. “You never need me for anything, Sam, now give me the damn keys.”
Sam’s stare turned cold and Dean felt a strange sense of satisfaction. This was better than going out. “You know that’s not true, now stop being a dick and tell me what’s wrong with you. You’ve been acting strangely all day.”
Dean set the beer bottle on the peeling Formica-topped desk and fixed his gaze on Sam with a smirk. “I think you should just give me the keys, Sam.”
“Fuck you, Dean.”
Dean was across the room in an instant, shoving Sam onto the bed with a rough shoulder—Sam was never prepared, it was one thing Dean could always count on, the element of surprise. Dean sprawled on top of him and dug his fingers into Sam’s pocket, fishing for the keys.
Sam’s fist caught him on the side of the head, making his vision swim and his ears ring for a moment. So much for the element of surprise.
“Damn it, Dean, this isn’t funny!” Sam’s hips shifted, dislodging Dean’s fingers just as they brushed a scrap of metal in Sam’s pocket.
“Hold still,” Dean growled, grabbing Sam’s wrist to prevent him swinging again. He squeezed hard and felt the small bones and tendons protest beneath his fingers.
Sam’s other hand pushed at him, splayed over the hollow where his collarbone met his shoulder before moving down to claw at Dean’s arm. Dean shoved his fingers deeper into Sam’s pocket. Sam bucked his hips and thrashed, obviously trying to shake Dean off. The movement jammed Dean’s hand deeper into Sam’s pocket, past the elusive keys, to stab into something else hard.
Sam made a tortured sound as Dean’s eyes widened impossibly. They both froze and then Dean slowly raised his head to stare into Sam’s face. His brother’s eyes were tightly shut. Oh god, oh god, oh god. The thought skittered through Dean’s head like a skipping CD. Sam was hard. It had to be a spell. The same spell that had drawn Dean’s eyes to his brother a hundred times in the past week, hungrily tracing the contours of every line and curve. A spell. It was almost a relief to accept it, to give in to it.
Dean pushed lightly with his fingers, pressing through the thin liner of Sam’s pocket and feeling the rough cotton of Sam’s underwear—fancy pants boxer-briefs, Dean knew—and the stiffness beneath.
“Dean.” Sam’s voice was a tortured rasp. “Dean, don’t.”
“It’s a spell, Sammy,” Dean replied. “Some stupid spell. Don’t worry; we’ll track down the witch or spirit or whatever the fuck, but right now I think we have to do this.” Dean’s words were spoken as much to convince himself as his brother, but they sounded right. They sounded just right when Sam’s head turned away to expose his neck and Dean leaned down to suck at the slender line of Sam’s jugular.
Sam tasted fucking brilliant.
Dean pushed his fingers deeper, ignoring his contorted position and the pain starting to throb through his shoulder. He gripped Sam’s cock with a growl of satisfaction and Sam bucked again with a whimper.
“Dean,” he said again, but this time it was more of a moan and Dean let go of his wrist to reach between them, tearing at the waistband of Sam’s jeans, glad that Sam’s penchant for loose clothing kept him from wearing a belt half the time. The zipper parted and then Dean’s hand was inside, touching bare flesh, wrapping around Sam’s velvety cock even as his pocket-trapped hand fought free of the material and wrenched Sam’s pants down around his thighs in the same motion.
Sam made a choked cry, but he wasn’t fighting, he was bucking upward into Dean’s fist. The tip of his cock pushed against Dean’s wrist before drawing away, leaving a wet smear. Dean repeated the motion and then twisted his hand down the length of Sam’s cock. Fuck, the angle was all wrong and Dean needed more.
He levered himself downward, caught the buttons of his jacket sleeve on Sam’s jeans, and sat back long enough to shrug off the coat and toss it aside. As an afterthought, he yanked off his t-shirt and flung it, also. The whole time he kept his eyes on Sam, staring at his jutting cock like he had never seen anything like it.
To his surprise, Sam was watching him through half-lidded eyes. Dean waited for him to start bitching and flinging girlish accusations, but Sam only said, “Let’s see yours, Dean.” There was an edge of challenge in his voice and a hint of something dangerous lurking beneath. It took him by surprise for a moment. Right, the spell. It must be affecting Sam, too. That was okay, then.
Dean wrenched at his belt buckle and unfastened his jeans before shoving them down to his thighs, along with his plain white Hanes briefs. His cock sprang free, hard and dark and ready. Sam’s eyes fixed on it and then Dean crawled back atop him, straddling him, in order to rub his prick against the length of Sam’s. It was a new experience for Dean—and hopefully for Sam, too, unless he had gotten up to far more than Dean would have suspected in college. Dean pushed that idea aside and began to rock his hips, sliding his cock up and down over Sam’s to create delicious friction.
