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Supernatural - Hottest Sex You Ever Had (Truth or Dare Remix)
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remix_goes_wild participants: This is my 'safe story'. Please DO NOT remix.
ETA: I somehow left out an entire section when I posted. (How the hell?) There were supposed to be seven days of sexy times, and I left out day five. It's fixed now. [7/8/2010]
Based on (remix of): this ficlet by![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mirabella
Title: Hottest Sex You Ever Had (Truth or Dare Remix)
Pairing: Dean/OMC/OFC (and combinations thereof), Wincest vibes
Summary: The hottest sex Dean's ever had was with the Landreneau twins. He can't stop thinking of Sam. Sort of Stanford-era PWP. Contains brother-sister twin incest, a little orgasm delay. NC-17, 5,700 words.
They meet over a hunt, when Jack is still wearing makeup. To be fair, it's reconnaissance makeup, but there's definitely some glitter involved, so there's a reason that Dean doesn't take them very seriously at first.
Dean has just rolled into town, and is leaning against his car in the parking lot of a club where men have been disappearing, every Thursday, like clockwork. According to the luminous numbers on Dean's watch, it's actually Friday when a young man comes stumbling out of the club, and Dean suddenly finds his arms full of firm muscle and alcohol-scented skin.
"You're not Mariah." The guy is maybe twenty, wearing not enough clothing and some glittery shit that makes his eyelids look like they're made of brass.
It's on the tip of Dean's tongue to say, not even close, but what comes out instead is, "You're looking for a girl?" which, yeah, okay, is pretty damn tactless, and he doesn't need the offended glare to tell him so.
"Aw, fuck you, she's m' sister," the guy slurs. He struggles to right himself, and Dean is torn between holding him up and heaving him off — knowing that the latter course of action will only end with the guy sprawled on the parking lot blacktop.
Dean is saved from having to act by the advent of a young woman — Mariah, judging by the way the guy's face lights up when he sees her.
"Jack, you fuckhead! Your time was up half-an-hour ago. You said you'd call."
The guy, Jack, mumbles an apology, but she's upon them before he can finish, getting into Dean's personal space and hauling her brother up without moment's hesitation. She’s almost as tall as her brother, and doesn’t hesitate before slinging his arm over her shoulder and dragging him back to the car.
Dean watches her bundle her brother into the passenger seat, and wonders if it's normal for Jack's hands to wander down the front of his sister's pants when he's drunk — which is a really weird thought for Dean to be having, except it looks like that's exactly what Jack's doing, from where Dean's standing. Until the moment she manages to get him into the seat and begins to pull away, and Dean catches a glimpse of what looks like... a zip-top bag filled with salt.
It takes all of three seconds for Dean to put all the facts together in his head, before he pulls out of the parking lot and tails them. Somewhere along a lonely stretch of road their car pulls over, and Dean has a moment of paranoia, could be a trap, before he follows suit, as subtly as possible.
By the time he catches up to them, they're crunching through the underbrush and in the middle of a conversation.
"They're dead already!" It’s the girl, Mariah, and she's impatient.
"What about the bodies?"
"Why do you think it took me half an hour to get to the club? Salted and burned."
So definitely hunters, then.
"Well, fuck."
She mutters something that sounds like, "You're telling me."
Dean is still too far away to make out Jack's expression when he snaps, "Hey, come out already," and Mariah whips around, glaring like the wrath of gods when Dean steps into the beams of their flashlights. He can just about pick out their shadows through the glare, two square-shouldered, hard-lined silhouettes, and he wonders how he missed that they were hunters, even for a moment.
"You followed us. Why?" Mariah sounds pissed.
Dean holds up the can of salt like a peace offering, salt gun and shovel in his other hand. "I brought my own supplies?" he hazards.
Her expression changes in an instant, annoyed to merely impatient. "Well, give the salt to Jack and make yourself useful. Jack's the marked man, so he's sitting there with the salt gun and we're digging."
Dean hands over the can of salt, uneasily aware that Jack still reeks of alcohol, movements loose and easy, like a man on a relaxing midnight stroll rather than a hunter out for a salt-and-burn. But his sister clearly trusts him at her back with the salt gun, so Dean hands over the salt and takes his own gun and shovel to the grave.
Jack surprises Dean by only being about one-quarter as drunk as he smells, laying down a salt circle in under thirty seconds which, Dean has to admit, is as fast and as neat as if Dean were in charge of it. He catches the salt gun that Mariah tosses him without even looking, just holds his hand out and it's there. In spite of himself, Dean is kind of impressed.
It's a haphazard, shallow grave, and Mariah and Dean tear it up in under an hour. Jack fills him in as they work; Mariah saves her breath for the grave digging.
"Psychic powers got to her." Jack's eyes are sharp and restless, scanning in all directions as he talks. "A little bit of telekinesis and a little bit of prophecy, and she thought she was Eos, goddess of the dawn. She had a thing for — hah — collecting attractive young men."
"Kept 'em in the attic," Mariah adds, between shovelfuls. "Hog-tied."
"Yeah. But eventually people caught on, and... you know. There was a witch hunt."
The skull is unearthed first, and soon they expose bones and rotting cloth and a rather frightening array of occult charms looped around neck- and wrist- and waist- bones. Jack's swearing is the only warning they get before the spirit flies at them, hands outstretched and fingers crooked into claws. Waist-deep in the grave, there's nothing they can do but trust in Jack's aim. The spirit dissolves at the first shot, and Dean releases a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
Dean and Mariah burn the bones, two pairs of hands making short work of the gasoline and salt, sending it all up in a flare of yellow and green-tinged fire while Jack watches their backs. When all that remains is ash, he steps out of the circle with a little sigh and lends a hand filling the grave back up before they head back.
There's a moment of awkward silence when they get back to the cars.
Jack breaks it. "Oh god, I still have glitter on my face, don't I? I need a freaking shower."
Mariah laughs, then looks over at Dean, an inviting smile curling her lips. "Got a place to stay?"
********
There's only one bed, and all three of them slept on it, too exhausted from the hunt to care who was in there with them. Dean wakes up to Jack getting out of bed and heading for the bathroom, because he trusts his fellow hunters, but he'd be lying if he said that he slept soundly when other people are in his space. People that aren't his family, anyway.
Dean's arms are full of a still-sleeping Mariah, pliant and lax against his chest.
She shifts a little in his arms, and her hair still smells like bone-smoke, because none of them were up for real showers last night, before tumbling into bed. To sleep, which seems like a real waste of time, now that Mariah is awake, and twisting in his arms. Her body presses against him, soft in all the right places, and — he missed it last night, because covered-in-grave-dirt-and-reeking-of-sweat isn't a good look for anyone — she's hot.
When she gets around to facing him, her shirt is rucked up, exposing the smooth curve that runs from ribs to hipbone, and she wastes no time hooking her leg over Dean's hip and across his ass, grinding up against his morning wood. And damn that's awesome.
