It seemed like the only times they didn’t get into fights anymore were when they were having sex.
Dean wouldn’t go for the jugular when Sam was in between his legs or kissing and biting at his tits—he was too distracted grunting and cutting off his attempts at speech with restrained moans. If anything, Dean was pleasant when Sam was going down on him.
But, those pleasant times would be interrupted like clockwork every three-and-a-half weeks to account for Dean’s unwanted anatomical disturbances: in simpler terms, his period.
It was like he became a caricature of himself when his hormones were acting up. Sam more than understood just how much Dean hated feeling like less of a man because of his period, because Sam didn’t have one, because Dad didn’t have one, because—as far as Dean was concerned—no other man they knew had one, so playing up the most masculine parts of himself played some part in helping him cope with those four to five days. He was brasher, more provocative, more prone to eating too much and getting hammered because the pain of a hangover or a night spent hunched over the toilet made him forget the way his insides churned. And, above all else, he had a hair trigger when it came to Sam.
He didn’t want to think that was who Dean really was, who he consciously wanted to be when he was in pain and struggling to deal with his moods, and tried what he could to help bring Dean back down to Earth. Sam offered pain meds, which Dean would scoff at and push away like they were sugar pills. Sam offered to go out and investigate when only one of them was needed just to get Dean off his feet, which only made Dean latch onto his side like a spiteful little creature. Sam offered water when he was splayed across the toilet seat, clammy and pale and having hurled up the party-sized mozzarella sticks he ordered at the bar, and all Dean gave in return was a bilious laugh. Sam didn’t want to think that his brother simply wanted to suffer for the crime of being born the way that he was.
So, when Dean started to become a flagrant asshole a few days before the end of the month, Sam flipped through his mental calendar and quickly put the pieces together. From there, he came up with a plan.
Sam waited until evening to put his plan into effect: it was something he’d read about during a Sexual Wellness elective he took in college, but he never got the chance to test it out before now. Jess probably would have been too embarrassed to let him try it, anyway, not to mention the fact that he hadn’t acquired the taste for it then. Now, Sam was sure he was prepared.
Dean announced his return from searching for a lead down at the docks by swinging the door wide open, his shoulders squared with irritation. Before Sam could open his mouth to ask him how it went, Dean slammed the door behind him and flopped back against it. His gaze rolled over to Sam standing at the foot of his bed, and he shot him a bitter smile.
“What a surprise—Walter, the last guy who saw Lewis before he was ganked, didn’t know crap. You don’t think the Trickster has anything to do with this, do you?”
Sam was stunned out of his thinking—more accurately, his preemptive arousal about what he wanted to do to Dean—and cleared his throat awkwardly.
“This doesn’t seem like his M.O. to me. We might just be dealing with an entirely natural case here, Dean.” He crossed his arms over his chest and attempted to hide his frustration. “I called Bobby earlier and he couldn’t find anything that sounds like our guy.”
Dean banged his fist against the door and pushed himself off of it, stalking across the floor until he reached the bathroom at the other side of the room. For the brief moment he crossed paths with Sam, he could swear he smelled metallic warmth wafting off of him. Sam looked down when Dean stopped and turned to face him again.
“When I’m done I’m heading out to that bar down the road—you coming with or am I running up a tab by myself tonight?”
He furrowed his brow and looked up at Dean, frowning slightly even as he struggled to deal with the sudden, unbearable tightness of his being.
“Actually, Dean, I had an idea.”
He got a confused look in response, one that was quickly overtaken by disbelief.
“Better than drinking?” He stood in front of the closed bathroom door and raised an eyebrow, wordlessly challenging Sam to say what was on his mind. Suddenly, he felt powerless.
Sam wanted to default to remorse, to drop the subject entirely and let Dean proceed with the night that he wanted to have, but he knew, deep down, that he still wanted to test his little hypothesis. He straightened and attempted to hold Dean’s gaze before he lowered his eyes to his lips—the tightness wasn’t resolving itself.
“Look, I know what’s happening with you right now and I think I might have a solution to your problem. Just…hear me out on it before you say anything, okay?”
Dean stepped closer until he was nearly chest-to-chest with Sam, staring up at him with a stern expression that must have been hiding an immense amount of pain.