He gasped and shut his eyes when he felt Sam’s hand wrap around both their cocks, squeezing and then jerking sharply. Oh god, that felt amazing. Dean used one hand to prop himself over Sam. The other he placed beneath Sam’s and matched his up and down motion. One hand felt good, two was even better.
He glanced at Sam’s face, to find his eyes shut this time. His brother’s lips were parted and the tip of his tongue was visible, pressed against his teeth as it was whenever he was concentrating. Dean thought about kissing him, but even under a spell that might be a bit hard to explain. Instead, he shifted his gaze downward, watching as their hands moved, their dual cockheads nearly disappearing in Sam’s fist before reappearing, dark and throbbing. A bead of wetness gleamed at the slit of Sam’s, growing larger as he watched, nearly dripping with each upward thrust.
Dean had the irrational urge to taste it—would it be as bitter as his own, or more so? Dean did eat more sugar. And pie. He shuddered and closed his eyes as Sam’s thumb stroked over the tip of his cock, sending a jolt of pleasure rocketing through him. Oh hell, it was too good and he was going to come too soon…
He steeled himself and pulled away. Sam’s eyes flew open and he said, “What?” He sounded dazed and Dean hoped he hadn’t accidentally broken the spell by stopping the mutual jerkoff.
“Hang on,” Dean said and climbed off the bed before grabbing the hem of Sam’s jeans at each ankle and dragging them off over Sam’s freakishly long legs. Sam continued to stroke his own cock, barely seeming to notice Dean’s absence. Dean grinned and then tore off Sam’s underwear, leaving him clad only in a dull blue t-shirt and white socks. He admired the sight for only a moment before shoving Sam’s legs apart and climbing between them.
Sam stopped his movement and a look of uncertainty crossed his face. “What are you doing?”
Dean only smirked and took hold of Sam’s wrist to move his hand away from what Dean suddenly thought of as his own personal property. He lowered his face and licked the precome from Sam’s cock in a deliberate swipe.
Sam made a strangled cry and Dean evaluated the taste. Not pleasant, but it didn’t taste of tofu and salad, which could only be an improvement. He licked it again and felt Sam’s arm twitch in his grip. The feeling of power was heady and Dean wondered what other responses he could drag out of Sam, who always seemed so in-control these days. Maybe a little loss of control would be good for him?
He took the entire crown into his mouth and sucked on it, hollowing his cheeks as though drinking from a straw. Sam actually thrashed and seemed to shudder. Dean would have smiled, except his mouth was busy, so instead he just took a bit more of Sam’s cock. It seemed far to long to fit comfortably, so Dean contented himself with moving his lips up and down and teasing it with his tongue while Sam made whimpering sounds intermingled with, “oh god” and “fuck” and wasn’t it interesting to hear such a bad word from his pristine brother?
It occurred to Dean that he wasn’t using one of his hands. His own cock was dangling, still board-stiff, feeling neglected, so he could either use his hand to bring himself off, or… He tentatively stroked the soft flesh beneath Sam’s balls, brushing it lightly as he wondered how sensitive it was.
Sam made another choked cry, which was Dean’s only warning before his mouth was suddenly full of hot, salty fluid. He pulled away quickly, nearly choking, and allowed it to dribble out of his mouth and onto Sam’s shirt, assisted by his tongue and a retching noise or two. Okay, that wasn’t fun.
“Sorry,” Sam said.
“My fault,” Dean replied and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he sat back on his haunches.
“Come here.” Sam waved him forward and Dean didn’t hesitate. He positioned himself back over his brother and Sam quickly grabbed his cock once more. Dean admired Sam’s face this time, watching as the familiar intense look of concentration slid into place. Good to know Sam didn’t plan to shirk even the task of bringing Dean off. The thought nearly made him laugh, but he didn’t want to distract Sam.
His amusement quickly faded as the sensations built again, stacking atop one another until everything began to blur around the edges. Dean’s focus narrowed to the feel of Sam’s hand on his cock and the sight of his hot mouth panting with exertion. Dean wondered what it would feel like to fuck Sam’s pretty mouth with one hand twisted in his dark hair…
The thought was enough to push him over the edge and Dean shuddered as his vision went nearly white and his prick throbbed with each pulse, making an even bigger mess on Sam’s shirt.
Sam kept tugging until Dean pushed his hand away and sprawled on his back next to his brother, spent. They lay silently and stared up at the ceiling until their panting breaths returned to normal. Dean wondered if Sam was feeling uncomfortable. He half-expected him to lever off the bed and go angst in the bathroom.
