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"Well, shit," Dean said, because even if it was unnecessary he always felt a little better after cursing.

Sure enough, Sam didn't bother to look at him, continuing to explore the boundaries of their cave. Given that the entrance had disappeared as soon as they'd both gotten inside, Dean wasn't expecting him to find any tunnels that went anywhere they wanted to go, but as long as Dean could still see him Dean wasn't going to worry overmuch, and it kept Sam busy.

"You guys are here to rescue me?" Shayna Harper asked again, more skeptically this time.

"Yeah, sorry about that," Dean admitted. "Did you come in here on your own, or were you forced?" They'd tracked her to this section of the forest with insufficient knowledge about the entity that had taken Shayna, that was plain; there were a bunch of things that could seal a cave up behind a victim. At least they were still heavily armed, plus they both had flashlights and extra batteries, so while he understood Shayna's dismay he thought she was a lot better off than she'd been five minutes ago.

"I … I'm not sure," she said. "I thought. Well. There was this guy—I thought I knew him, and he said—but now I can't remember his name. Or his face. Or where I knew him from."

Perception-altering, just great. If there was an exit, they might not even see it, their own brains telling them there was no way out. Plus that didn't narrow down the possibilities any, and while Dean was a big fan of rock salt and cold iron he knew to his sorrow that not every beastie responded to that kind of thing.

They all turned at the sound of rock clattering. The figure standing in the spotlight provided by Sam and Dean's flashlights was taller than Sam but bone-thin. Its face was a gray blur. "I suppose you're all wondering why I've brought you here," it said and giggled.

Even better, Dean thought, a creature that thought it had a sense of humor.

His shotgun blast went through it like the thing wasn't even there. "That wasn't nice," it reproached. "Just for that, you don't get to be part of the fun."

Shit! Dean was already moving, throwing himself in front of Sam, but light flashed—white to black back to the minimal illumination provided by the flashlights, plus the sparklers still going off in Dean's vision—and the creature, whatever it was, disappeared.

"Sam?" Dean pushed himself back to his feet, fumbling towards Sam, who was sprawled on the cave floor and who wasn't confirming anything even though he knew Dean was freaking. "Sam!"

When he played his flashlight over Sam's body, looking for obvious changes, all he saw was Sam's dazed expression, the one that usually accompanied a serious drunk—and the growing bulge in Sam's jeans.

"Dean, I—" His gaze drifted to Shayna, and his expression changed, sulky and predatory at once. "Knock me out," he ordered, his hips lifting off the ground in what had to be involuntary motion.

Okay, Dean thought. Now Shayna's worse off.

Even sexed-up and whammied, Sam knew his business; knocking him out was Dean's best option. He'd have to calculate the force carefully so as not to scramble Sam's brains any more than necessary.

So naturally, when Dean approached, Sam fought back. His teeth were peeled back from his lips in a feral snarl and his moves were jerky, with about half the force Dean knew him capable of, so he was struggling with himself. But the cave was studded with rocks and Dean could see too many ways this ended with one or both of them concussed or worse.

"Shayna," he called out, moving again to keep his body between her and Sam, "could you turn around, please?"

Silence. Then: "Fuck no," high and angry, and a sound that was most likely her searching for the largest rock she could lift.

Someday, he was going to meet someone who'd give him the benefit of the doubt, but it probably wasn't going to be a girl trapped in a cave. If he shut off his flashlight so she couldn't see, she'd most likely start swinging her rock around, and again with the concussions.

"Fine," he said and dropped to his knees.

Sam froze, interested, and allowed Dean to shuffle forwards, scraping his shins on pebbles and what he seriously, seriously hoped were sticks. "We're never gonna talk about this," he warned, and reached for the top button on Sam's jeans.

Shayna eeped in surprise, but that wasn't nearly as hilarious as the sound Sam made when Dean got his hand wrapped around the base of Sam's cock (and no way was Dean adding any adjectives there, because—just because). Looking up at the little 'gimme' line on Sam's forehead, brows all scrunched up, Dean took a deep breath—damn thing seemed to get bigger under his fingers—and opened his mouth.

When he pulled back, still swallowing, he had to let Sam go to deal with the fact that his jaw had popped—fucking embarrassing, what it was. He wrenched it back into place and felt the warm twist that said there wasn't permanent damage.

"You good?" he asked, lips numb and voice roughened.

But there was precisely no change, even with one gleaming drop of come still hanging off the tip of Sam's dick, and the look on Sam's face was simultaneously distressed and deeply hungry. At least he didn't seem to be interested in Shayna any more. He was staring down at Dean like Dean was made of candy.

Dean sighed and tugged a condom out of his back pocket. Sam was so far gone that he didn't even snark, just let Dean push him down onto the least rocky bit of floor Dean could find. He tried to help Dean with his jeans but only succeeded in nearly making Dean take a header into the nearest cave wall. Eventually, despite Sam's participation, Dean managed to kick his boots and jeans off. He whined when Dean rolled the latex down—"Shut up, I need the lube," he snapped and Sam resumed chewing on his lip, puffy and tempting, while Dean got himself in position.

Sam kept trying to set the pace, bossy as ever, and Dean was having enough trouble keeping his balance that he couldn't even lean forward and strangle Sam just to make clear who was in charge, working himself down slow and steady until he was seated all the way, Sam's bony hips grinding up into him, barely able to breathe because his fucking lungs had been compressed. But then Sam hit a rhythm he must have learned from the Magic Fingers, so fast and good that Dean's fingers clenched in his shirt and his eyes fell closed and he just let it happen, let Sam ream him good and proper.

He made a mess of Sam's shirt, no less than Sam deserved, and then Sam grunted out his second orgasm, this one even more drawn-out than the first, Sam's face strange and blank in the glancing light from the flashlight lolling to one side of them.

This time when Dean pulled off, very carefully not wincing, Sam stayed where he'd been put, so Dean let himself hope that the magic had been dissipated.

He didn't look around until he'd tied his boots again, at which point he checked and Shayna quickly turned her face, which was a little bit late in the game in Dean's considered opinion.

"Hey," she said, and pointed to the opening that had reappeared, before she sprinted out into the night.

"C'mon," Dean said, tugging Sam upright. If he'd known sex would make Sam this pliant, he would've—well, okay, probably not, but it wasn't a trivial benefit. He led Sam outside before he let himself relax.

"Next time," he said as they trudged back towards the car, "you get to be the one who isn't hit by the whammy."

"Next time," Sam said, his voice deeper than usual, "we're gonna use a bed."

Dean swallowed and tried not to think about how far away the motel was.


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