Work Text:
“Whoops.”
Sam’s giggle is lost under the crash of breaking wood and glass. It seems that the cabinet that hung over his sink has caught his weight one too many times and decided to quit.
Pill bottles, cans of shaving foam and various other toiletries spill out over the floor to mix in the wreckage and Sam just about catches himself on the far side of the sink before he joins them. The sink is built of stronger stuff, though, and does keep him on his feet at least.
“Y’okay?”
Dean’s shout comes from down the hall, sleepy and slurred.
“All good. Mirror’s fucked, though.”
“Seven years bad luck, Sammy.”
“I’ll add it to the rest.”
Dean’s shout of laughter is the only response he gets, and the sound of a door closing signals the conversation is officially done.
Sam looks down at the mess and starts to laugh again. Maybe it’s the angle of his vision, bent over the sink like he is; maybe it’s the idea of having enough good luck that he’d even notice any bad luck; maybe it’s that there’s a piece of wood next to his razor handle and a pill bottle that totally looks like a cock and balls; maybe it’s a mixture. But it sure is funny.
The way his head is hanging between his shoulders is making his eyes want to close. He’s seriously wasted and he’s woken up in weirder places than slumped over his own out-of-place bedroom sink, but the porcelain is cold against his stomach and his arms are kind of hurting and he probably should get fully horizontal.
It takes him a minute to push himself upright, and his arm flails for the cabinet that is no longer there, but he does make it vertical and even manages to shed his shirts on the way to his bed, with only a couple of frantic flails to keep himself balanced. When he falls facedown onto the sheets, it’s tempting to stay there and drift off. But his knee is pressed into the bed frame and his sock is itching his ankle. He rolls over with a sigh and pulls himself up the bed towards the pillows, toeing off his trainers and socks as he does so. Even then he can’t get comfortable, his jeans restrictive and irritating.
With one last, heroic effort, he shoves the denim down his thighs and kicks his legs until the offending garment is on the floor and he’s left only in his boxers. The cool air on his heated skin is nice, the pillow is comfortable under his head, the sheets are soft under his body and the only thing that could make this better is a pretty girl riding him so slowly he could feel every inch of her wet pussy squeezing him.
His cock starts to thicken against his thigh and he has half a mind to jerk off, but his eyelids are too heavy and his arms won’t move and the woman in his fantasy feels so nice under his hands that by the time he’s half-hard, he’s already fast asleep.
~~~
It’s easy enough to clean up the debris in the morning and to find a new place for his toiletries and stuff. He thinks about replacing the cabinet with a new one but everywhere he looks, they’re expensive, and he really can’t justify spending the money on something as unnecessary as a mirror and some shelves in a box. And then, of course, he’d need the power tools, and who knows what would happen if he started drilling into these old walls.
He just moves his shaving bag to the main shower room, puts it on the sink one down from the one Dean claimed and moves on with his life.
But he finds the lack of a mirror in his room more frustrating than he expected. He likes to check his reflection when he gets ready for the day. It’s handy to keep an eye on healing injuries without setting off Dean’s mother-hen instincts. Sometimes he just wants to look at his face when he washes off the cold sweat of a nightmare and reassure himself that he’s still him.
He deals with it for a couple of months, makes trips to the shower room in the middle of the night… before it gets too much. He’s sure he saw an old mirror in a storage room not long after they moved in. They’d both taken a look at it but it hadn’t seemed magical, so they ignored it. They had no use for an ornate mirror.
But he’s losing sleep on the regular. Sometimes he just needs to see his face and know it’s his, not Lucifer’s or a demon’s or an angel’s or some other horror riding his meat suit. Walking down to the shower room to stare at himself for thirty seconds, a minute at worst, and then walking back to bed wakes him up completely and it takes him an age to fall back asleep. The odds are almost certain he’s going to bump into Dean one of these nights and that’s just not a conversation he wants to have. He doesn’t want to explain that yes, he still has nightmares, but not those kinds of nightmares and it’s totally normal and fine.
It takes a couple of hours to track down the storage room with the mirror in it. The bunker is full of random rooms full of random shit; it’s hard to keep track a lot of the time. Eventually he’ll get it all inventoried and stored properly but that is a job for another day.
He’s not stupid, though. He tests the mirror in every way he can think of before he touches it. It’s large, maybe four feet tall and nearly two feet wide? Meant to be in a cloakroom or entrance way so you can check your reflection before you leave the house. The top edge is curved upwards into an arch, making it almost look like a window. The frame is bulky, gold coloured and ostentatious in the extreme, all engraved leaves and feathers and random curlicues, as if the artist had just wanted to show off that they could carve fancy, intricate things. There’s some kind of fleur-de-lys at the very top of the arch that is just pompous.
Sam likes nice things; he collects nice things to keep with him where he can. He’d rather rustle up twenty bucks for a nice hairbrush than buy something from the Dollar Tree that will tear up his scalp. And no matter what Dean says, that electric toothbrush was worth every penny of his pool money, even if it could have paid for ‘so much gas, Sammy, what the hell!’ It wasn’t like they saw the fucking dentist every six months like good little boys.
Although there was a clinic in town that Sam kept meaning to call and book them into…
Anyway, Sam likes nice things. But he has no time for flashy things. This is flashy for no purpose. Again he wonders why it was covered in a dust sheet in a random room of the bunker. Maybe the Men of Letters had fancier tastes than him and Dean. Maybe it was a personal item of someone who died. Hell, maybe they traded in antiques to keep the lights on or some shit.
Either way, he’d tested it as thoroughly as he knew how and nothing came up. He needed a mirror and here one was.
He reaches out with one finger, touching first the frame and then the glass. No reaction. He isn’t shocked or burned, isn’t sucked into a hell dimension or any other kind of dimension. It’s just a mirror. He throws the dust sheet back over it and tries to lift it. It weighs a fucking tonne. He braces his feet and tries again, managing to lift it this time. It’s going to be a long walk back to his room. It must weigh as much as Dean, if not more. But unlike Dean – most of the time – it’s dead weight.
Walking slowly, it takes him what feels like an age to get it back to his room, and he’s thankful that Dean is out on a grocery run. But eventually he’s in his room with the damn thing on his bed and the door shut. Safe from Dean and his questions – or at least, he has an early warning system.
