Disclaimer: The characters and settings of Angel, Buffy, and Supernatural belong to Joss Whedon, Eric Kripke, and other people who aren't me.

Timeline: Post “Chosen” for BtVS; post “Not Fade Away” for Ats; post “All Hell Breaks Loose, Part II” for SPN.

Warnings: graphic slash, language, lame humor, some angst

Notes: I started betaing a story for amjacob, and through our e-mail exchanges, an idea was born that refuses to be quelled: “Dean will totally save the world with his penis. Just wait.”

So there you have it. Blame her for giving me the idea, and I guess you can blame me if the porn isn't porntastic enough. I freeze up when it comes to sexin' the characters for some reason. This is me tackling the romance/porn-writing block that keeps getting in the way of my other stories, so concrit is more than welcome.


He always brought the desert in when he returned.

The howling wind grew louder and blew grains of golden sea through the threshold as a large silhouette filled the doorway, backlit by the reddish-orange hues of the setting sun. He stomped his boots on the worn boards of the front porch in a futile effort to banish the excess sand before stepping through, a bulging duffel slung over one broad shoulder. He kicked the door shut, muffling the wind's cries, and dropped the bag at his feet, sending up a puff of dust when it landed with a clanking thud. He tugged at the grimy, blue bandanna protecting his mouth and nostrils, letting it hang loosely around his neck. Then he simply stood there, allowing himself to be admired as a cocky smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth and he crossed his arms over his chest.

His gritty, green tee clung to his muscular frame in all the right places, golden skin flushed from the dry heat and merciless winds that had undoubtedly kicked rough flakes of sand at him all day. His biceps, forehead, and the upper half of his cheeks and nose glimmered with a fine layer of dust, granules reflecting the weak light filtering in through the high windows, stubble darkening the lower portion of his face. His loose-fitting jeans were wearing at the knees, dirty and sweat-damp. Smirk still firmly in place, he cocked his head a bit and rubbed a hand through his short, dirty-blond hair, back and forth, more evidence of the desert falling to the creaking planks of the floor with the action. Metallic green eyes twinkled with mischief and brimmed with attitude, and then his smirk graduated to a full-blown grin as he cocked a brow.

“You wanna' take a picture?” he asked in a low, amused tone that rumbled over the room and sent a shiver of pleasure through his observer.

Cocky bastard, but damn sexy, and he knew it, which was where the cocky came in. Vicious fucking cycle.

“It's hot in here,” Xander said hoarsely, clearing his throat and shifting in his seat on the ratty couch, trying to ignore the excitement that ran through him every single time his new roommate came in looking like a goddamn desert cowboy and grinning his grinny grin; trying to play it off and pretend he hadn't been staring.

Never failed, and he was growing weary of fighting urges he'd never even thought of having before they'd been thrust into this place. As if there weren't enough problems, this... confusion had to crop up and complicate things in such a foreign way. Subtle at first, idly appraising his physique and mannerisms and thinking that yeah, he could believe the tales of sexual conquests he'd shared. Then, it had gotten steadily worse as time wore on. Staring was a big part of Xander's daily routine, as were the traitorous thoughts that seemed to come out of nowhere and refused to be banished. Dreams had become fantasies he'd get lost in while awake, growing more and more vivid, and if Xander didn't know better, he'd say he was under some kind of spell. Well, he actually didn't know better, but for some reason he just didn't think that was it.

The terrifying truth of it was, there was a very real possibility his sexual orientation wasn't quite as concrete as he'd thought. Well established preferences and turn-ons had flown the coop and left behind some alien eggs that kept hatching new and freaky revelations. Confusing and beyond.

“It's the desert,” he returned wryly, still fucking grinning like he was about to be presented with the world's biggest slice of home-baked pie for no other reason than simply being Dean Winchester.

Xander would bake him that pie, too, damn it all... if they had an oven. And if he actually knew how to bake.

Xander shifted some more, the sofa's lumps he'd been silently cursing before Dean's entrance the least of his discomfort as the crotch of his jeans seemed less roomy than usual. He worked his jaw and tore his eyes away, deciding that looking directly at Dean lately was the worst idea in the history of ideas. And fuck, there were some ideas. There were thoughts and imaginings. Dean was filling his head so much more with each passing day, and Xander was sure his brain was stuffed full of the guy. Shifting sexual preferences or not, that really couldn't be healthy.

“Any luck?” he croaked out, his voice betraying his strain a little less now as he examined the uneven floorboards and thought really hard about sweeping.

That thought led to broomsticks and swaying motions that abruptly leaped to mental images of Dean's bare back rubbing roughly against the wood as Xander pounded into him, and Xander nearly jumped ten feet in the air with an unmanly squeak as he resolved to banish all thoughts of bad, dirty cleaning.

Not the first vivid image, and probably not the last, but no less shocking.

“Dude,” Dean said, and it was only then that Xander realized he'd been saying things beforehand, the low baritone that had been playing in the background of his horrifying fantasy suddenly absent.

Xander ran a hand over his face, absently fiddled with his eyepatch, then shoved both hands deep into his pockets as if he suddenly couldn't trust himself to not to grope and fondle at the man standing only feet away. Probably not too far off, since this whole thing had officially crossed into the realm of ridiculous.

“Um, what?” Xander asked, trying to find something interesting about the far wall. Surely something there needed counting or inspecting.

“I said,” Dean drawled, “no luck on thin spots or portals, but I did find some freaky ass cactus thing with water in it. Nothing attacked, either.”

Xander scratched at the side of his head where the strap of his eyepatch often caused irritation. “That's nice.”

“Yeah, it's awesome,” Dean shot back sarcastically, a hint of that amusement coming back into his tone, which caused Xander to frown.

Dean knew Xander was having attraction issues, and Xander knew he knew, but he'd been happily living in denial. No one knew anything because there was absolutely nothing to know. But denial, it seemed, was fed up with its tenant and rudely evicting him. And worse, Dean didn't seem all that disturbed by it, which was completely inappropriate. If he was uncomfortable, it'd be easier for Xander to squash all this nonsense and perhaps lock himself in a closet. Well, if they had closets. Metaphorical closet then, because, apparently, Xander was kinda' gay.

Shuffling sounds indicated Dean was done standing in one place, and Xander, who was still not looking at him, tensed when his boots thudded lightly over the floor, growing closer. He relaxed slightly when Dean passed behind the couch and plopped down in the rickety wooden chair off in one corner and began pulling his boots off.

The shoddy shelter they'd found themselves in about a week ago consisted of a single room. Four faded and worn wooden walls, and the only door was the one that led outside where, incidentally, Xander could not venture. A stained and tattered couch sat in the middle of the room, and that was about it as far as furniture went, aside from the chair Dean was sat in. An old wooden basin filled with water was positioned in front of that, reserved for bathing and washing clothes. A large circular hole was cut into the floor in the adjacent corner, ash and burned bits that had been left behind by whoever (or whatever) had constructed this shelter having clued them in to its purpose as a fire pit. A few feet from that was their “bed”: a pile of wool blankets with geometric patterns in darks blues, reds, and tarnished yellows that bordered on greens or browns, and pillows made of some material neither of the men could identify. Dean had said it felt like fleece, while Xander had insisted it looked like furry flesh of the demon kind. They decided pretty early on not to think too hard on it, unwilling to discard the small amount of comfort provided to them.

He was blessedly facing away from the washing corner, but promptly un-relaxed again when he heard the ripples and light splashes of water that indicated Dean was cleaning up. Which meant he was probably not dressed. Half-naked if not completely. Dean moaned a little in relief, the water not remotely cold, but still heaven to his sunburned and gritty skin, no doubt. Xander squeezed his eye shut and ground his teeth together, trying to think of gross and unsexy things.

Splash.

Wasn't working.

He took several deep breaths and looked longingly at the door, wishing for the nth time that he could leave. Leaving this plane or dimension or whateverthehell was pretty high up there on his list of things to accomplish, but at the moment, he'd give anything to be able to cross the threshold and just be outside.

A glance upward reminded him that night was well on its way, the small, rectangular holes high up on the walls allowing sunlight in and screwing any flimsy chances of insulation all to hell. Sunrise and sunset were the most bearable moments of each day, and the sun was almost done taking away the scorching heat that essentially left Xander feeling baked while Dean traipsed all over the place looking for a way out, soon to leave behind a bone-chilling freeze when it finished its descent.

Xander wiped his sweaty palms over the thin, damp material of his black tee and set to work, grateful for a task to focus on, no matter how brief. He kept his gaze averted from Dean as he went about sloshing away the remnants of his day, knelt down near the bedroll and fumbled through the pile of supplies that had collected there. Locating a Zippo, he palmed it and made his way to the fire pit where a half-empty bottle of lighter fluid sat next to a stack of wood Dean had gathered, having declared half the porch unnecessary on day one before he started ripping up the boards. Xander knew the rest of the porch was fair game if it came down to it, but they still had plenty to sustain them for another few days, along with a pile of dried up, alien plant life Dean carted back with him every now and again. He threw a few boards down into the sand, then tossed in several handfuls of what almost looked like straw, except for the fine green hairs covering it. A splash of accelerant, a flick of the lighter, and the pit flared up, orange and yellow light casting dancing shadows along the walls.