“That’s some spell,” Dean commented.
Sam made a noncommittal sound. “Spell. Yeah.”
“Wonder how long it will last?”
“I dunno, but you’re doing the laundry.”
Dean blinked in surprise for a moment, and then reached over and smeared his fingers through the sticky mess on Sam’s shirt. He callously wiped it over Sam’s face, making sure to get a nice glob over his lips and smushing a bit into his nose.
Sam jolted up, making gagging noises. “Dean! You total prick!” He wiped at his face with a forearm and then slapped his hand in the semen, obviously intent on retaliating.
Dean grabbed his wrists with a laugh. “Oh no, you don’t! I already got a mouthful of that stuff! It’s your turn.”
“Already?” Sam asked, but he sounded far from disinterested.
Yeah, definitely some spell, Dean decided. He hoped it lasted a long, long time.
*ahem* On to the porn. I mean the fic.
The Spell
It had to be a spell, didn’t it? A spell cast by some sort of witch or demon, or ancient god or pissed-off spirit. It was always something like that. Such as the ridiculous fear that had overcome him in Rock Ridge. Dean still remembered the terror, although it was hazy, thankfully, but the memory of running from a football-sized yappy dog was something he preferred to forget.
This, though, seemed different. More insidious and less of a major personality change. Almost like tapping into something that was already there. He shied away from that idea abruptly and popped the cap on a cold one, flipping the metal across the room with an annoyed snap.
It bounced off the wall, of course, and earned an irritated glare from Sam, whose nostrils flared slightly at he glanced at Dean. Sam’s lips thinned into that pissy, pouty look that Dean knew too well. He waited to see if his brother planned to spout off. In his current mood, Dean was ready for a fight. It would take his mind off of… things.
Sam rolled his eyes and looked away. Dean frowned and took another swig from the beer bottle. He wondered what it would take to provoke Sam. Pushing his laptop off the desk would probably do it. Sam practically lived in that fucking thing. Sometimes Dean hated it. Sam paid far more attention to the moving bits of pixilated coding than he ever had to Dean.
Dean snorted and turned away, irritated at himself for being jealous of a piece of metal and plastic. He swallowed hard. Jealous. He sneaked a glance at Sam, who was now watching him with an enigmatic expression.
“What?” Dean asked with just the right level of provocation.
“You’re acting weird,” Sam said.
Dean sneered at him. “How would you know?”
Sam’s eyes narrowed as he took the bait. Hook, line, and sinker, Dean thought with a flare of satisfaction. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you spend so much time with your face buried in that thing that you haven’t even noticed something is obviously—” Wrong with me. Dean choked it back.
“Obviously what, Dean?” Sam asked, except he didn’t say it like that, he said it with that irritating break that he knew Dean hated. Obviously what. Dean. His hand clenched around the bottle, which was getting wet and slippery with condensation. He thought about clenching his hand around something else wet and slippery and his mouth went suddenly dry, because Sam was glaring at him with that superior-not-quite-smirk that made Dean want to smack him one.
“I’m going out,” Dean snapped and took two steps toward the door. He fumbled for the keys in the pocket of his jacket. They weren’t there. Dean stopped in puzzlement and checked the other side.
“Looking for these?” Sam asked in a smug tone and Dean fixed a frosty glare on him. The Impala keys dangled from Sam’s long fingers.
“Toss ‘em,” Dean said and lifted his hand expectantly.
“I don’t think so.” Sam stood up and shoved the keys into the right front pocket of his jeans. “You always leave me to research everything myself, but not this time. I need your help.”
Dean blinked at him, hardly able to believe Sam had just done what he had done. “You never need me for anything, Sam, now give me the damn keys.”
Sam’s stare turned cold and Dean felt a strange sense of satisfaction. This was better than going out. “You know that’s not true, now stop being a dick and tell me what’s wrong with you. You’ve been acting strangely all day.”
Dean set the beer bottle on the peeling Formica-topped desk and fixed his gaze on Sam with a smirk. “I think you should just give me the keys, Sam.”
“Fuck you, Dean.”
Dean was across the room in an instant, shoving Sam onto the bed with a rough shoulder—Sam was never prepared, it was one thing Dean could always count on, the element of surprise. Dean sprawled on top of him and dug his fingers into Sam’s pocket, fishing for the keys.
Sam’s fist caught him on the side of the head, making his vision swim and his ears ring for a moment. So much for the element of surprise.
“Damn it, Dean, this isn’t funny!” Sam’s hips shifted, dislodging Dean’s fingers just as they brushed a scrap of metal in Sam’s pocket.
