AU where the boys run the town morgue - Dean is the pathologist and Sam is his assistant.
Warning: possible underage, mental illness, romance, voyeurism
For ephermeralk, who prompted: Sam and Dean have a little too much fun playing with the corpse they are autopsying for a case. Cue: sex on a morgue table. I fear this probably only vaguely resembles what you asked for but I do hope it's still okay. ♥
Special thanks to dear_tiger for letting me brain-pick, and for providing me with very particular anatomy details.
Stop looking at me, is the first thing it thinks.
It’s warmer out on the table, room temperature; much more comfortable than the dull icy hum of the cooler. Except for the hovering eyes. Those eyes aren’t comfortable at all.
They’re chromatic and cold, and they catalogue part by part with an overt, perverse too-interested interest behind a pair of thick, tortoise shell glasses. And they look and they look and they look.
Stop touching me, it thinks then, when a wide hand falls onto its thigh, gentle. The boy with the lizard eyes doesn’t stop touching, only busies himself in touching more, touching further, intrepid, little strokes and dancing fingertips inching along toward the knee. A pleased hmm comes out of the boy, tiny grin starting to peek out. He's tall and wiry, stick skinny, and something about him isn't quite right.
What’s that smell? it thinks, picking up on it fast, the boy massaging down its shin, reassuring hand cupped around its foot, adoring, soft grazing sweeps along the inner ankle. Stop that, it thinks again, distracted from the quest. Tickles.
But the boy only opens his mouth to lick the swell of his bottom lip, bites down at the center, and there it is again. Stinks. The scent is gaining muscle now, thick on the air. Stronger than the chemicals and the—disinfectant, its mind supplies. This new smell overpowers.
The boy's hand has moved on down the foot, thumbing the arch in careful presses. The boy is making little noises now, small mumbles and smaller chokes. And that’s when it realizes what that smell is. It's the boy, it has to be. He's steadily rubbing the side of his hand against the seam of his pants, his — his crotch, right between his own legs. Slightly crouched, slightly panting. His other hand is gripping its foot even harder. Arousal, it thinks fuzzily. Arousal strong and deliberate and liquid now, going liquid.
An old door hinge creaking down the hall. Footsteps. Clanking closer.
Oh, bless!, it thinks, urging the newcomer to move faster. Then they’ll see what this boy, this child fiend is doing to it, romancing its foot, how revolting. You’ll see, boy, you’ll see. They’re coming. They’re almost here.
The metal door pushes open, comes away to show a man standing still under the arch, a savior.
“Sammy, there you are.”
It can’t see much, only above, to the sides, things in the peripheral vague and morphed. It sees enough still. The stainless steel of the fridge it rolled out of, the gleaming metal equipment on trays, skull key, a little sign mounted to the wall.
Dr. D. Campbell, M.D. it reads neatly in calm black font. And just below, Doctor of Pathology, a thing which immediately causes it to wrack its intact brain for a clue. What is that for? What is it? Mental illness? Rehabilitation? High risk pregnancies? None of this ticks the right boxes until –
“Good evening, coroner,” the Sammy boy says, baby-soft and shy, but in a distinct, definite tone; one others might use to say – darling. My dear. His happy beam hides behind the meat of his palm, giggly. Can he smell himself on that hand? Can he? Can he?
…does he like it?
The other hand has never left its foot. It can feel him holding on, grounded, quietly possessive and staying close.
The word starts to sink in then, dropped down into the stomach, weighted, coroner, coroner, doctors, bodies, but what – but who – and then it thinks, startled with sudden clarity and dread, oh. Oh no.
"Do you like it?" Dr. D, presumably, says, his head lolling to the side in curiosity. He looks at Sammy-boy with barely contained worship, his tongue dripping affection. "I saved this one special for you."
“You didn’t – touch it, did you?” Dr. D says, gaze flicking between it and the boy, the boy and it.