He looks at the sink. No way is that gonna hold the weight of this thing. He’s already vetoed hammering or drilling into the walls, meaning he can’t hang it. So the only option is the blank section of wall behind the door. Which is only feet away from where he lays his head every night. Sam looks between the pillows and the wall, trying to guess whereabouts the mirror will sit if he just props it up on the floor. He knows he’s going to be able to see himself at all times, but how much of himself?
Stretching out his shoulders, he heaves it off the bed and places it as gently as he can on the floor, a couple of inches away from the wall, then leaning it backwards to keep it stable. He might have to get something to wedge against the bottom, to stop it sliding out in the middle of the night and scaring him and Dean to death.
He steps away, holding his hands out, ready to grab it if it starts to slip, but it stays put. He steps back until his calves hit the bed and he drops to sitting. Of course the mirror reflects his pillows, he knew that it would. Kicking his boots off, he swings his legs up to lie on the bed and is relieved to find that he’s only reflected from head to chest. He might catch a glimpse of his face, but at least he won’t see his own dick when he’s jerking off at 2am in a sleep-deprived haze. And it’s not like he can’t throw a sheet over it, if it gets too weird.
This will work just fine and he didn’t have to spend a fortune. Turns out old bunkers really are treasure troves.
~~~
It’s 3am when he stumbles back into his room a few days later. They got back from a hunt that evening, both still shaking with adrenaline. Bags had been dumped on the war table and Dean had followed him down to the gym without question. They’d gone hell for leather sparring with each other until eventually Dean bowed out gracefully, saying he needed a hot shower and some time with Rosy Palm and her sisters to finish winding down. Sam grimaced and waved him off before heading towards the treadmill. He was still itching in his skin. The sparring had helped massively but he needed to just run his body until it was satisfied they were safe. That had taken a while. And then he just… kept going.
Demons and kids, man. Fucking nasty.
He’d grabbed a spare yoga mat from the gym before he left and he manages to maneuver it under the mirror, even as his arms shake. But he pulls it off and steps back, hands outstretched again, just in case he fucked up and it’s all going to topple.
The mirror doesn’t move, but the reflection of his outstretched palm twitches, making him pull his hand back with a flinch, as if he’s expecting... He’s not sure what. A muscle spasm, an electric shock? He examines his palm, rubs at it with his thumb, but it’s fine, so he looks up at the mirror instead. He steps forward, eyes scanning the surface. Just a little flinch of his outstretched palm that he’s sure didn’t actually happen. Eyes darting around, he tries to watch all of himself at once. He looks around the room – maybe it was a flicker of the light – but the room is exactly the same as it always is.
He meets his reflection again, watches his eyes, his face. Waves his arms around, trying to catch it out, before shrugging. He’s exhausted and still shaken up. He’s seeing things.
He wakes up a couple of hours later in a cold sweat, dreaming of the demon child they couldn’t save and Lucifer laughing with his voice. He has to stand up to get close enough to inspect his eyes, but the regular kaleidoscope of colours he expects greets him. No black eyes, no blue-light eyes, just him.
He looks a little longer but everything is exactly as it should be.
~~~
Life continues like normal for the next few weeks. He’s hyper-aware of the mirror for about a week, but nothing strange happens and gradually it fades from his mind. Until Dean wakes him from a dead sleep to respond to an SOS call from Jody and Donna. With his brain still swinging between sleep and wired he almost misses his reflection tilting its head at him. Just a little, and the second he realises it, the reflection is just a reflection again. Like when you see something move out of the corner of your eye but when you look there’s nothing there.
He almost leaves anyway – it can wait until they get back. But the hair on the back of his neck is still standing on end, so he shouts Dean into his room.
“Look at this mirror, does it look weird to you?”
Dean looks at himself and then looks at Sam in the glass.
“It looks like a mirror? Should it look like anything else? Apart from an insight into your sex life I never wanted?”
“Dean…”
“Opposite the bed, Sammy. You wanna see your O face that bad? Kinky fucker.”
Sam shoves him and watches him move in the mirror. Everything looks normal. Does he need to get his eyes checked?
“So are we done mentally scarring me? Can we get on the road now?”
Sam nods, squinting his eyes as his reflection. He’ll get Dean to help him look the mirror over properly when they get back.
~~~
Unfortunately, the next time he sees his room, he’s being carried over the threshold by Dean’s shoulder under his arm. Dean has his right arm pinned to Dean’s shoulder by the wrist, his left arm pinned to his side by Dean’s vice grip around his waist. Necessary measures to keep his hands out of his pants while Dean dragged him from the garage.
Dean all but shoves him onto his bed, not caring how he lands or what he does afterwards.
“There we go, Hands McGee. Go wild with yourself. Try not to go blind.”
Dean laughs at his own joke, but Sam is far too busy shoving his hand into his waistband, scraping the backs of his fingers on the denim still zipped up and belted, and finally getting a hand on his cock again. Just having his hand on it soothes the burning in his blood. But it’s not enough. He needs to cum. He’s never been this desperate to orgasm in his whole life. And he’s been a fifteen-year-old teen. If he can just… fucking… cum.
Dean’s voice returns as he’s groaning and spilling in his boxers, the heat in his blood cooling at last.
He only gets a brief moment before the need starts to build again. He’s still diamond hard and he just needs to fuck something, anything, anyone. That’s what he needs. To bury himself deep inside someone, to feel them wet and warm around him.
“Well, glad to see you didn’t waste time.”
Dean’s voice sounds far away, but thuds are coming from his nightstand, so he must be close.
“Water so you don’t jerk yourself dry, power bars so you don’t starve, lube so you don’t chafe anything, and because I’m the bestest bro ever…”
Paper flutters down onto his chest, and underneath the increasing heat and need to cum, Sam realises he still has a hand down his pants and thanks whoever is listening that he didn’t strip off before Dean returned.
“The 2009 swimsuit edition of Busty Asian Beauties. The absolute best lineup in the last decade. You’re welcome. Try not to get it all sticky, yeah?”
Desire is building up inside him even as Dean speaks. He realises his hand is moving over his cock again without any thought. God, if he can just…
He turns to face Dean, looking up at him.
“So you should have everything sorted for the next twelve hours – and hey! You already spent four of those in the car – scarring me for the next twelve years, if not longer. This,” Dean gestures over his body, “should be over by then. You should be in your right mind again, at least. And hey, you must have gone a month without sex before. I’m sure you’ll manage the isolation period. Sex-olation?”
