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Title: Sure Got a Dirty Mouth Chapter 108 (Part 3): Gimme Shelter
Author: justinedelarge
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Word Count: 2.383 for part 3 (12,125 for the entire chapter)
Warnings: None
Summary: So many things happen. This is a LONG chapter. Very long. So long, I had to split it into THREE parts here on LJ!)
Disclaimer: I don't own what I don't own. But I do own what I do own, such as my original characters and my plot.



When Reggie had returned to bring Juliane to examine Marcus, the boys took the opportunity to sneak back to their room for some private time.

"Come here, Ritchie Rich." Dean twisted a fist in Sam's shirt and tugged him gently down the hallway to the bedroom.

"Is sex all you ever think about?" Sam allowed himself to be pulled along.

Dean turned around and stuck out his hand. "Hi, I'm Dean. Have you met me?"

"You think you're so funny." Sam smacked Dean's hand away playfully.

"I know I'm so funny."

"Funny looking, you mean," Sam retorted.

"Are you gonna just stand there busting my balls or…"

"Or..."

Dean grinned, clearly thinking of something else Sam could do to his balls. "Come here, you." He yanked Sam into the bedroom and tossed him on the bed, pinning him down.

Sam arched his back, rubbing up against him. Dean tugged Sam's shirt off, leaving it tangled around his wrists above his head, holding them down with both hands.

Panic flashed across Sam's face. That place. The warehouse. The restraints biting into his bleeding wrists. "Dean?" His voice was thick.

Dean immediately released him, and flopped over onto his side next to Sam. "Shit. Sorry."

Sam rubbed his wrists like he expected them to be abraded and bleeding, even though Dean had barely gripped them. "I'm ok."

"You want to stop?"

Sam took a deep breath, letting the bad memory dissolve into nothingness , picturing it disappearing like frost on a windshield melting away at the touch of the defrost button. He reached for Dean and pulled him down. "Hell no. Don't stop."

Dean loved Sam's nipples. Delicate and resilient at the same time, hardening under Dean's touch or his breath ghosting over them, and so very sensitive. Dean straddled Sam's hips and lazily toyed with Sam's nipples. "Pretty little rich boy." He dragged his mouth over them, nipping and licking at one, then the other. "Gonna buy you the biggest bed and softest sheets in the world, Sammy." He traced little circles around them with his fingertips. "Get you drunk on Champagne. The good stuff. Feed you caviar and whatever else pretty little rich boys eat." He pinched lightly, making Sam gasp. "Then I'm gonna lay you out on those soft sheets…" Dean watched Sam's face, reveling in the expressions he made as Dean talked dirty to him, knowing how much Sam loved it. "…and I'm gonna fuck you so sweet…" Sam moaned, spreading his thighs wide, thrusting his hips up, asking for it.

"That's what you want, pretty little rich boy?" Dean's voice dropped a few notes lower. "Gonna beg me for it?"

Sam moaned, arching his back, then his eyes lit up with an idea. He raised his arms overhead and crossed them at the wrists, as though he were tied up. "I can't move," he whispered.

Dean's pupils widened, and he bit his lower lip. "That's right, sweetheart," he said. "You can't move. Can't get away. You just have to lay there and take it."

Sam arched his back, keeping his wrists in place, even though he had complete freedom to move his arms, to get away. "Please," he whispered. One of the most beautiful words in the world, in Dean's opinion, coming from Sam's lips.

Dean went to town on Sam, tormenting him with pleasure, playing with the way Sam was wired where a little bit of pain could be a hell of a lot of pleasure. He closed his teeth over Sam's hard nipple and bit down slowly, carefully, increasing the pleasure slightly until Sam begged him for more, arms over his head like he was Dean's captive; biting harder again until Sam gasped and arched up into it, trembling but showing Dean he wanted it, could take it; rutting his cock against Sam's, so hard and so ready, until he gasped and cried out.

"Careful, Sammy. They can hear you. Remember?"

Sam blushed to remember how they had only recently learned that all their previous sessions had been heard by everyone in the Sanctuary.

"Gotta stay quiet, baby."

"I know," Sam whispered.

"Can you do that?"

"Yeah," Sam said unconvincingly.

"You sure about that?" Dean grinned wickedly.

"Oh, fuck," Sam whispered at the look of determination in Dean's eye. He knew what he was in for.

