A/N: Hello y'all. Because this idea sprang in my head over the course of a few days, I wrote this short fic on a whim. It'll be two chapters long and I hope you readers will enjoy it. Heck, it was fun writing it.

Chapter 1: Touch Me, Dammit

"Have I ever told you how much I hate witches?" Deans asks from the passenger side. He slides down in his seat, looking clearly uncomfortable as he tries to adjust his jeans without touching them.

"Yes, you have Dean, for the tenth time!" Sam answers irritated. Giving sidelong glances at his brother, the younger man can't help but think how weird it is to see his brother so aroused. Serious, sullen, leery, and angry are the average expressions the man wore, but genuinely aroused isn't one of them. Sam adds, "Besides, it's your fault for messing with the witch! He wasn't even causing anyone harm!"

Driving down the road in the middle of the night, Sam divides his attention between steering and staring at Dean. The older man was practically squirming in his seat with his hands clenching the passenger door and the other on the leather. He breathed heavily and swore.

"He was forcing women to get supernaturally turned on," Dean attempts to justify, "he bangs them!"

"Yeah, and they ended up with the best orgasms in their life!"

"Then why do I, a man, have a fucking hard-on where I can't even touch myself? What kind of curse is that?" he mutters bitterly, thrusting his hips just a little bit before hissing in pain. He turns his head towards his brother, eyes squeezed shut, and for a moment, Sam actually felt bad. "I'm gonna fucking die of blue balls here if I don't get myself off, Sam," Dean gripes.

Yeah, what a way for a hunter to go, Sam thinks abruptly, but his hands stiffen on the steering wheel and he lays out their options. "Well, we know the witch was pissed when you burst into his private room, guns blazing and all, scaring the woman he was going to do next off. She left and he, uh, still had some unfinished business down there."

"Yeah," Dean grunts. "So?"

"So maybe he wanted you to know what he felt like. You were the one who interrupted him after all and he did say, as he escaped, that you will pay dearly and that you will die hard and dry."

Sam just never really thought the witch would mean it literally.

Dean is frustrated when he summarizes the dilemma he is in. "So I have like what? Less than an hour or so to find someone to sleep with me or I die? Because I don't think I can last any longer than that."

"Well, maybe you don't have to sleep with them if all you need to do is get off. Like a hand job or something," Sam suggests.

"I knew your big brains were good for something, Sammy," Dean says teasingly, but it doesn't completely reach Sam's ears. It sounds more like laboured breathing. Wriggling once more, Dean also pulls on the seat belt on his chest as if it'll help ease his pain. "Pull over, Sammy. You're the one that's gonna get me off."

Sam nearly drives them into a ditch when he hears that.

"What the hell, Sam!" Dean yells, hand on the window. "You trying to get us both killed?!"

What the younger man says instead is nowhere near answering Dean's question. He looks wide-eyed at his brother and back at the road, then back at his brother. "I'm not touching your dick, Dean!" he yells.

"Do you want me to die hard and dry?"

"No, of course not, you're my brother—"

"Then pull the fucking car over now."

There are some things that you just don't argue with Dean Winchester with and even if the man is in a compromising state, this is just one of those things. Obediently, Sam drives the Impala off the highway and parks right at the edge of the road where pavement meets gravel. He takes a deep breath, swallows and then turns to look at Dean, who has chosen that moment to lean his head back and utter out a groan. It sends a weird shiver down Sam's spine.

Despite Dean having ruined his life many times, the bottom line is that the man is still Sam's brother and there really isn't almost anything that Sam wouldn't do for Dean—especially if it's possible for him to do.

Jerking Dean off?

Yeah, sure I can do that, Sam rationalizes because it's not like he has to gather near rare ingredients from obscure parts of the world, and then find the right place, the right time, and chant some ancient Latin spell. He can do the easy way, which is completely within his power to break the curse. Sam just needed a little more nudging to even come close to willingly touch another man's dick, let alone his brother's.

Dean's head is still pressed against the seat, nearly whining as he speaks, "Sammy, touch me dammit," and that trembling, desperate voice is what finally drags Sam out of his thoughts and throws him into the flames.

"Alright, alright!" Sam cries, pushing his door open. "Move to the back, Dean," he orders his brother. Then he's heading for the back door too, ducking his head back into the car by the time Dean is getting out from the passenger side. Even under the moonlit night Sam can see that every move Dean makes is really painful and he reaches his hand out to ease his brother in. "You okay there, man?"

Breathing hard, as if he just ran a marathon, Dean answers roughly, "Just fucking jerk me off already, Sam."

