Entry tags:

sam/dean, spn fic

Fic: Fever (Sam/Dean, NC-17)
Title: Fever
Genre: PWP
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~3400
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Not my boys.

Author's Notes: This was written for dontbendthatway, the Multifandom Bad Sex Challenge, for the following prompt: Someone is feverish/sick enough to be semi-delirious, is really, really horny, and won't take no for an answer.

(I would also like to mention that his was written before 3.12, i.e. before a certain supernatural being was de-canonized. If that's a word.)

Thanks to nomelon for the beta! ♥

ETA: podfic of Fever read by maryaminx available here at the audiofic archive.

Fever

"I think he's cursed."

There was reproving silence on the other end of the line.

Dean pressed on, trying not to sound as aggressive as he felt. "He's been like this for days. He's not even talking."

"If you don't want him to get sick you shouldn't've dragged him out on a hunt in the fuckin' mountains in freakin' winter. Like I told you."

Dean resisted the urge to slam down the phone, and took a big breath instead.

"Yeah, well, I did. And Sam's not a pussy, Bobby, this isn't a regular cold. I really think it might be a curse."

Bobby sighed heavily. "Dean. You're letting this job get to you. You know you can't do that. If you start thinking every little thing is a supernatural evil, you'll end up crazy."

Dean hung up, looking over at Sam, who was asleep but restless. He'd been in bed for going on three days now, only getting up to go to the bathroom, and he couldn't even do that if he wasn't supported by Dean. He was currently lying face down, muttering feverish gibberish into his pillow, his feet hanging off the edge of the bed.


*****


A few hours later Dean had had three cups of coffee, taken a shower and finished the latest entry in the journal (Dean –1, Bigfoot –0), usually Sam's job, and it was likely to be subjected to some boring-ass editing later, but Dean had seriously needed some distraction from worrying about Sam. It hadn't worked.

He was just finishing up when there was some rustling from the other bed, and he looked over to see Sam sitting up, rubbing sleep from his face.

"Hey," Dean said. "You awake now?"

Sam looked like he didn't really understand the question, blinked a couple of times. "I think so."

"You want anything?"

Sam looked at him with a strange intensity in his eyes. "Yeah, I… I'm hungry."

"About time."

When Sam proved that he could stand and walk by himself again, if a little unsteady, Dean sent him off to the bathroom, told him to take a shower and brush his teeth. Dean considered going out to get them something warm to eat, but decided against it. There were a couple of readymade sandwiches, half a pizza, a healthy variety of snacks and even some fruit scattered about the room, and he decided that would have to do.


*****

"Gimme a soda," Sam said half an hour later and, without waiting for answer, leaned across Dean to grab for it himself. He ended up sitting closer to Dean. It was a move probably meant to be inconspicuous; he'd been slowly inching closer for the last fifteen minutes. Dean let out a disapproving grunt, but he let it pass, keeping a suspicious eye on his brother.

By the end of the meal, Sam was practically sitting in Dean's lap, all feverish heat draped over his left side and hands wandering where they shouldn't, one arm thrown around Dean's neck, the other hand warm on his thigh, holding the last forgotten piece of a sandwich. Sam was clearly exhausted, almost nodding against Dean's shoulder.

"Come on, Sam," Dean said. "Let's get you back into bed, yeah? You're practically asleep already."

"Not tired," Sam mumbled, the lie even more obvious as he shoved his face into Dean's neck, relaxing against him.

Dean didn't bother answering, just stood up, bringing Sam with him and half-dragged him back to his bed, where he dumped him and.

Tried to dump him. Sam, still clinging to his neck, wouldn't let go.

"Sam."

Knees on the floor, bent down over the bed with his face pressed against Sam's chest, Dean was in a bad position to fight even a currently rather weak Sam.

"Told you I'm not tired," Sam said, blinking his eyes open. His grip on Dean eased, but instead of letting him go, he let his fingers run through Dean's hair, across the back of his neck.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked warily.

Sam just kept petting him silently until Dean broke away and stood up. He intended to go for a walk, take another shower, whatever kept him away from Sam for a while, but the look on Sam's face, small and disappointed, made him stop. He sat down next to Sam on the bed.

"Look, Sam, you're sick. In fact, I think maybe you're cursed. So this," he gestured vaguely between them, "would be a really bad idea right now. Or ever," he added at the flash of hope in Sam's eyes.

"Not tired," Sam said again, like that was an acceptable answer to anything.

