Title: Shell of Shotgun, Pint of Gin

Rating: Adult

Warning: incest, violence, sexuality and questionable consent.

It all went south starting with the Alabama truck-stop full of lonely waitresses. There were no trucks stopped out front, a long, sullen stretch of highway between them and the next rest stop, and it had been too many miles since heíd stopped to get coffee and to piss.

Theyíd pulled over. Theyíd gone in. It had been thirty-six hours since the last town requested that Dean and Sam take their leave, and the road wear had shown. Sam looked more and more like he might ask for directions to the nearest clock-tower, and Dean had demon blood caked in his hair. The four waitresses clustered around the hot plate still looked at them like conquering heroes come to town, and had squabbled quietly before Tammy came over to take their order.

Tammy, a bleached-blond curvy bit of fun who made the buttons on her stained uniform stretch as she bent forward to drop off a plate. Tammy, who winked at Dean as she dropped off a check that was missing half their order. (All the more notable for the fact that Sam hadnít taken anything but coffee.) Tammy, who stopped Dean on his way to the bathroom. Tammy, who was on her knees in the alley behind the kitchen, her hands warm on Deanís hips as she drew the zipper down.

Dean stretched against the brick wall, trying to keep his hands politely at his sides, breathing through his teeth to keep from going off too easy. It had been a long time. Half laughing, he managed, "Wait a second, honey. Thereís a condom in my wallet-"

Tammy shook her head, playing nosing at the skin just revealed by the zipper. She breathed out, a hot gust of air, and grinned as his hips shifted towards her. "I trust you," she purred, not quite smothering a Jersey accent under all that honey and smoke.

That fucking word. Reaching down, Dean carefully took her wrists and made her stop. "Bad policy," he said, with all the charm he could muster. "Wouldnít want anything to happen to a nice girl like you."

She tilted her head, the signís neon lights playing over the fringes of her hair. It gave her a red halo. "Ooh. Danger. A man of mystery."

"Yeah. Right." A man of mystery that had thrown a body in the backseat that afternoon, because moving all the guns out of the trunk would've been a bitch. He still needed to mop out the blood in case they got pulled over for speeding. Again.

Dean cast a sidelong look into the truckstop windows. Sam was still there, hunched over his coffee, ignoring the cute little waitress that was trying to chat him up. Shouldnít have left him alone, but... well, hell. Sam was a grown man now, for all that he wasnít acting like it likely. Even a half-crazy Winchester was more dangerous than most things walking.

Still. Dean looked down at Tammy and let her go. "Címere."

Tammy got up off the ground. Had she been that tall in the truckstop? Damn. Sam wasnít the only one who needed sleep. "Men," she sighed. "Always in such a hurry."

Dean flashed her a smile. "Just making sure we have enough time. Wouldnít want to rush perfection."

Tammy gave a little purring growl that slid straight to Deanís cock. With a lazy roll of her hips, she was pressed against him. He could feel her nipples against his chest, hard points in the softness of her breasts. Dean liked women, liked their softness, liked their curves and their sympathetic noises when they noticed a scar and the different ways they sounded as they came. This was like hitting an oasis in a long stretch of desert.

It had been a long few months. Trying to find Dad. Trying to keep Sam alive. Dean was used to keeping Dad from doing something stupid, but Sam- yeah. Sam had always been the one who had his shit together. Sam was supposed to get out and have his normal life, not fall to pieces all over Dean with Dad too far away to help.

Fuck. He wasnít thinking about this now. Not now.

Dean touched her, sliding his hand up between her slightly spread thighs. His breath shuddered out when he felt that she was wearing garters. They traded smiles as his hand slid high enough to feel the satin, damp warmth of her underwear.

"Black?" Dean murmured, letting his fingers coast along the outside, tracing the lines of her through the fabric.

Tammy shivered, baring her teeth in a grin. "Red."

"Even better." Sliding a fingertip under the fabric, Dean inched the underwear over far enough to dip a finger inside. The heat there- "Fuuuck."