“Hold still,” Dean growled, grabbing Sam’s wrist to prevent him swinging again. He squeezed hard and felt the small bones and tendons protest beneath his fingers.
Sam’s other hand pushed at him, splayed over the hollow where his collarbone met his shoulder before moving down to claw at Dean’s arm. Dean shoved his fingers deeper into Sam’s pocket. Sam bucked his hips and thrashed, obviously trying to shake Dean off. The movement jammed Dean’s hand deeper into Sam’s pocket, past the elusive keys, to stab into something else hard.
Sam made a tortured sound as Dean’s eyes widened impossibly. They both froze and then Dean slowly raised his head to stare into Sam’s face. His brother’s eyes were tightly shut. Oh god, oh god, oh god. The thought skittered through Dean’s head like a skipping CD. Sam was hard. It had to be a spell. The same spell that had drawn Dean’s eyes to his brother a hundred times in the past week, hungrily tracing the contours of every line and curve. A spell. It was almost a relief to accept it, to give in to it.
Dean pushed lightly with his fingers, pressing through the thin liner of Sam’s pocket and feeling the rough cotton of Sam’s underwear—fancy pants boxer-briefs, Dean knew—and the stiffness beneath.
“Dean.” Sam’s voice was a tortured rasp. “Dean, don’t.”
“It’s a spell, Sammy,” Dean replied. “Some stupid spell. Don’t worry; we’ll track down the witch or spirit or whatever the fuck, but right now I think we have to do this.” Dean’s words were spoken as much to convince himself as his brother, but they sounded right. They sounded just right when Sam’s head turned away to expose his neck and Dean leaned down to suck at the slender line of Sam’s jugular.
Sam tasted fucking brilliant.
Dean pushed his fingers deeper, ignoring his contorted position and the pain starting to throb through his shoulder. He gripped Sam’s cock with a growl of satisfaction and Sam bucked again with a whimper.
“Dean,” he said again, but this time it was more of a moan and Dean let go of his wrist to reach between them, tearing at the waistband of Sam’s jeans, glad that Sam’s penchant for loose clothing kept him from wearing a belt half the time. The zipper parted and then Dean’s hand was inside, touching bare flesh, wrapping around Sam’s velvety cock even as his pocket-trapped hand fought free of the material and wrenched Sam’s pants down around his thighs in the same motion.
Sam made a choked cry, but he wasn’t fighting, he was bucking upward into Dean’s fist. The tip of his cock pushed against Dean’s wrist before drawing away, leaving a wet smear. Dean repeated the motion and then twisted his hand down the length of Sam’s cock. Fuck, the angle was all wrong and Dean needed more.
He levered himself downward, caught the buttons of his jacket sleeve on Sam’s jeans, and sat back long enough to shrug off the coat and toss it aside. As an afterthought, he yanked off his t-shirt and flung it, also. The whole time he kept his eyes on Sam, staring at his jutting cock like he had never seen anything like it.
To his surprise, Sam was watching him through half-lidded eyes. Dean waited for him to start bitching and flinging girlish accusations, but Sam only said, “Let’s see yours, Dean.” There was an edge of challenge in his voice and a hint of something dangerous lurking beneath. It took him by surprise for a moment. Right, the spell. It must be affecting Sam, too. That was okay, then.
Dean wrenched at his belt buckle and unfastened his jeans before shoving them down to his thighs, along with his plain white Hanes briefs. His cock sprang free, hard and dark and ready. Sam’s eyes fixed on it and then Dean crawled back atop him, straddling him, in order to rub his prick against the length of Sam’s. It was a new experience for Dean—and hopefully for Sam, too, unless he had gotten up to far more than Dean would have suspected in college. Dean pushed that idea aside and began to rock his hips, sliding his cock up and down over Sam’s to create delicious friction.
He gasped and shut his eyes when he felt Sam’s hand wrap around both their cocks, squeezing and then jerking sharply. Oh god, that felt amazing. Dean used one hand to prop himself over Sam. The other he placed beneath Sam’s and matched his up and down motion. One hand felt good, two was even better.
He glanced at Sam’s face, to find his eyes shut this time. His brother’s lips were parted and the tip of his tongue was visible, pressed against his teeth as it was whenever he was concentrating. Dean thought about kissing him, but even under a spell that might be a bit hard to explain. Instead, he shifted his gaze downward, watching as their hands moved, their dual cockheads nearly disappearing in Sam’s fist before reappearing, dark and throbbing. A bead of wetness gleamed at the slit of Sam’s, growing larger as he watched, nearly dripping with each upward thrust.