“Spit it out, Sammy,” he bit, and that even managed to turn Sam’s knees to jelly.
“I want to eat you out. Orgasms can help with pain, and I thought since you won’t take painkillers—”
Dean scoffed, sneering at his little brother. “You don’t want to do that.”
Sam dropped all pretenses of altruism as he crossed the five foot gap between them, furrowing his brow and pursing his lips into his “bitchface,” as Dean would call it.
“I’ve been thinking about it all day, Dean. You don’t have to say yes, but I really think it’ll help you even if you don’t like the idea of it.”
Dean’s eyes glimmered as he looked up at Sam, putting his hand over his mouth in a performative display of disgust—Sam could tell that desire outweighed it at least tenfold, even if Dean wouldn’t outright say it. Sam saw a flash of his tongue lingering across his bottom lip behind his mouth before he dropped it; his face steeled once again.
“Okay, Sammy; I’ll let you do it just this once, only because you’re practically drooling over it.”
Sam felt like he’d died and gone to heaven.
—
Dean’s inner thighs were stained red and sticky to the touch; his boxers had soaked up most of the blood that the toilet paper shoved against his crotch couldn’t absorb, but he’d nearly bled through his jeans in the hour and a half he’d been gone. It wasn’t an unsubstantial wad of toilet paper he’d shoved into his underwear, either, and Sam was impressed by his flow.
He squeezed his thighs together after Sam undressed him from the waist down, anxiety coloring his face.
“That’s a lot more than I thought.” Dean tried to lighten the mood in spite of his discomfort, but Sam saw right through it. He sat back and gave Dean space, attempting to avert his gaze from the little flash of red-stained vulva he could see behind his ankles.
“Here, let me get you a towel.”
Sam returned from the bathroom with the stiff towel to find Dean balancing awkwardly on his tailbone, struggling to not get blood on the sheets. He probably would anyways, but the bedding sported what looked like old blood and undiluted bleach spots, so it wasn’t like they’d be doing any worse damage than this comforter had already seen. Still, Sam laid the twice-folded towel down and watched Dean maneuver himself onto it, his erection straining against the fly of his jeans as he caught another glimpse of the mess in between his legs. His stomach growled at the brief scent of iron he caught as Dean settled down onto the towel.
“You actually wanna do this? I thought you only liked demon blend.”
Sam laughed, though not exactly at Dean’s joke, and moved up his body until he was looking his brother in the face. The scratchy sheets were already starting to burn his palms.
“I know I’m gonna like it coming from you,” he said softly, lowering his eyelids before he leaned down to kiss Dean.
He and Sam had gone a few days without having sex, but that was only because Dean didn’t want to surprise him with his irregular cycle. It was normal for them to abstain for days on end until they were finished with a case or in need of a quick mental break, but Dean was quick to grab a handful of Sam’s hair and pull it as he kissed him. Dean was acting like they hadn’t gotten it on in weeks, biting Sam’s lip and forcing his mouth open to probe him with his tongue.
Sam’s hand roughly cupped the side of Dean’s face, his cheek, his fingers moving across his temple as they made out like two overeager teenagers. It was like fulfilling an adolescent fantasy he didn’t even know he had, though some part of Sam was always aware that what he felt for Dean hadn’t been entirely brotherly; he just couldn’t have guessed that Dean felt the same way.
While one hand stayed knotted in the hair on the back of Sam’s head, Dean’s other one wandered down Sam’s torso until he was able to just graze his clothed erection. Sam moaned into his mouth and tipped his head to the side. When he deepened the kiss, it felt like he was going to devour Dean.
He pulled back from Sam’s mouth suddenly and gestured downward with his chin. “Do it, Sammy; before I change my mind.”
Sam was momentarily conflicted—he loved the feeling of Dean’s fingers in his hair, his swollen bottom lip squashed against Sam’s, his hand groping his erection through his jeans, but he was desperate for the taste of blood on his tongue. He slid down Dean’s body until he was level with his crotch, red already starting to pool underneath him just from their few minutes of foreplay.
