I have a cake fetish. Written for chomaisky's art piece

Sam watched the clock hand reach twelve, his knuckles red with Crowley's blood, one spell brewing in the Bunker kitchen while he scribbled ideas for another on the wallpaper, now black with notes. Happy birthday to me, he thought.

"Baaaaaaaaaaby boy."

Sam set his teeth. "Shut up Dean."

"I got you something."

Sam walked over and peered through the grate window he'd made for Dean's bedroom, now lined in steel and salt and magic. All the furniture was gone. Dean slouched in his devil's trap, his rations untouched, tossing uncooked pasta to a rat in the corner.

"What do you want Dean?"

Dean tilted his head against the wall to look at him, his eyes two bits of green glass between tight lids, and reached behind his back for something. "Open the door."

"I'm fine where I am."

A toy smile played at the edge of Dean's mouth. Then he produced a slice of cake on a plate, one perfectly sculpted rose on the end with strawberries and cream layered within, and somewhere in Hell a demon in a party hat was jumping up and down in fury.

Sam's mouth watered. "I don't think I'm hungry."

Dean's eyes snapped black. "You mean you're not sure?"

Sam swallowed but didn't look away. "I'm not eating that."

"Fine. Then how about you sit on this birthday cake," he said, one hand resting invitingly on his thigh, "And I lick frosting off all your pink parts?"

Sam slammed the grate shut and turned on his heel. Crowley will have healed up by now, and sauntering down to the dungeon he squeezed some lighter fluid along one side of a baseball bat and held it to a lit match until it burned blue.

Crowley held up a hand, still weak from his last session. "Fuck's sake Moose, who slipped the Freud in your frozen yogurt?"

Sam blinked, and looked at the bat. "I don't get it."

"You need that on a bloody t-shirt," snapped Crowley, "Didn't they teach dream analysis at your petite bourgeois university?"

Sam thought about it for a second. Then he pictured Dean standing at the foot of his bed with a birthday cake and a knowing expression, and his dick jumped behind his zipper. Dean's music collection sat on a shelf, and Sam flipped through the box until he found one labeled with a heart and popped it in a blood-stained tape deck.

"No, they didn't," said Sam, as the bat connected and Crowley's blood arced onto the wall, "But they did have an excellent student radio station."

The rats ran for cover, through old pipes and chewed insulation back to Dean's room, where he smiled and listened to Sammy's work song.

"All you need is love...all you need is love..."

Three minutes later, Sam walked away dragging the bat on the flagstone floor, his boots tracking blood, and by the time he made it to the shower the lyrics in his head had changed.

All you need is kill.

He wiped away fog and studied his face in the mirror, eyes hollowed with hunger. Crowley wasn't holding back, there simply was no cure for what Dean had. Sam must learn to settle.

He grabbed his keys and made for the car. The work song still wavered in his head, and his birthday was for many hours yet.

Dean toed open the bedroom door, a crack in the floor zig-zagging to the trap within. "Sammy?"

A lamp stood in the living room, but otherwise all the other lights were out. Books were organized on the armchairs beside maps, jars whose contents thumped against the side of the glass, and Slim Jim wrappers. He tried the door lock, but his hand stopped a few inches shy.

"Look up."

He did, eyes sweeping the fresh paint on the ceiling, and spun in the direction of Sam's voice. And then suddenly his temperature rose a couple of degrees and any threat he might have made ran out of air on the way up.

All the chairs save for the table had been pushed to one side. A log fire popped behind Sam, making the fringe of his hair glow. He was showered and shaved and naked, and sitting on a giant vanilla sheet cake with his hands folded over one knee like Dean had snuck in past curfew.


Sam held out his hand, slowly, breathing hard through his nose. He was scared too, but for different reasons. Ruby's face was never far.

Dean approached and rested two fingers on the edge of the table. "It's hardly 3:00, you steal this from some kid's party?"

"Do you care?"

Dean smiled and traced a pink rose next to Sam's hip with his finger. Demon blood heightened the silent frequency between them, and Ruby's name crackled like feedback in Sam's brain. "Depends. I don't know how I feel about taking someone else's sloppy seconds."

Something flashed in Sam's eyes and was gone, and he watched Dean lift his finger and suck it clean. "Don't be mad," said Dean, words pitched low, "I brought you something too."

His teeth sank into his plush lower lip. Sam's chest caved in and out, nails biting into his hand as two red ribbons of blood ran over Dean's chin, down his throat, and disappeared inside the collar of his shirt. He held his breath, grabbing Dean's belt buckle until his legs hit the table edge and their faces were inches apart.

