Guilty Pleasure

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/30101064.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: Multi
Fandom: Supernatural
Relationship: Jack Kline/Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Characters: Jack Kline, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester
Additional Tags: Mind Control, Reality Bending, Extremely Dubious Consent, Plot What
Plot/Porn Without Plot, Double Penetration, Barebacking, Penis In
Vagina Sex, Bottom Jack Kline, Top Dean Winchester, Top Sam
Winchester, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Spanking, Rough
Sex, jack has a magic vagina
Language: English
Series: Part 5 of winkline bingo 2021, Part 2 of magic pussy verse
Stats: Published: 2021-03-17 Words: 6,442 Chapters: 1/1
 Guilty Pleasure
by hellhoundsprey

Summary

Jack has yet to grow tired of his secret little game with the Winchesters.

winkline bingo 2021 square 25: double penetration

Notes

"what they dont tell you is that ‘nephilim’ is actually enochian for ‘perfect cock sock and
cum dump’" —energist, 2020
Jack has built the habit of waking earlier than everyone else. Then again, he probably doesn’t
sleep quite like they do.

He might not even need to do it at all. But the repetitive pattern is—calming. Comforting.
That at least this little something, this bodily function, he shares with them.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Jack half-turns, smiles over his shoulder. Sam molds himself against his back, easy
and warm and tall.

Almost-serious, “You’re not supposed to have that for breakfast,” but his hand dips into the
waistband of Jack’s shorts immediately, blindly, and Jack swallows around the remnants of
his mouthful of cookie dough.

He murmurs, “Sorry,” and curls his ass out, hands on the counter of the bunker’s kitchen.

Sam slips his fingers low, through the soft folds of labia and gives a couple of strict circles to
Jack’s clit before he abandons it again. Has Jack almost-sighing and gathers some wetness
from his pussy he can use to grind one finger (and then two) up his ass with.

Non-questioning, “Dean?” and Jack nods, huffs, while Sam scissors his fingers deep and
wide. Sam clicks his tongue, shakes his head.

Jack swallows. Has arousal crowding back in on him, insistent and inevitable, and hears Sam
getting his dick out, stroke himself to fullness. Jack closes his eyes for the warm, huge kiss
Sam plants on his temple, for how he slips his mouth down, lower, to suck at Jack’s throat,
his neck.

The height difference forces Jack onto his tiptoes and he gasps for the sudden push-in, for
Sam casually holding the thin white cotton of Jack’s shorts out of the way. In an afterthought,
the boxers turn into some flimsy little number, red and elastic and Sam growls, low and
dangerous, and he skirts his free hand between Jack’s legs to tease his clit some more while
he opens Jack up on his cock, rocks himself in and in. Jack is still soft, still slick from earlier,
but it hurts in the best way.

Just this, this.

Low, “Good fucking boy, Jack,” and Jack hiccups with the thrusts, long and snapping and
forcing him against the counter, the dough-laced bowl, the plastic cup with the miserable
leftovers; rainbow sprinkles.

Sam kisses Jack’s mouth as if he’d like to get some second-hand sugar from it. Pulls out of
him and drags Jack along, into the library. Lays him out on top of last night’s research and
rocks his cock right back inside Jack’s ass, bottoms out like it’s no big deal, like Jack was
made for it, and in this scenario, he is. He truly is.
Moans, helpless, one hand on one of Sam’s wrists while Sam uses him like a fleshlight, rough
and uncaring. He rubs his thumb over Jack’s clit irregularly, too short to make it truly count
but often enough that it keeps Jack on edge, keeps him squirming and writhing.

Sam finishes inside of Jack’s ass, deep enough that it doesn’t spill immediately after he pulls
out. Pumps three fat fingers into Jack’s pussy, though, to bang out his g-spot for a beat or two
and yeah, there it is, and Jack flushes wild. The sensation is so foreign—to be leaking,
dripping, without control.

Sam admits, “Pretty dirty.”

Dean comes home in the evening; grimy with someone else’s blood. He gives Jack a frown, a
glance. “Where’s Sam?”

Jack doesn’t even know what explanation he dishes out. It doesn’t matter, ultimately.
Something involving books, because that’s what Jack assumes Sam does when he has some
hours to spend on himself. (Jack had sent him off to get some alone time; he feels guilty
about hogging them so much. Not that it stops him, but.)

Dean’s easy, always. Out of the two brothers, Jack feels like Dean would have needed the
least amount of non-magical persuasion. Fortunately, Jack doesn’t have to rely on rhetorics.

