prompt: Supernatural causes spontaneous boy makeouts. Go with it.
a/n: written for blindfold_spn prompt here
Also in this series: Sunday, wake up
You don't go through demons, hellhounds, witches, and over fifty poltergeists in your lifetime without coming away with some lingering issues, a few tattered remains of a curse here and there, hanging on and subtly all-pervasive. Still, it's almost funny that a curse like this one has got them ready to throw in the towel, go hide out at Bobby's till they can find the cure, or till the curse blows over. So to speak. If it does. Which it will.
"You boys think this thing's just gonna blow over, you got another thing comin." Bobby thunks a weighty tome on the desktop in front of Dean, a modest amount of dust pluming out on impact. Sam sighs next to him and picks another book off the top of the pile, shifting his chair away from his brother's just for luck, and sets to reading.
It's twenty-five minutes later when Dean says, "Be back in a minute."
"I gotta take a piss. Or do you want further details?"
Sam's face heats. Stupid. "Whatever, man."
There's nothing wrong, per se, but Sam feels like the both of them are under some dark cloud, an ominous pressure in the chest region that's got him jumping at everything. He sinks down further in his chair, flipping to the next chapter and smoothing a hand over the page.
The curling script at the top of the page reads "Impulse Control." Sam snorts because that's both the problem and the solution to this thing. In any case, the section on skeletons in the closet looks promising. He can feel Bobby looking at him with a sort of quiet worry, like Sam could talk if he wanted to and Bobby would listen. Like hell he's going to talk about this, though; it's bad enough they had to tell Bobby in the first place.
After a few pages, though, he can feel his brain dying. They drove all the way from South Carolina today, and it's getting on towards evening. The sky is a light orange out the window, color of mango starbursts, and Sam will be no help if he can't even focus on the print.
He stands, stretches up on his toes till he's almost flat-palming the ceiling.
"I just gotta go get some air, or something."
"This thing's not gonna cure itself," Bobby says, but his look is one of understanding, eyes worried but sure under the dirty brim of his cap, like he knows they're going to cure it ultimately, it's just a matter of how long and how much is going to happen before they do. Sam nods, rolling his shoulders as he leaves, still feeling the long drive. His body should have been shaped to that seat by now, but it's not.
He makes to head out to the front porch, not sure what he's going to do there, maybe just close his eyes for a second, take a few deep breaths away from everything. On the way out he runs into Dean, who's coming back from the upstairs bathroom.
"I thought those stories you told me when I was a kid were just you being a jerk," Sam says. "But you're still too scared to use the downstairs one, aren't you?"
"It's purple, Sam," Dean says, like that answers anything. "Anyway, back to it. Where're you going?"
"Get some air," Sam says with a nod down the dusky hallway. There's a glow of salvation through the screen door, and it reminds him faintly of something, something bad maybe, an evil feeling. He mentally shies away. When he looks back Dean's eyelashes are catching some of that light, kind of nice, soft.
"Naw, man." Sam's lightheaded, but that's about it, nothing wrong here.
Dean claps a hand on his shoulder, but stays where he is, doesn't make to head back to the living room. Sam maneuvers him carefully against the staircase, quietly demanding. He presses Dean into the thick posts and thumbs his bottom lip.
Dean opens on a gasp, and Sam kisses him for an eternity, a slow press of tongues. He presses a hand under Dean's shirt, and up, using the other to frame Dean's jaw, ease his mouth open wider so that Sam can lick the roof of his mouth.
"Don't do anything stupid, you hear?" Bobby shouts. He might as well be right next to them. Sam jumps back and Dean's eyes are shocked, rabbit in the headlights, but that look shutters pretty quickly.
"We should get back," he says.
It's always like this, the thing ebbing off into the recesses of subconscious thought where they try not to tread, and then they're alone and it's like lightening in the desert, like a hot blow to the gut and a clenching at Sam's heart.
