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Dean scratches the back of his neck as he stares at the parchment. There’s not a lot that Dean has ever considered lucky or fortuitous, but what is in his hands now is the winning scratcher that he never managed to just happen upon and the magic numbers that roll up on the screen and announce millions coming his way. Dean isn’t even sure what he can do right now to make this moment certain and real.
The parchment that he’s managed to happen upon, tucked deep within a storeroom in one of the Bunker levels, claims that it can lead him to the greatest weapon he’ll ever wield. When he started to read the Latin, making sure that he kept every lesson in the front of his head since it’s always the Latin that starts the shit in the movies, he was certain that he would run into the punchline of the world’s dorkiest joke. But he didn’t. In fact as he went along Dean became more and more sure that he was reading something that was left behind for seriously shit situations.
No one would blame him for immediately rushing up the stairs and grabbing Sam to confirm the translations. Not a person in the world, other than Sam who would immediately mock him for believing in something so stupid and childish as a magical weapon crafted specifically for a warrior. Sam who would laugh in Dean’s face about the concept of a lottery ticket scavenger hunt map tucked at the bottom of a file cabinet in a storage room will definitely hold him accountable for believing and bringing such a thing to his attention.
And Dean, well, he wasn’t really in the mood to be made fun of that day. So, he got up and went to the library and just pulled out the textbooks and started checking his translation himself. When Sam came in Dean told him the room was a bust and he would need to work on the next room over tomorrow. No one would possibly blame Sam for not looking a little closer at what Dean was working on. Not a person in the world, other than Dean, would laugh in Sam’s face later down the road about trusting that Dean wasn’t doing anything dangerous or silly.
But now as Dean stares at the final confirmed translation he thinks that perhaps he has missed some intensely important and very immediate clue that this is some kind of evil trap. None of the ingredients involved in the brewing are very special or potent. There’s no sacrifice required, no blood, no pain, just a very straightforward spell that included what appeared to be a mulled wine recipe. It couldn’t possibly be this easy. Dean has never in his life had anything just handed to him. He tilts the parchment one way and another with the light behind it to see if there is some kind of secret writing or a small drop of blood that would give an ominous feeling.
There is nothing. Dean gets nothing but the continuation of his realization that he has won a lottery he didn’t even know that he was in. Because Abbadon is coming, and if Dean wants to be able to save Sam from her and the rest of the Knights the only chance he’ll have is a weapon that is unstoppable. They haven’t been able to track down Cain’s blade, but that doesn’t mean that whatever this weapon is it can’t be the answer. Dean strokes his fingers down the wrinkled parchment again before looking over to his scribbled notes.
Really, what’s the worst that could happen? Dean can’t imagine anything that could come from this experience more damaging than stomach issues from the drink. He’s sure of it, the translation is correct, and this is the right road. Dean packs up all his notes along with the original parchment and carries them into the kitchen where they slide effortlessly into a cabinet that holds spare mixing bowls and other cooking implements that Sam won’t need for the rest of the night.
After those are in place Dean starts rummaging through the pantry and the cellar, picking out things that have been long bottled and hidden away from light, until he has almost all of the necessary herbs. His last step will be getting the wine and the fresh rosemary and then Dean will be golden for the brewing portion. Without anything that would create a humongous stench there’s little chance that he’ll wake Sam up in the process so this should go just fine. When it works, if it works Dean reminds himself, he’ll have a surprise for Sam that will end in a blowjob, for certain.
There’s nothing better than a well-earned victory blowjob from Sam.
Sam chats with him later in the dining area, both their feet up on the table and the laptop playing Led Zeppelin IV on low volume as the two of them share their opinions on tonight’s beer. Sam has started coming home with IPAs in the last month when he’s in charge of the supply run, and that does not make Dean nervous at all. His brother has better sense than to turn into a hipster. Sam kicks his foot and Dean bites his cheek to not gasp when his knee creaks in a warning manner. Age is a bitch.