That done, Xander sat back on his knees and stared into the mesmerizing flames, trying to think of what else he could do to occupy himself.

A loud clearing of Dean's throat broke the silence, causing Xander to reflexively look over. He promptly released a mental string of curses when he caught sight of Dean rising from the chair in nothing but his boxers, water trickling from his hairline to his shoulders, glistening over his broad, muscular chest. A drop caught Xander's attention, pulling his gaze downward as it slowly traveled over Dean's firm abdomen before it was absorbed by the black cotton of his waistband. Too late, Xander realized he should not have watched that particularly evil drop of water, because now he was undeniably staring at Dean's crotch, and he could not for the life of him look away.

He licked his dry lips and forgot how to do things like accessing his higher brain functions, lost in a play of mental images, the malfunctioning screen in his mind stuck on one channel: all porn, all the time, starring Dean Winchester.

Dean on his back, splayed across the blankets, eyes half-lidded, lust-blown pupils sparking with fire, lips kiss-swollen as he stroked himself slowly, taunting his audience with that smirk of his that challenged anyone not to touch him, graphic descriptions of the things he wanted right fucking now, of the things he could do, spilling from his lips.

Dean attacking Xander, shoving him against the wall and crushing his lips against his mouth, callused fingers tugging and pulling at the obstacles of cotton and denim between them, hands never stopping as he stroked and kneaded all flesh within reach, grinding their erections together and tongue-fucking Xander's mouth while Xander tried to regain some kind of control over the kiss before deciding he didn't really want to.

Dean on his knees, Xander fisting his hair and bucking with reckless abandon, groaning and singing praises and biting his lip until it bled as Dean peered up beneath hooded lids, full lips smirking around Xander's cock.

Dean grabbing Xander's biceps and shaking him with a concerned look on his face, his mouth moving, but the words indecipherable. Who pushed the mute button?

No, wait...

Xander blinked. Once. Twice. “Huh?” he grunted intelligently, belatedly noticing his brain felt fogged and kind of ticklish as he continued to kneel on the floor in a stupor that was taking too long to shake.

“Dude, are you back with me?” Dean asked, worried gaze traveling over Xander's dazed, slack-jawed face carefully. His hands were still gripping Xander's arms like he was the only thing keeping him upright, and God his lips were so close.

Xander's coherency switched back online so abruptly, it nearly gave him whiplash, triggered by a blinding flash of panic when he registered the burn of Dean's touch, fingertips like live coals wrapped around his biceps and igniting other things that really needed to stay away from open flames. He shoved Dean hard, jerking himself back and scrambling to his feet as he panted for the breath he didn't know he'd been holding, his heart hammering at the walls of his chest for more than one reason.

His cock chose that moment to inform him it was impatiently awaiting some attention, straining against its denim prison, and Xander whirled around to hide it from Dean's view, a blush rising to his already overheated cheeks. Holy hell dimension, he was so screwed. No, not screwed. No screwing. Xander closed his eye and wiped a hand over his sweaty face, willing himself to calm the hell down. There was definitely something weird going on here, and not just his sudden swerve into gay or possibly bisexual territory. This was... intense. Love and lust were things he had experienced, but this was... something else. An exciting and completely horrifying something else.

Dean cleared his throat again and Xander refused to turn around. That was what had started this trouble to begin with, and no thank you, he had to politely but firmly decline the second invitation to attend the party of mortification for one.

“It's gonna' be dark soon,” Dean's voice sounded from behind him: low, silky, serious and not trying to be remotely enticing, but still managing it anyway. Or maybe that was Xander's suddenly oversexed imagination at work. “I'm gonna' walk the perimeter and take a piss. If you wanna' wash up, you should do it before it gets too cold.”

Xander nodded jerkily, back rigid, fists clenched at his sides. Dean's bare feet made softer thuds on the floor, and Xander puffed out a harsh breath of relief when he heard the hollow slap of the door announce Dean's departure.

He was grateful to the hunter for employing discretion when he'd spent most of his time since realizing Xander had a thing for him teasing in his own subtle-but-not way. He also resented the hell out of him for walking out the door without any trouble whatsoever. It was completely un-fucking-fair that he couldn't flee, that he had to rely on Dean's rare moments of tact to pull himself together.

Xander took several steadying breaths and pressed the heel of his hand into his erection, trying to will it into submission. It refused to heed.

Frustrated and suddenly extremely thirsty, Xander stalked over to Dean's duffel and knelt down to rifle through it, liberating a small flask of water. He unscrewed the lid and guzzled it greedily, the liquid barely soothing his dry, scratchy throat. A second's consideration as he returned the flask to the bag, then he decided against finding another. He couldn't afford to disregard rationing just because he was pissed, freaked out, and inconsolably horny.

He'd cracked a joke about Dean having been a boy scout when he realized all the things he kept stored in his weapon's duffel, several flasks and canteens reserved for holy water among them. They came in handy in a land where all water was considered holy and any containers were a sacred blessing. Additionally, Dean's bag of tricks came complete with random snack foods he'd tossed in there and forgotten about –- M&M's, unopened bags of chips and crackers, and a few other things that had a long shelf life... well, the M&Ms hadn't survived the heat, but Xander and Dean had gladly eaten the melted chocolate anyway. There were, of course, weapons aplenty, matches, quite a few accelerants, salt, rope, a first aid kit, mouthwash, a half-empty bottle of whiskey, and two extra t-shirts. The latter came in handy for sleeping in while their day clothes were hung out to dry, and extra pants would have been nice too, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

Xander grabbed the Listerine and swished some of it in his mouth, spitting it onto the floor to filter down between the boards before replacing the bottle. He zipped the duffel back up and stood, peeling off his shirt as he walked over to the basin. They were both careful about using a small tin bucket to soak a rag and wipe it over themselves so as not to sully the main wash-water too much; it was a valuable commodity, and common courtesy had them trying to keep it share-friendly for as long as possible.

Xander tossed his shirt on the floor and went about the delicate task of removing his jeans, trying not to make any unintentional promises to the sensitive flesh of his still pleading dick. There was no time for jerking off, he was sure, because Dean would be back any minute. Oh, how he would revel in the privilege of privacy if he ever made it back home. Not to mention running water and actual meals. And, oh yeah, sanity.

With a self-conscious glance toward the front door, Xander quickly removed his eyepatch and wiped the rag over his scarred socket, getting rid of the sweat and flecks of sand that had collected there during his long, boring hours of being slow-roasted in this hellhole. He dipped the patch into the bucket and wiped that off as well before putting it back on, sighing in relief at the temporarily clean feel and lack of itching. He went about relieving the rest of his body of its sticky, grimy mess, pausing when it came time to remove his boxers. He grit his teeth and pulled them down around his ankles, resolving to get it over with quickly. His cock's excitement increased when the rough material of the rag was brushed over it, and Xander once again tried to call up the most unpleasant, mood-killing memories in his well stocked arsenal.

Footfalls sounded on the porch just as he finished, and he panicked a bit, pulling his underwear back up with a few bumbling movements, dick still at half-mast. He dropped the rag on top of his clothes, discarded the barest drops of remaining water before refilling the bucket in the basin, then dunked the clothes and rag in. When Dean walked back in, Xander was wringing them out and preparing to hang them on the hunting knife Dean had plunged into the wall for such a purpose, Dean's dripping clothes right next to it on their own makeshift hook.

He heard the door slap shut and stood facing the wall for a long moment, palms flat against it as he leaned forward and let his head hang low, cursing the fact that he hadn't thought far enough ahead to grab his sleep-shirt from the back of the sofa. His boxers were certainly not up to the task of hiding his shame, so he allowed himself the time to concentrate on slimy, tentacled things and the like.

Dean didn't speak for most of the seemingly long process, but Xander could hear him shuffling around, the crinkling of plastic informing him that the hunter was pulling out the night's meal, then the rustling of blankets as Dean settled by the fire. Firelight, blankets, cuddling -- those things were worming their way into Xander's brain and absolutely not helping.

God, this was beyond ridiculous. Okay, so Xander could buy that being cooped up in the middle of nowhere tended to forge bonds quickly, but not like this. He knew things about Dean from stories they'd exchanged on sleepless nights, but he didn't really know Dean. A chance encounter as they'd literally crashed into each other trying to stop the same bad guy, and then there was portal badness. Too much had been revealed in those brief minutes before the world went topsy-turvy, and it had been pointless for either of them to try and deny their acquaintance with the paranormal, so that had been a quick and effective ice-breaker. Xander could easily see Dean as a friend, had even commented on such when they were both sure their respective brainiacs would be along shortly to rescue them. He looked forward to having a guy friend he didn't have to lie to whenever a strange emergency popped up, but this... Yeah, this was definitely going to ruin that. And probably what remained of Xander's dignity, too.