Sammy-boy furiously shakes his head, backs up a little. Good. “Just looked.”
Liar, it screams into its own silent bubble. And like Sammy-boy can hear inside, he says, “I only touched a little.” It sounds like ‘I’m sorry’.
“Well,” Dr. D says, his brow wrinkling in concentration, looking between the two of them like they might be keeping a secret from him. “As long as you didn’t—“ He makes a gesture with his hand that seems crude in its silence. “You can get sick from that, remember?”
“Sick right here.” Dr. D is tapping his skull. Sammy-boy nods again. Like maybe they’ve had this talk before. Maybe more than once. Dr. D smiles. He walks over to his – assistant, it thinks, puzzling out the details, and kneels to the floor, bent on one knee like a true gentleman.
“What have I told you about double-knotting, hmm?” Dr. D doesn’t sound mad though, only fond; and Sammy-boy scratches bony fingers into the back of his scraggly-haired head, sheepish as he watches Dr. D tying his shoelaces for him.
“Ms. Jane Doe, 45-089-R3,” Dr. D says, shuffling around the room and gathering things up in his arms. “Welcome to our humble abode.”
Somewhere behind him there’s a stifled snicker.
Dr. D comes back wearing a long white lab coat and safety glasses, like he’s planning on making a mess. He lifts it up by the – shoulders, those are my shoulders, and places some sort of block just beneath its back, wide and stiff. It feels like a brick.
Still, Dr. D seems like he knows what he’s doing, more qualified than Sammy-boy at least.
Dr. D is fiddling with a long snake of fabric now, unraveling and unrolling, top of the head down to the blue tinged toes. “64 inches.” His jaw gives a contemplative tic. “Tiny. How you like.”
Sammy-boy peeks over Dr. D’s shoulder, looks down to assess. Nods like a dashboard hula girl, shaky and unsturdy.
Dr. D waves a hand over already-open eyes. “Sha-la-la-la-la-la,” he sing-songs, smiling like it’s something cute. It doesn’t reach up very high though and beneath the eyewear, a faint trace of something miserable washes to shore. “Brown-eyed girl. Your favorite, Sammy. Good, right?”
Sammy-boy glances at Dr. D. He bites at his lip harder and no words come out.
“And this hair, this is great. So soft and long. Black coffee,” Dr. D says, curling a finger around a few wisps at the temple. “Made for you."
Dr. D turns to the tool tray, stiff and unnatural, his back to the both of them, protective. But Sammy-boy does something to bring him back; he nudges Dr. D.
Just a slight poke of an elbow, but maybe a lot more than that – and when Dr. D looks at him, Sammy-boy darts his eyes away, looks at the scenery of the floor, blinks quickly behind his drooping glasses and he chews at his cheek like a determined squirrel. He says in Dr. D's general vicinity, softly unobtrusive, “Brown isn’t my favorite.”
“Oh,” Dr. D says. Oh, it thinks.
When he comes back to the table, Dr. D’s ears are still flushed summer-warm, his cheeks glowing bright pink.
“This one’s a life support shut-off,” Dr. D says. “But no one’s likely to come looking so I figure…” He doesn’t go on, and there's no need. They both know what he means. It’s just like playing Operation.
Dr. D is steady and meticulous and has the jawline of old Hollywood. Sammy-boy is gangly and wired wrong, all nervous energy to Dr. D's soothing calm.
They swab at its mouth, at its ears, scrape underneath its fingernails, and Dr. D muses out loud about what they might have for dinner later, what they might watch on TV after, and all the while it listens, and it thinks, and it wonders how long they’ve been married. It wonders how the two of them met.
“Still warm when I picked her up,” Dr. D says, softly petting its cheek. “You’d have really liked her, I think.” Her, it thinks. That’s me. I’m a her. I’m her. “Her lips were real real sweet. Blood-full under the surface, still beating red. Like rubies.”