Dean smiled and ran his fingers through Sam's hair. "I guess I got your attention last night. You're so deep in the books I figured you'd forgotten about me."

"Are you kidding?" said Sam, wrapping his arms around his neck, "I've been thinking about this for weeks."

And molding their bodies together, Sam sucked on Dean's mouth until he was drunk on the sweet cocktail of blood and sugar, letting Dean part his legs and push him backwards with a flat hand to the chest while their mouths remained sealed. The fire cast their faces in half-shadow, the table streaked with white. Sam eyed the sigils on the ceiling. There is no trap so deadly as the one you set for yourself.

Dean stripped off his shirt, flames drawing hard edges around his biceps. He placed both hands on the table and let the tip of his tongue hang over Sam's cock. "Been a while?"

Sam shaped a hand to the back of Dean's head and pulled him up. He had spent the last several nights trying, and failing, to get off without all his fantasy girls going black-eyed at the last second, smoke coiling from their fat cock-sucking lips, and when you're riding high to the greatest hits of Radio Blood Junkie you don't want to finish inside the first five minutes.

"Climb on top."

Dean bracketed his hips, watching with cool fascination as Sam pulled his erection free from his jeans, frosting seeping through the cracks of his fist as he pulled along the length of Dean's cock in a hard, wet squeeze.

Sam looked up, eyes glittering. "You know the problem with fucking a demon girl?"

Dean flushed at the memory. Things had never been right after Ruby. "What?"

Sam breathed hot through parted lips, his tongue showing. "She comes once," said Sam, fist sliding up, running his thumb over Dean's cockhead, "And then she rolls over for the night."

Dean tensed, trying to kill his hard-on. "You sayin' I can't last?"

"No," said Sam, showing all his teeth, hair plastered to his neck in sweaty ringlets, "I wanna feel you jump in my hand, and then if you can walk upright you're gonna do it a second time. And after that..." Sam worked him harder. "If you think you can't do it on your own..." A bead of slick leaked from the end of Dean's cock. "I will milk it out of you...one...inch...at a time."

Dean's face twisted and he dug his nails into Sam's shoulders as two thick ropes shot across his bare chest. He scarcely had time to recover before Sam was working him again, his cock filling at the leer on Sam's blood-stained face.

"Lick it."

Dean opened his mouth, tonguing a line from Sam's navel to the scratchy stubble along his jaw, hot jizz mixed with frosting and sweat until Dean forced Sam's mouth open and their teeth clicked together.

"Put a finger in me."

Dean's hand traveled down, down in the shadows, where all the beautiful lines of Sam Winchester intersected and no one but Dean had knowledge of. Death had created something unique in Dean, and they had all night to adjust to this new symmetry.

"It's yours," said Sam, as he closed down tightly on Dean's finger, "We don't have to go any further tonight. Or even next month. You can leave right now knowing that I'll be thinking of you when I'm alone in bed, and you never have to fuck me. It will always...be waiting...for you."

Dean pushed in until his other fingers curled, as exquisitely tight as a rosebud blooming in reverse, and kissing Sam he moaned into his mouth and came with his cockhead scraping Sam's flat belly.

Dean came up for air, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "That...wasn't very smart."

"Why's that?"

Dean lifted Sam bodily and flipped him onto his stomach, cake spraying all over the room. They were both slimy with the stuff by now, and Sam craned his neck to watch Dean undress over his shoulder.

"Dean what are you doing..."

Dean breathed hot on his skin, mouth seering a trail on his inner thigh as strong fingers dug into Sam's flesh and spread his legs wide. Sam panted, his cock leaking a medallion in anticipation, muscled brown body glistening with sweat as Dean looked up at him through his eyelashes and smiled and then sank his tongue into Sam's tight pink ass.

Sam's head hit the table so hard that the room spun at right angles. He snatched a fistful of Dean's hair, but Dean pushed deeper, widening him, sucking down buttercream and vanilla mixed with a salty tang, and Dean realized it wasn't a birthday cake. It was better.

It was a wedding cake.

"You were right. I don't ever have to fuck you."

Sam's mouth fell open as Dean reached between his legs and gave his swollen cock a single, light swipe. Sam choked, his whole body spasming at his touch.

"How bad do you want it baby boy? "

Dean's mouth was on him again, but gentle, searching. Just enough to keep the engine going.

"Cuz I think," said Dean, "That I could have you dancing for me all night, until you begged. Until you came blood."

Sam breathed out a yes, or something like it, and slowly Dean ran the tip of his finger along the underside of Sam's cock, back and forth, extending his tongue inside Sam and smiling when Sam made a small, high noise and closed tightly around him.

