For winchester-cathedral over on tumblr, who prompted: “How about something where Sam and Dean are cursed (blessed???) to feel what each other feels, so it makes for some really super intense sex?”
Now In Stereo
In retrospect, maybe Dean shouldn’t have kicked that elf in the crotch.
First of all, it was almost Christmas.
Second, it was a real elf and not some mall Claus substitute.
“Now how was I supposed to know that?” Dean whined. “He was in a freaking mall! Right next to the Santa photo op!”
Third, the little fucker had a hell of a bite.
“Son of a bitch!” Dean yelped when Sam tried to change the bandage. “What in the actual fuck, Sam!”
“Dude,” Sam groaned. “You shouldn’t have kicked him in the crotch.”
“What-the-fuck-ever,” Dean huffed. “Little bastard had it coming.”
And ok, maybe the elf had terrorized an elementary school with his popping-out-of-the-toilet act for almost a month before some parent got wise and shouted about it to the local press. Created an entire grade’s worth of bedwetters in four weeks, the thing had, before anyone took Mrs. Paisley’s second graders seriously. Or Mr. Shultz’s, either.
“I mean,” the principal sighed, running her fingers through hair that Dean swore was going gray in real time. “We thought some of the sixth graders were playing a prank. Or that Mrs. Paisley’d passed out and made her kids watch Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer too many times, because they kept calling it ‘Herbie,’ the thing in the second-floor washroom.”
“Dude, she can’t even say ‘bathroom,'” Dean snickered on their way to the second floor. “No wonder she didn’t listen. I bet as soon as the kids said ‘toilet,’ her brain freaking shorted out.”
Federal Agent de Young was not amused.
“You need to take this shit more seriously, Dean,” he hissed around his fake federal grin. “Elves are nothing to fuck with.”
“Pffft,” Dean breezed, turning right at the water fountain. “Those little shits? You worry too much, Sammy. We can handle ’em.”
Famous last words.
It took them three days to get the scent and another two to track the thing down, so by the time they caught up to it at the goddamn Campbell Valley Mall, Dean was in no mood to bargain or argue or hell, even talk.
Hence: shoe to the groin.
Hence: bite on Dean’s arm.
But: Sam managed to grab the thing in the midst of “Agent Shaw’s” profanity and bag it, the snag of Dean’s skin still in its mouth.
Which was freaking delightful for everyone involved.
So by the time they dragged ass back to the local no-tell motel, elf banished in a torrent of Sam’s Celtic curses while Dean sulked in the Impala, Dean was in no mood to talk.
He stripped down to his boxers and threw himself at the bed, bitching all the way.
And Sam? He just rolled his eyes. Handed Dean a beer or four and let his brother drive the TV for the night.
Way easier for both of them that way.
And between the booze, an episode of Star Trek–“It’s called ‘Devil in the Dark,'” Dean hissed when Sam made the mistake of asking. “Now shut up. This is the good part”–and a truly painful 60 minutes of something called Hoarders, the idiot elf and Dean’s lack of yuletide cheer fell by the wayside.
Which is to say: they forgot.
The long, slow fuck they had after also failed to act as a reminder.
In fact, that fuck was more memorable for Sam’s shitty sense of timing, the one that had him raising his head from the lazy eights his tongue was cutting into Dean’s ribs to say:
“Dean, you do realize that Spock was mind-melding with a pizza, right?”
“Um,” Dean managed. “What?”
“The Horta,” Sam said, sitting up a little. “Dude. In that episode. It’s basically a pizza on wheels. And Spock was able to mind-meld with it? On the first try? Come on. Seriously?”
Dean’s happy sex face gave way to peeved. “He’s a Vulcan, moron. Of course he could!”
“A half-Vulcan,” Sam snapped. “Who’s never encountered a pizza-like lifeform before, so–”
“She’s made of silicon!” Dean barked, pushing himself up on his elbows. “She’s a creature of the rock, Sam! And the half-Vulcan thing is what makes Spock so sensitive, you know? So open to other species and shit.”
Sam shook his head. “Nobody can mind-meld with a food product. What, you think Spock could do it to a Twinkie?” He flipped a hand up to Dean’s face and pushed. “I mean–my mind to your mind? That’s all you’ve gotta say before vooom! You’re in some pizza dude’s head?”
Dean scowled. “The Horta’s a fucking girl, Sammy. Mother of her species. And are you calling my brain a Twinkie?”
