Title: Hard Day's Night
Genre: humor, slightly Sam/Dean
For Annie46, who prompted a sex-pollen story where Dean had to help Sam out. I kinda drifted a little from the prompt, but hopefully, it's close enough.
Big thanks to etoile_etiolee who made the awesome art for this fic and was so patient with me while I worked out some real-life issues. You rock, girl!!!!!
Summary: Sam has a little problem ... okay, maybe a big problem and the only solution might be in Dean's hands.
Hard Day’s Night
Sam had been cursed before … hell, his whole life was one big curse, but this … this took the cake and then some.
Looking back on their encounter with the hoodoo priestess they had been hunting the last week in New Orleans, he came to realize that he hadn’t come away as unscathed as he first thought.
The woman in question had to be at least 80 years old, but by all accounts, she had been in the business of offering her services to women who had been wronged by men in some way, using her hoodoo powers to effectively castrate them. While she hadn’t actually killed anyone, and all of her victims had been either cheating husbands or downright bastards, the reports of what she had done to the men had both Sam and Dean wincing in empathy and unconsciously crossing their legs as if to protect themselves.
They had to stop her, even if they kinda agreed that she had done the world a service. She was hurting people and that was the bottom line, even if they did deserve it.
They had tracked her to an old flooded-out house that was abandoned after Hurricane Katrina hit and found the grey-haired, old woman sitting on the rotting floor, reading an In Style magazine as if she had been in a dentist’s office waiting for them to show up.
Sam and Dean raised their guns. Dean demanded that she show them where her altar was so they could destroy the source of her power, but in one swift movement, she raised the open magazine up and blew a fine, white powder in their direction, creating a cloud of acrid-smelling dust that caused both brothers to cough and rub their irritated eyes.
Several minutes of streaming tears, cursing, and sneezing followed and by the time either of them could see again, the priestess was long gone.
“Sonofabitch!” Dean shouted.
Tired and frustrated, Sam and Dean returned to their motel room at the Maison D’Orleans. The fact that the room was decorated in varying shade of doo-doo brown and smelled of much the same, had led to it being christened the ‘Maison Derriere’, a moniker Sam couldn’t really argue against.
One after the other, both Sam and Dean showered to get what was left of the powdery crap out of their hair and faces and even took the extra precaution of dumping holy water over each other’s head just in case the powder was some kind of hoodoo potion that might turn them into frogs or something like that.
Once they were both thoroughly scrubbed and cleansed Sam collapsed onto his bed and saw his brother do much the same. Whatever had been in that powder the priestess had blown into their eyes had left them both with swollen eyes and dripping noses as though they had both rolled around in a field of flowers while in the grips of the world’s worst hay-fever. There didn’t however, seem to be any other terrible side-effects from the powder and after doing whatever they could to get rid of the stuff, there wasn’t anything could do except go to bed.
Sam fell asleep almost immediately.
The next morning started off normally … for the most part.
Sam awoke to find that his nasal passages had cleared up during the night and his eyes no longer felt like he had rubbed them with sandpaper, in fact he felt better than he had in a long time. He was comfortable and warm under the covers and was loathe to get up, wanting nothing more than to wallow there for the rest of the day, but his bladder had other plans and the need to pee won out over his desire to be lazy.
Groaning, Sam pushed off the blankets and stretched his arms over his head with a loud yawn as he stood up and trudged to the bathroom. Standing before the toilet, Sam lowered the waistband of his boxers and then stared down in surprise.
Sam could admit to himself freely that a little ‘morning wood’ was just a part of life that he had come to expect since he hit puberty, but this morning was something else.
This was bigger than anything he had seen before.
Even the first time with Jess hadn’t come close to this.
Sam stared at it, a little confused. He wasn’t feeling any kind sexual arousal that could account for his unusual state and touching it didn’t bring him any kind of pleasure, in fact it just kinda felt numb, like it wasn’t even a part of his body at all.