"Youíre getting the idea." Tammy grabbed her skirt and hitched it up. With one deft move, sheíd shoved him against the wall. Her hands wrenched the sides of his jeans further apart, her fingers sliding in to find his cock.

"Cond-" Dean managed to gasp, and then she was sinking onto him and he could only groan. The slick heat made him want to dig his fingers into the wall. She was perfect. This was perfect. "Never mind."

Tammy squirmed deliciously, burying her face against his throat. All the better to hear her moan happily as she moved. Dean let her, shuddering, watching the woods around the truckstop through the veil of her hair. Ever since the wendigo...

She murmured something against his shoulder. So fucking wet. Dean could feel it soaking the edges of his jeans where they touched her.

With a last look at the woods, Dean turned his head far enough to ask, "What was that?"

He felt her smile. "I said," Tammy said, "your brother looks lonely."

"Iíll get back to babysitting in a minute, sweetheart." Dean let his hands coast up Tammyís sides, cupping her ass to better pull her against him. Oh, yeah. "Well, maybe more than a minute."

Tammy giggled, nuzzling him. Her hips ground against his, slow and dirty, as she whispered, "But heís so sad."

Sad was an understatement. Deanís eyes jerked back to the window. The waitress had seated herself on the other side of the booth. Sam had checked out of the conversation, turned towards the parking lot.

Through gritted teeth, Dean said, "Can we not talk about this?"

"Mm. Of course, baby." Tammy shifted a little, into a better angle, and shivered. "Just so sad, what happened to Jess."

Dean stopped. Tammy didnít, moving against him like the ocean. Itíd be easy to dismiss that. So easy just to sink into her and-

Theyíd found a succubus victim once, he and Dad. On his worse nights, Dean could still see the bulge of the eggs in the manís swollen belly, and hear the wet pop of the egg-sac bursting as the morgue burned.

"Youíre so tired. So tired of taking care of them." Tammy kissed his throat, and that time, Dean felt the brush of sulfur. She reeked of it under her baby-powder perfume. "Weíll take care of Sam. You watch."

Another late night over the book, shared coffee and grim lessons with Dad as Sam crashed on another cheap hotel cot. Dad would give him shots of whiskey, and until Dean figured out that other peopleís dads didnít knock off three bottles a weekend, it made Dean feel like a man.

"You ever see a succubus in the real world, you run," Dad said, his back to Dean, his eyes on the rain. "Donít let them promise you anything. Donít let them tempt you. Donít try to fight them. Just run."

The alley was swimming in that scent, in her heat. The red halo was in her eyes, in her voice. Through that halo, like heat rising off the road, Dean could see the other waitress. Could see the way she was looking at Sam. The other waitress had been a brunette at first, but her hair was going lighter. Her face was shifting, turning. Bleeding into Jessicaís.

Sam was exhausted. Sam was desperate. Sam would be a fucking easy target.

Through gritted teeth, Dean snarled, "Christos."

Tammy flinched. It wasnít much, but it got her off him. Dean felt his knees give and let it pull him down towards the knife in his boot. Hopefully his fingers would work by the time he got there.

As his fingers curled around the knife, Tammyís press-on nails dug through his skin and stopped him from tumbling to the ground. The pain jarred the last of the illusion away, clearing Deanís head. On the one hand, she wasnít inside his mind. On the other, a fucking demon had her talons in Deanís chest, which was not a promising start to negotiations.

Tammy shook her head at him. "Honestly. I thought you were the smart one."

In lieu of shrugging, Dean gave her the best grin he could manage given that his cock was still hanging out. Then he bellowed what was supposed to be Samís name, but what turned into a garden-variety howl as Tammy used her grip to haul Dean upright. It was enough. Through the haze of pain, Dean could see Samís head jerk up.

There were things creeping out from beneath Tammyís skirt, long wet things that squirmed. Tammy exhaled slowly, looking like nothing more than an irritated schoolmarm. "Youíve killed some hundred of us, Dean. Youíre made certain people very angry. Of all the deaths that wait for you, this is the kindest."