"Never thought I'd do it in a laundromat."
"We're not 'doing it' Dean." Sam keeps his hands above the shoulders demonstratively, doesn't want to give the wrong impression. "And we wouldn't even have to do this if you hadn't-"
"Hadn't what?" Dean breathes against his ear, hot, almost wet. It should have been gross, but damn. And he's already tried to push him back, but Dean isn't giving an inch.
"Hadn't-" Sam waves his hand to the machines, ignoring how Dean is pressed all over him. He can see their dirty clothes spilling out onto the floor instead of circling merrily in the rinse cycle as they should have been twenty minutes ago, everything in its place, water and clothes in the machine and Sam and Dean in two separate plastic chairs, talking about their latest hunt, Dean prodding him about being re-souled all fresh and lily-white until Sam threw his book at him. Dean would have sat on it while Sam sighed and muttered something like: "Old me wouldn't stand for this sort of treatment."
"Old you would've shot me in the face, Sam."
But instead they are making out like teenagers against the silent row of dryers, latch to the back of Sam's knee like a reminder of where they are. It is easy to forget; he and Dean have been just about everywhere.
"If I hadn't what?" Dean repeats. "Come on, Sam. If we're gonna figure this thing out, you gotta give me all the details."
Sam sighs. He side-steps until he has some sort of mental coherency, out of Dean's immediate space.
"If you hadn't," he mutters. "If you hadn't bent over to put the laundry in."
They both look to the mess of clothing, remembering how Sam had crowded close up behind Dean when he was shoving their boxers in, probably, and Dean had stood immediately, ready for it.
It isn't either of their faults, these impulses playing on something extant but small, extremely latent, blowing it all out of proportion. Knowing they're not to blame, Sam had kissed the back of Dean's neck open-mouthed with little compunction, back of his ear, right there, that sweet spot, until he was reeling and Dean took over and walked them back into a more comfortable position, out of the debris of clothes and into a sunny spot, cars and pedestrians a mile away out the windows.
"You gotta want it to stop," Dean advises, and Sam realizes he's gotten up in Dean's space again, crowding him in. Dean's hands are at his waist. "Gotta stop jumping me every time you catch sight of my awesome bod."
Dean's looking smug, well-kissed. Sam rolls his eyes.
He knows it cerebrally, but it's hard to see this as a curse when one moment flows naturally into the next. One moment he's thinking idly about breakfast, eggs and coffee and his computer, tying his shoe at the table, and then Dean walks by, ready to go, and Sam's tugging him down to his level.
"Just for a second," one of them always says.
Working out an MO is nearly impossible, it's like a checklist of places that the curse works: Laundromat, gas station bathroom, gas station by the pumps, and motel alike, doesn't seem to matter. Yeah, they're getting nowhere fast.
"Tryin'," he says against Dean's lower lip. He tugs at it with his teeth, kisses Dean just below it and opens him up with a dip of his head.
Any other curse would have taken them out of the game. They'd have been sick for a week, writhing in pain, or gone blind. This is ultimately the better deal, no matter how screwed up it is to admit it: Dean's lips at Sam's jaw, knuckles brushing against Sam's abdomen. This curse just takes off the pressure.
There is a pounding at the window.
"The hell-" Dean says. He pulls back, and Sam winces when Dean yells, basically into his ear, "Hey you, lady. Get a life."
Sam releases him, steps back. And it is a good thing, too.
"It does not seem to be subsiding, no," Castiel is saying into a cell phone, suddenly standing one foot away.
Dean jerks his jacket back into place while Sam thunks his head against the wall.
"What'd we say about personal space, Cas?"
"They seem to becoming...intimate," Castiel continues into the phone. He gives them a hard look, searching.
"For the last time," Dean says. "It's the curse!"
When they finally do find a cure, they're in West Georgia, and Sam's got zombie guts all over his shirt.
"Zombies, Sam," Dean says. "Freaking zombies!"