“Sam's safe with them,” Dean said in a low voice, like he wasn't sure he wanted to speak, or perhaps he didn't want to rudely interrupt Xander's weird wall-staring meditation. It was half-statement that hinted at part of a mantra accidentally spoken aloud, half-question he wasn't sure he could trust the answer to.

Xander reluctantly turned his head to see the muscled expanse of Dean's back, broken up here and there with scars that did absolutely nothing to detract from his appeal. Chicks dig scars, he'd informed Xander one night over small talk, and apparently, Xander fell into that category. Dean was sat cross-legged, facing the fire, munching on something blocked from Xander's view.

He swallowed over the lump in his throat and walked over to the couch to snatch up the dark blue t-shirt, and said, “We got him away from the warlock,” as he slipped it on.

Dean nodded and shoved a handful of potato chips in his mouth as if he couldn't care less, but he didn't look over, simply continued watching the dancing flames with a tense expression as they crackled.

Xander moved around to sit on the couch, not trusting himself to get within reaching distance of the other man any time in the near future. His stomach growled, but it was too full of muted panic to gamble with any kind of food at the moment.

“I told you about the Slayers,” Xander went on, giving into the one thing that was okay: the overwhelming urge to ease some of Dean's unending worry over his little brother. “And you saw how thoroughly Buffy pummeled that guy. I'm sure they're all buried in a bunch of books at the manor trying to figure out where we poofed off to and how to get us back.”

Dean's face relaxed ever so slightly and gave up a smirk. “Probably sleepin' in the friggin' books at this rate.”

Xander smirked too, in full agreement that the gang could be chipping away at this problem with just a tad more haste.

Dean's face flickered in and out of shadow, the daily smell of desert sage faded, replaced with a faintly sweet smell they still hadn't identified that came with the night, and Xander glanced up toward the small windows to see it was completely dark out now. Goosebumps formed on his flesh as if triggered into awareness by the sight, the cold settling over him. He pulled his legs up and curled them underneath himself, absently rubbing at his bare arms for friction.

He refused to give into his longing for the blankets and Dean's body heat. Sharing a bed had become a steadily increasing exercise in torment, and tonight, Xander was pretty certain all of his self-restraint had fled, leaving only a half-ass note of apology that let him know they were officially broken up. No siree Bob, he was not snuggling into those blankets for warmth. He didn't need to be warm. He was a soldier in a secret war against demonkind; a veteran, in fact, who had braved his parent's front yard in the dangerous wilderness of Sunnydale with only a sleeping bag between him and evil. He could rough it with the best of them, and yeesh, it was freezing. He didn't remember it being this cold last night and was struck with the wild notion that the weather was conspiring against him and his out-of-control libido.

Dean cleared his throat, and Xander frowned at the realization that he was doing that a lot, idly wondering if he was coming down with something. That was just the thing they needed. One of them getting sick, and he certainly wasn't thinking of playing doctor. Nope. Xander cleared his own throat.

“So, how does that prophecy go again?” Dean asked, shifting on the pallet as he crumpled up the empty chip bag and tossed it into the fire.

Oh, yeah. That.

Xander was firmly of the mind that whoever prophesied this particular prophecy had had their third eye poked out by an insane preacher souped up on pure evil. Coincidence? Maybe, but certainly not in any way an accurate predictor of future events.

“Patchwork savior, blah, blah, only the power of humanity to stop the rising dark,” Xander answered wryly.

He didn't really pay attention to the actual translation, but then, he'd kinda' been stuck on, “Huh? Me? Nooo,” for a long while there. Saving the world once was a fluke he could accept and be infinitely proud of. Saving the world because he was destined to was way out there in Yeah Right Ville. He wasn't destined for things. That was a Slayer gig, and Xander was pretty sure he was not one of those. His part was strictly voluntary and no one was allowed to foresee his future, thank you very much.

Of course, it hadn't taken much to get him on the front lines of the preemptive strike that had seen him and Dean in their current predicament. Just because he didn't believe he was destined didn't mean he wouldn't try.

Prophecy, schmophecy, he thought sourly. Here is me, saving the world by trying not to jump Dean's bones. It's all so clear now.

Dean made another sound low in his throat, this one almost sounding like a strangled whimper, and Xander eyed his profile sharply. Dean was staring down at the blankets, twisting a section of them in one hand, an orange flicker revealing the tightness of his stubbled jaw and the furrowed brows pulling at his forehead. Apparently, he'd grabbed the Jack Daniels when Xander wasn't looking because he was tipping the bottle back and taking a long swallow before he set it back down. His body was taut, muscles bulging and strung tight, the hunched posture Xander had at first mistaken for casual indifference proving to be stiff upon closer inspection. That was what he got for trying to not pay attention for once. Something was definitely not right with the hunter.

“You okay?” Xander asked.

Dean nodded shortly and cleared his throat yet again. “Just tired, I guess,” he said roughly, Xander registering for the first time that his voice was strained.

He tried to think back, replaying the bits of conversation for that same tone, but such a detail was difficult to recall. Then he saw the moment Dean erected a mask, self-assured smirk coming back out to play as he visibly worked to loosen his body, and Xander didn't know how he'd missed it before, the whole charade so obviously phony to him now. Though Dean was damn good at it, he'd give him that. Anyone else who didn't make an obsessive hobby out of scrutinizing the inscrutable would have been fooled for as long as Dean wanted them to be.

Anyone else, but not Xander Harris. One eye down, but still uncannily sighted, pal.

“You're not okay,” Xander insisted, debating over whether or not to march over there and eyeball him until he 'fessed up. His dick gave a little twitch in favor of that plan, so Xander stayed on the couch.

“I'm fine,” Dean said with an edge of hostility, like he really, really didn't like being called out, or maybe he just wasn't used to it from practical strangers.

Xander shrugged it off even as a twinge of worry crept into his gut. He could see things people tried to hide, and he could also tiptoe around the issue until it accidentally tripped up everyone involved. Living with a bunch of women who were too strong for their own good had made him a master of manipulation and sneaky emotional confessions. Mission: Chick-Flick Moment (affectionately named after one of Dean's little phrases) was well under way as Xander donned his covert manly mask and proceeded to grunt. Okay, no, he didn't grunt, but he thought about it, then decided it was a bit too over the top and might blow his cover.

If he was jumping on the first train of distraction so he didn't have to loiter too long at the puzzling sudden onset of attraction station, then so be it. They were stuck here for who knew how long, and if Xander couldn't banish Dean from his thoughts, he could at least focus on safer aspects of him. He forewent any attempts to broach subjects that might be the cause of Dean's upset until he stumbled over the right one, and instead went with the oft-successful plan of talking about his own issues. Well, one of his issues, anyway. Setting the mood for a vent-fest as he liked to say, because it rarely failed that lamenting dragged the problems of whoever happened to be within earshot out into the circle for a little empathizing.

“Ya know, I'm pretty sure this prophecy's bunk,” he started, looking at the wall as he relaxed further into the couch. He pulled his knees up to his chest and pulled his arms into his sleeves. “So, whatever the guy was doing with Sam, I wouldn't be surprised if he was reading some ancient seer's version of a prank. Probably nothing to worry about.”

As expected, Dean glanced over at him, his eyes difficult to see in the wavering light. “What makes you think that?” he asked, his tone equal parts cautious disbelief and hope, which had Xander thinking whatever reason the warlock wanted Sam was cause for major concern in big brother's book.

Whatever he'd needed Sam for, it had required his blood and thankfully not his life, because they'd found Dean's brother tied up and gagged, shallow cuts all over him. Why Sam, though, he still didn't know, and Dean hadn't been all that keen on sharing.

Xander shrugged. “That warlock didn't look all that tough to me. Buffy probably already killed him. World safe, and once again, I just bumbled my way into more trouble she'll have to rescue me from.” His voice grew distinctly more bitter as he remembered the backfiring part of his plan where he actually had woes that were going to suck the barely existent fun right out of the room.

Xander had gained quite a bit more confidence as the years progressed, and he'd done his fair share of helping out and got into less trouble over time, but even if years passed where he single-handedly saved the day, the second he screwed up, he was right back in Zeppo land. He couldn't seem to help it. Trying to constantly sidestep an inept shadow that had been cast by himself was a pain in the ass.

Xander chanced a look at Dean, whose face was once again carefully blank. “I don't think it's the warlock you're supposed to stop.”

Xander's expression turned questioning. “How do you know?”

Dean shrugged and turned back to the fire, picking up another board to poke at it, the flames crackling and dancing higher. “He didn't look too worried about getting killed. More worried about his little ritual.”