"Nice of you to think of me." The words sounded too breathless. There was too much blood on Tammyís hands. There was something Dean should be thinking of. Something Dad had said. Something... Dean bit back a groan as Tammy wiggled her fingers. "Iíve got to tell you, this is really affecting your tip."

The sharp retort of a shotgun rang out across the parking lot. Dean wasnít sure where Sam had hidden it, but bless him anyhow. He could run, he could get clear, he could get to the car... and he could be fucked, because the keys were in Deanís pocket, goddamn it.

"All your jokes." With her free hand, Tammy caressed Deanís cheek. "Your mother went up like she was made of tissue paper and napalm. So fragile. Can you still smell it?"

It lacked the oomph of Ďyour mother sucks cocks in hellí. She was trying to distract him. She was trying to keep him from thinking.

"Everyone that you care about is damned," Tammy went on, sweet and ruthless. "Everything that matters to you will crumble."

"Donít think you could get all the copies of the Black album," Dean muttered. The pain in his chest was going savage, stealing his air and his ability to think past Ďow, fuckí. "Especially the masters. Youíre mean, lady, but Lars Ulrich could take you."

She grimaced delicately. Despite what some people thought, demons usually werenít big metal fans. "Sam isnít strong like you or your father. Too fragile. Heíll break one day, and weíll fall on him. Youíll be left to live with the screaming."

A succubus worked at night. A succubus worked in dreams (mostly). A succubus worked alone. Territorial. They didnít gather unless-

Dean looked at Tammyís pretty face. "Let us go or weíll torch your nest."

All the humanity bled out of Tammyís face. She looked at him through the eyes of her cheap mask. The anger there could blister. They hated to lose their games. "We can make new children," she said. "There are always other men. We have outlived empires. We can wait."

A shadow spilled down the alley. Dean shot Sam a warning look, and Sam stayed where he was. There was blood all over his face, his shirt, his jacket. Another pair of clothes ruined. He had his gun pointed at the alleyís narrow window, aimed steadily at what looked like the back end of a gas oven.

Dean could feel her scanning his face, memorizing, tucking it away for later. There were the pressure of other eyes on his back, and he could see the other two succubi reflected in Tammyís eyes. Sam couldnít keep the gun at that angle forever.

Finally, Tammy gave a crooked smile. She bent, brushing her lips across Deanís forehead, and wrenched her fingers out of his chest. Dean dropped to one side of the ground, clutching the knife. As she stepped over him, she was licking the blood off her fingers. Dean rolled over to watch her go, fumbling his cock back into his jeans and zipping up with his free hand. Over the shoulders of the succubi, he could see row after row of dark forms hung from hooks in the ceiling. He hadnít seen them on the way out. Heíd walked right past them.

Tammy didnít look at him as she closed the door behind her. One by one, the lights went out. The truckstop slid into darkness and disuse, the illusion slipping away. He really didnít want to be sitting in the dark when all the lights were gone.

Propping himself up on one arm, Dean levered himself up onto his feet. To Samís credit, he stayed where he was and didnít try to help Dean up.

"Fun?" Sam asked, as they moved towards the car.

Maybe not that much credit. "You want to ride in the trunk?"

Sam made a face and backed into the passenger side door. He braced himself there, waiting for Dean to get on the driverís side, unlock the door and start the engine. The truckstop was still. The opening notes of Iron Man spilled across the lot, jarring in the eerie silence as Sam clocked a new record time for climbing in backwards and flinging the door shut. The truckstop was still. The tires squealed a protest as Dean whipped the car backwards, gravel flying around them and in their wake as they peeled out onto the highway. The truckstop was still.

It wasnít a good sign.

A mile passed. Five miles. Nothing. Iron Man switched into Crazy Train, Crazy Train into Stone Cold Crazy. As the adrenaline faded, the wound in Deanís chest started to throb. He watched the rearview more than the road, and felt sickness settle in every time the mirror turned up empty.

Demons didnít just let things go.

Finally, Sam stretched out a hand to turn the tape player down. There was blood splattered all the way up to his elbow.