"Good morning," she says. And when Dean's hands go straight for her chest, she grins and shifts so that he can get under her shirt to where she's not wearing a bra, like she doesn't care that her brother's only in the bathroom, and can't possibly take long enough in the shower for them to actually have morning sex. Dean feels like he should protest this, but his hands are full of breasts that are practically the definition of 'lush', and her hand is down the front of his boxers, and he says exactly nothing.
Mariah has both hands down his boxers and is attempting to devour his tonsils — she’s slick beneath her underwear, against his fingers, and Dean’s mouth waters with how ready he is to eat her out — when Jack emerges from his shower, hair dripping, towel slung around his hips.
Out of pure consideration, Dean pulls back, tries to disentangle his limbs from hers, but she sticks stubbornly close, fastens her mouth against the thin skin beneath his ear and sucks. A jolt of pleasure runs through Dean, and he takes his eyes off the spectacle of Mariah’s tattoo-and-scar-spattered back, catching Jack’s eyes. He means to say sorry man, or smile wryly, or do something to placate the hunter who might not take kindly to Dean having his hand down his sister’s pants, and has a full complement of weapons to express his displeasure.
One glimpse of Jack’s expression, and he’s shocked into silence. Jack grins, slow and avid, his blue eyes glittering with hunger, and then he sprawls in the motel chair, towel pooling around his hips, and takes his cock in hand. He watches them the whole time.
Mariah works her mouth down Dean's body, oblivious or indifferent to her brother's presence, managing the trick of removing his boxers without separating her lips from his skin. His cock twitches as she eases across the planes of his stomach, undeterred by the frisson of Jack’s stare raking over the two of them.
She doesn’t tease; Mariah pulls back for a moment to study him, flushed and proud, before wrapping her lips around the cockhead and sliding down until he hits the back of her throat. Fuck yes.
Dean arches back, and his eyes start to flutter shut, but his gaze catches on Jack, draped over the chair, and he can’t look away.
Lean-muscled thighs spread easy and eager, Jack’s got his dick in hand, and it’s magnificent, flushed almost purple, and the sight of it makes Dean suddenly uncertain of which of them he wants to go down on first.
Dean’s hand falls on the top of Mariah’s head, tangling in her hair, and when he looks down, he meets her eyes — brilliant with want and identical to her brother’s. He sees Jack thrust into his own hand, watching them both, as Mariah deep-throats him like a pro, and Dean’s orgasm catches him off-guard, abrupt and overwhelming, leaving him with the impression of wide blue eyes, convinced, for a moment, that he just got a blowjob and a show from the same person.
********
There was no such thing as privacy when they were confined to a motel room for the entire weekend — or week, on a few terrible occasions — that it took Dad to finish up a hunt. Which means they knew a lot more about each other than most brothers did. Dean knew, for example, that Sam had this way of folding his t-shirts in three crisp movements so they didn’t have a crease down the center the way Dean’s always did. Sam knew about the first girl Dean made time with, that it was terrible and terrifying and terrific, and her name was Katy Auten.
It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t like there was ever anyone else to share shit with, anyway. They never had a real house or even a town, never had friends for more than eight or nine months at a time. For almost eighteen years, every single thing they had was shared — food, knives, rooms.
They’d never not shared a room, and even now, half the time Dean wakes up to silence on the other side of the room, nightmares still shrieking where’s Sammy, before he remembers.
********
Dean can't ask, "Are you okay with this?", can't even think the word, but he watches them closely.
He watches the way that Mariah's hands are expectant when Jack comes to bed with them, as he leans back into the cradle of Dean’s body, she reaches for his cock. She teases him mercilessly, until he writhes and moans and begs for it, until he's all but sobbing with need.
The fourth time Mariah clamps down on her brother's cock, stopping his orgasm in its tracks, Dean starts to wonder if they have a safeword, and if Jack's even got enough presence of mind to use it if he has to. There are bruises and bloody crescents in Dean's thighs where Jack is holding on like his life depends on it. The space between their bodies, back to chest, is slick with sweat, and if it weren't for Dean's arms around him, Jack's writhing and his hitching breaths would pitch him right off. He keens softly, continuously, gasping like he's about to pass out.
But Mariah's blond hair gleams in the dim light as she leans into her brother and murmurs in his ear, "It's okay, Jack. I got you. I got you."
The tension goes out of Jack's body instantly, like there's some magic in her words that talks him down all at once. Like he knows that she will always have him in her hands, and that it's the only thing that he trusts in all the world.
Dean watches, mesmerized, as she brings him to completion with her hands and her mouth and holds him together when he comes down.
********
If there is one thing that Dean hates to hunt, it's fairies. Sure, they seem small and harmless, and maybe even cute. But they fuck with your head, and he has a hard enough time keeping track of all the shit going on in there without being messed around.
The last time they hunted fairies, Dean got caught in a dream-trap, his mind stuck in an endless loop of blood loss and abandonment. He stood in the threshold of some dilapidated house for hours, and dreamed that he was bleeding out onto the forest floor, the cold feeling of death creeping into his flesh and panicking him enough that he yelled for Sam, even though he remembered Sam leaving him there — just turning his back and leaving. His entire world was pain and the copper tang of his life draining away, and Sam was never coming back.
Until he did. Sam pulled him out of that trap by force, manhandling Dean through the doorway and all but smacking him with an iron poker from the hearth, and it was all over, easy as that. Dean's never told anyone, but he's pretty sure that his deep-down certainty that Sam was coming — not the kiss of cold iron on his skin after six hours in the trap — was what kept his brain from turning into terrified mush like the rest of the victims.
Fucking fairies.
********
On the third day, they spend a lot of time just sleeping, and Mariah goes out for food and, more importantly, clean sheets.
The minute the door shuts behind her, Jack stands up and pulls Dean into his arms, muttering fuckin' finally, as their bodies come flush against each other.
His kisses are tender and deep, the kind that come from watching too many romcoms, the kind that only belong in the minds of gushing twenty-somethings, or behind a white picket fence.
Jack wants to be sweet to him, all smiles and soft touches and liability, and for a long moment Dean just stands there in confusion, his mind recalling the vivid image of Jack leveling the salt gun, aim so clean that the shot barely skins by his sister's ear and hits nothing but vengeful spirit.
Broad hands come up to frame Dean's face, calloused and gentle against three days’ worth of stubble, and that is just it.
Dean hooks his foot around Jack’s ankle, knocking him to the floor, and ends up straddling Jack’s hips while he tries to get his breath back. Without waiting, Dean goes directly for his throat, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the line of his pulse, all teeth and tongue. He groans and arches into it, but he keeps tracing soft protection sigils on Dean’s skin the way a civvie would trace affectionate figure-eights, and refuses to respond to Dean's voraciousness.
After a minute of enduring their mismatched rhythms, Dean pulls back and stares at Jack.