Dean stripped off the rest of Sam's clothes, and his own as well, setting their knives together on his bedside table. "Remember. You're tied down." Sam squirmed in his imaginary restraints. "And don't scream."

Dean pulled out every trick he had to get Sam to make noise, and Sam struggled with every ounce of strength he had to stay quiet, to make only the soft little whimpers and cries that only Dean could hear. Dean pinched and bit Sam's nipples, while his right hand stroked Sam's cock, slicked with lube, until Sam was shaking, on the edge of orgasm, then Dean backed off….and did it all over again until Sam gleamed with sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead.

He hiked Sam's hips into the air so his weight was on his upper back, and ate him out, tongue slowly lapping at his ass like he had all the time in the world, penetrating him with the tip of his tongue, stabbing it in as deep as he could possibly get it, fucking Sam with his tongue, then back to slow swipes and twirls of his tongue, all the while stroking his wet fingertips up and down the underside of Sam's cock where he was the most sensitive. Sam kept his arms crossed at the wrists and his hands pinned against the pillow, while the rest of his body thrashed and writhed until his hair tangled into a sex knot at the back of his head.

"Shh, sweetheart. Gotta stay quiet. Don't want anyone to hear you, right?" Dean circled his thumb over the head of Sam's cock, making him spasm and bite his lip. "Don't want them to know what I'm doing to you. Hear how fucking good it feels." Dean leaned down and took Sam's balls in his mouth, slipping his index finger in Sam's ass.

Sam couldn't stop himself. He cried out, loud enough for someone to hear if they were walking down the hall.

Dean grinned wickedly. "Hush, Sammy." He crooked his finger, rubbing the exact right place in the exact right way.

Sam bit his lip and groaned, stifling the loud cry he wanted to desperately to make.

"Gotta…stay…quiet…" Dean punctuated each word with a thrust of his finger and a little flick of the first joint towards him as he pulled back out. Sam grunted with each movement, fists clenched, the need to stay quiet heightening the sensations Dean was causing in him.

Dean lowered Sam's hips to the bed and crawled between his legs. He took Sam's cock in his mouth and added a second finger.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Dean." Sam shivered.

"Shhh." Dean positioned himself just right, so he could work the fingers of his right hand inside Sam, raise and lower his mouth on Sam's cock, and flick and pinch Sam's nipple with his left hand.

Sam threw his head back, tendons in his neck standing out, his chest flushed pink. A muffled cry sounded from his clenched teeth. "Fuck… oh fuck…I can't…Dean…"

Dean raised his mouth up, wicked green eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Don't scream, Sammy." Then he lowered his mouth and resumed his slow sweet torture. Sam moaned and gasped and babbled, gritting his teeth and trying so hard not to make any noise, writhing and begging Dean to stop, to go easy, even complaining that Dean was being inhumane, but Dean loved bringing Sam to this point, incoherent with pleasure, finding his limits and letting him soar past them.

Finally, Sam broke. He sat up, breaking the illusion of his imaginary shackles, and flipped around, sinking his mouth down on Dean's cock to muffle the sounds he had to make or die. Dean shifted into a sixty-nine position, putting himself on the bottom, and took Sam's cock back into his mouth.

His hands stroked the soft skin of Sam's ass, his strong thighs, the curve of his calves. He reached up quickly and pulled a pillow down so he didn't have to hold his head up so high, and settled back down, encouraging Sam with his hands to fuck his mouth.

Sam moaned on his cock, thrusting himself into Dean's mouth. The vibration intensified the sensations Dean felt. He gripped Sam's ass, pulling his cheeks apart, and took Sam as deep into his throat as he could, urging him to thrust faster, deeper, wanting to make him fall apart for Dean, wanting to make him scream. Again, he slipped a finger into Sam's ass.

Sam cried out, again and again, Dean's cock acting like a gag muffling the sound, making Dean in turn cry out, moaning on Sam's cock, which set Sam off even more. Their thrusts quickened, matched each other pace, making guttural cries of pleasure at the exact same time. Sam came first Sam always comes first, hands gripping Dean's thighs hard enough to leave faint bruises, came in Dean's mouth, came screaming on Dean's cock, the sound muffled by Dean's flesh, Dean swallowing, swallowing, not letting so much a droplet be lost.