"I don't care," Dean said, giving up on arguing. He gave Sam's arm a light squeeze, then retired to his own bed, where he lay awake for a long time, listening to Sam definitely not sleeping.

He woke up to the bed dipping behind him, and his hand was gripping his knife before he realized it was Sam climbing in with him, pressing against him, hands everywhere. And Christ, this was going down a really bad road.

They had done this before. This being getting too close, crossing lines. Couple of times. Never like this, though, never in bed, and definitely not with one of them too sick to really know what he was doing.

Dean twisted himself around, gripping Sam's wrists hard and wincing in sympathy at Sam's pained noise of protest.

"I'm not gonna tell you again," he said. "Leave me the fuck alone. You don't know what you're doing, you'll regret this, trust me."

Wrists pinned in front of him, Sam could still move, and he did, pressing himself against Dean.

"Not cursed, Dean. Not gonna regret anything. Not fucking tired." He punctuated each statement with a little thrust of his hips. It was very… eloquent. Dean closed his eyes, cursed silently and wrestled Sam around until he had him face down on the bed. It was meant to make a point, show Sam he meant what he was saying, but Sam went crazy beneath him, squirming and moaning and working himself against the mattress in a decidedly disturbing manner.

"Dude, if you jizz on my bed…" Dean said, warningly, but Sam ignored him, if he even heard him.

"Dean, I'm…"

"I know. Just… go take care of that thing. You know what to do."

"You take care of it."

There were rules about this, and Sam was breaking every single one of them. Sam was out of his mind. Sam was fucking everything up.

So it was kinda funny how Dean knew it would all be his fault if he let anything happen tonight.

"No."

"Then can I at least sleep here, with you?"

"No."

Slowly, Dean rolled off Sam's back, let go of his wrists. He sat up. Sam turned back around, looking up at him with pleading eyes of puppy doom.

"I need you, Dean. Please?"


*****


"He's definitely cursed."

"What the hell, Dean."

"He's… weird."

"Weird how?"

"As in not himself! Not possessed," he clarified before Bobby could ask, "he's… asking me stuff," he finished, lamely.

"What stuff?"

Dean couldn't come up with a good answer to that, so he waited until Bobby spoke again.

"You're calling me in the middle of the night to tell me your brother is asking you things?"

"He's… we don't… never mind. Sorry I woke you up."

"You'll be sorry for real if you do it again."

"Was that Bobby?" Sam asked from an inch behind Dean's ear, making him jump.

"What the hell, Sam? You're sick; go back to bed. That's an order."

"I like when you give me orders," Sam mumbled, pressing up close.

Dean shuddered and moved away. "Sure. Why don't you prove it, huh, and follow one."

"Come with me?"

Dean locked himself in the bathroom.


*****


It was nearing morning when Dean decided that doing what Sam wanted might be less of a pain than fighting him off until he was too exhausted to keep harassing him. He figured, if Sam would even remember this night once the fever wore off, the come-ons and begging would be as awkward for them both as whatever Dean was prepared to do for Sam to shut him up. A quick, simple handjob was, after all, nothing they hadn't done before.

Finding the courage to reach into Sam's underwear, though, was significantly harder than it had been before. He'd been running high on either adrenaline or alcohol or both on those previous occasions, horny and desperate and quite willing to overlook any tiny detail that might otherwise discourage him.

Like, the fact that in his normal state of mind, he wasn't really all that crazy about cock. And it didn't make it any better that the cock in question belonged to his sick, and let's not forget possibly cursed, brother.

Sighing, he pushed Sam, who was clinging to him like a horny, clinging thing, down on the bed.

"You don't get to hate me for this in the morning," he said, threateningly.

Sam shook his head. "No hating. Come on. Come on… Dean."

He said Dean's name hesitantly, like he couldn't quite remember if it was the right name. Dean was growing more unsure about this whole thing by the second, but Sam was practically thrashing, lifting his hips up from the bed, one hand fisted in his own shirt.

Horny Sam was a hopeless sight even when in his right mind; it always made Dean feel sympathetic and oddly protective to see Sammy all flustered and irritable, like he didn't know what to do with himself.

He cleared his head, took a breath and pulled Sam's pants down, baring lean hips. Resting between his slightly spread legs was his heavy, but not quite hard, cock. Trying not to stare, Dean took it in his hand, began pulling at it, firm strokes, not too hard. Sam was breathing heavily, the flush on his cheeks hotter than before. He was muttering incoherently, trying to keep his eyes open and mostly failing. It was almost sweet.

