I'm not all that familiar with the tentacle porn genre, and it's not really my fetish (which doesn't mean I'm not fascinated by it). The gist, though, seems to be that it's gross and dark and awful and yet sexy somehow anyway.

Not sure how I did on the "sexy" part, but I know that I nailed "gross," "dark," and "awful!"

Would bullets kill it?

That wasn't a new question for Sam. He asked some variation of it every time they ran up against a new monster. A gun was probably the best way to take care of something - if it worked. They already had plenty of guns, there weren't really any special preparations, and there was no need to get up close and personal with the thing that needed to die. Sam had decent aim (not as good as Dean, but good enough, thanks to hundreds if not thousands of hours of practice); he could put a silver bullet in a werewolf's heart in two or three shots from across the room. Which was much safer than, say, trying to cut its head off. If you were a hunter, a big part of your job when you started a new case was hoping and praying that whatever you were after would die if you shot it in the right place.

Not everything would, though. And if your target could only be done in by a complicated and esoteric ritual, you didn't want to be totally ignorant of that and go charging into its den armed with only a pistol. That was why you spent time figuring out what you were up against and how to do it in. You did research. You talked to witnesses.

"Was it person-shaped? Did it have a head I could shoot?" Sam ejected the clip from his gun to check that it was full, then shoved it back into place. He racked the slide, then thumbed the safety on. The last thing he needed was to shoot himself in the kneecap before he even found what he wanted to kill.

"I'unno," Dean mumbled.

"Course you don't." Sam lowered the gun. "Didn't you look at it when you opened the box?"

"Didn' opennih."

"Uh huh." Dean's story was that he'd brought the box in (unforgivable on its own, in Sam's opinion), set it down on the map table, and turned his back on it. When he looked at it again, whatever'd been inside had forced its way out.

Sam thought that was how he'd explained it, at least. It was tough to understand him with how bad he was slurring right now - way worse than when he was drunk. And drooling. Sam was pretty sure his gag reflex was disabled or something. Better make sure he didn't eat or drink until all the effects had worn off.

Tucking his gun into the back of his jeans and walking over to Dean's chest of drawers, Sam pulled the top one open. He didn't even get to rummage through it before a rustling of fabric and the sound of skin sliding against skin made him glance over his shoulder. He sucked in a breath. "Put - put your pants back on."

"Buh Sa - "

"Put. Your pants. Back on."

Making a whining noise deep in his throat, Dean kicked his legs back into his jeans, yanking them up over the boxers that he'd managed to get halfway down his ass before Sam had caught him. He flopped around his bed like a wet noodle, and Sam felt like he was watching a toddler throw a tantrum over having to wear clothes. The image was spoiled slightly by Dean's height and raging erection, which Sam was pretty sure he was now grinding into the mattress. At least he couldn't see it, so he didn't say anything about it.

He turned his attention back to the chest of drawers, digging through folded and crumpled T-shirts, gum wrapper chains of a couple inches, pocket knives, stray bullet casings, dead cell phones, and scribble-covered pieces of notebook paper. (He found one doodle that he was almost positive was of him; he could've done without the elaborate ribbons that Dean had seen fit to draw into his hair.) He hit the wooden bottom of the drawer without finding what he was looking for, which unfortunately meant he had to turn to look at Dean again. At least he still had his clothes on, though Sam tried not to pay too much attention to the way that he was moving his hips.

"I thought you had a respirator in here," Sam said. Dean made a grunt that sounded questioning to him, so he clarified: "A mask?"

"Innow whah a respira'or is," Dean mumbled into his pillow, a little acidly, and Sam let out a long, slow breath. "Armory."

"You put it back in the armory?"

"Yes."

"Great." Sam really didn't want to walk all the way down to the main armory with his mouth, nose, and, to a lesser extent, eyes exposed. The thing had gotten something into Dean's system somehow, something that'd left his legs useless, his mouth working at roughly fifty percent, and his dick standing at full attention. For apparently no reason whatsoever, as far as Sam could tell. He wasn't sure if Dean had gotten an overdose of the venom or if this kind of incapacitation was the intended effect, but he wasn't taking any chances. "Guess I'd better go get that, then."

He grabbed a T-shirt out of the drawer as a stopgap, olive-drab and soft from hundreds of washes. Folding it a few times, he draped it over the lower half of his face, and knotted it at the base of his skull. When he breathed in, he got a strong whiff of Tide. And Dean. It wasn't bad. Definitely had a lot of good memories attached to it (and bad ones, but that was beside the point). Sam just wasn't sure he wanted to walk around smelling his brother while he was tossing the bunker in search of a monster. He considered swapping this shirt out for another one, but they were all Dean's. They were all gonna smell like him.

"Are you gonna be okay here alone?" Sam asked, voice muffled by layers of fabric.

"Yes."

"You sure? You're not gonna choke, are you?"

"Uh uh."

"I'm gonna have my cell on me, so be sure to call me if you think you're - "

"'m fine, jus' 'ea' arrea'y."

"Okay. Fine." Sam raised his hands, then grimaced behind the T-shirt and turned away as Dean shamelessly shoved one of his own hands underneath himself to palm at his crotch. "I'm gonna go get the thing that got you. I'll be back."

He headed for the door, then hesitated with his hand on the knob. He knew he should get out of here before Dean started getting graphic with himself again - and before the thing that was loose in the bunker could do too much damage. But forewarned was forearmed, so he asked, "Is there anything else you can tell me about it?"

"'i'n' you see i'?"

"No." He'd startled it. Probably saved Dean's life, considering he'd been moaning helplessly on the floor by then. He'd been heading up to the front of the bunker to see if Dean had checked the wards around the doors yet, like he'd said he was going to. Sam had come through the library and out into the front atrium (he was pretty sure that was what it was called) and bolted straight for his brother, looking wildly around for whatever had done this to him and wishing desperately he had a weapon. But it'd already been gone by then, probably warned off by his bootsteps. He'd heard a slithery kind of noise as it fled deeper into the bunker, and then there'd been the...smell. Which he was still reluctant to classify.

Dean had had his face buried in his pillow, but now he turned his head so one side of it surfaced. He was flushed, green eye glassy, close-cropped hair matted and clumped with sweat. He looked sick and, in a way, Sam guessed he was. He'd been poisoned.

"'ennacuh monssuh," Dean stated, obviously trying very hard to enunciate. Sam wasn't even gonna try to puzzle out what that would've been with a fully-functioning pharynx, though.

"Okay. Thanks." He left the room, closing and locking the door behind him. Then he hesitated again, fully aware that he was wasting valuable time as he leaned against that door and sighed into Dean's T-shirt, but not able to bring himself to move just yet.

He hoped the locked door would be enough to keep Dean safe. He was totally out of it right now, and it was just common sense to assume that the thing that'd attacked him would want to come back and finish what it'd started. It felt really wrong for Sam to be leaving his brother right now, but it also felt really wrong to let some unknown monster run wild in the bunker, and it wasn't like he could take Dean with him. His bedroom door couldn't be unlocked from the outside unless you had a key or lockpicking tools, but...doors were really meant to stop things that were more or less humanoid, and Sam wasn't sure that their intruder was.

It'd come in a box. Sam chewed on his lower lip, wondering if he should've blocked the vents in Dean's room - as well as a whole lot of other things, like who the hell had dumped a boxed-up monster right outside their door. The box had been big, roomy enough for a small person to fold themselves up inside of without having to cut any extremities off, but that didn't mean anything. He could've asked Dean if the box'd been heavy, or if he'd gotten a feel for the shape of its contents while he'd been carrying it.

He hadn't, though. And the clock was ticking. So he was just gonna have to trust that Dean's door would be enough. Sam pushed off of it and headed down the hall, towards the stairs that would take him to the level the armory was on. He was almost painfully aware of the gun in the back of his jeans, and how long it would take him to grab it if he needed it. That was why he took it out and held it at the ready when he reached the staircase - or, in other words, a series of poorly-lit corners he couldn't immediately see. It definitely made him feel a little better, and he made it to the armory without any issues.