Dean had the irrational urge to taste it—would it be as bitter as his own, or more so? Dean did eat more sugar. And pie. He shuddered and closed his eyes as Sam’s thumb stroked over the tip of his cock, sending a jolt of pleasure rocketing through him. Oh hell, it was too good and he was going to come too soon…
He steeled himself and pulled away. Sam’s eyes flew open and he said, “What?” He sounded dazed and Dean hoped he hadn’t accidentally broken the spell by stopping the mutual jerkoff.
“Hang on,” Dean said and climbed off the bed before grabbing the hem of Sam’s jeans at each ankle and dragging them off over Sam’s freakishly long legs. Sam continued to stroke his own cock, barely seeming to notice Dean’s absence. Dean grinned and then tore off Sam’s underwear, leaving him clad only in a dull blue t-shirt and white socks. He admired the sight for only a moment before shoving Sam’s legs apart and climbing between them.
Sam stopped his movement and a look of uncertainty crossed his face. “What are you doing?”
Dean only smirked and took hold of Sam’s wrist to move his hand away from what Dean suddenly thought of as his own personal property. He lowered his face and licked the precome from Sam’s cock in a deliberate swipe.
Sam made a strangled cry and Dean evaluated the taste. Not pleasant, but it didn’t taste of tofu and salad, which could only be an improvement. He licked it again and felt Sam’s arm twitch in his grip. The feeling of power was heady and Dean wondered what other responses he could drag out of Sam, who always seemed so in-control these days. Maybe a little loss of control would be good for him?
He took the entire crown into his mouth and sucked on it, hollowing his cheeks as though drinking from a straw. Sam actually thrashed and seemed to shudder. Dean would have smiled, except his mouth was busy, so instead he just took a bit more of Sam’s cock. It seemed far to long to fit comfortably, so Dean contented himself with moving his lips up and down and teasing it with his tongue while Sam made whimpering sounds intermingled with, “oh god” and “fuck” and wasn’t it interesting to hear such a bad word from his pristine brother?
It occurred to Dean that he wasn’t using one of his hands. His own cock was dangling, still board-stiff, feeling neglected, so he could either use his hand to bring himself off, or… He tentatively stroked the soft flesh beneath Sam’s balls, brushing it lightly as he wondered how sensitive it was.
Sam made another choked cry, which was Dean’s only warning before his mouth was suddenly full of hot, salty fluid. He pulled away quickly, nearly choking, and allowed it to dribble out of his mouth and onto Sam’s shirt, assisted by his tongue and a retching noise or two. Okay, that wasn’t fun.
“Sorry,” Sam said.
“My fault,” Dean replied and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he sat back on his haunches.
“Come here.” Sam waved him forward and Dean didn’t hesitate. He positioned himself back over his brother and Sam quickly grabbed his cock once more. Dean admired Sam’s face this time, watching as the familiar intense look of concentration slid into place. Good to know Sam didn’t plan to shirk even the task of bringing Dean off. The thought nearly made him laugh, but he didn’t want to distract Sam.
His amusement quickly faded as the sensations built again, stacking atop one another until everything began to blur around the edges. Dean’s focus narrowed to the feel of Sam’s hand on his cock and the sight of his hot mouth panting with exertion. Dean wondered what it would feel like to fuck Sam’s pretty mouth with one hand twisted in his dark hair…
The thought was enough to push him over the edge and Dean shuddered as his vision went nearly white and his prick throbbed with each pulse, making an even bigger mess on Sam’s shirt.
Sam kept tugging until Dean pushed his hand away and sprawled on his back next to his brother, spent. They lay silently and stared up at the ceiling until their panting breaths returned to normal. Dean wondered if Sam was feeling uncomfortable. He half-expected him to lever off the bed and go angst in the bathroom.
“That’s some spell,” Dean commented.
Sam made a noncommittal sound. “Spell. Yeah.”
“Wonder how long it will last?”
“I dunno, but you’re doing the laundry.”
Dean blinked in surprise for a moment, and then reached over and smeared his fingers through the sticky mess on Sam’s shirt. He callously wiped it over Sam’s face, making sure to get a nice glob over his lips and smushing a bit into his nose.
Sam jolted up, making gagging noises. “Dean! You total prick!” He wiped at his face with a forearm and then slapped his hand in the semen, obviously intent on retaliating.
Dean grabbed his wrists with a laugh. “Oh no, you don’t! I already got a mouthful of that stuff! It’s your turn.”
“Already?” Sam asked, but he sounded far from disinterested.
Yeah, definitely some spell, Dean decided. He hoped it lasted a long, long time.