“I’m not your fucking boyfriend,” Dean snaps, "or a girl," which only earns him a moment of blankness, and then a huff of laughter.
“Yeah, ‘cause Mariah’d really appreciate it if I tried this on her.”
He sounds surprisingly rueful, so resigned that Dean is torn between telling him that Mariah is a hunter — of course she doesn’t want tender kisses and whispered endearments — and wrapping him up close in his arms and letting him get away with caressing. He settles for heading to the bed, and pulling Jack down on top of him, kissing for as long as he wants it, legs tangled together, jeans-clad thighs grinding against each other's erections.
They end up fucking twice, once for each of them. It’s different with a guy, all angles and hard muscle and almost painful tightness, until Dean remembers Mariah’s square shoulders and firm skin, and maybe what he means is it’s different with a hunter.
Dean bottoms the second time, because Jack still hasn’t come, so he maybe feels obligated. He’s grateful for Jack’s tenderness then — especially when Jack presses him down on the bed and licks him open until he’s groaning and pushing back onto his tongue, before reaching for the lube and a condom.
It’s unexpectedly hot, lying on his back with a dick in his ass, even though he kind of thinks it would be a lot better if he was in control of the pace, since Jack seems addicted to the longest push-pull he can draw out. The sweetness is still there, in the words that tumble from his lips as he teases Dean's cock back to hardness, — so hot so tight beautiful oh you are — his hands a half-step from reverent. He keeps doing weird shit, too, like catching hold of Dean's ankle hooked over his shoulder and licking ticklish whorls on his calf. Yeah, it feels good — every sensitive touch and slide underlined by the slow burn of not-quite-pain — but that doesn't stop it being really, really awkward.
Until Jack hitches him up a little and starts hitting his prostate on the downstroke, and 'ticklish' turns into an electric high-note of pleasure, pervasive and rare, like the browned-butter taste of homemade pie filling, and Dean only has moments — the space of four, five thrusts — to revel in it before he's coming. FuckI'mohfuckohfuckYES, an incoherent litany taking up all his headspace, Jack following him over, pulsing hard against the thin barrier of the condom.
When Mariah comes back, putting the food in the small fridge and carefully stacking clean sheets on the motel desk, Jack wakes up and opens his arms for her. She slides willingly into his embrace, though Dean catches the flicker of confusion when Jack pulls her close and presses a kiss to her nape, tender and chaste, and tucks his face against the curve of her spine. It only takes a moment for her to understand the unspoken message, and she laces her fingers into his across her waist, mooring him silent and strong against her.
********
They made mistakes sometimes. People died when they were too slow or too late, when they got the wrong information or made the wrong assumptions. Sam always took it hardest when it was kids; he always believed in that 'children are the future' stuff.
On a case in Milwaukee, Sam held a little girl in his arms as she choked to death on her own blood. They wasted the thing that killed her — some mindless, giant spider that had once been a local totem — but Sam just couldn’t let it go. He barely even waited for Dad to leave the motel room for the usual post-hunt beer before starting up his whining.
"We should have saved her. If we'd been faster, if I'd worked it out sooner. We could've stopped it sooner, and she would have been saved."
Dean listened, well, he heard what Sam said, but he couldn’t summon the appropriate grief. He made sure his face showed how much he hated that they failed her, but he didn’t say a word.
"You don’t even care, do you, Dean."
As though Dean had wanted the girl dead, as though he was no better than a monster if he didn’t cry over every single mistake they’d ever made. He lost it right then.
Sam was the one who wanted a normal life, but normal kids couldn’t drive by the time they were twelve, couldn’t lay a salt line, couldn’t shoot or fight or even run right.
The girl's parents were already dead, the thing that killed her got to them first, and who would have taken care of her? They'd done the research, and they knew she didn't have any family but her parents, no place to stay but the house that burned down. No one prepared for shit like this. Her parents had had no life insurance and the health insurance documents burned to ash along with the house, and what would the girl have done?
They should have saved her.
"Sure, Sammy, it would have made you feel better."
Sam was fifteen, and Dean was his rent-paying-grocery-budgeting reality check, his connection to a world where the innocent girl’s problems only began when her life was saved.
"But maybe she was saved anyway."
********
Every time they come together, Mariah only has eyes for Jack. She watches him with a stare that Dean knows inside and out. Dean wondered, at first, if Jack knows how lucky he is to have his sister looking out for him like that, if he realizes how much his sister loves him. But after four days, Dean can see that it's not one-sided, that this is a sibling thing that they share like anything else in their lives.
Dean gets it, all the way down to his bones, but he almost doesn't recognize it from the outside. And he still can't look away.
He reads the way Jack's arms wrap around both of them in bed, reaching out for his sister like her skin is a charm. Dean watches them settle into each other like it's home, like he is the roof and she is the foundation, and he understands — grimacing with nostalgia — what people saw when they looked at him and Sam.
********
One time, they'd been hunting a really powerful spirit, a particularly vengeful one that crushed men to death, as she had been pressed to death for the sin of an imagined adultery. She was pretty — blond and beautiful, even in the ridiculous underwear that nineteenth-century women wore — and she was powerful enough to knock Dean on his ass with a glare, sending the salt gun skittering.
He felt the air — as if that made any freaking sense — begin to constrict around him, viselike along all his limbs, and it was a fucking relief when Sam, all ridiculous, lanky, six feet of him, gangled in and shot her face full of salt. Sam stood over him, very nearly straddling him, and Dean wondered — irrelevantly — how many weeks it would be until little Sammy got taller than him.
********
Mariah tells him, “We're third-generation hunters.”
“From Louisiana, originally,” Jack finishes, when Dean asks where they're from.
“Got a sister still there -- in the north part of the state where nothing ever happens.”
“Hell, she's why nothing ever happens 'round there,” Jack adds, laughing a little.
It only lasts for those few phrases, a lightning-quick exchange of simple conversation, but there's something necessary about it, the two of them weaving the thread of conversation into a web of recognition.
They do foreplay in the same way, handing off unfinished touches like incomplete sentences.
Jack pushes Dean onto the bed into Mariah's waiting arms, and she skates her palm over Dean's skin, over the exact places where imprints of Jack's fingers are beginning to redden. They kiss over Dean's shoulder and when he turns his head to watch, they move seamless and easy, to include him, licking his tongue into each other's mouths and humming softly in satisfaction.
Then it's Jack's tongue tracing the head of his cock and Mariah's hand around the shaft, jacking him slow and dirty. And when Mariah moves her hands up to pinch at Dean's nipples, Jack's big hand slides into place between one stroke and the next, different callouses in the same thought-breakingly twisting motion.
They move around each other and Dean can almost imagine what it must be like when they hunt, connected in a way that defies sympathy, trading movement as effortlessly as breathing. It gives their actions a spark of danger that flashes across his skin, shivering, as he watches them take their places before him, the glance of mutual agreement that they fail to exchange hovers in the air. We know each other inside and out.