“Are you even listening to me? You checked right the fuck out.” Sam isn’t angry, Dean can see that, but he does look a little concerned. It makes Dean’s heart hurt when he thinks of the times when Sam didn’t always look like they were preparing to attend a funeral.
“Yeah, yeah I’m sorry. It’s just that I wanted…why don’t we try wine? You’re buying this fancy shit now, shouldn’t we go whole hog and try the fanciest?” Dean tries a smile and Sam is taken in by it. It’s a wonder really that he can still do something like that.
“You know this isn’t fancy beer right? I know you think this is some kind of local brewery shit but it’s just a chain beer. I’m not blowing that much money on beer that won’t even get us drunk anymore.” Sam’s defensive now. Dean didn’t mean to make that happen, and he feels his smile shift and restructure in an attempt to get back to where he started.
“Listen, Samantha, you can freak out and assume I meant something or you can take the chance to make a joke about me wanting to try wine. Why would you go with the assumption part? Didn’t anybody ever teach you that assuming makes an ass out of-“
“Finish that sentence and you won’t see my ass for weeks.” Dean immediately zips his lips and Sam nods affably, tension disperse, and sinks back into his chair. “Really? You wanna try red wine? Cause I know a couple brands that are inexpensive but good. They don’t have the aromas of-“
It never fails to amaze Dean that the same way Sam is now telling him about grapes and flavors and notes is the way that Sam sometimes tells him about the solution to a mystery or the identity of a monster. That same hey get this look that Sam has had since he first started discovering things. There was even a time when Sam got so obsessed with taking Dean around to see things he had found and hear what they were Dean had to pick the little boy up and carry him. His legs gave out long before his spirit did.
Eventually Dean realizes that Sam is looking at him for a response, and he tries his best to pretend that he’s on top of it. “Yeah.”
Sam’s mouth opens, closes, and then he closes his eyes and sighs so hard Dean is impressed the bunker stays up. “Yeah. Message received. Anyway, I’m grocery shopping tomorrow so I’ll pick up some red wines for you and maybe a white just in case.”
He reaches out, linking fingers with Sam, and enjoys the way his brother links back and holds on with barely any pressure. Sam’s hands are so big but so delicate, and not for the first time Dean wonders what Sam would have been if it weren’t for hunting. Sam can say whatever he wants but there’s a direct correlation between being raised to be a hunter and running off to be a lawyer. Same shit, different smell. Would he have been a musician? Would his fingers have plucked gently over the guitar strings or stroked the piano the way he strokes the backs of Dean’s thighs?
The music ends and they both end up in bed. It’s not sexual, Sam’s just so loose and gentle around Dean. A huge fleshy blanket that has a heartbeat that slaps against Dean’s back and a warm rhythm that lulls Dean into a deep sleep. In his dream there’s an ocean that breaks against the rocks, but when Dean looks it’s not an ocean. It’s Lake Michigan, he knows the spot because he once nursed a stab wound on that shore staring at the little island and trying to get up the energy to get up.
This time Dean isn’t cupping his bicep, but there is an aching, gnawing pain in his hand. He looks at it, curls all his fingers into the palm of his hand, and then looks back out at the island. Staring out at it he feels the need to go there. Feels like if he reaches out towards it the pain in his hand will stop. There’s nothing to draw him there, nothing that suggests that he needs anything there, but he knows in his bones that’s where he has to go.
He pushes up from the rocks that make up the shore and runs straight into the water. It’s cold, cold enough that he is afraid it will shock him awake, but Sam unwittingly saves him by continuing to set the gentle pace of the lake’s waves with his breaths. He swims against them, gentle but consistently pushing, as his mind wanders through the parts of it available to the dream to try to bring up what Sam said the little island was called. After all, it was Sam that took him off that beach and stitched him up.
The water is starting to make him numb, and Dean wonders briefly if in the real world he’s struggling and moving around. If there’s a possibility that he will hit or kick Sam and be woken up with a sharp elbow. If he wakes up before he reaches the island what will happen? Will his hand hurt forever? He pushes, pushes harder, pushes until there’s no breath in his lungs and there’s no feeling in his chest and Dean knows that he will drown in this water with one aching hand reaching out to the shore on the island, to whatever its needed cure is.