Xander thought back, recalling the way the weaselly-looking man had thrown himself in harm's way to protect the spell he'd been casting once it reached a point of self-perpetuation. A small ball of blue energy had been sparking and crackling in the midst of all the chaos, and just before the man waved his arm and opened the portal of desert doom, the ball had grown to epic proportions and exploded, sending comets of blue and white out into the unknown.

“Well, that's just great,” Xander mumbled sardonically, scowling down at his legs.

He was even less equipped to deal with magical world-endings. Unless you counted Willow. Oh God, was he supposed to stop Willow again? She didn't seem evil last time he saw her. She'd been the same babbling redhead with an air of guilt and repentance that would probably surround her until her dying day.

“Sam's...” Dean started, breaking into Xander's internal panic, then paused. He took a deep breath, like he was about to reveal his inner most secrets, and Xander subconsciously held his own. “Special,” he concluded.

Wow, that was way too much sharing, buddy, Xander thought as he exhaled harshly. Hold the revelation roller coaster and let me off these crazy tracks. Special could mean a lot of things. All his girls had their specialties, and he wasn't going to crack a short bus joke because what Dean had been willing to share about Sam told him the guy likely rivaled Willow in intelligence. Plus, Dean would probably punch him, and while Xander could hold his own, he was terrified of what any kind of touching could lead to. His lower half stirred again, and he wiggled a little, reminding his dick that he was being bitter right now, not horny.

“Yeah,” was all Xander said aloud, and, wow, apparently a frog had taken up residence in his throat. Weird sex vibes and demon hunters and warlocks, oh my!

Yep, he was losing his mind.

The nightly howling started, and it wasn't the wind anymore. That had died down when the sun left, as it usually did. Xander looked to the door, and sure enough, soft scratching could be heard just beyond the wood. Excited barks and yips followed shortly after, the locals coming to taunt the shack's residents since they couldn't get in for some reason both men had yet to determine. Dean had given up on salt lines quickly, the large gap beneath the door and the open windows making it impossible to keep the blowing sand out, much less keep lines of salt intact. Didn't stop him from trying to scratch devil's traps all over the place with bits of rock, or Xander from trying to do the same, etching protection symbols he'd committed to memory, but again, the sand had rubbed those away. They didn't know how the nightlife was kept out, they were just grateful for it. Didn't make it any less disturbing, though.

Xander sighed and pulled his legs closer to himself, lifting his shirt over his knees to cover them. “And the lullaby begins,” he muttered.

“I'm gonna' get us outta' here,” Dean announced, causing Xander to look back over at him. He was still poking at the fire. “You'll do your,” he waved a hand in the air, “hero thing or whatever, and Sam will be fine. We'll all be fuckin' dandy.”

He turned to level Xander with a meaningful gaze that promised he could back it up, but that swiftly turned into something else altogether. When their eyes locked, they found themselves unable to look away again, something almost tangible holding their focus. Xander's mission may not have gone the way he planned, but he had his answer nonetheless.

The air abruptly thickened with undeniable tension. Dean swallowed audibly and darted a tongue out to wet his lips, and Xander's cock filled at the sight.

He wished he didn't have the answer.

*~*~*

They wouldn't let him help with the torture.

Normally, a firm, “Hell, no,” wouldn't have stopped him. The Slayers had barely been able to restrain him, so intent was he on barging down to the basement for a little fist-to-mouth encouragement, and they hadn't really wanted to hurt him more than he already was. The wards, however, were more of an obstacle, and Sam was still cursing the fucking spells these people flung around like the shit was going out of style. He didn't know the literal magic words to get past them, and don't think he hadn't tried to pummel it out of someone.

All to no avail, though, so he'd been stuck getting a little history lesson in Slayer and Hellmouth lore from Giles while that arrogant Billy Idol wannabe got to go downstairs and do Sam's job. It was his goddamn brother that had gone missing in a flash of light, for fuck's sake, and he did not do well with being benched. Sam was a problem-solver, not a bad puppy that needed to be kept in a kennel for piddling on the carpet.

He'd ground his teeth and paced for the first couple of days, snapping at anyone that dared look in his general direction. Buffy said he needed to rest, needed to heal, but Sam didn't want a band-aid and a pat on the head, and she seemed to sense that pressing it would lead to violence and unnecessary breakage that would be pretty counterproductive. Sam wasn't stupid by any means, and while he knew most of these women could kick his ass without breaking a sweat, he couldn't bring himself to care all that much. Dean was not here, and that was all he really had room for in his head.

Time and exhaustion had finally worn his aggression down a few notches, though, and he'd apologized to all who'd been unlucky enough to cross his path once he got a few hours sleep. His determination was not something that could be whittled down by anyone or anything, though. He'd simply switched tactics, resolving to get in their good graces so there might be a little more intel-sharing.

They were kind enough to offer him food and shelter, and he found the energy to be grateful for that. As well as for the intervention that had saved his neck, though he still thought Dean would've had it covered. They'd subtly pressed the advantage his less hostile attitude presented with pointed comments and inquisitive glances, but he'd only given two flimsy words to explain himself: demon hunter. It was hammered through his skull at an early age that over-sharing was bad and evil, and that was extremely difficult to overcome after a lifetime of secret monster killing missions with an ex-marine father and an overprotective big brother.

They seemed to accept his explanation, at any rate, and their demeanors swiftly changed from hospitable to wary. Probably, they'd met a hunter or two before, so he didn't really blame them. The ones he'd met varied in specialties and tragic pasts, but they were all relatively the same when it came to seeing things in black, white, and red. He didn't have time to dispel any backwards notions about his own views on the gray areas, and he really, really didn't want to get into the whole psychic because of demon blood spiel. No thanks, he was still not quite done with his two-year-long freak-out over that himself.

Sam fidgeted in his seat and angrily swiped his bangs out his eyes, his dark, shaggy hair in disarray because he'd actually been managing a decent nap when he'd been awoken by Faith with a promise that they had news. He was barefoot and bare-chested, clad only in a pair of jeans he'd thrown on, his broad, sculpted chest and arms taut and tense as his six-foot-four frame seemed to loom even in his seated position. Hazel eyes narrowed, casting a glare over the others around the conference table, silently blaming them for the hold-up even if it wasn't their fault.

Yeah, okay, he was cranky as hell lately, but fuck, this was too much. Their momentary victory over finally killing the demon they'd spent their whole lives hunting had been promptly dampened by seeing his father's ghost, realizing he'd been dead for a little while there, and the revelation that Dean only had a year to live. Sam was going to get him out of the deal, the universe simply had no choice as far as he was concerned. It was only a matter of time before it bent to his will. But then, as if that wasn't enough, he got kidnapped, sliced and diced for ritual purposes, and Dean vanished. He didn't have time for disappearing acts, dammit. Saving Dean's soul would be pretty pointless if he was damned to some other hell.

Faith was sat directly across from him, legs encased in black spandex, dark messy hair framing her face. She was lounging back in her seat with her bare feet propped up on the table, her arms crossed over her white tank top, an air of casual indifference that was only belied by the wary look in her eyes as she kept her gaze firmly locked on him, like he might start spitting fire at any second. He might if Giles didn't hurry the fuck up.

Buffy, who was sat on Faith's right, was similarly clad: white spaghetti strap top, gray sweats, socked feet, blond hair falling loosely around her shoulders and slightly mussed. Her posture was less guarded as she leaned forward with her elbows on the table, her cheek smushed against the heel of one hand. Her eyes kept sliding shut before she shook herself awake again, then repeated the process, and Sam kinda' wanted to smack her for seemingly not giving a shit about the situation.

A more reasonable voice whispered that wasn't really fair in the back of his mind. She'd been visibly shaken over her friend Xander's disappearance and had been stalking the halls of the manor in a similar state of grouchiness when she couldn't participate in any kind of helping, eyes shadowed with dark circles to indicate she hadn't done much in the way of sleeping.

Sam was the diplomatic one, the one with the puppy eyes that knew how to handle people in a way Dean just couldn't. That was what Dean always said, and it was true. When they were Sam and Dean. Sam without Dean was a whole other story hidden in weeping, bleeding pages of a dark tome his brother would never glimpse. What Dean would never be able to comprehend was that by selling his soul to resurrect Sam, he'd only damned them both.

This wholly unwelcome preview of a possibility Sam didn't want to even consider... yeah, this was opening those pages and ripping them out, tossing them around to flutter and whirl up a gathering storm, a force of nature that didn't even know how to stop itself, much less allow anyone else to stop it. Except Dean, the only opposing force that had any hope of canceling Sam out. He supposed it worked both ways, which was why Dean had been able to make that deal in the first place. One side of a coin that couldn't spin anymore, that simply laid down with the barest click to inform the world of its inability to exist alone. Because Sam had died. He'd screwed up, but he wouldn't again. Absolutely refused.

