Characters/Pairings: Dean/Sam, Dean/Buffy, Dean/Sam/Buffy

Spoilers: general season 4
Summary: The boys pool their resources to try and find some answers to what happened to Dean. Supernatural/BtVS crossover.

Warning: strong autoeroticism in this chapter

Legal disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, I do not own Sam or Dean. If I did, I would be far too busy to ever write anything ever. I also do not own Buffy or the Scoobies.

It was probably more of an issue getting Dean into the car than it had been for Sam to track him down. When three o'clock had rolled around and his brother still hadn't made it home, Sam had panicked. He'd called both hospices in the area and gone though a dozen aliases before deciding to check the bars themselves. Dean had the car, but it took Sam under a minute to hotwire a late model Buick in the parking lot. There weren't too many bars in Sturgis, Michigan; it was mostly corn and cattle and good old fashioned eateries that had some of the best pie in the country (so Dean had told him over and over and over…and over). Sam found his brother at the third bar he visited, across the street from a gentleman's club.

Finding his brother hadn't been difficult; he hadn't even needed to enable the GPS in Dean's phone. On the other hand six odd foot of dead weight wasn't easy to maneuver under the best of circumstances, and Sam had been freaking out over finding Dean out of it in a back alley of the bad area of town. Coincidentally, it was half a block from the good side of town, but that was how it was in a town this size. He'd checked his brother's vitals, pulse steady, breathing normal, and thank God for that. He really, really didn't want to know why Dean's pants were down around his knees. Sam just blushed and pulled them up as best he could, doing his best not to touch anything he didn't absolutely have to.

Sam leaned down, getting an arm behind Dean's knees and another around his back, and lifted with his knees. Dean really needed to lay off the burgers. He was heavy and awkward to maneuver, but Sam was able to get his unresponsive brother into the back seat of the Impala mostly without incident (and if Dean had a headache and a small lump on the side of his skull in the morning, Sam would feign ignorance). He'd driven them both back to the motel, leaving the borrowed Buick in the lot for the police to recover.

When they'd arrived back at the hotel, he was really tempted to just let Dean sleep it off in the car, but he figured he owed his brother for the time he'd come to get Sam from Wendy Carver's sweet sixteen party. The night he learned he had a low tolerance for alcohol. Dean hadn't even really complained very much when Sam started insisting how much he really loved him, man. So Sam carried Dean's dead weight inside and laid him down on the mattress of the bed nearest to the bathroom. He even pulled the sheet and comforter over Dean. His brother slept for the rest of the night and most of the next morning.

____

Dean stirred, and the sound of broken mattress springs creaking woke Sam from his light doze. "Dean," Sam's voice sounded jagged and wrecked. "Are you all right man?"

Dean groaned, pulling his arm up over his eyes to shield them from the afternoon sun entering from the western exposure. "Aside from some demonic psycho chick taking a bite out of me, yeah Sam, I'm swell."

"What are you talking about, Dean?"

"Nothing Sammy, just listen okay? If I start acting, I don't' know, whatever. Just…if I'm not…me anymore. I need you to stop me, kill me if you have to." His voice cracked and Dean swallowed around the knot of fear in his throat. He hated asking, hated being put in a position where he had to ask it. He refused to become something he hunted. He could see the obstinate tension building in the lines of his brother's shoulders, the working of his jaw. "Please, Sam!"

"No."

"So you wanted me to promise to off you if you go darkside, but you can't afford me the same goddamn courtesy? Fuck you." Dean turned his back on his brother and looked around the hotel room he, or more accurately, Mr. John Bonham, had rented earlier last night. The magenta and pink tiger-striped wallpaper in this place was truly singular, even when taken in context with all the rest of the shitty pay-by-the-hour no-tell motels they frequented. Dean wondered if the beds had Magic Fingers. His cock pulsed, and he realized he was still hard. This wasn't morning wood either. He knew he'd promised himself he wouldn't give his brother the opportunity for I told you so, but this was not normal. What they knew about sex demons Dean could fit in a siren shaped thimble, but he was pretty sure this was outside of standard operating procedures; they usually just wanted to feed. He should be exhausted, but instead he was wired.