“Like rubies,” Sammy-boy echoes, coming in close again.
“Sparkling," Dr. D agrees, watching Sammy watch, a hunger of his own clear. Ready chompers.
“Ruby,” Sammy-boy says again, a harmless little child’s grin dimpling his cheeks.
“Bet she’s just as pretty under all that skin,” Dr. D says, and he reaches for the forceps.
It doesn’t hurt. None of it has hurt. Not the cutting, not the sawing, not even Sammy-boy’s wandering hands at the start. It knows what’s happening, but it doesn’t feel a thing.
They've made a neat Y incision, and that was – weird, it thinks, still working on remembering the right words from an old life. Started at the collar and went to the navel, inspecting and exploring and prying the flaps apart. They study its gears, all of the inactive parts, and place things in metal bowls, on measuring scales, other less-fun scraps left in the husk. At one point, Dr. D glances up at Sammy-boy, spleen held out in his hand like a gift, like chocolate covered strawberries, like declarations in the sky or on jumbotrons, stories told to grandchildren. Sammy-boy accepts the thing, puts it off someplace else, somewhere special.
It listens to their flowing chatter, easy and companionable, and thinks they’ve probably been doing this for a long time.
The room is tiny, the building just as likely the same. Like maybe this is just small town life, a diner that serves the same cobbler every Sunday evening and a grocer who calls everyone by their first name. It wonders about these two, noiselessly and to itself, if their whole entire world might not be just as small. Starts and ends with the other.
The way they look at each other, it must be so.
Midway through threading it back up, Sammy-boy starts acting strange. Dr. D doesn’t catch it at first, but that scent is back in the air. It doesn't take long.
“Can we move her?” Sammy-boy blurts out, eyes flitting around the room.
“Move—“ Dr. D starts to ask, but he takes one look at the obscene tent in his assistant’s pants and lets out a quiet rush of air. He nods, frenetic and immediate. He sets the needle aside and wipes his hands against his coat. Is he trembling?
It watches, because it has to, but it’s busy digging around for pieces of its own self. And finding them.
I used to play the piano.
I worked for the newspaper. My editor was a jerk.
They move it to a smaller platform, shorter and padded, and the brick-thing goes away. Much better. I liked french fries, it thinks, repeating the thought again and again because it’s important, somehow. It’s no longer interested in whatever the boy and his doctor are up to over there.
Sammy-boy is the one on the cold metal table now, but he doesn’t look at all uncomfortable.
He’s without clothes and wriggly and laying flat on his back. He’s got a huge smile stretching his face like it might crack in half if Dr. D keeps going the way he is.
Dr. D is up on the table too, knees on either side of Sammy-boy’s spindly hips, seated in his lap, rubbing up and down his arms, smiling down at him, talking to him, saying sweet things, dirty things, saying everything. He removes Sammy-boy’s glasses and places them off to the side, careful, exact. He bends down to press their foreheads together and they’re holding hands now, looks like, holding hearts too.
From its spot on the other table, it can see that Sammy-boy is inside Dr. D, pressed all the way up and full, and it’s not hard to tell that Dr. D really likes it.
Underneath his coat, stark bare and fleshy-pale, Dr. D is a stunning creature. Lightly muscled back around a sloping spine, sleekly curved and able bodied as he moves on top of the boy, slow at first, slow and yielding, he’s a fine thing to set sights on.
The thick length of Sammy-boy’s big dick has the doctor split in two, steadily driving up into him, slick noises interwoven with awed little hiccups coming from the boy's dropped open mouth, Dr. D’s strong thighs spread wide around him, whole body canvased over him like a cloak, a shield. Protective. Sammy-boy fucks in deeper and Dr. D visibly shakes, moans from down low in his belly and they look so good like that. They look so good.