Sam let his head fall back and gazed up at the high ceiling, started counting the rafters in hopes that he could calm his sleep-deprived, Dean-deprived grouchiness down a notch or two. He really was tired of snapping at everyone. He was just... tired.

He thought about the manor. Despite its varying cold spots and drafts, and the cold stone exterior, it was homey somehow. This room in particular was lined with dark, richly-colored wooden panels, fluffy beige carpeting on the floor, lit with warm, yellow light that emanated from subtle fixtures high up on the walls. The foreboding winged statues that obviously came with the décor and adorned each corner had been draped with colorful scarves and had their snarling faces painted in garish colors, some topped with wreaths of leaves and flowers, courtesy of a few Slayers that were unhappy with the whole goth theme the place had going. It gave it an air of eccentricity that made you want to laugh, tried too hard to reassure you that it wasn't creepy at all.

Sam straightened when the door clicked open, then slumped with a heavy sigh when he saw it was only Dawn. She rubbed a hand over her tired face, hair sticking up all over as she padded over to a vacant chair next to Sam and laid her head on the table with a hollow thump. Sam had to smirk at her Elmer Fudd pajamas, no doubt a passive-aggressive jab at him.

Dawn had eagerly accepted his help translating the rest of the prophecy that had to do with Xander, and she was the only one who refused to be put off by his “PMSing” as she insisted on referring to it no matter what pleading or “scowly” expression Sam aimed at her. She'd also introduced him to their substantial library and left him to his own devices so he could snoop and secretly research crossroads pacts, never once asking what he was looking for. She'd offered to help if he wanted it and left it at that, and probably only to occupy him so he'd stop alternating growls and apologetic smiles at everyone. He didn't care why, he was just glad for it, and admittedly, a little more fond of her than the rest. She babbled incessantly at times -- hell, it wasn't like Sam didn't get that way now and again, so he wasn't throwing stones –- and he'd come to kinda' sorta' bond with her over their older sibling oppression that they secretly loved every minute of. Well, not every minute.

Giles and Spike finally entered the conference room, and Sam straightened once more, eyeing them eagerly. Giles wiped his knuckles with a white cloth, glasses hanging from the open collar of his blue button-up shirt, his sleeves rolled back to his elbows. Spike simply smirked his cocky smirk as he practically bounced on his heels, duster bouncing lightly along with him as he held a large tome in one hand.

Didn't take long for Sam to figure out the vampire thing, and that had been another long talk he didn't really care to waste time on, though part of him was relishing the new information and filing it away to geek out about later. For a souled vampire, though, he sure was happy about the bloodshed he'd undoubtedly been engaging in. Sam decided it didn't matter since the guy was evil and had fucked with his brother, though he still stood firm in the sentiment that he could have made him talk a hell of a lot faster.

Giles sighed and polished his glasses before returning them to his face, then sat at the head of the table. Spike ambled in and plopped the book down in front of the Watcher, earning him a stern glare, before he moved to sit at the opposite end and tossed his boots up on the table, leaning back and examining the chipped black polish on his nails.

Faith was still eyeballing him, Buffy and Dawn were officially wide-eyed and alert, ready to absorb information and, in Buffy's case, hopefully about to be presented with a solution she could sink her fists into. Sam just wanted anything. A hint of a hint.

Giles cleared his throat and flipped his book open. “We've gathered quite a bit from the warlock,” he started, leafing through pages for some particular passage. “First off, the portal was no accident. We've discovered that he had access to the same prophecy, and he was waiting for Xander. It seems Dean was merely, uh--”

“Caught in the crossfire,” Sam mumbled, his mouth twitching in thought as his gears kicked up to full speed and prepared to sort and process, reveling in the fact the was finally going to be provided with at least a few puzzle pieces.

“He knew he'd come?” Buffy asked with a dark scowl, body tensing with violence and nowhere to aim it at the moment.

Giles nodded. “He said, uh...” he pressed his lips together as he presumably tried to remember the exact phrasing.

“Said the whelp's trapped,” Spike filled in. “Somethin' about not gettin' out, and nothin' gettin' in to help him.”

“Does that mean we can't go in even if we find out where he went?” Dawn asked, scooting to the edge of her seat as she tried to peruse Giles' book from an odd angle.

“It would seem so,” Giles admitted. He stopped flipping and settled on a page, didn't even bother looking at it, so Sam wasn't sure why he brought it. “However, we did ascertain a clue as to Xander and Dean's whereabouts.” He smirked humorlessly. “More than a clue, really.”

“Where?” Sam demanded, also scooting forward to catch a phrase or sentence from the tome and get some kind of idea what he was dealing with. He refrained from snatching it away from the Watcher that wasn't using it, exercising patience that had been worn too thin of late.

“Hasbeth... Hasabath... “ Spike stuttered, fumbling for the correct pronunciation before he gave up with a wave of his hand. “S'a brothel, I know that much.”

“Hasbitheth,” Giles confirmed, leveling the vampire with a glare. “The Hasbitheth is a, uh, well, it's essentially a breeding ground for demons. Not a brothel,” he assured. “It's a sanctuary of sorts, mutually agreed upon as a place for mating and spawning where warring demon clans temporarily set aside their hostility for one another, forgoing violence in favor o-of...”

“Getting it on?” Faith filled in with a smirk at Giles' obvious discomfort.

No one else was smirking, though. They all looked suitably alarmed. Sam's eyes felt like they might just pop right out of his head as a cold dread settled in the pit of his stomach.

“Yes,” Giles confirmed, shifting uncomfortably.

After a beat, Buffy got her mortified stare under control and said with forced optimism, “Well, that's good, though, right? I mean, not good because they're probably seeing some really gross stuff, but at least they're not getting killed... right?”

“I'm afraid there are other concerns,” Giles said gravely.

“What concerns?” Sam said, his heartbeat steadily speeding up, and the look on the Watcher's face really wasn't helping.

“Most animals become aggressive during mating rituals. Demons, I dare say, will be much worse. If Dean or Xander stumbled upon any of them during one of these... acts, they could be perceived as threats, o-or possibly challengers.”

“Challengers?” Faith asked.

“Challenging the males for mating rights,” Sam informed her with growing horror.

“Quite.”

Dawn wrinkled her face up. “Ew.”

“That's not all.”

“Oh, God, what else?” Buffy squeaked, her pained expression loudly wondering how it could possibly get worse.

“They're not exempt from being targeted for, um, other purposes.”

“Oh, gross!”

“Okay, all in favor of moving to the part where we get them out?” Dawn interjected, raising her hand in the air.

Everyone's hands followed, save Spike's and Giles'.

“I'm afraid it's not that simple. Short of a powerful witch or warlock, the only way to enter that world is, well, essentially when demons are in heat. And exiting can only be accomplished once they've completed their, um...” Giles waved a hand awkwardly.

“And Willow's still unreachable,” Dawn muttered as she chewed her lower lip and sat back.

Sam hadn't met Willow, but he'd heard she was the Wicca to talk to when one needed powerful magics on their side. All he knew was that she was supposedly out of the dimension with a blue woman as a bodyguard. Didn't matter, at any rate, because it wasn't helpful.

“So, what? They'll have to hide out and wait for some demons to finish fucking?” Faith asked, sitting forward and slamming her elbows on the table so she could see around Buffy, no longer amused by the conversation if her severe frown was anything to go by.

Giles pulled at the collar of his shirt, his awkwardness increasing as the conversation went on, and Sam was right there with him. Demons were probably trying to screw his brother right now, and that was just... Nope, best not to think about it. Oh God, Dean was gonna' be pissed. It might be funny if it wasn't for the horror.

“That's one way,” Giles said.

“Well, what's the other way?” Faith demanded, apparently the only one in the room not dreading the answer.

“Sexual energy is the key... They don't necessarily have to rely on finding a pair of demons, uh...”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Are you saying... that they could... that they would even... no way! Xander's not gay,” Buffy insisted, throwing her hands around throughout her halting interruption.

Sam nodded. “Neither is Dean.”

More collar-tugging, and Giles cleared his throat again. “Yes, well, that won't be much of an obstacle.”

Dawn frowned and reluctantly asked, “Why not?”, though Sam was officially of the mind that everyone should just stop asking questions because it really wasn't getting better.

Giles removed his glasses and began polishing them furiously. “The place is rife with pheromones, I'm sure. If they don't, uh, turn to each other, I fear they'll fall prey to something much worse.”

“Okay, you know what? I think I'm officially overloaded with squick,” Buffy announced.

“Sexual energy. What if they just, ya know... themselves?” Sam proposed awkwardly.

“There's no way to be certain. That could work, but I don't know that it will create enough energy.”

“What if they do it at the same time?” Spike piped up, grinning and obviously enjoying every second of this conversation.

Giles' glasses were getting quite the cleaning, probably soon to crack as the man still refused to look up. “Perhaps.”

