Pixy Stix

Dean's just finishing up shaving when the door bangs open.

"Dean? Dean!" Sam sounds relaxed. Calm. Happy. In short, Sam sounds loaded.

"Back here," Dean calls, and rinses the last of the foam off his straight razor. He closes it, pulls the plug and then turns on the water. He is just standing up, cold water dripping off his newly-rinsed face, and reaching for a towel when his brother collides with him.

Six-foot-whatever of heavily muscled and possibly hammered little brother is a force to be reckoned with. Sam's arms close around his waist from behind, and he pushes Dean into the bathroom, unsteady on his feet. Sam's breath is hot on Dean's ear, and.

Funny. No smell of booze. Just a sort of sweet, light thing, like candy.

"Drinking that girly neon crap again?" Dean asks, bracing himself so they won't fall. He grabs a hand towel and dries his face, trying to ignore Sam pressing up against his bare back, against the jeans that ride low on Dean's hips.

"Let's fuck," Sam breathes, a hot gust sliding over Dean's skin.

"Sam," Dean winces, elbowing him. Yeah, okay, they're not exactly your standard brother team-up, but Sam doesn't have to out and say it like that. "You're tanked."

Sam pushes his hips against Dean's, and Dean notes a substantial presence there that definitely gets his attention. "Am not," Sam says, laughing. "Come on. I'ma lay you down on one-a those shitty little beds and suck your cock till you come for me."

Well.

Dean is not dead, nor is he less than a red-blooded American male. Drunk though Sam may be, it's not like they haven't been doing this or something like it since they were knee-high. And what red-blooded American male turns down a blowjob from a willing giver? Nobody, that's who.

Dean turns around in Sam's arms, and it's only then that he notes the fact that Sam's head and shoulders are covered with a thin, shining dusting of what appears to be... well, dust.

"Dude. What happened to you? What is this stuff?" Sam pushes his face into Dean's neck and bites there, dragging his teeth and making Dean hiss, "Goddammit, Sammy."

"Who cares?" Sam says, answering the question. "Fuck me, big brother, come on."

Dean's head is swimming. His homespun, naive geek of a brother is not allowed to use those words. Something is deeply wrong here.

And yet, nobody seems to have told his cock that.

Dean rubs the stuff off Sam's hair and it leaves a sort of shimmer behind it. "Man, were you necking with a sorority?" he asks, and tries to wriggle and slide and make some distance.

That only compounds their situation. Sam moves with Dean, lining up just right to let things align and bump. Dean feels heat shoot through him, feels the shiver take him for a second, and Sam shudders against him too.

"Dean," he breathes, his fingers working at Dean's button and zipper. "I want you naked. I want you hard." He mouths at Dean's collarbone, and damn the dumb kid, but he knows what he's doing. Reluctantly, Dean slides a hand into Sam's hair and makes a fist.

Sam tugs against it instantly, contrary little bastard.

"What are you, in heat?" Dean's turned on, and annoyed, and really turned on.

That mouth slides against him, wet and open, along his neck and his jaw. "Could be," Sam husks. "Sure fucking feels like it. I could pound nails with this thing." And with that, he takes Dean's wrist and pulls it forward, presses the palm of Dean's hand against his throbbing cock. Dean's fingers curl around it automatically, force of habit.

"Jesus," Dean whispers. The thrum of blood and lust is humming in his ears, and he feels too hot, his skin burning up.

Sam smells so good, and Dean gives in for a second and leans in to lay a sloppy wide kiss on Sam's neck.

The dust catches on his tongue - tastes like Pixy Stix and pussy. Dean licks his lips and feels it warm his mouth. "Sammy, what is this stuff all over you?"

"Dunno," Sam grouses, pushing his face down Dean's chest and laying hot, melting bites and kisses on the skin.

Dean grabs that floppy hair and lifts his brother's head up. Sam growls, but Dean is firm - he needs to know, because he can already feel this whatever-the-fuck sinking into his skin, making his body tingle. "Where did you get it?"