Dean’s shrugging out of his jacket, wipes at his nose. Frowns at the smear of blood it gets
him and is still caught in his disgust when Jack inquires, “Can I join you?”

“Uh, yeah? Sure, bud.”

Shower sex is complicated, but nice.

How the water makes everything warm and smooth, slick. It’s awesome for foreplay, Jack
thinks.

“Getting all that gunk on you, kid,” but Jack doesn’t mind. The water’s right there to take
care of that.

Dean hums, lets his head fall forward; forehead to forehead, and Jack runs the hand not
pumping on Dean’s cock through Dean’s hair. This is nice already, but what comes after bath
time is even nicer.

Dean murmurs, “Spoiling me,” and licks his lip, and Jack is heated with his own magic. How
it spreads all the way through the human in front of him, under Jack’s hands, Jack’s
administration. Knows Dean so well by now, inside-out.

Finally, Dean kisses him. Crowds him up against the tiles and hooks one of Jack’s legs over
his arm, helps him balancing his foot on the rim of the tub. Jack’s grip stutters for the easy
slide of two of Dean’s fingers into his pussy.

Appreciative, “Hm,” and, “you guys play house while I’m out there busting my ass?”
Jack tells him, “Sorry,” even though he’s not, but it doesn’t matter anyway.

Dean laps into his mouth, and it’s good. Hot and close and Jack moans, and Dean does, too.
Jack’s arm winds tighter around Dean’s shoulders in need of stability, of support. He gets
both, here, always.

Right up against Jack’s mouth, Dean asks, “Miss me?” as he makes it three, slips his other
hand down as well to guide one and then two fingers into Jack’s ass.

Jack nods, stupid.

“I bet.”

It’s different when Dean comes from a hunt. Mellow. Meaningful, somehow. Like a
celebration that he made it back alive.

He’s quiet. If it wasn’t for Jack, he’d be drowning all this in a bottle of booze. Jack likes to
think that, if given the choice, Dean would opt for—this, being close with someone like they
are. Maybe not with Jack, but. Jack’s here.

Later, Jack’s so out of it he doesn’t even hear the knock on the door, only Dean’s, “Yeah?”
and there’s no one else here tonight, and Cas wouldn’t knock like that, and Jack’s stomach
jumps hot for it.

Sam lets himself in; chuckles. Begins to strip out of his clothes. “Already got your warm
welcome, huh.”

Dean groans, “Dude, so warm,” and runs his hands down Jack’s flanks, rests them on his hips
to encourage a rocking motion. Jack gathers some mojo to push away his exhaustion. He
throws a smile back over his shoulder, at Sam kneeling up behind them.

“Things got messy. Didn’t feel like getting up.”

“Obviously.” Sam tugs at the base of the plug and Jack feels it shifting against the still-there
throb of Dean’s cock choked up in his pussy. “How many today, Jack? You don’t even
remember, do you?”

Jack admits, “No,” and flushes deeper, sheepishly. Gets Dean holding his arms down when he
attempts to reach back to help or stop Sam, and he huffs, and he—he loves this. Them, taking
what they want. What they need.

Sam teases, “So easy, Jack,” and Jack whimpers for the immediate spill once Sam’s removed
the toy. Feels Sam’s thumb chasing it, pushing it back where it belongs while Dean grinds
himself deep, makes more of a mess. Jack drops his chest way before Sam even gets a chance
to push his hand down between his shoulder blades.

“Fuck, Sam…”

“You’re still hard, right?”

“Oh yeah.”

Nonchalant, “Good,” and Jack closes his eyes, and it would hurt if this wasn’t him, if this
wasn’t—them.

Dean’s hands on his hips tilt and rock Jack back on their cocks, the slow push of Sam
pressing inch after inch home, one hand braced in the small of Jack’s back, keeping him
steady. Jack moans, caught. Gets his neck sucked at when he shifts, cranes it. Bares it.

“Oh, I’m—”

Dean interrupts, “Yeah,” and Sam bottoms out, and the swing of his too-full again balls
against Jack’s taint is nearly enough to tip him over.

He groans, “Sam,” and Sam doesn’t move further, doesn’t tease.

Swoops his hand lower, though, across Jack’s ass. Pinches him, and Jack blinks, caught off-
guard.

Low, “You trust us, Jack. Right?”

Jack manages, “R-right,” but when he finally looks back at Sam, the angel knife poised in his
other hand is—a shock.

Jack looks at the knife. At Sam. The knife. Sam.