“Better your brain than your dick,” Sam snorted, and the lightbulb went off. Oh yeah. That’s where he’d been headed.
And where he ended up, much to Dean’s delight.
Which is to say: neither of them gave it a second thought, the whole “my mind to your mind” jazz. Dean got too wrapped up in Sam’s mouth and Sam’s cock and the look on Sam’s face when he came, the way he went from feral to shudder soft sweet in the blink of an eye. Sam got stuck on how Dean’s eyes never left his as Sam jerked him off, whispering praise and love and happy dark filth against Dean’s mouth and kissing his cries quiet as he finally went white over Sam’s fist.
And if both of them came, say, a little harder than usual that night, neither thought anything of it except fuck yes (Dean) and how soon can we do that again (Sam)?
It was only in the morning that they noticed anything weird. And this time, Dean was Johnny-on-the-spot.
He woke up to Sam kissing him which, no. That wasn’t the weird part. Sam was always handsy first thing.
What was weird was that Dean woke up to Sam kissing him and him feeling that kiss both ways, this bizarre split-screen in his head where he was Sam on the one hand and Dean on the other.
Apparently, he was an awesome kisser. Heh. Damn straight he was.
Sam’s mouth felt amazing (not weird) but so did his own (was weird, but again: not that surprising) and it took him a good minute or two (maybe three) to stop feeling for a second and start thinking.
He pushed Sam away, enough so he could breathe. Sort of.
“What?” Sam said, still slurry with sleep. “Dean. What is–?”
He shifted, rocked his weight over Dean’s thigh and jesus fucking hell was Dean’s cock a fan of that. And so was Sam’s. And damn if Dean couldn’t feel the blood pulse through two dicks at once and–
“Dean,” Sam said again, but this time it was more like a moan, one halfway between “what is this madness? this seems bad” and “gonna fuck you through the mattress, baby, before I lose it all over your skin.”
So Dean overlooked the weird and embraced the stereophonic.
He grabbed Sam’s head and yanked, got him up where Dean could reach and kissed the everloving shit out of him. Out of himself. Closed his eyes and split his brain in two and fucked that bitchy, beautiful mouth for all he was worth.
Sam gave as good as he got: nipping and sucking and biting in the ways that made Dean crazy on a good day, but now with being Sam and Dean, kisser and kissee, all at the same fucking time–Dean was kinda afraid his head was gonna explode.
Sam got a little swimmy, too, a weird kind of sexual vertigo that made his body seem claustrophobic and far away all at once. So he started rocking his hips down, shoving his cock against Dean’s, trying to ground himself, ground them–and oh, the sound they made bordered on harmonic. Like, the harmonic resonance of sex, it was.
That said, Sam wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t recognize a problem when he saw one. Or two.
“Fuck,” he hissed, letting his mouth crawl over Dean’s. “Fuck! What the hell is going on?”
Dean, unhelpfully, just shuddered and spread his legs.
“Dunno, Sammy. Dunno. Please. Need you. Need you to–!”
Sam growled, a sound that rang in both their throats, and shot a hand between them. Got two fingers in Dean and kissed him, all in the same fluid turn, and Dean’s body started to short out. He felt Sam’s fingers in him, turning. Felt his own body pushing back, then catching and holding Sam fast. It was the same for Sam: he felt Dean’s tongue curling around his, felt his own twisting to meet Dean’s. All in the same breath.
“Too much,” Sam gasped. “It’s too much, baby, I gotta–”
He yanked his fingers out and freaking shoved his cock in and, in retrospect, Dean was kinda impressed that they got in a full 30 seconds of actual fucking before they lost it in the kind of simpatico that never happened in their real lives and it was so good–no, so motherfucking, head-splitting amazing–coming twice, as it were, in the same goddamn instant, that they both kinda sorta blacked out.
Just for a little while. Totally understandable, under the circumstances.
This time, Dean’s eyes opened first. And damn if Sam didn’t look gorgeous, sweaty and fucked-out and covered in Dean’s come.
And Dean may have pushed his head between Sam’s thighs, reveled in caressing soft skin with his tongue and feeling the same touch echo in his body and by the time he was sucking Sam’s cock, Sam was awake and contributing to the freaking tsunami of sensation and the “hey, WTF?” of it all was drowned out by Sam’s smoky screams and Dean’s muffled groans as he gave it up to the sheets as Sam shot down his mouth, and oh.