Faith scoffed. “Great, so who's got the magical telegram that's gonna' tell 'em to jerk off together?”

Giles replaced his glasses and stood abruptly. “I believe I've exceeded my level of comfort for the decade. If you'll excuse me, there are some contacts I can...” He quickly turned and walked out without bothering to finish his sentence.

Dawn promptly grabbed the book he'd left and positioned it so that Sam could read it along with her while Faith and Buffy exchanged a worried glance and proceeded to glower in thought. Nothing in the yellowed pages served to allay any of his concerns, though, all of it confirming what Giles had said.

“Okay, you know what?” Dawn declared as she slapped the book shut and stood. “Screw this.” She pointed at Buffy and Faith. “Check Willow's room again. Turn it upside down and see if you can find anything she might've left that'll give us some kinda' clue of how to get her back here.” She looked to Spike, who was still reclining back in his seat, staring off into space. “You go beat the warlock up some more and see if he's got anything else for us.”

Spike happily bounced to his feet and left the room.

“What about you?” Buffy asked as she slowly rose, Faith standing right beside her.

“Sam and I are gonna' research. See what else we can find about this dimension, look into some spells, maybe.” With that pronouncement, she grabbed Sam's hand and pulled him out of his seat. “Let's go, people. Time's a'wastin' and Xander's gonna' be pissed if we don't get him out before something humps his leg.”

Sam was grateful that someone was taking charge and accessing their brain while he was freaking out, even if the self-appointed general happened to be wearing cartoon pajamas.

Dawn led Sam out the door, Faith's mumbled, “If it hasn't already,” trailing them out.

Christ, Dean was gonna' be inconsolably traumatized.

*~*~*

Dean was mesmerized and fucking horny as hell. It had been growing worse as he spent time here, had even driven him to briefly consider humping an attractively shaped plant when he was roaming the desert. Mostly, he'd chalked it up to his demanding libido. Dean's relationship with his penis was simple: when it stirred to life and demanded attention, he bent to its will. He wasn't one to suppress sexual desire at all, and if the object of his dick's focus was unwilling, Dean made the time to let his hand and imagination fill in. No privacy, so if Xander didn't want to, he was just going to have to deal with some exhibitionism.

Okay, so Dean wasn't gay, had never suffered any of these urges for the male sex before, but he wasn't easily perturbed by it, either. He was aware of his aesthetic qualities, used them to his advantage whenever he could, and being ogled by either sex wasn't a foreign experience. When he first realized Xander was checking him out, he'd silently teased and let it stroke his ego a little.

And if he was suppressing his own confusion when he wondered what it would be like to give in to what Xander's deep brown eye said he wanted, then whatever. He was over denial. He was over most things lately, except keeping Sammy safe. Life was short -- one year -- and Dean had enough shit on his plate to be worrying over a sudden shift in his sexual orientation.

The only thing that had been holding him back, really, was Xander's obvious reluctance. Dean kept getting tormenting flashes of the other man in various enticing positions, and he'd ignored them for the most part. Stomped them away for Xander's sake. Xander had never said anything about being gay; Dean had simply assumed with the looks he was getting. Thinking back on it, though, he wasn't so sure. When they touched, Dean felt fire, and Xander's reaction said he felt it too, except he freaked way the hell out over it while Dean simply wanted to fuck. They might both be suffering some kind of spell bullshit, but at the moment, his dick absolutely. Did. Not. Care.

And now Xander was staring at him, just as mesmerized, and Dean's cock was full and rearing to go. More than that, it felt ready to explode, more sensitized than it'd ever been in his life, actually tingling painfully with want as his gaze traveled over Xander's face.

The eyepatch, as far as Dean was concerned, was cool as all hell, and he'd said so on day one. What he didn't say was that it was fucking hot. There was a whole pirate appeal to it, a sort of mystery that just fit the brunette somehow, and Dean idly wondered how he would look with an eyepatch. He wasn't gonna' gouge his eye out or anything, but maybe a costume shop and a mirror just for kicks.

Xander freed his legs from where they were pulled against his chest and wrapped beneath the cotton of his shirt, letting his feet hit the floor with a soft thud, which had Dean's undivided attention as his heart jackhammered in his chest and his penis twitched violently. Dean wasn't sure he had the capacity to stand up at the moment, so Xander coming to him was all kinds of friggin' awesome. Belatedly, he noticed the other man was no longer shivering beneath the stretched-out blue material, then registered the rising heat that had suddenly filled the room, along with a sort of musky-sweet aroma he could almost taste, like sycamore. They were both sweating, and Dean was tense with anticipation, clenching fistfuls of blanket in each hand.

Xander slowly rose to his feet, their eyes still locked. He licked at his lips, sending a shiver of excitement through Dean's frame, then he took a step. Xander's jaw was dark with stubble, beads of sweat glistening over his face, visible eye glazed and blown with lust, his chest heaving in shallow pants. Dean saw his throat bob, heard him swallow, a click in a dry throat, and he really needed to hurry the fuck up.

“Xanderrr,” Dean growled low -- a warning or a plea, he wasn't sure. He had definite plans to ravage, so maybe both.

Xander visibly trembled at the sound of his voice, his steps becoming jerky, but faster. He practically leaped the last couple of feet and fell to his knees, Dean shooting forward to pull him into a crushing embrace, but Xander had nothing to say about it because in the next instant, Dean's mouth was on his.

He'd heard of passion igniting, but had thought it a flowery, stupid phrase that never happened outside women's romance novels and just made guys look bad in real life. There was definite ignition here, though. His skin burned so hot he thought it would melt off; everywhere they touched singed.

Xander lips were soft and moist and fevered, and Dean ran his tongue over them before ramming it forward to force them apart. Xander allowed him access, their tongues wrestling for exploration rights, each of them needing to feel every inch of the other's mouths. Liquid fire sparked over their tongues, slick and spice-hot. Xander tasted of mint and salt, an underlying sweetness that informed Dean he'd been licking melted chocolate sometime over the course of the day, and something else under that. Something... rich he couldn't quite identify.

Dean's hands moved to Xander's hair, running through it and fisting it, trying to meld their inflamed, flushed bodies together as tongues continued to duel. It was... different. Sharp contours and hard muscle pressing against him instead of soft, supple curves. Different, but fucking awesome. Xander reciprocated with his own grip, grabbing at Dean's biceps with bruising force, all hesitance tossed aside and told to go fuck itself somewhere else because this fuck was all Dean's. Maybe not, but that's what Dean's mind filled in due its lack of telepathic abilities.

Xander was kneeling between Dean's legs, and when his knee brushed against Dean's groin while trying to crawl inside his skin, Dean hissed loudly and pulled away, panting for air and biting his lip at the absolute ecstasy it invoked, searing and God, so good.

At that point, his cock was the only part of his body with any real sense of awareness, and Dean would swear it was straining toward Xander if he had the capacity to think coherently.

He hurriedly pulled at Xander's shirt, growling, “Off,” in a guttural, commanding tone that brooked no argument.

Xander swiftly complied, the shirt finding its new place somewhere across the room. Dean took a moment to admire the physique before him: the tanned, chiseled chest flushed red as it rose and fell with fervor, thick arms from the construction gig Xander maintained when the world wasn't ending, the battle scars that pronounced him a fellow warrior, the dark trail of hair that Dean's eyes followed to happy, happy places that were still hidden save for the tantalizing outline of his hard length...

He jerked at Xander's boxers, but Xander had apparently been deprived too long, darting back in for another kiss, and fuck he was good with his tongue. Dean imagined his tongue elsewhere, that blazing path of wetness, and promptly lost the ability to form words, muffled moans and grunts of pleasure spilling into Xander's mouth.

Xander shoved at him and Dean landed hard on his back, head jarring a little with the impact but that was really okay because Xander was crawling over him, then plunging the depths of his mouth again as he ran his hands over Dean's chest. He squeezed and kneaded Dean's pectorals, dragged rough fingers over his ribs, pinched at his nipples and writhed against him mindlessly, their erections grinding against each other through the fabric of their boxers.

Dean wanted more and decided to rectify that, pushing Xander away so he could wiggle out of the cotton hindrance. Xander gave a whimper of protest, but took the hint and shed his own underwear, then they simply stared at each other for a long moment.

Xander was straddling Dean's hips, thick, weeping cock jutting out at him in invitation while Xander's lust-filled eye blatantly appraised the hard length resting against Dean's stomach as he lay back in a wanton sprawl, the flickering light of the fire forming abstract shadows that leaped over their bodies. There was no sound save for the crackle and pop of burning wood, the harsh puffs of breath, then a hint of coherency seeped back into Xander's eye, an uncertain expression flitting over his features even as he continued to gaze at the hunter longingly.

“I don't really, uh...” He licked his swollen lips and swallowed audibly. “I've never...” He gave it up and squeezed his eye shut. “Fuck.”