The black stretch of his pupils in the weak light. The casual, honest little smile curling around
his mouth; the faintest sheen of sweat (just from undressing, getting his dick inside Jack).

Sam repeats, “Do you?” and lowers the knife until Jack can feel but not see the very top of
the blade, and it pokes his skin, and it’s—he, he didn’t plan this.

He didn’t. Right?

Again, “Yes,” and his heart hammers wild, and the first cut is quick and measured and it just
—stings, and. He’s going to be dizzy.

A wary, “Dude,” but Sam assures, “I got this,” and Dean is quiet again, and Jack starts to
shake.

He hisses.

“Almost done,” and sure enough: it’s over a moment later.

Jack quivers. Hears Sam shushing him, tossing the knife off the bed; how Sam squeezes the
unharmed skin close to where he carved, rubs like a soothe.

Dean inquires, “What is it?” and Sam tells him,

“A spell.”
Sam rolls his hips then, deep, and Jack seizes. The pain is—adding, to all of it; to the
pressure, the sensitivity, the…

“Binding spell. So little Jack here doesn’t get out of hand all the time.”

Dean scoffs, “Control freak,” but he’s the one tugging Jack’s hips along, helps him doing his
part, and. Its—so odd. So weird.

Like a string, pulled tight all around him. Keeping him in check, his powers, and.

“Missed playing with this,” and that’s Sam’s fingers threading between their bodies and
finding Jack’s clit, circling it. “So I figured—that should do the trick. How is it?”

Jack can’t think. “Wh-whu—?”

“You feeling good, baby?” and that one’s close, leaned-in and straight into his ear, and Jack
opens his mouth for a reply but Sam slaps into him then, long and heavy and so Jack barely
manages to blink, let alone make much more than a choking noise.

Iron. Blood. His blood.

“You like it?” and Sam’s fisting into Jack’s hair and Jack gulps something, anything, and
Dean noses along his jaw from below, along the drop of it, the quiver of his already-sore lip.
“Nothing but us, using you? Just how you like it.”

Dean groans, “Fuck,” and Jack feels it too—his powers’ impact fading, just a little, enough
that his body snaps tighter around their cocks like it’d be, biologically, if he wasn’t helping
along. Enough to ache, for them to feel it, and finally, the built-up single tear in Jack’s eye
drops and he sobs with Sam’s next thrust, and it’s—so good. So fucking good.

Growled, “There you fucking go,” and Sam’s pounding him fast, now, and Dean bite-licks
after the stray tear on Jack’s flushed cheek, and Jack fails to catch his breath.

Breath—oh.

He’s breathing.

“Good boy, Jack. Such a good little toy for us.” Sam leans back, both hands on Jack’s hips.
Moves him along, makes him meet his thrusts and rock down on Dean’s cock at the same
time.

Jack’s scrambling like a blind bug. Sensations come and—overwhelm him, and.

Eyes closed, brow furrowed, and the magic doesn’t entirely—slip from him. Held by the
seams just-so. Until he wriggles it back in place, and he is quick to figure out how to—how
he could…

But, no.

Not yet.
“Let me kiss you, c’mon,” and Jack raises his head despite the struggle. Kisses Dean right
back, out of breath and awkward, and he feels—real. Like this is real.

Less like he’s in control. Like they are really—

Sam yanks Jack’s arm behind his back; makes him drop on Dean and pins him, and Dean
brings both hands up to engulf Jack’s head, press him close and tell him, “Just like that.”

Jack sobs, lost.

It doesn’t hurt. Doesn’t sting. Not really.

Jack studies his backside in the mirror and traces the symbol with his fingers, half-turned,
frowning.

Considering how deep Sam cut, it should…

“Hey, what’s going on?”

Jack says, “Nothing,” and abandons his interest (for now). Climbs back into Dean’s bed
where the hunter is stirring, barely-awake, barely bewitched. Drowsy and cute and pulling
Jack back under his arm, no questions asked. Sam is less comfortable. Less of a snuggler.

Marginally aware, Dean ponders, “Hurts?” and Jack shakes his head, snakes his arm around
Dean’s bare torso. Warm skin, damp with too much body heat. Dean concludes, “Hm,” and
tucks Jack’s head under his chin, snuffles through his hair.

Jack giggles. “That tickles.”

“Yeah?”

Dean kisses him. Forehead first, then upper lip. The arm Jack isn’t lying on slips between
them, between Jack’s thighs. Fingertips where he’s still kinda sore and Dean rubs, easy, and
Jack flinches, and he sighs.

“How ’bout here?” Gentle, sleep-heavy. “Tickles here as well?”