Dean laughs at his own joke again and as his hips jerk up, Sam thinks that if Dean would just let Sam fuck him, Sam wouldn’t have to endure the next eight hours of pain. That’s what the curse is calling for, that’s why his orgasms aren’t satisfying it. He needs to fuck someone.
“Dean… I need…”
“Nope. Nope, nope, nope. You need to stay in here and ride it out.”
“Please. You could just– We could– I’ll make it good for you, I swear–”
“Nooooooooope. Absolutely not. I’ll do anything for love, Sammy, but I won’t do that. I’m gonna lock the door behind me. You’ll be fine. Enjoy yourself.”
Dean steps across the room and the door closes behind him with a click and then the thud of a deadbolt sliding home.
The fire in his blood is burning hotter, forcing Sam to move his hand faster. No finesse, just friction and basic manual manipulation, but it’s enough to see him over the edge, shooting sticky into his boxers again.
He cools, panting in relief. Knowing he only has a brief window before the next wave starts, he fights out of his shirts and drops them off the side of the bed. The flutter of paper goes with them as Dean’s precious skin mag falls somewhere.
He wipes his knuckles on the inside of his boxers and rests his hands on his stomach. He takes time to breathe, the need finally receding from an icepick in his skull to a gnawing hunger. His body is still tense everywhere, he’s still panting for breath. But as he forces himself to lie still, to count his breaths, to mark the minutes passing with his internal body clock, it becomes easier to ground himself.
Five minutes.
His body is trying to tense up and he forces it to relax.
Ten minutes.
Five things he can see: ceiling, walls, lamp, bed, door.
Four things he can touch: sheets, skin, hair, drying cum.
Three things he can hear: the bunker’s air system, his own breath, very distantly a shower running.
Two things he can smell: laundry detergent, himself.
One thing he can taste: the tangy, sweet taste of the powder the witch blew in his face.
Fifteen minutes.
The urgency of the curse builds while he lies there. He switches to box breathing.
Twenty minutes.
It’s like a rising tide, hitting harder and harder with each wave until he’s squirming in his sheets and clenching his fists.
He fights himself not to check his watch and see if his timing was off, to calculate how many hours he has left. Instead he unbuckles his belt, unzips his jeans and shoves them down his legs along with his boxers. They get caught at his knees, his boots preventing them from going any further, so he swings his legs over the end of the bed and sits up to untie his boots. He takes them off carefully with trembling hands, cock brushing his stomach as he’s bent over, still hard after two orgasms – not counting the one in the car before Dean had realised what was happening and cuffed his hands behind his back – and his grounding attempt.
He wants to be stronger than this stupid witch curse. He wants to be stronger than his body and its needs. He’s tired of people using it against him. But he’s shaking like a junkie because he hasn’t touched his cock in the last who knows how long? Less than an hour, probably.
Gritting his teeth, he finishes pushing his jeans and boxers down and lifts his feet out of them.
Looking up, he sees his reflection in the mirror. He looks a mess. Tangled hair, sweat in the hollow of his throat, lips shiny with spit, chest heaving like there isn’t enough air in the room, and cock standing proud between his legs, so hard it’s defying gravity and brushing his belly.
He’s still looking at himself when he closes his fist around his dick again, hissing through his teeth as relief and desire wash over him. He pumps himself a few times, trying to ignore the tug of his dry but sticky hand. He’s watching his face in the mirror – Dean’s words about his O face floating through the back of his mind – when his reflection looks down at his cock.
His hand stops moving. He’s looking at his reflection’s face while his reflection looks at his cock.
“Don’t stop.”
It’s his voice, but he didn’t speak. He just watched himself speak without speaking and it’s trippy as fuck. Sam has been involved in plenty of weird, witchy shit before but this is a whole other ballpark. He closes his eyes in case it’s all a strange dream or hallucination, hand automatically moving on his cock again, muscle memory.
It works for a minute. His reflection didn’t talk. He’s just all hopped up on curse juice and hallucinating. God, he needs to fuck someone. His hand isn’t anywhere near good enough. He needs someone squirming under him, someone he can bury himself inside that will milk him dry. His hand speeds up as he imagines the faceless body under him, on all fours so he can really give it to them. Hot and wet and tight around his cock, begging for more, ‘harder, faster, Sam, please!’
He’s on the edge, right there, swipes his thumb over his weeping slit, so close–
His own loud groan startles him.
His eyes fly open, staring into the mirror opposite him. Is that what he looks like before he cums? Lust-blown eyes, sweat trickling down his temples, lips bitten red and swollen.
It’s fucking hot.
“Don’t stop. You’re so close. I can feel it.”
It spurs Sam back into movement. He is close and it’s only seconds before his nuts pull up and he cums with a shout of mixed pain and pleasure. There is the slightest pulse of fluid from his cock, and his pelvis aches.
His reflection is more familiar to him now, flushed cheeks and panting mouth. His eyes should be glazed over a little but the him in the mirror has them closed. Everything else is in sync between them. He can see the tracks of tears on his cheeks; those aren’t usually there – no matter what Dean says. But the face is one Sam has seen in a lot of mirrors before he makes a quick exit from a bathroom, motel room, or a stranger’s bedroom.
As he catches his breath and tries to enjoy the moments of peace after his orgasm, his reflection opens its eyes and looks at him.
It’s eerie, being the subject of his own bedroom eyes. He hopes it’s just a reflection of the lust in his own eyes and not some sentient mirror demon. There’s a part of his brain that wants to analyse his own face, examine how his partners might interpret his gaze on them. But the larger part of him wants to succumb to the heat in his eyes and the promise in the clench of his jaw. If a guy looked at him like that across a bar, they’d be bent over a bathroom sink within the hour.
“Is this real?” His voice is low, almost a whisper, and it’s creepy that the mirror doesn’t move when he speaks. Just smiles softly at him.
“Yes.”
“A spell?”
It cocks its head to the left a little. Sam feels a phantom of the movement in his own neck. “Sort of.”
God, he wants to explore this, find out what’s happening, what the spell is, he wants to know. But his blood is slowly heating up, the next wave of the curse rising faster now he’s given in to it again, it seems. He looks at himself, sees his reflection’s eyes darken.
“Again?”