Ultimately, Dean comes into Mariah's mouth, struck by the image of Jack's fingers gripping the pale skin of her hips, screwing into her like a gunsmith grinding rifling into the barrel of a masterwork.
********
"We should have like, a secret password system," Sammy said, the first time they were on a shapeshifter's trail. He was fourteen, barely, and the first knock-down-drag-out fight was still a whole year away.
Dean looked over at him. Dad was driving and anyway, he'd given them all the instruction that he was going to. Stay in the room. Don't let anyone in. Keep your heads down.
"We don't need a secret password system. Shapeshifters can figure all of that stuff out. It's what they do." He rolled his eyes for emphasis.
"C'mon, Dean. You know you wanna be like, some super-secret spy. It'd really fun for you."
"We don't need a secret password. Bitch."
Sam huffed and slumped against his side of the seat. "Jerk."
********
Dean won’t voice the question that keeps playing in his head. Instead he asks, “You two always hunt together?”
“We do now,” Jack answers, voice curiously hard.
Mariah doesn’t say anything, just straddles Dean and takes him into herself without ceremony, pushing him down onto the bed and riding him with a languid roll of her hips. For a brief moment, she meets his eyes, her face unreadable, then she tips her head back onto Jack’s shoulder, utterly confident that he will be there.
“We’re twins, you know,” Jack says, speaking against Mariah’s throat. “The ‘scourge of evil’ in the Southeast.” Their short, breathy laughs are almost identical. “We’re blood and bone.”
Dean feels it when he pushes into Mariah, a change in the cant of her hips and the flex of her inner muscles. One of them groans and broad hands land on her waist, guiding the undulations of her body.
When Mariah comes hard, clenching around Dean and thrusting her hips like fighting, Jack holds her down and fucks her through it, and he feels them both at once. She’s hotwettight around him, and the rhythm Jack sets is punishingly fast, and the combination of the two of them steals his breath, makes him arch into it and come like a hard-fought exorcism, black and roaring and too incoherent to manage anything but GOD, at the top of his lungs.
After, when they're content and fucked-out, one lazy smile spread across two faces, inclined to do nothing more than lie there wrapped around him, Dean marshals his thoughts to consider Jack’s answer to his question.
It’s blood and bone. Dean understands; nothing else is strong enough, not friendship, not even love, because every constant in their world must be built of blood and bone to stand in the face of the hunt.
********
They ran into a werewolf in Minnesota. Almost literally. It was the summer before Sam's last year of high school and they were just passing through, waiting for Dad to get back from yet another wild-goose chase before they moved on. It wasn't the first case they'd worked by themselves, but it was easily the worst.
Sam got the werewolf between the eyes with a silver bullet that went in like a penny and out like a pizza.
Dean got to spend the terrifying drive back to the motel steering one-handed and wondering if his intestines were going to fall out if he moved his arm away from his stomach.
"Did you get bit?" Sam asked, voice tiny and at odds with the way he watched the road intently, trying to drive with the power of his mind, because Dean was really in no shape to be behind the wheel.
"Don't think so." Dean glanced over and saw that Sam had his gun in his hands, turning it over and over. Dean blamed the pain and the blood loss and the fear — the fear most of all — when he tried to make light of it. "You'd know what to do if I had. Right, Sammy?"
"It's Sam. And yeah, I know." But something in his tone whispered unsettlingly that what Sam had in mind involved two bullets instead of just one.
********
It is without a doubt, the hottest sex that Dean's ever had. Jack's hands are splayed wide on the sheets, arms braced strong on either side of Dean's shoulders, dick hot and hard in the crease of his ass, head catching on his spit-slick hole with every thrust. Jack waits as his sister — his twin sister — rolls a condom onto Dean's dick and spreads wide, knees as far apart as they'll go with her feet planted on the mattress. Then he puts a calloused hand between Dean's shoulder-blades and pushes down, until his chest presses against Mariah's breasts and his back arches, presenting his ass for Jack's cock.
He manages to catch Mariah's glance over his shoulder an instant before they both take him, her wet heat engulfing him while Jack sinks halfway in one thrust.
Fuuuuuck.
Mariah's hand around the back of his neck holds him down while she works her hips, each push driving him a little further onto Jack's cock, filling him up, splitting him in half, nailing him into her. She doesn't let go until Jack bottoms out and all three of them are hips-pressed-together, sweat-slick and panting. Jack is a hot weight against the backs of Dean's thighs, nipping at his vertebrae as Mariah reaches for her brother and begins to rock, liquid and smooth, setting the pace.
Dean looks over his shoulder, seeking Jack’s crooked smile, but his gaze catches on Mariah’s hand instead, splayed over an old, stitched-up scar on Jack’s chest. Dean has to avert his eyes, feeling, for the first time, that he’s seen something that he wasn’t meant to — that he’s intruding.
An image — vague memory — rises. Sewing Sam up, fingers slippery with blood, just a slice across his shoulder, wide, but not too deep. His hands leave a tracery of blood, half-imagined protective sigils, and the lines of I will protect blurring with I love on his brother’s innocent skin.
The twins understand. Mariah’s knees brush his ribs, and she matches the rhythm of Jack’s thrusts like Dean is just a new face her brother is trying on. She’s sewn his skin back together over the obscenity of exposed muscle and bone, sealed the steady, sluggish leak of blood, blood, blood. They know each other inside and out, no matter who is with them or between them.
Dean tucks his face into her shoulder, tries to focus on nothing but the fullness of Jack’s dick moving inside him, the wet heat of Mariah around him, their hands everywhere it could possibly feel good. And when he comes, he even succeeds for a few moments.
********
They're driving down yet another highway, trading embarrassing questions, when Sam blurts, "Hottest sex you've ever had," like it's busting past his brain-to-mouth filter in a mad rush to escape.
"The Landreneau twins," Dean answers promptly, giving Sam the basics. It's easy and not really embarrassing at all, even if it makes Sam scrunch into his seat and fidget like he wants to die of mortification.
Sam is out of practice, used to going to the gym to impress girls and running to relieve the stress of exams. He's lost that ounce of spare flesh that's insurance against fucking freezing in here without a heater and that money's for ammo; we'll eat later. When Dean glances across the seat, the hunter in him recognizes the shapes of needing the hunt — for direction, for vengeance — and the part of Dean that will never let go of Sammy no matter how often he's corrected wonders if Sam's insides are something he'd recognize, still blood and bone.
He catches the weird tautness in Sam's voice, even though the words are familiar. “So were their names Krysti and Candi like your run-of-the-mill threesome-scoring bar chicks, or do hunting families have a little more class than that?”
"Nope. Jack and Mariah," Dean says, pretending not to notice when his brother's head snaps up from the window.
For a second, Dean is certain that the next words out of Sam’s mouth will be either, who topped, you or Jack? or I didn’t know you were into guys.