"Some girl," Sam says, bitchiest voice ever. "She was hitting on me, I said I wasn't interested and she blew it in my face. Now shut the fuck up and lift your hips." He pushes his face down to nose along Dean's treasure trail, his fingers curling into denim and cotton and yanking down. His breath is hot, his mouth still open and flicking across Dean's skin, and Dean is losing the subject, here.

Sam's head instantly descends, and when he starts mouthing along the shaft, dragging his tongue up and down, that's pretty much when Dean stops giving a flying fuck about the chick with the fairy dust, because sweet Jesus in heaven.

He gasps, his chest tight, and grips Sam's hair hard. "Oh, hell yes," he groans, and the tips of his ears turn red when he hears his own voice.

Sam groans back at him, the vibration rattling along Dean's spine, and oh, fuck, when his cock jumps against Sam's mouth, Sam laughs, and that starts the whole process over again.

One big, thick hand wraps around Dean's cock and starts to stroke him, nice and slow. "You like this?" Sam rasps, his black bracelet tickling along Dean's hip as he pumps up and down. "Yeah, you like it. You love a hot mouth on your dick, Dean, admit it."

Sam matches deed to word, and Dean can't admit anything so long as admitting involves speaking instead of garbled choking sounds.

When Sam pulls off again, squeezing Dean's cock in his fist, Dean is gasping and making fists in the covers, pulling them everywhere. He can hardly see, Jesus.

"You gonna blow me when you're done?" Sam asks, low and vicious. "You gonna wanna suck my dick when I've got your come on my face, huh?"

Dean growls and wrenches at the covers some more, this is not fair, this is not fucking fair at all. Sam just keeps sliding slick fingers over him, flicking his tongue at the head now and then as it peeks out from between his fingers.

"You better," Sam continues. "I wanna fuck your mouth, Dean, I wanna come down your throat while you-"

The rest of his words faze out as Dean's vision goes white. There is ringing in his ears and his hands hurt; his body jerks and he feels too hot, too hot, please.

When finally the bliss jerking at him starts to ebb, Dean gasps and groans, trying to get oxygen to his brain again.

"Sammy," he pants. "What. The fuck. Was that."

Sam blinks, looking afraid and a little angry. He looks over his shoulder, and then starts distractedly brushing his shoulders. "I don't know," he growls. "But whatever it was, I'm gonna hunt it and kill it."


They pull in at a bar and grill, some college kid spot, and Dean sighs, heavy. "This is where you come to pick up chicks."

Sam gives him a fierce glare and hauls out of the Impala just in time to miss Dean's laugh. Of all the people in the world to get hit with the fuck-me-dust, it'd have to be his brother. Whatever did it, Dean's pretty sure he doesn't want to kill it - it's hard to kill things with a good sense of humor. All the same, he checks that he put the extra clip on his belt before he gets out of the car. It's there, solid under his jacket, so he gets out of the car and follows Sam in, hoping he hasn't already started a fight.

When the door swings shut behind him, Dean finds he's not so lucky.

Sam is face to face with an escaped gorilla. They're about the same height, but the gorilla's got probably sixty pounds on Sam, and his reach is only a little shorter - maybe it's enough to get Sam to go for the weapons if the gorilla decides to tag him, and that's not something Dean's ready to let happen.

"Hey, hey," he says, stepping in and putting a hand on Sam's chest to back him up. He uses his folksiest, charmingest manner, the kind of thing that puts everyone from Baptists to Mormons at their ease. "There some kind of problem here, fellas?"

The gorilla speaks. "This punk doesn't know how to treat ladies," he growls, Cro-Magnon lantern jaw barely moving and plaid-flannel-covered shoulders hulking ominously.

Dean blinks at Sam, who's scowling at this guy like he just kicked Sam's dog. "That," Sam insists, pointing over the gorilla's shoulder, "is not a lady."