Sam just nods, gripping his knees with shaking hands as he tries to resist. His pelvis hurts deep inside, his nuts are throbbing and his abs are cramping. He doesn’t want to cum again. Doesn’t want to touch himself. The fire is building, though, burning hotter. He can feel his heartbeat in his cock and the pain of resisting is quickly outpacing the pain in his body.
“It’s okay. You can do it.”
Is that what people hear when he speaks in bed? Soft, smooth voice that’s so reassuring, for a second he forgets the pain. He wants to trust that voice, wants to let it look after him. It makes his stomach heat in a different way.
“It hurts.”
“I know, I’d ease it for you if I could.”
Another wave hits him, sending fire flashing through his veins for a second. He groans deep in his chest, feeling his cock twitch.
“Focus on me. Now you know I’m watching, show me how you make yourself feel good.”
His legs are already spread a little, but now he leans back on one arm, exposing himself obscenely. His reflection is watching him with eager eyes, and while he’s never shied away from his partners watching him in bed, understanding the draw to watching someone feel good, he never got off on being watched. Until now.
He’s going to need to see a shrink when this is all finished.
“That’s it, that’s good, lux mea. Like that.”
Sam frowns at the Latin but it quickly slips his mind as he wraps his hand around his cock, forcing a hiss from between his teeth. It hurts, swollen and tender. But under that, it feels incredible to appease the curse. And the heated gaze on him fans those flames.
He pauses just for a second to grab the lube Dean helpfully left for him. The cold gel feels soothing on his skin, calming the heat for just a moment. When he grips himself again, it’s a smooth glide that leaves him moaning loudly.
“So beautiful.”
Even without the curse driving him, he’d be chasing his orgasm with those dark eyes on his skin and the deep voice in his ears. He rubs his thumb over his slit, pressing in just a little, enough to make him gasp.
“There you go, that’s it. You look wonderful.”
Hearing his own drawl makes everything clench up tight. He’s shaking now, on the verge of an orgasm that’s going to hurt but be so good.
“Cum for me.”
One more swipe of his thumb and his orgasm rips through him. Violent and borderline agonising, his cock twitches in his grip with nothing left to give. He hears himself whimper and presses his cock and balls close to his stomach as if that will help.
“Are you okay?”
He recognises that voice most of all. It’s one he frequently hears when talking to traumatised victims. It’s unsettling to hear how he can switch tones on a dime.
“Hurts.”
“It’s okay. Close your eyes. Just breathe for me.”
His reflection sounds soft and sweet now, no sign of the dark, rough voice from just a moment ago, telling him to cum. He breathes carefully, most of the pain gone, just a lingering ache. The curse is cooled for the moment, his body only heated from exertion. The sweat trailing down his back and running from his temples leaves shivers in its wake as he tries to calm himself, hoping for a longer reprieve after giving in twice in succession.
“Has anyone told you how beautiful you look like that?”
Sam opens his eyes to find his reflection looking at him with something like love in its eyes. It’s not a look he’s seen anyone direct at him in a long time and it makes his chest seize. He shrugs, not wanting to answer such an awkward question, even if he’s only talking to himself.
“They should. You should tell yourself.”
Sam coughs awkwardly.
“That’s a little close to narcissism for me. Self-love is more Dean’s thing.” He reaches for a bottle of water, deliberately not praising Dean – even mentally – while he’s naked and hard and mostly lucid.
“You should eat, too.”
Sam shakes his head.
“No, I’ll throw up.”
His reflection tilts its head again, and, again, he feels the phantom movement. It’s unnerving.
“Do you feel better now?”
Taking another large gulp of water, Sam considers. He’s still warm, and the heat is rising slowly again. But it’s not unbearable yet.
“I do. But Dean said this would last twelve hours.”
“It will. It’s going to build again and again. Giving in will both soothe the need and make it rise faster. The more you give in, the better you’ll feel between orgasms but the stronger the curse will affect you and the more you’ll be driven to touch yourself.”
“So the more I give in, the more I need to give in? What if I just don’t cum? Will I die?”
“No, you won’t die. If you can resist, you’ll be fine.”
Sam frowns.
“What’s the point then? If you can just ignore it?”
“The curse is like a virus, or a parasite. It wants to infect more people, spread to new hosts, so it makes you want to fuck anyone and everyone. But it won’t kill you if you don’t. If you handcuffed yourself to the wall and didn’t touch yourself for the full twelve hours, nothing would happen to you. But as you’ve seen, it’s almost impossible to ignore alone. And if you were having sex with a partner, it would be impossible to ignore. If you were to fuck someone, you wouldn’t stop until your body gave out.”
A thought occurs to Sam suddenly.
“Are you part of this curse? I mean, you said this was real but how do you know this?”
His reflection smiles, the dimples he thinks make him look too young appear and he understands in an instant why they’re so effective.
“I’m you. I know what you know. If you were in your right mind, you’d recognise this magic, too.”
That’s hard for Sam to believe. He’s still not entirely sure this isn’t all a curse hallucination.
“So if I leave myself alone, I won’t burn up? My blood won’t boil. I won’t… die?”
He knows he sounds desperate, childish even.
“It won’t, you’ll be fine. You don’t have to tie your hands down, just hold out as long as possible and take care of your body in between orgasms. Eat, drink, and try to rest. I’m here with you.”
That comforts him in a way no one but Dean has ever been able to. The idea that he’s not alone, that someone will be with him through this is almost dizzying. It’s more reassuring than the knowledge that the curse won’t kill him, bizarrely. He’s not afraid to suffer, but suffering alone is a special kind of hell.
~~~
Time passes mostly in silence. Sam alternates between trying to meditate, breathing through the pain, and listening to the gentle encouragement of the mirror when he starts to shake in desperation.
After a strong wave, he throws his head back on a groan.
“Ugh, I just need to fuck something.”
It comes out a whine, almost petulant.
“I know, lux mea. I know.”
He’s gripping the mattress with both hands. It feels like the curse is hitting harder and harder with every heartbeat. His blood feels like it’s boiling in his veins; random muscles are spasming in no pattern he can discern. If he wasn’t positive it would bring Dean crashing into the room, he’d scream until his voice broke, just to release some of the fire inside. He squeezes the mattress with both hands until they shake instead. It does nothing.
“Peace. You’re doing so well.”
“I’m on fire. I need…”
His reflection looks at him with soft eyes. Like it truly feels for him and wishes it could help. He looks at the reflection of his hands and wishes he could feel them on his skin.