"So what'll it be?" asked Dean, flames dancing in his eyes like Hell seen through bad glass, "Wanna make a deal?"

Sam strained and clenched his fists. "Fuck, yes, anything, just keep going."

Dean rolled him over, clapping his hands together. "Okay then."

Sam chose his next question with care. "So what's the deal?"

Dean twisted his fingers in Sam's hair until it hurt. "The deal is, you don't get to touch yourself, " said Dean, words drawn out deliberately as if he were laying down cards, "Ever. Again. Even if I have to crawl up Heaven's drainpipe to keep my eye on you."

Sam laughed, a warm rolling sound that Dean had nearly forgotten. "You're crazy."

"I'm serious. Consider it carefully. Cuz once you've had a taste of Evil Cock scraping inside of you, even the sweetest little girl won't get you up," said Dean, his lip bloody, "I'll make you thirsty for it."

Sam watched a drop of blood swell and land on the tip of his cock. Dean rubbed it in, and Sam tilted back with the weight of his head. "Okay okay, do it before I fuckin' die already."

Dean hooked one arm under Sam's left knee, Sam's other foot planted on the table, and pressed his mouth to Sam's thigh. Sam rocked against him, desperation building inside.

"Well look at you, rarin' to go. I could probably make you finish," said Dean, watching Sam's ass stretch around his thick, dripping cockhead, "With just this much."

Sam flushed, but balled up his hands to keep from touching himself.

"Good boy."

Dean's cock met some resistance, then he stood on the balls of his feet and the first inch was swallowed up inside the plump pink rim as he bent to kiss him. Sam gasped, stealing the air from Dean's lungs.


Sam's hands fell onto Dean's hips and forced him closer, slowly fucking himself on the top three inches, cockhead dragging over the honeyspot inside of him with each inexpert stroke.

"You see? I'll take care of you from now on. Any time you need me, even if they put me in chains on the other side of the planet to keep us apart, my love will bring me back," said Dean, greasing Sam's cock with a fistful of wedding cake, "You will never go hungry again."

Sam swallowed and struggled for air. His cock was a misery between his legs. "Dean..."

"Put your hands down. Some things have to be given."

Sam did as he was told, biting his lip as Dean levered all the way inside, stretched tightly around the base of his naked cock. Dean trembled, the muscles of his back standing out like bridge cables, but he pulled back and in, listening to Sam breath. Ruby never got this far, and he took some pleasure in taking that from her.

They went slow for a while, Sam shaping himself to Dean until the sting became a slow burn. Dean buried his face in Sam's neck, afraid to speak further, that if he kept up a steady rhythm they could lose themselves in each other's bodies and relay the love he had no words for.

Sam pressed his cheek to his, in a voice that carried only to Dean's ears. "I have a gift for you as well."

And then the hole that had been eating away inside Sam blossomed with a black heat, the seconds stretching into years as he pressed his heels into the small of Dean's back and his beautiful face contorted as if he might die, and his happiness was such a surprise to Dean that he came in a blinding rush that, combined with the sigils and the demon blood and the denizens of Hell watching their progress with great interest, Dean gave a final thrust...

...and Sam's heart stopped.

Dean heard it first, but didn't react right away. "Sammy?"

Sam's hand lay on Dean's neck, gentle. Peaceful. As if he were trying to recall a strange dream. And then it fell away.


His eyes remained open, head jostling as Dean pumped his chest with the heels of his hands. There was still life in him, humming on the edge of human perception thanks to Dean's blood, but that would fade in time...

Dean clutched his hair, panicked as he swept the room for possible solutions. Sam's notes crowded the wallpaper with Dean's name sprinkled liberally among them. Out of it all, only one phrase had been underlined, a string of Latin that even Dean recognized from his years as an exorcist.

Et exscindetur arcus belli et sanguine anima. Blood will bend the soul.

He looked down. A little wooden box lay in a partly opened drawer, and when he lifted the lid a brass syringe lay inside, clean save for the fingerprints on the glass where Sam had repeatedly touched it and then put it back in it's case. Somewhere in the dungeons, his old tape player was cycling in the dark.

"...all you need is love..."

The fire had burned down to cinders. Gray tears floated in Dean's eyes, the needle sliding into his vein as some blood spilled onto the carpet but otherwise sucked upward into the glass chamber. He wasn't sure what was worse, that Sam fell asleep and never came back to him...

...or that something else entirely was awakened.

"It's gonna be okay baby boy," he whispered, a single tear landing on Sam's cheek, "I'm gonna take care of you."

And pressing his mouth to his Dean plunged the needle into Sam's neck, the last light in the room flickered out...and a king was born.