They sit side by side, shoulders touching as Dean demands the attention he needs. Sam, on the other hand, doesn't really know where to start. He just stares down at his brother's fly in the near darkness, his hands as useless as Dean's, which gripped on Sam's jacket. "Uh…"

"Goddammit, unzip me!" Dean growls out, voice harsh in Sam's ears. The taller man startles before Dean says less aggressively, "Just touch me the way you touch yourself, alright Sammy? You remember how I taught you to—"

"Yeah, I remember Dean! Jesus," Sam mutters reaching for the man's fly. It was the first and only time his brother laid a hand on his cock; the memory is high on Sam's list of most embarrassing moments, which featured Dean in the majority of them, but to this day it is by far the best hand job Sam has ever received. He doesn't, for the life of him, understand why though since he tried everything Dean had did and never got the same result again. No other woman could replicate what his brother did, no matter how many times he guided them step-by-step. Now Sam is being expected to jerk off the one who taught him how to do it.

Sam fumbles with Dean's zipper and roughly pulls it over the bulge he can feel against his fingers. He inhales sharply as the older man breathes out a low groan. Taking a few more gulps of air, Sam reaches past the waist band of Dean's dark briefs and touches down on hot, hard flesh.

Dean sighs in relief. "…That's it, Sammy," he praises, pressing himself up into the taller man's arm. "Now…wrap your fingers around it."

"I don't need your damn instructions, Dean," Sam mutters, breath short from all the awkwardness and excitement. "I know what I'm doing." He opens his palm, feels the wide girth of Dean's member, which was maybe about two and half inches in diameter, and freezes for a few seconds. He allows his fingers to adjust to the heavy piece of burning flesh before slowly wrapping his long fingers around it. They easily circle around the member and then Sam is pulling it free from its cottony and denim confines.

To Sam's surprise, Dean starts to thrust into the younger man's hand. The foreign texture, length, thickness, and even its hardness all catches Sam off guard; he hastily withdraws his hand in shock. Of course, Dean protests. He looks at the taller man, a look of hurt and desperation clear on his stubble and sweat-slicked face.

"Why'd you stop?" Dean asks confused.

There are a dozen answers that Sam can pull from the top of his head, most of them focusing on the fact that they're brothers, but Sam already knows that. He's a thirty some year old man with absolute knowledge on what consent is and what the consequences ahead are. If he's going to do this, he isn't going to do it half-assed. If anything, he's going to give Dean the best hand job the man has ever encountered.

So, Sam coughs and makes a feeble excuse that their position is uncomfortable. Next thing he knows, Sam is sitting in the corner between back seat and side door with his right leg on the seat and his left foot on the floor. He pulls Dean towards his body, the older man going along compliantly all the while, until Dean's positioned against Sam's chest with jeans loose on his hips and his cock is pointing in the cool air.

To make himself even more comfortable, Sam slips his arms beneath Dean's and reaches for his brother's hard-on once more, pushing fear and morality aside to try and be the adult he is. "Comfortable?" he asks, because it's not just for show. He wants Dean to be.

The older man nods in silence and hisses when Sam grips Dean's member with more force, using his thumb to slide over the pre-cum that appears on the member's slit. Sam remembers what Dean had done for them when they were growing up because they sat in opposite positions like they did now. Dean had wanted Sam to learn how to properly masturbate, so he sat behind Sam, arms around his awkward body and slowly stroked him to release, giving a commentary during the whole duration. Sam isn't going to talk though, he's not the type to broadcast his sexual activities. However, Dean is still ever the vocal one.

"T-that's good," he breathes out, voice shaky as his head tilts back, resting hard against the space between Sam's neck and shoulder. "Damn…so good, Sammy."

Despite their situation, Sam snorts. His strokes were simple, tamed, and exactly what he does to himself. "I'm sure a touch from anybody will have you groaning, Dean," he refutes lightly, giving a long pull away from their bodies. Sure, he's driving his brother crazy, but if they found a woman willing to service a strange and horny man, Sam is sure Dean will react the same way.

"Sooo good," Dean repeats lowly, as if flying off in his own little world.

Dean's cock is slick from all the pre-cum and swears as Sam continues to pull and tug with rhythmic movements, chin hooking Dean's right shoulder so he could watch his own ministrations. It's also to hear his brother more clearly. The raspy moans, the hitched breaths, the hot puffs of air he occasionally feels against his ears, are all it takes for Sam's libido to go from zero to sixty.