Their armory had multiple sections: guns, knives, magical weapons, protective gear. It was in the last area that Sam found two dozen respirators inside a case that'd been mounted on the wall. Up until recently, one of them had lived in Dean's room so he could use it while he was cleaning with the old, corrosive chemicals that'd been left in the janitors' closets, but Sam had no idea which one. Not like it mattered. He pulled one out at random. He checked the seal and the canisters, then set it down so he could untie his makeshift T-shirt mask. He was about to take it off and swap it out, but then he paused. He pressed the fabric against his mouth and nose and inhaled deeply before he dropped it on the nearest counter.

Dean smelled good, and the monster didn't. It especially wouldn't once it was dead. So what?

Sam picked up the respirator, fitted it onto his face, and tightened the straps around the back of his head. His breath hissed in and out through the canisters, the pocket of air around his mouth pretty much instantly going hot and wet. He grimaced into it. That was gonna get old quick.

He left the armory after slapping on a pair of goggles and making a mental note to take Dean's shirt back to him once their home was secure again. He didn't take any other weapons with him. He didn't want to be weighed down, and he was still hoping the gun would work.

Sam stopped short as soon as he was out the door, though, and immediately fumbled for his gun. In his panic, he almost dropped it. Good thing the monster wasn't actually around. Just the smell it left behind, which was somehow making its way through the air-filtering canisters to Sam's nose.

It was...well, might as well face it. There wasn't really any tasteful way to put it: this thing smelled like sex. Sweat, come, musk, arousal. It was hot, wet, and animal, and it was much stronger than it'd been when he found Dean. In fact, he was starting to feel a little hazy. Lightheaded, laid back. And...

Sam groaned, reaching down to adjust his jeans with the hand he didn't have a gun in as they began to tighten, ever so slightly, in the groin. Clearly, Dean's condition was a direct result of whatever pheromones were coming off this thing, as well as the fact that he'd seemed to be blanking on why he shouldn't be whacking off in front of his brother. Sam was feeling excited, like he'd just locked eyes with a green-eyed blonde - his type - from across the bar. So just barely aroused. Definitely not enough to take his pants off. But he'd still been affected.

It was sure a good thing he'd put the respirator on. Otherwise, he'd be a boneless puddle of horniness on the floor right now, and there'd be no locked door between him and the monster if (when) it came back this way, looking for its prey. He pulled the straps of the mask on his face tighter, to make the seal between the rubber and his skin more secure. It was uncomfortable, dug hard into his face, and would probably wind up giving him a headache in under half an hour, but it was definitely better than the alternative.

Sam took a couple of steps each to the left and right of the armory door, sucking in deep breaths through the respirator to try and figure out where the smell was stronger. On the right, definitely. So he set off in that direction, gun at the ready, moving slowly as he checked all the corners and shadows.

And there were a lot of shadows. The bunker was utilitarian, its lighting scheme set up to conserve power, and of course there weren't any windows. It being inside a hill and all. There was actually a switch down in the boiler room that turned on all the lights, lit the bunker up like a football stadium, made it impossible for anything to hide. The Men of Letters seemed to have foreseen this exact situation. It might be a good idea to go down there and hit that, but at the same time, he didn't want to lose the creature's trail. So he stayed on it, and it led him upwards.

The whole time, one section of his mind - what Dean called his "nerd brain" - was worrying at the issue of just what the hell this thing was. His first thought was either incubus or succubus, since they produced stuff like this. Stuff that could be absorbed through the skin or the mucus membranes and made you instantly, desperately horny as soon as it hit your bloodstream, because they fed off bodily fluids tempered by sex hormones. But it was all powdery, and had to be transferred through direct contact. Sam'd heard other hunters refer to it as "sex pollen," which was pretty accurate.

Plus, incubi and succubi tended to be...big. Huge, brawny guys, tall, leggy girls. Height was attractive, drew prey in. They wouldn't've fit in the box.

Drawing prey in was definitely the goal of this smell, though. Like a pitcher plant attracting insects with the sweet scent of its nectar. Or a corpse flower, even though it wasn't carnivorous and it didn't smell sweet.

Sam had seen a corpse flower during a field trip to an indoor botanical garden in middle school. The bloom was fading, but it'd still smelled awful, and all the guys in his class had been snickering about how the drooping spadix had looked like a limp dick. It really hadn't, though. A dick had a head, ridges, veins, maybe a curve, the skin dusky and engorged with blood, precome leaking out of the slit in a long, glistening strand, a hand wrapped around the shaft and pumping languidly as the balls trembled and pulsed -

Sam shook himself violently in an effort to shatter the image that'd invaded his thoughts. Not just because he was almost worshipfully envisioning a throbbing erection while on a high-stakes hunt, but also because he'd just realized that said erection belonged to his brother.

He knew what Dean's cock looked like, unfortunately. Both hard and flaccid. He didn't always preserve his modesty with a towel right after he got out of the shower, and Sam didn't always knock. He'd walked in on him having his way with either another person or himself way too many times not to have a vomit-inducingly accurate picture of his boner seared into his brain forever. And that picture had just oozed its way up out of the mental vault he usually preferred to keep it in, along with what was unmistakably Dean's hand. His mind had even seen fit to add in their mother's silver wedding ring, worn since before puberty and painstakingly resized as Dean's hands outgrew hers.

Sam closed his eyes behind the goggles for a second, then took one hand off the gun and punched the wall with it. He didn't use his full strength, because the walls were concrete down here and he didn't want to break any fingers. But the skin on his knuckles split, the bones of his hand ached, and a shock shot up his arm. All that woke him up.

He shook his hand out, swearing softly. Pain helped clarify things, sometimes. He hadn't had to hurt himself to focus on what was real in years. Not since the imprint of Lucifer that'd been carved into his psyche in Hell had been a problem, he reflected as he ran an absentminded thumb over a long-faded scar on his palm. This wasn't anywhere near as bad as that'd been, but fantasizing about a cock while there was something out there that needed to be killed was still a problem.

Especially, as had already been established, considering that said cock was his brother's. Sam had no idea whatsoever where that'd come from besides the fact that Dean probably had a hand on it right now, just like he'd imagined.

He wrapped his wounded, bloody hand around the grip of the gun again and kept moving, before he lost the trail. He was okay now. He just had to breathe shallowly, even inside the respirator, and focus on the stinging in his knuckles whenever intrusive thoughts burst in. Like how long it'd been since he'd held a pair of breasts and how the hard nipples felt against his callused palms, or the sensation of fingers up his ass and teasing at his prostate, or what Dean's come might taste like, just out of curiosity... Sam squeezed his hand into a fist, stretching the scrapes on it.

At least he had a distraction now. He was still doing better than he had been.

As he made his way upstairs, following the distinctive reek of sex, Sam couldn't help feeling violated. He latched onto that, just because it was better than the feverish lust. It was bad enough that this thing was in his home, the one place in the whole world he actually felt safe, and that it'd attacked his brother. The fact that it'd made Dean useless and left him all alone sucked, too. But now it was in his head, forcing him to think and feel things he never would've on his own. And just because that was nothing new to him didn't make it okay.

He lost the trail upstairs. The smell was strong enough in the library to make his head spin and his crotch pound, but it faded when he went out into the main entryway. Logically, that'd mean his quarry was in the library, but he checked behind all the shelves and under all the tables and didn't find anything.

The box was still on the map table out front. It'd very obviously been forced open from the inside, the flaps torn and trailing packing tape. He hadn't had the opportunity to take a close look at it earlier, but it ooked like Dean had been telling the truth. Sam tried not to compare it to a human ribcage ruined by a chestburster, because Alien was not where his thoughts needed to be while he was in this situation. He wandered over to the box and looked in. It was lined with heavy plastic, and the plastic was...sticky. Pools and threads of what looked like mucus, some clear, some white or grayish. A particularly-creamy drop oozed viscously down the side of the box as Sam watched, and he made a face inside his mask.

