Author: Gin-inu, Orangeplum
Rating: M for language, descriptive gore, and some sexually explicit language/images.
Author's Notes: Not really a fan of Wincest, but a friend of mine challenged me to write a Wincest story I wasn't really uncomfortable with. Something with new found unrequited feelings I can probably work with.
Summary:When a dream about his brother starts bleeding into real life, Dean finds it excessively harder to hang onto his rapidly deteriorating relationship with Sam. Limp!Sam, Protective!Dean, Onsided!Wincest
The bed rushed up to meet them as they both tumbled onto the mattress in a heap of heated kisses and fumbling hands. Dean grinned against her plump lips as she gave him a nice symphony of her vocal cords when his fingers started to thoroughly explore the flawless tanned skin of her belly, his senses hijacked by the motel room ensconced in heavy perfume and perspiration.
Waitress. Beautiful, flexible waitress.
Penny was her name. Or was it Jenny? Oh well. It really didn't matter. He could barely manage to remember his own name when she leaned up with a coy gleam in her eyes and whispered something positively naughty in his ear while her hands memorized south of his border.
He was a natural at charming the ladies. Always had been. But it never ceased to amaze Dean each and every time how little it took for some girls to fall into bed with him.
A friendly invitation here, a well placed smile there and they were putty in his hands. Well, technically not just his hands.
"You're so good at this," she cooed. God, he loved it when they cooed.
Dean kissed her and finished sliding down her jeans. He grinned. "You're not too bad yourself. If I didn't know any better I'd think you've done this before."
She breathed a laugh against his lips. "Guilty as charged."
And as she ran her fingers along the seam of his jeans on the inside of his legs, Dean shut his eyes and let a low rumble in his chest emerge, one of pure contentment that he never seemed to tire of.
"Dean," she beckoned soothingly.
"Mm?" His eyes fluttered.
"Is it okay if I do this?"
Dean nodded with a lopsided smile and opened his eyes to gaze down at the busty, flushed brunette underneath him…
Only, she wasn't busty anymore, her curves replaced with firm mounds of muscles toned from daily exertion and repetitive workouts. Her soft skin wasn't so soft under his fingers, but now rough and taught over the lean form emitting waves of body heat like a fireplace.
Instead, in her place was the form of his brother sprawled out below him, eyes looking caringly up at into his own.
He promptly froze.
Sam smiled back at him, nose crinkling fondly at Dean as dimples dented his cheeks. "Easy there, tiger."
Dean's eyes snapped open with a holler, limbs scrambling blindly in the dark as he fell off his bed and onto the stained shag carpet of their motel room. His back hit the ground at an odd angle, enough pain to distract him momentarily from the growing horror in the pit of his stomach. He didn't have enough time to gain his bearings before the light turned on, a half-asleep Sam sitting up in his bed and catching his Glock on the way.
"What, what? What's going on?"
Dean held his breath at the sound of Sam's voice, the sound putting a sudden wave of nausea in the pit of his stomach as he cautiously peered over his mattress from his spot on the floor.
Sam was blinking heavily at him in an attempt to dislodge the sleep, hair sticking every which way and seeming borderline disoriented.
Dean could see the haze of confusion from where he sat, Sam ever alert and waiting for Dean to signal him with how to respond to whatever may have been attacking his brother despite being harshly pulled from his REM cycles.
"Are you hurt?"
No matter how much his knees were (not) shaking and how much his heart was (not) pounding, Dean rose to his feet and somehow managed a smile. Whether its authenticity was high quality or not Sam would be the judge.
"Look at you, all up and ready to go. Good to see my life's in capable hands here, Sammy boy," he attempted a joke. It backfired at a sudden flash of Sam's hands on his inner thigh, tracing his jeans, the thought making another wave of bile touch at his tongue. Stop thinking, stop thinking right now.
Sam squinted his eyes at him quizzically as Dean crawled back into bed. "You had a… nightmare?"
Understatement of the year. "Go back to sleep, Sam," Dean said as he pulled the blankets up to his chin with his back to his brother.
His brother, which had just somehow snuck smack dab in the middle of his sex dream.
God, make it stop.