“Think of a fantasy, or a memory. Try to lose yourself in the pleasure instead of forcing through the pain.”
He lets his mind drift away as much as he can. Thinks of the last time he let a girl tempt him back to her place, how she spluttered and choked on his cock until he took pity on her and pulled her up to ride his tongue instead. She’d squirmed and protested, arms shifting as she tried to cover all of herself. He’d stroked her thighs gently, cooed at her sweetly until she uncovered herself. It had taken a little longer to convince her that she could drop her weight onto him properly, really let him feel her. She was a fraction of his size, he barely felt it when she did relax into him. He was far more interested in making her scream.
And scream she did, over and over again until she was grinding herself on his mouth, smearing slick everywhere and calling him god.
When he finally gave her mercy and rolled them over, she was dripping wet and almost scalding hot when he buried himself inside her.
His hand is a poor substitute for the memory, but stroking his cock while he remembers how tight she was around him still feels good. He’s still slick with lube. He can feel his muscles tense with what must be pain, but in his mind he’s back in her bed, feeling her clamp down around him and dig her nails into his biceps.
His nuts throb in time with his memory of cumming deep inside her, but they have nothing left to give and he’s wrenched back to earth by the pain, releasing himself with a hiss.
He resists looking at his watch. It’ll be over when it’s over.
He starts to count his breaths again.
~~~
“You should drink, you’ve been lost in thought awhile.”
The voice startles him, absorbed as he’d been in his own head – his guided mental imagery had taken him to the hood of the Impala, parked in a field underneath the stars, with a beer in his hand and Dean sitting next to him – and he wants to throw up as all the need, desire and pain he’d been blocking out slams back into him.
His hands shake as he opens another bottle of water and drains it, letting it fall from his hands to the floor and watching its progress under his bed in the mirror. His stomach rolls and he eyes the sink on the wall.
In order to try and distract from the barrage on his body, he looks at himself in the mirror. Really looks at himself in a way he hasn’t in a long time.
The reflection is mostly just that, a reflection. Only the face is different – Sam can feel himself frowning, but his reflection is a blank mask at the moment. It looks like he’s thinking, but not too hard. Just pondering something. And there is a spark of something behind the eyes that Sam has never seen in any other mirror. Sentience, maybe? Magic?
Pulling his gaze away from its eyes, he focuses on the floor.
At some point, he must have kicked his jeans away because they’re nowhere near where they landed when he shoved them off. He wiggles his toes and his reflection mimics the action. He’s never really looked at his feet before. They’re just feet. They fit a size thirteen shoe and he trips over them more than he’d like to count. They’re clean and the nails are neatly manicured (it had only taken Dean ripping out a toenail once for John to impress upon them the importance of keeping your nails short and neat so they can’t snag on your boots when you run). He has a little bit of dark hair on his toes but overall they’re normal, boring feet. His toes are twitching as he looks, almost in time with the waves of curse compulsion washing over him.
Squeezing the edge of the mattress, he lets his eyes move upwards.
Hairy lower legs, nothing interesting there. He doesn’t skip leg day; the muscles look quite nice when tensed up. He gets his daily cardio and his calves have the distinctive shape of a runner’s.
His eyes linger on his thighs.
Whenever he’s looked at himself in this much detail before, he’s been looking at himself. Like running a service on a car. Legs all in good working order? Excellent. He didn’t care what they looked like as long as they were strong and he could trust them to carry him. The nice musculature of his thighs was something to be mildly proud of – he worked damn hard for those muscles. But nothing more.
Now it’s different. He’s looking at his body, but it’s not him. He’s not looking at himself, he’s looking at his reflection. And somehow it’s different. He can admire his body without feeling weird about it. He can really look. He can see the fine tremble in his thighs. He can trace the tan line across both legs where his shorts reach; the skin above pale and smooth, the skin below golden and covered in soft, dark hairs – utterly different to below the knee.
He spreads his legs further, allowing himself to see more and to watch the shift of muscle under skin.
On his inner thighs, pale blue veins are visible and the brief urge to run his tongue over them strikes him with another wave of the curse, this one more like a punch. He watches as both legs tense tight, all the way down to his toes that curl into the floor. His cock twitches against his belly – still diamond hard after all this time.
He lifts his eyes, refusing to look at his dick, his balls, or anything else there. He examined that area enough as a young teen. He wants to cover himself, but his hands won’t release the mattress and he doesn’t think he could stand the contact anyway.
Breathing deeply, he looks at the ceiling, counting the seconds in his head.
“Good.”
The voice of his reflection is soft, like it doesn’t want to disturb him but it needs him to know he’s doing well at distracting himself.
His gaze drops back to the mirror, avoiding his reflection’s face and carefully ignoring his dick. He looks at his stomach instead. He’s much prouder of his torso than his legs. His legs are just parts to maintain, his torso is what he puts the most work into, where most of his strength and power is.
His stomach is soft as he’s sitting slightly hunched over with the pain. Little rolls of fat and skin that smooth out when he stands. He’s strong, toned and can easily flex his way into a six-pack, but at rest, his stomach is smooth, with a gentle outward curve. A dark trail of hair runs from his navel to his groin, kept neatly manscaped the whole way down until it morphs into the short-trimmed hair at the base of his cock.
Breathing deeply through another wave of want, he can see the faint outline of his obliques. If he was standing, he’d be able to see the deep V-line of his hips. He’s always been pleased with the reaction he gets to them from partners. They’re not the reason he wears his jeans slung low on his hips – finding his leg to waist ratio in thrift stores is impossible – but he can’t deny it’s useful when he does want to pick someone up. A simple upward stretch shows off so much. But his still-spread thighs are in the way now, so he moves up to his stomach.
The top of his stomach starts heaving as he breathes faster, almost panting as the curse pulses through him. It takes him a moment to slow it down and breathe with purpose again. This time he watches his body as he counts his box breaths, straightening his spine as much as he can.
His stomach expands and relaxes, the muscles coming into view as he empties his lungs, only to fade when he inhales again.
Inhale, 2, 3, 4.
His eyes move up again, to his chest proper now.
Hold, 2, 3, 4.
He watches his chest as it’s fully expanded, the difference in width from his waist, the way his pectorals jut out over his stomach.
Exhale, 2, 3, 4.
He breathes out carefully, controlled. Watches his chest shrink back down as he does, the difference in width negligible even when his lungs are empty.
