Bobby's Couch (Sam/Dean) NC-17

Author: Lady Crystal Castalia

Pairing: Sam/Dean

Rating: NC-17

Spoilers: Season 3 Folsom Prison Blues, Jus In Bello

Word count: 8300

Status: Complete

Genres: Fluff, Humour, Schmoop, First time

Warnings: none

Kinks:bottom!Sammy, 'the two of them in chains'/Henricksen's kink ;) Use of endearments

Disclaimer : Me no own but no make red cent, you no sue.

Author's note: Huge thanks to the wonderful CullenJunkie for the dedicated beta work.

Summary: While researching a case, the Winchesters interview a psychic who gives them an unsolicited reading and divulges secrets they would rather keep to themselves. Since the incident, a strange tension has settled between them; but Dean, Doctor Let's-Pretend-None-Of-This-Ever-Happened, has no idea why. Or maybe he's just ignoring the obvious…

PART I: SARDINES IN THE CAN

They were in a police station, again.

Arrested for breaking and entering into the town's museum after hours. Not only did they not burn the tomahawk belonging to a pissed off war chief, awaken by building work on his village's burial ground, but now Mister F.B.I. himself, their personal stalker, Special Agent Victor Henricksen was on his way!

And what was more humiliating? They were in this mess because of a motion detector. A motion detector! John would roll over in his grave if he had one.

Dean looked around at his surroundings with a frustrated sigh. They had been off their game for a while, but they still managed to get the job done, so he had overlooked the problem, thinking it was just a phase, nothing major. Now they were handcuffed to tables in Cop Land, 5-0 headquarters and Winchester purgatory.

Normal folk wouldn't have ignored the signs. They would have taken a leave of absence, or maybe done something as innovative as trying to get to the bottom of the issue. Not the Winchesters. Not when so many people needed saving. They kept going, with half-healed wounds, too little sleep, and now this. This…thing, hanging over their head like a Donicles, Dimacles*, whatever, some Greek guy's sword.

The…thing had happened a month ago in the course of a hunt. Damn psychics; with their piercing eyes, their detestable habit of spilling out everything they sensed, with no regard to the fact that you might want to keep some of that to yourself, and the way they took one look at him and just knew.

Like all of her counterparts Dean had stumbled upon in the past, the one in Fort Dodge, Iowa had seen right through him. When questioned, the old crone had replied that she had nothing to do with the mysterious deaths of three desperate clients who had visited her hoping for good news about their long-estranged spouses.

She blamed a nearby witch, who had sold the deceased black magic spells in the form of harmless-looking crystal stones. The crystals were supposed to reunite them with their better halves. Only the stones were targets the witch had put on their backs to sell them as blood sacrifices so she could settle her debts with the demon that renewed her powers every decade.

The psychic had turned out to be right about the case, but that was beside the point. His issue with the nosy old bat was that before unlocking the doors of her patchouli-stink filled cave, she had started running off at the mouth like a fishwife, jabbering about things she had no business disclosing, and giving them an ill-timed reading neither had asked for.

The rusty chatterbox had grabbed Sam's hand, prattling on about love, soul mates, courage, the importance of "living your truth", and other gibberish Dean didn't understand. He found her irritating, but he still would have laughed at her words if Sam had not looked like a deer caught in the headlights a second before it was run over by a truck.

Then she had started in on him, ignoring his "stow the tea leaves sister, unless you know if the Jayhawks are winning the season" to rattle on about how he'd never find solace on his "dark lonely road" as long as he "closed his ears to the calling in his heart" —why did people insist on speaking to him in riddles?— and about a bunch of crap he never wanted Sam to hear about.

He had managed to shake her before she mentioned names and genders. It had been a close call, but his secret was still safe, so in true Dean Winchester fashion, he had swept the whole thing under the rug, hoping they could put the incident behind them.

Unfortunately, a strange discomfort had settled between them since that day. It felt like nervousness and confusion glazed with a sticky layer of shame. It made them absent-minded and forgetful in everyday life, and walking disasters on hunts. It made Dean's head spin with thoughts he refused to entertain, but could not seem to shut off.

It made Sam act weird, well, weird-er than usual. Like the way his eyes slid down Dean's frame, when Dean came out of the shower, or was in various states of undress. The enigmatic looks Sam gave him across the table at their usual roadside diners, before staring back at his plate of rabbit food, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar when Dean looked back at him with a question mark on his face. Or the way he kept storming out, looking aggravated, wounded, or both, the second Dean started chatting up some frisky bar wench.

Dean hadn't gotten laid in five weeks because of Sam's bitch fits. Obviously Samantha was going through that time of the month… all month. But all kidding aside, Dean hated seeing his brother sad. He had taken a break from rubbing his conquests in his face, convinced that going through a dry spell was worth it, since it seemed to help Sam's mood.