But Sam stays quiet and after a minute Dean says, "come on, your turn. Weirdest thing you ever stole," and smiles at the road ahead.
remix_goes_wild participants: This is my 'safe story'. Please DO NOT remix.ETA: I somehow left out an entire section when I posted. (How the hell?) There were supposed to be seven days of sexy times, and I left out day five. It's fixed now. [7/8/2010]
Based on (remix of): this ficlet by
mirabellaTitle: Hottest Sex You Ever Had (Truth or Dare Remix)
Pairing: Dean/OMC/OFC (and combinations thereof), Wincest vibes
Summary: The hottest sex Dean's ever had was with the Landreneau twins. He can't stop thinking of Sam. Sort of Stanford-era PWP. Contains brother-sister twin incest, a little orgasm delay. NC-17, 5,700 words.
They meet over a hunt, when Jack is still wearing makeup. To be fair, it's reconnaissance makeup, but there's definitely some glitter involved, so there's a reason that Dean doesn't take them very seriously at first.
Dean has just rolled into town, and is leaning against his car in the parking lot of a club where men have been disappearing, every Thursday, like clockwork. According to the luminous numbers on Dean's watch, it's actually Friday when a young man comes stumbling out of the club, and Dean suddenly finds his arms full of firm muscle and alcohol-scented skin.
"You're not Mariah." The guy is maybe twenty, wearing not enough clothing and some glittery shit that makes his eyelids look like they're made of brass.
It's on the tip of Dean's tongue to say, not even close, but what comes out instead is, "You're looking for a girl?" which, yeah, okay, is pretty damn tactless, and he doesn't need the offended glare to tell him so.
"Aw, fuck you, she's m' sister," the guy slurs. He struggles to right himself, and Dean is torn between holding him up and heaving him off — knowing that the latter course of action will only end with the guy sprawled on the parking lot blacktop.
Dean is saved from having to act by the advent of a young woman — Mariah, judging by the way the guy's face lights up when he sees her.
"Jack, you fuckhead! Your time was up half-an-hour ago. You said you'd call."
The guy, Jack, mumbles an apology, but she's upon them before he can finish, getting into Dean's personal space and hauling her brother up without moment's hesitation. She’s almost as tall as her brother, and doesn’t hesitate before slinging his arm over her shoulder and dragging him back to the car.
Dean watches her bundle her brother into the passenger seat, and wonders if it's normal for Jack's hands to wander down the front of his sister's pants when he's drunk — which is a really weird thought for Dean to be having, except it looks like that's exactly what Jack's doing, from where Dean's standing. Until the moment she manages to get him into the seat and begins to pull away, and Dean catches a glimpse of what looks like... a zip-top bag filled with salt.
It takes all of three seconds for Dean to put all the facts together in his head, before he pulls out of the parking lot and tails them. Somewhere along a lonely stretch of road their car pulls over, and Dean has a moment of paranoia, could be a trap, before he follows suit, as subtly as possible.
By the time he catches up to them, they're crunching through the underbrush and in the middle of a conversation.
"They're dead already!" It’s the girl, Mariah, and she's impatient.
"What about the bodies?"
"Why do you think it took me half an hour to get to the club? Salted and burned."
So definitely hunters, then.
"Well, fuck."
She mutters something that sounds like, "You're telling me."
Dean is still too far away to make out Jack's expression when he snaps, "Hey, come out already," and Mariah whips around, glaring like the wrath of gods when Dean steps into the beams of their flashlights. He can just about pick out their shadows through the glare, two square-shouldered, hard-lined silhouettes, and he wonders how he missed that they were hunters, even for a moment.
"You followed us. Why?" Mariah sounds pissed.
Dean holds up the can of salt like a peace offering, salt gun and shovel in his other hand. "I brought my own supplies?" he hazards.
Her expression changes in an instant, annoyed to merely impatient. "Well, give the salt to Jack and make yourself useful. Jack's the marked man, so he's sitting there with the salt gun and we're digging."
Dean hands over the can of salt, uneasily aware that Jack still reeks of alcohol, movements loose and easy, like a man on a relaxing midnight stroll rather than a hunter out for a salt-and-burn. But his sister clearly trusts him at her back with the salt gun, so Dean hands over the salt and takes his own gun and shovel to the grave.
Jack surprises Dean by only being about one-quarter as drunk as he smells, laying down a salt circle in under thirty seconds which, Dean has to admit, is as fast and as neat as if Dean were in charge of it. He catches the salt gun that Mariah tosses him without even looking, just holds his hand out and it's there. In spite of himself, Dean is kind of impressed.
It's a haphazard, shallow grave, and Mariah and Dean tear it up in under an hour. Jack fills him in as they work; Mariah saves her breath for the grave digging.
"Psychic powers got to her." Jack's eyes are sharp and restless, scanning in all directions as he talks. "A little bit of telekinesis and a little bit of prophecy, and she thought she was Eos, goddess of the dawn. She had a thing for — hah — collecting attractive young men."
"Kept 'em in the attic," Mariah adds, between shovelfuls. "Hog-tied."
"Yeah. But eventually people caught on, and... you know. There was a witch hunt."
The skull is unearthed first, and soon they expose bones and rotting cloth and a rather frightening array of occult charms looped around neck- and wrist- and waist- bones. Jack's swearing is the only warning they get before the spirit flies at them, hands outstretched and fingers crooked into claws. Waist-deep in the grave, there's nothing they can do but trust in Jack's aim. The spirit dissolves at the first shot, and Dean releases a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
Dean and Mariah burn the bones, two pairs of hands making short work of the gasoline and salt, sending it all up in a flare of yellow and green-tinged fire while Jack watches their backs. When all that remains is ash, he steps out of the circle with a little sigh and lends a hand filling the grave back up before they head back.
There's a moment of awkward silence when they get back to the cars.
Jack breaks it. "Oh god, I still have glitter on my face, don't I? I need a freaking shower."
Mariah laughs, then looks over at Dean, an inviting smile curling her lips. "Got a place to stay?"
********
There's only one bed, and all three of them slept on it, too exhausted from the hunt to care who was in there with them. Dean wakes up to Jack getting out of bed and heading for the bathroom, because he trusts his fellow hunters, but he'd be lying if he said that he slept soundly when other people are in his space. People that aren't his family, anyway.
Dean's arms are full of a still-sleeping Mariah, pliant and lax against his chest.
She shifts a little in his arms, and her hair still smells like bone-smoke, because none of them were up for real showers last night, before tumbling into bed. To sleep, which seems like a real waste of time, now that Mariah is awake, and twisting in his arms. Her body presses against him, soft in all the right places, and — he missed it last night, because covered-in-grave-dirt-and-reeking-of-sweat isn't a good look for anyone — she's hot.
When she gets around to facing him, her shirt is rucked up, exposing the smooth curve that runs from ribs to hipbone, and she wastes no time hooking her leg over Dean's hip and across his ass, grinding up against his morning wood. And damn that's awesome.