An elbow cuts through his sleep and wakes Dean up in the middle of a cold sweat that doesn’t match the lake’s temperature. Sam glares at him through one crusty eye before his brother rolls over on his side with his back to Dean. A huge hand slides backwards against the sheets until it finds Dean’s lower back and Sam uses his crazy long monkey arms to pull Dean up against him. It’s sweet, in a grumpy little brother way, so Dean repays him with a pinch to the ass that Sam smacks him for. When he falls back asleep it is into darkness.
Sam comes home with the groceries and Dean is almost desperate at this point to mull and guzzle whatever fucking thing the parchment tells him. Since the first night Dean has had the dream of the lake and the hurt hand three times as Sam found very reasonable reasons (excuses) to put off the grocery run. Probably Dean waking up every night in a cold sweat thrashing with all but one outstretched arm has Sam’s suspicions up. That would seem fair if Dean wasn’t so frustrated by Sam’s questioning and concern.
If Dean had known that simply reading the spell and deciding to engage it would start this shit off he wouldn’t have spent so much time on it until he had the ingredients, but now he’s fucked and he just has to ride out Sam’s gentle questions and less than gentle demands. It’s not easy, but he makes it. He makes it till the groceries hit the counter and then he’s pulling out a pot and dumping all the red wine Sam bought in at once. Sam’s look tells Dean that he won’t get away from this one.
“Ok. Hear me out.” Sam’s eyes narrow and Dean now knows for a fact that he’s going to need to take a hit to avoid being completely defeated. “You know that you and I have…high alcohol tolerances?”
Sam’s eyes go into little slits. “You more than me, but yes I know.”
“Hey. Hey, I’ve been at it longer than you.”
“Is that a good thing, Dean?”
Dean throws his hands up in the air, “You wanna know what’s going on or do you wanna just nag the shit out of me?”
Sam’s mouth narrows now, a bitchface slowly forming, and then he visibly shakes it off and takes a breath that only makes Dean’s ire rise a little more. Sam is about to be reasonable. “Alright, you’re right, I’m sorry. Please, tell me what you mulling red wine has to do with our high alcohol tolerance?”
His brother is being a self-righteous dick, a thing that Sam has a lot of experience with, and Dean knows that means Sam is now vulnerable to being lied to. That’s the problem with being a self-righteous asshole; you get overly confident. “Well, I read that while getting drunk doesn’t really help you sleep soundly, but mulled wine before bed can lull you into a sleep with no night-dreams.” Dean lets his voice tremble just a little when he pretends to correct himself.
Sam helps Dean mull the wine, talking in a casual manner that is meant to let Dean restore his dignity but in reality just makes it harder and harder for Dean to keep a straight face. Every now and then, when Sam isn’t looking Dean uses the non-physical blind spots Sam has.
What Dean also learns is that even though Sam is apparently a huge wine nerd he is not interested in drinking this. Dean imagines one or two of the herbs put him off, too savory or some highbrow shit like that, but he doesn’t ask. He sits across from Sam and drinks his potion while Sam drinks his wine and thinks about how easy this all is. And it really shouldn’t be. Maybe he should’ve-
But what made it easy was what made it so fucking unstoppable. Dean was able to cast the showy parts of the spell in private so he didn’t have to sneak off with mulled wine and set off Sam’s ever present alcoholic slip alarm. Instead he can look Sam right in the eye, talk about what parts of the bunker they’re going to work on uncovering next, and sip the next to last step of his journey to whatever magical weapon lies at the end. If there was a time to stop and turn back because it was obviously too good to be true it would have had to have been before Dean translated the goddamn thing.
They go to bed, Sam grumbling about how fucking cold Dean’s feet are before slipping off with his face pressed into Dean’s chest. Sam did the same thing when they were kids, but back then it didn’t make his feet go off the edge of the bed. Even with the air circulating all around them Dean knows that Sam won’t get cold. Sam is only cold when he’s dead. Dean’s learned that one that hard way.