There was a piece of paper in there, too, folded up and sealed inside a bag that'd been tucked into a corner. He definitely wasn't about to grab it with his bare hands, so he retrieved a pair of tongs from the kitchen. Then dropped them into the box to be thrown away once the bag was out, because no way was he letting Dean touch food with them ever again.

He opened the bag, pulled out the paper, and unfolded it. There was a note on it, written in a rough, old-fashioned-looking hand.

Dear Squirrel and/or Moose,

I'm sure it's no news to either of you that you've both been wound rather tight lately. Stress takes years off your life, you know. Being able to relax is an invaluable skill, one that, obviously, neither of you possess.

Being the generous bastard I am (not to mention aware that you're unfortunately of no use to me dead or paralysed by anxiety), I've decided to help you let it go. This magnificent specimen should do the trick. It works wonders, trust me. Japanese import - the highest quality, I assure you. Dean especially should appreciate it.

Don't play with it in your good clothes; it stains.

Hugs and kisses,

Crowley

Sam snorted when he finished reading, crumpling the paper up and tossing it back in the box.

"Next time I see him, he's going back in the dungeon," he mumbled to himself. He didn't like having Crowley in the bunker, but he did like knowing where he was and that he couldn't cause any damage.

He called Crowley. Five times. He didn't get a hold of him (of freaking course), but he was treated to an obnoxious new voicemail. He chose not to leave a message, not trusting himself to keep from making threats that wouldn't do anything more than amuse Hell's on-again off-again king. He did text him, though, keeping his language as civil as possible as he demanded to know just what Crowley'd sent them and how he was supposed to deal with it.

So, clearly, putting Crowley's "gift" to rest was the priority here, but Sam had no idea where it was. (With all the goop in the box, you'd think it would've left more of a trail than just its smell, but nope, nothing was ever that easy for him.) He supposed he'd go turn on the lights, try to flush it out. And stop in to check on Dean on the way. To make sure he hadn't swallowed his tongue or rubbed his dick raw, and to see if he'd recovered at all from the effects of the venom or the pheromones or whatever.

He would not, Sam decided as he adjusted his jeans to hopefully hide his semi, a blush that had nothing to do with the sweatiness of the respirator coming up on his face, tell him about the effect those pheromones had had on him. He'd be lucky to even be able to look him in the eye the next few days.

As Sam was walking through the library, thinking about how he probably needed to keep Dean hydrated, something slopped onto his head. It was hot and wet and oozed instantly through his hair to the sensitive skin of his scalp underneath. He flinched, his finger automatically tightening on the trigger of the gun he was still holding, but he managed not to blow a hole in his foot.

He put a hand to the stuff in his hair, scraping as much of it out as he could. God, it was so thick, making the individual strands stick together. He made a noise of disgust as he examined the pearly-white slime on his fingers. At least it didn't seem to be burning him, he guessed. A wave of nauseous revulsion rolled through him as he shook his hand to try to get rid of it, first just a little, then more violently when it clung to him. The nausea increased when a sudden realization hit him. Just like the blurt of stuff had.

Very aware of how loud his breathing was in the respirator, and feeling more like cannon fodder in a horror movie by the second, Sam slowly looked up.

It was perched on the lights, which hung down from the ceiling on metal rods, and his very first impression was of a nest of snakes. A bunch of tube shapes, winding slowly around each other. It was colored like an oil slick, black at first glance but then glistening with a rainbow of magenta, orange, and cyan when the light hit it. Sam swallowed reflexively. It could've fit in the box, he guessed, if it'd been squished down really tight, but just barely. It was big.

And it'd definitely noticed him. Sam got off two shots into it as it dropped, and then it was on him.

It was soft, boneless, but had an insane amount of strength. It knocked his gun away in a second flat, sending it spinning across the floor, and he knew he'd hit it when he fired, but, clearly, he hadn't done any damage. It wrapped itself around him, those tubes gripping his wrists and ankles, sliding over his torso, and finding their way inside his clothes. It was disturbingly warm, human body temperature or higher, and the fog of pheromone-laced stench around it made him tremble with involuntary arousal. Sam's mind was filled with images of naked bodies sliding against each other, sticky sheets, throbbing cocks plunging into eager, dripping holes. He definitely wasn't too far gone to notice the tapered, sensitive-looking tips of the things that were slithering all over him. They weren't snakes; they were tentacles.

'ennacuh monssuh. Tentacle monster. Dean had been right on the mark, if Sam'd just taken the time to figure out what he was saying.

Its tentacles were in his hair. Just because he was horny didn't mean he couldn't be horrified, and he was also fighting its effect as hard as he could. He was trying to wrest himself free of it, too, muscles standing out taut and bulging on every part of his body, but it didn't seem to be having any trouble at all manipulating him. It easily lifted him off the floor, in fact, and one dexterous tentacle flipped up the hem of his T-shirt. He looked down as a thicker one rolled around his bare waist and others ran their tips over the front of his jeans.

It was trying to take his pants off, he realized. That revelation would've been accompanied by a sick jolt if it hadn't seemed confused by his belt, groping at the black leather that covered his button. As it was, relief melted through him. He had never been so glad about putting on a pair of pants that were a little too big to stay up on their own.

It didn't like his respirator, either, or his goggles. It was tapping and tugging frustratedly at both. He was pretty sure it was looking for a hole to shoot its venom into (venom which just happened to look a whole lot like come), but it couldn't find one.

Sam might've just relaxed and waited for it to get bored with him if something hadn't suddenly snicked effortlessly through the thick leather of his belt at the back. It slithered out of the loops of his jeans, pulled by its own weight, and clattered buckle-first onto the floor. His eyes widened.

Shit!

A tentacle came into view, different from the others he'd seen so far because this one had teeth on it. Or claws, or whatever. They were sharply hooked, translucent white, and ran in a neat line along the underside. That was definitely what'd cut his belt off.

And now it was going to cut off his respirator, he realized as the toothed tentacle drew upwards and out of sight. He automatically flinched at the thought of those things anywhere near his head and face. The tentacles that were busily unbuttoning and -zipping his jeans contributed to his rising panic levels; his heart was thundering in his chest, his shallow breath whipping in and out of the filtration canisters. A tentacle clamped down on his jaw to hold his head in place, something that almost felt like a comb whisked through his hair, and the elastic straps of the respirator went slack. It slowly peeled off his face, loudly joining his belt on the floor.

The fresh (relatively speaking) air against his sweaty face would've been a relief in literally any other situation, but here, it just filled him with absolute dread. Sam clamped his mouth shut as tightly as he could and didn't breathe, even as his jeans were finally opened and allowed to fall down around the ankles that the tentacles were still gripping. He was fuzzy on the exact details of what this thing wanted to do to him, but he was reasonably sure that it needed a hole. And he was going to do everything he could to make that difficult for it.

A thin tentacle slipped into the waistband of Sam's boxers, and he trembled. He clenched as hard as he could, even shutting his eyes behind his goggles, as it followed the line of a muscle down his thigh and poked its wriggling tip out of the leg of his underwear. Maybe the monster was smarter than he'd given it credit for, though, and that was just a decoy. Because while he was focusing on the tentacle laying against his hip and leg, a fleshy mass plastered itself across his nose, effectively sealing both nostrils.

From the feel of it, he was pretty sure that it was one of those leaf-shaped things that squids had on the ends of some of their tentacles. He was more concerned, though, about the fact that he was going to have to open his mouth to breathe. That had to be its whole goal, and he suspected he knew what'd happen once it had an opening. He'd been holding his breath since his respirator had come off to avoid getting hit with the full brunt of the thing's effect, and he could hold his breath for a long time. It was an important skill for a hunter. But his lungs were starting to hurt anyway.

Sam held out as long as he could, even as more tentacles slid into his boxers via both the waistband and the leg openings They tangled themselves in his pubic hair and cupped the curve of his ass, but didn't actually touch his dick, balls, or entrance. It was teasing him. He curled his toes inside his boots, head pounding and chest aching, and hated the chemicals in his system right now for making him enjoy the way this thing was touching him. For wanting more contact, even.