When Dean caught himself staring, he swallowed and turned his concentration to the task at hand. It wasn't really… progressing.

"Sam," he tried after a while, slowing his pace. "You can't even get it up properly. Can we please not do this tonight?"

"No no no, don't stop," Sam breathed. "Feels good."

Jesus Christ. This could take all night.

He kept working, and Sam did eventually get harder, but just when Dean thought he'd soon be done, Sam struggled into a sitting position and more or less threw himself at Dean.

"Wanna touch you, too," he muttered, one hand already fumbling at Dean's waistband.

"What? No. No touching. Not in the… freaking… mood!" Dean protested, trying to shove Sam away.

"You're always in the mood," Sam sulked, but he let go of Dean's jeans.

"Whatever. Let's get this done, and then we'll both get some sleep. Sound good?"

Sam made a non-committal noise, and Dean – somewhat reluctantly – began jacking him again. It was going fairly well for a while, until Sam started swaying, leaning on Dean for support. Dean was too preoccupied with making sure Sam stayed conscious to notice, at first, the hand that crept sneakily beneath his t-shirt, fingers rubbing softly against his stomach. When he did notice, he didn't pull away. It felt kinda good, actually, Sam's warm hand on his skin, Sam's breath hot and feverish against his neck, his entire body responding to every stroke of Dean's hand. Maybe, given some time, he could get into this whole cock thing a little, after all.

Sam, however, didn't stop there. He pushed at Dean, gently at first, then more insistently, putting his considerable weight behind it, until Dean had no choice but to let himself fall backwards, bringing Sam down on top of him.

Once again Sam went for Dean's jeans, and this time Dean let him. There was only so much rubbing and panting and horny, half-naked brother he could take before he got hard, too, even if Sam was currently out of his mind and dead-set on ruining their lives forever. The cursed option was still on the table, too, only it had started to feel more like a desperate hope than a possible threat.

Sam shoved Dean's jeans and underwear down and off, hurried and uncoordinated, before descending on Dean again, grinding against Dean's hip. He snaked his hand between them and gripped Dean's cock, at which point Dean bit his tongue to stifle a yell.

Dean's memories of their previous times together might have been a little less than reliable, colored by desperation and need and a little bit of delirium, maybe, but he was sure Sam had been better than this. In fact, he remembered Sam's hands as pretty damn clever, knowing just where and how to touch. Now, they did not.

"Dude, too hard!" he hissed, retaliating with a rather nasty squeeze of his own, making Sam yelp.

Sam eased up a little after that, but he couldn't find a good rhythm, and Dean was in a really bad position to do anything at all, so eventually he let go of Sam's dick, letting him hump Dean's thigh instead. He leaned back and tried to relax.

"Dean…" Sam said, his mouth dangerously close to Dean's own.

"Yeah?" Dean said, cautiously.

"Wanna fuck."

"Uh. No."

"But you can fuck me."

"I don't freaking want to!"

Sam sulked. He took his hand off Dean's dick, which was an improvement, and pushed Dean's legs apart, which was not. Then he did a surprisingly coordinated double-maneuver, where he simultaneously shoved his tongue inside Dean's mouth, and his hand under him, between his legs.

Dean turned his head to the side, away from Sam's hungry mouth. "Dude, I told you-" he began, but Sam shushed him before he got any further.

"Yeah yeah, no fucking, got it, just let me…" He pushed and shoved and generally bullied Dean about until he had him where he wanted him, legs spread far apart, their cocks trapped between sweaty bellies, Sam's fingers, gentler now, rubbing between Dean's ass-cheeks.

It was, quite definitely, the worst sex Dean had ever had.

"That's gross, man," he said, squirming away when one of Sam's fingers tried to push its way inside him.

Sam didn't reply. His movements were getting a little faster, a little rougher. Experimentally, Dean pushed his hips up to meet Sam's thrusts, and Sam let out a grateful little grunt against Dean's collarbone, shoving down against him even harder. Despite himself, Dean groaned. He couldn't quite stop himself from grinding up against Sam.

"There you go, big boy," Dean mumbled. He let one hand slide up along Sam's body, around his waist, holding him close. When Sam looked like he was going to try and kiss him again he moved his hand up higher, holding Sam off firmly but running his fingers along Sam's neck in apology.