Blood thumps in the younger man's ears at the same time it fills his cock. "Dean," he murmurs breathlessly, stroking faster. A pleasant haze, akin to the weed he once unwittingly took at 15, fogs his head as he drinks in the salty and musky smell of his brother. He even fondles the man's balls a bit, but then his right hand is sliding underneath Dean's plaid shirt and touches his hot moist skin. Gasping, Dean arches his chest into the touch while his ass presses into Sam's crotch.

"Fuck, Sam!" Dean moans deeply and brings his arms up over his shoulders so his hands could wrap the back of Sam's head and neck. He thrusts forward into his brother's hand before moving back and rubbing his rear against Sam's hardness.

It drives the taller man wild when Dean repeats the motions over and over again. At the same time that Sam is running his one hand over sweaty firm abs and pectorals, he feels Dean's broad fingers caress his neck, tug his hair, stroke roughly over his face, and then back to caressing again. Sam even finds himself rutting lightly into Dean's backside to the point where he isn't sure who is the one cursed anymore.

But he's mad now, driven by an inexplicable and powerful desire to push Dean into pure bliss. By the way the older man is rocking back and forth frantically, voice guttural, Sam thinks he might just reach his goal.

"You close, Dean?" Sam asks, breath haggard as he continues to pump Dean's cock.

The older man locks his fingers behind Sam's neck, drawing Sam closer to Dean's mouth. Then Sam feels wet lips moving against the damp skin on his jaw line and it makes his body tingle in all the right fantastical ways. "So, close, Sam…" his brother answers breathlessly. "Just tug a little harder there…"


"Yeah, just like tha—Jesus, Sammy," Dean mutters, lips and breath warm on Sam's skin. "Where'd you l-learn to stroke like that?"

"Practice," Sam answers and gives Dean one final long stroke that runs from the tip to the base of Dean's cock. He feels Dean's balls tighten and at the sight of the man shooting a thick white stream through his fingers, groaning Sam's baby name into his neck, Sam grinds into Dean's lower spine and ejaculates as well.

He's never creamed his pants before.

They lay there, bodies trembling from the aftershocks as their breaths mingle with each other in the quiet. Dean has finally loosened his relentless hold on Sam's neck, so, when the taller man raises his head, he could do so with ease. He glances down at his brother though, curious to see how Dean is doing now that the man's raging hard on is gone. Sam is taken aback to see his brother's dark half-lidded eyes staring back at him in silence.

Even in under low lighting, Sam can see the remnants of arousal in Dean's eyes. There's also something indefinable in the man's expression that Sam can't quite place in his sex-blown mind, but it brings his left hand, the one that's coated in his brother's essence, up to Dean's face to caress the man's jaw. His thumb leaves a trace of pearl white on his brother's full lips as he sweeps over it in fascination.

Is this how he looks every time he jerks off? Sam asks in his head. He thinks it's a good look at the same time that he leans downwards, intent on implementing what the mood is calling for.

Although right before Sam's mouth reaches Dean's, he feels a hand shoving at his chest and it's like he's being kicked out of a pleasant dream. He also feels his brother squirming out of his grasp. Not knowing what to do, the taller man lets him.

Confusion rattles Sam's mind.

When Dean speaks, his words are a stake through the younger man's heart. "Thanks, Sam," he mumbles and continues as he pulls up his pants, "Saved my life, now let's get back on the road." Wiping his face, Dean tucks his flaccid dick back in his jeans. His voice returns to its characteristic gruff quality.

It takes Sam a while to adjust to it because it's the kind of voice that draws a line between people and it's the kind of voice that Sam was hoping he wouldn't hear.

When Dean hands him tissue to clean himself up, murmuring an awkward apology, Sam accepts it. He tries to use that as an opening to more conversation.

"But Dean, we—"

"NO, we don't ever talk about this," Dean says with finality. He shoves the back door open on his right and climbs out. "I'm driving. You're probably going to run us into another ditch," he mutters.

At the sound of the door slamming close, the intimate environment that they had created under moonlight and darkness shatters along with it. Sam never expects that one curse could rope him so tightly around his brother and make him feel the impossible. He also doesn't expect Dean's abrupt and callous attitude right after either, especially when his brother seemed to enjoy it. Like the witch's victims, all the moans and groans that poured from Dean's mouth were the curse's doing. Miserably acknowledging this fact, Sam numbly wipes his hands clean and leaves the back as well. Without a word, he walks around the car and climbs into the passenger side.

For the first five minute drive to their nearest motel, Sam breathes in the strong smell of sex that still lingers in the car. That doesn't last for long. Dean opens the window and lets the cool wind pick up all traces of their activity and throw it behind them into the night.