Why can’t he just protect Sam on his own? He was supposed to be the ultimate weapon for that purpose. What was the point of being John Winchester’s club all those years, pounding down all those problems, just to end up being a fucking sad sack that can’t keep his little brother from dying. His one job.
Maybe it’s the mulled wine, maybe it’s the sudden chill that travels down his spine as Dean begins to realize how stupid what he’s done really is, but Dean is suddenly terrified to go to sleep. He’s afraid that he’ll be left in some kind of helpless and vulnerable position as Sam is hurt. As Sam is fucking injured because Dean had the audacity to allow his brother to lower himself to Dean’s level. To roll around in Dean’s filth. Because Dean let Sam believe in him, let Sam trust him to be vulnerable in his arms. Sam has never liked being vulnerable. Not since he was born.
Dean struggles, struggles against the water and the gentle tide of the lake that he has felt in every dream since he started the spell. Dean fights to stay above the surface, to stay on top of the situation, but he just can’t. He sinks, sinks so far down, sinks to the bottom and falls asleep in the dark water with the smooth, black rocks rubbing against his flesh and the cold seeping forever through his skin into his bones.
His last thought before he falls asleep is just if Sammy is still breathing against the bare skin of his sternum.
When he wakes up on the shore of Lake Michigan Dean knows that he’s going to have to pay for all the times that he knew he made a mistake but didn’t come out on the other side permanently burned. The water is moving gently, just like all the other dreams, but it is pitch black and full of stars just like the sky above. The effect is disconcerting, because Dean isn’t really sure that this is real, so it’s possible that what he thinks is simply an illusion that the horizon of the earth melds into the sky and creates one pool to swim in is real not an illusion.
Longingly he looks out to the island, his hand aching so badly it feels like his arm is going to burn off, he can see a ghostly light flickering on and off on the shore. It isn’t even that bad. He just has to get across the water, he doesn’t even have to traverse the island or climb to the top of its rocky shelves. Instead he just has to make his way across the water.
Dean knows one thing for certain. If he fails to swim the stretch this time he won’t come back to the real world. He will sink to the bottom and stay there till the end of time. The pain in Dean’s hand is steadying, focusing, it makes it so that he can look forward and only forward. It makes it so that he knows for a fact that this is real and that he can’t let his guard down even an inch. Dean’s pain isn’t all in his head. When his hand dips into the water there is a slight hiss and steam rises up. It’s like it’s on fire but it doesn’t look any different than normal.
Once when they were young Dad had a job in the woods in upper Michigan and that meant that they had to stay somewhere out of the way and hidden in case the thing hunted them instead. Dean resented it back then, mostly because he wanted to be out with his Dad in the woods looking for the beast instead of hunkered down with Sam in a cabin reading comics by candlelight unless they can confirm it’s safe to turn the electricity on without being seen.
One of the things that was so fucking great about the cabin Sam picked, and he was unbearable about reminding Dean that he was the one that picked it, was that it had an actual sauna that ran on a pot-bellied stove. Dean and Sam would build a fire letting it get hot and dry and they would bake themselves in there, occasionally pouring cold water over the stones on the oven, and then run down the shore to the dock and jump into the frozen water of the lake. It wasn’t as grand as Lake Michigan, Dean thinks that he’s awfully nice for using the word grand instead of fucking frustrating, but it was beautiful nonetheless.
It was stupid, now, years later, Dean knows how stupid and dangerous it was to do that, but at the time it seemed so right. It was such a drastic change, and if they did it at night they could float on their backs as their hearts kicked back into gear and their lungs finally remembered how to pump and stare up at the stars. And once, just once, when the night air was right and Sam had been great all day and Dean was just so relaxed he had reached out and taken Sam’s hand and said, “You know otters do this. Hold hands. So they don’t float apart.”