If anybody else should be wandering the halls, they'd surely know what's happening in this echoing room. They'd have to know how good Dr. D takes it, and how good Sammy-boy is when he's like this, when it comes to Dr. D. The way he's staring up at him, like even after however long, Dr. D's beauty still might be a shock; it's suffocating in the manner that half the world might never experience that level of – love.
It knows it never did.
Dr. D drops down particularly hard, a satisfied grunt pushed out of him, happy-wet eyes shining up at him, and starts to put his hips into it, what hips!, and rides and rides, bare toes flexing against the steel bed, a trickle of sweat inchworming down his neck on a vein path. Sammy-boy holds onto his waist, long fingers with the chewed down nails gripping in.
“Touch,” Dr. D says on a weak breath, his lashes fluttering.
There are little moisture beads all along his upper lip, harsh light from the ceiling fixtures making them noticeably sharp, and Sammy-boy’s response time is almost reflex, slithering hands wrapping around Dr. D’s bottom, unfolding him even further apart, lewd. But he’s even pretty there too.
Sammy-boy circles the small opening, feels out where they’re stuck together, rubs at it a little. Dr. D is making high, desperate noises and his head is barely being supported atop his thrown back neck, the taut length of his throat vulnerably appealing. They're getting sloppy now, they must be, it sounds strangely slippery.
Dr. D seems to be untethering, nothing but harsh breaths and squeezed eyes, and he reaches backwards to grab onto Sammy-boy's ankles, shameless in the jut and bounce of his cock in Sammy-boy's face, right there – "Dean, Dean." – and Sammy-boy wraps a hand around that one particular part, fucks his fist up and down and holds his body still the moment Dr. D chokes out a little cry and spills a hot rush all over Sammy-boy's contracting ribs.
It’s trying out names in its head, names it remembers – Ernie. Ernie pushed my stalled car. Melody, neighbor with the pet cactus. Pete Thompson is running for mayor – when it stops on something the laughing boy has said. Dean.
No, it thinks, ready to chase away the thought. Not familiar. Don’t know them.
But it keeps thinking it anyway, repetitive like the fry-thought, and something catches, tugs. It’s small, and no doubt meaningless, but it's. Dean and Sammy. Sam and Dean. It's heard those names before. Nowhere and everywhere, fairy tales or forgotten nightmares. It's sure. They stick on the tongue, fit in the ear too well for it to be nothing. Sounds like ancient town gossip, actually.
Rumors, it says to itself, excited now at the prospect of solving a particularly clever riddle. It thinks it remembers the one that spread through the town like hellfire years back, told and retold, one about two young boys, just school children, who flicked a match to their home while their mother lay dreaming up the stairs. Two boys who got the father later, too. And after, carted on a one way trip to the psychiatric hospital a few counties over when they claimed it was the work of demons. Glenwood Springs.
Likely just nattering old ladies with nothing better to do than water their petunias and whisper elaborate stories over tea. Different surname too, longer, unusual. W-something. Even though the first names, they fit, it thinks.
But, no. No. Besides, those two were –
"Brother," Dr. D says, stupid from sex, curling down onto the thin one, a sweet little kiss placed to the corner of the mouth ... and Sammy-boy's wet, wilting cock hasn't even fully slipped out yet.
“It’s watching us, Dean.” Back to chewing that lip again. He takes Dr. D’s movie star face into his hands and makes him look. “See?”
Dr. D only tilts his head.
“Make it stop,” Sammy-boy says to the doctor. “I don’t like it anymore.” And then, to it, “Stop looking.”
So Dr. D gets up on shaky legs, and walks his naked body over to the tray. He picks up the forgotten thread and needle and holds it between the tips of two fingers, his whole face sunny like the first day of Spring. Making his way over, his feet slap and his hands twitch, and when he slides on a smile, he’s a beautiful monster.
“Stop looking at me,” Sammy-boy whispers again, just as Dr. D has stepped within reach. Gladly, it thinks, and the last thing it sees is Dr. D reaching for the eyelids.