"Good morning," she says. And when Dean's hands go straight for her chest, she grins and shifts so that he can get under her shirt to where she's not wearing a bra, like she doesn't care that her brother's only in the bathroom, and can't possibly take long enough in the shower for them to actually have morning sex. Dean feels like he should protest this, but his hands are full of breasts that are practically the definition of 'lush', and her hand is down the front of his boxers, and he says exactly nothing.
Mariah has both hands down his boxers and is attempting to devour his tonsils — she’s slick beneath her underwear, against his fingers, and Dean’s mouth waters with how ready he is to eat her out — when Jack emerges from his shower, hair dripping, towel slung around his hips.
Out of pure consideration, Dean pulls back, tries to disentangle his limbs from hers, but she sticks stubbornly close, fastens her mouth against the thin skin beneath his ear and sucks. A jolt of pleasure runs through Dean, and he takes his eyes off the spectacle of Mariah’s tattoo-and-scar-spattered back, catching Jack’s eyes. He means to say sorry man, or smile wryly, or do something to placate the hunter who might not take kindly to Dean having his hand down his sister’s pants, and has a full complement of weapons to express his displeasure.
One glimpse of Jack’s expression, and he’s shocked into silence. Jack grins, slow and avid, his blue eyes glittering with hunger, and then he sprawls in the motel chair, towel pooling around his hips, and takes his cock in hand. He watches them the whole time.
Mariah works her mouth down Dean's body, oblivious or indifferent to her brother's presence, managing the trick of removing his boxers without separating her lips from his skin. His cock twitches as she eases across the planes of his stomach, undeterred by the frisson of Jack’s stare raking over the two of them.
She doesn’t tease; Mariah pulls back for a moment to study him, flushed and proud, before wrapping her lips around the cockhead and sliding down until he hits the back of her throat. Fuck yes.
Dean arches back, and his eyes start to flutter shut, but his gaze catches on Jack, draped over the chair, and he can’t look away.
Lean-muscled thighs spread easy and eager, Jack’s got his dick in hand, and it’s magnificent, flushed almost purple, and the sight of it makes Dean suddenly uncertain of which of them he wants to go down on first.
Dean’s hand falls on the top of Mariah’s head, tangling in her hair, and when he looks down, he meets her eyes — brilliant with want and identical to her brother’s. He sees Jack thrust into his own hand, watching them both, as Mariah deep-throats him like a pro, and Dean’s orgasm catches him off-guard, abrupt and overwhelming, leaving him with the impression of wide blue eyes, convinced, for a moment, that he just got a blowjob and a show from the same person.
********
There was no such thing as privacy when they were confined to a motel room for the entire weekend — or week, on a few terrible occasions — that it took Dad to finish up a hunt. Which means they knew a lot more about each other than most brothers did. Dean knew, for example, that Sam had this way of folding his t-shirts in three crisp movements so they didn’t have a crease down the center the way Dean’s always did. Sam knew about the first girl Dean made time with, that it was terrible and terrifying and terrific, and her name was Katy Auten.
It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t like there was ever anyone else to share shit with, anyway. They never had a real house or even a town, never had friends for more than eight or nine months at a time. For almost eighteen years, every single thing they had was shared — food, knives, rooms.
They’d never not shared a room, and even now, half the time Dean wakes up to silence on the other side of the room, nightmares still shrieking where’s Sammy, before he remembers.
********
Dean can't ask, "Are you okay with this?", can't even think the word, but he watches them closely.
He watches the way that Mariah's hands are expectant when Jack comes to bed with them, as he leans back into the cradle of Dean’s body, she reaches for his cock. She teases him mercilessly, until he writhes and moans and begs for it, until he's all but sobbing with need.
The fourth time Mariah clamps down on her brother's cock, stopping his orgasm in its tracks, Dean starts to wonder if they have a safeword, and if Jack's even got enough presence of mind to use it if he has to. There are bruises and bloody crescents in Dean's thighs where Jack is holding on like his life depends on it. The space between their bodies, back to chest, is slick with sweat, and if it weren't for Dean's arms around him, Jack's writhing and his hitching breaths would pitch him right off. He keens softly, continuously, gasping like he's about to pass out.
But Mariah's blond hair gleams in the dim light as she leans into her brother and murmurs in his ear, "It's okay, Jack. I got you. I got you."
The tension goes out of Jack's body instantly, like there's some magic in her words that talks him down all at once. Like he knows that she will always have him in her hands, and that it's the only thing that he trusts in all the world.
Dean watches, mesmerized, as she brings him to completion with her hands and her mouth and holds him together when he comes down.
********
If there is one thing that Dean hates to hunt, it's fairies. Sure, they seem small and harmless, and maybe even cute. But they fuck with your head, and he has a hard enough time keeping track of all the shit going on in there without being messed around.
The last time they hunted fairies, Dean got caught in a dream-trap, his mind stuck in an endless loop of blood loss and abandonment. He stood in the threshold of some dilapidated house for hours, and dreamed that he was bleeding out onto the forest floor, the cold feeling of death creeping into his flesh and panicking him enough that he yelled for Sam, even though he remembered Sam leaving him there — just turning his back and leaving. His entire world was pain and the copper tang of his life draining away, and Sam was never coming back.
Until he did. Sam pulled him out of that trap by force, manhandling Dean through the doorway and all but smacking him with an iron poker from the hearth, and it was all over, easy as that. Dean's never told anyone, but he's pretty sure that his deep-down certainty that Sam was coming — not the kiss of cold iron on his skin after six hours in the trap — was what kept his brain from turning into terrified mush like the rest of the victims.
Fucking fairies.
********
On the third day, they spend a lot of time just sleeping, and Mariah goes out for food and, more importantly, clean sheets.
The minute the door shuts behind her, Jack stands up and pulls Dean into his arms, muttering fuckin' finally, as their bodies come flush against each other.
His kisses are tender and deep, the kind that come from watching too many romcoms, the kind that only belong in the minds of gushing twenty-somethings, or behind a white picket fence.
Jack wants to be sweet to him, all smiles and soft touches and liability, and for a long moment Dean just stands there in confusion, his mind recalling the vivid image of Jack leveling the salt gun, aim so clean that the shot barely skins by his sister's ear and hits nothing but vengeful spirit.
Broad hands come up to frame Dean's face, calloused and gentle against three days’ worth of stubble, and that is just it.
Dean hooks his foot around Jack’s ankle, knocking him to the floor, and ends up straddling Jack’s hips while he tries to get his breath back. Without waiting, Dean goes directly for his throat, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the line of his pulse, all teeth and tongue. He groans and arches into it, but he keeps tracing soft protection sigils on Dean’s skin the way a civvie would trace affectionate figure-eights, and refuses to respond to Dean's voraciousness.
After a minute of enduring their mismatched rhythms, Dean pulls back and stares at Jack.
“I’m not your fucking boyfriend,” Dean snaps, "or a girl," which only earns him a moment of blankness, and then a huff of laughter.