Hold, 2, 3, 4.
He hates this part, feels like he’s choking for air. But it keeps him focused on the exercise.
His hands have defaulted back to gripping the edge of the mattress, but he manages to wrench one off the bed and puts his right palm to his heart so he can feel the movement of his body as he breathes. His hand feels cool against the flushed skin of his chest. He can see the pink tint under the tanned skin. Even watching his hand move in real time, it feels like someone else is touching him, like the part of his brain controlling his hand is completely separate from the part registering the touch on his skin.
A new, stronger wave of the curse slams into him at the touch, like his body thinks there’s someone with him at last. He watches his fingertips dig into his chest, around his tattoo that’s covered by his large palm, until even his short nails dig into the skin. The sensation of pain is delayed, almost like his brain is so confused watching itself like this that he can’t distinguish what’s real and what’s the mirror anymore.
But the pain comes and forces a hiss out of him, and the curse to flare inside him, burning white-hot for a moment. He digs his nails in deeper for just a second. Anything to feel a pain that isn’t the damn curse burning him from the inside out.
“Be gentle, lux mea. You’re doing so well.” The voice is even softer this time. If the room wasn’t almost silent, Sam might not have heard it at all.
He pulls his hand away from his chest, catches the soft look on his reflection’s face. His eyes trace the hollow of his collarbones, the way they make a ridge against the trapezius muscles of his shoulders. Watches his neck tense at the flare of pain, the shift of muscles in his arm as his fingers move.
His hand drops from his chest and his eye is drawn to the differences between the one hanging loose and the one still death-gripping the bed. He arranges them back into the same position but doesn’t grip the bed with his right arm this time, and just looks between them.
Elbow to hand, his arms are golden brown, darker than the skin on his legs and chest. The hair that covers them is lighter too, nowhere near as dark as his legs. There’s a tan line on his biceps – not as stark as the one on his thighs, though. Bronze to gold instead of gold to white.
He’s looked at his arms and shoulders probably more than any other part of himself below the neck. Most of his injuries happen in those areas. He’s lost count of how many times he’s tracked the progress of bruises across his shoulder blades from being thrown into walls, doors and furniture. Of how many cuts he’s tended on his arms – either from fending off knife attacks or from proving himself human. If he looks closely, there are faint white lines on the inside and outside of his forearms, tally marks of a life spent fighting.
He’s also studied them both in countless mirrors, checking his form as he exercises. But the strength in his arms is so obvious now as he looks from right to left and back again.
All put together, he makes a compelling picture. He’d never stopped to notice before.
Even at rest, his biceps bulge, but tensed, it’s obscene. He can’t remember the last time he hooked up with someone as big as him. He likes a strong partner as much as he likes a delicate one. Gets off just as hard on the size and strength difference between him and a willowy girl as he does on shoving a man almost his size into a wall and knowing he can take it.
He lets himself imagine someone his size – a few have come close, but he’s always had height or weight on them, and while it’s still good, what would it be like to be equal or even the smaller one?
He’d still be the top, of course. It’s not safe to do it any other way, not the way they live. Not when a demon could be inside anyone. But it would be more push and pull before they got there. Someone his size could shove him back, make him feel it.
It’s not that he wants to be shoved around exactly, but he’s open to trying it. And right now, the thought of someone getting just a little rough, giving him somewhere to put all this need pulsing through him, is electrifying. He doesn’t notice his hand straying back to his cock, lost in a fantasy of being shoved into a bathroom door by a man his build, maybe bigger.
The door would crash into his back, maybe even bend a little under their weight. It would be so easy for the guy to pin him in place with just his hips, both of them straining hard against denim and each other. This fantasy partner would be able to hold his wrists in one hand, slam them above his head to hold him still, unable to do anything but squirm.
“Look at you, so pretty, so eager.”
The voice in his ear sounds like his own, but he tries to shake that off, aware of his hand stripping his cock again and desperate not to think of himself when he cums.
A hand stuffed into his jeans, tight around his cock.
“God, you’re so fucking hard. Can’t wait to feel this inside me.”
Despite his efforts, it’s the sound of his own voice inside his head that has him cumming dry again. His own voice talking about taking it…
Sweat drips off his nose as he releases himself with a hiss, the now drying lube making his hand stick and tug at the sore flesh.
His reflection no longer resembles him… at least in the face. He knows that he’s sweaty and sticky, and can feel the drops of sweat and tears on his cheeks, falling from his jaw. But in the mirror he still looks mostly put together.
It’s comforting, in a way, the disconnect. It feels like there truly is another person sitting with him through this. His own sad smile looks back at him, again like it would dearly like to take his hurts away and comfort him.
~~~
Any little ability Sam had to listen to his own internal clock is gone after hours and hours in this room. He tries to count the seconds, but he knows his count is off. He tries to meditate, but his mind wanders between every breath and it’s too hard to keep pulling it back on track. Any attempt to visualise a peaceful place of calm just morphs into fucking. Not even hi-def fucking. Just vague thoughts of skin and bodies, sweat and cum. Arousing but not satisfying.
And the curse burns.
It seems that the longer it runs, the more sensitive his body gets. It still comes in waves, stronger and stronger until he brings himself off. Then it recedes slightly, only to build again. But now it’s like sun on already burned skin. It prickles and stabs and makes the pain sharper somehow.
His nerves are frayed and each new wave of need feels like razor wire along them.
He gulps down water, but it does nothing to soothe him. He’d pace if he thought his legs would hold him.
The mirror tries to comfort him but the words are empty and it’s too hard to answer anyway.
Pain he can take. If it was just pain, he could cope. It’s this itching, relentless need. He’s had plenty of unsatisfying orgasms before, but he’s never experienced anything like this.
He’s attempting to box breathe again when something inside him snaps.
Burying his face in his hands to try and muffle the noise, he lets out the scream that’s been building for hours.
“Lux mea, breathe!”
The reflection sounds truly alarmed. His mind latches onto the name, anything to try and distract itself. Sam speaks without opening his eyes.
“Why are you calling me that?”
“Lux mea?” The mirror chuckles. “My light. It was your light that gave me life. What would you prefer I call you?”
Sam shakes his head a little, the conversation almost too existential to follow.
“My name?”
“Wouldn’t that get confusing, Sam?”
A shudder runs through him. His own name being spoken like that by his own voice… It’s creepy. His reflection must see the shudder; he can hear the smile in its voice.