Finally, finally Sam thrust hard, twice, and stiffened, his fingers in Dean's ass digging in sharply and his teeth biting down on Dean's shoulder. Wet warmth spread on Dean's stomach, Sam smearing it even worse as he kept moving softly on top of him for a little longer.

They lay like that for a while, sweaty and panting, before Dean pushed Sam off. He thought about finishing himself off, but it didn't feel right to do it now, with Sam already mostly asleep next to him. He groaned softly, ignored his arousal and got up from the bed. Sam only made a tiny sound of protest.

He pulled his sweaty t-shirt off and went into the bathroom to wash up. Then he brought a washcloth back to Sam and proceeded to clean him up, too, an embarrassing and rather gross business, but also curiously tender, the way he felt sometimes, knowing that Sam needed him, and that there really wasn't a lot he wouldn't do for him, if he had to.

Once Sam was reasonably clean, Dean tried pulling his sweatpants back up, and when that failed, straightened down his t-shirt as best he could and covered him up with the blankets.

Then he returned to his own bed. The sheets were cold.

*****

They woke up at the same time, Dean looking over at Sam and wishing he hadn't. He saw Sam's face shift from confusion into mortification, wished there had been time to look away before Sam realized his pants were around his knees, before he tugged the blankets up to cover himself, curling into a ball with his back to Dean and the top of his head the only part of him still visible. But he saw it all, and Sam saw him looking, and there was no undoing anything now.

"Sam…" Dean started.

Dean didn’t quite catch the miserable groan from Sam's bed, but it sounded very much like go away.

So much for Sam not hating him in the morning.


*****


When Sam finally dragged himself out of bed, he spent almost an hour in the bathroom. He came out clean and already dressed, and from what Dean could tell, the fever seemed to be gone. They went out for breakfast, ate it in silence and headed back to pack their stuff and take off. By silent agreement they were quick, both uncomfortable in the room where they… where... well.

Sam's guilty, anguished silence lasted for about two hours on the road. Dean could practically feel when it eased up, and was ready for the low but sharp, "Pull over," when it came.

He waited a while, hand still on the wheel, daring a glance or two over at Sam, who was obviously trying to get some words out.

"I'm sorry," Sam mumbled, eventually.

Dean waited a little longer. Sam sighed, started to talk, then sighed again, heavier.

"I'm sorry I made you do that, okay? It was horrible, I couldn't stop myself. I might as well have been cursed."

He kept his head turned down as he talked. Dean leaned forward a little, trying to see his expression, but the only thing he could see was Sam's nose poking out from behind his hair.

Dean scratched his neck.

"It's okay," he said, when Sam was just sitting there, the slump of his shoulders broadcasting misery in every direction. "It wasn't horrible."

"Dean."

"Yeah, yeah, okay, it was horrible. You're the worst lay ever, get over it."

Sam looked up. He stared wordlessly at Dean for a long time, and then, finally, there was, not a smile, but a little tug at the corner of is mouth.

"No, I'm not."

"You were last night. Believe me."

"So you don't… we're… are we okay?"

"If you're okay we're okay."

Dean reached to turn the key in the ignition, but Sam stopped him with a hand on his wrist. Dean looked up, found Sam staring at him wearing his serious face, complete with lip-biting. Dean was forced to ask, "Are you okay?"

Sam swallowed. "I… don't know. Maybe. If you let me do this-"

Not letting go of Dean's wrist, he moved across the seat and leaned in close. He stopped when their lips were just about to touch, giving Dean the opportunity to push him away. Dean wanted to push him away, maybe punch him in the gut for good measure, it was pure instinct, but he also wanted… not to push Sam away. He could almost admit it wasn't just for Sam's sake he let Sam close the distance between them, kissing him soft and slow. He only said, "Sam," warningly when Sam wouldn't stop, the word muffled against Sam's mouth.

Sam pulled back, just a little bit.

"I swear I'll never make you do anything like last night again," he said, "but-"

"You could never make me do anything, you wuss."

"Shut up. I wouldn't make you, but… I'm gonna want it again. Like, for real. When I'm not sick, or we didn't almost die or anything. When we're… just us."

He leaned in again, breathed a warm trail of air across Dean's cheek up to his ear, and whispered, like a secret, "It wasn't horrible for me." He paused. "Let me make it up to you some time."

Dean pushed him back, gently, into his own seat.

"We'll see," he said.

Sam smiled contentedly.


The End