And Sam, suddenly apparently aware that he doesn’t always have to be a pain in Dean’s ass, squeezes gently and then sighs. “Being an otter would be cool.”
“Yeah.”
Dean thinks of this as he bears down, teeth splitting his lip and filling his mouth with cold water and hot blood. He thinks of Sam holding his goddamn hand in the dark and he pushes forward because somebody has to stop Abaddon. Somebody has to save Sam from dying for the eight thousandth time before Dean. And how dare Sam, Dean thinks as he bites harder and tastes what might be the actual flesh of his lip, how dare Sam think that he could leave Dean. Not when Dean has whatever this fucking ultimate weapon is. Then Dean will be able to stop anyone and anything from coming at Sam. He can come keep them together, forever, until Dean dies of some stupid fucking thing and leaves Sam behind to bitch.
And there, ahead of him, Dean sees through the dark water something that is stable and solid. Something that isn’t moving with the eternal waves of Lake Michigan. He sees a rock. Something on top of the rock is shiny, glistening in the moonlight, and Dean stares at it for too long before he chokes on water and realizes that if he stops paddling and kicking for even two seconds he will start to go under the surface. If he goes too deep he will certainly never come up again. Dean presses on, renewed energy pushing him, and wonders why it is that so many people dismiss fairy tales when they’re so often mostly true.
Sam used to read all that crazy shit to him. Once upon a time Dean would argue with him about how much better the Disney version was or how fucking great Merlin was but that didn’t make Sam waver at all. All those crazy stories in a language that Dean barely believed was English, but eventually he was willing to just listen because the light in Sam’s eyes was too beautiful to kill. That would come later in their relationship. Now, struggling through the cold water and his screaming hand and the bones that are trying to shatter inside his flesh, Dean sees that shine on the rock and knows for a fact that it is Excalibur. That is the weapon that will let him bring about peace and joy. Will let him protect the innocent and enforce justice.
Would he be able to use that weapon to reach back into time and kill himself before he made the deal to sell Sam’s safety and integrity? Would he be the one who was able to slay the monster that tracks Sam through the night and refuses to let him go like a starving dog with a bone? Again, Dean slows down, and the cold water begins to lock up the joints in his arms and legs that aren’t experiencing nuclear fusion. He slides under the water and there in front of him is the bottom of the lake.
It's cruel. It’s so cruel. To stare at those rocks and knows that that’s the bottom. Rock bottom, insert rimshot here. To know that he could give up now and settle down onto the rocks that he can see glittering in the moonlight. They’re so smooth, they’ll be so smooth he just knows it. He knows that he could settle down into them and feel the work of ages and ages of water wearing down the hard edges until reality was just a blurry maybe up through the waves.
There’s no reason to go on. Why would he go on? Staring at the rocks Dean realizes that there’s no weapon on the shore that would possibly be able to let him save Sam. He can never save Sam. Isn’t that the point that life’s been trying to hammer home for him? Dean wonders if Gabriel had decided to go after him, if Gabriel had put him in an endless loop he would probably have given up. He would have gone insane. He’s not as strong as Sam, he’s not as upright as Sam, and he can’t possibly ever save Sam from anything Sam won’t save himself from.
Dean slips into the rocks, sliding down, feeling how cold and smooth they are. They’re so cold and smooth that it feels like they are shearing off his skin. Ripping him into tiny little pieces. Every part of his skin tearing and sliding into the darkness of the water, and then it occurs to him that Dean is just so glad that Sam is not here. That he kept Sam from this.
And that’s when it hits him. Fuck this. Dean wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t have given up in that fucking angel’s little world and he’s not going to give up now. He doesn’t have to give up. Dean can make it to the shore, he’s already suffering so why not suffer in a more focused way. He stands up, rocks sticking to his skin for only seconds before ripping off with pieces of him. Dean takes a step, water at level with the center of his forehead, and then another. It feels like the rocks slice deeper on the bottom of his feet, but Dean keeps going. He goes until he can feel the breeze on the tips of his ears, and then his nose is above water and he snorts air in so fast and hard he takes it in and chokes. This spurs him on faster, harder, as his body jackknifes down with the force of the choking and he has to speed up to be able to do that and stay above water.