“Fuckin' right,” Dean growled impatiently, executing a sit-up so he could wrap his arm around Xander's neck and tug him back down. “C'mere, goddammit.”

He attacked Xander's mouth once more, and Xander gave into it completely, falling on top of him with a slap of sweat-slick flesh as their erections brushed together, nothing but skin against skin. Dean moaned into his mouth, the grinding, the heat, the feel of him – all working together to drive Dean absolutely insane.

Xander ran his tongue over Dean's lower lip, down to his jaw, sucked, nipped, began trailing kisses down his neck, over to his shoulder and back again, the coarse facial hair on Xander's chin and jaw creating delicious friction that sent tingles straight to Dean's groin. He moaned and growled low in his throat, bucking upward, seeking more contact. Xander's rough hands brushed over the sharp curve of hipbone, blunt nails scraping over the hard planes of stomach, unbelievable sensations tickling and burning all throughout. Dean let his head fall to one side to allow him greater access, Xander's mouth working its way to Dean's collarbone with teeth and tongue, dipping into the hollow and running up his throat, over his adam's apple. Dean swallowed hard, his head tilted back at an impossible angle, Xander licking and biting along his chest as their undulations grew more frantic.

Dean's dick warned him and rejoiced at the same time, that slow, mind-numbing build that told him he was going to erupt pretty soon, too soon. He abruptly grabbed Xander's hips and flipped them, Xander landing with a surprised exhale on his back, and Dean barely gave him time to think about it as he wrapped his hand around Xander's cock and squeezed.

“Don't wanna' fuckin' play,” he ground out, rubbing the pad of his thumb over Xander's lower lip, which had the carpenter releasing a breathy whimper that urged Dean's mouth to work on Xander's nipples, swirling his tongue around them and alternating rough and light bites. His hand didn't move as it kept up its constricting grip. Dean worked his way down at an agonizing pace, nibbling and sucking, grazing his teeth lightly along Xander's hipbone before letting his tongue lick its way languidly over the hollow dip there -- salty and rich – and, fuck, his scent was intoxicating, sweat and sawdust and pine.

Xander groaned and muttered indecipherable phrases and arched beneath him, bucking his hips for the friction his body was dying for. His hands scrabbled at Dean's back and ass, racing up and down, fingers digging into skin at random intervals, leaving trails of reddened flesh. Dean refused to relent and continued holding Xander's dick in his fist as he moved his head up and bit down hard on the spot between Xander's neck and shoulder.

“Fuck!” Xander cried hoarsely, the lower half of his body jerking up and nearly bucking Dean right off, which had Dean muttering strangled curses and unintentionally squeezing that much harder. Xander moaned loudly, the sound tearing out of his throat and encouraging a frenzy Dean didn't want to give into so soon. “Thought you didn't wanna' play,” he panted out, still clutching at Dean's back and trying to urge him into action, eye screwed tightly shut as he chewed on his lower lip.

“Not playing,” Dean insisted breathlessly.

His own dick was aching and begging for mercy at this point, but he didn't want it to end just yet. Didn't want an end, period. He didn't delve too much further into that brief train of thought and proceeded to ravage Xander's mouth again, his tongue tracing along the other man's teeth before he sucked Xander's tongue into his own mouth, eliciting a long, loud moan.

Dean released Xander's cock and ran his hands over him, mapping bone and muscle and scar tissue with deft, callused fingers as he continued to the brutal kiss. His hand snaked around to grab at Xander's ass, squeezing and tugging at him, biting at Xander's lip before he pulled back and moved his mouth closer to his ear.

“Gonna' fuck you,” he whispered harshly, then bit down on his earlobe, causing the desired anticipatory tremor to course through Xander, but there was also a distinct gasp. Dean pulled back to look at him, saw the panic in his wide eye, and assured, “Not here. No lube.” Okay, so the sexy talk didn't work out like he planned.

Xander's fear shifted to confusion, like he couldn't really comprehend future plans, but Dean would blow that bridge up when he came to it. He wasn't one for sticking around after the fact, but he was gonna' feel Xander from the inside before he was through. His dick swelled impossibly at the image, throbbing in excitement, mine mine mine running through Dean's head, and it could be true. He wanted it to be. Wanted something that was his. Not his dad's once upon a time, not something he had to share with Sam.

Dean kissed and bit and stroked desperately, golden skin reddening beneath teeth and blunt nails, banishing Xander's fading worry over his slip as his eye glazed back over, and Dean didn't talk anymore.

He wanted it, but he wouldn't take it. He'd take what he was offered, because it would be just as selfish as leaving Sam, and that was too much. Sam was born into their sideshow, but Xander wasn't. Dean would take this, just this one thing and leave it when the time came. Like always.

Xander grew visibly frustrated as Dean traced his fingers lightly over his shaft, tantalizing and teasing, not near enough friction to get off, the rest of him still sucking and sliding over him madly, but his hand remained slow on Xander's cock. Xander thrashed, flipped them over hard and fast, wrapped strong fingers around Dean's dick and pumped with reckless abandon, not remotely gentle as he thrust his own erection against the hollow of Dean's hip.

Dean was momentarily stunned into inaction, simply overtaken with fuckingohmygodyes! before he regained a fraction of his senses and twisted away, flipped them again. Xander's eye was dark with lust, staring up at him with an unmistakable command that made Dean want to fuck him into the floor. Dean laid fully on top of him and held him still, continued stroking, feather-light, kissed him into silence before he could protest.

Wasn't like he really knew Xander, anyway. So what if he fought his own war and wouldn't run screaming or get killed right off the bat when he caught a glimpse of Dean's world? So what if there was something more there, something just beneath the surface Dean knew he could relate to, knew he could be related to in turn, if he were just allowed to scratch at it a little more? If he could fuck hard and fight harder and possibly make the short remainder of Dean's life that much more interesting? Didn't matter.

Xander reached for him, but Dean slapped his hands away, not ready to be touched because he'd explode but, holy fuck, needing it. Not yet. He worked his way down, ran his tongue up the sensitive flesh laying swollen against Xander's belly, traced the bulging vein.

Didn't matter.

“Holyohaunngggaaah!” Xander moaned intelligently, jerking his hips up, breaths rapid and shallow as he carded his fingers roughly through Dean's hair and grabbed on, pushed for more, his other hand gripping Dean's shoulder hard, fingers digging into bone and muscle, bruising.

Did. Not. Matter.

Dean took him into his mouth fully, lips sliding down, down, so slowly, all the way to the root, and Xander continued squirming, tugging at short sandy-colored strands, making up words. Dean moved back up, swirled his tongue experimentally around the head and over the slit, tasting the slick pre-come, and that finally drove him over the edge. Mindless, save for the mantra, the pulse he couldn't ignore anymore, Dean pulled away and repositioned himself until he was lined up with Xander again. He lowered his hips to rub their erections together, a little roll and twist that had Xander crying out in surprised bliss and back to clawing at every available inch of Dean's flesh. The heavy ache of Dean's cock only grew heavier as the delicious contact coursed through it, his eyes screwed shut, teeth slicing through his lower lip as it beaded with a trace amount of blood.

Dean fumbled a little, trembling with need, and wrapped one large hand around both of them. Xander writhed and bucked with the rhythm, Dean's hand faltering as his own hips tried to take over and set their own pace. Xander threw his head back and let loose a string of curses, an invitation if Dean ever saw one. Xander's chest heaved, his arms outstretched and bulging, hands knotted in the blankets, abdominal muscles tensed and rippling with a sheen of sweat. Dean dove forward and fastened his mouth to Xander's collarbone, sucking and biting at the area as he pumped their cocks furiously, surrendering to the command of want now mine pulsing in time with the racing beat of his heart.

The air shifted around them, the contact no longer an all-consuming burn, but fuzzy with brief, tiny convulsive shocks like static crawling over and through their bodies.

Jesus, it was fucking... there wasn't a word for what it was. Ecstasy, bliss, rapture, holyfuckingawesome -- all of those were woefully inadequate. There was inexpressible pleasure building in his balls and and vibrating through his shaft like he'd never experienced, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head as he continued sucking on Xander's clavicle. He managed to slide his supporting elbow up to get a hand in Xander's hair and jerked, wordlessly urging his chin back down so Dean could latch onto his lips once more.

Exquisite heat pooled in his belly and hummed through him, intensified, like a taut harp string being relentlessly strummed and quivering its note until it snapped, or in his case, burst out in brilliant flashes of lightning, sharp, deafening cracks ringing in his ears. Then the world exploded in white-hot pleasure-pain so intense, Dean thought he was actually dying, and he really didn't mind going out like this.

They came simultaneously, both tearing their lips apart and tossing their heads back to release varying cries of incoherent praise, warm semen spilling over Dean's fingers and onto Xander's arching stomach, though he barely registered that part. He didn't register anything for long moments as his orgasm was ripped from him and he collapsed with a harsh exhale on top of the other man, reveling in the aftershocks still rolling through him. Panting, his entire body shaking with a low hum he hoped would never abate, he felt boneless and tingly and undeniably sated.