His fingers dragged across the sticky inside of his thigh, catching on blood-stained skin and making Dean inhale like he was stroking him off. Sam leaned in closer until he was hit in the face with the deep, pungent scent of spilled blood, a scent that only got stronger the closer Sam got. It was heady, getting even this close to acting on a fantasy that Sam hadn’t so much as humored until now.
Sam practiced some hesitation as he leaned into Dean’s vulva, if only for his brother’s sake, until he was close enough to smell it all—metallic overtones hiding base notes of musky heat and sweat. He looked up at Dean, licking his bottom lip and grinning at him.
“Are you ready?” He felt giddy, like he was much younger and asking Dean if they could go out for McDonald’s after a long night studying.
Dean nodded at him: “Go for it, Sammy.”
He used his fingers to part Dean’s lips until he could fit his tongue in between them, lapping at the entrance of his vagina curiously on the off-chance that blood only tasted decent when it came from a demon. The stuff that seeped out of Dean was savory, the finest uncooked steak that Sam would never know the real taste of, but could have assumed was just as divine as this. Dean jerked underneath him as Sam attempted to stick his tongue in deeper, penetrate him with it until the muscle was coated thick.
Dean shuddered out an exhale as Sam pulled himself away, just far enough to show off his bloody tongue. The tension in Sam’s jeans was almost unbearable as he watched Dean slowly begin to accept the seriousness of Sam’s kink.
Sam sat back down and swallowed the syrup-thick blood lingering on his tongue before he got back into position between Dean’s legs. He probed Dean’s slit, the tip of his tongue dragging upward slowly as he listened to Dean inhale suddenly. Dean’s hand found Sam’s hair again, grabbing tightly when tongue met clit.
“Are you liking it, Sammy?”
“You don’t even know,” Sam laughed before he started rolling his tongue tip around Dean’s clit. His mouth was watering and his stomach growling in anticipation. Sam grabbed Dean’s leg and forced it open, burying himself in between his brother’s thighs.
Dean tightened his grip on Sam’s hair with each rotation, involuntarily moving his hips upward to crush Sam’s face into his mound. Pride swelled in Sam’s chest as he felt Dean really start to enjoy it, heard his breathing start to stutter and linger, arousal building inside him. He was a good little brother, he was sure of it when he saw Dean’s bottom lip roll out from between his teeth.
Sam caught a glimpse of blood pooling underneath Dean, spilling out like a cut to a major artery, and he felt compelled to fasten his mouth to Dean’s entrance and drink in as much of it as he could; like sucking venom out of his system.
There was no grace in the way he scrambled back down to fuck his tongue into Dean’s hole, pulling as much of his precious lifeblood as he could into his own body for safekeeping should Dean ever need it back. He grabbed the undersides of Dean’s thighs and threw them apart in a vague approximation of the spread-eagle position, digging his nails into the slight layer of fat covering pure muscle. Sam liked guys, Sam tried going out with guys when he was in college, but he only knew now that it never would have worked out in the way that this relationship did—Dean was a dick sometimes, sure, but they had history and Sam could non-fatally partake in his blood-sucking fetish with Dean.
“Shit, you weren’t kidding,” Dean stifled a moan as Sam started thrusting in and out of him with his tongue, “how long have you been jonesing?”
Sam removed one hand from Dean’s thigh, satisfied when he left it hovering away from his body for his little brother’s sake, and pulled Dean’s lip back, granting him more access to his weeping hole. He stared up at Dean with what must have been a tablespoon of blood smeared across the lower half of his face, if the cooling stickiness was any indication, and smiled at his brother.
“Too long.”
Dean’s breathing became rougher as Sam once again moved his hand to grind his thumb into his clit, not sparing him any force since he already knew Dean would whine for more, more, more. He bit his lip again to muffle a loud grunt as Sam fell into a harsh but balanced rhythm of grinding, thrusting, and licking that seemed to satisfy Dean. Sam was so fixated on playing pervy Dracula that he hadn’t noticed he was leaking in his boxers, only starting to feel his balls tighten and his cock start to pulse when Dean moaned again: a high, pretty noise that somehow managed to strike Sam right in his prostate.