"Dean…." And Dean knew that voice. That exasperated voice that meant Sam was tired of Dean. Toughen up, soldier; take it like a man. He knew, knew, that his little brother thought he was damaged goods, that going to hell had irrevocably changed him. It didn't help matters that in some respects Sam wasn't wrong, but still. Dad's drill sergeant had a world of pain coming his way if Dean ever met the bastard. Dean steeled himself and wished for once he could be enough just as he was, and turned to face his brother. But instead of turning away from him like usual, Sam sniffed the air and took a step forward, and his face relaxed just a little. But it was like suddenly, he was Sam again. For those ephemeral seconds, Dean had his brother back. His dick strained against his pants. It couldn't last, of course, and Sam put on his mask of detached concern. "Look, we'll find something," Sam's voice was the courteous, slightly detached tone he used on bereaved widows and terrified kids. "I mean, we don't even know that there's anything really even wrong yet. Tell me what happened."

"Dude, a succubus or something bit my dick," Dean snapped, incredulous. "I'm willing to go out on a limb and say there's something pretty friggin' wrong with that."

In other circumstances Dean was sure Sammy'd be laughing his ass off about his situation. Hell, when this panned out okay, they'd probably have a chuckle about it over some beers. Instead Sam's chiseled jaw worked as he regarded Dean appraisingly. "We don't know it's a succubus, but I'll call Bobby. It'll be okay, man." Sam reached out and clasped his brother's shoulder, physically reminding Dean that he was there, no matter what happened.

"Yeah, good. Good." Dean's throat had gone dry without his permission. "I'll uh…I gotta use the bathroom." The heaviness in his balls had become an ache that he desperately needed to relieve. He was sure Sam couldn't help but notice his erection as he bolted to the bathroom, but they were Winchesters and he said nothing. Thank friggin' god.

Dean just about slammed the bathroom door shut behind him and sagged against it. Sam had pulled Dean's pants back up sometime after retrieving him from the alley, but he hadn't fastened them. In other circumstances he might have been mortified, but it was like he couldn't think, couldn't reason. Dean reached down the front of his unzipped fly, stroking himself though the cotton of his boxers and rough denim. It was like the whole world was revolving around his cock and nothing else mattered. He was burning up with need. Dean pulled his jeans and boxers down his thighs with one hand while the other gripped the silky flesh of his cock and slowly jacked his dick in short, firm pulls. With every stroke, more and more blood seemed to rush to the organ, and Dean felt light headed.

He thought about Sam finding him flagrantly exposed in the back of some seedy bar, and really, he should have been embarrassed or something. But he was just turned the fuck on. Dean's fingers brushed the sensitive tip of his glans before resuming his hard strokes, and his body shuddered. With his free hand, he reached to fondle his balls. He'd never been a moaner, but god damn. His cock was sensitized like never before and he was just about biting though his cheek to keep from making slutty, needy noises. He was leaking precome and Dean took advantage of the lubricant, using it to coat his palm as it slid along his length, stroking faster as he neared his climax.

When his orgasm came it was nearly apocalyptic, red and white lightning bolts danced behind his closed eyelids. Hot jets of come splashed over his hand, some of it landing on his chest, soaking into his shirt, and a drop even reaching his lips. Unthinkingly, his tongue snaked out to clean it away. Dean was still maddeningly hard and his cock was so oversensitized that it hurt to touch it. He'd come harder than he had in years, since he was fourteen and Jenny Stewart gave him his first blowjob behind the school, but it gave him no relief. If anything he was even worse off than before. Whatever that freaky bitch had done to him, he had to find a way to end it. He loved sex as much as the next guy, but he'd go nuts if his dick stayed this way forever. Literally insane, kill your brother, rape your dog bonkers.

Dean hadn't even realized his hand had started moving again.

__

The white noise of the television wasn't able to distract him, nor was his laptop, currently open to a webpage discussing succubi. He'd even spent a half hour paging though Dad's journal, searching for any mention of a situation similar to Dean's. Sam watched the bathroom door wearily. He could pretend all he wanted, but he knew what Dean was doing in there. He'd grown up with his brother's open disregard for boundaries. When they were teenagers, Sam had often come awake to soft moans from the bed next to his, whether they came from Dean or the girl he'd brought back with him. He'd grown accustomed to the knowledge that Dean was a sexual creature, but he was not willing to accept that as literal truth now.

Leaving Dean to it, Sam grabbed his newest cell phone (amazing what a little identity theft and a sale at Best Buy could get you) and stepped outside for some fresh air. He didn't have many numbers in his address book; Bobby was speed dial three and he picked up on the first ring.

"Singer." Bobby's voice was gruff and welcome.

"Hey Bobby," said Sam, relief a solid presence in his voice.

"Sam? That you?"

"Yeah. Look, the reason I'm calling is I think there's something wrong with Dean. He was attacked last night, and we think it's some kind of creature that feeds on um…" Sam's voice trailed off. This was not a topic he was fully comfortable discussing with Bobby, or anyone for that matter.