Yeah. It was totally understandable, under the circumstances.
And if it took them all day to get out of bed, that was understandable, too.
Because the head-sharing was much less awesome when they weren’t fucking.
Dean didn’t really want to know what it felt like when Sam took a piss, or drank his beer too fast and choked, or how his eyes ached after he stared at the laptop too long.
Sam wasn’t keen on feeling Dean’s creaky knees, either. Or his heartburn. Or the smart of that elf bite on his arm.
Oh. Oh right. The elf.
“Dean,” Sam said after dinner, when they’d retreated to the sheets again. “Maybe you shouldn’t have kicked that elf in the nuts.”
“What?” Dean huffed, letting Sam turn him. Let his arm be lifted toward the light. “It’s fine, Sam. He didn’t even get me that bad.”
“No,” Sam said, poking gently at the bandage. Wincing in time with Dean. “He didn’t. But I bet he left behind enough mojo to screw with us. Seeing as he drew some of your blood and all.”
“Huh,” Dean said. “I didn’t know elves could do that.”
“What? Bite you or fuck with you?”
“Bite me, asshat.”
Sam snorted. Let his fingers drift, his thumb turn curls in the crease of Dean’s elbow. “Not right now, princess.”
“But–” Dean fluttered, because holy fuck did that feel good. “Why would an elf make us go stereo? How did your lame-ass katra get inside my–?”
Then he had one of those moments of clarity, a sick splash of certainty in his gut like the ones he’d had in school the instant before a teacher asked everybody to turn in homework that he sure as hell hadn’t done.
He had a flash of Horta, of Sam’s cool fingers on his face the night before, and realized–
“What?” Sam said with a shiver, feeling the scrape of his nails over his own skin the same instant he touched Dean and good goddamn, that was amazing.
“Um,” Dean managed, biting his lip to stay on task. “The elf. It’s–he–last night, you said–oh fucking hell, Sam!”
Because now Sam’s tongue was chasing his thumb, sloppy kisses all the way up to Dean’s wrist, his own, and they had to take five to fuck it out.
Ok. More like 30.
“So when you did your fake mind-meld thing,” Dean panted, taking the warm washcloth from Sam’s hand and swiping it over his chest. “Whatever gross mojo that little bastard left behind must have kicked in. Must have made your little wish come true.”
Sam flopped back down. Rocked the bed like a double-wide.
“My wish? He bit you, asshole. More like yours.”
He nipped at Dean’s neck and they both groaned.
“You saying I want you inside my head, Sammy?” Dean snorted, chucking the washcloth off the bed.
Sam smirked, a curve Dean could feel against his throat and in the hitch of his own lips.
“I think you want me inside everywhere, baby,” Sam purred, a rumble split in two. “As much of me as you can get.”
“Hmmmm,” Dean said. “That so?”
“Yup,” Sam said, feeling smug as a fucking bug. “All signs point to ‘yes.'”
Dean parked his head on Sam’s shoulder. “We should probably be freaked out about this,” he mused. “I mean, this is legitimately weird. Even for us.”
Sam didn’t answer. Just leaned down and kissed Dean, slow and easy.
And Dean kissed Sam right back. Easy and slow.
“Yeah,” Sam said, after a while. “‘S weird. We should do some research.”
“Call Bobby,” Dean sighed. “We should.”
“Mmmm,” Sam breathed, tugging Dean against his chest. “Tomorrow.”
It was only in the morning that they noticed it was gone.
Dean woke up to Sam kissing him again, which nope. Not weird.
But Dean knew right away that the mojo was missing because he didn’t get the “I’m an awesome kisser” kickback that he’d gotten used to, apparently.
“Well, fuck,” he said, and the words were all his own.
Sam lifted his head and grinned.
“Oh well,” he said. “It was fun while it lasted.”
“Yeah,” Dean said, giving that grin right back. “Now you’re gonna have to work twice as hard to make it good for me, Sammy, so.” He leaned back into the pillows and flicked a hand towards his body. “Go for it. I’ll let you know when you’re doing ok.”
“You are an ass,” Sam groaned.
But he wrapped his arms around Dean and kissed him stupid. Fucked Dean within an inch of his life, it felt like, and all was right with the tinsel-covered world.
Sam and Dean’s part of it, anyway.
Maybe they owed the elf a Christmas card, after all.