Dean said, "Donít touch that."

Sam paused, then turned it down anyway. Figured. "You okay?"

"Just great." After a moment, the knot in Deanís gut eased enough to let him ask gruffly, "You?"

"Yeah." Sam cleared his throat. "We going back?"

"No." The word sounded stark. Dean made himself laugh and reached up to rub at his eyes. "Jesus, no."

"Thereís a high-order succubi nest sitting on the edge of a US highway. We canít just-"

"We can just. We are just." Dean glanced at Sam. "Thought you were all about concentrating on finding Dad."

The shadows under Samís eyes seemed darker in the pale light cast by the highbeams. "She looked like Jessica, Dean."

"Yeah. I know." Dean tightened his grip on the wheel, relaxed it. It didnít help to smother the urge to grab Sam and shake him. "These things read minds. They see how to hurt us. If youíd sleep once in a fucking while, it wouldnít be so goddamn easy to do it."

Sam hissed in a breath, like he wanted to argue, then blew it out. He turned his head to stare out the window, cutting himself off.

Dad wouldíve turned around. Then again, Dad would been at the bottom of a bottle by now. Dean didnít have the luxury of alcohol-fueled reason. One of them needed to be clearheaded.

That had been close. Other things had been close. There was no reason for Dean to be so spooked. He couldnít stay in this business if he got spooked easy.

Weíll take care of Sam.

Heíll break one day.

"Youíre still bleeding," Sam said, without turning away from the window.

Dean glanced down and watched the stain blossoming out from his chest. "Thereís holy water in the glove compartment. Might want to drink some yourself. Donít know what they put in the coffee."

Sam pulled the compartment open. Dadís book was there, and Sam took it out with the holy water. He glanced at Dean before deliberately knocking back a mouthful and swallowing. It was wet on his lower lip. "There. You ought to pull off to clean those."

The highway was long and empty, not enough signs of life for Deanís comfort. Damned if heíd let them lull him into doing a horror movie heroine move. He ought to give in to the inevitable and stop driving at night. It left them too vulnerable. "Didnít know you were headed to med school, college boy."

Sam sighed and handed off the holy water bottle. "Jerk. Shouldíve let me drive."

"Great. You try to explain to the pissed off hell-harpies that they ought to wait while we play Chinese fire drill."

"Theyíre not behind us."

"Says you." Dean took a drink of the holy water and grimaced. Theyíd put something in the food, because the water burned all the way down. This was going to suck. "Watch for a hotel, would you?"

Sam gave him a sidelong look. "You gonna be okay?"

Dean turned the music back up, and Sam stopped asking stupid questions.
The people who said that you could never go home again hadnít grown up with Sam. Sam went home with every cheap hotel room that reeked of sulfur, gun oil, scotch. Sam went home every time he picked up a gun and was struck by the memory of his fatherís hands steadying his own, bracing him for the kick of the rifle that would leave bruises. Sam went home every time he turned on the television and was left with muted infomercials or the steady pattern of a network gone off the air. That had been his nightlight; the shadow of his father sitting by the door, watching, armed, had been his comfort.

Sam used to wonder why his father never slept. He knew now.

That thing had worn Jessicaís face like a cheap Halloween mask.

The alarm beside his bed read 4:47 in blood letters. On the television, the inanely happy man sell useless things to fellow insomniacs too tired to know better. Sam watched him through half-open eyes. The world felt crystalline and fragile. The room was too hot, the sheets clinging to Samís skin where it touched him. Heíd showered, and yet he still felt sticky with blood and the scent of sulfur was thick enough to gag on.


Dean was in the bathroom again. Still. Theyíd pulled off an hour and a half ago. Dean had puked twice. The towel Dean had shoved against the door was blood-stained and drenched. It was too quiet in there now.


He wasnít sleeping tonight. Either Dean had passed out, in which case Sam was dragging him to a bed, or something was wrong and Sam was dragging him to a hospital.

With a sigh, Sam sat up and slid out of bed. He padded to the bathroom door and tapped it once. His voice was sleep-rough. "Hey. Open up."