And Dean knows, he knows this is one of those times that Sam's about to get chatty about the way things really are, because his perverse sense of honor picks the weirdest times to get honest, but he still can't stop himself from looking behind the giant slab of meat glaring at Sam, just to see. Just to get a glimpse at what his brother, who learned a lot of his manners in Georgia, could possibly consider unwomanly enough to not be a lady.

And at just that moment, a petite little form pokes out from behind the gorilla with a sweet, wide-eyed look on her pretty little face. She can't be more than four foot ten, her bright demeanor obviously visible. Dean wants to smile just looking at her, even though she looks a little grumpy with Sam just now.

"Samuel Winchester," she huffs.

That sets Dean back. Why does she know his real name? He gives his back to Sam and peers at the tiny woman a little more intently.

Sam goes on the defensive too, abrupt, because he knows the kind of power a thing has when it knows your name. "You dosed me," he accuses.

Dean rolls his eyes - Sam never did know when to quit. "I'm sure this is all a misunderstanding," he says, putting on a bright smile.

"What are you?" Sam interrupts, leaning around the gorilla, who doesn't seem to quite know what to make of all this.

"Listen, buddy," the gorilla rumbles, his meaty hand in the air. "I didn't know she was your girlfriend."

"I am not his girlfriend," the little woman insists, just in time to match in perfect stereo sound with Sam pronouncing the same fact.

Dean sighs. "Can we get back to the part where somebody tells me what the hell is going on here?"

"Braver than me," says the gorilla softly, and picks up his beer and eases away from the table.

The tiny woman looks at the departing giant, aghast, and then aims eye daggers at Sam, crossing her arms over her not-so-tiny chest. "You've made me lose my supper," she shoots at him, furious. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"Me? What about you!" He gestures at her with a wide sweep of his arm, and Dean sees a little puff of dust come off his sleeve. "I suppose you're not responsible for any of this!"

"All right," says a deep voice, cutting the girl off before she can retort. Dean looks at the bartender with some vague hope - maybe now there'll be some answers. But alas, the bartender just plants his hands on his apron strings. "I think you all better take this little domestic dispute outside. You're unsettling my customers."

"It is not-" Sam starts, but the look on the bartender's face stops him mid-sentence.

"Let's go," Dean says. "All of us."

"I'm not going anywhere with them," says the woman, her hands on her hips. This, of course, makes her chest thrust out, and Dean can't help it if his eyes fall a little low. For being so short, she's a generous sort of girl.

"Well," her little voice speculates. "Maybe him."

"You're not going with us!"

"I wouldn't go with you anyway, Sam Winchester!"

"Stop calling me that!"

"Or you'll what? Tell your brother on me?"

"Get out," thunders the bartender, and Dean turns as the girl starts gathering her things. He only moves for a second before he realizes that Sam isn't with him, and he has to go back and take his arm to drag him out the door so he won't just stand there and glare.

She follows them out a few seconds later, which is bad, as Sam has just finished catching his breath. She presses her purse to her side, and a dozen little gold and silver charms dangle from it, jingling against each other as she storms toward them. Her little finger points at Sam, and he glares militantly back at it.

Dean could laugh - Sam'd have to bend double to look her in the eye - but he knows better.

"You owe me," the tiny woman is saying. "I wasted a whole sack on you and you run off on me!"

"Yeah, well, sorry, but you're not my type. I like to pick on women my own size."

Her eyes and mouth open at the exact same time, the eyes in shock and the mouth for a breath to fuel the diatribe that's sure to come, and Dean isn't exactly sure how he manages it, but he's standing between them in a flat second, his palm to Sam's chest. He's done humoring them; he's starting to get mad. Dean's voice is a match for the bartender's when he hollers, and this is a hollering time.

"I have no idea what in the name of the sunny baby Jesus is going on here, but one of you is gonna explain right here and now or I'm pulling guns. Everybody got me?"

"Guns?" Her eyes widen. "What are you guys, cops?"

"Yeah," starts Sam, smug over Dean's shoulder.

Dean presses him back and looks at the girl. "Listen, what'd you do to my brother?"