"Spit it out, boy."

"He thinks it was a sex demon, Bobby."

The other end of the line is silent for several seconds. Sam cautiously shifts the phone, holding it about four inches from his ear. As it turns out, that's still far too close. "That stupid, stupid son of a bitch! What kind of foolish do you have to be to get that close to one of them? Damn idjit. I knew that boy would get himself into trouble one day with that goddamn skirt-chasing."

"Yeah, well. He locked himself in the bathroom about an hour ago, and I just didn't know…well, I don't think it's helping."

"Sam, you have to get him to stop. Until we know exactly what kind of creature caused this, he could be doing himself more harm than good. Tell me everything he said to you, and everything he didn't."

__

Dean felt feverish and strung out, and it was going on two hours now since he'd awoken in their hotel room with the hard-on that ate Manhattan. Jacking off had only made it worse. He'd come three times in the bathroom and was working his way to four, his hand and his dick raw and thoroughly coated with his own come when Sam's knock on the door snapped him out of his urgent pumping.

"Dean, you need to stop," said the brunet matter-of-factly, the wood muffling his voice.

The elder Winchester's voice was broken and raw when he replied. "Why's that, Sammy?"

"I think it's like poison ivy, man. The more you scratch it, the more it spreads."

"So you're telling me I've got a demonic rash? It's a lot worse than that, Sam!" A loud bang against the door and a sharp curse followed and Sam was pretty positive that was his brother's head hitting the solid surface hard enough to raise a nice sized lump.

Sam wasn't so sure a rash was an accurate analogy either – poison ivy had a known cause and treatment. Thankfully, Sam's interruption had been enough to stop his brother before the blonde could try going for four orgasms in an hour. Dean wasn't superhuman, and that kind of strain might just kill him, despite his claims of sexual superiority. He wasn't ready quite yet to face Dean after the marathon session of autoeroticism, so he talked though the door, trying to ignore the smell of come wafting though the space between them. Winchesters were good at avoiding discussion of uncomfortable topics. "Look, I know. I…I talked to Bobby. After he cussed you out for, and I paraphrase, 'being all sorts of foolish, you damn idjit,' he said he'd get back to us. He also said to let him know if there were any other uh…symptoms."

Dean sighed. "Was there anything in Dad's journal?"

"Lots," answered the younger. "Nothing concrete. I found a reference to an old unsolved case from the sixties where a man died from exhaustion. Dad had the entry filed under possible succubus attacks. His neighbors reported he'd locked himself in the house and they heard both a male and female voice, but the woman was never seen entering or leaving, and there was no physical evidence she was ever there. There are also some newspaper clippings from years back about a few people in New England dropping dead from heart attacks during intercourse, but Dad never got a hold of whatever it was. It may not have even been our type of case."

"And pigs might fly, Sam." There was a rustling from the bathroom as Dean cleaned himself off and pulled up his pants. The material scraped against his erection and he clenched his teeth against the pleasure-pain. "So what else did Bobby say?" Dean ran some water to wash off his hands as best he could. He really needed a shower, but he didn't trust himself in his current condition. He'd been riding the edge of fuck, so close for longer than any man should have to endure.

"What do you mean?"

"Dude," Dean said, opening the door dividing the space between them. He had his dirty t-shirt slung over his shoulder and was wearing only his jeans. His cock was jutting against the fabric, defined by a sharp outline along the front of his pants. "I may have just been yanked back from Hell, but I wasn't born yesterday. I know exactly what you sound like when you're keeping something from me. I don't care anymore if you want to keep your nocturnal activities to yourself, but dude, you are damn well going to tell me everything when it comes to this. I'm a little attached to the subject matter here!"

Sam was saved from answering as his cell rang, some crappy radio rock ballad, Dean acknowledged. "Bobby?" he said, answering midway though the first ring. "Yeah, he's okay." Sam's eyes kept glancing to him, then away. It was making Dean dizzy. The one-sided conversation continued, Bobby apparently filling his brother in on one of his contacts. "Yeah. Cleveland? What's the address?" Sam grabbed a sheet of paper from the nightstand and scribbled something on it. "Okay, got it Bobby, thanks." Sam was to the door, duffel bag slung over a broad shoulder before he hit the end button on his cell, freakishly long legs devouring the distance like he couldn't get away fast enough.

"Grab your shit Dean, we're going to Ohio. And for God's sake put a damn shirt on," Sam called.

"What's in Cleveland?"

"Acquaintance of Bobby's. He's apparently in the States visiting friends in Cleveland. Bobby said he's a demonologist, the real deal. His name is Rupert Giles."