It wasn't until Sam's vision was blackening around the edges and his lungs felt like they were about to break his ribs with the pressure inside them that he opened his mouth. It was just a crack, and just to let out the stale air inside him in a slow hiss. But the monster holding him noticed, and took full advantage of it.

Hair-thin tentacles (did it just have some of every girth imaginable?) wormed into his mouth and yanked it open until the tendons creaked. He was still weak from the lack of oxygen, and besides. Resisting most likely wouldn't've gotten him anything but a broken jaw. As it was, it almost wound up dislocated.

Sam had to inhale. He did his best to keep it shallow, but he was pretty sure that it didn't make a difference. Sex-poison flooded his lungs anyway. He could almost see the areolae - alveoli filling up with the same iridescence that covered the tentacles that were all over him right now. His arousal, still unwilling but inescapable, took on those colors, one shade of rainbow-black after another pulsing through his mind and his aching cock in time with his heartbeat. His vision swam, like his eyes were going soft in their sockets. Colors grew brighter and bled into each other. Everything took on a pinkish cast. Literal rose-colored glasses, Sam's melting, flowing brain dug up, and the solid parts of him were disgusted by the cliche of that.

He relaxed, even though he didn't want to. Physically, he felt wonderful, just craving sex. His jaw sagged, drool gathering on his lower lip, and he understood exactly how Dean'd been feeling since he'd gotten jumped. The tentacles left his mouth, and the thing on his nose went away, too.

Sam's eyelids sank, cutting his sight in half, and it was in that shrunken, color-flooded field of vision that yet another new kind of tentacle appeared. Most of them were skinny and tapered at the end, but this one was rounded, bulbous. A bulge. It had a slit at the end, oozing the slime that'd covered the inside of the box and wound up in Sam's hair - but clear, not white. The tissue right around that was flesh-colored. There were flanges behind the bulge at the tip, a bunch, almost creating a feathered effect. A line of tiny bumps ran down the underside.

Although he'd never admit it to Dean and desperately hoped he wasn't aware, Sam knew his way around a penis. And not just his own. He wasn't oblivious about what was staring him in the face.

"Fuck, no," he tried to say. With his open mouth and slack throat, though, it came out as "Fuhhhoh."

The tenta-dick didn't care. It darted forward, into his mouth, slotting itself easily down his throat. Sam's eyes rolled back in his head. This thing was definitely the biggest one he'd ever had. It probably would've been too big, actually, without all the muscle relaxants hidden in its scent. His lips were stretched around it, saliva running out the corners of his mouth as it forced his head back and up in order to get a better angle of access to his throat. It was smooth and rubbery against his tongue, and tasted like unwashed human skin. The head was lodged past his uvula and tonsils, letting a steady stream of cockslime run into his stomach. He couldn't breathe, because it was blocking his mouth and sealing off his sinuses, but somehow, that didn't seem like a problem.

A slight bulge traveled up through the tentacle, past his mouth and into his throat. Where, presumably, it came out of the slit as it fucking dropped something down his relaxed esophagus and into his stomach. He felt it splash. It was probably about the size of a small chicken egg.

It was followed by another, and another, and another. It was hard to keep count, but Sam thought it was somewhere around half a dozen; he couldn't really feel them inside of him anymore. He wasn't even full. Maybe they'd had some kind of numbing agent on the outside of them, or maybe there was something in the slime that they'd rode in on. He wanted it to make him feel sick, but it didn't.

That was unquestionably the worst part of this entire thing: that he was enjoying it. He could feel precome slicking the head of his cock, some of it being absorbed by the fabric of his boxer-briefs, most of it staying put. Having this tentacle rammed down his throat was hot, and as much as he wanted to believe that it was all physical pleasure and his whole mind was disgusted, that just wasn't true.

He wasn't so far gone, though, that he couldn't bite down.

It wasn't easy. The muscles in his jaw didn't want to respond at first. He had to focus really hard in order to get them to move, and even then, he had to get past the fact that part of him didn't want the tentacle out of him. Even though it was gagging him and dropping god-knew-what down his throat.

When he chomped, his teeth actually sank in pretty far. The thing was squishy, after all. He did eventually hit hard muscle, and of course it tensed up. A salty, bitter, totally-foul taste filled his mouth; he assumed it was its blood.

It screamed, as he bit it. Sam had no idea where its mouth was, but its voice sounded creepily human. It was high-pitched, wavering - it deafened him and lightbulbs popped overhead, darkening the library and showering Sam and the monster both with hot glass.

It tore its tentacle out of him, nearly ripping his teeth free at the roots in the process. It didn't force him to open his mouth or anything, so he unintentionally dug huge furrows in it with his canines on its way out. Blood, slime, and his own saliva splattered his face as it whipped free, and he was left with a mouthful of watery flesh. Flesh that tasted like stale come and rotten meat, and which was twitching and jumping on his tongue.

That was enough to wake up Sam's gag reflex. His head jerked forward and his stomach heaved, and he threw up violently all over the tentacles, the floor, and the edge of the nearest table. There was enough light coming into the library from the doorway for him to see, even with his screwed-up vision, the meat off the tentacle, the clear mucus that'd come from it, and the oatmeal that he'd had for breakfast. He did not, unfortunately, see any sign of whatever it'd put in his stomach.

He was still gasping and shaking when the tentacles that'd been stuffed into his boxers ripped them clean off his body. He jerked, surprised, but he barely had time to process that before he was flipped upside down and slammed onto the table. Not in his own vomit, luckily, but the side of his face hit first, sending pain and the threat of a loss of consciousness bouncing around his skull. It shattered his goggles, too, dull plastic shards digging into the skin near his eye. He was sort of disappointed he didn't pass out.

His head and the upper part of his chest were on the table, his wrists pinned down on either side of his face, but his back half had been hoisted into the air, arching his back cruelly and exposing his stomach. His hips and ankles were up, his knees were down. Something (a tentacle, obviously) smacked whip-fast across his ass before he'd even recovered, driving a yelp out of him and immediately raising a bruise or a welt or something else that felt tightly painful.

Had it just...spanked him? Like, as punishment for biting?

He would've dwelt on that longer, but whatever it'd just done, it wasn't the only thing it had planned for his ass. Tentacles coiled around his thighs, yanking his legs apart to spread his cheeks. A cord-like one squeezed his cock. Hard, painfully. Another did the same to his balls, and Sam swallowed a whimper of building agony. Something ran along the cleft of his ass, stretched almost flat by the position he was in. Because of the shape and the slippery muck oozing from it, Sam could tell that it was the same type of tentacle that'd been forced down his throat, even though he couldn't see it. Maybe a little smaller.

Sam's eyes darted frantically, searching for a way out, and he struggled. The shock of being flipped and then struck had shaken him out of his lust-fog, so he was able to put some actual strength behind his resistance. Especially when the tenta-cock twitched against his exposed entrance, then coated it with a good cup or two of hot slime. But again, he didn't manage to budge the tentacles holding him in place. He didn't even think that this thing was putting all that much effort into keeping him from moving. Could be that its effect had weakened him, or that it was just too strong for him to fight.

Sam yelled. Dean's name, or as close to it as he could get with his flopping mouth. He wasn't sure why he hadn't done it before, besides maybe embarrassment over Dean finding him in this position. But his brother was his protector, his partner, always had his back. He was the only other person in the bunker right now. It anybody was gonna stop this from happening, it'd be him. Sam did his best to forget about the state he'd last seen him in as he fell headlong into panic.

The monster was hissing, angrily, as his hole started going soft and loose and welcoming - definitely from something in the come it'd shot on him. It'd been making that noise ever since it'd stopped screaming, and it was loud in his ears, like steam rushing out of a ruptured pipe right next to his head. He couldn't hear anything but that and the noises that he was making himself (plus, he was still half-deaf from the shrieking), so of course he didn't pick up on the bootsteps that must've entered the library right about then.