Jack admits, “No,” and gets kissed on the lips for it. The added prickle of another night’s
worth of stubble growth digs into his chin and his eyes fall closed.

Dean doesn’t stop him from hooking his leg over his hip, from working himself against his
hand.

Sighed, “Feels good,” and Dean chuckles for that, and keeps stroking him.

It’s good. So good. Easy and warm. Dean’s rough hands, holding him. Jack kisses him wet.
Feels his own breath coming quicker, hotter.
“So.” Dean is all morning breath, all human. “I can do this for hours and you won’t…? That’s
kinda rough, innit,” and Jack’s enthusiasm falters, then. As he remembers.

“I—yes. I think.” Eyes on Dean, the lazy droop of his lashes. “That’s what Sam said,
right…?”

Dean notes, “Right,” and slides his fingers back and in, once, to get them slick. Keeps
circling Jack’s clit like that, and Jack feels his thighs beginning to tremble. “Only one way to
find out, huh?”

He doesn’t. He can’t.

Dean has him writhing, panting. Working himself stupid, but. Nothing helps.

“Dean,” he begs, but Dean just laughs.

Rolls himself onto his back and pulls Jack with him, makes him straddle him. “Wanna sit on
it, see if that helps?” and Jack already knows it won’t, but he’s moving nevertheless.

Tips Dean’s cock up with one hand and sinks down on it in one smooth move; rocks fast and
hard right away because oh, oh, it’s not enough, and again, he says, “Dean!” and it feels like
an accusation, and Dean laughs at him again. Lifts his ass counter-rhythmic to Jack’s frantic
moves but it’s no good, barely a tease, and Jack sobs with his frustration. The humiliation.

Gets a, “Baby,” and, “poor baby,” and even when Dean rubs him off while Jack’s bouncing
on his cock, it won’t get him—there.

By the time Jack’s ready to give up and hide, Dean’s awake enough to be interested beyond
teasing Jack for the fun of it. Makes him lie down on his stomach and straddles his thighs,
one huge hand in the small of Jack’s back and pushing down, and he says, “There, there,”
because Jack’s moaning low and exhausted for the push-in. Not pain, just…so much.

His blood throbs deep like it’s taking over his bones as well. Has him swollen and wet and he
gasps into Dean’s pillow, and his arm, and Dean begins pounding into him with enough force
to make the bedframe groan.

Gritted, “Goddamn,” and Jack just gulps his breath at this point. Choppy and teary-eyed and
when Dean comes, he doesn’t pull out right away. Leans down to kiss at Jack’s ear, wrangles
one hand underneath Jack to tease his clit some more, makes Jack clench and shiver and bear
down and Dean praises, “That’s it,” and Jack’s sobby, and filthy, and he’s tired.

The day hasn’t even started yet.

The shower helps; the prospect of yesterday’s dinner leftovers helps even more.

Sam joins them in the kitchen; beelines for the coffee maker. He’s showered, has been on his
run already. Dean hasn’t had enough caffeine yet to put together a new tease for his brother’s
morning rituals and just turns to the next page of the newspaper in silence.
Sam mumbles, “Hey,” and Jack’s counter-hey is muffled around Phad Thai with tofu. Jack’s
bare feet swoop across the floor as he swings his legs underneath the table.

Daytime is for hunting. Jack respects that. Some monsters require nocturnal missions, of
course. It’s not like Jack needs to play every night.

He has to admit though it’s gotten out of hand a bit, lately. All in moderation, Cas always
says. The dose makes the poison.

Sam gets comfy on the kitchen counter with his coffee, sips. A nod towards Dean: “You got
something?”

“When don’t we got something?” Dean sighs, slurps coffee. He points his thumb at Jack
without looking at him, without looking at Sam. “Let’s take him with us. Kid needs some
sunlight.”

“Oh! Thank you!”

“Don’t thank me yet,” and Dean’s brows pop high and his eyes do that thing where they
almost roll but don’t.

Jack grabs the suit Dean and Cas helped him pick out a while back, puts that on. He double-
checks himself in the mirror but in the garage, Sam ends up furrowing his brow, pulling a
half-smile, and taking him aside to retie his tie for him.

The older Jack gets, the more hilarious it seems to him that people like Sam and Dean and
Cas and himself so easily pass as FBI agents. Convenient, yes. But dumb. But humans are
kinda dumb, aren’t they? No—gullible is the word.

Dean snarls, “Don’t touch that,” and Jack puts the puppet back down before he says,

“I wasn’t touching anything.”