“Yeah, ‘cause Mariah’d really appreciate it if I tried this on her.”
He sounds surprisingly rueful, so resigned that Dean is torn between telling him that Mariah is a hunter — of course she doesn’t want tender kisses and whispered endearments — and wrapping him up close in his arms and letting him get away with caressing. He settles for heading to the bed, and pulling Jack down on top of him, kissing for as long as he wants it, legs tangled together, jeans-clad thighs grinding against each other's erections.
They end up fucking twice, once for each of them. It’s different with a guy, all angles and hard muscle and almost painful tightness, until Dean remembers Mariah’s square shoulders and firm skin, and maybe what he means is it’s different with a hunter.
Dean bottoms the second time, because Jack still hasn’t come, so he maybe feels obligated. He’s grateful for Jack’s tenderness then — especially when Jack presses him down on the bed and licks him open until he’s groaning and pushing back onto his tongue, before reaching for the lube and a condom.
It’s unexpectedly hot, lying on his back with a dick in his ass, even though he kind of thinks it would be a lot better if he was in control of the pace, since Jack seems addicted to the longest push-pull he can draw out. The sweetness is still there, in the words that tumble from his lips as he teases Dean's cock back to hardness, — so hot so tight beautiful oh you are — his hands a half-step from reverent. He keeps doing weird shit, too, like catching hold of Dean's ankle hooked over his shoulder and licking ticklish whorls on his calf. Yeah, it feels good — every sensitive touch and slide underlined by the slow burn of not-quite-pain — but that doesn't stop it being really, really awkward.
Until Jack hitches him up a little and starts hitting his prostate on the downstroke, and 'ticklish' turns into an electric high-note of pleasure, pervasive and rare, like the browned-butter taste of homemade pie filling, and Dean only has moments — the space of four, five thrusts — to revel in it before he's coming. FuckI'mohfuckohfuckYES, an incoherent litany taking up all his headspace, Jack following him over, pulsing hard against the thin barrier of the condom.
When Mariah comes back, putting the food in the small fridge and carefully stacking clean sheets on the motel desk, Jack wakes up and opens his arms for her. She slides willingly into his embrace, though Dean catches the flicker of confusion when Jack pulls her close and presses a kiss to her nape, tender and chaste, and tucks his face against the curve of her spine. It only takes a moment for her to understand the unspoken message, and she laces her fingers into his across her waist, mooring him silent and strong against her.
********
They made mistakes sometimes. People died when they were too slow or too late, when they got the wrong information or made the wrong assumptions. Sam always took it hardest when it was kids; he always believed in that 'children are the future' stuff.
On a case in Milwaukee, Sam held a little girl in his arms as she choked to death on her own blood. They wasted the thing that killed her — some mindless, giant spider that had once been a local totem — but Sam just couldn’t let it go. He barely even waited for Dad to leave the motel room for the usual post-hunt beer before starting up his whining.
"We should have saved her. If we'd been faster, if I'd worked it out sooner. We could've stopped it sooner, and she would have been saved."
Dean listened, well, he heard what Sam said, but he couldn’t summon the appropriate grief. He made sure his face showed how much he hated that they failed her, but he didn’t say a word.
"You don’t even care, do you, Dean."
As though Dean had wanted the girl dead, as though he was no better than a monster if he didn’t cry over every single mistake they’d ever made. He lost it right then.
Sam was the one who wanted a normal life, but normal kids couldn’t drive by the time they were twelve, couldn’t lay a salt line, couldn’t shoot or fight or even run right.
The girl's parents were already dead, the thing that killed her got to them first, and who would have taken care of her? They'd done the research, and they knew she didn't have any family but her parents, no place to stay but the house that burned down. No one prepared for shit like this. Her parents had had no life insurance and the health insurance documents burned to ash along with the house, and what would the girl have done?
They should have saved her.
"Sure, Sammy, it would have made you feel better."
Sam was fifteen, and Dean was his rent-paying-grocery-budgeting reality check, his connection to a world where the innocent girl’s problems only began when her life was saved.
"But maybe she was saved anyway."
********
Every time they come together, Mariah only has eyes for Jack. She watches him with a stare that Dean knows inside and out. Dean wondered, at first, if Jack knows how lucky he is to have his sister looking out for him like that, if he realizes how much his sister loves him. But after four days, Dean can see that it's not one-sided, that this is a sibling thing that they share like anything else in their lives.
Dean gets it, all the way down to his bones, but he almost doesn't recognize it from the outside. And he still can't look away.
He reads the way Jack's arms wrap around both of them in bed, reaching out for his sister like her skin is a charm. Dean watches them settle into each other like it's home, like he is the roof and she is the foundation, and he understands — grimacing with nostalgia — what people saw when they looked at him and Sam.
********
One time, they'd been hunting a really powerful spirit, a particularly vengeful one that crushed men to death, as she had been pressed to death for the sin of an imagined adultery. She was pretty — blond and beautiful, even in the ridiculous underwear that nineteenth-century women wore — and she was powerful enough to knock Dean on his ass with a glare, sending the salt gun skittering.
He felt the air — as if that made any freaking sense — begin to constrict around him, viselike along all his limbs, and it was a fucking relief when Sam, all ridiculous, lanky, six feet of him, gangled in and shot her face full of salt. Sam stood over him, very nearly straddling him, and Dean wondered — irrelevantly — how many weeks it would be until little Sammy got taller than him.
********
Mariah tells him, “We're third-generation hunters.”
“From Louisiana, originally,” Jack finishes, when Dean asks where they're from.
“Got a sister still there -- in the north part of the state where nothing ever happens.”
“Hell, she's why nothing ever happens 'round there,” Jack adds, laughing a little.
It only lasts for those few phrases, a lightning-quick exchange of simple conversation, but there's something necessary about it, the two of them weaving the thread of conversation into a web of recognition.
They do foreplay in the same way, handing off unfinished touches like incomplete sentences.
Jack pushes Dean onto the bed into Mariah's waiting arms, and she skates her palm over Dean's skin, over the exact places where imprints of Jack's fingers are beginning to redden. They kiss over Dean's shoulder and when he turns his head to watch, they move seamless and easy, to include him, licking his tongue into each other's mouths and humming softly in satisfaction.
Then it's Jack's tongue tracing the head of his cock and Mariah's hand around the shaft, jacking him slow and dirty. And when Mariah moves her hands up to pinch at Dean's nipples, Jack's big hand slides into place between one stroke and the next, different callouses in the same thought-breakingly twisting motion.
They move around each other and Dean can almost imagine what it must be like when they hunt, connected in a way that defies sympathy, trading movement as effortlessly as breathing. It gives their actions a spark of danger that flashes across his skin, shivering, as he watches them take their places before him, the glance of mutual agreement that they fail to exchange hovers in the air. We know each other inside and out.