He heard the gristly noise of a sharp edge slicing through something thick and meaty, though. Maybe a couple of thick and meaty somethings. He heard them thud wetly on the floor, fluid splashing, in the split second before the monster started screaming again.

It hurt Sam's ears, of course, but that was suddenly replaced with a much greater hurt when the tentacles released him. He hit the floor kneecaps-first, sending blinding pain shooting all the way up into his spine, and his elbows and head knocked against the edge of the table as he slid off it. He cried out, reeling, eyes open but vision all over the place, and he thought he caught a glimpse of the monster shooting out of the library at top speed, leaving a messy trail of ichor and different-colored slime behind it.

Sam's first instinct was to get on his feet, and he glanced over his shoulder as he grabbed the table and hauled himself slowly up, knees aching and muscles wanting to do their own thing. The library was a mess. An inky wetness had been sprayed all over the place, a big puddle of it marking where the monster had been. Blood. It was tough to tell in the dimness and through the pink filter in his eyes, but Sam was pretty sure it was blue (like an octopus) rather than black.

There was mucus mixed in. Both the clear and the thick white. His belt and respirator were still where they'd fallen. And then there was a tangle of severed tentacles, maybe half a dozen or so, most still thrashing violently and squirting fluids from both ends. Sam was savagely glad to see that at least two of them were of the dick-like variety.

Dean stood in the middle of it all, chest heaving. An arterial spray of blue blood slashed across his shirt, and speckled his face and bare forearms. He was wearing a respirator of his own and holding a knife, one of the ones he'd brought back from Purgatory. A rough wooden handle and a jagged obsidian blade.

Sam couldn't even process how much he regretted being so snippy with him earlier.

Dean came straight over to him almost as soon as the monster was gone. That made Sam realize he was bare from the waist down. He reached down to grab his jeans where they were still puddled around his ankles and hastily yanked them up. Over his ass, still dripping with slime, and his swollen, dusky cock and balls. Dean reached him as he did that.

"You okay?" he wanted to know. It was the standard question they asked each other after something'd had a hold of them, usually delivered gruffly and with a pat on the shoulder, but Dean sounded more like he was barely skirting a total breakdown. He was also holding his hands awkwardly, even the one with the knife in it. Like he wanted to touch Sam but wasn't quite sure how.

"I..." Sam's knees felt jellylike, and it wasn't entirely because of how hard he'd hit them. He lowered himself onto the table before he could collapse, his thigh muscles giving out halfway down and dumping him. He winced heavily. Not only was his ass tender from the spanking (he couldn't think of anything else to call what'd happened), but his entrance was every bit as sensitive and needy as his erection now. It felt like it was gaping open, fluttering, eager and desperate to receive anything that might want to come in. Plus, there was monster blood seeping into the ass of his jeans.

He didn't think he was okay. But he didn't want to talk or think about what'd happened, or the effect it was still having on his body, against his will. He focused on Dean instead. He'd clearly recovered, which made Sam feel a lot more optimistic about what was currently going through himself. He could walk, he could focus on something besides touching himself, and even with his voice muffled by his respirator, he was perfectly coherent. The tentacle monster's pheromones hadn't totally worn off for him yet, though. Sam's eyes skated down his body until he came to the very noticeable bulge in his jeans, which proved he was every bit as hard as Sam himself was.

"You're ooin' be'ah," he said, concentrating on his pronunciation. Making T noises was even harder than biting the tentacle had been; it was just beyond him right now.

"Yeah, guess it's sex-perfume or whatever doesn't last forever," Dean replied. "Good thing for us." When Sam finally managed to tear his eyes away from Dean's impressive groin and look at his face again, Dean was squinting at him. He thought. Everything still looked blurry and pink and borderline-psychedelic, almost. "God, Sammy, you look awful. What the hell's all over your - " He gestured to his respirator, or maybe the area under it. " - mouth?"

"I bi' i'."

"Oh, wow." Sam thought Dean might be impressed. Between the wacky things going on with Sam's vision and the fact that more than half Dean's face was covered, it was, again, tough to tell. "Attaboy. Not gonna be anybody's bitch, are you?"

Sam blinked instead of responding to that, because he didn't know what to say. The movement felt slow and liquid and Dean looked away from him, shoulders slumping with embarrassment.

"Sorry," he said, then sucked in a breath through his respirator, and god was it ever loud. "And...sorry it took me so long to get up here and help you out. I know we really gotta put this thing own, so as soon as I started to feel better, I decided to come find you. I knew I needed a mask so I didn't wind up needing to hump the furniture again, and I was down in the armory when I heard the gunshots. I'm okay to walk but running's still out, but I tried anyway, so I wound up eating it a few times..."

Dean went on, offering an explanation that, to Sam, didn't sound like an excuse. More like he was just so relieved to be here, together, both of them relatively all right, that he couldn't stop himself from talking. And his familiar, gravelly voice was so much nicer than the screaming and the hissing that Sam was just fine with that. He sat and listened, looking at his brother. The green of Dean's eyes overwhelmed him, like they were all he could see. The color was warm and fresh and beautiful, making Sam think of summer and afternoon sunlight shining through leaves. It was clean, a sensation Sam was sorely in need of right now.

He wanted to climb inside that color and live there. He was reasonably sure, and the moment, that Dean's voice could replace the rhythm of his heart and he'd be just fine.

They needed to kill the tentacle monster, he agreed. That was still a priority, even though it was wounded - maybe especially because it was wounded, seeing as some things got more dangerous when they were hurting. But Sam wasn't going to be any use at all in the state that he was in now. He could only focus on one thing.

Dean was still talking. Sort of; sounded like he was getting ready to wrap up. Sam was paying more attention to the sound of his voice than to what he was actually saying. He leaned forward, towards the green, and slid off the table. Of course his legs didn't take him, so he fell against Dean.

"Oh, jeez, Sam." Dean caught him and staggered a little. Aware he was heavy, Sam tried to do at least some of the work by draping his arms over his shoulders and holding on. Plastic met his teeth and nose when he tried to kiss Dean. He'd forgotten about the mask. And closed his eyes, since he wasn't sure how much good they were really doing him at the moment. "What the hell're you - ?"

"'lease," Sam interrupted. He got his feet under him and, with Dean still supporting most of his weight, managed to stand. "Nee' you. Gah'a - I'll be be'ah if I jus' - " He couldn't quite bring himself to say the word "come" to Dean. Not even right now.

"I don't know what you want from me." Sam's lids had fallen open again, and he saw Dean pull the respirator off over his head. The straps caught momentarily on his ears, and sweat was beaded on the red area around his mouth and nose where the mask had been.

Sam's mouth was much better equipped to explain things physically rather than verbally right now. He swept one hand up from Dean's back to cup the area where his neck met his skull, where the hair grew in soft and dark and was shaved close to the skin. He gripped as much of that hair as he could, then went for Dean's recently-exposed lips with his own.

He'd always sort of, idly, wondered what it'd be like to kiss his brother. After all, he was pretty sure Dean put every girl he'd ever made out with to shame, lip-wise. They were just so pink, and glossy, and...big. Without being gross, of course. Sam knew he'd gotten wise-ass comments about his lips at every new high school they'd gone to, until all the other kids had learned that Dean Winchester was the absolute last guy you wanted to mess with. He wondered how many of the guys making fun of his mouth had only been doing that because they secretly fantasized about it.

Sam was pretty sure he wasn't a great kisser even when he wasn't poisoned, and he wasn't out of it enough that he couldn't tell he was truly awful right now. He was off-center, there was way too much saliva involved, and his tongue was just kind of...well, he actually had no idea what it was doing, because he couldn't feel it. Dean's mouth was nice, though. Everything he'd ever imagined it would be. So full and soft he couldn't help immediately imagining it around his cock.

Speaking of cocks, as he'd noticed earlier, they were both hard. And in this position, their erections were pressed right up against each other, nothing but the denim of their jeans between their bare skin. How could he have failed to notice that before? Especially considering how much of his attention his dick was currently commanding? At least he was fully aware of it now.