A little worried, but not yet reaching a state of panic, Sam determined to seek a solution, figuring that a long, cold shower would bring things back to normal and hopefully, all before Dean woke up.
Dean stood by the door impatiently, "Dude ... you just gonna sit there all day? We got things to do; a bitch to find and her altar to burn..."
Sam shifted uncomfortably in the chair, closing his laptop and pressing the pillow in his lap a closer. It was embarrassing enough for him to have to admit this problem to his older brother and he really didn't want give Dean the visual proof.
Sam's face burned as it reddened. "I can't."
Dean threw out his arms, "Why the hell not?"
"Because --" Sam sputtered as he tried to force the words out. How was he supposed to tell Dean that the 'morning wood' he had awoken with hadn't gone away? How could he explain that the hour-long cold shower followed by trying to manually fix it with a couple of skin mags he had stolen from his brother had only made things more … well, pronounced. And how could he tell Dean that he was starting to get scared because WebMd's frighteningly, overly detailed descriptions of the medical treatment for his condition involved way too many needles being inserted into places they should never, ever go?
Dean had apparently not run into the same problem as Sam and had been chomping at the bit, ready to go out and catch the priestess who had escaped on their watch. Sam had managed to convince Dean that he needed some time to research before they went after he again and under that guise he had covertly done some other research into his own problem while Dean had gone out to get them breakfast.
But it was noon now and Sam couldn’t put this off any longer. He had no other recourse.
“I kinda have this little problem …” Sam started, wincing, “Actually … it’s kind of a big problem.”
Sam wasn’t laughing, but Dean couldn’t seem to catch his breath.
“Really?” Dean gasped between bouts of giggles, “You got whammied with a Randy Johnson? Dude … you …you totally …” Dean wiped tears of mirth from his eyes, “got boned.”
“Shut up.” Sam ground out, his teeth clenched as Dean went on laughing, “It’s not funny. It’s called priapism and it’s a serious condition.”
Dean pretended to sober up, “You’re right, Sammy … I’m so sorry. This has all got to be …” he snickered uncontrollably “…very hard for you.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Could you please …”
Clearing his throat, but unable to completely wipe the shit-eating grin from his face, Dean spoke, “Okay, okay … you’re right. Let’s get to figuring out a way to strike your tent. You try … ya know?” he closed his fist and shook it up and down near the vicinity of his crotch.
“I can't believe I'm discussing this with you, but, yes, Dean.” Sam replied with a red face, shifting uncomfortably as his over-tight pants cut into his crotch. “I tried everything.”
“Even Busty Asian Beauties? Always works for me”
Sam shook his head, disgusted and trying to shove the mental image out of his brain. “I really don’t want to know what works for you, Dude.”
“Dean … porn isn’t gonna fix this.”
“Porn fixes everything.”
Sam blew out a frustrated breath and shifted to the cause of his issue. “I think it was the powder that priestess blew on us.”
“Yeah, but I got a face full of that crap too and my junk still works right.”
“Maybe it works differently for individual people. Like an allergic reaction or something.”
“Okay … if it’s an allergy, then maybe a shot of Benedryl will do the trick.”
Sam didn’t really have much hope of that working, but he was willing to try anything. Two hours and two doses of the antihistamine later and nothing had changed except that Sam was fighting sleep.
That’s when Dean came up with another brilliant home remedy, shaking a bottle of Jack Daniels before dropping it on the table in front of Sam, jerking him out of the micro nap he had fallen into.
“Hunter’s little helper: the cure for everything. After all, there’s a reason they call it whiskey dick, ya know.”
“I just took twice the recommended dosage of Benadryl, do you really think Jack is good idea?”
“I dunno. You got any better ideas?”
Knowing it was a bad idea, but desperate for an end to this, Sam took a shot followed by another in quick succession. Soon he was gripping the neck of the bottle and taking great gulps from it, while the room spun circles around him. He certainly was feeling more relaxed as the whiskey burned down his throat and warmed his stomach, but to his dismay, his little general was still standing eagerly at full attention.