“What about Sammy?”
Sam’s stomach heaves and his body tightens reflexively.
“No. No. Not here.”
“Of course.” The reflection’s voice becomes even more soft and soothing. “You see why I don’t use your name? I know you don’t like Samuel. I have no other options.”
“Yeah, I get it.”
“I didn’t think you’d appreciate being called an angel or angelic, but you are radiant like this. It’d be remiss of me not to tell you that.”
“I’m radiant screaming in pain?”
“No, of course not. It’s incredibly distressing to watch and I’d do just about anything to take that pain from you.”
He still hasn’t opened his eyes and has no idea what his reflection looks like.
“But when you’re lost in feeling good – in those moments when you enjoy your body and let go – then you’re radiant.”
Warmth – so different from the burning heat – flushes in his cheeks at the compliment.
“You’re always beautiful, lux mea. You don’t believe it, but you are. You’re more than a weapon to be honed.”
Tears leak from his closed eyes.
“If there’s another name you’d like me to call you, just tell me and I will, gladly. I don’t want to offend you.”
Sam has no answer to that. There isn’t anything he would prefer to be called. Usually his name is fine, but not in his own voice, damn it. And the mirror is right, calling him angelic would be awful, triggering – but he has no idea how it knows…
“Lux mea is fine. When this is over, if you’re still here, you’ll have to explain where you came up with that.”
“Of course.”
His mind releases the thoughts now that the distraction is over, and the pain floods his mind again. He groans.
“Would you let me take care of you?”
It’s tentative, like his reflection is shy.
God he wants that, though. Wants someone to just focus on him and making him feel good in this way. It’s been a long time – feels like forever. Memories of his life in California feel like dreams now. His intimate life these days is nothing more than hookups when he can be bothered to find them and perfunctory jerk-off sessions when he can’t sleep. And his hookups are usually quick and dirty. He’ll show his partner a good time, but he’s not sticking around for snuggles and breakfast. And since most people – everyone he’s ever slept with, actually – expect him to be all toppy and in charge, it’s not like anyone is out there finding out what makes him tick. And with the life he lives, it’s not like he’s got the time or brain power to dig into his body’s secrets.
Sex is good, feels good. Jerking off is good, feels good. What more does he really need?
Apparently more than he’s been getting, because the thought of being the focus of someone’s attention to make him feel good is making him all warm inside. A different warm to the curse that feels like it’s melting his insides now. He manages a nod to the mirror.
“Will you do what I say – exactly as I say?” Its voice is soft now, enticing. Sam recognises it as the one he uses in bed. Gentle, coaxing, ‘c’mon, sweetheart, one more for me.’
When he drops his hands and looks at the mirror again, they’re the same bedroom eyes he saw right at the start of this. It’s still eerie, but he’s far too exhausted to get tangled up in his thoughts now.
“Okay, lie back down for me.”
Sam stretches out his back and shoulders before he moves, aware that he’s been sitting hunched over for hours. His spine cracks and pops, easing a tension he wasn’t aware of. He shuffles back on the bed until his knees are touching the frame before pausing.
“Like this, or turn the other way?”
“Whichever’s more comfortable for you.”
He decides to lie down fully, head on the pillows and feet on the bed. When he turns his face back to the mirror, the view is obscured by the lamp on his bedside table. He can’t say he’s unhappy about that. After scrutinising his body in depth, cumming to the sound of his own voice in his head and then looking at his own sex face, the lack of visual feedback is nice.
“Close your eyes.”
It’s easy to follow the gentle voice into darkness.
“Are you comfortable?”
Sam shimmies his body on the bed. He is mostly comfortable. The curse is ramping up again, of course, but his last orgasm was mostly satisfying at least. The sheets still feel good on his skin, the bed is still soft.
“Yeah.”
“Put your hands on your stomach. Take a deep breath and feel your body move.”
Sam puts both hands on his upper stomach, away from any risk of brushing his cock – which is still straining against his belly.
“That’s it. Try to just feel your body.”
Sam tries, but all he can feel is the curse burning his blood. A groan of frustration is muted into a hiss by his teeth.
“Can’t. Hurts.”
“That’s okay. Imagine someone with you, then. Someone here just for you. Can you feel them?”
Sam tries again, really tries to disconnect his mind from the pain. Slowly, so slowly, the hands on his stomach belong to someone else.
“Where might he want to touch you? To make you feel good? Maybe he rubs his hands over your skin?”
His hands move without thought, gliding over his stomach, slick with sweat, lube and cum. Upwards to his chest, cupping his pectorals like breasts.
“Will you let him play with you? Make you feel good?”
Sam moans in response, hips twitching.
“Go on, then, show me.”
He brushes his thumbs over the peaks of his nipples, shuddering as the sensation hits him. He’s never considered his nipples sensitive, it’s not an area he’s bothered with on his own, and his partners don’t bother with his body much. Even his longest relationship was more about his partner’s pleasure than his. And he doesn’t mind, truly he doesn’t. He gets off on showing his partner a good time. But spending this much time with just himself and this desire he can’t ease, he’s realised what he’s been missing out on.
“Lick your fingers, lux. Get them nice and wet.”
He shoves his thumbs into his mouth, one hand then the other before bringing them down to brush over the peaks again, wet and gentle and teasing enough to make him groan. Almost like a mouth on them. Sparks go through his chest and into his belly, his hips twitching upwards.
“Where would he move next? He wants to make you feel good, not torture you.”
The imaginary male in Sam’s mind gives his pectorals one more squeeze, which Sam’s own hands mimic and make him gasp, before trailing fingers down his sternum. He can feel the caress on his skin, knows distantly that it’s his own hands, but it feels so real. He has no idea how long he spends just idly tracing patterns on his skin. The fingers are featherlight and leave a cool trail in their wake.
The mirror doesn’t interrupt his exploration for a long time, seemingly keen to let him feel his body for the first time in a long time.
Gradually his hands move lower until he reaches his hip bones, stroking the divots that point the way to his cock and making himself shudder.
“Beautiful. You’re so beautiful.” The voice is soft, almost a whisper. And without sight on the mirror, he can imagine it’s being whispered in his ear by the person caressing him.
His hands make their way to the base of his cock. He doesn’t want to touch it. Doesn’t want to set the fire burning hotter. His hands slide around and down, onto his inner thighs.
