"It's okay, big brother. I gotcha," Sam whispers, holding onto Dean and soothingly rubbing his side as he jacks himself, burying his face in Sam's neck.
"Want you t'fuck me so bad," Dean practically whines, breath hitching.
"I know," Sam murmurs, kissing his head. "I know. I want to. But I can't. We can't give in. You know what'll happen."
Dean moans and it breaks off into a sob. Fuckin' witches.
They've had sex curses before. Generally ending in them fucking each others brains out to break them. Which they're both more than okay with. This witch, however, was much more intuitive than most. She sensed their relationship with one another and decided she'd have a little fun with Dean.
So now, dean's so horny he's literally in physical pain, lasting for twenty-four hours starting at three o'clock a.m. – the witching hour – (twelve of which he's already suffered through), but no one can resolve it but himself. Sam can't touch him, can't fuck him, can't suck his cock. Can't anything. Or it sticks. He ends up like this eternally.
He gasps, teeth clamping down on his lip as he comes for the eleventh time in the past fucking hour.
Sam holds him tightly through it, pressing kisses to his hairline, cheekbone, anywhere he can reach. "You gotta breathe, baby," Sam reminds him, hand trailing up and down his back.
Dean draws in a ragged, shaky breath and collapses against Sam, obviously exhausted.
"Maybe you should try to sleep for a little bit," Sam suggests. "You're so tired. And it would knock out a chunk of time."
Dean shakes his head, dick already filling back up. "Hurts too bad. Feels like I've got blue balls every time I stop touchin' my cock. Couldn't sleep if I tried."
After another three hours, however, Dean's not sure what hurts worse – the time in between or the time during. His dick is so raw at this point, all he wants to do is stop.
"How're you feeling?" Sam asks, handing him a glass of water and settling back in beneath him.
"Like I'm gonna throw up," Dean rasps, taking a small drink and closing his eyes.
It makes sense, Sam reasons. So many orgasms in a row must be putting a strain on his stomach with all the internal tensing up and relaxing.
"And like I still want you to fuck me," Dean mutters, fixing his gaze on the water glass.
"Well, I can't do that," Sam repeats. "But I can..." He brings up his right hand and begins rubbing small, smooth circles into Dean's stomach. "How does that feel?"
"Good," Dean breathes. "Really good. Just be careful and don't hit–"
"I know," Sam assures him, keeping himself a good few inches from Dean's cock.
"You can't be the–"
"The reason you come," Sam finishes for him. "No part of it. I know."
Dean blows out a long breath and starts fidgeting.
"Again?" Sam asks gently.
Dean nods, obviously trying to fight it off.
Sam gives him a sympathetic frown.
"How many more hours?" Dean grits from between his teeth.
Sam glances up at the clock. "Nine," he reports solemnly.
Dean squeezes his eyes shut and gets back to it.
Six hours later, it's midnight, and Sam's eyes are trying their damndest to close. But he won't let them. He's brushing Dean's sweaty hair back with his fingers, trying to keep him from hyperventilating, and doing everything he can to stay awake.
For the next two hours, Dean cries.
Sam isn't sure if he's just finally exhausted enough not to care or what, but he cries openly through all of it, praying out loud for it to be over.
At the beginning of the last hour, he actually does start throwing up, and Sam thinks he's just about to break.
There can't be much force left in him.
Sam holds his head up over the toilet and watches him miserably strip his cock for the millionth time in a row.
This hour is the worst, and it seems to drag on longer than the last twenty-three combined, but Sam keeps reminding Dean that it's almost over. That if he can just make it through this, he can stop.
When it finally is over, it's like the gates of heaven have opened and they can see the light. Dean keeps crying, but it's for a different reason now, and Sam cries right along with him.
It doesn't take long for Dean to collapse, and Sam carries him from the bathroom back to the bed.
Neither of them has ever slept so heavily.
When they awake, it's five in the afternoon. "Mornin', sunshine," Dean murmurs, reaching out to touch Sam's cheek.
Sam smiles and turns his head to kiss Dean's hand. "Hey. How are you?"
"Okay, considering," Dean says with a small grin. "That had to've been hell for you, too. Thanks for... y'know. Takin' care'a me."
Sam roots his head under Dean's chin and rests it there. "Just wish I'd been able to take care of you the way you needed me to."
"Well..." Dean's voice is suddenly heavier, and Sam stills to listen. "You can now."
Sam looks back up at his brother, one eyebrow raised, features arranged into a classic bitchface. "Yeah. Right. Like you'll have any interest in sex for the next month."
Dean chuckles, low in his throat. "Sammy, baby, you'll never stop being interesting."
Sam swallows. "Dean, you just... I stopped counting how many times you came when I got to a hundred and five."
"And your point is?" Dean asks, as if he's entirely serious.
"My point," Sam begins incredulously, "is that there's no way in hell you even have anything else left in there. You couldn't get off right now if you tried."
The thing about Dean Winchester is, he doesn't make a bet if he thinks there's a chance in hell he's going to lose.