Finally he is there, on the rocky shore, stepping gingerly on what is now soft and smooth rocks instead of little razor bits. Finally Dean is able to see the rock that juts out of the water and just out of the walking depth. There, lying still on the rock, with the moonlight glinting off the gentle curves and then dramatic dips of him, is Dean’s little brother Sam. Instead of the smooth shine of metal Dean is faced with the soft glow of Sam’s skin.
What the fuck?
Dean reaches out, slowly, so slowly, and Sam rolls onto his back and blinks sleepily before smiling at Dean like he used to when he was young and Dean would wake him up from a nap to go to bed. His head lolls back on the rock and he wiggles his fingers in a come-hither gesture that on anyone not built like an assault would have been sexy but is slightly intimidating for Dean in this moment. Which is not enough to stop Dean, but it is enough for him to start stripping off his pajamas so he can wade back out into the water he just left like a fucking idiot.
It's not so cold anymore, and the rocks underneath his feet seem just as smooth and warm as the ones on the shore. He crosses, dipping briefly under the water before he reaches the rock and finds s foothold to climb up with. There is Sam, and Dean reaches out and feels how warm and smooth his skin is. How that little patch of hair is the only other darkness marring the glow besides Sam’s tattoo. It’s entrancing, wild, and Dean leans over and licks the wet skin before reaching down and taking Sam’s cock into his hand.
Sam’s wet, like he just took a dip, and Dean uses that to slide his fist up and down twice until Sam’s cock is hard in his grasp and Sam’s mouth is now open and releasing a pleased sound. His brother blinks, slow and sweet, and then tilts his hips up into the air so that Dean gets the hint what he wants. And Dean, being Dean, crawls across the rock to take Sam’s hips in his hands, lifts Sam’s legs over his shoulders, and pops Sam’s cock head into his mouth.
Didn’t Sam say that the whole Excalibur from the rock thing was sexual? Or did he say it was religious? Dean hopes it’s the first thing, cause if this is the second it’s kinda creepy.
Sam tries to control the depth and pace but Dean refuses. It’s painful for Sam, Dean knows that, but he loves to suck until there’s a hickey. It’s a little sadistic, but he knows that means every time Sam’s dick rubs against his boxers he feels that little twinge and thinks of Dean’s cheeks hollowed out and Dean’s lips gripping his dick vise-tight. Sam gasps, twists his hips desperately, and dimly Dean starts to wonder about the fact that his balls are rubbing against the rock and it doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts, all he feels is the need and the lust. All he feels is the desperation to get into Sam before Sam can get away from him. Before he’s transplanted back to the reality where he’s not driving Sam out of his goddamn head right now by sucking his dick like a fucking champion.
Dean slips two of his own fingers into his mouth, a tight fit but doable, and watches Sam’s fingers dig into the rock in hunger the moment that Dean does it. Sam knows what’s coming. Sam knows that it’s only a few seconds away from happening. That Dean’s fingers clumsily poking into the tender skin of Sam’s dick. Dean loosens his lips so that his spit pools out and slides down his fingers and Sam’s shaft.
Sam groans and flexes his ass cheeks, tightening them to the point where they practically vibrate and then relaxing so that all of those muscles go loose and limp. And then, as Sam releases his breath with the tension in his ass cheeks, Dean times it just right and pops his fingers out of his stretched lips and into Sam’s asshole. Both fingers at once, and then Dean leans back so that it lifts Sam’s hips even higher and then slips another finger from his other hand in his mouth and wiggles it against Sam’s cock, looks down the length of Sam to catch his eyes, and then adds another two fingers so that he is now almost splitting his lips but the look need and nerves on Sam’s face makes it worth it.