He began to despair as his drunk mind conjured images of the facts he had gathered from the internet, about the injections he might need and possible surgical options that might be in his future.
Suddenly he had to vomit.
The whiskey bottle fell to the floor and Sam dashed for the bathroom, skidding to his knees in front of the toilet, uploading his guts into the porcelain bowl.
When his stomach finally allowed him a moment free of nausea, Sam moaned loudly and leaned his head against the wall beside the toilet.
“Feel better?” Dean asked, making a face as he flushed the toilet for his brother. Sam glared. “I’ll take that as a ‘no’.”
“I swear to God ,,,” Sam slurred as he hiccupped, “if you ever … ever … “ he hiccupped again, “bring whiskey near me again … I will shoot you.”
“You’re such a lightweight, Sammy. You’d think being as tall as a tree would make you better able to hold your liquor.” Dean muttered, bending down, and placing a hand on Sam’ shoulder, giving it a small affectionate rub, his own brand of saying sorry to his brother without having to actually speak the words.
Sam felt Dean’s hand rub into his shoulder and almost immediately felt another change come over him. In a rush, his whole body was overwhelmed by an indescribable and unstoppable sensation of rampant ecstasy. Searing heat flooded through his veins like a volcano, erupted all through him. His toes curled and every one of his muscles tightened into one long, drawn-out, full body spasm. Wave after wave crashed over him and distantly he heard himself moan uncontrollably.
Eyes squeezed tight, Sam panted for breath as the quaking in his muscles finally began to subside and his body relaxed. He had no idea that he had grabbed onto Dean’s arm, but as he opened his eyes and his senses returned to normal, he saw the shocked look in his brother’s eyes and quickly detached himself.
What had he just done?
He watched as Dean turned five different shades of red and then paled to an almost translucent white, a color that he knew his own face reflected as realization about what had just happened took over.
“Did you just … holy God …” Dean began, eyes wide and mortified. “Shit, Sam!”
“Oh Jesus …” Sam stuttered, looking down at the parts of his body that had just betrayed him so horribly. He was going to need a shower … scratch that … he was going to need a fire hose to ever feel clean again
He was, however, finally cured.
To say that things were tense between the brothers after ‘the incident that shall never be spoken of again’ would be an understatement. It seemed to be silently agreed that neither of them would talk about it, but that didn’t stop Sam from thinking about it and obsessing over it.
And from the vigorously determined way Dean took on the hunt to catch the priestess that had done this to them, he knew that his brother hadn’t put it out of his mind either. Dean hardly spoke to Sam and Sam was too embarrassed himself to talk about what had happened in the bathroom, but he couldn’t help but notice that Dean kept his distance from him, always at least two feet away at all times. He wanted to apologize, but what could he say? 'Sorry I came in my pants the second you touched me? I couldn’t help myself?'
After about three days, they finally caught up to the old woman in yet another abandoned house, this one nestled near a bayou about fifty miles outside of New Orleans. Taking no chances this time, they both wore bandanas over their faces as they crashed through the front door, catching her by surprise as she chanted in front of her altar. Dean was quick to grab her and tie her up while Sam ran over to the altar and destroyed it, effectively ending her source of power.
The elderly priestess didn’t bat an eye.
“I knew you boys would find me.” She began with an almost sweet smile and a thick Louisiana accent. “Did you enjoy my partin’ gift?”
“Gift?” Dean spat, “Lady, you are buckets of bat-shit crazy, you know that? You’re lucky you’re human or I would gank you right here and now for what you did.”
“What?” She looked genuinely confused. “You didn’t like it?”
“Like it?” Dean growled menacingly, “My brother could have been permanently damaged!”