While Sam interviews the witness and Dean investigates the antique shop, Jack is left to just
stroll and be useless in general. The wall of clocks behind the register is a mockery—not
even ten in the morning yet. The brothers don’t usually do big lunches. Jack could eat. He
could.

He browses the shelves another time. Cursed object, maybe, Sam had said, and Dean had
agreed how if there’s one, chance that there might be a whole nest of ’em isn’t too slim. Jack
doesn’t know about any of those things. For a one-year-old, though, he considers himself
pretty educated. He doesn’t always understand what they try to teach him and surely can’t
always repeat it back to them five minutes after being told, but he recognizes. Part of him
understands.

They leave the shop without much of a result. Dean is frustrated. Which is excellent, because
it means they will grab coffee and donuts.

Donuts are awesome.

It’s starting to rain. Sam scowls at the grey street outside, huddles closer around his cup. “He
seemed legit.”

“I wow’t wnow, mwan.” Dean’s hand hesitates between the choices of either his coffee or the
next donut. He has yet to swallow his current mouthful. He goes for the next donut.

From Dean’s next garbled speech attempt, Jack puzzles together something along the lines of
how you should never trust a person who collects dolls for a living. Jack picks another donut
from their plate as well.

Cozy, this shop. The brothers have been here before, Jack thinks. The waitress knew their
fake names. Jack sips from his coffee and puts it down to add yet another swig of sugar into
it.

He likes—this. Just being with them. Their teasing and familiar jokes and just being
contented with each other, with Jack. Each other’s company, working together.

The rune Sam carved into him last night barely even hurts anymore. Jack’s pants chafe over it
when he shifts, but not too bad. A distant reminder. Jack chews, sighs. Elbow on the table,
chin in his hand. He watches the rain fall while the brothers bicker over a passerby’s footwear
choice.

Jack’s thoughts drift. Memories. Recent memories.

Dean, holding him close. Sucking him off and moaning low against Jack. It felt very nice,
even though Jack didn’t ‘finish’. Couldn’t, because of the rune.

Jack squirms his thighs a little tighter, underneath the table.

It didn’t take him very long after that initial witch spell to figure things out himself—how to
change his body to either this or that, or sometimes both, or nothing, or only some parts. It
happens fluently, like he imagines breathing should work in a human body. He doesn’t think
about it, most times. When he plays with Sam and Dean, he—well, it’s not a blatant rule he
decided upon but it’s what most internet videos show and what he feels safe with, so that’s
what he goes with.

He could make them like him in any way, shape or form, though. That is not the point.

More coffee. The nice waitress comes by, tops Jack off. He says thank you and Dean does
that thing he sometimes does when he considers a lady exceptionally charming—the cheesy
lines that make Sam cringe in second-hand humiliation and Jack just finds them funny, most
times. The ladies do, too.

Jack smiles as he watches Dean talk, as Sam tries to turn invisible on the other side of their
booth. He loves them. A lot.

It makes him a little sad, sometimes, that they don’t remember everything like he does. That
they don’t know how good they make Jack feel. How much fun they have together. But it’s
better this way. Jack knows that much.
Two hours and too much coffee later, their little squad has to admit to itself that it’s time to
move on. Dean is quiet, in the car. Dean is quiet a lot these days.

Jack inquires, “Are we going home?” and Sam opens his mouth to reject but he just ends up
blinking and not saying anything. Waits for Dean to decide for them, instead.

Jack can see Dean pondering in the rearview, hands on the wheel. How he chews the inside of
his cheek, flicks his eyes across the street. Weighs their options. It’s still pouring.

Dean turns the key inside the ignition.

“Not yet,” he decides and pulls them out of the curb.

Old storage units. Humans are weird.

Dean hollers, “Find anything yet?” and next to Jack, Sam barks,

“Jack squat!”

and Jack pipes up, “What?”

“No, it’s a—it’s just a phrase, Jack.”

“Oh.”

Sam explains, “It means ‘nothing’,” before Jack can even ask, and then he coughs again, a
lot.

On the other side of the unit, Dean jokes, “Told you to quit smoking, Sammy, it’s a bad
habit,” and Jack puts his palm to Sam’s still-heaving chest for him, applies some grace to
make it better.

Sam croaks, “Thanks,” and knuckles at the wet in his eye, the sweat and dust and residual
rain on his forehead.

“It’s nothing,” Jack assures.