Only when Sam finished coming and started sucking Dean's cock again did he allow himself to come. He dropped his head to the pillow, neck muscles aching from holding his head up so long, coming hard with his mouth wide open, yelling Sam's name.

Sam swallowed it all, stroking Dean's thighs, then pulled himself off and swung around to collapse at Dean's side, head on Dean's chest. He reached his hand up and laid his finger over Dean's mouth. "Shh."


As was their habit, after they made each other come like a force of a nature, they curled up in each other's arms and slept.

The phone in the living room rang. And rang.

Sam awoke with a start. "What." He rubbed his eyes with his fists.

"Phone."

"Right."

"Don't answer it." Dean pulled him closer. His hair stuck up all over.

"Got to." He pulled on his jeans, putting the knife on the belt immediately as had become their hard and fast rule, and shuffled into the living room.

"Hello?"

"Sam." It was Bobby. "I'm gonna head back to the Sanctuary, since there's not much for me to do here. Katherine made a copy of the notebook, and she's going to keep working. But I had to let you know. We got a lead. It ain't much, but it's something."

Sam seized on the note of hope in Bobby's voice. "What?"

"It was in one of the books she brought with her. A reference to a compendium of tablets buried in places around the world. Norway. Brittany. Iraq. Tablets about angels, demons, all kinds of things. Including the, what was it again, languages of the damned. She thinks it might be some sort of Rosetta Stone."

Sam frowned. "Remind me?" Sam knew about the Rosetta Stone in general terms, but he sensed the specifics here were going to be critically important.

Dean staggered into the living room wearing his jeans, with his knife in its sheath at his hip, and Sam's shirt. He flopped down on the couch across from where Sam sat at the table. Sam mouthed, "Bobby." Dean nodded blearily.

"A big rock, with the same exact decree carved into it in Egyptian hieroglyphics, Egyptian Demotic, and Ancient Greek. Before they dug up that thing, nobody could make heads or tails of hieroglyphics."

"Because we'd never seen them before." Sam remembered reading about the Egyptians in one of Bobby's old books. "They were ancient. And really hard to learn. Only used by priests and priestesses. And royalty."

"Exactly." Bobby's voice rang with pride in Sam's memory. "Katherine thinks this language may have been used for demonic religious rituals, only used among the highest of the high. Well, they're demons. So I guess that would be lowest of the low."

"Like Azazel." The most powerful demon to have walked the earth in modern times. Now destroyed. His human vessel and its shared memory, dead. "Wait—demonic religious rituals?" Sam circled back on that.

"Yeah. Humans have our religions, and apparently, so do demons. Not just inverting the Catholic religion, either, like your run of the mill Satanist. Katherine says it's its own thing that evolved at the same time."

"Weird."

"You ain't kidding. Anyway, so unless we can find us a living breathing high-ranking demon we can force to translate the damn thing or just give us the secret trick you boys need, we're going to need to find some kind of archaeologist slash hunter to find this tablet."

Sam inhaled sharply, remembering when he had asked Juliane what she had wanted to be when she grew up. That's what you were expected to do. What did you want to do? And her reply: I wanted to be Indiana Jones. Dean caught Sam's gaze, green eyes locked on his face, trying to interpret the sudden flash of realization on Sam's face.

Of course, Dean had that Harrison Ford charisma in spades, and suddenly all Sam could think about was Dean in Indy's fedora and brown leather jacket.

Bobby continued. "I mean, since there's no such thing as a scholar of demonic language."

Sam had heard about a light going off inside someone when an epiphany struck them. But he didn't know the experience could feel so literal. At Bobby's words, Sam felt lit up from within. He could almost see the light spilling out of him. His hand moved to his knife, always strapped to his hip while he was clothed, always within arm's reach when he was not.

Dean's hand independently moved towards his own knife at the same moment. His eyes went wide as he realized Sam had reached for his knife at the same time, feeling the same thing.

The knives were softly resonating in response to whatever was happening within Sam.

"A scholar of demonic language," Sam repeated. The knives practically purred in response to the light leaping within him, glowing, filling Sam with a powerful surge of purpose.

Author's note: I know this story is long and a lot of you are tired of leaving comments, or maybe think that they get old for me, but please know I love positive comments and communication with you, so please don't stop commenting! Comments and reviews make the effort of writing new chapters feel like it was well worth it, even above and beyond the rewarding feeling of writing them in the first place.

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Justine Delarge

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