"Go to bed, Sam." Deanís voice was oddly flat. He sounded tired.

Sam leaned his forehead against the doorframe. "Look, weíve both mopped up after Dad. It canít be that bad. Let me in."

Through the door, he could hear Dean start humming. Metallica, something off the St. Anger album. Things had to be pretty bad if Dean was going there, considering how many times Sam had heard Dean rant about it.

Trying the doorknob proved that it was locked. If it had been two years ago, Sam wouldnít have hesitated to go for the lockpicks, but... but.

If their father hadnít gone missing, Sam wouldnít have seen Dean again. If Jess hadnít died, if Sam had gone to that interview, things wouldíve been done between them. It wasnít like when they were kids, when Dean was the epitome of cool and Sam wanted nothing more than to hunt together. Sam had tasted enough of a normal life to know how fucked up this was. Heíd looked the other way on enough mysterious killings, ignored enough co-eds who stank of sulfur. Heíd earned the white picket fence by letting people die. It meant that much to him.

To Dean, people like Sam were ignorant victims. To the ignorant victims in question, people like Sam were delusional serial killers.

Dean mightíve brought the attention of the thing that had killed Jess straight to their door. If Sam hadnít gone with him, she might still be alive.

If Sam had been honest with her, she might still be alive.

He was too tired for this, too messed-up to sleep. If Sam heard a thump, heíd try again. Easy.

Muttering Ďfineí, Sam pushed himself off the doorframe and padded back to his bed. He picked up the remote and did a complete circuit of channels, ending on some stupid game show. The monotony of it was lulling, silencing the ghosts enough to let Sam curl up under the sheets. He let his eyes go half-lidded, flicking glances between the television and the door. The three locks were little comfort.

Sam slid into an empty-minded place where the most pressing matter was whether the answer was phrased in the form of a question. He drifted there, numb, plastic-wrapped, until the bed shifted beneath him. Then he blinked awake, rolling over just enough to see the shadow of Dean kneeling on the edge of Samís bed. The television was off.

"Youíve got your own bed," Sam muttered, but shifted over enough to let Dean lay down. It had its own fuzzy-headed logic.

Dean didnít move at first. His eyes were shadowed. The streetlight in the parking lot bled a little light through the roomís twilight curtains, enough to make the darkness that much thicker. "Told you to sleep."

"Tyler Durden," Sam said. That, too, almost made sense. "I... used to be somebody different."

Dean didnít say anything, which was odd. Then he crawled into bed, sinking down beside Sam. They used to sleep like this as kids, sharing a double bed because Dad loaded the other full of guns and knives and old books. It was strangely comforting to feel Dean slide up behind him. Dean was safer than the three locks. Dean was safer than anything.

Deanís chest was hot, burning against Samís shoulder. The wounds were burning. Infected. Succubi were venomous. Damn it, Sam shouldíve thought of this, shouldíve read the book. Muttering a curse, Sam started to roll over. "Jesus. Youíre- you need a doctor-"

Dean made him stop, his hand hard on Samís hip. The boxers Sam had stripped down to in the heat were little protection. He gathered the cloth up in his fingers, tugging the waistband down.

"Whatíre you-" Sam twisted in Deanís grip, trying to look at his face. "Dean. Itís Sam. Itís okay. Just let go so I can get the phone."

"Sammy," Dean murmured into Samís shoulder. There was a twinge of pressure, of- did Dean just bite him? "Síallright. Take care of you. Always take care of you."

"Thatís great," Sam said. "Thanks. Appreciate it. Just," he squirmed. A hard elbow to the ribs would probably take care of Deanís hold, but Dean was out of it. He was hurting enough without Sam possibly breaking something. "I need to call Dad, okay?"

"Shut up." The way his hand settled in the small of Samís back and shoved him down wasnít like Dean at all. The way the boxers inched down Samís ass wasnít... oh, fuck. "Know what you need."