There is a lot of stuff in here. Mostly children’s toys. You can hear varying tones of oh from
Dean, depending on whether the object he just unearthed makes him want to burn or steal it.
Sam opens another box and says, “Wow,” and closes the box again right away.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” lies Sam, and Jack knows it’s a lie, and he’s wet and dirty and it’s boring and
exhausting and he just. He doesn’t also want to be lied to.

So he does the only thing that makes sense.

Sam’s eyes don’t gloss over anymore, not even for a second. Jack isn’t grace-ing up a storm;
it’s still Sam. Just—a Sam who doesn’t think of Jack as a freaking toddler.

Sam grabs something from the box and holds it out for Jack to see: paper. A magazine.

“Skin mags,” explains Sam, dismissive. That withheld disgust because Sam isn’t like that, or
at least it’s important to him to display the exact opposite behavior of what his older brother
would do. Tosses the magazine back into the box and then places the whole box aside so he
can get to the one underneath.

Jack gets a side-eye for squirreling right into the magazine box but Sam doesn’t interfere
otherwise.

“Oh,” says Jack. Flips through—so, so many pages full of boobs.

Excessive amounts of cooch.

“Hey, don’t let him get a whiff of that, okay? Or we can forget about this entire job,” and
Jack nods, his face already flushed hot, and Sam frowns but leaves Jack be. Keeps looking
for—well, to be frank, they don’t even know what they are looking for, so Jack doesn’t feel
too guilty.

The magazines are old, like most stuff in this storage. Jack hasn’t seen the style of make-up
and hair the women show off. Props like phones and TVs look horribly chunky. So much
pubic hair. Jack drinks everything down, fascinated.

They leave the storage unit empty-handed. With more frustration, sure, but the exercise
helped mellowing that. Dean kicks the again-closed and again-locked door, hard.

Jack switched to the downstairs set that doesn’t make it as obvious how very present the
secret find still is in his current train of thoughts. It’s all a deep throb now and he feels a little
weak around the knees but the overall displeasure about their efforts’ outcome makes neither
Sam nor Dean notice Jack’s flustered state.

The car is downstairs, in the site’s parking lot. Overgrowth and moss and Jack wonders when
the last time anyone’s even been here before now. If Sam and Dean were old enough to look
at magazines like that back when they originally came out.

Jack doesn’t—mean to.

Dean grumbles, “Fuck this,” and, once by the car and unlocking it, he turns with his hand on
the door handle, and. “What were you doing back there, anyway?”

Jack lies, “Nothing,”

and Dean scoffs, “‘Nothing’ my ass.”

Sam ruffles Jack’s hair from behind, passes him. Mostly himself, still, but Jack’s control still
drags him along. “Let’s say our good Mr. Miller did not only indulge in children’s games.”
Dean frowns, thinks.

Sam opens the passenger door. “Porn, Dean.”

Dean’s mouth opens. Sam climbs into the car.

Dean points at Jack, raises his brows.

“Young man? Not cool. Not cool at all.”

Jack flushes a little harder. “Sam said not to distract you with it.”

“Dis—? Oh, you snakes!”

Dean fights the visible urge to sprint back upstairs and break into the unit again. He ends up
glaring at Jack though, just clenching his fist. He holds on to the Impala with the other hand.

“Get your ass in the car, boy,”

and with that, Dean hauls himself behind the wheel, and Jack makes haste to get in the back.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Shut it.”

Jack buckles up, squirms. The rune aches faintly, in tune with the throb between his legs.
Sam buckles up quietly, clears his throat. Slight guilt maybe that Jack got in trouble. After all,
it had been Sam who had told him to keep it a secret in the first place.

When Dean is like this, it’s the closest to when Jack has full power over him. When Jack’s
grace guides every one of his moves, his words. Mean and strict and that glare, that set of that
mouth.

Jack really doesn’t mean to.

Dean has both hands on the wheel already, ready to take off. Throws a glare at Jack in the
rearview, and. It’s not like they were gonna find a solution to this case today, anyway.

“Take your fucking pants off.”

Sheepish, “Okay.”

Jack has barely gotten them untangled from his feet by the time Dean’s climbed out the car,
yanked the backdoor open to get to Jack. Snaps his finger and barks, “Move,” and Jack does,
half-shoved, half himself.

Sam switches to the driver seat, turns the engine on; pulls them onto the road. Jack trembles,
head to toe. Oh, he is wet. It’s bad.

“You didn’t get enough yet? Is that it?” growls Dean as he pulls Jack close by the hips,
stomach-down and stammering and Dean folds him over his thigh like that, one forearm
across Jack’s lower back to pin him in place and he keeps glaring at him, brings his hand
down over Jack’s marked ass cheek once and sharp, cruel.