“Your … brother?” Her eyebrows and then suddenly looked abashed, “Oh dear …Not that I’m judgin’, but I thought you two were –“ she cupped a wrinkly hand to her mouth as if she were afraid to say the words out loud and even then she had to whisper it, “fancy men.”
“You know …light in the loafers … confirmed bachelors …On the down-low …queens?”
Dean threw up his hands, frustrated and offended. She would have gone on if Sam hadn’t stopped her, “Yeah … we get it. But we are definitely not that.”
“Oh hon …” She looked sincerely contrite, “I’m sorry. See … I’m retirin’ and my daughter is fixin’ to put me up in an old folks’ community out in Florida. I reckon they don’t look kindly on hoodoo out there and I decided that at 81 years, I’m just too old for this shit anymore anyway. So, when I heard that I had two hunters lookin for me … two men, who by all accounts are almost never apart and always shared a motel room, well … I needed to get you two out of the way for a few days so I could pack up all of my things out here and say goodbye to the old place before you come trash it all. Anyway, I figured it was a rather harmless way of keeping you occupied while I got my affairs in order, but I never knew you boys were brothers. Did you touch him?” She asked Dean.
“Once …” Dean replied, his face a little red while Sam shifted uncomfortably from side to side, looking at the floor like it was the most interesting thing he had seen all day. “But only on the figgin’ shoulder.” He clarified hastily.
She nodded, “Well … the powder and spell I used were supposed to be for couples. Only the touch of another also exposed to the powder will bring that person any kind of … release. Even the slightest touch can shoot a man off into orbit if it’s had more than a few hours to act. The spell is only meant to last for a day or so and would have worn off eventually, but I am truly sorry for the misunderstandin’.”
Dean scoffed, incredulous, “Misunderstanding?”
The old, now retired, priestess shrugged sheepishly and then held out her tied hands. “Now … do y’all mind lettin’ me go? I gotta plane to Tallahassee I need to catch.” Frail and bent over in her old age, she had to be at least two feet shorter than either of the brothers and with the power her altar had given her now gone, she was effectively as harmless as a fly.
Dean reluctantly cut her bindings and gestured for the door. “Fine. Go. But if I hear of any shenanigans going on with the old farts out there, I’m coming after ya.”
“Yeah, yeah …” she waved them off tiredly, shuffling for the door and grabbing the cane the leaned against the wall beside it, “I’ll behave so long as all the men do too. You boys take care now.” She said as she exited the shack.
Sam blew out a breath. Dean still looked like he wanted to kill something, but Sam had to commend his brother for his self-control. “That was … interesting.”
Dean seemed a little more relaxed as they drove out of Louisiana. The radio was blaring Zeppelin and Sam was half asleep watching the scenery go by when his brother finally spoke.
“I’m sorry, Sam.”
Sam jerked his head around, surprised by the statement, “What? Why?”
“I know it wasn’t your fault and I know you don’t feel … ya know … that way about me. But I’ve been treating you like you got the plague or something for the last few days.”
“I thought we weren’t going to talk about this.”
“We’re not … I’m just sayin … oh hell.” Dean broke off. “Can’t a guy just say he’s sorry without going into details?”
“It’s okay, man. I get it.” Sam agreed, “I’ve been feeling like I need to scrub myself with bleach since … you know what too, but it wasn’t you and it wasn’t me, it was a purely physiological response to the spell.”
“Good. Now can we please never speak of this again?”
“Sure.” Dean agreed, then after a beat, he punched Sam in the shoulder, hard.
“Ow! What was that for?”
“Just making sure.”
“Dude … that really hurt.” Sam complained rubbing the spot he was sure was going to bruise.
“Good.” Dean glanced over, grinning and relief washed over Sam. Yeah … the punch had hurt, but Dean had proved his point: he could touch Sam again and not worry about any unforeseen consequences. Things were going to be okay between them and they could bury this all in the past.
And Sam would never, ever, in a million and a half years tell Dean that he was the best he ever had.