"Technically they weren't alive to begin with, so I don't think we can claim that one..." Sam trails off. He kind of wants Dean to pull over so he can kiss him without crashing them both into a ditch somewhere.
"Lost a good knife somewhere in the creek, though," Dean says.
"Nothing lost, nothing gained," Sam mutters.
Even so, Sam feels like they've just taken over the world. Zombies. He'll never admit it. But yeah, zombies. He watches Dean flick a bit off goop off his shoulder.
They pull into a parking spot, just before their room door, always a chance the other motel-goers will see them get back covered in cuts and bruises, or singed around the edges. That's always amusing.
"Home sweet home," Dean reads off the flickering neon sign.
Sam eases out of the car, careful not to get grossness anywhere else if he can help it.
"So, feeling any urges, Sammy?"
Dean's backing up to the motel room door, twirling his keys around a finger. Sam thinks it's possible the curse is broken — voodoo witch doctor they'd run into months ago, crossed her the wrong way and had to take her down tonight — but maybe it's not. Dean's face falls into shadow as he bends down to unlock the door. Sam watches him.
"Why? Do you think it worked?" he hedges.
"Never cursed to begin with," Dean says. "You're just all big, and strong, and-"
"Shut up, Dean."
He pulls the shirt, which is not sopping but slimy enough, carefully over his head, and it makes a slick noise when it hits the inside of the sidewalk trashcan, just before Dean's shoved the door of their motel room open and yanked him inside after.
He moves in perfectly to stand flush against his brother. He tries to cradle Dean's face in his hands, but Dean slaps the hands away and then pulls him down with an imperious fist gripped in the front of Sam's thermal. His grip slackens instantly, though, the kiss anchoring enough. The first time they'd kissed was four months ago, interstate 55. Dean had caught Sam's mouth quickly in the middle of some noontime diner, and their teeth had clacked, embarrassing, but it had been great, something guilty. Now he's so familiar with Dean's mouth he couldn't mess this up if he tried.
Dean backs them up till he's against a bed and crab-walks on elbows until he's at the pillows. Sam's quick to follow, stumbling onto the bed and smoothing hands up Dean's chest as he moves over him.
This is...different. This feels like soft-shouldered relief, and it's knocking them both, he can tell.
"Whoa there," Dean says. He's right, they've never gone this far before, but he's got Sam's jeans to his knees in about three seconds, yanking them down by the belt loops and urging Sam forward with a cool hand to the back of each thigh.
Sam near collapses onto Dean's chest, but catches himself with an elbow in the mattress on either side of Dean's face, soft and framed by the pillows, and he is on Dean's mouth like it's cotton candy.
"Woulda dragged you back to the Impala," Dean's gasping out. "Want to lay you out over the seat one of these days."
"Like we'd even fit," Sam says.
"Done it before."
Sam stills above him, and Dean flips them, a cool jerk of his knee, hook at the ankle. It's a move Dad had taught them one afternoon in a vacant lot by the motel, a pile of empty cardboard boxes decaying off to one side in the Alabama fug thick in the air, bugs buzzing. Dean'd flipped Sam but caught him at the back of the head, mindful of the gravel, and Sam had used it to his advantage and ultimately been the victor. He's never felt bad about it. Afterward, they'd cleaned up in a gas station bathroom that had mold in the pipes if the sink water was anything to go on.
"Recently?" Sam's asking, tearing away the memories. He wonders if his are propped up snug against the drywall that will keep those other memories out, but he's trying hard not to pick at it, kick holes where he shouldn't. They're all in Dean, too, somewhere in there.
"It's your gigantor legs that're the problem," Dean says.
Sam's pressing up against him, not like he wants to get away really, and Dean is kissing his way down Sam's chest. This isn't part of the bargain.
"Curse?" Sam finally gasps, right before Dean swallows him down, knowing with every part of him that it isn't.
It goes on and on and on.