Jack’s throat seizes so bad his yelp doesn’t make it past a squeak.

“How about some appreciation, kid? Some goddamn respect?”

More spanks. Sting, burn—Jack’s breath catches in his throat. He can’t look away from
Dean’s face, neck twisted so he can look over his own hunched shoulder. He splutters, “I’m,
I’m sorry,” but only gets another for that, a series of them. Sam keeps driving. On-ramp for
the interstate, the purr of the engine.

“Can’t fool me,” warns Dean, and plunges three fingers up Jack’s cunt. “Hear how soaked
you are, you little whore? Hear that?” and Jack sobs, because yeah, yeah, he does.

Dean keeps fucking him with his fingers while his other hand picks up where he left off with
the slaps. Different angle, different spots of skin, and Jack—feels himself drawing tight on
every hit, no control over that. He whimpers, splayed over the backseat and slipping,
struggling—to stay on the seats, across Dean’s lap.

Dean gets his available leg hooked over the back of Jack’s knees to keep him in place. Keeps
snarling, fingering. Spits and smears that with his thumb, pushes that one up Jack’s ass.
Roams his free hand over the damage he caused, squeezes and pinches the heated, sore skin,
and Jack can barely breathe it feels so good.

“You can show me how sorry you are in just a second.”

Back at the bunker, the parking garage. Dean drags him out of the car but they’re not getting
far—one of the nearby oldtimers and Jack gets pushed up against that, his arms twisted.
There’s that familiar snap of a pair of handcuffs but they’re on him, now, and a Nephil of
course can’t be held by those but Jack can, if he wants—and oh, he wants.

It’s always—kind of a surprise what will happen. Like placing a marble in a maze and
shaking it about real good.

Sam gets out of the Impala as well, Jack thinks as he is slammed on top of the hood of this
other car. Cool and dusty even through his shirt, his suit jacket, but Dean kicks his feet apart
right now, so Jack can’t care that much.

Zipper and more spit and Jack pushes to the tips of his toes in his good shoes and Dean
growls, “Yeah, you know exactly how you can show us best how sorry you are,” and then
he’s pushing in, finally.

Oh, that rune is—something.

Another zipper and, “Get him on the hood,” and Jack still hasn’t adjusted to the penetration
when Dean’s already pulling out again, slaps his ass a couple more times before he
maneuvers Jack to his little brother’s liking, and Jack soon realizes why.
On his back and pulled aside, Jack’s head is close enough to the side end of the car hood for
Sam to crowd against him, cock-first. He scratches through Jack’s hair before he grabs a full
fist of it and croons, “There you go,” and Jack looks up at him, overwhelmed and happy as
Sam slides right into his quickly-offered mouth, past his tongue and uvula and just—down.

It still hurts where Dean hit him but the twist of his arms is weird, too, pinned and twisted
and his entire weight is on it, on his back; Dean’s yanked him down so his ass hangs off the
car as well, so he can plow back in with one hand in the back of Jack’s knee to hold it up,
away. He uses the other to smear the next gob of spit fat over Jack’s clit. Thumbs at it hard
and steady and Jack’s body stutters, and Sam tuts at him as he fails to swallow around the
girth of his cock, as he seizes and struggles to accommodate them both.

“You sorry yet, kiddo?” and they laugh as he moans, helpless. “You heard that, Sammy? I
think he just asked for your cock up his ass.”

Sam croons, “Manners, Jack,” and taps his now-slimy cock over Jack’s splutter-coughing
mouth. “Ask real nice. For real, come on,” and Jack whines as Dean keeps hammering into
him, sticks his tongue out and purses his lips to worship Sam’s cock, get it back in his mouth.
“Beg me for it.”

Jack tries, “Fuck me,” but they just laugh again, and Sam rubs his cock over his lax, messy
lips. “Please?”

“You can do better,” coaxes Sam. Only dips into Jack’s mouth once, to bulge his cheek out
from the inside. “Tell me where to put it. What should go where. Full sentences, Jack.”

“Put your dick in my ass?” Appreciative groans. “Fuck my—fuck my asshole with your
cock? Hard?”

Sam teases, “Look at you all cute and polite,” and Jack gets that dick taken away for good,
gets an unsuspected slap to his face. Not the light kind.

Dean grinds in a last time before he pulls out again, steps back. “He’s still pretty open from
last night.”