“Ho. Lee. Fuck,” Xander said once he caught his breath.

Dean nodded in silent agreement and rolled off of him, the alarm in Xander's tone not really penetrating the tickling, post-orgasmic fog in his head. He landed on his back and threw his arm over his face, faintly thinking that gay was not a bad way to go at all if the rest of it was half as good as that.

Xander's scrambling, hurried movements finally got through to him and he moved his arm up to see just how badly the dude was freaking out. Xander was sitting upright, the blankets pulled up over his lap as he glanced around frantically.

Dean looked up and saw stars winking down at him from a dusky purple sky, had that sensation of vertigo with nothing else in his sight to anchor him. Huh, so maybe the world did explode. Damn, he was good.

All of his gears abruptly switched back online in the next instant, and Dean shot upright, looking around at the overgrown field they were in: wildflowers blooming all around and swaying with the night breeze, the leaves of distant trees whispering against each other, the tangy scent of dewy grass in his nostrils. He noticed the shed in the distance, the familiar little ranch-style house next to it, moon hanging just above the stacked angles of roof, shimmering silver and half obscured with iridescent clouds, and suddenly, whatever spell he'd been under was lifted.

Panic followed shortly after.

Somehow, they were out of that place. Back in their world, several yards away from the warlock's residence. He looked at Xander sharply, and his mind and face slammed their gates down in unison. Naked guy (guy!) that he'd just had in his hands and mouth -- not something he was willing to deal with at the moment. He had to find Sammy, check everything out for himself. They could hit the road and forget all about this fucked up nightmare.

Very vaguely, Dean wondered where all of his justifications had run off to, the ones that had seemed so sound when all the nudity and humping happened. It was temporary insanity, must have been. He wasn't thinking straight, trapped in a strange land and recently damned. That was bound to fuck with anyone's head. And dick, apparently.

Reluctantly, he glanced back at Xander, who was resolutely looking anywhere but at him, clutching the blankets to himself as if his life depended on it, a bright red blush painting his cheeks and chest.

Dean sympathized, but not enough to actually speak to him as he looked around for their clothes.

Turned out, only the blankets had made the trip with them, and Dean and Xander were forced to amble across town wrapped in itchy wool, not saying a word to each other until they finally reached the manor. Miraculously, they didn't get arrested, though Dean supposed it was late and no one was up to peek through their curtains. At least that went in their favor, because he really was not in the mood to deal with cops, especially given his and Sam's extremely wanted statuses.

The place was huge, faded gray stone and castle-like in appearance, ominous in a medieval sort of way, but strangely radiating an air of safe. The porch was cement and stone, running the entire length of the building, supported by intricately carved pillars with designs ranging from the aesthetically pleasing – abstract cravings with loops and curves that hinted vaguely at plants and nature – to the practical – occult protection symbols. Ceiling to floor windows that had a gothic arch to them adorned the first floor, several iron balconies on the second and third. There was a long, gravel drive leading up to it, looping out in a circle, a stone fountain positioned in the center, water trickling and splashing lightly into the pool from the well-hidden holes in a large statue of a willow tree. It was surrounded by acres of rolling land and trees, an iron gate securing the perimeter of the property. Dean wondered how they managed a place like this, but didn't ask.

It was Xander who broke the silence, pausing before the front steps and shifting his weight from foot to foot, hair sweat-damp and mussed, eye downcast. “So, my friends are probably gonna' ask...”

“Never happened,” Dean assured curtly, tugging at his blanket to make sure it was covering as much as possible, feeling modest for probably the first time in his life, and a little too after the fact.

Xander gestured helplessly to their appearances without looking at him.

“Right,” Dean mumbled. “There was a fire or some shit. Or, uh, Indians stole our clothes in the desert. I don't friggin' care, just make somethin' up.”

Xander heaved a sigh and nodded. “Demonic Indians with big teeth and lots of weapons.”

Dean grunted his agreement and they trudged up the steps in agonizing slow motion, wanting to find clothes and sanity while dreading the inevitable confrontation. Sam was going to freak the fuck out, no matter what, so Dean decided to get it over with, impatiently jabbing at the doorbell, his heart pounding at the walls of his chest all the while.

He held his breath when one of the heavy, oak doors creaked open, a brunette with bright blue eyes and Elmer Fudd pajamas peering out cautiously before spotting Xander. She threw the door open and squealed, launching herself into his arms, incoherent babble spilling from her lips.

“Indians,” Xander blurted immediately, and Dean rolled his eyes.

She frowned in the next second and pulled back, looking between them with dawning realization.

Way too late, Dean realized the picture of debauchery they presented. The light red welts and scratches on their skin, kiss-swollen lips and bed hair, and the huge purple hickey on Xander's neck were dead giveaways even if it was possible for the whole nudity factor to be ignored.

Marked, mine flashed through Dean's head a split second before he ground the traitorous thought beneath his heel and stuffed the remains in a dark corner.

“Oh. My. God,” the girl said, her hand coming up to cup her mouth as she went wide-eyed.

Fuck.

*~*~*

So, their flimsy cover story was pretty much shot to hell. To Xander's complete mortification, everyone came running at the ruckus they created in the foyer as Dawn babbled apologies about not getting them out fast enough, Xander catching onto enough to realize where they'd been, and what had happened. Worse, everyone was going to know what had happened.

Surrounded by his friends and the Winchesters, Xander wished he could just fall back into the desert and never return, a blush steadily heating his cheeks until he was sure his face would be coated in ash next time he happened by a mirror. Faith, ever the tactful one, wanted every detail of Xander's latest sexual adventure once determining he hadn't been raped by demons. Loudly. Spike teased relentlessly. Buffy, Giles, and Dawn simply remained pink and shuffled awkwardly. Sam fussed over Dean, alternating a relieved, lopsided grin and a concerned frown.

Throughout the talking and hugging, Xander and Dean avoided each other's gazes like the plague. Dean was not in the mood for introductions, refused an invitation to crash for the night and recuperate, a dark scowl aimed at Faith for suggesting he needed any such thing. He bitched about losing a good portion of their weapons, then demanded Sam provide him with some clothes immediately so they could leave.

Sam did, and Dean practically dragged him out the front door, but not before Sam could exchange numbers with Dawn and wave goodbye to everyone, muttering last minute apologies for his behavior.

As Xander watched the Impala emerge from one of the garages, roaring down the drive and through the gates, he wondered how long it would take for the pheromones to wear off and take the vaguely lingering and very confusing feelings with them. He still tasted Dean in his mouth, salt and whiskey and something almost mournful, like ash. He wasn't sure he wanted to wash it out.

When Angel and Connor returned from escorting Andrew on some inane mission Giles had sent him on just to get him out his hair for a little while, they both griped and vowed never to trust the Watcher or do him any favors ever again, Angel idly threatening to cut the funding he provided thanks to some forethought on his part while he had control of Wolfram and Hart. Not to mention, two hundred plus years of saving money because even evil beings never knew when cash might conveniently solve a problem.

Andrew eventually caught wind of the incident and trailed Xander around like a lovesick, hopeful puppy.

Two weeks later, Illyria and Willow stepped through a portal into the manor, having settled negotiations between warring dimensions that threatened to spill over into their own, and had news pertaining to Xander's apocalypse, as Willow insisted on calling it with a proud grin. Xander wasn't so fond of having his own apocalypse, but he indulged her all the same, especially since she didn't fail him in her bestest friend ever role, listened to his inner turmoil and tried to reassure him.

Incidentally, he warmed up to Illyria that much more when she tossed Andrew across the lawn for annoying her while she was trying to discuss slaughtering tactics with him.

The next few months were full of hustle and bustle and planning, and Xander dreamed. A lot. He did go on to save the world, confronting the beings the escaping magical comets had created with fierce determination, dumb luck, and a whole lot of heart. Also, there was a whole Slayer army at his back, so that didn't hurt.

Xander didn't get to thank Dean for freeing them from their mystical prison, didn't get to apologize for giving him the cold shoulder when all was said and done. But then, how did you go about telling someone that the pheromone-induced moment of passion led to the world's salvation, so hey, thanks for humping me? He was pretty sure there was no card on Earth, even if he had any clue of where to send it. He never considered asking Dawn for Sam's number. It was all still awkward and bewildering in his own head, and everyone dropped it for the most part.

But if Xander's dreams refused to abate and consisted solely of green eyes blown wide with shocked bliss, of hard planes and soft, full lips, and the ghostly scent of leather and gunpowder, he never told anyone.

And if Dean spent the next few months increasingly confused by the persistent memories of a rich taste he was still trying to put a name to, silently lamenting that he didn't get to keep his promise in the dark, quiet hours as the tick of the clock echoed loudly in his head, it didn't matter.