“Maybe he’s going to tease you after all? Leave you wanting. Make you wait?”
The whine that leaves Sam’s mouth is embarrassing.
“I can’t… I don’t want to touch. It hurts. It…”
“Shhh. I know it hurts. Just let me guide you.”
Sam moans his assent, eager to just hand over control now.
“I want you to avoid your cock until I say so. Understood?”
He nods, hoping the mirror sees him.
“Good. Cup your nuts. Gently! Just hold them, enjoy the feeling.”
Sam follows the instruction, not entirely sure what the mirror is driving at. The skin is soft, it feels nice.
“Excellent. Move your hand a little, rub them. Find out what feels good.”
Sam does as instructed, not really getting anything out of it. If someone was sucking his cock, or even just jacking it, it might feel good. It’s nice, in a similar way that caressing his skin had been, but that’s all.
“Hmm. We’ll work on that when you’re not so exhausted. Okay. Now tug on them. Gently! Just a little pull downwards.”
He doesn’t hesitate, just adjusts his grip and tugs. His stomach lurches and sweat prickles over his body. His cock lurches on his stomach and he can’t stop himself repeating the motion, hungry for the sick feeling it gives him.
“Excellent. Good. Do you want to play with your cock while you do that?” Sam must nod, because the mirror follows up with, “More lube, then, don’t hurt yourself, lux.”
Patting blindly in the sheets, Sam finds the lube bottle and squeezes some directly onto his cock before dropping the bottle again. The cool liquid makes him flinch, but it’s soon warmed by his hand.
He works his cock gently; it’s sore after this long being at full mast, and his rough actions at the start. The lube helps, keeping the glide smooth. His other hand slips back down, rolls his balls – and yeah, it is nicer with some stimulation to his cock. Not what he wants, though. Taking a deep breath, he tugs and feels the flex in his cock at the sensation. The same lurch in his stomach and prickly sweat on his lower back.
After so long in pain, it’s addictive to be in control of a sensation again and he does it again and again until he’s groaning and panting. And then some more.
“Stop. Enough. You’ll hurt yourself. Stop now. Hands on your thighs.”
It’s easy to release his cock, harder to release his nuts. But he manages and his lube-slick hands tremble on his thighs.
“Deep breath for me.” Sam’s chest swells. “And release. Well done. Shall we continue?”
Sam’s horny now in a way he hasn’t been this entire time. Letting his reflection take care of him is the best feeling he’s had in a long time. He wants to please and be praised.
“Yes. Please. I need– I want– Please.”
“Roll over for me, then. On your hands and knees.”
Sam scrambles to obey, forcing his exhausted body to move and hold his weight.
“Get more lube, make your hand nice and slick.”
He trembles when he sits up on his knees, but his legs and stomach hold him in place. The lube is cold when he pumps it into his hand and a shiver runs through him.
“Now, brace yourself on one arm for me. Or on your chest if that’s more comfortable. I want you ass up, lux mea.”
Sam opts to hold himself up on one arm, not entirely trusting his legs to hold him up. The slick in his hand has warmed now; it’s starting to drip onto the sheets.
“Fuck your fist. Don’t move your hand, just your hips. I want you to imagine you’re getting fucked at the same time.”
Wrapping his hand around his cock leaves Sam gasping, and he moves his hand without thinking.
“Stop.”
It’s like a spell, how he’s frozen in place by a word.
“I said: don’t move your hand. I said: fuck your fist. Work for it.”
It’s a little strange at first, to force down the desire to just work his arm. His hips stutter before he finds the rhythm. But soon it’s just like fucking into a warm, wet, willing hole. Like he’s done a hundred times before.
“That’s it. Look at you. You’re breathtaking like this, lux. Utterly stunning.” The mirror pauses, like it’s just appreciating the view. “Are you imagining getting fucked? How it would feel? To be stretched open like that? To have someone that deep inside you, making you feel as good as you deserve?”
Sam can’t quite conjure the feeling. But he imagines it would feel spectacular. The idea makes his belly tingle, makes the hairs on his neck stand up. He wants it, wants to feel it. It scares him, but he needs it.
“Do you think you’d be able to cum untouched if you were filled up like that?”
“Oh, fuck, I’m gonna–”
“Hold on a little longer for me. Really imagine it, lux. Someone inside you like that. Taking care of you. Treating you properly. Making you take it.”
Sam is holding on by his teeth and he’s not even ashamed of his whimper.
“You want it, though, don’t you? You want to take it. To give up your control.”
“Fuck. Please.”
“Take your pleasure, Sam. You’ve earned it.”
His nuts draw up tight and he can feel his hole clench on nothing, but his mind imagines his orgasm being fucked out of him and he cums with a shout. A weak squirt of fluid out of his cock is accompanied by the fire in his blood evaporating.
His shoulder gives way, his hand sliding out from under him and he goes crashing into the bed, his face landing in the pillow.
He lies there for a minute, just trying to catch his breath. Every part of him aches, but the curse is gone. The need is gone. He shivers in the absence of the heat. The sweat covering his body is cold now, uncomfortable. And he feels hollow almost. The way he feels when he’s lost too much blood and stands up too quickly. Like something vital is missing from his body.
It will pass, though. He hopes it will.
He squirms until he can free his other arm from under his belly, wiping the lube onto the sheets as he goes, before he wraps both arms around his pillow and closes his eyes.
~~~
Dean finds Sam sprawled out naked on his belly when he comes to check on him at the twelve hour mark. He’s just drifting into unconsciousness and the clang of the bolt startles him.
“You doin’ okay, Sammy? Not shot your brains out your dick or turned into a dried-out husk?”
“Fuck… off.”
He doesn’t bother lifting his head from the pillow where it landed, so the words are slurred.
“Christ. It stinks like sex in here. God. You good now? I’m taking your lack of death grip on your dick as a good sign.”
“It’s over. Fuck off and let me sleep.”
“Can do, buddy. We’re burning those sheets, though. There will be no washing that much jizz out.”
Sam scrambles around for something to throw. His hand lands on the lube bottle and he rolls over just enough to take aim. The bottle hits the door just after Dean walks back through it, laughing.
“Take a shower before you touch anything when you get up. I mean it, Sam. Take two. You could probably get the chairs pregnant right now."
Dean’s laughter fades down the hall, and Sam’s eyes close again. As he drifts off, the mirror whispers, “Sleep well, lux mea.”