He heard Sam just sitting there a long moment before the rustling of bed sheets could be heard, the hollow clunk of the gun weighing thick in the air as Sam turned out the light, leaving them in darkness with nothing but soft breaths and their thoughts.
"Easy there, tiger."
Needless to say, Dean did not sleep for the rest of the night.
"Dude, you look like crap," Sam pointed out good-naturedly as he pulled out a chair across from his brother in the coffee shop they were in. He quirked an eyebrow when Dean refused to meet his eyes, covering a gaping yawn with a hand before he made some decent progress on his second coffee. It wasn't even nine yet. Damn.
"You're no Casanova yourself," Dean retorted with an indignant frown on his face. God, he felt like shit. Who would have guessed that such a stupid dream could've spooked him this much? He thought it would have worn off by morning, but just the mere suggestion of Sam lying underneath him made the muscles in his neck tighten with lactic acid.
He was going to need another coffee soon.
"Maybe if you stopped surfing the x-rated channels in the middle of the night you'd get some decent sleep. Yeah, don't think I haven't noticed. We weren't exactly trained to be heavy sleepers, if you know what I mean," Sam muttered into the side of his cup, eyebrows pulled down with a hint of disgust.
Dean shivered almost violently before turning to Sam with a grimace. "Can we change the subject, please? So, come on, what did you get?"
Sam got the hint and easily switched topics, unaware of just exactly how grateful his brother was for the subject change. He shifted his hips awkwardly in the dinky little café chair before he pulled out a newspaper clipping and placed the crumpled paper on the table in front of Dean. Dean snatched it up and began to quickly read the article.
"Sarah Foster," Sam spoke, even as Dean read at his own pace, appearing to not be listening. Thank God for multitasking. "She was found at the edge of town with a head injury by a pair of joggers. They called an ambulance but she died before the paramedics could arrive to resuscitate her. The girl was only twenty years old," he finished grimly.
Dean dropped the paper back on the table before taking another gulp of his coffee, withholding the urge to rub his eyes and clear the sleep from them. He felt his head pounding in his temples. "So what's the prognosis?"
Sam regarded his brother carefully, as he always did before getting to the punch line, eyes filled with a sense of sympathy or pity or something of the equivalent for all the victims of the paranormal they came across. "It would just seem like a normal murder, except for the strange fact that all her teeth were missing."
Sam shrugged awkwardly. "She didn't have any teeth. Her mouth was just… empty. Totally dumbfounded police."
Dean set his coffee down and let this odd tidbit stew in his mind a moment. "No teeth, huh? Well, this still doesn't seem like our kinda gig, Sammy. Where's that headline? Go on, give it to me," Dean prompted with a hand gesture.
Sam reached out and gathered the clipping back before he tucked it safely in his pocket once more. "There's been more cases like this in the past few years, some people missing some fingernails, some people skin, some even intestines."
"Sounds like some fucked up wackjob, not necessarily a creepy-crawly."
"Did I mention that despite whatever these people were missing, they all had the same blunt-force object head injury? And did I also mention that they were all found along the same edge of the road with a weird unidentifiable tar-like substance on the pavement?"
Dean could see the know-it-all expression on his little brother's face before he even glanced up at Sam. His lips quirked in a half-smile before Dean raised his coffee cup in a mock salute.
"What I always love to hear, little bro." Where ectoplasm was present there surely would be a spooky spirit to spurt it. Ha, say that three times fast.
Sam sighed and leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out beneath the table. Dean flinched when Sam's ankle brushed his shin, suddenly being brought back to the awareness of why exactly he hadn't gotten any sleep last night. He curled his legs back uncomfortably underneath his chair and started to scan the coffee shop, trying to seem distracted.
"Lake Forest Park, Washington it is, then."
Dean waited five seconds before he shifted again and his knee brushed Sam's. Feeling suffocated under this constant cloak of unease, Dean leapt up from his chair with a plastic, shit-eating grin, kicking Sam's chair leg with false bravado as he clapped him on the shoulder and made way for the exit.
"Well, what're you waiting for, Christmas? We're not getting any younger sitting around here."
Sam cocked his head to the side with a lingering confused stare before he shrugged, following after Dean's quick pace towards the Impala, suspiciously like he was trying to get away from something.
In hindsight, it would've been good to know that there were just some things a guy couldn't outrun.