Sam offers, “Good,” and they switch places. Jack tastes himself on Dean’s cock, gets the
tears thumbed out of his eye, gets his cheek cradled. Dean looks down at him with pure fake
affection, mouth pursed and tutting while he’s balls deep in Jack’s throat, pets at the bulge of
himself from the outside. Jack blinks up. More. Yes.

Yes.

Sam lines up and pushes forward and Jack seizes; hurt. Baffled, “Jesus,” from Sam and Jack
shudders with his heaved breath, the hurried attempt to focus his grace on lubrication where
humans usually don’t lubricate—only succeeds partially with the rune in the way, limiting
him, and he doesn’t make Sam stop but he makes him go—slow. Slower than usual.

A low rumble. Sam, undulating. Feeling.

He’s got one of Jack’s legs tucked over his shoulder, grinds himself in. And in. Slow,
deliberate shoves. Jack makes Dean pet his head, card through his hair. Hold still until Jack
can stomach—more, again.

Jack pants through his nose, into Dean’s pubes. A soft, gentle, “Easy does it,” from above,
from Dean.

“Bit off more than you can chew, baby?” Slow circles of a thumb over Jack’s clit. Jack
groans. “How’s that mark treating you, huh? You like being at its mercy? Under its spell?”

“Ate him out for half an hour this morning,” shares Dean, amused. “Not a peep. Poor thing is
all blocked up.”

“So it’s working,” huffs Sam, and he sounds pleased. Smug.

Jack whimpers around Dean’s cock. Gets his eyes shielded by Dean’s hand now as Sam can
finally move easier. Can work him open, push further. Almost all the way, now.

“Taking me so well. What a good little boy, Jack.” Jack whimpers. He’s tighter than usual.
The spell, for sure. “Letting us defile you like that. Slap you around like the whore you are.
Good little plaything,” and Jack nods, out of it. Eyes closed and blissed, full of both of them.
How he likes it best. “Jesus,” grumbles Sam, as he pulls out torturously slow, “fuck, look at
you. Look at how fucking open you are for us.”

Dean agrees, “Goddamn,” as Sam pushes Jack’s legs to Jack’s chest, folds him in the middle
to show him off.

Dean gets a hand in there to spread Jack wider, get them a full view of what feels like—god,
he can’t make himself close up. Split open and wet and sore, and Dean whistles, amused, and
Sam spits at him again so Dean can rub it all over his already-glistening gash, can sink a
bunch of fingers into his cunt, easy. He tucks them back out once Sam lowers Jack down
again, pushes his cock back up Jack’s ass again. Rubs them over Jack’s clit, though; that still
works with Sam in the way.

Jack moans. Sam is done teasing and truly pumps into Jack’s ass instead of just pussyfooting
back and forth two inches at a time. Careful, still, but Jack feels it building. Feels himself
relaxing, melting.

“Aw, he loves it so much.” Dean plays with his hair again. Strokes the fat head of his cock
against the inside of Jack’s indestructible throat. And, yes; Jack does. He does. “Tell Sammy
how much you love him fucking your cute little ass with his big fat cock, baby.”

“I—I, love it,” he manages, once let up, and Dean keeps cooing at him and Sam continues to
fuck him with an affectionate scoff, a distant slap to one of the already-sore spots on Jack’s
ass where he can reach after getting that other leg over his shoulder as well. “I love it so—s-
so, so much, Sam,” and Sam tells him, aw, baby, all real and tender and dancing on a laugh.

Jack doesn’t do this often, because he knows kisses are important. Because it feels dirtier (in
the wrong way) to make them do that to him; such a loving thing.
Even if something like this ever happened naturally between them, they wouldn’t be—like
that. With him. Nice. Kind.

So when he makes Sam lean down and kiss him, Jack pays special attention to it. To every
second of it, every move of Sam’s lips and Sam’s mouth and the grit of his stubble against
Jack’s smooth face. Dean’s precome trades back and forth between their mouths, thickly
coated in Jack’s frothed spit.

Dean’s hand is still in Jack’s hair.

“How’s my dick taste, Sammy?”

and Sam growls, “Freak,” and Dean snickers. Jack doesn’t make Sam wipe his mouth.

Playful, “Open for business again?” and he buries himself to the hilt once more as Jack nods
with his mouth already sighing open. Pleased, “Hmmm,” and Jack makes Dean close his
eyes, lets go of his mind just a little. Enough that part of his consciousness feels—this. His
body, getting taken care of like it deserves.

Jack speaks through Sam: “Let’s take this back inside. Bed?”

“Bed,” murmurs Dean, above. Lost. Dreaming. “Hm, bed.”

Jack lets him have it just a moment longer.

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