Ultimately, Dean comes into Mariah's mouth, struck by the image of Jack's fingers gripping the pale skin of her hips, screwing into her like a gunsmith grinding rifling into the barrel of a masterwork.
********
"We should have like, a secret password system," Sammy said, the first time they were on a shapeshifter's trail. He was fourteen, barely, and the first knock-down-drag-out fight was still a whole year away.
Dean looked over at him. Dad was driving and anyway, he'd given them all the instruction that he was going to. Stay in the room. Don't let anyone in. Keep your heads down.
"We don't need a secret password system. Shapeshifters can figure all of that stuff out. It's what they do." He rolled his eyes for emphasis.
"C'mon, Dean. You know you wanna be like, some super-secret spy. It'd really fun for you."
"We don't need a secret password. Bitch."
Sam huffed and slumped against his side of the seat. "Jerk."
********
Dean won’t voice the question that keeps playing in his head. Instead he asks, “You two always hunt together?”
“We do now,” Jack answers, voice curiously hard.
Mariah doesn’t say anything, just straddles Dean and takes him into herself without ceremony, pushing him down onto the bed and riding him with a languid roll of her hips. For a brief moment, she meets his eyes, her face unreadable, then she tips her head back onto Jack’s shoulder, utterly confident that he will be there.
“We’re twins, you know,” Jack says, speaking against Mariah’s throat. “The ‘scourge of evil’ in the Southeast.” Their short, breathy laughs are almost identical. “We’re blood and bone.”
Dean feels it when he pushes into Mariah, a change in the cant of her hips and the flex of her inner muscles. One of them groans and broad hands land on her waist, guiding the undulations of her body.
When Mariah comes hard, clenching around Dean and thrusting her hips like fighting, Jack holds her down and fucks her through it, and he feels them both at once. She’s hotwettight around him, and the rhythm Jack sets is punishingly fast, and the combination of the two of them steals his breath, makes him arch into it and come like a hard-fought exorcism, black and roaring and too incoherent to manage anything but GOD, at the top of his lungs.
After, when they're content and fucked-out, one lazy smile spread across two faces, inclined to do nothing more than lie there wrapped around him, Dean marshals his thoughts to consider Jack’s answer to his question.
It’s blood and bone. Dean understands; nothing else is strong enough, not friendship, not even love, because every constant in their world must be built of blood and bone to stand in the face of the hunt.
********
They ran into a werewolf in Minnesota. Almost literally. It was the summer before Sam's last year of high school and they were just passing through, waiting for Dad to get back from yet another wild-goose chase before they moved on. It wasn't the first case they'd worked by themselves, but it was easily the worst.
Sam got the werewolf between the eyes with a silver bullet that went in like a penny and out like a pizza.
Dean got to spend the terrifying drive back to the motel steering one-handed and wondering if his intestines were going to fall out if he moved his arm away from his stomach.
"Did you get bit?" Sam asked, voice tiny and at odds with the way he watched the road intently, trying to drive with the power of his mind, because Dean was really in no shape to be behind the wheel.
"Don't think so." Dean glanced over and saw that Sam had his gun in his hands, turning it over and over. Dean blamed the pain and the blood loss and the fear — the fear most of all — when he tried to make light of it. "You'd know what to do if I had. Right, Sammy?"
"It's Sam. And yeah, I know." But something in his tone whispered unsettlingly that what Sam had in mind involved two bullets instead of just one.
********
It is without a doubt, the hottest sex that Dean's ever had. Jack's hands are splayed wide on the sheets, arms braced strong on either side of Dean's shoulders, dick hot and hard in the crease of his ass, head catching on his spit-slick hole with every thrust. Jack waits as his sister — his twin sister — rolls a condom onto Dean's dick and spreads wide, knees as far apart as they'll go with her feet planted on the mattress. Then he puts a calloused hand between Dean's shoulder-blades and pushes down, until his chest presses against Mariah's breasts and his back arches, presenting his ass for Jack's cock.
He manages to catch Mariah's glance over his shoulder an instant before they both take him, her wet heat engulfing him while Jack sinks halfway in one thrust.
Fuuuuuck.
Mariah's hand around the back of his neck holds him down while she works her hips, each push driving him a little further onto Jack's cock, filling him up, splitting him in half, nailing him into her. She doesn't let go until Jack bottoms out and all three of them are hips-pressed-together, sweat-slick and panting. Jack is a hot weight against the backs of Dean's thighs, nipping at his vertebrae as Mariah reaches for her brother and begins to rock, liquid and smooth, setting the pace.
Dean looks over his shoulder, seeking Jack’s crooked smile, but his gaze catches on Mariah’s hand instead, splayed over an old, stitched-up scar on Jack’s chest. Dean has to avert his eyes, feeling, for the first time, that he’s seen something that he wasn’t meant to — that he’s intruding.
An image — vague memory — rises. Sewing Sam up, fingers slippery with blood, just a slice across his shoulder, wide, but not too deep. His hands leave a tracery of blood, half-imagined protective sigils, and the lines of I will protect blurring with I love on his brother’s innocent skin.
The twins understand. Mariah’s knees brush his ribs, and she matches the rhythm of Jack’s thrusts like Dean is just a new face her brother is trying on. She’s sewn his skin back together over the obscenity of exposed muscle and bone, sealed the steady, sluggish leak of blood, blood, blood. They know each other inside and out, no matter who is with them or between them.
Dean tucks his face into her shoulder, tries to focus on nothing but the fullness of Jack’s dick moving inside him, the wet heat of Mariah around him, their hands everywhere it could possibly feel good. And when he comes, he even succeeds for a few moments.
********
They're driving down yet another highway, trading embarrassing questions, when Sam blurts, "Hottest sex you've ever had," like it's busting past his brain-to-mouth filter in a mad rush to escape.
"The Landreneau twins," Dean answers promptly, giving Sam the basics. It's easy and not really embarrassing at all, even if it makes Sam scrunch into his seat and fidget like he wants to die of mortification.
Sam is out of practice, used to going to the gym to impress girls and running to relieve the stress of exams. He's lost that ounce of spare flesh that's insurance against fucking freezing in here without a heater and that money's for ammo; we'll eat later. When Dean glances across the seat, the hunter in him recognizes the shapes of needing the hunt — for direction, for vengeance — and the part of Dean that will never let go of Sammy no matter how often he's corrected wonders if Sam's insides are something he'd recognize, still blood and bone.
He catches the weird tautness in Sam's voice, even though the words are familiar. “So were their names Krysti and Candi like your run-of-the-mill threesome-scoring bar chicks, or do hunting families have a little more class than that?”
"Nope. Jack and Mariah," Dean says, pretending not to notice when his brother's head snaps up from the window.
For a second, Dean is certain that the next words out of Sam’s mouth will be either, who topped, you or Jack? or I didn’t know you were into guys.
But Sam stays quiet and after a minute Dean says, "come on, your turn. Weirdest thing you ever stole," and smiles at the road ahead.