Dean didn't pull away from him, or drop him, and it wouldn't occur to Sam until later how weird that really was. When Sam took his mouth off Dean's (or, really, kind of just let it slide off), Dean grunted.

"Uh uh," he said, and Sam opened his eyes to see him shaking his head. "We can't do that."

"I nee' i'," Sam insisted, not sure why Dean didn't seem to understand that this was a quick fix. If he could just purge the poison from his body by giving it what it was making him want, he could get rid of the weakness and distraction in one go. Then they could go get the monster. He brought his other hand down, to his groin, and wedged it awkwardly in between himself and Dean so he could grab Dean's hardness. Dean jerked in surprise but, again, didn't pull away. "We nee' i'."

Dean swore under his breath, then very firmly repeated, "Uh uh." He took a step forward in order to put Sam back on the bloody table. Sam allowed himself to be set down, since his legs were beginning to feel increasingly untrustworthy, but then clung to Dean so he had to stay close to him. "We can't do this right now, Sammy. We gotta get you cleaned up, then we'll have to wait 'til this stuff wears off, and then we need to do a little housekeeping. Sure I don't need to tell you that we've got an infestation."

Sam fisted a hand in Dean's T-shirt, where the blue blood was drying in the fabric, and yanked him closer. He tried to kiss him again, clumsily, but this time, Dean stopped him. By putting a hand over his face and pushing it back. Sam licked at his palm and his fingers, tasting sweat and soap and possibly come. No, definitely come. Dean must have finished in his hand earlier.

He pulled that hand away when Sam started licking it, but only after a few seconds. He could've wiped it on the leg of his jeans, but didn't.

"Jesus," he said. "That's gotta be the most little-brother thing you've done in, like...what, twenty years?"

Rather than replying, or trying to kiss him again, Sam buried his face in Dean's chest. He breathed in his scent, just like he had earlier, guiltily, in the armory - it was much better than that of the tentacle thing. He made a quiet noise of need. He'd never wanted anything or anyone more in his entire life, and he didn't know how to convey that. He wasn't in a great position to use his words right now.

"Reminds me of when we used to spar back in elementary school," Dean said. "You used to lick me all the damn time while we were doing that. 'Specially when I pinned you. And said I wasn't gonna let you up." Hesitantly, he put a hand - the one Sam had licked - on his head, then sighed. "Shit. It got slime in your hair."

"Nn-hn," Sam agreed. He was so horny, but Dean touching him felt so nice that he wasn't about to risk ruining it by snatching at his groin again or anything.

Dean was quiet for a while, beginning to stroke Sam's hair (away from the slime) and allowing himself to be held against Sam's face. Sam was hazily aware that this was not a safe place for them to be in with the thing that had done this to him still on the loose out there. But he didn't want to move.

Eventually, Dean quietly said, "You know you only want this because of that thing, right? It puts something in the air, and it only gets worse when it touches you. I just got outta the place you're in right now."

"No," Sam replied stubbornly. "You're wrah. I wanna 'is fore'ah - 'rus' me."

"Right," Dean said, clearing his throat. "Yeah. I totally believe you spent your whole life wanting to have sex with your brother."

Sam straightened, pulled Dean closer and kissed him as a demonstration of proof. Dean let him this time, but didn't react, basically just standing there while Sam pressed his mouth against his. He let him go after only a few seconds though, frustrated. He'd done a much better job, had a lot more control (maybe the monster's pheromones were starting to wear off - the muscle relaxant part, at least), and he felt like Dean wasn't appreciating it at all.

Dean reached up and took Sam's hands off his shirt. Sam'd thought that he was hanging on pretty tight, but it didn't take much for Dean to get him to let go. He held onto his wrists, staring down at him, then sighed deeply and looked away. He shook his head and let go of him for the moment.

"C'mon," he said. "Let's go get you taken care of."

Sam felt irritation spike in his core, almost as strong as the arousal that he was feeling right now. Dean very clearly didn't get that he needed to be taken care of right here, right now, by him. He'd told him exactly what needed to happen for him to feel better, so he didn't understand why Dean was still having such a hard time grasping this.

Dean put both hands on Sam's upper arms. His touch was hot, electric. Sam let himself be helped to his feet, and was encouraged when his legs wobbled, but actually held him. His jeans were sitting low on his hips without a belt, the upper part of his ass crack on display if Dean had only wanted to look at it. Once he was up, Dean patted him on the shoulder and moved in close.

"Need to lean on me?" he asked, and Sam nodded. Their hips touched as Dean draped an arm around his shoulders. Sam snaked one around Dean's waist. Before they could take a step, he put his free hand on the waistband of his jeans. Dean wasn't wearing a belt, either, so Sam had direct access to his button and zipper. His fingers felt huge and swollen, so he was surprised by how deft they were as he opened his brother's pants. Dean grunted in surprise, and Sam slipped his hand inside his boxers before he could say anything.

Sam could feel Dean next to him, against him, body hard and tense. He was just barely trembling, or maybe it wasn't even that. Maybe he just wanted to tremble, but didn't even trust himself to move that much. The fabric of his underwear was stretched tight against Sam's knuckles, just like it must've been stretched tight over his cock just a few seconds before. His erection was so hot it practically felt like it'd just come out of a pot of boiling water, and it was wet with precome. The skin was almost satiny where it covered the veins and the mushroom cap of the head, but underneath, Dean was so hard it had to hurt. Sam's definitely hurt. He was aching with need, pulsing in time with Dean's heartbeat, which he could feel against the palm of his hand. It throbbed in the artery that fed his dick.

The tip laid against Sam's wrist, weeping a steady stream of pre that was pooling between his tendons, and his fingertips were between the base of it and Dean's balls. That was how big he was. Sam put his face next to Dean's, heard him swallow, saw his eyes flutter closed. Sam's vision, much like his fine motor skills, was doing better, but the green of Dean's irises was still larger than life. It almost hurt to look at.

Dean cleared his throat, a low rumble that started somewhere in his chest. It didn't seem to help him much, though, since when he spoke, his voice was as deep and husky as if he'd just finished chain-smoking a pack of cigarettes. "Sammy?" He swallowed again. "What're you doing?"

Rather than answering, Sam stroked the side of him with his thumb, and held him more tightly with his other arm. Dean's breath puffed against the edges of his lips and the tip of his nose, and he closed his eyes, too, leaning in as he did so that his lashes brushed Dean's face. Dean was definitely trembling for real now, just a faint fluttering in his deepest muscles that Sam could only feel because he was so close to him. Dean didn't try and pull away from him, didn't even take his arm off his shoulders.

"You wan' this jus' as much as I do." Sam'd never been able to "purr" before, in a bedroom context. He knew what it was supposed to sound like, had had partners who'd been able to talk like that before and make it sound sexy rather than laughable, but whenever he tried himself, it always fell really flat. Something about his vocal cords and lips still being a little floppy let him pull it off perfectly this time. He even managed to pronounce everything besides those damn Ts. "Don' pre'end you don'; don' pre'end i's jus' the monsser."

He wrapped his hand around Dean's shaft, pumped once. Going by the loud, wet gasp of air that Dean sucked in, he did it exactly right. He wanted Dean to ask him how he'd gotten so good at that. He wanted to tell him about the men he'd been with. He wanted to say he'd been thinking about him every time.

Dean didn't ask. He clapped his free hand to his groin, grabbing Sam's - still gripping his cock - through the denim, and squeezed. Sam's heart jolted, and his breathing got fast and shallow. His eyes popped open as Dean turned to face him, and he took in the desperate, lust-filled expression that'd plastered itself across his face in the seconds before he crashed their mouths together. He came in hot, barely managed not to break both their noses, but Sam was just fine with that. Dean breathed into his mouth, kissed him like he half wanted to eat him, nipped his tongue and lips hard enough to draw blood. And he was growling, too, all the way back in his throat, the sound reflecting every inch of Sam's own overwhelming sense of want. The strength that'd just barely found its way back into his legs was threatening to leave all over again.