His brother rolls his hips, and Dean chokes once slightly on the press of Sam’s cock pushing up with his fingers. Chokes and then pops the new fingers out and slides them in none too gently so that Sam is taking all five and chanting Dean’s name as Dean wiggles his fingers in both directions and then slides his mouth back down Sam’s cock until now he’s choking but he’s in control of it. Sam, being Sam, jerks and twists desperately as he tries to both get away from the sudden and intense stretch and yet also take every inch of flesh that Dean will fill him with.
Waves slap against the rock as Dean stretches Sam nice and wide while he slips his lips and tongue up and down Sam’s huge dick. He loves the way Sam gasps, the way Sam’s mouth locks into a grimace almost, the way Sam can’t seem to figure out if he likes the way it just slightly hurts or he doesn’t really know the difference between pleasure and pain anyway. Dean’s fingers dig and twist until he feels the prostate and then he starts to push and tickle it. He makes the frequency of his playing it match the way the waves hit and Sam’s moans and gasps fall into the same rhythm.
The moonlight seems to be getting stronger, and stronger, and then Dean can’t wait anymore and he pops Sam out of his mouth and then slams Sam down onto his rock hard cock. Sam practically screams, giving up the rock and starting to tear at Dean, and then Sam’s entire body locks up and he comes hard with Dean not blaming him at all. He waits until Sam is almost done, then loops his hand around Sam’s dick and strokes it several times so that Sam is sobbing before he starts to gently fuck Sam at the pace he wants.
The moonlight brightens, brightens again, and then Dean realizes it’s the bedside lamp and Sam has one hand on it and one hand pulling at the sheets as he moans helplessly while Dean rocks in and out of him. They are back in bed, in the bunker, and Sam looks over his shoulder at Dean and smiles the way he used to smile when Dean would wake him up from a nap to go to bed. “What a nice way to wake up.”
Dean comes, so hard his vision whites out, and then Dean leans his head against Sam’s shoulder and bites as the waves of adrenaline dump out of him with every pulse of his cock. Sam shudders, gasps, and then flips the lamp off again leaving them in the dark. Dean nuzzles Sam’s shoulder and then rocks a little more just to enjoy the feel of it.
When Dean sits in front of the parchment again it’s with a red wine hangover, a sore dick, and a feeling of frustration that doesn’t usually come with either of those things. He stares at the words for a long time, trying to make them make sense, because he didn’t get anything out of that except a bunch of terrible sleep and then a great fucking orgasm.
“What are you looking at?” Dean jumps a foot and then fails to grab the parchment because he jerks his hand reflexively to take it back and instead sloshes his coffee.
“Nothing. I swear. Nothing.” Dean tries to get the spilled coffee up before it hits the floor or his robe or his pants. Sam is unbothered. He lifts the parchment to the light, studies it, and then puts it right against the lamp’s bulb.
Dean stares in horror as words that didn’t exist pop up on the bottom. Sam skims the parchment before getting to the part he has someone figured out how to summon into being just so he can be smug. Will it tell Sam what Dean did? Is there some kind of trick here? And then Sam looks up and there is confusion on his face.
“What is this, Dean?” Dean takes it back from Sam as he’s confused and then leans back so that Sam won’t reflexively steal it again.
There, under all the words that Dean read the first time, is a caveat written in fucking hidden ink.
Should you be looking for an undefeatable weapon, allow me to assure you that this spell works. Unfortunately, none of us are smarter or more capable than fate. Whatever it sends you to, embrace it, trust it, and believe in it. But most importantly please remember that there is no weapon that undefeatable other than love.
Dean flexes his jaw, rubs his face, and then puts it down on the table. “A fucking snipe hunt.”
His brother takes the parchment, lifts an eyebrow, and then puts it back down before giving Dean a pretty smug look. “Dean? What was your weapon?” Sam knows. Sam fucking knows. Sam can look at Dean and see right through him and Sam knows that Dean did it and now Dean has been informed that the weapon spell was really a very special episode style lesson.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll tell you later.” Sam’s smug wavers for just a moment. Dean is glad, because he’s going to go run errands today and one of those errands will be buying the strongest hot sauce he can find.