Oh, hell. Oh, fuck. Dean wasnít- no, Samís boxers were sliding down, and Dean most certainly was. Succubi venom was apparently really goddamn potent. Also, Dean was leaning most of his weight on the center of Samís body, and Sam wasnít going anywhere.

Deanís fingers slid down, under his boxers. Sam swore and lashed out with one arm, missed Dean, hit the lamp. It hit the floor with a clatter, taking with it the clock radio. It fixed one problem in that Deanís fingers stopped their progress under Samís boxers, but created another in that said fingers took hold of Samís wrist. Reaching across the bed, Dean grabbed Samís other wrist and brought the two together, holding them in one hand. It was close enough to the knife under Samís pillow that if Sam wrenched hard enough to let Dean break his wrist, he might be able to go for it. Might.

Sam had been out of the business for four years. He wasnít used to fighting anymore. He hadnít slept.

Dean hadnít. Dean was. Dean had.

To hell with it. If need be, Sam could break Dean out of the prison infirmary. Sucking in a breath, Sam started to howl. It was lost against Deanís other hand. Dean laughed, desperate. "Sam, Jesus. Theyíll hear you. Theyíll come for you."

Sam bit his palm, hard enough to taste sweat and to remind him dizzily of them fighting in the backseat of the car. It was just one more pain, and against whatever the venom was doing to him, Dean didnít seem to feel it. Sam opened his mouth to do it again, to scream, to beg, and-

Dean moved behind him, a slick touch coasting along his ass, a pressure rubbing Samís cock against the friction of the sheets. Heat sparked behind Samís eyes, obliterating thought, leaving him gasping against Deanís hand. In the aftermath, his thoughts seemed sluggish.

Theyíd put a lot of something in the coffee.

Dean was murmuring against the back of Samís neck. His voice was ragged, feverish. "They canít have you."

Pushing away the spreading lassitude, Sam tried to struggle and just sank deeper. Want rocked through him, twined around him, and threatened to draw blood if he fought much longer. It would tear him to pieces and eat him alive if he didnít stop, and wouldnít it be nice if that wasnít literal.

This was Dean. Dean, who smelled like gun oil and brimstone, whose skin was hot, who was and would always be viciously alive. Dean, who had nursed Sam through fever and nightmares, broken arms and bloody noses. Dean, who carried Dad to bed and cleaned up the blood.

Dean, who would hate himself for this in the morning, who would hate himself more if he hurt Sam.

In the struggle, the pillow had been knocked aside. Sam could see the knife.

Sam breathed out against Deanís hand and forced himself to let the languor take him. Desire flared up hard, fast. Sam closed his eyes.

Deanís moan as he slid inside sounded wounded and distant. Not enough lube, or maybe not any. The burn spread through Sam in one long wave, and he heard himself cry out against Deanís hand. It wasnít pain.

Dean breathed Samís name like a curse. Sam could feel Dean shivering behind him, could feel himself trembling. When Dean shifted, starting to move experimentally, something sparked behind Samís eyes. Sam moaned against Deanís fingers, heard Deanís smoky laugh. Dean, being Dean, did it again. It was a good thing that Sam didnít have anywhere left to sink, because he wouldíve fallen, he wouldíve begged. In that moment, he wouldíve sold his soul for another touch.

Dean didnít ask for his soul. Dean didnít ask for anything. Sam shifted his hips up; Dean growled and gave him what he wanted. Deanís voice was there, a thread of filthy words among the relentless pleasure. The bed was creaking, a building rhythm like the song of an incoming train. Slow, hard, brutal.

This was going to kill him. Samís thoughts were gone, his mind, everything but the need to push back against Dean. The noises he was making were guttural, animal, desperate.

"Wonít let them hurt you," Dean bit off, punctuating each word with a thrust. The headboard hit the wall once, twice, again. "Wonít let you break."

Sam bit Deanís hand, choking on a whimper.

"Sammy," Dean whispered harshly. "God, Sam."

Then his teeth set in the back of Samís neck, and Samís world burned to cinders. He heard himself scream; he felt Dean shudder.

There was nothing else.