Sam took his arm from around Dean's waist and brought that hand up to his head, trying to tangle his fingers in hair that was way too short for it, mostly just scraping his fingernails roughly across his scalp. His other hand was still on Dean's cock, and he jerked him off savagely while they kissed. Dean was still holding that hand through his jeans, squeezing and guiding him. His arm finally came off Sam's shoulders, and the hand dropped like a brick to his jeans, which he began to yank down. Sam's breath stuttered in his throat, and he'd just started to grind against their hands and the dick that they were wrapped around when Dean suddenly wrenched himself away from him.

It was unexpected, and for a second, Sam wasn't even sure what'd happened. He wobbled, having been leaning on Dean, and groped confusedly at the space where he'd been. He looked at him, blinking. Dean stared back at him as he wiped his mouth with a hand. His eyes were wide, and he was panting.

"I can taste it on you," he said before Sam could ask him what was wrong. He wasn't sure if he should apologize for that or not, seeing as it hadn't exactly been his choice to put that tentacle in his mouth. "It had you - it was in you. We shouldn't be doing this right now." He dragged both hands up through his hair, face tortured and pants still hanging open. "We shouldn't be doing it at all. We don't want this. It's all that thing."

"I wan' i'," Sam tried to argue, but Dean was furiously shaking his head.

"No, you don't," he said. "D'you have any idea what just happened to you? You don't want sex. You're not gonna want sex for months - years, maybe. Especially not with me."

"Don' 'ell me wha' I wan', Dean," Sam said, hands that'd been full just a few seconds before folding into fists.

"I'm not. I'm just trying to get you to think past the shit your brain's stewing in right now." Dean reached down now, almost panicky, to close his fly up again. "Look, Sammy, I know how you're feeling right now. I know what your body wants. Mine wants it, too, but it ain't real. If we do this, trust me. We're gonna regret it."

Sam felt, very strongly, that that wasn't true. Not for him, at least. He wasn't going to waste time arguing about it right now, though. He couldn't make Dean do anything, but he'd already made his own decision, so he might as well put that on display and hope that it helped Dean make up his own mind.

He dropped his jeans, which were so loose without a belt that all he had to do was slip his thumbs inside and push down. They puddled around his ankles, just like they had when the tentacle monster had pulled them down. He could've stepped out of them, but doing that would've meant taking off his boots first, and doing that felt like another waste of time. He left it as it was and, reddened erection exposed to the air, walked backwards over the puddles of blood, slime, and vomit on the floor. He had to take tiny, mincing little steps because his pants were hobbling him. His mouth was undoubtedly stained blue, like he'd been chewing on a pen, and there were probably bruises coming up on his junk where those tentacles had squeezed him. As badly as he wanted, needed sex right now, he didn't feel very sexy.

He'd still do his best, though. When his legs hit the table behind him, he sat down. Tentacle-slime squished. Then he rocked back on his tailbone, lifting and spreading his knees to show off his open, dripping hole. Dean's eyes had been on him the entire time, and Sam saw him struggle unsuccessfully to look away when he shifted into this new position.

"I' had me," Sam agreed, quietly. Fucking Ts anyway. "I don' wanna think abou' tha'. And I wan' i' dead. I'm nah gonna feel safe in here 'il i' is." He brought a hand forward, pushed his fingers slowly down through his pubic hair, and then took hold of his own cock. It was sore, and anxious for attention. Even his own touch felt magnificent, but he knew masturbation wouldn't scratch his itch. The venom seemed to make you crave somebody else. Probably so the monster's prey would willingly submit to it jamming tentacles in every orifice, but Sam was lucky enough to have another human being at hand.

He saw the bulge of Dean's throat when he swallowed, and a muscle started ticking in his jaw as he clenched it Sam continued. "I wan' you 'o have me now, De. Help me forge' abou' i'. And once i's shi' is ou'a our syssems, we can go bring i' down." Dean was wavering, practically vibrating in place. Sam's hole flexed involuntarily. He needed something long and thick up his ass right this second, and had for the past half an hour. He tilted his head back slightly, hair tumbling past his ears and throat exposed, and looked at Dean through half-lidded eyes. "Come here and fuck me. Please."

Sam hadn't even gotten the "please" out quite yet when the dam inside Dean finally broke. A frustrated breath hissed out from between his teeth, and then he came at Sam, his pace not quite a charge but definitely a far cry from being a walk. His hands were still on his jeans, the scarred knuckles yellow-white, but now he ripped them open rather than closing them. The button bounced off the floor and into the pile of now-still tentacles, torn from the denim, and from the sound that the zipper made, Sam speculated that it was probably broken too. That was just fine, though, because Dean was on top of him now.

They kissed like drowning people gulping for air. Dean's hands started on Sam's bare hips and then ran up and down his body, exploring and devouring eagerly. One hand wound up on his knee and the other was in his hair when Sam lifted his own hands off the table and his cock. Dean had definitely gotten his jeans off, but he'd left his boxers alone, so Sam grabbed the elastic waistband of those and pulled until they fell away on their own. Freed, Dean's dick slotted almost perfectly into the slick cleft of Sam's ass. He could see it just as clearly as he'd been forced to earlier, when the monster's effect had first been starting to work on him.

Sam laced his fingers together in the small of Dean's back, under his shirt. The skin was damp with sweat there, almost sticky, and dotted with light, feathery hair. He pulled him closer, attacked his mouth until he was sure that he was about to pass out from lack of oxygen, and waited for him to adjust himself so he could spear him on his cock.

He did, finally. But first, he pulled back, breaking their mouths apart with a suction-cup noise, swallowing huge lungfuls of air. He looked down at Sam, and once again, his green eyes were all Sam could see.

"Sure you wanna do this?" he asked in a voice that sounded like someone grinding glass. Sam was oddly touched he'd asked, despite doubting either of them could stop right now even if he said no.

He didn't say no, though. He nodded so fast and hard he made himself dizzy, and thought he might've felt his teeth rattling slightly in his skull. Dean kissed him again before he'd finished, with so much force that he split his lip open on the flat of Sam's teeth. That was fine. His blood tasted much better than the monster's had.

While they were kissing and grabbing at each other, Dean cocked his hips back, probing at Sam's entrance with the engorged head of his dick. Probably to see if he needed to do anything before he took him. He definitely didn't - the head popped moistly into Sam with almost no effort whatsoever on Dean's part.

"Oh my god, you're wet," Dean gasped into Sam's mouth at the end of a long, deep groan. Sam grunted back his acknowledgement. He knew what a vagina felt like when its owner was aroused, and imagined that his ass felt almost exactly like that against Dean's erection: slippery, swollen, open. Minus a few key pieces of anatomy. "Sammy. Why the hell're you wet back here?"

"I' squirr-ed on me." Whatever few brain cells weren't currently devoted to Sam's all-consuming desire wondered if, maybe, it wasn't a great idea to use slime that'd come out of a monster's tentacle as lube. They were quickly silenced.

"That's so fuckin' gross." Dean said it almost reverently, like he knew he should be disgusted by the creature-spooge covering Sam's ass but couldn't help being turned on by it. Then he entered him like a piledriver.

Even though he'd been made loose and elastic by the slime, Dean felt absolutely massive inside Sam. Like he was filling him all the way up to his head. Sam clutched him as he pounded in that first time, tightly enough for the skin of Dean's back to break under his nails, and felt his pupils blow wide. This was...it'd just barely started and it was already the best sex he'd ever had. Every nerve inside him, every nerve in his body, was tuned to its highest frequency, and Dean was setting every single one of them off right now. There were fireworks in his brain. It'd definitely been worth the wait.

For his entire adult life, starting in his teens and his twenties, Sam had been masturbating and having sex. Some of it had been pretty incredible, some had been passable. Every time, there'd been moments where he'd felt like he was skating along the edge of some greater pleasure. Something that'd have him yelling and thrashing and blacking out. And this, right now, was it. He didn't think he'd fully understood how something could feel so good it hurt until now.

He was gasping, body thrumming like a plucked guitar string. And that was even before Dean started moving.