Sadly he had yet to find a solution to his own problems. Ever since the grizzled fortune-teller had stirred up all the feelings he had worked so hard to push somewhere hidden, they had exploded back in his face; and now were pestering him like bees at every waking moment, buzzing the same distracting song in his ears over and over: What if she was right? Don't you wanna find out? Coward!

Shut up! Dean screamed to himself. That is exactly what was wrong with him these days. He was obsessing over some palm reader telling him he should make a move on "his beloved" before it was too late, instead of thinking of a way to get them out of here before the F.B.I. showed up.

He stretched his neck to look at his brother who was on the other side of the room. When he caught his eyes, he winked at him to let him know that they would find a way to Houdini their way out of the precinct before Sam had to worry about being traded for smokes on a prison yard. Sam's frown smoothed out almost immediately and he nodded with a small smile, encouraged and slightly relieved by his brother's apparent confidence.

"You need to use the bathroom, Winchester?"

Dean looked up at the officer and replied "Yes", automatically. If he had learned anything from his numerous arrests, it was that this was his last chance to smuggle in the makeshift lock pick he was hiding in the hem of his jeans.

"We're keeping you here 'til the Feds arrive."

As soon as the door was slammed behind them, the career fugitives looked around and quickly assessed the situation. The good news: they were in an empty interrogation room, not a holding cell, so there were no bars on the window; the perks of being booked in a town too small to have enough space to properly house all its troublemakers. The bad news…

They took a step in different directions and groaned. They were chained by the waist and hands so tight, they were bound to hit the dirt if they didn't coordinate their moves together.

"Let's try and sit down." Sam suggested.

"We're not sitting down! I'm thinking of a plan B."

"Plan B? What's your plan A, Dean? Oh, never mind. I'm not staying on my feet for hours. It'll be easier to strategize once we're sitting down."

Dean clenched his teeth. He hated that 'sensible-grown-up-talking-to-a-rowdy-kid' tone Sam used on him when he was freaking out on an airplane, or…well, now.

"Nyah, nyah, nyah." he muttered petulantly. Could Sam not see this was not going to be possible? The kid could be such a know-it-all pain in the ass. He should really grow the cojones to just tell him, "no, not happening, no way, and that's that!" Eh, maybe tomorrow he would fight that battle. "How are we supposed to sit, we're practically chained face to face."

Sam sighed. "Come on, let's just… get to the bench. We'll figure it out. Please?"

Why the little… did he use them on him on purpose? The 'don't kick me out in the cold, I'm so cute and hungry; woof!' eyes?

"Dean? On three. One…"

Of course he did. Puppy dog eyes always won.

"Two..."

They shuffled toward the bench, bent their knees and...

"Three!"

"Dammit!"

Sam was sitting down but Dean was leaning on his hip, the tip of his boots scraping the floor as he tried to recover his balance.

"I told you, we can't both sit down!"

"Alright. Um…I have an idea. I'm going to lean back so you can get on top and…"

"I'm not sitting on your lap!"

"Dean, come on. I'm not seeing another option here."

"You sit on my lap."

"We'd have to start over, Dean, and I'm already on the bench! And you're always telling me that I'm so heavy. And I'm…"

"If you say taller Sam, I'll kick your ass."

"Okay you're short." Sam snapped to distract his brother, knowing the words made him crazy, while he leaned back, forcing Dean to slide on top of him.

"I'm not short." Dean gnarled. "I will have you know, that I'm quite tall. You're… you're the overgrown..."

Sam pulled himself up without missing a beat. "Sit down Dean." he instructed, knowing his brother had no other choice but to cooperate at this point.

Recalcitrant but out of options, Dean moved, placing both his legs around his brother's waist. "Damn Gigantor." he grumbled while Sam chuckled, very happy with himself. The devious little... He quickly lost his train of thought when a puff of moist breath warmed his cheek.

Sam cleared his throat. Their faces were so close…what was he saying about strategizing again, and good God, was it getting hot in here? He kept moving his hands, trying to hide the tent forming in his pants, making the chains rattle between them. He couldn't believe this was happening, here.

"Sammy, stop fidgeting, you're slicing my wrists."

"Oh, sorry."

Sam moved his head and bumped into Dean's nose.

"Ow!"

"S… sorry."

"I knew this was a bad idea! We're like sardines in a can. Only there's no oil to help us slip out of these…"

'Sardines in a can' was possibly one of the stinkiest, unsexisest thing Dean had ever thought about, and somehow his brain morphed the unsavory image into a picture of the two of them, naked and sliding all over each other, dripping with that fancy massage oil Sam hid under his bed —the little pervert thought he was so smart, but every time Dean smelled that

sweet almond scent, he knew what naughty activities Sam had been up to in his absence—. Dean got so hard so fast, he felt his upstairs brain shrink as blood was rushing south.

"Dean?"

"How the hell are we supposed to get out of here, Sammy?"

* Damocles sword

Part II – Saved By The Pin