"Oh, you're the brother!" she says, smiling wide, suddenly cheerful, which creeps Dean out. "I just made him a little more... Relaxed. That's all."

Dean closes his eyes for a second, and barely refrains from thumbing his temple, if only because he knows it'd make him look just like his father - and as much as he admires the guy, he's not ready to look forty-five just yet. "Okay," he says, very patiently. "Last question. And this is the sudden death round, so make sure you give the right answer, here, okay? When is it going to stop?"

She waves a dismissive hand. "He's already long past what I could have got from him. It'll fade at sunup."

"Good answer," Dean breathes, relaxing all at once. Sam will be all right. It does not pay to screw with witches, Dean's learned, and so he'll just take Sam on back to the hotel, wait for this mojo to wear off him and then get the hell out of dodge.

"If you're lyin," Dean adds, because this needs to be clear, "you can't run from me."

She laughs. "Baby, if I were gonna run from you, believe me, you couldn't follow."

He squints at her, and she smiles back, not a care in the world. Something feels wrong to Dean, some ineffable something is off in the atmosphere, and this girl's a witch, that's got to be why. All the same, he's pretty wary when he reaches into his jacket for his cell phone. He's all ready to hit Ellen on the speed dial, see what's the word in this area and if there's witches, okay, they're gone and no harm done, but what if...

He doesn't get a chance to finish the thought. Her eyes follow his hand and he sees her make the mistake she thinks he's going for the gun, no, that's not, no.

Her tiny hand is a flash into her purse, and the soft puff of dust in his face hits him before he even sees her move. He sneezes, shakes his head, his eyes are stinging, and Sam's shout reaches his ears just as she disappears in front of his eyes.

He could swear he sees a shimmer of iridescent wings.

Sam is cursing and checking the lot, scuffing up the gravel with his gun drawn, scaring the locals. He lets it drop as he realizes she's gone, and kicks the rocks with his sneaker. "Damn it!" Sam turns on Dean with a snarl.

"Why'd you let her take off like that? Why weren't you watching when sh-" Sam pauses, and peers at him. "Dean? Are you okay? ...Dean?"

Dean can't hear the concerned voice. His skin has already started to heat. Sam grips his shoulders but he can't see Sam's face, all he can do is feel. His blood is picking up speed. It throbs through him; his skin is tingling. The air smells less like beer and exhaust and more like candy, like sweet sugar syrup. Dean licks his lips, and the softness of his own tongue almost buckles his knees.

"Sam?" He asks, feeling dizzy.

Dimly, he hears a muffled expletive - "Ah, shit"- and then he's moving, and around his shoulders it's warm. Along his side, warm. Dean wants to reach out, put his hands on something; his palms are itching. There's a thump, sort of, and then he's in his car, the Impala's backseat, shiny and holding him up.

"Sam. We're in the car."

"That's right, Dean, it's the car." Sam has never sounded so close, so good.

Dean reaches for him. "I wanna. Something."

"Have patience," Sam says dryly. "It's gonna come to you." Sam's right, he can tell - whatever this thing is doing to him, it's revving, stoking, burning higher the longer it's in him. "Sam, what. What is it?"

"I don't know, maybe some sort of narcotic." Sam sounds busy, doing something, he's all blurry and Dean can't reach him. His voice comes from a dozen places at once, everything's spinning.

"Sounds about right," Dean mumbles; he can hear the slur even though he didn't mean to.

There's a sound, some familiar sound. Dean can't quite place it but it sounds good, like maybe something to eat, or something to. To fuck.

With that thought, right as Dean thinks it, everything snaps back into place. His mind catalogs wrong things - Sam's green shirt too bright, creak of the seats too loud, everything too hot, too hot -even as he feels his whole body shift toward one thing, and one thing only.

"Gotta fuck you," he husks, and watches Sam lick his own lips.