Dean's hips began to pump in a fluid rolling motion. Sam could feel the powerful muscles of his core behind the movement. He was growling again, under his breath, and the sound was primal and low and animal. Sam's body made wet sucking sounds as Dean's considerable girth moved in and out of him.

As for Sam himself, he was making plenty of noise. Moans were popping out of him, punctuated by sharp yelps of pleasure so intense his eyes watered. He cried out in time with Dean's thrusts, which brought their flesh slapping together and rattled the table against the floor. Good thing it was solid wood, probably put together before World War II. No danger of it coming apart and dumping them onto the ground. A few books that'd been on it fell off, though.

It was hard to really contribute anything to the fucking, since Sam was just sitting on the table. Besides kissing (which they were still doing a lot of, rough and wet between the sounds they were making) and clawing up Dean's back in an effort to take big handfuls of him and pull him as close as possible. He tried, through. Braced his pelvis against the slick, age-worn wood and ground against Dean. Flexed the muscles in his thighs and rocked himself to build up an opposing rhythm. In response, Dean wound Sam's hair around his fingers to anchor himself as he hammered him ever more forcefully. He must like what he was doing.

Dean had brought the monster's slime inside Sam with that first penetration, and it went to work on him even as they were bucking against each other hard enough to bruise thighs and hips and groins. It made his channel pulse and clench around Dean, smooth-muscle contractions running in the opposite direction they usually did to draw him deeper and deeper and to suck up the pre that he was spilling inside. It plumped up Sam's prostate and brought it forward, so that Dean not only smacked it hard on every thrust, but there was more surface area for him to hit. Fluid was forced out of Sam's own cock with every stroke, joining the monster blood on Dean's T-shirt, and each one felt like his first prostate orgasm. A bloom of heat and shivering muscles in his stomach, exciting and new and totally unlike anything he'd ever felt before.

Sam's orgasm, when it came, was world-shattering. As cliched as he knew it was to say that, there was no other description that quite fit. Things came apart in the most spectacular way possible and stayed broken for a long time. When the pieces finally, reluctantly flickered back together, their edges didn't join up exactly. Nothing looked quite right, stuff oozed through the cracks. It was slow about healing.

It took a second to get to that point, though. First, Dean's thrusts, which had been perfectly rhythmic, got steadily sloppier and more erratic. He was losing control. He seemed to grow inside of Sam, swelling and heating up to the point where he could imagine him either splitting him in half - all six feet and four inches of him - or boiling all the moisture out of his body in a cloud of steam. Hungry for that enormous cock even though it was already in him, Sam ran his tongue along Dean's jaw, and felt their mother's wedding ring against his throat as Dean put a hand there. Then he gripped him and shoved him down, so he was laying on the table. It was so unexpected Sam nearly bit his tongue which, considering how far out of his mouth it was, would've been bad.

Dean wasn't strangling him, though, and he didn't hurt him. Just surprised him. Even completely overtaken by passion, he was still gentler than the monster'd been.

As he gave a couple of thrusts that had a sense of finality to them, along with enough power behind them to very nearly tip over the table, Dean moved his hand up onto Sam's face. He put his free hand on one of his thighs. He clenched both like he wanted to make fists as another internal dam burst for him and he released a torrent of magma-hot seed inside of Sam.

It was Dean's climax that triggered Sam to come. It was the most powerful, most violent finish of his entire life. He'd never been hit by a car, but he imagined that this was what it would feel like. No, not a car. A tidal wave. A tsunami. He was struck by a wall of force, consumed by it, swept along. He tumbled around inside it like a rag doll. Everything was pure sensation. Pleasure. It hurt. He couldn't breathe. He was dimly aware that he was screaming, that his back was arched, that he was flopping against the table like he was being electrocuted.

His brother's cock was up his ass. His brother had come inside him.

He wasn't sure how, but he got his jeans off his ankles and wrapped his legs so tightly around Dean's waist that he pulled muscles up and down them. His knees would be stiff for weeks. And he wouldn't learn about it until later, but when he ran out of air to scream, his jaw locked and he bit Dean's hand to the bone. At least Dean was too caught up in his own sexpocalypse to feel it.

When Sam came to, it was the same way he usually did after a night of hard drinking. There were very few parts of his body that didn't hurt, he had more than one awful taste in his mouth, and he got the vague sense that he'd done something he should feel bad about. Dean had been involved. That was also usual for him getting drunk.

He sat up slowly, spine and ribcage creaking. He didn't feel dizzy or nauseated, but he didn't want to risk throwing up all over himself anyway. Except he wouldn't, because he'd already thrown up. Right. He remembered that.

Sam looked down at himself, and noticed two things: his vision was back to normal, and he wasn't wearing any pants. Things were coming back to him at a tepid trickle, so he wasn't surprised by the latter. His dick, flaccid, looked small and withered where it lay against his thigh, and it was purple with trauma at the base. Come, starting to break down and go clear, was seeping out of a hole that still felt unnervingly loose. It'd pooled on the table and was dripping onto the floor.

There were lots of things on the floor beside the come. Monster blood, monster slime. Monster tentacles Two respirators. Sam's belt and boxers. And Dean, bare ass planted on the filthy ground. His jeans were still down around his calves and ankles, his arms were resting on his knees, and he was staring blankly at nothing at all. At least until he noticed Sam looking at him. Then he glanced up. His eyes were bright and edged with a raw redness, and Sam wondered if he'd been crying.

His throat jumped and his mouth worked, but Sam spoke first, voice half-dead from screaming. "Fuck."

Dean attempted a painful-looking smile. "Same." He got his legs under him and rose slowly. Sam watched his knees shake. "This is just about the dumbest question ever, but...how're you feeling?"

"Well." Sam took a deep breath in, then let it out slowly and quietly. "I'm definitely - satisfied." An could pronounce normal English sounds again. "But..." He swallowed. "You and I just f - s - h-had sex," he stumbled over it, "Crowley's tentacle monster is still on the loose in our home, and I'm reasonably sure that it laid eggs in me." He put a hand on his middle. "In my stomach."

"Holy - like, full-on Alien?"

"Yep."

"'Kay. Well. Those've gotta come out."

"You're telling me."

Dean chewed on a lip already covered with tiny wounds for a few seconds. "Crowley?"

"There's a note in the box," Sam replied. "He wanted to help us 'relax.'"

"Somehow, I am not feeling super relaxed at the moment," Dean stated. They sat in silence for a while. At the same time that Sam realized Dean wouldn't look him in the eyes, Dean lowered his head into his hands with a heavy sigh. "Sammy...Sam. Oh, Jesus. I've got...no idea how to - "

"You don't need to apologize," Sam interrupted quietly. "This wasn't anyone's fault but Crowley's."

More silence. Dean eventually said, "In that case, then, I don't think I wanna talk about what just happened."

"I'm okay with that," Sam said, clearing his throat. "It can wait 'til after we cut this thing - and Crowley - into a million little pieces." Or even longer. "That's our priority."

"Right," Dean said, nodding and looking relieved. "That, and the eggs. Before they tear you a brand-new hole getting out."

"Right." Sam didn't even want to talk about the eggs. "Soon as we get cleaned up and kitted out." He shifted. "Uh...help me up?"

Surprise flickered across Dean's face. Maybe that Sam wanted him to touch him. He pulled up his pants, though, and stepped forward, taking hold of his hands. One of Dean's was leaking blood from a ragged, pulpy wound.

Once standing, though none too surely, Sam leaned against Dean. He needed the warmth, the support. He closed his eyes when Dean put a hesitant arm around him, and returned the favor.

They stood there and held each other for a few minutes. Sam knew he shouldn't want to be close to Dean after the twisted, chemically-induced thing they'd just been made to do. But he shouldn't have wanted sex after the monster'd assaulted him, either. He'd take comfort where he could get it.

"I'm gonna need your help in the shower," Sam whispered. "To make sure I don't fall and break my neck."

Dean rubbed his back. Tentatively, but he did it.

"I can do that for you."