"Tell you what," Sam breathes out a hiss, the weight of Dean's crushing arm to his throat making it harder to get his words out. "I've fought some nasty sons-of-bitches, but you are one, NEEDY, pathetic loser."

Nick's dark eyes fill with cruel amusement.

"You won't feel that way in a minute," he murmurs, tracing the back of nauseatingly sweet-smelling fingers along the gold, hair-prickled line of Sam's jaw. Sam chokes out a repulsed, muffled noise against Nick's mouth opening to his. A burst of hot, sour liquid shoots past Sam's lips.

The siren's saliva, it's — the last thought that is his own.

Sam's head goes fuzzy, disconnected, infected as Nick nods wordlessly to Dean. Dean's arm loosens around him but does not let up. "I'm feeling some tension between you two. But I have some serious doubts that it's all because of me." The siren sinks into a comfortable lean against the wall where the brothers remain standing, crossing his arms in front of himself, raking his eyes over them and speaking up again, "Why don't you both work some of that out now?

"The one who manages... subdue the other one," Nick grins. "I'm pretty sure you can figure that definition out on your own... they also get to be the first to take advantage of their brother. The loser gets to be the slave to the winner and myself. Is there any objections?" No sign of challenge in hypnotized green eyes and blank expressions. "Nah, I didn't think so," he says, chuckling. "Remember, boys: this is a competition for a reason. No one likes being bottom bitch."

Dean's knife aims closer for the bob of Sam's throat, and he murmurs in Sam's ear, "You're going down."

A wheeze. "Think so, Dean?"

Once the mocking question passes, Dean's hips sharply collide into his, humping his faint erection inside his jeans to Sam's ass. "Gonna make you my little cock-sucking bitch."

"Bet you get off on that, you piece of shit," Sam heaves in a breath, cheeky, smirking. "Fantasizing about me, about fucking my mouth."

"Like you don't." Dean's mouth angles behind the shell of Sam's ear, teeth baring, "You're gonna look so good on your knees for me, Sammy." Sam's growling moan — animalistic — rumbles out as Dean's hips urge against the frayed seat of Sam's own worn jeans, the curve of Sam's ass roughly pushing back, rubbing against the concealed firmness.

With a quickness that even forces Nick from his leaning position and to take a cautious step back, Sam gains control, grabbing onto Dean's arm to his throat, twisting it until he's vaguely sure Dean's arm muscles are screaming in agony. The hunting knife clatters to the hotel bedroom floor. One of Dean's legs rises between them, propelling Sam forward and off of him. They fight like how they would fuck each other — relentless to prove their dominance — the aggression, sweat, noise.

The ebonized, decorative screen between the twin beds shatters into pieces with the blunt hit of Dean's entire body slamming through it. He keels over onto the carpet, gasping aloud, head ringing. Hands yanking and bleeding into Sam's jacket. His younger brother flattens him down into the rubble, shoving his mouth on his. Dean's fingers tangle, pulling harshly into strands of brown hair, pulling his mouth harder to him. Sam's blood oozes against his frantic tongue, coppery like sucking heavily on a coin, and Dean's tongue licks over the split lip.

Their erections hurt, pushing against their confinement, pushing and bucking with an erratic, needful rhythm. Sam's gigantic hand wraps around Dean's amulet, snapping apart the cord holding it.

At the same moment Dean bites down suddenly, and devoutly on Sam's injured lip, he cracks an open palm underneath Sam's jaw, stunning the other man. Dean crawls towards the side, heaving himself onto his feet.

The siren hums in slight interest, picking up the disregarded amulet by its broken ends. He follows them into the hallway entrance — where Dean had barreled Sam straight through the bedroom door — and the younger sprawls on his back, wide-eyed as Dean towers over him, panting but appearing victorious. Nick taps Dean's shoulder, meeting a longing gaze. Longing for his approval.

"Congratulations, Dean. He's yours first." He twirls Dean's necklace in small, unhurried circles. "Drag him inside. We don't need an audience," the siren instructs, calmly.

"Sorry fer interruptin' then."

Nick turns his head in time to see Bobby Singer's face wrinkling in concentration and hatred. The old hunter jabs his own knife in his hands lightning-fast into Dean's shoulder, throwing him across the hall, and then the knife buries itself into Nick's heart. He stutters a weakened, defeated mumble before sinking dead to the floor.

"You idjits still alive?" Bobby shakes the blood off his hand.

He stares at a shaken and extremely pale-looking Sam still on his back and then Dean clutching at his shoulder-wound, just as pale as his sibling.

Dean sends him an incredulous look, voice cracking, "...You stabbed me!"

"And that's worse than what the siren had in store for ya?"

Bobby makes a disbelieving noise, shuffling some of the ruined door out of Sam's path as the younger drew himself up. Dean's eyebrows lower. "It hurts," he complains with some childish indignation, checking his shallow wound again through his ripped shirt and coat.

"Oh boo hoo, princess." Bobby snaps, lending a hand to Sam struggling his feet and holding his side, "This coming from the same person who tried to walk off a broken femur once."

"It wasn't broken! It was chipped in two places—!"

"—Guys," Sam interrupts softly, face bunching up in increasing pain. Automatic in the protective gesture, Dean tucks an arm underneath Sam's armpits, staring at his brother's tense profile with hardened concern, and ignoring Sam's visible flinch at physical contact.

"Need the car, Bobby."


Somewhere outside Atkinson, Illinois, Dean slams a fist against the jammed vending machine, muttering unfulfilled death threats. He throttles the sides of soda machine. "What's a guy gotta do to get some Pepsi around here?" he barks.

Dean waits to address the person standing behind him until heavy, familiar footsteps on concrete sidewalk still, "Aren't you supposed to be resting?"

A semi-humored smile flits across Sam's face.

"You know that never works on me," he scoffs. "The stitches are fine. Yours?"

"Like nothing happened," Dean lies, his own right shoulder bandaged up underneath his coat.

The wind breezing through the area and outside their motel for the evening feels unseasonably wicked, cold. He digs a hand into a jean pocket rattling with spare change. Sam's voice drifts back into his ears — sounding sterner. "I don't think Bobby knows what happened before he showed up."

"Better off that way."

"Are we…" Dean glances over at his younger brother trailing off, glowing under the cast of white lamplight. Haloed even. "…are we good, though?"

Gonna make you my little cock-sucking bitch.

It's like Sam wants to examine this under some kind of emotional microscope. It can't be like that.

He frowns, begins slowly, "Sam—"

Sam winces at the edge in Dean's voice, scraping a hand through his hair. "I'm not saying talk about it. Just… are we good?" he repeats, eyes narrow, anxious.

The roar of big trucks from the nearby overpass. Only Dean can hear his own heart thudding inside him. He's too good at hiding everything away by now.

Think so, Dean?

"We're good," Dean says neutrally, lightly tapping the hollow soda machine. The jammed aluminum Pepsi can clinks securely into the open flap.


Pretty much followed the event timeline for "Sex and Violence". Hurrhurr, Nick being Dean's "little brother", my ass. This was asking to be written ages ago.


"Sam/Dean, The Siren from Sex and Violence wants them to fuck

Instead of having Sam and Dean try to kill each other, the Siren from Sex and Violence promises to be the perfect brother to the one who manages to top the other. The brother on the bottom will be a slave to them both."