"I know," he says absently, and Dean sees he's rifling through his pockets, hurried. When he shakes his hand out of the fabric, Sam sighs gratefully. The little packet of lube he holds in his hand is too silver, Dean thinks. And too blue. He reaches out, pulls Sam's shirt open and lifts the t-shirt. There's a ripping sound but Dean can't bring himself to care; revealing Sam has always been one of the big sellers for this thing they have. He puts his mouth to the skin, sporting a California tan that's washing away with every day they spend in the car, every mile of open road they put behind them.

It doesn't look right on him, Dean thinks, as he opens his mouth and drags his tongue over that skin, catches the salt taste. Sam groans, and that sound has always been too loud. "Shh, Sammy," he says, his voice rumbling over the broad chest. Keep it down, Sam. Don't want to get caught.

Further down, then, still holding a fist in Sam's shirt so it's open, exposed. Sam's hand settles on his head and Dean wants it lower, on his neck, his back, wants it making lines in his back as he shoves his cock inside, god, yes, please.

But first, this.

He pulls the loose jeans open, the button popping in his ears like altitude, going down. Every time he gets Sam in his mouth, there's this instant where he hesitates. Not right, not right, his only brother, little brother, Sammy. Supposed to protect him, not... This.

But then Sam's hands settle in his hair, and he can cover Dean's whole head with those giant fucking mitts of his. He makes this deep, painful sound in the back of his throat, see, and he always shoves up, just a little bit. It's that push into Dean's mouth, that twist of his hips that makes Dean remember that Sam's the one who asked for this. Sam's the one who made it happen, who pushed and shoved and forced it in his Sam way-that-isn't-really-doing-it-way.

And fuck it, anyway, Dean's covered in fucking pixie dust and if he can't say no on an ordinary day he sure as hell has a golden ticket now.

So he slides down on Sam's dick, raining the shimmery, sparkly stuff out of his hair and onto Sam's belly. Like before, it has taste on the skin, but Dean's face is already full of it this time, sex and candy. There should be a song. Sam pants above him, big hands scratching Dean's skull. Benefits of short hair, man, she can't yank on you when you're earnin' your wings.

Well.

"Dean," Sam rasps out, and Dean shivers to hear it. So good when Sam says his name like that, gritty and necessary. Dean's said Sam's name like that a thousand times and it never gets easier.

Dean pulls up and wraps his hand around to squeeze and stroke a little. "Give it up, Sammy. I'm gonna make you come like this and then I'm gonna fuck you, and there's jack all you can do about it."

Sam groans, and Dean smiles. It's fucking beautiful to have some kind of control over the bastard somewhere in his miserable life - this is damn good. Satisfying. Can't think of why he's never done it before. "Dean, please." Sam's twisting against him, jerking up with his hand and trying to stop himself. "I can't twice, I can't."

"Bullshit," Dean grins. "But I like it when you beg."

"Fuck you," Sam barks back, immediately, reflex.

Dean just keeps rocking his fist, letting it slip in the spit and come, a tight circle that lets the tip peek in and out, red and so hard. Dean licks at it, feeling Sam's whimper. "Say uncle, baby."

"God fucking damn it," Sam cries, and then he's pulsing in Dean's hand, thick come slicking hot against his fingers. He's making those same sweet little noises when Dean lets his fingers slide back. His free hand tugs at Sam's jeans, gotta get 'em off. "Lift up, man, you weigh a ton."

Sam's too out of it to fire one back; he just braces his knee against the back of the passenger seat and lifts. Dean slides the denim down, all the way down, and ducks underneath when it catches on Sam's boots. "Gimme the lube," he orders, and Sam hands it over without so much as a kiss-my-ass.

This is awesome. Must do this more often.

Dean becomes aware that he's saying something aloud, and when he bothers to tune in, it's just as he's starting to slick his way, make Sam ready for him. "...Gotta get inside you, god, I miss this too much when you're gone, give it."

He bites his mouth shut, and pushes his fingers in. Sam growls, sounding almost annoyed. His teeth are clenched and he lifts his head like he could see Dean's fingers going into him, which he can't. His brow is tight, focused. "Do it," he snarls, which is Sam-code for I want it faster, it hurts so do it faster.