He came in his pants while Dean rolled his hips and pulled so hard at his hair Sam thought he was going to rip it out, which only contributed to his clothed orgasm. He panted against Dean’s mound for a few moments as he shuddered through it, still lazily stroking his brother’s clit and lapping at his entrance like he was programmed to do it.
“I’m so close, Sam, stop blue-balling me,” Dean whined, bringing one hand down to grind his flat fingertips against his clit.
Next time, he wanted to come inside Dean and wait for it all to ooze out of him so Sam could lick it up. Instead, he tongue-fucked Dean until his hips were shaking and he was holding back small whimpers of pleasure; all because of Sam. Then, just as Dean was starting to come down, Sam grabbed his hips and turned him over onto his hands and knees, shoving the towel to the side and taking its place underneath Dean.
“Wanna ride my face?”
Dean looked down at him, the post-orgasm haze still not cleared from his head, and shot him a lopsided smile.
“Hell yeah, I do.”
—
Dean was sprawled across the bed, the stained towel long abandoned on the floor as he bled freely onto the comforter. What was once almost a cup’s worth of blood flowing out of him every hour had winnowed down to a teaspoon’s worth of drips that followed the slit of his labia down his taint until it collided with the bedspread, a deep red pool slowly starting to form underneath his ass. His arm was thrown across the slight bloat of his lower belly while his other was propped up underneath his head.
He looked satisfied, comfortable in a way that he never did while on his period, and Sam was awash with warmth and an overinflated ego. His face had also just been washed and scrubbed thoroughly to remove the last of the red stains from his cheeks and the tip of his nose—whatever he could reach with his tongue had already been feverishly licked away.
He crossed from the bathroom to the bed, settling down beside his unconscious brother and nestling close until their arms touched. Sam watched him with hazy, heavy-lidded eyes and could almost sense the dopamine coursing through his system after three orgasms, probably more than Dean could handle but just enough to rock him out of his menstruation funk. He could see the tension from the day had melted from Dean’s expression, leaving him looking peaceful, even a little happy if he focused too long on the corners of his mouth.
And it seemed that Sam’s staring had woken him up, as his eyes slid open just as Sam started to get hard again over Dean’s swollen, pretty lips.
“How are you still up?” Dean yawned, reaching up to rub sleep from his eyes.
“I’m still riding the high,” Sam said softly. He could feel the weight of Dean’s blood in his stomach, even if it wasn’t enough for it to so much as slosh around inside him, and he wasn’t sure the last time he’d felt so pleased with himself—if ever.
Dean turned his head to face him and laughed, almost mockingly, before he craned the rest of his body around to throw his arm over Sam.
“You’re a freak, Sammy.”
It wasn’t like Dean was wrong, but Sam still felt the need to jab back. “I think you’re just as much of a freak as I am.”
“I wouldn’t have come up with crimson tide face-sitting, that’s for sure.”
The tip of Dean’s nose brushed against the side of Sam’s throat, and he felt another rush, a desire to reach down and stick his fingers inside of him, fuck him until his hand was bloody, but he decided to practice yet more restraint. He was happy he’d gotten this much, and he wasn’t going to push his luck.
“Well, did it work?”
“What?” Dean murmured against the crook of his neck.
“Did orgasming make you feel better?”
There was a silence that stretched on just long enough for Sam to become nervous—he was starting to believe Dean might have just been humoring him and this wasn’t a sexy science experiment at all, but instead something agreed to out of pity. But, Sam knew Dean, and he knew he was a terrible actor at the best of times, not to mention how much that skill would slip when he was getting it in two different ways at once. His dissipating concerns were quashed when Dean opened his mouth again.
“We’re doing that every month from now on—your tongue’s magic, Sammy,” Dean’s voice was fading but when Sam looked down at him, he could see from his eyes that he was adamant in that statement.
Sam smiled and leaned down to kiss Dean on the forehead, which he reacted to by scrunching his face up like a child. He flopped bonelessly against Sam and buried his face into his shoulder, draping one leg over him like that wasn’t going to leave some kind of mark on Sam’s jeans.
In that moment he couldn’t say the idea of Dean marking him in that way would bother him at all, but future Sam might disagree when it came time to go to the laundromat.