Dean always obliges that. Ever since Sammy was a baby, that lesson was there - rip off the band-aid, just tell her you can't see her anymore, bury him and bless the land and we're outta here.

It's how they survive.

So Dean pushes in two fingers, three, using up all the lube in his impatience, and Sam is so tight and hot on Dean's hand, he's ready. He says he's ready. Dean's cock is sure as fuck ready, and the car smells like candy apple, like strawberry marshmallow back here, red lube notwithstanding. He lines up, touches Sam's entrance with his cock, and pushes inside, slow but steady. He can't keep the growl in, the low, feral sound of pleasure. Dean licks his lips and leans down, pressing hips to hips, belly to belly and mouth to mouth.

They don't usually kiss when they fuck. They don't usually kiss at all. But this time...

Dean wants to feel it. Wants Sam to feel it. He wants it, is the point, and Sam has to take it. That's what this is, you go out and get yourself knocked out by a bunch of fucking fairy dust and you come home and you "fuck me senseless, Sammy, and you think you get to just do whatever you want all the time cause I'm gonna come out and trail around after your ass, well, nobody's coming to rescue you this time, you just lay back and take it, baby, take it..."

"Don't..." Sam grits. His long body is shining in the dim reflected streetlight, sweating, and his legs are around Dean's hips, it's so hard to think. But that word...

"Don't?" Dean echoes, and rocks into him again.

Sam groans, long and loud, and Dean barely catches the words that finish that groan, but they are: "Don't... call me baby."

Dean laughs, and starts to move, in and out. Sam grips him so tight, has Dean right by the balls as always, shocking pleasure into the very core of him. It's blinding. Deafening. It always is.

The car rocks under them and Sam puts deep welts into Dean's back, a bite mark on his shoulder and another on his chest. Fucking Sam is a dangerous proposition, but Dean does it because it's worth it. It's always worth it. Sam grinds a heel into his calf, Dean'll have a bruise tomorrow, he takes some hair no matter how short it is, and the way he wrings dean's cock is like nothing else, ever, like nothing...

Dean slams into him, wraps his hand in those cupid curls and slams some more. And when Sam finally opens his mouth and lets his head fall back, his eyes wide and staring at the sky through the window, without Dean ever touching him, only then.

Only then is it good enough.


"Dean? Come on, man, come on, please wake up."

Peeling open one eyelid is like ungluing a... very glued thing. Dean is dimly aware that there is shaking going on, which should really stop. "Sam?"

The shaking, blessedly, stops. "Thank god. You were starting to worry me."

"Dude, why are you shaking m-" his eyes shoot open then, and he sits straight up. Sam winces and groans as Dean pulls out of him too fast, and Dean's eyes open wide. "Sammy, Jesus Christ."

"Dean, it's okay, you were drugged." Sam shifts a little, pulling his shirt down. "Duck down so I can put my pants on."

Dean ducks automatically. He needs air. He needs to open the car door and retch.

"Dean," Sam says, grabbing him by the shoulder and shaking him again, which does not help the nausea. Reluctantly, Dean stops. "Listen to me, man. It's okay."

"It's not fucking okay, Sammy."

Sam's voice is solid and even, more so than any twenty-two year old has any right to be. "Dean, we'll get her. We will. But I am fine. I'm okay. It was... good. I mean."

Dean can't help but stare at him. Wide eyes. What the shit is he talking about.

Sam's cheeks are shadowed in the Impala's frame, but if they could be seen, they would be deep, dusky rose. "I liked it. Okay? Now, stop beating yourself to a pulp and let's get back to the hotel so we can sleep this off."

Well.

What do you say to that?

Dean pulls back and helps Sam sit up, a gruff clasp of forearms. And then it's into the front seat, out of the parking lot and down the highway.

Back to basics. Time to get some rest, regroup. There'll be time enough to hunt her down in the morning.